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1. Shane’s Apartment, Montreal
“You sure know how to stake your claim, Hollander.”
Shane was still trying to catch his breath. Actually, he was still trying to open his eyes. Or get his fingers to work. Or, really, just make any part of his body do what he wanted it to do. He was getting a little concerned that Ilya had fucked him so hard his brain had leaked out of his ears. Maybe he was paralyzed. It kind of felt like it, except for how sore he was.
“Hmm?” he managed, lips as numb as the rest of him, and twice as swollen.
“I am like abstract painting. I always belong in museum, of course, but now is extra special.”
“Wha… what?”
The ceiling finally swam into focus above him. For some reason, Shane’s head was at the bottom left corner of the bed, his feet up near the pillows. The duvet was long gone, and he was naked except for his socks, but despite them, he was starting to feel chilly. It brought a little clarity back to his mind.
He managed to flop his head to the side, blinking, only to see Rozanov already staring at him, a proud, cocky smirk on his face as his eyes traced up and down Shane’s supine, nude body. He was standing in front of a large, full-body mirror next to Shane’s closet, but from his angle, Shane could only see Rozanov’s head and the ceiling of his bedroom reflected. “You back with me yet, Hollander?”
“I… don’t know.”
Rozanov laughed, then advanced. His cock was soft (it had better be, he had wrung out at least three orgasms on Shane’s body in the past two hours, very blatantly taking out his frustration for last night’s loss against the Voyageurs. And that wasn’t even counting what they had done the night before. The sex after their games was always… intense. Regardless of which one of them won, there was always something extra about the sex that followed. Sometimes they were on a time limit. Sometimes they were stuck in a hotel, and they had to be quiet. Sometimes one of them was actually fucking spitting mad, and it only incensed them further that they were also turned on by the source of their frustration. It was a delicate balance.)
Still, though he was exhausted, Shane’s eyes drifted down the lines of Ilya’s body, tripping over abdominals and sliding over his obliques, and came to rest on his cock, limp between his powerful thighs.
So what if he was soft? Shane still wanted to take him in his mouth and hold him there.
He licked his lips.
“Ehem.”
Shane glanced up. Rozanov was less than a foot away, close enough that Shane could feel the heat of his body. He wanted to arch his back. He wanted to reach over his head and grab him, pull him closer. He wanted to slink just a little further down the bed so that his head would hang over the side and Rozanov could fuck his throat.
“What?” he asked, still delirious.
Without answering, Rozanov turned around.
Livid pink scratches stretched in all directions across his shoulders and his waist, layered on top of each other. Neat sets of four parallel lines reached all the way up to the back of his neck, almost to the soft, short hairs at the base of his skull. Without thinking, Shane lifted his hand to touch, then paused. But even with an inch of space between his fingertips, he could feel the heat radiating from the myriad of little wounds.
“What the hell happened?” he asked, dropping his hand and scrambling to kneel on the bed, feeling knocked off balance. He ached, and his head was still swimming pleasantly, but he blinked and tried to focus. “What the hell? Did you—did you fall? Do you need a first aid kit? I have one. In the bathroom.”
Rozanov’s shoulders were trembling, shaking. He was laughing. Their eyes met in the mirror, a broad grin stretched across Rozanov’s mouth, Shane’s concerned, pale face peaking around him. “‘What happened,’ he asks,” Rozanov mocked, turning around. Shane could still see the scratches in the mirror. None were bloody, but they still couldn’t have felt all that pleasant. Rozanov grabbed Shane’s wrist and began inspecting his fingertips. “I think what happened was that sometime before I fucked second orgasm out of you without touching your cock, you dug your nails into my back and wouldn’t let go.” He held Shane’s hand up to his face. He went cross-eyed trying to focus, then saw what Rozanov wanted him to. Visible, beneath his fingertips, was the slight sediment of scraped off skin cells. “You need a nail trim,” Rozanov said, throwing his hand down. It fell limply in Shane’s lap. “I will have to make it a condition before we fuck, like you with your socks.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane said, stomach feeling funny and cold. “I didn’t—I didn’t even realize I was doing that. That’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t meet his eyes. The stupid fucking grizzly bear tattooed on his chest was right in front of Shane’s face, snarling at him. Rozanov gazed down at him, too. Slowly, Rozanov set one knee on the mattress, then the other. He pushed Shane’s shoulder to get him moving and they shuffled toward the center of the mattress until Shane, going backward, wobbled and fell. Rozanov fell over him like a blanket and pressed a kiss to his mouth. “I did not notice either,” he said. “All of it felt so good. You, writhing on my cock. Holding onto me as if worst thing ever would be for me to leave. Love it when you go crazy for me, Hollander, lose your senses. No longer highest IQ in league, huh?”
