Chapter Text
The flashing colored lights and the pounding bass of the club made Shane's head throb, the tight press of bodies made his skin crawl, and he remembers exactly why he hates going out to clubs with his team to celebrate after a big win. It is all just too much, completely overwhelming, and Shane hates all of it. The loud music, the overpriced drinks, the sweaty bodies, and the unpredictability. But Shane loves Hayden, and Jackie, and he loves Hayden with Jackie, so he wasn't going to miss their joint bachelor and bachelorette party. Besides, how would it look for the best man not to attend the party?
Shane is standing in line for the bathroom while checking his phone. There are a few texts there that don't require an immediate response, one from his mom that he will not respond to until he's sober again, and then one from Joe, which Shane does shoot off a quick reply to. And then there is his text thread with Lily, Ilya: it's been dormant for damn near six months. Shane is still fucking pissed about it, pissed about Ilya—Rozanov— ghosting him, the way he had talked to Shane at the Olympics when he was just trying to be nice and make sure Il—Rozanov was doing okay, and now Rozanov is still fucking ignoring him. Rozanov had even ignored Shane's text congratulating him on winning the Cup. Fucking asshole.
Shane will absolutely blame the fact that he's been doing tequila shots with Hayden and the other groomsmen for texting Rozanov.
[Shane:]
I miss you even though you're an asshole.
He doesn't actually expect Rozanov to text him back. He's pretty sure he could send the other man a raunchy video of Shane fucking himself open on his dildo and Rozanov would still leave him on read. Unfortunately, the tequila-soaked part of his brain decided to test his hypothesis.
[Shane:]
I'm drunk and horny and I want you to fuck me.
Shane stares at his text thread with 'Lily' as the line for the bathroom moves. He's still staring down at his phone when he is finally able to push through the bathroom door, when he watches the messages he'd just sent Ilya—Rozanov— switch to read, a bubble with three little dots appears. Shane sucks in a deep breath through his teeth and holds it while tucking his phone into the front pocket of his jeans as he steps up to the urinal. Not that he wants to put his phone away and risk missing Ilya's response, the first one he has gotten in six months. But even drunk, Shane is aware that it goes against social protocols to be looking at his phone screen while he has his dick in his hand and is standing at the urinal in the middle of a busy public bathroom.
And, okay, maybe he rushes through washing his hands after relieving himself before tucking himself back into his jeans and zipping them. But in his defense, this is the first time he's gotten a response from Ilya in six months. Shane can't remember the last time they went half a year without exchanging a single word. Maybe since their rookie season, Shane thinks, as he shoulders his way out of the club's bathroom. No, the summer before. He's halfway down the dingy hallway leading back into the main part of the club when Shane is finally able to tug his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans. Even drunk, it doesn't take Shane long to enter his pass code so that he can return to his text thread with Ilya.
The problem is, there's no response from the guy he's been hooking up with semi-regularly for the past six-ish years. Shane's drunk, but he isn't so drunk that he had hallucinated Rozanov bubbling him. He's even more pissed off now, honestly. Because apparently, Rozanov doesn't even have the balls to reply, even if it's just to tell Shane to fuck off. And it's not like he'd sent his fuck buddy one of those boring texts that Rozanov apparently hates.
Whatever. Fuck Ilya.
Shane shoves his phone back into his pocket with what is probably more aggression than is necessary. But, whatever, it's fine, and he rejoined the rest of the bachelor and bachelorette party. He does another shot with the rest of the wedding party and dances with Jackie's cousin Bonnie and the other bridesmaids, who are sick of being groped by random guys on the dance floor. The group winds up back at the bar after JJ and Shane have to stop Hayden from throwing hands at some tiny hipster guy who'd hit on Jackie.
There's more drinking and dancing and no one gets in a fight. At some point, they all lose track of Hayden and Jackie, only for the couple to appear looking visibly disheveled with Hayden missing the button-up he'd been wearing over his plain white t-shirt and Jackie's dress still partially hiked up around her thighs. Hayden is also wearing Jackie's lip gloss, sporting a rather large hickey that will be impossible to hide, something that they all greatly enjoy teasing him about while Jackie watches, looking entirely too smug for someone who just got fucked in a disgusting club bathroom. And even though Shane hates clubbing and definitely isn't a fan of drinking or being drunk, he is having fun; so much fun that he forgets about being pissed at Rozanov. He even manages to forget about the other man completely while dancing with a good-looking stranger. He forgets about the other man completely until he can't.
