Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Fluff, Crack, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Angst, Romance, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Anxious Shane Hollander, POV Shane Hollander, 5+1 Things, Episode: s01e01 Rookies (Heated Rivalry), Episode: s01e02 Olympians (Heated Rivalry), Episode: s01e04 Rose (Heated Rivalry), Episode: s01e05 I'll Believe in Anything (Heated Rivalry), Episode: s01e06 The Cottage (Heated Rivalry), guys i really don't know how to tag this, it's a little bit of everything, Slice of Life, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Attempt at Humor, brief mentions of orgasm, brief mentions of sex, brief mention of bodily fluids...yeah that one, because why not

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-11 Words: 8,392 Chapters: 1/1

Four Out of Five Dentists

Summary

Four out of five dentists recommend not getting into a seven-year situationship. They also recommend brushing your teeth before making out with your MLH rival in a hotel room the summer before your rookie season.

-

The story of Heated Rivalry retold in little scenes. The unseen befores and the unseen afters.

A 5 + 1 type fic. (Way more than) five times that Shane brushes his teeth alone. And the one time he doesn’t.

Notes

These are just a bunch of little scenes that follow the storyline of Heated Rivalry (the book)/the first season. Just a bunch of fluff. And a teeny bit of canon-compliant angst. The moments right before and right after the hookups.

This fic is dedicated to my sister who turned to me and said, "Can you believe they don't show Shane brushing his teeth in episode one before Ilya comes? Like he puts on the suit, but he would for sure brush his teeth." To which I responded, "Wow. I can't believe they didn't show that. Shocking. I'm shocked. You should write a fic about that." Which she responded by smacking me.

But then I turned to her and mockingly said, "The five times Shane brushes his teeth alone and the one time he doesn't."

And then I thought...now wait a second...
And here we are

Shout out to her for beta-reading this as well.

Also, the Shane counting strokes while brushing his teeth bit was inspired by the movie "Stranger than Fiction."
NOTE:
"chiclet" = teeth in hockey (disagreement on google over if it's chicklet or chiclet, so if someone knows definitively, let me know)
"duster" = a player who spends a lot of time on the bench (collecting dust)

Shane had no idea what he was doing. 

One second, he was standing under his personal, private, non-invasive shower nozzle, head faced forward. The next, he was staring at the man beside him, unable to draw his eyes away and unable to keep himself from imagining running his tongue down every line of muscle, letting his teeth scrape against the man’s skin. 

And now, he was pacing back and forth in the hotel room that CCM had gotten for him, probably wearing multiple holes in the carpet and preparing to hook up with Ilya fucking Rozanov. He was going to have to apologize to CCM and the hotel for both the carpet and for abusing his power of having a single room all to himself. Although, if they really thought about it, that was on them. Who gives a nineteen-year-old their own hotel room? If he sucked Ilya Rozanov’s dick, they had only themselves to blame.

He winced, looking at himself in the mirror, his eyes twitching. 

No. He wasn’t going to hook up with Ilya fucking Rozanov. They were adults, and they were going to have a very adult conversation. It would probably end in laughter, and they would both shake their heads, cackling over what a good joke it had been. Although, Shane thought as he squinted at himself in the mirror, many people had told him that he wasn’t very funny. 

No matter. It was a joke nonetheless. They would laugh, and maybe Shane would offer Rozanov a refreshment from the minifridge. In a glass. Like an adult. He would watch Rozanov take a sip from it, the cold glass slotting itself between his soft pink lips, his hand wrapped around—

He grabbed a pillow from the bed, lifted it to his face, and screamed into it.

He continued pacing until he made eye contact with a suit hanging in his closet that his mom had gotten dry-cleaned for him earlier that day. Lifting it off the hook, Shane’s hands clenched the plastic wrap, his eyes wide as he assessed the clothing. Without thinking, he took the plastic off, folding it neatly in the closet.

One second he was holding the suit. The next he was staring at himself in the mirror with the suit on. He had kind of blacked out, but he felt more adult now, ready to have an adult conversation with Ilya Rozanov. And he wasn’t. Going. To. Fucking. Touch. Him.

He stared at himself for a moment longer in the mirror before his brain returned to him, although he wasn’t sure where it had momentarily gone…He got glimpses of white bathroom tile, steam billowing around him as Ilya Rozanov slowly dropped to his knees—

Holy fucking shit, he was crazy. He had lost his fucking mind. 

Shane tore the suit off his body as if it were on fire, balled it up, and threw it into a heap on the bottom of the closet floor. He stared at the pile for a second before sighing and leaning over to pick it back up, carefully hanging each item. The pants had gotten a bit wrinkled in the process. His mom was going to kill him. (If he didn’t beat her to it.)

He went back to walking around the room until he found himself in the bathroom, looking at himself in another mirror. Who even needed this many mirrors? What the fuck did they need to see? And what the fuck was this guy staring at, Shane thought, lifting his finger to poke at his own reflection that was staring back at him, judgementally.

His eyes drifted from himself to a toothbrush he had accidentally left on the counter, which was very unlike him. Apparently there was a lot of that going around these days. 

He grabbed it, moving to put it back in his toiletry bag, but froze. He stared at it. 

His free hand unconsciously moved toward the bag, pulling out his spearmint toothpaste. He flipped the cap open and put a pea-sized drop on the brush before wetting it with water. 

