Chapter Text
Something is crawling under his skin. It feels weird. Wrong. But unfortunately not very uncommon. He gets like this sometimes, he knows. When he’s stressed. When everything gets too much, sounds and lights and smells and thoughts. His breath gets shallow, his cues for getting the fuck out of there.
But he can’t, because he is still in the locker room in his sweaty hockey gear. He still has to shower. Still has to plaster on the fake smile, meet reporters. But shower first. He really needs to get the grime of him, or he’s actually going to go insane.
“You good man?” Hayden's voice comes from his left. Shane’s head shoots up fast and turns to look at his friend who is staring back at him with a worried frown.
“What?” Shane asks dumbly. His throat feels dry and tight.
“You zooned out a bit. You hurt?” Shane shakes his head. Fuck, he must’ve really been in his own head if Hayden noticed. Did anyone else? That thought sends a cold flush down his spine and he looks around them. But no one is paying attention to them. Everyone moving slowly, the disappointment hanging heavy in the air, like always after a loss.
“Shane?” Haydens asks again. Fuck. He’d zooned out again.
“ ‘m fine,” he says, forcing himself to stand up. His legs, to his relief, do actually support him, albeit a bit shakingly. “Just disappointed.”
“You did good though, two points against Boston.” Shane huffs and finally peels the sticky jersey over his head. He folds it carefully before pulling the shoulder pads off as well.
“Rozanov got three,” he mutters.
It had been a tight game, Montreal scoring after five minutes only for Rozanov to get a shot straight in the net just two minutes later. Shane hadn’t been on the ice for it. He’d been on the bench as Rozanov skated past him to celebrate with his own team. Their eyes had locked and Rozanov had smirked and winked at him. His signature wink. That fucking wink that haunted Shane for days each time he saw it. Made him blush. Made his cock swell.
Annoyingly, Shane hadn’t been able to match it, both of his points coming from assists. He suppose he’ll hear Rozanov gloat about it later. If Rozanov texts him that is. Or if he gathers the courage to text first.
They hadn’t been able to talk much during the actual game, not more than chirps, but when their teams had shook hands after the game Rozanov had lifted one eyebrow at him. A question. Shane had nodded, a nod that was met by a smirk. After maybe a second too long Shane had let go of Rozanov's hand, continuing down the line of gloating Boston players, doing his best to ignore the way the skin on his hand burned from Rozanov's touch.
Hayden stands up beside him, once again bringing him back to the sweat reeking locker room and claps him on the back. The feeling of the cold hand against his bare skin makes him cringe, but he tries his best not to flinch. If Hayden notices it, he doesn’t say.
“We’ll beat that asshole next game, don’t you worry.”
“Yeah.”
Shane has just managed to get his clothes off himself, towel wrapped around his waist, when the door opens and coach Theriault steps inside.
“Hollander!” Shane freezes. “Media wants you.”
“Give me five minutes.”
Coach hums in agreement. Shane hurries to the showers.
Four minutes and fifty three seconds later he leaves the locker room and heads towards the media center. The locker room door falls shut behind him. The corridor itself is blissfully silent, and empty, but he can hear loud voices from further down the hall. The buzzing feeling on his skin raises in intensity. No press conference today, thank god, but still lights and microphones and cameras and questions to deal with.
Shane squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath before starting to walk towards the sound that makes his head hurt a little. He doesn’t get more than a few steps, however, before someone rounds the corner in front of him.
It should be embarrassing how fast Shane’s body recognizes him. How his pulse immediately picks up and brain starts to buzz pleasantly. Rozanov.
Shane falters in his step, coming to a stop without really meaning to. Rozanov’s face lights up in a smirk when he sees him.
“Hollander,” he says in greeting. To everyone else it probably sounds taunting, like someone would expect a winner to greet their rival after a win. But not to Shane. To him it sounds pleased. Teasing. It’s the same voice that praises him for getting on his knees so fast for him. Warmth fills his stomach.
“Rozanov,” he remembers to answer, just a bit too late for it to sound unaffected. He manages to keep his voice steady however, so at least there’s that.
“You will play better next time, yes? Make it more of a challenge.”
“Fuck you,” Shane says automatically, but there is no heat in his voice. Instead, a small smile starts tugging at the corner of his mouth. Rozanov looks pleased.
“I am ahead of you in points again.” That is also true, they had been tied before tonight's game.
“With one point.”
“One point you will never catch up.” Rozanov has slowly walked towards him during their conversation and is now coming to a stop in front of him. Not so close that there isn’t plausible deniability, but still a little closer than a normal conversation between hockey's two biggest rivals warrants.
And suddenly Shane remembers where they are. In a hallway in the arena, with the door to his locker rooms just meters behind him and a room full of press just around the corner. He should take a step back, but it’s like his body is being pulled towards Rozanov.
It has been weeks since they last saw each other. The Metros had played in Boston. Shane had come to the hotel room Rozanov had booked after. He had been pressed into the madrass, sweating and whimpering. Crying. He’d been crying in pleasure and desperation. But before he even had the chance to feel embarrassed about it, Rozanov had let his thumb run over his cheekbone, gathering the moisture. Pretty, he had whispered before putting the thumb in his mouth, tasting Shane’s tears. And oh god does he want it again.
A sudden wave of confidence and pure want hit him. Fuck waiting for Lily to text him. He needs it, desperate enough to just ask for it. Shane looks around them, but they are completely alone in the corridor.
“You coming over later?” he mumbles. Rozanov laughs delightedly. They both know that despite them now meeting basically every time they’re in the same city, Shane is rarely the one to initiate it. Not to mention asking in person. In a public space no less.
