Chapter Text
Regina, Saskatchewan — December, 2008
Shane Hollander looked across the snow banks in the parking lot.
The fuck is this guy doing? It’s fucking freezing out here.
A furious clicking noise drew him out of his thoughts toward the wall several feet down from the door. Right under a No Smoking sign stood Ilya Rozanov, finally lighting up a cigarette.
For a moment, Shane could only feast his eyes upon how Rozanov’s lips tugged at the cigarette.
“You’re definitely not supposed to smoke here.”
Rozanov glanced over at him, annoyance flashing across his face before cooling into a more aloof visage. The Russian’s roughly accented English rung in Shane’s ears. “Okay.”
For Shane, the rest of their exchange went by in a blur of frustration and awe at the sheer arrogance of the Russian player. Shane, ever the sportsman, complimented Rozanov’s playing style. But Rozanov just acted like his skill was a known fact, as if Shane just told him the sky was blue. When he wished Rozanov luck, Rozanov pretty much threw it back at him like it was dirt. Shane felt like he had never met a bigger asshole, ever. And he had met a lot of assholes playing hockey.
He left Rozanov to finish his cigarette in peace and shuffled through the cold wind back to his parent’s car, sliding into the back seat with a huff.
“How was he?” his mother Yuna asked.
“An absolute asshole,” Shane replied succinctly.
“Shane!”
“What? It’s the truth!”
A small snicker came from the seat next to him. Shane cast his eyes over his twin brother Kelsey who was flipping through images stored on his digital camera. His eyes twinkled, an energy present in them that only surfaced when immersed in his camera.
“Might be an asshole, but he photographs so well. If hockey falls through, he should consider becoming a model.”
Shane could feel himself flush slightly at his brother’s words. Deep inside, he couldn’t disagree. Between those dark blonde curls and his eyes —
His mother scoffed from the front seat. “I don’t see that happening, Kelsey.”
Kelsey just shrugged. “He is about to get me an A on this assignment for my photography class, though. Shane, make sure you thank him for me.”
“So much for photographing your brother,” David Hollander chimed from the driver's seat.
Shane just grunted. Both boys had played hockey since they were old enough to skate and hold a stick. Kelsey had been a skilled goalie, keeping Shane on his toes. People expected them to be a formidable hockey duo, but two years ago, Kelsey walked away from the sport entirely. Secretly, Shane was happy that Kelsey and he no longer had that lingering comparison. He wasn’t sure that he could survive being in the league against his brother. Kelsey had eventually turned to running and weightlifting solo activities instead of team sports. The two were naturally competitive, and his brother wouldn’t be caught dead slumping on his fitness while Shane’s hockey training got even more intense. Kelsey had never explained any of the why, and Shane never pushed him to do so, either.
Yuna had told him to leave it be. And so he did.
Sometimes things were better left alone.
Los Angeles, CA — June, 2009
Never did Shane anticipate being in such a close proximity to Ilya Rozanov, especially after the stinging, third period loss at World Juniors.
But here they were. Shane holding up two fingers, cameras snapping around them, his body pressed into Rozanov’s. The embarrassment of coming second in the draft to Rosanov mixed with the heat that traveled through Shane’s body, the flush peeking out of his suit collar. He knew Rozanov was aware of it, too, as his eyes danced when he glanced at Shane in between bouts of media madness.
Unbearable. Why am I like this?
Those thoughts haunted Shane throughout the rest of the day as he did his best to avoid more contact with Rozanov. Everywhere he turned, a faint smirk and curly hair followed him. Around midnight Shane left his bed after thrashing around for two hours, and headed straight to the hotel gym. Some cardio would help.
He was on the bike for ten uninterrupted minutes before the door to the gym opened.
Fuck, why?
Ilya Rozanov sat down right next to him and started pedaling away. For a smoker, his endurance was infuriating. He wore skimpy shorts and a cutoff tank, details Shane tried his best to ignore. They both accelerated their biking, matching each other’s pace. Soon Shane could smell an intoxicating mixture of what could only be described as tobacco mixed with sweat, whatever deodorant Rozanov wore, and some lingering notes of a fragrance applied hours ago. Something spicy, cedary, with a hint of vanilla.
Shane barely lasted another five minutes before needing to dismount. Rozanov followed him to the ground, water bottle in tow. Heat crept down to Shane’s groin, up his chest, and more embarrassingly, into his cheeks. These feelings were not entirely new, but their intensity around Rozanov particularly frustrated him. Shane would refuse to think about and acknowledge them. They’d die off eventually.