Shane brushed his teeth in the same way that he had done year after year, every day, twice a day. He brushed each of his 28 teeth 76 times. 38 times back and forth. 38 times up and down. 

This made sense. Shane was about to have an adult conversation. He didn’t want to put Rozanov off by having bad breath. Adults didn’t do that.

And because he was so adult and because he was absolutely not going to blow Ilya Rozanov, he spat out the toothpaste, rinsed the brush, added another glob, and brushed his teeth a second time.

* * * * *

He had his toothbrush in his mouth when Rozanov texted that he was ten minutes out. 

Shane swore, accidentally spitting some of the white paste in his mouth onto the mirror, causing him to swear again (but less forcefully this time). He grabbed a little square of toilet paper and wiped the dot, grimacing at the little pale stain that remained.

He finished brushing his teeth, spitting the rest of the paste into the sink this time. He still had just enough time to spray one last pump of cologne before it would be time to go down the building stairs, ready to open the door for Rozanov the moment he got there. He didn’t want to risk anyone seeing him, even for a second. 

He was lucky he had even seen the text, now that he thought about it. He usually didn’t have his phone on him while he brushed his teeth. Shane didn’t understand people who needed something to do in the bathroom. His mom always scrolled through her email while she stood, leaning against the towel rack, eyes scanning the messages she had already read on her computer that day, just in case she missed something. His dad had a tendency to wander the house, toothbrush lazily placed in his mouth, sometimes leaving it there for minutes and minutes on end, which Shane thought was a terribly inefficient way to do something that took only two minutes, according to medical recommendation.

He bet Rozanov did something like that. 

There had been a week last summer when Rozanov had stopped sexting Shane and had instead sent 81 animal videos. (He had made sure to tell Shane the exact number.) Not that Shane watched them…well…most of them…but he imagined Rozanov watching those videos while he brushed his teeth or sat on the toilet for far too long.

Shane preferred to use those two minutes to just sit with his thoughts. There was so much he could think about in two minutes; it was truly an untapped resource by the general populace. He could think about so many things: Hockey. Hockey games. Hockey tape. Hockey practice. Hockey strategy. IlyaRozanovosuckinghisdick. Just so many things.

“Shit!” Shane exclaimed, glancing at his phone before grabbing it and sprinting out of his apartment and down the stairs. Rozanov had told him he was ten minutes away nine minutes ago. He wondered where the time had gone. 

He pushed open the door, peeking out through the little gap. No sign of Rozanov. 

Shane let the door close softly, staring at it for a minute, his nerves making him kind of jumpy. He decided to pace up and down the stairs, his heart still racing from his run down them and from the brief moment between floors two and three that he thought he was going to slip and die, catching onto the railing just in time.

He went up three stairs. And back down. Up four stairs. And back down. 

Where the fuck was Rozanov? Shane opened his phone. It had been fifteen minutes since Rozanov had texted him. Had Shane somehow missed him? Had he already come and gone? Was Rozanov one of those guys who believed that on time was late? Shane knew that he certainly was, but he wouldn’t have expected that from Rozanov.

Twenty minutes after the text, his phone buzzed again, and Shane uncurled himself from the ball he had found himself in on the bottom step.

Lily: Here?

Shane jumped up, hurrying over to the door and pushed it open, finding a nervous Rozanov on the other side.

“You will murder me?” he asked, looking around at the dark alley and Shane’s angry face.

“Maybe,” he said, exasperated. “Get in.”

* * * * *

Shane felt ill as he stepped into the elevator, smashing the button for his floor. He was trying his best not to cry. He wasn’t going to cry over Ilya Rozanov, he wasn’t—

Fuck, Shane thought as he leaned back against the elevator, blinking rapidly to stop the tears from forming. He pulled out his phone, typing out a couple of pathetic little messages before leaning his head back against the cold metal.

“Fuck,” he whispered. 

They hadn’t even kissed. 

The phrase kept circling his head like one of those birds that appears in the movies  when the character hits their head really hard. Maybe that’s what Shane had done. Maybe he’d hit his head. Maybe that’s why he was crying over Rozanov in an elevator at the MLH awards, his suit jacket in one hand and his broken pride in another. 

He hit his hotel room card against the scanner and stepped into his hotel room, standing still while the door slowly closed behind him. There hadn’t been anyone in the room earlier when he had been there a few hours before, but now it felt particularly empty and cold.

Mechanically, Shane took off his suit, hanging each piece up in the closet. He vaguely recalled himself doing this exact thing years ago in a different hotel room, in a different suit. That Shane would have probably been just as disappointed in him as this Shane was.

He didn’t know why he had expected anything else. Rozanov had a reputation, and Shane was just another name in a long line of women. He pictured all of them standing in a police lineup, holding numbered cards. He wondered what his own number would be and pictured people on the other side of the glass, assessing him and judging him. Maybe his parents. He imagined the lines behind him, measuring his height, seemingly growing higher and higher as he grew shorter and shorter, collapsing in on himself.

He found himself in the bathroom, standing there in only his boxers for the second time of the night. He picked up his toothbrush and looked at it for a moment before beginning his usual process. 28 teeth. 76 times. He thought of the lips that hadn’t touched his and the tongue that hadn’t licked into his mouth. He hated that there wasn’t even anything to brush away.