“Do not know if I have the time Hollander. Might be veeery busy tonight.” He really draws the word out. Another time, those words, the rejection, might make Shane’s body freeze. With disappointment. With embarrassment. But Rozanov's voice is teasing, his eyes glittering. It’s a game. He has already planned on coming over, that much is clear. He just wanted Shane to ask for it. Show that he wants it too.
And god does he want it.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Shane says in a way he hopes is sexy and coy. But he’s not very good at it and cringes at how clumsy the words sound.
Rozanov doesn’t seem to mind however, the smirk never dropping. “I have some more press to do. As winner. But I will text you, yes?”
Shane nods, opens his mouth to say something else, but freezes when the sound of footsteps start to echo from the corridor in front of him. Instinctively he takes a step backwards, putting some space between them.
He clears his throat which suddenly feels dry again. The buzzing in his skin, which he tries to tell himself did not stop as soon as he saw Rozanov, starts again. He licks his lips, and feels a little triumphant when Rozanov's eyes flicker down to them.
“Good game, Rozanov,” he says and starts to walk again. Rozanov doesn’t move, which means Shane’s side has to press against him, just slightly, as he pushes past. He manages to do so just as someone turns the same corner Rozanov himself had just come from. It’s coach Theriault.
“I know,” Rozanov says from behind him and Shane can’t help but smile at the floor. Asshole.
“Hollander, hurry up! You’re late.” Yes, he supposes he is. It takes everything in him not to look back at Rozanov as he walks towards the media. Is Rozanov looking back at him?
He rounds the corner and lightflashes immediately start to go off. He takes another deep breath and pushes back the crawling feeling. Soon. He’ll be home soon. And so will Rozanov.
—
About 40 minutes later, Shane throws himself down on the couch in his apartment. He feels tired, more tired than after a normal game. But he has also been more anxious than usual, so that checks out. His phone is still silent, has not buzzed since his mom texted him after the game, just a slight rewrite of what Hayden had said in the locker room. You played great honey! You’ll get them next time. He had texted back and chosen to ignore the disappointment that the notification read mom and not Lily.
He said he would text. He’ll text.
To distract himself Shane turns on the tv. ESPN are running highlights from all the games played tonight. New York had beaten Colorado, Scott Hunter scoring in the last minute. Shane can almost hear Rozanov groan at this. Old old man Hunter can not be the hero, urgggg. The broadcast shifts focus, instead showing clips from his own game.
They show Rozanov's goal. It’s a nice goal, a backhand shot that somehow passed the defenceman and the goalie. As soon as the horn blares, Rozanov's hands are in the air, mouth open in a silence, celebratory scream as the commentators talk over him. Then a slow motion image of Rozanov skating passed the Metro bench, smirking. Winking. That fucking wink. Shane is not in frame. No one knows who that wink was for. That makes Shane feel oddly possessive, possessive in a way he really has no right to be.
His hand trails downwards, lightly palming himself through his pants. A little groan escape his lips.
“Was good game, yes,” Rozanov’s voice suddenly says and for a bizarre moment Shane thinks he has missed him getting into his apartment. But then he realises the voice comes from the tv.
Rozanov is on the screen with a horde of microphones pushed towards him. He is smiling, the very picture of cocky.
“Your backhand continues to be a real point-maker for you,” a bodyless reporter says. “What do you have to say?”
“Backhand is strong. So is forehand. Does not matter for me, I make goal however.”
“Shane Hollander leaves this game without scoring. Your team did a hell of a job blocking him. You are once again ahead of him in points, anything you want to say to him?”
Rozanov finds the camera with his gaze and looks straight into it and suddenly Shane can’t breath. It feels like he’s here, in Shane's living room. Those piercing eyes, boring straight into him.
“Have to do better than that Hollander.” There it is again. That voice. The commanding voice. He feels himself twitch under his hand.
The phone buzzes on the couch beside him, making Shane jump. He hurries to grab it just as a reporter asks another question.
“How are you going to celebrate tonight?”
Lily Shane reads on the screen. He fumbles to open the message.
“Montreal is good place to win,” Rozanov says from the tv.
“I always have good time celebrating here.”
The reporter thanks Rozanov before ESPN cuts back to the studio. I always have good time celebrating here. In Montreal. Where he always meets up with Shane. I have not forgot about you. Shane does a bad job at trying to convince himself that that doesn’t mean anything to him.
Doing his best to distract himself, Shane gets up. He stretches slightly, his right side a bit sore after a hit from one of Boston defencemen. Not enough to actually hurt, but he would lie if he said he didn’t feel it. After stretching a while he looks around, trying to find something else to keep him busy with.
He remakes his bed, making sure there is lube and condoms in the drawer. There is. He put it there before. He drinks water and makes sure to wash and dry the glass before putting it back in the cabinet.
Shane’s phone feels heavy in his pocket, annoyingly silent. A few times, he pulls it out just to re-read Rozanov's texts and his own lame response It’s fine. He has not forgotten about him. He is suddenly grateful for those messages, that Rozanov apparently knows him so well that he knows Shane would freak out from the silence.
The message finally arrives at 22:13.
Shane feels the warmth creep up his neck and color his cheeks. He always does. Come, that is. Embarrassingly quick. But then he frowns. Rozanov will eat first? That is more time, at least an hour, for him to get here. And suddenly Shane feels desperate. He can’t wait that long. He needs Rozanov here now. The intensity of the thought scares him, but not enough for it to stop him from typing.
The bubbles signaling typing appear straight away.
Shane huffs. He’s not. Is he? No, no date. Of course.
He isn’t really, he notices. Not anymore at least. So why is he so desperate for Rozanov to get here? He pushes that thought away.
