Chapter Text
June 2011
It was becoming incredibly difficult to continue lying about how good it felt to have won Rookie of the Year after maybe the seventh congratulations from someone Shane didn’t know. The little glass trophy is being safely guarded by Shane’s mother who has a hand lazily placed over the base while she continues talking with the player who’d won this year’s star goaltending award. Shane’s dad is in the seat beside her, letting the two talk each other’s ears off with a pleasant little smile.
Shane approaches them, winding through the building crowd while he receives pats on the back and even more congratulations from various players, staff, and other guests he still doesn’t recognize. Shane takes it all in stride, though he lets his eyes flick around the room once before abruptly dropping them to the floor when he realizes he’s looking for someone in particular. Someone he hasn’t seen all night despite being up for the same award.
“Shane, honey!” His mom greets him when he reaches their table. “We were just going to come find you to say we were heading out. It’s getting a bit late for us.”
Truth be told, Shane was starting to feel overwhelmed by the night too. It was already close to midnight at this point, but a single glance at the award guests showed that the night had no plans of ending anytime soon. Shane has the urge to tap out with them, call it a night, and fall asleep with his award on the hotel bedside table, but instead, he finds himself nodding along, silently unable to express what he really wants as the goaltender shakes his hand.
“Great season, man,” he says. “Was just telling your folks about how much I’m going to look forward to smoking Montreal again next year.”
A rumble of laughter spreads around him. Shane can offer nothing more than a small smile. He shrugs and counters, “I’m going to assume my mom told you that next year is actually our year. The team was looking good near the end of the season. I have high hopes.”
The other player smiles like he remembers that feeling of being young in your career and full of so many aspirations that couldn’t rush at you fast enough. Still, he shifts his expression into a serious nod before saying, “I’ll look forward to witnessing it. See you next season, Hollander.”
The words brush the edge of Shane’s memory momentarily. He tries to hold onto his smile as the goaltender pats his shoulder and wishes Shane’s parents goodnight. But his thoughts drift elsewhere, and he finds himself looking around again for a different player.
“All right,” Shane’s dad groans. “I think we are officially calling it. Early flight tomorrow.” He waves a hand around as they gather their things.
“Are you planning on sticking around?” His mom asks.
“Um,” Shane’s words falter. That urge to go to bed pulls at him again, but the hesitation is used against him as his parents dismiss his indecisiveness as awkward admittance of their barely adult son wanting to spend time with his colleagues and their friends Shane has never met.
“Go have fun, sweetie,” Yuna kisses his forehead with his father pulling him into a hug immediately after.
“We’re so proud of you,” Shane hears as they pull away. He lets them take the award with them, knowing it’ll probably be safer in their hands than his. It’ll end up back in his possession eventually. Shane is still trying to figure out how to decorate his Montreal apartment he’s had for a year that continues to feel like a furniture show room half the time, but he’s on the road so often that he can’t bring himself to commit to actually decorating it.
Shane watches his parents leave and suddenly finds himself alone in a crowded room. He awkwardly grasps the stem of his mom’s wine glass before impulsively downing it. Shane decides then and there that he’ll stick around for another minute at most before slipping away and back to his hotel room.
The reminder of a hotel room jogs something else in his head. Shane pulls out his phone, going immediately to his messages.
His last message remains unanswered from four months prior.
Jane: Next time, I guess?
Shane sighs, pocketing his phone almost angrily.
“Uh oh, figured you’d be happier after tonight’s results.”
Shane looks up to see Scott Hunter approaching him with a nervous smile like he’s unsure whether this was a good idea after he noticed Shane’s demeanor. “Mr. Hunter,” Shane says lamely, offering a hand. “Hi.”
To his credit, Scott manages to shift that smile into something more casual and gives Shane’s hand a firm shark. “Mr. Hunter,” he echoes with a chuckle at the formalities. “You age me, Hollander.”
“Sorry,” Shane adds, trying to sound genuine. Scott Hunter was really only a few years older than Shane, but his experience in the league shows every now and then. New York had a rough season, but Shane suspects Hunter still has the same drive as most of the rookies. Like Shane, they’d all be hunting for a chance at the cup once more. The pursuit was endless.
“Don’t be,” Scott reassures him. He leans against the table Shane was haunting. Shane feels himself relax slightly. Scott Hunter was known to be an upstanding guy. He’d heard nothing but good things about the rather private but generally nice captain. He wasn’t known to chirp at other players. His game was clean and efficient. Shane respects him.