Shane is leaning against the bar, patiently waiting to get one of the bartender's attention so that he can order another round of shots for their table and get JJ the fruity cocktail he wanted but was too embarrassed to order for himself. Shane is now drunk enough that he feels zero shame ordering JJ a fuzzy navel. Honestly, the bartender probably doesn't care or would assume it was for one of the girls.
"Hollander?" Shane turned his head slowly to the left at the vaguely familiar voice. He winds up looking up into the face of a familiar but incredibly good-looking, tall man with dark hair, equally dark eyes, and some frankly sexy scruff accentuating his jawline. It's probably the alcohol, because it takes Shane an embarrassingly long minute to recognize the man standing next to him.
"Marleau?" Shane asks slowly once he recognizes the alternate captain for the Boston Raiders. Marleau nods and keeps smiling at Shane in a deliciously warm and charming kind of way. Shane lets his eyes trail over Marleau's form, and god he looks good. He's just as tall and muscular as ever, dressed in fitted jeans and a very well-fitted black henley. But he's all loose and relaxed as he leans against the bar next to Shane. "What are you doing in New York?" Shane asks, belatedly realizing how stupid a question that is. Boston is much closer to New York City than Montreal is. But the other man doesn't seem to think the question is stupid.
"My little brother's birthday," he responds with a shrug. "What are you doing here?" he asks with a little laugh, which makes Shane laugh as well.
"Hayden and Jackie's joint bachelor, bachelorette party," Shane explains, waving vaguely in the direction of the VIP area where the rest of the party was. Marleau tilts his head to the side, and it makes him look endearingly boyish.
"Huh, what are the odds of the two of us both being here tonight?" If Shane weren't drunk, he'd probably be able to calculate what the odds actually were. But he doesn't think Marleau is actually interested in that number, if the way he's staring at Shane is any indication.
"What can I get you?" Shane jumps, startled by the sudden appearance of the bartender yelling over the roar of the crowd, making Shane remember that he and Marleau aren't alone.
"Another round of tequila shots, a vodka ginger ale, and a fuzzy navel for the Pike-McMurray party, please!" Shane yells back. The bartender nods, turning to look at Marleau, her perfectly shaped eyebrow raised expectantly.
"Guinness extra stout!" Marleau called out over the crowd, flashing that charming smile at the bartender, making the very pretty brunette blush. "And put my friends' drinks on my tab. Please!" Wait, what?
The bartender nodded, going to work pouring shots and mixing drinks. Marleau turned back to Shane, his eyes dropping down to Shane's mouth. He licked his lips and watched Marleau's eyes trace the movement. Which was not an expected development.
"You wanna dance, Hollander?" Marleau asked, his eyes still staring at Shane's lips.
Shane should say no. Not just because they play for rival teams, but because of who Marleau is to Ilya. He isn't just Ilya's alternate captain, no, he's also one of Ilya's best friends. He should say no, he should go back to his table with his friends and the rest of the wedding party. But god damnit, Marleau is hot, and he is looking at Shane like he wants to devour him.
But the part of Shane that doesn't want to be the golden boy, who likes to be bad; the part of him that is mean and petty and is furious with Rozanov, really wants to say yes.
He should say no.
Instead, he leans in closer to Marleau and looks up at him through his lashes and replies,
"Sure, but only if you call me Shane, Marleau." The other man nods and accepts his beer from the bartender, who had set his and Shane's drinks on the bar next to their elbows before walking away to take the tray of shots and JJ's drink to their party's table.
"Cliff," Marleau says, his voice going low and husky, which sends shivers down Shane's spine. "Fair's fair." Shane nods, grabbing his own drink off the bar. Marleau--Cliff takes Shane's free hand in his and leads him into the middle of the dance floor.
For all of his grace and agility on the ice, Shane has historically never been a great dancer. He's awkward and offbeat, and he never knows what to do with his hands. But he finds it easy to follow Cliff's lead in the middle of the club's dance floor. The music is something slower and more sultry now. Cliff wraps one large hand around Shane's hip, slotting a thick thigh between Shane's legs. Shane wraps his arms around Cliff's shoulders, and they start moving together.
