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The knock comes just as Shane steps out of the bathroom, then: “Hollander. Open door.”
Shane freezes, moist air spilling out into the cool dry of the hotel room.
Another knock, impatient. “Hollander. Come on. I am standing out here like idiot. Let me in.”
It's Rozanov. What the fuck has he come back for? Oh fuck, Shane's half naked - just in his towel - but -
The only thing worse than letting Rozanov back in would be someone seeing him out there.
Chain off. Open door. Step back.
Rozanov comes in, pushes the door shut behind him.
“What - ” Shane manages.
Rozanov had seemed eager enough to get in from the hall, but now that he's here, it’s like a switch has flicked and he’s back to the cat who ate the fucking cream. He smirks at Shane’s towel. “Have nice shower? Thinking of me?”
“Fuck off, Rozanov.” That response, at least, is becoming automatic.
Surely Rozanov hasn’t come back expecting - more? Another round?
No. Rozanov had been the one to mention having an early flight, Rozanov had been the one to get dressed and go right after he’d sucked Shane’s dick like a fucking professional, leaving Shane naked on the bed and trying not to have an existential crisis. Rozanov had made it clear that this whole thing was just - curiosity, for him. Which he’d now satisfied.
But. Rozanov is still just standing there, in Shane's room, smirking. Just next to where Shane had gone to his knees for him, had -
Shane swallows and forces himself to speak. “What do you want, Rozanov?”
“I have lost card thing. For my hotel room.”
Shane doesn’t move. His hands are by his sides. He doesn’t know what to do with them. Why does he still want to touch Rozanov? “Okay, so?”
“So, I couldn’t get back in to fucking room, Hollander. I think maybe it fell out of pocket. Before.”
“Before?” Jesus Christ, he sounds like a parrot. He needs to get a fucking grip.
“Yes, Hollander, before. When I took my pants off so you could suck my cock. So can I please look for it?”
Shane runs a hand reflexively through his wet hair. “Jesus - fuck. Okay. Fine.” He gestures into the room. “Be my guest.”
Rozanov exhales something in Russian and pushes past Shane. He’s still wearing that fucking ridiculous leather jacket, only now the smell of cigarettes clinging to it is stronger.
Shane can’t stop himself. “Have you been smoking?”
Rozanov is on his knees, running a hand along under the bed base. “Yes. I told you I wanted cigarette.” He glances up at Shane. “Are you going to tell me they are bad for health?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “You’re fucking bad for my health, Rozanov.”
He can’t deal with this - with Rozanov - wearing only a towel. But he also can’t imagine dropping the towel in front of Rozanov and just calmly getting dressed. Not when Rozanov hasn’t made it clear what the play here is going to be.
On the other hand, what if - what if Shane did. If he just dropped his towel. Is that a thing that a person could do, to hint that they - wanted to, again? Or would it be too much.
“Ah. Found it.” Rozanov is on his feet again, holding a keycard in his hand. His eyes rake down from Shane's wet hair, to his shoulders, to where Shane's hand is white knuckled on the towel.
Rozanov raises his eyebrows. “Will hurt yourself, holding on so tight. You are trying to protect - what is called. Virtue? Bit late for that, Hollander.”
Rozanov slides his recovered keycard into his back pocket, takes a step closer. Shane is absolutely not going to start getting turned on by the smell of cigarettes.
“What are you - “
Rozanov is touching him, hand covering Shane’s on the towel. “What am I what?”
There’s something about the way Rozanov looks at him that Shane doesn’t think he’s ever experienced before. He’s used to having people’s eyes on him, sure - his coaches, trainers on the ice; sometimes girls, at parties or at clubs - but Rozanov’s gaze is somehow heavier, more of a physical presence on his skin, like - a demand, almost. I know you want me. What are you going to fucking do about it?
“Did I say, before,” Rozanov says. Close up, he really smells like cigarettes. It’s gross. But also. “You have very nice mouth.”
“I - what?”
Then Rozanov is kissing him again. Like he has the right, like he knows Shane wants it, pushing close, a second or two with just lips, then opening, and Shane feels himself opening in response.
Kissing has often felt - obscene, for Shane, and not in a good way. Pushing his tongue into girls' mouths, or sometimes when they take the initiative and push the other way, and he can’t stop himself thinking about teeth, and tongues, and how fucking weird tongues are really, and who decided that this was sexy, anyway, sharing spit and teeth and fucking alien tongues with someone, and -
And it's not like that with Rozanov. Sure, there's a moment or two at the start where he doesn't know how to get the angle right, but then: Rozanov's hand is on his face, jaw, tilting Shane just where he wants him; Rozanov's lips, his mouth, and Shane's head goes blissfully quiet.
It's open ice, a clear shot at goal, easy as breathing. His body knows what to do without him having to micromanage every last gesture, every look, every move. What a fucking shitshow that the two things Shane Hollander's body knows how to do without overthinking are hockey, and Ilya fucking Rozanov.
“Hollander.” Rozanov has pulled back, thumb brushing over Shane’s lips. Shane’s hands are somehow back on Rozanov’s waist, under his jacket. He doesn’t remember putting them there. “Do you want to - “
Another knock on the door. Another voice. “Shane, honey? It’s mom.”
Shane stumbles away from Rozanov like he’s taken a crosscheck to the gut.
“Jesus, fuck - ”
Rozanov is looking at him expectantly.
“It’s my mom,” Shane hisses.
Rozanov raises an eyebrow. “Has she come to tuck you in?”
Another knock. “Shane? Are you there? Did you get my message about the papers?”
Rozanov opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else. Shane, on reflex, covers Rozanov’s mouth with his hand, pushing Rozanov back against the wall, and Rozanov - fucking licks Shane’s palm, Jesus.
“You’re such an asshole,” Shane whispers.
“I think you like it,” Rozanov says, muffled, and then they're just standing there, against the wall, Shane's hand on Rozanov's mouth and his mom outside the door.
Shane is rescued from having to figure out what to do next by his phone chiming on the bedside table. He takes his hand off Rozanov’s mouth, shoots Rozanov a warning look - don't fucking make a sound - and goes to check it.
Two new messages from his mom, one from like twenty minutes ago, when he'd been in the shower trying to remember how breathing worked, and one just now:
21:30:
Hi honey, can I stop by your room for a minute? I have the updated contract from Reebok printed and ready to sign.
21:50:
I just came by your room but I think maybe you were in the shower.
A new message pops up, then another:
When you see this, come down to the lounge near the lifts on your floor. Your dad is asleep so I’ve brought the laptop up to do some work.
Reebok want the contract back by tomorrow lunchtime but I’d like to get them back to them tonight if we can.
I’ll be here until maybe 10:30 if you can come down and sign it.
“Oh, fuck.”
Rozanov is still lounging against the wall, apparently unbothered. “What is problem?”
At least he's keeping his voice down. Shane does the same. “It’s my mom. She’s - she's staying in the hotel.”
“I know, I saw her before. In elevator.”
Shane's stomach does something uncomfortable. “What?”
“On way up here first time.” Rozanov rolls his eyes. “Relax, Hollander. I did not tell her I was coming to your room so you could suck my cock.”
Okay, he said that way too loud for comfort. “Keep your fucking voice down.” Rozanov just raises his eyebrows. Shane swallows. “But I mean - did she see you getting off at my floor?”
Rozanov shrugs. “No. I don't think so. I was going up, she was waiting to go down. Door opened for a minute on her floor. Is all.”
“But she definitely saw you. Recognised you.”
“Yes, I think so. She was going to introduce herself but doors closed too fast. Was very polite.”
Jesus. Shane swallows again. “Okay. But. The problem is that she’s - doing some work in the lounge down the hall, right near the lifts. On this floor.”
“Okay?”
“And she's going to. Like. Be there until half ten.”
“Okay. So?”
Shane can't believe he has to spell it out. “So you can't go out there! She can't see you coming out of my room at like ten at night!”
“Why not? What will she think is for?” Rozanov smirks. “Does she know you like to suck my cock?”
“You are the absolute fucking worst.”
“You like it.”
“I don't. Fuck off.”
“So you want me to what. Wait here until she is gone?”
“Yes!”
“Hm. Are you going to make it worth for me?” This smirk leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation.
“Rozanov. What part of my mom being down the hall are you not getting.”
“I think you can be quiet. When you have cock in your mouth.”
“Fucking - oh my god. I can't deal with this right now. I'm going to put some pants on.”
He grabs clean underwear, shorts and a t-shirt from his bag and goes into the bathroom. “Don't leave,” he tells Rozanov as he closes the door behind him.
“I have seen your dick before, Hollander, “ he hears through the door. “Was very nice, no need to hide.”
Fucking hell.
Shane feels a little better, a little more armoured when he's dressed. He allows himself two big breaths and then opens the bathroom door.
Rozanov is still there, propping up the wall. Thank fuck for that at least.
“I have idea,” Rozanov announces, as soon as Shane comes out.
“What?”
"To get your mother to go. Text her and say you have woman with you here. Then she would leave you alone, yes?”
Jesus Christ. “Fuck you Rozanov, I’m not telling my mom I’ve got a - ” he exhales heavily. A little bit of the cuticle on his left thumb is loose. He picks at it, tries to resist the urge to bring it to his mouth and bite it off. “She wouldn’t believe it anyway, she knows I wouldn’t… “
“Wouldn’t what?” Rozanov raises his ridiculous fucking eyebrows. “Hollander. She knows what? That you don’t fuck women?”
“No, you fucking - stop fucking twisting my words around, you asshole. She knows I wouldn’t - we only got in to Toronto last night and we were filming all day, where would I even - ”
“Where would you find a woman?” Rozanov shrugs, holds his hands up. “You don’t have regular woman here? I have already in New York, Boston…”
Shane tries to convey the depth of his irritation through a glare. It only seems to amuse Rozanov.
“Okay. You have not planned ahead. This is okay. You are Shane Hollander, yes? You go to any bar in city, stand there few minutes with pretty face, I bet there are three, four women already wet and ready for your dick, yes?”
Jesus. Shane manages a little jerk of his head. “No, that’s not. I mean I wouldn’t - I don’t want to find some random hook up. “
“Oh, I see.”
“See what?”
“No hook ups for Shane Hollander, golden boy. Must be true love, gazing into eyes, yes?” Rozanov snorts. “Everything must be boring for you, even sex.”
“Fuck you, Rozanov, that’s bullshit. You don’t know anything about me or what I like.”
“I know you like sucking my cock.” The way Rozanov’s mouth shapes the consonants is obscene. “I know you were so desperate to get your mouth on me you barely let me get in room before you were on your knees.” His gaze is challenging, holding Shane’s eyes for four seconds, five - then he abruptly looks away. “But is true. I don’t know anything about you with women.” He meets Shane’s eyes again. “So tell me. Is it same for you with women? You like to go down on them like you did for me?“
Shane shuts his eyes. He is not - he is not going to think about how fucking awkward it had been with his ex-girlfriend, trying to avoid having to reciprocate, trying not to feel like the complete asshole he knew he was being. “I don’t - it’s not any of your fucking business, Rozanov. Why would I tell you?”
“Come on, Hollander. We are stuck here, yes? Will pass the time.”
Shane keeps his eyes shut. But Rozanov doesn't let it go.
“Okay. I go first. I love to eat pussy. I love to fuck a woman after she’s already come on my fingers so she’s so hot and wet she - “
“Can you shut the fuck up?” Shane almost doesn't recognise his own voice.
A pause. Then, “Okay. You are no fun.”
“Nope, I'm told I'm very boring.” He consciously relaxes his jaw. The dentist says he's damaging his molars.
He hears Rozanov exhale. “So. Is not yet ten o’clock. I am stuck here with you. You don't want to fuck, you don't want to talk about fucking.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Then I need a drink.”
Rozanov is at the minibar before Shane can process, bottles clinking as he swings the fridge door open and rifles through them, pulling out one, then another.
“Fuck, Rozanov, you can’t just - ”
“Is paid for by CCM people, yes?”
“The hotel room, yeah, but - CCM are not going to pay for the entire fucking contents of the minibar, Rozanov.”
Rozanov puts the bottles down on the counter. Then, deliberately, keeping his eyes on Shane, he pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, draws out a bill, and drops it on the counter. "There. Fifty American dollars. You think is enough?”
Shane swallows. He is way out of his depth. It feels like he should stop Rozanov. But how? And it's not like people aren't allowed to drink in hotel rooms.
Rozanov is already opening the bottles, tipping - vodka? Something colourless, anyway - into one of the hotel glasses. He goes back to the fridge for the ice tray, pulls a face but drops a couple of cubes into the glass.
“You want drink, Hollander?”
Shane is very certain that him drinking alcohol around Rozanov is a bad idea. “Uh, I guess I'll have a ginger ale? Please.”
Shane half expects Rozanov to make a snide comment, but he doesn't, just finds a can of Canada Dry and hands it to Shane. It feels a little like a peace offering.
“Okay, what now?” Rozanov says when they've both got drinks in hand.
Right. They probably can't stand here in silence drinking at each other for half an hour.
“I'll, uh. See what's on TV?”
Shane grabs the remote, sits on the bed and shuffles back until he's propped against the headboard. He tries not to think about how the last time he's been in that position he'd been naked and Rozanov had just swallowed his come.
