Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Montreal Metros Team Ensemble, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Shane Hollander "We Didn't Even Kiss" Text Emotional Fallout, not sent - just the rammies, Anxious Shane Hollander, Hockey Injuries, Toxic Masculinity, Hockey nicknames, Internalized Homophobia, Emotional Baggage, Rough Sex, Anal Sex, hole slapping, Masochism, Masochist Shane Hollander, Sadist Ilya Rozanov, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-29 Updated: 2026-01-25 Words: 8,848 Chapters: 2/6

hold a cut inside

Summary

It's the Metros' season; Shane knows it. And no matter how many hits he takes, Shane's always been good at getting back on the ice.

Letting Ilya Rozanov touch his bruised body when he comes off the ice doesn't change anything. It can't; Shane knows that, too.

Notes

only seen the show, am taking liberties. unabashedly interested in the hot iced sports portion of the narrative. i believe in hockey nickname supremacy 🫡

we ARE loosely basing this season's games on MTL's 14-15 schedule, but don't worry too much about it. title from 'tools of ignorance' by devin kelly. yes, sports poetry. we are there. thanks for beta-ing ki and annie, my sweet puffs.

IMPORTANT: this takes place in the nebulous emotional/sex zone constructed by ep 2's ending and ep 4's opening montage. aka. the rammies of feeling/writing the we didn't even kiss text -> to fucking hard and consistently. this fic is written using a custom creator skin. for optimum reading experience, make sure it is turned on!

Chapter 1: November 22, 2014

Blood tickles down the back of Shane’s ankle.

The cut stings, a sharp corkscrew of pain into his calf that throbs up and down his body, sings with the bruises on his back, the swell of his left knee. It’s fine. Good even. Gives his body something to focus on in the background instead of staring at the ice, replaying the rush, trying to find the exact moment when Rozanov’s rookie attack dog tried to take a piece out of Shane’s side, and ate ice, his skates launching up like helicopter blades, clean and quick through Shane’s sock.

Coach is calling for first line.

Shane gestures for the doc, instead and Coach’s square face goes puce like a gel pack. Beside him, Martin pulls his hand out of his suit pocket, whips up the play-book and starts drawing furiously.

They tap Bee. He takes the boards and skates by, a waft of pickle juice under the sweat. He lines up for the face-off instead, with Shane’s line. Shane watches the zebra, Louis Delage today: old school, leans left, doesn’t care if you throw an elbow, but watches for your skates touching the dot like its his fucking kink — drop the puck.

Rick takes his towel out from around his neck as he leans down, into Shane’s side. Bad puck drop. Reset. Shane turns into Rick’s ear.

"Cut," he says, vision blurring the neat line of his dark beard, head so close to catch Shane’s words that Shane could breathe out and brush his lips there, feel how his perpetual five o'clock shadow scrapes against Shane's chapped skin, could ruin his life for no reason, for nothing, for his own sick—

“Where, Hollsy?”

Shane rips his glove off, spits out his mouthguard. Looks back at Bee’s dumb ass getting tossed out of the face-off for snapping too early, twice.

“Right calf. Is it bleeding through?”

Rick’s eyes flick down. “Up.”

Shane lurches up, foot squelching in his skate. Braces himself on his forearms, on top the boards as Cordy lines up for the face-off instead. He won’t win, but at least they won’t take a 2 for him fucking around. Shane helps Rick bend his leg back onto the bench, distantly hearing Rick mutter, “fucking Boston.” To the left, Hayds is glancing over, stringy hair matted to his forehead, nose red, biting at a disgusting bottle-nipple no one else will touch. He’s as bad as his kids.

He opens his mouth and Shane shakes his head. Looks back at Cordy missing the puck and Boston carrying around the net. Behind him, Rick touches something to the cut on Shane’s calf and Shane digs his mouthguard into his palm.

Rick’s body presses along Shane’s, as he leans forward, to talk to him still braced on the wall. Cordy pushes a Raider up against the boards, plasters to his back, kicks at the trapped puck. Ten times more careful with his skates than Rozanov's rookie.

“Needs stitches.”

“No shit,” Shane says. Now that Rick has touched it, its hotter, sharper. “Is it bleeding through?”

“We've been through this about slash—“

“Is it bleeding through?”

“Away socks, bud,” Rick says, dry.

Red blood on red socks.

“Okay,” Shane says, and, “tape it.”

Rick does it and Shane exhales through the burn, then swings his leg to the side and down. Careful with his skates in a way that Boston obviously doesn’t teach their rookies to be.

“Intermission,” he tells Rick, who is still leaning too close. He gestures to Coach and Coach nods in approval. Taps Moose’s shoulder. Shane nods at Moose. Stays standing, tapping his skate to beat the tickle.

“Seven minutes away, Cap.”

“I'm good,” Shane says.

When he looks back at the ice, play’s dead again, puck in Miity’s glove, and Boston’s halfway through a line-change. Rozanov skates backwards to the face-off dot in the Metros zone. Staring at Shane. Purple bruising his eyesocket like some overzealous puckbunny eyeshadow. Beside him, his rookie — Cone? Kohn? Complete shitstain — nudges his side and laughs. Rozanov raises his eyebrows, stares some more at Shane.

Shane gets some space between his body and Rick’s, eyes on the spit-ice wet floor. He washes his mouthguard and shoves it back in his mouth. Feels his leg throb.

When Coach says go, twenty seconds later, Shane leaps the boards. Lands wetly. Takes possession on a sick little saucer from Hayds that Shane only has to heel drag half a second at the blue line for. He stickhandles past through the leaden legs of the single D between him and catches up with the puck as the D’s stick swipes empty air. Just him and the air and the angry yellow-black bear in front of the net. He dekes backhand, drags right, groans at the stab of pain, waits for the goalie to commit and then flips forehand—

Five hole.

