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Shane's never heard of anyone's magic making them better at hockey. Probably it would be a big discussion with the League and the Players' Association, if there were. Is it fair to play against someone whose magic makes them faster, or better at wrist shots? Some people are, anyway—who's to say the magic's what makes the difference?
But right now there are some fifty-odd players in the MLH who have magic, and they're all like Johnston, whose gear smells like pine after practice instead of rank sweat, or Pavel, whose skates both fit perfectly despite his left foot being half a centimeter longer. No one knows why some people have magic, but it's never so big that it makes a real difference—just small, practical things, making life a little smoother.
Still. Shane would rather have his magic be something like Rozanov's, instead of about his fucking socks.
Ilya Rozanov has the Magic Touch
INT. Raiders Locker Room
ROZANOV: Hi, my name is Ilya Rozanov, I'm the captain of the Boston Raiders, and this is how I tape my stick.
Close-up on the untaped stick laid over ROZANOV's knees. His hands come into frame, holding a nearly finished roll of white hockey tape.
ROZANOV: I just start here, at the back, I don't like it too close to the heel—
The camera zooms back out. ROZANOV is holding the stick in his left hand as he tapes the blade, rolling the tape up and across fast and easy. As he gets closer to the toe he says:
ROZANOV: See, not too much left.
MANAGER (O.S.): But you'll still have enough?
ROZANOV looks up into the camera and gives a big, showy wink.
ROZANOV: Like magic.
ROZANOV slows down as he approaches closer to the toe, managing tension so the tape lies flat on the blade. Once he's satisfied, he tears the tape and holds the stick up.
ROZANOV: There. Now we are ready to play.
Quick close-up of the used roll, which only has a ragged bit of tape left.
MANAGER (O.S.): And you never run out in the middle?
ROZANOV: No, never. My teammates sometimes do, and I did not understand it, thought it was, hmm, bad planning. Not that I am a good planner, you know—
TEAMMATE (O.S.): You sure aren't!
ROZANOV: —but then one day, maybe when I'm eight or nine, my brother says to me, your magic is stupid, is about f—ing hockey tape—oh, sorry, you asked me not to swear in this—
MANAGER (O.S.): We'll bleep it out, don't worry.
ROZANOV: So then I know, that's my magic. Such a small thing, but it's nice, yes? I always have enough.
MANAGER (O.S.): Anything else you always have enough of? Or is it just this?
TEAMMATE (O.S.): Rozy's always drowning in p—y!
Laughter all around. ROZANOV grins at the camera with a finger on his lips: Shh.
ROZANOV: Just hockey tape, yes. Good thing I play hockey, huh?
DISSOLVE TO:
Boston Raiders Logo
"You were watching that?"
The TV in the living room, paused on the Raiders logo. The next video on the playlist is about Stedlund's gloves never getting wet. They'd asked Shane to do one too, but he'd said no.
"Is it only your tape?" Shane says instead of answering. "Would it work if you did mine?"
"Oh, Hollander," Rozanov says, low and long. "You want me to tape your stick?"
"Oh my god," Shane says. It's incredible how dirty Rozanov can make a normal sentence. "I mean it, I wanna know."
"It's just tape, doesn't matter what kind," Rozanov says. He picks up a near-finished roll of tape from the side table, gives it a toss into the air. "You have a stick? I will show you." Then he frowns. "Ah, but you don't tape the way I do."
"No, I have an idea." There's a new stick sitting somewhere in the front hall; CCM tweaked the composition, a touch more carbon-fiber in the shaft. Shane fetches it and sits on the couch next to Rozanov. "Okay, start here." Rozanov finds the middle of the blade and starts unspooling. Shane adjusts his hands, not too much overlap, the angle slightly off there which is gonna affect the toe cap—
"Mm, very bossy," Rozanov says, but he's following along. "You have scissors?"
"Yeah, I'll trim it." Then Shane remembers: "Oh, it worked."
"Of course it worked," Rozanov says, rubbing a thumb over the tape. "It always works."
"It's cool," Shane says. Only hockey tape, always enough. "You were like, meant to play hockey, huh."
Rozanov waits until Shane's finished rounding off the tape to say, "You are jealous?"
Shane shrugs. "It just all fits together, right? If your magic's about hockey, and you're about hockey. I don't know, look at someone like Feller." Feller has a vicious slapshot and a reputation for slashing when the refs aren't looking; but in his video, he just looks sheepish as he turns out his pockets. The right one is empty, but the left has a Mickey Mouse band-aid. Feller fishes it out and tries again: this time, the band-aid's got cartoon flowers. "You play with him. What kind of magic is that?"
Rozanov smiles. Not his media smile, something that softens his whole face. "He has a kid," he says. "Only six months, but maybe magic knows he will need this. Maybe she gets into lots of trouble later. Now, we just all ask Feller when we have big bruises" —he gingerly pats his ribs— "because Shane Hollander can't keep his elbows to himself."