Rozanov is still standing. He raises his eyebrows at Shane. “You are not going to offer me seat? Where are manners, Hollander?”
Shane nods across the room. “You can take the chair.” He can't deal with Rozanov on the bed with him right now.
Rozanov looks at the chair over by the desk, looks at Shane in the middle of the bed, and rolls his eyes. Then he grabs the back of the chair and drags it across the room, chair legs leaving trails in the carpet. Obviously he couldn't just lift it like a normal person.
“Okay,” Rozanov says. “What are we watching?” He strips off his jacket and settles himself in the chair.
Shane is already flicking through the channels. Hotel info channel, the news - too boring even for him. The sports network is showing baseball, though, and that's worse. Then he finds a nature documentary, a pride of lions stalking antelope or something, and figures that's probably safe.
“David Attenborough. Okay?”
Rozanov shrugs but doesn't complain. Shane takes a sip of his ginger ale and tries to relax, tries to focus on the documentary.
He manages a few seconds before stealing another glance at Rozanov. Rozanov seems occupied by the TV. He's got his vodka in one hand. He's fiddling with that chain he always wears with the other, and as Shane watches he absentmindedly brings it to his mouth. Shane forces his eyes back to the TV.
Okay. This is fine. They can just do this until it's safe for Rozanov to go. This is good. Shane takes another sip of his ginger ale.
It stays fine for maybe two more minutes. Then the documentary changes to a group of baboons. Attenborough is describing the social hierarchy - Shane wonders how much of the narration is going over Rozanov's head - and then he's talking about how the males, like, fight for dominance, and then he starts talking about how the males know the female baboons are interested when their asses swell up. The screen is showing a big old dude baboon chasing after a female baboon with a giant, swollen, bright red ass, and going for it while the female baboon squeals, and oh my god this is worse than watching TV with his parents when a sex scene comes on.
Shane feels his own face go bright red. He risks a glance at Rozanov, who is - not looking at the TV at all, but right at Shane, with the most delighted grin on his face.
“What?” Shane says, stupidly.
“Your face!” Rozanov says, and he looks so happy, and - and younger, somehow, huge smile, eyes crinkled up, that it brings the weirdness of the whole situation crashing in. Here he is sitting in a hotel room in Toronto with his hockey arch rival, whose dick he sucked not an hour ago, hiding from his mom, drinking ginger ale and watching baboons have sex. How is this his life.
He rolls his eyes but can't stop the smile that pulls at his lips. “Fuck off, Rozanov.”
“You are blushing so much!”
“How are you not.”
Rozanov shrugs. “Never in life have I blushed. Russians do not do this.”
Shane can believe it. “Seriously, fuck off.” But. Okay. Since they're not even pretending to watch the documentary any more, maybe Shane can ask the question that's been bothering him all evening. “Hey. Rozanov. You said before, when we were on the ice today, that it was - it was your idea to do the commercial together.”
“Da. Yes.”
“Why?”
Rozanov looks at Shane. “Why did I have good idea?”
Right. When he puts it like that it does seem like a dumb question. “I mean - yeah. I guess.”
“Because I am very smart, Hollander. You should thank me.”
“Fuck off.”
A shrug. God, Rozanov is built, his shoulders are ridiculous. Not that Shane is looking. “Because is fucking boring otherwise, no? All day is stand like this, hold stick like this, skate this way, look in camera. Boring.”
“Okay. Sure.” He makes himself continue. “But - did you ask to do the commercial with me because you were planning to, like… ” suck my dick, “Come to my room? After?”
“Not planning. Wondering, maybe. I already said, Hollander. I was curious.” He looks directly at Shane. “I was pretty sure you were curious too.”
And there's the problem right there. Shane swallows down the sick feeling in his throat. “Right. Because, uh. Was there - something that I did, so you could tell. Before what happened in the showers, I mean. That I.”
“That you would go on your knees for me and suck my cock like you were starving man?”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay, okay. No, I could not tell. Not for sure.”
Shane makes himself nod. “Okay. That's good.*
“But,” Rozanov says. Fuck. “On TV, they are always saying about you that you have - what do they call it. That you are smart on the ice, you have high - ” He snaps his fingers.
“Oh. Uh. Hockey IQ?”
“Da. That is it. That you know where other players will be, where puck will be, what best play will be. Like that.”
Shane has no idea where Rozanov is going with this. “Yeah, sure. So?”
“So is like that for me, with - ” Rozanov waves his hand between them. “With people. With sex. I am good at it. I know what best play will be. I set it up, I score.” Rozanov winks.
Jesus fucking Christ, Rozanov is an asshole. Shane would wish that there was literally anyone else in the world he could ask about this, but - well. He's only sucked one dick. “Do you think other people can…”
Rozanov’s attention is apparently back on the TV. “Can what, Hollander?”
“Tell? About me?”
A brief glance. “Is something to tell?”
“You know what I mean.”
A longer look this time. Then Rozanov shrugs. “Not everybody is as good on ice as you, yes? And not everybody can tell people like me. Is gift I share with world.” A swallow of vodka. A smirk. “Like my cock.”
“Oh my god, fuck off.” Shane rolls his eyes again. He's going to need glasses after tonight, his eye muscles are getting such a workout. “Whatever. Let’s just - watch TV until it’s safe for you to leave. Okay?”
They manage that for about two more minutes. At least there are no more baboons - now it's some kind of bird who does fancy dances to attract a mate. Then Rozanov says, “Hollander.”
Don't engage. Don't engage. “Yeah?”
“Remember this afternoon in showers, when you got hard just looking at me?”
“Fuck off, Rozanov.” It's definitely an automatic response now, but Jesus. Was that really only this afternoon? This has possibly been the longest day of Shane's life. “I did not get - "
“Hollander,” Rozanov cuts him off. “Remember you are bad liar. Also, I was there.”
“Fuck. Off.”
“I don't think you want me to do that. Not with your mother waiting in hallway. Anyway, I was thinking.” He has his vodka glass dangling from one hand, the other tucked into the waistband of his jeans, relaxed, comfortable like he’s sitting in his own living room. “I bet I can do again.”
“Do what?”
“Get you hard, Hollander. No hands.” He raises his eyebrows.
Shane shakes his head. “No. No, you're fucking - no. I told you, my mom is right down the hall.”
“And we would not be touching each other. We will just be sitting, not even on same bed. Very polite. Very - what do you call it, like in movies. G-rated.”
“No way, Rozanov. No.”
“Come on. What is harm? Will pass the time.”
“We can watch TV to pass the time.”
“Holl-an-der.” Rozanov sounds like an overgrown toddler. “TV is boring.”
“Then I'll change the channel.”
“Ahh. I see.” Rozanov leans back in the chair. “You don't think you can do it. I am too sexy for you. Is okay, is not your fault.”
Christ, how is Rozanov so annoying. “That's not why - that's not the problem.”
“Then what is problem?”
“It's a stupid idea.”
“No, is not, because I do not have stupid ideas. That is your job, like your idea that we should watch TV and not fuck.”
Shane grits his teeth, says nothing.
The ice cubes clink in Rozanov's glass as he swirls it in his hand. “But, maybe you say no because I have not told you best part yet.”
Shane is aware that he’s going to regret asking this, but. “Okay, Rozanov. What’s the best part?”
“First I tell you boring part, maybe you think is best. If you win, we do whatever you want. Sit here and watch boring television with clothes on. Whatever.”
Why is it not a relief to hear Rozanov say that? “I mean - okay. Great. Sounds good.”
“You are wrong again,” Rozanov says. “It sounds bad. But real best part will be when I win.” Rozanov leans forward like he's sharing a secret. “Because when I win, I'll suck your cock.”
Shane blinks. “What? That doesn't - I think you mean if you win, you want me to do - that - to you.”
Rozanov looks far too pleased with himself. Too late, Shane realises he wasn't going to engage. “No, I mean what I say. When I win - when I get you hard from over here, no hands, then I'll suck your cock.”
Shane absolutely can't pretend, even to himself, that he doesn't want Rozanov's mouth on him again. But it can't be that easy.
“But.” Rozanov says.
And here we go. “But what?”
“While I am sucking your cock, I am not going to let you come until I have my finger in your ass. And you are going to ask me for it with pretty mouth and nice manners.”
Shane's eyes go straight to Rozanov's hands. He swallows. Nice hands, probably. But - large hands, with big fingers.
“Have any nice Canadian girls ever played with your ass, Hollander?”
He can't speak. He shakes his head.
“So boring. Don't worry, is okay. I am very good with my hands. Have made many people come on my fingers.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Mm. You are blushing again, Hollander.”
“I just - how can you just say those things?”
“Is just sex. Is no big deal.”
“Yeah well. Maybe it is to me.”
“Always you make things complicated. Does not have to be. We are just like monkeys, no?”
Rozanov nods at the TV. The birds are gone now too and it’s showing whales, or dolphins or something. “We are made to fight, to fuck. Why not do this?”
Shane shakes his head a little, looks blindly toward the window.
“Come on, Hollander.” The toddler is back. “Are you monkey or chicken?”
Shane is not going to let it get to him. “I'm not a fucking chicken, Rozanov, just because I don't think with my dick all the time.”
“Chi-i-icken,” Rozanov taunts softly. “Ko-ko-ko.”
Shane snorts, looks back at Rozanov. “What the fuck was that?”
“What was what?”
“That noise - ko ko or whatever.”
Rozanov shrugs. “Is chicken noise.”
“In Russian, maybe.”
“Da, in Russian. Is language I speak.”
“Well the Russian chicken noise is stupid.”
“What, you think Canadian chicken noise is better? What does Canadian chicken say? Sorry sorry?”
“Fuck off.”
“Not very polite, Hollander.” Rozanov takes a drink. “Now you are being rude as well as chicken. Canada is disappointed in you. I am disappointed in you.”
“You are such an asshole, Rozanov.”
“Maybe, but at least I am not chicken.”
“You're really not going to let this go, are you.”
Rozanov shrugs. “You won't let me have other fun, so. No.”
The problem is - and Rozanov has probably figured this out about Shane somehow, through his fucking genius people IQ or whatever - that Shane is no good at turning down a challenge.
And - well. All Shane has to do here is not get hard, right? And then Rozanov will stop pushing and they can just sit here until it's safe for Rozanov to go.
And if Shane did lose, by some bad luck or whatever, then Rozanov will suck his dick again. Also, yes, Rozanov will stick a finger in his ass. Fuck. But Shane is just - not going to think about that. Visualise the win.
He blows out a breath. “Okay. So. If we do this, like - what are the terms.”
“Terms?”
“Terms of the bet. I mean - you stay in your chair, right? We don't touch. And - we both keep clothes on.”
Rozanov gestures at Shane's pants. “Then how will I tell when I have won?”
“I'm not going to sit here with my dick out while we play your stupid game!”
“You have underwear, yes?”
Shane swallows. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Then you take pants off, leave underwear on. But Hollander.”
“What?”
“You have to keep eyes open. No cheating. Agreed?”
“This is such a bad idea.”
“Good. Pants off.”
Shane tips his head back and downs the last quarter of his drink. He sets the empty can on the bedside table.
Rozanov has put his vodka down too. He lounges back in the chair and watches while Shane awkwardly strips his pants off and folds them to the side, then settles back against the pillows.
“Comfortable, Hollander?’
“I mean, I guess.” Shane folds his hands in his lap, but Rozanov shakes his head.
“Hands by sides. So I can see.”
“Fine.” Shane clenches his fists by his sides. “Get on with it.”
“Mm, what is hurry? You have somewhere to be?”
Rozanov really does look like he has all the time in the world, running one hand over his chest, open-palmed, the other arm crooked behind his head.
“Have you ever done?” he asks, conversationally.
“Done what?”
“Touch yourself. For someone to watch.”
Shane manages a tiny shake of his head.
“Mm. You are missing out.”
Shane could never. The idea of putting on a show like this for someone is mortifying. “I don't think so.”
“You are wrong again.”
Slouched back in the chair in his ripped jeans and tank top, Rozanov looks like a model. Shane has never in his life thought about clothing beyond is it comfortable? Not gonna draw attention to me? but even he might be swayed by Rozanov looking like this on a billboard. Or he might crash his car. Either way.
Rozanov holds Shane's gaze as he slowly pushes two fingers into his mouth. His cheeks hollow as he sucks on them, then he draws them out and starts playing with his nipple through his tank top.
“Are you sensitive here, Hollander?”
“I - uh. I don't know.” He remembers earlier, though, when Rozanov sucked him off, how Rozanov had kept touching his chest, thumbing his nipple, how the whole thing had been so hot.
“I think maybe you are. I would like to put my mouth on you again. Here,” Rozanov swaps to the other side, “and here.” He pinches a little, rolling the nipple through the fabric. “Mm. Feels good. When I don't want to play hockey any more I think maybe I get piercing.”
“Like - of your nipple?” Fuck.
“Yes. Would be hot, I think.”
Rozanov releases his nipple and slides his hand down his abs to the flick open the button of his jeans.
It jolts Shane out of his daze. “Wait, that's not - you can't take your pants off!”
“Who is taking off, Hollander?”
Button by button Rozanov opens his jeans. He's got underwear on, it's not like Shane can really see anything, but - his shirt has ridden up a little, Shane can see his lower abs, the dip next to his hipbones, and Rozanov is still watching Shane, gaze hot on his skin, while he runs the tip of his thumb just under the band of his underwear. Fuck, why is that so hot.