He kissed him again, long and hard, their tongues winding together and their noses pressing into each other’s cheeks. “I’m sorry,” Shane said again as soon as they pulled back.
“Don’t be sorry,” Rozanov whispered. “I liked it. But you can make it up to me.”
“How?” he asked, eager. His hands slid up Rozanov’s waist, feeling the heat of the scratches and the slightly raised lines on his skin. He stroked over them, hoping he was soothing and not aggravating them.
“Last time I was here, I gave you two very nice bottles of Russian vodka, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And good boy Hollander, I expect you have not finished them yet? Does not fit with your macro-micro dieting?”
Shane squirmed. “I haven’t opened either of them.”
Rozanov kissed him. “Good,” he said. “This is perfect arrangement, see? I leave good vodka at your house, I fuck you until you cry, and then you go bring me cold glass so I can relax.” He patted Shane’s ass, then abruptly rolled them over so Shane was on top. Shane gasped, worried about Rozanov putting his back on the sheets, but Rozanov shuddered pleasantly beneath him. “Vodka, Hollander,” he said, pushing deeper into the sheets, eyes fluttering shut. “Be a good boy and fetch.”
+++
“Hollander, Hollander, Hollander….”
“What?”
“Oh, Hollander.”
“What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?”
Shane looked nervously over his shoulder, but the gym was empty except for him. Still, he reminded himself not to say his name out loud again.
“Holly, Hollzy, Two-Four-”
“Lily,” Shane growled.
“Hello, darling,” Rozanov purred.
“What do you want? Why the fuck did you call? Still upset that we wiped the floor with you guys?” He squared his shoulders. “The rink didn’t even need a Zamboni once we were done with you.”
“Oh, Hollander! Did you come up with chirp all on your own? Good boy! Very much improved! You will get trophy this year for Most Improved Chirper, and I will give it to you on stage and slip my hand down the front of your-”
“I’m hanging up.”
“No, Hollander, don’t go!” Rozanov whined, long and dragged out. “Please, pretty please, I only want to compliment you, you are so very, very impressive.”
“You are so fucking exhausting.”
“All my lovers tell me this.”
“Roz.”
“Call me Lily again.”
Shane licked his lips. “Lily,” he whispered.
“That’s right. Are you trying to get us caught, Hollander?”
“What? How?”
“After you were done wiping the rink with us, do you remember what you did next? Also kind of wiping, but much sharper?”
Shane felt the flush building on his face reach his ears. “Um. Yeah. And I am—I am sorry about that, Roz-Lily, I hope, I hope you’re… feeling better?”
He winced. Rozanov laughed.
“I was never feeling bad,” he said. “Such pretty marks you leave on me—enthusiastic. They stick around, you know? Helps me focus during games. Just that pleasant little twinge when I bend down for the puck. Keeps me in the moment. I have been playing very well since you sunk your claws into me. Thank you, Hollander.”
“Um. You’re welcome?”
Ilya was still laughing. “Gives me something to brag about, too. All my teammates, they are so impressed by proof of my bedroom, um, um, power?”
“Prowess,” Shane murmured.
“Prowess,” Ilya purred. “Nice word. I like it.”
“You… showed them off? I figured you would keep your undershirt on until they… faded.”
“I don’t change my routines for anyone,” Ilya said fluidly, unconcerned, “not even my Montreal girl.”
Shane’s breath caught. “Your what?”
“Is nothing,” Ilya said, and quickly, “I will have to find ways to leave pretty marks on you, but I am not a scratcher, sadly. Any ideas?”
“Um.” Shane glanced around the gym. Still empty. He sat down on the rowing machine and pulled out his earbuds. “Maybe a few….”
2. Hotel Room, Las Vegas
Shane retired early. Really, at this rate, his teammates were actually going to murder his ass if he skipped one more night out with them, but he couldn’t help it.
He and Rozanov were in the same town. Vegas. Fucking Las Vegas. And Shane was already in his bedroom, still wearing every piece of his tuxedo, and waiting desperately for Lily to text him.
