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Shane was drinking a Dunkin' Donuts coffee, which was watery and disgusting. He hated Boston.
He was hoping Ilya would crack first, he had this internal tally he couldn’t shake of who reached out first, who broke the silence, who texted twice. He wanted to prove to himself he wasn’t the more eager of the two, that he was just as chill as Rozanov about this whole thing. Or at least as chill as the dozens of other hookups who were probably texting Rozanov as soon as they heard he was in their city.
Still, he wanted to know, they didn’t normally leave it this long.
Jane: You must be really worried about this game if you’re too focused to try and psych me out
Jane: Same time, same place?
He sighed, mentally adding another point to the ‘SHANE HOLLANDER IS PATHETIC’ column in his head.
Ilya started typing, and stopped, and started again. Shane’s stomach sank.
Lily: Where are you now?
Jane: I’m at Dunkin’ Donuts.
Jane: You’re not seriously suggesting we meet now? We have like 15 minutes before morning skate.
Lily: You don’t normally take much longer than that
Lily: But no
Lily: There are million dds in this city, which one?
Shane sent him the address, baffled. God, what was he even trying to do?
Lily: Don’t leave.
Shane sighed and slumped into one of the gross barstools. What was Ilya going to do? Shane turned away from the door, to make it look like he wasn’t waiting for anyone, and watched the door in the reflection of the glass.
The minutes felt like hours. He had to get back! What the fuck!
It took Ilya 7 minutes before he was walking through the door. Shane’s breath caught in his throat. They couldn’t have coffee together, certainly Rozanov knew that?
But Ilya wasn’t even looking at him. Or looking for him. He just walked up, casual as ever, ordering some sort of drink that sounded sweet and milky and disgusting. The barista giggled, like he had said something funny.
“Oh my gosh! You’re Ilya Rozanov, right? I’m obsessed, wait, will you sign a napkin for me?”
Shane rolled his eyes. They hadn’t said shit to him when he came in, but it was Boston. He wondered if someone spit in his coffee and that was why it tasted so bad.
Ilya was being charming, face splitting into a smile that Shane could even see in the reflection he was watching. “You’ll give me yours after, right? Only fair.”
Shane wanted to kill him. What, force Shane into a corner so he could listen to him flirt? Was this some sort of fucked up foreplay for Rozanov, some actual sincere attempt to fuck with Shane’s game?
“Don’t look now,” said the barista in a mock whisper, “But Shane Hollander is over there, we think.”
Shane pretended to perk up and turn hearing his name, giving Ilya a general nod of recognition when their eyes met.
“Oh,” said Ilya flatly, like he was less than enthused, then he leaned down and returned her mock whisper, “You didn’t ask him for his autograph too, right?”
She giggled so hard Shane was surprised she didn’t fall over, shaking her head no.
Ilya walked over to him, stuck his hand out. “Hollander,” he said. Their eyes met, and Ilya looked windswept, but his face was blank, like it always was when they saw each other in public.
“Rozanov,” Shane replied, hoping his face was less confused than he felt. He shook Ilya’s hand. He felt something cold, metal, pressed against his palm.
“Break a leg tonight,” Rozanov said, “Really.” There were a few giggles around the coffee shop, and Shane rolled his eyes. Shane shoved whatever it was in his pocket without looking, which seemed to be the right choice because Rozanov gave him the tiniest nod.
“Ilya?” The barista called, and Rozanov collected his coffee and was gone.
Shane waited around in the shop for a while, messing around on his phone, willing his heart rate back to normal. That wasn’t so bad, was it? It was less than a minute. Nothing that happened could be traced back to them, and he was supposed to be here, in Boston, to play. It was fine? It was fine.
He went to the bathroom before he left, and in the privacy of the stall he took out with Ilya had given him. A key.
A key to his house?
That’s where they hooked up whenever they were in Boston, but certainly Shane didn’t need a key? Why would he ever be there without Rozanov?
Jane: What is this?
Lily: Key 🔑
Jane: … a key to…?
Lily: My house. I have an appointment tonight after the game, I can’t move it.