* * * * *

Shane still felt like he was in post-orgasm bliss as he prepared to go to bed. Rozanov had left almost immediately after, but Shane couldn’t even really bring himself to care right now. Maybe later, but not now. It had been fucking good. It had been really fucking good. I mean the way that he had— And then he— And oh when he—

He sighed, leaning against the bathroom door. What brush stroke was he on? Oh yes, 54. He kept brushing. 

He couldn’t help but pull open his phone, opening Rozanov’s Instagram and scrolling through his tagged photos. Rozanov posted plenty on his own, but they were more carefully chosen. No one cared what their friends looked like in tagged photos, so Shane enjoyed looking at Rozanov’s less-refined images at bars and parties and practices along with the numerous fan edits people made of him, which Shane only glanced at momentarily. For a brief, brief moment. Regardless, he made sure he was on his secret, private Instagram account before scrolling, remembering one very late and very bleak night where he had accidentally liked an edit, immediately unliked it, and flung his phone across the room, the screen cracking upon impact.

Shane had just seen Rozanov, but he couldn’t help but want to see him for just a little bit longer. He watched a video of one of Rozanov’s interviews, mouthing the words as Rozanov said them. It was a very viral clip. He had probably just picked up the lines here and there. 

Shit, what number stroke was he on? 58? How could he only be on 58? He had been in the bathroom for twenty minutes. He hurriedly brushed the rest of his teeth, not really counting anything at all, just trying to furiously get it over with, and spit out the toothpaste.

Whatever. He was losing his mind. But it was a good fucking orgasm.

* * * * *

Shane hurried into his hotel room, throwing off his shoes even though he knew he was just going to put them on again in two minutes. Lateness was no excuse for bad habits, even in a hotel room. However, he was already horrified at being even a little late. 

“Whoa, whoa, dude. Where’s the fire?” Hayden called from his bed adjacent to Shane’s, his phone in his hand playing a video from YouTube loudly.

Shane blinked at him. “Why haven’t you gone to the lobby yet?” Shane asked, grabbing his bag from the corner, grateful he had the foresight to pack it all earlier.

Hayden shrugged, hopping off the bed. “I was waiting for you.”

“Well, come on, we’ve gotta go,” Shane said, throwing the bag over his shoulder and heading toward the door, opening it and giving Hayden an expectant look.

Hayden shrugged and grabbed his own bag. “You know most guys are usually at least thirty minutes late. That’s why coach always tells us the wrong time.”

“I’m the captain,” Shane hissed as Hayden took far too long putting on his shoes. “I’m supposed to set a good example.”

“God forbid you don’t set an example,” Hayden said sarcastically. “I’m alternate captain. Does that mean I’m supposed to get there on time too?”

“No,” Shane said flatly. “The alternate gives you ten extra minutes.”

“Oh well, thank God,” Hayden said with a laugh, and Shane rolled his eyes. “Hold on a second,” Hayden said, leaning forward and squinting at Shane’s chin, which made Shane a little uncomfortable. People didn’t usually stare at his chin. 

He slowly lowered himself so that Hayden was looking at his eyes instead. “Er…you good?”

Hayden lifted his hand, licking his thumb, before attacking Shane’s chin with it. Shane shoved his hand away and wiped at his own face

“Ew, Hayden! What the fuck?” Shane squeaked, scrubbing hard at the chin.

“I got it! You’re welcome,” Hayden said triumphantly.

Shane frowned. “Got what?”

Hayden walked out the door, calling behind him. “You had a bit of toothpaste on you. Big ol’ white streak. Dad instincts kicked in.” He turned around, walking backward, and smirking at Shane. “Brushing your teeth at Lily’s now? This is big for you. Big, big step.”

He turned around before Shane could say anything in protest, walking down the hall, a slight bounce in his step. He didn’t see the blood drain from Shane’s face and eyes grow impossibly wide.

He hadn’t brushed his teeth at Rozanov’s place.

* * * * *

He set his shopping bag on the table, flinching as it sounded loudly against the wood as if Shane weren’t the one who had just flung it there. Without thinking too much about it, he carefully pulled out the five different boxes he had spontaneously bought from the store, laying them out one by one and staring at each one of them in turn. 

• Colgate Total Clean Mint
• Sensodyne Pronamel Fresh Breath
• Aquafresh Fresh and Minty
• Arm & Hammer Advanced White

And finally, as a wild card,

• Crest Whitening Cinnamon

Shane was certain that Rozanov used one of the five toothpastes. 

He knew it couldn’t be the same brand that he used, or he would have tasted it when he ran his tongue across the back of Rozanov’s teeth. Last time they had been together, Shane had realized that Rozanov had brushed his teeth mere moments before Shane had gotten there, and ever since, Shane had felt like he was going crazy. He had the undeniable urge to taste it again. 

So that was how the five boxes had happened. He didn’t even have a reason to pick these specific brands; he just went by the power of intuition. But he was still irrationally sure that at his fingertips was Rozanov’s exact toothpaste brand and flavor.

His phone buzzed loudly against the table, and Shane glanced at it.

Fuck. He had to leave to meet his parents at dinner in fifteen minutes. 

There was no time to have a little crisis about all of this in the corner. He grabbed a napkin and a glass of water from his kitchen, setting them in front of him next to the toothpastes as if preparing to conduct a real scientific experiment. Shane kind of felt like he was. He felt like the academic community would respect his dedication to knowledge.

He ripped open the first box and peeled off the little metal sheet that covered the tube, putting a little dollop on his finger and placing it on his tongue. He frowned. That wasn’t even close.

