Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

M/M, F/F

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Rose Landry & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow & Ilya Rozanov, Wyatt Hayes & Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Svetlana Vetrova, Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Rose Landry, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Cliff Marlow, Brandon Wiebe, Luca Haas, Wyatt Hayes, Harris Drover, Svetlana Vetrova, Original Characters, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Zane Boodram

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anxious Shane Hollander, POV Alternating, Nerdy Shane Hollander, Frat Boy Ilya Rozanov, Fraternities & Sororities, Work In Progress, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Suicidal Thoughts, Autistic Shane Hollander, Crushes, Depressed Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Closeted Ilya Rozanov, Closeted Shane Hollander, Good Boy Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov has a Motorcycle, Shane Hollander's Disordered Eating Habits, bad boy Ilya rozanov, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Build Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, medium burn??, idk but they def have some tension early on, Sexual Fantasy, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Angst, Masturbation, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Ilya Rozanov Has Daddy Issues, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is Bad at Feelings, Bisexual Ilya Rozanov, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Virgin Shane Hollander, Good Friend Rose Landry

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-30 Updated: 2026-01-28 Words: 64,738 Chapters: 12/?

call it what you want

Summary

When Canadian transfer student Shane Hollander joins Boston University’s Division 1 hockey team, he expects intense practices, elite competition, and the pressure to be drafted. What he doesn't expect is to be roped up into tutoring the infuriatingly talented, infamous frat boy Ilya Rozanov. Between late-night study sessions, high-stakes games, and reckless frat parties—how will either of them survive the season?

or

Frat Boy Ilya Rozanov x Nerdy Shane Hollander

Chapter 1

Chapter Notes

(this fandom made me a swifitie and the title is my current fav song ofc)

Saturday—September 3rd, 2016

Shane stared down at the array of different pamphlets in his lap as his mother continued to hound the admissions person with her millions of questions. He barely looked up, letting the hum of polite laughter and conversation flood the room. He nodded along, trying to look engaged, but most of it blurred together.

The move from Ottawa had been exhausting. Leaving behind the university he had always dreamed of going to, just like his dad had, was something he never thought he’d do. Shane wasn’t really known for trading familiarity with the unknown, but he’d done it for a reason.

Boston University wasn’t just another school; this was NCAA D1 hockey. The Terriers were a team on a winning streak led by a player everyone seemed to idolize, the type of player Shane always watched–the type of player Shane was back home. That player was Ilya Rozanov, already a first-round pick for the Boston Bears, drafted just after turning eighteen but finishing out his college career for whatever reason. Shane had seen him on highlights, in scouting reports, even on TV when Rozanov played at international camps. He would recognize a superstar like him anywhere.

But that’s why Shane transferred to Boston University, for the chance to finally be drafted. Just a few years ago, Scott Hunter had been drafted straight out of his freshman season here to the New York Admirals as a first-round pick—and had gone on to collect ten points in nine playoff games last season. That was the kind of success Shane dreamed of achieving at BU.

“Isn’t that right, Shane?”

His mother’s voice reeled him back into the conversation. Shane nodded instinctively, offering a polite smile as the admissions officer—Kelly, her nameplate read—seemed satisfied enough with that physical answer.

Just as Shane began to drift again, a sharp knock sounded at the door.

Kelly glanced up. “Oh, there she is.”

The door swung open to reveal a girl about Shane’s age, balancing a camera bag on one shoulder and a clipboard tucked under her arm. She looked effortlessly put together in that same way that  Shane had already started to associate with Boston—confident, prestigious, like she belonged exactly where she was.

“Sorry,” she said, flashing an easy smile. “I got held up at equipment storage.”

Kelly gestured toward her. “Shane, this is Rose Landry. She’s the team manager for the Terriers.”

Rose stepped forward, extending a hand. “You must be the transfer!” Her smile turned curious, assessing without being intimidating. “Welcome to BU.”

Shane stood quickly, shaking her hand. “Shane. Hi,” He replied with an awkward smile.

“I’ll be your main point of contact,” Rose continued, flipping open her clipboard. “Schedules, academic check-ins, media stuff when the time comes.” She paused, then added lightly, “I promise I don’t bite.”

Shane huffed out a small breath of a laugh before he could stop himself.

“And,” she went on, adjusting the strap of her camera bag, “if you see me pointing a camera at you, I’m a film major, and you guys are my muse. It’s not weird. Well…mostly not weird.”

Kelly smiled knowingly. “Rose also keeps this team from completely falling apart.”

Rose shrugged. “It’s a gift.”

For the first time since he’d arrived in Boston, Shane felt something in his chest loosen just a little. Maybe this place wouldn’t be as impossible to navigate as he’d feared.

After saying goodbye to his parents (well, not goodbye—they were coming over to help him unpack his apartment literally tomorrow morning), Shane followed Rose toward the rink for his first official practice with the team.

Shane adjusted the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder, eyes flicking up as they stepped through a set of heavy glass doors. Inside, the space opened wide and industrial—polished concrete floors, exposed beams, and banners hanging from the rafters like quiet reminders of legacy. Terrier red and white everywhere. Championship years upon years stitched into fabric. Names Shane had read about in articles, some he’d watched on TV as a kid, and some he watches now in the MLH.

Their footsteps echoed as they walked, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings. Somewhere deeper in the arena, ice was being resurfaced. He could hear that familiar low hum of machinery, the faint scrape of metal against ice. The smell hit him next: cold air, rubber, old sweat, and that clean, almost metallic scent of freshly sharpened blades. It tugged something nostalgic out of him, grounding in a way he hadn’t realized he needed so badly since the move began.

Rose walked like she’d done this a thousand times, waving to staff, calling out a friendly “Hey!” to a trainer who passed by pushing a cart stacked with water bottles and towels. Shane tried not to gawk, but his eyes kept drifting past the trophy cases lining the hallway—the glass gleaming as the fluorescent lights reflected on the many trophies on display. Signed pucks sat mounted beside engraved plaques. Team photos from decades back stared out at him, gap-toothed grins and all. He wondered, briefly, if his face would ever end up behind this very glass. This year was his last chance at being drafted into the MLH afterall. Sure, he could be an undrafted free agent, but…everyone knows how those guys’ careers tend to look. 

They passed the training room, the door cracked open just enough for Shane to glimpse rows of cushioned tables and resistance bands hanging neatly on hooks on the walls. A whiteboard covered in scribbled drills and practice times loomed on the wall outside the coaches’ offices. Everything felt calculated. Serious. This wasn’t Ottawa. This wasn’t home. This was something…bigger.

As they descended a short ramp toward the locker rooms, the temperature dropped another degree. The air felt damp against his skin. Shane rubbed his palms together, not entirely sure if the chill was from the ice or his nerves.

“First practices are always a little overwhelming,” Rose said over her shoulder, like she could sense Shane’s anxiety. “But you’ll get used to it fast. You’re good, Hollander. I’ve seen your tapes. I guess those MLH execs haven’t, but they will.”

Shane blushed at the compliment as he nodded, swallowing hard. “Thanks,” He responded with a small smile, causing Rose to smile to herself. His chest buzzed with something between excitement and terror. This was it. No more hypotheticals. No more maybes. He was really here.

“And here is your locker,” Rose said as she pointed her arms out to display the small cubby with 'HOLLANDER' on the nameplate at the top. His jersey was folded up waiting for him, along with the rest of his uniform. “We didn’t have a number 24 before, so I’m glad you could keep it! I know some guys care about that stuff a lot,” She said with a small smile as she began to shuffle through her clipboard.

Just then, someone opened the doors to the locker room. A head of curly blonde hair rounded the corner, black headphones over his ears, and a hoodie pulled over his face. Shane barely had time to register his entrance before the guy froze, his fierce eyes flicking from Rose to Shane.

As he pulled his headphones down around his shoulder, his hood fell with them before clearing his throat. Shane swore he had met this guy before, or at least seen him somewhere. “Sorry,” He said with a thick Russian accent. “I… forget phone,” The blonde said as he motioned towards the locker next to Shane’s.

Sure enough, a small iPhone 6 was sitting on the top shelf of the cubby. The locker read 'ROZANOV', and Shane couldn’t help but gulp as he realized just who this blonde guy was. Shane really should’ve known instantly, with how much he had seen the guy online and on his TV.  Of course, his locker is right next to mine.

Rose didn’t look up from her clipboard. “Rozanov,” she exclaimed with a small smile, finally looking up at the Russian man. “Perfect timing.”

Rozanov let out a soft groan. “That’s never good,” he said, his accent sending chills up Shane’s spine (though he tried to ignore them).

“Stop it, you love me,” She responded, playfully slapping his shoulder with her clipboard as Rozanov feigned pain. “Shane, this is Ilya Rozanov. He’s our first line center, one of our alternate captains, and clearly,” She continued, her voice dripping in sarcasm. “My bestest friend.”

Rozanov rolled his eyes as he grabbed his small black bag and turned to face Shane. The Russian center was slightly taller than Shane, but his shoulders were much wider. He smelled like clean laundry and pine, the type of musk Shane typically searched for in colognes, but Rozanov seemed to just create it…naturally. Lucky bastard.

“And Rozanov, this is-“

“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov interrupted, slowly speaking Shane’s name as if it was some kind of…challenge? Shane couldn’t help the way his eyes fell to the other man’s lips as he spoke. Rose looked up at Rozanov with a small expression of shock before nodding. “Ah, so you’ve heard about our transfer student from Canada, it seems?” She inquired as she gave another warm smile to Shane.

Rozanov’s mouth tilted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Tsk, hard not to,” he said easily. “Coach always says you’re like some miracle solution.”

Rose scoffed. “That is not what he—”

“No, this is fact,” Rozanov cut in, eyes never leaving Shane. “Says things like ‘good leader’ and ‘elite hockey IQ’.” He made air quotes with his fingers, deadpan. “Very boring praise.”

Shane flushed, heat crawling up his neck. “I’m—I mean, I just play,” he said, suddenly very interested in the laces on his sneakers.

“Uh-huh,” Rozanov hummed, his sly smirk taunting him out of the corner of Shane’s eye. “All good players say that, even the undrafted ones.”

Rose snapped her clipboard shut. “Okay, introductions complete. Rozanov, go join the team in the conference room or something before you scare him into transferring again.” Shane wanted to interrupt and say that he didn't transfer for that reason, say that Rozanov’s comment didn’t bother him, but opted for staying quiet.

“Am not scary,” Rozanov protested.

“You absolutely are,” Rose said without missing a beat. Then to Shane, softer, “I’ll be back in a bit. Go ahead and get into your gear now since we are starting practice right after the team meeting.”

She shot Rozanov a warning look before slipping out of the locker room, the door swinging shut behind her.

The silence that followed felt louder than the music piping faintly in from the speakers overhead.

Shane shifted his weight, suddenly hyper-aware of the space between them—or lack of it. He could feel Rozanov’s presence like a strong perfume, overpowering and overwhelming. Shane never did well around guys like this, guys who knew their power. 

“So,” Rozanov said at last, dropping his bag onto the bench and sitting down with an easy sprawl. “Canada, huh?”

Shane nodded. “Ottawa.”

Rozanov’s brows lifted slightly. “Big hockey city,” he said. 

Shane nodded. “Yeah. Kinda hard to avoid.”

Rozanov snorted, a sharp, amused sound. “MLH, sure. Cens fans everywhere. Kids on every rink at five in morning.” He shrugged. “But university hockey?” He winced dramatically. “No good.”

Shane laughed before he could stop himself. “Okay, wow.”

“Am serious,” Rozanov went on, grinning handsomely now. “I played games against some of those teams. Painful. No speed. Boring. Felt like charity. You know what I mean, da?”

“They’re not that bad,” Shane protested, ignoring the compliment Rozanov just subtly gave him (though his smile gave him away). 

Rozanov tilted his head, his piercing eyes glinting. “You left them for a reason, no?”

That wiped the smile off Shane’s face, not necessarily in a bad way, just thoughtful. He glanced back down at his locker. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I did.”

Rozanov watched him for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he shrugged, easy again. “Well,” he said, clapping his hands once, “you’re here now. Much better hockey. You have real competition now, no more 80-point seasons, Hollander," Rozanov teased, clearly having paid attention to Shane's record-breaking freshman season. 

Shane looked up at him, nerves still buzzing—but underneath them, something else had settled in. Ilya Rozanov researched me. Ilya Rozanov knows my stats. He thought to himself, ignoring how giddy that thought made him feel.

“Yeah,” Shane said, a little more sure this time. “Much better hockey and competition. Though I think I could get pretty close to 80 again,” He replied cheekily, causing Rozanov to let out a low chuckle as he bit his lip. Shane tried to ignore the way that sight made his spine tingle, gulping as his mouth suddenly felt dry.

Rozanov glanced at Shane’s locker again, his gear already perfectly aligned even though he just took them out of his bag, his shoes lined up underneath like they’d been measured with a ruler. “You always this...perfect?" Referencing Shane's organized cubby and the way he was assigning all of his gear to a specific space. 

Shane hesitated. “Is that…bad?”

Rozanov let out a low laugh. “No. Just…different.” He leaned back, bracing his hands on the bench behind him. “Most guys throw their stuff everywhere. Then complain when they can’t find it.”

Shane allowed himself a small smile. “I like knowing where things are.”

“So boring.” Rozanov tilted his head, studying him openly now. “You like doing homework early, too? You probably do it after practice, games too.”

Shane tilted his head to the side in confusion. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“Only nerds,” Rozanov said, unapologetic. “You have thinking face.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Rozanov said, eyes flicking up to meet Shane’s, “you have thinking face, duh.”

He shrugged as he began to put his gear on. They fell into a comfortable silence as Shane continued to get ready, with Rozanov sneaking glances at him, for whatever reason.

Before the moment could stretch any further, the locker room doors burst open again. A wave of noise poured in: laughter, shouting, the thud of bags hitting the floor. A group of guys around Shane’s age filtered in by the handful, loud and loose and completely at ease. They all were sporting the same matching symbol on their quarter-zips. Ah, frat bros. Shane thought to himself.

“Rozzy!” A taller guy with dark stubble yelled. “You fucking with the new guy already?”

Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Have to take him to dinner first,” He responded smoothly, causing a small blush to creep up Shane’s cheeks. “Am gentleman, of course.”

The guys chuckled at that as the taller one slapped Rozanov on the back before turning to Shane.

“You’re the transfer, right?” He asked. Shane nodded. “Nice to meet you, man, I’m Cliff—Cliff Marlow,” He says with a warm smile as he holds his hand out.

Shane pulled his head fully through his jersey and shook Cliff’s hand. “Hollander, Shane Hollander,” He replies, returning the small smile. Rozanov shifted behind Shane and sat down in his cubby. 

“Okay, James Bond,” Another guy joked. He was shorter than Cliff and had a huge gash across his nose. Shane recognized him from that gash alone.

“You’re Hayden Pike,” Shane said as a fact, rather than a question. Hayden looked surprised before nodding and shaking Shane’s hand. “Uh, yeah, that’s me. How’d ya know?” He asked earnestly, causing a few of the other guys to throw some chirps his way as they put their gear on. 

“We’ve met,” Shane said with a small but genuine smile, watching as the color drained from Hayden’s face as he realized he didn’t remember their meeting at all. “It was very brief, though! Don’t sweat it, really! World Juniors camps are always chaotic.”

Hayden clearly was trying to fight the embarrassment on his face, but Shane knew that the other guys' chirping made it harder to do so. “Sorry, man, I’m the worst,” He said with a sheepish smile.

“Da, finally we agree on something, Pike,” Rozanov chimed in, staring at Shane as his low Russian accent boomed from behind his left shoulder.

Shane’s ears burned as he looked back at the curly blonde man who was still sitting in his cubby.

Rozanov stood then, towering just a little as he stepped closer to Shane. “Come on,” he said quietly, pitched just for Shane. “I’ll show you conference room while these guys learn left skate from right.”

Shane blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” Rozanov replied, already turning. “I want to.”

And it wasn't like Shane could leave Ilya Rozanov hanging.

Chapter End Notes

thank you guys so much for reading this short first chapter with me!! i've been putting in a lot of research into college hockey so please bear with me if i've gotten anything wrong. i haven't written fanfiction since i was in middle school so please let me know if my tags/formatting/anything is messed up and i'll be sure to fix it!! this is definitely going to be a LOOOOONG fic, so i hope you stick around and say hi in the comments!! i love this fandom and i'm so happy i'm writing again because of my two favorite niches: MLM and hockey.

i'll be updating the tags as i go so PLEASE look out for that. if there are any big trigger warnings i'll be sure to mention them at the beginning since i don't want anyone to be caught off guard. much love!

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

TW: Implied suicidal thoughts and ideation, alcohol use/binge drinking, and very brief vomiting at the end.

Ilya Rozanov did not usually volunteer to walk new guys anywhere.

He especially did not usually want to.

And yet here he was, pushing open the conference room door and holding it long enough for Shane Hollander to slip inside first, like this was something he did all the time and not a deliberate choice he was pretending not to examine too closely.

The room smelled like coffee and dry-erase markers. Something so familiar and comforting to Ilya, he almost missed the smell while back in Moscow for his month-long “summer break” before returning to Boston. That entire month consisted of phone calls and Skype meetings with the Boston Bears administration and his father, something Ilya wouldn’t exactly call a “break.”

Guys were already scattered across the chairs, some leaned back with their feet hooked around table legs, others hunched over their phones. The noise dropped a notch when Ilya entered—not because he was an alternate captain or the star of the team, but because that was how it always went. People just liked to listen, just in case Ilya Rozanov had anything to say, and Ilya could get drunk on that kind of power.

Shane Hollander hovered for half a second just inside the doorway.

There it is, Ilya thought. The hesitation. Not uncertainty or even fear, just pure calculation behind Hollander’s eyes. His thinking face.

Ilya didn’t look at him when he spoke softly. “Sit,” he said, jerking his chin toward the open chair beside his own.

Hollander startled, then nodded and slid into it.

Finally, Ilya had a better view of Hollander up close—for the first time, really.

Ilya already knew Shane Hollander was good at hockey. He had known that since some tournament years back, when Hollander had worn some Ottawa jersey and absolutely dismantled a line of players Ilya had expected more from. Fast on the ice. Always finding the right pass. Annoyingly responsible defensively for someone who could score from just about anywhere across the blue line. Yet, he hadn’t been drafted yet. Ilya knew it was because of the way Hollander absolutely played like dogshit in the playoffs, god, everyone who knew Hollander knew that unfortunately. But Ilya knew it wasn’t his fault; it was his consistently terrible teammates. Hollander didn’t play like that before university, definitely not when Ilya had watched him at that U17 tournament. Anyone would crumble under the pressure of being the only competent player on their team. Well, anyone but Ilya, of course. 

But this close, Ilya noticed the freckles.

Not scattered randomly like some guys had them. They were much more concentrated, like they were strategically placed upon his blemish-free skin. Across the bridge of Hollander’s nose, dusted over his cheekbones like someone had pressed him into the sun and it had left fingerprints behind. His lashes were darker and longer than they had any right to be, and his mouth—

Ilya cut that thought off immediately, adjusting his crotch inconspicuously as he moved in his seat.

Focus.

Hollander sat straight-backed, hands folded in his lap like he was in class instead of a team meeting. His leg bounced once before he stilled it, jaw tightening as voices overlapped around them. Thinking face in full effect.

Before Ilya could poke fun at Hollander’s expression again, the door at the front of the room opened, and the coaches filed in. The chatter died instantly. Chairs scraped. Phones disappeared.

Coach Wiebe planted himself at the front, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the room before landing, briefly yet deliberately, on Shane Hollander. Rose and Harris stood off to the side next to the assistant coaches, their eyes also drifting to Hollander. Seems like Ilya wasn’t the only one with a staring problem.

“Alright,” Coach Wiebe said. “Let’s get started. First things first, welcome back boys! And welcome to BU, Hollander.”

A few guys glanced over. Some nodded. One low whistle came from the back.

Hollander sat up even straighter, ears going pink.

Ilya leaned back in his chair, smirking at the sight. For such a star, he really couldn’t handle attention, could he? He thought to himself.

As Coach Wiebe started outlining practice expectations, Ilya let his attention drift. Not to the whiteboard and not to the schedule, but back to the guy beside him.

Hollander listened like every word mattered, when really not even 10% of what was being said did. It was the same old “This season we can’t slack off!” “Keep doing the good stuff, stop doing the bad stuff!” talks they had every year, and this time was no different (other than the few references to Hollander joining the team).

And as he zoned out, Ilya had the uncomfortable, inconvenient realization that he liked watching Shane Hollander. Of course, he had liked watching him on the ice, but with him this close, Ilya seriously couldn’t look away.

Hollander shifted, glancing down at his notebook (because of course Shane Hollander brought a notebook to team meetings), probably sketching out mental drills or plays. Ilya imagined the thought process behind it, and wondered if Hollander would even color-code these notes when he got home.

Then, almost subconsciously, Ilya found himself nudging his knee against Shane’s under the table. Just slightly. Shane flinched, just a fraction, but not enough to look up. A tiny reaction, but enough to make Ilya grin inwardly.

Okay, focus, he muttered to himself again. But as he straightened, ready to pretend he was paying attention to Coach Wiebe, his gaze betrayed him. Shane Hollander was too captivating, and Ilya, for the first time in a long while, was entirely powerless to resist noticing it.

The meeting dragged on, but finally ended with reminders and handshakes. Everyone rose, stretching and joking about the day ahead. Ilya leaned back in his chair one last time, took a deep breath, and snuck a glance at Shane.

“Nice notebook,” Ilya teased, his accent drawing out the syllables of the second word.

Hollander’s ears turned pink immediately, a sight Ilya was growing very fond of. “Shut up. Someone’s gotta take notes to remember this stuff,” he mumbled, hugging the notebook like it was armor.

Ilya tilted his head, amused. “No… not… it’s cute,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word like he expected Shane to catch it. Ilya began to grab his bag and phone as he spoke.

Shane blinked at him. “Wha—cute?”

“Da. Cute… like schoolgirl,” Ilya said teasingly, shrugging. His gaze lingered on Shane a moment longer before he finally stood up, noticing the lingering eyes around the room falling on the two of them. “Come… locker room. Practice wait for no one.”

Ilya didn’t look back, but he felt Shane’s attention on him the entire way. He didn’t mind. He liked it, actually. Liked seeing the slight flush, the way Shane’s brow furrowed as he was clearly still thinking about the interaction they just had.

As the two of them walked toward the locker room, Ilya tried to focus on the team, the schedule, the practice plan—but every glance at Shane pulled his attention back. Freckles, long lashes, the way he carried himself, like he was so very serious. Ilya found himself grinning like an idiot for no apparent reason. 

The locker room doors swung open, chaos spilling out as the rest of the team flooded the cavernous space. Ilya wove through the familiar noise with ease, but his attention stayed fixed on Shane, cataloging the way he moved through the unfamiliar environment. Slightly stiff. A little nervous. Still trying clearly to fit in, making small talk as he finished strapping on his pads.

Ilya’s gaze betrayed him, tracking Hollander’s hands as they dropped to tie his shorts over his padding. Shane lifted his jersey with his chin, abs on full display, all clean lines and quiet confidence. Long fingers worked the strings with practiced precision, looping them into a tight knot around his hips. Ilya swallowed hard, saliva pooling in his mouth before he forced himself to look away.

Focus.

He shook his head and deliberately redirected his attention, scanning the room as teammates finished gearing up and began funneling toward the ice. Ilya stood, ignoring the way Marlow and Pike were giggling at everything Hollander said, and joined the stream heading for the tunnel.

“Rozy! Wait up,” Marlow called, slapping a hand on Ilya’s shoulder as he fell into step beside him. “Can’t wait to see what this guy looks like on the ice.”

There was a smirk in Marlow’s voice when he leaned in, lowering it conspiratorially. “You see him taking notes in the meeting? God, I thought classes didn’t start till Tuesday, bro.”

Ilya snorted, stepping over the lip of the rink and gliding easily onto the ice. He never understood how Marlow managed the fake friendliness followed immediately by talking shit. “You should try notes too, Marly,” he said lightly. “Might help you get off the fourth line.”

Marlow laughed, bumping his shoulder into Ilya’s hard enough to throw him slightly off balance. “Wow, Rozy. Thought you’d hate that teacher’s-pet shit,” he shot back, skating backward as he bent to stretch his hamstrings.

Ilya rolled his eyes, already opening his mouth to respond when a sharp whistle cut cleanly across the rink.

“Alright, boys,” Coach Wiebe barked. “Blue line.”

Ilya coasted toward the tunnel with the rest of the guys, chest heaving, sweat cooling fast against his skin. The rink felt louder now; not from music or yelling, but from voices layered over each other, the low buzz that only showed up when something had shifted.

“Did you see that second goal?”
“Where the hell did Wiebe find this kid?”
“No, I’m serious, that was filthy.”

Ilya didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Behind him, someone let out a low laugh that wasn’t really amused. Marlow, probably. Pike murmured something back. Ilya couldn’t help but smirk to himself as he thought about what Marlow had said before practice began. Here they were two hours later, Hollander probably not even aware of the way he absolutely demolished Marlow on the ice.

During their scrimmage, Marlow had lined up across from Hollander near center, blade flat, weight balanced. Ilya could see the smirk across Marlow’s face from where he was on the ice. Easy win. Marlow had done this a thousand times. Hollander had looked calm, almost bored, eyes flicking once toward the winger on his left.

The puck dropped.

Hollander beat him clean. A quick snap, stick leverage perfect, puck kicked back and immediately pushed forward again—catching Marlow and Ilya mid-adjustment. Before Marlow had fully turned, Hollander already had it on his forehand, and Ilya was racing back to cover with his defense.

Two strides. Quick release. Bar-down.

The sound had been unmistakable. That hollow, metallic ping that lived in a player’s skull long after it echoed through the rink.

Ilya could see the way Marlow was clenching his jaw as they reached the locker room door, snapping him back to the present.

Inside, the energy exploded.

Guys peeled off helmets and gloves, voices overlapping, adrenaline still high. Someone was throwing their huge tape ball around. Another guy laughed, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he’d just watched.

“Two goals and he embarrassed Marlow,” someone said.
“Beat Rozanov on the draw after, too,” another voice added, not even trying to keep it quiet.

Ilya shrugged out of his gloves slowly, pretending he hadn’t heard.

Across the room, Hollander stood by his stall, breathing hard, jersey clinging to him. He looked… overwhelmed. Like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands or his eyes now that all of them were on him for a different reason than before. Hollander had earned the respect of Ilya’s teammates, yet looked like he just devastatingly lost a playoff game.

Marlow didn’t say a word.

He sat heavily at his stall, jaw tight, unlacing his skates with unnecessary force. Ilya leaned back against the bench, watching Hollander laugh awkwardly at something Pike said, ears pink again, shoulders still tense like he didn’t quite believe he’d earned this reaction yet.

Undrafted, Ilya thought again. Right.

He rolled his neck once, exhaled, and grabbed his towel. “Nice goal, Hollander.”

Hollander’s head snapped around, eyes landing on Ilya as he processed the words. “Oh—uh, thanks,” he said sheepishly, the pink spreading from his ears to his cheeks. “It’s just practice anyway.”

Ilya rolled his eyes.

Pike suddenly lit up like he’d just had the greatest idea of his life. “Holzy, you’ve got to come to our mixer tonight! We’ll celebrate your kick-ass first practice, and all of Alpha Phi will be there. Hottest sorority on campus.”

Pike slung an arm around Hollander’s shoulders as they turned toward Ilya and Marlow. Marlow perked up immediately, eyes narrowing in that familiar way Ilya recognized as trouble.

“Yeah, Holzy,” Marlow said, a grin creeping in. “First mixer of the season. And as SigEp president, I’m basically forcing you to come. Whole team’ll be there.” His tone edged into something almost challenging. “You wouldn’t want to miss that, right?”

For half a second, the locker room noise dimmed.

Ilya felt it, a sharp and unexpected pull in his chest at the thought of Hollander there. Not just at the party, but in their space. On their stairs, in their basement, tucked into the chaos of SigEp like he belonged. Ilya told himself it was about optics, about team cohesion, about making sure the new guy felt included.

That was a lie, and he knew it.

He wanted to see Shane loosen up. Wanted to see what happened when the thinking face cracked, when the shoulders dropped, when the rules Hollander seemed to live by got blurry under cheap beer and loud music. Wanted to know if Shane Hollander was still so careful when no one was watching the ice.

For a brief, dangerous second, Hollander was left in nothing but his compression shirt and briefs, long legs flushed pink from the cold, muscles still tight from practice. Nothing obscene about it. Nothing anyone else would clock for more than a passing glance.

Ilya felt it anyway.

A low, sharp awareness in his gut. The kind that made him clench his jaw and look away, too late to pretend he hadn’t been staring. Hollander tugged his hoodie on quickly after. Ilya swallowed and focused very hard on pulling on his own sweatpants.

Jesus Christ, he thought. Get it together.

He just lifted an eyebrow, gaze flicking to Shane, waiting.

Hollander hesitated.

There it was again, that pause. Not fear–calculation. Hollander’s eyes darted briefly to Pike’s arm slung over his shoulder, then to Marlow’s expectant grin, then back to Ilya like he was looking for… something. Permission, maybe. Or an out.

“I—uh,” Shane started, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not really… a party guy.”

A couple of guys groaned immediately.

“Bullshit,” Pike said.
“Everyone’s a party guy,” someone else added.

Shane huffed a small, nervous laugh, shaking his head. “No, I mean it. I don’t usually—”

“Come on,” Pike cut in. “One night. You survived practice, didn’t you?”

Shane smiled weakly at that, eyes flicking back to Ilya without even realizing he was doing it. Ilya held his gaze, unreadable. “Yeah,” Shane said finally, exhaling. “Okay. I’ll come. Just for a bit.”

The room erupted.

“Attaboy!”
“That’s what I like to hear!”
“Welcome to Boston, Hollander!”

Pike tightened his arm around Shane’s shoulders, practically vibrating. Marlow clapped once, satisfied. Ilya just nodded, something warm and dangerous settling low in his stomach.

The Sigma Phi Epsilon house smelled faintly of floor cleaner and old pizza, but it was familiar—comforting in the way only a place full of controlled chaos could be. Music thumped low in the background, a warm hum rather than anything meant to get anyone dancing yet. Some guys were already loosening up, pulling hoodies over their sweatshirts, swapping sneakers for slides, rolling up sleeves, checking hair in the mirror. Others were leaning against counters or sprawled across couches, tossing a tape ball back and forth, laughing at nothing in particular.

Ilya moved through it all with a casual, almost bored grace, scanning the room, checking on the guys, making a few nods here and there. He noticed Marlow pacing with a plastic cup of water, plotting something mischievous. Pike was already fiddling with the stereo, trying to decide whether this playlist could survive the first hour without everyone muting it.

And then he realized something that made him pause—half in disbelief, half in awe.

He hadn’t sent a single text tonight. Not to half the roster of women he usually invited, not to anyone, not even as a preemptive “hey, we’re starting soon” move. He’d normally have his phone buzzing constantly by now, orchestrating the perfect scene, making sure the house was full, the stairs were dangerous, the balcony ready for its runway debut. Tonight… nothing.

His eyes drifted to the stairwell anyway, imagining Shane Hollander somewhere in Boston, probably in his apartment, showered and changed, unaware that Ilya was already recalculating everything he thought he knew about his evenings.

He shook it off with a smirk and moved toward the counter, grabbing a bottle of water. The team buzzed around him, some teasing each other, some stacking cups, some laughing over inside jokes he hadn’t been included in last year. Ilya let his gaze wander, watching them slip into their weekend clothes. Shorts and tees replaced sweaty practice gear, hoodies pulled over shoulders, laces retied, collars adjusted.

He caught Marlow sneaking a glance his way, probably wondering if Ilya had noticed the kid’s perfect timing on the ice earlier. He smirked faintly, knowing he had.

He let his eyes wander, almost unconsciously, toward the staircase again. He didn’t know why he was so aware of it, why Shane Hollander—still not even here—had claimed such a strong part of his attention. It wasn’t fear. Not exactly. Curiosity? Intrigue? Maybe a little frustration at how easily this new guy had already unsettled his rhythm.

Ilya leaned back against the counter, taking a slow sip of water. The hum of conversation, the shifting of chairs, the scrape of sneakers against the hardwood, all of it felt electric tonight. The first Saturday in a long time that he wasn’t orchestrating it all, texting, planning, calling in favors. The first Saturday that he was… noticing.

And in the back of his mind, Shane was already there, somewhere, and the thought sent a low, pleasant buzz down his spine.

Ilya slipped away from the bustle of the living room, nodding at guys he passed without breaking stride. Being Vice President of SigEp had its perks, and one of them was a single room tucked away on the top floor of the house. The key jingled in his pocket as he turned the handle and let the door swing open.

The room smelled faintly of his own laundry detergent and the lingering scent of last night’s takeout. He didn’t bother tidying up; tonight wasn’t about appearances. He dropped his bag on the floor and kicked off his sneakers, letting the tension in his shoulders sag as he collapsed onto the bed.

Flop. Just like that. The mattress dipped under him, and for a few moments he let himself breathe, closing his eyes against the soft hum of the music downstairs. No texts, no calls, no plans to coordinate. Just this—quiet, rare, and completely his own.

He rested there a moment, aware of the lingering pull of Shane Hollander in his mind, and couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. Tonight, he thought, he could just… exist.

He felt his eyes grow heavy as he drifted off into a much-needed nap.

“ROZY!”

A loud, chaotic weight crashed onto his chest. He coughed and rolled, barely keeping from toppling off the bed, as Marlow bounced on one side, Wyatt Hayes on the other, Zane Boodram laughing like he’d just won a bet, and Troy Barrett hanging back quietly, smirking at the spectacle. Ilya’s eyes glanced over to his window, where it was now pitch black outside, save for the party lights and lasers painting the shadows. 

“Party’s started, man! You can’t nap through it!” Marlow shouted, slapping Ilya’s shoulder.

Ilya blinked blearily, trying to take in the scene. And then he noticed it: a bottle of Russian vodka, gleaming under the dim light, clutched triumphantly in Marlow’s free hand. “What… what the hell are you idiots doing?” Ilya muttered, voice thick with sleep.

Wyatt leaned in, practically vibrating with excitement. “We brought the VP to the party! You didn’t think we’d start without you, did you?”

Boodram bounced again, grinning. “Yeah, and you’re officially on ‘get fucking wasted’ duty. You know… leading by example.”

Ilya groaned, shoving at them weakly but failing. The bottle wobbled dangerously in Marlow’s grip, and Troy chuckled from the corner, arms crossed, clearly amused by the chaos but smart enough not to get involved.

Ilya rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling, and muttered, “You think one bottle is enough for Ilya Rozanov?”

And, as usual, they just laughed louder.

Ilya sat up, blinking the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He could already hear the thrum of the party—bass rattling the walls, laughter spilling into the hallway, girls’ voices mingling with the guys’ shouting. Typical chaos, but tonight it felt… alive in a way he hadn’t felt in months.

He rubbed his face, glanced at the vodka in Marlow’s hand, and smirked. “Why not in my hand?” he muttered, Marlow, chuckling as he quickly handed the bottle over to Ilya. He quickly brought the cold bottle up to his lips, gulping it down as the guys cheered him on.

“Fucking Rozy, you’re the only one who can do that with that Russian shit, ya know that?” Hayes said, admiration dripping in his tipsy voice as he sipped on his beer. 

Sliding his hoodie off and tossing it onto a chair, Ilya’s mind started cataloging. Who would be here? Which girls were new, which ones were dangerous? He could almost see the night playing out in the way it always did: him walking in, laughing, leaning in just so, making sure every eye caught him, then disappearing off with a girl (or two) upstairs. The usual script. “Yeah, because you’re pussies, simple.”

They all headed downstairs, the bass from the speakers hitting them before the stairs even finished creaking under their weight. The hallway smelled of spilled beer and cheap cologne, a familiar cocktail that made Ilya’s chest tighten just enough to be exciting. Lights flashed across the walls, bouncing off the trophies in the display cases like they were trying to show off, too.

Ilya let his eyes sweep over the crowd before him, already instinctively noting who was paying attention and who wasn’t. The girls at the front of the living room were clustered in a tight circle, laughing too loudly, arms wrapped around each other in a practiced display of fun. A few were new, he could tell; the way they scanned the room nervously, trying to figure out where to plant themselves, betrayed them instantly. Others were regulars, confident, moving through the crowd like they owned it, brushing shoulders with the guys, tossing flirtatious smirks his way as if testing him.

He kept the vodka in one hand, a casual prop, and let himself drift through the crowd, shoulders relaxed, grin ready. One girl in a bright red dress caught his eye—new, probably a freshman, judging by the way she clutched her drink like a lifeline. He gave her a quick nod, the barest tilt of his head, and she blushed.

Another cluster of guys were playing beer pong near the far wall, loud shouts and clattering cups punctuating the bass-heavy soundtrack. Marlow and Hayes were already in the thick of it, teasing and taunting, while Boodram disappeared for a moment, probably scouting the upstairs for snacks or another mini-game. Barrett hung back, as usual, arms crossed, smirking but not diving in—he liked the chaos from a distance, Ilya knew.

Ilya let himself smile inwardly as he headed down to the basement, where the dancefloor and DJ were. This was his element. Every laugh, every glance, every calculated brush of a hand; it was all a choreography, a game he had perfected. He let his eyes wander, scanning the crowd, and for a moment, caught himself thinking about Shane Hollander.

He hadn’t shown up yet.

And, truth be told, part of him was curious. Irritatingly, distractingly curious about what Hollander would even look like in this chaos, away from ice and practice. But he pushed the thought down, forcing his grin back up. Tonight, Ilya Rozanov was on, and the game was already in motion. He had a room to command, attention to catch, and a script he knew by heart. Hollander could wait.

He took a long sip of vodka, scanning again, and let the party sweep him in, letting his instincts take over. Every glance, every laugh, every casual touch was deliberate, a subtle wave of dominance. The room responded immediately as girls leaned in, boys joked louder, and the energy rose with each beat of the music. 

Ilya’s eyes caught the familiar cluster near the stairs. Svetlana Vetrova, Alpha Phi president, was holding court like she always did–tall and composed even in heels that probably weren’t made for dancing. Rose was at her side, laughing a little too easily at something Svetlana had said. He slid up to them, bottle in hand, and bowed slightly, accent thick as he greeted Svetlana in Russian. “Your majesty,” he said, voice low and teasing, letting the words linger.

Svetlana’s eyebrows rose just enough to acknowledge the jab, lips twitching as if to smile but keeping it contained. “Good evening, Vice President,” she replied evenly, though the tilt of her head betrayed the smallest flicker of amusement.

Rose’s grin widened, sharp and knowing, and she leaned in slightly, voice low. “I see you’re up to your usual antics, Rozy,” She giggled as she motioned to the bottle in his hand.

Ilya tilted his head, taking a small, deliberate sip of vodka. “Easy now, Landry. I haven’t even started yet.”

They both laughed softly. For a moment, Ilya let himself enjoy it: the control, the teasing, the careful dance of words that left them laughing without anyone else understanding why. It was nice talking to women who weren’t throwing themselves at Ilya, as douchey as that seemed to say. 

Then he let his gaze drift over the room. His teammates and frat brothers were scattered, chaos in motion as usual. “Cig break,” Ilya called over his shoulder, leaving the two women dancing and giggling with their little group again. 

He made his way upstairs, ignoring the calls of his name and delicate hands tracing his biceps as he brushed by. He searched his pockets for his pack of cigarettes and lighter as he went up the stairs, dodging the couples making out and spilled bottles. 

Ilya stepped out onto the balcony, cigarette between his fingers, the night air cool against his flushed skin. From up here, he could hear the faint thumping of music from the basement and the loud flood of voices every time the front door opened below him. He peered around the side of the building as the smoke from his cigarette curled up towards the stars, sneaking a glance at the girls and boys laughing on the front porch of the house. He leaned against the railing, his gaze turning back towards the alleyway below him. He looked down at the concrete three stories down and found his mind wandering.

As he drew in another breath of his cigarette, he couldn’t help but wonder if jumping from this height would kill him. Well, not him, anyone. 

He exhaled slowly, smoke slipping from his lips as the thought settled and immediately curdled.

Jesus. Get a grip. Ilya scoffed under his breath, almost annoyed at himself. It wasn’t like that. It never was. Just… curiosity. Detached. Academic, even. It wasn’t like he was standing on the railing. He wasn’t even leaning forward. He was perfectly balanced, feet planted, fingers draped loose around his cigarette. Totally fine.

Obviously.

His mother’s face flickered in his mind anyway, uninvited and unwelcome for the first time ever, really. He remembered it all, even now, years later. The slightly open door, her motionless hand. The word suicide had followed him like a rumor ever since, something people never said outright but always seemed to glance at him like it might be contagious.

He took another drag, harsher this time, like he could burn the thought out of himself.