His attention finally snagged back to Rozanov, who shook his water bottle at Shane.
“Drink,” a commanding voice stated.
Shane took it without hesitation.
Rozanov let out a whooping noise. “What a day.”
Shane scowled. Yeah, what a fucking day.
“Sorry,” Ilya chirped, as if he’d heard Shane’s unspoken thoughts.
“No, you’re not.”
Only a smirk was returned to Shane for that.
They exchanged pleasantries about the cities they were set to represent. Shane had been to Boston once or twice, to Montreal several times. He really had little to say.
“We will be seeing each other a lot.”
Shane pulled himself out of his thoughts. “Oh. Yeah, Boston and Montreal play each other a lot. Historic rivals, even.”
Rozanov grinned. As Shane returned the water bottle, he could feel the brush of the Russian man’s fingers against his. The eye contact was intense, so much so that for the first time, Shane realized how brilliantly beautiful Rozanov’s eyes were. Flecks of gold littered fields of greenish-blue, glowing almost unnaturally as they pierced his flesh. As they seemingly cataloged every surface of Shane’s skin.
An excited unease shot through Shane. He got up suddenly, feeling a bulge growing in his shorts.
“I’ll see you around, Rozanov.”
Without looking back down, he headed toward the door. Shane could feel the smirk strike him on his lower back.
“Goodbye, Hollander.”
Breathing haggardly in the elevator, his thoughts cycled back to a memory from a few years ago. A teammate. Showers. A glimpse. Stiffening. Immediate regret and shutdown. Late night thoughts about the what-ifs of being attracted to men in the world of hockey. Fitful sleep, only for it all to be locked away and never analyzed again.
Apparently, Ilya Rozanov cracked that vault.
That night, Shane masturbated furiously to thoughts of hazel eyes, sturdy biceps, and honeyed curls. For the first time, he allowed himself to wonder what it would feel like if he was with a man. His spit-slicked index finger wandered south for the first time in years. This time though, he let himself feel and explore, pushing against his rim. Last time, he went no further. Now, he pushed in two-thirds of his finger, thinking about it being Rozanov’s finger the entire time. Eventually, he brushed against his prostate and came harder than he ever had before.
He was fucked. Utterly fucked. And he better get a grip on this before he starts playing or it would consume him.
Toronto — July, 2010
Shane absolutely did not get a grip, and it all worsened when Ilya Rozanov told him he looked pretty during the CCM photo shoot.
Things only spiraled from there. Furtive glances in the shower led to Shane getting hard, Ilya noticing and instead of being disgusted, he astonished Shane by beginning to jerk himself off. In public! It was entirely too much.
Which is exactly why he was waiting at 8:58 PM in his dimly lit hotel room for Rozanov to appear. So Shane could tell him just how not okay the events of the shower were, and how they absolutely wouldn’t be carrying them out again in this hotel room, and, oh god, what if Rozanov won’t let Shane talk him out of it?
You don’t want to be talked out of it. Admit it.
Before he had the opportunity to battle that internal demon, a quiet rap on the door garnered his attention. It was nine o’clock and Rozanov was here.
Locking the door behind the Russian, Shane barely had a second to speak before Rozanov had him pressed up against the wall, his tongue begging to enter Shane’s mouth as they kissed each other hungrily. He could feel a rigid lump snaking down Rozanov’s thigh as it pressed against his own painfully erect cock. Never before in his life had he gotten this hard. Without thinking twice, Shane began pulling off Rozanov’s jeans, pushing them and his boxer-briefs down as he sank to his knees.
Ilya was thick, maybe not a soda can, but close enough. He was long, but not threateningly so. That he was uncut, was a surprise as Shane had not truly gotten to “inspect” Rozanov’s cock in the shower. Although he supposed he should have known it would be, given his Russian heritage.
“Is pretty, da?” Ilya said, grinning. “Good to look, better to suck. Come on, suck my cock, Hollander.”
Shane shot Rozanov a withering look that not only failed to chasten him, but rather caused the man to grin even more. Without chirping him back, Shane tentatively pushed back the foreskin and surrounded the tip with his lips. A small gasp left Rozanov’s mouth. That was all Shane needed to push himself to enthusiastically suck. After what seemed to be three minutes, Shane’s jaw started to ache slightly and a flushed, gasping Rozanov pulled him off.
“Too good, too close,” he gasped. “On the bed, Hollander.”