Goal horn.

The air explodes with disapproval. Hayds slams into his arms, and Lotto, Tays, and Moose after him, crowding in Shane’s face. Pounding his back.

He grins, breathes hard. Watches Boston's goalie take two angry swings from his water bottle. Boston changes the D but leaves the offense on ice. Coach waves Shane’s line to stay. Center-ice puck drop. Shane’s leg throbs and throbs and he clenches up his thigh. Rozanov’s eyes are dark across the spot. He rolls his jaw back and forth.

“One is nothing,” he says.

“Zero is nothing,” Shane corrects, and sucks his mouthguard to his teeth before the ref lines up and drops the puck.

Shane scoops it over to Hayds, digs his elbow into Rozanov where the zebras can’t see. Relishes the heavy exhale of air from his gut. Feels the return check like a jolt straight to his balls. He circles round, puts on a burst of speed despite his ankle’s protest and follows the rush. Pivots around the lagging forward. Catches up to the Boston rookie, trying to put an ugly, untalented slash on Hayd’s hands. Last-ditch dirty effort before the hexagon that makes Shane's chest tight.

But, Hayds has a sick wrister when he finds his spot. It’s gone before the rookie makes contact.

The clang of the puck whipping in off the goalpost is more satisfying than racking the rookie in the balls is, but Shane makes sure he does the latter for good measure anyways. He trusts their PK on a lead more than he trusts Boston’s PP.

In intermission, Rick puts Shane on his stomach in the clinic, pulls down his pants and tights without asking, and pierces him again and again.

Shane breathes in and out and thinks about the look on Rozanov’s face after the second goal. The way anger blushed the bruise red. The way he looked at Shane being towed to the box after the spearing call, instead of his own rookie.

The way he’d said, “watch your back, Holly,” like a promise.

“You play dirty tonight,” Rozanov says, two hours later. His nose is mashed to Shane’s ear, and his balls are still mashed to Shane’s ass, as he works through his orgasm.

Shane sighs into the sheets, speaks with his mouth all gummy and his afterglow dying rapidly, “your rookie doesn’t know how to skate. Or defend.”

“Ah, yes. Least important parts of hockey.”

Shane barks a laugh because Rozanov is a beast on the ice. Sometimes, he is too funny. The laughter jiggles their bodies together, clenches him up around Rozanov’s softening cock, and Rozanov groans, catches Shane’s earlobe in between his teeth. Bites down.

It sends a shivering line down to Shane’s spent cock, which gives a feeble, pathetic twitch in its own mess. He hasn’t touched it all night. Rozanov patted it hello and then said, that’s all for tonight, and Shane could have, it’s not that he couldn’t, he just — didn’t need to, is all.

He often doesn’t need to, with Rozanov. If they get the angle right. If Shane has a good game.

“Still, is not nice, to crush a man’s balls.”

Rozanov’s hand squirms between them, taps Shane’s balls none-too-gently.

“Payback’s a bitch. Chill, dude,” Shane says. Casual. Just boys on the ice. Same as Shane’s heard Rozanov's teammates, the officials say, when Rozanov’s two-too-many swings into an early game brawl. He pushes up on his forearms. Jostles the pleasant thickness of Rozanov’s cock free of his body. It leaves a slimy trail down his thigh, makes Shane shiver. “It’s done.”

“Done for you, Holly.”

“Done for both of us, Rozy.” Casual. Player talk. Copy how the guys say it. Like they're on ice. Like it means nothing. Like in front of the camera. Like Shane doesn’t know Rozanov’s first name or how he sounds when he groans his second orgasm after a rough game — “It was a fast play against the—“

"You say like Kay does."

"What?" Whoever Kay is.

"Rozy," Rozanov says, Rose-y, and moves away from Shane's back.

"I guess?"

"Holly and Rozy, hmm. Plants. Flowers," he laughs, a nice, deep chuckle like the guys laughing at girls in bars, fluttering their eyelashes too hard.

"What do you know about flowers in English?" Shane says, tightening his shoulders against a shiver.

"I look things up."

Right. For girls. Who like flowers.

Shane rolls his tongue across his teeth as he kneels up. Wishes Rozanov had left his water bottle on the beside this time, for him to steal.

“That would be more funny, no?" Rozanov asks, thumb circling around on Shane's lower back, "Still girls, too.”

Shane wanders into the washroom instead. Spits first, drinks from the tap.

“No?” Rozanov asks, lounging on the bed. Arm behind his curly head. Condom off his wet dick and thankfully in the trash can. “Wouldn’t it?” he asks again, eyes dark again, like at the center-ice dot.

Shane looks away from them, down at Rozanov’s sweaty neck.

“What.” He never gets these questions right.

“If we,” the obscene, pink cupid’s bow of his top lip curls up, arrow notched. He puts on a bad American accent, "have Rozy and Holly in our phones, instead—“

Instead of Lily and Jane.

Shane stares at him. Rozanov smiles back, focus heavy on Shane’s prickling skin.

Wouldn’t it be funny? If instead of protecting anything, they—

Wouldn’t it be hilarious, when someone saw, because they would, because there’s only so many places on a flight that Shane can hide his phone and he has to sleep sometimes and his boys love to take stupid selfies and horrible ass shots on every phone they can find and then cackle about it until they cry. A man’s ass on a man’s phone. Funniest thing on earth, Shane reminds himself. But not too funny, or that’s weird. But not not-funny at all, because that’s suspicious. But not ever something he should keep, but not something he should try and avoid every flight, because that’s too obvious, that’s unsportsman, bro. That’s weird. That's gay.

And when someone saw, that would be more than gay—

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” Shane says, looking down at his slacks and underwear, already on. He didn’t even wipe up. Fuck. He zips up anyways. Reeboks, reeboks. Where are his—

“We only fuck once and now you are done?”