Twenty minutes. That’s not a lot. He can manage twenty minutes. And he needs to order pizza. What would Rozanov like? Shane has never seen him eat pizza, and he himself has not had one in years. His diet doesn’t allow it. What is a normal pizza topping? Is it to try-hard to get something with too much on? He feels himself start to spiral. Oh my god is Rozanov allergic to anything?
After a quick consultation with google he finds out that no, Rozanov is not allergic to anything. Okay, so there’s no risk of killing him then. After too long he finally orders a margarita and pepperoni. That seems normal enough.
He hesitates before adding a ginger ale and a coke to the order as well. Shane thinks he remembers seeing Rozanov drink a coke once. Might be the only thing he has seen him drink except water and vodka now that he thinks about it.
The app tells him that they will arrive in twenty minutes. That would be ten minutes after Rozanov. Oh god did he really just spend ten minutes googling pizza? He tries to shake that feeling off. The timeline is fine, right? Rozanov can’t expect the pizzas to be here when he arrives? No, surely not.
Shane’s breath becomes quicker and shallower. He can feel himself starting to panic and quickly gets up from the sofa again. Desperately trying to find something to do that is not wringing his hands. But everything is clean. Spotless from when he tried to distract himself before.
Instead he pulls out a book from his shelf, not even looking at the title. He puts on his reading glasses and leans back to the sofa, opening the book to a random page. He doesn’t get more than a few sentences before the rows start to blend together. Shane blinks, trying to force the letters to stay where they are, but it’s useless.
His phone buzzes again and he practically throws the book away to reach for it.
And there really isn’t a way to justify how quickly Shane takes off his glasses, puts the book on the coffee table and rushes down the stairs.
The heavy metal backdoor is cold under his fingers as he pushes it open and his lungs fill with the fresh outside air. And a very familiar smell. The smell of smoke and cigarettes and expensive cologne and ice rinks. Rozanov.
There he is. Broad-shouldered. Calm. A lit and slightly smoking cigarette between his fingers. So ridiculously handsome. It’s not only the fresh air making it suddenly easier for Shane to breathe. He takes a few deep breaths, letting the feeling of just having Rozanov close to him calm him.
Rozanov clears his throat a bit and Shane realises that he hasn’t said anything. Heat creeps up his throat. Rozanov stares at him, eyebrows slightly raised.
“Are you smoking?” Shane asks, trying to sound nonchalant. Unaffected. Trying to not sound as though the mere presence of Rozanov, his fuckbuddy, his rival, makes a weight in his stomach lift, just a little.
“No,” Rozanov says as he drops the cigarette on the ground and stomps it with the heel of his black trainers.
“Seriously?”
“Da. Have never smoked in my life.” And to Shane’s surprise Rozanov bends down to pick the rest of the butt up, putting it in the pocket of his dark jeans jacket. His curls are still damp from the post-game shower and Shane has to physically push down the urge to run his fingers though them. He pushes his hands into his pockets instead.
“An asshole and a liar I see.” Shane holds the door open and lets Rozanov pass. The heat from his body so close, for only the second, makes Shane dizzy. God, could he be more pathetic? He can’t allow himself to feel like this. This is his rival for fucks sake, someone everyone on the fucking planet is conviced he hates. And he should. He really should. Everything would be so much easier if Shane Hollander could just hate Ilya Rozanov.
But for whatever reason, he can’t bring himself to do it.
He’s here now, with Rozanov. The rest he can figure out later. He is just horny now. Yeah, that must be it. These feelings are just him being drunk on the closeness of him, he would never feel like this sober and clearheaded. Yes.
He lets the heavy door fall shut behind him, cutting off his thoughts. Instead, he follows Rozanov up the stairs, staring at his ass as they ascend.
Rozanov opens the door to Shane’s apartment, letting himself in, Shane on his heels. The second the door closes Shane throws himself on him, desperately pressing their lips together, and finally he can let himself put his fingers in his hair. He taste of the cigarette still residing in his pocket. The bitterness makes Shane scrunch his nose, but it’s not enough for him to pull away. Yet, at least.
Rozanov makes a surprised sound as he is pushed against the hallway wall with enough force to make the single pictureframe on it rattle. But he doesn’t push Shane away. Rather the opposite, his tongue licks Shane’s lips as he lets his hands roam down his sides, finally coming to a stop on Shane's ass. Shane groans appreciatively.
“Nice welcome,” Rozanov says, sounding slightly breathless, as Shane’s lips work their way downwards his throat. Not enough to leave a mark, never enough to give proof of what they do behind closed doors, but enough to make Rozanov suck in a breath at the sensation.
“Yeah, well. It’s been a long time,” Shane says. Rozanov hums.
“Always so desperate for me Hollander.” Shane can never let him know how true that statement actually is. Desperate for him? Yes. Absolutely.
Always.
To distract Rozanov, and himself, from this honestly terrifying thought, he starts to sink to his knees. But a strong hand wraps around his upper arm, pulling him back up.
“Aa, no,” Rozanov says. Shane blinks.
“What?”
“Later. You will get everything you want later.”
“But I…”
“I am actually hungry for food right now Hollander,” Rozanov says and puts the emphasis on the word ‘food’, making Shane blush. “And you promised pizza.”
Shane nods automatically. He did promise pizza.
“Yeah, it’s on its way.” His brain feels sluggish at the sudden rejection. Right now he kinda just wants to feel the weight of Rozanov on his tongue, all things pizza related be damned.
“Perfect. Hope your taste in pizza is not as boring as you.” Rozanov gives Shane’s arm one last squeeze before untangling himself, walking further into the apartment. Shane hears a groan as Rozanov sits down on the couch. Suddenly very unsure of what to do, he takes a few confused seconds to compose himself before following him into the living room.
