Summary:

Shortly after Shane joins the Centaurs, he begins to realize that things are different with this team. He might not have to keep so much of himself so tightly under wraps, but he's not totally sure what that means. After years of hiding and carefully curating his safe, boring Canadian hockey Golden Boy image, Shane isn't sure who he is or who he wants to be as an out hockey player and the husband of effortlessly sexy Ilya Rozanov. He's worried he will never look the part or feel comfortable in his own skin. During a West Coast road trip, he meets up with Rose for brunch and asks for a little help. The restaurant Rose had chosen was aggressively Californian—all white linen and succulents and sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. Shane felt conspicuous just sitting there, like his Canadian practicality was somehow visible, a beige smudge against all that brightness. Rose, of course, looked like she belonged. She always did. Today it was a sundress and oversized sunglasses pushed up into her hair, effortless in a way Shane had never figured out how to be. "So," she said, spearing a piece of avocado from her omelet, "You know I love to take you shopping and dress you up. I'm thinking we hit Melrose after this. There's this new place Miles told me about—very edgy, very now. Then maybe that vintage shop on Fairfax, and—" "Rose." She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "What?" Shane stared at his eggs. He'd been turning this over in his head for weeks, trying to figure out how to say it, whether to say it at all. But things were different now. He was different now. Or trying to be. "I need help," he said. Rose set down her fork. "Okay. With what?" "With—" He gestured vaguely at himself. "This. All of this. I don't know how to—" The words stuck. He forced them out anyway. "I don't know how to be sexy." For a moment, Rose just stared at him. Then she laughed—a bright, startled sound that carried across the restaurant. Shane felt his face flood with heat. Stupid. This was stupid. He never should have said anything. He was already pushing back from the table, already constructing the polite excuse that would get him out of here, when Rose grabbed his hand. "Shane. Shane, wait. I'm sorry." Her grip was firm, her expression shifting from amusement to something softer. "I wasn't laughing at you. I swear. It's just—do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds coming from you?" "Forget it." His voice came out stiff. "It's fine. I shouldn't have—" "No, listen to me." Rose leaned forward, not letting go of his hand. "I know a lot of attractive people. It's literally my job to know and hang out with attractive people. And I have never— never—met anyone as hot as you who has so little idea how attractive they are." She shook her head, something like wonder in her voice. "Shane. Come on. You pulled both Rose Landry and Ilya Rozanov, and you think you aren't sexy?" Shane's flush deepened, but for different reasons now. "That's part of the problem." "What do you mean?" He looked down at their joined hands, trying to find the words. "Ilya is... you've seen him. He's so hot. And it's effortlessfor him—the way he moves, the way he dresses, the way he just exists in the world. He walks into a room and everyone looks at him." Shane swallowed. "And then there's me. Standing next to him. And I worry that when people see us together, I look like his... his boring Canadian little brother." Rose's expression flickered. "Does Ilya make you feel that way?" "No." The answer came immediately, certain. "No, he's always telling me I'm beautiful. That I'm sexy. That he can't believe he gets to—" Shane stopped, ears burning. "But that's usually when we're, um. Naked." Rose's lips twitched, but she didn't laugh this time. "Okay." "I want to figure out how to be that person when we're not naked. How to be sexy beside him, out in the world. For him, but also for—" Shane struggled. "For me. I want to feel like I belong next to him. Like I'm not just... tolerated there." "Shane." Rose's voice was gentle. "You know he doesn't think that, right? That man looks at you like you hung the moon." "I know. I know he doesn't think it. But I think it. And I don't know how to stop." Rose was quiet for a moment, studying him. Then: "Okay. Describe an outfit that's made you feel sexy." Shane opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried again. Nothing came. He thought about his closet—the rows of identical dark suits, the game day shirts still in their dry-cleaning bags, the workout clothes and the team-branded everything and the careful, curated wardrobe of a man who'd spent his entire adult life trying to disappear into acceptability. "I can't," he finally said. "I can't think of anything." "Nothing? Ever?" Shane shook his head slowly. "I've spent so much time curating this... this clean cut, golden boy image. The one that's safe. The one that doesn't attract attention or make anyone uncomfortable. And it's not me—it was never me—but I don't..." He trailed off, frustrated. "I'm not really sure how to be the me I want to be now. I don't even know what that looks like."