Chapter Text
December 2009
“And Canada wins the 2009 Junior World Championship!”
Shane barely hears the announcement as his teammates crash into him, the sound of cheers deafening.
“Let’s fucking gooooo!”
“Fuck yes, Hollander!”
“That’ll wipe the grins off the Russian’s fucking faces!”
Hands clap his back, padding knocks padding, helmet taps and stick taps and tidal waves of noise assault his every sense. They did it, they won Worlds. Shane thinks back to the embarrassing defeat last year and lets it further fuel the pride in this victory. His final game as a junior before he joins the NHL; the Metros were right to recommend he stay in the OHL for his final year, his skills feel sharper than ever.
Lining up to bump fists with the opposing team, his eyes sweep the line looking for a certain pair of striking blue ones.
“See you in October,” he says to Russia’s Ilya Rozanov. Cocky even in defeat, Rozanov winks at him in response. The swoop in Shane’s stomach is just a result of adrenaline. His mind flashes back to the night of the draft and the similar rush he felt when Rozanov hopped onto the bike beside him. The electricity when their fingers touched as he took the Russian’s water bottle. When Rozanov whispered “more” and Shane found himself obeying without hesitation. That was less of a swoop and more of a freefall; as though a trap door had opened in his stomach and acid began eating his intestines, tingly burning heat moving lower and lower until–
“Hollander!” Shepherd shouts, snapping Shane’s attention back to his current presence in their dressing room. “We are going out tonight, my guy!”
Shane nods, smiling blankly as he strips out of his jersey and gear.
“We fucking did it, boys!” Hunt hollers as the team cheers once more.
Back in his hotel room, Shane relishes the silence. He keeps the lights off, lying on the bed and absorbing the peace in order to bring his nervous system back down to baseline. He ignored the earlier texts from his teammates inviting him to dinner and out for drinks, choosing instead to sit in the quiet dark and simply be.
His phone alights as it buzzes on the nightstand. When he sees the message, his nose crinkles in revolt. His teammates can be so fucking crude. It’s not that he’s not into girls, obviously, it’s just that he spends so much time living and breathing hockey that he doesn’t think about girls all that often. A problem his teammates don’t seem to share. They share everything else though, he thinks to himself.
A little while later there’s a knock on his door. He opens it, and his teammate Jeremy Acosta is standing there excitedly. “Dude you’ve gotta come down to Nick’s room, there’s this girl and she’s literally giving it away. You’re single, right?”
Shane pretends to yawn. “I dunno, I’m pretty tired man,” he lies.
“Come on, Hollander!” Jeremy insists. Shane sighs, grabs his wallet and follows. His mind wanders briefly back to those icy blue eyes that have appeared in so many of his dreams the past year. Before his conscious mind is able to wonder what Rozanov is up to right now, they arrive at Shep’s room and Jeremy swipes the key card.
The small room is packed, easily eight other guys from the team all sitting and standing around an empty spot in the middle. Hollander stays back as Jer pushes into the crowd, and as bodies part Shane sees a naked girl lying on a sheet by the foot of the bed. He immediately averts his eyes; this feels so intrusive.
“Hollander! You came!” his teammate Ballsy shouts.
“Now you can come!” Hunt guffaws, apparently thinking his pun quite clever. Shane wishes he could disassemble himself atom by atom and sink through spacetime itself to get out of this fucking room. He’ll settle for looking at the wall.
Some of the guys are shouting orders at her, and Shane remains steadfast in his admiration of this wall. It’s the colour of cardboard. Unfortunate choice, really.
“You wanna blow me?” someone asks. He focuses in on a tiny bump near the sconce, perhaps a speck of dust that was painted over; he tries to tune out the whoops and hollers from his team mates as she presumably acquiesces.
“Hit it!” Hunt yells, right beside Shane. It's disgusting to think that she’s the “it” they’re talking about. He can’t understand how anyone could think this was hot or fun or… anything other than completely overwhelming and totally gross.
The impact of the sharp slap forces his eyes to dart to where the sound emanated. That had to sting so fucking bad. Jeremy rubs his own hand, apparently having smacked her ass so hard he hurt himself too. At this, Shane turns on his heel and heads out the door. Too much, way too much. This is why he doesn’t socialize. He loves hockey but hockey players? They’re fucking animals. Trainable, sure, but shouldn’t be left unattended.
He walks past his own room towards the stairwell, deciding to get some air. His muscles ache as he climbs several flights of stairs. It’s a good ache though, grounding him to here and now.
After several minutes of standing on the rooftop breathing in the sharp chill, he hears the door open and close behind him. He turns to apologise (surely he’s not supposed to be up here), but falls silent as he watches the slow approach of those damn blue eyes, half covered by golden curls pushed tightly against the man’s forehead by his black toque.
“Shane Hollander,” Rozanov says in his deep, thick accent.