Lily
Well, we are both here
And Vegas is not as fun as movies
So you might as well let me fuck you
Jane
Wow.
I know, is compelling argument
Give room number
No, fuck you.
Why always are you like this?
Room number
Say please.
You think I am above begging? I am not
I’m not stupid.
You still haven’t said please yet.
You would not be responding if you didn’t want me there
Imagine it
Fancy hotel bed
Lots of pillows for your pretty head
Plush headboard for you to brace your feet against
My feet?
Pretty little delicate toes
You are weird.
Weird for you, only you
…
Jane?
Say please.
Okay
Alright
Please
Please what?
You are not so clever as you think
I know you are smiling all proud of yourself
…
Jaaaaaaaaaaaaannneee
I’m waiting.
Waiting for my hard cock, I know
You should end your suffering early
Send me room number and I will fuck you through the floor
There will be noise complaints, you will be so embarrassed
Jesus Christ
Where are you right now?
I am at lobby bar with Bears
They are so curious about yooouuu
What are you wearing
A tuxedo
What are you telling them?
Let me take it off
I am telling them that lovely girl Jane is obsessed with me
Flew into Vegas just to see me
Jerk.
Who is Jane Goodall? With the monkeys?
What the fuck?
Pretty please, I beg now, I am begging, send me room number
…
…
…
3717
I always win
+++
Rozanov shoved the door open as soon as it was unlocked. He pushed inside, and Shane felt his heart give an embarrassing little flutter when Rozanov seized him by the waist and shoved him against it, pinning him to the door with his hands above his head.
"Someone's gonna hear,” Shane said, but his mouth was open, and he was already leaning forward to meet Ilya in the middle, lips wet and wanting.
“You should not have kept me waiting if you did not want me desperate,” Rozanov said. He bit Shane’s ear. “Pretty Jane,” he cooed, tapping his fingers across Shane’s chest, which was, embarrassingly, already heaving. “She always puts up the pretense, and she always caves.”
“My name’s not Jane,” Shane said, trying to capture Rozanov’s mouth again.
Rozanov grabbed his jaw and forced him back. Shane gasped as his skull connected lightly with the door, a hollow thunk, and he hated that his eyes rolled back in his head. “But everyone thinks it is,” Rozanov murmured, stroking his fingers down his jaw, then across his chin, then over his lips. When he pushed in, Shane’s tongue met his fingertips, tasting skin and sweat and a little vodka spilled over from a shot glass. “They think I am running away from team bonding to fuck hot smokeshow who flew to Vegas for me. They think you are hot bombshell.” He leaned in, his breath hot. “I need to add profile picture for Jane, or else is suspicious. I should take picture of you, but where?”
“Absolutely not,” Shane said, slurring, Rozanov’s fingers pressing down his tongue.
“Top of your head as you suck my dick?” Rozanov hummed. “I say you are girl with buzzcut, no risk of face showing. Or your ass,” he said, releasing Shane’s wrists with a squeeze that told Shane he wanted him to keep them there, and sliding down to feel and squeeze his ass. “Could be girl’s ass. Thick. Fat. Made for cock.”
Shane spat his fingers out. “You are such an asshole,” Shane said. “That’s literally not okay.”
“I know, I know,” Rozanov said. “I am not PC culture. Sorry about it.”
Shane glared, but he was having a hard time coming up with well-reasoned arguments to debate Rozanov. And he was still keeping his wrists held against the door above his head. “Locker room talk,” Shane said, disapprovingly. “I don’t let it slide, not in my arena.”
Rozanov cupped his dick. “This doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “Pretty Hollander, defender of all.”
Shane took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and squeezed them shut for good measure. “Jane Goodall is an English primatologist and anthropologist regarded as a pioneer in primate ethology. She is best known for more than six decades of field research on the social and family life of wild chimpanzees. Goodall's research redefined the traditional view that humans are uniquely different from other… other animals….”
Rozanov started laughing after the first sentence and only laughed harder when Shane’s composure started to break, until his hands slid down from above his head, and they were clutching each other’s shirts and giggling as he finished the last sentence of his recitation.
“Did you memorize Wikipedia for me while waiting for me?” Rozanov asked. Shane slowly blinked his eyes open, right as Rozanov kissed him.
Shane ducked his head shyly, curling his fingers into the lapels of Rozanov’s jacket. “Maybe.”