He spat it into the napkin and took a long swig of water, swishing it around in his mouth so that he could cleanse his palate in preparation for the next one.

He went down the line, trying them one by one, his frown deepening as each one turned out to be worse than the last. Maybe his intuition wasn’t as good as he thought. Maybe he didn’t know Rozanov as well as he thought.

He furiously grabbed the cinnamon toothpaste, flicking the cap off to God knows where and sticking out his tongue to put the glob of toothpaste directly on it.

He froze.

That was it. He pulled the tube away from him, staring at it disapprovingly. Who the fuck uses cinnamon toothpaste? It had a little bit of a burn to it, and Shane distractedly swallowed the glob. His eyes widened in panic.

He spent the rest of his twelve minutes panic-googling how much toothpaste an adult man could swallow before they died and if the death happened right away or if it was a slower process. He didn’t want to have to explain to his parents on the floor of the restaurant while he was passing away that he was dying because he had swallowed Ilya Rozanov’s toothpaste.

When he actually was at the restaurant though, he couldn’t help but run his tongue along the little bit of toothpaste that was still there, relishing the taste of cinnamon and imagining a blond-haired man sitting at the table next to him, his hand resting on Shane’s thigh.

* * * * *

“You were probably the teacher’s favorite student, Hollander,” Rozanov said, his head resting on Shane’s bare chest, tracing some of the freckles on Shane’s arm that was draped lazily over him.

“No, actually. I think they hated me,” Shane replied, his arm twitching slightly as Rozanov ran a finger along the back of his hand.

Rozanov gasped. “No! Is impossible. You are such a rule-follower.”

Shane shrugged, Rozanov’s body moving up and down slightly with the movement. “Mostly just for hockey.”

“No. Outside of hockey too,” Rozanov said firmly.

Shane leaned his head down so that he could stare at Rozanov, confused. “When have I been good at following rules off of the ice?” he asked, giving Rozanov a pointed look because he was, in fact, the evidence to the contrary.

Rozanov smirked. “You are so good about following instructions in the bedroom.”

Shane smacked him lightly while Rozanov cackled before calling out different responses such as “yes, sir,” “no, daddy,” and “please, oh my God, Rozanov,” which led to Shane tackling him on the bed while Rozanov laughed, trying to push Shane’s hand away from his mouth.

After the two of them were sufficiently tangled up in the sheets and each other, they lay back down on the bed, both breathing hard and giggling. 

“You and your rules, Hollander,” Rozanov sighed. “Is so boring. Must do everything your mother told you to.”

“Fuck off, I do not,” Shane said, still heaving and staring up at the ceiling, trying not to think too much about his legs that were intertwined loosely with Rozanov’s.

“Mm, I bet you eat dessert after dinner every time.”

“I don’t eat dessert.”

Rozanov gasped, lifting his head and rolling so that he could lean on his arm and look at Shane. “This is even worse, Hollander.”

“I’m a professional athlete!”

“Is such a shame. You cannot win, and you cannot even eat dessert while you cry about it.”

Shane kicked at him, but it just led to their legs getting pulled closer together. “Well, your teeth are going to fall out from the amount of sugar you eat,” he muttered.

“Good thing the Raiders have so many dentists.”

“Yeah, because you guys chirp until someone knocks your teeth out.”

Rozanov laughed, and Shane grinned proudly. “And you take such good care of your teeth,” Rozanov teased, running his foot along Shane’s.

“Yeah, I do,” Shane said, still smiling.

“Mm,” Rozanov hummed. “I bet you brush your teeth sooo well. I bet you even count all the brush strokes.” Shane blushed and tried to turn his face away from Rozanov, but he grabbed it and pointed it back at him, grinning widely. “No. Hollander. Tell me you do not.”

“What’s so wrong with counting brush strokes?” Shane exclaimed, trying to push his hand away from him, but Rozanov just held on tighter, squeezing his cheeks slightly.

“Is sooo cute, Hollander!” he said, giggling.

“Fuck off, I’m not cute.”

“You are so, so cute. Counting strokes, oh my God, Hollander. You kill me,” Rozanov said, letting his face go and planting his own head back into the bed.

Shane huffed. Under his breath, he mumbled, “What would you know about good strokes anyway? Yours are sloppy. Too fast. No sense of rhythm. Just flat out lazy—”

Rozanov cried out and pounced on him again, now trying to cover Shane’s mouth with his own hand. Neither of them could stop laughing.

* * * * *

“We’re doing another little video! For our social media,” Katie said, pointing a camera at Shane as he walked out of the locker room for practice. “The fans loved the last couple, but were disappointed that you couldn’t be in it.”

Shane could have been in it. In fact, he was pretty sure he had been filmed answering one of their questions, but he couldn’t remember what they had asked him. Something about what three items he would take with him on a deserted island, which he was pretty sure he had responded with a high-distance radio, a satellite phone, and a box of matches. He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t included, but he didn’t really know social media like that.

“Er,” he said, shifting back and forth on his skates, tossing his stick between his hands. “Okay. What’s the question?”

“What color toothbrush do you have?” Katie asked eagerly, moving the camera slightly closer to his face.

“Oh! Uh…white,” he said. She stared at him, and Shane couldn’t decide if she wanted more than that. “Probably like…an eggshell white.” It wasn’t. That was just the only shade of white that Shane could think of. 

