Work Text:
one.
Summer is Shane’s least favourite season. He’s never liked the oppressive heat or the way the air turns sluggish and thick, like syrup, or the bugs that always, inevitably, find their way into his home.
He’s especially not a fan of the way Yuna commandeers his schedule, like two weeks of rest might undo all of Shane’s hard work over the years. It’s why he’s here, in an inexplicably warm ice rink, blinking against bright, yellow spotlights, sweat building under his hairline. His face feels stiff, the foundation and blush the makeup artists had packed onto his skin cakey and dry.
Rozanov’s already taken the piss out of it. He’d called him pretty in between takes, smirking that same, obnoxious way he had done at the Prospect Cup when Shane had snapped back, You’re wearing makeup, too.
The shoot doesn’t take long, thankfully, even when Rozanov derails it by laughing, which makes Shane laugh, too, even though he can feel Yuna shaking her head on the sidelines.
She lectures him afterwards, in a way that always makes him feel awful, because it’s not really lecturing when her tone is soft and her hands cup his cheeks, holding him like he’s precious.
His shower is quick and cold and hardly a relief. In the locker room, he sits on the bench, fumbling with his shoes, ignoring Rozanov on the other end.
When he straightens, he’s eye-level with a flat, hard stomach and a trail of wiry, dark hair disappearing into a towel.
He jerks back. Eyebrows drawn, he looks up at Rozanov, whose cheeks are still flushed pink from the shower. Or maybe, like Shane, he hasn’t managed to completely wipe the blush off his face.
Rozanov is looking at him intensely, mouth pursed in a smirk, eyes alight. “You eat dinner?”
It’s the first thing he’s said all day besides the You look pretty thing.
“What?”
“Dinner,” Rozanov says, “Is meal you eat in evening. You have it?”
“You’re asking me if I eat dinner?”
Rozanov tilts his head. “My English is not so bad, I think.”
“No, it isn’t,” Shane says, although he’s still confused by Rozanov’s question. After a beat, where all he can focus on is Rozanov’s thick eyebrows, Shane confirms: “Yes, of course I eat dinner.”
“Good. Me too.” Rozanov is still smirking. Shane’s starting to think it might be his default expression. “We have that in common: playing hockey and eating dinner.”
“And wearing makeup.”
Rozanov’s smirk twists in surprise, growing into something more delighted.
Shane goes back to tying his shoes with a shake of his head, pulling up his socks so the cuffs align symmetrically on both feet.
“Hollander, you are being rude,” Rozanov says. “I am still talking to you.”
Shane frowns. “Oh. Sorry.”
Something in his stomach twists. It’s not a new accusation. He’s heard it all his life—that he’s too serious, too standoffish, too quiet, too… off. He turns back to Rozanov. He can feel one of his masks slipping onto his face—the one he calls Shut Up, Be Polite. It’s the one that falls into place when his parents drag him to meet sponsors or when he’s at parties where men in suits can decide his fate in the league.
Rozanov sighs and mutters something in Russian under his breath. He’s still holding his towel one-handed. Shane’s surprised to see a tattoo on his hip: simple block Cyrillic letters, about three inches wide.
“There is good restaurant down the street from here. Serves things like roast chicken and lamb and pasta—you like these foods?”
Shane blinks. “Yeah, I do. I guess.”
Rozanov nods. “Same here.” He tightens the towel again. Shane does not look at the tattoo this time. “So. We will go together to this restaurant, yes?”
Shane has always struggled understanding tone. Sometimes, it feels like a puzzle where all the pieces are fucking pebbles or something. It’s why he’s never relied on it; instead he’s trained himself to look at people’s faces—their eyes, despite his own uncomfortableness—because Yuna has always insisted it’s the best way to read someone.
So, that’s what he does now—looks up into Rozanov’s eyes for maybe the first time ever.
They’re nice eyes, to be fair. Narrow and blue, with thick golden eyelashes, the ends curled.
They also give away nothing. Which means that Rozanov is fucking with him—the same way he had been when he called him pretty.
Maybe Rozanov can sense his apprehension or fury or whatever he’s let slip because he says, “I ask them to put you in this shoot, you know?”
“What?”
“Is my idea, to have you here. Is so we can go to restaurant together afterwards.”
“For dinner?”
“Yes, for dinner. For roast chicken or lamb or pasta.”
Shane scratches his left eyebrow with his pinkie. “But… why?”
Rozanov rolls his eyes. “Hollander, you ask very boring questions. You also ask too many.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Shane snaps. “You’re the one being cryptic and weird!”
Rozanov frowns. “I do not know this word.”
“Cryptic? It means—”
Rozanov waves him off. “Boring. I don’t care. Hollander, just say yes. I will even be gentleman and pay for you.”
Shane stands. He’s annoyed he’s shorter than Rozanov, especially when he’s spent a lifetime being one of the tallest in the room.
“What the fuck?” Shane snaps. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“Do you hear joke?”
“I do, actually.” He crosses his arms. “What is this? A prank or setup? Your captain put you up to this—trick the rival rookie or something?”
Rozanov blinks his very blue eyes. “You think all this after I ask you to dinner?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Rozanov scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I think you think too much.”
“Fuck you,” Shane says.
His phone starts ringing, the vibration crackling through the air. Shane jumps a little at the noise, pulling back once he realises how close to Rozanov he is.
“I have to go,” he mutters.
“Hollander,” Rozanov starts, but Shane has the advantage of being dressed so he can whirl on his heels and stalk out the locker room.
Yuna’s right outside, her phone pressed to her ear. She pulls it down when she sees Shane and smiles.
“There you are,” she says, “I thought Rozanov might be drowning you in the shower or something.”
“Dark,” Shane mutters. Her hair is frizzing behind her ears so Shane reaches out and smooths it down.
She peers at him. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Did Rozanov ask me to be put in this shoot? Did you know about it? Why didn’t you tell me?
The questions linger on the tip of his tongue, in the air when he exhales.
“No, nothing.” Shane shakes his head. “Just Rozanov being an asshole. Come on, let’s go.”
two.
Shane will never admit it out loud to anyone, but there are few things he likes more than this: being spread out on Rozanov’s cock, fucked within an inch of his life. Shane sometimes thinks he’d trade hockey for it.
It’s still new, this… development between them. Shane can technically count their meetups—including this one—on one hand.
The first time had been in Vegas, the night Shane had won Rookie of the Year. He had gone up to the rooftop because the party had been several decibels too loud and Scott Hunter’s suit kept brushing up against his whenever he turned to the bar to get more shots and it had been so overwhelming he had needed a minute outside.
Rozanov had been there, his cigarette almost completely at the filter. They had started fighting almost as soon as their eyes had met, about something irrelevant and stupid.
And then Rozanov had pushed him up against a hard, brick wall and kissed him savagely, the entire city twinkling underneath them.
An hour later, he had been pressed face-down into the mattress of Rozanov’s hotel room. It had been the best sex of Shane’s life—not that he’d had much to compare to. Or anything, really. Maybe Rozanov had sensed that, because he’d been so different to what Shane had expected; sweet and thorough and kind. Even a little compassionate, when Shane hadn’t managed to hide his nervousness.