He wasn’t like her. He drank, sure. Smoked, definitely. Partied far too hard. And yeah, he felt things too sharply sometimes, late at night or in quiet rooms. But that was normal. Everyone felt sad sometimes. Everyone stared too long into places they shouldn’t. It didn’t mean anything.

Didn’t mean he wanted to disappear.

Didn’t mean he ever would, even if he wanted to.

Then suddenly, the double glass doors opened and out stumbled the last face Ilya had expected to see.

“Oh sh–I’m so sorry, I just really needed some air–”

And then Shane Hollander was throwing up all over Ilya’s shoes.

Chapter 3

Chapter Notes

don't forget to check the updated tags!

TW: light mentions of vomiting, binge drinking

The walk back to his apartment felt longer than it actually was. Shane’s legs were still humming from practice, muscles tight but alive in a way he couldn’t ignore. It was his favorite type of aching, the kind that almost feels good in a way. Every step echoed faintly in the bustling evening Boston streets, and he realized he hadn’t breathed properly in the locker room chaos. Noticing how different this team felt, how different he felt here, was exhausting in a way that had nothing to do with skating.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside, dropping his bag with a soft thud. The apartment smelled faintly of leftover takeout and detergent. Boxes upon boxes were stacked throughout the studio floorplan, taking up every space his bed, couch, desk, and kitchen didn’t. 

Shane peeled off his practice gear methodically. Socks, pads, jersey, skates—he stacked them neatly on a chair by the door. It was a ritual he’d learned young; keeping the small things in order made him feel in control, even when his entire life was changing. He felt the tension in his shoulders start to loosen just slightly as he leaned against the counter, loosening his neck.

The thought of the mixer tugged at him immediately. He hadn’t wanted to come, not really. He was here to play hockey, not to navigate frat parties and social hierarchies. But Pike and Marlow had cornered him, and above all, Shane was a people pleaser.

He wasn’t ready to admit it, but some part of him was curious. His university didn't even have “greek life,” except for one academic fraternity full of political science majors.  He also couldn’t help but wonder about Ilya Rozanov. About how the guy carried himself. About how everyone seemed to orbit around him without him even trying.

Shane’s gaze fell on his notebook. He’d scribbled plays, notes, even doodles during practice. Normally, he’d obsessively rewrite them neater at home. Until there were zero mistakes and he practically had them memorized. Tonight, though, he hesitated. Would he even have time? Did he even want to? His thumb traced the edge of the red notebook as he made a decision he hadn’t planned–he was going to go.

He had originally planned to just send a text to Hayden saying he wasn’t feeling too good and had to be up early, but he had already let it slip that his parents wouldn’t be over until 11 am at the earliest. Plus, he could use some social interaction. Today’s practice was the first time he interacted with anyone, really, since moving in on Monday. He had been so caught up in getting ready for the school year that he hadn’t gone to any of the student events that ran the week before classes started. 

He showered quickly, letting the hot water run over him and wash away the sticky sweat of practice. The apartment filled with steam, and Shane closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift. He thought about the locker room—the first glimpses of the team, the way they laughed and teased, the way Rozanov had glanced at him once, just enough for Shane to notice. He couldn’t stop replaying it. Just a look, nothing more. Yet, somehow, it lingered.

He found his hand drifting downward, lightly tracing down his chest and his abs. He let it dip lower as he thought back to the Russian man’s bare chest in the locker room. The way his back muscles strained against his compression shirt when he lifted his arms. His perfect pecs and cherry red lips…

Fuck. 

His hand began to lazily stroke his already fully erect cock, his forehead leaning against the stone wall of his steamy shower. He thought back to the way Rozanov brushed his knee against Shane’s under the table during the team meeting, his sly smirk that Shane couldn’t help but catch out of the corner of his eye. His hand began to pick up speed.

Rozanov’s little “schoolgirl” comment had been ringing in Shane’s mind all practice, even the entire walk home. He knew Rozanov was just messing with him, but the way he had said it was so…fuck, so erotic. As he sped up, he knew he was reaching his release faster and faster.

Blonde curls and tight muscles filled his mind as tightened his fist and moved faster and faster and–

“Fuck,” His voice echoed in his empty bathroom as his release painted the shower wall. He did not just come thinking about Ilya Rozanov of all people. That did not just happen. He finished scrubbing the rest of his body before shutting the shower off. 

Towel-dried, he dressed slowly, carefully eyeing himself in the full body mirror in his bathroom. He tried to think about things Coach Wiebe brought up in the team meeting or advice Rose had given him before he had gone home, but his mind kept circling back to a certain Russian hockey star. He carefully slid on his dark jeans, clean sneakers, and a fitted dark blue button-up. He undid the first few buttons, letting his collarbones and sternum show. Not flashy, not trying too hard—just enough to blend in without disappearing. His hands hesitated over the front door key, then he grabbed it. The night was waiting, whether he was ready or not.

Shane paused for a final glance in the mirror. He sprayed some of his cologne onto his wrists and dabbed it behind his ears, thinking back to Rozanov’s addictive musk. Shaking his head, he straightened his shoulders. 

Taking a slow breath, he stepped outside, locking the door behind him. He turned around, letting out his breath and beginning his walk to the frat house. Every step he took felt heavy, calculated even. He was still trying to shake his thoughts from the shower, but his mind betrayed him, drifting back to Rozanov again and again. The molehe’d noticed earlier, the confident way he’d carried himself, the teasing edge to his voice in the team meeting… Shane shook his head. He just had to survive the party. He wanted to observe. Maybe avoid making a fool of himself.

As he walked closer to greek row, he could hear the loud bass growing louder and louder. There were flocks of college-aged kids loudly talking and running through the streets. Shane glanced down at his phone, making sure he was heading in the right direction even though he was already sure he was. Suddenly, a familiar voice called out to him.

“Shane! Shane Hollander!”

Shane spun around, spotting a group of beautiful girls his age heading towards him. In the very front of them was Rose Landry, his team manager, smiling and waving as she pulled a taller, curly-haired girl with her. Rose was wearing a black spaghetti strap tank top and a short denim skirt, her brown belt matching her brown boots, which clacked loudly as she ran towards him. “Rose, Hi! You’re going to the party too?” He asked, though the answer seemed quite obvious.  

Rose slowed a few steps, letting the rest of her group catch up. “Of course! We are the sorority they are hosting with!! I’m glad I spotted you! I was hoping to catch you before you disappeared into the chaos.”

Shane gave a small, awkward laugh. “Yeah… trying not to get lost.”

Rose raised an eyebrow in a teasing manner. “Lost? You? I find that hard to believe.” She glanced over her shoulder, giving a subtle nod to the taller girl she had been guiding. “Oh! This is Svetlana Vetrova, she’s the President of Alpha Phi! Svetlana, this is Shane Hollander, the new Boston Terrier. You’ve probably heard enough about him.”

Shane tried to remember the name (something he was terrible at) and gave a polite nod.

Svetlana smiled, a little teasing in her expression. “I think it’s safe to say you’re already infamous in some circles.”

Shane tried not to let the compliment or the teasing tone make him flustered. He forced a casual smile. “Infamous, huh? That sounds… terrifying,” He admitted sheepishly, causing some of the girls around him to giggle. 

Rose laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Terrifying? No!! All good things, we promise. Calm down and try to enjoy yourself, okay? No overthinking.”

Shane felt the familiar knot of anxiety loosen slightly. It helped to have at least one friendly face in this sea of strangers. “Yeah… I’ll try,” he said, glancing down the street where the frat house loomed, loud music already spilling out.

Svetlana leaned a little closer, her voice quieter, more conspiratorial. “If you need help navigating… or surviving… we’ve got your back. These guys can be crazy sometimes.”

“Don’t we know it!” Rose added.

Shane blinked at her, surprised by the unexpected friendliness. “Thanks… I appreciate that, both of you.”

Rose elbowed him lightly, nudging him toward the party. “Come on, let’s go. Don’t want to be late. The team’s probably already doing their… ‘team-bonding’ or whatever they call it.”

Shane followed, the thrum of the bass growing in his chest with each step. His stomach tightened slightly at the thought of stepping inside, but having Rose and Svetlana nearby gave him a small, comforting buffer.

As they reached the steps of the house, the music hit him fully. The smell of beer, cheap perfume, and warm bodies hit his nose. He froze for a moment, letting the sensory overload wash over him, trying his best to calm his mind down. Then, with a steadying breath, he followed Rose and Svetlana inside, ready to navigate the chaos that awaited.

The living room was already packed. Music pulsed through the air, bass rattling the wooden floors, voices overlapping in a loud, chaotic harmony. Shane felt his pulse quicken, scanning the room as his eyes adjusted to the mix of bodies, flashing lights, and laughter.

“Shane! Over here!”

He turned to see Marlow waving him over, grinning like he’d just scored a goal. Pike was close behind, practically vibrating with excitement. Shane hesitated for half a second, then took a cautious step forward, waving a small goodbye to Rose and Svetlana. 

Marlow wasted no time, shoving a red Solo cup into Shane’s hand. “Team bonding! You can’t be the new guy and not participate. Shots first!”

Shane blinked down at the cup. “Uh… shots?”

“Yeah!” Hayden chimed in, his grin almost painfully wide. “It’s tradition. Everyone does it! You’ll survive.”

Marlow leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. “Survive, maybe, but don’t stop at one. You have to trust me.”

Shane felt his stomach twist slightly. He didn’t want to refuse outright, but the pressure–Marlow’s enthusiasm, Hayden practically bouncing beside him, and the team all watching—made him cave. He lifted the cup, bracing himself, and took the shot. The burn made him cough, eyes watering, but Marlow clapped him on the shoulder and laughed.

“Good! That’s what I like to see. Now, another one—come on, you’re warming up!”

Hayden laughed when he saw the expression on Shane’s face, looping an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you. First party with the team, you’ve got to have some fun, right?”

Shane nodded weakly, trying to maintain some composure, but the combination of alcohol and the loud chaos started to blur his senses. He followed Marlow around, doing shot after shot, laughing awkwardly when jokes hit him, even if he didn’t fully understand them. Hayden kept up a steady stream of conversation, talking animatedly about everything from last season’s practice disasters to which sorority girls were supposedly the “hottest.”

“Rage cage time!” Wyatt Hayes shouted, beckoning his teammates to join him around the dining room table that was full of cups. They all stumbled over, some guys pulling girls with them as a form of “moral” support. Shane finished whatever was in his cup before setting it down and following behind Hayden. “You ever played this, Holzy?” Hayden asked him as he shook his head no.

“Good. It’s simple enough,” Hayden continued, eyes glinting with the same mischievous energy that made everyone follow him so easily. “You’ve got your cup, I’ve got mine. We bounce the ping pong ball into the cups and try to land it. Miss? Take a drink. Make it? Pass it to the person on your left. If you make it first try, you can pick anyone to pass to. But if I make it before you, you have to drink one of these other cups first before shooting. Got it?”

Shane blinked, shaking his head weakly. “Not at all.” His stomach tightened. He tried to focus, squinting at the row of cups.

“Attaboy!” Marlow said, ignoring Shane as the fun began.

“Loser finishes the Rage Cup,” Hayden added on swiftly before focusing on the first two players up, Wyatt Hayes and Troy Barrett.

Shane’s stomach twisted. The Rage Cup. He’d heard whispers and stories from the guys in the locker room after the mixer was brought up–tales of the infamous, grotesque concoction that awaited the ultimate loser: beer, cheap liquor, seltzers, energy drinks, even a splash of whatever random bottle someone had lying around. It was a death sentence to his sobriety; Shane only ever really had a beer at social events like this. Ginger ale if he was lucky. 

“Looks… fun,” Shane muttered, voice wavering, though his pulse was already racing watching the guys miss their shots and chug drinks.

Marlow leaned in from the other side, grinning ear to ear. “Oh, it’s more than fun, buddy. It’s tradition. You do not want to be the guy who ends up with that last cup.”

The first few rounds were laughably disastrous for Shane. Balls bounced past cups, splashing his neighbors’ drinks, and each miss elicited cheers or teasing groans. He took his sips dutifully, gagging a little at the taste, trying to match the team’s energy even though the room was spinning faster than the ball.

The pace was relentless, everyone shouting instructions, teasing, cheering, and celebrating humiliations. He barely registered who was on his left or right; the cups were starting to pile up, stacks wobbling precariously as the person next to him tried to bounce into them. Suddenly, the cup and ball were in front of him.

“Watch out, Holzy!” Marlow shouted. “Stack incoming!”

Shane’s eyes went wide as a pile of cups suddenly came his way. He tried to bounce the ball in, but it clattered against the top cup and toppled. He groaned, snatched a center cup, and downed it in one desperate gulp. His stomach churned, the combination of beer, spirits, and nerves already making him queasy.

“Keep going!” Hayden shouted beside him, practically vibrating with excitement. “You’re doing great! Holzy! Holzy!”

Shane blinked at him, unsure whether to laugh or groan. He grabbed the next cup from the center and chugged it, then tried again at the stack. The cup wobbled dangerously, the table tilting slightly under the chaos of so many people playing at once. Balls bounced into empty cups, into the center cups, over cups—they were everywhere. Shane’s head spun.

And then, inevitably, it was down to a few cups, and of course, it was Shane’s turn again. He fumbled with the ball, missing multiple times as his vision was getting a bit hazy. Shane’s hands shook as he grabbed the ping pong ball again, squinting at the towering stack of empty cups wobbling precariously in front of him. Each cheer and shout around the table blended into a dizzying roar.

He bounced the ball once, twice, and missed. Twice more. Each time, the ball clattered off the top rim or ricocheted onto the table, and the stack teetered dangerously as Luca Haas was anxiously trying to get his ball into the stack before Shane could do his own.

“C’mon, Holzy!” Marlow shouted, grinning like Shane’s failure was the best thing he’d seen all night. “You can do it! You have to do it!”

Shane exhaled shakily, his stomach twisting. He tried again, but was interrupted by the sound of Haas’s ball landing in his stack of cups. The entire dining room shook as everyone began to yell.

“Holzy, you’re toast! Drink from the center, man! The Rage Cup awaits!”

Shane froze, eyes widening as everyone around the table erupted in laughter and cheers. He looked down at the final cup in the center—a grotesque mix of beer, vodka, rum, and… everything else in the house.

Hayden was practically bouncing in place next to him, clapping like this was the highlight of his year. “Go! Go! Team bonding, Holzy! You gotta do it!”

Shane’s stomach roiled violently. He wanted to argue, to say no, to disappear, but the pressure was relentless. Marlow leaned over, smirking, nudging him forward.

“Do it. Chug it. You’ll thank me later.”

With a trembling hand, Shane lifted the Rage Cup, the stench hitting him full force. His head spun, vision blurring, and he gagged before he even took a sip.

“Almost there…” Marlow shouted.

And then Shane, dizzy and disoriented, tilted the cup to his lips, the sticky, bitter concoction sliding down his throat as he forced himself to chug. The taste made him gag, but he kept going until it was empty.

“Holzy is the fucking man!” Someone yelled as Shane was suddenly being pulled down to the basement. 

Shane stumbled forward, almost tripping over his own feet as the thrum of the bass hit him harder than ever. The mixture of beer, vodka, and whatever else had gone into that Rage Cup swirled in his stomach, making him simultaneously light-headed and nauseous.

A pair of hands grabbed his shoulders, spinning him around, and suddenly, he was being shoved into a group of girls who had clearly been waiting for him. They were laughing, swaying to the music, dragging him into the chaos of the dance floor. Shane tried to smile, nodded politely, tried to move his feet in rhythm, but the world tilted under him, and his coordination was already shot.

One girl grabbed his hand and pulled him closer, shoving a grin onto his face. “Come on, dance with me!” she shouted over the music, spinning him in a clumsy circle. Shane nodded, mimicking moves he’d seen others do, arms flailing just slightly, but somehow keeping his balance. His brain wasn’t processing much beyond the pounding bass, the heat of bodies pressed around him, and the sharp burn of alcohol in his system.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, beyond the fog of noise and booze, his thoughts wandered unexpectedly.

Rozanov.

He didn’t know why that name popped into his head now, not after hours of not thinking about the Russian player. But for some reason, Shane’s mind drew a bead on Rozanov—the way he carried himself, the teasing smirk Shane had noticed in practice, that sharp confidence that seemed to exist even when the room was chaotic.

He blinked, realizing he was still dancing, still moving with these girls who were laughing at his flailing arms, but he barely saw them anymore. His mind was too busy imagining the way Rozanov might be watching from across the house, smirking, maybe judging—or maybe enjoying the spectacle.

Shane’s stomach tightened again. The Rage Cup wasn’t helping. He could feel the alcohol swirling, the heat in his cheeks, the dizzy tilt of the room, and the realization that he hadn’t seen Rozanov all night made something twist in his chest.

“Hey! You okay, Shane?” one of the girls asked, grinning, her hands tugging him back into the rhythm. Shane gave a weak nod, forcing a smile, but he barely heard her.

Because for the first time since he’d arrived, Shane realized he was watching the party, feeling it, and… wishing Rozanov was there.

The bass thumped in time with his pulse, the girls laughed around him, and Shane tried to focus on the music—but his mind wouldn’t stop drifting back to the blonde man who was probably already upstairs in his room with some sorority girl.

Shane took another shaky step, tripping slightly over his own feet, trying to regain focus on the music, on the girls, on anything—but it was useless. All he could see was Ilya Rozanov, standing somewhere in his mind, and the alcohol made that thought feel heavier, more urgent, more impossible to shake. And it wasn’t helping his nausea.

“I need some air,” He called over the loud music before removing the small hands from his neck. 

Shane staggered up the stairs, the noise from the basement fading into a muffled thump behind him. Each step wobbled under the weight of his spinning head, his stomach still churning. His shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin, damp with sweat, and the warmth of the crowd below only made him more aware of the heat building in his chest.

Halfway up, Hayden’s voice cut through the haze. “Holzy! You good, man? Feeling a little… woozy?”

Shane blinked at him, voice rough from the alcohol as he finished climbing the stairs. “Yeah… I just… need some air.”

Hayden grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Smart move. There’s a balcony up here. Get some fresh air, clear your head. Don’t pass out before the night’s even started!” He pointed toward another set of stairs at the end of the landing. “Go on—up there. You’ll thank me.”

Shane wobbled up the set of stairs, dodging the mysterious liquids and couples on them. He continued down the short hallway toward the door, pulling it open and stepping out into the night air with his head down. The cool, crisp air washed over him before the stench of cigarettes flooded his nostrils. He took a deep, shuddering breath before looking up and almost jumping back.

Ilya Rozanov was standing directly in front of him, a cigarette drawn to his lips and shock evident on his face. 

Shane knew he must look a mess with his flustered, red cheeks and sweat, causing his hair to stick to his forehead. He was gasping for breath, and almost all of the buttons on his shirt were undone, his sleeves completely rolled up unevenly from when he hurriedly shoved them up his arms in the heat of the crowd. 

He opened his mouth to speak, his hoarse voice louder out on the quiet balcony. “Oh sh–I’m so sorry, I just really needed some air–”

And then, in the back of his mind, a cold, panicked voice whispered: Why did I come up here? Of all people, why him? I can’t handle this right now. I can’t… just breathe…

His stomach lurched violently, and he could feel it twisting, rebelling against the alcohol, the Rage Cup, the spinning energy of the party still pulsing behind his eyes. God, not now. Not him. Please don’t let me—

Before he could think another coherent thought, his body betrayed him. He bent forward, hands gripping the railing to his side for balance, and retched violently. The contents of his stomach spilled over, landing squarely on Rozanov’s polished shoes. Shane’s eyes watered, hot shame flooding through him, and he could barely form a word.

“I—I’m so sorry…” he croaked, voice breaking, head still hanging low as he tried to catch his breath.

Rozanov, remarkably unbothered, crouched slightly and calmly removed his shoes, setting them aside. “Relax,” he said, his voice steady, teasing even. “Guess Boston parties hit harder than you thought.”

Shane groaned, shoulders slumping against the railing, utterly mortified, while Rozanov just watched, smirking faintly, his cigarette still between his fingers, as if he’d been expecting this all along. He quickly put it out, bending down next to Shane. “Here, come.”

Rozanov stood up, motioning his hand out for Shane to take. Shane’s own arm felt heavy, unsteady, but he let his hand fall into Rozanov’s firm grip. The warmth of it was grounding as Rozanov gently pulled him up, guiding him through the glass doors. The cold night air of the balcony hit Shane one last time, making him shiver, before the warmth of the hallway enveloped him.

Shane blinked against the bright overhead light, suddenly aware of the people hanging around outside his vision. A couple of frat brothers leaned against the walls, laughing, a girl in a short dress walked past, her heels clicking sharply. Panic pricked at the edge of his stomach. Did they see? Did anyone notice how awful I looked? He tugged at his sleeves nervously, hoping Rozanov’s calm presence would shield him from the judgment of the world.

Rozanov navigated the narrow hallway with casual ease, guiding Shane past a few open doors and the buzzing chaos of the party that leaked through the walls. Shane stumbled slightly, and Rozanov steadied him, thumb pressing into his wrist lightly. “Da… careful. Slippery in this place,” Rozanov murmured, his English accented but precise.

Shane mumbled something incomprehensible, too embarrassed to speak clearly, and allowed himself to be guided. Every step felt surreal, like the hallway stretched longer than it actually did, the laughter and shouting from the party now a muffled roar behind him. He caught glimpses of faces in the dimly lit corridor, all turned away thankfully, and let out a shaky breath. Okay… maybe no one noticed. Maybe.

Rozanov reached his door and slid a key from the lock, holding it open for Shane. “Come… sit. You need water. Shirt… change, yes?” His voice was calm, steady, the sort of authority that made Shane feel he didn’t have to apologize for being completely undone.

Shane stepped in, scanning the small bedroom—neat, minimal, very different from chaos downstairs. Rozanov disappeared briefly into a closet, returning with a plain, soft T-shirt and a glass of water. The faint scent of detergent and a hint of smoke clung to him, strangely comforting.

“Here. Put this on,” Rozanov said, setting the water down on a small side table. Shane sank onto the edge of the bed, exhaustion and shame mingling as he peeled off the damp, sticky shirt. The bitter tang of alcohol and regret still lingered, making his stomach churn slightly.

“Thanks… I… really appreciate it,” Shane muttered, voice low, hoarse, barely above a whisper. He tugged the soft T-shirt over his head, feeling the fabric cling pleasantly to his damp skin.

Rozanov crouched beside him, one hand resting lightly on the bed frame. “Da… always… Hollander. Sit, drink. Relax.” Shane took a careful sip of water, letting it trickle down his parched throat, his pulse finally beginning to slow.

For the first time all day, he allowed himself to look up at Rozanov fully. The blonde man’s expression was unreadable, yet teasing, as if he had known this would happen all along. Shane swallowed hard, still flushed from the alcohol and the mortification of his vomiting incident.

Rozanov tilted his head slightly, eyes studying him, before giving a small nod. “Better… yes? You… okay?”

Shane managed a weak smile. “Yeah… better… thanks,” he said, voice barely audible, but sincere. He shifted, still embarrassed, the memory of the balcony incident flashing sharply in his mind.

“Fun party, no?” Rozanov asked, collapsing onto the big black bean bag chair across from the bed.

“Fun… yeah,” Shane said, voice thick, his words slurring slightly. He ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to ignore the lingering nausea. He took another sip of the water Rozanov gave him. “Team… bonding, right?” He forced a small laugh, more nervous than amused.

Rozanov smirked, leaning back with one arm draped casually across the bean bag. “Tsk… bonding. Very… intense.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “You… not used to… party like this, yes?”

Shane hesitated, then shrugged. “Not… really.” He paused, realizing he was spilling more than he intended. “I mean… I’ve done stuff like this, but… not… this… loud.” His words stumbled, and he groaned softly. “Not… like… this many people.”

“Is it…still loud?” Rozanov asked, concern shifting across his face as he observed Shane.

Shane thought for a second, still feeling the pounding in his head growing stronger from the muffled bass coming from downstairs. “Honestly…kind of, but hey, it is a party. They aren’t known for being quiet.”

Rozanov suddenly stood, strutting across the room in a few quick strides as he pulled his phone out of his pocket–white earbuds wrapped around it. He sat down next to Shane on the bed, their backs up against the wall as their shoulders brushed and feet hung over the edge. “Here, still music but…not so BOOM BOOM BOOM,” Rozanov exclaimed, shaking the bed with each ‘BOOM’ before offering an earbud to Shane.

Shane couldn’t help but laugh before taking the earbud and slipping it into his ear. “Rihanna?” He asked, trying to hide the shock in his voice. 

Rozanov grinned, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Da. Rihanna. You… like?” He bobbed his head slightly, tapping his fingers on the bed in time with the beat, though Shane could see his attention was partly on him.

Shane let out a shaky laugh, settling back against the wall and letting the music wash over him. The bass was muted, warm instead of aggressive, and he felt some of the tension in his chest ease. “Yeah… I… didn’t expect this from you,” he said, glancing at Rozanov out of the corner of his eye. “Thought… maybe you’d have like Kanye or something.”

Rozanov’s eyebrows shot up, a teasing glint in his icy blue eyes. “Kanye? Hah… no, Hollander. I… like good music,” He shrugged, offering no further explanation but somehow making it feel like a perfectly reasonable answer.

Shane nodded, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. The alcohol still swirled in his veins, but the quiet of the room, the muffled music in his ear, and Rozanov’s presence made it easier to breathe. “Thanks,” he murmured after a moment, almost to himself. “For… y’know… all this. The… the water, the shirt… just… not yelling at me.”

Rozanov tilted his head, watching him with something unreadable. “You’re very… dramatic, yes?” His voice was light, teasing, but not unkind. “You throw up, I help– is no problem.”

Shane let out a short, hiccuped laugh. “Yeah… guess I am. Embarrassing, though. Super embarrassing.” He cringed slightly, feeling his cheeks warm again, even in the dim light.

Rozanov shrugged, leaning back so their shoulders touched just a little more firmly. “It’s a party, everyone is…embarrassing. You alive… yes? Good enough.” His English wasn’t perfect, but Shane understood him nonetheless, and it made him smile despite himself.

For a moment, neither spoke, just listening to the softened rhythm of Rihanna’s song and the faint hum of the party downstairs. Shane realized he could feel his head clear a little, the nausea fading, replaced by something lighter… something like calm.

When Shane opened his eyes again, he realized he had nodded off and was lying lightly on Rozanov’s shoulder. He quickly straightened up, muttering a small ‘sorry’ before checking the time on his phone. It was already 1 am, and Shane knew he had to leave. “I think I should start heading out,” He said, stumbling as he stood up–Rozanov catching his elbow and helping him balance. 

Rozanov’s eyes followed him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “No. You’re not going home alone. I’ll walk you.”

Shane blinked, shaking his head weakly. “I… I can handle it. Really, it’s just a couple blocks…”

Rozanov crossed his arms, tilting his head. “No. I’m captain. It’s my duty. Can’t let a teammate stumble home by himself.”

Shane let out a short laugh, still rough from the alcohol. “You mean… alternate captain,” he muttered under his breath, but didn’t push it further.

Rozanov’s smirk widened, as if Shane’s muttered comment had amused him, but he didn’t respond. He held open the door, motioning for Shane to walk through it. “Come. I’ll make sure you get home safe.”

Shane sighed, running a hand through his messy hair, then finally gave in. “Alright… fine. Lead the way, captain.”

He followed behind Rozanov, stumbling slightly as they stepped back into the hallway. A few students passed them, laughing and talking loudly. Shane’s stomach twisted nervously; he hoped no one had seen the earlier disaster on the balcony. He tried to keep his head down, wishing he could disappear.

Rozanov walked with calm, confident strides, glancing at Shane every so often. “See? No one cares. Everyone’s too busy being drunk.”

Shane nodded weakly, focusing on keeping pace. “Yeah… I guess you’re right,” he muttered.

Outside, the cool night air hit him, helping him feel a little more grounded. The distant music of the party was now just a low hum, replaced by the soft sounds of the city—cars passing, the occasional shout from a late-night student, doors opening and shutting.

Rozanov fell into step beside him. Their shoulders brushed lightly, and Shane realized just how much he appreciated the quiet, steady presence next to him.

As they continued walking, Shane’s mind suddenly started drifting to what he had done in the shower earlier, before the party. He tried to fight the flush that was surely crawling up his face, but Rozanov had already noticed. “Really, Hollander, nothing to be embarrassed about,” He quickly reassured Shane, assuming that’s why he had been flushing. 

Shane blinked, surprised at Rozanov’s quick assessment. “It’s… not just that,” he muttered, shaking his head. He tried to push the memory aside, focusing instead on keeping his balance as the alcohol still made his legs feel a little wobbly.

Rozanov gave a faint, amused smile. “Hm. You are… complicated, yes?”

Shane couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. “Yeah… probably.”

The rest of the walk was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The night air was cool against Shane’s flushed skin, and the steady rhythm of Rozanov’s footsteps beside him was oddly grounding. Shane’s apartment building came into view, the small brick structure looking much quieter compared to the chaos of the frat house.

“Here we are,” Rozanov said, slowing slightly as they approached the lobby. Shane fumbled with his keys, cursing under his breath when he realized he had dropped one. Rozanov stooped, picking it up and handing it to him without a word.

“Thanks,” Shane muttered, sliding the key into the lock.

The lobby was dimly lit, a few flickering lights casting long shadows on the walls. Shane’s stomach twisted nervously, thinking about the chance someone might see him like this, half-drunk and flustered. But Rozanov merely leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he had been here a thousand times before.

“Second floor?” Rozanov asked, tilting his head toward Shane’s apartment door.

Shane nodded, fumbling to grab his jacket. “Yeah… uh… race you up?” he said impulsively, a mischievous spark breaking through the haze of alcohol and nerves.

Rozanov raised an eyebrow but smirked. “You? Really?”

“C’mon, Captain,” Shane teased lightly, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

In a flash, Rozanov’s smirk turned into a grin, and he pushed off the wall. “Da. Let’s see.”

They bolted up the stairs, Shane’s legs burning immediately from the effort, the alcohol still making him a little unsteady. Rozanov, unsurprisingly, was quick and sure-footed, but Shane refused to let him win easily. They reached the second-floor landing, laughing breathlessly, Shane barely managing to keep up.

“Not fair!” Shane gasped, gripping the railing for support.

Rozanov just smirked down at him. “Have to be quicker than that, Hollander.”

They both giggled before opening the door and walking down the long hallway. Finally, they reached Shane’s door. He fumbled with his keys, still shaky, while Rozanov leaned casually against the wall, watching him. Shane paused for a moment, his chest tightening with a mix of nerves and the alcohol still coursing through him. “Hey… uh… Rozanov?”

Rozanov glanced at him, one eyebrow raised, expression calm. “Da?”

Shane took a deep breath, trying to sound casual even though his voice cracked slightly. “Tomorrow… I’m… unpacking my stuff with my parents. Maybe… you could… uh… come help?”

Rozanov’s lips quirked into a faint, teasing smirk. “Help… unpack?”

Shane nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, before they get here, of course. I can make it up to you for tonight! I’ll…make breakfast! Pancakes, eggs… whatever you like. My treat. Come help me, at least for a bit?” He slurred out, his big brown eyes pleading with him. 

Rozanov considered him for a long beat, eyes flicking toward Shane’s flustered face. Then he gave a small nod. “Maybe… da. We see. Pancakes are good motivation,” he said with a teasing tone that made Shane grin despite himself.

Shane’s stomach fluttered with relief. “Really? Thanks, Rozanov.”

Rozanov’s expression softened slightly, the smirk fading into something almost like warmth. “Tonight, rest now. Tomorrow, maybe pancakes and unpacking.”

Shane laughed quietly, his voice still hoarse, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Deal. And thanks again… for tonight… seriously.”

Rozanov’s eyes held his for a brief moment, the faintest flicker of something unreadable passing through them. Then, with a small nod, he stepped back. “I…should head back. Before these shoes are ruined too,” He teased.

Shane chuckled before pushing him away jokingly, trying to ignore the way electricity coursed through his hand and arm at the touch. Before opening his door completely, his voice called out into the hallway. “Goodnight, Rozanov.”

Rozanov spun around from where he was in the hallway, already heading out. “Goodnight, Hollander,” He replied, smiling back at Shane. 

Shane closed his door and leaned against the back of it for a moment, closing his eyes and letting the quiet settle around him. For the first time since he arrived in Boston, he felt…okay.. Not perfect, not entirely composed, definitely not sober—but okay. And with the thought of pancakes and Rozanov showing up tomorrow, he couldn’t help the small, shy smile that lingered on his face.

Chapter End Notes

i hope you guys enjoyed these first few chapters!! i know it might seem a little boring so far, but this chapter should've helped add a little spice. im a sucker for a slow burn, what can i say. leave a comment if you have any peak 2016 song suggestions, i'm making a playlist that i'll listen to while writing this fanfic to get me ~inspired~. thanks again for being so nice and reading what i write!! much love to you guys!! <3

Chapter 4

Chapter Notes

*updated tags*

thank you guys sm for all the love!! i've received so many dms on tiktok (same as my username here) that i DID NOT expect and you guys are just too sweet. i was craving a LOOOONG slow-burn college AU hollanov fic, and as a Frat Boy Harry Styles OG-- i knew what had to be done! much love you guys and keep an eye out for chapter 5 later today!!

Sunday–September 4th, 2016

Ilya was brutally awoken by the blaring alarm on his phone.

He swore under his breath in Russian as he slapped at the nightstand, knocking his phone against the wall before finally shutting it off. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, already irritated and not entirely sure why he’d done this to himself.

Luckily, he didn’t have a hangover. He had retired too early in the night, heading upstairs to smoke a cigarette, and was promptly vomited on by some freckled bundle of anxiety whom Ilya spent the rest of the night with. Ilya never did that, especially if the person he was with wasn’t even interested in hooking up. But apparently, he did do that now. Last night showed him that much. 

Hollander was messing with so many of his routines…

Ilya rolled over in his bed, rubbing his eyes as he stared down at the time on his phone. 8 am, way too early. He groaned to himself. 

Ilya scoffed quietly to himself, tossing the phone back onto the mattress like it had personally offended him. 8 am on a Sunday was obscene. 8 am for something that was not practice, travel, or a game was worse.

He dragged himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet hitting the cold floor. The room was blinding, too bright at the edges where the morning sun leaked through the curtains. Everything was exactly where he’d left it, gross shoes tied up in a plastic bag, desk covered in cups from the guys, earbuds sprawled out on the floor–taunting him about the night before. 

His mind immediately drifted back to the way Hollander had looked last night when he’d finally stopped apologizing. For some reason, Ilya wanted to see that relieved and serene look on Hollander’s face more often–especially if Ilya was the reason behind it.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance and stood, stretching his arms over his head until his shoulders cracked. This was stupid. He was letting one night, one drunken (Ilya didn’t want to think about how sober he truly was last night, being drunk served as an excuse almost), ridiculous night, linger longer than it deserved to. Shane Hollander was just something new, and Ilya knew he loved new things. That was definitely the reasoning behind his sudden infatuation with the Canadian hockey player. Once Hollander settled in, surely Ilya’s mind would get over it. Surely. 

He padded into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, gripping the edge of the sink as he stared at his reflection. He looked fine. Normal. Like a man who absolutely had not agreed to walk an alarmingly drunk Shane Hollander home and then promised—captain duties, apparently—to show up the next morning to help him unpack boxes with his parents.

Alternate captain, Ilya corrected himself automatically, thinking back to how Hollander had done the same. 

He dried his face, pulled on a clean T-shirt and sweatpants, and fiddled with his hair until it looked somewhat presentable. He paused only briefly at the door, glancing down at his clean shoes, before grabbing his keys and helmet and opening his bedroom door. 

As he stepped out into the hallway, some of the pledges were already mopping and throwing trash away.  They paused when they noticed him, one of them straightening up and the other nearly knocking over a trash bag in the process. “Morning,” Haas said, a little too quickly.

Ilya nodded back, easy, rubbing at his eyes. “Morning.” That seemed to surprise them more than if he’d snapped at them. Haas let out a quiet breath, shoulders loosening as Ilya passed, the mop sloshing back into the bucket.

He took the stairs two at a time, the house still smelling like disinfectant and stale beer. Daylight made everything look worse—cups abandoned on windowsills, posters curling at the edges, evidence of the night before clinging stubbornly to every surface. He’d been on cleanup duty himself not that long ago. Last year, actually. He could still remember the exact feeling of wanting to crawl back into bed and pretending he wasn’t hungover while scrubbing floors.

Outside, the morning air was sharp enough to bite. Ilya paused on the steps of the house, squinting against the light, then veered toward where his motorcycle was parked along the curb.

It was ridiculous. Hollander lived barely a ten-minute walk away. He knew that. But something about the quiet streets, the early hour, the excuse to put space between his thoughts—it made the choice automatic. He swung his leg over the bike, helmet snapping into place with practiced ease. The engine roared to life beneath him, loud and grounding, vibrating up through his chest. Good. Noise was easier than thinking.

The ride took less than two minutes.

He killed the engine outside Hollander’s building and sat there for a second longer than necessary, helmet still on, watching the entrance like it might change its mind and disappear. Eventually, he exhaled, dismounted, and locked the bike.

Inside, the lobby was quiet, lights humming softly overhead. He took the stairs instead of the elevator—second floor, right side. He knew that already, which irritated him more than it should have.

As he ventured down the hallway, he could smell bacon and pancakes—causing a small smile to creep up onto his face. Ilya slowed for a moment outside Hollander's door, just listening. The smells weren’t overwhelming, just… inviting. Homey, almost. Not like the frat house last night. Not like the chaos that made his head spin.

He knocked lightly, listening to the shuffling on the other side of the door. After a few moments, the door opened, and Hollander stood there—smiling up at him. “You came,” He said, tilting his head to the side as he looked Ilya up and down.

Of course, Hollander would look perfectly put together at 8 in the morning after getting atrociously drunk the night before. That was such a Hollander thing to do. Ilya couldn’t help but smile back. “You said pancakes, I have standards, Hollander.”

The freckled man stepped aside, gesturing toward the small kitchen. “Standards, huh? Well, you’re in luck. I haven’t burned anything…yet.” His dark hair was perfectly flat against his forehead, still wearing Ilya’s t-shirt, and the faint flush still lingering on his cheeks made him look almost… charming. Irritatingly so.

Ilya stepped inside, taking in the scene: a small frying pan sizzling with bacon, a stack of pancakes warming on a plate, a faint cloud of steam curling into the air. Hollander seemed so much more comfortable here, so different from when Ilya had seen him last.

Ilya lingered just inside the entryway of the kitchen for a second longer than necessary, letting the warmth of the apartment sink into him. It smelled like coffee now, rich and sharp beneath the bacon, and something faintly citrusy—cleaner, maybe. Hollander’s place felt lived-in in a way the frat house never did, like it had a rhythm that existed whether or not anyone else was there to witness it–even with all the boxes everywhere and the empty walls. 

“You can—uh—put your stuff there,” Hollander said, nodding toward a chair that had a hoodie neatly draped over the back of it. “Or anywhere. Sorry, it’s still kind of… in progress.”

Ilya toed off his shoes and set his helmet down carefully, eyes flicking toward the half-stacked boxes lining the wall. Most of them were already opened, contents neatly organized and individually labeled. Books were stacked by height. Clothes folded, not shoved. He huffed out a quiet breath through his nose.

“You unpack like you take notes,” Ilya said.

Hollander glanced over his shoulder from the stove. “Is that an insult?”

“No,” Ilya replied. “It’s… just…perfect. A little… what's the word…unsettling.”

Hollander laughed, the sound easy. “You should’ve seen me yesterday. I unloaded my dishwasher, organized my dishes, and everything before bed–stumbling mess and all. Had to keep the kitchen ‘perfect.’

Ilya snorted despite himself and leaned against the counter, folding his arms. He watched Hollander move around the kitchen—how he flipped a pancake with a practiced flick of the wrist, how he nudged the bacon off the heat at just the right moment. It was domestic in a way that made something in Ilya’s chest tighten uncomfortably.

Hollander slid a plate across the counter toward him. “Sit. You look like you’re about to critique my technique.”

“I am,” Ilya said, but he took the plate anyway, settling onto one of the stools. “Shane Hollander can’t be good at everything, da?”

Hollander joined him a moment later, bringing his own plate and a mug of black coffee that looked dangerously strong. Ilya couldn’t help but notice how little he had on his plate compared to the one he just dished up for Ilya, but decided not to comment on it. Hollander was being nice enough as it is, inviting Ilya here; he wouldn’t want to offend him by commenting on his diet. Their knees brushed under the counter, accidental but not immediately corrected. Neither of them commented on it.

They ate in relative quiet at first, the kind that didn’t feel awkward. Ilya hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d taken the first bite. The pancakes were good. Really good. He eyed Hollander suspiciously.

“You cook often,” Ilya asked, “or is this just to impress me?”

Hollander choked slightly on his black coffee. “What—no. I just—my mom cooks a lot. I picked it up.”