"I didn't elbow you in the ribs," Shane says automatically, though he's running the game back in his head. "When? Second period?"
Rozanov plucks at the hem of his shirt. "You want to look?" he says. "You think it was during the game and not while you were begging me to fuck you? I'm impressed, Hollander."
Oh. Well, it's been a long summer. "You weren't complaining when we were," Shane starts, and stops. Rozanov's smiling again.
"I'm not," he says, and takes the taped stick out of Shane's hands. Shane feels the slide in his palms, on his face, in his dick. "Come here, look at the damage you've done. Maybe I'll let you do it some more."
Shane climbs on top of Rozanov's thighs and pushes his shirt up; he spreads his hands along Rozanov's ribs, and presses down. Rozanov grunts, not quite in pain, and he's got a hand on Shane's ass, the other one sliding down his calf, shoving at the top of his sock. His mouth is parted open, pink, wet.
"Take off your clothes," Rozanov says hoarsely.
Shane stops thinking about magic, and takes off his clothes.
2015, Boston, MA. One worn white sock, big toe nearly worn through.
2015, Montreal, QC. Pair of clean socks, from a drawer full of identical socks.
2016, Newton, MA. One white t-shirt, slightly sweaty at the collar, small hole near the hem.
2017, Newton, MA. One pair of black briefs, still warm, wet spot at the crotch.
2017, Lanaudière, QC. Brown flannel shirt, washed and worn until soft, smelling lightly of smoke.
2017, Lanaudière, QC. Pair of shorts, blue, easy to pull down over Shane's hips.
2017, Lanaudière, QC. A clean white sock, from a load of mixed laundry.
"Ilya, have you seen my underwear?"
Shane's always losing clothes at Ilya's place. Both their faults, probably, for how hungry they are these days.
It's Ilya's last year in Boston. They have an enormous amount of time, by the old metrics. Their four games for the season. American Thanksgiving. Ilya spent Christmas in Ottawa even though it wasn't his Christmas, and dutifully bought the gifts from the links Shane texted him. Sometimes Ilya drives to Montreal on an off-day; sometimes Shane drives. Somehow they keep wanting more.
So: kisses at the door, Ilya sliding his hands under the hem of Shane's shirt, tugging up even before Shane's finished closing the door with his hip. Ilya's hand on his ass, groping, greedy, and then at his fly, nudging the zip open so he can slide a hand inside Shane's briefs and—"Wait, hang on, my shoes"—"No problem, I can fuck you with shoes on"—on the kitchen counter, except the marble's cold even through Shane's shirt, so then the living room, where Ilya settles Shane on the couch with his pants halfway down and sucks him off kneeling on the rug (which is, granted, thick and quite comfortable), and then climbs back up on Shane's thighs so Ilya can jerk himself off while kissing him, mouth slick with Shane's come, then when Shane takes the shirt off, tosses it—somewhere, that's the problem—squeezing at Shane's pecs and breathing harsh and ragged, coming over Shane's chest, dragging his fingers through it, pushing his fingertips to Shane's mouth so Shane can suck them clean, leave them shining with spit, and Ilya's threatening to collapse and smear come all over Shane's belly so Shane shoves him off—Ilya rolls over, panting, trackpants only loosely draped over one hip—kicks his shoes off, finally, then the pants and underwear, too—ha, so that's it, wedged somewhere in the sofa cushions—
"Can you look by the couch?"
Anyway, they'd gone a second round in the bed before the shower, having learned their lessons about the correct order of operations, but now Shane's clean and toweled off and needs his underwear, please. But Ilya's not answering.
Shane tries the bedroom first, then rolls his eyes and goes down the stairs. Ilya keeps his house warm. On more than one occasion: "So my boyfriend can be naked as much as he wants." Like it's not mostly Ilya walking around shirtless after a workout. Shane's only naked in the house for practical reasons. Such as—
"Hey, are you stealing my underwear?"
"No," says Ilya, wide-eyed, but Shane just saw him tug the briefs out of the tangle of Shane's pants and shove them in his pocket, so that's not convincing, is it?
"Why are you stealing my underwear," Shane tries, though surely the answer is for sex reasons. "Wait, is that why my clothes keep going missing?"
"No," Ilya says. "What clothes?" He's a pretty good liar, but that wide-eyed innocence would be more effective if Shane's briefs weren't a visible lump on his thigh. His fingers twitch like he wants to touch them; then he puts both hands behind his back, a kid who's been caught.
"Like, that shirt a couple of months ago, you had to lend me one when I left and it was too small—"
"Ah, yes," Ilya says. "Terrible outcome. So tight across the chest I could see your nipples—"
"You could?" Shane says. He'd been distracted by how tight the sleeves were around his arms. "Fuck."