And even standing directly across from him now without the jerseys, without gear, Shane had to admit he was quite handsome.
“As a congratulations,” Scott continues at Shane’s awkward silence, “how would you feel about gathering up the rest of the three rooks to come take shots with us old fucks.”
Shane smirks and says, “Not sure I’m allowed to drink here.”
“We’ll keep it under the table,” Scott assures.
Shane thinks about the overly large hotel room bed waiting for him. Of the unread text and the annoyance starting to scratch under his skin. Shane shakes his head slightly. He wants to go to sleep. But he needs to get his mind off of that.
“Sure,” Shane finds himself agreeing. It’s not like he could say no to Scott Hunter. It’s Scott Hunter.
“Excellent,” Scott smiles. He waves over a few other players and keeps looking around as Shane leans further on the table between them. “Speaking of the rooks, where’s your boy Rozanov?”
Shane nearly falls over as he abruptly straightens. Very smooth, Shane. “My what?” he stutters.
Scott glances at him warily before immediately breaking into a shaky laugh. “No, I mean, not your boy. Sorry. It’s just you guys are always paired together. Hollander and Rozanov. Rozanov and Hollander. That sort of thing. Figured you would have run into him at least once tonight.”
“I actually haven’t seen him,” Shane interrupts Scott’s rambling. “We’re, um, not exactly friends or anything.”
Scott studies him for a second too long. Shane’s suit is starting to feel too tight. “No worries, man,” Scott says, breaking the awkward tension with a punctuated laugh. “I’m sure someone else grabbed him. That just means more for us.”
Even though the idea of someone else grabbing Rozanov makes Shane’s jaw twitch, he forces himself to relax and pretend he’s having fun. This only leads to him standing in a line with Scott Hunter and the ‘old fucks’ before they all simultaneously down a shot. The other players hoot and a few slap their hands on the table, asking for another round. The bartender doesn’t even question Shane’s age, switching his empty shot glass out for another without hesitation. The shot is already going to his head considering Shane doesn’t find himself drinking often if ever. But he gets caught up in the moment and perhaps the occasional glance Scott Hunter keeps shooting his way and takes another. And another.
Shane blinks hard and tries to clear his throat, only effectively coughing after the fourth. He receives a firm clap on the back alongside some more cheering, and Shane suddenly feels slightly unsteady on his feet.
After barely managing to clear his throat, he blinks up hazily at Scott Hunter and jabs a thumb in the opposite direction. “I’m gonna go get some air. Thanks for the drinks though.”
Scott gives him that warm smile that makes Shane’s insides feel funny before he nods. “Sure thing rookie of the year. Congrats again!”
Shane smiles sheepishly and manages to slip away as another round of drinks are ordered. The air conditioning that greets him the moment he escapes the stuffy room feels like heaven. Shane tilts his head up, sleepily closing his eyes and breathing a little easier as he wanders down a sparsely occupied hallway. He continues down the hallway, loosening his bowtie along the way.
His skin feels sweaty as he rubs a hand down his face when he finally locates the elevators. The hotel he’s staying at is across the street but Shane had heard rumors of this building having one of the best rooftop views of the city. This was his first time actually exploring other parts of Las Vegas outside of playing here. He figures he should at least try and step out of his comfort zone one last night with the alcohol loosening his wariness that normally inhibits him from being impulsive.
As he waits for the elevator to arrive, Shane paces a bit and pulls out his phone again.
It unlocks and is still open to his messages. Shane frowns at the text again and admonishes himself for getting upset in the first place.
Willing thoughts of Rozanov out of his mind, Shane slips into the elevator and pushes the button for the top floor. He leans back against the wall, eyes closed and head pressed into the cool steel as his mind swims with the elevator shooting up, up, up. The elevator stops with a sharp ding sooner than Shane thought it would, and he cracks his eyes open only to find the doors were just opening for another floor. A group of definitely drunk girls shuffle in, carrying their giggles and hushed conversation with them.
Shane presses further into the back of the elevator, giving them an awkward smile when he makes eye contact with one of them. “Oh my god,” she gasps. Shane braces for her to say something about him being a somewhat famous hockey player. He won’t say no to a selfie but he still feels out of sorts from the night. But then the girl leans closer and says, “Is it your wedding day?”
Shane sputters. “Sorry?”
“The tuxedo,” she points out. “You look like you just got married.”