Shane complied without argument, laying on the bed next to Rozanov. Feeling the thrill of being touched by another man for the first time buoyed Shane with a dizzy sense of horny bravery, irresistibly drawing him back to wrap his lips around Rozanov’s hard cock. Shane worked like a man possessed, like sucking cock was the answer to world peace. All the while the rational part of his brain was screaming at him for allowing this to happen at all, fighting to get him to flee his own hotel room.
“Hollander,” Ilya rasped, “I’m going to come.”
Shane pulled off hesitantly. He wasn’t sure that he was ready to swallow a load yet, let alone Rozanov’s load. Maybe, if he was feeling up to it, he’d swipe a bit off of Rozanov’s annoyingly hard-cut abs and take a taste. His thoughts were pulled back to the present as gasping groans left Rozanov’s mouth just as thick ropes of come flew out of his cock. It was mesmerizing to see, purely by volume alone. He grabbed some tissues for Rozanov, who chuckled and began cleaning himself off.
“Damn. Well, thank you, was good.”
The Russian smirked at Shane and lifted his back off the bed, as if to walk toward his discarded clothes on the floor.
A loud gasp left Shane’s mouth. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He pointed down at his own cock, angrily glaring at Rozanov as it twitched in the air.
Rozanov laughed. Shane was infuriated by how attractive it made his face look. “Aw, you are like angry kitten. You think I am asshole? That I would leave you like that?”
“I know you’re an asshole.”
“Nyet. I would never leave you like that. Let me show you how is done.”
And he did. Ilya Rozanov proceeded to suck Shane Hollander’s cock like a professional. Much like hockey, even sex seemed to be a competition between the two of them, which soured Shane’s mood a bit. Rozanov had to outdo him in the blowjob department, finishing by swallowing Shane’s entire load. In the awkward bedside moment that followed, Ilya explained he in fact learned how to suck cock from his coach’s son back in Russia.
Shane went to the bathroom to freshen up as Rozanov was getting dressed. He must have taken too long, half dickmatized and half panic-stricken, so the Russian had let himself out of the room without Shane even noticing. Without even saying goodbye or goodnight.
Shane sighed, completely uncertain and lost in his feelings.
Picking up his phone, some texts lingered in his notifications from a few minutes prior. That fucker had hacked into his phone!
LIly: Hi Jane.
Jane: Hi, Lily.
Lily: I had a fun time tonight, Jane. xoxo
Lily: see you in a couple months? ;)
Boston, MA —Fall, 2010
Freedom.
That’s what Kelsey Hollander screamed after moving into his dorm, separated from his brother and parents. No longer the hovering spectre of Yuna Hollander carrying his secrets or not-so-surreptitiously yearning for the daughter the incompetent ultrasound technician had assured her Kelsey (then known as the slightly larger ‘Twin B’) was going to be. No David Hollander flummoxed by his life decisions, especially regarding hockey and school choices. Not following David’s footsteps to McGill? Heaven forbid.
Sure, Kelsey might have gone about that in the saltiest manner possible. His scholarship covered most of McGill’s costs, but this grating feeling of legacy overwhelmed Kelsey completely. He rejected the offer outright and in a fit of youthful impulsivity, packed his duffel bag and fled to Mont Tremblant. The gap year treated him well, in more ways than one — money earned working various jobs, padding his professional portfolio with Laurentian nature shots and picturesque photos around the resort, and informative sexual encounters —that by the time he returned home with fresh acceptance letters waiting, he felt more than ready to take on the world.
Now, it was just him, Boston University, his peers, his camera, and busting his ass on a photojournalism degree.
Not that he was estranged from his family. He had gotten dinner with Shane a few weeks ago when Montreal played in town against Boston. Despite himself, he had been looking forward to seeing Shane. It was a twin thing. Dinner had been a quiet catch up. Mostly hockey talk. A bit about his classes and friends he had made thus far at school. Kelsey omitted to mention the fact that he had sucked off one of the BU hockey players last weekend at a house party. His naive brother was not prepared to hear about the escapades of a slutty gay guy who just found his first scraps of freedom and a degree of anonymity he had sorely lacked back in Ottawa.
Shane seemed more concerned about what extracurricular opportunities Kelsey aimed for than anything else.
“You’re seriously considering applying for the Boston Raiders internship? Aren’t you concerned about, you know…your actual classes and living the fun and apparently exciting life of a college student?”
There was a slight panicked hitch in Shane’s voice as he uttered those words.
Frowning, Kelsey shot back, “I think I know my schedule and classes already, Shane.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” Shane replied tersely.
“Did Mom put you up to this?”