Three days later, Rozanov had flown back to Moscow, and Shane had thought it wouldn’t happen again until it did. Again and again and again.
Rozanov fucks like he’s made for it, like the world is ending, like this might be the one thing he truly wants. Like being inside Shane is Rozanov’s dream, his one true purpose.
He’s a jumble of contradictions—slow and fast; rough and tender; thorough and careless; selfish and selfless. Shane is obsessed with every side of him.
“Look at you,” Rozanov whispers into ear. “So eager for my cock, da?”
Shane groans, clenches a little, because now he knows how much Rozanov likes that. He’s rewarded with Rozanov’s groan, gravelly and sexy, into his neck, and Shane’s hips stutter a little.
“It’s good?” Shane breathes, gripping Rozanov’s nape, fingers slipping through sweat-slicked curls.
“Is good,” Rozanov confirms. He smirks up at him. “You are regular cock-slut, do not worry.”
Shane grinds his hips again, thighs splayed across Rozanov’s waist. It’s the first time they’ve tried this position, Shane on top, in Rozanov’s lap, riding his cock.
Shane needs to be good at this, like everything else in his life. He needs to know he’s good at this, at blowing Rozanov’s mind the same way Rozanov has been blowing his.
Shane grinds down harder, gasping when he involuntarily brushes against the spot that makes him see stars. Rozanov’s fingernails dig into the meat of his ass, squeezing and gripping until Shane squirms and moans. Rozanov looks up at him, pupils blown out so much, his eyes look black.
“Fuck,” he says, again, “Look at you.”
He surges up and kisses Shane, gently biting his bottom lip and then licking over it, his tongue curling over Shane’s and sucking. Shane moans again, trying to press closer still, until they’re both panting against each other’s mouth.
That’s the worst part of these meetings—the kissing. Or how much he likes the kissing because Rozanov always fucking acts like he needs to devour him.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Rozanov snarls. “I am the only one who fucks you this good, right?”
“Shut up,” Shane gasps. He pulls Rozanov’s curls, and Rozanov must like that, because his eyes darken and his eyebrows furrow.
Rozanov’s arms wrap around his waist as he fucks up harder into Shane. Shane moans; he’s close, and when he reaches down to finally, finally touch his cock, Rozanov pulls back enough to watch, groaning like it’s him Shane is touching.
Rozanov keeps thrusting and thrusting, hips jerking, the sound of Shane’s ass slapping against his thighs obscene and hot.
“Fuck yeah,” Shane breathes when he comes, burrowing into Rozanov’s neck, licking and biting until Rozanov comes, loud and long, murmuring in Russian.
Shane pants as they both ride out the high, and then he oofs when Rozanov rolls them over and kisses him again.
They keep kissing and kissing until they’re breathing into each other’s mouths. They both sigh when Rozanov pulls out.
Shane sits up against the headboard, watching Rozanov head to the bathroom to discard the condom.
When he comes to the bed, Rozanov lights up a cigarette immediately, scratching his left eyebrow as he exhales.
Shane subconsciously holds his breath. He remembers all those lessons from PE as a kid, where his gym teachers went on and on about secondhand smoke and lung cancer.
“Do you have to do that here?” Shane says.
“Here? In my hotel room? In my bed? Yes.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “It’s bad for you.”
Rozanov sits up straight and turns to him, eyes wide with wonder. “Is bad for you? Smoking, really?”
“Fuck off.”
“No, no, fuck, Hollander. I think this is huge discovery. You will need to publish in medical journal. Title will be: Boring Canadian Hockey Player With Weak Backhand Makes Most Obvious Statement.”
Shane narrows his eyes. “All right. I’m leaving.”
“Nooo,” Rozanov says. He switches the hold on his cigarette so he can lean over and kiss Shane’s bare shoulder. “Stay, Hollander. We have late flight tomorrow, yes?”
“Hmm, yeah.” A rarity, in all honesty. Shane can sleep past ten. He won’t, but it’s still nice to have the option.
Rozanov nods. Smoke curls out of his nostrils like a dragon. It shouldn’t be hot, but it really, really is.
“I have idea,” he says, with a casualness that’s a touch too deliberate. “I was thinking… Tomorrow morning, we can go to ginger ale factory for tour. There is one near here. I think it’s biggest in the country?”
“Oh.” Shane yawns. “I’ve already been there.”
“You have… already been to ginger ale factory tour?”
“Yeah, last time when we played the Admirals. Hayden took me.” He looks at Rozanov’s pinched face. “What?”
“Nothing.” Rozanov’s jaws clenches. He turns his head and takes a harsh drag. White smoke clouds hover over the night stand.
“I…” Shane blinks at the sudden tightness in the room, like someone’s sucked all the air out of it. “I don’t think you would have liked it. I mean, I barely liked it. It was too commercialised, you know? Like everything was this giant ad. There was barely anything about, like, the actual production of ginger ale, which is what I wanted to see most. And the tour guides weren’t that knowledgeable on the history of ginger ale or whatever. I think most of them were teenagers. They couldn’t really answer any of my questions.”
Embarrassingly, this might be the most he’s spoken to Rozanov in one sitting. He doesn’t even know why he said all that; it’s just the room has grown stiff and stale, and Rozanov seems… troubled?
Well, until, he whips his head to look at Shane incredulously.
“Hollander,” he says sombrely. “I think… you might be the most stupidest smart person ever.”
“Excuse me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, why the fuck are you talking to me about ginger ale?”
“You just mentioned the ginger ale factory tour! I was giving you my, like, review or whatever.”
Rozanov rolls his eyes and extinguishes his cigarette. “Oh my god, Hollander. Do you see—very stupid, smart person.”
“I still don’t, actually.”
“Why do you think I asked you to this boring ginger ale tour? Especially when I don't like ginger ale?”
Shane looks at Rozanov, lost. He kind of always feels like this with Rozanov, except when they’re on the ice together. Those are the only times they make sense, where Rozanov becomes understandable, where he stops being such an enigma.
Rozanov’s expression softens—it starts with the crease by his eyes disappearing and ends with his mouth slackening.
“Hollander, I ask you to boring ginger ale factory tour because I think you will like it and have good time.”
“But, I didn’t.” Shane frowns. “I just told you that.”
Rozanov shakes his head. He mutters something in Russian, the syllables deep and choppy. Nee–voz–mon–zhee.
“What’s that mean?” Shane nudges him. “I can tell it’s a bad word.”
“I said, someone save me from this boring, oblivious hockey player with beautiful freckles.”
Shane’s heart jumps. He tells himself it’s an effect of all the smoke—he can still smell it in the room, on the tips of Rozanov’s fingers—and not because Rozanov called him beautiful. Or—a part of him. A part Shane’s always been ambivalent about.
He’s only said it during sex before, when Shane was in the midst of pleasure. Da, you look so beautiful when you come on my cock. Does anyone else know how beautiful you are under all that fucking hockey gear? You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen. Things like that. It feels more real, said out in the open like this, that’s all.
