Chapter Text
There has to be some kind of anomaly in every ice hockey player’s brain to make them love the sport as much as they do.
Shane’s always thought so, at least.
The months spent away from home are more gruelling with each passing season. The practices and conditioning sessions tear bodies apart to put them back together — always faster, always bigger, always stronger. The constant increasing tolerance of that pressure from expectation from fans, teammates, and sponsors. It has to come from somewhere deep within everyone’s psyche to not just survive it, but to crave it.
Shane’s always known that he’s been different.
Something else entirely, pushing him beyond what every one else is.
Not only in his prowess on the ice. Off it, too. When he’s alone in his own mind.
Injuries, for most, are a byproduct of the environment. The drawback to loving such a violent sport.
Shane, however, has relished in it. Remembers the first time he was rammed into the boards hard enough that his teeth rattled and the air was forced out of his lungs. He’d only been eleven. Still growing into his body, but already good enough that his peers targeted him at every opportunity. The one to beat and target in each play.
He’d always expected that his first big hit would spill tears from his eyes, would make him cry for his mother in the stands, like all the other kids his age did. Instead, his whole body is awash with a beautiful ripple beneath his skin. Simultaneously hot and cold, perfectly balanced to draw something out of him he’d never felt before. An explosion of a sensation he didn’t have the words to describe. Even as the adults rushed onto the ice to pull him up. Checking his teeth, his head, and his ribs. Their touches were light, turning apologetic when he sucked in a deep breath when they pressed into his side. But firmly touching his ribcage gave him a quick flash of that beautiful feeling again.
He’d been confused, probably a little concussed, but he’d like it. Adored it. Didn’t want it to end.
But it did, eventually.
He wanted nothing more than to get it back.
When he’d asked his mother what it was, all she could say was, “adrenaline,” and Shane had clung to that word like a lifeline.
Right up until he was sixteen and he’d learned that it must have been something else entirely. Then, he could tell the difference between the adrenaline pump from hockey and what it felt like to be bruised and split open. With the latter, he’d find himself in bed, hand splayed on a new bruise or mark, pushing into it with all his strength as he touched himself to completion. He’d never felt better, never felt more confused.
It could not be just pure adrenaline.
The feeling was never the same.
The thrill was never comparable.
He knew he was different, even before he went to the junior world championships at seventeen. But being around all those boys addicted to the ice and battling to steal the limelight for any hope of future prospects, it became all the more clear. The bravado was there; competitions about who could deal the worst hit and dominate on the ice. But none of them itched to be crumpled on the rink, all for that sweet, deep bruising Shane craved. They wanted to dole it out, not receive it.
Shane had lingered back, keeping this part of himself hidden, until he saw something he’d never seen before.
Ilya Rozanov.
Russian prodigy with forensic skill and raw power.
Shane was transfixed from the get-go.
He couldn’t look away even if he tried. Rozanov was brutal and mouthy, paired with all the talent to back it up. He was the one player that managed to get under everyone’s skin with his chirps, constantly getting into scraps and receiving aggressive checks for his attitude. But each time someone fought him, he was certain to finish it. Vicious. Cunning. Always the victor.
Shane’s mother had nothing good to say about the way he played, tarring him with the title of being a dirty player.
In that semi-final match Russia played, Shane’s whole being had fluttered with anticipation. Not because of Rozanov’s final goal. It was the way he used his entire body to get someone to the floor, like he could tear them in two.
Shane felt that way he always did when he saw someone sprawled out on the ice. He wondered what their pain was like; if it was sharp and jagged, or whole and pulsating, or if it was all-consuming in a way that numbed the entire body, top to toe. His stomach had twisted with an envy that soon twisted to jealousy when he saw Rozanov.
Because when he’d been sent to the penalty box in that final play, he’d been grinning. His teeth were stained with blood, all his ferocious attention fixed on the boy he’d just torn his way through without a hint of remorse, eyes dark and satisfied.
Shane had wanted not just anyone to do that to him, he wanted it to be Rozanov.
He could feel it, sense it in some way, that Rozanov was so unlike all the other boys there. Just like Shane.