“I’ve gotta go see if your rookie’s skates gave me tetanus,” He seems the type to not let equipment guys clean his shit. Actually, Shane does need to check that. Did Rick check that? When was his last shot? Caroline would know. Shit. He’s gonna get tetanus and he’s gonna miss games and he’s—

“Tet-nus—“

“An infection. Or like, virus—“

“You get shots all the time,” Rozanov waves a hand, like brushing Shane’s words away.

“I think tetanus can still happen.” Probably. That’s how vaccines work, right?

“You are fine.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Fuck,” Rozanov rolls the word, long and so sympathetic it must be fake. “Is tiny. What, ten stitches?”

Eight. Shane feels himself flushing as he pulls on his dress shirt. It looks fine. No wrinkles. He hung it up this time. Likes that better. He’s going to walk out of here and feel fine. Look good. Look undetectable. His cock is sticking to his underwear but no one can tell. He won’t limp. He’s good, chill. Shane is not a pussy. Eight stitches; Rozanov is a dick with a shitty rookie that can’t tell his helmet from his skates, but he’s right about that.

Still.

“Doesn’t mean I wanna get sliced, asshole.” Shane’s done his time in rehab. Rookie year, target on his back like a boarding competition between the old enforcers. Two concussions. Jaw broken in three places. Torn meniscus. He made it through. More important, “what happens when he catches someone’s throat or wrist, huh?”

His shoes are by the low dresser-doubling-as-TV-stand. He braces himself, palm on the top. Stretching down pulls at the stitches. Fumbling his shoe hurts.

Rozanov pushes up behind him, naked still, probably getting sweat all over Shane’s clothes and Shane opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off and back up.

“You know he gets in trouble for this,” Rozanov says, low.

Shane stares at his hand, scuffed red, broken nails, spread eagle across the dresser-top.

“You know, Hol—“

“I don’t know, actually.”

“You’re captain,” Roz says, like that explains everything. His breath is hot on Shane’s ear. Then, his hands are on Shane’s waist. “Let me see.”

He undoes Shane’s pants, drops them, puts them on the dresser. Third time today someone has taken them off without asking.

“You already saw,” Shane says.

“I was looking at other things.”

Roz drops, kneels behind him. Shane can see his hands edging over the bandage around Shane’s calf, before he’s pulling up at Shane’s ankle. Reflex guides him; he bends his leg back for Rozanov, lets Rozanov balance Shane’s shin on his thigh. He inhales, holds it in his lungs, leans harder on the dresser. Is back in TD Garden, letting Rick upturn his body.

Rozanov pushes at Shane’s muscle like he knows fuckall about wound care.

He touches where Rick touched. Leans over Shane like Rick did, like there’s a crowd they’re shouting in each other’s ears over.

Shane’s stomach twists.

“Just like with doctor, hm?” Rozanov says, soft, dangerous.

He breathes in Rozanov’s obnoxious woody cologne and tastes his own heartbeat.

“No,” he says, “it’s not.”

It’s not.

Because he can’t know. If he knows that Shane was thinking about it — then everyone else does. Shane’s good at hiding it. He has to be. Shane’s keeping it squirreled away in the green bin of his spine, compost rotting away until it refuels him like that high-tech mushroom box thing Dash’s wife bought last month. That’s Shane, quiet and useful and powerful, spit-shined on the counter, waiting for a nice woman with giant breasts to hug him close and whisper how good he’s —

Heat, all along his back. Rozanov pushes Shane’s hips against the wood and Shane lowers his leg quickly, flushing hard across the back of his neck. Rozanov’s lips chase it. His chest presses to Shane’s spine. Plush and familiar. Shane thinks of putting his mouth on his pecs. Cupping his hands around the perky meat there, Roz’ barely sensitive nipples, so unlike Shane’s hyperactive own.

Rozanov works down Shane’s shirt buttons, undoing them one at a time, one-handed.

“Not on the floor,” Shane says, when he pulls it away.

“I know,” Rozanov says. He sucks at Shane’s shoulder as soon as the skin is revealed, throws the shirt over the TV. Uses teeth.

“Not —“

“I know,” Rozanov says again, and he pushes Shane’s head down onto the dresser top. His head lodges against the wall, cupped on both sides, snug and static-y. Shane's hand clutches at the thin space between slick wood and wall, nearly tangles in his own pants. “Going to fuck you again.”

“Fine,” Shane says, like it was a question.

“Fine,” Rozanov mocks back, fists his hand in Shane’s hair and pulls sudden and hard.

Shane gasps, and his hips jerk into the unforgiving wood. His head tips back onto Rozanov, his eyes shutter closed.

"Good," Rozanov murmurs.

He sucks at Shane's neck. Pulls Shane's underwear down, nudges him to kick it to the side. It’s too soon for Shane to get hard; they both know. It doesn’t matter. Is better, even, sometimes. When they fuck too soon after fucking already, clawing seconds out of the evening before curfew or flight call turns them into pumpkins. Shane gasping into the sheets or the walls or the cool recycled air. The raw nerve of him scraping against the rough edge of Rozanov. Sick, strange, shocked jolting in his stomach like a bad hit ringing his bell. Vibrating into his bones. Until all he can focus on is Rozanov inside him and there's no boards in sight, no lines, just open, endless ice.

Now, Rozanov pets his asshole. Pushes a finger in like testing the temp. Shane makes a sound, too wet for a grunt, too easy for a second fuck. Rozanov mutters something not English into Shane’s shoulder and then his hand pulls Shane’s ass cheek, opens up a space for himself to rub his chubbed up cock. He rolls his hips, drags their skin together. Grinds messy, sparking that sore ache.

His cock is wet, bare.

"Condom," Shane says and starts to lift his head.

"I am getting," Rozanov pushes him back down, sucks at Shane's shoulder blade. As he steps away, the cold hotel air seeps in to take his place against Shane's skin.