“Okay, well,” Shane says around a thick throat. For some reason, he’s feeling hurt by Rozanov’s dismissive Russian. Nee–voz–mon–zhee. Shane’s going to look it up later. “I’ll just go then.”
“Hey.” Rozanov reaches for him. He cups Shane’s jaw, running a thumb over it and kisses him like he owns him. “I mean it, stay. No ginger ale factory, okay? We will go to breakfast instead.”
“We can’t get breakfast together,” Shane sighs. “I’m not in the mood to be papped.”
“Oh, Mr Big Celebrity. Can’t go anywhere without paparazzi?”
Shane huffs. “You know what I mean.” He runs a thumb over the curls by Rozanov’s ear and kisses the tip of it.
“Okay, room service then, maybe.”
“I’m trialling this new macrobiotic diet—”
“Oh my god, Hollander, you are actually killing me right now.”
Shane ignores him, kissing him. He rests his forehead against Rozanov’s. “Maybe another time, okay? I really can’t.”
Rozanov searches his face. “Okay,” he says quietly, eyes flicking all over Shane’s face.
He sounds… sad. Maybe disappointed. Shane still doesn’t understand his tone.
He meets Rozanov’s eyes. They’re still blue and lovely and upset.
“I think you should still go to the ginger ale factory,” Shane offers, because that must be what Rozanov looks so desolate over. “Not all of it was bad.”
Rozanov rolls over, stuffs his face into this pillow, and groans.
three.
It’s the worst game Montreal has had in years. A complete and utter slaughter—merciless and brutal.
The locker room is silent, the absence of noise almost assaulting. As captain, Shane knows this is when he needs to step up most; he needs to push down all his emotion and focus on his team—monologue and inspire and raise morale, but there’s no fight left in him tonight.
It’s humiliating to talk to the press afterwards, and Shane provides short, clipped answers, his exhaustion lined across his face.
And because he’s a masochist, he turns on Sportsnet as soon as he gets back to the hotel. His phone’s been buzzing the whole way back; he can see in his notification bar that people are tagging him all over Twitter and Instagram, and it all adds to his self-pity and humiliation.
He winces as he watches Hayden get slammed into the boards by Marlow in slow motion. He flinches when the rookie misses an easy shot. He watches himself lose the faceoff to Rozanov. Rozanov had smirked at him afterwards as he’d skated off, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Shane had never wanted to punch someone more in his life.
He looks over in habit when his phone buzzes on the bed. It’s Hayden.
SHANE. His screen lights up. ARE YOU SEEING THIS?????
Yes, Shane thinks morosely, watching his own disappointed face in high definition after Rozanov’s hat trick.
His phone keeps buzzing as the commenters dissect his displeasing performance. There’s talk about his inability to captain, about the disjointed nature of the team, about Rozanov’s impeccable game—
They cut to the post-game interviews. He watches himself, forlorn and frustrated, unable to make eye contact with the reporters or the camera.
And then Rozanov’s there, shirtless and sweaty, his gold cross glistening under the fluorescent lights.
“How good did that win feel, Ilya?” someone asks off-screen.
“Is always good to win at home, especially so—hmm, how should I say, satisfyingly?” Rozanov winks.
“Oh, fuck off,” Shane mutters.
His phone lights up again.
NO SERIOUSLY. It’s still Hayden. ARE YOU SEEING THIS DUDE???? GET ON TWITTER!!!!!!
Shane frowns. He reaches for his phone but he’s distracted by his name being said. He vaguely recalls the reporter—someone from ESPN, maybe?
He misses the question, but Rozanov shrugs. “Hollander is still good player. We all have bad days. Not me, obviously. But yes, second best player in league is allowed to have bad days sometimes.”
Shane scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest. “I’m going to kill you.”
“Do you have anything to say to Shane Hollander, Ilya? It must be tough being in his shoes tonight. Maybe you have some words of motivation you can pass along?”
Off screen, there are snickers from the other reporters.
Rozanov smirks. He leans close to the mic and then looks straight down the barrel of the camera.
Shane jolts, despite himself. It’s like Rozanov is in the room with him, looming over him, the way he does before he eats Shane’s face or ass.
“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov says sombrely. “I am sorry I beat you so badly tonight. Is not my fault I am so amazing, but is also not your fault you are second-best. But I will make it up to you. Let me take out for drinks tonight. I know you only drink boring ginger ale, but Boston has pretty good vodka. Is not as good as Russia, but still okay.”
“What the fuck,” Shane says.
The reporters are clamouring, talking over each other. Rozanov smoothly cuts in.
“Do not be stubborn, Hollander. See, I’m asking you very nicely over television, in front of all these nice reporters. I am laying out my heart. Come get drinks with me tonight. I will take you to fancy new place. I will text you.”
Rozanov doesn’t say bye to anyone; he just puts down the microphone and walks off, ignoring all the noise that follows him with a lazy salute and another wink.
Shane dives for his phone.
Twitter has exploded.
garuontherun @shanehollanderismyman
HELLO????? DID ROZANOV JUST ASK SHANE OUT ON TV????
💬 23 🔄 4.5K ❤️10K
replying to @shanehollanderismyman
celeste 🏒 @metsfan24
RIGHT??? I CAN’T BELIEVE WE GOT TO SEE THIS IN HD GOD BLESS CANADA
💬 12 🔄 2.1K ❤️6K
replying to @shanehollanderismyman
andy 🍁 @irisfromthegoal
don’t they hate each other????
💬 8 🔄 1.1K ❤️3K
replying to @irisfromthegoal
celeste 🏒 @metsfan24
well you know what they say about a certain thin line… ;)
💬 34 🔄 4.1K ❤️7K
Sportsnet @Sportsnet
An ultimate mark of sportsmanship—Ilya Rozanov offers Shane Hollander conciliatory drink after Boston vs Montreal loss 🏒
💬 668 🔄 13K ❤️35K
replying to @Sportsnet
sammy 🐻 @bostonballsmyass
lmaooooooo please not sportsnet calling this “sportmanship” yeah im sure rozanov is “laying his heart out” for everyone in the nhl 😏
💬 131 🔄 4K ❤️6.6K
replying to @bostonballsmyass
mas @talkdirtytome
He probably is. Manwhore.
💬 212 🔄 1K ❤️1K
replying to @talkdirtytome
rozy 🌹 @rozybby
He’s obviously messing with hollander lol. Hollander doesn’t even drink.
💬 12 🔄 2K ❤️1.2K
replying to @rozybby
sammy 🐻 @bostonballsmyass
Hollander defs drinks lol. He just prefers not to.
💬 10 🔄 1K ❤️1.7K
replying to @rozybby @bostonballsmyass
pepper @pepperspepper
why are you both competing for the position of shane hollander’s spokesperson lmaoooo?????
💬 76 🔄 3K ❤️4.7K
replying to @pepperspepper
celeste 🏒 @metsfan24
The REAL question is—do you think shane’s gonna say yes???
💬 16 🔄 1K ❤️1.4K
replying to @metsfan24
Hayden Pike 🍁 @HaydenPike
No.
💬 841 🔄 22.5K ❤️138K
Shane’s phone pings again; it hasn’t stopped pinging, but this particular notification gives him pause.