It's not grinding, per se, what they are doing. To Shane, the term grinding always makes him think of teenagers awkwardly dry-humping each other in the middle of a school gym. So no, he and Cliff are not grinding against each other, even though their hips are completely flush against each other. They are moving with a fluidity that is sensual and easy. The music is too loud to have a conversation, but Shane's pretty sure that's okay, too, because he's not great at talking, and he can feel the proof of just how into this Cliff is against his hip.
Shane knows it's a bad idea, but he's past the point of caring when he pulls Cliff in, kissing the other man. It's hot and filthy, there's nothing sweet about the kiss. There's no tenderness or history. There's only heat and urgency as their tongues slide against each other. There are no promises of forever or even next month, just intent for tonight. It makes Shane feel bold. He pulls back from the kiss and leans in as close as possible to Cliff so that his lips are right next to the other man's ear.
"Want to get out of here?" Shane asks, catching the lobe of Cliff's ear between his teeth and making the other man moan.
His erection pressed even more insistently against Shane's hip before finally replying, "Absolutely."
The alarm on Shane's phone blares suddenly as a reminder that he had to get up and meet the rest of the wedding party. He flails around in his sheets trying to locate his phone without opening his eyes because, without even opening them, Shane feels like shit. Shane's just glad that, even completely shit faced, he'd remembered to charge his phone last night. Once he manages to blindly locate his phone and silence his alarm, Shane takes stock of his body and the hangover tearing through it.
His eyes are dry, feeling like they have been scrubbed raw with sandpaper, he doesn't even want to attempt to open them, but he does, just a sliver. Shane clenches his eyes closed immediately. The bright sunlight streaming directly onto his face felt like knives in his eyeballs. Next, Shane focuses on his stomach, which is rolling, twisting painfully with nausea.
Shane wants to throw up, but the idea of moving to expel the alcohol still trapped inside of him makes Shane want to cry. Or puke. He's not sure which. The feeling is made worse by his mouth, which is somehow simultaneously too dry and filled with saliva. And it tastes horrendously like a mixture of the liquor he'd consumed the night before, halitosis, and vomit. Ugh, did he throw up last night? He can’t remember.
His entire body hurts. He doesn't think he has hurt like this since he'd started bantam hockey and learned about conditioning drills. Shane thinks his head might hurt the worst, though. Shane feels gross, sweaty, and bloated. He feels puffy and disgusting. Worst of all, though, his brain is throbbing inside his skull, he's trying not to focus on it, but he's pretty sure his head is pounding to the beat of Kerkenkraft 400, which could possibly be a sign that maybe his dad is right and he needs at least one interest outside of hockey.
Last night has turned into vague flashes of drinking and dancing that blur together. He vaguely remembers dancing with a good-looking man, but the club had been packed with good-looking people. Ugh. Hangovers are the worst. Why the hell does anyone drink if this is how they feel after?
He doesn't want to open his eyes again. He wants to lay in his relatively comfortable hotel bed and die from his hangover. But he needs to get up. He needs to puke. He needs to brush his teeth and shower and get dressed. He needs to be functional enough for what Jackie and Bonnie called a nasty, greasy, everything-bad-for-you hangover brunch.
Shane thinks he'd had more than enough of 'everything bad for you' the night before when he broke his strict high-performance macrobiotic diet with all of the tequila and vodka, and… did he eat street tacos last night?
Shane clenches his still closed eyes tightly, trying to remember the night before more clearly. He remembers arriving at the club the most clearly, doing shots of tequila with the groomsmen shortly after they got there. He remembers him, JJ, and Darrie having to pull Hayden away from a fight. He remembers drinking more than he probably should have, if his hangover is any indication. He definitely drank more than he should have. He remembers dancing with Bonnie and JJ, who thought he needed to defend Shane's honor from some guy in a Rozanov shirt. That last memory brings another one into mortifying clarity as Shane remembers the texts he sent the night before.
That has his eyes flying open as he scrambles to sit up in bed, which was a mistake. The sudden movement sends a fresh stab of pain through his skull, accompanied by nausea so bad Shane actually heaves so strongly he might puke. But that doesn't matter, Shane is scrambling through the sheets trying to relocate his phone and praying he didn't actually text Rozanov.
But Shane doesn't have that kind of luck, there on his phone screen is proof of his pathetic neediness and humiliation.