He's back in ten seconds. Long enough for Shane to feel completely aware of his position, of his knuckles against the wall. Not long enough to decide if he wants to change it. He won tonight: the choice is his, how they fuck.

The crinkly condom is cold when Roz drops it on Shane's back for safe keeping. Rolling his eyes, Shane pushes his hips back. "Get on with it," he mutters. The weight of Rozanov's body grows as he laves his tongue across Shane's shoulders. The insistent grip of his hand opens Shane back up, so Rozanov can get himself fully hard, using Shane's cheeks, hissing in through his teeth, oversensitive and a glutton for it anyways.

Shane traps the hurry up behind his teeth.

Can't be this desperate when he's still soft and open from just getting fucked.

When Rozanov pulls back again, Shane opens his mouth — ego be damned — but Rozanov says, "here, help," and pulls Shane's right hand back to hold open his right ass cheek so Rozanov can pick up the condom, rip it open.

He groans, rolling the latex over himself.

Shane's fingernails dig into his own ass.

Pulling Shane's left cheek, Rozanov just fucking. Stares at him. At his ass, still wet, probably reddened up. Sore. For a full three seconds, he just looks.

Then, he murmurs, "hot."

Shane clenches up so hard a shiver zaps through his body.

"Enough, Roz," Shane says. "Come—"

Pain lances right over his asshole. The sharp smack hits his eardrums half a second later.

"Fuck," he bites down on the curse as he grabs back at Rozanov. But Rozanov catches his hand and puts it gently back on his own ass.

"You hit me," Shane says, dazed.

The heat from the slap is digging through his muscles like a guy on a breakaway, stretching across Shane's groin, taking a shot at getting his cock hard already. Then it rolls over his skin like a sick goal, sparking goosebumps.

"You ask for it last week," Rozy says.

"That was my ass."

"This is your ass." Rozanov spits between them, so it drips down Shane's spine. Then, he pets the spit into Shane's hole. "Another?"

Shane's body tightens. Expectant. Waiting. He can't help it. He lives on bodily reflex to pain. It saves his life and his skin on the ice. He doesn't say anything, can't. He pulls at his own cheek. Tilts his hips up.

Another slap, this one harder, faster. And immediately, another and another, spiking pain and goosebumps and kicking right through Shane's stomach and spine and cock.

"Shit." Shane says, knocking his head against the wall. He grips his own ass like a lifeline.

"S'good?" Rozanov asks.

Shane stuffs his arm in his mouth. Bites down around his forearm. Pushes back into the next slap.

"Harder," he says, not even sure it's audible around his own arm.

But Rozanov must hear him, or he just knows, because he does — he knows Shane's body that good, better than Shane does himself. It's insufferable. But the next slaps are harder. Louder, smacking into the already tenderized meat of him with a wet thump.

A few more times, and Shane's tingling. Nerves singing. The stretch of skin from his tailbone to his taint a sunburn stretched over a workout, sore and worth it for the sun bursting bright and full inside Shane's closed eyelids.

"S'good," Rozanov nods against Shane's temple. His voice is raspy, soft at the edges and his hand across Shane's shoulder is sweating, massaging the muscles.

"Fuck me," Shane says.

"Yes," Rozanov says, and pulls his hands back to position himself, thick and slick. His thumb slips along Shane's asshole as he smushes his cockhead there, working hard for that first entry like always, and the touch feels like a blade slapping his raw skin.

Need crashes over Shane in waves.

Shane wraps his free hand back to grab Rozanov’s ass, drags him in. Angles his hips up and shoves back as much as he can. Lust burns him, ice crystals bursting in his skin. The barely-wet enough drag of their bodies together hurts. Pares him open without mercy. Heavy cockhead popping in. Breath catching in both their lungs. A slow steady push that refuses to be denied. Shane's sore hole throbbing around the pressure, clenching tight. A fresh, new jolt of pure fucking sensation that Shane chases after, working his hips back until they are flush together.

The moment after, when Rozanov can never resist a kiss to Shane's temple.

"Good?" Rozanov asks.

Shane nods back against his face. "Yeah, good."

An understatement.

He's cored open. Aching good, aching for a purpose, like the dig of a trainer’s unforgiving elbow into a knot behind his scapula, unwinding him.

Rozanov fucks him hard, bounces Shane in between the dresser and his body because it doesn’t matter who sees a bruise line at his waist, there’s three games a week he could have gotten that at. For all the piddly leverage Shane has, he gives back just as good as he can. Keeps getting shocked over the sparking sensation of his raw skin, ground up against Rozanov's bush, smacked by Rozanov's sweaty skin. A cascade of prickly-perfect potently-pure feeling.

A kick pushes his legs wider, digs into the swollen skin around the stitched slice. Average, familiar pain shudders through Shane’s leg. It twitches, gives out for a second, before he hauls himself upright. His cock drags against the dresser drawer; agonizing.

“Hey, fucker,” Shane starts.

Rozanov does it again as he grinds forward.

The pain burns in him, swirls around his gut, dips into the well of lust that is never fucking satisfied around Rozanov. Another thrust. Shane moves back into it. Takes it. Uses it. Pushes his strained muscles past the point of no return. Drags off Rozanov's cock, shoves back, leans his body into the smarting, stinging bite of his life and feels it in his skin, trapped and wild, clawing at his cock and his ass and his balls and his throat.

“There you are,” Rozanov's breath is hot in Shane’s ear, his cross body-warm where it drags over Shane’s nape.

He rolls his hips. His hand smears Shane’s face into the dresser like he’s checking Shane into the glass, before he lets go, puts his hands on Shane's neck and Shane's tailbone and pushes down with both hands. Pinions Shane. Great hands, soft, quick on the stick, wicked one-timer, nasty left hook, salty in Shane's mouth, petting his tongue, holding his jaw open so the sounds he tries to strangle burst to life.