Shane shuts his eyes in self defence.
“Hollander. You are cheating.”
“I just need a second.”
“Open eyes, Hollander.”
Fuck. He forces them open. Rozanov's big hand is moving in the gap in his jeans, cupping and squeezing his dick. Rozanov lets out a breath, not quite a moan but unbearably hot all the same, and slides down a little in the chair, spreading his legs. “Ah. Is better.” He takes his hand out of his pants, runs it back up his torso to the side of his neck, tips his head back. His other hand is working his chest again.
Now Shane can see the shape of Rozanov's dick through his underwear. Fuck. Shane thought it was just a stupid saying, that someone's mouth would actually water at the thought of sucking a dick. Joke's on him.
Rozanov's hand is back in his pants, another squeeze. When he moves it away, the bulge is bigger than before.
Maybe, in another universe, there's a Shane Hollander brave enough to go down on his knees for it right now, press his face into Rozanov's underwear, put his mouth on it until the fabric is wet.
Maybe, in that universe, Rozanov would let him, would thread his fingers through Shane's hair and hold him there, take out his cock and let Shane taste it, feed it to him, push deep and fuck Shane's mouth, use him -
“Hollander.”
He drags his eyes back to Rozanov's face. Rozanov's smirk. “I win.”
Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck.
“I'm not - ” Shane blurts, but - he undeniably is. “And anyway, you cheated, you - ”
“You are not sore loser, are you?”
Rozanov stands up, jeans still hanging open. At least he's hard too, and breathing a little fast. At least Shane isn't the only one making a fool of himself. “Come here, Hollander.”
“No, you come here.”
“No, you come here.”
Shane's body hasn't gotten the message about preserving his remaining shreds of dignity. He's on his feet and moving to meet Rozanov in a filthy, open mouthed kiss. They're pressed together and Shane can feel Rozanov's dick against his own through their underwear.
Fuck, Rozanov is a good kisser. Shane makes himself pull back before he does something stupid like go to his knees again.
“You taste like an ashtray.” He wishes he didn't sound so breathless.
Rozanov thumbs at the corner of Shane's mouth. “You lick ashtrays?”
“No! What?”
“Then how do you know.”
Rozanov pulls him back in and kisses him again, one hand on the back of Shane's neck, the other running down the back of Shane's t-shirt, then further, pressing over his underwear, into the cleft of Shane's ass, one fingertip brushing over Shane's hole.
Shane rocks away from it instinctively, then back onto his heels, breaks the kiss and presses his face into Rozanov's shoulder. He's sure he's gone bright red.
“You ever touch yourself here?” Rozanov says into Shane's ear. He strokes over Shane's hole again.
Shane shakes his head.
“Don't worry. You will like it.” Rozanov pulls back and pats Shane on the hip. “Get your lube, yes? And lie down on bed.”
Shane blinks. “Get my - what?”
“Lube, Hollander.”
“I don't - I don't have any.”
Rozanov frowns. “You don't have lube.”
“No!” What planet does Rozanov live on. “I'm on a business trip with my parents to shoot a hockey commercial. Why would I bring lube.”
Rozanov shrugs. “For sex? For jerking off?”
Shane gives him a look. “Some of us can go forty eight hours without getting off, Rozanov.”
“Sure, I can also. But why would I do this.” Rozanov raises an eyebrow at Shane. “Maybe is why you are so tense all the time, yes?”
“Fuck off. Anyway, we can just - whatever. Can't you use spit or something?”
“Will be first time playing with ass?”
Shane looks away. “Yeah, I already said.”
“So. Is better with lube.” Rozanov frowns for a minute, then nods. “Okay. You wait here. I will go get from my room.”
Shane's throat goes tight. “But you can't - I mean - my mom is -
“Hollander. Look at time. Is almost 11. I think she is gone by now.”
Fuck. Is it?
Shane grabs his phone off the nightstand. It's gone to night mode without his realising, and there's a text from his mom timestamped 2235: Sorry I didn't catch you, honey. Hope everything is OK. Don't forget we'll need to leave for the airport by 8. We'll meet you at 7:45 in the lobby.
When he looks up, Rozanov has done his jeans up, put his jacket on. His eyes are on Shane.
“So? Is - how do you say. Coast is clear?”
Shane manages a nod.
“Okay. Then I am going to get lube.” He holds Shane's eyes for another long moment, then seems to come to a decision. He sticks his hand out, flaps his fingers against his palm. “Give me card for door, Hollander.”
“What?” Shane blinks. “I thought you found it.”
“Not my card, Hollander. Yours.”
“Why do you need my keycard?”
“So you do not chicken out and decide you will not let me back in.”
“I wouldn’t - I fucking told you, I’m not a chicken.”
Rozanov's eyebrows go up, but his hand doesn't move.
“Fine. Whatever,” Shane says. He gets his keycard off the console table, slaps it into Rozanov's hand. “There.”
Rozanov nods. “Okay. I will come back. Five minutes. You will wait here.”
The door closes with a soft click behind him. Shane forces himself to take a deep breath in, hold it, blow it out. The room seems larger with Rozanov gone, air suddenly thinner. He runs a hand through his hair.
Holy shit. Holy shit.
Okay.
Okay. He just has to -
Okay.
He turns the TV off, but then it's so quiet he can hear his own breathing, too fast, a little panicked maybe. He turns the TV back on but dials the volume down. Attenborough can talk to himself for a bit.
He puts his ginger ale can in the bin. Rozanov didn't finish his drink, and Shane doesn't want to waste it, even though the ice is mostly melted, so he leaves it. Maybe Rozanov will want to finish it, after they - well. After.
He turns some lights off, and on again. Then he thinks maybe he should do something with the bed, so he folds the top covers down, exposing the sheets. They probably don't wash the bedspreads in hotels anyway, it's kind of gross to lie on them naked, so.
He's trying to figure out if he should get naked again himself - is Rozanov expecting to find him, like, lying in bed ready and waiting? - when he hears the click, beep of the keycard in the door, and Rozanov is back. The room shrinks again. Rozanov comes through the entryway, past Shane, and shrugs a bag off his shoulder onto the chair.
“You brought a bag,” Shane blurts out. Is it, like, an overnight bag?
But Rozanov raises his eyebrows at Shane. “You prefer I meet your mother in elevator again while holding lube?”
“No, of course not, but.” Shane has, like, a little bottle of lube at home for jerking off that he keeps in his bedside drawer, tucked under a box of tissues. It would easily fit into the pocket of Rozanov's stupid jacket. Now, he watches blankly as Rozanov pulls out a bottle bigger than Shane's fucking shampoo and sets it on the bedside table. It's like a half litre. How much sex does Rozanov have? He feels a hysterical laugh bubble out of him. “Do you think that'll be enough?”
“You are very funny, Hollander.”
Rozanov is stripping his jacket off, draping it over the back of his chair, then his tank top. He toes off his shoes, bends over to pull off his socks.
Shane is still just standing there like an idiot. He takes a breath, shakes himself. It's - this is Rozanov's show, right? Since Rozanov won the bet. So Shane can just - let Rozanov take the lead. “So, uh. Where do you want me?”
Rozanov nods toward the bed. “Take clothes off. Get on the bed.”
Okay. Shane can do that. He takes off his underwear, his t-shirt, folds them and puts them with his suitcase. It's a little cold in here but not too bad, not enough for goosebumps. He makes himself sit down on the bed, swing his legs around so he's resting against the pillows, knees bent a little. His dick is just - lying there against his thigh. He has a ridiculous urge to cover himself, but resists, fists his hands by his sides instead.
Fortunately Rozanov doesn't leave him there for long. It's absolutely not fair how Rozanov can move so smoothly with how big he is, can look so good crawling his way, naked, up and over Shane on the bed, bracketing Shane's head with his hands on the headboard.
Shane's mouth is dry. Rozanov is just looking at him, not moving. “Uh. Hi?” Shane tries.
Rozanov huffs a laugh. His breath smells a little minty, now, layered over the smoke from earlier. Did he clean his teeth? “Hello, Hollander.” Rozanov shifts his weight to one side, frees a hand, runs a thumb over Shane's cheekbone.
Shane swallows. “What are you, uh. Doing?”
Rozanov shrugs a shoulder. “Nothing. Looking.” He thumbs over the other cheekbone. “You know you have most freckles I have ever seen on a man? Is pretty.”
“Fuck you.” Shane's caged in by Rozanov's arms, his legs, and Rozanov has fifty pounds on him at least, but Shane tries to get out anyway, rolling to the side. Rozanov doesn't let him, tightens his knees on the side of Shane's hips.
“Hey, hey.” Rozanov’s whole hand is on the side of Shane's face now, guiding him back, turning him to face Rozanov. Shane keeps his eyes shut, a tiny rebellion. “I did not say pretty is bad thing.”
“Can we just - get on with it?”
“Where is romance, Hollander? Staring into eyes?”
“Rozanov.”
“Okay, okay.”
The casually possessive way Rozanov holds Shane's jaw while he kisses him should probably not be doing it for Shane as much as it is. But Rozanov is so confident, puts Shane where he wants him and just takes, and fuck, Shane's hard again after like a minute of kissing, even though ninety percent of his brain is still occupied with deer-in-the-headlights terror. The longer Rozanov kisses him, the less he can remember why he should be afraid.
Rozanov's hand finds Shane's dick and starts to jack him slowly. It's dry, too loose, obviously a tease and not really trying to get Shane off. It's an effort not to fuck up into it, to put his own hand over Rozanov's, make it tighter, make him move.
Rozanov's mouth moves from Shane's down to his neck, over his collarbone to his left nipple, then his right, and then Rozanov is asking, “Is okay?”
“Yeah?” Why did Shane make that a question. “I mean - yeah. It's okay.”
Rozanov’s teeth graze his nipple. “You want more?
“Yeah - yes.”
Rozanov makes a self-satisfied little noise and sits back, reaching for the lube on the nightstand. Lube he's going to use to - oh, fuck. Hello, terror, my old friend.
“Wait, wait.” Shane rolls out from under Rozanov, off to the side, gets his feet on the floor.
“What is problem?”
“I’m just.” He should probably explain but he's having difficulty with words right now, so he just goes, ducks into the bathroom, grabs a towel off the rail. As he turns to leave he can't meet his eyes in the mirror, but he catches a glimpse of his chest, flushed, blotchy.
Breathe. People put things up their asses all the time for fun. So. It must feel good, right?
When he leaves the bathroom he finds Rozanov on his back on the bed, legs spread, casually stroking his hard dick.
Shane stops dead. Rozanov raises an eyebrow. “What? You have problem?”
“No, I just wanted to put down a - ” he holds the towel out like an offering. “Uh. So the sheets don't get - ”
Rozanov snorts. “Only you would be worried about messing up sheets in hotel, Hollander.”
“I have to sleep here! And you brought a literal gallon of lube, so - ”
“Okay, okay. Put down your boring sex towel, Hollander.”
Rozanov moves over, and Shane awkwardly spreads the towel out, then gets back on the bed. He tries to mimic Rozanov's easy pose, lets his legs splay out to the side a little.
But that was a mistake, because now Rozanov is crawling up between Shane's legs, using his big hands to push Shane's legs up and apart, pressing kisses to the inside of Shane's thighs. And Shane is so fucking exposed, balls and ass out in the air right in front of Rozanov's face. Fuck, how do people do this? He can feel Rozanov's breath on his asshole. Shane covers his eyes with his forearm, tries to breathe.
“Hollander.” A kiss to his left thigh, graze of teeth over the tendon, drawn taut. “Hollander.”
“What?”
“You are freaking out.”
“No I'm not.”
“You are bad liar. Hollander. Listen. I do only what you ask for. Okay?”
Well. That's - reassuring. But also - there's no way Shane is ever going to be able to ask for Rozanov to stick his fingers in Shane's ass, so. He hopes Rozanov is ready to be disappointed. Shane is absolutely not going to be disappointed when it doesn't happen, it's just -
It's just that he's not been able to get the idea out of his head. But whatever.
“Okay.” He forces another breath, forces himself to relax his legs. “Okay.”
“Okay,” Rozanov echoes. “Good.” And then he just - doesn't do anything. Well, his hands are still busy holding Shane's legs up, and he goes back to mouthing over Shane's abs, and kissing where his thigh meets his groin, and like - breathing over Shane's dick, but. Nothing else.
Shane holds out as long as he can, but the waiting is killing him.
“Rozanov.”
“Mm?” Rozanov looks up, meets Shane's eyes.
“Come on.”
“Come on what, Hollander?” He mumbles it into Shane's upper thigh, words buzzing against his skin.
“You're so fucking annoying. Come on.” Shane puts a hand in Rozanov’s hair, tries to guide his mouth toward Shane's dick, but Rozanov ducks away, grins up at him.
“Is something you want, Hollander?”
“You know what I want.”
“Mm. I can guess. But I want to hear you ask.”
Shane lets his head drop back. Closes his eyes, so he can get the words out. “Suck my dick, Rozanov.”
“Ask nicely, Hollander. Where is manners?”
Jesus. Shane squeezes his eyes shut tighter. “Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please suck my dick, Rozanov. Please.”
“Okay. Since you ask so nicely.”
