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In his defense, Shane had been drunk, sad and horny. He got the tattoo from a sketchy shop with a crumbling facade and glaring health code violations, a shop that took money from a guy who was clearly not in his right mind. The shop had probably given him blood poisoning. Shane was probably going to die. He should call the authorities on the shop. It was irresponsible, is what it was. Just like getting tatted with the hotel room number where he'd first hooked up with the asshole who's ignored six months of texts. Which is why Shane had been drunk, sad and horny.
He was in Toronto after beating the team on their home ice. The guys had gone out to a bar to celebrate, but Shane had begged off, as usual. He put on ESPN in the background while he made himself a protein shake in the mini kitchen of his hotel suite, and then suddenly Rozanov was on his TV screen. They must've caught him just off the ice; his face was flushed with triumph—golden curls plastered to his forehead and that big cocky grin of his on full display—and Shane wanted. He wanted that asshole so badly he felt nauseous. Protein shake forgotten on the counter, he raided the minibar instead: screw his diet, he needed something to take the edge off. He was so sick of impersonal hotel rooms and living out of suitcases, and he was sick of that asshole Rozanov.
They hadn't talked in six months. It was pathetic. He was pathetic. The last point drove him to call room service for a bottle of overpriced imported vodka. It was probably worth the price tag, though; Rozanov would appreciate it. Shane didn't have any idea what made vodka good—even the expensive stuff just felt like scraping his throat raw going down. He should ask Rozanov next time, but, no, he couldn't because he'd probably never get the chance to ever again. He'd never again get to suck the sharp taste from Rozanov's tongue.
Shane scooted down on the couch, pressing his fingertips to the tattoo high up on his inner thigh. It had been a stupid and sentimental impulse to get it, things Shane Hollander was not. He was smart and neat—in control. He was the best damn hockey player in the league, in the world even. Shane was going to win Stanley Cups—plural—with the Metros. His career would be Hall of Fame worthy, everything he'd ever wanted since he first put on skates. Rozanov would not derail that. Shane was in control. He had it all planned out. Except when that cocky Russian crooked an eyebrow at him, then Shane was on his knees, smooth like butter: no thought, no hesitation, just yes, please, I want.
Condensation beaded on the glass in his hand as the ice melted into the vodka, and he turned down the volume on the TV so the commentator couldn't ruin Rozanov in the rink. He was a beautiful skater: powerful, nimble and arrogant, as if he was screaming at the world, Fuck you, I am number 1, daring anyone to disagree. Shane hated losing, but if he had to, then it should always be to Rozanov. Rozanov was the only one who could keep up with Shane on the ice, who could challenge him, who could beat him. Shane loved playing against Rozanov.
He needed to get his mind off of that asshole. Shane wanted something in his ass right now; he wanted to get fucked. He longed to be home right now because there was no way he could bring a dildo to an away game, and his own fingers wouldn't do. He couldn't quite make himself get there by himself, not like 'remember when I made you come hands-free' Rozanov.
He could go out, force himself to engage in some small talk at a bar and get a room somewhere discreet. That time he'd hooked up with a guy on the trip to Mexico had been good. The sex had been good. He liked sex, loved it even. Sex was great. He'd gotten off in Mexico. Shane could do it again, probably. Find someone to fuck him better, some random guy who didn't know shit about hockey, big and broad, with enough of an attitude to make Shane want, but not close enough that he would remind Shane of the person who wasn't here and didn't answer his texts or acknowledge his existence in any way. Fuck. Shane wiped at his eyes.
People did it all the time, got over things; why couldn't he get over Rozanov? Just because he'd been Shane's first? Rozanov fucked people all the time. Why should Shane be any different? Just because the Mexico guy hadn't tasted like Rozanov, hadn't kissed, touched, fucked like Rozanov, didn't mean that Shane was ruined for Ilya Rozanov.
Fuck Ilya Rozanov.