"Give it," Rozanov kisses the back of Shane's shoulder, right over the scar. Pushes Shane's knee into the dresser, so the pain starbursts.

Shane gives it up.

Hasn't known how to do anything else with Rozanov, ever.

Comes so hard, his heart thudding so loud against his eardrums that he almost misses Rozanov’s quiet, “that’s it, Holly. I got you.”

Eyes clenched shut, Shane's cock drips steadily, jerking with every thrust. He grunts and immolates and curls up into the touch of Rozanov's big hand running up and down Shane’s sweaty spine. His callouses catch and release Shane's tacky skin over and over, exactly the same movement, like some kind of kindness, like a pre-game routine, rote and unconscious. Rozanov pets the nape of his neck and wraps his fingers around Shane's neck and holds Shane on his dick and Shane finds a way to open up wider, leg up on the dresser, clawing him, getting him closer.

When Rozanov's hand covers the bandage, it throbs gently. All Shane feels is steady, familiar warmth.

Chapter 2: December 26, 2014

Chapter Notes

thanks for all the love, fronds 😘 on this grand winter storm day, may you enjoy some shane in the deep cold. stay safe.
** this chapter requires the creator's custom skin code to be turned on for optimum reading experience. please make sure that it is!

The snow's really coming down by the time Shane gets his jacket on and his toque pulled down. Thick plumes of it drifting haphazardly across the window, getting caught like tufts of fur in the pine needles. Salt bags are leaning in the hallway, next to the door: his dad's morning routine.

"It's Boxing Day, bud," his dad says, from beside the stove, as Shane heads down the hall.

Shane pauses, but Dad doesn't say anything else. He's pushing something around on the stove. He has bags under his eyes.

"Yeah," Shane agrees finally. "I know."

His dad flips the towel in his hands to his shoulder and flips a look between them.

Shane shoves his feet into his Reeboks, ties his laces. Phone, wallet, iPod, headphones, check.

Snow's building up, but if he goes quick, he can manage a few kilometres, probably. They're good at salting and clearing the single road out here. His muscles'll warm up quick. Like they do when he gets to the rink before any of the team and steps into the quiet cloud of fresh, wet home ice, for early morning practices. And when he steps back onto the ice in two days, it'll be like he never left it for half a week.

"Shane."

He looks up. Plants his eyes on his dad's ratty apron. There's a new one, just the same blue, but better, leather straps, sitting in a box under the tree; it'll be the third time Mom tries to get Dad to replace it.

"You don't have to train on Boxing Day," his dad continues.

Looks at Shane's shoes. Looks at his face. Exhales so light not even Shane's mom could call it a sigh, and turns to look out the window.

He's half-smiling, but it's the kinda smile that makes Shane check to make sure he didn't put his shoes on the wrong feet.

It's been too-warm in the cottage for days: brassy Christmas music on blast, familiar wood fire crackling, his dad's cooking experiments bubbling away, his mom taking phone calls from realtors in the spare room. She was scribbling on her whiteboard as Shane passed. Nodded in approval. Didn't say anything to him. Familiar. Just one moment in days of long stretches between them talking. Quietest time of year. Same as it's been since his Baachan passed four years ago.

In a few hours, they'll say a prayer that all of them mumble through, and they'll sit down around the table with an empty chair at Shane's side, and every one of Shane’s hockey trophies glinting down at them from the mantel; second place, a lot. Shane will think about each fatty, too-hot bite he puts inside his mouth, for the entire time it takes to chew. After, Shane's dad will take the call from his own dad with his back straight and Mom will put a hand on his thigh and rub at the wrinkle line between her eyes with the other. And then Shane's grandfather will hang up.

Dad's dense take on Baachan's airy Christmas cake will come out and then they will have the single glass of red wine that Shane has all season and it will mix sharply with the tang of the strawberries and stick to the roof of Shane's mouth and make his cheeks ache and burn, like he's been smiling for too long for too many cameras and they're telling him: Wider. Smile wider. Look here Shane. Hey 24, eyes up—

Only, it's not like that at all.

Shane double-knots his laces.

"I'll be back in 30, Dad."

He opens the door as his Dad turns back to the stove. Stands on the over-salted wrap-around porch, un-winding his headphones from his iPod, clicking through to albums. Spins the wheel, feeling each click reverberating through his fingers. H. Havoc and Bright Lights.

Hits play.

Hits the road with the percussion just loud enough to carry over the slip-crunch of lake water against the dead shore.

He jogs lightly, the first few minutes. Finding his traction. Testing how wet the snow is, at the edges of the road, spots where the salt has missed sacrificing itself just yet.

When he starts getting distracted by the crackle of trees and the sibilant shuffle of snowbanks among the hibernating forest, he breaks into a solid run. Drums his feet against the pavement to the beat, finds his 5k pace.

Cardio in active snowfall is always a slap to his lungs.

Winter chilling deep inside his nose. Spikes of almost-pain. Necessary. Refreshing. Fraction of a game, microdosed like Lotto's smelling salts or Bee's pickle juice or rushing to get the icing call. Freezing lake air slaps his head like a compress catching around his brain-stem. The thud of his steps on the path shift quickly from static vibrations up his legs, to routine, to soothing burn. He hits the main road, where the maple trees tuck around the sky like a reverse envelope. Goes South first. Mild incline. Against the wind. Decent burn. Gets ten minutes in before a car approaches and he steps off into the shoulder.

Listens to Alanis start singing I have tasted star— and hits next on his iPod.

Stretches.

The piano introduction swims over top the snowflakes. Shane stretches his arms and Alanis sings about cutting off her nose to spite her face.