“Monkey see, monkey do,” Ilya snickered.
This time, Shane kissed him. “You asked what I was wearing,” he breathed.
Rozanov looked him up and down. “Yes. Same tux as earlier. Boring. Expensive. Rolex.”
Shane raised an eyebrow. “Want to see what I have on under it?”
Rozanov practically threw him onto the bed. “I will prove to you how a human is like an animal, Hollander.”
3. Ilya’s House, Boston
“I should go.”
“No. You should stay.”
Shane glanced up. Rozanov was half-dressed, his back to Shane as he faced his closet and pulled out his gear. “But… you’re leaving.”
Even without seeing his face, Shane could tell that Rozanov had rolled his eyes. “Yes, I am leaving because I have team practice. But you do not have anything to do until afternoon flight. My house is more comfortable than shitty hotel room shared with Pike. Stay.”
“Um… alone?”
Rozanov shot him a withering glare. “Well, I will not be here, and is new construction, no ghosts are haunting property, so yes, Hollander, you stay alone.” He snapped his hand at a window. “It is bright daylight outside. Even you cannot be scared of being alone in daytime?”
“I’m not scared,” Shane snapped, pulling the sheets a little higher over his body. He felt anxious. He pretty much always felt anxious, unless it was the middle of a game, but he could feel his body thrumming with energy.
Because Ilya had asked him to stay last night, too.
And Shane had.
All night, in Ilya Rozanov’s bed, and not even for marathon sex. Sure, there had been that, but then Ilya had turned on the massive screen in his bedroom to reruns of some crappy American sitcom and they had… cuddled. Sort of. In Ilya Rozanov’s bed. Until they fell asleep.
They didn’t do that.
The morning sex had been more familiar territory, but only slightly. Shane had never been woken up with a mouth on his cock before, after all, and he had never come half-asleep, his hands stretched out beneath his pillow, his mouth open. They had fucked when they were exhausted before, bone-weary and months into the season, feeling the ache of countless back-to-back games—but they had never fucked sleepy. Morning sex, with the warm sunlight coming in through Rozanov’s windows.
(And Ilya had brushed his teeth before he woke Shane up. And he had given Shane a cup of mouthwash after he had blown him, before he hiked his legs around his shoulders and fucked him. Because, Shane was beginning to realize, Ilya knew him.)
“You want me to stay,” Shane repeated, feeling almost dizzy with it.
Ilya slid a tight Under Armor shirt on. His curls popped through the head hole first, then the rest of his face, watching Shane with an eerie, quiet intensity. “Yes, Hollander,” he said. “I want you to stay.”
“I’ll be gone before you get back, though,” Shane said nervously.
“Yes, I know.”
“And Pike will wonder where I am—he’s probably already texted."
Ilya groaned and turned around, shaking his head and running his fingers through his curls. “Oh my god, you are so difficult. Stay, go, I don’t care.”
“Oh.”
“Hollander. Oh my god.”
“What?”
“You are impossible,” Ilya growled, before he launched himself back onto the bed. He covered Shane in an instant, hands finding his wrists, mouth finding his lower lip, crotches pressed together again. “I want you to stay,” he repeated, firmly, pulling back just enough that Shane had to meet his eyes. “I want you to sleep in my comfortable bed, and eat good food from my fridge that isn’t shitty high-protein yogurt, and tell Pike you are spending morning with pretty girl Lily, who is your very attractive fucking buddy in Boston, and relax, and then leave for your flight back to Montreal. Yes, before I get back.”
“Fucking buddy,” Shane repeated, a smile tugging on his lips.
“Is that not right?”
Shane wrapped his ankles around Ilya’s waist, folding them in the small of his back. “Not quite,” he admitted softly.
Ilya pressed him into the mattress with the force of his kiss. “I am going to be late,” he complained.
“Captain can’t be late,” Shane murmured, trailing kisses down Ilya’s jaw.
“No, can’t be, and yet,” Ilya rolled their hips together even though there really was no hope of either of them getting hard again, “what if there was traffic jam? Unavoidable.”
“You’re all driving to the same arena,” Shane said. “They would know you were lying.” He pressed his nose to the curve of Ilya’s neck and breathed deeply, the scent of him, the scent of him in the morning before he doused himself with cologne. New. Fresh. Still sweaty. Beautiful.