He doesn't take Shane in his mouth right away, though - instead he guides Shane's hands to replace his grip on Shane's knees, so that Shane is now voluntarily displaying his own ass to Rozanov. That would be unbearably mortifying except that Rozanov is finally, finally putting that obnoxious mouth of his on Shane's dick, and oh fucking hell, it's just as mind-blowing as it was the first time.
“Oh my god. Oh fuck. Rozanov.”
Rozanov really is insanely good at this, is the problem. It can't be more than thirty seconds before Shane feels himself getting close, and Rozanov doesn't break rhythm, just sucks Shane down again and again, and is Shane supposed to warn him? Rozanov said he didn't mind swallowing last time, but it still feels rude to just go for it so Shane gasps out, “Fuck, oh f- fuck, Rozanov, I'm going to - “
And Rozanov just - stops. Lets Shane's dick fall out of his mouth, slapping wetly against Shane's stomach, so fucking close, so close that the movement almost has Shane coming without anything else touching him -
And Rozanov is smirking up at him like the smug asshole he is. He's not even out of breath.
“Yes, Hollander?” he asks. “You are going to what?”
“Jesus fuck,” Shane manages. “Oh my god. What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Rozanov says. “What are you doing?”
“I was about to - ”
“Yes, but you are not allowed to come yet,” Rozanov says, all seriousness. “That was not the deal.”
It's not that Shane had forgotten or anything, but, “Fuck off, Rozanov.”
“And leave you like this?” Rozanov runs the back of one finger along the length of Shane's dick, just enough to make Shane shiver. “I said before, I would not do that.”
“Then put your fucking mouth back on me!”
“Ah. But then you will come. And you are not ready to come yet.”
“I fucking am.”
“No, not yet.” Rozanov holds Shane's gaze, leans down and - and sucks one of Shane's balls into his mouth, for a second, oh my god, and then runs a - fingertip? A knuckle? - around Shane's asshole. “You have not asked me nicely to fuck you here.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, I will fuck you, with my fingers. When you ask nicely.” Another circle of his hole. “Are you ready to ask nicely?”
“Oh my god. No. And don't you need - lube, anyway?”
“Ah, yes. Good idea.” Rozanov sits up to get the bottle, and Shane takes the opportunity to regain some dignity by dropping his legs.
“Oh, are your arms tired already, Hollander?”
“What?”
“Should spend more time in gym. Here.” Rozanov is back crouching between Shane's legs. He taps his own shoulders. “Put legs over shoulders. I can take.”
“What the fuck?”
But Rozanov is lifting Shane's legs for him, just putting him where he wants him. Shane finds himself pretzeled up with his ankles hooked around Rozanov's back, and then Rozanov is -
“Oh, f- fuck.”
Rozanov is licking and dragging his mouth along Shane's dick like it's a fucking lollipop, but at the same time he's - Jesus - running a lube-slick thumb in slow circles around Shane's hole, not pressing in, but Shane can imagine how Rozanov might just - push a little harder, next time round, or the next, and how Shane’s body would just give under the pressure, Rozanov’s thumb sliding inside, and how Shane might actually want him to. The light touches of Rozanov's mouth on his dick aren't enough, not really, but together with the idea of Rozanov pushing in, of Rozanov fucking him, if Shane can just -
And then Rozanov stops again, mouth and hands leaving Shane's body in the same moment, and sits up a little, every inch the self-satisfied asshole.
“How are you doing, Hollander? Ready to use manners?”
Shane puts his forearm back over his eyes. He can feel his heartbeat in his dick. His poor, frustrated dick.
“Rozanov. Genuine question.”
“Yes?”
“How have you not been murdered yet?”
“No one wants to murder me, Hollander.” Rozanov's not touching Shane's dick, but he is back to touching Shane's hole, endless slick circles of not-enough. “Because I am good hockey player. Also excellent lover.”
“Please don't use that word, Rozanov.”
“What word?” Rozanov leans up, breathes over Shane's lips, “Lover?”
“You're such an asshole.”
“And you have such a nice asshole. We make good pair, yes?”
“No. Yes. I - I don't know. Jesus.”
Rozanov kisses him, tongue fucking into Shane's mouth, pulls back. “You want me to fuck you with my fingers, Hollander?”
“Rozanov.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Rozanov.”
Rozanov presses a messy, open mouthed kiss to the head of Shane's dick. “Yes, Hollander?”
Shane is going to die of sexual frustration in this hotel room.
Or, he could just. Say it.
“Please.”
Another kiss.
“Please what?”
“Please, uh.” Fuck me? No. “Please put your finger in me?”
“You are terrible at sex talk, Hollander.”
“You told me to say it!”
But he can hear the click of the lube cap, and Rozanov's fingers are cold again on his hole. “Breathe, okay?” Rozanov says, and then he’s -
Oh. Oh, fuck. Is that really only Rozanov's finger? It feels fucking huge.
“Hollander. You are not breathing.”
He'd been prepared for it to hurt but it doesn't. It just feels weird and his instinct is to kind of push it out. It's not bad, but it's overwhelming and not - not hot.
He realises he has actually been holding his breath. He lets it out on a long exhale, takes a deep breath and lets it out again. “Fuck. Okay. I'm breathing. Why do people like this?”
“Wait, Hollander. I make you feel good.”
He takes Shane's dick into his mouth. Shane's gone a little soft, but Rozanov is still good at this, and Shane is hard again in a few seconds. It's a welcome distraction from his ass, and then Rozanov does something with his finger that sets Shane's body on fire.
“Ah, fucking - what is that?” He wants to crawl out of his skin to get away from the feeling, and also for it to never stop. “Oh, f-fuck. Fuck.”
“Hollander. Is good?”
“Yeah - I don't know. I think so? Holy shit.”
He can feel Rozanov's finger moving in him, gentle pulses, setting off those weird sparks like nothing Shane's ever felt before. It feels like he's about to come but everywhere, instead of just in his dick. And the feeling just drags on because it's too much and not enough at the same time, not enough to push him over the edge.
“Fuck. Can you - ” Shane manages, and Rozanov must think Shane is asking for his mouth again, because he gets the base of Shane's dick in his other hand and goes down on him, tongue swirling around the head. It's good, it's really fucking good, and Shane is almost - almost - he’s like a wind up toy, every pulse of Rozanov's fingers twisting him tighter, but something is still missing, he can't -
He hears himself gasp out a desperate, frustrated noise. “Can you - more.”
Rozanov doesn't take his mouth off Shane's dick, but he does look up and meet Shane's eyes, questioning. Shane swallows and nods.
Thank fuck Rozanov doesn't make him spell it out any clearer, just slicks up another finger, traces Shane's rim for a second and then -
“Ah. Fuck, fuck, fucking - ” His back is arching off the bed as he tries to mindlessly grind down on Rozanov's fingers and up into Rozanov's mouth at the same time. The stretch is back, an edge of intensity that he had been missing. He can't get away from it no matter how he tries. Rozanov's fingers are heavy in him, anchoring, and Rozanov is sucking him down deeper until Shane must be hitting the back of his throat, Christ. Rozanov swallows around him, twists his fingers out, pushes in again, inexorable, irresistible, and Shane -
Shane comes down Rozanov's throat without even warning him. It feels wrung out of him, longer and more intense than usual, almost painful as he empties himself into Rozanov's mouth.
“Holy shit. Om my god. I'm so sorry.”
“Mmph. Is ok,” Rozanov says, sitting back and wiping his mouth on the back of his forearm, and he doesn't look pissed so maybe he genuinely didn't mind Shane coming unannounced down his throat.
Now Rozanov is sliding his fingers out, and Jesus that's a weird feeling. Shane doesn't have enough brain left to process any further. His legs are boneless, jelly. He lets them fall off Rozanov's shoulders to the side as Rozanov sits back on his heels. Rozanov is rock hard, dick flushed and Shane would really like to do something about that, he genuinely would, but he's not even sure he can sit up right now.
He doesn't get a chance to offer. Rozanov is already taking care of himself, kneeling up over Shane, hand moving hard and fast over his dick, slick sounds from the lube. Rozanov's face is flushed, hair wild from Shane's fingers, so fucking hot that Shane's poor spent dick manages a little twitch.
“Hollander.” Rozanov's voice is rough. “Can I come on you?”
Shane nods. “Yeah.” He's feeling wild himself, untethered, and licks his lips. “Come on, Rozanov. Do it.”
And Rozanov does. His come face is a thing of beauty. Objectively ridiculous, of course, because probably all come faces are, but - Shane has seen it twice now and the satisfaction of making Rozanov lose control surpasses everything.
The reality of having Rozanov's come splattered all over his belly is maybe less sexy in reality than in theory, though. Gross. Rozanov has collapsed on his side, breathing heavily. Shane gets himself together enough to grab a corner of the towel and wipe most of the come off his chest.
“Told you,” Rozanov mumbles.
Of course Rozanov can't stop being a smug asshole for even two minutes. Shane sighs. “Told me what?”
Rozanov leans over and plants an obnoxious smacking kiss on Shane's forehead, apparently recovered already. “Told you I have best ideas.” He leans back, then looks at his hand and pulls a face. “I need to wash.”
Shane would blush if he had any blood left in his head. Yeah. Because those fingers were in his ass.
“I, uh. Probably should wash up too.”
Rozanov nods toward the bathroom. “You want to go first?”
“No, that's ok. I - uh. Not sure my legs are working yet.”
Rozanov shrugs. “Okay.” He hops off the bed and strolls into the bathroom, totally unbothered as usual about being naked.
Shane hears the water start running. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes. Shit. Shit shit shit. What now?
“Think fast, Hollander.”
Shane's eyes slam open. What the -
A wet washcloth slaps onto his chest. He catches a brief glimpse of Rozanov's grin before Rozanov closes the bathroom door behind him.
The cloth is warm, at least. Unexpectedly thoughtful of Rozanov. Or - maybe not.
Shane does the best he can with the washcloth, starting at his chest, down to his dick, and then, gingerly, and with one eye on the bathroom door in case Rozanov finishes up super quickly, he wipes his ass. He has a horrible feeling he's going to be googling how to get lube out of ass later tonight, but it's enough for now. He wraps the wet cloth in the towel from the bed and drops them both on the floor on the far side of the bed.
Shane hears the toilet flush, then the water running again. Rozanov will probably be done in a second.
And - Shane is abruptly, one hundred percent sure that when Rozanov comes out he's going to get dressed, put that stupid jacket back on and just - leave. Go back to his own room. And then what the fuck is Shane supposed to do? Just go to bed like this was a totally ordinary evening? There's no way he's going to be able to sleep.
It's not that having Rozanov here, in Shane's space, is making it any easier to deal with everything that's happened tonight, but. At least with Rozanov around, Shane is so busy trying to deal with that, he hasn't got space to process anything else.
He looks around a little wildly and spots Rozanov's vodka on the side table. Okay. And - do something about the TV, and… food, maybe? Yeah. Okay.
By the time Rozanov comes out of the bathroom, Shane’s sitting up in bed on the far side, leaning against the headboard, doing his best to look fascinated by the - wrestling? - on the TV. He lets himself glance briefly at Rozanov like it's no big deal, then nods at Rozanov's glass, which he's placed strategically on the other side of the bed.
“You, uh, didn't finish your drink before. And I was getting a little hungry, so.” He holds out the bag of trail mix that was the only thing he'd been able to bring himself to open from the minibar. “Want some?”
Rozanov just looks at him for a moment, steady, long enough for Shane to feel the cumulative weight of a lifetime of getting it wrong, every time it happens adding another pebble on the pile that's going to collapse one day and crush him. Shane is bracing himself for the brush off when Rozanov shrugs, says, “Okay,” something in his tone like he's maybe surprised himself, and comes back to bed. He slides in next to Shane and - mercifully - pulls the sheet up so Shane doesn't have to work out what to do with Rozanov’s dick just hanging out next to him.
Shane gives the trail mix bag another shake, offering. Rozanov says, “You could not have gone for Pringles, Hollander?” but he takes a handful, then turns his attention to the TV. “So, what are we watching?”
“It's, uh. Sports Network. Wrestling, I guess?”
“Hmm,” Rozanov says. Shane can hear the smirk.
“What?”
“So you like watching half naked men touch each other, Hollander.”
“Fuck off. It's just what's on right now.”
“Sure.” Rozanov seems willing to give it a try, though. He watches for a minute, munching another handful of fruit and nuts. Then he says, “I could do this.”
“Do what?”
“Wrestling.” He nods at the TV. “Is just having good body and putting on show.” He throws more nuts in his mouth and chews obnoxiously while he says, “I will keep in mind for if I get bored of hockey.”
Shane rolls his eyes. Of course it's if I get bored, not if I get injured, or if I get dropped. “I don't think - ”
He's interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing somewhere in the room. It's not Shane's, so he guesses it must be Rozanov’s. But Rozanov isn't moving to get it. He just shifts a little on the bed like he's uncomfortable, pulls one of the throw pillows out from behind him and tosses it on the floor. “Why is always so many of these in hotels? Who needs this many?”
“People who like to be comfortable?” Shane says. “I don't know. Don't you need to - ”
The phone has stopped ringing. Rozanov picks up his vodka and takes a drink. “I think big one with tattoos should win,” he says conversationally.
It takes Shane a moment to realise Rozanov is referring to the wrestlers. “Um. They’re both big? And they both have tattoos?”