He touches a perfect leaf set in a crystallized puddle, beside the log. Regrets it immediately when it breaks off, attached to him. He shakes his gloved hand, tries to fling the sticky remains off. They cling, shattering further. He swipes his glove across the top of the log, gets it wet, nearly doesn’t care because the leaf comes off. Exhales. Shakes out his hand. Inhales ice. Exhales fog. Takes off his wet glove but doesn’t have anywhere to put it. Stretches his hamstrings out instead. It’s a good tree. He knows it. Sees it when he drives in. A fallen oak from a late summer storm they still haven't cleared out yet because it’s not in the way.

A line of tension runs up the back of his calf.

His leg still twinges sometimes, if he tugs on the wrong socks too fast. If he dekes too hard. Rick's resewn it twice already. Threatened Shane with staples if he didn't manage to keep it shut this past time. It keeps reminding him of November. Of the unanswered text in his phone, sitting there just like the leaf stuck to his glove.

Rozanov's English gets better every month, in the most annoying way possible. Scratching under Shane’s muscles. Impossible to ignore.

He stretches his hamstrings.

Of course, Rozanov’s had six months to practice English with everyone except for Shane. Six months of media and cup buzz and the best time of his fucking life in the Boston cup parade, drinking vodka from the cup in a dark club where shaky camera footage showed Shane just how many women Rozanov and his team could get to admire it — admire him.

Maybe he even did read the New Yorker. To know it was boring.

The half of the leaf still in the pond sticks straight up, exposed spine like a mast, stripped of a sail. Exposed to winter.

Same way Rozanov read Shane and knew Shane would do everything he said, that June night in Vegas. The way he knew Shane would answer the next time, in Montreal, where Roz put him facedown and ate him out and held his hands against the small of his back and pressed on the strain in Shane’s wrist. Same way Roz disappeared into the rainy evening while Shane was in the shower, but knew a month later that Shane would come to his specially booked hotel room in Boston. Would say please on his bruised knees with Rozanov’s cock slapping his face, and when Rozanov asked what else Shane wanted slapped, he knew what Shane would say then, too. Looked at Shane with his blue eyes so arresting, so bright, biting his lip, breathing hard as he reached out to press down on Shane's waiting tongue.

And then, of course, the week after that, back in Montreal.

He always knows where to push his elbow to get a hit without taking a call.

He’s always half a step ahead and Shane can’t catch up. Can’t help thinking about being folded up and kissed. Can't help thinking about the stairwell and holding a hoodie that smelled like Rozanov's body. About smiling into Roz's lips. Can’t decide still, if Rozanov’s sudden suspension on kissing is for a set number of game-fucks, or is open ended. League-of-one making his own new MLHPA, all-powerful, unbothered by outside analysis.

Shane presses his wind-raw lips together, swallows.

He starts back towards the cottage. Holds his glove instead of wearing it. Lets his hand freeze. Pushes faster. Harder. Blood in his ears. Knives in his lungs. Good, good burn eating him inside. Blurry rush of trees and shadows and snow dunes. Cold front in. Ice in his bones. Exhale a cloud of heat. Let it fly away.

Icy wind bites at his nose, turns the air loud and cantankerous. Quiets the music to a cocooned murmur. The trees shiver around him, splotches of green and black, their uniforms stark against the gray sky.

It's fine to reply, really. Rozanov texted first.

Final turn of the road back to the cottage.

Shane forces his legs to slow down, endures the jitter and spasm of their protests. Light jog, heart-rate receding from that comforting deafening drum in his ears. His shoes are fucking cold, but the waterproofing has held on. A car growls behind him. He stops to lean on a pine, fingers curling into the craggly bark. Heaves cold in through his nose, out through his mouth. Stares at the undisturbed snow surrounding the log, stretching its rainbow-catcher body into the trees. Crisp and clean as a zamboni finish.

Rozanov texted first. That means it's fine. It's not like last year.

It’s not six months of ear-ringing silence after letting Rozanov touch—

He puts his foot on the blanket of snow. Leaves behind the tread like a bruise. Kicks his foot clean against the trunk to the beat of the song playing in his ears, stretches and then switches feet. Stretches more for all the good it does. He misses the hammer of the ice.

Exhales at the sky. Misses his yoga mat with its grippy surface, lost on the flight back from Texas at the beginning of the month, some-fucking-how. Pulls out his phone. Taps with half-numb fingers. Delivery for the replacement still says after the first.

ESPN says Boston is still teetering at fourth in the division. Articles about it fill their timeline. Too many post-cup injuries turned LTIR. A vet retirement. Two d-men who signed better deals in California.

Good.

It's fine.

Rozanov texted back.

It's fine to text.

He sends back to Rozanov, tongue caught between his teeth.

The response comes almost instantly.

They're not.

No one thinks the Metros are shit. Even Boston die-hards admit their numbers are sick. Most all-time cup wins, most post-season appearances in the modern era, let alone the original six. Got Shane on the second pick in 2009 from shitty, mismanaged Chicago on a steal deal that Shane has exhaled over in his bedroom too many times because you always hear things, from NDTP boys, AHL-lifers, about Chicago, about Chicago coaches.

Shane picks a salt chunk out of his shoe tread.

Montreal isn’t like that. They like order. Like tradition. Like that Shane’s dad is from Saguenay and that Shane takes press seriously. Shane knows what’s expected of him, here.

This is the kinda chirp Rozanov loves, though. Exaggerated. Easy for Shane to pin-point as a chirp.

Shane bites at his tongue, can feel his dry lips stretching too wide, threatening to split in the dry wind.

Crush it: The Raiders. The season. The post-season.

No response to that one.

Shane exhales through his nose. Stares at a tree until it blurs into a monster.

Pushes his face into the plume of his own breath. Puts his foot down, and then the other, and the other, the other, the other, too fast. Too hard. Drumming beyond his ears, up into his skull now, thudding, thumping like a good hit, like the best kind of smacks to the numbers, where the guy at his back laughs and maybe digs a knee in and Rozanov will fake bite, teeth snapping at air over Shane’s shoulder—

He has to add an extra ten, to do another cool down routine, stretching on the porch. Phone or his ipod hot in his pocket like a muscle sprain.