Rozanov 🐻🙄
We are trending already. Did you see yet?
Do not leave me hanging Hollander.
Shane frowns.
“Fucking asshole,” he mutters, throwing away his phone.
four.
Shane honestly didn’t think he was close enough to Scott Hunter to get an invite to his fiancee’s birthday party, but well, here he is, in some dive bar in upstate New York flicking the label of his lukewarm beer.
He thinks the entire bar has been rented out; Kip seems to know everyone and is greeting them with real enthusiasm. He even hugged Shane, even though this is like… the second? maybe third? time they’ve spoken.
The crowd is split between hockey players and Kip’s friends—the only ones who have taken the Old Hollywood theme to heart. There’s someone in a proper tux, the kind Shane wears to awards nights, and another in a backless, silk gown.
Shane’s in jeans and an expensive shirt David gifted him over the summer. It’s not from a brand he usually wears and it’s buttery and smooth, but all Shane can focus on is the tag itching against his hip and the collar sitting too high, right under the jut of his throat, so every time he swallows, he can feel the fabric.
“Found you.” Rozanov slides into the empty booth seat across from him.
Shane raises his eyebrows. “You were looking for me?”
“Sure.” Rozanov shrugs. “I was also looking for ways to kill myself. This is a very boring party.”
Shane snorts. “It’s not so bad,” he says diplomatically, although he’s been looking for a solid reason to leave for the last forty-five minutes. Considering he’s only been here an hour, he thinks whatever excuse he comes up with will only make him seem rude and unpleasant. So, here he is.
“I’m surprised you were invited.”
“I wasn’t,” Rozanov smirks. “I’m Marly’s plus one.”
“That must have annoyed Hunter.”
“Oh, yes.” Rozanov looks young and boyish when he smiles with his teeth. Handsome, too. “He looked like he ate a entire bowl of lemons.”
Rozanov purses his mouth into a pucker, eyes narrowed. Shane laughs. It’s a surprisingly accurate impersonation of Hunter.
“I have theory he is very bad at sex,” Rozanov says. “Only someone who is having regular sex and still that annoying must be very bad at it.”
“Well, you’d know.”
Rozanov smirks around the rim of his bottle. “Funny,” he says. “I didn’t think you could be.”
“Hey, I’m funny.”
“No, you’re not,” Rozanov says. He leans in, eyes gleaming. “Besides, we both know I am not bad at sex.” His eyes roam all over Shane’s body to make his point.
Shane rolls his eyes. He takes a sip of his own drink to hide his blush. It’s really not good beer.
“If you’re expecting me to stroke your ego, forget it.”
“Oh no, wouldn’t dare.” Rozanov smirks. “You can stroke other things, though. I’m a reasonable man.”
“Jesus.” Shane takes one last sip before grimacing and pushing the bottle away. He takes a proper look at Rozanov. The red light at the booth makes him seem harsher than he is. “Nice shirt.”
Rozanov quirks an eyebrow. “You like? I picked it for Hollywood.”
Shane looks at the silk button down, with a large bejewelled tiger roaring over Rozanov’s entire left ribcage.
“That’s definitely not part of the Hollywood dress code,” Shane says.
“It is. I saw Matt Damon wear this just last week.”
“Where would you have possibly seen that?”
Rozanov taps the side of his nose and winks.
They fall into comfortable silence. Which is a strange concept in and of itself—to be comfortable with Ilya Rozanov—but they’ve reached a tentative truce since Rozanov publicly humiliated him on television.
Before that, Shane had always assumed their rivalry was mostly for entertainment, to keep tradition alive, to fuel the legends of the original six… but the interview where Rozanov had asked him out for drinks had been the first time Shane’s perspective had changed. It was the first time where Shane had thought asshole and really, truly meant it. It was the first time Shane thought of himself capable of irrevocably hating Rozanov. It was the first time Shane realised Rozanov could actually be cruel, not just snarky or sardonic.
Because that’s what the invitation to drinks had been. It wasn’t conciliatory or friendly, the way the media presented it—it had been Rozanov rubbing a fuckton of salt on a very open, bleeding wound.
They hadn’t spoken for six months after that, Shane ignoring every text Rozanov sent over. Occasionally, his gut would twist when he would wake up to see Rozanov say i’m sorry, okay? What can i do?—almost always sent at three in the morning.
Then J.J. had mentioned Rozanov had gone back to Moscow in the middle of the season because of his ailing father.
And, obviously, Shane couldn’t keep ignoring him after that.
That night, in the middle of his kitchen, he called Rozanov, his heart beating unbearably fast once he’d realised that this would be the first time he would be calling his rival-slash-fuck buddy.
Rozanov had answered, his voice coloured with surprise. Da, he had said. He’s dead. Shane had stumbled through condolences and Rozanov had said, Is okay, Hollander. He was not good man.
“But still your father,” Shane had said.
“Yes,” Rozanov had confirmed quietly, almost resigned. “Still my father.”
They had spoken every day while Rozanov was in Moscow. And even when he’d come back, the phone calls hadn’t ended.
Sometimes, Rozanov calls him up and doesn’t even say hello—he just goes on these long, winding rants in Russian, Shane not able to get a word in edgewise. Sometimes Rozanov will end the calls as abruptly as they begin, and other times he’ll say, Thank you in English and hang up.
“This helps,” Rozanov had said once. “You help.” So Shane doesn’t ever ignore his phone when Rozanov’s name flashes across his screen. It feels like it’s the least he can do, sometimes.
He thinks they’re sort of friendly now. To the point where Shane’s team mates know he texts Rozanov regularly and that they don’t completely hate each other. It’s why they can do this—sit across from each other at parties and not raise any eyebrows.
The sex is still a secret, though. Completely under wraps (or under covers, ha). Shane doesn’t think even Hayden would be understanding of that.
A wall of noise, filled with cheers and shouts and laughs, floats across the other side of the bar. Shane flinches, blinking out of his reprieve. He flushes when he realises Rozanov has been watching him, eyes as dark and intense as ever.
“Your face,” Rozanov says. He taps his temple, clarifying. “Your eyes. You are okay?”
“Oh shit.” Shane straightens. He closes his eyes, presses two fingers to his lips and concentrates.
When he opens his eyes again, he can feel his mask—this one called Do You Want to Make Friends or Be Alone for the Rest of Your Life?—slip back on. It’s the one that always comes out at parties, when he has to flirt with girls or risk someone asking too many questions, when he’s meeting someone new and doesn’t know how to keep the conversation going.
He meets Rozanov’s gaze. “Better?”
Rozanov’s eyebrows meet in the middle. “Yes. But you are still not okay?”
“No, no I am.” Shane nods. “It’s… just a lot, being here.”
Shane hasn’t explicitly mentioned everything he’s experienced or experiences with autism, but he’s spoken about it enough for Rozanov to understand the general gist of it. It had just seemed… fair to share it with him, after everything Rozanov had shared about his parents and his fucked up brother and his upbringing in Moscow.
It isn’t the only reason why, though. It’s also because Shane thinks Rozanov might be the only person in the world who understands that all he wants is to be a hockey player.