The ringing starts up again. Shane can't stop himself from looking over at Rozanov, who sighs dramatically, slides out of bed - naked! Ass! Shane's brain supplies helpfully - and goes to his bag.
The phone has stopped ringing by the time Rozanov digs it out. He does something with the screen, then puts it face down on the bedside table, picks up his vodka and slides back under the sheet.
Shane is not asking. Shane is not asking. Shane is not asking.
Apparently Shane is not asking so loudly that Rozanov feels obliged to sigh again and tell the television, “My brother. In Russia. He is asshole.” The phone chimes with a text. Rozanov rolls his eyes and corrects himself. “Asshole who does not take hint.”
“But shouldn't you - I mean. It could be important?”
Rozanov makes an indecipherable noise. Shane risks another glance at his face. Rozanov looks - well. Rozanov is an asshole, obviously, an unbelievably cocky, self-assured asshole, but until this moment Shane's never seen him look - cold. “Is always fucking important with Alexei. Very important I send him money so he can snort it up his fucking nose.”
Oh. “You give him money and he spends it on - on cocaine?”
“Da. I think mostly, yes.”
Shane is not sure what to do with that information. Like, smoking cigarettes is one thing, but does - did - Rozanov do that too, back home? What the hell was his life like in Russia?
“But you don't - do you?”
“I am not idiot, Hollander.”
“No, I know. Sorry. I just. Sorry. But then why do you - “ he can feel Rozanov’s withering glare. “Sorry, never mind.”
Shit. He's really fucked things up now. But after a minute, after one of the wrestlers executes a frankly impressive backflip off the ropes onto his opponent's back, Rozanov unexpectedly says, “I have a - a - " something in Russian, a beat, then, "my brother's daughter. She is just born, only baby.”
“Oh. That's awesome.” Shane doesn't know what to say to someone when their brother has had a kid. “Congratulations?”
Rozanov makes an impatient sound. “Da. Anyway. Is not her fault her father is asshole. So maybe sometimes money can pay for food for her. I don't know. I don't know - why are we talking about this? I don't want to talk about my fucking family, Hollander.”
Shane swallows. “Sure. Of course. Sorry.”
Now Shane can't stop thinking about a little baby Rozanov, though, in a tiny Russian apartment, thin walls, cold seeping under the door, horrible cabbagey smell coming from a pot on the stove. Is that - is that what things are like, in Russia? Or was the cocaine and wild parties more accurate? Shane's knowledge of Russia is embarrassingly limited and probably totally wrong, probably fifty years out of date.
He clears his throat. "What's it, uh. What's Russia like?"
“I don't fucking know, Hollander. Is home. Is like that.”
Shane thinks of his parents' house. His trophies on the shelf his dad put up for him. The smell of the kitchen, brown rice in the cooker at dinnertime, his dad making him pancakes early on Sunday mornings before practise. He suspects Rozanov's home, Rozanov's niece's home, is not like that. “Is it like - “
“Hollander.” A clear warning this time, even though Rozanov still seems to be talking to the TV. “I don't want to fucking talk about Russia, either.” He tips his head back and drains the rest of the vodka in one swallow.
“Okay. So, uh - ”
Shane can almost see the words forming on Rozanov's lips - it's late, I will go - and before Shane can second guess himself he's set the remains of the trail mix aside and swung one leg over Rozanov's hips, straddling him. The sheets get a little tangled in the move, but Shane's well aware he's not as smooth as Certified Russian Sex Prodigy Ilya Rozanov, and he thinks he's done OK, no serious injuries, no one's been kneed in the face.
Rozanov is looking at him a little amused, but his hands have settled on Shane's hips, warm and centring. “Again? Your poor dick, Hollander. You should let him have fun more often.”
“Fuck off Rozanov.”
“Or is it because of hot wrestling men on TV? Are you thinking of them? Help, help, Shane Hollander is using me for sex!”
It had been difficult, a few seconds ago, to imagine being the initiator, to kiss Rozanov without the drive of desperate arousal behind it, but now Shane has the motivator of wanting Rozanov to shut the hell up and it's the easiest thing in the world to lean down cover Rozanov's mouth with his own.
The kiss is slower, less desperate, but maybe even better for it: Shane can enjoy it without worrying that he's going to come in his pants if Rozanov so much as touches him below the waist. Shane kisses him and kisses him, threads his fingers through Rozanov's hair, thumbs over the mole on Rozanov's cheeks, feels the little pockmarks of acne scars. Rozanov’s hands are on Shane's shoulders, his arms, his back, sliding down to cup his bare ass, maybe trying to get him to move, but Shane resists, sits his weight back on Rozanov's thighs and just looks.
Rozanov's chest really is a fucking sight to behold. Shane wants to ask what he benches, but he knows it'd just devolve into a pissing contest. Instead he touches Rozanov's pecs, tries a pinch of one nipple, runs a hand over Rozanov's abs.
Rozanov lets him, watching almost indulgently. Shane does actually feel a little like a kid in a candy store - not that he ate a lot of candy as a kid - because it's mind-altering that he's allowed to touch. For tonight, in this room, for whatever fucked up reason he's allowed to look, to touch, to -
He leans in and runs his mouth along the line of Rozanov’s traps, one shoulder and then the other, adding a little graze of teeth. He licks along Rozanov's collarbones, around the crucifix on its chain, tries a gentle bite to a nipple, an open mouthed kiss to the side of Rozanov's navel.
Rozanov makes a little noise at that, hips moving under Shane. Shane knows he's fooling absolutely no one about what he's planning to do down here, but he still takes his time, enjoys the journey, kissing one hipbone and then the other, before he finally, finally lets himself put his mouth on Rozanov's dick.
Rozanov mutters something in Russian that Shane can't catch. His hands are in Shane's hair, not holding him down or guiding him, but just touching, just there, and it's - it's nice.
Shane knows he's not going to be able to beat Rozanov in the mind-blowing blowjob stakes so he just does whatever feels good. Rozanov's not fully hard yet. Shane would swear he can feel Rozanov's pulse on his tongue as he thickens in Shane's mouth. He tastes like clean skin and salty pre-come. Shane could spend an embarrassingly long time here, getting used to the shape of Rozanov in his mouth, pushing himself to see how much he can take before his eyes start to water and he has to pull back. He tries not to get too ambitious and just uses his tongue, licking and sucking the head.
He hasn't had his fill yet when Rozanov must lose patience. He pulls Shane up and into a kiss, murmuring something into Shane's mouth.
What? Shane tries to ask, but Rozanov doesn't let him break the kiss long enough to get the word out. Rozanov's hands are on Shane's ass now, lifting him and settling him back down in Rozanov's lap, adjusting Shane to his liking. And Rozanov’s dick is - holy shit, Rozanov's dick, hard, still a little wet from Shane's mouth, is snugged up between Shane's ass cheeks, holy fuck -
Shane breaks the kiss and sits back, which only emphasises just how close they are to actually fucking. Shane's still a little slicked up inside from earlier. If he just lifted up a little, and got the angle right, Rosanov could probably just slide right in, open Shane up on his dick, oh holy fucking hell. Rozanov wouldn't, Shane's sure he wouldn't, not without asking or whatever, but -
Rozanov doesn't seem to have noticed Shane's ass-fucking existential crisis. He's palming over Shane's chest again, and then he brings his other hand back to Shane's face, feeds Shane his thumb to suck on. Shane takes it in desperately, needing something to focus on other than the idea of Rosanov's dick prying him open.
“Such a good mouth, Hollander,” Rozanov is saying. Shane shuts his eyes, curls his tongue around Rosanov's thumb and sucks, and that seems to trigger something for Rozanov too, because next thing Shane knows he's being rolled over into his back, Rozanov on top of him.
Shane should not like being manhandled as much as he apparently does. He doesn't mean to wrap his legs around Rosanov's waist either but that's what's happening, Shane spread wide under him, their dicks sliding together in the space between their bodies. Rozanov says something in Russian that has to be a curse and drops his head into the crook of Shane's shoulder.
It's too sweaty, not enough slick to be perfect, but then Rozanov spits into his own hand and gets it between them, gets his fingers around both their dicks and starts fucking into his grip. He's somehow holding his weight with one hand braced next to Shane's head. He's so fucking strong.
“Like this?” Rozanov asks into Shane's shoulder. “Hollander, do you want to come like this?”
Shane nods blindly. Rozanov grunts and speeds up, but Shane suddenly hears himself say, “No. Wait.”
Rozanov pushes up and away from him. “No? So what?”
Fuck. Shane bites his lip. He's not going to be able to say it, not with Rozanov looking at him. Instead, he closes his eyes and slowly, deliberately turns over so he's lying on his stomach, then pushes up to his hands and knees. This is how guys do it to each other, right? He reaches blindly behind him and finds Rozanov’s hip, tries to pull it down to meet his own, praying that Rozanov will get the message.
There's a horrible moment where Rozanov doesn't move - he doesn't want to, stupid, why would you think he would - and Shane desperately starts to think of how he can extricate himself with even a tiny bit of dignity intact - but then Rozanov surges forward, weight pressing into Shane, dick sliding along Shane's lower back, and he almost growls into Shane's ear, “Fuck, Hollander. You want me to fuck you?”
Shane lets his head drop, desperately grateful, and manages, “Yeah.”
Roxanov rolls his hips again. “You are sure?”
Jesus, why does Rozanov have to keep asking. Shane makes himself nod.
“Hollander. Tell me.”
Shane clears his throat. “If, uh. If you want to.”
Rozanov bites at his earlobe, kisses his neck. “Of course I want to fuck you.”
He's not expecting Rozanov to roll him over again - doesn't he need to be on his front for this? but that's what happens. Rozanov puts him back on his back, presses Shane's wrists down one to each side of his head, and kisses him deep and filthy. Then he lets Shane go and hops off the bed.
“What are you doing?” Shane blurts. Rozanov is rummaging in his bag again.
“Getting condom.”
Shit, Shane hadn't even thought of that. The problem is that it's disorienting, wanting like this. Shane had never understood why his teammates in juniors had done the stupid shit they'd done just to get their dicks wet - breaking curfew, skipping practice - it hadn't made sense, what the hell had they been thinking? Shane had been maybe almost a little smug about it in his own head, like he just had more discipline than the other guys. Now here he is, about to let Ilya Rozanov fuck him and Shane can't even remember that they should use a condom.
Rozanov drops a condom packet on the bedside table and picks up the lube. He clicks it open and gets some on his fingers before he settles back between Shane's legs.
Shane can't imagine ever getting used to the vulnerability of this, putting himself on display. At least the feeling of Rozanov's fingers in his ass isn't such a shock this time. The first few seconds still have him breathless and arching away, but he knows it will pass, knows he can take it. He breathes and Rozanov works him open faster than before, one finger and then two, sliding deep.
Rozanov is mouthing at his dick, his balls, not focusing anywhere long enough for it to really build, but that's okay. Shane is turned on but there's no urgency to it right now. Maybe it's because he's already come twice tonight. Shane can't remember the last time he came more than once in a day. Three, four years ago maybe?
He tries to make himself focus. “Okay,” he says, tugging at Rosanov's head to bring him up.
“Okay?”
“I mean, I'm good. Can we - ”
“Don't rush warm up, Hollander.”
“You've been - for ages.”
Rozanov shrugs. “I have big dick.”
“Asshole.”
Rozanov has two fingers in him, Shane's pretty sure, but he's also - with his thumb, maybe? - tracing a little around Shane's rim, gentle pressure, and for a second Shane thinks Rozanov is going to put that in him, too, tries to make himself relax for it. But instead Rozanov is drawing his fingers out and sitting back, reaching for the condom.
“Okay. Hollander. You still want?” He flaps the condom packet like he's waving a flag.
“Yeah, I still want.”
Rozanov tears open the packet with his teeth and rolls the condom on one handed. Fucking show off. Shane is appalled to realise he thinks it almost fondly.
The feeling doesn't last. Rozanov’s dick, suited up and slicked with lube, looks - uh. Was it always that big?
Rozanov leans in and kisses him, a little smirk playing around the edge of his mouth. “Don't worry, it will fit.”
Shane swallows. “Okay. Uh - how - ”
Rozanov takes control again, hands on Shane's knees. “Like this, yes? If you - da.” He folds Shane back on himself.
Shane is feeling a little breathless already - maybe the position, maybe the thought of being exposed like this, Rozanov being able to see his face while he fucks him. But Rozanov seems to know what he's doing, so Shane nods, lets Rozanov kiss him deeply, tries to focus on that and not how Rosanov's moving over him, not the blunt head of Rozanov's dick pressing against Shane's hole.
“Okay?” Rozanov asks again.
Shane's beyond words now, can't manage anything more than a nod.
It's enough. Rozanov presses in, and there's an infinite breathless moment of waiting and then Shane feels himself give.
Oh, fuck.
Holy fuck, holy - shit, he should have listened, should have let Rozanov open him up more, taken another finger - Rozanov's dick is ten times bigger, a hundred - splitting Shane open with a heavy ache.
And Rozanov doesn't stop. He's not rough, just pushes forward steadily, inch after inch. Shane’s hands have found their way to Rozanov's shoulders and he can feel the tension there, how much Rozanov is holding back.