“Hm,” Ilya said, unconvinced. “Is that how you learn hockey, hm? You just ‘picked it up?’”

Hollander shook his head, cheeks pinking faintly. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Ilya said lightly, “you invite me.”

That earned him a look, a soft, thoughtful look that lingered a beat too long. Hollander broke eye contact first, focusing intently on cutting his pancakes into even tinier pieces than before. 

“Thanks again,” he said quietly. “For coming. You didn’t have to, especially after my behavior last night.”

His behavior? Always so serious…Ilya shrugged, keeping his tone casual even as the words landed heavier than he expected. “You offered breakfast.”

“Still,” Hollander said. “Most people would’ve… bailed.”

“I am not most people,” Ilya replied.

That made Hollander smile again, small and genuine.

When they finished eating (or more like when Ilya finished eating), Hollander stacked the plates and reached for them, but Ilya intercepted, lifting them easily from his hands. “I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

Hollander hesitated, then relented. “Okay. Boxes, then.”

As Ilya began to wash up their dishes from this morning, he couldn’t help but watch Hollander over the island as he did so. The freckled man was looking through one of the boxes on the floor, bending over right in front of Ilya. He felt his eyes drift to Hollander’s ass, the way the joggers he was wearing pulled tight against his glutes from the angle he was bending over in made Ilya’s mouth go dry. 

He turned the water a little hotter than necessary, focusing on the steam rising up instead of the very real, very distracting fact that Hollander was bent over like that on purpose or…not. Probably not. Hollander didn’t seem like the type to flaunt what he had, which somehow made it worse.

“You don’t have to help with everything,” Hollander said absently, still rifling through the box. “You already did enough just… showing up. No judgment if you want to head out now.”

Ilya rinsed the last plate and set it in the rack, then dried his hands on a dish towel that looked suspiciously neatly folded for something that lived in a kitchen. “You invite me, I help. Simple. Besides, waste of gas to only stay here for half an hour.”

“Gas? Did you drive here?” Hollander asked, glancing up at him as he looked through the pile of office supplies and started organizing them. 

Ilya shook his head. “I rode,” He easily replied as he opened the box labeled BOOKS-LIVING ROOM and began to place said books on the shelf next to them. 

“Like your bike?” Hollander inquired, his head tilted in adorable confusion as Ilya looked back at him.

He shrugged to say ‘kind of’ before responding, flipping through the book he had just picked up. Canadian Politics, so interesting… “Motorcycle, da.”

Hollander looked up at him in surprise. “Aren’t those dangerous?” He asked, his freckled nose scrunched up, probably at the thought of even riding on a bike like Ilya’s. Ilya shrugged, closing the book and placing it on the shelf. “Aren’t the best things? Hockey, alcohol, sex–” Ilya could see the way Hollander’s cheeks flushed at that as he continued. “Motorcycles…hmm, yeah, the best things are definitely dangerous.” 

Hollander’s breath hitched—barely, but Ilya caught it anyway. He stared at him, lips parting like he wanted to argue and didn’t know how. “I—” Hollander started, then stopped, huffing out a quiet laugh that didn’t quite cover the nerves creeping into his voice. “That’s… not how I’d categorize most things.”

“No?” Ilya asked mildly, tilting his head.

Hollander shook his head, turning back to the box in front of him and suddenly finding the contents very interesting. “I mean—hockey, sure. It’s dangerous if you’re reckless. But, it doesn’t have to be,” He paused, then added, a little more stiffly, “And alcohol and sex don’t have to be dangerous either.”

Ilya watched the back of his neck flush pink. 

“You say this,” Ilya replied, stepping a little closer as he set another book onto the shelf, “after last night?”

Hollander groaned softly, dropping his forehead against the edge of the box for a second. “Okay, last night was—an exception.”

“Mm,” Ilya hummed. “Many exceptions with you, Hollander.”

Hollander looked up at him again, eyes bright, something earnest and slightly defensive there. “I just… like knowing where the boundaries are. Knowing the rules.” He shrugged, looking down at his feet this time. “Danger isn’t really the goal.”

Ilya considered this thought for a moment, then nodded slowly. “For me,” he said, voice quieter now, “danger makes things feel real.”

That made Hollander still completely. “Oh,” he said, softly.

They stood there for a beat, the hum of the apartment filling the space between them. Then Hollander cleared his throat and straightened, forcing a smile back onto his face. “Well. Your motorcycle is still terrifying.”

Ilya smirked. “You haven’t even seen it yet,” He scoffed, putting the last book from the box on the shelf.

They worked like that for a while—easy back-and-forth, passing boxes, occasionally bumping shoulders in the too-small space. It felt… comfortable. Familiar, in a way Ilya didn’t usually let things get.

At one point, Hollander dropped a stack of notebooks, pages splaying across the floor. He cursed under his breath and knelt down to gather them, and Ilya followed suit without thinking. Their hands brushed as they reached for the same notebook. They both stilled.

For a split second, the room felt very quiet.

Hollander pulled his hand back first, clearing his throat. “Uh—sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Ilya said quickly, too quickly, and stood, grabbing the rest of the notebooks to give himself something to do. “You are very jumpy for a hockey player, da?”

Hollander smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Guess I’m still getting used to things.”

Ilya nodded, softer now. “Yeah. Me too.”

The words surprised him as soon as they left his mouth, but Hollander didn’t question them. He just nodded, taking the notebooks back and lining them up on the coffee table with careful precision.

As the morning wore on, the apartment began to look more like a home. Books found their shelves. Jerseys were hung carefully in the closet. At some point, Hollander turned on music—low, something mellow—and it filled the quiet spaces between them.

Ilya realized, distantly, that he wasn’t thinking about practice, or class, or anything waiting for him later. He was just… here, being…present.

That, more than anything else, unsettled him.

He glanced down at his phone, checking the time as Hollander brought a small box to his bathroom and emptied the contents into the drawers. 10 am, damn, I didn’t even realize. He thought to himself, not realizing just how much time had passed since he arrived. 

Ilya grabbed the next box without really looking at the label and dropped down onto the floor, tugging the tape loose with his thumb. The cardboard flaps opened to reveal—hockey.

Not just some hockey. All of it.

Broken sticks wrapped carefully in old towels. Pucks with faded logos and sharpie-written dates. Medals clinking softly against each other as he shifted the box. A couple of framed photos slid forward featuring Hollander in different jerseys over the years, younger, smaller, still unmistakably him. One photo caught Ilya’s eye in particular: Hollander mid-celly, mouth open in a shout, joy written so openly on his face it almost hurt to look at.

Ilya stilled.

“Hey—” Hollander said quickly from behind him, a little too hurriedly. “You don’t have to— I mean, that one can stay closed if you want. I can unpack it later.”

Ilya looked back over his shoulder. “Too late,” he said, not unkindly. He lifted one of the frames. “You keep everything.”

Hollander hovered in the doorway of the bathroom for a second, then leaned against the wall, arms folding across his chest. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

There was something tight in his voice.

Ilya set the frame carefully on the floor instead of back in the box. “This is not normal,” he added, dry. “Most guys throw this stuff in trash or closet and pretend they don’t care.”

Hollander huffed out a laugh that didn’t quite land. “I care. Too much, probably.”

Ilya reached back into the box, pulling out a jersey—Ottawa colors, worn soft with age. He didn’t say anything at first, just held it, thoughtful.

“You know,” he said eventually, “you will be drafted.”

Hollander’s head snapped up, shocked as if he was just thinking the exact opposite. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Ilya replied simply.

“No,” Hollander said, sharper now. “You think that. There’s a difference.” He pushed off the wall, pacing once before stopping himself. “Even if I don’t— even if I don’t get drafted, that’s kind of it, isn’t it? You know how undrafted guys’ careers go. Maybe an AHL contract, maybe a couple call-ups if they’re lucky, then—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. 

Ilya frowned. “Undrafted does not mean finished,” he said firmly. “You can still play. MLH—”

“I don’t want to just play hockey. I want to be the best.”

Ilya watched the way Hollander’s jaw stayed strung tightly, pushing off the wall as he walked up to the box, grabbing the jersey from Ilya, and shoving it back into the box. “I don’t want to be the guy people say, ‘oh, he was good in college.’ I want—” His voice wavered, then hardened again. “I want more than that. And clearly, I’m far from it.”

Ilya straightened slowly, his face strung into a look of irritation. “You are not far from anything.”

Hollander laughed, short and bitter. “Easy for you to say.”

Something in Ilya’s chest tightened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Hollander turned on him fully now, words spilling faster than he could stop them. “You’re on the top line. You’re a superstar. You’ve already been drafted. Nobody doubts your talent—you’ve proved yourself. Stop acting like you get it.”

The silence that followed was heavy and abrupt. If only Hollander knew just how much Ilya’s father doubted his talent. That was the entire reason Ilya was still here at Boston University in the first place. If it were up to him, he’d already be playing in the MLH, traveling city to city with the rest of his draft class, proving—again and again—that he belonged there. But his father had insisted otherwise. Said Ilya was athletic, yes, but not talented–not good enough (despite him going eighth in the first round of the draft). Ilya was too emotional. Too lazy. Hockey careers ended fast, his father liked to remind him, and when they did, you were left with nothing if you hadn’t prepared.

And the Bears…well. They agreed, in their own way. Told him another year or two of college would do him good. Let him mature physically. Mentally. Emotionally. As if he were something unfinished. As if he weren’t already enough.

So, studying Business it was. A “backup plan.” A safety net Ilya had never asked for.

Ilya didn’t speak. He just stood there, expression unreadable.

Hollander’s anger evaporated almost instantly, replaced by horror. “Oh—God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— Rozanov, I didn’t—” He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing again, voice rushing. “I’m just—everything’s happening at once. Moving, classes starting in two days, the season, my parents coming later, and I— I’m freaking out, okay? I shouldn’t have snapped at you. That wasn’t fair.”

Ilya finally set the jersey back into the box, carefully, like it mattered as much to him as it clearly did to Hollander.

“It’s fine,” he said quietly.

But Hollander could hear it; something closed off, something guarded.

“I didn’t mean to take it out on you,” Hollander said again, softer now. “I’m just… scared.”

Ilya nodded once. “Da. It’s fine, Hollander. I know.”

And that was the truth.

Ilya could see the tension in Hollander’s shoulders, the way he held himself like he was bracing for impact even standing still. He could hear it in his voice, too, that thin edge beneath the apology, the fear of saying the wrong thing and ruining something he hadn’t meant to touch so roughly.

Ilya exhaled slowly and sat down on the grey couch next to them, less interested in unpacking now and more interested in the way Hollander was standing there–arms wrapped around himself like that might keep everything from spilling out.

“You…can be scared,” Ilya said, quieter than before. “This… is big. New city. New team. Everyone watching.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “You care. That is not weakness.”

Hollander let out a shaky breath, nodding. “It feels like it is.”

“It is not,” Ilya said firmly. “You think I do not wake up some days thinking if this is it? If this is the year they decide I am not… worth the wait?” He shrugged, one shoulder lifting. “Fear means you want something badly.”

Hollander looked up at him then, really looked at him, like something had shifted into focus before collapsing onto the couch next to him. “You don’t act like you’re scared.”

Ilya gave a short, humorless laugh. “That is because I am very good at pretending.”

That earned him a small, surprised smile.

They sat there for a moment longer, the apartment humming softly around them, music still playing low in the background. Then Ilya nudged the box at his feet with his toe. “These,” he said, gesturing to the memorabilia, “... keep them close. Remind you why you started.”

Hollander nodded. “Yeah. I think… I forget that sometimes.”

“Then I will remind you,” Ilya said without thinking. “This will remind you,” He quickly added on, motioning to the box again. 

The words hung between them, heavier than he’d intended. Hollander’s eyebrows knit together slightly, something warm and uncertain passing over his face.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Ilya cleared his throat and straightened, reaching for another box to break the moment before it could turn into something else. “Come. We finish before your parents arrive, da?”

Hollander laughed softly, the tension easing from his shoulders at last. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

And as they went back to unpacking, side by side, Ilya realized that this was already more than he’d planned for.

The knock came sooner than Ilya expected.

Hollander glanced at his phone, then toward the door, eyes widening. “That’s—yeah, that’s them. Shit, I didn’t even realize they had texted him.”

He hurriedly set down the cups he had been organizing into his kitchen cabinet, giving a small apologetic smile as Ilya waved him off, saying, “Me neither.”

The door barely had time to open before Hollander’s parents were stepping inside, both of them carrying grocery bags full of food, cleaning supplies, and other first apartment essentials. “Shane, I went ahead and got you all of-” The tall man and dark-haired woman both stilled as they entered the door, letting it softly shut behind them as Hollander started to help take the weight of the plastic bags out of his mother’s hands. 

“Oh,” Yuna said, blinking as she took in the scene. “Hello.”

Ilya straightened instinctively, suddenly very aware that he was standing in the middle of Hollander’s apartment, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty box at his feet. “Mom, Dad, this is Rozanov. I’m sure you guys already knew that, though,” Hollander called from his kitchen, setting the bags down before motioning towards Ilya, who was awkwardly shoving his hands in his pockets. “Uh—hi.”

Ilya noticed the glance Yuna shot Hollander, and also noticed the blush that crept onto his face as he shook his head in response to his mother’s inquisitive look. Hollander's dad looked around slowly, eyebrows lifting as he took in the bookshelves, the neatly stacked boxes, the jerseys already hung. “You got all this done already?”

Hollander flushed. “We—yeah. Rozanov helped.”

“Helped?” Yuna echoed, clearly impressed now as she scanned the place again. “Shane, this looks amazing. Look at you guys, already such a good pair.”

Hollander let out a small groan. “Mom…” He whispered before Ilya cleared his throat, suddenly feeling like he was in the way. 

“I should, uh… go. Frat stuff later.”

Hollander turned to him, gratitude written all over his face. “Thanks again. Really. For helping me unpack, for last…” His words trailed off as he seemed to remember his parents were watching the two of them intently.

“Don’t worry, Hollander. Thank you for the breakfast, better than our chef,” Ilya said, his words soft and genuine. 

He slipped on his jacket and headed for the door, offering a polite nod to Hollander’s parents before Hollander held the door open for him. “Nice meeting you,” He said with a small tight-lipped smile, to which both Yuna and David offered the same niceties. “You too, Rozanov. Good luck this season, though I’m sure you don't need it.” Ilya chuckled as he stepped out into the hallway. 

Hollander was hovering in the doorway, clearly displaying his thinking face that Ilya had grown so familiar with over the weekend. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow,” Hollander called out into the hallway, the statement coming off as more of a question. 

Ilya nodded. “Da, see you tomorrow, Hollander.” 

The freckled man left him with one last small smile before turning around. The door closed behind him, but not before he heard Yuna’s voice, bright with disbelief.

“What? You never cook, Shane. This is amazing.”

“Shhh—what? I totally do.”

Ilya huffed out a quiet laugh to himself as he walked down the hallway.

As he made his way down the stairs and out of the lobby, he couldn’t help but rub his cheeks. They practically ached from all the smiling he just did, something extremely unusual for Ilya Rozanov. He opened the glass door, enjoying the crisp September air on his flushed cheeks. He pulled his helmet on and hopped onto his sleek, all-black Yamaha R1. The engine of his beauty purred beneath him as he pushed off from Hollander’s building, the ride barely a minute long. The wind was sharp against his face, but it was enough to clear some of the fog in his head. He couldn’t stop thinking about Hollander’s teasing tone this morning when he called the bike “dangerous.”

Dangerous? Ilya scoffed silently, twisting the throttle just a bit as the city blurred past–remembering the flush in Hollander’s cheeks at that comment. 

The streets were quiet for a Sunday morning, but not empty. He passed a cluster of students hugging their parents goodbye, arms tight around one another, faces half-grateful, half-exhausted. Ilya felt the familiar hollow tug in his chest. When he moved in last year, and this year back in July, nobody was waiting to hug him goodbye.  Not his father, certainly, and… not his mother either. There were no happy tears or ‘Call me!’s, but maybe Ilya was lucky in that sense. Goodbyes were always so painful anyway. 

A few blocks later, he spotted a group of hungover sorority girls wrapped in mismatched blankets, sunglasses perched on their noses, waving and giggling wildly at him as he passed. Ilya caught their attention with a small nod, which earned him a chorus of exaggerated cheers and muffled laughter–followed by low groans as their decibel level upset their own migraines. He smirked under his helmet, shaking his head at their ridiculousness.

The wind whipped against his face, sharp and bracing, and he found himself smiling despite himself as he imagined how flushed Hollander had been in the cold Boston air just last night. As he approached the frat house, he let the engine drop in pitch, slowing to a smooth roll. 

He killed the engine and swung his leg off, helmet still clutched under his arm. The familiar creak of the front steps beneath his boots sounded almost comforting after the blur of the morning ride. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, the familiar smell of disinfectant and leftover pizza hitting him immediately.

“Just getting back from some chick’s place?” Marlow’s voice cut through the quiet hum of early morning tidying.

Ilya paused mid-step, letting a small, indifferent shrug do the talking. “Maybe,” he said lowly, letting the comment slide past without giving it any weight. Marlow didn’t press further, turning back to whatever he was doing. It’s not like that would be entirely unusual for Ilya; if anything, that would make a hell of a lot more sense than what he really had been doing. 

The stairs creaked lightly under his boots as he made his way upstairs, taking in the aftermath of the party. Surprisingly, the place was already tidier than he expected—cups mostly cleared, floor relatively free of debris, though a faint stickiness lingered in a few corners. Not perfect, but far from the chaos of last night.

He spotted Haas leaning against the railing, juggling a stack of trash bags. “Haas,” Ilya called, reaching into his wallet. He pulled out a crisp fifty, then another, until he had 9 bills in hand–$150 for each of them. “Split this with…your boys. Looks great, less sticky.”

Haas’s eyes widened, jaw nearly hitting the floor. He swallowed, a flush creeping up his neck. “Uh… y-yeah. Thanks, Rozanov,” he managed, nodding quickly before heading back down the stairs, clutching the cash as though it were treasure.

Ilya shook his head faintly, a small smirk tugging at his lips. He reached his bedroom door, twisted the handle, and pushed it open. Without a second thought, he flopped onto his bed, tossed his helmet and keys onto his beanbag. The weight of the morning, the ride, and Hollander’s presence finally caught up with him, and he let himself sink into the mattress, eyes closing briefly.

For a few seconds, the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan. He could still feel the warmth of Hollander’s flushed face from the night before, the smell of pancakes lingering in his memory, and the way Ilya’s body just seemed to react without permission. It was… disorienting, intoxicating, and completely…dangerous. 

The irony.

Ilya’s eyes fluttered open again, a faint heat crawling across his chest and down his stomach. He couldn’t help the way his thoughts immediately jumped back to Hollander—the curve of his lips when he’d teased about the bike, the way Ilya’s t-shirt had clung to his torso this morning, the way his ass had flexed while bending over those boxes.

His hand itched to explore, almost of its own accord. Slowly, deliberately, he let it trace the line from his hip up across his stomach and down towards his V-line, feeling the warmth that lingered there. The memory of Hollander biting his lips last night so casually, so unconsciously seductive, made his pulse spike.

He rolled onto his side, letting the mattress swallow him, and closed his eyes again. The images were vivid: Hollander’s flushed cheeks, the faint sheen of sweat from lifting boxes, that playful glint in his eyes when he thought Ilya wasn’t looking. He immediately flipped back over, his body once again deceiving him.

One hand drifted lower, brushing against his bulge, tentative at first, then with more purpose as his breathing deepened. He imagined Hollander there, imagined the way it would feel if Hollander’s lips found the bulge in his briefs, imagined the way his pink lips would press small kisses to the wet spot already forming at the front of them. He shoved his underwear down, allowing his fully-erect cock swing up and hit his stomach.

Ilya groaned quietly, biting his lip as he took himself in his hand, remembering the way Hollander had moved in the kitchen, how his muscles had flexed… the thought made his grip tighten, his heart hammering against his ribs.

His mind drifted to Hollander’s open button-up the night before, the way his entire chest was on display, and his jeans were hanging far too low to go unnoticed by Ilya. “Fuck, Hollander,” He groaned out into the room, barely above a whisper as his wrist moved faster–his other hand massaging his balls as he lightly moaned.

The ceiling fan whirred above him, indifferent, as he finally felt his release paint his chest, his body trembling in the aftermath, sweat prickling his skin. He lay there for a long moment, chest heaving, fingers slick, mind spinning with images of Hollander, both morning and night, until the heat faded just enough for him to collapse fully into the mattress. It wasn’t even noon, and he was entirely spent and dizzy and fully captivated by this Canadian hockey player who had so effortlessly invaded every corner of his mind.

Dangerous. He thought the word again, letting it echo in the quiet of the room. Hollander was dangerous. He was intoxicating. And Ilya… well, he knew he might have to actually stay away from the thrill this time.

Chapter End Notes

also, i was listening to the first two episodes of Ember & Ice while writing this and...wowza. i wonder if i can line it up to where i can enter the new year listening to hudson's whimpering as the clock strikes 12:00 tonight LMAO

Chapter 5

Chapter Notes

TW: implied disordered eating habits

Tuesday–September 6th, 2016

Shane shut the door behind him as softly as possible, toeing off his sneakers in the entryway and dropping his hockey bag beside the wall. His muscles still hummed with that familiar post-skate buzz, his legs heavy, lungs clear, and mind finally calm in the way it only ever was after being on the ice.

When his alarm had gone off at 5 am, he half-hazardly considered sleeping in and not going. It was an optional skate afterall. He’d gone, obviously. He always went, even back in Ottawa. Nothing was optional for Shane, not when this season was his last chance to prove himself. Not until he was drafted.

His small studio apartment was quiet, the kind of early-morning silence that felt earned. Shane checked the clock on the microwave out of habit—7:12 am—and immediately began running through the rest of the morning in his head. Shower. Breakfast. Print out his syllabi. Leave by 8:05 if he wanted to beat the foot traffic.

Routine mattered. Having a routine made everything… easier for Shane; it always had. When everything else in his life was inconsistent and unpredictable, Shane could always keep his small routines.

He padded into the bathroom and turned the shower on, letting the water heat while he peeled off his sweaty clothes. His reflection in the mirror looked fine—tired, maybe, hair still damp with sweat—but fine. Normal. He stepped under the spray and let the hot water cover his shoulders, eyes closing as he replayed the morning skate in his head.

Rozanov hadn’t been there.

Shane frowned slightly, then immediately told himself it made sense. Plenty of guys skipped optional skates. Especially guys who already had their spots locked down.

But still, his absence had been noticeable to Shane for whatever reason.

He turned his face into the water, shaking the thought loose. He wasn’t going to start his first day of classes spiraling over something that didn’t even matter. Rozanov was just new. A new variable. That was all. Shane wasn’t great with those.

He finished showering quickly, methodically, drying himself with his towel and getting dressed. He threw on some joggers and a plain black t-shirt before turning towards his closet, opening the doors, and looking at his options. His eyes settled on a dark red hoodie, a new one of his. It read ‘BOSTON UNIVERSITY’ in white font, displaying a small image of a dog–a Boston terrier–in the very middle of it. This was his school now, his team, his city. Shane shrugged it on over his t-shirt and brushed a hand through his hair, sauntering over to his full-length mirror to fix his appearance. Once he looked presentable, he flashed himself a small smile–almost testing the water with… himself? Calm down. He muttered to himself before making his way to his kitchen.

He reached underneath the cabinet to the right of his fridge and pulled out the blender, setting it lightly on the counter. He started lining up the ingredients without really looking or thinking about it: protein powder, almond milk, frozen blueberries, a banana already cut in half and sealed in a container from yesterday. He measured carefully, not because he had to think about it, but because he liked knowing exactly what he was putting into his body. How much protein. How many calories. The nutrients of it all.

Fuel in. Energy out. Simple. Athletes’ bodies were supposed to be treated like machines, so that’s how Shane treated his. 

Sunday had been the exception.

Shane paused as he thought back to just a few days ago, back to the pancakes and bacon hat wasn’t measured or planned or part of his usual routine. He didn’t need Rozanov telling the other guys about his methodical eating habits; it would just fuel his “nerdy” persona they already had going for him. 

The blender whirred to life, loud in the otherwise silent apartment. Shane leaned against the counter while it mixed, staring absently at the corkboard across the room where his class schedule was pinned neatly in the corner–trying to ignore the way his mind kept drifting back to his lack of routine over the weekend. Shane had his Russian Policy class at nine. Shakespeare at eleven. Practice later in the afternoon. Study block in the evening.

Everything was accounted for, and that took some pressure off his shoulders. 

He poured the shake into the same travel mug he used every morning and took a sip, already thinking ahead to the next task. Breakfast was done. Check. Shane carried the mug into his bedroom, setting it down on his desk as he grabbed his backpack. He turned towards his printer and grabbed the two syllabi that he had printed out the night before, stapling them and placing them in his big black folder before putting that in his backpack. As he did, his eyes caught on something folded neatly at the edge of his dresser.

Rozanov’s shirt.

It was clean, folded carefully, and set apart from the rest of his clothes as if it didn’t belong. Which it didn’t. The fabric was soft, heavier than his usual T-shirts, and now smelled like laundry detergent instead of smoke and beer and the night that ended with superstar Ilya Rozanov walking his drunk ass home. 

He stared at it for a moment longer than necessary.

He should give it back. He knew that. It was just…inconvenient. He had seen Rozanov at practice yesterday and during their morning conditioning before that, but the t-shirt had slipped his mind both times. Not to mention, he knew their teammates would probably never let it go if they found out what really had happened that night. Hayden and the rest of Shane’s teammates had assumed that he had just gone home with some girl, even asking him about it at practice yesterday. Shane gulped as he remembered the way Rozanov’s eyes locked onto him when Marlow loudly brought up how Shane “probably left with that hot blonde he was dancing with.” Shane just flushed and stammered in the same way he always did, and the guys seemed to take that as a confession–slapping him on the back as they made their way back to the lockerroom. 

Plus, it wasn’t like Shane was going to go out of his way to track him down over something so small. He’d bring it to the rink later. Or tomorrow. Or—

Shane cut the thought off, zipping his backpack shut a little too forcefully.

This was ridiculous. Why did he care so much? Rozanov probably forgot about the damn shirt anyway. 

Rozanov was barely even a friend. But that was probably why Shane’s brain was acting like this. He hadn’t really had any kind of friend like this before, or at least not since he was a kid (in the least depressing way possible). At his old school, he’d gone to practice, gone to class, gone home on the weekends. That was it. He fit in well enough on the ice, but off it—

He swallowed, fingers tightening briefly around his bag strap.

He didn’t fit. Not really.

Some guys had made sure he knew it, tossing “retard” and other words around like they were jokes, like they didn’t have any punch. Shane had never told them about his diagnosis. It wasn’t their business. It shouldn’t have mattered anyway, even if they figured it out on their own.

But it had.

That was part of why he hadn’t fought the transfer. When his parents suggested Boston University, Shane had nodded and started researching acceptance rates instead of arguing. Ten percent. Easy, Ottawa University had an acceptance rate of half that, and Shane had gotten in and maintained a 4.0 there his entire freshman year. 

School had always made sense to him. Rules. Patterns. Answers that were either right or wrong. He could focus for hours without realizing it, slipping into some deeper place in his mind where time disappeared entirely—forgetting to eat, forgetting to drink water, sometimes forgetting basic things until his body demanded attention in ways that were impossible to ignore.

Hockey was the only other thing that did that to him. It was also the only thing that complicated everything.

On paper, Shane’s life made sense. It was neat. Impressive, even. A 4.0 student-athlete at Ottawa University. Studying Political Science and English, double-majoring because he could, because no one had ever told him not to. He tutored other students when his schedule allowed, volunteered at elementary after-school programs on the rare afternoons he didn’t have practice or film. It wasn’t something he advertised. It just felt good. If he understood something, why wouldn’t he help someone else understand it, too? If he could help some little kids grow interested in hockey, why wouldn't he go teach them a few tricks? 

His parents were proud of him and made sure he knew that, especially his dad. He always told Shane that if hockey “didn’t work out” (like it was some girl Shane was talking to rather than… I don't know…his passion) that he could always “come work with Dad.”

He could be a public servant. Join the Treasury Board of Canada. Decades of work behind a desk that mattered in quiet, invisible ways. Shane respected that; he respected his dad, he really did. He knew that if he ever decided to walk away from hockey, the path forward would be smooth, almost pre-written. A few phone calls. A few recommendations. A job that was stable, respectable, and secure.

He would be good at it, or at least that’s what everyone in Ottawa told him.

But politics felt hollow to him. Endless discussion without resolution. Carefully chosen words that meant very little when people were still hurting on the other end of them. Shane could memorize policy, analyze systems, write papers that professors praised—but none of it made him feel anything. It was just another structure to understand, another set of rules that didn’t actually fix what they claimed to.

Hockey, at least, was honest.

You either showed up or you didn’t. You either won or you lost. You couldn’t cheat the game; the puck doesn’t lie.

Shane exhaled slowly and reached for his bag, going through the motions. Laptop, charger, notebook—he checked them off in his head as he slid each one inside, each into its particular place. He hesitated only briefly before tightening the zipper all the way closed, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment.

Shoes by the door. Phone in his right pocket. Wallet in his left. Keys in his hand.

He slung the bag over his shoulder, slipped his shoes on, and locked the door behind him, starting down the hallway toward the stairs. Shane’s thoughts drifted, against his will, back to Rozanov. To Sunday, without the music and beer and chaos of the party blurring Rozanov into something larger-than-life.

In the quiet moments, Rozanov was different. That’s all Shane had been thinking about for the last two days.

He was louder than Shane, sure, but not careless (which surprised him, given that’s how everyone described Rozanov). He’d noticed the way the Russian player watched people, the way he seemed to analyze a room without looking like he was trying. He thought about how he listened, actually listened, when Shane talked—even when the subject was objectively boring. He joked constantly, but there was something deliberate underneath it.

Shane wasn’t used to that.

He wasn’t used to people helping him, honestly. Wasn’t used to someone asking questions without making him feel like an oddity when he answered. Rozanov didn’t talk down to him. Didn’t rush him. Didn’t act like Shane’s intensity was something to smooth over or ignore.

If anything, he leaned into it.

Shane told himself firmly that this was just what having a friend felt like. A real one. Someone who existed outside of hockey practices and academic settings. Someone who didn’t seem to need Shane to be impressive or useful to hang out with him.

It made sense that it felt strange. But that didn’t mean it meant anything else.

He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and pushed open the stairwell door, the clang echoing briefly before fading. As he walked down the stairs, he thought about the way he and Rozanov had raced up them that night. That was so stupid, he thought to himself, but a smile forced its way onto his face anyway. The day was already moving, already full, and Shane submitted himself as a cog in the machine as he always did.

He had classes to get to. A schedule to follow. A future that made sense, even if he didn’t love all of it.

But he couldn’t help but want more.

The morning air outside was cooler than he expected. Campus was already alive in that low, first-day way—students moving with purpose, coffee cups in hand, backpacks bouncing against their spines as they hurried between buildings. Shane moved through it all on autopilot, his feet carrying him along while his mind drifted elsewhere. He put his headphones on as he walked, letting a familiar playlist settle over him. Music helped. It narrowed the world to something manageable, something with a steady rhythm and predictable melody.

By the time he reached the old stone building, the lecture hall was mostly empty. Shane slipped inside and chose a seat a few rows up and slightly off to the side, where he could see the board clearly without being too close to the front. He set his bag at his feet, pulled out his notebook, and lined his pens up along the edge of the desk, straightening them until the spacing felt right.

Twenty minutes early.

He scrolled through his phone absently, headphones still on, rereading a message he’d already read twice before catching himself and locking the screen. His foot bounced once before he stilled it, hands folding neatly on the desk.

A tap on his shoulder made him flinch.

Shane pulled one earcup off, turning in his seat just as the person beside him smiled. “Hey, Shane, right?”

Svetlana. He remembered her from the frat party with Rose, confident and unflinching, the kind of person who seemed to own every room she entered. She offered a small smile as she slid into the seat next to him.

“Hey, Svetlana!” Shane blinked, processing her words. “Wait… you’re a Political Science major too?” His voice came out a little louder than intended, betraying his mild surprise and causing him to cringe. 

Svetlana chuckled softly, tucking a strand of curly hair behind her ear. “Technically, yes. International Politics is my focus. My mother was a minister in the Russian government before moving here.” She shrugged lightly, like it was no big deal. “And then I’m sure you already know my dad…”

She was right. Sergei Vetrova was a Boston Bears Hall of Famer; it’d be crazy not to know him. “Of course,” Shane responded, glancing over as a few more students shuffled into the old lecture hall.

“Exactly, so yeah. I grew up with politics at the dinner table and hockey in the living room.”

Shane’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s, wow. That’s a lot.” He let out a soft laugh, trying to mask how impressed he was. “So you studied politics because of your mom? Or…” He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at her.

“Partly,” she said with a small smirk. “Mostly, because I realized how many more women we need in politics.” Shane agreed with that as Svetlana began to pull out her laptop. “But I, of course, love hockey. Gives me an excuse to talk to you people.” Her eyes flicked toward him, teasing, but not unkind.

He chuckled as he pulled out his syllabus and notebook. “Is that how you met Rose?” he inquired, remembering how close they seemed.

Her eyes sparkled at the mention of her best friend, lighting up at the name. “Oh god, no. Rose and I go way back. We grew up across the street from one another!”

Shane nodded, smiling. “Makes sense. You two do seem really close.” He glanced at her laptop screen as she booted it up. “I mean, you both seem to communicate almost telepathically when I was hanging with you guys.”

Svetlana’s smile widened.“We’ve got… history. Years of practice reading each other, I guess.” She tapped a few keys, pulling up the syllabus for their class. “Enough about my childhood, though. What about you, Shane? Besides hockey, I mean. Your dad’s in Canadian politics, right?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, leaning back slightly in his chair, feeling the weight of the empty room around them. “Treasury Board of Canada. But honestly, I don't know. Politics never really interested me as a kid, at least not in the way my dad hoped it would. I care about it, I guess, but… I don’t like the part where people talk about helping and mostly just talk.” He shrugged, unsure why he felt the need to justify it.

Svetlana tilted her head, studying him like she did at the party. “Fair. I get it. A lot of people talk, very few actually do. That’s why I like the academic side—I can figure out what’s actually going on before I try to do anything about it.”

Shane nodded, feeling a small spark of respect. “Yeah, exactly! See, you get it. That makes sense, though, you seem very methodical.”

“And you seem very honest,” she said with a faint smile, closing her laptop. “Hockey’s honest, too, right? You either show up, or you don’t. Can’t cheat the game.”

Shane chuckled, realizing he liked how easy the conversation felt, even before class started. “Exactly. That’s why I love it.”

She smiled softly, brushing another loose curl behind her ear. “So… I did some research on you. Don’t freak out, it wasn’t creepy. Just stats, clips, interviews… you’re not exactly hard to find if you’re breaking records like you are.”

Shane blinked, a flush rising to his cheeks. “Like I was.” He tried to hide how flustered he felt, tucking his pens into his bag.

Svetlana’s smile was teasing now, but soft. “The season hasn’t even started yet, don’t sell yourself short, Shane.”

A few more students filtered in, taking seats at the front of the room. Shane realized he was already looking forward to this class more than he expected. Svetlana wasn’t just kind—she had a presence that made the chatter of the lecture hall feel smaller, quieter. The chatter tapered off as the door at the front of the lecture hall opened. A man in his late fifties stepped in, already shrugging out of his coat, a worn leather briefcase tucked under one arm. He set it down with a solid thud on the podium and glanced out over the room, eyes sharp behind thin-framed glasses.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice laced with a faint Slavic accent. “Welcome to Political Science 351: Russian Foreign Policy and Current Events. If you’re here by accident, now is the time to leave.”

A few nervous laughs rippled through the room. Shane straightened automatically, fingers curling around his pen as Svetlana opened her laptop next to him.

The professor clicked on the projector. A map of Eastern Europe bloomed onto the screen. “This course assumes you already understand the basics of international relations and have already taken my 301 through 303 series. We are not here to debate whether realism or liberalism is right. We’re here to discuss how power is exercised, justified, and often abused.”

Shane felt something settle in his chest, just like when he steps onto the ice. For some reason, Shane always felt comfortable in the classroom—even with the overstimulating whispers, harsh lights, and the smell of body odor.

“As you can see,” the professor continued, switching slides, “Russia’s foreign policy since the early 2000s has been shaped by three consistent pillars: security paranoia, historical grievance, and strategic opportunism.”

He spoke quickly and confidently, weaving dates, treaties, and names together as if it were second nature. Shane kept up easily, his pen moving almost on instinct. He underlined phrases. Drew arrows. Noted patterns. This—this was the kind of control he liked.

Then the slide changed again.

Shane paused, pen hovering. Rushed typing around him flooded his ears, and his stomach dipped just slightly. The professor didn’t slow down, didn’t translate the quote on the slide, and instead continued as if everyone in the room could read it without issue. Shane swore there were no language course requirements before signing up for the class.

Next to him, Svetlana leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s from a 2007 speech. Roughly translates to ‘Russia will not apologize for defending its sovereignty.’”

Shane glanced at her, surprised yet grateful. “Thanks,” he murmured in his typical flat tone, jotting it down.

She gave a small shrug, eyes still on the screen. “He does that a lot. Assumes everyone either knows Russian or will just ‘figure it out.’” She added small finger quotations and a smile.

That earned a quiet huff of amusement from Shane. Figures.

As the lecture went on, it happened again. And again. Each time, Svetlana slid a quick translation his way, sometimes adding context under her breath about the tone and the way it was being said. It felt oddly comforting, the way she didn’t make a big deal out of it or make Shane feel stupid.

At one point, the professor posed a question to the class. “How does Russia’s use of historical narrative function as a tool of foreign policy?”

The room went quiet.

Shane felt the familiar tightening in his chest. He always had the instinct to stay silent, to let someone else answer. He knew the answer (when didn’t he?), but speaking up was hard.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Svetlana nudged his knee lightly under the desk.

He swallowed and quickly raised his hand. The professor called on someone else, and Shane couldn’t help but feel embarrassed that he even tried. Did the people behind notice? Did they think I looked too eager, just to not even get called on?

Beside him, Svetlana shrugged, then smiled, just a little.

The lecture ended quickly after they went over the syllabus. Two big exams, four different papers, and required attendance, except for two classes, all semester. He, of course, had already written all of this down. His notes were neat, thorough, and color-coded almost without thinking. Svetlana had complimented his handwriting halfway through class, and per usual, the praise made Shane blush. Maybe this class could be something solid in a semester already threatening to tilt off its axis.

As students began to pack up, Svetlana leaned back in her seat. “See? Russian policy isn’t so bad.”

Shane let out a quiet laugh. “Only because you’re translating half of it for me.”

“Anytime,” she said easily. “If I can be of some assistance, why wouldn’t I help out a friend?”

Friend.

He tossed his bag over his shoulder, standing as the rows emptied. For the first time that morning, his thoughts weren’t tangled around hockey or expectations or Ilya Rozanov’s stupid, unreadable smile.

Shane slipped out of the lecture hall with the rest of the class, the hallway immediately filling with noise. Voices overlapped, backpacks bumped into his shoulder, and someone laughed way too loudly right behind him. He immediately slipped his headphones on (he had practically lived in them since he got them) and kept moving, letting the crowd carry him toward the exit.

Outside, the September air was cool in that distinctly Boston way. It wasn’t quite too cold yet, but just sharp enough to make him pull his burgundy hoodie down past his fingers. Commonwealth Avenue was already buzzing. Students cut across the grass, coffee cups in hand, some sitting in loose circles on top of picnic blankets—chatting and laughing. The trees lining the path were still green, but a few leaves had started to yellow, scattered across the sidewalk where they’d been crushed flat by passing feet.

Shane headed toward the Student Union, falling into an easy rhythm as he walked. He liked having somewhere to be, something to do. His schedule was already memorized, but he checked the time anyway. He had plenty before English. Enough time for coffee, though he always had enough time for coffee.

He had started drinking it at a pretty young age, wanting to have something other than tea to sip on in the early mornings with his parents. At first, he had been really sensitive to it—always having crazy anxiety. But now, after years of drinking it, all it did was prevent him from getting a headache. He knew he was probably addicted, but he liked to tell himself it really was just flavored water… in a way.

The café inside the Union was predictably chaotic. The line stretched past the pastry case, the air thick with the smell of espresso and burnt sugar. Shane took his place at the end, eyes drifting over the menu even though he already knew what he wanted, what he always wanted.

He shuffled forward, step by step, until he caught a familiar voice near the counter.

“Oh my god,” Hayden said, leaning forward like he was physically incapable of standing up straight. “And your name is Jackie? That is such a perfect barista name.”

Shane froze where he was, sliding his headphones off completely as he waited in line, listening to Hayden’s conversation as people dodged the dirty-blond man to grab their finished drinks.

