Archive of Our Own

Shane puts up with a lot for hockey. There’s nothing he can think of, especially after five years in the league, that he wouldn’t put up with to feel the thrill of winning a face-off, the power his thighs produce as he lights up the ice and masterfully sinks puck to net. Most of the things he puts up with are easy trades. The endless flights, his constantly confused internal clock, only knowing dozens of cities from the inside of rinks and hotel rooms. That’s easy.

Other things are harder. Hockey players talk a lot of shit, which, whatever. Even if they mean it he can ignore it. They can say whatever they want about their wives and girlfrends. Besides Jackie, Shane doesn’t interact with or particularly care about the WAGs. The racism isn’t overt, most the time. He’s been asked if the Chinese catering was “authentic” before, to which he responded “probably not” rather than explaining once again that he’s Japanese. He’s stomached the ribbing about his height, the size of his dick, dumb locker room shit he doesn’t respond to except to laugh along and say some variation on “fuck off.”

The homophobia is probably the thing that upsets him the most, not that’d he’d ever show it or say anything in response. He might never have to work again if he got a loonie every time he heard “cocksucker” or “faggot” or a quip about another player “taking it up the ass.” He minimally participates (“Did you see how that one fag from Colombus ate shit Monday night?” “Yeah, not surprised he’s scratched tonight”) in the sense that he lets it all wash over him — doesn’t tell his team off but doesn’t use that language himself. If his team has noticed, he assumes they’ve chalked it up to him being a boring image-obsessed PR-robot golden boy and not the aformentioned fag.

He also puts up with the partying. After he became captain (after rookie season, really) he stopped getting invited to most nights out. There’s obviously group chats he’s not privy to, inside jokes and war stories on conquests gained and lost that go completely over his head, but he doesn’t care. Between the choice of a hangover or a full eight hours of sleep, boring wins every time.

It’s not just the drinking he avoids on those nights out. Nor is it just avoiding having to figure out another excuse to get out of spending a night with some random girl who’d be better off moaning away in some other player’s bed. Really it’s the drugs. And yes, he knows he sounds like an after-school special, a middle school health class presentation, but really. Staying up until three am, snorting who-knows-what off a girl’s tits in a club when they have a game the next day? He’s had a couple of guys like that on his team over the years. More often than not they’re shitty guys and shittier players. Shane does his best to make enough passive remarks to Theriault and the assistant coaches about “play style” and “not clicking” that those guys typically last about a year, if not less. Out with the trash by the trade deadline.

Shane barely has to deal with illegal drugs. The fucking smelling salts, tho.

They aren’t like, real drugs. He knows that. They’re a nasty habit, though. Low class. Fighting is a part of hockey, no way to totally get around that unless you’re a golden boy with golden hands and a brutish D-line to cover you. The salts, however, make them look like fucking loser neanderthals. Moreso than the teeth.

Shane cringes every time he sneaks a glance down the bench and sees his teammates sniff that nasty little cylinder. His stomach roils when he thinks of the noxious smell he sometimes gets a nonconsensual whiff of. It’s lazy hockey. NHL players should be able to play at a professional level without needing to huff chemicals. Shane certainly doesn’t need anything to lock in except confidence in his game.

Hayden did salts before Shane played dirty and told Jackie they would eventually fry his brain. Jackie freaked out, a very memorable dinnertime argument in which she yelled about the fact her husband could “get brain damage any given day at work” and “couldn’t believe he was doing it to himself on purpose.” No amount of ‘science’ saying the consequences were minimal could placate her because every article ended with some disclaimer along the lines of “there’s not enough research to know the true consequences” and that was enough proof for her. Hayd was pissed at him for weeks, blaming a game losing streak on the fact Shane fucked with his second period ritual. He got over it after he absentmindedly twirled his stick at the same time he flipped his mouthguard around and their second line cinched the game winner. A new ritual was born and all was mollified.

So, long story short, Shane fucking hates the salts.

It’s why Rozanov catches him so off-guard.

Shane knows Rozanov parties. It’s not much of a fucking secret when his dirty laundry is plastered all over the hockey blogs and Twitter update accounts. A year ago Shane made a burner, a faceless egg with a bunch of random numbers for a handle, just to follow @Ilya81_Updates. It’s oppositional research. Granted, the account rarely posts Rozanov’s stats unless it’s to gloat about some major achievement. More often than not it’s a grainy photo of him leaving a club with a dumb blonde on his arm. A video of him grinding on a girl once, her head tossed back, mouth open in extacy, moan or wail drown out by whatever dumb Chainsmokers house remix was playing. Shane wouldn’t admit under oath how many times he’s watched that seventeen second clip with his hand shoved down his briefs, transposing himself into her position. Except I’d be better, he’d think, hand flying over his cock. I’d moan prettier. He'd usually come the fourth or fifth replay, imagining the way Rozanov could whisper whatever filthy thing he was thinking, directly into Shane’s ear, completely unheard in a room packed with people.

Oppositional research. Shane keeps up with Rozanov’s public image. Know thy foil, right?

Shane first sees the gif in a hotel room in Charlotte. Hayden is on a walk, trying to parent via Facetime as a desperate Jackie needs help convincing two very unconvincable toddler’s that it’s time for bed. Historically that gives Shane an uninterrupted thirty minutes or more of alone time, which lately has been jerk-off-to-Rozanov time as the next Boston/Montreal game approaches and his anticipatory horniness ratchets up.

Shane thumbs to his burner Twitter, intending to navigate straight to his bookmarks so he can flip through @Ilya81_Updates’ greatest hits, such as “📹Video: Boston Raiders via Instagram: “Captain Rozanov’s leg routine 🥵”" and the evergreen “📹 Video: Ilya Rozanov seen dancing with anonymous woman at Toronto club”.

Before he can get to his bookmarks his feed refreshes with a tweet, retweeted by @Ilya81_Updates.

What follows is a video taken by a fan across from Boston’s bench. It’s blurry, obscured by both the plexiglass and the limitations of iPhone zoom, but the broad strokes are more than clear. Rozanov’s impatient hand motioning to an assistant coach behind the bench. The small tube dropped into his palm. Palm lifted to nostril, inhale. Marleau then grabs the tube out of Rozanov’s hand, clumsily bringing it up to his own nose. Before he can fully lower his hand Rozanov deftly plucks it away again. They go back and forth a few times, passing the salts like a puck in warm ups, before Rozanov unceremoniously dumps the little tube somewhere behind the bench and vaults the boards.

Shane opens the replies.

Shane clicks on the hashtag, dick forgotten. It seems the apparently infamous #MarleauSaltLick incident happened about a month ago, in the Boston home game against St. Louis that went into shootouts. There are several angles of fan-shot video as well as the tail end of the incident caught on the Boston local broadcast. Marleau gets the salt vial, inhales, then shoves his fingers towards Rozanov’s nose. Back and forth they go. The last few seconds, aired as their broadcaster is dutifully informing fans of St. Louis’ abysmal PK record, show a shit-eating grin split Marleau’s face just as he tries to lodge the vial up one of Rozanov’s nostrils. Rozanov rears back, tossing his head around and he attempts to create distance between himself and the offensive smell. Then, eyes narrowed, he leans toward his teammate and licks.

It’s clearly nothing more than a retaliation bid, effective in the sense that Marleau flinches and shoves Rozanov’s head back, muttering something that could be “Fuck off, Roz” or “Fuck off, perv” as he wipes his wet hand down the front of Rozanov’s jersey. The broadcast quickly cuts back to the ice, announcer saying something about their captain’s antics. The fan videos catch the end of the interaction, the two teammates elbowing and jostling each other good-naturedly before they’re tapped and simultaniously jump the boards.