(Perhaps that’s what Shane had always seen in Rozanov; a kindred spirit of sorts. Not identical to one another, but alternate sides of the same coin.)
***
Meeting Rozanov, cigarette hanging between his fingers to be moved to dangle tantalisingly from his lips, is enthralling. He knows he rambles, words all about hockey tumbling from his lips. He’s not quite sure how much Rozanov understands from it, but he doesn’t seem to shy away from listening to Shane speak, the way some of the other guys do. So Shane is sure that he at least gets most of it.
Still, he hopes his fascination doesn’t show too plainly on his face, since he’s not sure he’d be able to hold back if Rozanov did ask him any questions.
Lurching right on the tip of Shane’s tongue is a clear question of: “Did you like doing that to him?” Something Shane knows he’d want to follow up with a pathetic, entranced request that Rozanov do that to him; push him with so much force that the pain sets itself bone-deep.
He’s lucky that Rozanov barely says a thing, only curt, short words softened by the deep lungfuls of smoke he’s taking in. Rozanov doesn’t walk away and lets Shane linger nearby. Obviously unaware of how Shane’s thoughts are straying far from hockey. He’s coming away from this lightly. Relieved in himself for not slipping up as he turns back to go and see his parents. That feeling only gets stronger when Rozanov finally makes a dig at him, promising to beat him in the final.
It’s hockey focused.
Shane can do that.
He can stay on hockey, talk endlessly about it.
So it’s easy to share that little bit of banter. Even if his cheeks pink the entire time he walks away.
“You okay?” His mother asks when he gets close enough to her.
“Fine,” is all he says, ducking his head down to hide his face in his collar. Trying to cover how the neurons in his brain are firing, asking him to bend and break to Rozanov’s whims, purely after seeing him on the ice and watching him smoke a single cigarette.
It’s stupid and confusing.
He has to remind himself that he’s only seventeen; he’s hormonal, tired, and fighting down the excitement from a game he now feels like he needs to win. He tries to reassure himself that, of course, he’s going to be overwhelmed. His thoughts are always going to jump around and go where they shouldn’t, overthinking every small thing. He’s still a kid. He’s going to get his wires crossed.
When he gets into bed that night, he decides that he needs to ignore it all: his odd obsession with pain and the look on Rozanov’s face when he’d been in the penalty box. It’s just the result of finally meeting someone he feels like could put up a fight against him, and make winning finally feel good.
He needs to take a leaf out of Rozanov’s book and keep his mind on beating him. More than anything, he needs to focus on the career he’s building for himself, the one he and his mother have both worked so hard for.
***
That thought doesn’t stop him, three days later, from biting his lip until it splits, thinking about dark eyes and bloody teeth, as he stands in the shower.
***
It starts in that gym, the night before the draft, and Shane doesn’t think it ever really stops for him. It changes — morphs — along the road, but it never ends.
***
Rozanov is endlessly infuriating and tempting, and Shane has no willpower to deny him the first time hotel room numbers are even mentioned. He knows he could have said no. He knows he should have said no. Taking this path — the one he’s so sure he’ll never be able to cover his tracks on — is saying out loud some quiet part of himself. Even if he never does say it for someone else to hear. Rozanov will know because his silence simply cannot drown out the way he whimpers and cries, softly asking for more when he’s given a morsel of something new.
He likes sex, he finds.
Likes how it feels like he’ll set alight with every kiss and touch. Rozanov is oddly sweet, albeit embarrassing about it, consistently asking if it feels good for Shane. Not insecure when he does it. More of a statement posed as a question. Verbalising that he can drive Shane to the brink with a lick of his tongue, a flick of his wrist, and rhythmic slide of his cock. Like Shane’s overwhelming pleasure at his hands is inevitable but still something to be achieved; not something to question but a thing worthy of confirming.
He quickly gets why Rozanov seems to want sex like it’s a basic necessity, as intrinsic to keeping him alive as eating, breathing, and drinking are. Because it’s good.
It’s phenomenal.
To be splayed out across a hotel bedsheet and brought to pleasure by someone as handsome and confident as Rozanov, is beyond what Shane thought it could ever be.