“Oh,” Shane says dumbly, glancing down at his rumpled suit. “No,” he adds.
One of the other girls clicks her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Stop bothering him Stacy. He’s not even wearing a ring,” she chastises but this only causes the other girls to dissolve into more drunken giggles.
“Are you going to the bar on the roof then?” The first girl asks.
Shane realizes she’s stepped rather close now. His back is still pressed to the back of the elevator and that means he can’t sink further away. “There’s a bar on the roof?” He repeats, sounding terribly shy in his own ears.
The girl smiles wide at him. “You’re cute. Do you know that?”
“Of course he does,” a different girl snaps, but then she puts her stare onto Shane and tilts her head almost consideringly. Her eyes rake from his head to his toes and back again before she suddenly says, “You should come to the bar with us.”
Shane glances at the ticking floor numbers. How fucking long was this elevator ride?
“I can’t,” he manages to stammer out. “Sorry.”
One of the girls pouts just before the elevator finally dings. “Well, if you change your mind, come find us,” she says with a wink before the lot of them are slinking out of the elevator, leaving Shane a little breathless.
He swallows hard and slowly steps out before the doors can close again. The air isn’t as cool out here with the mid-summer heat of Vegas pushing against the brush of air conditioning Shane starts to miss. Still, he continues forward, moving away from the chatter of the rooftop bar that did happen to exist. There’s a balcony that Shane decides he’ll take a glance at and then at last, call it a night. He rounds a corner, eyes lifting expectantly until he feels his breath catch.
The skyline lights up against the blackened night, wiping out the stars overhead. But Shane can’t really focus on the view as the city glitters below and silhouetted against it is Rozanov.
Shane pauses briefly, eyes outlining the sharp lines of Rozanov’s shoulders and the wisps of his carefully styled hair. He leans heavily on the balcony’s railing and blows out a long trail of smoke, body almost slumping forward with the motion.
Not exactly realizing when he had started walking forward again, Shane finds himself getting closer with Rozanov never turning back to look at him until Shane says, “I don’t know if it’s worth jumping over.”
Rozanov doesn’t flinch, just stills in a way that feels tense until he slowly lowers the cigarette from his mouth. He angles his head toward Shane who goes to stand beside him, taking his eyes away from the other player after acknowledging him to look out over the city. The view is rather beautiful. There’s a sort of magical quality about it with the lights, the glamor, and the trails of people as small as ants teetering through the streets below.
“Party done already?” Rozanov asks lowly.
Shane smirks at the night sky. “No,” he murmurs. “I just needed some air.” He gestures to the open skyline before them, leaning even further on the railing. His eyes glance down once before immediately shooting back up. They were really high up.
In his periphery, Shane can tell Rozanov is still looking at him. “You are drunk,” he says as if it were a fact.
Shane’s face wrinkles. “I’m not,” he huffs out.
He finally looks back at Rozanov to find the other man biting back a smile. “Good for you. Big night, so I suppose you deserve it,” Rozanov mutters before taking another drag of his cigarette. Shane didn’t understand how he could smoke and still be one of the fastest skaters the league had. Part of that infuriated him in a way; Rozanov’s nonchalance that somehow kept him at an elite level.
“You could have also won,” Shane grumbles.
Rozanov blows smoke out slowly. “But I didn’t.”
He flexes his jaw and turns back to the skyline and Shane feels his irritation flare. The unanswered text sits heavily in his pocket. “So what?” He snaps. “You lose one award and you’re now going to sulk for the rest of the night because you couldn’t do another victory lap around me?”
Rozanov glances once at Shane and starts shaking his head, muttering something under his breath Shane couldn’t understand. It might have been in Russian.
“What was that?” Shane seethes, stepping closer.
Rozanov wheels on him. “Not everything is about you!” He shouts. Shane immediately takes that step back.
The warm air of the night suddenly feels cooler and Shane bites down hard on the inside of his cheek before quietly asking, “What is it about then?”
Rozanov scoffs loudly and rubs at the bridge of his nose with his thumb. “Fuck,” he mutters. “I am not drunk enough to deal with you right now Hollander. What do you want?”
“I came up here to get some air,” Shane repeats just as quietly.
Rozanov’s cheeks hollow as he sucks hard on his cigarette again almost angrily. “Here you have it,” he huffs, gesturing out to the skyline. “There is even a good bar back there that you should take advantage of if it will get you to leave me alone.”