“Did you get hurt during the game or something?” Shane stands awkwardly beside the couch. His hands feel big and unnatural. Not at all normal or causal. Fuck, what do people do with their hands? He puts his thumbs in the front pockets of his pants, the rest of the fingers loosely hanging there. Is that dumb? It feels dumb. Maybe he should…
“You still here, Hollander?”
“What?”
“I do not know. Your… Head up in space? Is that the saying?”
“Kinda.” Rozanov looks at him. His gaze is warm. Kind. Not words someone would normally describe him with, Shane is sure. But he always is all of those things with him.
“I asked why you think I am hurt. Then you went to space.”
“Oh.” Fuck, the skin between his right thumb and index finger inches against the roughness of his jeans. Normally he wears sweatpants after a game, but today he wanted to… Impress Rozanov maybe? As stupid as it sounds. But that was obviously the wrong thing to do, because now his finger inches and his hands are big and stupid and Rozanov is probably regretting not going out with the rest of his stupid team and having fun instead of being here with…
“Come here.” Once again Rozanov’s voice brings him back out of his head.
“What?” Oh, he has already asked that. So fucking stupid.
Rozanov pats the couch next to him, once again raising one eyebrow expectantly. And Shane has never been anything if not good at following Rozanov's instructions.
Carefully he takes the last few steps over and sits down beside him. He leaves half an inch between them, their shoulders almost touching. The heat of Rozanov’s thigh against his own.
Rozanovs huffs before shifting, throwing his arm behind Shane’s back. He grabs his shoulder and pulls him against him, Shane’s cheek ending up pressed against his chest. Rozanov's fingers find their way into his hair, patting slowly.
“This okay?” he asks quietly, like he knows that Shane is just one gust of wind away from total overstimulation. He nods against him, closing his eyes. Letting himself get lost in the smell and softness and care of Rozanov.
Seconds, minutes and years pass, but Rozanov's slow movement in his hair doesn’t stop.
“So why you think I am hurt?” Rozanov mumbles.
“Huh? Oh. I don’t know. You groaned when you sat down. Before.”
“I groaned?”
“Yeah.”
“You calling me old, Hollander? Old man groaning when sitting down?”
“I mean, Hunter is only like three years older than you.”
There is a playful tug in Shane’s hair as Rozanov gasps offendedly above him.
“You take that back. Hunter is dinosaur. I am man in my best years.”
“Suuuuure.” Shane makes sure to really drag the vowel out and is rewarded with another tug. Not hard enough to be hurtful though.
“We will see if you still think I am old later. Going to prove to you I still have working hips.”
Shane swallows on his own spit and coughs. Rozanov laughs above him, moving his hand from his hair to gently pat his back instead.
“Do not start to choke already Hollander.”
Fortunately for him, Shane is saved from having to come up with a comeback to that insane statement as there is a ring on his door.
“Ah, pizza!” Rozanov exclaims as Shane reluctantly pulls himself off his warm chest and onto his feet.
“You stay here. Don’t show your face to that delivery person.” Rozanov holds up his hands.
“Was not going to.”
Shane pads out into the hallway, grabbing his wallet from the cabinet beside the door. He looks at himself in the mirror. Does he look as affected as he feels? Hard to tell. His hair is slightly out of place and his face is red. But there are no hickeys, no proof. He ignores the part of him that is disappointed by that.
With shaky fingers he tries to straighten out his fringe before opening the door.
A man in his late twenties stands on the other side of it, two pizza boxes in his hands. The cans on top of them wobbling slightly.
“Order for Sha…” He looks up and Shane sees the second he is recognized. “Holy shit.”
Shane laughs nervously, the crawling feeling hitting him again like a train. Can bugs actually crawl in under a person's skin? Maybe he should look that up. It happened once, didn’t it, in that movie about mummies that had left him with nightmares when seeing it the first time?
“Hi,” he says awkwardly. Like an idiot.
“You’re Shane fucking Hollander!” His voice is slightly too loud, making Shane flinch. Not now. He can freak out later. He forces his face into the media trained smile he has spent hours perfecting in the mirror.
“I am, yes. Nice to meet you…”
“Eric.”
“Nice to meet you Eric.”
“Holy fuck this is increadably. I’m such a big fan dude, like seriously. Go Metros!”
“Go Metros,” Shane echoes. He pulls his hands forward, grabbing the pizza boxes. “Can I…”
“Yeah. Yeah yeah, of course dude.” Eric lets go of the boxes, still staring at his face with wide eyes. After a few seconds it’s clear that he will not say anything else. Shane clears his throat.
“So how much do I…”
“Yeah. Yeah, sorry.” Eric nods to himself and looks down at the paper still in his hands. “27 dollars.”
Shane moves and puts the pizzas inside and pulls out a note from his wallet, not looking at the number on it.
“Keep the change,” he says. He just wants Eric gone. Wants the unnerving feeling under his skin gone. Wants to go back to the warmth of Rozanov instead. Dangerous thoughts.
He starts to close the door.
“Can I get a picture dude? None of the other guys are gonna believe this.”
Fuck. Shane really really doesn’t want to have his picture taken now. He feels all wrong. His hands are too big and his hair is a mess and his face is hot and there is something, probably a cockroach, fucking crawling under his skin.
“Sure.”
“Awsome!” Eric pulls his phone up and turns so they stand beside each other, the hallway of his apartment showing in the background of the picture. Before he can stop him, or even has a second to gather himself, there are three flashes in quick order. He is pretty sure he blinks in all three pictures.
“Thanks dude. Enjoy your pizza!” Eric turns and starts to walk away before Shane really realizes what is going on.