Katie blinked at him before smiling brightly. “Okay! Thanks, Shane!” she said before prancing off to find her next victim. He hoped it was Koch, who Shane knew for a fact lost his toothbrush at least once a month and would probably struggle to think of the color of the one he currently had.

He shrugged to himself before making his way toward the ice. As he walked, he wondered what color Rozanov’s toothbrush was. He bet it was neon yellow or something stupid like that. He would have to make note of it the next time he was there. For no reason. Just seemed like a good thing to know about someone.

If it was good enough for the internet, it was good enough for him.

* * * * *

Shane had gotten a new electric toothbrush. Which wasn’t a big deal. It was just that it was Shane’s first time consistently using an electric toothbrush. He had tried years ago because he knew it was the dentist-approved choice, but he didn’t like how the buzzing seemed to travel from his teeth into his brain, and he had just gotten so used to the toothbrush he had over the years that getting used to a new one seemed like a hassle.

So this felt like a big deal to Shane. 

It kind of felt like when Bob Dylan switched from acoustic to electric. Not that Shane really knew anything about that, but his Dad loved to talk about it over the dinner table. And electric toothbrush, electric guitar…it just felt like an appropriate comparison.

But the bigger thing was that the toothbrush connected to Shane’s phone, which meant it would grade how well Shane brushed each tooth. Which was also why Shane had decided to make the switch in the first place.

It made his morning and night routines longer as he took time to set up his phone beside him on the sink, watching as the score increased with every stroke of the brush. Now he didn’t have to think while he brushed his teeth or stare at photos on his phone. He could just watch his statistics improve by the second, telling him that he was clean. That he was good. That he deserved the little “A+” it gave him at the end of it.

As with most things, the more he used the app, the more he found ways to think about Rozanov, and suddenly the grading didn’t feel as rewarding. He started wondering if Rozanov had ever graded him. Was he waiting for Shane to touch him in just the right spot before increasing his score? Were there spots that he was missing that Rozanov couldn’t help but think about, Shane’s lackluster performance gnawing away at Rozanov until he outwardly resented Shane?

He also wondered if the app was comparing him to all the other people who used it to brush their teeth. Did Samantha from Colorado get her back molar a little better than Shane? Did Charlotte from Vancouver scrape her tongue with more efficiency? Was Tarah from the club that Rozanov liked to frequent better with her mouth? Did Abby from Tinder have better hair?

Shane pulled the electric toothbrush apart, putting the two pieces back into their proper spots in the case it had come in, and shoved it under the sink next to the unopened rolls of toilet paper and the cleaning supplies.

Bob Dylan was better acoustic anyway. 

* * * * *

Shane had fingers in his mouth. Not Rozanov’s, which was a bit disappointing. Although he was also disappointed for being disappointed because the world was a really fucked up place designed to fuck with him. 

The dentist pushed his instrument a bit further into Shane’s mouth, calling off little numbers and letters that meant nothing to Shane, but apparently everything to the nurse who was at the computer typing away. Shane imagined throwing out little hockey terms just to mess with him. Maybe when they asked him how often he flossed, he would just say that his floss was no duster and that he wasn’t at risk of losing a few chiclets. Which wasn’t really that funny now that Shane thought about it, frowning. Rozanov could probably have thought of something funnier. He would probably have also flirted with the nurse. And the doctor.

Shane glared at both of them beneath the little sunglasses they had put on him while the light was shining overhead. They weren’t even Rozanov’s type. Although, then again, Shane wasn’t sure if he was either, having stared at enough photos of Rozanov with extraordinary blonde women wrapped around him.

The dentist smiled at him, removing his hands and pushing the light away. “Mr. Hollander. Your teeth are in excellent condition.”

Shane nodded. Of course they were. He hoped they would write a little “A+” at the top of his sheet. “Thank you—”

“But,” the dentist interrupted.

Shane paled. Oh God, they were going to take out all his teeth, weren’t they? He shouldn’t have made the chiclet joke in his head. “But what?” he asked nervously.

The dentist clicked his tongue, leaning over to grab something. “Have you ever heard of overbrushing?” he said, handing a pamphlet over to Shane, who took it without thinking.

He stared at the paper, blinking a few times. “Overbrushing?”

The dentist nodded. “Yes, I’m noticing a little bit of gum recession that is common for people who brush too hard or too frequently. How are you normally brushing?”

Shane blinked at him. “Um…I don’t know. Just like…normal?”

The dentist chuckled, standing up from his chair and tucking his hands into his pockets. “Maybe just stick to the two minutes twice a day, brushing gently.”

He made to leave, but Shane blurted out, “Is there a specific stroke count I should switch to?”

The dentist froze before slowly turning back around, frowning at Shane. “Stroke count?”

“You know,” Shane waved vaguely. “Like 76 strokes. 38 times back and forth and 38 up and down?” he added casually, as if it were just throwing out random numbers.

The dentist gave him a soft smile and shrugged. “Maybe it would be best if you didn’t count at all. Live a little.” He grabbed a clipboard and opened the door to the little room, nodding at the nurse. “It’s just brushing teeth. Don’t overthink it, champ.”