Shane’s brain is having a hard time catching up at the moment as he continues to carefully watch Rozanov angrily smoke and grumble beside him. His whole body is tense and he keeps flexing his free hand and relaxing it like he’s trying to swallow up the remainder of his anger before lashing out against Shane again. He blames the distraction of his quiet observations on why he pathetically mentions, “We can’t drink here.”
Rozanov cuts him a glare. “You certainly have not been following that rule,” he points out.
“A couple of the vets offered,” Shane explains, his throat feeling dry.
Rozanov hums. “And you have cut yourself off now. Why? Scared you will continue to relax for once in your life and realize you might enjoy it?”
Shane doesn’t know when he came to understand their easy shifts in conversation. This feels more like them. The banter has left the pent up anxiety of less charted territory and returned to their familiar arguing. Shane feels himself relaxing slightly, almost waiting for Rozanov to call him boring. “No,” he says flatly. “It’s illegal for anyone under the age of twenty-one to drink in the states you moron. I had a few with the vets, but I can’t get publicly wasted.”
Rozanov chuckles. “They did not tell me this when I managed to get several drinks before coming up here to what did you call it? Sulk?”
“I think the open bar is for all of the players,” Shane huffs. His head still feels a bit light like he’s swimming, making his thoughts muddled when he needs them to be far sharper whenever he’s interacting with Rozanov. “I don’t think they’re checking IDs.”
“Loophole,” Rozanov assesses.
“Something like that, yeah,” Shane agrees. He turns back toward the city and sighs. The brief fight in him has suddenly dissipated. The railing digs harder into his forearms, the chilled metal cutting through his suit.
Silence permeates the air for what feels like forever until Rozanov says, “You need another drink, Hollander.”
Shane blinks and turns to him. “No,” he argues. “I should get back to my hotel room.”
Rozanov dangles his cigarette from his mouth and looks at Shane carefully. “Want a guest?”
He asks it so casually, but Shane swears he can feel his heart still in his chest. “Jesus Christ,” he snaps. “Keep your fucking voice down.”
He looks around the open balcony as if expecting the entirety of the league to be watching this, ready to point and laugh. Rozanov merely smirks.
“Or what?” He drawls.
Shane’s eyes snap back to him. “Rozanov,” he warns as the other man takes a languid step toward him. “Knock it off.”
Rozanov tilts his head slightly like he’s enjoying making Shane uncomfortable. Like it’s his favorite thing in the world. “Make me,” he says.
Shane reaches out and stops him with a hand on his chest. He’s breathing heavily despite not having done anything, but Rozanov glancing down to his hand and drawing his eyes back up makes his lungs feel desperate for oxygen. “Not here,” Shane says weakly. “There are…”
He swallows hard. “Anyone can see us,” he finally manages.
Rozanov still has a lopsided smirk. “You think too much about yourself,” he says, leaning the upper half of his body closer to Shane who keeps his hand pressed against Rozanov’s abdomen. “You win one award and it has immediately gone to your head.”
Shane frowns. “You’re just jealous.”
Rozanov keeps leaning forward. Shane is practically fisting his dress shirt now. “I am a lot of things, but jealous? No,” Rozanov hums.
“You’re such an asshole,” Shane all but whispers.
That smirk widens. “So I’ve heard. Why did you really come up here? Were you looking for me?”
Rozanov’s voice has dipped into a steady whisper so his words seem like they’re just for Shane. He feels entirely captured in the bubble they’ve created, unable to focus on anything else but the lack of distance between them right now.
“No,” Shane breathes out. “I just wanted some air.”
“Of course,” Rozanov draws out. And then he dashes his cigarette aside and lifts his hand to press Shane back. And Shane, who is still holding onto the front of Rozanov’s suit, stumbles with him. “Couldn’t get enough could you?” Rozanov whispers into Shane’s ear.
The breath tickles against his skin, and Shane practically feels his eyes roll back into his head. “Rozanov…” He starts, unable to finish a single coherent thought right now.
Lips brush over the corner of his jaw, and Shane can tell Rozanov is smiling. “You know,” he continues to whisper while Shane’s breath gets thin. “I have been thinking about what I might have missed out on when that storm kept us from being in the same city.”
Shane’s eyes go wide. Boston was supposed to play in Montreal, and Shane’s nerves had been a wreck for all the wrong reasons. That night they were supposed to finally go all the way, but a stupid snowstorm had other plans.