Shane’s hand is on his dick before he’s even sure of what he’s seen. Someone’s posted a gif zooming in on Rozanov’s face at the moment when Marleau shoves the salts under his nose. You can actually see his pupils dialate. In glorious broadcast-quality slo-mo Shane recognizes a pair of eyes he’s only ever seen in the dimmed lights of the bedroom now beamed into the home of everyone with an Internet connection. It’s something Shane has always found intensely personal, not to mention erotic, and he’s suddenly furious to realize that this drug has rendered Rozanov into a portion of the same person Shane can barely admit to longing for. That the stupid fucking smelling salts have the same effect, even partially, on him that Shane himself does. And now Marleau and all of fucking Twitter.com have seen it. Shane tugs at his dick, his annoyance and jealousy only making him harder. It borders on painful — he got so wound up so quickly he’d forgotten to grab the CATSA-approved bottle of lube he has buried deep in his bag for just this occasion. He’s too worked up to dig through his suitcase now. He’s barely able to wrench his hand off his cock in order to roughly spit into it. There’s still a bit more friction than he’d normally like when jacking off but this time it feels right. He’s pissed and he wants it to hurt a little bit, to remind him the salts aren’t sexy, they’re gross and smell rank and it’s not hot to watch Rozanov blow his pupils and lick his teammate. It’s simply a biological reaction to seeing proof that the version of Rozanov-guy-who-fucks-him exists outside their shared clandestine bubble. As he twists his wrist the way Rozanov does in handjobs, he reminds himself he’s not actually jealous. Rozanov has bedded who knows how many women and they’ve all probably seen his fucked-out eyes. It’s just an obscene thing to do in public, another one of the ways they’re different. His orgasm peaks before his self-righteousness and all thoughts are drowned out as he’s coming so hard his brain is wiped out, static ringing in his ears, eyes glued on Rozanov’s pupils dialating again and again.

The next time they meet it’s in Boston. Rozanov texts him something obscene right before he laces up, something about fingers and assholes. For once Shane is unmoved. Rozanov can’t rile him but because Shane is already there; he’s been restless and horny since he woke up this morning. Not for fingers in his ass, although he’s confident that will be a feature of his evening. No, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about the stupid #MarleauSaltLick incident. Obviously not the Cliff Marleau of it all — Rozanov’s antics with his teammates are pretty well documented. Not even tongue part. It’s not the first time Shane has seen video of the man’s mouth or hands places where, from an HR standpoint, they shouldn't be. It’s the way he reacts to the salts. Shane has had to delete “8 minutes and 26 seconds of Ilya Rozanov smelling salts” from his Youtube watch history six times now. He’s memorized the reaction the salts elicit. Lips part, strong head shake, eyes widen, pupils dialate, jump the board. Shane watches the compilation like it's tape, if tape included the inevitable masturbation that follows watching this particular video. He keeps the timestamps locked in his head:

3:43 - Rozanov’s mouth drops the same way it did the first time Shane successfully deep throated

6:21 - Rozanov’s eyes flutter like they sometimes do when Shane clenches down on his dick post-orgasm

8:06 - The hashtagged incident that started it all

and on and on and rinse and repeat.

So no, the text about fingers in his ass is not on his mind as he takes to the ice, ignoring the jeers from Boston’s fans and dutifully standing through the anthems. At this point he’s mostly praying he can get through the game without embarrassing himself.

His first hurdle is the first face-off. Resolute that he will not lift his eyes, he takes his position in front of Rosanov.

“Something on your mind, Hollander? Me, perhaps?” Rozanov cheerfully chirps.

It doesn’t bother Shane. If anyone hears, which it’s hard for anyone on the ice to really do considering how fucking loud the crowd roars in Boston, they’d think he was being his usual cocky self. Rozanov himself is misattributing Shane’s evasive reaction to his earlier text. No one but Shane knows what he’s actually thinking, which he takes enough comfort in to lock in and win the face-off.

His troubles begin towards the middle of the first period. It’s 1-0 Montreal, the opening goal by the rookie winger they drafted last year brought up from his conditioning year in the minors to play a few games while JJ is on IR this week for his knee. As captain Shane is going to have to make a big deal about it in the locker room after this period but secretly he’s pretty annoyed. It was an ugly goal, kind of a fluke if you're asking him, and Shane really should have drawn first blood. He’s stewing a bit, watching his fourth line fail to do anything with the puck, when movement from Boston’s bench catches his eye. It’s a bit difficult to make out at first…until it isn’t. Rozanov is doing his fucking salt ritual with Marleau. Even from the corner of his eye Shane can see with enough clarity how efficiently they pass the vial back and forth. He watches Rozanov’s little head shake, imagines how his pupils must be blown right now, feels.

Fuck. Fuck. He’s hard.

His dick aches, uncomfortable in the confines of his cup, and fuck fuckfuckfuck he needs to lock the fuck in right now coach is tapping him he’s vaulting the boards he’s going for the puck lock in lock in pass to Hayd, pass it back, the angle’s not quite right fuck he chases it he’s on the boards Rozanov slams into him and -

He whimpers.

Quietly. So quietly no one should have heard it. But Ilya Rozanov is a bloodhound. As he grabs the puck and skates away he smirks at Shane in such a way that telegraphs just how much Shane will be hearing about this later.

Later is, predictably, very soon. Second period begins 1-1, Boston tying it up with a gorgeous goal by Rozanov just moments after Shane moaned like a whore just from touching the man. His cheeks burn at the face-off, a mixture of the shame having to congratulate the rook for his shitty goal while being the guy to give one up himself. Adding insult to injury, he knows Rozanov knows. Well, not everything. All Rozanov knows is Shane is a pathetically horny whimpering slut who can’t keep it together to play a fucking hockey game. Boston games usually hone his focus more, the desire to beat Rozanov burning brighter than the desire to get fucked by him. The smelling salts have broken his fucking brain and he’s never even used them.

“I did not hurt you, did I Hollander? The sound you made. Too hard, maybe?”

Shane hates the way Rozanov is so good at doublespeak. It’s obvious to only Shane what his rival is really saying. You’re a hard, moaning mess, Hollander. I did that.

“You wish, Rozanov.”

Shane sucks at doublespeak.

He loses the face-off.

It’s a fucking wreck of a game, a 4-2 loss against Boston that sends the prone-to-rabidity fans at the Garden into a frenzy. Rozanov will go out tonight, showing face at a celebration which will heavily feature people glazing his two beautiful goals. Shane will give a half-assed “we’ll get ‘em next time” speech to his dejected team, shower off the filth, go back to his hotel for his more thorough douching shower, and wait for Rozanov to let him know if they’re meeting at a random hotel before making up an excuse to Hayden for why he’s going to miss curfew.

Checking his phone after his second shower, he hasn’t gotten a text from Rozanov, which means they’re meeting at his penthouse. Shane isn’t sure if there’s a rhyme or reason to when they’re in a hotel room or when they’re not. He’s pretty good at pattern recognition and hasn’t been able to find one. It’s probably just a way for Rozanov to throw Shane off. He likes it when Shane is flustered and off-kilter. Shane should mind. He doesn’t. Somewhere in the “Danger: Do Not Open” part of his brain he knows the more flustered he feels the better it feels for Rozanov to fuck him until everything goes quiet.