They were in Boston for the playoffs. Rozanov had been magnificent on the ice. Shane had bodychecked him twice, unprovoked, just on principle. Rozanov had put him into the boards for it. It had been their most meaningful interaction in months.
Shane was in another sterile hotel room wondering if he should just go to bed early. The season was over. Montreal was out of the running for the Cup. He was looking forward to some peace and quiet, going fishing with his dad, getting some work done on his cottage.
He was still wired from the game, from seeing Rozanov in the flesh, staring at his phone on the bedside table, refusing to reread their last texts. They were in the same city. Rozanov was surely riding the endorphin high of winning. It used to mean Shane's phone would light up with an inappropriate message from 'Lily.' They could be having sex right now if that asshole would just pick up his phone. Shane jumped half out of his skin as the phone buzzed on the table.
L: come over.
No way. No fucking way was this all Shane got after months of being so thoroughly ghosted he had felt invisible for a while.
J: Fuck you.
L: if you want
J: Fuck. You.
L: say please
Fuck.
He was a weak, pathetic thing. One word from that asshole and Shane was right back where he'd started.
Rozanov's place was all modern—sleek lines, glass and steel— but impersonal like a hotel room: no family photos, no knickknacks. Anyone could be living here.
"Miss me?" Rozanov asked, leaning with his back against the kitchen counter. He looked unfairly good: loose sweatpants and that damnable black tank top that made his arms and shoulders look insane, with the golden Orthodox cross glinting around his neck. He was barefoot and too far away.
"Fuck you," Shane said instead of climbing on top of him and getting Rozanov's dick in his mouth like he wanted.
"You can, if you want. I would let you." Rozanov looked so relaxed as he said it, his body language all open and inviting. Liar. Rozanov was as open and relaxed as a bear trap.
"How is your shoulder?" Rozanov asked, like he didn't know he'd made Shane kiss the boards hard enough to bruise.
"It's fine." Shane shrugged. "Where's your bedroom?"
There were not enough pillows. Shane pushed Rozanov down on the bed and climbed on top of him, hands going to undo the drawstrings of Rozanov's sweatpants. "Hurry up and fuck me." He would get what he'd come here for. He'd get fucked until he was full up, finally sated, and could get Rozanov out of his system. Shane would block his number and then meet him only ever on the ice.
"Come on and make me," Rozanov challenged with that damnable smirk on his face. Rozanov was half-hard already, bulging his underwear, and Shane got to making it rigid. He knew what Rozanov liked. It didn't take long until Rozanov was pulling him off his dick with a muttered "stop, stop," pulling Shane into a kiss instead.
"Remember how my fingers feel inside?" Rozanov asked, large hands on Shane's bare ass inside his jeans. "Remember my cock?" Fingertips inching closer. "Still want that asshole."
Jesus Christ. "I got it," Shane muttered. "Just fuck me already."
"What?" Rozanov's fingers found his hole, already lubed and worked open with his own fingers. Rozanov pushed two fingers inside. Shane hissed. Rozanov stilled, curled his fingers and just held them there. "Is not enough lube. Let me do it properly."
"I know how to do it properly," Shane groused, clenching around the fingers in his ass. Everything was a competition with Rozanov.
Rozanov ignored him. "Up, I want you naked," he said with a slap to Shane's ass. Shane stripped quickly and got back into his lap. Rozanov got his fingers wet with lube and pushed them back inside. "Not enough to make fingers fit, see. Need lube inside to make it nice and smooth."
He worked his fingers into Shane slowly, adding more lube until Shane was dripping, getting it all over Rozanov's sweatpants. He was so hard it ached just from the stretch of Rozanov's fingers, his voice low and rough telling Shane exactly how to open himself up properly, his mouth at Shane's neck, the slick drag of their cocks together between their stomachs, the smell of Rozanov's skin heat-flushed with arousal. Shane moaned. He was going to be as loud as he wanted to be if this was to be the last time.