Behind the counter, the barista—Jackie, apparently—laughed, biting back a smile as she handed someone their drink. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Hayden said confidently, like he hadn’t just said something that practically made zero sense. “Like, if I were writing a movie about a café, I’d 100% name the barista Jackie. No question. It’s the perfect name!”

Shane stared at the back of Hayden’s head, waiting for the inevitable crash and burn.

Instead, Jackie laughed again. Actually laughed, even blushing a little.

Shane blinked. Huh. Didn’t expect that.

Hayden suddenly turned his head, doing a double-take when he recognized Shane standing in line. He gave a small wave that Shane returned before stepping forward and giving his order to the other barista behind the cash register.

After swiping his student card, he stepped up behind Hayden (who was still hopelessly flirting), shaking his head slightly. “You’re going to get banned from this place before the end of the week.”

Hayden threw an arm around his shoulder, pulling him in so quickly Shane almost lost his balance. “Hollander!”

He chuckled lightly as he regained his balance. “How’s your first day of classes going, man?” Hayden asked him, his eyes trailing toward Jackie, who was putting lids on a couple of cups.

Shane shrugged as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his joggers, rocking back onto his heels. “Not too bad, just have one more after this,” he said, smiling up at his teammate. “How about you?” he added, watching as Hayden took a sip of his frappuccino.

Suddenly, Jackie placed down a cup and called out Shane’s name, to which he quickly grabbed his black coffee and took a sip. He loved the way the warmth spread through his whole body from the small sip he took.

“Just have one class today, thank god,” Hayden chuckled.

They bumped shoulders as the two started to make their way out of the café, weaving through the sudden rush of students spilling into the Student Union.

“So,” Hayden said, grinning, “we’re having a tailgate before the football game this weekend. You in?”

Shane shook his head, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Nah. I’ve got to study.”

Hayden blinked at him, disbelief written all over his face. “Study? What could you possibly have to study for? It’s the first week.”

“Exactly,” Shane said, shrugging. “First week. Time to get ahead before the season starts.”

Hayden laughed, shaking his head. “Only you, Hollander. Only you.”

Shane smirked, taking another sip of his coffee. They walked the rest of the way toward his lecture hall, making small talk about hockey and classes, dodging groups of students and the occasional cyclist. They were laughing about some locker-room story Hayden was sharing when he suddenly stopped, and Shane stopped with him.

“Alright, I’m going to head back to the house, but I’ll catch you later at practice,” he said, pointing down the street toward where Greek Row was.

“See you later, man,” Shane said with a nod.

Hayden gave him a pat on the back before heading the other way. “Don’t work too hard,” he called over his shoulder, still chuckling.

Shane only gave a small wave before turning toward the brick paths leading to his English building. Steam curled from his cup as he walked, the campus alive with first-day energy—laughter, shouted greetings, the clatter of bikes against concrete. He liked mornings like this. First days meant everyone was new in a sense, not just Shane. It made him feel a little less anxious.

When he finally reached his classroom, Shane slipped inside and threaded his way to a middle-row seat. He set his bag down, pulled out his notebook, and let his pen hover as the professor shuffled papers at the front. The air smelled faintly of chalk and old books, and sunlight cut sharp lines across the desks.

“Good morning, everyone,” the professor said, smiling warmly. “Welcome to Shakespeare I. Today is mostly going to be a syllabus overview—readings, assignments, exams, and some discussion about how the course will run.”

Shane nodded along, pen moving almost on instinct. The first few minutes were a rundown of the texts—Hamlet, Macbeth, Othello—and their historical context. He scribbled down dates, page ranges, and the major papers: a midterm essay, a final analysis, and a couple of smaller assignments. It was all review for him, but the act of writing made it feel official.

By the time the professor went over participation expectations and attendance, Shane was comfortably settled in. He watched the students around him shuffle papers, tap pens, and murmur. Some asked questions about the schedule; he already had everything clear in his mind.

Fifteen minutes in, just as she began explaining the first essay assignment, the door creaked. A few heads turned. Shane glanced up from his notes.

Ilya Rozanov stepped in, backpack slung over one shoulder, curly hair slightly messy from running late, presumably. He gave a quick nod toward the professor, more acknowledgment than apology, and moved toward the back, scanning for a seat. Rozanov’s eyes locked onto him, and Shane immediately looked down, pen pausing mid-sentence as he felt his chest tighten.

You have got to be kidding me.

Chapter End Notes

happy new year everyone!! sorry for such a short chapter, i'll try and make the next one longer! and tysm for the comments, they really do motivate me sm <3 much love and i hope everyone has an AMAZING 2026!

Chapter 6

Chapter Notes

TW: verbal abuse, implied/referenced suicide (ilya thinks about his mama :c)

Ilya’s phone had been buzzing for hours before he woke. It was late—or early, in his mind (any time before noon was early to him)—and the voice he had been speaking to on the other end last night still echoed in his skull, sharp as shattered glass.

He had tried to talk back—tried to defend himself. But his father’s words landed like steel-toed boots. His father’s controlling demeanor kept him in check like a soldier. The never-ending expectations. His ever-growing disappointment in Ilya. He’d carried the weight of this deadly combination his whole life, now amplified by distance and timing. The late-night hours, always being the setting of their phone calls, made them feel like a trap he could never escape.

That night wasn’t particularly different than any other. He was used to his father’s verbal abuse. But he had said something Ilya couldn’t shake, something he had never said before.

His father never mentioned Ilya’s mother, opting instead to pretend she never existed. He would’ve preferred that he had done that rather than have said what he did to Ilya last night.

“Be glad your mother is dead and doesn’t have to see the failure her son turned into,” he spat in Russian.

Ilya had just remained silent until his father demanded a response, his native tongue feeling foreign in his mind at that moment. “You hear me, boy?”

He couldn’t even remember how he responded.

He had known, he had always known, that his father was a cruel, wicked man. He had a sharp presence that burned everything around him. Ilya had watched his mother crumble to ash under it, watched the light in her fade until there was nothing left. He was sure his father had driven her to the end. Every insult, every cold dismissal, everything he said and did to her had been nothing short of evil.

That’s why Ilya always tried to ignore him. He didn’t want to find himself on the same path his mother took. But she had been so strong, and if she couldn’t quiet the noise—how could he? 

He had answered the phone, hoping maybe—just maybe—this time would be different. But no. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t hang up. The rhythm of his mother’s absence, the echo of his father’s cruelty, hit him harder than any cross-check ever could. Last night, his father had left a bruise on his icy heart that he was sure would never heal.

He rolled onto his side after the phone call, pressing his forearm over his eyes, trying to make the spinning stop. His private bedroom had felt so vast, so lonely in that moment. The silence was too loud. He needed sound, presence, proof he wasn’t alone in the world.

He opened his phone again, quickly opening Snapchat and scrolling down to a familiar name. She almost instantly replied, typing that she was on her way over. He didn’t really care who came over; if she hadn’t answered, he already had three others he knew would. He just needed noise, warmth, something to push the conversation—the argument, the flashbacks—out of his head.

When she arrived, Ilya was a gentleman leading her upstairs, holding her hand to make sure she didn’t lose her balance. He gave in to it all: her laugh, the shuffle of clothes, the movement of another body. He went through the motions without caring, chasing any sensation hard enough to smother the memory of his father’s voice and his mother’s pale face.

At least the chick was hot.

When she finally left, he flopped back onto his bed and found his mind drifting back to practice that evening. And begrudgingly, wandering to Hollander at said practice.

God, he hated how he kept thinking about him. Wondering what he was up to, what he did in between the time Ilya saw him. Was Hollander snapping girls at 2 am, asking them to come over for a quick fuck? The thought made something coil low in Ilya’s gut. He could feel it, and it made his skin itch, his pulse spike in a way that was impossible to ignore. Of course he’s not. Hollander was too much of a gentleman for a quick hook-up. 

He could finally admit to himself that he found Hollander attractive. Really attractive. Not that it mattered, and not that it could. Hollander wasn’t just off-limits; he was untouchable. Not only was he as straight as a ruler, but he was also Shane Hollander, for fuck’s sake. Nerdy, goody-two-shoes Hollander. And that only made the pull sharper, stronger, more infuriating. Opposites attract, right? But every imagined brush of their arms, every glance, every quiet, shaky inhale Hollander took sent a flare of heat straight to Ilya’s groin—he knew he had to cut this shit out. Quickly.

Ilya rolled onto his side, curling in on himself. It had been a long time since he obsessed over someone like this. But that’s all it was, a temporary obsession. He hadn’t even known the guy for a week. 

He let his eyelids close, willing his racing pulse, the warmth in his gut, the lingering images of Hollander to fade. His chest tightened, then loosened just slightly as exhaustion finally took hold of him. Sleep came slowly and unevenly, but at least it finally arrived. And for the night, that was enough. He had forced his mind blank, swearing he wouldn’t let a certain freckled face ruin his rest.

But it wasn’t enough to save him from oversleeping. He didn’t wake to the first alarm. Or the second. Or the third. When he finally stirred, sunlight slanted harshly across the carpet, the clock glared back at him: 10:26 am. His only class of the day started at 10:30.

Ilya bolted upright, stomach twisting, brain scrambling to process everything at once. He scrambled out of bed, running to his bathroom to at least brush his teeth before yanking on yesterday’s hoodie. Every movement felt clumsy, desperate, as if time itself was mocking him.

He couldn’t afford to screw this up. Not again.

Every class mattered. Every grade mattered. Staying on the team, staying in the frat—everything he had going for him hinged on his academic performance. He had been placed on academic probation last season, and the memory of that crushing failure still made his chest tighten. Sure, he didn’t like school—but he hated failing more than studying. His father’s reaction had been a study in calculated cruelty, a slow burn of disappointment and mockery that had left Ilya hollowed out for weeks. He shivered just thinking about it.

Ilya yanked on his shoes, shoved the rest of his belongings into his backpack, and jammed his earbuds into his pocket. He shoved his hair back with one hand, tugged on the zipper of his hoodie with the other, and tried to tell himself he was moving fast enough.

Then he glanced at the clock. 10:35 am.

Fuck. Five minutes late, already. 

He grabbed his backpack with both hands, adjusted it quickly onto his back, and ran down the stairs and out the front door of the house. His legs pumped, heart hammering. He should go running more; he always enjoyed the adrenaline it gave him. Hallways blurred past him in a dizzying, fluorescent smear. Each flight of stairs was a battle, every step a reminder that he needed to hurry the fuck up.

By the time he hit the sidewalk outside, the crisp morning air stung his lungs, and the campus was alive with students casually strolling to class, oblivious to the storm of panic racing toward them. Ilya shoved through the crowd, backpack bumping against bodies, feet barely touching the ground in his desperate sprint.

The lecture hall doors loomed ahead, a fortress of orderly rows and quiet focus. Ilya’s chest ached, his lungs burned, but he didn’t slow down. He shoved through the glass doors, the sudden cool air inside doing nothing to calm the storm of heat coiling low in his gut.

His eyes glanced down to his phone, where his class schedule was, checking the room number before groaning and running up the stairs. His mind flashed back to when he raced Hollander up the stairs of his apartment complex, but he quickly shoved that thought out. He walked quickly down the hall, past all of the closed doors, until he found the one he was looking for. He quietly opened the door and slipped inside, the professor already lecturing away. Ilya’s eyes immediately snapped up when he heard a woman’s voice speaking into the microphone at the front of class. I thought it was supposed to be an old fat guy. He thought to himself as he nodded at her, the professor offering him a warm smile before gesturing towards the seats.

Ilya turned toward the rest of the class as he slipped his backpack off, holding onto it with one hand. 

He scanned the room quickly, taking in the new faces and empty seats, trying to find somewhere to slide in without drawing too much attention. That’s when he saw him.

Hollander.

The notebook on his desk was perfectly aligned with the edge, pen resting neatly on top. Hair in place, posture straight, expression unreadable. Ilya felt his stomach twist, taking a small gulp as his mouth suddenly went dry. He pressed his free hand against his thigh, forcing himself not to stare. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

Ilya slipped into the very last row and dropped his backpack under the desk, sinking into his chair, pretending to adjust the notebook that he hadn’t even opened. His pen sat uselessly between his fingers, tapping lightly against the wood as he tried to focus on the professor’s voice.

His eyes betrayed him anyway, drifting to the back of Hollander’s head a few rows up.

He caught a glint of sunlight on Hollander’s hair, falling over his left eye. He noticed the way Hollander drummed his fingers on his table as he wrote. The subtle brush of a hand across the page. Ilya forced himself to look at the professor again, her words washing over him without comprehension.

She read on, discussing the class readings and deadlines. Ilya’s pen tapped idly, a rhythm against his desk, a feeble anchor in a storm of heat and panic. He could feel his skin prickling, warmth pooling in his lap, and every instinct screamed that he should look away, retreat, vanish. But he couldn’t. Hollander was fire, and Ilya was standing too close, hands trembling, heart hammering, caught in a heat he couldn’t let out, couldn’t act on, and wouldn’t allow himself to indulge—even in thought. Not anymore, at least. 

The professor’s voice droned on for what felt like hours. Ilya barely registered any of it. His notebook remained closed, scribbles nonexistent, while his eyes betrayed him over and over again, darting toward Hollander like a magnet he couldn’t resist.

Finally, the class ended. The sound of zipping filled the room, with everyone packing up their bags and murmuring about homework. But Ilya barely heard it. He felt like he’d just crawled out of a furnace, sweat prickling along his spine, heart hammering in his throat. Every instinct screamed get out.

He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder, shoved his pen into the pocket, and bolted. He quickly spedwalk down the aisle, past rows of idle students, ignoring the polite “excuse me” muttered here and there. The doors loomed ahead. The sunlight outside beckoned like salvation, cool and sharp against the heat still burning through him.

He burst through them, stomach twisting, lungs screaming, backpack bouncing against his back. Feet pounding against the sidewalk, he shoved past clusters of students, barely noticing where he was going. Every step was urgent, desperate, like he had to outrun both his own racing thoughts and the pull Hollander had on him.

Once he was a safe distance away from the lecture hall, he slowed—just enough to breathe, just enough to pretend he was calm. But the coil in his stomach didn’t ease. Hollander’s presence lingered in his mind, sharp and unwelcome, and every attempt to shove it away failed.

He should have gone straight to the advising office. He should have switched classes. The syllabus had been enough to make it clear that this new professor had updated everything—the assignments, the readings, the participation expectations. It wasn’t one of those “easy A” setups he could coast through anymore. He would actually have to try. 

And it would mean being in close proximity to Hollander all semester, seeing him every lecture, every glance, every small, infuriating movement.

Ilya knew all of this.  And yet… he didn’t move. He didn’t even walk in the direction of the advising office.

Instead, he walked back to the house, each step heavy with self-recrimination, the weight of his decision settling in his chest. The doors swung open to the familiar chaos of the team house, the smell of sweat, alcohol, and lingering adrenaline wrapping around him like a second skin. He ignored the guys in the living room and made his way upstairs, deciding to have a “friend” over before practice. 

The locker room smelled like sweat, tape, and Old Spice deodorant, a mix that typically would have grounded him. Instead, it only made his nerves worse. Ilya kept his head down, drying his damp curls with a towel, careful not to meet Hollander’s eyes. Every instinct told him to avoid, to stay invisible.

Practice had been… a mess. He had tried to focus, tried to stay in rhythm, but his mind kept drifting. Every drill, every pass, every push of his skates felt weighted. Hollander had been there, just as prepared as he had been for practice on Monday and Saturday, and Ilya had found himself pulling back— pretending not to notice him. During the scrimmage, Hollander had called for a pass from Ilya, but he ignored him and missed his own shot anyway. He hadn’t had the right angle to take the shot, but he did anyway, and he had caught the subtle frown of a coach’s disappointment more than once. He could’ve just passed. But he didn’t,  because he couldn’t stop thinking about the pull, the heat, the way his body reacted every time Hollander looked at him.

He had tried to ground himself, focusing in on the sweat dripping down his neck, the sting in his lungs after drills. 

When they got done with practice, he was the first one to the locker room and in the showers. Now, he was the first one out of the showers–the only one not showering other than Hollander, who always opted to shower at home for whatever reason. The tension between the two was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Hollander was too smart to not notice Ilya’s weird behavior, especially when they were practically becoming friends after Sunday’s unpacking fiasco and Monday’s practice. Ilya avoided looking towards Hollander now as he brought his towel to his head, fully dressed, but his curly hair still damp.

He was shaking his hair into the towel when the clatter of plastic echoed throughout the locker room. With his head down, he recognized what had made the noise—Hollander’s mouthguard had fallen right in front of Ilya’s feet. Hollander bent down to grab it—knees brushing the rubber floor, big brown eyes looking up at Ilya for just a brief second.

Fuuuuck. His pulse spiked, blood rushing to places it shouldn’t. He could feel himself hardening in a way that made him want to disappear. The curve of Hollander’s back, the slight rise and fall of his shoulders, the innocent brush of his knees against the rubber floor—it all hit something raw and primal in Ilya. 

Hollander straightened, brushing a strand of hair back from his face. “So,” he said lightly, voice warm, unaware of the storm behind Ilya’s eyes, “boring syllabus day, right?”

Ilya’s throat closed, turning around as he looked down into his cubby and let the towel fall around his neck. He didn’t want to answer. He didn’t want Hollander to see his flush, his growing bulge–to see how completely out of control of his body he was. God, Hollander would think he was such a creep if he noticed any of that. The words caught in his chest. His hands fisted against the towel, pulling it off his neck and tossing it into his locker. Hollander cocked his head slightly, a faint crease in his brow. “You okay?”

Ilya felt the panic rise in his gut. He had spent the entire practice avoiding him—ducking, sidestepping, pretending to focus on the puck or a teammate—and now Hollander was actually trying to engage. Trying to talk. Trying to be friendly. And Ilya could do nothing but shove his bag over his shoulder and bolt. He shoved past the shorter man and headed for the door.

Hollander called after him, a little confused, a little hurt…? “Rozanov?”

Ilya ignored it, speedwalking into the corridor, heart hammering, chest tight, mind screaming. Every step was a battle against his own body, every breath a reminder of how badly he had lost control in that one moment.

By the time he leaned against the back wall outside of the arena, sliding down so he was crouched, he let his head fall as his hands propped it up. Heat still throbbed in his stomach, and his pulse was still racing a million kilometers an hour, shame wrapping around him. What would his mother think?

His mind drifted back to his father's words from the night before.

After that day in the locker room, Ilya made it his mission to stay away. Every class, every drill, every hallway encounter became a careful exercise in control. He avoided Hollander with an almost mechanical precision. He had gotten it down pretty quickly, the sidestepping, timing entrances and exits, keeping his head down, pretending he couldn’t even see him.

It was exhausting, but it worked. Hollander, for his part, seemed to notice the shift. At first, he tried lightly, offering small greetings, passing comments, and questions about drills. But the second Ilya’s eyes went wide, his jaw tightened, his stride quickened, Hollander would drop it. And then, gradually, he stopped trying altogether. From Hollander’s perspective, Ilya probably looked like such an asshole. He couldn’t bring himself to care, unless it was late at night. Those were always the hours he began to care about every little thing going on in his life.

In class, they existed on opposite sides of the room. Ilya’s notebooks stayed closed, his pen tapping a lazy rhythm as he kept his attention just forward enough to follow the lecture. Hollander sat across the room, neat and composed, notes aligned, posture perfect, eyes following the professor’s every word. Anytime their eyes met, even for a millisecond, Ilya noticed how quickly Hollander would look away and shake his head. 

The locker room was the same. Their cubbies were directly next to each other, a constant, quiet reminder of their proximity. But their interactions were stripped down to the barest politeness. “Good morning,” Ilya would mutter, and Hollander would reply with “Nice practice.” That was it. No lingering. No smiles that held too much meaning. No accidental touches. Just… distance.

He found himself enjoying practice simply because that was where he and Hollander could interact in a controlled environment, in a place where they had every reason to. Ilya was moved to the right wing a few weeks ago to allow him and Hollander to be on the same line. And since the switch, the two of them were electric on the ice. Without any words spoken between the two of them, they played almost telepathically. Ironic. It was truly so satisfying to finally have someone who could just do what Ilya needed them to do on the ice, without him even asking.

He wondered if one day they could be friends.

Ilya’s stubborn pride had found its outlet in this avoidance game. He told himself that it was for his own good, that keeping Hollander at arm’s length would protect him from the chaos of desire, the shame of wanting something he couldn’t have. And in a strange, selfish way, it worked: Hollander’s attention became a minefield he navigated successfully day after day. It got to a point where he genuinely wasn’t thinking about the Canadian hockey player, unless he was directly in front of him, getting his attention.

Besides, Ilya had so much going on that he really didn’t even have time to think of Hollander. Parties blurred together, the noise of music and bodies filling the gaps where he might have otherwise thought too much. Hollander never came, even though Ilya always overheard Pike or Marlow inviting him, but Hollander always had an excuse—“schoolwork,” “papers to finish,” “early practice tomorrow”—and never deviated. It made life easier for Ilya.

Part of him was proud that his silent strategy had worked, that he had maintained the barrier he needed. Another part of him burned quietly, resentful at the very existence of that barrier.

He filled the hours with noise, movement, bodies—anything that kept unwanted faces from creeping back into his thoughts. He hooked up with whoever was around, a different name each week, a blur of limbs and whispers that left no time to linger. Some nights, it was friends of friends, girls he barely knew, all of them happy to follow his lead. Other nights, it was someone he already knew, someone he could impress with his charm and a well-timed smile.

It didn’t matter who it was. He didn’t care. He didn’t even remember most of the names by morning. The sex was enough—the touch of another body, the sound of laughter, the unbuttoning of clothes, the heat, the skin. It was like chasing an incredible high every time, trying to smother the thought of Holl–

Or, all of his thoughts. Smother all of his thoughts. 

Some nights, though, he didn’t have the energy for that. Those nights, he invited Svetlana and Rose over instead. They’d sprawl across his couch with cheap takeout and blankets, old Russian films flickering on the TV—grainy, melodramatic, comfortingly familiar. Svetlana would translate under her breath when Rose got lost, her accent thickening as the night wore on.

Those nights felt quieter. Safer.

Too safe, sometimes.

Rose noticed things. She always did. The way Ilya flinched when his phone buzzed. The way he stared too long at nothing. Eventually, one night, she tilted her head and asked, gently, “So… what’s going on with you and Hollander?”

Ilya scoffed, leaning back, eyes fixed on the screen. “Nothing.”

Rose didn’t look convinced. “Because you two got along really well. At first,” she said carefully. “And now you act like he doesn’t exist.”

Ilya’s jaw tightened. He shrugged, reaching for his drink. “People change.”

Rose watched him for a long second, like she wanted to say more. Like she knew better. But she let it drop, turning back to the movie.

And so September passed.

Thursday–October 6th, 2016

Ilya lounged back in his chair, like the lecture was something happening to him instead of something he was supposed to be participating in. He had gotten quite used to his routine of doing absolutely nothing all class and then getting notes from some cute girl after. He even had favorites based on their handwriting. 

Professor Martinez’s voice floated through the lecture hall, steady and animated as she broke down Othello with the kind of intensity that suggested she genuinely loved this shit. Jealousy. Masculinity. Power. The slow rot of doubt. Words Ilya heard but didn’t really absorb.

He was busy flirting.

The girl beside him—third row, always wore lip gloss that smelled like strawberries—laughed softly at something he murmured under his breath. He leaned in just enough to invade her space, a knee angled toward hers, his grin lazy and practiced as he lightly brushed her shoulder with his. This was easy. This was something he could do all day. He was Ilya Rozanov, the ladies' man afterall.

“Do you even know what we’re talking about?” she whispered, amused.

“Obviously,” Ilya said smoothly. “Girl cheats on husband, he kills her, your typical love story.”

She snorted.

Professor Martinez stopped mid-sentence.

“Mr. Rozanov.”

Fuck.

The room seemed to sharpen around him, heads turning towards him in sync. Ilya straightened slowly, smile already in place, banking on charm like he always did.

“Yes?” he said, voice light.

Professor Martinez tilted her head, unimpressed but patient.

“Since you seem so confident, Mr. Rozanov,” she said, “perhaps you can tell us what specific seeds Iago places in Othello’s mind.”

Silence.

Ilya’s mind went completely blank.

He hadn’t read it. Not really. He’d skimmed the summary the night before, maybe two paragraphs before getting distracted, and even that felt like it belonged to someone else now. Seeds meant nothing when he didn’t even fully remember who Iago was supposed to be beyond the bad guy.

He opened his mouth anyway. He could bullshit his way through an answer, he’d done plenty of times before.

“He… makes him think things,” Ilya said finally, the words landing flat. “Like, uh. Puts ideas in his head.”

Professor Martinez waited.

The entire room waited.

Ilya shifted in his seat, heat crawling up his neck. He searched for something on the lecture slide, anything, to latch onto. His English didn’t fail him; his preparation had.

“About his wife,” he added weakly. 

Professor Martinez’s expression softened just slightly, which somehow made it worse. Ilya hated pity. 

“Can you be more specific?”

Ilya swallowed. He couldn’t. There was nothing there to reach for.

Then, from across the room—

“I think he’s trying to say that Iago never accuses Desdemona directly,” Hollander said. “Instead he implies infidelity through Cassio, framing it as concern, and reinforcing it with the handkerchief as proof. He preys on Othello’s insecurity and fear of losing control.”

Ilya froze.

His eyes snapped up.

Hollander sat in the same spot he always did, notebook open, voice steady and assured. And, fuck, he was wearing glasses today. Thin frames, dark, making him look sharper, calmer. Like a professor of his own. 

Of course he wore glasses.

Professor Martinez smiled. “Exactly. Thank you, Mr. Hollander.”

He smirked slightly, trying to mask the twitch in his chest, telling himself it was just the competitive itch, the one that made him want to edge out anyone who looked untouchable. He didn’t notice that Hollander wasn’t flexing at all. He wasn’t smirking, he wasn’t trying to impress, he was just… answering. Calm, collected. Perfectly normal.

Ilya leaned back in his chair, elbow resting on the desk, pretending to fix his notebook, even though it hadn’t been opened. His pen tapped a familiar rhythm against the wood of his desk, but his eyes kept flicking toward Hollander. Every small movement—the tilt of his head, the way he brought his pen to his lips, the quiet inhale he took before writing a note—made Ilya’s stomach tighten.

Okay, fine, he thought. So he wants to show off. I can play this game.

He turned slightly toward the girl beside him, leaning in with a grin. “See that?” he whispered, nodding toward Hollander. “Thinks he’s the only one who can answer questions.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh,” she said, a smirk tugging at her lips. “And you were gonna give a better answer than he did?”

Ilya chuckled low, letting the corner of his mouth curl. “Oh, you don’t believe in me? That hurts.”

She giggled, slapping at his thigh as Ilya turned his attention back to the slides. As the lecture droned on, his mind drifted back to a certain someone across the room for the first time in weeks. The month of classes had turned into this careful dance: avoiding Hollander when he could, catching glimpses when he couldn’t, always keeping the distance. 

By the end of the lecture, he had already gathered his things quietly, slipping out before anyone else stirred. The hallways were crowded with students, but he moved fast. He didn’t want to see Hollander at the door, didn’t want to acknowledge him. That was what he wanted, right?

The team’s usual conference room had been cleared out for the mandatory team study hall, just as it was every Thursday of the semester. Normally, it was a cavernous space, with polished floors, long tables for meetings, and banners on the walls reminding them of past championships. Today, the tables had been split into smaller groups, clusters scattered across the room like little islands. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, everything a slightly harsh, sterile edge.

Ilya slumped into a chair near the middle cluster, textbooks and notebooks splayed in front of him. Marlow easily slid across from him, Hayes taking the spot to his right. 

Ilya slumped into a chair near the middle cluster, textbooks and notebooks splayed in front of him like he’d lost a fight with them. Marlow easily slid into the seat across from him, chair scraping softly against the floor, while Hayes dropped into the spot to his right with a grunt, stretching his legs out under the table.

Marlow eyed the open book, then Ilya. “You look like Shakespeare personally offended you.”

“He did,” Ilya muttered. “Multiple times.”

Hayes snorted, spinning his pen between his fingers. “Othello?”

Ilya glanced at him. “How you know?”

“Because every year, half the team looks like they’re about to commit a crime around week four,” Hayes said. “It’s tradition.”

Marlow leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What’s the assignment?”

Ilya slid the paper toward him. Marlow skimmed it, lips pursed, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s brutal. When I took it, I just had to watch a video and take notes.”

“You really should’ve dropped the class, man,” Hayes added.

Ilya barely heard him. He shoved a curl back behind his ear and glared down at the page, eyes skimming the same paragraph for the fifth time without comprehension. Othello. Stupid Othello. Shakespeare had nothing to offer him but headaches and words that meant too many things at once.

A chair scraped softly beside him.

“Okay, perfect, I just helped Shane finish this assignment.” Finish? “So the first question is just asking what Iago’s motivation is,” Rose said, sliding into the seat next to him. She leaned over, pointing to Ilya’s copy of Othello, the faint scent of her shampoo drifting into his space.

Ilya groaned, dropping his forehead into his palm. “Motivation? Rose, he’s… he’s just a dick. He ruins everything for everyone. That’s it, da?”

Rose chuckled softly. “It’s not that simple, Ilya. Look—he manipulates, plants ideas in Othello’s head, he—”

“I know what he does!” Ilya snapped, slumping back in his chair. “But why? Why does Shakespeare make it so complicated?”

Rose gave him an unimpressed look. “Because people aren’t simple.”

Ilya banged the pen on the table, muttering under his breath, when his eyes drifted across the room.

Hollander.

He was at the far end of the room, sitting at one of the small clusters that had been set up. Pike was next to him, laptop open, fingers tapping, clearly absorbed in a game, not even pretending to do homework or study. Hollander, on the other hand, had headphones in, posture perfectly relaxed, pen moving smoothly across a notebook, pages crisp and precise. No glasses like earlier in class, unfortunately.

Ilya’s hand twitched over his notebook. He tried to focus on Rose, tried to parse through the assignment, but every glance toward Hollander pulled him out of the world. He could see the way Hollander wrote, the small pauses as he considered each sentence, the faint brush of hair over his forehead.

He hated that he noticed all of it. Hated that with Pike sitting right there, not even interacting with him, some type of jealousy was egging at Ilya. 

“Hey—are you even listening?” Rose nudged him.

Ilya jerked his head up, reddening. “Uh—yeah, totally. I’m… listening.”

She arched an eyebrow but didn’t press it further, going back to his very bare notes. Ilya let his pen tap against his desk, a feeble anchor in the storm of thoughts he couldn’t contain.

He had made Hollander stop trying, had kept himself deliberately separate, and had survived a month of careful avoidance. And yet, across the room, even with him ignoring Ilya as Ilya had done to him–Hollander still invaded his mind.

Ilya leaned back, flipping to the next page. Shakespeare could go to hell. Hollander too.

Ilya’s gaze drifted to the ceiling, letting his pen idle against the page. The first game of the season is tomorrow. Already, he could feel the familiar thrum of adrenaline in his veins just thinking about the ice, the roar of the crowd, the sudden, intoxicating chaos of victory—or, if they were unlucky, the sting of defeat.

And after the game… the party. The first-game-after-party was always insane. He could hear the music already, bass thumping through the floors of the frat house, girls screaming, shots being slammed, bodies colliding in a haze of sweat and excitement.

Ilya’s phone buzzed on the desk, a reminder he barely glanced at. It was just the kind of notifications he loved—messages from girls he’d already invited. Some hot brunettes from his classes, that one redhead with sharp cheekbones, all of the ones who texted back quickly, the ones he knew would show up just because he asked. He’d invited every one of them. He wanted the chaos, the noise, the distraction. He wanted to smother every lingering thought of lectures, assignments, and… of course, of Hollander.

He ran a hand through his hair, curling his fingers into the messy strands as Rose patted him on the back before turning to help Hayes. 

Tomorrow was the first game of the season. He could already feel the weight of it—adrenaline tightening his chest, the crisp edge of the ice calling, the sound of skates scraping against boards in his head. First games were always the worst, and the best. Every play mattered. Every misstep was magnified.

His phone buzzed on the desk. He ignored it at first, already imagining the messages he’d get from the Boston Bears’ front office, admin texting him good-luck notes, short, clipped, polite—but carrying the weight of expectation. “Good luck tomorrow, Rozanov. Keep your head in the game.” “Remember how great last season’s stats were—don’t let that slip.” Ilya could almost hear their voices, formal and distant, their faith in his performance both comforting and suffocating.

He shifted in his chair, stomach knotting. The pressure was suffocating around his ribs. It was a familiar weight, heavier than Hollander’s presence, heavier than even.

The thought of tomorrow’s ice made his pulse spike, but also gave him something to hold onto—a tangible distraction from class, from Othello, from… Hollander. Focus on the game. Focus on the puck, the lines, the drills, and the win.

Even as he imagined the roar of the crowd, the first hit, the slap of the puck off the boards, he felt that small, stubborn flare of pride. This was his element, his territory. Out there, on the ice, he was in control.

Ilya snorted quietly, tapping his pen against the desk. Of course, he’d still think about him. Of course, he’d still be drawn in, heart hammering every time Shane made a small gesture, even subconsciously. But tomorrow was about the game. About the ice. About the party. About anything but Shane Hollander.

He let his gaze drop to his notebook again, the words blurring. Shakespeare could go to hell. Hollander too. 

Tomorrow, he’d drown himself in the noise, in the heat, in everything that didn’t remind him that there was one person he had no right to be thinking about—and yet did anyway.

Chapter End Notes

how are you guys liking the pacing so far? im trying to move it along while also really building the world and plot the way i wanted to! please let me know!! i also am doing my best to keep the tags updated but if you think i should add/remove anything, please let me know aswell!! much love <3

Chapter 7

Chapter Notes

me: *writing this fic just so i can have more shane & svetlana interactions tbh*

Shane’s first month at Boston University had been pretty uneventful; long practices and study sessions took up the major chunks of his day—not that he really minded. By mid-September, Shane’s days settled into a new shape.

It wasn’t a bad one. It was just…different from his first weekend there.

He had started to spend more time with Hayden, mostly by accident at first. Shane just kept running into him. It was like Hayden lived everywhere on the campus, always ending up in the same places as Shane. Running into him had become a part of Shane’s routine, always ending up at the cafe at the same time, the same corner of the library, the same spot in study hall—laptop open, some game always open on Hayden’s laptop. They didn’t talk much, but Hayden’s presence was steady and undemanding—like background noise you didn’t realize you relied on until it stopped.

Sometimes they walked back from practice together, gear slung over their shoulders, the conversation focused on practice drills or whatever game Hayden was currently obsessed with. Shane liked that Hayden never asked why he was quiet, and instead just filled the silence with his own obnoxious voice.

It was nice to have a friend who Shane didn’t have to explain himself to. 

Then, a week or so ago, Hayden finally asked out the barista Shane had spotted him flirting with that first day of class—Jackie. She tagged along to some of their hangouts, very sweet and very excited to be meeting one of Hayden’s friends. Most of the time, they would all meet at Shane’s place—because he had his own TV. Hayden had even moved his PS4 into Shane’s apartment, not wanting it to stay at the frat house after someone nearly knocked it over while drunkenly throwing a football around inside

Shane didn’t mind; it meant he could use any of the streaming apps Hayden had on the console at any time. But he hadn’t expected his apartment to become the go-to hangout place, but it did.

Whenever Hayden and Jackie were…busy,  some of the other guys would come over and play games with Shane–Marlow or Hayes most frequently. Most nights, though, were Svetlana-and-Rose nights.

They had a system without ever naming it. One of them would text the group chat—food? Or study? Or movie night?—and Shane would hear a knock around 15 minutes later as the two girls stood smiling and giggling, waiting for him to let them in.

Shane never went over to the sorority house, since he “wasn’t allowed” upstairs (no guys were). So again, his apartment became the go-to place. He always would joke that he hated it, saying his studio apartment was far too small for the constant hangouts there–but he secretly loved it. Being an only child, he had never had anyone at home but his parents. He didn't have any cousins his age either, and clearly didn't have many friends growing up, so it was really different finally being surrounded by only people his age. 

He loved those mornings when Svetlana and Rose would wake up and make breakfast with him after spending the night. Shane had replaced his old grey couch with a new pull-out bed; that way, the two girls didn’t have to sleep in his bed while he slept on the couch (a routine they quickly fell into, never wanting them to be uncomfortable but also not wanting them to walk home alone late at night when Hayden and Jackie couldn’t walk them).

Shane had learned that Svetlana liked old Russian films with terrible English subtitles, translating under her breath when the dialogue got particularly bad. Rose preferred rom-coms or whatever was trending, pausing every ten minutes to comment on plot holes or casting choices. Hayden and Jackie both loved superhero movies, and Shane didn’t care what they watched, given that he was busy reading or studying a majority of the time as they watched. But when they needed a tiebreaker, Shane immediately got drunk on the power, typically picking the winning movie based on which team was nicest to him that week. 

He had grown especially close to Svetlana and Rose over the month. Shane usually sat between them, knees touching theirs, quietly content.

They talked about everything except the one thing Rose clearly wanted to talk about.

“You know,” Rose said one night, flipping through her phone while they were waiting on Hayden and Jackie to pick up their takeout order, “I have, like, three sisters who would be perfect for you.”

Shane smiled politely, already knowing how this would go. “That’s… generous of you,” He replied sarcastically. 

“I’m serious,” she insisted. “You’re cute, you’re nice, you’re responsible—”

Svetlana snorted. “He is painfully responsible.”

Rose ignored her. “I could set you up. Low pressure. Just a girl’s socials or phone number!!”

Shane hesitated, then nodded. “Sure.”

And so the cycle began.

Rose would send a number or handle. The girl would text first. Shane would respond thoughtfully, carefully, like he was crafting an email instead of flirting. He asked about classes, hometowns, favorite music. He was kind. Polite.

And then…nothing.

Conversations fizzled out after a few days. Sometimes sooner. A couple never made it past introductions. No fights. No awkward confrontations. Just silence, stretching wider and wider until it became clear the connection had dissolved.

Rose tried not to look disappointed, but Svetlana didn’t hide it.

“You are doing something weird,” Svetlana told him bluntly one evening, curled up cross-legged with her laptop. Hayden snorted at that, his face stuffed into his phone as he texted his girlfriend, who was at work. “You are the driest texter, too.”

Shane blinked. “I am not.”

“You are,” she said calmly. “You never flirt. You never push. You never ask to see them.”

Rose tilted her head, studying him. “Do you… want to date right now?”

Shane opened his mouth, then hesitated before replying.

“I think so,” he said finally, though it sounded more like a question than an answer.

Rose softened. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I just— I’m not good at this stuff. I don't want to mess it up, don’t want to lead anyone on.”

Hayden suddenly butted in. “Well, maybe you already are. Because you are not making yourself available, man.”

The words landed heavier than Shane expected.

That night, lying in bed, phone face-down on his chest, Shane stared at the ceiling and wondered if they were right. If he really was the common denominator. 

Maybe he was broken, maybe he wouldn't connect with anyone like that. I mean, he never had, and he was already 19 years old. Or maybe this is just who he was. I guess this is what attraction feels like.

After another night of staring at his phone, Shane gave up.

The text thread with another one of Rose’s friends sat unanswered, the cursor blinking like it was waiting for something he didn’t have. He’d typed three different responses and deleted all of them. Nothing felt right. Nothing ever did.

He shut the app and, without really thinking about it, opened his browser instead.

At first, he clicked what he always had. What he was supposed to. Women, bodies arranged in ways he recognized but didn’t feel. He watched for a minute, then another.

Nothing.

His body stayed frustratingly still, distant, like he was observing instead of participating.

Shane exhaled, irritated, and clicked away.

He didn’t remember deciding to change it. Just remembered the sudden, sharp awareness when the screen filled with something else. A larger man stood over a smaller man who was on his knees, looking up at him. 

He almost closed it immediately; he should’ve closed it immediately. But instead, he froze.

Something in him shifted, low and immediate. His stomach tightened, not with nerves this time, but with…desire? His pulse picked up, loud in his ear. Shane’s body responded without hesitation, without negotiation, his briefs suddenly growing tighter by the second. He sat up and quickly closed his phone, tossing it across his bed and onto the couch as if it burned him. 

He didn’t overthink it after that, or he at least tried not to.

It was just a reaction. Bodies did that sometimes. Shane had gotten the most random boners all his life. Stress, hormones, lack of sleep—there were explanations. There were always explanations.

Plus, plenty of straight guys watch stuff like that. It’s just curiosity, and it definitely doesn’t count if it’s not real. He focused on the technicalities. The loopholes. The fact that he hadn’t even meant to click it. Intent mattered. Didn’t it?

He definitely didn’t think then about how, later that night, he had lain back against his pillows, breathing unevenly, staring up at the ceiling. His sheets were twisted, damp with his sweat, even with the cold autumn air filtering into his room. His phone was facedown beside him, tempting him to flip it over again for another quick peek. 

It had been weeks. The fact landed heavily in his chest. Weeks of trying, of forcing interest, of wondering what was wrong with him.