“Rozanov,” Hollander nods. His voice cracks embarrassingly so he keeps talking, hoping the other man won’t notice. “Just came up here to get some air. I didn’t see a sign saying not to so I think we’re allowed. It’s chilly, eh? But a beautiful view,” he rambles.
“Ah yes,” Rozanov says flatly. “London, Ontario. Famous view.”
Shane can’t tell whether he’s being sarcastic. He probably is. He’s kind of an asshole, Shane thinks to himself, not for the first time. But an asshole who makes Shane’s stomach do weird things, things that he wants to experience again so that he can properly label them. For science.
“S’not the worst,” Hollander replies, looking back out over the cityscape. Low office buildings mottled with a few highrises, not a tree in sight despite being downtown in so-called Forest City. It’s not the best, either, he thinks to himself. Or even very good, honestly. Quite crap, now that he’s really thinking about it. Why the fuck did he say that?
“You travel? See many views?” Rozanov asks, moving closer, hand reaching into the front of his jacket.
“Oh yeah, all over for games and stuff.” Shane keeps looking out at the low-slung skyline, blocks of buildings and headlights all around, peripheral vision barely making out what the other man is doing in the darkness.
A lighter clicks, and he realizes. “You really shouldn’t be smoking.”
Rozanov inhales deeply on the lit cigarette, and Shane can feel the man's eyes boring into the side of his head as he continues watching cars pass below.
“I like trouble,” the Russian says in that flat affect that Shane finds so hard to read. “You see real London?”
“Yeah, no,” Hollander laughs, not sure why he’s so nervous. It’s that stomach thing again. Not butterflies but not <i>not</i> butterflies. “Mostly just North America. We went to Iceland once, on vacation. I guess you’ve been all over Europe?”
“Da,” Rozanov nods.
“Do you have a favourite spot?”
Rozanov turns his full body to face Shane and Shane returns the stance. They’re so much closer than an acquaintanceship's distance, Shane can feel as well as see the other man’s warm breath as he looks Hollander up and down. His jaw in the moonlight is particularly stunning, cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucks in carginogens from that fucking cigarette. Shane wonders if all Russians hold their faces so tightly. The gaze feels hot– Shane’s skin prickles and burns as though he’s been out in the sun– despite the frigid temperatures of mid-Canadian winter.
“Maybe Berlin,” Rozanov answers as a cloud of smoke spills from his lips. He blows it off to the side so that Shane doesn’t get it right in the face. “Good scene. You dance?”
“D-dance?”
“Da, you know.” Still completely straight-faced, Rozanov does a little wiggle. “Party, woo hoo?”
A laugh shoots out of Shane’s body like a bullet and his next inhale sends shards of frosty smoke-tinged air deep into his lungs. “Not-not really, no.” He coughs a bit and shakes his head, extremely aware of how loud his laugh was and how big his smile is and how he’s completely unable to control either of these things. “I guess I’m not very sociable.”
“Da, I hear. ‘Shane Hollander, not very sociable’” The Russian man seems to have attempted a… Canadian? Accent? His face loosens slightly into the half-cocked smile that makes Shane’s stomach do that disorienting swoop thing. “Yet you come say hi last year, outside rink.” He leans in as though he’s sharing a secret. “I say sociable.”
Shane’s cheeks are burning and it’s not from the cold. “I’m better one-on-one.” He’s not sure why it feels like an admission.
“Lucky me, have you alone.”
Their eyes meet and that trap door in Shane’s stomach opens again. The tingling burning heat feels like tendrils wrapped around his core, shooting downwards to his pelvis. His body is frozen despite the inferno burning within and he isn’t sure what to do, doesn’t know how to respond. His breath hitches and the shiver he makes is uncontrollable.
Rozanov, seemingly amused, breaks eye contact and takes a step back. “You are cold, Hollander.” He takes another drag from his cigarette.
“I’m fine,” Shane responds defiantly, still feeling that mystery swoopy-tingling-heat but not wanting to stand down. His body, ever the traitor, shivers again.
“You freeze, shaking like kitten”.
Shane’s eyes trail down the other man’s arm as his finger taps the ash off his cigarette. Smoking is objectively disgusting and terrible for you, so why is it so fucking hot when he does it? “I’m not a kitten!” he argues, trying to focus and regain control over his mind.
Rozanov chuckles and Shane can feel the bass of that sound rumble through his core. “Angry kitten.” The infuriating Russian makes a cartoonish mad face and claws at Hollander’s arm; Shane takes the opportunity to shoulder him.
“I’m going inside because you’re an asshole, not because I’m cold,” Hollander says with as much venom as he can muster (barely any) as he heads for the door.
“Myau myau,” the deep voice chuckles behind him.
“You suck,” replies Shane over his shoulder, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach.
“Vskóre, Hollander,” Rozanov calls from the roof as the door slams closed.