Lily: Come over whenever, I’ll meet you there.
Shane sighed, hung his head. He could say like, fuck off, I’m not going to wait hours for you to be done with whatever you’re doing when I could be out celebrating with my team, but he himself well enough to know that yeah, he was. Who has an appointment at like 10 pm? Did he have like, a date? With Shane waiting at his house for him after?
Shane looked at himself in the mirror, sighing deeply. He opened his key ring and put Rozanov’s key there, next to his from his Montreal house, the cottage, his parents house, the rental houses. He felt a little thrill seeing it there. This had to be at least three tallys on the ‘SHANE HOLLANDER IS PATHETIC’ column.
***
Shane was relieved the Metros won. He didn’t think his ego could take both losing and waiting in Rozanov’s house for him to come fuck him, like, whenever.
The team had been in great spirits, always thrilled to crush Boston, even if it was less fun to go out and drink here because all the women hated them. Shane made his regular excuses, and called a car that dropped him off close enough to Rozanov’s but with some degree of plausible deniability.
The lights were off, and when he unlocked the fucking giant front door he felt like the quiet was eerie. He was pretty sure that Roz didn’t care about if his shoes were on, but he took them off anyway, for something to do.
He stood stock still in Rozanov’s kitchen. Was that weird? Was there somewhere that would be normal to wait, and somewhere crazy?
Jane: Key works.
Lily: Hope so, don’t have another with me. Don’t lock me out, Hollander. Will not be as funny as you think.
Shane snorted.
Lily: I am almost done. An hour, maybe. Don’t bore yourself to sleep.
Shane thought about asking if he could watch Rozanov’s TV, but thought better of it. Ilya would make fun of him for that for sure, for asking.
He was excited, he admitted to himself. It had been so long since they had seen each other and Shane was desperate to be touched. He could always tell he was going to be particularly needy when his showers got hotter, when he couldn’t sleep without jerking off. Touch starvation, he had read on the internet.
I could wait naked, he thought, that might be fun? But if Rozanov didn’t think that was sexy then the humiliation would actually kill Shane. A trillion tallies on the list.
He looked around, Ilya’s house was the same as usual. He hadn’t had time to take much of it in, when he was here. He came over, Ilya pressed him against the kitchen island or the couch, they fucked so hard Shane was lightheaded, he found his underwear, he left. Routine. He’s never thought about the space before. The intimacy of being in Ilya’s home. He’s never been in Shane’s house, just the demo apartment. The thought made Shane squirm, like somehow it was dirtier to let Rozanov see the quilt his grandma made him then to let him inside of him.
He poked around in the kitchen. He knew the Raiders had been home for a couple weeks. He opened Ilya’s fridge.
Bread, leftover sausages, take out containers, sauces. He clearly didn’t eat as healthy as Shane, but he was surprised to see raw fruits and veggies. Most of his teammates that weren’t married had nothing but beer and mustard. Still, nothing was earth shattering.
Shane expected to see vodka. Oh wait, he thought, and yeah, it was in the freezer. Four bottles, different labels. And Phish food ice cream? Not a hell of a lot else. Shane drummed his fingers on the table. Was this snooping?
Well, he shouldn't have left me in here. Shane thought.
He should find all this boring, but he was a little too obsessed with Rozanov. He had tins of loose tea stacked near his microwave, labels in russian. They smelled good. Shane had never seen him drink tea. He had little tea towels. He only had 3 forks.
He didn’t have a lot of kitchen stuff, this could honestly be an airbrb, but Shane did smile at a butter dish with a little bear perched on the top. Must have been a gift, he thought, house warming?
When he was finished with the kitchen he drifted into the living room. There wasn’t much here Shane hadn’t seen. Big TV, big couch, big art, none of it really said anything about Rozanov except that he was rich. A small bookshelf, most of the titles were in Russian, so Shane had no idea if they were novels or hockey strategy or what. He’d never seen Rozanov read. It looked like he had an English copy of Fight Club? So that was weird. No pictures, Shane noted.