"Moy milyy,"1 Ilya murmured into his neck. "That's it. You're taking it so good, you always do. Come on, on your back."
Shane came back to himself minutely. Not on his back or his stomach. The tattoo: he would see. Rozanov could never find out. "No. Like this." He squeezed his legs around Rozanov for emphasis.
"Fuck, ok. Kneel up." Rozanov stripped out of his tank top in haste, patted the bed for the strip of condoms and lube, swore, but then he was there again, hoisting Shane up over his lap, both hands on his ass, spreading him as Shane sank down. Shane closed his eyes at the slow, inexorable stretch as Rozanov's dick went in easy.
"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov said, forehead against Shane's throat, panting wetly against his skin.
Shane didn't give himself time to relax into it. He started lifting himself almost all the way up before slamming back down. The sound was obscene: the slick squelching, flesh slapping, sweaty mess of it all. Shane loved it.
Rozanov's sex face was ridiculous: the puckered curl of his lips, the way he sucked in his cheeks. It was a bad porn face, and it got Shane going like nothing else. There was sweat pearling at Rozanov's top lip, and Shane licked it off: salt and nicotine and skin. Rozanov had been smoking. Shane almost didn't mind. Would push his tongue into Rozanov's filthy ashtray mouth and lick the taste right out.
Rozanov bent Shane's head back to get at his neck, his mouth a wet oil slick against his skin. Rozanov kept muttering to himself, first in English—fuck, and so good, and this ok?—but then he slipped into Russian. Shane wanted to remember, wanted to learn Russian just so he could understand what was going on in that bullish head of his.
Shane put his hands on Rozanov's chest, his truly insane pectorals, to get some leverage. He made the mistake of looking up. Rozanov was staring at him, eyes wide, panting like they were back in the gym on those bikes years ago, both of them not giving an inch. Shane had never seen that look on his face before. Shane averted his eyes.
Something snagged his attention, then, in the halflight of the bedroom: the small cross Rozanov never took off, gleaming on a golden, sweat-glistening neck. Shane wanted to put it in his mouth, feel the skin-warm metal between his lips, take something that Rozanov cherished into his mouth, into his body, tug Rozanov closer with it and trap him against his body forever. So Shane did.
"Goddamn you, Hollander," exploded out of Rozanov, and Shane was upside down suddenly, flat on his back, his legs bent back towards his chest as Rozanov's cock slid back into him. "Hold your legs open, yes, like that."
Shane forgot where he was for a moment, pressed his head back into the pillow and exhaled a stuttered, "F-fuck, Rozanov, don't stop."
Rozanov was so deep that Shane could feel it in his gut, lodged there deep inside. And it drove him crazy how good it felt. Rozanov made him feel so good when they were like this, when Shane was all body: just skin and bone and sweat and spunk.
"You can come like this? I want to see."
Shane nodded. Yes, anything. He was so close. 'Remember when I made you come hands-free?' pinged around Shane's head like a slapshot. I remember, he thought, and that was it; his orgasm hit him like a bullet to the chest. His balls seized almost painfully as his whole body arched like it wanted to break.
"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov groaned as he fucked Shane through his orgasm and beyond, hips stuttering, going rigid as he came himself.
Shane vaguely registered Rozanov pulling out and setting Shane's legs down on the bed and getting rid of the condom, but then he was right back, curled up close against his side. He nuzzled his face into Shane's neck and pushed his fingers back inside Shane's hole. "Almost squeezed my cock off," Rozanov muttered. "But you are very soft in here."
Shane flushed hotly and squirmed—who said things like that?—but he felt so relaxed, he didn't even have the wherewithal to chide Rozanov for his filthy mouth.
"Is ok?" Rozanov asked, kissing Shane's chest, his nipple, burying his face in Shane's armpit.
Shane hummed his assent. Yes. It was always yes, whatever Rozanov wanted. It was good, always so good with him.