[Shane:]
Muzz you eccentric though your a ass hill
im drank nd harny a wont yo to duck me
Shane groans, throwing himself backwards onto the bed, trying to ignore the way it makes his hangover worse. God, he can't believe that he texted that to Rozanov. Worse, he can't believe how stupid he looks in those texts. He remembers those texts being a lot clearer and spelled correctly. Drunk Shane is clearly an unreliable narrator, Shane thinks miserably, throwing an arm over his eyes to fully block out the sight.
No wonder Rozanov didn't respond to Shane. He probably thought—actually, Shane has no idea what Rozanov must have thought. His English has gotten a lot better in the last six years, but not translating drunk-English good.
He should probably text Rozanov and apologize for drunk-texting him. But then Shane remembers Rozanov bubbling him and just… not replying to him, which pisses him off all over again.
"Fucking asshole," Shane mutters to the empty hotel room. "God, I'm pathetic," he groans, mentally preparing himself to sit up and start getting ready for brunch with the rest of the wedding party. "Can't even get a text back, let alone get ducked," Shane whines to himself before falling quiet. He allows himself two minutes to lay in bed and throw himself a pity party.
Once Shane's allotted pity party time is over, he continues laying there in bed. He needs to get up, get moving and face his embarrassment. He needs a plan. Plans always help when he's feeling overwhelmed and overstimulated, or when he's just not feeling well in general. So Shane makes himself a mental to-do list.
-
Get up out of bed.
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Go to the bathroom.
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Use the toilet. Vomit (maybe).
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Drink a glass of water.
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Brush his teeth.
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Take a shower.
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Drink a gallon of water.
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Get dressed.
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Find sunglasses.
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Leave the hotel room and go down to the lobby.
And with that, Shane forces himself to get up and execute his ten-step plan to success. Well, maybe not success, but he thinks that sounds a hell of a lot better than Shane's ten-step plan to surviving a hangover.
He wouldn't say that he executes his plan flawlessly, or even in a timely manner. He has to move slowly in order to baby his pounding head and his rolling stomach, which is threatening to commit treason. But by the time he leaves the bathroom, he feels human again, or rather human-adjacent. Thankfully, he hadn't thrown up, and showering and brushing his teeth had made him feel less disgusting.
Shane exits the bathroom with a fluffy white towel wrapped around his hips, leaving behind a trail of steam as he crosses the room to his suitcase to find clothes. He digs out clean socks and underwear, his most comfortable pair of jeans, the only pair he owns that he finds truly comfortable, and an old t-shirt that has been washed so many times that the cotton has worn thin, tugging on his clean clothes before grabbing his favorite black hoodie, which he tugs over his head. Finally, Shane sits on the end of the bed and slips on his plain black Reeboks, tying them.
"What the fuck?" Shane knows that neither of the bottled beverages or his pain meds had been on the nightstand before he left for the club last night. Maybe he had bought them? Not likely, he definitely wasn't thinking that far ahead last night. Obviously, Shane thinks, flushing with embarrassment, remembering the horrifically spelled texts he'd sent Rozanov that had remained unanswered. Maybe Darrie had gotten the drinks and meds set up for Shane? He'd been the least drunk of everyone the night before.
Shane snatches the note off the nightstand, accidentally knocking over the bottle of ginger ale, which sends his sunglasses flying off the nightstand onto the floor.
"Fuck!" Shane yells, scrambling after his sunglasses. Which his pounding head and nauseous stomach did not appreciate. Once Shane has his sunglasses in hand, he straightens up into a standing, upright position. For as curious as Shane is for clues to who left the drinks and found his Tylenol for him, he is slow to unfold the note.
The first thing Shane notices is the hotel logo on top of the small rectangular paper and the torn edge. The note had been written on the notepad on the desk across the room from his bed.
Next, he notices the black ink and the messy but still legible handwriting. He notices how the ink is almost faded in places, like the pen had started running out of ink. Shane closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, holding it. He silently counts to ten before slowly releasing his breath through pursed lips. He opens his eyes, and finally, he reads the words on the paper in his hands.
(617) 744-6406
Text me when you wake up so I know you survived what's sure to be a hell of a hangover.
I had fun, hope we can do it again soon.