“Thanks. You too.” The door closes and he cringes again. You too? You fucking too? It’s like that time in second grade when he called Mrs Anderson mom. Everyone laughed then. Eric is probably laughing now, in the hallway. Going to tell everyone about the strange meeting he had with Shane Hollander. About how…
Shane jumps five feet straight up into the air when a hand lands on his shoulder.
“You at least wear a spacesuit?” And that makes no sense. He turns and stares at Rozanov and blinks slowly, but the sense of panic slowly melts away.
“That makes no sense.” At least he says more than what this time. Small victories.
“All the head in space you are going today. Going to need that oxygen.” Shane huffs.
“Fuck off, I’m not that gone.”
Rozanov makes a disagreeing sound. “Meh. But you are okay, yes?”
And there it is again. The care. And suddenly, Shane sees what he is doing. Rozanov is taking care of him, distracting him. Talking nonsense about space, knowing Shane can’t help himself but correcting him. He uses humor to ground him.
Rozanov notices the anxiety pulsating within him. And that scares Shane. A lot. Being seen, by Rozanov of all people. But it doesn’t scare him as much as fill him with comfort. Warmth.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” Rozanov looks at him, really looks at him. Trying to find something in his face. He seems pleased with what he sees and nods.
“Good. But let me know the second it changes, da?”
“Yeah.” Shane sounds a little breathless even to his own ears. Having Rozanov's full attention like this, having him really look at him, is making him feel almost drunk. Dizzy. Powerful.
For a moment they just stand there, inches apart, looking. Shane swallows. It feels like they are toeing the line of something here. Something he hasn’t let himself put into words, even alone in the middle of the night. Scary. Absolutely terrifying. But electric. Wonderful. Whatever is on the other side of that line could be absolutely fucking perfect.
Should he be the one to leap? Surprise Rozanov by just saying it. Saying what exactly? What even is the line they are getting oh so close to cross by just standing here, staring at each other with an intensity they never even have when their clothes are off.
“We eat now,” Rozanov says, breaking the spell. He reaches past Shane and takes the boxes from the entryway table before once again disappearing into the living room.
Shane shakes his head slightly. Of course he can’t say anything, what was he thinking? Rozanov is here for a pizza and a fuck. Him taking care of him isn’t something special, not something that should be read into. But at the same time, a small part of his brain is stuck on the way Rozanov's face looked. Open. Caring. Let me know the second it changes. That must mean…
Stop. He can’t be doing this to himself.
Another deep breath, then he once again follows Rozanov into the room. He is sitting in the same spot as before, the boxes of pizza open on the coffee table in front of him. A half-eaten slice is already in his hand.
Another groan escapes him as he takes another bite, and the sound sends hot sparks along Shane’s spine.
“Not so boring?” he says. Before he can overthink it, or worse, start protesting about Rozanov eating that greasy pizza over his light colored couch, Shane crosses the room and sits down again. This time, he even lets their shoulders lightly bump into each other.
“No, still very boring choice of pizza. But pizza is pizza and I am hungry like a wolf. You got me coke?”
“Yeah, didn’t know what you liked. Sorry.” It feels so stupid now.
“No, is fine. I love coke.” And then he winks again and Shane dies a little. He can only endure the silence for a few more seconds before clearing his throat.
“What type of pizza do you like then?” The words are out before he can stop them. And suddenly he stands right over that line again. That question is dangerously domestic.
“Hmm,” Rozanov thinks as he grabs another slice. “You ever had buffalo chicken pizza?”
“No. Sounds horrible.”
“No is the best pizza.”
“How can you be a professional athlete?”
“I train. I need food, lot of food. You are not going to eat?”
Shane shakes his head. “Pizza is not really within my diet.”
“Oh my god Hollander, you and your boring diet. You will starve because you are not eating. Becoming bones and then Hunter will be second best player, urgg. You cannot do that to me, is not as fun beating him as you.”
“I’m not the second best player!”
“Yes. I am first, do not try to deny.”
“It’s not even true!”
“I was first in the draft, no?”
“Yeah… But that was years ago!”
“Still true. Eat your pizza Hollander, so I do not need to have public rivalry with Scott Hunter instead.”
“You already do,” Shane grumbles, but the smile on his lips betrays him. He can see Rozanov looking at him from the corner of his eyes, smiling as well. He bends forward and picks up a slice of Margharita.
The first bite feels weird. Pizza is much gooier and moist than he remembers. It’s slightly cold as well, which doesn’t really help its case, but Rozanov is watching him so he chews a few times before swallowing.
“See, you can eat other than food of rabbit!”
“It’s not rabbit food, it’s just healthy.” He takes another bite and really, it’s not so bad. It might even be good. Something about the flavor is oddly comforting.
“You can say no also, you know.” What is it with Rozanov today and saying things without context, forcing Shane to ask: “What?”
“Before, with the delivery guy. When people ask for photo, you can say no. I know you did not want to take it.”
“It was fine.”
“You do not owe them photo.”
“I just don’t want to disappoint anyone.” And that might be too honest.
“So what if you do?”
“Well then… Then I…” Yeah, then what? He’s never really thought that far ahead. “They will talk and I’ll get bad PR.”
“Bad PR. You just do not want to be asshole like me.”
“I didn’t mean…”
“Is fine. I know I am. But I am allowed to say no. You are too.”
“Yeah,” Shane answers lamely. Maybe he is. He has never thought about it before. Fame and photos and autographs have always been something that came with the job. He loves hockey, wouldn’t trade it for anything. The rest of the stuff is just there, stuff that he has to force himself to do so that he can play.
But Rozanov's words hang heavy in Shane's chest and suddenly it’s too quiet. Shane reaches for the tv-remote and turns it on. The familiar and comfortable and calming sound of a hockey match fills the room.