Shane needs - fuck, he doesn't know what he needs. Rozanov is dropping kisses on his jaw, his throat, his neck. Shane can't do anything other than breathe, and he's barely managing that. And then Rozanov is pulling out, steady, slow, and sliding back in again, and it's a little easier, a little smoother. Shane gets himself together enough to meet Rosanov's lips in a brief kiss.
“Still okay?” Rozanov breathes into Shane's mouth.
Shane doesn't know what this feeling is, but he wouldn't call it okay. He doesn't want Rozanov to stop, though, so he nods, and Rozanov takes it as a green light, sets up a slow but steady rolling rhythm. Shane slides his hands down Rozanov's sides until they settle on Rozanov's ass. Two handfuls of pure muscle, flexing under Shane's fingers.
“Touch yourself,” Rozanov tells him. “Hollander. Use your hand.”
Shane can't -
Fuck, no, what is wrong with him, of course he can. There's no point being embarrassed about jerking himself when Rozanov's dick is in his ass.
He gets a hand on himself - he's gone soft at some point, when did that happen? - and tries a gentle squeeze, like wake up, sex is happening. Rozanov makes an approving noise. He shifts his weight, pushes one of Shane's legs a little further back, and that must change the angle somehow, because the next time Rozanov pushes in, it feels - still so full, so deep it's almost unbearable, but also like it uncrosses wires in Shane's brain somewhere and turns it from too much into sex. Fuck yes, he needs Rozanov to do that again. Possibly forever.
“Like that?” Rozanov asks, as if it's not perfectly fucking obvious by the way Shane's eyes have rolled back in his fucking head, Jesus Christ.
“Come on,” Shane forces out. He can't bear to open his eyes. His dick is fattening up in his hand and he gives himself a couple of loose strokes but it's too dry to really go for it. He needs Rozanov to pick up the pace.
Twice more the angle is right, Shane gasping for air when Rozanov hits the spot that lights him up, but then he loses it again. Rozanov makes a frustrated noise, palms at Shane's hip, thigh. Shane is more than willing to do whatever it takes to get that feeling back, but he's a hockey player, not a contortionist, and there's only so much he can do.
Rozanov grunts again and then he's pulling out of Shane. Fuck, there's that weird feeling again like he's being turned inside out.
“Hollander. Turn over.”
Rozanov guides him over into his stomach, and Shane pushes up into hands and knees. Rozanov runs a hand down Shane's back, palms his ass, brings his dick back to Shane's hole.
Shane shifts back into it a little: yes, do it.
Rozanov fucks back into him with one long stroke. It's a thousand times easier than the first time but it still forces the breath from Shane's lungs.
Rozanov sets a slow and steady rhythm, mouth ghosting over Shane's shoulder blade, the bumps of his spine. The angle is good, not perfect every time but often enough that Shane's whole body feels lit up. His dick is hanging heavy and full between his legs but he doesn't have the wherewithal to get a hand on himself. It doesn't matter. He rocks back into Rozanov's thrusts, more. Come on.
“Hollander. Fuck.” Rozanov sounds hoarse. “Can you take more?”
Shane nods blindly. He's not sure what more might be, but he wants. Fuck, he wants, without thought or calculation or reservation, just wants Rozanov to give him everything he's got, make Shane take it, make him come.
A curse in Russian. Rozanov's hand on his upper back, pressing heavily, until Shane drops his chest to the bed, face turned to the side so he can breathe. Rozanov's other hand on his hip, keeping his ass up and open for Rozanov's dick. Rozanov fucks into him slowly, twice, like he's making sure the angle is still good, and then - holy fuck, yes, Rozanov is fucking him for real, pounding in to him so hard he's gasping for breath.
The noises they're making are fucking obscene, like something out of porn. Shane had no idea this could be real life, heavy breathing, skin slapping together as Rozanov fucks him, properly going at him like Rozanov trusts that Shane can take it, that he doesn't need to hold back.
Shane doesn't realise he's close until he's about to come. His whole body has been winding tighter and tighter for what feels like hours and then the feeling suddenly coalesces into something familiar. Fuck, he needs Rozanov to keep going, he’s so close, but he can't catch his breath to beg. “I'm - “ he gasps uselessly, don't stop, don't fucking stop -
“Are you - “ Rozanov groans. “Oh, fuck, Hollander.” He picks up the pace even more and if Shane hadn't been close before he fucking would be now, Rozanov hammering into him, and Shane closes his eyes and opens his mouth and comes, dick jerking in the air, all over the sheet.
Rozanov isn't far behind, rhythm faltering, a couple of erratic thrusts and then he's pushing in and holding deep, dick pulsing in Shane's ass. I did that, Shane thinks giddily.
Rozanov half collapses on top of him. Jesus, he's heavy. Shane lets his weight drop to the bed too, only belatedly remembering that he just came all over the sheets. “Fuck, now the bed's all dirty,” he tells the pillows.
“What?” Rozanov says. Then, “Shut up, Hollander.”
It sounds bemused to Shane more than mocking, and maybe it's that, or maybe it's the feeling of Rozanov's dick slipping out of him - that has not gotten any less weird - but Shane starts giggling and he can't stop.
Rozanov puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asks. Shane keeps giggling. It's utterly fucking ridiculous.
Rozanov shakes him a little. “Hollander. Did I break you?”
“Sorry, sorry, I just - ”
He really can't stop. He feels like his head’s floating, so weirdly light and just totally unbothered by anything that's happened, which is bizarre because a whole fucking lot has just happened, but whatever. He's going to ride this feeling as long as it lasts.
“Take it as a compliment?” he manages, finally, when the giggles have slowed. He lifts his head out of the pillows and finds Rozanov watching him, definitely bemused now.
“You are very weird person, Hollander,” Rozanov says.
“And boring, don't forget boring!” The giggles are still there, escaping now in little bursts.
“I do not forget.” Rozanov kisses Shane on the mouth, the shoulder. “I will shower now, okay?”
That's - probably fair. Rozanov definitely worked up a sweat there. Fucking Shane in the ass.
“Okay, bye bye,” Shane hears himself say.
“Very weird,” Rozanov says, but he kisses Shane's shoulder again and pats his ass as he gets up, so Shane thinks he probably said it affectionately.
He hears Rozanov in the bathroom again, water running. He's almost expecting the wet towel that Rozanov lands on his ass a few seconds later. Almost, and he definitely doesn't have the coordination right now to have caught it anyway.
He summons the energy to clean himself up. The sheets are gross, but he wipes the worst of the mess off then adds the towel to the pile from earlier. Is this why there are always so many towels? Has everybody been having wild messy sex in hotel rooms all these years and Shane is only now cottoning on?
He lies back down on the bed, avoiding the wet spot. He listens to the sound of the shower running, and the giddy mood seeps out of him like he's a slowly deflating balloon. Fuck. He just - they just - fuck.
What the fuck is Shane going to do now.
Rozanov doesn't take long in the shower. Probably trying to be polite, expecting Shane to want one too. Or in a hurry to get back to his own room. Probably both. Little does he know that Shane is not planning to move from this bed until he's surgically extracted. Or dies. Here lies Shane Hollander, hockey player. Realised he likes getting fucked in the ass, couldn't cope, died.
Shane's face down with his head in a pillow when the bathroom door opens. He's expecting Rozanov to make his excuses and leave, but instead he feels the bed dip as Rozanov throws himself down next to Shane. He smells like Shane's shower gel. He's probably lying on the wet spot. Serves him right for mocking Shane's sex towel earlier.
“You have killed me Hollander,” he says. “I am dead.”
“Mm,” Shane says. That'll have to stand in for words and human functioning. This is it for him from here on out: grunting and the dusty smell of hotel throw pillows.
He feels Rozanov's hand on his shoulder. It's really warm. Rozanov has really nice hands. “Hollander. You okay?”
Rozanov keeps using that word. Sure, Shane knows Rozanov's English vocabulary is probably pretty small, but - not at any time this evening has Shane been, in any real or meaningful sense, okay.
He guesses it's a relief in a way to know that he's not - defective. That he can want someone, get hard for them; that his body knows how to do this with another person.
It's also a fucking cosmic joke that apparently the person who gets him hard is Ilya fucking Rozanov.
Maybe it's not Rozanov specifically, though. Maybe it'll turn out Shane only gets hard for Russian accents, or curly hair. Or - maybe it's just that he's an idiot who gets off on bad ideas.
He presses his face into the pillow, breathes dust. Once. Twice. Makes himself open his mouth and forces the words out. "Rozanov. Can I ask you something?"
"Mm. What?"
"And like - can we maybe pretend afterwards that we never had this conversation?”
A pause. Shane can't bring himself to lift his head and check the expression on Rozanov's face. Shane counts his heartbeat, eight, nine, ten, then Rozanov speaks. "Maybe I forgot to say before. I have problem when I drink bad vodka."
Shane swallows. “Oh yeah?”
“Mm. Has terrible effect on memory. Often I wake up next day, can't remember anything that happened.”
"Okay." Shane makes himself take another breath. "Okay. So you like - you like sleeping with women, right? But you also - I mean, we - whatever this was tonight, and you said you - with your coach's son. In Russia."
The way he has his face smashed into the pillow is making Rozanov's voice sound weird. Softer, maybe. A little more rumbly. "Yes. Was that question?"
"No. Or - sort of. So - you like both? Men and women?"
"Yes. Sure. Was that question? Because is not new information, Hollander. I already said. Before."
"Fuck off." His heartbeat is also really fucking loud in this pillow cocoon. "Do you - is it the same amount, for you? Like, do you prefer being with women, or with men? Or is it the same?"
“Is not same, like - men have dicks, yes? You know this.”
“Fuck off Rozanov. You know that's not what I'm asking. I mean - do you feel the same attraction. Is it as good for you. If you're with a woman, or with a man.”
A longer pause this time. Rustling, like Rozanov is adjusting the sheets. “Depends on person, I think. Some people are better at fucking than others.”
“But in general. Your best - or like a really good time when you were with a man. Compared to a good time with - with a woman.”
“So not boring Canadian hockey player compared to hottest woman I have ever fucked?”
Shane's hands curls into fists. He resists the urge to draw his legs up under himself as well, to ball up, braced for impact. “Fucking - can you just answer the question, Rozanov?”
A warm hand on his lower back, just for a second. "Should have said boring Canadian hockey player with good mouth. Ok. I think I get it. But for me is like - you go out to restaurant, and sometimes you order chicken, sometimes steak. Steak is not better or worse, just different."
“Do you think - you said with your coach's son - ”
“Sasha.”
“Right, uh. Sasha. It would have been dangerous, right? If you'd been caught." Shane would be the first to admit that he isn't totally up to date on Russian politics, but he feels like being gay is probably not okay there. Also, Rozanov had been fucking his coach's son. "And tonight was clearly a totally fucking insane idea, so. Do you think maybe you only like steak because it's dangerous?”
A longer pause this time. Shane wonders if he's pushed Rozanov's metaphor too far for him to follow.
But then: “What is name of Japanese fish that can kill you?”
“Huh?”
“Homer Simpson ate and thought he would die.”
Shane lifts his head from the pillow for the first time in what feels like an hour, and squints at Rozanov. "What the actual fuck, Rozanov. The fucking Simpsons? Did they even - did you get the Simpsons in Russia?"
“Is largest country in world, Hollander. Yes, we got fucking Simpsons. Now tell me, what is name of fancy Japanese fish only rich people eat, chef has to make extra carefully or you die?"
Shane blinks. “I don't - oh. You mean like pufferfish? Uh - fugu, I think?”
“Yes, that is it. Fugu. Homer ate and thought he would die. Risk whole life for fish.”
“Okay. I mean, I don't remember the episode, but sure. I'll take your word for it.”
“Da. Okay. So some people like danger, enough to risk dying. Is true, I am maybe a little like this sometimes. I like fast cars. I fuck people I should not fuck.” Shane is still looking at Rozanov so this time he can see as well as feel Rozanov's hand come to rest on his lower back, just above his ass. Shane resists the urge to push back into it, to see if Rozanov will hold him there, ground him. “I think probably if Japanese chef served me fugu, I would eat. But was not always dangerous every time with Sasha. Sometimes we just wanted to fuck. Was still good. Still hot, still made each other come, so.”
Rozanov takes his hand away and rolls on to his back, arm behind his head. “I think I like steak and chicken the same. But chicken is everywhere, steak not so easy to find, so mostly I have chicken. Maybe some day this is different and I eat more steak. I don't know.”
The way Rozanov just - says it. Like it's no big deal. Like it's not a potentially catastrophic problem to like steak - fuck. To like men.
“Okay.” If Rozanov can do non sequiturs, so can Shane. He pushes his forehead back into the pillow and shuts his eyes. "Okay. But. You know how when you smell good food cooking, your mouth kind of waters, right? Does that happen for you with chicken as well as steak?"
This time it feels like Rozanov's poking Shane's knee with his toes. "You are asking if my mouth waters when I see man who is hot? Like yours when you want to suck my cock?
“No, that's not - fuck.”
He's starting to feel the late hour pushing at his temples, a tight band. But fuck it, he's come this far. "Say - say there's someone who doesn't really like the smell of chicken. Like, the smell's not a problem, really, it just doesn't make them hungry. And sometimes they even eat chicken even though they're not hungry because it's everywhere, right? Like you said. Easy to find. But it's not - it hasn't really - tasted good to them. Before. And everyone is always talking about how great chicken is but they just don't see it.”