* * * * *

Shane was pacing outside of Ilya’s Rozanov’s house, frantically staring at his phone screen, which was starting to blur because of the embarrassing tears rapidly filling is eyes. Why couldn’t the fucking Uber driver get here faster? Why couldn’t he have gotten a rental car? Earlier, he had the Uber driver drop him off a block away from Rozanov’s house because he was worried the driver might recognize it. (Shane didn’t want to think about how much Rozanov terrorized the Uber app with a combination of drunken nights out and frequent hookups.) Now, he was worried about someone taking a picture of him walking down the street coming from Ilya Rozanov’s house, crying, so he just waited in the driveway, behind the hedges that hid the house from the street.

And he was crying now. Hot, shameful tears he wiped at aggressively. Oh God, what had he done? How had he let it get this far?

He sat down on the stoop, watching the little car on the app creep toward his location at the slowest possible speed. This felt like a punishment. A punishment for coming when Rozanov called. A punishment for the fact that he had stopped thinking about all the reasons he shouldn’t go, not even pretending to feel guilty about it as he snuck into another hotel room. A punishment for thinking they could be more. For forgetting, for a brief moment, all the reasons they shouldn’t.

He started crying harder, pressing his free hand into his forehead as if it would make him forget. 

He glanced at the Uber app again. Maybe he should just make a run for it. Sprint down the street into the woods and live off the land. (Were there woods in Boston? Well, he would run far enough until he found some.)

After twenty more agonizing minutes of waiting, worried that Rozanov would come out of the house and ask him to stay (which he would agree to because of course he fucking would), the Uber driver finally showed up.

He then spent the twenty-minute car ride trying to pull himself together, checking his appearance in his phone's camera, preparing to reenter his hotel room, where he assumed Hayden still was. He was also becoming increasingly aware of the taste of tuna melt still lingering on his tongue. And another taste that was so distinctly Ilya.

He wanted it gone. He needed it gone.

“Do you have any water?” he croaked to the driver, who just shook his head and returned to speaking loudly at someone on speakerphone. They were arguing over whose turn it was to cook dinner that night, which made Shane feel even sicker because he was now picturing himself and Ilya having the same argument. And Shane would concede, agreeing to make dinner with the knowledge that Ilya had cooked for him the last time. Even though Ilya would probably not like his food.

He put his head between his knees, trying to take deep breaths. He saw a tear land on the carpeted floor beneath him, and he shut his eyes tight to prevent any more from escaping.

He still had fucking tuna melt between his teeth. He ran his tongue along it before putting a hand over his mouth to try to muffle the sob that left him. He was everywhere. He was in Shane’s mouth. Shane’s teeth. His hair. Between each fingernail.

He needed him out. He couldn’t breathe. He felt like his teeth were falling out one by one, and he pushed his hand harder over his mouth, trying to keep them all in.

When the car finally pulled up to the hotel, Shane burst out of it, slamming the door behind him and rushing inside. He almost sprinted to his room, careful not to be seen by any of his team. He fiddled with the key in his pocket, almost dropping it before shoving it against the keypad, opening the door the second he saw the little green light.

Hayden glanced up from the bed, alarmed. “Shane, what—”

Shane ignored him, fleeing into the bathroom without even taking off his shoes. He gripped the sides of the sink, trying to steady himself for a moment before grabbing his toiletry bag and rummaging around to find his toothbrush.

When he couldn’t see it after two seconds, he flipped the bag upside down, gracelessly spilling all of the contents onto the counter. He almost cried when he spotted the familiar white handle and grabbed it.

With frantic hands, he looked for his toothpaste, but couldn’t find it—which didn’t make sense because he always put his toothpaste in his toiletry bag. He scanned the rest of the bathroom, but it wasn’t there. Shane whimpered, knowing he couldn’t even go out of the bathroom to look through his backpack without Hayden questioning him. Besides, he knew it wasn’t there. He could almost picture it, resting in his bathroom at home, waiting for him to come back, an arm outstretched toward him.

He turned and opened Hayden’s bag, pulling out his toothpaste desperately. He flipped it around to read the label and would have laughed if he could do anything but sob.

Crest Whitening Cinnamon

What the fuck, Hayden, he thought bitterly, but put a glob on his toothbrush anyway, brushing furiously. His dentist would probably be disappointed in him. He could get in line.

Tears were still falling as Shane hacked at his teeth, trying to get every piece of tuna fish out of his mouth. He spat, rinsed, and then added more toothpaste, trying again. He spat. And rinsed. And repeated.

He flung the toothbrush across the bathroom, clattering loudly as it landed somewhere at the bottom of the bathtub. Shane sank against the door, pressing his hands against his eyes.

He could still taste Ilya.

* * * * *

He bought a new toothbrush. It was blue. And he bought four new tubes of toothpaste, placing them in different bags just in case he found himself without his usual one. None of them were cinnamon.

He met Rose. Who tasted like mint. Although he didn’t think he would be able to tell which kind if he tried to pick it out at a grocery store.

* * * * *

Shane pulled over on the side of the road, breathing hard, unable to see out his window through the tears that had returned. He hadn’t cried since he had left Ilya’s house; he had made a point of that, but now he once again couldn’t help himself.

He kept seeing Ilya dance with that girl. The image replayed itself over and over again in Shane’s mind until he wasn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t making some of the details up. Had Ilya really leaned down to kiss her neck? Had he run his hand down her breasts? Had he whispered her name into her ear? Had he asked if what he was doing was okay, muttering the words to her in a low voice?

He wasn’t sure. But he watched it again until the image finally distorted itself to the point that he could see himself in Ilya’s arms instead of her. It only made him cry harder.