It’s what makes him say yes for the second time. Even though, with a guilt that chews him up whenever he looks at his mother, his new team, and everyone else who seems to look up at him, he really should say no.
***
It becomes a semi-regular thing. Or, as regular as people with erratic schedules can have, at least. They text to meet, to fuck, and to make the odd comment about hockey. But that’s it. Nothing overly friendly, despite Shane knowing what it feels like to have Rozanov inside of him.
It’s simple, it works.
It almost makes Shane forget that odd sensation of wanting someone to crush him into the boards and let him feel real, overpowering pain.
***
It’s the fifth time they’ve ever done this when Shane shows the hidden part of himself. Like with everything they do, it shouldn’t have happened but still very much does.
Shane’s got a bruise, all black and blue, spreading across the right side of his ribcage and wrapping around to his back. It’s a few days old. A parting gift from Toronto; injuring Shane as some kind of consolation prize for losing. He’s meant to be resting, not pulling a jacket and cap on to leave his hotel room.
He’s certainly not supposed to be having sex.
But Rozanov’s thrown him a bone after weeks of radio silence, and Shane thinks he’ll go out of his mind being stuck in a hotel room, alone, with nothing but his thoughts and a bruise larger than a dinner plate.
He knows how that ends. Has done since he was a teen.
Now he has an outlet for that kind of frustration, and it’s sent him a crisp solitary 928 in a message.
Rozanov isn’t put off by the sight of it when Shane’s finished undressing. He appraises injury, not with any great concern, and he certainly doesn’t reach out to touch it like Shane imagined he would. Hoped he would.
There’s a flash of a memory in his mind, of those dark, beautiful eyes above red stained teeth, just as Rozanov asks, “You want it gentle?”
Air traps in his throat, holding back the yes he knows he should say, and he bites down on his lower lip. Tentative and slow, he shakes his head.
“Good,” Rozanov says, but it isn’t praise. It's matter of fact. “Want to fuck you hard today.”
And Shane lets him. Begs him to. He bends forward over the hotel room desk, giving Rozanov easy, open access to take and take and take. He’s obsessed with the way it feels: his cock untouched and pressed firmly onto the table below, the only friction to it the grind against the desk, one only softened by the spill of his pre-cum against the wood gloss as Rozanov thrusts into him hard, ruthless and deep. They kiss, and it’s filthy and wet, their lips kiss-bitten and swollen, as Shane clings to Rozanov’s hair in one hand, and the opposite side of the desk with the other.
He jolts when his side hits the lamp that’s rocking precariously in place, sending a quick flash of spin through him. He can feel his own cock twitch and, more incriminatingly, how he clenches around Rozanov’s.
He feels himself push back against Rozanov’s hips, making the desk rock harder with each thrust, trying to get that lamp to veer closer to him again. To feel that flush of pleasure explode through him.
He knows he’ll cum hard, and quickly, if the corner of the lamp touches him just right.
Rozanov must catch on that something’s different, like he can see what’s in Shane’s mind, because he disconnects his mouth from Shane’s. Opting to lean close to Shane’s ear instead. Right as all five fingers of his right hand — his dominant hand, his stronger hand — splay over the bruise like he’s attaching himself to it. He squeezes, sharp and harsh. All with a filthy whisper of, “Feels good, hmm?”
Something in Shane quivers and breaks, the tips of his fingers and toes tingling as his whole body lights up with a shuddering, breath stealing pain. He’s so close to cumming, his mouth ajar and tongue dry as he moans with every purposeful thrust of Rozanov’s hips and knowing clench of his hand.
“Little freak,” Rozanov’s voice is still low and vibrating at Shane’s ear. It’s not teasing, nor is it a cruel pair of words to say. Not with how Rozanov utters them against his skin.
They’re praise, sweeter and thicker than any honey.
His breath is hot on Shane’s ear, that hand still digging into the flesh of his side, impossibly harder.