A few hours later, Shane is making his way to the back of the building. He always takes the service elevator, empty every night as the cleaning staff for Rozanov’s place go home at a respectable hour and Rozanov has sworn up and down the nighttime security guy has never once left his desk or looked up from Candy Crush long enough to register anything amiss. His use of the entrance is also technically above board. Somehow Rozanov got his hands on a service card which allows access to the back door and the elevator and slipped it to Shane so he can get in on his own if the Boston celebrations go a little too long. It’s tortuous to be in the penthouse alone, hard and wanting. It feels intrusive. He’s never spied, just sits rigidly in one of the armchairs looking over the city skyline, trying and failing to not grow increasingly agitated as the minutes tick by. Shane steels himself for a long wait.

This evening, Shane is shocked to see Rozanov waiting for him as the elevator door quietly whooshes open.

“I thought you’d be out celebrating,” Shane says into the dark, Rozanov’s silhouetted figure stark against his floor-to-ceiling windows. He looks a bit ridiculous, like a character from a Batman movie or something. He also looks really fucking hot.

He turns slowly. “Hmm, yes. I went for a bit, but. Didn’t want to keep you waiting too long tonight. You were so hard for so long. I didn’t want you to blow your load just waiting for me.”

“I wasn’t,” Shane protests automatically. And then, quietly, “I wouldn’t.”

“You were not hard? I’m surprised little text about your asshole was enough to make you blush out there tonight. Usually you are desperate, but not this much, no? What was different?”

Fuck, he’s so good at reading Shane. It makes him flush with embarrassment, which Rozanov will surely see as a further sign of horniness.

“Nothing, fuck you.” It sounds whiny even to his own ears. “Can you just fuck me now?”

Before his sentence is fully out of his mouth, Rozanov is there, gripping his chin and forcing their eyes to meet.

“You are a brat tonight,” he muses, no heat behind it, like it’s an observation about the weather. “What do you say when you ask for things?”

“Please.” Shane whispers. “Please fuck me.”

Rozanov searches his eyes for a moment. Shane doesn’t want to imagine what he finds, but whatever it is it seems to be good enough because from one moment to the next their lips finally crash together. Shane sighs into it, his brain finally starting to tune into the static he craves. Sort of.

Normally, a single kiss from Rozanov can take him out of his head completely. He craves the sluggish way he feels being with Rozanov; the incessant buzz of daily life transforming into a pleasant, singularly focused hum. Tonight, his brain won’t shut up. Shane wants…something. He doesn’t know what. Something more.

He breaks the kiss to snuffle into the crook of Rozanov’s neck, laving his tongue across the delicate skin there, forcing himself not to bite. He tears at Rozanov’s shirt, hands wildly roaming from hair to pec to abs to ass and back again. He rakes his hands as he does, a hollow facsimile of what he wants as a frustrated moan wends its way out of his throat. He desperately wishes he had sharp nails to leave a trail behind, some way to prove that while he may have traveled where others have been, he’d been indelible in a way they hadn’t.

“Woah, woah,” Rozanov says, pushing Shane back a bit. “Did you take gas station dick pill or something? Why are you so fucking crazy?”


Shane pushes back roughly against Rozanov, bullying his way back into the space he’d occupied before.

“No,” he mumbles into Rozanov’s neck before lifting back up and finding his lips again. “Just need you. Please.” He punctuates the confession with a searing kiss.

It’s not the first time Shane has said that, and at this point it’s unlikely to be the last. It chips a tiny piece of him away each time he admits it, admits he needs Ilya Rozanov ways he’s never needed anyone. It doesn’t stop him from saying it, especially on nights like tonight when he’s so worked up all his regular filters are fried.

“Okay,” Rozanov says into his mouth. “Okay. I have you, okay.” He moves back, which nearly causes Shane to (very embarrassingly) whine with displeasure, before Rozanov squats a bit, gets his thick hands under Shane’s ass, and lifts.

Shane nearly comes on the spot. He’s not light. He’s certainly leaner than he was at the start of the season with the playoffs only two months out and much of his summer bulking melted off, but he’s a professional athlete for fuck’s sake. Rozanov lifts him like it’s easy. In thanks - or retaliation - Shane sticks his tongue down Rozanov’s throat. He accepts it easily, if only slightly hesitantly. God, Rozanov cannot pump the breaks on this, Shane will combust if he doesn’t have a dick in him within the next five minutes. He’ll cry. He’ll leave this apartment and won’t come back and will delete Twitter and won’t ever look Rozanov in the eyes again.

Rozanov pulls away and Shane is about to panic before the man grunts out, “I need to see. Bad look if we fall and Shane Hollander is found concussed in my house.”

Shane just grumbles and latches on to Rozanov’s collarbone under his tank as he’s carried to the nearest guest bedroom. It’s so fucked up they still have clothes on.

The first thing Shane does when he’s dumped on the bed is rip off his hoodie and start to push down his joggers.

“Off, off, off,” he chants at Rozanov, way too worked up to care how fucking stupid he sounds.

“Yes, Jesus Christ, is coming off, fucking hell,” he replies, dumping his tank and shimmying out of his own sweatpants.

Shane internally wars for a second before deciding that, just for today, his clothes can be thrown unfolded off the side of the bed.

Rozanov’s eyebrows climb his forehead. “Who are you and what have you done with the real Hollander?” he deadpans.

“Fuck you,” Shane spits. Then, “fuck me.”

“Okay, yes, I know,” Rozanov mutters as he climbs on the bed, looming over Shane to reach into the bedside drawer for his stash of lube and condoms.

“So demanding. Like little prince.”

Normally that’s something Shane would get pissed about, or at least refute, but he’s so close to his goal at this point that he couldn’t give less of a fuck.

“Inside,” he says again, “you don’t need to prep me.”

Rozanov pauses, lube cap popped and hovering over his right hand. “Okay, no. Now you are actually crazy. I’m not hurting you because you are too horny to be smart. That’s stupid.”

“It’s done, Rozanov,” Shane huffs. To prove it, he lifts his legs, grabbing his thighs into a happy baby pose. His asscrack and upper thighs are tacky with lube, a discomfort he’s been ignoring for the past hour in pursuit of this specific goal, watching Rozanov’s reaction as his eyes follow the snail trail of lube leading to the unobtrusive black plug nestled between his cheeks. It’s the discreet and easily portable soft silicone number he sometimes uses after the enema when they really don’t have time for anything much more than a perfunctory fuck.

Shane feels a deep satisfaction at the way Rozanov’s mouth drops and his eyes widen. Absurdly, he’s proud. The random women Rozanov picks up at the clubs have fucking nothing on Shane.

Quickly Rozanov schools his expression into something less affected.

“Hollander, your tiny plug is not anything compared to my cock. You maybe started but you will need more than that to take me.”

Before Shane can bitch at him, he feels Rozanov grasp the base of the plug and fuck it into him. He lights up, groaning as heat pools in his groin.

“Ohhh fuck, holy shit, more.”

More is delivered. Rozanov pulls back until the most bulbous part of the plug is stretching Shane’s hole and then fuck’s back in. Shane keens. After a couple more instances of that, though, he’s over it.

“Okay now you,” he pants. Rozanov laughs. It’s not his usual derisive chuckle but something more real. Shane lifts his eyes to see a rare genuine smile rather than the wicked, teeth baring grin he’s come to expect.

“Now me, yes,” he agrees easily.

Unceremoniously, he pops the plug out. This is Shane’s least favorite part. He’s gaping, empty, unmoored without something to connect him to Rozanov once they’ve started.

“Please please please plea-“

The words run together, slurring on his tongue, his desire for release like a hard liquor pulsing through his veins.