All the other labels they have between them—orphan, autistic, gay, bisexual, Russian, POC—don’t really matter. Or they do, but they’re just… secondary. They’ll always be secondary when it comes to the ice and pucks and Stanley Cups and captaincies.
“I’m going outside to smoke,” Rozanov says. He jerks his head to the side door, the one labelled ‘Fire Exit Only’. “Come.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Don’t order me around like a dog.”
“Oh, yes, I forget. You only like that command in bed.”
“Now I’m really not going to come, asshole. Shut up.” He glares when Rozanov laughs.
“Come on, Hollander. Please?”
Shane rolls his eyes again, even as he stands. He can feel himself properly blushing now, the colour hot and pressing against his ears and cheeks.
Outside, it’s colder than he expected. This time of year, the weather always swings between too warm or too cold. Shane shivers and leans against the brick wall, and Rozanov stands close enough that their shoulders brush. He cups the flame against the wind and, too late, Shane realises he’s staring. He looks away, to the inky sky instead.
“This is not good place for you, I think,” Rozanov says. He’s watching Shane as openly as Shane was a moment ago.
“Fuck off,” Shane says, mostly to curb some of his embarrassment. “I’m not totally inept, you know. I’ve been to parties. You’ve seen me at parties. I can handle them.”
"Yes, but is different today, right? You are…” Rozanov flushes. “I know you explained the word to me, but is difficult for me to remember.”
“Overstimulated?” Shane guesses, and Rozanov nods.
“Da. That one.”
“I’m not overstimulated.” Shane shakes his head. “Not completely, anyway. It’s just been a long travel day.” He sighs, pushes back his hair.
“We should leave,” Rozanov says. He purses his mouth so smoke filters out of the side of his mouth. So Shane doesn’t have to breathe it in. “This is stupid party anyway. We should go somewhere proper. To eat and drink and dance.”
“I think there’s food here. Kip mentioned pretzels?”
Both of Rozanov’s eyebrows jump. “You really want pretzels?”
“No,” Shane admits.
Rozanov nods in approval. “Yes, I know. So, let’s go. Is New York City. We are rich. We are young. We are free. We will go better place, nice restaurant with candles and chandeliers and flowers. Yes?”
Shane raises his brows, amused. “With lamb and pasta and chicken.”
Shane’s chest flutters at the delighted look on Rozanov’s face.
“Fuck, Hollander, come here.” He snubs out his cigarette and settles his hands on Shane’s waist, pulling him closer until they’re chest to chest.
Shane’s arms wrap around Rozanov’s neck as he kisses him. His back hits the brick again, and for the first time tonight, his brain is completely quiet. Rozanov growls under his mouth, licking into Shane’s mouth, like he’s been waiting all night for this. Maybe he has. Shane’s been wanting it since Rozanov sat across from him.
Shane whimpers when Rozanov pulls away to kiss across his cheek, his jaw, and then down his neck, gently biting down over his rabbit-like pulse.
Shane surges forward for the second kiss, fingers buried in Rozanov’s curls, cataloguing every noise made into his mouth.
They pull apart when they hear a trash can being knocked down at the end of the street. At the same time they realise where they are—on a public sidewalk, in a brightly lit street, the entire city still alive.
They’re still too close, though. Neither of them have been good at staying away from each other.
Shane smiles up at Rozanov. He reaches forward to brush away a curl, Rozanov’s eyelashes dancing briefly. Then he touches Rozanov’s hip, the exact spot where he knows the tattoo is.
Радость моя. My joy. Irina’s pet name for Rozanov.
It’s another secret Rozanov has given him. Over the years, Shane has collected so many of them, and he’s cherished each and every one. He protects and guards each one close to his heart. He’s given some of his own to Rozanov too, of course. He’s never regretted that; he’s always been confident that Rozanov would rather die than expose any of Shane’s secrets.
“I don’t want to leave the party,” Shane says into the still air. “I mean, I want to. But… We shouldn’t. Right?”
Rozanov eyes track over his face. “Okay,” he says. “But you will leave if you are…” He trails off, frustrated that he can’t say that word.
Shane pecks his mouth. “Yeah. Promise.”
Rozanov smiles gently, and when they step back inside, Shane relishes in the warm hand pressed against his back.
five.
Yuna runs warmer than both David and Shane, so the house always feels like an igloo when Shane stays over.
It reminds Shane of the ice, obviously, but also of a memory from elementary school where these scientists from Antarctica visited. The school set up a portable room to replicate an igloo that had a smoke and ice machine, and when they ducked into the cool, damp space, all the hair on Shane’s arm had stood up.
That was the first time Shane noticed other guys. Not consciously, but he remembers meeting the eyes of the male scientist—dark green, like a forest—and his stomach had jolted, butterflies exploding, flooding his chest and sternum until he couldn’t breathe. It was a nonsensical reaction and Shane had tamped it down, the immediate wrongness settling over him like a blanket. He remembered being scared of it. When boys in his class would talk about crushes, they had never seemed scared, the way Shane had been looking into the scientist’s eyes. He’d envied that, which was why he had continued to tamp it down over the years—in locker rooms, at the beach, at the gym—until a certain man pushed him up against a wall on a rooftop in Vegas.
He misses Rozanov, which is the most annoying fucking thing. Like, it’s actually kind of fucked up, because Rozanov told him three weeks ago he was thinking of marrying his friend Svetlana just for a fucking passport.
“No love or sex, Hollander, don’t worry.”
He’d said it like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just finished fucking Shane in his bed in Boston.
Shane had said, “But why?” and it had been so fucking awful because he could hear and feel his voice shake. He had sounded so weak.
“I just told you,” was all Rozanov had said, before he had rolled over for a cigarette. He hadn’t even bothered to look at Shane, pulling up some old Sportsnet rerun on his phone. It had hurt, fucking sliced him open, chin to hip.
Shane had left right after that, angry and confused and resentful. Slamming the front door hadn’t been satisfying. Neither had been kicking down the potted plant outside Rozanov’s door.
Needless to say, they hadn’t spoken since then.
Shane hopes Rozanov has the tackiest fucking wedding and his dick falls off mid-ceremony. Shane hopes Rozanov fucking trips walking down the aisle and breaks his dick into tiny fucking pieces. He hopes Svetlana cheats. He hopes she catches Rozanov cheating so she can cut off his dick and balls and feed it to fucking sharks or whatever pathetic creature in the ecosystem wants mushed up Russian cock.
And yes, fine, all of Shane’s petty wishes pretty much involve Rozanov breaking his cock but Rozanov deserves it.
Yuna touches the back of his neck as he’s prepping all the salad ingredients for dinner.
“You’re a million miles away, sweetie,” she says softly. “Everything okay?”
“Sure,” Shane says quickly. He shrugs off her touch and realises immediately that he’s done and said the wrong thing. “I mean, yeah. Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Yuna raises her eyebrows. “You tell me. Hey.” She forces him to look at him even though it’s the last thing he wants. “You’re okay?”