He has to stop and just breathe for a minute. In, out. In. Out.
Rozanov must think Shane's waiting for some kind of response, because there's the foot again, nudging at his knee, and a low, "Okay, Hollander. So?"
"And then one day this person - uh." He swallows. "Tries a steak. And." He stops again. He can't make himself say it. Even with this fucking ridiculous steak metaphor. The silence drags out. The minibar fridge compressor clicks on.
Rozanov's toes push further, under his knee. "And what, Hollander. He likes it? Doesn't like it? What."
"The, uh. The first one. But - really likes it. Like, so much more than chicken.”
Shane can feel Rozanov's toes, curling and flexing. Rozanov's nails are a little sharp. "Okay. And?"
“So, like. What - what should that person do.”
Rozanov sniffs. “Don’t know. Is up to him. Eat steak? Or not. Is fine either way.”
“But. I mean. Maybe he just - hasn't found the right chicken restaurant yet? I mean, he could still like chicken, right, just maybe only with some kind of different sauce. Or something.”
“Mm. Maybe. Or maybe he doesn't like chicken. Apparently is okay in Canada, yes? To not like chicken?”
Shane feels his heartbeat pick up. “Okay. But. What if he has to - for his job. He has to go to a lot of chicken restaurants. And maybe the people he - that he hangs around with - might not be okay with him not eating chicken?”
“Hollander. I think maybe is possible no one really gives a fuck what this guy eats. Is his own business.”
“But if - if they did find out. It would be a problem. For like, his job. And his - the people he works with.”
“He is planning to eat steak in front of them?”
“No! But - by if they saw, by accident or whatever.”
Rozanov hums. “Maybe. But if people have problem then they are probably shitty people and not worth his time.”
He's definitely wrong. Well, not about people being shitty. Shane knows people can be shitty.
“Anyway, I think for his job, liking steak is not going to be as much problem as weak backhand.”
Shane can't stop the way his head pops up at that. “I do not have a weak backhand!”
Rozanov is smirking at him. “Oh, are we talking about you, Hollander? I did not know.”
He must see the panic in Shane's eyes, because he puts a warm hand on the back of Shane's neck and draws him across so that Shane's head is resting on his chest. “Hey. Listen.” His voice sounds so deep now to Shane, rumbling through his chest. “This guy. I think probably he will be okay.”
Shane swallows. “Yeah?” he manages.
“Da. Eat in private, will be fine. He is not only one liking steak.” Rozanov is rubbing his thumb on the back of Shane's neck, soothing.
Right. It's not the same if you really like chicken as well, though. But there's no point in saying it. Rozanov does not have the answers Shane wants. No one does.
Shane just concentrates on breathing instead. It's weird being this close to Rozanov without it being for sex. Shane's right arm is kind of trapped awkwardly beneath him but he doesn't want to move in case it makes Rozanov stop touching him.
Rozanov seems content to just lie here, too, which is - unexpected. His breathing is slow and deep under Shane's head. His chain is lying crooked over his collarbones, right in Shane's line of sight, and it takes all of Shane's willpower not to fix it so it lies straight.
Shane is just beginning to wonder if Rozanov is falling asleep when Rozanov shifts from rubbing the back of Shane's neck to carding his fingers through Shane's hair. It's - fuck, it feels really nice. It's nice. Rozanov is nice. Rozanov is nice, and he's surprisingly considerate, funny, tolerates Shane's stupid questions, and yes still an asshole but - nice. There's a mindfuck if ever Shane's heard one.
“Rozanov,” Shane says.
“Mm?”
Shane is not exactly sure what he wants to say, but he's hoping if he just - talks, just lets some of these weird thoughts out into the world it'll become clear somehow. He takes a breath, lets it out in a rush. “I really thought I hated you, you know. Last year. After the draft.”
“Mm. I know.”
“Oh you know?”
“I told you, I am good at people. You hated me, yes, but you also wanted to suck my cock.”
Shane lifts his head. “I did not want to suck your - ”
Rozanov raises an eyebrow at him, challenging. And - okay. That’s fair. Shane is not fooling anyone at this point, not even himself. He lets his head rest back on Rozanov's chest.
“Fine, okay, maybe I did. A little. But that's not - I mean. You just.” He takes a breath and starts again. “I was supposed to be the number one draft pick. I was supposed to win the Prospect Cup for Canada. And you just came in and took it, and you were such a fucking asshole about it.”
“I was not asshole,” Rozanov objects.
“You fucking were and you know it.”
“Was not. I even said sorry for being first, after, in gym. And shared water bottle. Very polite. You remember?”
Shane does. Like he remembers the way Rozanov's fingers brushed over his own on the water bottle. It's almost comforting in a way to know that Rozanov remembers the details of that night too, like it maybe meant something to him too. “Okay, I guess. But. Your face was an asshole about it.”
“I think you like my face.” The way he can just say that, so easy, like it's nothing. “Anyway, think if it did not happen.”
“What?”
“If I stayed in Russia, did not beat you in Prospect Cup, was not drafted above you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is not complicated, Hollander. There was always chance I would not make it.”
“But you're - I mean. There was no chance you wouldn't be picked up by a team over here. Not with how well you play.”
“My father did not want me to leave Russia,” Rozanov says, like that's a nothing statement to make. What? “Or maybe I get injured, bad hit to head. Can't play any more. Would be kicked off Russian team, would not have come to Canada to kick your ass, would not have been drafted to Boston."
“I mean. That would - ”
Shane doesn't know what to say. It would have given him back everything that had been in the plan for last year - the win over Russia. First draft pick. Everything he'd wanted. But. He feels like he's skated too hard on a full stomach. He doesn't know what his face is doing but he suspects it’s giving some things away.
“You see? Is boring without me. Lucky for you I did not hit head. Lucky for you I am here.”
The silence stretches a few seconds too long before Shane realises that he should have made a joke. Brushed it off. But - it's true. It’s absolutely fucking true.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. He can recover this. “I guess. I mean, it's good for both of us, isn't it? The competition. I can't, you know. Can't slack off when you're around.”
“Slack off? I don't know this one.”
“It means - be lazy. Undisciplined. Not put the work in.”
“Ah. I don't think you have ever slacked off in life, Hollander.”
“Pretty sure you haven't either.”
“Da. Well. Not everyone thinks so.” Rozanov's voice has gone a little hard, like he's gone somewhere unpleasant in his head.
Shane clears his throat again. “Anyway - what I was trying to say was. After the draft, I really thought I hated you - ”
“And you wanted to suck my cock."
Shane rolls his eyes. “Yes, alright, fine, I thought I hated you and it turns out I wanted to suck your cock, but now - ”
“Now you just want to suck my cock?”
He slaps Rozanov’s chest. “Fuck you Rozanov. I am trying to say that I don't think I hate you any more.”
“I hope not, Hollander. Should not let people you hate fuck you.”
“Will you be fucking serious for one minute?”
“Ass fucking is very serious business, Hollander. You can hurt someone if you do wrong.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. Maybe I do hate you after all.”
“You are a bad liar.”
“What I wanted to say was - I know there's this whole rivalry narrative the league are trying to build, but - ”
“Hollander. Hollander. Is late. Too many words. What is ‘narrative’?”
“Like - a story. That the league is trying to tell about us. That we hate each other.”
“Yes. Is what the league wants. More people watch games if they think we will fight.”
"You think - they want us to fight?"
Rozanov shrugs. His thumb brushes across the top of Shane's cheekbone. His skin is too dry. "Maybe not you. Can't risk pretty face. Me, I think yes, they want me to be asshole, to fight.”
Shane blinks, tries to clear away the image of Rozanov with blood on his face, with broken teeth. Stupid to be bothered by it, it's part of the job.
"Okay. Maybe. But like - off the ice. Do we have to - they can't make us act like we are mortal enemies off the ice. Can they? We can say we developed a mutual respect from watching each other play. And there must be plenty of guys with friends on other teams, as long as we play hard against each other on the ice, they can't stop us - "
“Again, Hollander. You talk too much and is late. What are you getting at?”
“What if we were - uh. friendly. When we're not playing each other. We could hang out, when we're in the same city. Maybe - see each other in the breaks, or - if you're around, I mean. They can't stop us, can they? I know the league has already been building up this stupid rivalry so much, but maybe we could just, uh. Be friends.”
Shane makes himself stop talking before he vomits another monologue over Rozanov.
“You want to be friends. With me.” Rozanov's voice is impossible for Shane to read. Shane feels a sickening twist in his stomach, pulling at his lower ribs until it's hard to catch his breath. But then Rozanov says, "Hollander. Is that what you want? For us to be friends?"
“Yeah. Uh. I just thought maybe - ”
“You do not have already army of boring Canadian friends?”
“Fuck off. You know, we'll be going through some of the same stuff, with our rookie seasons, and so I just thought - but forget it.”
“Hollander.”
“What.”
“Yes. I will be your friend.”
“Really?” Don't sound so surprised, Shane, Jesus.
“Really.” He squeezes the back of Shane's neck.
Shane blows out a breath. “Okay. Okay.”
“I have question though.”
Shane tries not to tense up. “Yeah?”
“When we are in same city.” Rozanov runs his hand down Shane's back, grabs a handful of Shane's ass and squeezes, tugging Shane toward him. “Can you be kind of friend that also sucks my cock?”
“Fuck off Rozanov.” Shane tries to pull away, though if he's honest with himself he's not trying very hard. “Why don't you suck my cock.”
“Uh-uh. Where are your boring Canadian manners?” Rozanov tugs him closer again so Shane is pressed up all along his side, dick nestled against Rozanov's hip. “I only suck cock for friends who ask nicely, Hollander.”
“Fuck you. Also. I'm, uh.” Rozanov's been manhandling him which is really fucking hot, and Shane's dick hasn't stirred. “Not actually sure I could go again.”
“Mm.” Rozanov sounds amused. “Did I wear you out, Hollander? Maybe we find more wrestlers on TV. Get you hard again.”
He starts running his hand up and down Shane's back, fingertips teasing at the top of Shane's ass then sweeping back up to his shoulderblade.
“It wasn't - it wasn't the fucking wrestlers, Rozanov.”
“No?”
Rozanov's hand dips lower this time, then lower, almost but not quite reaching Shane's hole.
Fuck. Maybe he could go again after all.
Shane has a front row seat to Rozanov's dick, and he's not totally soft either. Shane takes a breath, makes himself lift his hand and run the backs of his fingers along the length of Rozanov's dick, then rests his hand on Rozanov’s abs. “Maybe it's you who gets turned on by wrestlers,” he says, trying for teasing.
“No,” Rozanov says. Shane waits for more, a joke, but - nope, he's done.
Rozanov's roaming hand dips lower again and one fingertip brushes over Shane's hole. It's a feather-light touch, barely there, but Shane has apparently now got approximately a thousand more nerve endings than before down there, and he can't suppress a shiver. The touch vanishes instantly and Rozanov's hand is broad on Shane's ass cheek instead, pressing, almost apologetic.
Shane is suddenly curious. “Have you ever?” he blurts, before he can second guess himself.
“Ever what?”
“Uh, like. The other way around?” Shane needs something to distract him, so he starts touching Rozanov's dick again. He really likes it.
A pause long enough for Shane to think he's not going to answer, then Rozanov says, “Yes. Once.”
“Was it with - uh. Sasha?”
“Mm.”
Shane nods into Rozanov's chest. “Did you like it?”
“Was okay. Not bad. We were young. Stupid. Ah - careless with each other.”
“Oh. Is that why you're so - ” kind.
Rozanov is patient for a few seconds. “Why I am so what, Hollander?”
Shane shakes his head. “Never mind.”
Rozanov's hand is on the move again, warm over Shane's lower back, across his ass cheeks, dipping between. Shane is prepared for it this time and doesn't shiver when Rozanov's fingers brush over his hole, but he does hear himself make an involuntary noise, and his hips jerk. He doesn't actually think he wants Rozanov to stop, though, so he deliberately tilts his ass back into Rozanov’s hand. After a second Rozanov seems to get it and starts touching him again, petting around his hole, still so light, so gentle that under other circumstances Shane would think he was trying to be a tease.
It's not so overwhelming now Shane's had a chance to get used to it, and Shane's dick is definitely into it, tucked up against Rozanov's hip. He pushes back into Rozanov's fingers, more.
Rozanov’s lips move in Shane's hair. “Are you sore?” he asks.
Shane tries to work out how to answer that in a way that's both truthful and won't make Rozanov stop touching him. “Not - uh. Not sore exactly. More like - used. But. In a good way?”
Rozanov's hand stops moving and Shane thinks he's said something wrong. Or - maybe Rozanov didn't understand the word in context.
Or - maybe none of the above. Because Rozanov is suddenly rolling Shane over onto his back, taking both Shane's wrists in one big hand and pressing them above Shane's head, and kissing him, deep, filthy kisses, breaking away every few seconds to murmur something in Russian into Shane's neck, behind his ear, his chest before returning to Shane's mouth again.
It's perfect, brilliant, except that nothing is touching Shane's dick or his ass any more and that's unacceptable. He gets his legs around Rozanov's hips and tries to pull Rozanov down on top of him, but Rozanov doesn't move.