Shane swallowed whatever words he was about to say to that question, choosing to sidestep it entirely. Kelsey wasn’t ignoring Yuna’s calls, per se; it was just that she got to play momager with Shane and took to transferring that same sort of relationship to Kelsey. He strongly disliked it, sometimes reeling from the lack of mom and abundance of manager. And now to have his own twin deliver the message?
Kelsey leaned back and crossed his arms. He was frowning, trying not to bite his brother’s head off.
“I know my way around a rink, and I know how to use a camera. Why wouldn’t I want to try to score an opportunity like this?”
Shane scrunched his face. “I don’t know. Fuck, Kels, it just seems so sudden.”
“I think Mom would disagree and tell you that it’s never too sudden to work for my future.”
“But with my rival team?” Shane shot back. “I mean, Mom seriously hates them.”
Kelsey scowled, his irritation ratcheting up with every passing moment of this conversation. “They’re literally the most prestigious option within the city!”
“I don't get it though. It’s such a waste of money. You could have easily done this back in Canada and worked with the Metros or even the Guardians –”
Kelsey flattened Shane with a glare. “Oh, so that’s it, is it? You get to live the NHL life, get Rolex brand deals and shit, but I'm too poor to make choices? Going to school and working toward a future in Boston? Are you fucking kidding me, Shane?”
Shame flicked across Shane’s face. Kelsey could see him biting back the words you could have had this, too. He felt the frustration and bafflement radiating off his brother. But Shane would never understand that; no, he couldn’t have it. Kelsey was far too gay to handle the NHL. He had figured that out in juniors when it finally hit him that, yes, he wanted to suck on the foreskin of his teammate JC, and no, it wasn’t just because he was cut and not used to seeing foreskin.
“I’m sorry, Kels,” Shane said gently. “You deserve good things. You’re hungry for it, like I am for hockey… I should know better.”
And they had ended it at that, the tension dissolving as Shane punched Kelsey in the arm, earning a grin which led to some juvenile grappling across the table top that had the waitstaff pointedly asking them if there was a problem.
Shane had resolved any potential PR disaster by leaving a big tip when he left promptly at 11 pm after receiving mysterious texts that left him pink in the cheeks. An unnatural phenomenon, truly, that left Kelsey with the horrifying realization that his brother was leaving for a hook up.
The thought was truly disturbing. His brother? A booty call? What kind of awkward girl had he met in Boston?
Fortunately, it didn't take long for other things to occupy his attention. Kelsey almost screamed when he got the acceptance letter for the internship a week later.
He had played his cards flawlessly. His main submissions were the stunning photos of Ilya Rozanov from World Juniors, who was now the starting center for the Raiders. While he didn’t play up his relationship with his brother or his name at all, Kelsey knew that Boston salivated at the thought of having the twin brother of Shane Hollander on their team in some capacity. It was simply the way they said his last name and glanced at him as if Shane himself was sitting for the interview.
His first day was a whirlwind of people and places. Kelsey was also taken to the locker room after practice and introduced to a few players. Including Ilya Rozanov.
“Gentlemen,” his supervisor Sue announced, “allow me to introduce your new best friend, our intern all the way from Ontario, Kelsey Hollander. Kesley’s going to be making sure you fellas look good in the press, so be nice.”
The Russian’s eyes glinted and his breath halted the moment Kelsey glanced at him, no doubt taking in his last name and physical similarities to Shane.
“Nyet. There’s no way.”
Cliff Marlow almost choked on water. “Hoooly shit. You look just like… are you a cousin or something?”
To Kelsey’s credit, he tried to temper his facial reactions and maintain the most professional of semblances. It became increasingly difficult to do such a thing when Rozanov sauntered over to him, almost seductively. God, this would get his fantasies whirring. Kelsey was mystified however, as Rozanov stopped and seemingly counted freckles on his nose and cheeks.
“Uh, twin.” Kelsey breathed.
“Twin? Shane Hollander has twin brother?” blurted out the Russian.
Kelsey smirked back, regaining his composure. “In the flesh. You get to play against him, I get to take glamour shots of you.”
“Photographer, da?” Ilya grunted appreciatively. “Already 100% less boring than brother.”
“Come on, Rozy, don’t fuck with him. It’s his first day,” Marlow said with a hint of exasperation. Their media training must have been recent.
Rolling his eyes, Kelsey ignored the chirps. None of them were foreign to him. “Technically I'm a photojournalist, Mr. Rozanov. Although I suppose you wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Oh…angry kitten, just like brother,” replied Rozanov with dramatic flair.
A cough from the side of the room caught their attention. Kelsey had forgotten Sue was even there.