Nothing felt wrong now. Just quiet. Clear. Terrifyingly obvious.

Shane swallowed.

He told himself he was fine, told himself that the discovery–self-discovery–he made that night meant nothing to him. He was happy, genuinely happy for the first time in years and he couldn’t let anything ruin or complicate that. He was surrounded by people who cared about him. He was doing well, exceptional really,  in his classes. He was gaining muscle and sticking to his diet. Hockey felt satisfying again.

Everything was good, really good. 

Friday–October 7th, 2016

His leg hadn’t stopped bouncing all day. 

Shane sat through his Russian Policy lecture with his notebook open and his pen moving, but his thoughts were already elsewhere. on the weight of pads, the smell of ice, the way the arena lights always felt too bright yet not bright enough at the same time. Professor Volkov droned on about post-Soviet economic reforms, and Shane nodded along automatically, jotting down phrases he’d rewrite later with more care.

He liked this class. It made sense (when it was translated to English, at least). Systems, cause and effect, incentives and consequences. One thing he didn’t like about the class, though, was how open-ended the answers were. Professor Volkov had made it very clear from day one that most classes would be 5% lecture and 95% discussion, something that was starting to become very normal for Shane in his social science courses.

While Shane never liked to talk in front of big groups of people, it was mostly because he didn’t know what to say. He got off on the dopamine hit that came from all eyes being on him, so long as he had a script that told him everything to say. But when he was in class, a place where he was finding himself quite confident, sometimes he would raise his hand to argue his perspective. When he knew there was “no wrong answer,” he knew there was no true consequence to trying. 

Professor Volkov crossed his hands behind his back and scanned the room, eyes sharp behind his glasses as he stepped out from behind his podium, where he had been controlling the slides. Shane was still hurriedly writing a few last notes, his mind immediately drifting to his first exam in the class next week.

“So,” he said, his accent thick, deliberate, “in the late Soviet period, when ideology began to lose its grip, what replaced it as the primary mechanism of social cohesion?”

Shane’s brain lit up immediately, his pen stopping itself in its tracks. Svetlana immediately smirked, tapping his foot with her own–urging him to raise his hand. She really had become his number one supporter in this class. He didn’t hesitate, not even needing her support, though he was grateful for it. Hesitation meant doubt, and doubt meant someone else would speak first.

Professor Volkov lightly smiled at Shane’s familiar face and called on him. “Yes, Hollander?”

“Structure,” Shane said. Then, realizing how blunt and vague that sounded, he rushed to clarify. “I mean—bureaucratic structure. The institutions stayed even when belief didn’t, ya know? People were still following the “rules” because the rules were there.”

The words sounded reasonable in his head; of course, they did, otherwise, he wouldn’t have said them. But the room was silent. Not dead silent. Shane could hear the faint scratch of a pen, the low hum of the projector—but the kind of quiet that made his stomach drop. A girl a few seats over whispered slightly to her friend. Someone in the back shifted in their chair. Shane suddenly became acutely aware of how loud his voice had been, how confidently he’d said it–as if his answer was the best.

Structure?  Why did you say it like that? You could’ve said informal networks. Or nationalism. Or literally anything else.

Professor Volkov tilted his head, and Shane tried to ignore the drop of his professor's brows when he thought about his answer. 

“Hmm,” he said. That single sound felt like a verdict.

“Not quite,” Volkov continued, slowly, thoughtfully. “But that is… an interesting framing.”

Interesting.
Volkov turned toward the board, already lifting the marker. “What you are describing is persistence of institutions, yes—but cohesion is not only obedience. It is belief, identity. In this period, we see replacement not with structure, but with—”

“Cynicism,” someone offered.

“Nationalism,” another student said quickly, louder, more confident.

“Yes,” Volkov nodded, pleased. “Very good. National identity, informal networks. People stop believing in the system, but they believe in each other.”

Shane barely heard the rest.

His face burned. He stared at his notebook, the word Structure still written there in neat, careful letters like evidence. He quickly scribbled it out, ignoring the way Svetlana’s eyes shifted to him and his notes. He kept scribbling lightly. He replayed the answer over and over, every syllable suddenly wrong in hindsight. Too literal. Too mechanical. Of course Volkov wanted something human, something more impactful. Shane always missed that part. Maybe that’s why everyone said he’d be a good politician.

They think you don’t understand people. They think you only see rules. What a stupid answer…He thought to himself.

His pen ripped through the page, soaked with ink. “You’re fucking…” His voice lightly trailed off, barely above a whisper, as he tore the page out and the page he accidentally drew onto as well. Svetlana lightly brushed his knee, urging him to look over at her, but he couldn’t. She probably thought he was stupid, too, especially since she is literally part Russian. She was probably disappointed in him if anything.

He pressed his thumbnail into the edge of the page, grounding himself in the sensation. Rationally, he knew the professor hadn’t been harsh. He’d said interesting. He hadn’t shut him down. But the damage was already done in Shane’s head.

When class ended, Svetlana stopped him. “Please, I just-“

She swiftly cut him off. “I’ll see you at the game later alright!! Let’s go Terriers!!” She finished, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him lightly.

Svetlana always knew when a conversation needed to be had, but most importantly when one needed to be dropped. Shane really appreciated that about her. He chuckled before giving some half-hazardous reply and shoving her playfully. She giggled before waving goodbye and heading out.

Shane packed up neatly, shouldered his bag, and walked home with his hands tucked into his jacket sleeves. The October air had bite to it now, sharp enough to wake him up fully. Leaves crunched under his shoes, campus buzzing in that strange, anticipatory way it always did before the first game of the season.

Back in his apartment, Shane kicked off his shoes and set his backpack down by the door. He didn’t sit. Didn’t turn on the TV. He grabbed his phone instead and stepped over to the window, watching students drift past below.

Shane: I just got home

Shane: I can call now if that works?

His phone immediately lit up with a FaceTime request from his mother. He quickly swiped his finger across, accepting it. The screen was blurry as his mom was moving it around, as if she were putting on something. “This..damn..”

A second later, she appeared–smiling widely at Shane as she wore a black and red Boston University beanie sported with a big, red foam finger. “Go Terriers!! I’m so excited to watch you kick some Michigan ass!”

Shane giggled as he smiled back at her, trying to ignore the way his eyes were already starting to tear up at the sound of her voice.  “You really went all out,” he said, his voice warm.

“Of course I did,” his mom replied, tilting the phone so the foam finger filled half the screen. “It’s opening night!!! First game of the season!!! This is where it starts.”

His smile twitched. He turned slightly, pressing his shoulder into the window, watching headlights streak past below. “Yeah.”

“You know how important this year is,” she continued, excitement edging into something sharper. “With it being your last season of eligibility, and all,” Shane could hear his father whisper ‘Yuna’ in a hushed tone behind the phone.”You don’t get a redo on first impressions, Shane.”

“I know,” Shane said quickly, tilting the camera up to his ceiling to let out a small sigh before positioning it correctly again–smiling.“We’ve talked about it.”

“I’m just saying,” she added, tone bright but insistent, “you want scouts remembering your name for the right reasons. You want to be confident. Consistent.”

His fingers tightened around his phone. He had grown to really hate that word, with it consistently being beaten into his head. “Right.”

“We want to see some nice, clean hockey,” she said. “No mistakes early like last season!! And remember that you really can’t afford to disappear out there.”

“I won’t,” Shane promised, even though the word disappear settled heavily in his chest. His mom really had a way with words. 

The screen suddenly jolted, then steadied as someone leaned into the frame.

“Hey, kid. How did that assignment go? The one you were mentioning last week?”

Shane’s breath stuttered, then evened out. “Really well! My professor loved my take, even asked if she could save it for future examples.”

“Damn, look at you!” His dad smiled like this was just another night, like the world wasn’t narrowing down to sixty minutes of ice time and a handful of clipboards in the stands. “Big night, huh?”

“Guess so,” Shane said.

“First game always feels crazier than they really are,” his dad said calmly. “All that anticipation, all that noise.”

His mom frowned a little, scooching back into the frame with a small eyebrow raise. “It does matter, though.”

“It does,” his dad agreed easily. “But it’s not like his entire future rides on tonight or anything, it’s just another game.”

He looked at Shane, really looked at him with a slight twinge of concern written across his face. “You don’t have to prove anything today.”

Shane swallowed. “Feels like I do.”

“I know,” his dad said softly. “But you’ve already proven you belong here, already proven you belong on the second line! Right behind Ilya Rozanov, for Pete’s sake!”

He had to turn away as tears welled up in his eyes, wiping discreetly at his nose.

“We’re proud of you,” his dad added. “No matter how it goes.”

Shane laughed under his breath, eyes burning. “You’re not supposed to say that before a game.”

“Sure, I am,” his dad said with a smile. “It’s the truth, Shane.”

His mom sighed, reaching up to adjust her beanie. “Give us a call tomorrow, okay? I’m sure you all will be celebrating after murdering the Wolverines!!”

“I will,” Shane said, voice steadier than it felt as he chuckled. 

When the call ended, Shane stayed by the window, his phone warm in his hand. As much as he missed his parents, his mind was racing too much to think about them. The season stretched out in front of him, heavy with possibility—and for the first time all day, he thought he might actually be able to carry it. 

A thought pushed its way into the front of Shane’s mind as he walked into his bathroom, combing his hair and washing his face. 

He didn’t say it out loud (he never would). It sounded so silly, so dumb and childish, causing anyone to hear it to laugh at him. But he knew what he wanted.

Tonight, he wanted to be undeniably the best Boston Terrier on the ice.

He didn’t want to be good, didn’t want to be “better than expected.”  Not reliable, Shane Hollander, who does everything right. He wanted to be the reason the bench leaned forward. The reason Coach Wiebe stopped looking down at the clipboard and started grinning towards his assistant coaches. The reason the lines got shifted mid-period, and nobody questioned it–it would just be the obvious choice.

Shane wanted first line; he wanted Rozanov’s spot.

The thought sent a sharp, electric pulse through his chest. Shane swallowed and looked back at his reflection, like he might catch himself looking guilty. He didn’t hate Rozanov. Not really. If anything, he had really admired him before—the way he played as if the ice belonged to him, like every shift was a challenge issued directly to the world. Not to mention, being drafted eighth overall in the MLH draft was far greater than anything Shane had ever done.

But admiration didn’t cancel out ambition.

He made his way back to his living area and dug through his closet like he was hunting for courage. He pulled out the black blazer that he hadn’t worn since last season, sharp and serious, with a faint scent of dry cleaning. He held it up to his shoulders, imagining the way the scouts would look at him tonight, the way the lights would hit the crease of his pants, the way the ice itself would hum beneath his skates. 

He slid into the crisp white shirt, button by button, deliberately slow, as if the rhythm could steady his heart. Shane straightened his shoulders, smoothing the front of his shirt. First-line center meant more minutes and harder matchups. There was an amount of trust required to get there. It meant being seen—not just as dependable, but as necessary. It meant stepping out of the shadow he’d never officially been placed in but always felt hovering there anyway.

The tie came next, a neat Windsor knot that felt both ridiculous and essential. Shane was used to dressing up before games; it’s a part of the culture. He tugged the ends, adjusted the collar, then froze for a second in the mirror, just staring. 

For a moment, he barely recognized himself.

Not because he looked different—he didn’t, really—but because the version of him staring back felt sharper. Tighter around the edges. Like someone who knew exactly what he was walking into and was choosing it anyway.

Shane exhaled slowly and reached for the Boston Terrier’s cap sitting on the counter.

Hayden’s cap.

It was worn soft at the brim, the logo slightly faded from too many wins and too many nervous tugs. Hayden had shoved it into Shane’s hands weeks ago with a grin, declaring it lucky and therefore non-negotiable. Shane had tried to argue, had pointed out that luck wasn’t transferable like that, but Hayden had just laughed and said, “Doesn’t matter. It’s yours now.”

Shane settled it onto his head, tugging the brim down until it felt right–but his hair kept getting smushed around weirdly and falling onto his forehead. He ultimately settled on flipping it around and wearing it backwards. That's how Hayden always wore his hats, and Shane finally understood why now. He kinda…liked how he looked like this. Just like all his teammates. 

He quickly pulled on his polished shoes, remembering to stuff his Nikes into his backpack, and made his way out the door. The walk down his hallway, down the stairs, and out into the lobby was a familiar one–but this time it felt longer.

Shane slung his backpack over one shoulder and stepped out into the October air, breath fogging faintly as the door shut behind him. The walk to Agganis was also very familiar by now—down Commonwealth, past students bundled in hoodies, the city already buzzing in that low, electric way it always did on game days. He kept his noise-canceling headphones on, music low but steady, while the arena loomed ahead. By the time he reached the side entrance reserved for players and staff, his chest felt tight. He wasn’t panicked, wasn’t even excited necessarily; it was just the weight of it all settling in on him. 

Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet for a gameday. He followed the signage on the walls, giving small waves and greetings to all the faces he recognized. Out of all the players, Shane knew he made the most effort to memorize their names and remember every detail they told him about their personal lives. To Shane, the staff were just as part of the team as he was–even more so given that they’d been here longer. 

Rose sat at the small folding table just past the door, laptop open, clipboard beside her–chatting away to Harris, the new social media intern for the team. She looked up immediately when she saw him, surprised.

“You’re early,” she said, smiling. She drew a small checkmark next to his name on the clipboard. 

“Couldn’t sit still,” Shane admitted, leaning against the table as he smiled down at the two of them. Harris flushed. “Pre-game jitters, ya know?”

She leaned her chin against the palm of her hand as she replied. “Nice hat, very Hayden of you,” She teased. 

He flushed. “Oh yeah? Is it? Do I look dumb?”

Rose and Harris both chuckled. “No, Shane. You look great. Go kick some ass, okay?” 

He nodded, not trusting himself to respond, and headed down the corridor toward the locker room. The lights flicked on as he entered, bright and unforgiving. He always hated how sterile they felt. The sight of their jerseys hung neatly in their stalls, red and white and impossibly crisp, made him hesitate. He walked past them slowly, eyes scanning names stitched in block letters until—

HOLLANDER.

His fingers traced the name across the back, as if to make sure it was real. Something about this team, this school, this city felt different. He felt it that first day, and he knew it in this moment. 

His jersey hung there like a dare, shoulders squared, number pristine. His number. His…new home. The thought of that sent a jolt through him, sharp and grounding. 

Shane sat down at his stall, dropping his bag at his feet, elbows on his knees. He didn’t move to change. Didn’t even take his headphones off. He just stared at his shoes—polished, tied perfectly, reflecting the overhead lights like a mirror.

Enough time passed that the motion sensors stopped registering him as movement.

The lights cut out with a soft click.

Shane startled slightly, lifting his head. The room fell into a dim hush, lit only by exit signs and the pale glow spilling from the shower area. It felt almost sacred like this. He breathed in, slow and steady, letting the dark wrap around him as he closed his eyes.

Shane liked arriving before the noise; before the jokes and the music and the adrenaline-fueled chaos. 

He stayed exactly where he was, music still playing softly in his ears. He needed to do this before every game, he decided in that moment. Every second in the darkness, every second with his headphones on, was a second longer than he had to get acclimated. He leaned back against the wooden cubby of his and tilted his head up, staring at the ceiling, which he could barely see.

His thoughts drifted for the first time all evening to something other than hockey.

Girls.

He latched onto it immediately, almost gratefully.

He thought about the girl he’d been flirting with last weekend—the way she laughed too loudly in a lecture setting, the way her hand had lingered on his arm. He told himself he’d enjoyed it, even told himself he had gotten butterflies. Her name was Sophia, and she was really smart, really passionate, just like Shane was. She probably was going to be at the game tonight.

I like girls, he reminded himself firmly, though he wasn’t quite sure why he felt like he needed reminding. I’ve always liked girls.

He pictured himself at the party later—music loud, bodies pressed close, someone’s fingers curling into his shirt. Maybe those would be Sophia’s fingers. He imagined taking her home, imagined it so vividly it felt like a promise. Like that would be proof, something concrete he could point to and say See? This is normal, I’m normal.

His hands reached for his phone, swiping over to Instagram and finding her profile. Her bright smile and long, curly blonde hair took up every photo. Based on her bio, which Shane was only just now reading for the first time, she played volleyball for the Terriers. An athlete, just like him. His fingers scrolled through her posts before finally starting to type a message to her.

hollander_24: Hey! I know we haven’t talked much in class but…

hollander_24: A bunch of the guys are in SigEP and throwing a huge party after our win tonight. I’d love to see you there if you weren’t already planning on going.

He tried to stop the bouncing of his leg as he closed his phone. She was probably busy anyway, probably pissed off that Shane left her on read and hadn’t spoken to her in class all week, probably–

Shane’s phone lit up.

sophia.nielson: omg shane!!

sophia.nielson: yes ofc!! count me in! i know a few of the girls from APhi were trying to convince me to go, so i’ll def have to now!!

sophia.nielson: after your win?? didn’t realize you were so confident, shane. kinda hot LOL

Shane chuckled as he read her hurried responses, feeling his cheeks lightly flush.

hollander_24: Hey, I call it as it is.

hollander_24: So I’ll see you tonight?

Her response came in a second later. 

sophia.nielson: ofc! i’m getting ready with my friends to come see you guys play rn!! score some goals for us!

He smiled to himself. 

See, I can flirt.

Then his head whipped up. He heard laughter, footsteps, and voices echoing down the hall like an orchestra. The lights snapped back on as the team poured in, energy flooding the space all at once. Someone clapped, someone shouted, gear bags thumped to the floor. And at the front of it all was, of course, Rozanov.

He was loud, obnoxious as always, already half-shouting before he’d even crossed the threshold.

“Let’s go, boys!” Rozanov barked, arms thrown wide. “First game of the season! We win tonight, we party like kings! Every goal you score is a shot of my fine Russian vodka! Let’s fucking fuck them!”

A chorus of whoops and laughter answered him.

Shane’s stomach flipped.

Rozanov’s eyes swept the room as he talked, animated, sharp, alive. For just a fraction of a second, they flicked toward Shane’s stall. There was no smile. No nod. Just a brief, unreadable pause—then Rozanov turned away, already clapping someone on the shoulder, already gone.

Shane reached up and slid his headphones down around his neck. What a dick…

He flexed his fingers, grounding himself.

Around him, the locker room buzzed. Music started blasting from someone’s speaker. Guys chirped each other, tossing tape rolls, arguing about chicks and tape jobs and who owed who for beers. Rozanov had… disappeared? 

He frowned.

Shane scanned the locker room again, slower this time. Rozanov’s stall sat empty, jersey still hanging there with their 5-minute warning just being announced. The noise swallowed the absence at first, but once Shane noticed it, he couldn’t unsee it.

He stood, helmet dangling from his hand, and slipped out into the hallway.

The rink corridors were quieter, the noise from the stands muffled behind concrete and steel. That was when he spotted them down the hall near the equipment room. Rose stood with her arms crossed, shoulders tense, her mouth pulled into a thin line. Rozanov faced her, gesturing sharply, words clearly heated even from a distance.

Shane slowed.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he didn’t need to. Rozanov’s jaw was clenched, his hands restless, running through his hair, pacing a tight circle like a caged animal. Rose said something low and firm, her face dripping with concern. Rozanov snapped back, shook his head hard, and then—without another word—turned and stormed toward the stairwell.

Rose watched him go, then looked up and caught Shane staring.

She didn’t hesitate. She lifted a hand and pointed after Rozanov, then curled her fingers in a clear go-after-him motion.

Shane swallowed and walked toward her.

As he passed, she leaned in just enough to murmur, “Go easy on him. He’s… going through a lot.” Then, with a tired sigh, she added, “But get him back in there. Warmups start too soon for a cigarette break.”

Shane nodded once, heart already thudding harder, and jogged toward the stairwell.

Rozanov wasn’t outside. He was back in the auxiliary locker room just off the stairs—one of the smaller ones teams sometimes used during tournaments. He sat on the bench, hunched forward, elbows on his knees. Gear from the waist down, chest bare, tape still dangling from one glove like he’d dropped it mid-wrap.

He didn’t look up.

“Not now, Hollander.”

Shane stopped just inside the doorway.

For a second, he considered turning around. Letting it go. Letting Rozanov implode on his own. But the image of the bench upstairs, guys waiting, skates already on, sticks tapped impatiently, made his chest tighten.

“I know,” Shane said quietly. “I know you don’t like me. Or whatever this is.”

Rozanov let out a sharp, humorless snort.

“But we’ve got a team up there,” Shane continued, words tumbling faster now that he’d started. “Fans. A season. People who showed up to see you. I need you out there, man. I don’t think I can suddenly play top line tonight—as much as I’d love to.”

Rozanov finally looked up.

His eyes were sharp, glassy in a way Shane didn’t expect. He smirked anyway. “As if you could.”

There he is.

“Shut up,” Shane snapped, heat creeping into his voice. “Never mind. Don’t come back.”

He turned on his heel and started up the stairs.

He made it three steps.

Footsteps thundered behind him.

Shane barely had time to register it before Rozanov barreled past, shoulder brushing his as he took the stairs two at a time, grin feral and familiar.

“Fucking slow Canadiens,” Rozanov barked over his shoulder.

Shane laughed, actually laughed, and chased after him–legs burning, heart pounding, the echo of skates and breath and rivalry snapping back into place like it had never left.

Chapter End Notes

sorry for taking so long on this one! MY classes just started up LOL!! next chapter we really get into the tutoring arc tho teehee <3 much love to you guys again!! tysm for all the comments!! i love reading your thoughts!!

Chapter 8

Chapter Notes

if you came from tiktok, i see you, i feel your presence, and i love you

Ilya’s fingers twitched at the phone in his pocket, which he could lightly hear ringing over the sounds of his teammates goofing off while simultaneously getting ready for the game inside the locker room.

He had stepped out for a second, pretending to stretch, to avoid the press of bodies and noise around him. 

And here he was now, pulling his phone out and staring at the screen as the ringing echoed throughout the concrete hallways. He could hear the light cheer of fans from where he was, the sounds of the student announcers running some game on the jumbotron. 

“Is that really the best idea right now? Minutes before warmups begin?”

Ilya snapped his head up immediately, startled at how quietly Rose had appeared beside him. Her arms were crossed against her front, her sharp gaze steady. She didn’t need to know the details; she never did because she really wasn’t the type to pry. Rose just…knew people. That’s why they got along so well, and also why they argued all the time.

“It’s family,” he said, trying to push past her–voice low and gruff.

“Exactly. Case in point.”

He exhaled sharply. “Rose, stop being annoying American–acting like you know everything–”

His phone rang again, piercingly loud in the quiet hall. Ilya’s thumb swiped reflexively, but it went to voicemail before he could even answer. He stared at the fading screen, feeling his chest tighten and stomach drop.

Andrei was going to be pissed; he always was when Ilya didn’t answer him. It didn’t matter that it was 3 am in Moscow and Ilya was about to play his first game of the season in…less than 40 minutes–Andrei needed money. It’s what he always needed at this hour when their father would refuse to give him more. Then, Andrei always came running to the one person left, his “faggot” little brother, who would rather give it to him than deal with the repercussions of failing to. 

Nothing good would’ve come from answering. He knew that. Rose clearly knew that, too. Ilya always lost his cool and came back to play like shit before shaking it off. But still, now was not the time to have Andrei mad at him. Really, not the time. 

He glanced at Rose, who didn’t say anything, just let him breathe. 

“Thanks, Landry. Really like fucking my stuff up,” He spit out harshly before storming past her towards the stairwell, shoving his phone in his pocket.

He knew that was harsh, knew Rose didn’t deserve that–she was only trying to help–but he still hated when people butted into his business. And especially when they acted like they understood him. Plus, he knew Rose could take it–she was too kind and understanding.

Ilya slowed as he reached the bottom of the stairwell, heading into the extra locker room that was practically never used. He sat down on the bench, leaning his back against the cold concrete wall. He looked down at his feet, chest bare and sweat dripping down his neck, even though he hadn’t warmed up yet. Of course Andrei would fuck with him even when he didn’t pick up the phone. He heard footsteps coming down the stairs and knew Rose was about to come and pester him about warm-ups starting soon.

Instead, he heard familiar footsteps. Footsteps he could easily recognize from weeks of listening to them with his head down. The door opened cautiously. 

“Not now, Hollander,” Ilya said. The words were sharp, but Ilya knew they lacked any real venom–more exhaustion than anger.

Hollander froze, then hesitated, measuring the moment. Ilya’s sharp eyes caught it all in his peripheral vision: the way Hollander looked almost scared, like Ilya would suddenly disappear like he had for the last month. He saw the hurt in Hollander’s eyes when he would ignore the Canadian; it’d be hard to ignore it (the irony). “I know…I know you don’t like me. Or whatever this is,” He said, his hands motioning between them clumsily. Ilya couldn’t help but let out a humorless snort.

“But we’ve got a team up there,” Hollander continued, and God would he be a better alternate captain than Ilya was. “Fans. A season. People who showed up to see you. I need you out there, man.” He couldn’t help but gulp at Hollander’s sincerity. “I don’t think I can suddenly play top line tonight–as much as I’d love to.”

Ilya looked up at him finally, a smirk spreading across his face to hide the redness of his eyes. “As if you could.”

Hollander immediately had a cocky smirk spreading across his own face. 

“Shut up. Never mind. Don’t come back,” He teased, turning on his heel as he walked out and headed up the stairs.

Ilya let out a low chuckle before hopping up and quickly catching up with him, deciding now was a great time to show off to his teammate. He sprinted up the stairs, thundering past Hollander, who had a surprised grin on his face. 

“Fucking slow Canadiens,” Rozanov barked over his shoulder.

Hollander laughed, actually laughed, and Ilya felt a tight knot in his chest twist. Of course. That’s exactly what this has been this whole time. A rivalry. The sleepless nights, random twisted thoughts, sly smirks, niceties–it was all a little game between them. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. 

Ilya made his way back into the almost empty locker room, quickly throwing the rest of his gear on. He turned around, tying his shorts around his hips as he watched Hollander disappear into the chaos of the tunnel, never turning back.

He would never admit it, but sometimes he started to worry in practice, and seemingly now before games, that Hollander would take his spot–catch the eyes of the Bears and actually end up living Ilya’s dream. Or, well, their shared dream. Though Ilya really had no idea where Hollander dreamed of playing–it’s not like they talked beyond that first weekend.

If he had just been normal instead of such a creep, would he and Hollander be friends now? They really are quite different, and he couldn’t imagine Hollander would’ve attended all of the themed parties and mixers Ilya liked going to, even if they had been friends. But would Ilya have fit in with his group?

He always heard Rose and Svetlana talking about the perfect Hollander and his perfect apartment and their perfect movie nights, and honestly, it’s why he kind of stopped hanging around them as much. Not to mention, most of their time was flooded now with philanthropic duties and sorority events–or hanging out with Shane Hollander and Hayden Pike. 

Ilya shook the thought loose as he shoved his arms through his jersey, tugging it down over his head like it could suffocate the spiral before it got worse. 

The locker room had thinned out, and most of the guys were already filtering toward the tunnel for warmups. The air hummed with that familiar pre-game electricity while the music thumped faintly through the walls. Ilya could feel himself tuning into his surroundings like he always did before games. He tightened the straps on his gloves with more force than necessary.

Would Wiebe switch up the lines?

He scoffed under his breath at his own absurd thought. As if. He’d been skating circles around guys like Hollander since he was a kid, freezing his ass off in Moscow rinks at four in the morning. Hollander wasn’t even drafted, and half of the league scouts didn’t even know his name. Talent recognized talent, sure–but ambition? Hunger? That was different. That was something you earned, and it’s not like Hollander grew up the way Ilya did. Ilya was resilient and passionate. Hockey was all he had. 

Ilya glanced toward the tunnel again, half-expecting to see Hollander lingering, leaning casually against the wall like he owned the place–how he had been acting since that very first scrimmage. But that wasn’t entirely fair. Hollander didn’t act that way; if anything, he was too humble. And he definitely wouldn’t ever linger. He seemed to get embarrassed by simply existing in the presence of others, something Ilya could relate to. He wondered how much he and Hollander had in common.

The thought irritated him more than it should have.

By the time the third period clock ticked down to fifteen minutes, Ilya already knew how the night was going to end.

Warmups had gone…badly.

Not catastrophically–not in any way that would even draw a comment from the stands–but badly in the way that was definitely noticeable to anybody on the ice. Pucks were hopping over his blade, he kept hitting the pipes or glass instead of the net, and at one point, he even fell into the bench after failing to jump it. Small things, sure, but all are really annoying things to be happening before a game. But he would shake it off, right?

Wrong.

The first period had been all noise and nerves. Ilya flew through his opening shifts on instinct alone, skating hard, finishing checks, doing everything right except the part that mattered most. He kept rushing his shots, not even giving the puck a chance to settle. He was forcing passes to Marlow that weren’t there. He kept trying to do too much on his own instead of letting the play come to him. He could feel Wiebe’s eyes on him every time he circled back to the bench.

He’d slammed the bench door a little too hard when he sat down, earning himself a sharp look from Rose across the way. He ignored it.

The second period was worse.

His legs still felt strong, but his head wasn’t keeping up. He got beat to a puck he should’ve had. He took a stupid angle on the forecheck that left the neutral zone wide open. And then–because apparently the night wasn’t done embarrassing him–he clipped a guy’s hands along the boards when he was already a stride late.

The whistle shrieked. The ref’s arm immediately went up.

Ilya didn’t even argue. He knew it was bad the second his stick made contact.

The penalty kill bailed him out. Thank God they had stayed even, otherwise Ilya wouldn’t have heard the end of it. He probably still wouldn’t hear the end of it. The crowd roared anyway, like they hadn’t just watched him hand the other team momentum on a silver platter, cheering for ‘Ro-Za-Nov! RO-ZA-NOV!’

When he came out of the box, he barely had time to take a full breath before Wiebe was waving him back to the bench.

“Short shift,” he said flatly.

Ilya stared at him, jaw tight. “I’m good, I got it.”

Wiebe didn’t even look at him this time. “I said short.”

The shift barely lasted thirty seconds.

Ilya chased a puck into the corner, won the battle, and kicked it loose–only for it to go flying down the ice into the offensive zone where nobody was. He went to chase after it when he heard his name called. He looked up, confused, and then saw Wiebe pointing at him again.

The bench felt colder than it had all night as Hollander passed him, taking his place on the ice.

Ilya slammed down beside Pike, ripping his helmet off and dragging a hand through his damp hair. His chest burned–not from exhaustion, but from fury. He bounced his knee, eyes locked on the ice as Wiebe leaned down and said something to the far end of the bench.

His head snapped up as he knew what was about to happen; he could see it playing out before the crowd did. 

Hollander took Pike’s pass in stride just inside the defensive blue line. It was a clean feed, and Hollander didn’t hesitate. He carried it through neutral ice with his head up, shoulders loose, like the entire rink wasn’t holding its breath.

He crossed the offensive blue line and cut inside. The defender bit.

Hollander snapped his wrists and fired. 

The red light flashed. The building erupted as the lights began to dim out, flashing as Hollander pumped a fist into the air and thanked the crowd. Lame celebration, too.

His entire bench was tapping their sticks as they fist-bumped Hollander.

Ilya didn’t move, swallowing hard as his throat suddenly felt tight.

When the lines reset, Ilya stood up automatically, already pulling his helmet back on–

–and then Wiebe called Hollander’s name again.

Ilya froze, half-standing, heat rushing up his neck. He looked down the bench, waiting for the correction. Waiting for Wiebe to realize he’d misspoken, but it never came. 

Hollander jumped back onto the ice.

Ilya sat down slowly, fingers digging into the edge of the bench. His leg bounced harder now, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Sure, Ilya had made a few mistakes, but they were up now. There was no reason for him to be riding the bench like this. No reason–

The puck dropped.

Hollander didn’t even need the full shift, and Ilya was being too pissy to even see the damn goal.

The crowd lost its mind. They were already comparing the two of them; Ilya could feel it.

Ilya stared straight down as the horn blared again, the sound drilling into his skull. His ears rang. His palms felt numb.

Wiebe didn’t look at him.

Not once.

Ilya swallowed and forced himself to keep his eyes on the ice, on Hollander getting mobbed by the team, on Pike’s hand smacking the back of his helmet, on Wiebe clapping once from the bench with that sharp, knowing look. If Hollander kept playing like this, there wouldn’t be room for both of them. Hollander didn’t even have history here, didn’t even work as hard as Ilya had, yet was getting more time on the ice now?

For the first time all night, something colder than anger or nerves or excitement settled in Ilya’s gut.

Fear.

The locker room was still buzzing when they all finally piled back in–the smell of sweat in the air, music way too loud, laughter sharp and sloppy with adrenaline. Ilya watched as Hayes secretly racked open a beer, facing his cubby as he took a sip. 

He was still riding the afterburn of the game, chest tight, hands restless as he stripped his gloves off and dropped onto the bench. His legs felt like concrete. His head felt worse. He missed all his best chances on goal, failing to score any points in their first game back. But of course, Shane Hollander had to get both of the team’s goals for their home opener.

Ilya rolled his eyes as he started to shuck his gear off and into his stall. Over all the commotion, he had barely heard it.

“Maybe we’ll have to try that Korean BBQ place,” Pike called out, towel still hanging on his head as he dried his wet hair, resembling a wet rat for a moment as Ilya side-eyed him. 

Marlow piped up at that, elbowing Hollander, who was entranced in whatever text he was sending on his phone. We just won a game, and this guy can’t even get off his phone…Ilya rolled his eyes (even though he would typically be doing the exact same thing).

“KBBQ sounds so good, I’m sure you like that stuff–right, Hollander?”

Ilya’s head snapped up towards him as quickly as the words came out of Marlow’s mouth. “He’s Japanese, dumbass,” he quickly spat out, shoving the taller forward away from Hollander (who had looked up from his phone, face stuck in an unreadable expression). 

Marlow raised his eyebrows, shrugging his shoulders. “So?”

“So… are you stupid, Marly?” Pike butted in, in the defense of his best best best friend Shane Hollander. Ilya would’ve rolled his eyes if he weren’t so pissed off with Marlow’s stupidity. What was he even trying to say?

Marlow’s mouth opened, probably to mumble some excuse, but Ilya’s sharp look froze him as Pike spoke up. “No. Don’t even try. This isn’t a joke. Just… shut up.”

Hollander, still holding his phone, didn’t say a word, but Ilya watched as his shoulders seemed to relax slightly. He had to give him props. Anytime someone said something dumb like that to Ilya, there would be a fight 100% of the time. 

“Offensive,” was all Ilya added, not really trusting him to find the right words to use. He really hated this growing up, the “locker room banter.” He had heard his fair share of bigotry, downright offensive sayings, and slurs–and each time he made sure to make it clear that Ilya Rozanov will ring your bell if he hears that shit again. 

It was hard, especially with him being in a frat, but Ilya swore he would never willingly associate with disgusting people who hated others for where they came from, the color of their skin, who they love, or anything else we have no say in. He had already been born into a family like that against his will; why would he do that again? 

Not to mention, he did have influence. He also did genuinely care about people, though nobody would get that. His freshman year, he worked with Troy Barrett–Sigma Phi Epsilon President at the time–to bring an end to hazing in all of the fraternities at Boston University. He hadn’t wanted his name tied to it and was totally okay with Barrett taking the credit for setting it all up (the guy had been working on it for years). But he was the one who rallied enough guys together to agree to sign the initiative.

Ilya was good with people. Ever since he was young, he had been extraordinary at reading people’s body language…the intonation in their voices. He could recognize the sounds of people's footsteps, what their voices sounded like through the walls, and even the smells they carried with them throughout their day. He could tell by their skin if they were scared–with goosebumps raising on their skin and hairs sticking up the backs of their necks–or if they were sick–pale, almost like they are too cold yet slick to the touch with sweat. And when he could actually look them in the eye, he could practically read their minds.

He’d been this way with everyone and everything since he was young, usually being brushed off as his charms and wit rather than years upon years of experience reading body language. The only person he sometimes fell short of reading was there, putting his phone into his pocket as his face was twisted into an expression Ilya simply couldn’t understand.

Marlow muttered something under his breath, a half-hearted, “Alright, alright, sorry, Roz,” while Ilya’s glare stayed on him.

“Ah, ah, ah, not to me,” Ilya murmured, motioning to a seemingly oblivious Hollander. The ‘Terrier of the Night’ was busy pulling his blazer back on and fixing his tie, as if he wasn’t the main topic of conversation at the moment. Marlow wrapped an arm around Hollander’s shoulders before muttering out his apology.

“Sorry, Holzy. I’m a dumbass sometimes.”

A few agreements rang out from those who were watching the altercation go down.

“We knew that.”

“Clearly.”

“Wait, so he’s aware?”

Hollander cleared his throat, putting his baseball cap on backwards and spinning around with a calm smile on his face. “Korean BBQ sounds good,” he said lightly, deflecting. “And then we are getting absolutely shitfaced tonight, right?” He added on, his smile spreading wide across his face as Hayes and Pike tackled him. 

Ilya could feel a small smirk spreading across his own as he rolled the sleeves of his dark red button-up up to his biceps and grabbed his bag. But, it didn’t reach his eyes.

He watched Hollander get dragged over towards where the stick rack was, watched the way the room bent toward him without even realizing it–laughter following him, hands clapping his back, Pike already planning the night around him like scoring two goals was the coolest thing in the world. 

They were already used to him.

Ilya slung his bag over his shoulder and turned toward the door, jaw tight. Two easy fucking goals. But, he had had no hesitation, no nerves–the way he always got on the ice, or in class. That was the part that bothered him most, not that Hollander had scored, but how easily he’d done it. 

Ilya could almost hear his father’s voice in the back of his head, clipped and unimpressed. Second lines don’t go anywhere. He imagined Andrei scoffing, asking how long it took for the Americans to forget about their “star player” that Ilya claimed he was. He imagined the Bears’ scouts scribbling something new in their notebooks, erasing something old.

Replaceable wasn’t a word anyone had ever used for Ilya Rozanov, or that he had ever used for himself. Until now.

As his eyes glanced back towards his teammates, all huddled around Hollander, he had to roll his eyes.  For the first time, Ilya didn’t see a teammate there. He didn’t even see a fantasy that he couldn’t help but be attracted to. He saw a barrier, an obstacle.

Ilya turned away before the feeling could rot into something uglier.

The city always felt louder after a win.

They spilled out of the rink in clusters, puffers half-zipped, voices already hoarse, the cold night air doing nothing to cut the heat still buzzing under Ilya’s skin. Word traveled fast, especially when his house was throwing.  People tagged along without asking, friends of friends, strangers who recognized a logo and decided that was enough of a reason to follow–but Ilya couldn’t care less.

By the time they hit the street, it wasn’t just the team anymore. It was practically a parade.

Ilya walked a step ahead of most of them, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, eyes forward as they waited at a red light. Car horns blared. Someone down the block was already blasting music from an open window. A girl leaned out of a passing bus and screamed something unintelligible when she spotted a cluster of jerseys.

He didn’t turn at first, but then he heard Hollander laugh.

It wasn’t loud–nothing about Hollander ever was–but it carried anyway, cutting clean through the noise. Ilya glanced over despite himself.

Hollander had somehow accumulated a circle without even trying. Pike was there, obviously, shoulder pressed close like a loyal guard dog. Rose stood just to his left, arms crossed but smiling, Svetlana beside her with a drink already in hand. Pike’s girlfriend was leaning in, laughing too hard at something Hollander had said, and there was another girl there too–blonde, absolutely stunning, touching Hollander’s arm like it was already hers.

Hollander looked uncomfortable in that polite way of his, like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands, but he wasn’t pulling away either. He looked so entranced as he intently listened, his brown eyes wide. He nodded. He smiled. 

Ilya felt something twist in his chest that had nothing to do with attraction this time.

He didn’t even have his typical groupies around him. This was bullshit.

The light stayed red.

More people crowded in behind them, laughter spilling onto the sidewalk, someone chanting Terriers! for no real reason. Ilya shifted his weight, jaw tight, eyes flicking back to Hollander’s little orbit. It already looked established, like it had been that way all season. Like Ilya had just been late to something everyone else had already decided on.

He wondered how long it would take before this was normal.

Before Hollander stopped looking surprised when people wanted him.

The light finally changed, and the group surged forward as one. Ilya crossed with them, then slowed deliberately, letting the mass of bodies slide ahead. Hollander disappeared into the crowd, swallowed whole by people who wanted a piece of him.

Some familiar redhead clung onto Ilya’s arm, smiling up at him as he looked down at her. 

“Good game,” she said, breath warm, fingers already sliding into the crook of his elbow with practiced ease. “You were amazing out there.”

Ilya forced his mouth into something that passed for a smile. He didn’t bother correcting her. Didn’t bother asking her name, even though he probably knew it–had known it, at some point, in some other crowded night that blurred into the rest.

“Yeah,” he said absently, eyes still tracking the space where Hollander had vanished. “Thanks.”

