Summary:

We didn’t even kiss He doesn’t send the text, but he thinks it nonstop for two days. We didn’t even kiss He doesn’t send the text, but he thinks it nonstop for two days. The strangest part is he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. Everything that happened that night was hot as fuck. The way Rozanov’s eyes roamed greedily over Shane’s body as he touched himself had felt like a claiming, almost more than Rozanov filling him up as he pounded into Shane from behind. Just thinking about the weight of Rozanov’s gaze has Shane half hard on the airplane home. He goes through his meal plan for the next week in an effort to distract himself but thinking about food only leads to thinking about swallowing Rozanov’s dick, Rozanov’s hands clenched in his hair, and now his problem has grown, so to speak. He drops his bags in his room and hits the shower fifty five seconds after he gets home, driven by a desperate need to exorcise the still-burning embers of lust that have lodged under his skin. He comes easily, the mess swirling down the drain as hot water sluices over him and he thinks maybe he could go again, except… We didn’t even kiss Icemelt trickles down his spine, quenching the fire that’s struggling to rekindle itself. He’s played the entire night forwards and backwards in his mind, and the only conclusion he comes to is that Rozanov is an asshole and that’s all there is to it. He likes to fuck with Shane and he likes to fuck Shane. Just like he fucks with everyone. Just like he fucks anyone. Shane turns off the shower and steps out but then just stands there, dripping onto the bathmat, like his brain is unable to remember what comes next. His eyes defocus and he doesn’t know how much time has passed before they come back into focus, snagging on the naked image of himself in the mirror—crystal clear thanks to the heaters under the glass. People tell him he’s good looking and he has to believe them. When he was younger, his mother always told him he was a handsome boy, but all mothers say that. Then the sponsors kept talking about his “marketability” and wanting him to be their “face” and it hadn’t taken him long to put two and two together—although arguably longer than it should have. Rozanov had even called him “pretty” one time and he’d been grateful for the pound of makeup on his face that hid his blush. But he doesn’t see it and he never has. His eyes rake over his form and all he sees is a bundle of anxieties wrapped up in a body he’s carefully honed for one thing only, and coping with the vagaries of Russian assholes isn’t it. He finally thinks to grab a towel and start drying himself off. He needs to eat and he needs to call his mom and then he needs to sleep. He really hopes he can sleep. He wishes it was still the middle of the season. If he had a game to focus on, or even a string of games on the road, he could maybe shake this sick emptiness he feels inside. Instead all he has is summer training and being alone with his thoughts for weeks on end. Which is why, when Hayden texts him at 6am and asks if he wants to go for a run, he accepts. They have a good rhythm together, developed over the past year of rooming together on the road. Hayden can be chatty, but he lets Shane set the pace so if he’s not in the mood he can simply run fast enough that they have to save their breath. He types out a meeting place and sends it. He’s about to roll out of bed but hesitates, his thumb hovering over “Lily” three messages down. We never even kissed He lets out an aggrieved sound. What the hell is wrong with him? He just had the best sex of his life and here he is hung up on the one imperfect detail. Story of his life, really. Star hockey player, well on his way to being wealthy, reportedly good looking. There’s only one blot on his otherwise perfect resume and it’s the one thing he can’t let go of, can’t erase from existence. All he can do is hope everything else crowds out the stain, overwrites it large enough that nobody notices. He types out a message, every letter feeling like a 200lb deadlift. Have a good summer! There. What he should have written in the first place. He sends it before he can second guess himself and tosses his phone on the bed as he gets dressed to go see if he can outrun this weird pit that’s opened in his gut. He hears a buzz as he pulls his shirt over his head. Don’t have too much fun 😛 He huffs out a breath, something like a chuckle tinged with more relief than amusement. He can’t send that other text now without it being weird. It’s over. He laces up his shoes and is out the door five minutes later. He doesn’t think about kissing Rozanov again for at least an hour. see you soon ;) It’s the start of the season and they’ve only just posted the schedule in the locker room. He noted it too—third game at home against Boston. He hasn’t heard from Rozanov in almost two months, but that stupid little message with that stupid little winky face makes him happier than it has any right to. Because maybe he spent the summer wondering if there would be another six months of radio silence. Maybe he spent