Chapter Text
January 2016 — Nashville
Shane had less than zero interest in taking part in the NHL’s 2016 charity date auction, and if his mother hadn’t been so persistent about it being a good cause and even better PR, he absolutely would’ve found a way out of it. As it stood, he had no excuse.
They'd put photos of himself, Rozanov, and Carter Vaughn on a graphic on the NHL website, all wearing suits from past NHL Awards. The effect looked something like a very athletic, multi choice version of the Bachelor. He couldn’t say he loved being a hot commodity on this market. But, his mom had repeatedly told him it would be a good idea for his brand, he’d been reassured he could schedule it in the off-season, and it wouldn’t kill him to give up three hours of a Sunday for some philanthropy. Still, he wished it didn’t feel so much like a cattle call. The only saving grace was that they’d timed the gala to line up with All Stars weekend, which saved him a flight.
Some of the guys getting auctioned were fully married, so it was really more of a win-a-chance-to-meet-your-favorite-celebrity affair. The people who attended these things were high rollers, so it was a near guarantee that some aging multimillionaire with season tickets would be buying Shane off, either to talk shop or to gift his date to a beautiful, miraculously single, twenty-something female relative.
Donors filled the room, all massive hockey fans made up mostly of wrinkled men and their wives. Unfortunately, it was also full of the All Stars themselves — some of whom would be up for auction tonight, and others simply there to enjoy their misery.
Dallas Kent started the show, pig that he was. Regrettably, he did have a certain charm to him, and he brought home a couple thousand for a food bank with the promise of a helicopter tour of Toronto.
Matheson was married, but the “date” he’d suggested was golfing anyway, so it was no surprise when a man in his seventies shook his hand and clapped him on the back in a way that screamed, “No homo, man.”
One big crowd pleaser for the night was seeing an older woman dressed in an Admirals-red gown pinch Scott Hunter's cheek as they linked arms, off to save an orphanage and plan a dinner at the Empire State Building.
And then it was Shane's turn. He did his best to put on an idiotic smile as the emcee for the evening rattled off his accomplishments.
“Next up, we've got your most recent Stanley Cup champion, last year's MVP, five time All Star, Montreal’s captain, Shane Hollander! I think this one's gonna be a big ticket item.” She cooed to a roar of applause. “Shane? Why don’t you tell us a little bit about the cause you’re supporting tonight?”
He launched into his memorized shtick about funding equipment for underprivileged kids in the juniors league, happy to have scripted this out ahead of time.
“Um, I think everyone in this room knows that hockey can be a very expensive sport for our parents to take on, and anything we can do to say thank you and help out with those costs is worthwhile. With your support, some of these guys could be standing up here in five or ten years.”
“Aww. That’s amazing, Shane. Why don’t you tell us a little bit about the date you’re going to be taking your lucky winner on?”
“Sure, yeah. So, first things first, we’re going to make a quick visit to the Montreal juniors team, so you can really see where your money is going and how it’s, you know, being put to good use.”
“So sweet. Just think about those little faces! And then what’s next on the agenda, Shane?”
“Right, so after that, we’re going to go kayaking. Montreal is beautiful in the summer, so we’ll just go spend an hour on the river. Oh and uh, don’t worry, I can do the paddling.”
That got a laugh, which was nice, because it wasn’t funny.
“Ooh la la! This beautiful man paddling you around? Before we start the betting, I want you guys to just visualize the big smiles on these kids' faces when you make a difference in their lives. And, more importantly, this guy's biceps flexing while he paddles you down a river.”
Shane blushed with violent embarrassment, once again kicking himself for agreeing to this, but the crowd was clearly eating it up.
“Now, we're gonna start the bidding at $5,000. Do I hear $5,000? All right, where are my bidders?”
And wow, the bidders came out. It was undeniably awkward to be paraded around on stage like this, but he couldn't say that his ego wasn't flattered, especially with all the editorializing the emcee was doing.
“Ooh, the wives are really out for this one! We've got a hottie up here right now, don't we?”
In all honesty, Shane would probably rather just talk about hockey with their husbands, but, their wives might be easier to paddle.
The bidding had long soared past Kent and Matheson's final numbers when it started to simmer between its final holdouts. He couldn't see their faces past the spotlights, but he could clearly hear two distinct voices battling out their last bets.