Shushing him softly, Rozanov pets at his thigh while he awkwardly fumbles with the expensive lube bottle Shane knows was purchased solely because he hates the way cheap lube feels after it’s dried on his skin. It’s quickly evident that the design isn’t meant for single-handed use, so Rozanov fully lets go of Shane to drizzle the lube over three of his thick fingers.

“Okay, ready?”

Shane wants to roll his eyes or laugh because yeah, no shit. He’s been pretty vocal about being ready since he stepped foot into Rozanov’s apartment, but. Checking in is important to Rozanov. Shane noticed that during his first virginal experience in that hotel room in Toronto and it’s been a thread that’s run through their every hookup. It seems to be more for Rozanov’s sake than for his at this point. Once Shane had tried to give him blanket permission, “do anything you want to me, I don’t care, you don’t have to ask.” Rozanov had gripped his chin, kissing him firmly, and simply said, “No.” He didn’t elaborate. Shane never asked him to. Maybe in a different universe where they actually talked about more than just fucking it would be different. That’s not the universe they live in, though, and it will never be. Moot point. Rozanov checks and Shane assents.

“Ready,” he breathes.

Three fingers enter his ass at once. A grunt rips its way from Shane’s throat as he watches Rozanov close his eyes and breathe out, “Fuck, Hollander”. The stretch stings in a way Shane knows will be uncomfortable for the next day or two. He very much does not care. The plug has done its job, keeping him open enough to accept Rozanov’s fingers without actually causing damage, but fuck. The man has really thick fingers. It’s different than taking his cock. Rozanov is more precise with his fingers, deftly able to locate Shane’s prostate and play it like a violin. His dick is a thicker, blunter instrument. No less able to make him sing.

“Oh my god,” Shane moans in one unbroken string, sounding more like omaha than actual distinct words.

Back in Saskatchewan in 2008, in a sludgy alleyway behind a nondescript hockey rink, Shane did not look at a boy with his curls stuffed into a toque and think, “one day this guy will understand the inside of my asshole better than I do,” but well — here they are. Here Rozanov is unerringly pressing his fingers into Shane’s prostate every second or third thrust, enough to drive him close to the edge but not enough to make him come hands-free.

His moans at this point are bordering on pornographic, except they aren’t performative. He’s really just that down bad. He’d be embarrassed if he had it in himself to be, might still be after he comes and his brain gets back online. This is not the time for shame — he doesn’t have the willpower to feel anything other than intense desire.

“Your cock.” He says dumbly. What he means is some variation on “I need your cock inside me.” What actually happens is Rozanov presses hard into his prostate in the middle of his statement, which causes his voice to pitch up, which makes his statement sound a lot closer to a question. Your cock?

Before he can walk it back, cough, say “I mean” or “I didn’t mean” or “it scares me you can reduce me to this,” Rozanov’s cheek falls to his chest. The asshole is shaking with laughter.

“Your cock?” he imitates on an inhale before he cracks up all over again.

Despite the flaming embarrassment, Shane starts laughing too. He’s so desperate he can’t help it. Rozanov has three fingers up his ass and is giggling into Shane’s pec. It’s so stupid. He decides to lean into it and take back a modicum of the power. He lifts his chin while baring down on Rozanov’s fingers.

“You heard of it? Attached to you, definitely not nine inches-“

Abruptly, Rozanov stops laughing.

“Is so nine inches.”

“Rozanov, if it were nine inches it wouldn’t fucking fit. But whatever you need to tell yourself is fine.”

Shane knows he’s being a dick. It has the desired effect. Rozanov reaches around to the back of his neck, gripping hard.

“I will prove it, Hollander.”

Rozanov pulls his fingers out. Shane doesn’t whine this time because he knows he’s about to get exactly what he wants, what he’s been asking for all night. He flips himself over and gets up on his hands and knees. He hears the snick of the lube cap once more and shudders as the viscous liquid is unceremoniously poured down his crack. Shane has a pavlovian response to the feeling, knowing extra lube equals a brutal fuck. He grins.

After, when they’ve both showered and Shane is pulling on his shoes at the front door, he blurts,“you shouldn’t do them.”

Rozanov looks up from his idle phone scroll, bare chest glistening with droplets he has yet to towel off. Shane wants to lick. Instead he focuses intently on his Reebok’s laces.

“Do what? Other people? You want exclusive, Hollander?”

Rozanov is clearly teasing. Shane feels a possessive tendril of jealous desire anyway.

“Exclusivity,” he corrects. “No. I don’t care about that,” he maybe sorta lies. Well. He’s dug his grave now. Here goes nothing. “The salts.”

“The what?”

“The smelling salts, Rozanov. They’re bad for you.”

Nothing is said for a beat. Shane very studiously pretends to still be tying his already double knotted laces.

“You are serious?”

Shane looks up then and is met with Rozanov’s disbelieving face.

“Uh, yeah. They’re not good for you. For your uh, brain and stuff. It’s a drug.”

Rozanov snorts loudly at the last statement,. “Hollander, are you fucking for real? Is not cocaine, the salt is fucking ammonia. The shit you clean the bathroom with. You probably smell more of it when you scrub toilet. Not a drug.”

Notwithstanding the fact Shane has never scrubbed a bathroom in his adult life, or that he has a service that only uses safe eco-friendly chemicals, he feels a surge of annoyance when he realizes Rozanov is not getting the point.

“They’re gross and no one even knows what they do long term after repeated use. They should be banned.”

“I smoke cigarettes. I do molly and coke at the club sometimes. Smelling salts is where you say ‘no, too much’?” Rozanov gives him a look that very clearly shows how dumb he thinks this line of reasoning is.

“You shouldn’t do that shit either!” Shane stands now, his long-ago-tied shoes no longer a reasonable excuse for him to crouch on the floor.

Rozanov throws his hands up. “Davai, Hollander. You are not my grandmother. Why do you care?”

“They’re performance enhancers.” Does he actually believe this? He doesn’t know. At this point he’s just saying anything to keep Rozanov from the truth.

Rozanov’s face shutters, his eyes narrowing. “You accuse the Russian of doping? You want me out of the league?”

Shane sputters. “No, god, no! I just think you’re better than that. You can win without them.”

Rozanov knocks his head against the wall he’s leaned up against and makes a sound like a teenager being told to load the dishwasher. “If you care so much why not be big bad captain and ban your own team from the smelling salts? Why just me?”

Shane is horrified to feel himself blushing. This is not how he wanted this conversation to go. He didn’t want to have this conversation at all. “I just don’t want to see you doing them. It’s gross.” Shane looks somewhere past Rozanov’s head, inching towards the elevator. If he leaves now, maybe he can save a shred of dignity and they can forget he ever said anything.

Unfortunately for him, that’s not how Rozanov works. Any hint of a blush and he zeros in. He’s a shark scenting the water, picking up on the blood rising to Shane’s cheeks. Shane sees the glint in his eyes and braces.

“Ah. I see.”

“See what?” He asks, desperately hoping Rozanov does not see.

“You think it is hot.”

“No!” Shane protests, way too quickly. “No. They’re gross.”

Rozanov takes a step forward, a lithe wildcat with its pray in its sights.

“You like to see how I react. You are like those girls online? Making the little videos? Saying it’s so sexy when me and Marly smell the salts?”

“I am not attracted to Marleau, asshole.”

“Just me, then. You like how my face gets warm and my eyes get big? Looks like sex, yes? Captain Rozanov all sexed out on the ice ready to hit you and make you moan?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. There’s no back-peddling from this. It’s only a matter of time before —

“Wait, this is why you were hard on ice today? And so crazy for me to fuck you? You watched me with smelling salts and suddenly have to have my perfect hockey babies?”