He had fucked up. He had fucked up, and he had no idea how to get back on track. He wished he had a clock that he could wind back the minute hand on, watching as the hours reversed until he finally got back to the crossroads where it had all gone wrong. He felt like he was walking in a dream that he shouldn’t be in. He needed to wake up, but he didn’t know how.

He didn’t really feel like he knew anything at all.

Well.

Scratch that.

He knew he was going to throw up.

He wrenched the car door open and heaved over the road, vomit covering the gravel beneath his car tires. He hoped no one could see him from their cars as they sped past him, causing his car to shake slightly. Or maybe it was just him that was shaking. He wondered what they would say if they did notice him. “Is that Shane Hollander? Oh, he doesn’t look well. I wonder what happened to him? Poor kid. Probably he left what might be the love of his life covered in cum, sitting on his couch, his arm outstretched.”

But he couldn’t be the love of his life. He just couldn’t. That wasn’t the life that his mom had carefully sketched into contracts and bedtime stories. That wasn’t the life that his coaches had trained him to aspire to. That wasn’t the life he had always imagined, even if the picture of his future that he had drawn in crayon in elementary school now tasted terrible.

Or maybe that was just the bile. 

He leaned over and threw up again, tasting every ounce of alcohol he had poured into his system. It was probably less than one ounce, now that he thought about it. He would never have driven with any more than that, although he wasn’t sure that any policeman would say that he was exactly “fit to drive.”

He wiped his mouth and was frightened to see a smear of red on the back of his hand. Quickly, he straightened up and flicked down his visor, staring at his mouth in the mirror. Was he bleeding? That couldn’t be good. He was probably dying. Perhaps his bleeding heart had finally spilled over into the rest of his body. 

He leaned towards the mirror, looking at his lips more closely. He ran a finger along them and pulled it back to look at it, noticing that the shading was wrong for blood. It was a little brighter and a little pinker than it should be.

Oh. It was Rose’s lipstick.

He stared at himself in the mirror, feeling more and more guilty by the second. He took out a wipe from the center console, dabbing at his mouth until the red coloring had mostly disappeared. He took a few moments to collect himself before closing the door and turning the keys in the ignition. He drove home, trying not to think about anything at all. Trying not to think about Rose. Trying not to think of roses by any other name.

He got home and headed straight to his bathroom, flicking on the light and wincing as it reflected off of the bright white tiles. Mechanically, he brushed his teeth, trying to get rid of the taste of vomit. 

He brushed each of his 28 teeth 76 times. 38 times back and forth. 38 times up and down.

* * * * *

Shane smoothed out his tan suit, staring at himself in the mirror and assessing the picture. His stylist had done good work. Well, at least he thought so. He was paying her a lot of money to do good work, so that had to mean something.

When he had finished on the outfit, he moved to the bathroom to check his hair, making sure it was pushed back exactly the way he wanted. He felt a little bit stupid doing all of this, but he figured it wouldn’t hurt to make an effort. At least he wanted Ilya to know that he was trying. That he wanted to be better, even if just by wearing slightly different clothes.

That, and he hoped that he looked hot enough that Ilya wouldn’t make him wear them for long.

He brushed his teeth, his mind too focused on Ilya to count, so he just let his hand move through the motions. It felt important to brush his teeth now, as if the fresh smell was a part of his elaborate suit of armor, although he wasn’t sure who he was trying to protect.

Maybe he wasn’t protecting anyone, he thought as he marched out the door and down the hallway towards the bar. He spotted Ilya sitting alone and smiled. Maybe he was going to battle. Maybe he was fighting for something.

Or someone, he corrected as Ilya turned to look at him.

* * * * *

Trying to brush his teeth while wearing a sling was fucking hard. Well. It wouldn’t have been hard if he hadn’t also been trying to text Ilya while doing it.

He was leaning against the kitchen counter, his electric toothbrush hanging from his mouth, buzzing behind his teeth. His hands were currently occupied with his phone, and he laughed as he read another text. It wasn’t even funny. Ilya was just complaining about practice. He reread the most recent text, giggling, the toothbrush dangling precariously.

As she walked into the kitchen, his mother sighed and gave him an unamused look. He looked up at her, feeling a bit caught.

“You’re just like your father,” she muttered, taking the toothbrush out of his mouth and turning it off before walking toward the bathroom to return it to its rightful place.

He blinked, his mouth still full of toothpaste. He glanced down at his phone. Ilya had sent him a frowney face. Shane laughed again.

* * * * *

“Shane? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” Shane breathed into the phone, barely able to believe he was actually hearing the voice on the other end.

“So I can come? To the cottage?” Ilya said nervously. Shane imagined him biting his lip even though Ilya didn’t really do that. Shane did, though.

“Yeah,” he repeated, just as airy.

There was a long pause. “Shane? You do not seem very sure…”

“I am very sure. I want you to come. I want it so much,” Shane said quickly, the words tripping over themselves to get out.

“Okay,” Ilya said before pausing. “So you watched Scott Hunter kiss his child bride?”

“He didn’t look that young,” he responded, frowning.

“Maybe not. But maybe any age is a child compared to Hunter.”

Shane laughed loudly before he remembered that his parents were still right around the corner, and he slowly crept down the hall into his childhood bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What did you think of it?” he asked.

Ilya hummed. “I think there was a lot of tongue for TV.”