A noise leaves Shane’s mouth. A moan for pleasure. A gasp of pain. Through it all, he can feel Rozanov smiling against his skin, lips parted and teeth showing. Shane wants to see it, but Rozanov’s body is pressing him down harder and harder into the desk, the wood creaking loudly beneath their weight.
Eventually, right when Shane thinks he’s going numb to it all, Rozanov digs his nails in. Shane feels himself let go.
His cum is hot as it spills in the nonexistent space between his stomach and the desk. He’s certain his feet and legs are twitching, his spine trembling as Rozanov pulls out of him. The sound of a condom being removed, and fist working double time over the lube-slicked skin of Rozanov’s cock, is loudly recognisable and, on any other day, he’d twist his head round to watch. Today, he feels like he’s outside of himself, not in full control of his body and all its functions. So he lays there, relishing in the sounds behind him.
Rozanov groans low in his throat, before there’s the distinct splatter of cum across Shane’s skin. Warm, wet, and thick. It doesn’t land on the curve of his ass, like Rozanov always seems to aim for when he takes him from behind, it’s more on his right side. On his ribcage. Right where Shane is certain his bruise must start on his back.
He wishes he could see him. To know where he’s looking and to see if he’s as blissed out as Shane is.
After that, Shane expects Rozanov to speak. To say something snarky or egotistical. Or even something curious, about why Shane reacted like that. He knows he would if the roles were reversed. But, he’s quiet as they pant to catch their breaths and he’s gentle when he helps Shane peel himself off the desk.
They’re in the shower, Shane propping himself up against the wall beneath the spray from the shower head to watch how Rozanov lathers soap underneath his armpits. He’s not freaking out, like he distantly thinks he should be. He’s still too outside of his own head to do that just yet, but he can’t help himself from breaking the silence.
“That was good,” is all that comes. Nothing clever, nothing sexy. Just three words that, in truth, downplay how incredible the sex had been for Shane.
Rozanov looks at him, raising an eyebrow, “Is always good, Hollander.”
He feels himself smiling in return to that look and those words. “Yeah, it is.”
He tilts himself to let Rozanov get closer to the water when he looks done with scrubbing at himself to get rid of the sweat and lubricant.
“I liked it,” he admits, hoping Rozanov will get what he means and he knows he does because he gets a serious, heated look in return. “You know, the whole… thing. If you weren’t sure.”
“Wasn’t worried,” Rozanov dismisses, waving his hand like he’s batting away the idea that one of them didn’t enjoy it. “You go so tight, almost rip my dick off.”
Shane smiles again, closing his eyes and half dreading the walk back to his own room as fatigue creeps its way in, “Fuck you, Rozanov.”
***
They don’t talk about it again. It stays unspoken once they leave that bathroom.
Rozanov definitely remembers it, though, and Shane’s certain that he understands just what Shane likes. Because the next time Rozanov gets his mouth on Shane’s cock, it’s after a series of sharp-toothed, harsh bites are left on his thighs, made sensitive by soft touches to his skin.
The bites will leave a mark and bruise into pretty rings, but Shane’s never cum so hard from a blowjob before. And Rozanov has never been so hungry for it.
They don’t say anything, because they don’t need to.
They’re different, but still the same.
***
The game against Dallas is horrible. Montreal get in their own way so many times that Shane can feel frustration coil up in the pit of his stomach. None of their plays flow like they should. Passes are mistimed, shots to goal are missed, and no one seems to be committing to anything, leaving anything fresh half baked. The only person who manages a half decent game is Pike, always somehow getting the puck back at just the right moment, and manages to assist both of Shane’s, admittedly pathetic, goals.
They still manage to scrape by with the win but only because Dallas seem to lose the match, rather than Montreal doing anything particularly worth the victory.
It almost feels worse than a loss to Shane; he hates the games where it feels like they’re just going through the motions. Nothing grates on him more than knowing he should have been better, but still winning. The history books won’t reflect how poorly they played, there’ll just be a tally mark that says they won and Dallas didn’t.
There’s nothing satisfying about winning against a team that doesn’t put up any worthy fight. It’s hard for Shane to not earn it.