“Fuck off, you’re such a fucking asshole. That doesn’t even make sense.”

Without warning, Rozanov is inches from Shane, pushing him back against the doors of the elevator he wants so desperately to get into. He grasps Shane’s chin with the 4 fingers of his hand, leaving his thumb free to drag across Shane’s sore and kiss-bitten lower lip. Shane suppresses a shiver and ignores the urge to open his mouth and suck.

“I think it does. I think Shane Hollander didn’t play good hockey tonight because he was too turned on by how hot it is to watch me do something he thinks is bad. Maybe like how he gets so hard from the other bad things we do.”

Shane’s had enough of this. He pushes Rozanov off him, turning his back to jab at the elevator’s button. “Fuck you. I’m leaving.”

“You would like it.” Rozanov says from behind him as the doors swish open. “The feeling. You would.”

Shane doesn’t dignify that with a response.

What they say about hindsight is true. Shane wishes, desperately, he hadn’t opened his fucking mouth.

He barrels forward regardless.

Shane isn’t playing the next night, stuck in a stuffy hotel room in St. Louis waiting for their afternoon game tomorrow. He does have plans. The Raiders are up against the Drillers tonight and Shane watches every Boston game he can. He tells Hayden (“You play hockey literally every day, why do you want to watch the one night you’re free?”) it’s because he’s watching their strategy, memorizing their plays so he can use it against them the next time they face off. It isn’t untrue. It’s just equally true he’s watching for Rozanov.

Hayden is currently loudly complaining about being “subjected” to “Ilya Rozanov’s stupid face” while they could be “going out and doing something fun.” Which is fully bullshit because one, it’s St. Louis, and two, Hayd hasn’t gone out to celebrate shit since the third baby was conceived. Shane beans him with a throw pillow to shut him up. A tactical error, as Hayden is just as competitive as he is, and throw pillows start flying.

Shane is just about to get in the game-ending hit when Hayden says, “What the fuck is he doing?” Shane’s eyes whip up to the screen. Ilya Rozanov is on the bench, glove off, popping something into his mouth.

No fucking way.

Shane bluescreens, forgetting Hayden had asked him anything. On screen, Rozanov very exageratedly drops an almond into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. Then he leans over and presses one into Cliff Marleau’s mouth, who immediately gags and spits it out. The Raiders’ local broadcast announcers are having a field day with the exchange, saying something about their irreverent captain. As if on cue, said makes obvious eye contact with the camera and winks.

“Dude, he’s gonna get fined. What a fucking asshole.”

It takes a beat too long before Shane replies, “Tell me about it.”

Boston loses, the Drillers on a 4 game tear no one could have forecasted in the preseason. Rozanov is predictably interviewed after the game. Luckily Hayden is desperately trying talk Jackie through a pregnancy-and-toddler-induced meltdown and isn’t paying attention.

“Ilya, your power play hasn’t been able to convert the last three games. What do you think is stopping you all from hitting the net?”

“I think Marly is not getting enough fiber in his diet, makes him a weak player. I try to fix that tonight but did not work. Maybe we need to go back to the old methods.”

“Yes, that was certainly interesting tonight. Why the almonds?”

“I heard they’re a rush. Had to try it for myself.”

Three weeks later, Shane is using Buffalo hotel wifi to buy creatine powder when he gets a banner ad of Rozanov holding up a bottled beverage. Dunkin’s New Almond Latte Cold Brew, it says. It’s a rush!

According to the crazy Twitter fans who seem to know things about Shane’s career before he does, “Roz and Marly’s Salt Ritual” has taken a turn for the obscene. What started as a vial passed back and forth has morphed into Rozanov gripping the vial and more or less shoving it up each of their noses in turn. Before Shane gets into bed that night, he reflexively opens his Twitter app and navigates to the @Ilya81_Updates page.

The very first tweet is a gif from just that night, with the caption "03/07/15 BOS vs OTT Roz/Marly salt ritual." Rozanov is more or less repeatedly smacking Marleau in the face with the salts. It can’t be very effective. Just as Shane is about to scroll down to see if there are any other new videos or pictures (for oppositional research purposes) the tiny Rozanov in the video does something new. He grabs the back of Marleau’s neck like a cuff and shoves the vial up into his nose. Marleau tries to pull back but it’s an awkward angle on the bench and despite his size he’s stuck in Rozanov’s strong grip as he whispers something. It’s ridiculous. It’s mean. It’s erotic. Shane watches the clip three times in a row before he wrenches himself out of his stupor and scrolls the replies. A self proclaimed lip reader claims Rozanov is saying “take it.” A couple people comment on "toxic masculinity" and "hazing in sports". One reply catches Shane’s eye:

Suddenly it’s abundantly clear what Rozanov is doing. He’s using fucking Cliff Marleau as a proxy for Shane. He’s enacting his private plans out on a world stage. He knows Shane is watching. Fuck.

Predictably, the text comes in so shortly after Boston wins that Rozanov must still be in his gear.

A final text comes in 20 minutes later.

Shane doesn’t respond to the last text. He’ll say no tomorrow, in person. He’s not doing…that. Rozanov has him wrong

The pre-game speech tonight is short and simple. “We’re not letting Boston beat us in our own barn, boys. Play it clean, don’t let them get the PP. Got it?” A chorus of “Yes cap!”s are pinged at him from across the room. No doubt the captain in the visitor’s locker room is whipping his team up into a frenzy. The Metros don’t need that, Shane thinks smugly. We’re good without all the theatrics. Show up, play good hockey. That’s all you really need.

Play good hockey, they do. The Raiders are using their back-up goalie tonight, some young guy who will probably be good in a year or two but is still getting his footing. Evanson is on IR, as is their beast of a defender whats-his-ski, the Polish trade who would have been an American footballer were he born in the states. The only real threat left on the ice, for Shane at least, is Rozanov.

Shane (quite successfully) studiously ignores the Boston bench. The first two periods he’s also ignored Rozanov’s stupid, punny chirps, something about “feeling salty” over their last loss and “salt in the wound” when the Raiders tie it up in the first. By the third the Metros are up by two and Shane is feeling pretty self-satisfied when they meet up at center ice in the last few minutes of the game.

The Raiders' captain is scowling, his mirth from the earlier periods lost to the specter of defeat.

“Who’s salty now?” Shane chirps. So there.

“Will be you, later. Sweat is salty.” His voice drops. “Cum, too.”

Shane blanches. Realistically, over the whoops of the fans and whatever dumbshit movie clip is playing on the jumbotron to hype up the crowd, no one can hear Rozanov. The lip readers can’t see anything, their faces too tucked away. Still — Rozanov usually dances around what they are, enough for airtight plausible deniability. The naked truth of what they do hidden under layers of innuendo and subtext.

Shane is a full second behind Rozanov when he loses the face-off.

They still win 4-3, the embarrassing goal off Shane’s failed face-off not enough to tie them up. Still, Shane burns with shame over the way Theraiult had raised an assessing eyebrow at him after he’d skated back to the bench in defeat.

After, once he’s taken a perfunctory shower and is stuffing his shit in his bag while waving off JJ’s invite to his friend's loudass bar for the umpteenth time, Hayden catches Shane before he can make his exit.

“What did he say?”

“What?” Shane questions. He’s so in his head he must have missed the beginning of this conversation.

“Rozanov, third period. It was obvious he said something fucked the way you reacted. God, was it something about Yuna? He’s such a fucking asshole, I’ll kill him.”