Ilya groaned. Slowly, he pulled away, and Shane let his legs slide off him, hitting the bed without a sound. Ilya put a hand on his face and stroked his thumb over Shane’s cheekbone. “Stay.”
“Okay.”
He stayed. Ilya left, and Shane stayed. He sent a quick text to Hayden and then, surprising himself, managed to fall back asleep.
Ilya’s house was freezing, and it didn’t seem as beautiful in the daytime as it did in the night, lit by orange lamps that reflected off every modern, gleaming surface, but it was nice. He made himself breakfast, helping himself to the contents of Ilya’s fridge and ignoring the gloating texts that were flooding in from Hayden. He tried to suppress his nerves and relax.
It worked, a little.
Shane got ready to leave at noon, knowing he still had to return to the hotel for his suitcase. It was winter, and Boston was cold but not as cold as Montreal. Shane had arrived at Ilya's house with a winter coat over his jacket, a vintage Montreal Voyageurs varsity jacket that management had given him when he was first signed. It didn’t have any names on it, just the team logos and the colors. He shrugged it on, then his coat, then checked the forecast and decided it would be too hot to wear, since he wanted to walk back to the hotel to avoid any interactions with Uber drivers who might be more likely to recognize him so close to a game. He didn’t want rumors circling about him being seen in this neighborhood.
He took off his coat, then the jacket. He couldn’t walk back to the hotel carrying it, though—that would only make him more recognizable.
“Stay,” Ilya had said.
A thought niggled at Shane. It wasn’t like him, but he followed the urge.
He walked slowly down the central hallway of Ilya’s house to a little door that hid a small closet. Low shelves were stuffed with blankets and a garment bar hung across the top, half-filled with stylish leather and denim jackets and sleek puffy coats.
Strangely, there was only one empty hanger on the bar. Shane looked at it hard, then, slowly, pulled it down. He hung his jacket on it and slid it into the closet.
He stared at the bright colors, incongruous against Rozanov’s bleak wardrobe. It looked silly. Childish, even, and of course this was childish, he was leaving enemy merch in Rozanov’s home, it was supposed to be childish, but-
He took the jacket out. He forced himself to take a deep breath. He put it back in and shut the door. And he only stood in front of it for a few minutes, wondering if this was too far, if Rozanov wouldn’t like this, before he turned and walked down the hallway. And he only walked back once, and only got so far as putting his hand on the doorknob.
Rozanov always liked it when Shane chirped at him, even if he made fun of him. Shane saw the way his eyes would light up, the simple delight overtaking him at Shane’s admittedly weak attempts at playful insults.
Shane let his fingers slide off the handle.
He tried not to think about it as he gathered his stuff and set the alarm according to Rozanov’s instructions, and then set off for his hotel at a brisk pace.
He liked that jacket. He liked this house. Leaving it here would give him a reason to come back.
+++
“I’m so, so, so sorry. God, that was fucking stupid. I wasn't even thinking.”
“‘S not problem. My teammates think I am disloyal to fuck a Voyageurs fan, but that is all. And is not like they have not done same thing before. No one thinks of you, of course. That would be simply ridiculous. How on earth could Hollander’s jacket end up in Rozanov’s closet? Simply doesn’t make any sense.”
“It was stupid. It’s not even—it’s a rare jacket, someone could have recognized-”
“They are idiots, Hollander. They will mock me for hooking up with Montreal girl, but they already know I have been doing that. I am not subtle when I disappear after every game at your arena. It is not harm, no done.”
“No harm done.”
“Always lecturing me on my English, stupid perfect Hollander.”
Shane’s breath stuttered in a sigh. “Préférez-vous le français?” he managed.
“Ah,” Ilya said. Shane could hear his smile. “Are you feeling better now?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know you are. Don’t be.”
“Okay. Okay. It’s okay, right? They don’t know?”
“They are idiots who know nothing. This is not our most subtle moment, but I would have to hit Cliff over head with a frying pan before he understood I was sleeping with archrival Shane Hollander.”
“Okay. That’s good.” He breathed. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome. I am not giving the jacket back, though.”
Shane’s lips twitched. “No?”
“No. You will have to wrestle for it out of my cold, dead hands.”
“That’s a shame,” he murmured.
“Yes, very shameful. Do not worry, though, I will buy you something pretty to replace it.”
Shane swallowed. “Like what?”