When they get into the locker room, the debrief is quick. They all know they played like they wanted to lose. No one wants to linger on it for too long, even if they know they’ll dissect everything when they’re in for training tomorrow.
The showers they have are quick and Shane’s in his towel when he checks his phone.
There’s messages from his parents, both clearly aware of how badly Shane will handle a win like this, and he sends them a message he hopes can abate whatever concerns they have.
The rest are all from Rozanov, sent at intermittent points of the game, the last sent at around the time they must have been having their debrief.
Lily:
Why Montreal so bad today? Worse than normal. Is hard to watch
Why does Boiziau not make this pass to you? Tell him to open eyes. You are there
Again!!! Fucking Boiziau
Look with eyes!!!
Bad, boring win
Boston will beat you every time if you play like this
He glances over his shoulder, but everyone else seems to be busy with each other, trying to act like this win was worthy of anything. They’re being loud, boisterous in a way that’s completely uncalled for in the moment, and Shane hovers his fingers over the keyboard.
Jane:
Fuck you, Lily
He sends the next message rapidly after that, opting to be a little more open, for some reason he can’t quite pinpoint.
Jane:
It does suck, though
Lily:
Yes.
Other players tell me this is worst way to win
Don’t know what this feels like. All my wins are good
Jane:
Because you’re the best player in the league and you never do anything wrong?
Lily:
Da.
It takes some years, glad you understand this now
Jane:
Did you not see the question mark at the end of that sentence?
Lily:
Still. You say, not me
Good to admit truth sometimes
Shane hates to think it to himself that this little exchange with Rozanov is actually making him feel better.
Lily:
You celebrate in Dallas with the blind man and his dog?
Jane:
Blind man and his dog?
Lily:
Yes, Boiziau does not see you. Pike is useless helper dog.
Jane:
That’s mean, Lily.
Hayden played well
Lily:
Pike never plays well
But I agree. With you. For once
Is unfair to blind people and helper dogs
I apologise to all blind people and helper dogs
I say again
You celebrate in Dallas with lame losers Boiziau and Pike?
Go out, get dick wet?
Shane ignores the last message, the implication of it twisting uncomfortably in his stomach.
Jane:
Probably not
Lily:
Why?
Jane:
I don’t feel like this is anything to celebrate. I want to relax a bit. Be on my own, maybe
Lily:
You want help with relaxing?
Get dick wet at home?
Jane:
I’ll think about it
Lily:
Is a yes.
Tell me when you get to hotel
And Shane does just that. He shouldn’t, but he still can’t help himself from sending a message to Rozanov the moment he’s on the bed, back slouched against the head board.
Jane:
I’m back
Lily:
Good. I will use magic power to help you relax
Jane:
And what power would that be?
There’s no typed reply. What he gets in return is a photo. Rozanov’s cock takes up most of the screen, he’s holding it in his hand with his legs spread wide. Shane should think it’s gross and crude, but it makes his mouth water and fingers twitch. He wants to reach through the screen and taste the pretty little bead of pre-cum that’s glistening right at the tip.
Lily:
Your favourite one
Shane’s torn between begging Rozanov to let him swallow it and denying that he has any interest in it at all.
He opts for a different route, a smile spreading across his face as he thinks of it.
Jane:
And how is that going to relax me from all the way in Boston?
Lily:
That’s why it’s magic
You just need to look at it and everything is better
Jane:
What if I want to do more than just look at it?
It’s experimental and embarrassing, and Shane holds his phone tight as he waits for Rozanov to reply. They’ve never done this before — sexting. Usually Shane would let a comment like that from Rozanov go unanswered. Part of him, however, is curious about what Rozanov will get him to do, and the other, the sweeter, softer side wants something that he can look back to in the weeks they’ll be apart. Something more than just the memories of Rozanov’s body on his, of teeth sunk into skin and fingers squeezing bruises.
Lily:
Want to suck my cock?
Jane:
Yeah. I want to taste it
Lily:
Let me see you
I showed mine, you show yours
Shane is a little disappointed that Rozanov switches the topic slightly, but tamps it down in lieu of freaking out as he pulls his shirt over his head and takes his trousers off, folding them to place on the bedside cabinet.