Rozanov leaned up to kiss Shane's face: his lips, his cheek, his temple. Shane's mind was a haze, pleasantly lethargic and fucked out. He floated in the skin-on-skin feeling of Rozanov in bed with him. Rozanov moved him gently onto his back, warm hands on Shane's stomach, down his thighs, spreading his legs, Rozanov's familiar weight on top of him. Shane wanted to fall asleep like this, with Rozanov touching him gently, tenderly almost, if Shane could believe it.
"What is that?" Rozanov asked, and Shane realized Rozanov had stopped moving. There was no inflection in his voice. Rozanov's hand rested on Shane's inner thigh, high up where the tattoo... Shit. A cold swell of panic washed over Shane like a riptide dragging him under.
Shane scrambled up from under Rozanov's arm, away from his prying eyes. He tried to squirm out from under Rozanov completely, but Rozanov held his leg firmly in place, fingers digging into the meat of his thigh. Rozanov stared unblinking for a moment. "Hollander, what the fuck."
Shane tried again to get away, but there was no give in Rozanov's grip. He'd have to fight him for real to get free. The asshole was strong. Shane slumped. "It's nothing," he said, resigned. "It's stupid."
"It is number."
Rozanov finally let him go, then, and Shane scooted away from him. Where were his clothes? "Look, I was drunk, ok?" Had he been naked already when they went into the bedroom? He couldn't remember. Why couldn't he remember? "Just leave it."
"No." Rozanov grabbed Shane's arm, sitting up on the bed. He hadn't even wiped his hand. Gross. "Show me, Hollander. I want to see." He sounded like a petulant child being denied a treat. Rozanov tugged him closer; his stupid Russian bear paws pried Shane's legs open. Rozanov sucked in a breath through his teeth. His fingers traced the ink, the featherlight touch making the hair on Shane's legs stand up as goosebumps raced over his skin. "I might knock," Rozanov said, barely audible, but Shane heard.
"I might open," Shane said, heart in his throat.
"You did open very pretty," Rozanov said, and Shane shoved him hard enough that Rozanov fell backwards onto the bed.
"Fuck you, Rozanov. Jesus Christ." Shane scrambled to his feet. He really needed to get out of here. "Forget it, ok. It's nothing."
"Hollander, no." Rozanov grabbed Shane's arm again and didn't let go. His eyes were huge when he looked up at him. "'M sorry." There was no trace of his usual cocky arrogance, just Ilya Rozanov apologizing, genuine, no bullshit. Shane felt a little bowled over by it. He didn't have a script for that. "Is not nothing," Rozanov said, squeezing Shane's arm for emphasis.
"Ok," Shane said slowly, unsure where Rozanov was going with this but, as always, willing to follow along.
"Ok." Rozanov nodded to himself. He got that 'I'm about to go on the ice and fuck shit up' kind of expression on his face now. Shane braced for impact. "Get dressed. We're going out."
"What? Where?" Shane felt like he was being body-checked hard and left reeling: full-body whiplash.
"Hurry up. Chop-chop." Rozanov was off the bed and halfway into his jeans already while Shane stood there like an idiot.
"We need to shower," Shane protested. "We reek of sex."
"Yes. It is good smell. Manly sweat." Rozanov licked up Shane's cheek like a slobbering dog. "You smell good." He leaned in again, dragged his nose up Shane's neck, behind his ear and into his sweaty hair, where it was getting too long. He needed a haircut. Rozanov bit his ear, a pointed pinch of teeth. "You can do laundry later. Let's go."
"At least wash your hands."
Shane felt himself flush with embarrassment as Rozanov looked at him wordlessly for a moment, said, "Whatever you say, Hollander," then about-faced and marched off in the direction of the ensuite. They washed their hands in the bathroom sink side by side, sharing the soap back and forth. This is the most intimate thing we've done, Shane thought wildly.
He used Rozanov's toothbrush. It wasn't weird. Their mouths had been other places before. Spit was the least of what they had shared.
"My car's parked over there," Shane said, gesturing.