“Went good?” His dad asks, after Shane drops his shoes on the mat.

“Fine. Went South. Incline,” Shane searches in the fridge for his water bottle. Replaces the ketchup back into the door where it should be.

“Okay,” his dad says. “Here, you want any of this?” His spoon is covered in something white and fluffy, flecks of pepper or spice. Probably formless, like eating a pillow.

“No,” Shane says, and then, because Marcie from PR’s voice sounds in his ear: Don’t give one word answers, says also, “I have my stuff. Prepared, yunno. Thanks.”

“Yeah,” his dad’s hand touches Shane’s shoulder briefly as Shane squeezes by to get to the blender.

His mom comes into the kitchen before he’s done drinking. Paperwork for both of them in hand.

“Yuna,” Dad starts.

“It’s only four pages. I told you three months ago, David, the Etobicoke backsplit needed—“

“I know, I know, sweetheart.”

Shane sidles to the side, but Mom looks up at him, pen held aloft. Her eyes are red. She’s wearing one of Baachan’s shawls.

Purple crochet.

Same one Shane would trace the pattern of with his fingers, while sitting on Baachan's plump, tiny couch. Listening to her murmuring about the stitches, feeling her smile against his head.

Kandō, she would say, so he would repeat it. And she would press a hand to his heart and he would trace the pattern again and again.

He sits down.

The afternoon stretches out between them.

Dad makes tourtière for dinner, despite telling Shane for days he wouldn't.

Shane peels it into four layers. Gets to put its carcass aside without any concerned looks, when his dad's phone rings halfway into dinner and Shane's mom goes to get the wine, early.

The next day rises, clouded and hazy.

It’s listless, even with a full game schedule for half the league. He spends the hours with game after game, bouncing his knee up and down until his mom touches it still and he focuses back on the TV, touches her hand. Holds it.

"Minnesota fucked up with that one," his mom says, mouth pursed, wine glass tilting in her other hand.

"The trade for Reimes or the rush?"

"Yes," Mom says, and squeezes his hand.

When the clock ticks a respectful three minutes past six, Shane excuses himself to go pack up. His brain is stretched taffy, like it always is after watching hours of tape with Jean-Paul, the new video coach that likes his interactive whiteboard, whenever there's an opposing goalie call-up. An ugly early morning drive and a commercial flight back to Montreal to board the team plane to Carolina loom ahead of him. He is folding socks to tuck along his garment bags with their still pressed grey, black, blue suits, when Rozanov texts back finally.

Shane tucks in two more socks.

Boston took an embarrassing 6-3 loss against Columbus, two hours ago. Mom crowed with delight when Rozanov took a diving call late in the third. The camera hung around, in the box, to watch the way Rozanov cussed and broke his stick on his knee.

"Mature," Shane's dad said, eyes over his reading glasses.

Shane wonders if there's a band of red and purple forming there, across Rozanov's hairy thigh, to match the faded strip on Shane's hips.

Nonsensical, that. But before Shane can send the what??, Rozanov follows it up with:

Shane rolls his eyes and tucks his smile and his phone away.

"See you later, Halls, eh?"

"Sure, Hays," Shane says, and opens his car door.

Hayden laughs too loud, turned away from Shane, towards whatever it is Couli is doing at his ridiculous nearly-Drillers-orange convertible. Too many of the boys are jostling around.

"Fucking merde," Couli spits. Half his drink is on his new wool jacket, spreading an ugly splotch over the grey.

Lotto hoots at him, slaps his back, "serves you right, bro."

Shane winces. Slides his goodbyes in among the chirps. Settles into his blissfully quiet SUV and drives on autopilot.

The Metros are back in Montreal for a day and a half.

Barely a water break before they have to leave for New Jersey; a nasty, unwieldy turnaround from Florida of all forsaken places, but the lads voted weeks ago: day at home for the New Year’s, before the rest of the roader.

It's fine.

It's just that Shane smells so much like jet, it'll probably never come out.

A headache is stabbing his brain in twelve places. It's maybe from Haysey's new cologne he’s trying for the missus, probably from J.J.'s endless chattering about what a good night it was, and definitely from the mandated party-night that is any New Year’s Eve celebration.

Shane's still hearing their voices, J.J’s distant laughter, as he turns the key to his front door and steps into the stillness of his apartment. The even-keel temperature smoothing across his face. Calm. Just the same as he left everything.

It reminds him of the echo of the hardwood and bare rooms, when he first walked in to view it. The difference between it and later, when the jingle of the shiny-new keys spread through the empty space, all his, nobody else's. Reminds him of why he bought it in the first place.

He arranges his shoes on the mat. Puts his keys in the bowl.

Rookie year, the Metros spent NYE in San Francisco, with a jet waiting for them at 8 AM the next morning to go to Seattle.

Shane’s vet, Angel, the one the team pushed him to live with first, to get used to things, get a sense for the life, had a house that was loud enough and busy enough to be a stadium, and being on the road was a weird reprieve. Angel was American, an old-school enforcer picked up to push on the guys that targeted Shane, A on the shoulder like a chip, big body with one of the hardest crosschecks in the game, someone they hoped Shane learned a good left hook from, management said. At the bar, Angel had thrown his arm around Shane’s shoulder and pushed seven shots in a row into Shane’s hand. And Shane had drowned in the smell of Angel, armpit pressed so close to his face with the five inches Angel had on him, and Angel’s rough voice reverberated through Shane’s body and pushed him into the swirl of whisky and scotch and whatever else the team held up to pour down his throat. After the ball drop, Angel told him to "Fuck off and find love, kid," as he called his wife and kids.