She laughed softly, mistaking his distraction for mystery. “I heard tonight's party is going to be huge. It’s gonna be insane.”

Of course it was, they always were.

Ilya nodded once, letting her keep hold of him as they moved with the crowd. This–this–was familiar. Easy. Girls gravitated toward him like gravity worked differently around his name, his accent, his body. He was used to being recognized first, chosen first, pulled into the center without trying.

Ahead of them, he caught a glimpse of Hollander again–dark hair, broad shoulders, the way Pike leaned in close to say something that made Hollander duck his head, smiling. The blonde was still there too, laughing, saying something animated with her hands. 

Ilya’s fingers curled slightly against the redhead’s waist. She was looking at him like he was still exactly what she’d wanted, like she couldn’t give two shits about how poorly he played today. 

He lightly whispered in her ear. “Upstairs?”

She nodded with a sultry gaze.

As the frat house came into view–lights blazing, music already thudding through the brick–cheers rippled through the crowd. Marlow shoved a drink into Ilya’s free hand. Someone else slapped his shoulder hard enough to sting.

“Rozanov!” Hayes called. “My man!”

He lifted the cup in acknowledgment, drained it in one go, barely tasting anything.

Music thudded through the walls, bass heavy enough to vibrate in his chest as bodies packed the entryway shoulder to shoulder. Someone had already cranked the lights down low, reds and purples bleeding together as beer sloshed and voices shouted over one another. The smell hit him all at once–sweat, alcohol, cheap cologne, something fried from the kitchen.

The redhead laughed when someone bumped into her, fingers tightening at his waist as if to anchor herself. Ilya didn’t slow. He guided her through the crowd on instinct, past the living room and toward the stairs, already ignoring the handful of guys calling his name.

They didn’t make it far.

“Ilya.”

He turned at the sound of it, irritation already loaded–until he saw Svetlana standing near the base of the stairs, arms folded, expression sharp and knowing. She looked him over once, quick and precise, taking in the drink in his hand, the girl pressed into his side, the tension in his jaw.

“Having fun?” she asked dryly.

Ilya huffed a quiet laugh. “Obviously.”

Her eyes flicked to the redhead, then back to him. “You disappeared after the game.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I’m right here.”

Svetlana stepped closer, lowering her voice so it barely carried over the music. “You don’t have to prove anything tonight.”

Something hot and defensive flared in his chest. “I’m not.”

She studied him for another second, clearly unconvinced, then sighed. “Just… don’t be stupid, Roz.”

He gave her a mock salute. “No promises.”

Svetlana shook her head, lips twitching despite herself, and stepped away–already being pulled into another conversation. Ilya didn’t watch her go. The redhead tugged gently at his sleeve instead.

“Room?” she asked again, hopeful.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

By the time Ilya stumbled back downstairs, shirt rumpled, lips buzzing faintly, the party had reached a new level of chaos.

He grabbed another drink–then another. Shots appeared in his hand without him asking. Someone chanted his name again. He let himself be pulled into the kitchen, then the living room, then back toward the center of it all, where the air felt thicker and louder.

That’s when he saw them setting up the table.

“Alright,” Marlow announced, clapping his hands together. “Pairs. Losers take the punishment.”

Groans and cheers erupted in equal measure.

Ilya leaned against the counter, squinting. “What game?”

“Flip cup,” Pike said, already grinning. “Team edition.”

Ilya straightened, smirking as he took another sip of his drink. “Easy.”

Marlow slung an arm around his shoulders. “Roz and I versus–” his grin widened as his eyes flicked up “–Hollander and Pike.”

Ilya’s gaze snapped across the room.

Hollander stood opposite him, now wearing one of Pike’s stupid band tees, expression unreadable but alert. He looked… flushed. From drinking, probably. Or the attention. Or both.

“Works for me,” Hollander said evenly.

Pike cracked his knuckles. “Let’s go, fucking Holzy and I got this in the bag!”

They lined up across from each other, the table between them like a battlefield. Cups were set. Rules were shouted by Hayes and immediately ignored. There was a circle forming around them as, seemingly, everyone wanted to watch.

Ilya rolled his shoulders, alcohol humming in his veins. When he glanced up again, Hollander was already looking at him.

He didn’t have that polite, tight-lipped smile across his face, or an eyebrow raised. He didn’t even seem particularly curious; he was…just watching. Ilya wondered if this was the first time Hollander watched him like this, or just the first time Ilya caught him.

Hollander stood next to Ilya as their partners went to line up in their spots. Ilya couldn’t help but lean in and give some encouraging words. “Try to keep up,” Ilya muttered, over-enunciating the ‘p’ on ‘up.’

Hollander bit his lip as he chuckled, not even looking at Ilya. “On or off the ice? Oh wait...”

What a cocky bastard.

The first round was chaos–cups flipping, beer splashing, people shouting encouragement for whichever player they preferred. Marlow fumbled multiple times. Pike laughed in his face, messing himself up. The room pressed closer, heat and noise closing in. Marlow won the first round.

“Let’s fucking go!” He shouted, banging on his chest like King Kong. Ilya rolled his eyes but chuckled as he brought him in by the hand for a pat on the back.

By the second round, it narrowed. Somehow, it always did.

Marlow and Pike ended up on one end of the table, arguing loudly over rules that definitely didn’t matter. Ilya and Hollander stood directly across from each other now, separated by nothing but a line of plastic cups.

Everything else faded to nothing when he looked at him.

“Go!”

Ilya flipped his cup clean; he’d done this a million times. Hollander matched him instantly, beginner’s luck per usual.

They repeated this chess game, over and over.

Their hands moved in sync, eyes focused, the crowd roaring around them like it didn’t exist. Ilya could see the focus settle into Hollander’s face–the same one he wore on the ice. The calm and still expression on his face, taking this silly game so seriously.

It pissed Ilya off.

Suddenly, he was putting a lot more effort into this stupid drinking game than he had intended–and Hollander only did the same. They both were at their final cup, and Hollander froze just long enough to look up.

“So,” he said quietly, barely audible, “can I keep up?”

Ilya’s pulse kicked hard. He flipped his cup–harder than necessary–watching it land perfectly.

He leaned forward, close enough now that he could smell Hollander’s soap beneath the beer. “I didn’t think so.”

Ilya watched the way a small smirk crept up onto Hollander’s face as he started to chug the full red solo cup of beer.

“Roz and Marlow remain undefeated!”

Ilya barely heard all the commotion as he forced himself to look away from Hollander, stupid Hollander who was wearing that stupid backwards baseball cap and lifting his stupid shirt as a towel to wipe up the beer dripping from his mouth. Ilya didn’t wait to celebrate. He grabbed the redhead’s hand, tugging her through the crowd of bodies pressing closer as everyone cheered and laughed, still caught up in the game. Her laugh was sharp, playful, tinged with surprise at the sudden movement, but she didn’t pull away.

The air was thick with music, shouting, and the smell of sweat and alcohol, but Ilya felt like he was moving through a vacuum, the noise dimming around him. Every step toward the stairs was deliberate, his fingers laced with hers tightly. He kept glancing back–out of habit, out of spite, out of…whatever–catching Hollander still laughing with the blonde chick, hands brushing in that same too-casual way that Ilya knew all too well.

The stairs groaned under the weight of people, red and white flashing lights from the main room cutting across their faces.

“Up here,” Ilya said, voice low, tugging her through the doorway of the frat house’s second floor. The corridor was narrow, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of beer and furniture polish.

Once the door to his bedroom was closed behind them, the redhead pressed herself against him, grinning. “Finally,” she whispered, lips close enough to brush his ear.

Ilya tilted his head down, catching her gaze. “Oh yeah, you were waiting?” His accent had thickened with the alcohol, rough at the edges.

Her fingers traced up his chest. “Mmmhm, we didn't get to the good stuff earlier... were you?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned in, and their mouths met in a slow, heated kiss. The kind that dragged the tension from the living room–the game, Hollander, his family–right out of him.

Ilya’s hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, pressing her against the wall as if he could hold onto something solid while everything else spun. Her fingers traced along his shoulders and down his arms, and he could feel her pulse racing against his.

The door banged lightly as someone passed in the hallway. Ilya ignored it, lifting her up by her hips and moving her to his desk as he brought his lips down her neck. The music from below was muffled now, distant–but the roar of bodies in the main room seemed to echo inside him anyway.

He broke the kiss only to look at her, smirk tight and sharp. “You this easy?”

“Only for you,” she whispered back, grin widening. Ilya knew that probably wasn’t true, but he enjoyed being wanted. 

Ilya rolled his eyes, though the flush on his neck betrayed how much he liked that. He let the door swing fully shut behind them this time, leaning against the frame.

The redhead laughed, tugging him toward the bed. “Game’s over. Time to celebrate.”

But even as they fell onto the mattress, Ilya’s mind was halfway back downstairs. Hollander’s smirk. The casual ease with which he charmed everyone around him. The way his hands moved in sync with the blonde, like they had rehearsed it, like it was effortless–and somehow, he made it look like nothing was at stake.

Ilya’s jaw tightened, pulse still thrumming in his ears.

He tried to push the thought away as he kissed her again, letting the alcohol and heat and closeness steal his attention. But deep down, he knew exactly who was getting him this hot and flustered.

And as she flipped over, slipping her red panties off, Ilya couldn’t help but close his eyes and imagine…

Hollander.

Thursday–October 13th, 2016

Ilya’s week had been the slowest one of his life; he was sure of it. He thought about how this week was dragging as slow as molasses as he bathed in the fluorescent hum of the mandatory team study hall. Ilya’s eyes hovered over the blank lines of his Othello exam, the grade at the top glaring at him like a personal insult: F. 

He slammed his pen down, tapping the desk in rhythm with his irritation. A week had passed since that party–seven long days filled with bruising practices, whispered smirks across classrooms, and the endless, irritating proximity of Shane Hollander.

He could still feel the tension from last Friday, the way Hollander’s smirk had cut through the locker room air like a knife. The same smirk that followed Ilya to the party, to that dumb drinking game. The teasing in practice had only escalated: little pushes into the boards, clumsy “accidents” that definitely were on purpose, whispered insults while retrieving pucks, and even some small pranks in the locker room. 

And yes, Ilya had been getting under Hollander’s skin. He’d admit that much to himself. Every sly comment, every exaggerated display of effort just to overshadow him…he’d been savoring it, letting the game of annoyance and subtle domination spill into every moment he could.

The latest addition to his arsenal? Hollander’s “girlfriend.”

He’d overheard it from the whispers in the hallway; Hollander leaving the bathroom at the party with some blonde–Sophia, the name clinging annoyingly in his brain. They’d disappeared together right after, hands brushing, smiles quiet but obvious. Ilya hadn’t needed confirmation beyond the way Hollander’s whole posture had shifted that day, careful, protective, subtly triumphant.

Hollander’s little blonde girlfriend.

Ilya almost laughed, though it came out as a tight, dry exhale. A chirp had already formed in his mind, ready for the next time Hollander got too comfortable in practice: “So obsessed even your girlfriend looks like me.”

He could practically see the smirk, the flash of heat in Hollander’s eyes, the way he’d stumble for words. The thought alone made his pulse quicken.

Ilya’s gaze drifted back to the exam, the red marks staring at him like a challenge. He didn’t care. Numbers on a page couldn’t compete with the rush of one well-placed barb, one perfectly timed shove in the hallway. Hollander might be fast, precise, and calm on the ice–but in their little off-ice war, Ilya was the one setting the tempo.

His fingers drummed against the desk.

Maybe he’d fail this dumb exam. Again. But in the game he really cared about, the one where pride counted for more than points on paper, he was already winning.

The hum of fluorescent lights flickered as the study hall neared its end, the shuffling of papers and low murmurs marking the final minutes. Ilya shoved his Othello exam into his binder, the F practically burning his fingertips. He was about ready to leave the room in a storm of annoyance when a gentle tap on his shoulder made him glance up.

“Rozanov,” Rose said, her voice soft but firm, “we need to talk.”

He groaned, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “What is it now? You here to lecture me on failing grade?”

“Not lecture,” she replied, sliding into the seat across from him. “I think you need a tutor.”

Ilya’s eyebrows shot up. “A tutor? Really?”

“Yes. You’re bright, but this class–” She tapped the paper lightly, “–it’s not your usual coursework. I think someone could help you get back on track.”

He waved her off. “No, thanks. I don’t need some stranger drilling me on ‘hidden meanings’ and ‘themes’. I’ll manage.”

Rose didn’t flinch. She rarely did when Ilya pushed back; she’d been dealing with him long enough to know when stubbornness was a defense mechanism instead of a real answer.

“Okay,” she said evenly, folding her hands on the desk. “Then let’s not do a stranger.”

Ilya scoffed, already half out of his chair. “Not happening.”

“Humor me,” she pressed. “There are options.”

“Name one.”

She tilted her head, thinking–or pretending to. “There’s Langley. He tutored you in the spring when you were placed on–”

“No.”

“Emily Wilson? She’s the one you get notes from when you miss class for travelling.”

“Absolutely not.”

Rose exhaled through her nose, the faintest smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re being difficult on purpose.”

“I’m being efficient,” Ilya shot back. “I don’t need help. I just had bad week, dumb exam.”

Rose’s gaze softened, but she didn’t let it go. “Bad weeks still have consequences, Roz. This is a required course. You can’t afford another exam like that, unless you want a repeat of last year.”

Ilya’s jaw flexed as he looked away, staring at the scribbled margin notes on his paper like they might rearrange themselves into something respectable.

Rose’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “Well… Shane is in the class.”

His head snapped up. “And he wants to tutor me? Yeah, right.”

She tilted her head innocently, almost teasingly. “Actually… yeah. He volunteered the second I mentioned your name.”

Ilya blinked, dumbfounded, his mind racing. Volunteered? After everything I’ve said–everything I’ve done… “Oh… okay. I guess,” he muttered finally, voice tight with a mixture of disbelief and reluctant acceptance.

“Great,” Rose said, jotting something on a sticky note and sliding it across the desk. “You guys can meet here, same room, Saturday at 4:30 after practice. Don’t be late.”

Ilya grabbed the note, staring at it like it might explode. “Da…  Saturday… 4:30. Got it,” he said, still not fully processing. His chest felt funny–uneasy, maybe even a little… nervous.

Rose leaned back, smirking faintly. “Good. I think this’ll be… productive. For both of you. Team bonding.”

Ilya muttered under his breath as she walked away, “Yeah, sure… bonding.” His fingers curled around the note, mind buzzing. Hollander…volunteered? Why?

He imagined Hollander sitting across from him in an empty classroom, sleeves pushed up, pen tapping thoughtfully against the desk, wearing those thin-rimmed glasses of his. He’d probably be calm, looking at Ilya like he was some challenge he had to beat. A puzzle he had to solve.

The thought made something tighten low in his stomach—annoyance, maybe. Or anticipation. 

He didn’t like not knowing which.

Chapter End Notes

WOW! thank you guys so much for this huge influx of love!! i really appreciate your comments so much! they really help me with understanding what you guys want to see and how that lines up in my plans!! i've really enjoyed writing this one #2026isthenew2016. good luck to anyone whose classes just started up again! and as always, let me know if i should add/edit any tags! much love to you guys!! <3

also, hudson williams is so fine, and i need to see him in leather more

Chapter 9

Chapter Notes

SURPRISE!!! little rose pov moment (very short but lmk if you would want more!)

Friday–October 14th, 2016

Rose was half-curled into Svetlana’s bed, one leg hooked lazily over hers, the room dim except for the soft glow of a desk lamp across the way. Svetlana’s fingers traced slow, absent patterns along Rose’s spine, grounding in the way she always was–steady, warm, comforting.

Rose pressed a kiss into the curve of her neck, lingering there longer than necessary before sighing.

“I did something bad,” she murmured.

Svetlana spun around, feigning shock. “What!” She exclaimed. “The Rose Landry did something…bad? The world stops spinning…” She murmured the last part in Russian. 

Rose snorted quietly, lifting her head just enough to meet her eyes. “Shut up. I don’t even know if it’s ‘bad’ to be honest…”

That got Svetlana’s attention. She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow, thumb brushing along Rose’s jaw. running shivers up her spine as she looked up at her curly-haired girlfriend. “What did you do?”

Rose hesitated, just a beat. Then she tucked her face back into Svetlana’s shoulder, voice muffled. “I tricked Shane into tutoring Ilya.”

Svetlana blinked, genuine shock apparent on her face. “…You what?”

“It wasn’t like–” Rose pulled back, already defensive, already regretting it. “I didn’t force him. I just… kind of manipulated the situation and…lied a little. Made it sound like Shane volunteered so that Ilya would say yes, and then I went to Shane and told him Ilya asked for him specifically, and of course, Shane didn’t say no. He would never say no.”

Svetlana stared at her black comforter for a moment, processing. Then she let out a slow breath. “Rose.”

“I know,” Rose groaned, dropping her forehead against Svetlana’s collarbone. “I know. It’s meddling. It’s very ‘team manager can’t separate her personal from professional.’ But something’s wrong with Ilya, and Shane’s about two seconds away from getting crushed by everyone else’s expectations, and they keep circling each other like vultures now after almost being friends and…” She trailed off.

Svetlana’s hand slid into her hair, nails lightly scratching her scalp–causing some of her tension to release. “So you put them in a room together.”

“With homework,” Rose added weakly, groaning.

Svetlana laughed softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re impossible.”

“But you love me.”

“I do love you,” Svetlana affirmed, smiling faintly. “And I know why you did it. I just hope they don’t tear each other apart first.”

Rose closed her eyes, exhaling. “Me too.”

She shifted closer, tucking herself fully against Svetlana’s side, listening to her heartbeat slow and steady beneath her ear.

Because if this went wrong, Rose knew the two boys enough to know that they would never get over it. And she already had the sinking feeling that whatever happened next was going to matter much more than Ilya Rozanov’s grades.

Chapter 10

Chapter Notes

*i just got a beta reader but i'm publishing this first because fanfic is never that serious idgaf and my favs deserve an update ASAP*

Saturday–October 15th, 2016

Saturday practice ran longer than usual.

Not because anything had gone wrong–if anything, it had gone too well. The drills were sharp, fast, unforgiving. Rozanov skated like he had something to prove, like every stride was a reminder that he still owned his spot. Shane felt it every time they crossed paths on the ice, the unspoken challenge humming between them. Their shoulders brushed once during a line change, and Rozanov didn’t look at him–but he didn’t move away either.

By the time they filtered off the ice, the adrenaline had barely started to fade. The locker room buzzed with that post-practice chaos–towels snapping, music blaring, guys yelling across benches. Shane dressed quickly, more aware than usual of the clock.

4:00 PM

He had thirty minutes to get changed and get to the conference room, so he got to it. 

Shane had gotten very good at pretending not to notice a lot of things, and now–Rozanov was one of them.

It had been almost a week of this–of carefully timed exits, eyes forward in the hallway, sitting a seat farther back than necessary in lecture halls. Not avoidance in any obvious, dramatic way. Just enough distance to make it feel the same way it had felt since that random Tuesday in September when Rozanov decided they simply couldn’t be friends (which Shane was still very bitter about). The distance, ignoring, helped Shane feel normal. 

Which was ironic, considering nothing about how he felt was normal.

The rivalry had taken root faster than Shane expected, even though it had obviously always been there. Suddenly, though, after that first game of the season, it was like the rivalry had been upped tenfold.  It had slipped into practices, into drills, into the way Rozanov’s gaze sharpened when Shane won a puck battle or finished a rep half a second faster than he did. Shane fueled some of it, how could he not when he literally wanted Rozanov’s spot on the team?

Something was thrilling about this little game they were playing–something about being seen, finally, not as background noise but as a challenge. Shane liked that part more than he probably should’ve. He had noted the way Rozanov had had some kind of false confidence in Shane when they first met, and now it was clear that was just Rozanov messing with him. He clearly hadn’t thought of Shane as real competition until now.

While he loved the thrill of it all now, what he didn’t like was the fear sitting just beneath it.

Shane worried that if he pushed too hard–if he smirked too much, talked too much shit, or existed too loudly–Rozanov might go back to ignoring him altogether. And Shane had learned, painfully, that he’d rather be hated than ignored by Rozanov. He couldn’t help but think about the first time he really hung out with Rose and Svetlana after the first week of classes.

They’d been in Svetlana’s room–strawberry string lights draped lazily across the walls, the window cracked open just enough to let in the cold night air, and the muffled noise of the street below. Shane had been sitting on the floor with his back against the bed, knees pulled up, a half-empty bottle of Gatorade sweating beside him.

Rose was on the bed, cross-legged, scrolling through her phone. Svetlana lay on her stomach, chin propped on her hands, listening in that way she always did–quiet, focused, like she was cataloging everything without making a big deal out of it.

Shane hadn’t planned on saying anything. It just… slipped.

“I think Rozanov hates me.”

Rose looked up immediately. “That’s dramatic.”

“Guys, I swear,” Shane said, defensive. “He won’t even look at me.”

Svetlana’s brows knit slightly as she sat up. “Ilya hasn’t said anything to me. Since when?”

“Since like Tuesday.” He picked at the label on the bottle, eyes fixed on his hands. “I don’t know what I did. I swear.”

Rose studied him for a moment, then set her phone aside. “Did you say something…?”

“Probably?” Shane huffed. “When I was drunk at the party? I don’t really remember. But that’s what’s freaking me out. What if I did something embarrassing and I just… blocked it out?”

Svetlana rolled onto her side, expression thoughtful. “Ilya doesn’t strike me as someone who avoids people for small reasons or embarrassing drunk moments. He has too many of those to judge.”

“That’s even worse,” Shane muttered.

Rose leaned back on her hands. “You’re overthinking.”

“Am I?” He finally looked up at them. “Because it feels pretty clear. He was fine. And then he wasn’t. And now it’s like I don’t exist unless we’re on the ice, and even then...”

Svetlana hesitated, then said carefully, “Sometimes people pull away when they don’t know how to deal with something.”

“With what?” Shane asked.

She shrugged lightly. “Feelings. Conflict. Other stuff in their life.”

“I just–” Shane exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t care if he doesn’t like me. I can handle that. I just want to know why, what I did. I was…actually kinda excited.”

Svetlana’s voice softened. “Have you tried asking him?”

Shane shook his head immediately. “No. God, no. What if I’m wrong? What if he just…doesn’t like me? I’ll sound silly.”

Rose’s mouth twitched. “You already do, a little.”

He shot her a look, then sighed. “I just don’t want to make it worse.”

Svetlana met his eyes. “Avoiding it won’t make it better.”

Maybe Shane should really stop going to parties, because this most recent one is stuck on his mind now.

Immediately after Rozanov had beaten him in Flip Cup, he had grabbed a girl’s hand and gone straight upstairs. Shane thought that there was a chance that they could be normal again and had gone to turn around and talk with the Russian man, just to see him being handsy with some redhead. 

At least it had reminded him of the goal he set before the game.

He had gone home with Sophia. Well, with was generous. He really had just walked her home like the gentleman he was, and didn’t even kiss her goodbye (which she brought up the next day).

After Rozanov had disappeared during the party, they had ducked into the bathroom at the frat house while the music rattled the walls, Sophia’s hands confident and smile easy. She’d knelt in front of him like she’d done this a thousand times before, like this wasn’t special or her first time.

It was Shane’s first time, but he’d never let her know that.

Shane had closed his eyes and let his body react because that part came easily. His biological instincts did most of the work, liking the warm, slick feeling around his erection. But the rest of him, his thoughts and his nerves, had stayed stubbornly tense the entire time.

With it being his first time receiving a blowjob, he figured that discomfort probably came with the territory. He had even thought that maybe she just wasn’t that good at it. But that was unlikely. Maybe he just needed more practice at being… normal about this kind of thing.

Sophia was nice. Genuinely. And she was gorgeous, even doing some light modelling on social media in her free time. 

They weren’t official–or at least never labeled anything, and hadn’t yet–but she liked being seen with him. She liked walking into rooms together, liked when people knew she was with the Shane Hollander. She didn’t ask much from him, didn’t push, didn’t pry. And he definitely didn’t ask much of her.

She didn’t love his friends, either, though she tolerated most of them. Rose was the exception since they knew each other through a mutual friend, but anytime her name came up–Rose would deflect and say something like, “Well, I don't know her that well.”

They worked together. Or at least, they didn’t not work.

As the week dragged on, Shane found himself staring at his phone more than usual. What usually happened next? They had gone on a few “dates,” and she even mentioned how her parents would be in town for Veterans’ Day weekend in November (which had absolutely freaked Shane out just thinking about why she would be bringing them up). Deep down, he knew what step typically came next. Before the tutoring session, he’d typed out a message to Sophia and deleted it twice before finally hitting send.

Shane: Thai tonight? I wanna talk about something.

Nothing dramatic, just enough to give her some context. 

He started to wonder how he would even word it. Will you be my girlfriend? Sounded so high school. Maybe, May I be your boyfriend? That sounded a bit better, but still not the greatest. Why did he have to ask anything? Why couldn’t they just spontaneously start using labels?

Sophia (Urban Politics): ofc! i’ll meet you after your tutoring session?

Sophia (Urban Politics): good luck with rozanov!! <3

Shane smiled before responding and putting his phone back in his pocket, heading towards the conference room. He had seen Rozanov in the locker room, but he was nowhere to be seen now, so Shane headed there on his own.

Part of Shane thought tutoring Rozanov could smooth things over, give them a safe space to compete while also working together. Another part of him was deeply aware that Rozanov might’ve agreed just to mess with him–to avoid a real tutor, to get under Shane’s skin, to see how far he could push before Shane cracked.

And maybe… maybe Shane deserved that. 

The shift was so sudden between them that Shane had searched every crevice of his mind, looking for something he had done during practice the night before, when Rozanov suddenly changed opinion on him. Monday had been so normal that it must’ve been the party. He must have done something so bad that it took Rozanov days to process it. 

Even though Svetlana and Rose seemed ot be certain that was false, how could they know?

He’d tried to be normal after that, act like the good teammate he was. Shane was quiet, but he was a good guy. Or at least he thought he was. But maybe even that had been too pushy. Maybe the problem was him–his voice, his face, his presence, just…him. 

Now, at least, there was something else between them. 

Shane liked that he could feel Rozanov’s attention on him again–even if it came with a bite. If anything, he had even more of Rozanov’s attention now it seemed, than he did that first weekend.

As he gathered his things for the tutoring session, his heart thudding harder than it had any right to, Shane told himself this was simple. He knew Othello. He knew Shakespeare. He knew how to help people much dumber than Rozanov pass classes much harder than an introductory English course.

Still, he had no idea why he would request Shane out of everyone to be his tutor. Shane couldn’t shake the feeling that Rozanov hadn’t agreed to this for academic reasons alone. 

Or worse, that Shane himself had agreed for more than academic reasons alone.

The conference room was tucked into the main gym area inside the rink–quiet, fluorescent-lit, painfully unromantic. Shane got there early despite telling himself he wouldn’t. He dropped his bag under one of the tables, pulled out a pen, then immediately realized he’d brought the wrong notebook.

Of course.

He sat anyway, bouncing his knee, replaying Rose’s shy smile from yesterday. “He requested you, actually.” The words still felt unreal. Even though he was a student tutor for English and Political Science courses, he hadn’t even known he’d been an option until Rose had mentioned that Rozanov specifically asked for him. He checked the time.

4:32 PM

The door opened.

Shane looked up automatically.

Rozanov stepped in like he was still on the ice–jacket slung over one shoulder, posture loose but controlled, that same unreadable expression locked in place. His hair was still damp, curls darkened from the shower–yet he smelled like cigarettes. Shane’s nose scrunched up at the smell. He scanned the room once, then his gaze landed on Shane and stayed there.

“Hey,” Shane spoke up, because silence felt worse.

Rozanov dropped into the chair across from him with a lazy sprawl, kicking his foot against the desk leg. Shane glanced up at him, watching as the Russian man silently pulled his notebook and exam out of his bag, handing the stapled packet over to Shane.

“Ta-da,” He added sarcastically.

Shane had already spread his copy of the exam out on the desk between them, sporting his 100% in bright red writing. He grabbed Rozanov’s exam and absent-mindedly traced his fingers along the side where small scribbles were drawn. 

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Rozanov leaned back, crossing his arms. “Play nice.”

“I’m being nice right now,” Shane said, voice flat. “I’m going to make sure you understand it.”

Rozanov snorted. “Wow…okay Professor Hollander.”

Ignoring him, Shane pointed to the multiple-choice section. “You got half of these right.”

Rozanov offered a tight-lipped smirk. “Half’s good.”

“Not really,” Shane said flatly, not realizing how blunt he sounded. “And for the short answer,” he tapped the section with his pen, “literally all of these are wrong; you didn’t get a single point.”

Shane was genuinely confused, considering you got a point for basically writing anything down. But all of Rozanov’s answers just made…zero sense.

“Yup, all of them,” Shane confirmed. “But that’s okay. It looks like you get the basics, but get a little confused when it comes to the deeper meaning of it all.”

Rozanov leaned back, trying to hide the sting of it. “I only need the basics. You’re complicating this.”

Shane tilted his head. “The basics won’t get you past the short answer questions; they haven’t even gotten you past the multiple choice answers.”

“Is hard exam.”

“It is,” Shane agreed, even though it really hadn’t been that hard for him. But he remembers taking exams in the past and feeling like the only one who was struggling, so he’d never make Rozanov feel that way on purpose. “But Ilya Rozanov can do hard things.”

“Oh, now we are talking about me and hard things?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Rozanov, I’m trying to teach you Shakespeare.”

“So,” he said, tilting his head. “Teach me.”

Shane blinked. 

He cleared his throat, already flustered, and glanced down at his notes. “We’re starting with Act One. Basically, Othello is a respected general, right? But he’s secretly married to Desdemona, which–”

Rozanov raised a hand. “Lost me.”

Shane paused. “…Already? Rozanov–”

“Hollander,” Rozanov said patiently, like he was the one doing Shane a favor here, “I only understand two things. Hockey and sex. Shakespeare is neither of those.”

Shane stared at him, silent for a longer beat than necessary–but he didn’t know how to respond, yet.

Then he exhaled, rubbed a hand over his face, and muttered, “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. But–”

He stopped. Thought about it.

Then his big brown eyes lit up with something dangerous.

“…Fine.”

Rozanov’s eyebrow twitched. “Fine?”

Shane leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and nodded to himself like he’d just made a very serious decision. “We’ll do it your way.”

Rozanov smirked. “Didn’t think you were capable.”

“Don’t push it,” Shane said, but there was a faint edge of amusement there now. He tapped the book. 

“So, Othello is a really important guy. Everyone respects him. He’s got status, reputation, and power. Think–” he hesitated, then nodded to himself, “–top-line center. Captain even. Coach trusts him with everything.”

Rozanov hummed. “Naturally.”

“But,” Shane continued, warming up now, “he doesn’t feel like he belongs. He’s older, he’s an outsider, and people whisper about him. That insecurity grows even though it shouldn’t.”

Rozanov tilted his head. “Like when a guy is good, but still checks stat sheet after every game.”

Shane paused. “…Yes. Exactly like that.”

A small, satisfied smile crossed Rozanov’s face.

“And Desdemona,” Shane went on quickly, not letting himself think about why that comparison landed so well, “is someone he loves, but also someone he puts on a pedestal. Everyone wants her, everyone looks at her. He’s convinced–deep down–that she could do better.”

Rozanov’s gaze sharpened, as if he related a bit. “Da, that is shitty feeling.”

“Right. And then Iago comes in.” Shane leaned forward now, elbows on the table. “Iago isn’t stronger or smarter. He just knows where to poke. He doesn’t say, ‘She’s cheating.’ He says–”

Shane lowered his voice, exaggeratedly casual and ‘bro-ish’. “‘I don’t know, man. I just thought I saw her on Tinder. Probably nothing.’”

Rozanov laughed. “Oh, that guy.”

“That guy,” Shane agreed. “The one who pretends he’s helping while absolutely ruining your life.”

Rozanov drummed his fingers on the table. 

“So Othello loses his head. He lets jealousy run the show,” Shane said. “He stops trusting his own judgment. Starts acting instead of thinking.”

Rozanov smirked. “Like taking bad penalty because someone chirped you.”

“Yes!” Shane snapped his fingers. “Exactly like that. See, you’re getting this.”

There was a beat. Shane looked down at the exam.

“Let’s go over your short-answer questions.”

Shane picked up his pen again, heart thudding despite himself. “Okay. This one you answered with a…drawing.”

“It’s symbolic.”

“It’s a penis.”

“A tragic penis,” Rozanov responded, dramatically flailing his arms out to his sides as if he were some Shakespearean actor. 

Shane snorted before he could stop himself.

Rozanov’s eyes lit up, and he tried to ignore that–or ignore that he even noticed the sparkle that appeared. Rozanov studied him in return, something unreadable in his eyes. 

“You’re very good at this.”

Shane blinked up at him, rolling his shoulders back as he realized he was slouching. “At tutoring?”

“At explaining,” Rozanov corrected. “You make it…simple.”

Shane felt heat creep up his neck and immediately busied himself with the book. “Well. That’s the goal.”

Rozanov leaned back again, chair creaking. “So, to summarize, Othello fucks up because someone gets in his head.”

Shane didn’t even hesitate, just happy that Rozanov was somewhat listening. “Yes.”

Rozanov grinned. “See, hockey and sex do explain everything.”

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Shane said, though he was smiling now despite himself. “We haven’t even gotten to the murder yet.”

Rozanov’s eyebrows shot up. “There’s murder?”

Shane nodded grimly. “And you wrote ‘couldn’t be me’ as your analysis on said murder.”

“Da, I remember that now.”

Shane snorted before he could stop himself, then froze.

Rozanov noticed instantly. “There it is again.”

“What?”

“That sound,” Rozanov said softly. “Laughing, didn’t know you could.”

Shane cleared his throat, tapping the page a little too hard. “Stop teasing me and focus, Rozanov.”

“Oh, I am focused,” Rozanov replied. “Completely.”

Shane rolled his eyes, closing his notebook with a snap. “Good. Then we’ll call it a day before I start charging you rent for my time. Does Wednesday work for our next meeting?”

Rozanov smirked but didn’t argue. “I have meeting at 7, but we can do frat house at 8pm?”

Shane nodded, already imagining the battle of wits waiting for him midweek. “8pm works for me. And if it’s at the frat house, I guess it’s almost impossible for you to be late.”

Rozanov tossed him a quick, casual glance. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Shane grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, feeling the familiar ache of anticipation that never seemed to leave him when he left Rozanov’s presence. Even as he walked toward the exit, the crisp evening air hitting him, his thoughts stubbornly returned to the curve of Rozanov’s smirk, the way he leaned into the jokes, the way he could make Shane feel simultaneously infuriated and alive.

He spotted Sophia sitting on a bench nearby, phone in hand. She looked up and smiled warmly.

“So…what did you want to talk about?” she asked.

“Oh, uhm…nevermind. It was…about one of the readings, but I figured it out.” Shane said, letting the words hang there.

He realized, mid-step, that he didn’t want to deal with any extra complications tonight. His plan to ask her out dissolved quietly in his mind, replaced by thoughts of Wednesday, of tutoring, of Rozanov’s impossibly sharp gaze.

Sophia tilted her head, curious, but Shane only gave a small, distracted smile.

Wednesday–October 19th, 2016

Wednesday came faster than Shane expected.

By the time Rozanov’s chapter meeting let out, it was already dark outside, the kind of early October night where the air felt sharp enough to wake you up. Shane waited in the hallway outside the house, backpack slung over one shoulder, pretending to scroll on his phone while guys filtered past him in clusters–laughing, shoving, still buzzing from whatever had just been decided upstairs.

Rozanov emerged last.

He looked mildly irritated, tie already loosened, sleeves rolled like he’d been itching to get out of there the entire time. His eyes found Shane almost immediately.

“You look bored,” Rozanov said.

“I’ve been standing outside a frat house for twenty minutes,” Shane replied. “I’m thriving.”

Rozanov smirked and jerked his head toward the stairs. “Come on.”

His bedroom was exactly what Shane had remembered. Clean, but not carefully so–bed unmade, desk cluttered with notebooks and loose papers, hockey gear shoved into one corner like it had been dropped mid-thought. A bean bag chair sat near the foot of the bed, slightly deflated, like it had lost a fight.

“That’s yours,” Rozanov said, nodding to it.

Shane eyed it. “You trying to humble me?”

“Already doing that on the ice,” Rozanov replied easily.

Shane dropped into the bean bag anyway, sinking lower than anticipated. “Wow. Okay. This is humiliating.”

Rozanov laughed as he kicked his shoes off and flopped onto the bed, stretching out on his stomach. “Good. Builds character.”

It was around 8:00 when they actually started.

Shane pulled out his notes, flipping straight to Othello, already in tutor mode. “Your retake’s tomorrow, so this is not the time to argue with me for fun.”

“I always argue for fun.”

“I know,” Shane said. “That’s the problem.”

They went over the themes first–jealousy, reputation, and manipulation. Rozanov was sharper than he’d been in the first session, interrupting less, pushing back more as if he actually read the play this time around.

“So you’re saying Othello is weak,” Rozanov said, pen tapping against his notebook.

“I’m saying he’s human,” Shane corrected. “He lets insecurity override logic.”

Rozanov’s mouth curved. “Sounds like an excuse.”

Shane shot him a look. “You would say that.”

Rozanov shrugged. “On the ice, insecurity gets you benched.”

“And in literature,” Shane said sweetly, “it gets you killed.”

That earned him a laugh.

After a while, Shane hopped up from the bean bag and stood awkwardly, rolling his shoulders. “Okay. Let’s watch a production. Sometimes it clicks better if you hear and see it.”

Rozanov reached for his laptop, motioning for Shane to sit down next to him on the bed. “I have snacks.”

He reached over, stretching his arm out as far as he could, and opened his desk drawer. He pulled out a bag of pretzels and a granola bar, tossing them onto the bed between them like it was nothing.

Shane’s stomach tightened instantly.

He hadn’t planned on eating. It wasn’t part of the mental outline of his night–practice, tutoring, a quick workout before bed. Food had a time and a place, and this wasn’t it. The thought came automatically, sharp and absolute: If I eat now, everything’s off.

“No, I’m good,” Shane said quickly, a little too quickly. “Thanks, though.”

Rozanov paused, fingers still on the granola bar. He glanced at Shane–not suspicious, just curious. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Shane said, forcing casual into his voice. “I ate earlier, so I'm not hungry.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Just… a half-truth.

Rozanov didn’t push. He just shrugged and tossed the pretzels back into the drawer, grabbing the laptop instead. “Suit yourself.”

They set up the play, the glow of the screen softening the room. Rozanov sat cross-legged on the bed; Shane sat with his legs flat and the laptop on his lap, and when the audio started, Rozanov wordlessly held out one earbud.

Shane hesitated for half a second–then took it.

Their shoulders didn’t touch, but the space between them felt deliberate, charged in a way that made Shane painfully aware of how close he was. The voices from the play filled his ear, rich and dramatic, overlapping slightly as Rozanov adjusted the volume.

For a while, they watched in silence.

“See,” Shane murmured during one scene, unable to help himself, “that pause? That’s where Iago plants the idea. He doesn’t accuse. He implies.”

Rozanov glanced at him. “You’re doing commentary.”

“I’m educating.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Correct.”

Rozanov smirked and nudged the laptop just a little. “You’re still wrong about one thing.”

“Oh?” Shane whispered back.

“I wouldn’t let it get that far,” Rozanov said. “I’d shut it down.”

Shane met his gaze, something competitive sparking there. “You say that now.”

The screen cast flickering shadows across the walls, the low murmur of Shakespearean dialogue filling the room. Shane tried to focus on the words, the cadence, the way Iago lingered on certain lines–but he was acutely aware of everything else.

Rozanov shifted on the bed, adjusting his position until he was closer to the edge. Close enough that when Shane readjusted, their legs brushed.

Neither of them commented on it.

“Pause it,” Rozanov said quietly during a scene where Desdemona pleaded her case.

Shane clicked the spacebar. “Why?”

Rozanov tilted his head toward the screen. “Explain this part again.”

Shane swallowed. “Okay. So–this is where Othello wants to believe her. But he’s already decided what he thinks he knows. That’s kind of the tragedy of it. He’s looking at her, but he’s not actually seeing her.”

Rozanov hummed. “That’s stupid.”

Shane huffed. “It’s human.”

Rozanov’s gaze slid off the screen and onto Shane’s face. “You ever do that?”

“Do what?”

“Decide something before you have proof.”

Shane hesitated. He shrugged. “Everyone does.”

Rozanov watched him for a beat longer than necessary, then reached out to unpause the play himself. His fingers brushed Shane’s hand on the laptop.

It was barely anything. An accident. But Shane’s pulse jumped anyway.

They sat like that for a while–quiet, sharing the wired earbuds, the cord stretched between them like a line neither wanted to cross. Shane became painfully aware of how close Rozanov’s shoulder was now, how warm the room felt despite the open window, how sweat was dripping down his back.