Shane told himself it was plausible deniability if he went to the bathroom. It wasn’t snooping if he just had to pee, right? He opened the medicine cabinet.
Advil, KT tape, hair gel, and tampons. Tampons. How many girls is Ilya fucking that he keeps his bathroom stocked with tampons? Were they all on their periods? Did like most people have period sex? Shane hadn’t had period sex.
Shane pinched the bridge of his nose. He was quickly realizing that he actually didn’t know enough about periods to know if this was damning evidence of Rozanov having 1000 girlfriends or not. Maybe he could google it? But what would he even say ‘how straight does it make a man if he has tampons in his bathroom if he also has gay sex’?
Also, was that a package of new toothbrushes? Like, 7 of them! And there were two missing in the package. How many unexpected overnight guests did Rozanov have to have 7 toothbrushes? Shane hadn’t even slept here, so it stood to reason some of the other hookups didn’t either. He ran his finger down the empty shell where two of the toothbrushes were. Were these Ilya’s favorites? The ones he looked forward to the most?
This is why you shouldn’t snoop, Shane was reprimanding himself, but he saw the ajar door to Rozanov’s bedroom, and it wasn’t like he’d never been in there.
For a moment, he was overwhelmed by the domesticity of it. Rozanov lived here, in all the moments Shane wondered about. His bed was made. Because he knew Shane would be coming over? All the girls he brought home here. Slept there when he had the flu. A thousand stories and days Shane couldn’t even ask about without seeming too invested. You’re like a fan, the meanest parts of Shane’s brain spit at him.
Shane looked into the closet, just leaning in the doorway. It was huge, a walk-in, and Shane noticed that he separated his dirty workout clothes from his regular laundry, which was years ahead of the organizing he had seen of his teammates. Most of them smelled so god awful. Shane retroactively thanked his past self for picking Rozanov, who at least was always washed and groomed. It was a terrible idea to fuck his rival, but he shuddered to think about what kinds of things he could have been subjected to if he picked a different kind of 17 year old hockey boy.
Ilya had rows of nice clothes, sweaters, turtlenecks, and long coats that Shane felt like he had never seen. He remembered years ago Rozanov saying something vague about having to be more formal in Russia (in Boston people go to the store in pajamas, he had said years ago, aghast.) Maybe most of these were for game day and the summer. Shane ran his finger down the arm of a silk shirt. It was soft. For clubs, probably. He bet Rozanov would wear it with half the buttons undone, like he had seen other players do, looking like jackasses with their chests puffed up. Ilya probably looked perfect, that way. Effortless. Shane didn’t even know where you bought shirts like this.
Sometimes it felt unfair. Shane played hockey, he did endorsements, he had a secret relationship with Rozanov. But that was really all. Rozanov’s life seems so much bigger. Shane wondered what he was like in Russia, What did he wear? Wondered what he was like in a bar, what would it be like to be hit on by him, like anyone else? Wondered what he was like with his closest friends, did they call him for advice? Wondered if he was close with his brother, there were no family pictures anywhere, Shane thought again.
Well, actually. At the back of the closet was a dresser, and sitting on top was a small picture of a woman in a silver frame. Shane felt his heart drop to his stomach, but stopped the spiral quickly because the picture looked old, taken on film. The woman was beautiful, and unmistakably related to Rozanov. They had the same twinkle in their eyes. She had long blonde hair, and had sunglasses pushed up as a makeshift headband. She was laughing. She looked so happy.
She was holding a little boy in her lap who was smiling so big it looked like it would split his face in two. He looked 7, maybe 8. Shane knew Rozanov had a brother but he was sure this was Ilya, anyway. There was no missing his mole, stark on his baby cheek. He had mess of curls, was flopping over sideways, and he looked a little blurry like he wasn’t willing to sit still for the picture. His little blue eyes, his little skating jersey. And his tiny little teeth! He had a huge gap between the front two.
“That’s not where I keep the good drugs, Hollander.”
Shane visibly jumped.
“I was just…” well, he wasn’t a good liar anyway. May as well tell the truth. “This is you?”