Rozanov groans. “Are you never not doing hockey?”
“I mean… Not really.”
“I have started to see that.”
“Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing? I like playing hockey. I like watching it. I know you do too, would not be second best if you didn’t.”
“Sure, I like it. But you love it. Hockey is your life.”
“And it’s not yours?”
“No.” The word is hard, but not in a cold and rejecting way. Shane wants to ask more. What is Rozanov's life then, if not hockey? What does he like to do in his free time? Going out, obviously, but suddenly Shane feels the urge to know what Rozanov does on a normal day at home, without a game or training to worry about.
But just as soon as that thought starts to take root in his brain he slaps it away. It’s also a dangerous thought. Too domestic. This is already domestic enough, side by side on the sofa eating pizza.
They don’t do this. Except for that they now obviously do. Shane would give almost anything to be able to read Rozanov's mind this second. What does all of this mean?
“Dallas Kent in an asshole,” Rozanov's voice comes floating to him, the vowels slightly changed by them having to form themself around another bite of pizza.
“What?” Shane wants to smack himself. He’s forbidden to ever say that fucking word again.
“Oh, so now you are not even watching the game?”
“I was!” Shane tries to defend himself despite it being absolutely true. He hadn’t even clocked who was playing. Dallas Kent and his Toronto Guardians apparently.
“Such a bad liar.”
On the screen the referee is pushing Kent towards the penalty box. Kent lets himself be taken away but continues to scream to someone over the ref’s shoulder. The camera cuts to Evan Dykstra with a bloody lip screaming back.
“What happened?” Shane asks and Rozanov huffs.
“Aha, I thought you were watching a game, no?”
“Fuck off.”
“Kent did not clean tackle on Dykstra. Dykstra shoved him little and Kent dropped gloves like asshole.”
“You mean like you do.” That was apparently the wrong thing to say, because without even looking at him, Shane could feel Rozanov darken beside him.
“I am not asshole the same way Kent is.” And Shane knows this, has heard rumours of what Kent says on, and off, the ice. Bad words. Discriminatory words. Words that would make Shane a deer in headlights, so he does his best to keep his head down when it comes to Kent.
And Rozanov is right. He says mean stuff on the ice, but it’s always chirps. He has never heard someone say that Rozanov has actually crossed the line to what is appropriate. Annoying, sure, sometimes maybe even hurtful. But not at all the same way as Kent.
“Sorry.” He doesn’t know what else to say. Rozanov doesn’t respond, just takes another slice of pizza. Shane finds himself doing the same, still not daring to look to his left to see if the storm is still there in Rozanov's eyes.
They continue eating in silence, only the sound of the tv keeping them company. After a few minutes Rozanov starts to relax again, sinking deeper into the cushions on the couch. The pizzas are finished just as the referee blows his whistle to signal the end of the second period. Toronto is up three to one.
“So,” Rozanov slaps his thighs, “You wanna fuck now?”
Really, Shane shouldn’t be surprised by his bluntness after all these years, but somehow he still is.
“Yes,” he says automatically, because yeah he does really want Rozanov to touch him right now. But then he sees the pizza boxes still on the table and knows that he will be distracted if he knows they haven’t been put in the trash.
He opens his mouth to say something to that effect, but before he gets the chance, Rozanov stands and grabs the boxes.
“Good, been too long. Get on the bed Hollander,” Rozanov walks into the kitchen. “And get naked.”
He knows. Shane sits stunned for a few seconds. Rozanov knows how much that bothers him and fixes it without even asking. Or being asked. He knows him. Knows his weird quirks. And he’s still here. Still wants to touch him. This means something. It has to. Please, let him feel it too, don’t let it be just Shane feeling this.
Shane practically flies off the sofa and into his bedroom. He hurries to remove his shirt and pants, quickly folding them and putting them on top of the dresser. He takes off his socks and sits down on the bed, moving himself so he sits with his back against the headboard. For a moment, he hesitates, but Rozanov said naked, so he takes off his boxers as well, throwing them on the floor. They are going into the hamper anyway.
He lets his knees spread slightly. How does he look the most sexy? Should he get on his hands and knees already? Should he…
Before he has the chance to overthink even more, Rozanov comes into view. He has removed his own shirt, and the sight of his chest and stomach and v-line lights a fire deep in Shane's belly. He needs this man against him like yesterday.
But Rozanov just stands there, leaning against the doorway, staring at him with eyes that grow hungrier by the second.
“Fuck,” he mutters and it suddenly reminds Shane of the night Vegas. He’s braver now than he was then. Or more stupid maybe.
Shane lets his hand wander down his left pec, down down down. Slow and teasing. Rozanov follows the movement with dark eyes.
“Are you gonna join me, or do I have to do all the work myself?”
Rozanov doesn’t answer. Instead, he throws himself on the bed and crawles up until he can capture his lips with his own.
“I will take care of you,” Rozanov breathes against Shane’s collarbone.
And then he does.
—
Shane is woken up by shuffling in the sheets beside him. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, just that Rozanov had worked hard on making his entire body feel like it was made of fire. And then promptly got turned to jelly.
“Go back to sleep,” Rozanov's voice says gently beside him. A kiss is pressed to his temple.
“Hnn,” Shane mutters and fights to open his eyes. Rozanov laughs softly. There is more shuffling and a weight disappears from the bed beside him.
“Did I accidentally kill you Hollander? Would be very hard for me to explain to police.”
“ ‘m alive.” His voice is slightly muffled by the pillow. Finally, he succeeds in opening his eyes.
Rozanov has already put his pants back on and is working a white sock over his right foot. The sight makes something boil up inside of Shane. Disappointment? No, that’s illogical. He knows Rozanov’s leaving. As he should. He can’t stay the night, and certainly doesn’t want to. This is for the best, of course.