“I’m picturing you in little red dress with matching heels and panties. Those, you could leave behind wherever you want, and no one would bat an eye, because such things are expected from me. Women often throw panties at me; they end up just everywhere, Hollander.”
Shane spluttered, outraged and humiliatingly turned on.
“Or,” Ilya said, “I buy you Rozanov jersey. Black and gold would look so good on you, Hollander, your colors, with dark hair and eyes. Eighty-One on your back, much better number than stupid even number, Two-Four, blegh.”
“Fuck you! Oh my god, you asshole! Making fun of my number? Next game, I am going to fucking obliterate you, Rozanov.”
“What is that? That word?”
“Oh, um, obliterate, it’s like, to completely destroy.”
“Obliterate, like you obliterate my dick?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Are you? What if I wore Hollander jersey? Then we can both leave them at each other’s houses, and no one would notice.”
Shane gasped.
“Good idea, no?” Ilya asked, his smirk audible across the line. “Okay, Jane, I know what I will buy you for next anniversary. Toodle-oo.”
“Toodle-oo,” Shane muttered into the empty line. “Toodle-fucking-oo.”
And his dick was still hard. Fuck.
4. Brand Ambassadors Conference, Ottawa
Shane’s phone buzzed. “Sorry,” he murmured to the few people around him, who glanced over in curiosity. “Forgot to silence it,” he whispered to his mom in the seat next to him. She nodded calmly and returned her attention to the speaker at the front of the lecture hall, who was talking about lifestyle influencers.
Shane was fucking glad for the distraction.
Lily
Hello, good morning, it’s your girlfriend Lily. I am trapped in airport and cannot find the lighter you gave me for present, darling sweetheart lovely. Please ransack your apartment until you find it and let me know.
And also I remember I threw socks under your bed and I know you will be sad if you do laundry before finding them
And you are out of milk
And eggs
I made an omelet
It was delicious :)
Shane turned his scoff into a cough. His mom glanced at him, and he smiled weakly.
Jane
I will look for it later today.
I am not home right now, though, so please don’t spend all day bothering me.
And don’t message me on Instagram either—I will not respond, I am busy.
Lily
Too busy for your wonderful girlfriend :(
Jane
You’re not my girlfriend.
You break my fragile heart
Mean
I am busy.
Meanie
You should stop smoking anyway.
You gave me lighter! Not my fault
It was an antique! It didn’t work when I gave it to you.
I just thought it looked cool.
I didn’t expect that you would fix it.
It was out of lighter fluid, Jane, not broken
How would I know?
His mom coughed. Shane gave her an apologetic smile, but she just looked curious. No one else was paying any attention to them as the presentation was still ongoing.
“Everything alright?” she asked in a murmur.
Shane tilted his phone away from her. His mom would never let him hear the end of it if she knew about Lily. Even if he told her that she lived in Boston, Yuna would try to make arrangements to meet her at a game or something, and Shane couldn’t have explained why that would be impossible.
And… and Shane was learning how to enjoy having Ilya to himself.
“Yeah,” he said. “Hayden’s trying to make plans for the weekend. He wants me to babysit.” At least that was true.
Yuna nodded, taking him at his word, and Shane felt an uncomfortable stab of guilt.
His phone buzzed.
Lily
I hope you find it soon, I like my second ever present from you
Jane
Second?
First was jacket
You need to give that back to me, by the way.
Never. Mine. Snooze, lose
You’re ridiculous.
My teammates agree with you. Carmichael is telling me to sign pre-nup
What? With who??
With the girl I am texting, duh
Maybe I have smitten smile on my face
I am being laughed at Jane :((((
Shane turned his phone off quickly and bit his lip, suppressing a smile. The presenter finished, and he clapped politely along with everyone, and another person—apparently an expert in athletes’ modeling careers—took the podium.
Jane
You should be more subtle, then.
Lily
No, I don’t care. I am smitten kitten.
Wow.
When my Jane says ‘wow,’ I know I have done a good job
Again, he had to close his phone. Shane bit his lip so hard his eyes watered and he stared straight ahead at the woman talking about her past clients and what she could bring to the table. His mom was making notes on a legal pad.
Jane
My mom’s trying to get me to do more modeling gigs
Lily
You don’t need more money or more work
But I understand
So beautiful, the world deserves to see
Why are you being… sweet?
What? I am not allowed to miss you?
You saw me this morning.
Same question still
No, you’re allowed.
Thank you for permission.
I miss you, too.