Fuck. “No! No. I don’t even remember, something stupid. I was just distracted, I don’t know.”

Hayden stares at him a beat. “Okay, man. You’d tell me if he did?”

“Yeah, of course, Hayd.”

And thank god, Hayden drops it.

“Okay. You wanna come over and help me get the girls down? Jackie says they’re refusing to sleep. Again.”

Shane snorts. “As much as I love your screaming bundles of joy, I think I need a quiet night. Next time.”

Hayden thumps him on the back. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Shane doubletimes it to his Land Rover in the VIP parking lot. He has to get home and take his prep shower before Rozanov lets himself in using the firedoor key Shane’d given him, red-faced, with some flimsy “saves time” excuse he’d substituted for his real reason: thinking about Rozanov having a key for the express purpose of fucking Shane made him hard. He’d jerked off to the fantasy of Rozanov coming upstairs without warning, saying nothing, and taking Shane in his bed several times since handing it over.

Really, though, he should text Rozanov and tell him not to come. He’s still pissed about the fucking chirp. Rozanov knows there’s a hard line between what they say in public and what they say in private. He toes it constantly to be sure; he’s never fragrantly crossed it the way he did tonight. Shane should text him and say don’t fucking dare use that key tonight, go rub one out thinking of what you could have had before you broke the rules.

He takes the stairs up to his apartment two at a time.

Half an hour later, he’s pulling on joggers, hair still damp, when he hears the door open.

“Honey, I’m home!” calls Rozanov in his lilting, melodic way.

While clearly sardonic, Shane feels a pang for something he can’t quite look at. Maybe. For someone to walk into the apartment and call out that for real someday. He puts the thought out of his mind when Rozanov follows it up with, “…and I brought dinner.”

Shane sticks his head over the balcony. “Really?”

“Well, dessert.” Rozanov holds up a little baggie containing a vial of smelling salts.

Nausea wells up in Shane’s stomach, heat staining his face.

“Fuck off, I’m not doing that.”

Rozanov says nothing in response. He’s already slipped his shoes off and is coming up the stairs to meet Shane, pulling off his shirt before he even makes it to the top. When he hits the landing he rounds the corner, crowding into Shane’s space with a hand on his waist and another to his chin before pulling him in for a kiss. It’s…blurry. It feels soft in a way they only ever allow for the stolen moments post-hookup, never before. Shane melts into it before he remembers he’s supposed to be mad. He jerks back.

“Why the fuck did you talk about cum on the ice!? Are you insane?”

Rozanov rolls his eyes, removing his hands from Shane’s body so he can throw them in the air. “Relax, Hollander. Always with a stick up your ass. No one could hear anything, Your barn isn’t as loud as Boston fans, too many polite Canadians, but is too loud to hear me whisper the word ‘cum.’” He grins, then continues. “Wasn’t even true. Yours isn’t salty, it tastes like sad health food grass juice.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov. It was a dirty fucking move,” Shane grouses. “You can’t get a goal on your own? Have to shit talk your way into it?”

Rozanov raises his eyebrows. “Uh, yes. Chirping is very important to hockey. If hockey had no chirping and no fighting it would just be like… ice chess. Not all of us want to turn hockey into the most boring game on earth, Hollander.”

“Relying on your skills isn’t boring.”

Rozanov snorts. “Okay, not boring, very cool to never fight and never chirp and trust in your team and get pucks to net.” He says the last two phrases in a poor imitation of Shane’s media voice.

He’s done with this conversation.

“Are you just going to be an asshole or are you gonna fuck me? Because I have other things I could be doing.”

Rozanov lifts his hand once again to grip Shane’s chin. It’s much firmer this time. Proprietary. Shane stares at him, trying to give of his best aura of nonchalance.

“I think you like it when I do both,” he murmurs. “But I am very much going to fuck you. Besides, we need to have our dessert.”

It’s Shane’s turn to snort. “In your dreams.”

“Yes.” Rozanov leans forward and captures Shane’s lips, his hand drifting south to lightly circle Shane’s throat. The kiss is as unhurried as it is filthy. Shane immediately submits to Rozanov’s tongue, letting it languidly lick around the ridges of his teeth and fuck into the back of his throat. He decides, quite magnanimously, he can be mad later.

Rozanov pulls back with a truly disgusting noise. “Time for dessert?”

He can be mad now.

“I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that it’s fucking gross.”

“Hm, yes. You have said. But here is the thing.” Rozanov puts a hand flat to Shane’s chest, beginning to push him backwards toward the bedroom.

“You think it is gross, yes?” Three steps back.

“Obviously.” Three more.

“You think it is bad.” Three more.

“It is.” The backs of Shane’s knees hit the bed.

“But Hollander,” starts Rozanov. Shane’s pushed backwards, flopping down on the bed, stomach swooping as Rozanov, svelte as a panther, follows his path and lowers himself down so his mouth lines up with Shane’s ear, breath tickling as he whispers, “you like to be bad.”

Shame colors Shane’s cheeks. It’s not entirely wrong. There’s always been something enticingly elicit about the whole clandestine-meetings-for-forbidden-sex thing they have going on. It would undoubtedly ruin his life if their secret got out, but fuck if it isn’t hot to have one. To have something he doesn’t have to scrub clean and parade out like a show dog for the world to comment on. He can be as dirty, as wanton, as submissive as he likes and the only person who could tell is risking just as much as he is.

But also…

“I want to be good for you.”

It’s something they’ve played around with. One of the first times they met up after the MLH awards found Rozanov pounding into him from behind, unerringly hitting his prostate with every thrust as Shane had clutched the sheets for dear life; Rozanov had said, “fuck, you’re so good, oh fuck you’re so good” and Shane had said “again” again and again until he’d came to Rozanov’s chant of “so good so good so good.”

Tonight all he hears is a very quiet intake of breath, the kind he knows Rozanov takes when he’s pretending to remain disaffected.

He purrs into Shane’s ear. “Yes. Do you trust me?”

Shane is grateful Rozanov’s lips are still hovering next to his ear so he can close his eyes when he breathes out the truth.

“Yes.”

Rozanov lifts his eyes, making sure they’re making eye contact when he says, “we will try something. If you don’t like it we will stop. Okay?”

Shane nods. “Okay.”

It’s such a stupid thing to agree to, something he’s going to no doubt hate, but. It’s as simple as that. Shane trusts Rozanov.

The same person who has now attached himself to Shane’s nipple.

Both Shane’s hands fly to either side of Rozanov’s head, burying his fingers in the soft short curls behind the man’s ears as his breath leaves him in a rush.

Rozanov doesn’t linger there long, leaving a trail of kisses down towards the waistband of Shane’s joggers before hitching them down past the cleft of his ass.

Shane’s cock springs free. With no preamble, Rozanov swallows it down in one go.

“Jesuschrist.” Shane arches up into the wet heat of Rozanov’s mouth, a movement immediately aborted by a strong arm barring him from thrusting upward.

Rozanov does not suck dick in half measures. He doesn’t tease or kitten lick the way Shane does when he’s trying to goad Rozanov into getting frustrated and taking charge. No, Rozanov sucks dick like he’s on a time limit, like the period is winding down and he only has moments to even the score. It never fails to hurtle Shane towards completion before he’s ready for it.

“Rozanov-“ he pants in warning, hoping it will be enough. It could be one of those nights Rozanov wants to get him off before they fuck in earnest. It relaxes Shane, making him looser and more ready for penetration.

That doesn’t seem to be Rozanov’s plan for tonight as he pulls off Shane’s dick and casually wipes the wetness gathered around his mouth off with the back of his hand.