“I would hope so. Would be very boring to beat Montreal otherwise.” An old joke. A safe joke.
“You don’t beat Montreal as it is.” Rozanov looks down at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Have you already forgot the score tonight Hollander?” Right. Montreal had lost tonight. Rozanov had won.
“No.”
“Uh, no, sounds like you have. Let me see.” And then Rozanov jumps back onto the bed, suddenly straddling him, his knees bracketing Shane’s hips.
“First I score on ice. And then I come here and score on you. Two times. That is me winning three zero.” And then he is tickling Shane, his fingers finding his sides and pressing in a way that makes Shane squirm.
“Fuck.. Off!” he says laughing, trying, but failing, to get Rozanov off him.
“No.”
“Roza… I… F-fuuuuck let me go!” His attempts to free himself are weak. If he really wanted to, he could push Rozanov off him. Or he would just need to say the word and Rozanov would stop in an instant. He knows this.
But Shane doesn’t. He just continues to squirm and laugh and struggle to breathe as his body takes interest in once again being pinned down on the bed underneath Ilya Rozanov.
“Do you agree I win?”
Shane shakes his head. “I got to come twice, doesn’t feel like I lost here.”
Rozanov suddenly stops ticking him, and instead bends down to kiss him. The kiss is sweet, unlike the way he had kissed him earlier.
“You are right. I guess we tied here.” Shane swallows. Rozanov pulls his face back, just a few inches, and looks down at him. And suddenly it feels like when they were standing in the hallway earlier. Something in the air. Something honest. Something big. Something that could break them.
And Shane is suddenly filled with the insane want to try. Try whatever this could be, him and Rozanov. Him and Ilya. He could say something outloud, something that would make it real.
Once again it’s Rozanov who breaks the moment by pulling back, and standing beside the bed once more.
“Bad luck for you I have to go, otherwise we could have tied again. You seem to want.” He smirks, and lets his eyes wander down to where Shane is covered by the duvet. Shane blushes, but doesn’t deny it.
“Like you don’t want it.” Rozanov is also sporting an obvious bulge in his pants. Rozanov shrugs. He doesn’t deny it either.
“You come to Boston in two weeks,” he says instead. It’s not posed as a question. He knows, just like Shane, that two weeks is the next time they will see each other. And that warms Shane more than he cares to admit.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Cannot wait to win again.”
“We agreed it was a tie.”
“No, I am talking about game Hollander. Will win game, and then tie against you again, yes?” Yes. I can’t wait.
“In your dreams Rozanov, next time we’ll crush you.”
Rozanov makes a disagreeing sound.
“Hmmm, we will see.” He picks up his phone from his pocket, furrowing slightly as he sees something on it. He writes something quick, thumbs moving against the screen. Taptaptap.
“I need to go,” he looks back up at Shane who has finally moved out from his cocone of covers and is sitting up against the headboard again. “Thanks for pizza. And for rest.”
“Yeah,” he says awkwardly. Has Rozanov ever said thanks for the rest before?
Rozanov takes a small step forward and kisses him again, Shane’s eyes immediately fluttering closed. And he absolutely doesn’t whine when Rozanov pulls back. Doesn’t chase his lips.
“See you in two weeks Hollander. Take care.” And then he is gone. When Shane opens his eyes he’s alone in his bedroom once more, filled with a weird feeling in his chest.
A few minutes later he hears the front door open and close and he is truly alone. Good. It doesn’t feel good though.
He reaches for his own phone that he put on the bedside table when he took off his pants. A new text from his mom. One from Hayden. He doesn’t care to open either of them.
Just as he is about to place the phone back down it buzzes in his hand.
He clicks open and is met with his own face. And Erics. A screenshot of a twitter post with the caption “Met this absolute legend tonight @ShaneHollanderHockeyPlayer”.
It really is an awful picture of him. He looks stressed, eyes just slightly too wide. A smile that looks anything but genuine. At least he doesn’t blink.
And maybe he should. Saying no sometimes would not make him an asshole all the time, right? He needs to ask his mom so that it wouldn’t lose him any sponsorships. But fuck would it be nice to be able to say no from time to time. He didn’t know how much he wanted to until Rozanov even gave it as an option.
The clock on his phone reads 01:24. He really should sleep, they have morning training tomorrow. Yeah, sleep would be good. Maybe that will help with the weird thoughts he has had tonight. He’ll be able to think rationally again tomorrow, when Rozanov’s smell is not in his nostrils anymore.
His phone buzzes again and his heart immediately betrays him by picking up at the mere sight of Rozanov's fake name.
Sleep. Yes. Tomorrow he will be less confused. He will remember all the reasons for why he shouldn’t say anything like he had been aching to do tonight. They can never have anything more than this regardless.
—
It’s much more unpleasant to be woken up by his alarm than by Rozanov kissing his temple, Shane finds out the next morning. Sleep still clings to him as he fumbles for his phone to turn the horrible beeping sound of.
Then he chastises himself that his first waken thought was about Rozanov.
Tiredly Shane swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet against the cold floor. He absolutely does not stop for a moment to stare over at the side of the bed Rozanov had been in last night before he gets up and paddles into the bathroom to do his morning routine.
His body aches, but in a pleasant way. A quite familiar way. But you are okay, yes? Rozanov's honest eyes flash before him. Close and caring and so very pretty. No. Stop. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t think about Rozanov today. Not until next time. Two weeks away. Oceans of time. Too much. Nope.
Coffee. He just needs to drink the last sleep out of his body and then everything will be back to normal again.
The kitchen is tidy, is the first thing he notices. There is no sign of the pizza boxes or the soda cans from yesterday. Rozanov really did clean.