I know
I will see you in boston
You will bring lighter
And I will buy the fancy detergent you like for the sheets
And then our beds will smell the same wherever we go
When did you get so romantic?
What can I say?
A Lily needs her Jane
Shane tasted blood. He had torn the chapped skin off his bottom lip. He licked up the blood with his tongue and swallowed.
Jane
Jane needs her Lily.
See you in Boston.
5. Centre Bell, Montreal
“Ugh.”
The game was won, and the season was almost over. The Voyageur's locker room was full of tired but satisfied players, happy to have one another game. Shane was honestly a little surprised that he had managed to score three goals that night because he felt like he was going to be sick. Shane couldn’t look away from the television screen mounted in the corner of the room. As soon as they had entered the locker room, he had set it to the channel broadcasting the Bears’ post-game press conference. Ilya Rozanov and Cliff Marlow sat side by side at the table, looking bored as they fielded predictable acerbic questions about Rozanov’s upcoming transfer.
“What?” he asked Hayden distractedly, realizing the sound of disgust had come from his friend. Shane was still very, very slowly untying his laces, eyes fixed on the screen.
Tonight. Tonight.
“Rozanov,” Hayden said. “I can’t stand that guy. I bet he’s getting traded because he asked for some ridiculous pay raise or something, really thinks he’s all that. No loyalty to his team, just in it for the fame and the money.”
“We shouldn’t speculate,” Shane murmured, as the NHL PR manager told some of the more aggressive reporters the same thing.
“Captain Rozanov, how are you feeling about your upcoming move? It’s a big change from Boston to Ottawa.”
For some reason, Cliff Marlow laughed, trying to stifle his smile behind his hand, but it was too late. Rozanov gave him a friendly glare as the reporters jumped on Marlow, demanding an explanation for his snickering.
“See?” Hayden insisted. “Even his teammates are laughing at him.”
“I don’t think that’s what’s happening,” Shane said quietly.
“We should change the channel, man, anything is better than watching Rozanov-”
“Wait,” Shane said.
“What drew you to Canada, Captain Rozanov?”
Rozanov took a deep breath, loud enough that the microphones picked up on it. Across the continent, Shane felt like he couldn’t breathe. He leaned forward and spoke, carefully and with precision, obviously a recited or memorized speech, to the gathered press.
“I do not like to speak of personal life often, but I have partner in Canada who I have been with for many years, and who I love very much. We are intensely private people when it comes to our personal lives, however, so I will not be answering any further questions on the subject.”
“Whoa, what the fuck!” Hayden shouted.
Everyone in the locker room was watching the screen now, even Mittie, still slumped on the floor doing his post-game stretches. Shane was not alone in the single-minded devotion he directed toward the screen as Ilya Rozanov confessed, before the world, that he was a taken man.
His heart thumped painfully in his chest.
“Ilya fucking Rozanov,” Hayden said. “That fucking asshole is—is-”
“Moving to Canada!” JJ exclaimed. “Moving to Canada for a girl! That fucking explains it—made no sense, going from Bears to Centaurs, but it’s for a girl! What the fuck!”
The reporters reacted with the same exuberant explosion as the Centre Bell’s locker room, everyone talking loudly and all at once without any order, just surprise and mayhem.
Except Shane, at the center, staring at the screen.
Rozanov and Marlow grasped each other’s hands tightly, showing their camaraderie even with the upcoming transfer, and then Ilya turned. He looked into the nearest camera, which helpfully zoomed in on his face. He was smiling. Not grinning or smirking. Not with his usual wry or sly charm. Just a smile. Happy. Pleased. Content.
“Who I love very much.”
In front of the world.
Shane’s throat felt tight.
“Fuck, Rozanov is going to get married before you do, at this rate,” Hayden said, clapping a consoling hand on Shane’s shoulder. “Jackie will be devastated if that happens, you know how badly she’s been trying to set you up. And that poor girl! There’s no way she knows what she’s getting into with that asshole.”
“She might,” Shane said, pulling his phone out of his bag. “Maybe she’s an asshole, too.”
His team laughed. The chatter moved away from, swirling, all of them loudly discussing Rozanov’s announcement and his upcoming move to their country. Shane opened his text messages.
Jane
I love you.
Lily
Of course you do.
Come on, say it back.
I already did, didn’t I?
And yeah. Yeah, he did.