At one point, Rozanov laughed softly at a line.

“What?” Shane whispered.

“This guy,” Rozanov said. “He’s terrible liar.”

“He’s supposed to be good at it.”

Rozanov’s lips curved. “I don’t buy it.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Shane said, rolling his eyes. “You think you’re immune.”

“I am.”

Shane glanced at him. “You think you’d never fall for something like this?”

Rozanov met his eyes, unblinking. “I think I’d notice if someone was playing me.”

Something tightened in Shane’s chest at that–not fear, exactly. Interest.

“Well,” Shane said quietly, “Othello thought that too.”

Rozanov leaned back slightly, close enough now that Shane could smell his soap–clean, sharp, familiar from the locker room. “So what’s the lesson, tutor?”

Shane’s mouth felt dry. “That confidence doesn’t make you invincible.”

Their faces were angled toward each other now, conversation low, intimate in a way Shane couldn’t explain away as academic. The play continued on, forgotten, voices rising and falling in the background.

When the final scene finally ended, the screen went dark.

Shane reached up and pulled the earbud out first, wrapping the wire loosely around his fingers. “Okay,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “That’s it.”

Rozanov didn’t move right away. He stayed staring at the black screen like he was waiting for something else to happen.

“So?” Shane prompted. “Thoughts?”

Rozanov snorted. “Still stupid.”

Shane laughed despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“But,” Rozanov added, sitting up to face him fully now, “I get it.”

Shane raised his eyebrows. “You do?”

“Iago wants control. Othello wants certainty. They both think they deserve it.” He shrugged. “Bad mix.”

Shane blinked. “…Yeah. Exactly.”

Rozanov smirked. “See? Learned something.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Shane said, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth now. “You still failed the short answer section spectacularly.”

Rozanov opened his mouth to reply, then paused as Shane’s phone lit up on the bean bag beside him.

Shane glanced down automatically. Just a quick reflex. But Rozanov noticed.

“Your girlfriend?” Rozanov asked, tone casual in the way that meant it absolutely wasn’t.

Shane frowned. “She’s not–” He stopped himself, thumb hovering over the screen. “She’s…someone.”

“Da…right. Someone.” Rozanov leaned back against the headboard, arms folding loosely over his chest. “Someone texting you during tutoring? Do I get some time off the bill?”

“You aren’t paying me, asshole,” Shane replied. “But she knows I’m busy, so I don’t know why she’s…” He trailed off. 

Rozanov’s mouth curved up into a smirk, but there was something sharper underneath it now. “Busy with me.”

Shane shot him a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

Shane ignored him and typed a quick response, then turned his phone face down as if it had personally betrayed him.

Rozanov watched the motion closely.

“Focus,” Shane said, clearing his throat. He reached for his notebook, flipping it open with purpose. “Okay. You’ve got your retake tomorrow, and then study hall after. So here’s what you’re doing before then.”

Rozanov groaned. “Homework?”

“Non-negotiable,” Shane said, slipping easily back into tutor mode. “Tonight, you’re rereading Act One and Act Two. Just summaries if you have to–but I want you to be able to answer why Iago targets Othello. Not what he does. Why.”

Rozanov nodded slowly.

“Tomorrow morning,” Shane continued, “you review the themes sheet I gave you. Jealousy, manipulation, and reputation. Circle examples. You don’t have to write essays–just bullet points.”

Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “You trust me with bullet points?”

“Barely,” Shane said dryly. “And in study hall, you’re practicing short answers. Even if you say you hate them.”

“I do hate them.”

Shane rolled his eyes.

Rozanov leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, close enough that Shane could see the faint crease between his brows when he concentrated. “What do I get if I do better?”

“A gold star,” Shane responded sarcastically, hopping up off the bed.

“I’m holding you to that, Hollander.”

Chapter End Notes

sorry for taking so long on this update!! ao3 author curse hasn't gotten me (yet)!! i just wanted to have the next chapter done before i published this one for continuity reasons, so next chapter will be up a lot quicker than it took this one!!! i am absolutely overwhelmed with all the love for this fic and i'm doing my best to respond to each of you because i genuinely really appreciate it all sm!!!

if you guys could comment at least one thing you'd LOVE to see in this fic/a little headcanon you have for the CIWYW (call it what you want) "universe," i'd so appreciate that and try to incorporate them in somehow!! i used to love leaving little easter eggs for my friends in my fics when i was a kiddo, so i want to do the same with all of my commenter besties ;b

ALSO I LIKE CONNOR'S GOLDEN GLOBES MULLET ITS HOT LEAVE HIM ALONE

okay love you guys <3 xoxo

Chapter 11

Chapter Notes

beta reader is still getting caught up so this one hasn’t been read yet, but fuck it we ball

Thursday– October 20th, 2016

Today was the most boring yet jampacked day of Ilya’s life. Or at least of his life so far.

After waking up early for an optional morning skate, something Hollander somehow did every morning, he did something he never typically did and studied the entire morning for hours straight (well, minus a cig break or two). 

As much as he made fun of how nerdy Hollander could be, he really appreciated his braniac tendencies this morning. Hollander had made an entire study packet–with copies of his notes, his own analysis on certain parts of the play, a list of all the themes, and even some minor translations in Russian for the parts that were conceptually difficult to understand with a language barrier–that had a table of contents and was even color-coded.

“Roz, what the fuck is that?” Marlow asked as he walked into the dining area. Ilya didn’t even bother lifting his head.

He flipped the page, admiring the little handwritten notes Hollander left for him that read ‘You know this already’ and ‘ IMPORTANT.’ Hollander, surprisingly, didn’t have the greatest of handwriting, resulting in most of the notes he gave Ilya being typed. 

“A book, have you tried one?” He muttered back sarcastically as Boodram rounded the corner as well. 

Marlow flicked Ilya’s forehead, causing him to swat him back, as he leaned over the table to see what he was working on. “Roz, are you…studying? What the fuck? What has happened to our Rozanov, and where did you put him?”

Boodram laughed as he stood next to Marlow. “Yeah, Roz, this is so unlike you. I’m not mad but–”

Ilya flipped both of them off before angrily packing up his notes and backpack, shoving the rest of his bagel in his mouth, and leaving. He could hear them calling after him, laughing and teasing him as he left. So, he stopped in front of the door, looked over his shoulder, and pulled his joggers and briefs down just enough to moon them.

He chuckled as he heard Marlow wolf whistle at him as he pulled them back up quickly and walked out the front door. Dumbasses.

By the time he got to the lecture hall, it was practically empty save for the few students retaking their exams or taking them for the first time.

Ilya made a small nod to Professor Martinez before taking his typical seat that he had sat in all month. 

He set Hollander’s packet down and his copy of Othello down carefully, the color-coded tabs peeking out at the side–yellow for themes, blue for character analysis, green for historical context. He could hear Hollander’s voice in his head, explaining why that one passage mattered, why this motif came back later, why Professor Martinez always asked about symbolism instead of plot.

“Breathe,” Ilya muttered under his breath, in Russian, obviously.

He needed to hang out with Svetlana more like he did last year; he always enjoyed speaking in Russian more than in English. Maybe he would like Shakespeare more if it were in Russian…

Professor Martinez closed the door at exactly 10:30. The sound echoed too loudly in the nearly empty hall, a finality that made Ilya’s chest constrict. She didn’t say much–just a reminder that this was the only retake, that phones needed to be off, and that they were expected to do their own work. Ilya almost laughed at that last part. As if Hollander hadn’t basically rewired his brain over the last twenty-four hours. Is this even considered his own work anymore? He put the study guide away and tucked his phone in his back pocket.

The exams were passed out face down. Ilya stared at the blank white cover for a long second, fingers resting on the corner. He thought about hockey, about the rink. He thought about the way he never hesitated before stepping onto the ice, how his body just knew what to do. This was the opposite. His brain felt like it might short-circuit at any moment.

He flipped it over.

The first question was on themes. Of course, Hollander was right.

Relief hit him so hard it was almost dizzying. His eyes scanned the page, and there it was–one of the exact passages Hollander had flagged, annotated within an inch of its life. Ilya could practically see the notes in the margins, hear Hollander (with his dumb glasses) saying, This one matters. Trust me.

His pen moved before he could overthink it.

Halfway through the exam, the adrenaline wore off, leaving behind a dull ache behind his eyes that made him remember he really didn’t get much sleep last night. He paused, hand cramping slightly, and leaned back just enough to stretch his fingers. For a moment, his gaze drifted to the empty seat beside him–the one Hollander usually took when he walked him to class, insisting it helped him “get in the right headspace.” It must’ve worked because he suddenly remembered the answer he had been racking his mind for.

When time was finally called, he felt wrung out. Not confident–never confident when it came to tests–but not completely wrecked either. As he turned in the exam, Professor Martinez gave him a brief, searching look–her face gentle and warm as it always was. She opened it in front of him as he awkwardly hovered, her eyebrows lifting.

“I’m glad you came prepared this time, Mr. Rozanov,” she said with a genuine smile.

Ilya nodded, throat tight, and slipped out of the lecture hall before the feeling could settle too deeply. The hallway felt too bright, too loud, like the world had kept moving while he’d been holding his breath for two hours. He didn’t check his phone— he knew there was nothing there worth checking—and instead went straight home to pack.

Packing for the first away game of the season always made him anxious. It made everything feel more real, reminding him what he could be doing every other week in the MLH. He folded his clothes, well, “folded” his clothes, and packed them into his big red and white duffle. He moved through it automatically, like this was another drill he could execute if he didn’t let his mind wander. He zipped his duffel, paused, then unzipped it just to make sure nothing was missing.

Hollander’s study packet sat on his desk, still lined up perfectly with the edge. Ilya hesitated, then left it there. Usually, he would throw anything related to a topic from a class away after the exam, but Hollander had probably spent a decent amount of time and effort on making this for him.

The van honked outside not long after. He grabbed his duffel and backpack and made his way downstairs, Pike and Haas following behind them as they laughed about some dumb video game.

By the time they got to the van, Boodram was already in the driver's seat–like he typically was. Hayes was reading a comic in the passenger seat as he looked back at the guys who were ready to go. Ilya watched as Haas awkwardly shifted around and lightly shoved him in, “Pike take the back left.”

“‘Kay.”

Ilya followed behind him, taking the back right seat. “Here, Haas can be between us since we are picking up Shane,” Pike called out, with Bood nodding and Hayes turning back to his comic. 

“We are picking up Hollander?” Ilya asked, surprise and…excitement evident in his voice.

As Haas shoved into the back, with bags piled around all three of their feet, Marlow shoved the door shut with a heavy thunk that made the space feel much smaller than it already was. “Yup, what–you want him to walk?” Bood asked as he started the van, not even bothering to turn on the heat, given how warm it already was from their combined body heat. 

Haas was absolutely smushed, his small shoulders squished between Pike and Ilya, and he couldn’t help but feel bad for the kid. He knew they were only a year or so apart, but something about Haas just made Ilya feel almost protective of him. Maybe it's the blond hair.

They picked up Hollander on the way to the rink.

He jogged out of his apartment building with his backpack slung over one shoulder, the same duffel Ilya has in hand, hair still damp like he’d rushed a shower. He smiled when he saw the van and squeezed into the only open seat—the middle row next to Marlow, right in front of Pike. 

Almost immediately, Marlow leaned over to talk to him.

It was innocent (probably), but the van was cramped, and every time they hit a bump, Marlow’s arm brushed Hollander’s shoulder. Once. Then again. Hollander laughed at something Marlow said, that easy, charming laugh that always seemed to punch straight through Ilya’s ribs.

Heat flared low in his stomach before he could stop it.

“I had my exam today,” Ilya blurted, cutting clean through whatever story Marlow had been telling.

The van went quiet for half a second, some rap song still playing in the background.

Hollander twisted around slightly, caught off guard. “I know,” He stated flatly, raising an eyebrow toward Ilya. 

“I think I did good,” Ilya said. The words felt fragile. Like if he said them wrong, they’d break.

“Well. You think you did well,” Hollander corrected, causing Ilya to roll his eyes and Pike to whisper about ‘grammar police.’

Hollander locked eyes with Ilya, then smiled, a little crooked. “See what you can do when you actually take notes,” he said, teasing—but then his voice dropped, softer, sincere. “I knew you could do it.”

The words hit harder than Ilya expected.

He looked away immediately, out the window, jaw tight. He hadn’t heard that in a long time. Not from coaches. Not from professors. Definitely not from his family. Not from anyone whose opinion seemed to matter. He was used to ‘I don’t know if he can do it,’ and ‘we’ll see,’ and ‘we’re not sure yet.’ 

The only thing that kept him confident was knowing that even if he screwed up, there was nobody who could replace him. His worst was other young guys’ best. Nobody was on his level, well, nobody except Hollander.

“You should’ve seen him, Holzy,” Marlow began, elbowing Shane as he chuckled and pointed back behind him. “This guy was studying all morning, had this cute little study guide–color coordinated and everything!”

Hollander’s expression softened, almost unnoticeably, but Ilya noticed–he always did. “Oh yeah?”

He looked back, his eyes locking with Ilya’s own. Hollander’s gaze was sharp, almost searching for something, raising an eyebrow again. Ilya just shrugged before turning to look out the window, suddenly overwhelmed by Hollander’s attention that he practically asked for in the first place. Marlow went back to telling his story.

The rink was loud and cold and familiar, and Ilya let his body take over—skating hard, hitting harder, working the leftover nerves out through muscle memory. If his thoughts drifted back to the van, to the way Hollander had said he could do it like it was obvious—he buried them under another chirp, another insult aimed at the Canadian. And Hollander would just smirk and insult him right back.

After practice came the shortened study hall. Laptops open, books spread out, everyone rushing to get weekend work done before they had to travel. Ilya stared at his screen for a minute longer than necessary, mind still buzzing, then forced himself to type. Over his laptop screen, he could see Hollander (wearing his glasses, of course) chatting away to Pike, his work already finished. Ilya worked quickly—faster than usual—and shut his laptop, walking outside to smoke a cigarette. 

Soon enough, they were hauling bags onto the team bus, the sky already darkening as they pulled away toward the airport. Ilya took a seat a few rows back this time, staring straight ahead as the city blurred past.

The bus filled up fast—duffels shoved underneath, backpacks crammed into overhead racks, bodies dropping into seats with the kind of exhaustion that came from long days and longer weekends. Engines rumbled to life, the city sliding past the windows in streaks of orange and gray as they pulled away toward the airport. He spotted Haas toward the front, clearly giddy and anxious all at the same time, as Boodram tried to calm him down. Haas was clearly worked up and flushing, but Bood just wrapped an arm around his shoulder and whispered something to him to ease his nerves.

Boodram was a good captain like that, always looking out for the young guys. Ilya would miss him after he graduates, going off to play for the Ottawa Centaurs.  They’d get to play against each other someday, though, hopefully. 

Ilya’s eyes drifted towards the middle of the bus, where Hollander ended up–all of the seats around him filled as they chatted away. It’s like all eyes were on Shane Hollander, like they always seemed to be lately.

Not because he tried to—if anything, he looked like he wanted to disappear into the seat—but because…well, because he was Shane fucking Hollander. Hayes leaned over the aisle to ask him about a paper, and that prompted the rest of the guys to start asking for homework help. That went on for 20 minutes, since Hollander could never seem to say no, even when he clearly didn’t want to do something. He was a people pleaser like that. 

“So,” Marlow said loudly from two rows behind Hollander, leaning over the seats, “are you seeing anyone or what?”

Pike rolled his eyes as Hayes joined in. “Yeah, what's up with that one blonde girl who follows you around everywhere?”

Hollander flushed instantly. “What, Sophia? No…we arent…exclusive.”

Some sort of relief flooded through Ilya as he turned his music down, trying to hear their conversation better.

“Holzy, you sly dog,” Marlow chirped.

Hollander nodded. “Yeah. She’s…yeah. She’s nice.”

“So what does that mean, then? You stringing her along, or—”

“Okay,” Hollander cut Marlow off, firmer now. “No, that’s not what it’s like.”

The bus quieted a little at that tone. Hollander didn’t raise his voice, but when he did that—when he set his shoulders and spoke like he’d already decided something—it usually meant the conversation was about to end. Hollander was known to shut down sometimes.

“We’re just—” he exhaled, clearly choosing his words. “I don’t really have time for anything serious right now. With school. And hockey. And everything.”

Ilya swallowed.

Everything.

“Damn,” Pike said. “Could never be me.”

“Boooooring,” Marlow groaned out, sitting back down in his seat.

Hollander snorted despite himself. “Yeah, well. Get used to disappointment.”

The conversation drifted after that—someone put on a movie up front, someone else complained about legroom—but Ilya barely registered it. His thoughts snagged on that sentence, replaying it over and over.

I don’t really have time for anything serious right now.

It shouldn’t have meant anything to him; it didn’t mean anything. And yet, his chest felt lighter in a way that annoyed him. He always thought Hollander would be a relationship guy; yet here he was–seemingly not interested in that. 

He turned his music back up, staring out the window as the highway lights streaked past, each one flashing and gone before he could fully focus on it. He told himself to get it together. This was ridiculous. He had a game to play. A season to survive. A life that didn’t have room for whatever this weird, coiled feeling was in his gut. 

The bus hit a pothole, jolting everyone slightly. A few guys cursed. Somewhere ahead, Hollander laughed quietly at something Hayes said.

Ilya closed his eyes.

By the time they got to the airport, the team moved like a practiced unit—bags handed off, lines formed, headphones in, shoulders squared. Ilya slung his backpack over one shoulder and followed the flow, half-asleep now, adrenaline from the day finally bleeding out of him.

At security, the line bottlenecked. Ilya ended up a few steps behind Hollander, close enough to see the way he worried at the strap of his backpack, eyebrows scrunched together as he double-checked his pockets.

“You good?” Ilya asked before he could stop himself.

Hollander glanced back, surprised, then nodded. “Yeah. Just…always think I forgot something.”

“You didn’t,” Ilya said, confidently. “You never do, Shane Hollander is incapable.”

Hollander smiled at that, small but real. “Guess I’ve got a reputation.”

“Unfortunately,” Ilya deadpanned.

That got a quiet laugh out of him, and something warm flickered in Ilya’s chest before he shoved it down.

They shuffled forward. Shoes off. Bags on the belt. The familiar annoyance of TSA doing its thing. When they regrouped on the other side, Hollander waited for him without making it obvious—pretending to retie his shoe until Ilya caught up. Cute.

“You okay?” Hollander asked this time, voice low.

Ilya shrugged. “Long day.”

“Yeah,” Hollander said. “You did a lot today.”

There it was again. That quiet, unassuming belief. Like it was just a fact.

Ilya nodded once, not trusting himself to say anything back, and started walking toward their gate. Hollander fell into step beside him without comment, matching his pace easily.

Ilya typically liked to sit towards the front in planes, but this time he ended up a few rows back, aisle seat this time, legs stretched as far as he could manage without getting chirped by Hayes. He dropped his backpack under the seat and leaned back as the plane filled, the overhead bins slamming shut one by one.

Across the aisle and two rows up, Hollander took his seat.

Ilya couldn’t force his eyes away as he watch dhim take his seat, carefully pull out a novel he had been reading, and slip his glasses on. Ilya wished he could take a picture and frame it.

The cabin lights dimmed as they pushed off from the gate, conversation lowering to a dull murmur. Ilya pretended to scroll on his phone, thumb moving without purpose, eyes flicking up whenever he could get away with it.

Hollander had his book open already, one hand holding the spine, the other resting against the bottom corner of the page. His glasses sat low on his nose, catching the overhead light every time he shifted. He looked…different like this. Softer. Less guarded.

Then—barely audible over the engine noise—Hollander chuckled.

It was quiet, more of a breath than a sound–ike he’d tried to keep it to himself and failed. His shoulders shook just slightly, lips curving before he pressed them together, glancing around as if he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.

Ilya’s chest did a weird, unpleasantly pleasant flip.

He watched as Hollander ducked his head, one hand coming up to cover his mouth, ears turning pink almost instantly. Always flushed at everything. Praise. Attention. Laughter. Like his body betrayed him before he could decide how to react.

Something about that made Ilya want to see it again.

Ilya exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes fixed now, not even pretending anymore. He’d always loved getting a rise out of Hollander—the way his jaw tightened when Ilya chirped him on the ice, the flash of heat in his eyes when he snapped back. Angry Hollander was a really, really, really great sight to see.

But this?

This felt different.

Hollander laughed again, barely more than a breath, and his ears went red instantly, like his body hadn’t learned how to hide its reactions yet. He ducked his head, shoulders drawing in, thumb pressed to the edge of the page as if he was grounding himself.

Ilya’s gaze lingered.

He wondered—not for the first time, and definitely not the last—what else could make Hollander blush like that.

Not teasing. Not pressure. Not being put on the spot by half the team.

Something Ilya probably had more expertise in. Something he could probably do a lot better than Hollander.

The thought slid in uninvited: Hollander flustered because Ilya stood too close to him, breathing down his neck. Because Ilya looked at him a second longer than necessary, maybe even winked. Because Ilya spoke low enough that only he could hear it, his lips tracing his ear. Ilya could almost picture it—the way Hollander’s mouth would open like he had something to say, the way his hands would fidget, the way his eyes would roll into the back of his head.

Heat curled low in Ilya’s stomach, unwelcome yet undeniable.

He shifted in his seat, jaw tightening, annoyed with himself. This was stupid. Dangerous. The kind of thinking that got you in trouble. He was good at chirping, at provoking, at pushing buttons until people snapped back.

He wasn’t good at this, unless he was fucking. And Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander were never going to fuck, obviously. 

Hollander turned a page, still smiling faintly, completely unaware of the direction Ilya’s thoughts had taken. The overhead light caught his glasses, his lashes, the soft curve of his mouth.

Ilya looked away again, forcing his focus forward.

The plane ride blurred into the usual haze of shuttles, baggage claim, and nonsensical jokes muttered into the late evening. By the time they piled back onto the team bus outside the airport, Ilya’s legs felt heavy, and his head buzzed with that strange, hollow exhaustion that only came from travel days.

The city lights slid past the windows again, unfamiliar this time, the streets quieter, flatter. Pike put some music on lowm causing Marlow to immediately complain about the song choice.

When they finally got to the hotel, Boodram joined Rose and the coaches outside the bus to check in as everyone started to grab their stuff and get off.

Haas was fast asleep alone in his seat now that Bood was inside and curled up with a jacket much larger than him.

He was slumped against the window a few rows up, mouth slightly open, chin tucked to his chest at an uncomfortable angle that somehow hadn’t woken him up yet. His hoodie was pulled halfway over his head, blond hair sticking out in every direction.

“Holy shit,” Marlow whispered loudly. “Is he dead?”

Haas mumbled in his sleep, head knocking lightly against the glass.

The bus erupted.

“Oh my god, look at him,” Pike said, already pulling out his phone. “Freshie down.”

“Someone draw on his face,” Hayes suggested, entirely too seriously.

“No, no,” Marlow said, crouching slightly into the aisle for a better angle. “This is a moment. We need to frame this.”

Phones came out one by one. The flash of a camera went off.

Haas didn’t stir.

Ilya watched from his seat, lips twitching despite himself. Poor kid never stood a chance. First away trip, first long travel day—he was toast before they even hit the hotel. He watched as Hollander rolled his eyes and walked off the bus, not wanting to join in the other boys’ shenanigans. 

“Tag him in the group chat,” Marlow said, stifling laughter. “Caption it ‘rookie mistake.’”

Pike leaned over the seat in front of Haas, holding up two fingers behind his head. “Smile for the camera, buddy.”

That was when the bus door hissed open.

Boodram climbed back on, the cold night air following him inside. He’d been outside talking to Rose, one hand in his jacket pocket, expression still serious as he stepped into the aisle to grab his bag.

He took in the scene in about half a second.

“Knock it off, dumbasses.”

The word cut clean through the laughter.

Everyone froze—phones halfway raised, grins still on their faces. Pike dropped his arm. Marlow straightened immediately.

Boodram’s eyes flicked from face to face, unimpressed. “Really? What are you guys? Five-year-olds?”

A beat of silence.

“No, Cap,” Hayes muttered.

Boodram shook his head, reaching up to grab his duffel from the overhead before turning back toward Haas. His expression softened instantly as he crouched in the aisle beside him.

“Haas,” he said quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. We’re here.”

Haas stirred, blinking blearily as he lifted his head. “Huh?” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“Hotel,” Boodram said gently. “You fell asleep.”

Haas flushed immediately, eyes darting around as he realized half the team had been staring at him. “Oh–shit, sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

“You’re fine,” Boodram cut in, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. “Long day. Grab your bag.”

Haas nodded, scrambling to stand, still embarrassed but awake now. As he shuffled into the aisle, Marlow clapped him on the back.

“Rookie move,” he said, grinning.

Haas groaned. “I hate all of you.”

Ilya watched Boodram as he stepped aside to let Haas pass, the captain’s hand lingering just long enough to steady him. He felt that familiar, quiet respect settle in his chest. Good Captain Bood strikes again.

The hotel lobby was bright and echoing, all polished floors and the faint smell of industrial cleaner. Guys dropped bags in loose piles, stretching, yawning, talking over each other. Ilya lingered near the back, half-listening through the hum of his music, watching instead.

Rose climbed up onto the small step by the front desk and clapped her hands once. “Alright. Rooms.”

A collective groan rippled through the group.

Rose held up a knit beanie—a Boston Terrier stretched across the front, brim folded over. “We aren’t dealing with the constant bickering from last season, so this season you will have a random roommate! Yay! Everyone say yay!”

Groans erupted, lowly from the tired group of players. “Yay…” They sarcastically respond.

“Captain, you’re up first! Pick a good one since you’re with them all season!”

Boodram reached in, pulling a name at random. 

“Haas! You’re with me, freshie,” He said with a warm smile as the young Swiss smiled and walked over to stand next to their captain.

As names continued to be drawn, chaos ensued. Groans turned into laughter, mock protests, and a few genuine cheers. Ilya leaned against his duffel, hood shadowing his face, trying not to care who he ended up with.

It dwindled fast.

“—and that leaves,” Rose said, peering into the beanie, “Hollander, Pike, Rozanov, and Hayes.”

A few heads turned immediately.

Rose smiled like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Rozanov. You pick.”

Ilya straightened. “Ah, so much power,” He mutters. He stepped forward, reached into the beanie, and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it slowly. Hayes.

He stared at it for half a second longer than necessary.

Then he looked up and said, evenly, “Hollander.”

The lobby exploded.

“Oh my god,” Marlow laughed. “No way.”

Hollander blinked, caught completely off guard. ”

“Thank god it wasn’t me,” Pike said dramatically, hauling his bag over his shoulder.

Rose clapped her hands again. “Alright, enough. Keys are at the desk. Curfew’s midnight. Be ready for practice in the morning. Go.”

The group dissolved into movement—bags dragged, elevators called, guys peeling off toward their assigned floors. The lobby slowly emptied of noise, leaving behind only the hum of the lights and the soft roll of suitcase wheels.

Ilya stood there for a second longer than necessary.

Hollander was still blinking, like his brain hadn’t quite caught up with what just happened. His cheeks were pink again—of course they were—and he pushed his glasses up on instinct, grip tightening briefly on the strap of his backpack.

“You—uh,” Hollander started, then stopped. “Okay.”

Ilya shrugged, casual on the surface. “Could be worse, could be Pike.”

Hollander huffed a small laugh. “He’s not that bad.”

They fell into step together toward the elevator, not quite shoulder to shoulder, but close enough that Ilya was acutely aware of the familiar scent of Hollander’s cologne and body soap. It was...intoxicating, to say the least. The ride up was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Just a little tense, the kind of silence that made Ilya hyper-aware of every sound: the ding of the elevator, the faint whirr of cables, the way Hollander shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

When they finally reached their floor, Ilya instinctively motioned for Hollander to go in front of him. Hollander politely nodded with that dumb little tight-lipped smirk of his as he ducked forward, his big duffel adjusting on his shoulder. Ilya watched as he walked, watched the way his hips didn’t even sway–just awkwardly waddled, almost with all the weight he was carrying. But it didn’t matter, because Ilya could still see that arch in his back and the curve of his ass through his joggers.

Ilya should walk behind Hollander more; he quite liked the view.

The hallway was carpeted and dim, the air cool and smelling faintly of detergent. Hollander found the room number easily, swiped the key, and pushed the door open with his shoulder.

Two queen beds. Standard. Neutral-colored everything. A desk by the window, a TV mounted slightly crooked on the wall.

“Home sweet home,” Hollander muttered.

Ilya stepped inside behind him, watching as Hollander dropped his duffel gently at the foot of the bed closest to the window. 

“Wow, didn’t even ask which one I want?” Ilya teased. 

The Canadian quickly whipped around, a sudden flash of guilt and embarrassment flashing across his face. “Oh, uhm…sorry. I just…I always have to be by the window, otherwise it makes it–”

“Am just fucking with you, Hollander, I don’t care.”

Ilya took the other bed, tossing his bag down without ceremony. He kicked his shoes off, toes curling into the carpet, then glanced over.

Hollander was already unpacking with quiet efficiency—toiletry bag on the desk, clothes folded, laptop placed carefully beside the lamp. He moved like he always did: precise, deliberate, like everything had a place in his head already mapped out.

“You don’t have to be so…organized,” Ilya said, mostly to fill the space.

Hollander glanced over his shoulder as he replied. “I do, actually. Otherwise, I’ll lose something and panic.”

“Tragic,” Ilya deadpanned.

Hollander laughed—soft, quick—and immediately flushed again. He ducked his head, turning back to his bag like he could hide from the reaction.

There it was.

Ilya felt that familiar pull in his chest, sharper now that they were alone. He leaned back onto his bed, hands folded behind his head, watching without pretending not to.

“You always do that,” Ilya said.

Hollander paused, as if he suddenly became aware of Ilya’s icy eyes on him. “Do what?”

“Blush,” Ilya replied. “Like your body’s tattling on you.”

Hollander’s ears went red instantly. “I do not. I’m not a girl.”

Ilya rolled his eyes. “You absolutely do, and of course you’re not.”

Hollander shot him a look—half-annoyed, half-embarrassed—but there was no real heat in it. “You’re one to talk. You literally can’t stop smirking.”

“That’s different,” Ilya said easily. “I do that on purpose, that is not body reaction.”

Hollander shook his head, lips twitching despite himself, and went back to unpacking. The room settled into a quieter rhythm after that—the soft rustle of fabric, the muted sounds of the city outside the window.

“I’m exhausted,” Hollander admitted.

“Yeah,” Ilya said softly. “Long day.”

Hollander glanced over at him, studying his face for a second longer than usual. “You okay?”

Ilya considered lying. Considered brushing it off with a joke.

Instead, he shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

Hollander nodded, accepting it without pushing. He lay back on his bed, arms folded loosely over his chest, staring up at the ceiling.

Suddenly, Hollander cleared his throat.

“Okay, I think we should set some ground rules,” Hollander said. “Since we will be doing this a lot.”

Ilya couldn’t help but chuckle, facing back down in the bed and responding with a muffled voice. “You are so fucking boring.”

Hollander ignored the tone. “Rule one: no girls in the room.”

Ilya turned his head slowly. “At all?”

“Yes,” Hollander said, immediately defensive. “It’s a shared space, Rozanov. I don’t want to come back from celebrating with the guys and have to pretend I didn’t see something. Or…hear something.”

Ilya considered that, then nodded. “Alright. Fair.”

Hollander blinked, surprised it hadn’t turned into a whole thing. He pressed on.

“Rule two: no alcohol in the room. I don’t care if you drink. I don’t care where. Just—not here. I like knowing I can come back and it’s quiet and predictable.”

“Boring,” Ilya repeated, amused. “You really are like eighty years old.”

“Boring is good,” Hollander said stubbornly. “Especially on the road.”

“Yeah,” Ilya said after a beat. “Okay. No booze in the room.”

Hollander relaxed a little, shoulders dropping. He shifted his weight, thinking. “Rule three: if you’re coming in late, you keep it quiet. No lights, no noise. I sleep early.”

“I’ve noticed,” Ilya said. 

Hollander rolled his eyes. “Rozanov.”

Ilya smiled faintly. “Fine. Stealth mode.”

Hollander hesitated, then added, quieter, “And…no messing with my stuff. Especially my school stuff.”

“You are seriously worried I would touch school stuff? Really?” Ilya said with a small smirk and raised eyebrow.

Hollander rolled his eyes for the billionth time. “You’re right, you don’t even touch your own, I forgot.”

Ilya chuckled as a comfortable silence stretched between them.

“You done?” He asked, tilting his head to catch a glance at Hollander, who was flushing just like he had been earlier. 

Ilya finally rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand

“I think so,” Hollander said. “Do you have any?”

Ilya shook his head. “No.”

Hollander frowned. “None?”

“Nope.” A pause. “You already made enough for both of us.”

Hollander studied him for a moment, like he was trying to decide whether to argue.

Instead, he nodded. “Okay.”

He reached over and switched off the lamp. Darkness settled in, the city glow faint through the curtains.

“Goodnight, Hollander,” Ilya said.

“Goodnight, Rozanov.”

The room went quiet—orderly, calm, and somehow warmer for it.

Chapter 12

Chapter Notes

wait why am i ALSO shipping boodram x haas in this fic…what would the ship name be? hoodram? baas? love a rare pair

Friday–October 21st, 2016

When Shane first woke up, he was surprised he wasn't awoken by his alarm ringing. Then, he was extremely surprised to see Rozanov’s bed empty and to hear the shower already running. 

That…felt wrong. Rozanov was not a morning person (the way he acted during morning skates showed that anyway–Shane had no idea why Rozanov even started going to them). Shane checked his phone, squinting at the time, then leaned back against the pillows–closing his eyes.

His brain could never shut up the day before a game, especially an important one like their first away game tomorrow. Shane hadn’t told anyone this, but at practice the day before, Coach Wiebe offhandedly mentioned to Shane that he could be a ‘top line guy’ if he ‘kept this up.’ That was about as close as you could get to a real compliment from Wiebe. He was a nice guy, but he just sucked at communicating anything other than hockey. 

The shower shut off soon after, and the sounds of the glass door opening and closing followed–interrupting Shane’s thoughts. A minute later, the bathroom door opened.

Rozanov stepped out butt-naked, hair damp and curly, eyes half-closed as he looked down at his phone. 

Shane’s breath caught in his throat. 

He turned his head away way too fast, pulse immediately spiking. “Jesus, Roz. You don’t have a towel?”

Rozanov snorted softly. “Is my hotel room. I go two steps.”

“Yeah, but…I’m here,” Shane muttered.

Rozanov grabbed his boxers from the chair, completely unbothered. “You see me naked hundred times already, plus I didn’t know you were not asleep.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to see you naked,” Shane snapped, staring hard at the wall.

Rozanov smirked. “Come on, Hollander. Everyone wants to see me naked.”

“Put clothes on.”

The bathroom door shut again as Rozanov retreated with his clothes, laughter muffled behind it.

Shane lay there, eyes glued to the ceiling, heart beating harder than it should have. He shifted under the covers, annoyed at his body, at the way the moment stuck. Locker rooms were one thing, but this was more…intimate. It felt different, with Shane lying in bed like that–peering at Rozanov with half-sleepy eyes.

He swallowed, jaw tight, and finally pushed himself upright.

The bathroom door opened again, steam spilling out as Rozanov emerged dressed, toweling his hair roughly. He smirked at Shane and gave him a small twirl.

“All clothed.”

Shane rolled his eyes as he glanced over at his school backpack. He had completed all of his homework due this weekend and even up until next weekend, but he had an essay due next week for his Russian Policy class that he was still working on, which was so unlike him. 

Typically, he would’ve been done with it at least a week (or two) before it was due, but since he was having to attempt to translate certain readings and speeches into English, it was taking him much longer than expected. He couldn’t help but sigh.

Svetlana had offered numerous times to translate for him, but Shane could never expect that of her. She had her own things to do, he could figure this out on his own like he always did.

Rozanov glanced over from his bed where he just plopped down, eyebrows lifting.

“You look stressed,” He observed.

“I’m tired,” Shane responded flatly as he looked over at his phone, spotting a missed text from Sophia from last night. 

Sophia (Urban Politics): hope the flight wasn’t too bad <3 good luck this weekend! 

“Tired and stressed,” Rozanov corrected. He dropped his phone onto his bed and bent over to pull socks from his bag, his shirt riding up so Shane could see his lower back and the top of his briefs. 

Shane didn’t respond; he instead finished typing his response to Sophia and hit send.

Shane: Not too bad of a flight, and thanks.

“You sexting your girlfriend?”

Shane felt the heat crawl up his neck instantly, the familiar flush staining his cheeks as his body, once again, began to tell on him. He shoved his phone into his pocket, his expressionless face in full effect as he tried to maintain his methodical composure.

“We’re not–it’s not like that,” Shane muttered, his voice flat in a desperate attempt to sound calm and unbothered. Rozanov continued to dry his hair, the front of his shirt raising this time just enough to show off his V-line. Shane looked away, focusing intently on the way his gear was perfectly aligned at the foot of his bed, seeking the comfort of routine and order to distract him from the sight of Rozanov’s bare skin. “I told you, she’s just… a friend. And besides, we literally just made a rule last night about no girls in the room”.

Rozanov let out a low, sharp laugh, straightening up and turning to face Shane with a lazy, practiced grin that made Shane’s pulse jump. “Rule was no girls in room, Hollander. Not no girls in tiny phone,” Rozanov countered, his thick Russian accent drawing out the syllables as he stepped into Shane’s side of the room, invading it with the scent of clean laundry and pine. He tilted his head, studying the way Shane’s ears had turned a bright, betraying red. “You are so easy to bother. Like a little kid.”

Shane bristled, his ambition and rivalry flaring up to mask the growing heat in his stomach that he was trying to bury. He stood up, grabbing his toiletries bag. “I’m not a kid, Rozanov. I’m the guy who’s going to take your spot on the first line if you keep spending more time chirping me than focusing on the game.”

The smirk on Rozanov’s face sharpened into something dangerous and intoxicating as he let out a low chuckle. He quickly matched Shane’s intensity, his icy eyes glinting with a mix of competitive fury and some other intense look, anger? Fear?

 “Is that so? You think two goals in a home opener make you better than me?” Rozanov whispered, his voice low enough that Shane could feel the vibration of it in the small room. “You are fast, Hollander. You are okay player. But don’t forget–I am Ilya Rozanov, you are Shane Hollander. I set the pace, you follow.”

Shane’s breath hitched as irritation flared at Rozanov’s words. “And what happens when I outpace you?” Shane whispered back in return, wincing at how seductive his voice came out rather than intimidating. Rozanov cocked his head to the side as he finally sat down just across from Shane on his own bed, leaning back on his palms as his half-lidded eyes took all of Shane in.

He could feel the electricity coursing through him, a sensation far more potent than anything he had ever felt with Sophia. For a second, the hotel room felt far too small, the silence between them buzzing in a way that had nothing to do with hockey. Rozanov licked his bottom lip and lightly chewed on it before responding.

“Now now, Hollander, let's focus on getting drafted first before the impossible,” Rozanov teased. Shane rolled his eyes, stood up, grabbed his clothes, and escaped into the bathroom with no response, as if it were his own personal safe space. As he stepped inside and set his stuff down, he finally noticed his growing bulge through his pajama pants.

How long had that been there?

 He quickly locked the door and leaned against the counter, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to will his boner away.

Get a grip.

Looking up into the mirror didn’t help. He looked flushed, hair a mess, eyes too alert for the hour. He shook his head before turning to the shower and getting in. After removing his clothes, his erection was impossible to ignore as it slapped against his stomach. He hurriedly stepped under the water, hoping his shoulders would loosen and he could finally relax.

But he couldn’t. 

His mind replayed the image without permission–Rozanov half-asleep, phone in hand, completely unselfconscious. The way Shane had been lying in bed staring at the naked man, vulnerable in a way he never was during the day. The way seeing those glimpses of Rozanov’s skin had felt…different.

He pressed his forehead briefly against the tile, annoyed with himself, with his body, with the way his thoughts refused to behave. He tried to think about his first away game tomorrow, about plays he needed to remember, matchups he’ll be in, anything but Rozanov.

It didn’t work.

His hand drifted down his chest, his stomach, and down past his happy trail–lightly trailing his growing erection as he let out the smallest whimper. His fingers closed around the length of his shaft, the friction of his palm a sharp, desperate contrast to the quiet of the bathroom. Shane’s breath hitched as he started a slow but consistent rhythm, his thumb catching repeatedly against the sensitive head of his cock. Every time he closed his eyes, the memory of Rozanov’s vulnerable, half-asleep face returned, causing a coiling tension to tighten in his gut until his nerves felt on fire. He was shivering, his heart racing as he leaned back against the cool tile, his hips jerking instinctively up into his own hand while his skin prickled with heat.

Then, there was a sharp and sudden knock on the bathroom door. 

Shane froze.

His brain stalled for half a second, body still buzzing, breath uneven, the bathroom thick with steam. Then reality snapped back into place. 