“You’ve been thinking about that?” Shane whispers like he can’t imagine Rozanov even giving him the time of day in his own head.
“I am thinking about it now,” Rozanov mutters, pressing even closer to Shane and slotting a thigh between his willing legs. Shane doubles forward, leaning hard into Rozanov’s temple as he’s held steady. He swallows, finding his mouth incredibly dry.
“I’m…” He takes a breath. “I was also thinking about it.”
Rozanov’s chuckle vibrates against Shane’s hand. “I know you so well,” he whispers. “Which is why we should get wasted tonight.”
Suddenly the warmth was gone, leaving Shane to nearly trip forward as Rozanov takes a step back, hands tucked neatly in his pockets. “What?” Shane gasps.
Rozanov shrugs. “Not because I need to loosen you up for sex, Hollander. Do not look so scared. We can do that without alcohol just fine, but you look like you’re about a minute away from a crisis and I will take your word on jumping if you start to panic.”
“Don’t joke about that,” Shane snaps as he tries to adjust his suit, particularly his pants. “And I’m not drinking anymore tonight.”
Rozanov rolls his eyes. “You already broke American law once. What is once more for mr boring rule follower?”
“Hey,” Shane starts to seethe, “it could be serious if we were caught. Athletes fucking destroy their careers all the time with that shit.”
“I am not most athletes,” Rozanov says, entirely serious. “Neither are you.”
Shane stands across from him with his arms limp at his sides. His blood still feels like it’s boiling and now his suit definitely feels like it’s suffocating him. The gentle sway of the shots he’d consumed earlier was entirely gone now, leaving Shane to face Ilya Rozanov and try to make a decision as his head and his body fought on different sides.
His mouth moves unwillingly. “This is a bad idea.”
Rozanov grins. “Ha, I have heard that before,” he says with a pointed finger at Shane. “I will leave with or without you, Hollander. Make a decision. Do you not want to go and celebrate that stupid award you won tonight?”
“I have been celebrating,” Shane says weakly.
“Clearly you did a shit job if you decided to end your night by yelling at me. Come on, I have an afternoon flight home tomorrow and need to be unconscious on it,” Rozanov urges.
But despite his claims of not needing Shane to accompany him, Rozanov’s feet remain planted. And though Shane wants to point this out, he instead focuses on the little bits of information Rozanov sometimes gives away. “One, flying hungover sounds fucking terrible. Two, are you headed back to Boston?”
Rozanov’s amusement fades suddenly. “No,” he says shortly. “Russia. It is long flight. Should be enough time to get over small hangover.”
Shane finally decides to call his bluff. “I don’t understand why you can’t just go make yourself sick alone. You don’t need me there.”
“True,” Rozanov says with a shrug. “But I think I would enjoy myself more trying to see how far I can push you tonight. It reminds me of our usual arrangements.”
“Like hell it does,” Shane scoffs, but he can feel heat crawling up his neck. Rozanov’s eyes are dark and haven’t left him, and Shane knows that if he pushes a little further, Rozanov will have Shane as pliable as he likes. Still, Shane’s not about to let him have it easy.
“We don’t even hang out publicly outside of games. Getting drinks together isn’t exactly our usual M.O.,” he says.
“Would you prefer it that way?” Rozanov asks. “A scenario where I wine and dine you before I take you in your bedroom.”
Shane abruptly turns away and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
“You are too easy, Hollander,” Rozanov says while laughing.
“You just can’t say things like that here,” Shane says but now he’s the one shouting, making a scene. He really hopes the rooftop’s bar music is drowning them out.
Rozanov saunters forward again and as if reading Shane’s thoughts, says, “No one can hear us up here, and if they do, they will probably assume I am messing with you. That is also sort of our whole…” He waves a hand around, “thing.”
Shane breathes out a short laugh though the description Rozanov gives pains him. “Yeah, I suppose so,” he mutters. He still feels tense with worry about someone walking in on them doing… Well, nothing exactly. Nothing but talking. Shane reminds himself to relax and feels his shoulders slump down a bit. That tension doesn’t have a chance to entirely escape because Rozanov doesn’t know when to shut up.
“What would you do without me, Hollander?” He muses.
Shane frowns at him. “What do you mean?”
“Say I leave for Russia and never return,” Rozanov says and Shane feels his stomach drop.
“You wouldn’t,” he says immediately.
Rozanov shrugs, face relaxed as if this option wasn’t entirely off the table. “Money and career is nice, but say I get tired of it and there is nothing left for me here?”