"I'm sure no one else noticed," Ilya says. Not, Shane notes, very contritely. Shane eyes his mouth, the stiff heart-shaped curve of the top lip, then goes for it, a shove Ilya's not expecting, no checking of his weight. They both go tumbling onto the sofa; Ilya's breath come out sharp from his lungs.
"Tell me what you're planning," Shane says, patting the top of Ilya's thigh, "and you can keep the underwear."
"Yeah?" Ilya says, light and long—ah, but not so casual, after all, when Shane pushes his knee into Ilya's dick. A break in his voice, high and sweet. Shane kisses him for that.
"It's not the first time you've done it."
"Well, no," Ilya admits. "But it was your fault. I only wanted a sock."
"A sock?" Shane wiggles his toes. He gets his socks in bulk, white and cotton, moisture-wicking. No seams on the toes. Comfortable.
"People lose socks," Ilya says. "So no big deal if I take one, right? But no, you have sock magic, Shane Hollander. I steal socks and put them in my pocket and you steal them right back."
"Oh, yeah," Shane nods. "I don't talk about it much? It's not that noticeable. It's just socks and I have a bunch of the same kind, so it doesn't really matter that I don't lose them."
"But you must think about me," Ilya says. Pouts, really, big eyes and pleading mouth. "I try very hard, many times, but can never keep the socks. So I must take other things. I tell you to wear my underwear and you like this—"
"I don't know that I liked it—"
"I was looking at your dick, Shane, I know you liked it." Ilya pats Shane's hips, runs a thumb over the crest of them. The waistband of Ilya's boxer-briefs had sat there. Shane had felt the fabric like it was Ilya touching him, half-hard all the way back to the hotel. "So I can take that, and shirts, we are the same size—"
"So why was that one so small?"
"You like it when I wear it," Ilya says.
"It wasn't comfortable on me. Maybe you have smaller arms."
Ilya licks his lip. Looks at Shane's shoulder, the arm supporting his weight. It's easy to let Ilya flip them over; Shane goes down under Ilya, laughing, and Ilya's fingers are ringed around Shane's bicep, Ilya's teeth on Shane's mouth. "I don't hear you complaining about my arms now."
Shane pushes up, just to feel the iron of them caging him down. "No," he says, breathless, smiling. "You've been training hard."
"Yes, hard," Ilya smirks. Not wrong, with the way Shane's dick is showing interest, and Ilya's has been for a while. "Strong enough to pin my boyfriend down" —Shane wriggles again, for the pleasure of it— "and steal the socks right off his feet. That's what I've been training for."
"And what are you gonna do when you get them, jerk off on them?"
"Maybe," Ilya says, immediately, "yes," a cagey enough answer that Shane immediately tries to imagine something worse.
"With them? Ilya, what terrible things are you planning with my socks?"
"Ugh," Ilya groans, and buries his face in Shane's neck. "It's you, you know. You keep wearing them to bed."
"My feet get cold," Shane says reasonably.
"Yes, yes, your delicate feet. But tell me, what should I do when I think about my boyfriend, who I love very much—"
"Oh," Shane says, "I love you too—"
"I am thinking about him, and maybe it's too late to call, you know, we were on that road trip last week, and I only want to jerk off to my boyfriend's beautiful mouth, but in my mind, there are these socks. Very distracting. Very stupid. Makes me miss him enormously, maybe even too sad to jerk off."
"Oh," Shane says. "Is that when you texted me?" Shane had woken up to a string of texts last week. I miss you. Love you. Sorry.
"This is just hypothetical," Ilya says. "Probably I did get off thinking about your mouth."
"Ilya."
"It's good, it's good," Ilya says hurriedly, raising his head back up. "Three weeks, you'll be in New York, yes? Not a bad drive from Boston. I am just always wishing we had more."
More. More time. More everything, Next season Ilya will be in Ottawa. Next season they'll launch the foundation and then they'll be able to— grab lunch together, get photographed in the same place. They'll be friends. And despite all they've managed to claw out, all their plans, it's not enough, it won't be.
Shane shifts. Folds one foot up, reaches down to hook a finger onto the top of the elastic. "I've never tried to give one away," he warns as he peels the sock down, past the heel, off the ball of his foot. "But that's different than losing, right?"
Ilya's eyes are enormous. His fingers curl into the sock and squeeze tight. "Shane."
"You can have it." A crumpled piece of fabric, still warm from Shane's body. Is this what his magic needs? A formal surrender. "Take it. It's yours."
"Oh, fuck," Ilya says. His face is damp on Shane's collarbone. His hips are grinding gently against Shane's, a haze of wanting. "And what if I did want to jerk off with them, huh?"
"You can," Shane says. "Anything you want, you can have it."
They have the summer. They have a game tomorrow, and an evening in Manhattan in three weeks. One day they'll be able to want more. One day there won't be reporters demanding pieces of them, and all they have will be for each other.
In the meantime: a sock off Shane's foot. He can give it away. He'd give away a lot more, for Ilya. "Is this enough? Is this— is it—?"