Something on the counter catches his eyes. A post-it note. Yellow, from the pack he keeps in one of the top draws. Two words are written in Rozanov's quite messy handwriting.
Thank you :)
Fuck him for making him blush when he’s not even here. For making Shane think about him when he really isn’t supposed to. But maybe, maybe, this is a sign that it meant something more to Rozanov too. Leaving notes isn’t something they do. We did many things we don’t do yesterday, he thinks before he can stop himself.
Shane smiles down at the words, researching out a hand to touch it. That’s when he notices that the note lies on top of something. Folded bills. American dollars. He picks them up and shifts through them. 60 American dollars. What? Why would Rozanov leave him money?
And suddenly something very similar to cold dread drips down Shane’s spine. Rozanov had said thank you last night. Thank you for the rest. The rest. The sex. Thank you :) The note.
Had Rozanov paid him for having sex with him? No, he wouldn’t. No. He never had before, had never even hinted at anything like that before. But yesterday had been different, Shane had felt that. Something had shifted. What if this is Rozanov's way of showing that he felt Shane being too attached, marking that what they’re doing is nothing more than sex?
Shane stumbles backwards, white spots starting to dance before his eyes. He feels blindly behind him for the barchair he knows to be there. He finds it and drops down on it. The air is strangely heavy and thick, making it hard to draw in real breaths. Like drinking his morning smoothie out of a thin straw.
Air. He needs air, he knows he needs air. But it’s so hard to get it and the spots start to move faster and there is a ringing in his ears that only seems to get louder and louder and oh god Rozanov said thank you and then paid him to have sex with him.
Shane feels dirty. A hooker, that is what Rozanov had made him. While he had been in bed, thinking of saying something real, Rozanov had checked how much money he had had in his wallet to leave.
60 dollars.
Is that how much he thinks Shane is worth? 60 American dollars, not even a currency Shane is using. He hadn’t even thought of exchanging it before. 60 fucking dollars for their night together, a night Shane had been ready to treasure, think back to when he was getting lonely.
It all feels like a joke now. All those years of Shane starting to feel something, dreaming about what it could be, if they would ever be able to be something. Every memory feels tainted now. Soiled by the 60 dollars still clutched in his hands. He opens his fingers and lets the money fall as if it burned him. It has, in every way except the literal.
He is starting to feel light headed. Deep breaths. In and out. Five things he can see. Okay fuck. The counter. Good, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Rozanov says. No, fuck. Counter and… Hmmm refrigerator. Yes. And the stove. And the hardwood floor. And the 60 American dollars on it. No, something else. Come on, anything else.
Shane closes his eyes for a second, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. The white dots follow him into the darkness of his own eyelids. He opens them again.
One more thing. His feet. Yes, he can see his naked feet beneath him. Yes, okay, four things he can touch.
The minutes pass and slowly but surely the air gets thinner and easier to breathe, the tightness in his chest loosen and the white dots fade. The panic gives way for a new feeling: anger. Who does Rozanov think he is?
Fuck him.
FuckfuckfuckFUCK him.
After everything, he pays him 60 fucking dollars.
As soon as he’s sure his legs are steady Shane bends down and picks up the bills, trying to keep the nausea at bay when he touches him again. He places them back on the counter and pulls out his phone, snapping a picture of them and the note. The note he found cute at first, a note he planned to secretly keep. Thank you :) The smiley is taunting him now.
The least he owes him is an explanation. What a fucking coward. Kissing Shane goodbye like it means something, only to sneak out and pay him, not even giving Shane the option to scream at him to his face.
To his surprise, Rozanov answers him just a few seconds later, before he has the time to start panicking about sending the text.
Plus tip? Does he think he’s being generous with 60 fucking dollars? It’s not like Shane doesn’t have the money. And, fuck him, Rozanov knows that Shane is not really in need of money either. If this is his way of signaling that things need to be more causal between them, being strictly sex, he could at least have had the courage to say it to his face.
Shane really doesn’t want to think about last night. He shifts slightly and the ache he had treasured this morning now instead feels like a curse. And fuck Rozanov for making a joke out of all of this. If he left the bills then he knows what Shane feels for him, and that is embarrassing enough without him leaving money behind.
This needs to end. Shane doesn't want to see Rozanov again. Ever. He’s done with this. He can’t do just sex anymore, that much he knows. And if that’s what Rozanov wants, he sure as hell hasn't got any trouble finding willing bed partners in any city it seems, something Shane has spent more time than he is willing to admit thinking about. No, he needs to end this now.
Of course Rozanov doesn’t listen.
Before he can read something into the misspellings, his phone starts to ring, making Shane jump. Lily’s name fills the screen. Shane stares at it. And stares and stares and stares and stares. Eventually it rings out.
The phone rings again. This time, Shane presses the red ‘deny’ button. Their chat thread pops up once again. Should he block the number? Seems like the right thing to do. He presses the contact and lets his finger hover over the button. Hesitates. A new message comes though.
And another.
That makes the anger rise within him again. He doesn’t understand. He pays Shane for letting him fuck him on the night where Shane had almost asked for them to be something more. And he. doesn’t. understand.
The resolve solidifies inside of Shane, and he lets the finger press the button. The text goes from reading ‘block’ to ‘unblock’.
His phone becomes blissfully silent.
No more buzzing.
Nothing.
Just a heavy, empty feeling inside Shane’s stomach. This feels real. Final. And that is what finally makes him crumble. A sob, horrible and loud, wrenches itself from his throat as tears begin to roll down his cheeks.
Shame and guilt and that crawling feeling.
And still, even after everything, Shane Hollander can not bring himself to hate Ilya Rozanov.