“Feet on the bed,” Rozanov instructs. Shane is quick to obey, planting his feet wide and scooting so his ass is at the edge of the bed, clenching a bit in anticipation.

“Shhh, relax, Hollander.” Drifts Rozanov’s silky voice from the base of the bed before Shane feels lips suckling his balls.

“Oh,” he sighs, relaxing into one of his favorite feelings. Rozanov rolls the left one in his mouth for a moment before moving over to duplicate the sensation. Shane feels himself sink into his mattress, content in the knowledge he’s about to be thoroughly eaten out.

The initial lave of Rozanov’s tongue causes Shane to shiver before he goes completely boneless. The first time he’d had his ass eaten, the first time they’d gone all the way in this exact bed, Shane had moaned and panted and ohmygod’d his way through it. In the intervening years he’d found it to be one of the most zen-like actvities he has in his life, more centering than yoga somedays. His entire world narrows down to the feeling of Rozanov’s tongue on the tight ring of his asshole, alternating between long, swirling licks and precise, burrowing pokes and nasty, sucking kisses.

I could fall asleep like this, Shane thinks. I’d be asleep and he could do whatever he wants. It’s a dangerous thought, one he shouldn’t be having about their casual arrangement. "An inside thought", his mom would tell him when he was little and said something too honest about a teammate. Rozanov doesn’t need to know this thought.

Somehow he does.

“You are maybe too relaxed, hmm? I don’t want you to fall asleep before dessert.”

“Fuck you,” Shane practically whispers with absolutely no heat behind it. Rozanov’s words barely register.

“If you insist.”

Shane does nothing to help move them along, melted into the mattress in a rimming-induced cloud. He hears the bedside drawer open to his right, the one with the lube and condoms. Knows without looking that Rozanov is warming up the lube as he slicks up his finger. It’s a bit abnormal. Usually they both like the feeling of the cool lube poured directly on Shane’s asshole — Shane for the sensory experience and Rozanov for the way Shane shudders beneath him. It seems, for whatever reason, tonight Rozanov is being extra considerate. Maybe he’s really tired or something? Maybe he thinks Shane is? There was something else different tonight, too. This blissed out, Shane can’t be bothered to remember.

He’s so loose from the rimming the first finger slips right in. Shane sighs into it, stomach fluttering as Rozanov pulls back to pet at the soft ring of muscle before sliding back in.

“I wahn,” Shane slurs. He knows Rozanov will know.

A moment later, Rozanov’s finger presses softly into his prostate.

“Yes,” he sighs, dragging out the word. Yesssss. He sinks further into the feeling, letting all his senses be overtaken by the waves of pleasure rolling from his prostate into his cock. A second finger breaches his entrance. He notices it the way he’d notice autumn leaves: registering the change it only after it’s already happened.

It’s some of the most heady sex he’s ever experienced. He can already see the future unspooling before him. Rozanov will enter him slowly, pressing as deeply as he can, locked to Shane with smooth, grinding thrusts. Shane will crest higher and higher until he feels like the pleasure will consume him, will burn him up from the inside, and then he’ll succumb to the bliss and laze in a hazy, heaving heap until he comes around. It sounds perfect.

“Up, come on, Hollander.”

Huh?

Shane blinks through the fog to Rozanov pulling his fingers out while pushing insistently on his thigh.

“Wha?” Shane manages.

“On your knees now.”

The dream goes up in smoke.

“What?” Shane asks again. “No, I don’t-“ he struggles to find the words. “I can’t.”

“You can. You trust me, remember? It will be good, I promise.” He taps again. “Up.”

With a heaving sigh, Shane flops his body over like a beached whale, folding his limbs underneath him into some semblance of child’s pose. Notably not on his knees.

He feels a soft smack to his ass in retribution. “Don’t be a brat,” Rozanov sniffs. “I am doing all the work here, Hollander. You can get on your knees.”

Shane wants to be petulant, bitchy even, but in his current state the chastisement stings more than the slap. It’s true. He hasn’t lifted a finger this entire night, a glutton for pleasure, the kind of hedonism he’s eschewed from every other part of his life. Begrudgingly he gets to his knees.

“Good boy.”

The praise lands between Shane’s shoulder blades as Rozanov drapes himself over Shane’s back.

“Ready?”

A small percentage of Shane wants to shake his head no just because he wants to lay back down so badly but that’s a surefire way to end the night sans orgasm. So he nods and shifts his weight to ensure he won’t be knocked over with the first thrust.

Rozanov lines himself up with his hole, holding Shane’s hip to stabilize him and the base of his own dick to stabilize himself. Shane arches his neck and breathes into the discomfort, knowing from experience it will quickly melt away. He feels Rozanov massaging his hips in slow, firm circles with each inch of penetration, a grounding show of comfort or support or thanks, maybe.

When Rozanov is completely sheathed, Shane panting into the fullness, he whispers, “You trust me?”

Why does he keep asking me that? Shane thinks blearily. It’s uncharacteristic of Rozanov to be so…unconfident. Maybe Shane has unwittingly been telegraphing some kind of distrust? He’s never distrusted Rozanov when it comes to sex, at least not since the moment after their CCM shoot when he’d pretended he was about to leave Shane hanging before giving him a literally life-altering blowjob. Never since. It doesn’t make sense, but…

“Anything,” he whispers. “You can do anything.”

The scariest part of the admission is he means it. Wholeheartedly.

“Okay,” Rozanov whispers back.

He pulls almost all the way out. Glides back in. Out. In. Shane starts to get lost in the rhythm, looking forward to dropping back into the haze.

A glowstick cracks.

A glowstick?

Without warning, Rozanov’s arm wraps around and grips Shane’s face. Shane inhales, startled. Then a number of things happen all at once.

Shanes nose burns, like he’s inhaled water while jumping into the lake at the cottage.

Fireworks burst behind his eyes as they pop open, unseeing in his shock.

His heart gallops, pounding against his ribcage in an attempt to break free.

And Rozanov slams into him from behind.

Shane keens loudly, scrabbling at the bed, pulling up the fitted sheet in a futile attempt to try and get away from all the sensations. The arm that was around his face has been moved to his chest, holding him up as he all but collapses forward.

“What the fuck did you just do to me!?” he gasps. His head is fucking rushing. It feels like… the only thing that comes close is the exhilaration of sinking a puck in the third period of a playoff game. Shane feels like he can do anything.

“Dessert,” Rozanov says, pounding in steadily.

All of a sudden Shane remembers what “dessert” is and puts together the glowstick sound with the multiple asks for trust. In his prostate-induced idiocy he’d forgotten about the salts.

“Holy shit. Do they always - oh my god, Rozanov, there - feel like that?”

Rozanov grunts, speaking between thrusts “Maybe first time. You get, ah, get used to them. Still good but not as crazy. You like?”

“No.” Shane lies immediately. Even in his addled state he knows he has a reputation to uphold.

“You’re such a bad liar, Hollander. Stop talking.”

Shane shuts up, relieved to be given permission to just sink into the insane feeling he’s had. ‘Had’ being the operative word, because he feels pretty normal now, if having Ilya Rozanov relentlessly pounding into him was anywhere near normal.

It’s not that it’s not good. Sex with Rozanov is always a revelation. But he isn’t in the floaty headspace anymore, wrenched from that by the salts. And he doesn’t feel the chemically-induced adrenaline shock of the salts either. In comparison, the “regular” sex sensations just aren’t as strong. Not that Rozanov needs to know the ways in which he was right.

“You want more,” Ilya pants above him.

“No,” Shane repeats, stubborn.