Rozanov smiled at him, in a soft, sad way Shane wasn’t sure he had seen before. “No, random picture that came with the frame. Should throw it out.”
Shane marveled at the little snapshot, shocked to see Ilya small, that he hadn’t always been cool and confident and tall. Ilya looked like he had never been small and giggling, especially on the ice.
“You have gap teeth,” Shane observed.
Ilya frowned at him.
“They fixed it, when I got the fake ones.” He bared his teeth, tapped on his front tooth with his finger nail.
“You were so cute,” Shane said, trying not to visibly react that Rozanov was closing the distance between them. He was still wearing his coat, from the outside. “What happened?” he asked, turning to Ilya.
Ilya carefully took the picture from his hands, sliding it in a top drawer on top of folded t-shirts.
Rozanov exhaled in a half laugh. “I am not cute anymore?”
Shane looked up to meet Ilya’s eyes. He was pretty sure he wasn’t about to be kicked out for snooping, but, you know. Ilya moved him against the closet wall, bringing his mouth closer, to whisper in Shane’s ear. “You don’t like how I look, Hollander?”
Shane felt himself go bright red. He very clearly did like how Ilya looked, years of hookups worth. His dick twitched in his pants. He rolled his eyes.
Rozanov pushed him against the wall, kissing him, and something stirred in Shane’s chest hungry and eager. He felt himself devolving, Rozanov’s hand on his side, his leg, pulling him up to hold him, sliding to grab his ass -
Then he dropped him.
“I’m not fucking you in a closet, Hollander,” Ilya tossed the comment over his shoulder as he made his way to the bed, not looking to see if Shane was following, “Too… obvious.”
***
After, when Shane was broken over and damp with sweat, wondering about what a black light would show on Rozanov’s bedsheets, Rozanov turned to him.
”So,” he grinned at him, “did you find anything good, looking through my things?”
Shane rolled his eyes.
“I wasn’t - I just -“
”You are curious. You want to know if I have a Shane Hollander calendar in my closet.”
Shane glared.
“You want to see if I have a dildo too.”
“Do you?”
“Ah, so you didn’t look for very long.”
Shane sighed, too blissed out to fight being made fun of. It felt dangerous to admit, but yes, he was curious about Rozanov. He wanted to know. What good was it to pretend he didn’t?
”You have so many toothbrushes.”
Rozanov laughed. Shane turned to him, sure that he wasn’t about to volunteer information about that, he never was.
“What was your appointment?”
Rozanov scratched his nose.
“Ah, was nothing.”
Shane kept his gaze steady, didn’t ask follow-ups. Rozanov looked away, no eye contact. Shane had learned that meant it was something about Russia.
“My brother had a baby. I was setting up things for her, money, you know. I had to talk to his wife, about banks and transfer things. Was boring.”
Shane smiled at him, happy for even this small piece of him.
“Oh wow, Uncle Rozanov. I had no idea you were such a softie.”
“Uncle Rozanov! yes my… I forget the word, they both start with n?”
“Niece?”
“Yes my niece will call me by my surname. I will greet her with tiny baby handshake.”
“Tiny baby face off,” Shane supplied, “you could send her tiny baby ice skates.”
“That would be pretty cute.”
“Do you think she wants a tiny baby Metro’s jersey? You could send her Boston, but you’d be setting her up for a lifetime of disappointment with how you played tonight.”
Shane’s pants hit him squarely in the chest.
“Time to go, Hollander! So late, goodbye!”
Shane laughed, but did dutifully get dressed. Just as he was about to leave, his hand closed around the key in his pocket.
“Oh hey, you need your uh… I can leave it in the bowl?” He called to Ilya, who hadn’t left the bedroom.
Ilya padded out in his bare feet, looking like a golden god in only his boxers.
“Keep it. To finish your snooping, obviously.”
Shane felt his face go hot. He thought about protesting, that was a lot, right? A key to his house? He should say no. But something about taking Rozanov with him, something about being able to come here, if he wanted…
He nodded once, and locked the door behind him.