+1. The Cottage, Quebec
They drove back to the cottage after dropping Cliff off at the airport. Shane left his hand on the center console and Ilya placed his on top, threading their fingers together.
“Jane and Lily,” Shane huffed. “When you first put those stupid names in our phones, did you ever think it would go that far?”
“Everything that happened, I could not have predicted,” Ilya said, raising their hands together and kissing Shane’s knuckles.
“Wow,” Shane murmured, turning his embarrassingly pleased grin out the window.
“Wow,” Ilya mocked.
They went home. Ilya parked the car in their garage amidst his collection of obnoxiously colored sports cars and they got out. Ilya slid across the hood with a boyish grin, Shane rolled his eyes, and their hands met, fingers lacing as if they had never come apart.
“Cliff is an idiot,” Shane said.
“See, I thought I knew this, but no, he surprises even me.” Ilya grinned as he unlocked the front door. “How long do you think it will take him before he realizes that you are called ‘Jane’ in my phone because it rhymes with ‘Shane’?”
“Given what we just heard, I think it will take a thousand years minimum. He was pretty focused on the whole ‘Montreal girl’ thing—and don’t you think that I forgot about that!”
Ilya laughed. Anya greeted them enthusiastically, snuffling for treats, and they headed for their kitchen by silent, mutual understanding. “What? Is locker room talk. I had to brag about someone.”
“No, you didn’t. You could have kept it to yourself.” He sniffed.
“Oh,” Ilya drawled, “so if I call up Pike or Boiziau and I say, ‘Have you ever heard of a girl named Lily in Shane Hollander’s phone?’ then they will say, ‘No, never, ever came up, nothing whatsoever.’”
Shane flushed. “Well, I wasn’t telling them about your fat ass-”
“I forgot to mention your fat tits, oversight on my part, admittedly-”
“Or the kinds of marks you leave behind when you were desperate for me-”
“My favorite are little tongue bruises on your thighs—no, no, when I am eating you out and I take a bite of your cheek-!”
“Or how you were flying around the country just to fuck me-”
“In my defense, I always said you had important career work to travel for as well, I did not lie-”
“Or what kind of fucking lingerie I wanted to see you wearing-”
“Carmichael was the one who brought up jerseys, to be clear, and he is asshole, but that was fucking great idea, you must admit-”
“Or, or,” Shane struggled for more examples as Ilya’s arms slowly wound around his waist and pulled him in, his fingers grasping his chin and tilting it up. “Or-”
“Shut the fuck up. I don’t care what you didn’t tell them,” Ilya drawled. “I want to know what you did tell them. If I called, if I asked boring Pike or stupid Boiziau, I say, ‘Have you ever heard of girl named Lily?’ what would they say?”
“Well, they know now that you were Lily the whole time,” Shane grumbled, fingers twisting into the fabric of Ilya’s shirt.
Ilya smirked. “Are you sure they know?”
Shane blinked. His mouth twitched. “Pretty sure.”
“One hundred percent?”
“... No. Fuck.”
“Da,” Ilya purred, chest rumbling with laughter. “So. Tell me. What do you know that they know about Lily? What are you sure of?”
“They know that….” Shane took a deep breath. “They know that even when I was at my, uh, lowest, if I was ever randomly smiling at my phone, then… it was because I was texting her. You. Fuck, we made this so complicated.”
"That's a good start, though. What else?”
“They know that she was the first person I texted when we won our repeat Stanley Cup.”
Ilya’s eyes widened. “First?”
“Bragging rights,” Shane said quickly.
“First?”
“Shut up!”
“No. What else? Tell me.”
“Um… if I snuck out in the middle of the night… or when I broke curfew… it was for Lily. If I was looking at my phone and I suddenly gasped or almost threw it across the room, it was because of something Lily sent me. I always had a place to stay in Boston, and it was Lily’s place. Um. Actually, Ilya, they definitely know that you are Lily, because I know that they knew that when I was happiest, it was always, always because I had just seen Lily, or I was going to see Lily soon. So… by now, they have to know that means you.”
“My Hollander,” Ilya cooed, cupping his face, then quickly shifting his arms and lifting him up onto the counter. He kissed the tip of Shane’s nose. “My Shane.” He kissed a line across each of his cheeks, and Shane knew he was kissing his freckles. Then, he kissed his mouth, long and sweet. “My Jane.”
“My Lily.”
Some things were just as sweet.