“Uh…yeah..?” He squeaked out, grimacing at how high-pitched his voice was.  

There was shifting on the other side of the door, as if whoever was on the other side was leaning against it. “Where did you put room keys?” Rozanov asked, his deep voice heavily muffled through the door. 

He went to respond, but all that left his lips was a small, shaky breath. He looked down, still holding his erect cock, and started to lazily stroke himself again, as if his hand was working on its own. 

“Th..They should be…uhm…by my nightstand.”

Shane heard shifting again, and then heard Rozanov’s voice from further away–indicating he was looking where Shane had told him to. “I don’t see them.”

His hand started to pick up its pace as his breathing grew heavier. “They…They are definitely there, Rozanov.” He couldn’t help but almost whisper out the Russian’s name as his other hand drifted down to join in on the fun. 

“They are ‘definitely’ not.”

Shane rolled his eyes at the annoying tone Rozanov used to respond, but his arousal was a heavy, hungry thing he wanted to shift focus back to. He really couldn’t remember where he had set them. He felt his gut tighten with intensity as his left hand was now massaging his balls. 

“Oh…wait,” He paused to catch his breath, swallowing his saliva as he slowed down the relentless pace his wrist was working. “They are…on the desk.”

He heard more shuffling. “In the folder?” Rozanov’s rough and thick with sleep–still, of course–voice called out.

The sound slid straight under his ribs, warm and unguarded, and his body reacted before his brain could catch up. His breath hitched–sharp and involuntarily–and he had to brace a hand against the tile, teeth sinking into his lower lip to keep from making a sound.

“Yeah,” His voice was way too shaky now, too full of lust for Rozanov to not notice something was up, “Right there.”

And with his response, he was suddenly spilling over his fist, his body convulsing as he finally found release.

“...Found them.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, barely even registering Rozanov’s quiet and hesitant response.

Afterward, he stood there panting, his knees buckling slightly as he went limp against the wall, the aftershocks of the pleasure allowing his mind to go quiet. Shane finally opened his eyes before opening them and carrying on with the rest of his shower. By the time he shut the water off, shame had settled in like a familiar weight. 

Shane stood there with the towel clenched in his hands, jaw tight, staring at the tile as if it had personally wronged him. His mind immediately started doing what it always did–building walls, laying blame, snapping everything into neat, punishing categories.

This was not who he was.

This was just a lapse of judgment, something he could blame on the stress, or being sleep-deprived, or being on the road, or… something.  Athletes did stupid shit under pressure all the time, way weirder and worse shit. Bodies also obviously react to any change in familiarity, proximity, and routine. That didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.

And the worst part–the part that made his stomach twist–was how easy it had been. How easily his body had responded before his brain could intervene, before he could shut it down like he was supposed to. Like he usually did.

Rozanov wasn’t supposed to make him react like that. He was just a teammate. Just a roommate. Just another guy on the roster with bad English and no sense of personal space. Whatever Shane’s body had done was a mistake–something mechanical, thoughtless, meaningless.

That’s what he told himself, anyway.

He dressed quickly, movements sharp and exact, like precision could somehow overwrite the impulses that he continued to satisfy. He carefully smoothed down his t-shirt and shrugged on his team jacket. If he looked normal enough, maybe he’d feel it too.

By the time he opened the bathroom door, the room was empty.

Thank god. 

Even though he knew he shouldn’t feel relieved, he most definitely did in that moment. It wasn’t  Rozanov’s fault (Shane never thought he’d say those words, but here we are) that Shane was so fucking weird and…gross. 

He couldn’t help but imagine what Rozanov’s rage would look like if he knew what Shane had been doing on that other side of the bathroom door while he was searching for the stupid keycards.

Shane shook his head as if attempting to clear it before quickly grabbing his phone and headphones and heading downstairs. In the elevator, he cranked his ‘Morning’ playlist louder than usual, the familiar structure grounding him. It was full of positive songs, all at certain frequencies that somehow…were supposed to ground him? He wasn’t really sure how it worked, but he liked that none of it was too intense or too soft.

None of it sounded like Rozanov.

The music flooded his ears as he exited the elevator, looking for the dining area.

Once he found it, he was overwhelmed by how many people were there. It was packed, with most seats and tables being taken up by Boston University staff and players. Rozanov sat at a table with Boodram and Haas, three plates in front of him. One was half full of eggs and the other half full of a variety of meat–bacon, sausage, ham. Another had a huge waffle, doused in butter and syrup. And the final one had some fruit, maybe two or three strawberries, a couple grapes, and–a chocolate muffin. 

Shane was almost nauseous looking at it all.

“You know,” Bood gestured to Rozanov’s plates as Shane walked past, turning the volume down on his headphones in case anyone tried to speak to him“, there are limits, Roz.”

Shane glanced over at them from the corner of his eyes as Rozanov grinned around a mouthful of waffles. He responded with something Shane couldn’t hear, but he watched as Haas and Bood chuckled with him. Shane’s nostrils flared.

He kept walking, pretending not to notice the way Rozanov’s laugh carried, sharp and bright even over the clatter of plates and chairs. He turned toward the buffet instead, scanning it like a robot to detect what he could and couldn’t eat.

Egg whites. Oatmeal. Fruit. Black coffee. It’s not his typical smoothie, but it’s a consistent meal he enjoys. A meal that he’s familiar with, at least. He got used to finding random forms of comfort when on the road, and food was always one of them–despite what his teammates thought.

He loaded his plate quickly and efficiently, muscle memory guiding him more than appetite. Across the room, Marlow laughed way too loudly, and it made Shane cringe internally. Just as he went to focus back on the egg whites he was grabbing, someone else dragged a chair back with a screech that made his shoulders tense. He hated crowded breakfasts. 

“Jesus, you eat like it’s punishment,” Hayden said, appearing at Shane’s elbow with a plate stacked far more generously.

Shane shot him a look as he pulled his headphones down around his neck. “It’s fuel.”

“For what? Your big toe?”

Shane ignored that and poured himself coffee, the strong smell grounding him amongst all the chaos. He scanned the room again, almost unconsciously this time. Rozanov was mid-story now, gesturing with his fork, syrup dangerously close to dripping onto the table. It was disgusting, and yet Haas was leaning in like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard. Boodram watched them with that fond, warm look he always seemed to be sporting. 

Shane really liked Bood. At Shane’s second practice with the team, Bood had pulled him, Haas, and a few other rookies aside to talk. It was a short talk, nothing Shane hadn’t heard really, but it was still nice to see a captain actually care about being a captain. He seemed to care a lot about fulfilling his “captain duties,” and seemed to even try to push those same duties onto his alternate captains. Bood will fit in well in Ottawa, he thought to himself. 

Shane turned away.

He took a seat at Hayden’s table near the edge of the room, further away from everyone and closer to the exit. Hayden had just sat down a few seconds before Shane, yet seemed to be halfway through his food already. 

“Big day,” Hayden said through a mouthful. “Colgate’s barn is really tiny–it’s like the fans are right on top of you.”

“I know,” Shane said, having already looked into it himself.

“You ever play there before?”

“No.”

Hayden grinned. “You’ll hate it.”

Shane hummed, stirring his Greek yogurt with bored movements. He liked knowing what to expect, and Hayden knew that too–so he always would let Shane know this stuff beforehand, just in case Shane didn’t know already. It made things more manageable and predictable for him.

What wasn’t manageable was the way his attention kept drifting back to the one thing he didn’t want to give anymore. His eyes trailed to a familiar blond Russian who was grinning as he grabbed the mug off the table in front of him, watching as Bood and Haas jokingly argued over something.

Rozanov stood to refill his coffee. For a second, their eyes met across the room.

And Rozanov winked. 

Shane looked away immediately, jaw tightening, heart doing something stupid and unnecessary as his face flushed.

“Everything good?” Hayden asked, eyebrows knitting.

“Yeah,” Shane responded, a little too fast. Then, after a beat, more evenly, “Just…tired.”

Hayden shrugged. “Fair. Travel days always suck.”

Shane nodded and took a sip of coffee, letting the bitterness cut through the lingering fog in his head. He focused on the familiarity of it all–eat, hydrate, stretch, play. He was good at routines, obviously.

Still, as they stood to clear their plates and put them in the dish bin, Shane felt it–that subtle, irritating awareness that someone or something was watching him. He turned around, once again making eye contact with Rozanov as he was peering at Shane over his own mug of coffee. He didn’t wink this time, or make any expression at all, really. As he pulled the mug away, a dribble of coffee slid down his lips and across his chin as his enticingly pink tongue peeked out of his mouth to catch it. Shane had to rip his eyes away.

“So…where are we going anyway?” Hayden asked as he kicked a random rock out on the pavement, rolling his eyes as Rozanov pretended to flinch away from it.

All of the boys had finished eating and grabbing whatever stuff they needed from their hotel rooms, all told to meet up outside in the parking lot by 10:30 sharp. Shane had been there for twenty-five minutes already, leaning against the bus with his headphones on, phone balanced in his hand as he watched a documentary clip his Russian Policy professor hadn’t assigned but had mentioned “...might be useful if you’re interested.”

Shane was interested. Very interested. This was the type of stuff professors snuck into exams. He had the volume low and the subtitles on with English translations, eyes tracking carefully as an analyst broke down post–Cold War institutional power shifts. He barely registered Hayden’s question until someone nudged his elbow.

“What?” Shane said, pulling one earcup off.

“I said–” Hayden squinted at his screen. “Who are these old guys?”

Shane locked his phone and slid it into his pocket. “It’s for my class, it’s helpful.”

“For what?” Hayden pressed.

“For me,” Shane dismissed him, then went quiet again.

Before Hayden could respond, Boodram clapped his hands together loudly, the sound cutting through the parking lot chatter. “Alright, listen up.”

Coach Wiebe stood beside him, hands in his big dark jacket pockets, looking far too pleased with himself–as if he finds what they are going to be doing entertaining. “Since we’ve got a little extra time before tonight's practice,” he said, “...we figured we’d do something different.”

Boodram grinned. “Team bonding.”

All of his teammates started groaning, Marlow and Hayden the most dramatic of the bunch.

“And,” Bood added, turning slightly and motioning with his chin to Rose and Harris Drover, who were both tucked away to the side on their phones, “...some media.”

That got their attention.

Rose stepped forward with her camera and gave the guys a tight-lipped smile, Harris just behind her with a tablet tucked under his arm. 

Shane had met Harris before, a few times actually. The first thing he noticed was how loud he was. Then–the pride pins. They were small, easy to miss if you weren’t looking for them. One on Harris’s lapel, another clipped to the strap of his bag, a little rainbow square with a tiny hockey stick crossing it. They were so subtle, yet so intentional. Shane’s eyes snagged on them every time Harris wore them (which was always).

He wondered how difficult that must be, being an openly gay man but also doing sports media for a big school like BU. Harris seemed so comfortable and so…happy, but Shane knew that there must be downsides. He hadn’t heard anything directly homophobic in the lockerooms here, or at least not as homophobic as his Ottawa teams were, but there was still plenty of underlying gay jokes.

Shane was typically the butt of them, and maybe that’s why he couldn’t stop staring at Harris’s pins. His eyes refocused back onto Rose as she cleared her throat.

Rose smiled like she already knew that they all dreaded this.

“It’s not a prank again,” she said. “Relax. We’re tagging along for some behind-the-scenes stuff. Light. Human. You guys doing something that isn’t hockey or working out.”

“I don’t like where this is going,” Hayden muttered to Shane as he raised an eyebrow.

“You’re going to an escape room,” Wiebe said.

They all stood there in silence for a moment, confused faces looking towards eachother.

“A what?” Haas finally asked, interrupting the quiet shuffling.

“It’s like…a puzzle room,” Boodram clarified gently. “You get locked in, find clues, solve puzzles, work together, and try to…escape. It’s all about communication, problem-solving, and trust! Perfect for a group of idiots like you guys,” He teased, his accent thick with humor. 

Rozanov frowned. “Sounds boring.”

“It’s very fun,” Rose tried to reassure, though nobody seemed to believe her. “And before anyone asks–yes, it’s also for content. They are letting us go for free if we take some photos and post them on our socials.”

Harris nodded, his smile warm and inviting. “Just a couple of photos for Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook. Nothing crazy, I promise. ”

Shane had never done an escape room, but he thought it could be fun–theoretically. He really enjoyed solving puzzles and liked solving problems. He also liked rules. Liked situations where there was one right answer just waiting to be figured out if you simply paid enough attention. 

What he did not like was the way everyone immediately started talking at once.

“Can we break things?” Marlow asked cheekily, nudging Rozanov.

“No,” Wiebe said flatly.

“What if we get claustrophobic?” Hayden added, sarcastically.

“Then you find a trusted adult, Pike,” Boodram replied with a roll of his eyes, shoving Hayden’s shoulder as he chuckled. Haas chuckled at that, causing Hayden to shove him and flip him and Bood off. 

Shane always found it so funny how easily Hayden was baited into reacting to the teasing, but he guessed that they weren’t too dissimilar in that way. 

Rozanov tilted his head. “Is timed?”

“Yup,” Rose answered.

“How long?”

“You guys will have an hour, but we c–”

Rozanov scoffed. “Easy.”

Shane finally looked up at Rozanov for the first time since they all came out here. “You don’t even know what the puzzles are.”

Rozanov grinned. “I am smart. And lucky.”

“You are neither of those things,” Shane chirped.

A few guys laughed, and that made Shane feel satisfied enough. Rozanov’s grin widened, not forming into a smirk like it usually did–just a weirdly jolly wide-toothed grin. “You say this, but I always win drinking games. Especially against you.”

Bood clapped again, the sharp sound interjecting before Shane could whip up a snarky reply. “Bus is loaded. Let's go, boys!”

He slid his headphones back on as they boarded, mind running ahead–rules, patterns, time limits. Somewhere behind him, Rozanov laughed at something Marlow said, loud and unguarded, and Shane told himself–firmly–that whatever happened in that bathroom, whatever his brain latched onto in a new environment, it meant nothing.

Shane slid into the seat next to Hayden, trying to tune out the rest of the team piling onto the bus. Rozanov had claimed a row a few seats ahead, sprawled across it as if he owned it, wired earbuds in, scrolling through his phone with that infuriating calm look Shane could never match.

Hayden leaned over, nudging him. “So…how’s rooming with the devil?”

Shane rolled his eyes, glancing sideways at him. “It’s fine,” he muttered, though his voice carried that particular edge he always used when he was half-annoyed and half-trying not to think too hard about something.

“Mm-hm,” Hayden said, smirking, clearly unimpressed. “Fine, huh? Must be super bad.”

Shane rolled his eyes, turning back to the window. “It’s not, it’s just…fine. I don’t know.”

From the corner of his eye, Shane caught Rozanov smiling softly at something on his phone, completely unbothered, and his chest tightened. He hated that his body kept doing this when he saw him. He hated that he even wanted to watch him, analyze him, notice every tiny expression on that perfectly chiseled face of his.

Ilya Rozanov really was built like a Greek god. Shane needed to go to the gym more.

Hayden leaned back, stretching, unaware of the storm brewing next to him. “Just don’t let him trick you into doing his homework like he did JJ last year,” he said, grinning.

Shane snorted, turning the volume up on his headphones. “I wouldn’t, besides, I’m the one tricking him into doing his own homework,” he muttered in a bitter tone, as if he was upset.

Yet his gaze kept drifting back to Rozanov, still sprawled in his seat, humming softly along to a song only he could hear as he ignored whatever Marlow was trying to tell him.

Shane hated the way his chest felt heavy, like he couldn’t breathe yet again when watching Rozanov. It was like he felt guilty, and maybe a part of him did. 

For way too many different reasons.

The bus pulled up in front of a brick storefront with a simple sign: Easy Escape Experiences. The vanquished parking lot gave way to a small crowd of college students and weekend visitors, but the interior was even more chaotic as Shane looked around at the shelves of locked boxes, stacks of books with cryptic numbers on the spines, and a few colorful props scattered around. The front office part was decorated like an old Sherlock Holmes mystery set, with tons of old vintage detective props and art. But there were also random space-themed paintings and props mixed in, along with some random arcade games and colorful play blocks.

A kind man named James gave them a small tour of it all before they headed back outside. 

“Okay, boys,” Rose called, stepping onto the sidewalk and raising her camera, “...let’s get a few shots for socials. Nothing fancy, just like…walking in, looking excited. Very casual.”

They all lined up in front of the bus and reenacted the way they got off and first walked into the building. Bood was leading as he motioned to the sign of the building, Haas nodding along as if he were some young Swiss actor.  Shane tugged his headphones down, muttering under his breath. 

He wasn’t here for photos, but he tried his best to be casual and normal anyway. Hayden elbowed him, grinning. “Look at you, all stiff for the camera. Relax, man.”

Just as Shane was about to take a deep breath, Harris clapped his hands together like he was a coach and they were at practice. “Alright, lets get some small group shots. Lets do Bood, Haas, and Hayes. And then…you two–Hollander. Rozanov.”

Shane looked up from where he was staring down at his laces. “Together?”

“Um, yeah–together,” Harris says, already backing toward the camera setup. “People love a duo. Rose has ideas.”

Rose came from inside the building, holding some of the props they kept by the small photo booth inside.  “We’re thinking effortless chemistry. Casual. Fun. Silly.”

Rozanov tilts his head. “Are we silly? Do we have chemistry?”

Shane rolled his eyes as Rose snorted, winking at Rozanov with some kind of knowing look. “Debatable.”

The two of them followed Rose and Harris inside and stepped in front of the backdrop anyway. Harris gestured toward them vaguely, causing Shane’s face to scrunch up in confusion. “Closer. Closer. You’re teammates, not strangers on the subway.”

Rozanov shifted closer, his wide shoulder brushing Shane’s. Shane felt himself stiffen for half a second, then forced himself to relax.

“Okay,” Rose finally said, handing them hockey sticks. “You guys know what these are, right?” She teased.

They both ignored her and posed quickly, nothing crazy.

“Now,” Rose continues, already swapping props, “sunglasses.”

Rozanov puts his on immediately. Shane fumbles, then groans. “Oh, Shane’s are upside down,” Harris calls out from behind his phone camera.

As Shane went to fix them, Rozanov’s hand quickly came up to stop him and flipped them the right way around–causing their fingers to brush. Shane’s stomach flipped, once a-fucking-gain.

“Great!” Harris exclaimed excitedly as he showed the pictures to Rose, who smiled warmly. “Now look happy, laugh!”

“At what?” Shane asked, since he was never really the best at this posing stuff.

Rozanov leans in slightly. “Bood’s stupid face, look at him.”

He looked to the right of Harris and Rose, where Bood was listening to whatever Haas was going on about–his face twisted up into a weird look of almost the joy of looking at a small puppy while also being extremely constipated and in pain. Shane laughed before he could stop himself, completely authentically and unguarded. The camera clicked a couple of times.

They didn’t move apart right away, and Shane swore he imagined the way Rozanov’s hand trailed across his lower back.

The camera clicked again.

“Perfect,” Harris said with a grin. “That’s the one.”

The moment dissolved naturally, like it always did. Harris lowered his phone, Rose glanced over the shots with a satisfied hum, and the team’s attention fractured immediately–voices overlapping, someone already complaining about lighting, Marlow asking if they could keep the sunglasses.

“Alright, alright,” Rose said, clapping once. “Let’s head in before you all get bored of yourselves.”

They shuffled inside in a loose cluster, the door swinging shut behind them and muting the outside noise. The interior of the building felt warmer, quieter in a way that made Shane more aware of how many bodies were packed into the space. He lingered toward the back instinctively, fingers hooking into the straps of his backpack, eyes scanning.

Rozanov drifted closer again without comment, not quite crowding him, just…there. Close enough that Shane could feel the heat of him through their jackets. Shane stiffened for half a second, then forced himself to breathe through it.

Posters lined the hallway–cartoonish illustrations of locked rooms, countdown clocks, exaggerated faces mid-panic. Someone snorted.

“We’re gonna die in here,” Marlow announced.

“Speak for yourself,” Boodram said. “I trust this group.” He paused, then added, “Mostly.”

Haas smiled faintly at that, adjusting the strap of his bag as he leaned in to read one of the framed reviews on the wall. Rozanov, meanwhile, poked at a fake lock mounted for decoration, twisting it experimentally.

“This is cheap,” he declared.

“It’s a decoration, Roz,” Hayes said.

“Still cheap.”

Shane watched him out of the corner of his eye, noting the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his fingers moved automatically–confident, impatient. He wondered, distantly, if Rozanov was good at puzzles. Strategy on the ice didn’t always translate off it.

A man in a staff polo appeared from behind the desk, clapping his hands once to get their attention. “Alright! You guys must be the BU group–welcome.”

“This is James,” Rose said, already lifting her camera again. “He’s our handler for today.”

James laughed nervously. “Uh–yeah. Hi. You can all just…stand here for a second.”

They gathered in a rough semicircle, still talking over one another until James raised his voice slightly.

“Okay,” he said, smiling. “Before we start, I’m gonna walk you through the rules, safety procedures, and the storyline for your room.”

The chatter slowly died down.

Shane straightened without thinking, attention snapping into place as James began explaining–what they could touch, what they couldn’t, how clues layered, how nothing required physical force. Shane filed it all away neatly, already categorizing, already imagining patterns. This, at least, made sense.

James clasped his hands together, clearly slipping into his practiced storyteller voice.

“Alright, so–storywise–you’re a group of babysitters who’ve been locked inside a kid’s game room after hours. The parents won’t be back for an hour, and the security system’s been armed automatically.”

A few guys snorted.

“Inside the room,” James continued, unfazed, “is a collection of logic games and puzzles left behind by the kid who used to play there. He was…kind of a genius. Loved patterns. Loved problem-solving.”

Shane’s attention sharpened.

“The key thing to know,” James said, gesturing toward the door they were about to enter, “is that nothing in the room is random. Colors matter. Placement matters. Sequence matters.”

Rozanov tilted his head. “Like hockey.”

James blinked. “Uh–sure. Like hockey.”

A couple of laughs broke out.

“The main objective,” James went on, “is to restore order to the game room. Toys, games, and puzzles were left unfinished, and the room won’t unlock until everything is completed correctly.”

He lowered his voice slightly, dramatic now.

“And the Rubik’s cubes are central to that.”

That got a reaction.

“You’ll find multiple cubes throughout the room–some partially scrambled, some fully mixed. Each cube corresponds to a color, number, or symbol somewhere else in the room. Once a cube is solved, it has to be placed under the correct light source.”

Shane’s pulse kicked up.

“Solving them out of order won’t break anything,” James added, “but it will slow you down. The final lock requires information from all of them.”

Boodram rubbed his hands together. “Okay, this is kinda sick.”

Haas nodded, already visibly invested.

Rozanov cracked his knuckles. “I will solve fastest.”

All the guys broke out into arguments on who would be the fastest, and how it definitely wouldn't be Rozanov. 

James clapped his hands once, snapping them out of it. “Alright–if there are no more questions, let’s get you inside.”

The door swung open, and they spilled into the room all at once.

It looked like a kid’s game room frozen in time. Bright foam mats covered the floor in mismatched colors, shelves overflowing with board games and half-built LEGO sets. A small plastic dining table sat in the center of the room, ringed by tiny chairs, each one positioned beneath a colored light mounted to the ceiling. Posters lined the walls–numbers, shapes, cartoon animals–some of them clearly out of place, slightly crooked or flipped upside down. Rubik’s cubes were everywhere. On shelves. Under a beanbag chair. Tucked into toy bins. A few sat right out in the open, already scrambled, as if daring someone to touch them.

The door slammed shut behind them.

A timer on the wall flicked to life.

He moved without thinking, drifting toward the nearest cube, fingers closing around it as if it had been waiting for him specifically. The plastic clicked softly as he turned it, muscle memory kicking in immediately. Around him, the room filled with voices–Marlow shouting about rules they definitely weren’t breaking, Boodram assigning vague roles that no one listened to, Rozanov declaring something about the posters–but it all faded into background static.

Patterns emerged fast. Faster than he expected.

He rotated the cube methodically, barely glancing down now, eyes already flicking to the posters on the walls, the colored lights, the numbers printed beneath cartoon stars.

As he glanced over to his left, he could see Rozanov doing the exact same thing–and that only made him look around more frantically as the other guys solved some other puzzle with chess pieces.

Shane was focused, not just normally focused–but too focused. His heart rate was rising rapidly, and just as he was about to flip the Rubik’s Cube again, he was interrupted.

“Holzy, give that here!” Marlow yelled suddenly, grabbing the Rubik's Cube from Shane’s hands just as he was about to finish it.

Shane froze, caught between irritation and disbelief. He wanted to snap at Marlow, demand it back, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood there for a second, watching. And then Rozanov stepped forward, suddenly pushing past Shane, grabbing the Rubik's cube from Marlow.

“Roz, what the fu–” Shane started, but Rozanov’s grin cut him off.

“Hollander and I were racing you, fuck,” Rozanov said, tone entirely too casual.

The Rubik's Cube was shoved aggressively back into Shane’s hands. Rozanov brushed past again, returning to his own cube as if nothing had happened.

“You two do know this is supposed to be a team thing, right?” Marlow shouted, but Shane barely registered it, ears ringing slightly with the thump of his own pulse.

Rozanov was so weird. He could’ve finished his cube quietly while Shane worked, could’ve chirped, could’ve even taken the other cube just to stall. Instead…he gave it back.

Shane completed his first cube, hurrying to place it under the colorful light by the dining table. Most of the team followed his lead, lining their cubes under the matching lights. He caught Rozanov muttering under his breath, struggling with the last few turns, and Shane had to fight the smile tugging at his lips. The way Rozanov’s tongue poked out of his mouth slightly as he concentrated–God.

“Zero and six, eight and four…” Shane ran over to check the numbers on the red painting, eyes scanning for the last cube. All attention turned to Rozanov, who was still fumbling with his final moves.

“Jeez, Roz, take your time…” Marlow muttered.

Rozanov flipped him off quickly, then went back to work.

“Just give it to Hol–” Hayes started, but Shane cut him off, voice sterner than he initially intended.

“He’s got it.”

Rozanov looked up at him briefly, eyebrows raised, face flushed, tongue still peeking out of his mouth slightly, then went back to his cube. Shane felt heat in his chest, knowing he shouldn’t be enjoying the sight, but he couldn’t help it.

“Fucking finally,” Rozanov huffed, pushing the last side into alignment and rushing to place it under the green light.

Shane moved quickly to the safe, fingers on the lock.

“You ready, Hollander?” Rozanov’s tone was just patronizing enough to make Shane roll his eyes.

“Hurry up,” he muttered.

“Zero, six, eight, four, nine, seven.”

Shane punched in the combination, heart racing–not from the lock itself, but from the subtle, unspoken challenge Rozanov always seemed to throw at him.

The safe clicked open. They were one step closer. And Shane couldn’t deny that this whole escape room thing…well, he was enjoying it far more than he’d expected.

The escape room staff applauded them as if they’d just finished a hockey game. James even rang a little bell for them, congratulating the team on escaping. Boodram bowed dramatically, elbowing Haas to join in. Marlow demanded to know how much time they had left. Rozanov claimed, loudly, that he would’ve solved it faster alone.

Shane barely heard any of it.

His adrenaline hadn’t settled yet, still humming under his skin in that restless, jangly way it always did after a win–or a near miss. His fingers kept twitching like they wanted another cube, another lock, something to finish.

“Alright,” Bood clapped his hands together, shepherding them toward the exit. “Bus back to the hotel, only 10 minutes. Then we’ve got evening practice in an hour.”

Everybody groaned.

The bus ride back was loud and chaotic. Shane dropped into a seat near the middle, headphones hanging uselessly around his neck. Rozanov took the seat across the aisle, sprawling like he owned the space, one long leg stretched out just enough to be obnoxious.

Shane stared resolutely out the window.

At the hotel, they spilled into the lobby in clumps. Some guys peeled off toward the café. Others made a beeline for the elevators. Shane was halfway toward the latter when he heard his name.

“Hollander–hey.”

Rose was walking toward him, camera slung low at her hip, Harris a step behind her, already tapping at his tablet.

“That photo shoot you did earlier,” she said casually. “Just like an hour ago?”

Shane blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “That photo Harris grabbed–of you and Rozanov? It’s doing numbers.”

His stomach dropped.

“…doing numbers how?”

Harris snorted without looking up. “Lots of engagement. Comments. Shares. People are being very ‘normal’ about it.”

Shane felt heat creep up his neck. “Normal like–”

“Like,” Rose said, already stepping backward, “extremely not normal.”

She turned and walked off before he could ask her what that meant.

Shane stood there for a second, then slowly pulled his phone out of his pocket.

He didn’t even have to search for it. Harris had posted it to the team account tagging the both of them–him and Rozanov, shoulder to shoulder, both bent over and wearing those stupid sunglasses. Shane’s brow was furrowed, jaw set. Rozanov was grinning.

It was… a good photo. Annoyingly good.

Shane scrolled to the comments and almost immediately regretted it once he realized everyone was just thirsting after the two of them.

Shane’s ears burned.

He scrolled faster, heart thumping, a stupid smile threatening at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

“What’s this?”

Shane nearly dropped his phone.

Rozanov was suddenly behind him, leaning over his shoulder, close enough that Shane could smell his aftershave. He craned his neck exaggeratedly.

“Are people being nice about us?” Rozanov asked.

Shane locked his phone instantly. “No.”

Rozanov raised a brow. “I don’t believe you. They love me.”

“Mind your business.”

“Oh, it is my business if I’m people think I’m hot on the internet,” Rozanov said cheerfully. He leaned back, hands up. “Let me guess, ‘Oh, em gee! Rozy is so hot! Look at his big muscles!’ And I would guess they like your dumb serious face for whatever reason.”

Shane felt his face betray him, warmth flooding his cheeks.

Rozanov’s grin widened. “Ah. You’re blushing.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re always blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” Rozanov said, delighted. “It’s cute.”

Shane shot him a look. “Shut the fuck up, you’re so insufferable.”

Rozanov didn’t respond; instead, he winked again before turning around and walking away.

Shane watched him go, heart doing something annoyingly un-athletic in his chest.

Evening practice was brutal in the way only late sessions could be–legs heavy, air thick, drills running just a little too long. Shane pushed himself harder than necessary, skating faster, cutting sharply, trying not to think about photos or comments or flushed faces or half-naked teammates.

It didn’t help that Rozanov kept glancing over at him during water breaks, smirking like he knew something Shane didn’t.

When Shane finally looked back and acknowledged him with his gaze, Rozanov lifted his bottle in a lazy little salute.

Shane rolled his eyes and skated off.

By the time the team loaded into the van for the short ride to the restaurant, Shane had managed to push most of his thoughts aside. 

Dinner tonight, at least, would be easier than more time in his hotel room with Rozanov…he hoped.

The diner smelled like fried food, bread, and coffee–a mix that somehow made Shane’s stomach tighten despite himself. The team filed in, booth by booth, laughing and joking as they found seats. Shane carefully slid into the booth next to Hayden, headphones around his neck, trying to make himself small.

Rozanov sauntered over a few seconds later, smirking like he’d been waiting for just this moment. “Mind if I sit here?” he asked, voice casual but carefully even.

“I do mind actually,” Marlow said, yet patted the seat next to him.

Rozanov slid in, seemingly unbothered by the cramped space, and leaned slightly toward Marlow, giving Shane a side glance. Shane felt that familiar spike in his chest and immediately shoved it down. 

The vinyl seat squeaked as Shane shifted, the table already crowded with elbows and half-shrugged jackets. He accidentally kicked the base of the booth and grimaced. The noise bounced around the restaurant–laughter, silverware clinking, a burst of music from the kitchen.

Shane kept his eyes on the tabletop, tracing the faint scratches in the laminate. He could feel Rozanov’s presence even without looking–too close, too warm, knees brushing when anyone in the booth shifted. Rozanov talked easily with Marlow and Hayden, voice low and animated, like he hadn’t just spent the last few hours distracting Shane with his stupid smirks and teasing shoves.

Rozanov laughed at something Marlow said, loud and sharp, and Shane’s jaw clenched once again. He stared harder at the table, willing himself invisible.

Finally, the waiter appeared at their side, menus fanned out in one hand.

Shane took one with a ‘thank you,’ flipping it open quickly. His eyes went straight to the lighter section, skimming past pictures, past bolded specials, past anything that looked far too indulgent.

“Are we ready to order?” The waiter asked. “Or do you guys need a moment?”

The guys all nodded and mumbled hush agreements to order now.

“Yeah, I’ll get–uh,” he said quickly when the waiter looked his way, already locked in. “Grilled chicken. No sauce. Vegetables on the side.”

There was a beat.

Marlow whistled. “You eat like a chick.”

Hayden leaned forward, eyes glinting. “Yeah, come on, Shane. Live a little. You’re on the road, not eating meal prep.”

Shane felt his cheeks warm. “I…just…don’t want to feel gross before tomorrow,” he muttered, avoiding Rozanov’s eyes that were suddenly peering through him.

Rozanov, however, wasn’t done. He tilted his head toward Shane, voice calm but carrying just enough sharpness to cut through the teasing. “Is that how you get so fast on ice? Eat like a toddler and play like one, too?”

As Hayden and Marlow laughed, all Shane could think about was how Rozanov just said that he was fast on the ice.

The waiter came around to take the rest of the team’s orders. Rozanov picked something simple, Marlow got his usual burger and fries, Hayden went with pancakes stacked three-high, and Shane tried very hard to focus on the menu instead of the way Rozanov’s fingers drummed against the edge of the table, so close he could almost feel the warmth.

After dinner, New York had that charged, buzzing feeling it probably always did–even when the Boston University men’s hockey team wasn’t here for their first away game. But it was especially buzzing tonight, like the city itself knew the team was here and was daring them to try and keep up with the chaos. The locker room was loud in that loose, post-practice way; sticks clattering into stalls, music blaring too loud from someone’s speaker, guys chirping about dinner plans and clubs they pretended they didn’t already know by heart.

“Tonight we are going to some rooftop bar,” Hayden was saying, half-dressed, towel slung over his shoulder. “Apparently, you can see, like, everything.”

“Everything?” Shane asked, not looking up from where he sat with his phone in his hand and a notebook balanced awkwardly on his thigh.

“Everything,” Hayden repeated, waggling his eyebrows. “You in?”

Shane shook his head. “Nah. I’ve got… homework. Russian policy work.”

“Oh no,” someone groaned. “The scary class.”

“Is that the one where your professor refuses to speak English out of spite?” Bood asked as he dried his hair with his towel, leaning against his cubby.

“Out of principle,” Shane corrected. “Apparently.”

From just behind Shane, Rozanov laughed lowly. He was already mostly dressed to go out on the town, wearing black jeans and a dark sweater instead of team gear–lacing his boots like he had somewhere better to be than a locker room that smelled like sweat and bodyspray.

“Russian, you say?” Rozanov said casually, glancing over. 

Shane shot him a look. “Don’t.”

Rozanov raised his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I am just surprised, Hollander. ”

“Wow,” Shane said. “That was bad even for you.”

Rozanov shrugged, unfazed. “I am out of practice. I am going to be drunk soon.”

“Shocking,” Shane muttered.

The boys filtered out, laughter and conversations of clubs and bars trailing behind them. Shane stayed put a moment longer, staring at the page of Cyrillic text on his phone like it might suddenly decide to explain itself. It didn’t. Google Translate gave him a clunky mess of half-sentences and mistranslated idioms that made less sense the more he reread them.

By the time he made it back to the hotel, the city outside his window was already glowing like it would on a Friday night. Shane sat cross-legged on his hotel bed, textbook open, notebook spread out, highlighter uncapped and forgotten beside him. Professor Volkov had once again assigned readings without translations, and obviously had once again launched into a lecture that assumed fluency that Shane simply did not have.

He rubbed at his eyes, frustration crawling up his spine. He was good at this stuff. He liked this stuff. But tonight he felt like throwing all of this shit out of the window.

Across the room, Rozanov pulled on his jacket and checked the time on his phone, glancing at Shane with barely concealed amusement.

“You look like you want to fight the book,” Rozanov said. “Do you need me to hold it down?”

“Get out,” Shane responded without looking up. “Before I throw something at you.”

Rozanov smiled, unbothered. “Good luck, Hollander. Seems like you need it.”

“Get out.”

The door shut behind him, leaving the room quiet except for the hum of traffic far below. Shane made it another twenty minutes before the words blurred together completely. He closed the book, forehead dropping forward onto the pages.

Saturday–October 22nd, 2016

When he woke up, it was still dark.

For a moment, he had no idea where he was. Then the hotel room came into focus–the muted light from the street, the faint smell of someone else’s cologne. He sat up, groggy, and that was when he noticed the shape on the other bed.

Rozanov was sprawled on top of the blankets, fully clothed, one arm flung over his head, the other hanging off the side. His jacket was still on. His boots were kicked off somewhere out of sight. He was so still, Shane would almost think he was dead if it wasn't for the rise of his back as he breathed.

Shane looked over at the clock. It was early, too early. Shane hated away games.

He sighed, rubbing his face, then rolled out of bed as quietly as he could. He showered, dressed, and moved around the room with exaggerated care, like a burglar in his own hotel room. Rozanov didn’t stir.

Downstairs, the breakfast area was already busy with early risers and hotel staff. Shane loaded a plate with mechanical focus: a bagel, sausage and eggs, a Gatorade, and a chocolate muffin. He added more eggs and some more sausage, too. Then, as an afterthought, a second muffin.

For himself, he grabbed hard-boiled eggs and a container of Greek yogurt. He balanced everything precariously on a tray, then transferred it all into a paper bag that strained under the weight.

The elevator ride up felt longer than it should have. Shane stared at his reflection in the mirrored walls, thinking about how weird Rozanov was. But mostly about how none of...whatever this was felt as strange as it probably should.

Back in the room, he set the bag down carefully. Rozanov hadn’t moved. Shane hovered for a second, then cleared his throat.

Nothing.

He flicked the light switch on.

Still no sign of movement.

“Rozanov,” he said quietly. “Morning.”

No response.

Shane pressed his lips together, scanning the room for options that didn’t involve touching him. Finally, he picked up one of his thick textbooks and let it drop.

Rozanov shot upright with a sharp inhale. “What–”

“Oh shit, sorry,” Shane said quickly. “That’s my bad.”

Rozanov blinked, bleary-eyed, hair a mess. He squinted at Shane, then at the light. “Is it… morning?”

“Yeah.”

Rozanov groaned, rubbing his face. “I am never drinking again.”

Shane snorted. “Sure.”

Rozanov noticed the tray on the table and frowned. “What is this?”

“Breakfast,” Shane said. “Mostly yours.”

Rozanov’s expression softened. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

They ate in comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t need filling. Rozanov demolished the food with alarming efficiency, looking more awake by the minute. Shane finished his yogurt and checked his phone.

Rozanov stood, stretching. “I will head down.”

“Okay.”

At the door, Rozanov paused. “Sorry for breaking your schoolwork rule.”

Shane blinked. “Wait, what–”

Once the door shut, the panic hit him immediately.

Shane dropped his bag and scrambled to his desk, flipping through his papers, his books. Everything looked the same. Too the same. His stomach twisted as he reached for his Russian Policy notebook.

It wasn’t there.

Then he saw it–neatly stacked by Rozanov’s nightstand, set aside like something important.

Hands shaking, Shane picked it up and opened it.

English.

Pages and pages of careful, messy translations filled the notebook. All of the Russian speeches and articles. There were even some small notes in the margins explaining what certain idioms meant or the context necessary that an average Russian would probably already have. Some words were scratched out and rewritten, but all of it was clear and understandable.

His breath hitched.

Rozanov had stayed up, for however long, even after going out to do this. Rozanov had done this for him, for no reason. Maybe as a 'thank you' for the tutoring, but...still...

Shane laughed quietly, a sound caught somewhere between disbelief and something dangerously close to joy. His chest felt tight, his heart racing as he flipped through the pages.

By the time he made it downstairs, the team was already loading onto the bus. Shane caught up just as Rozanov stepped aboard.

“Your handwriting is terrible,” Shane said with a small, shy grin as he whispered over the Russian man's shoulder.

Rozanov glanced back, his bright turquoise eyes bright. “You’re welcome, Shane Hollander.”

Shane immediately turned away, trying–and failing–to ignore the way his gut twisted at the sound of his name on Rozanov’s tongue as he slid into the seat next to Hayden.

Chapter End Notes

sorry that this was late :c i'v been in the hospital since yesterday morning dealing with a health flare up and thought i was going to be home last night, yet clearly i wasn't T_T and then i slept for 18 hours so oops. but here is the very long chapter that i promised and i hoped it was worth the wait. i absolutely love reading all of your comments and they keep me so motivated, especially when my health isn't the best. it genuienly cheers me up sm! i also love seeing all of my new moots on tiktok (luv4cerise) and love hearing your guys's more in depth thoughts and headcanons over there!! sm love to you all, thank you so much for putting up with this long ass fic.