“We need to move it along, Kelsey. Glad you’re already getting some rapport with the players though.”
Kelsey just nodded and waved to Marlow and Rozanov as he and Sue turned to leave the locker room. He could feel the prickle of Rozanov’s gaze between his shoulder blades. Heat flushed through his face as he hurried out, barely hearing the cutesy-chirping tones of goodbye, Russian accent heavily lingering in the air.
The game that night had been insane. Rozanov scored a hat trick, with Kelsey capturing majestic stills of each goal on the very professional camera the Raiders had given him. After the game, he wandered off to a bar somewhere in the North End. He wasn’t worried about sneaking drinks or the like, especially considering how he planned to charm some witless man or flash his fake ID to get one. Stupid American drinking laws. Given the clientele of the bar, he probably would have to use the latter.
Kelsey nursed a lager for ten minutes at the bar before a calamitous noise rippled through the building. The entire Boston Raiders team and some associated staff poured into the otherwise quiet establishment, the din growing as rowdy players crowded around bartenders. Kelsey pulled himself closer to the wall, trying his best to blend in. He mostly succeeded in this endeavor for another fifteen minutes, finishing his beer.
He smelled Rozanov before he felt him brush against him, his mouth dangerously close to Kelsey’s flushed face.
”You need drink, da?”
Kelsey nodded slowly. “A beer, please.”
Rozanov returned moments later with a fresh lager and glass of clear liquid. Kelsey took the glass of beer from him, nodding in thanks. This setting with Rozanov felt almost intimate, the distance between them nonexistent as a strong hockey thigh pushed against Kelsey. For the first time in his life, a man had rendered him speechless. Rozanov quietly sipped what appeared to be vodka before lowering his face closer into Kelsey’s space again, trying to overcome the noise.
“Sue showed me latest photos. You take them, yes?”
“They’re probably mine, but they could have been Craig’s,” Kelsey said, shrugging.
Rozanov tutted. “No, only you catch sexy angles of me. Very good photograph.”
Kelsey scoffed, feeling a little exposed. ”Okay man, but there's no way you know for certain that I took them.” As the junior, Kelsey submitted all his work to Craig, the Raiders’ in-house photojournalist. It was a point of frustration that as a result, Kelsey’s work often wasn't getting properly credited.
Rozanov paused for a moment and leaned in even closer to Kelsey’s space, his hot breath dragging along Kelsey’s ear. “You took them. I know because every time I look up, I see you. Every time I leave ice, I see you. That pretty face shoved behind camera.”
Tingles crept up from Kelsey’s toes. This man’s fucking voice. He had to get his wits about him, being flirted with an NHL super star like this. Match his game.
“There are definitely better places for me to shove this face.”
Shock painted Ilya’s face at first, quickly replaced by what could only be described as a chaotic, roguish grin.
“Would you come —“
”Roz! Hey! Oh my god, Twin 2! Awesome!” Cliff Marlow barreled over to them, finally having noticed his teammate sequestered at the far corner of the bar. He clearly was much more drunk than either Rozanov or Kelsey.
“Marley, what do you want? I’m having such good chat with Hollander here.”
Marlow burped in response. “Sorry, man, but we gotta go. There’s a club a few blocks over that’s apparently swarming with hot chicks. Dude you got a hattie tonight and we won, there’s no way we should be going home alone and cracking our sticks.”
Of course they wanted to get their dicks wet. If Marlow hadn’t been such an interfering shit head, Kesley might be getting his dick wet tonight with none other than Ilya Rozanov. If he wasn’t mistaken, the Russian was about to invite him back to his place. Between the tension and the flirting, there could be no other way of interpreting it.
“Da, okay. Let me finish up here, see you in five.”
“A’ight, brother.” Marlow ambled away toward the bathroom.
Kelsey sighed and looked up to meet a pouty face on Rozanov.
“Give me your phone,” Ilya demanded.
Without hesitation, Kelsey fished his phone out. Ilya smirked at it knowingly, probably because this was a daily occurrence for him.
“There.”
Under a new contact was a simple emoji.
🏒
Before Kelsey could fully digest what happened, he looked up and Ilya Rozanov was striding off to Cliff Marlow.
Kelsey didn’t know what exactly to text back at that moment. He couldn’t be terribly obvious about things. No dick pics. No sexy banter about how Ilya Rozanov was missing a monumental opportunity to literally stick it to his number one rival (as the media and league were putting it already) and fuck his twin brother. Instead, he copped out.
Kelsey: 📸