Shane chuckled, lying down on the bed and grabbing a pillow so that he could hold it in between his arms. “Well. You know Hunter. He comes from a different generation. He might not know any better.”

Ilya snorted. “Well. We will have to talk all about it when I come to the cottage.”

“I think you’ll like it there,” Shane said, swinging his legs back and forth, hanging over the edge of the bed.

“I do not know. I am not a big outdoors person. I am a fragile city boy. Wolves will sense this and attack me,” Ilya responded.

“Ah, well. I’ll protect you.”

“With what? A hockey stick?”

“Maybe. I’m better at using it than you are, that’s for sure,” Shane said, smiling.

Ilya tsked. “This is a terrible, terrible lie. Is not good to lie to your guests before they even come.”

Shane rolled over on the bed, setting the phone down next to him so that he could stare at the contact name, still a little unconvinced he was talking to who he thought he was talking to. “Are you?” he asked softly. “Lying? About coming to the cottage?”

“No,” Ilya said firmly. “I am coming. I am already buying plane ticket.”

“What!” Shane shot up, grabbed his phone, and swiped to a web browser. “No. I can buy the ticket. I invited you.”

“Shane, I can buy my own ticket,” Ilya said flatly.

“But I want to buy it for you.”

“But then people will say I am a gold digger. They will say I am only in it for the money.”

Shane rolled his eyes, but couldn’t tamp down the grin that was permanently glued to his face. “Aren’t you?” he asked sarcastically.

“Yes, of course, but we cannot let the people know this.”

Shane laughed and bought Ilya a plane ticket anyway. He stayed awake for far too long, both panicking about Ilya coming and seeing his cottage and imagining all the things they would do together, irrationally giddy about the prospect.

And for the first time since he was six years old, Shane Hollander forgot to brush his teeth before he went to bed.

* * * * *

Shane no longer counted brush strokes. He counted Ilyas. An average adult man has 28 teeth. Some people who refuse to have their wisdom teeth taken out have more. Some hockey players with too many concussions have less. There is a full range of intelligence there, from the wise to the potentially brain-damaged.

It didn’t matter to Shane, though, not anymore. Because each stroke was now a text from Ilya. A smile. Gold hair with a gentle curl. A book he thought Ilya would appreciate. Or would at least appreciate receiving. A recipe he was pretty sure Ilya had all the ingredients to make. A video of a dog that Ilya had sent to Shane three times because he kept forgetting he had sent it the week prior. A video that Shane had watched three times because he would never not watch what Ilya sent him. It was a night they spent falling asleep together and the morning after when they both decided to stay.

* * * * *

Their first night at the cottage, Ilya waltzed into the bathroom, setting his bag on the counter, pulling each item out and lining them up right next to Shane’s. He even made sure the tops of each item were aligned, just like Shane liked. 

Shane glanced over at Ilya as he assessed the row of products, frowning.

“Shit,” Ilya said, folding his arms and standing back as if the counter had offended him.

“What?” he asked, worried that one of his many bottles and tubes had irreparably changed Ilya’s perspective of him. Was it the eye cream? Or the toner? If Ilya only tried it, he would understand. Maybe Shane could convince him to let Shane give him a little facial.

Ilya looked at Shane bashfully. “I forgot my toothbrush and toothpaste.”

Shane blinked at him. “You…you forgot like the one thing you’re always supposed to bring on trips?”

Ilya groaned, wrapping his arms around Shane’s waist. “Yes, we all know Shane Hollander has never forgotten anything in his life. He is so very perfect.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Shane added with a grin. Ilya tilted his head so that he could peer at Shane from the side, giving his cheek a little kiss.

“Is okay,” he said, grabbing Shane’s toothbrush. “I can just use yours.”

“No, don’t!” Shane said, grabbing the brush from a cackling Ilya and placing it back down with a glare. “That’s so gross.”

“Shane,” he said flatly. “I have literally spat in your mouth.”

“That was gross too.”

“You came immediately after.”

“Okaaay! I am going to go get you a toothbrush,” he said, turning away quickly from Ilya, who laughed at him as he went to open a side closet, pulling out an unopened green toothbrush and a pack of cinnamon toothpaste.

He walked back over to Ilya and handed them over. Ilya wasn’t laughing anymore as he stared at the two items now in his hands, his eyes wide.

“Shane,” he said slowly, a smirk spreading. “Why do you have my exact toothbrush and toothpaste?”

“Oh,” Shane squeaked, hurrying over to the sink to grab his own toothbrush, not looking back at Ilya. “I use those too. All the time, really. They’re my favorite,” he rushed out. He peered at Ilya through the mirror. “I guess it’s just one of those universe things. Guess we’re meant to be.”

Ilya smiled shyly, joining him next to the sink. He opened the two packages and began brushing his teeth, handing the cinnamon toothpaste to Shane once he was done with it, his eyebrows raised. Shane took it with a smile.

Ilya smiled back and turned to throw the packaging away in the trashcan underneath the counter. While he was distracted, Shane flung his arm out, grabbing his own toothpaste, squeezing a far too large glob onto his toothbrush, and shoving the whole thing in his mouth.

Ilya turned back toward him, grinning. They brushed their teeth together, crowded around one sink even though the bathroom had two. 

Ilya glanced at the spearmint toothpaste resting on the counter next to the cinnamon one and gave Shane a knowing look. Shane just rolled his eyes and kept brushing. 

Whatever. Shane still hated cinnamon toothpaste.