Right when it sounded like it was wrapping up, the final betting was interrupted with perhaps the voice he least wanted to hear in this exact moment. Shane's head snapped in his direction immediately.
“$50,000!”
“Oh, that can't be who I think it is, is it?” The emcee stopped her auctioneering. “Ilya Rozanov has entered the bidding!”
“Could not resist!” Rozanov laughed, and both his table and the crowd followed.
“Oh, nothing but trouble from the left side of the room tonight!” The emcee tsked. “Do we have $55,000? Check, I see you table 48! How about $60,000?”
“$60,000!” That obnoxious Russian voice called out again.
Shane wondered if he was drunk. Whatever stunt this was, it wasn't fucking funny. In the best case, it was humiliating, and in the worst case, it was way too suspicious. He felt his face warm, incapable of controlling his ire, and the audience ate it up as the betting went on.
“Let's see, are we gonna get $70,000? Do I have $70,000 for Shane Hollander? Just imagine. The summer sunshine, these forearms rippling down the Montreal river while you get to sit back and eat chocolate covered strawberries. Who doesn't fantasize about that, am I right?”
Chocolate covered strawberries? When had those entered the equation? Shane didn’t even eat chocolate covered strawberries.
He had been enjoying beating Kent, but now he was starting to feel a bit like a prize hog. He needed this to get wrapped up quickly — preferably to anyone but Rozanov. The emcee had the same idea.
“Come on, guys. I know you're not gonna let this poor guy go home with Rozanov. Who's gonna save him, huh?”
The number only continued to rise, until one by one his top contenders dropped out, and the horrifying reality sank in.
“Alright! Shane Hollander! Sold for $85,000 to our mysterious Russian bidder at table 10!”
The table of Boston players cackled, Cliff Marlow's voice ringing out, “You're such a dick, Roz!”
“Time to come claim your prize, paddle 81! I have a sneaking feeling you were supposed to be backstage five minutes ago anyway!”
Rozanov grinned like a shark as he bounded the steps to the stage and linked their arms.
Shane didn't bother hiding his fury, hissing, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Could not let anyone go on that boring date, Hollander! They would have died of boredom. Big safety risk. You should know this.”
As soon as they reached the darkened wings of backstage, Shane shoved him away.
“Get the fuck off me! What are you thinking?”
“Mm, I am thinking that I am feeling very generous tonight. Very phil-an-throp-ic.” The word sounded practiced in his mouth.
“Yeah, no shit.”
“Ah, ah, I do not mean the money. These people are very nice, Hollander, have you met them? I could not let them suffer like this, watching you kayak. But is okay, I am a team player, so, I will eat your strawberries.”
God, Shane wanted to smack him. He had the petty urge to ruffle that perfectly slicked back hair. He didn’t deserve to look sexy right now, all coiffed and debonair and irritating as hell.
“I didn’t even say anything about strawberries. She just made that up.” Shane grumbled, annoyed he didn’t have anything better to say.
“Hmm.” Rozanov reached for Shane’s bowtie, tightening it, and if Shane had better sense, he would’ve swatted his hand away. Instead, he felt his heart rate tick up and his jaw slacken. “We will have to get some then.”
***
Back at his table, Scott gave him a pitying look. “Tough luck, dude.”
“Uh huh. Yeah.” Shane’s brain had not quite returned to the room yet.
“Hey, at least you don't have to actually go on the date now.” Eric Bennett shrugged.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean… it's Rozanov. He probably won't actually fly to Montreal to do it.”
Shane frowned. It wouldn't be the end of the world if Rozanov bailed on the date. He'd still have to pay the money; it would just mean that he didn't have to waste his Sunday. Still. Something about the idea bothered him. And fuck, he was still furious that Rozanov had done that so publicly. Furious and slightly turned on. Rozanov was probably just messing with him. But Shane still spent the next ten minutes debating which option would piss him off more: Rozanov showing up for the date, or ditching it entirely. The only thing to snap him out of his deliberation was—
“Up next on the auction list is one of our winners of the night already! Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for Stanley Cup winner, five time All Star, Boston’s captain, Ilya Rozanov!”
He walked on stage, all swaggering charm and infuriating good looks.
“Ilya, what cause are you supporting tonight?”
“Tonight, we are supporting the ASPCA. Your donation will help save and treat lots of very cute and nice animals. Who does not love puppies?”