“Okay, you don’t want. Do you trust me?”

Yes. Yes.

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Rozanov’s hand comes back around. This time Shane is prepared. He inhales.

FuckFUCKfuck his senses are on fire. Everything is sharp. His asshole aches and it feels great his lungs feel great his ears feel great he could run a marathon. He could win a speed skate against God.

“You like it.” Rozanov sounds so fucking smug.

“I fucking don’t.” Shane falls to his elbows so he can grasp Rozanov’s wrist and anchor him there. “It’s disgusting.”

“You don’t want more.” Rozanov is draped across his back, sharp grinding thrusts pistoned directly into his prostate.

“Uhuhuhuh fu-fuck no, no more”

“You won’t come from it.” Neither of them are in the right position to reach Shane’s dick, not that it matters. He’s been drooling precome on the sheets for a while now and feels dangerously close to the precipice.

“Won’t,” he moans into the pillow before he cranes his neck up to try and meet Rozanov’s hand.

“Ah ah,” Rozanov tuts as he pulls his hand tantalizingly out of reach, dragging Shane’s arms with him. “You get it when you tell me you’re coming.”

Shane whines at the new stipulation. “Touch me then,” he pleads.

Rozanov tsks into his ear. “I don’t think you need that, hmm? Only my cock this time.”

He could plead. If he begs hard enough, Rozanov will eventually relent and get a hand on him. He could plead.

“You can do that. You can be good for me.”

He could plead. But he won’t.

Shane releases Rozanov’s wrist as proof of his obedience. Focuses on the surges of pleasure breaking over him each time Rozanov grinds into his prostate, bearing down at each apex in a bid to pull Rozanov in just a bit deeper, to have him press just a bit harder. It isn’t long before he feels the telltale tightening behind his balls and realizes with a start that the dizzying crest is about to break.

“Roz-uh , I’m, I’m gonna- “ is all the warning he has to give before there’s a strong hand gripping his face and the world explodes.

Shane is a supernova of sensation. His vision goes white, then dark, then white again. He’s having a heart attack. He’s coming so hard it hurts, so much he’s afraid he might be pissing himself too. Someone is wailing — it takes a long moment for him to realize it’s his own voice making that noise, and mostly through elimination because the only other voice in the room is saying “oh god, Hollander, holy shit.”

The first thing Shane notices in his comedown is that he can’t breath. Like, actually cannot. There’s something blocking his airway. He starts to panic. Fuck, is this a side effect of doing drugs?

A harsh tug pulls on his hair and he’s lifted from the pillow he’d flopped face first into.

“Maybe you’re right,” Rozanov muses, manhandling Shane’s head so he’s turned to the side and can breathe unobstructed. “Salts gave you brain damage.”

Shane doesn’t even have the energy to tell him to fuck off. It’s all he can do to get air back in his lungs.

Silent and panting, they lay together, Rozanov gone only long enough to slip out and dispose of the condom before he’d clambered back to the bed to once again drape himself over Shane. Shane has no recollection of Rozanov having came, but seeing as he’s being uncharacteristically quiet, Shane can only assume it was intense for him too.

They need to get up. Rozanov flies back to Boston in the morning for a stint of home games and Shane has morning practice before they play Las Vegas tomorrow night. For a long while, neither of them move.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Rozanov begins to kiss Shane’s shoulder in warning of his inevitable departure. It’s good timing as Shane’s heart rate has come down enough to stabilize and with that has come the realization he’s laying in a large sticky-wet mess.

“I will shower fast, okay?” Rozanov says.

“Of course, yeah.”

With one more kiss, Rozanov stands and heads to Shane’s en suite. As soon as the door shuts Shane quickly turns to the side and rubs a hand along the spot, shamefully bringing it up to his nose just to be positive it doesn’t smell like urine. He’s never known other players to have incontinence issues while using them but who knows, they could be hiding the nasty side effects or maybe it’s different when you’re having sex. Luckily all he smells is his own semen.

He lifts himself with a sigh and begins to strip the bed, throwing the soiled sheets in the hamper he hides in his closet so the cleaning service doesn’t know. Thank god his parents instilled proper cleaning skills in him when he was a kid. He knows there are guys on his team who have never run a wash cycle in their lives.

He’s just finished tucking in the top sheet when Rozanvo comes back, towel slung low over his hips, and flops down directly in the center of the bed.

“Hey!” Shane cries, pulling Rozanov back up. “You’re getting the bed wet, asshole.”

Rozanov grins wickedly. “You got the bed wet. You were very turned on, hmm?”

Shane can feel his blush radiate past his cheeks and down his neck. He turns away so he doesn’t have to look Rozanov in the eye. “Fuck off.” he mutters. “We can’t do that again.”

“Yes, you told me many times you did not like it before you pretty much squirt all over the sheets.”

“Fuck you, no I didn’t. It doesn’t matter, okay? I’m not doing it again, I’m serious, don’t ask me.”

Rozanov thumbs his nose, shrugs, grabs his briefs from the pile of clothes on the ground. “Okay, sure. Next time I’ll bring a bird feeder for you.”

“What?”

“For nuts and seeds. Burst of energy.”

“Oh my god, fuck off!” Shane tries his best to keep any amusement out of his voice. Judging from Rozanov's wink, he fails. Then - “How much did Dunkin pay you for that ad campaign?”

“Enough for a new car,” says Rozanov, pulling on his joggers.

Ridiculous. “You’re welcome for that, by the way.”

Rozanov pulls his tank over his head, rolling his eyes in the process. “Yes, Hollander. Thank you for introducing me to your nuts. They have changed my life.”

Unbidden, Shane thinks, yours have changed mine. He immediately hates himself for it. Knows Rozanov would hate it too. It’s not how they think.

At this point Rozanov is fully clothed and clean, leaving Shane feeling vulnerable and exposed in his nakedness, come and lube dried tacky and disgusting on his thighs. He needs to shower. He needs Rozanov to leave before he wants more, more, always more.

“Okay,” he starts awkwardly. “Well. ‘Til next time?”

Every time, he’s terrified Rozanov will say no. Every time he’s terrified he’ll say yes.

“Until next time.” Rozanov repeats.

Shane lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Next time.

Shane puts up with a lot for hockey. Racist pricks, constant homophobic remarks, a restrictive diet, a torn and bruised body. The salts.

He’s even more strict about them now, refusing to let anyone anywhere close to him on the bench crack one open. He stoically endures the boring/uptight/prude chirps he gets to his face, pretends he doesn’t know about the nagging girlfriend/fag/freak ones behind his back. Let them think it’s because he’s hockey-robot-Hollander, a man unable to have an ounce of fun in pursuit of his sport.

It’s better than the alternative, than them knowing why he absolutely cannot hear the sound of the vial crack or get a whiff of the acrid smell while he’s trying to focus on winning a game. Because now, Shane can’t stand smelling salts for a very different reason than he used to hate them.

Now, the telltale sound of the vial pools blood beneath his navel. The burning smell goes through his nostrils straight to his gut, transforming into some kind of phantom limb that he swears he can feel grinding in. The last thing Shane wants on the ice is a spectral dick in his ass. So, no smelling salts on the bench.

If it gets around that a certain dictatorial captain hates smelling salts so much he’s banned them from the bench, well. There’s really only one person who can dispute that. And who’s he gonna tell?

Shane Hollander is a generational player, a dedicated stalwart, a laser-focused hockey machine who doesn’t need anything but pure willpower to tap into his game.

Shane Hollander one hundred percent hands down cannot stand smelling salts.

Really.

He’s serious.