He smiles properly now. He’s had practice pretending recently. “I’m okay, mom. Sorry. I guess I'm kind of… sluggish or something? Maybe ‘cause of the nap earlier.”
She relaxes a little. She’s always been a problem solver, and she likes that Shane is solvable.
Shane has always taken pride in that—in not being a burden for her. He compartmentalises the emotions she won’t like—anger or sadness or hurt—and doesn’t draw too much attention to anything personal in his life. They talk about hockey and brand deals and how Shane’s Asianess can be capitalised and which celebrity has tagged Shane on Twitter. It’s fine. It’s safe. It matters, just not the way Shane wants it to.
He’s aware, ironically enough, that the only person in the world who knows him inside-out is someone he doesn’t want to talk to ever again.
Dinner is mostly fine. David makes his famous lasagne—the one that won Yuna over when they were first dating—and Shane piles half the salad from the bowl like it’ll offset all the calories. He tells himself he’ll use the treadmill after.
It’s late by the time they sit down for a game of Scrabble and an old episode of The X-Files.
Shane wonders what kind of television Rozanov and his family watched in Russia. Comedies? Dramas? Horror? Did they even watch television together? Based on everything Rozanov’s told him, probably not—and that makes Shane fucking miserable, thinking about Rozanov as a kid not watching movies with his family.
“Shane?” He looks up. David is watching him, concerned. Most people don’t realise it, but Shane gets his nose and mouth from him.
“It’s your turn, buddy.” He nods to the Scrabble board.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
But he’s out of it, the letters blurring at the edge of his vision. He doesn’t want to play or think about Rozanov or just exist. He wishes he could like… sit in a dark pod until the next season starts. Or better yet—until the moment he can step back on the ice. He’s always loved that sound, the clunk of skates hitting frozen ground. He told Rozanov once that he wished he could make it his ringtone for his texts and Rozanov had laughed so hard, he’d rolled off the bed. Shane hadn’t even been mad.
“Shane?” This time it’s Yuna. “Are you sure you’re—”
“Yes, I’m fine,” Shane snaps. He closes his eyes. Opens them. Takes a deep breath. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to speak to you like that. But I'm definitely fine.”
There’s a few moments of tense silence where Yuna and David silently communicate with eyebrows and head shakes.
Finally, David sighs. “All right.”
He gets up, heads to the kitchen, and comes back with three glasses and a wine bottle tucked into the crook of his arm.
When he starts to pour a third glass, Shane shakes his head, but his father says firmly, “Drink, Shane. It’s not gonna kill you.” He pauses. “Besides, I have a feeling you’ll need it.”
“Why?”
Yuna and David have another silent back and forth. They both take a long sip from their glasses, and then turn to him expectantly, so Shane takes a careful sip. He’s not really a wine guy, but this one is full-bodied and sweet. He definitely needs to get on the treadmill before bed.
Unsurprisingly, it’s Yuna who takes the reins. “Shane… there’s something your father and I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Okay…?” Shane stares at them, their twin expressions of worry. “What? You guys are freaking me out.”
“Well, we just want you to know you can tell us anything,” David says. He smiles a little. “Anything—every… bad, scary, or unconventional thing that happens in your life. No matter what.”
“No, seriously,” Shane says, heat crawling up his spine like spider legs. “What the fuck are you guys talking about?”
Yuna looks at David again, but David’s only looking at Shane now. “Shane…” He begins carefully, “Are you… seeing anyone?”
“No,” Shane says immediately. The heat’s getting worse, which should be impossible in this house.
“Are you sure?” Yuna presses gently. “Nobody you’re even… interested in?”
Shane laughs, high and pitchy. It’s the strangest noise he’s ever made. “No. I just told you. No. I'm not. I don’t even—”
“Because, it’s okay if you are,” David says quietly. “And it’s okay if the person you’re interested in is a man.”
Shane’s left ear splits open with a high-pitched ring. He grows dizzy.
“Oh my god.” Shane buries his head in his hands, eyes squeezed tight. “Oh my god.”
“Oh, honey, it’s okay. Really.” Yuna’s voice is soft. “We always knew we were going to have this talk with you eventually. We were just waiting for you to come to us first.”
Shane looks up. His vision is still blurring. “What?”
“Shane, you’re a handsome, young guy, at the top of his game—literally. And you’ve never brought a girl home for us to meet. You’ve never even really looked at girls. Even at parties.”
“I…” Shane’s inside feels hollowed out. “I thought I was doing okay at hiding it.”
“But you don’t need to hide it,” David says. “That’s what we’re trying to tell you, son.”
Shane wipes his mouth. “Okay. Okay. Fine. I’m—yes.” He takes a breath. “I like… men.” His voice quavers. “I’ve always liked them, I think.”
“Oh, honey.” Yuna’s eyes water. “Thank you for telling us. We love you so, so much.”
Shane shakes his head. He can’t return the sentiment, not right now.
“What?” He says after another beat of silence because his parents are still staring.
“Shane,” Yuna sighs. “We know about you and Ilya Rozanov—”
“Oh fuck, no—” Shane makes to stand up, but he’s stopped by a hand around his wrist.
“And we’re fine with it,” David cuts in, squeezing above his pulse point.
“Well, mostly,” Yuna says. “What?” She meets David’s exasperated stare. “He plays for Boston, Dave, I’m not going to ever be happy about that.”
“Oh my god,” Shane groans. “Stop—this is. I’m—I feel sick. I can’t…”
“Oh, Shane.” Strong arms wrap around him, his mother’s jasmine perfume filtering into his nostrils. There’s a kiss pressed to his forehead. “I was mostly kidding about Ilya playing for Boston. Nobody’s perfect.”
“Mom, stop.” He squirms out of her grip. “Is that really your biggest worry right now?”
“Well.” She blinks. “Yes? You’re a grown man, and more importantly, we trust you. We know you’re going to choose someone… compatible. Someone worthy of being with you.”
“Even if that choice is a man,” Shane chokes out. “Even if it’s always going to be a man.”
“Yes, of course.”
This time, he feels David’s hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off. He pushes his mother off him—gently.
“Sorry. I’m kind of freaking out right now. I need space for a bit.”
He places his burning head on the cool wooden tabletop. He counts to eighty-one before he lifts it.
“How did you guys find out?” His voice is small.
He thinks how careless they’ve been these last few years—kissing on sidewalks, walking into parties together, leaving together, being photographed together after games in diners, their team mates surrounding them, sitting too close at awards shows. They’re friendly. Most people know that, but now Shane’s worried somewhere along the way, his face has given away something his heart’s not ready to.
Plus, it’s humiliating that this is being brought up now, when he and Rozanov aren’t even talking and the fucker’s probably happily married and running off into the sunset with his unbearably gorgeous friend.
“Well.” Yuna and David exchange another look. “He messaged me, honey. On Instagram.”
“He what?” Shane shoots up. “What?”
“I thought you knew,” Yuna begins, but Shane’s already sticking his hand out, palm up. “Show me.”
The DMs are at the top of the page. To his dismay, Shane realises his mother and Rozanov are following each other.