“What about me?” Shane hears himself ask.
The corners of Rozanov’s mouth twitch. “What about you, Hollander?”
Embarrassment creeps across Shane’s face. He clicks his teeth and says, “Forget it.”
“No, no,” Rozanov steps forward again, using his hand to grab at Shane’s chin, forcing his attention back on him. And then steadily, he says, “Use your words.”
Shane is lost momentarily in the intensity of Rozanov’s stare, but he finds the words slowly and spells out the obvious to the man he’s been associated with since they first met. “My career is tied to yours. Has been since we first started, and now I just…I don’t know. That’s important,” Shane says. It’s partially why their secret getting out freaks him out so much. If the hockey world knew, Shane’s career would be over as would Rozanov’s. There were larger implications of what it would mean to be discovered, but Shane already has difficulty imagining who he’d be without hockey with that alone terrifies him enough to not even think of the rest.
“You’re also important to me,” Shane begins to say. He watches Rozanov’s expression carefully. “In other ways.”
“So you care for me,” Rozanov says flatly, jaw tensing slightly.
Shane feels himself smirk. “Your ego doesn’t need the boost.”
Rozanov drops his hand and Shane already misses the touch. “My ego could use another drink,” he hears Rozanov mutter before he adds, “Tell me, Hollandar. What is there to do in this garish place? I hear they call it the city of sin. That means it should be fun.”
Shane nods. “That’s what they say, yeah.”
He doesn’t bother correcting Rozanov on the name. Not that he really has time to as Rozanov pulls out another cigarette and waves Shane forward. “Come on. No more arguing. We go out. Maybe by the end of the night you will hate me less.”
Shane starts to follow. “I don’t hate you.”
Rozanov glances at him over his shoulder. “Hm, then maybe by morning you will.”
This is how Shane finds himself first at the rooftop bar with a glass of something sweet pressed into his hand. The girls from the elevator are still there and they wave to him before becoming a bit shy around Rozanov who smiles lazily back. Shane distracts himself by downing the first drink, wincing and coughing when the burn of whatever alcohol it had in it hits the back of his throat. Rozanov is already waving down the bartender again.
Shane doesn't know how long they stay there. The world becomes fuzzy again, and Shane can’t even be bothered by the loud clanging and packed crowds of the casino.
When did they get to a casino?
He’s handed another glass with a little umbrella by Rozanov who encourages him to keep up as they loiter by a blackjack table. Rozanov asks Shane how to play, and Shane who has zero knowledge of how to play dutifully explains made up rules to him.
The outside air hits them again, and Shane realizes how light he feels. He even hears himself laugh at something Rozanov says as they stumble through stores and the occasional building with it all becoming one giant scene that continues to get muddled in Shane’s head. Rozanov keeps managing to find them drinks and no one asks. In fact, Shane is pretty sure no one is really paying them much mind and that’s rather nice. This could be because of the sunglasses and hat that Shane has somehow acquired. He thinks the hat says ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’, and he feels pretty determined to hold true to that because after tonight, he will never allow himself to have fun like this with Rozanov again. It’s a brief and fleeting promise in his head that dissipates when he realizes Rozanov has also acquired sunglasses and a hat; only his hat is bright pink and has Las Vegas bedazzled across it. He looks ridiculous in it.
Shane finds himself laughing again.
The night carries on and Shane’s reservations have all but vanished probably three drinks ago. Tomorrow is going to be a hellscape. He knows that, but he lets himself enjoy the freedom of brushing up alongside Rozanov without a care in the world. To everyone around them, they’re just two drunken idiots enjoying their night like the rest of the city. That peace carries them further as they explore what feels like all of Las Vegas.
Shane feels like he’s never been in a place with so much to do even though that’s probably not true. But Rozanov doesn’t slow down once even as the night becomes less and less coherent.
They had to have stopped at some point though. Shane has no clue when that happened, but he’s abruptly broken out of the wisps of memories of it all by the blaring of an alarm sounding from somewhere.
He groans and palms blindly at the nightstand beside him, hitting what he hopes is his phone to get it to shut up. The alarm eventually subsides and he settles further into the hotel pillows that are scratchy against his skin, but he can’t bring himself to care.
His head starts to pound as he gains awareness, and his body feels like it’s been put through the fucking ringer. He pulls the pillow over his head and presses down hard like that will stop him from feeling like he’s on the verge of throwing up or passing out or possibly both. Shane feels sticky and terrible, and opening his eyes is a herculean task that he thinks deserves some sort of acknowledgement for.