Cliff
Shane blinked, slowly taking in the words on the page, which only led to more questions than answers. He's ninety-five percent sure he didn't hook up with anyone last night. But maybe he did. Oh god. Did he hook up with the guy in a Rozanov shirt? Before Shane can completely panic, his eyes drift back down over the note and the name at the bottom.
Cliff
The name triggers something in Shane's brain. He remembers a familiar face with dark eyes and a charming smile. He remembers wrapping an arm over broad, muscular shoulders while dancing. He remembers the tight press of bodies, heated kisses outside of the club—
"Fuck!" Shane yells, dropping the note like it burned him. "Fuck, fuck, fucking shit!" Shane doesn't start pacing, he doesn't have time to pace, but he is freaking out as he remembers climbing into a taxi with Cliff fucking Marleau and falling asleep somewhere between the club and the hotel.
The more Shane panics, the clearer the memories come of hitting on Marleau. How he'd done it because he was feeling petty about Rozanov ghosting him, but also because Marleau looked so god damn hot. He blushes, remembering the way he had boldly invited Marleau back to his hotel room with every intention of getting fucked by Rozanov's alternate captain and friend. He remembers the heated kisses outside the bar and the way he could taste the beer Marleau had been drinking. He remembers the way they had rutted against each other, how Marleau had possessively groped his ass. He remembers struggling to keep their hands and lips to themselves in the cab. How they had been pressed tightly against each other half cuddling half teasing when Shane had fallen asleep.
Shane should throw the note away. He should tear it up into the smallest, most microscopic pieces possible. He strides over to the waste basket tucked under the hotel room's desk, determined to throw away the note, Marleau's phone number, the memories of hot kisses, the embarrassment of passing out on top of the other man, the humiliation. Shane should throw it away, along with the entire night before. But he freezes with the note in his hand, hovering over the waste basket. That's when he remembers something else.
Marleau waking him up when they got to the hotel, helping him, not just into the hotel or his room. Shane remembers the way Marleau had helped him into his bed, had helped him take off his shoes and uncomfortably tight jeans. He remembers Marleau covering him with his blankets and getting Shane's phone on the charger, how he had slipped away and returned with the water and ginger ale. How he'd kissed Shane's forehead, saying goodnight.
Shane is embarrassed as he remembers how pathetically he had whined about wanting Marleau, Cliff, to fuck him. How he'd done it even while slurring and fighting off sleep. The embarrassment is lessened by the way Marleau had kissed him softly and run his fingers through Shane's hair before murmuring…
"Next time, baby." Shane whined again, grabbing Cliff's shirt, trying to pull him into the bed with him. But Cliff kissed him again, just as sweetly, but full of heat and promise. "Next time, baby, next time, when we're both sober and awake. Okay?" Shane whined but agreed, pouting until Cliff kissed him again.
Shane jerks his hand back from the waste basket and back into the present. He knows it's probably a bad idea, that he should just throw the note away so that come September him and Marleau could meet on the ice as two hockey players from rival teams. So that there isn't an Ilya Rozanov-shaped secret between them. But Marleau had been so sweet with him. And maybe it's stupid and selfish, and it'll probably end in a blaze of hurt, anger, and resentment…
But what if it doesn't? A voice that sounds an awful lot like Jackie whispers in the back of his mind. Shane doesn't throw the note away, instead, he tucks it into his wallet for safekeeping before strolling out of the hotel room.
He's not the first one to make it down to the lobby, Jared and Bonnie are already there. Jared is an absolute bastard who looks like he has gotten the best night's sleep in years and is propping up Bonnie, who looks like death warmed over.
"Mornin’ bud! How are you now?" Jared yelled across the lobby, making Shane and Bonnie wince.
"Shut up or I will rip your balls off and feed them to you," Bonnie hissed, glaring at Jared from behind her sunglasses. Jared laughed at his and Bonnie's hungover state as Shane flopped down into the plush lobby couch.
"Hi Bonnie," Shane grumbled, pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose.
"Hi Shane." She replied sounding as miserable as Shane feels.
It doesn't take long for everyone else to appear in various stages of hungover as they joined the trio in the hotel's lobby. Shane is dreading heading out into the loud, busy streets of New York City an the bright sunlight, but somehow it doesn't seem so bad when he thinks of the phone number tucked away safely in his wallet and whispered promises of next time.