Shane staggered out of the bar. Staggered back to the hotel and stared at the spinning ceiling in his room with Marty, the other rookie. Pretended to be passed out when Marty came back with a girl and ate her out on the bed.

"Yeah, yeah, it’s fine," Marty said. "He’s like a doorstop, made of stone."

"That doesn’t make any sense," she giggled.

"Don’t worry about it," he said again, and sucked at her, wet and thick.

"Oh," she said, "kinda kinky. Hot."

"Yeah, baby."

Wearing the C doesn’t exempt him from the parties, but it does mean he doesn’t share a room anymore unless he wants to.

So, Shane let the boys decide the party and the place. Took them to the bar nine hours before the jet back home the next day. Spent four hours there assaulted by strobe lights, patting his boys' sweaty backs and told them how good they were doing this season. How they were gonna fucking kill it, how good their specials teams were doing until Riot and Moose, both a pitcher into the night, shouted at him, "Chill Hollpass, you're too pretty to be so serious. Take the night off. Enjoy the fucking moment, bro."

Like Shane wasn't.

And then he went back to his hotel room and slept nothing like a rock, mind replaying the nickname and the night.

Now, it’s nearly 11 AM by the time he walks into his dining room, which makes it exceptionally late to start his routine, but not so late that doing his matinée truncated schedule will feel satisfying. He itches. Takes off his jacket, drapes it over the top of the dining chair. Adjusts the shoulder so it's correct, flat. Breathes in the quiet.

There's an orange in the fruit basket. Shane runs a finger over the dimpled skin.

Pulls out the new yoga mat. Smooths the corners down again. It’s not quite the same as the old one, probably abandoned in a dirty room in Dallas.

Stretches out his spine first. Slow and steady, popping everything back into place that the airplane seats always fuck up, no matter how many times he gets up and paces the jet. Then he works his hips, his chest, his neck. Excises tension from his body just like all the team trainers get him to do; one familiar, painful position at a time. Kinesiology.

By the time he sprays the mat and rolls it away, it’s noon and the sun is marching into all the rooms. Clear, cold day. Skin sticky and cooling rapidly, and headache clearing, he steps into the heat from the shower rain head like loading himself into an oven. Scrubs his hair, his face, drags his hand down his neck.

Pauses, with his hand pressed there. Tips his head to the wet tiles. Exhales. Inhales. Feels his pulse jumping against his palm.

Pushes in, down.

The throb of his own pulse jumps inside his throat. It flutters there, trapped. Familiar. Net trapped between the flushed target of the posts. Waiting for a slapshot. Waiting for a right handed grip, thumb rubbing over Shane's chin first and then, down, pushing at his heart through his skin, long fingers wrapping around his neck. Squeezing.

Heat simmers low in his stomach. Begs to be put to use.

But there is no use here. He pulls away. Rolls his head down so his cheek is pressed to the cool, tacky tile. Presses his hands there too, pointlessly. Waits there, until he goes soft.

Shane turns off the water. Has his cool down smoothie finally. Sits at the island until it settles. Goes to bed. Plumps one pillow, two. Pulls his book in beside him. Stares at the words. Watches them skitter across the page. Puts the book aside. Takes a drink from his glass on the beside table. Taps two fingers to the base of his neck as it moves, feels the lukewarm liquid slide down inside him, imagines—

"Enough," he says out loud.

When his phone starts dinging insistently, he grabs for it with relief. It's just the boys, though. Another party. Blowing up the team chat with hangover cures and talk about some of Lotto's wife's friends that own a distillery. Shane does the math. He's done three nights this week, for the two wins and New Year’s Eve on the road. It's probably fine. He pleads his macrobiotic case and takes the veiled Asian flush jabs Bee and Miity level as an acceptable cost for a nap in his own bed.

Puts on the radio. Rolls over. Commits to it.

But instead of a jazz-tinted dream, he tosses and turns.

The sheets feel scratchy, distracting against his skin, like his housekeeper used a different detergent even though they've talked about this twenty times.

He zones out. Replays through two missed passes in the Carolina game where he was off by two centimeters. Adjusts his hands down the stick in the past to catch the saucer instead. Considers another workout, one that leaves him shaking, one that leaves him raw. Considers the box in his closet, filled with his toys. Fails to read his book again. Scrolls Youtube. Presses his thumb into a bruise on his hip he got in Carolina that blossomed into a nice purple mess in Florida, under messy elbows and stick jabs.

It stings.

He opens Insta to like his obligatory two posts from sponsors. Blurs over Twitter, past the boring news cycle, the endless baby updates.

Opens his texts.

Scrolls down.

Happy New Years. Shane types out.

Doesn't send.

Goes back to another Youtube video on watch repair. Gets recommended MLH highlights. Scrolls. Watches a video on passe composé in French because last week he said vous parlâtes outloud in a scrum, like an idiot. Gets recommended a Rolex cleaning video. Knuckles into his bruise. Clenches up. Shifts his hips against the sheets. Goes back to his texts.

Not even five minutes of meticulous Rolex mechanism cleaning later, Roz replies.

Which surprises Shane enough he texts back immediately,

That's fair, Shane thinks, looking outside at the crisp, blue-tinged snow creeping up on the window pane. The wind's vicious, beating dead branches with their merry icicle ornaments back and forth into the frame. Clink, slap, slap, clink.

Not unlike the drum of his shoes on the salt-ice cottage road earlier this week. Not unlike the beat of Rozanov’s body into Shane’s, or his gold cross hitting Shane’s belt buckle, or the thrum of blood in Shane's ears in his own shower.

He gets up. Walks over and takes a photo of the window. Sends it. Knuckles at his bruise so hard he gasps. Simmers.

Rozy sends back. If it sounds like approval, Shane's the only one who hears it. The only one that feels the molted edges of it, soft and sickly sweet, like a new bruise.