“I’ll second that! Now, where are you gonna take your lucky winner on a date?”
“First, we will be visiting one of the local shelters in Boston to help them out for an hour, and then, we will be sitting courtside at a Boston Celtics game.”
“Wow! Puppies, courtside, and this hottie? Sign me up! Alright, let's start the bidding at $5,000!”
Shane was closeted. Easily embarrassed. Anxious as hell. And in general, he was a bit terrified of anyone making a personal connection between himself and the man on stage in the criminally fitted tuxedo. But above all things, above everything else in the world, Shane was competitive. And he was not about to let Ilya Rozanov win this one.
So when the bidding opened, Shane immediately raised his number, wrath personified. And then he didn't stop.
Immediately, the auctioneer noticed. “Ooh, we've got a little payback happening. Is that Shane Hollander at table 8? Does anyone want to outbid the Shane Hollander? That's quite a bragging right!”
Some tried. They failed. It quickly became obvious to the audience that Shane Hollander would be taking this one home no matter the cost. The look on his face was homicidal. But as he glared daggers into Rozanov's smug face, Rozanov only smiled wider, and donors quickly remembered that Shane Hollander was not a person who played to lose.
As a result, Ilya ended up bringing in much less money for his charity, which Shane felt a little bit guilty about. But not more guilty than victorious.
“And a date with Ilya Rozanov is sold to Shane Hollander!”
The crowd erupted, utterly delighted as Shane came to claim his prize.
Rozanov leaned into the microphone. “Could not wait to spend more time with me, huh, Hollander?”
“Nope.” Shane slapped him on the back hard. “Just worried no one would bid on you. Someone's got to take care of those puppies.”
***
“I can’t believe you just spent $30,000 to hang out with me,” Rozanov giggled as they left the stage. “You could have just texted if you wanted to see me again so soon.”
“Yeah? Well I can't believe you just spent $80,000 to hang out with me.”
Rozanov scoffed. “I get paid more than that in a week.”
“Cool. I get paid more than $30,000 in a day. Turns out, you were kind of a deal.”
Something dark flickered in Rozanov's eyes then. Annoyance, definitely, but also an expression Shane was much more used to seeing behind a locked door.
A thrill ran down his spine, and he tried to regain some control. “Besides… it’s for charity.”
“Yes, well. Would have been higher if you did not pull that stunt. Who would try to outbid the great Shane Hollander? Just think of how much more money I could have brought in if you let those other people bid. But no, you had to have me. Could not let me go to anyone else. Very greedy, Hollander.”
“Oh, get fucked.”
“Later.”
Rozanov smirked as he returned to his seat, and Shane made a silent promise to himself that he’d donate an additional $60,000 to the ASPCA just to one-up him.
***
The rest of the gala continued without a hitch until Shane's pocket buzzed with a room number.
“You are such an asshole.” Shane barely stopped kissing him as he gritted out the words, then didn't give him a breath to even respond, not that Rozanov really minded. Still, he couldn't keep himself from laughing at the combined effect of Shane glaring at him, pouncing on him, and chastising him all in the same thirty seconds.
“Come on. It's fun!”
“It's fucking dangerous!” Shane shoved his shoulders, but not so hard that Ilya lost his grip on Shane's waist.
“Relax, Hollander.” He stroked a hand up and down his back. “It will be fun. We will play with puppies and do your boring canoe ride.”
“It’s a kayak.” Shane mumbled, then leaned back, dodging Rozanov’s mouth. “Wait. You actually want to go on the dates?”
Something in Rozanov’s expression closed off, and he gave a nonchalant shrug as he replied, “It’s like you said, is for charity.”
“Yeah, but.. The charity still gets the money whether we do it or not. It's not like you have to fly to Montreal to see me.”
“No.” Rozanov’s fingers teased up the side of Shane’s stomach, untucking his shirt, a condescending note in his voice. “I do not have to do much to see you.”
Shane huffed through his nose, irritated by the truth of that, and Rozanov smiled as he worked at the buttons of his shirt — a maddeningly effective distraction.
“Come on, Hollander. It's like, PR for the charities. I am a big name. You are a big name. Together, it's like, boom. A hockey stick for every kid in Canada. No?”
“Okay.” Shane’s head rolled back to give him further access. “Yeah, okay.”
“Good.” Rozanov squeezed his ass. “Now get on your knees.”