Shane’s Instagram is run by his mother. He barely goes on it, and a part of him is suddenly curious to go through Rozanov’s profile. It’s not something he’s ever considered doing before, and now he’s dying to. All Shane can see is Rozanov’s tiny profile picture.
It’s obnoxious. It’s a shirtless photo, his gold chain glinting, an unlit cigarette hanging from his unsmiling lips.
He clicks open the message thread. It’s from a week ago. Timestamped at four in the morning.
Ilya @rozyrozanov
FRIDAY at 4:10 AM
Hello Mrs Yuna Hollander
I think I maybe have spoken to you once. During toronto photoshoot eight years ago.
But anyway. I am feeling drunk and brave and so i message you
Shane is ignoring me right now. He is very mad at me. I told him I am going to marry Svetlana for citizenship. He left my house after I said this.
Svetlana is good friend, from my childhood. She loves me and I love her but is not anything more than that. This makes sense?
I know she will marry me. Like i will marry her if she needed citizenship. This is our friendship.
But Shane is special to me. And in truth, there is only one person i want to be my mother in law and that is you.
I have known this truth for a very long time. Maybe that is why i introduce myself at the toronto photoshoot.
FRIDAY at 4:55 AM
Please tell Shane to ring me. I would like to take him out to nice dinner, tell him i’m sorry. Buy him present. Tell him i’m sorry. Take him out to nice dinner.
Tell Shane, Ilya Rozanov is asking you out to nice dinner. Like that, please.
FRIDAY at 5:04 AM
I will be very good son in law. Promise. I will learn Japanese for you.
Not French though. Is garbage language and garbage country.
Ok bye.
FRIDAY at 5:27 AM
Sayonara.
Japanese, see?
Yuna Hollander @yunahollander
FRIDAY at 8:17 AM
Oh my! I’m sorry, I slept through this.
I’m not too sure how to respond.
This is a… lot to take in, Mr Rozanov.
Rozanov’s message is timestamped several hours later, at two in the afternoon.
FRIDAY at 2:03 PM
Ha ha
Please ignore everything. And maybe please do not tell Shane?
I am sorry for harassing you with long message late at night
And please, I am Ilya. If you like.
Yuna Hollander @yunahollander
FRIDAY at 2:17 PM
Okay, Ilya. Take care.
Ilya @rozyrozanov
FRIDAY at 2:20 PM
You too Mrs Hollander
Yuna Hollander @yunahollander
FRIDAY at 2:22 PM
Yuna
😊
Rozanov’s hearted this last message.
“Mom.” Shane looks up at her in horror. “This was a week ago. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, your father and I decided this was definitely an in-person conversation. Besides, that’s what we’re doing right now.” She gestures to the wine and the Scrabble, like Shane’s forgotten they’re there.
“I… I don’t know why he’s said all this,” Shane says, his voice pitching. “We’re not—anything like that. I thought he was seeing Svetlana this whole time too.”
“Oh.” David’s eyes widen.
Yuna’s mouth purses. “I see.”
They both exchange a disapproving look.
“No.” Shane shakes his head. “I’m explaining this wrong. He’s a… womanizer, you know? He. We. We’ve never talked about being exclusive or anything like that. I mean, how would that even work—he’s all the way in Boston and I’m here. And it’s—different teams. And we hate each other. I mean, we have to pretend to. Because of the rivalry, you know.”
“Breathe, Shane. It’s okay.”
He stands. “I need to call him. What the fuck.”
“Wait, Shane, maybe—”
But he’s already storming out, stepping out into the warmly lit patio. He’s pressing dial before he can think not to.
Rozanov picks up after three rings. “Shane?” he says, a little hopefully, a little scared.
There’s music playing in the background, something with a loud, thumping bass, the sound of crackling fire, laughter.
“You messaged my mother on Instagram? What the fuck, Rozanov?”
“Ah.” There’s the sound of a door sliding open. The music and laughter fade. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Shane is bewildered. “Is that all you can really say? I mean what the fuck, Rozanov?”
“You already say this.”
Shane sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why would you do something like that?”
Rozanov is quiet for a few beats. “You were mad at me. I was trying to explain… Fuck, I don’t know. I wasn’t being serious when I told you I will marry Svetlana. I mean, maybe only a little, because I do need passport eventually. I was…”
“You were testing me,” Shane says through gritted teeth.
“Yes. Maybe. I think so.”
“That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard,” Shane says. He can hear his voice rising, sharpening in anger. “What if I did the same to you? Told you I wanted to marry someone else right after sex?” He unintentionally stutters on the word because of how quiet it is out here. “What if I told you I wanted to marry another man?”
“I would die,” Rozanov says quietly.
“Yeah,” Shane says, just as quietly, all the fight draining out of him.
“I’m sorry,” Rozanov says. “Shane, I’m sorry.”
Shane sniffs. He sits down on the patio steps, looking up at the stars. “That’s twice now that you’ve called me Shane.”
“Yeah,” Rozanov says. “But in my head and heart you have been Shane a really long time.”
Shane swallows. “Where are you right now?”
“Home,” Rozanov says, “Couple of guys from the team are here for barbecue, pizza, drinks.”
“Oh,” Shane says. He’s never hosted a party at his place. He didn’t realise Rozanov would be the kind of captain that does. “Sounds fun.”
“No,” Rozanov says, “I have been miserable since you left that night.”
“And whose fault is that?” Shane snaps.
“I know, I know. Is my fault.”
“No, don’t…” Shane trails off, because Rozanov just sounds so defeated.
There’s silence on the line as they both say nothing and breathe. This time, Shane counts to twelve, the age Rozanov was when his mother died. Another secret Shane’s protected.
“Don’t ever talk to me about marrying someone else,” Shane says quietly. “Don’t ever test me like that ever again. The only time you test me is on the ice, got it?”
“Yes,” Rozanov breathes.
“And don’t message my mom on Instagram, that’s just weird.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t want you to smoke during the season anymore.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t marry Svetlana,” Shane says. His voice catches, and it’s audible.
“I won’t,” Rozanov says. “I was never going to.”
“Don’t marry for a passport,” Shane says. “There are other… We can figure something else out, if that’s what you really want.”
“Okay.”
“I like you,” Shane says, after a pause. “Don’t make me regret that, Rozanov.”
“I won’t,” Rozanov says gravely. “I promise.”
“And don’t keep things from me.” His voice is small.
“You are my best friend, Shane,” Rozanov says. “I tell you everything.”
“I know.” He sniffs. “You’re mine too.”
Rozanov sighs. “Слава Богу.”
“I know that one,” Shane says, “Thank god, right?”
“Yes, very good.”
Shane sighs, stretching out his legs. He wishes Rozanov was here right now, wishes he could tuck himself under his chin, the way they do in bed.
“Don’t be miserable, okay? Go have fun with your friends tonight.” He pauses. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay,” Rozanov says. This time, it’s his voice that is small and tinny. “Good night, Shane.”
“Good night, Rozanov.”
“Can I make a request now?” Rozanov says.
“Depends,” Shane says, because he’s still feeling kind of petty.
“No more Rozanov, okay? I want you to call me Ilya.”
Shane breathes out. He closes his eyes. “Good night, Ilya.”