"No, your car is boring." Rozanov didn't wait for a reply but strode off in the direction of a sleek, obnoxious gas guzzler of a sports car. It was yellow.
Shane had barely buckled in when Rozanov's hand landed on Shane's thigh. "You like going fast?" he asked.
"Don't get us pulled over." Shane could see the headlines already.
"I won't. I'm very good driver." He squeezed Shane's leg, his fingers angled inwards towards his inner thigh. "Only need one hand, see. Is automatic." He glanced over at Shane and winked.
"What's gotten into you?" Shane asked. It was a stupid question. Rozanov had told him their first time together: he liked trouble.
Rozanov slid his hand up until his pinkie rested directly over where Shane knew the number 1410 was etched into his skin. Rozanov's fingertip pressed in just a little, just enough to make Shane's dick react. Jesus Christ. He was not getting hard in Rozanov's obnoxious car. If they got arrested for indecent exposure, Shane would murder him and bury him in the woods. They were not having sex in Rozanov's stupid fucking Freudian joke of a car. They had just come not twenty minutes ago. It was not happening.
It was happening. Rozanov drove them through the streets of Boston, away from the glittering downtown lights into dingy corners Shane had never seen a reason to venture into. He wanted to put on music just to fill the silence, give his brain something to focus on other than the man beside him, his fingers opening Shane's fly one-handed, reaching in and finding Shane already—still—wet at the tip. The angle was awkward, but somehow that made it better. Shane leaned his head back, watching traffic lights flicker by overhead. He was leaking feelings all over the place like a faulty faucet.
"So pretty," he heard Rozanov say. Shane loved the way Rozanov's accent made the word sound. The flat p and the rolling r. It made him flush warmly all along his body down to his toes.
Shane wondered if the seatbelt would allow him to lean over enough to get his mouth on Rozanov's dick. Not to make him come—he didn't want them to crash—but just enough to taste him, to feel his dick rest on his tongue, the familiar weight and shape and smell. It was his second favorite thing in the world, sucking Rozanov's dick—maybe third, after hockey and getting fucked by Rozanov. It made Shane feel good to know how good he made Rozanov feel, how he could make him groan and curse and buck in his mouth until Shane's face was smeared with spit and tears and come, and Shane felt floaty and warm and so, so good.
Rozanov was driving too fast, but his thumb was maddeningly slow, just circling the head of Shane's cock until Shane wanted to cry.
He spilled into Rozanov's hand: a gentle lapping beach wave of an orgasm. He barely registered the car rolling to a stop and the engine cutting off. He could hear Rozanov muttering a strangled "Fuck, Hollander," under his breath. Shane opened his eyes and rolled his head to look at Rozanov, who was already looking back and licking his hand clean.
Rozanov's eyes were dark, and his cheekbones looked even more pronounced in the light of the dashboard. It hurt to look at him sometimes, a deep ache behind Shane's breastbone. Shane couldn't look away.
"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov said again, and it seemed to boil up out of him, an explosive exhalation of breath. His hand was on Shane's jaw, tilting his chin up and pulling him in, and then his mouth was there, lips blood-warmed and wet. There was no finesse to their kiss, just Rozanov's tongue in his mouth, smashing their noses together until Shane couldn't breathe. He didn't want it to stop, not now, not ever.
"Stay here," Rozanov said roughly when he pulled back. "Stay right here."
"Ok." Shane would do anything for this man right now.
Rozanov got out of the car, adjusted himself in his jeans, and strode purposefully towards a low building at the end of the parking lot. Shane watched him go, eyes on Rozanov's ass in those tight jeans. Then his eyes focused on Rozanov's trajectory. 'Tattoo Company' blinked at him in big, garish neon lights. Holy fuck.
"Crazy Russian," Shane muttered, but he was grinning, all alone in a dark parking lot in suburban Boston, waiting for Rozanov to return with 1410 inked into his skin—like a promise, like trouble. Good trouble.