He leaves his underwear on, not quite as confident in all of this as Rozanov is. But he thinks about the angle he’s taking the photo from, not quite sure where to put his hands and opts for clinging to the duvet cover, taking a photo down his body. His chest, stomach, and evident arousal clear in the warm cast from the bedside lamp. Even he thinks it looks a bit hot; more tasteful than Rozanov’s and he’s certain it’ll do the trick.
What he gets back is unexpected.
Lily:
Pretty nipples
He frowns at his screen.
Jane:
I’m not a girl.
Lily:
Okay? And I am not Pope?
You are Hollander, with pretty chest and pretty nipples
Play with them
Jane:
Isn’t that something you do to a girl?
Lily:
Is a sex thing. A pretty thing. Not boy girl thing.
You have pretty nipples, you play with pretty nipples. Is obvious
Make them hard
Make them dark
Make them go bigger
Jane:
I don’t even know what that would feel like
Lily:
Touch them
For me
Rozanov must know he’s hesitating, because he quickly follows that message up with.
Lily:
Be good boy
You like being good boy
You can make hurt. You will like, little freak
Pinch. Twist. Pull. Use nail. You will enjoy
Shane opens his mouth to deny it and tell him, “not tonight,” as if Rozanov would be able to hear him. But Hayden’s not in the room, off out at some bar and it’s only eight. Shane’s surely got hours left before he’s back.
So he decides to try it, just as Rozanov tells him to.
He takes his underwear off and starts slow. Trying to remember how Rozanov had touched him last time they were together. Light and gentle, getting his skin sensitive to touch. He skims his fingertips up and down his front, drawing them from his groin to the bottom of his chest before tracing them all the way back down. He shivers when he reaches the tender skin of his sides, skin pimpling with goose flesh like it had with Rosanov. He decides that he’s ready then. He puts his attention on his nipples.
He caresses them first, lets them get harder before he digs the tip of his thumbnails straight into them. He gasps, muscles in his back jolting with the little burst of pain.
He licks his lips, eyes closed, imagining Rozanov’s hands are there instead. Mirroring what he thinks he’d be doing. Switching to pinches soon after, biting his lips closed to keep the noises coming from his chest from escaping out of his mouth. He hesitates as he slowly turns them in his fingers just so, twisting as Rozanov had said and praying to some deity that it’s enough to make them bruise. He wants to remember the way this feels.
Because he’s hard, dick twitching in interest against his thigh, leaking in a cold smear against his skin, and not even panicking with the realisation that Rozanov was right.
He does like this.
He keeps doing it, keeps twisting and pulling, his mouth clamped shut until he can barely take it anymore and he’s wrapping his left hand around the base of his cock. The right one stays at his chest, pinching and plucking, making his back arch off the mattress.
Until he’s digging his nails into his right nipple so hard when he orgasms, there’s no way it couldn’t leave a mark.
He lets himself breathe for a moment, embarrassed by the mere four minutes that have passed since Rozanov’s last message, but still types out his reply with trembling fingers.
Jane:
Okay, maybe it isn’t a boy or girl thing. Maybe it is a sex thing
Lily:
Show me
Shane sends a picture, almost the exact same angle as the one before, his chest reddened and nipples clearly swollen, cum spilled all over his stomach, reaching up towards his chest. He tries not to look at it, but he can’t tear his eyes away. Not at least until he gets another message.
Lily:
Pretty
So fast. Hot
Little freak is such a pretty good boy
Shane can’t stop looking at those words, satisfied and boneless on the bed.
Jane:
You like them?
Lily:
Of course
You will have to
What’s word?
Pry?
You will have to pry me away
Next time
Shane blinks at the last message. They don’t do this, they don’t plan for the future beyond a quick check in before they’re both planned to be in the same city. He hesitates as he types out his response.
Jane:
Next time?
He doesn’t wait to see the reply, he drops his phone down onto the bed and stumbles his way to the bathroom.
Only when he’s back, in night clothes, that he checks his phone again and sees one lone message from Rozanov.
Lily:
Da, next time.