“You’re awake.”
Well not from him.
Shane bolts upright and the room tilts. He squeezes his eyes shut to stop his vision from spinning and blows out a long breath that tastes like the remnants of last night. Oh he is definitely going to be sick later.
A soft chuckle sounds out from beside him.
Shane slowly cracks his eyes open again to find Rozanov putting his suit jacket back on. “Rough night, Hollander?”
Shane glares at him. “This is your fault,” he complains, rubbing at his face. When he pulls his hands away, he looks down and realizes he’s still fully dressed in his suit from the prior night. Another look at Rozanov and aside from the messy hair and circles under his eyes, he seems to have been fully dressed too.
“We didn’t…”
For some reason Shane can’t finish the sentence. Rozanov goes still however, before very seriously saying, “No. We did not. I would not do that in the state we were both in. When we have our first time, you will be present, Hollander. It is group activity.”
Shane nods at that, relaxing a little bit, but then he realizes that means they ended up falling asleep together. Or passing out. Still, they don’t exactly do mornings together.
Rozanov must feel the awkwardness of it as well as he clears his throat and says, “I have to get back to my room. You should as well.”
Shane looks at him. “This isn’t my room?”
Rozanov smirks in return. He pulls on a pair of sunglasses and tucks an awfully pink hat under his arm and says, “You have a long day ahead of you, Hollander.”
And then he goes to leave. Shane watches from the bed, struggling to catch up. He’s never felt this sluggish or out of it in his life. Still, he feels his heart uptick slightly when Rozanov stops at the door and looks over his shoulder back at him. “See you next season.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
Shane remains sitting upright, fully clothed—even his shoes are still on, which is just embarrassing—trying to process everything. He went out last night. With Ilya Rozanov. He also apparently went to sleep beside Ilya Rozanov. There is a significant gap in his memory of last night that sort of freaks him out, but Shane is interrupted from concentrating on it too much by the buzzing of his phone. He turns back to the nightstand with the movement nearly being the thing to make him hurl.
The brightness of his phone screen doesn’t help either, but he only notices that it’s a text from his mom. His parents were in line to board their flight home and she was wondering if he was up and out yet.
Normally, Shane would have been up hours ago. The time on his phone tells him it’s nearly noon and yet, he feels fucking exhausted. He manages to shakily type back a short response saying he slept in, but he’s heading out to the airport now. His mom responds back quickly, wishing him a safe flight. They’d see each other in about a week anyway with Shane heading back to Ottawa after wrapping up a few things in Montreal. Then they’d head to their family cottage where Shane could check on the additional cottage he’d already started building across the lake his parents’ cottage backs up on. The idea of lounging around the lake sounded heavenly right now.
A shower also sounded nice.
That is what ends up being his motivation to crawl out of the hotel bed. He’d have to sort out why he and Rozanov woke up in a room that was neither of theirs. In fact, it was five floors above his actual room which was untouched since he’d left for the award ceremony.
Shane makes slow work of stripping his suit and trying to wash away the remnants of the prior night. The water helps a little bit and he manages not to vomit, but his head is still pounding and all his thoughts feel like they’re dripping in too slowly.
After the shower leaves him feeling minorly better, Shane collapses on the perfectly made hotel bed and groans. He needs a gatorade or something. Several Advil as well. All of that was probably in the hotel lobby, which Shane should really be heading to given he needed to realistically be at the airport in a little over an hour. The thought of sitting in the back of a cab to get there brings a new wave of nausea, however, so he decides he can waste a little bit more time.
He manages to pull on a sweatshirt and sweats. He repacks his suitcase, tucking the sunglasses and hat from the night beneath the rest of his clothes, unsure why he feels so awkward keeping them at all. He’s slowly doing the laces to his sneakers while trying not to fall off the edge of his bed when his phone buzzes again.
Shane finishes off the tie before slowly sitting upright again. He grabs his phone and squints down at the screen. He expects another text from his mom or dad about getting to places on time or maybe even a few congratulatory texts that were still trailing in from last night. But the message is neither of these things. Instead, it’s an email from an unknown sender.
Frowning, Shane clicks on it, letting it load slowly.
Your photos are in!
Photos? He doesn’t remember taking any photos last night. He could probably check his phone but these are coming from somewhere else. Shane checks the email address again and then his world sort of stops.