Right before he hangs up, he catches the sound of Ilya’s sigh, choked and sweet, lingering in the night air.
six.
“This is not cottage.” Ilya raises his eyebrows.
“What do you mean?”
It’s surreal to stand in the doorway and watch Ilya flit about his favourite place in the world. Shane watches his reactions greedily.
Ilya takes in everything—the high-beam ceilings in the kitchen, the hallway that breaks out to the bedrooms, the lake, glittering in the sun, the living room—with an amused, awed expression.
“Have you seen cottages?” Ilya says. “I should take you back to Moscow. You need to see cottages there.”
“Hmm,” Shane says, not really paying attention. Ilya’s wearing a tight black tank top and his biceps are obscene, frankly.
“I looked up cottages before this,” Ilya says. “Even Google does not agree with you.”
Shane rolls eyes. “It’s what the guy who made the place called it.”
“Mr Real Estate and Mr Architect,” Ilya says, smirking.
He’s talking too much, Shane thinks. He strides forward and kisses Ilya hard, hands settling into his second favourite place—Ilya’s curls.
It’s not a great kiss; Ilya is smiling too much so Shane mostly gets teeth, but then Ilya course corrects, cupping Shane’s ass and hauling him forward until Shane wraps his arms and legs around Ilya’s torso.
Ilya carries him to the sofa, and now it’s Shane laughing into his mouth. Ilya keeps kissing him, lips smacking across his eyelids, his cheeks, his jaw as he settles Shane on the soft couch. Дорогой, he keeps whispering in between breaths. Sweetheart.
Shane’s heart flutters. He pulls Ilya into a proper kiss, savouring the taste of him, even the last pockets of smoke on his tongue.
“Will you teach me Russian while we’re here?” Shane says, running a thumb over Ilya’s ear. “I want to learn.”
“Mm, yeah,” Ilya hums. “Try this one first: Пожалуйста, трахни меня, сэр.”
“Way too long and hard. Shut up,” Shane groans when Ilya laughs and waggles his eyebrows salaciously. He bites his ear. “What did that mean?”
“Mm, please fuck me, sir. I think you will use this one often.”
“I hate you,” Shane says, laughing.
Ilya kisses him again, his hands cupping Shane’s ass so their groins align. Shane moans, and Ilya chases the noise like he can’t get enough.
“I have another request,” Shane whispers. He places his palm flat against Ilya’s racing heart.
“What?”
Shane looks into his eyes. “I don’t want any more secrets between us.”
Ilya touches his cheek. His eyes are warm. “There’s not many of them now.”
“I know,” Shane says, “Same here.”
There really isn’t. Maybe Shane will tell Ilya about how the guys at school used to tease him because all he wanted to talk about was hockey stats. Or how hard he worked once he hit high school to change nearly everything about himself so he could fit in. The dread that settled in his chest when he realised that meant pretending to like girls.
In the afternoon, they lounge on the sofa on the patio, fucking slow and soft with the lake glittering behind Ilya. They’re slick with sweat and lube, joined everywhere, every inch of their bodies touching. Ilya groans when Shane comes untouched, like he’s undone by it, and then he’s coming too.
“Can you stay?” Shane whispers, and Ilya groans again.
Shane runs a soothing hand over Ilya’s strong, broad back, listening to the sound of the water and the wind. Ilya’s cock occasionally twitches inside him, and even though he knows he’s sensitive, Shane clenches down on it.
Eventually, Ilya fucks him again, growing hard inside Shane, and it’s the best sex they’ve ever had.
Afterwards, Ilya whispers into his hair, “I have secret for you.”
“Yeah?”
Ilya cups his jaw. Kisses it. They’re nose to nose. “I’m in love with you.”
Shane’s eyes widen. “Really?” he breathes. When Ilya nods, Shane kisses him, hard and soft and tender and overpowering all at once—full of contradictions, like Ilya. “I love you too. So much.”
Ilya grins. “Is obvious. I’m a catch.” His face softens. “You make me so happy, Shane.”
“You make me happy too.”
There’s a pause. Ilya’s face transforms again; it grows into something more mischievous.
“So, I can finally take you out on proper date now? Or do I have to wait another nine years before you get the hint and understand I am asking you out?”
Shane’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean? You’ve never asked me out on a date?”
Ilya stills. “Shane. Please tell me you are not serious.” When he pulls back to look at Shane’s face, his eyes widen in horror. “No.”
“What!” Shane says. “When have you asked me out?”
“About a hundred times now,” Ilya says. “You really did not know?”
“You’ve been trying to ask me out on a date?”
“YES!” Ilya groans. “Since rookie year!”
“Since rookie year!”
“No, wait.” Ilya shakes his head. “Since summer before. Remember—lamb and pasta and chicken? But you break my heart and think I am big joke.”
“I…” Shane blinks. “Oh my god.”
Ilya pokes his chest. “I stalked your mother on social media! I don’t even know Marlow’s mother’s name and he’s been on my team for five years. I call her Mrs Cliff Marlow.”
“I think you only do that if they’re married. Which I hope they’re not.”
“She has not ever corrected me on this.” Ilya pauses, frowning. “Although they are freakishly close.”
“Ugh, I don’t want to talk about Cliff Marlow and his mother.” He peers down at Ilya. “I can’t believe you.”
“You are lucky I’m a patient man,” Ilya says sombrely.
“Okay, fine.” Shane is pretty sure his face is going to break with the force of his grin. Nine years. “Ask me properly this time.”
Ilya pulls back, clears his throat. “Shane Hollander, second-best player in league—”
“Hey!”
“—and first-best at sucking my cock—”
“I actually hate you so much—”
“—will you finally agree to go out on a date with me, Ilya Rozanov, handsomest man in NHL?”
Shane bites his lip over his smile. He’s sure he looks dopey as he pecks Ilya’s mouth.
“Fine,” he sighs exaggeratedly, “I guess I agree to a date. Where are you taking me?”
Ilya blinks. Then blinks again. He looks horrified.
“I don’t know!” He whines. “You have taken so long to respond, I have no ideas left!”
Shane laughs. “Okay. Should I plan one?”
“No,” Ilya says. He squeezes Shane’s middle. “I will. I will plan best first date ever and pay and be a gentleman and kiss you after and take you to this cottage that is not cottage and make love to you nice and slow through the night even though you are a bit of a slut and like it when I bite you and pull your hair—”
“God shut up!” But Shane’s laughing properly now.
“So that is yes?”
He kisses Ilya’s nose. Bites his lip. “Yes.”
Ilya beams. Golden light streams over his curls. It’s like he’s being lit from within and Shane can’t believe how much he loves this man. How much he knows Ilya, when once upon a time, he was elusive and unfamiliar.
Ilya’s eyes soften, like he knows what Shane is thinking, and he probably does; Shane’s walls are down, and they’ll always stay down for Ilya. Forever.
The light continues to dance across Ilya’s face, and Shane watches on, enamoured.
That’s the exact moment summer becomes Shane’s favourite season. It’s not a surprise, really; after all, it’s not the first time he’s learnt to love something he hates.
bonus.