“Wait,” Rozanov says into his mouth, finally returning to English. Shane doesn't want to wait, that's stupid, why would he do that. He tries to pull himself up with his legs to meet Rozanov’s body and he almost manages it but he can't hold it for more than a couple of seconds. He can feel Rozanov's smile against his lips. “Wait, Hollander. Be patient. I give you what you need.”
Shane hears himself make a frustrated noise.
“Okay, okay.” Rozanov releases his hands at last, but it doesn't help, because Shane still can't move, trapped under Rosanov like this. Rozanov's mouth is moving down Shane's body. He kisses Shane's pecs, tongues his belly button, and then - oh shit, here we go again, Rozanov is folding Shane's legs back, pressing them up to his chest. Shane puts a hand on Rozanov's head, fingers threaded through his curls, ready.
But Rozanov doesn't put his mouth on Shane's dick. Shane feels something - maybe Rozanov's nose? nudging at his balls, and then oh, holy shit, Rozanov's tongue is - licking at him, licking over his hole.
“What are - ” he blurts. His eyes have snapped open. Rozanov is looking up at him and - fuck, he looks wrecked, like he wants to be doing this, wants to be licking Shane's ass, which - who is Shane to argue with him?
“Is okay?” Rozanov asks, hoarse. Shane manages to nod and Rozanov goes back to work. His tongue is so warm, so soft it's almost soothing, but those thousand nerve endings that Shane has recently developed are so hard-wired for sex that he can't relax into it, can't do anything but hold still for Rozanov's tongue and hope Rozanov will somehow give him more.
And Rozanov does. His hands are on Shane's ass, spreading him even further and then his tongue is pushing inside, fucking into him, and if Shane thought it was hard to process before, this is a whole other level of unbearable. It's so good, so close to what he needs but also it's never going to make him come and he suddenly needs to come again more than he needs to breathe.
Rozanov sounds like he's struggling too. He makes a frustrated noise into the place where Shane's hip meets his thigh. Then he's kissing back up Shane's body, weight heavy over Shane's.
“Hollander. I want to fuck you.”
Rozanov growls the words into Shane's ear, and Shane shudders, a full-body tremor at the want he can hear in Rozanov's voice, the want it sparks in his own gut. He bites his lip, nods, hopes Rozanov feels the movement.
“Fuck. Yes.” Rozanov kisses his neck, his throat. “You will say if is too much.”
Shane nods again, but he's honestly not sure he would recognise too much if it stood naked in front of him right now holding a sign saying, “Stop now, Shane Hollander, this is a bad idea!” He can't - everything they've done is a bad idea. But he might not be able to have this again for months. Years. Ever. Who cares if it's too much right now.
He lets Rozanov arrange him as he likes: Shane on his side, this time, one knee bent up. Rozanov tucks in behind him, the whole warm solid length of him bracketing Shane. He conjures lube from somewhere. He opens Shane with careful fingers, murmuring soft Russian. Shane doesn't catch anything, no syllables close to English to give him a hint, and he wishes suddenly that he spoke Russian, wants to know if the words Rozanov is pressing into the back of his neck and his shoulder are sweet or filthy. Maybe both.
Rozanov slides his fingers out and Shane makes a noise of protest.
“Condom,” Rozanov says, almost apologetic.
He's back before Shane can start to feel cold. He guides Shane's hip a little further round, hand on Shane's ass, and then Shane can feel Rozanov's dick right there, a little cool and foreign from the latex.
Shane's not scared this time. How dumb, to have been scared of this.
“Still okay?”
Shane nods into the pillow, nods and doesn't stop while Rozanov works his way into him. Yes, I want it, I want it, yes. There's no real leverage in this position so Rozanov has to work for every inch, rocking into Shane to open him up.
Shane lets himself dissolve into the feeling. His whole body is a warm ache, every part connected to every other part, and the line where he ends and Rozanov begins is blurring.
“Is not too much?” Rozanov asks.
Shane shakes his head, presses his face into the pillow. He would have more if he could. Greedy. Wanting too much.
“Hey, no,” Rozanov says. He takes Shane's chin and turns his head back, kisses him on the cheek, the jaw, wherever he can reach. “I want to see.”
Shane can't keep his eyes open but he obeys for the rest, lets Rozanov see him wanting, lets him catch the breathy noises that spill from him every time Rozanov pushes in deep.
Shane has never felt so wholly in his body and out of his mind before. He can't do anything but lie there and yield, take whatever Rozanov gives him and be grateful for it.
A string of broken Russian. Then, “Fuck, Hollander, you love it.”
What can Shane say to that. He nods, breathless. Rozanov’s mouth is everywhere, like he wants to taste every part of him, consume him. He rocks in to Shane, out a little, deep again. There's no rhythm to it, just fractured breathing, sudden pulses of too much fading back to not enough, over and over again. Shane makes another sound he doesn't recognise, needy.
“What do you need.” Rozanov’s teeth on Shane's shoulder. “Hollander. Tell me. I will give.”
Shane doesn't recognise his own voice, either: “Please fuck me.”
The weight of him along Shane's back. The irresistible strength, the way he can cover Shane, consume him. He's pressing Shane into the sheets, fucking him steadily, a deep glow, a deep ache. Shane's dick is rubbing against the sheets, too much friction, too much after everything.
“Is what you need?”
Yes. No. Shane might come in the next second, or not for hours. He's not sure which would be worse.
“Hollander.”
“More,” he manages.
Something snarled in Russian in response, low and guttural. Rozanov pushes Shane's other knee out to the side, opening him up for it. He's fucking in so deep Shane can feel him in his chest, his throat, everywhere.
“Oh, fuck, Hollander.”
Rozanov's hand goes to Shane's hip and he's pulling Shane back onto his dick with every thrust.
“Hollander. Fuck. I can't. I am going to - ”
His rhythm falters. He pushes in deep and stays there, hips flush against Shane's ass, dick jerking. Shane can feel him come. Jesus. What would it be like without a condom. Shane would never, he's not an idiot but - fuck, to be able to feel the raw heat of him, to feel Rozanov come in him for real -
He makes a desperate noise. He wants, he wants to feel that, he wants fucking everything -
“Hollander. Hollander.”
Rozanov is moving already, pulling out, big hand on Shane's shoulder, rolling Shane on to his back. Even the dimly lit room is too bright. Shane closes his eyes again. Rozanov's mouth is on his chest, his stomach, and then on his dick, sucking him down, swallowing around him. It's good, it's so good, he's nearly there. He pulls his knees up. A second, another, stretching out to infinity, and then Rozanov's fingers are pushing into him where he was empty and aching with it, curling, pressing deep as he swallows and swallows and Shane whites out, coming even though it's turning him inside out, even though he has nothing left to give.
His ears are ringing as he comes back to himself, like he's taken a hard check into the boards. Everything feels like it's happening on a second’s delay, sound and motion out of sync. Rozanov has collapsed half on top of him, half to the side. He's touching Shane all over, chest, arms, legs, like he's checking Shane is still in one piece. It's a fair call. Shane isn't sure himself. He breathes, and breathes, and breathes, and finally feels his heartbeat start to slow.
Rozanov is saying something. Shane's syrup-slow brain takes a while to notice that there's English mixed in with the Russian - beautiful, once, and so good for me, and love that you love it.
It makes him shiver.
Rozanov must notice. The murmured stream of words stops, but the hands don't, warm on Shane's arms where goosebumps have formed.
“You are cold,” Rozanov says, more clearly, like he means Shane to hear him this time.
“No.” His voice sounds scratchy. Overuse? Underuse? “I'm okay.”
“You have - ” Rozanov says something in Russian. “On arms. Little - ants?”
“Ants?”
“Is what we call.” Rozanov pushes up over him, arms braced on either side of Shane's head. How could Shane feel cold with Rozanov there, radiating heat, taking up twice as much space as he should.
“No, I'm fine.”
“You are cold,” Rozanov says again. “Also.” He licks a stripe up the middle of Shane's chest. “You really need shower.”
He licks again, wide swathes of his tongue, like he's a cat or something. It's ticklish.
“Stop fucking - licking me, Jesus.”
“No,” Rozanov says, and licks Shane's nipple. “You will not shower, I have to lick clean.”
“Oh my god you're disgusting.”
“You are disgusting one. Also you are running out of towels.”
Clearly Rozanov is not going to leave him in peace. “Okay. Fine. I'll shower. I just. Need a minute.”
“You have one minute. Do not fall asleep.”
Rozanov gets off the bed and goes into the bathroom. The light goes on and Shane hears the shower running. Fuck, it must be really late. Like, really really late.
He closes his eyes for just a second. Then Rozanov is shaking his knee. “Hollander. Shower. Water is hot.”
“Okay, okay, I'm coming.”
He gets himself up to sitting on the side of the bed. He winces. Okay, that's - yep. Okay.
Rozanov is still in the bathroom, drying off, when Shane makes it to the shower. Rozanov has left the water running for him and it's warm.
Shane stands under the spray for a few seconds before his eyes inevitably stray back to Rozanov, standing at the sink.
Rozanov's got a towel on, neatly tucked low around his hips, over the swell of his ass. The last time Shane saw him in a towel like that was at the rink, was when -
Wow, you are a really bad liar.
What is your room number?
Jesus. What if Shane had said no. What if he'd - not opened the door to Rozanov, the first time, or the second time, what if they hadn't -
“You have never seen someone clean teeth before?”
Shit. He's been staring. “Uh, no, I - “
“You have come in my mouth like three times,” Rozanov says around his toothbrush. “I need to clean.”
“Sure, no, of course. I mean, sorry, I - ”
Rozanov spits. “I told you. I don't mind.”
But. The thing is. That's not Shane's toothbrush. Rozanov must have brought his own with him, in his bag. Maybe there's a chance he was expecting to stay? That it wouldn't be too much for Shane to -
“Don't go,” he blurts.
Rozanov stands up from rinsing his mouth in the sink. “What?”
“I mean, uh. Stay here tonight. It's really late, and. You seem to have, like. Trouble keeping track of your room key, so. I wouldn't want you to get locked out of your room again and have to sleep in the hall.”
When Rozanov looks at him like this Shane finds it hard to get enough air.
“Okay,” Rozanov says eventually.
“Okay?”
Rozanov nods. “Okay. I will stay.”
**
When Shane comes out of the bathroom the bedroom is dark, television and lights off, just a faint glow from Rozanov's phone where he's sitting up in bed, scrolling.
Shane goes to his bag, finds a clean pair of underwear and a sleep t-shirt and pulls them on. He fusses with his phone, plugs in the charger, checks the weather for tomorrow, makes sure the alarm is set for - not enough hours from now, fuck. Good thing he doesn't have to do anything other than sit on a plane tomorrow. Although actually, maybe sitting for hours isn't going to be -
“Hollander.” Rozanov has put his own phone down on the bedside table and is looking at him. “What are you doing.”
“Uh. Nothing? I mean, just.”
Rozanov rolls his eyes and folds down the covers next to him. “Get in.”
Okay. Okay. Shane puts his phone down and gets into the bed, keeping what he hopes is a normal distance from Rozanov without risking falling off the side - like, the bed's not that big, Rozanov's a big guy, and Shane's not that small, it's kind of hard to leave that much space between them -
“Oh my god Hollander,” Rozanov says, and then he’s got his arm around Shane's head, almost a headlock, pulling until Shane has to shift over and down and they're just lying there together, Shane's head resting on Rozanov's shoulder. Rozanov's hand settles on his lower back.
Shane swallows. He can hear Rozanov's heartbeat through his chest wall, steady and slow.
“What, uh. What time do you have to be up tomorrow?” he says eventually, when he can't bear the silence any more.
“Early. I have put alarm.”
“Me too.”
“You should sleep.”
He definitely should. He's so tired his thoughts are coming only in disjointed bursts. But.
He rests his hand on Rozanov's chest. Not trying to start anything - he really, honestly, absolutely couldn't - but because it seems like he might be allowed to. Because he likes the warmth of Rozanov's skin, the gentle tickle of Rozanov's chest hair, the gentle rise and fall of Rozanov's breath. Rozanov's crucifix pendant is lying just beyond his fingers.
Well. He's been wondering, and. Maybe he's allowed to ask, now, as well as touch?
He pitches his voice low, in case Rozanov has fallen asleep. “Hey, Rozanov.”
“What is now?” Rozanov sounds tired, but not, like, actively irritated, so Shane pushes on.
“Are you religious?”
“Mm. I don't know.”
How can he not know? Or maybe Rozanov doesn't know the word. “I mean. Do you like, believe in God? Do you go to church?”
“Church, no. God, maybe. I am not sure.”
“But then why do you wear - ”
Rozanov interrupts him. “Always you have so many questions, Hollander.”
“Sorry.”
A shrug under Shane's head, a little pause, then, “Is okay.” He doesn't say anything for another minute and Shane wonders if he's maybe fallen asleep after all. Then, so quietly it's not clear whether he means to be heard or not: “It belonged to someone important. She is not here any more.”
It feels too sacred for Shane to touch, but Shane stretches over and presses a kiss to Ilya's collarbone, next to the cross, I'm sorry, and thank you.
When Shane's head is resting back on his shoulder, it almost feels like Rozanov brushes his lips over Shane's hair. “Sleep now, Hollander.”
****
When Shane blinks awake he's lying on Rozanov's arm, one of Shane's arms across Rozanov's belly. There's sunlight streaming through a gap in the curtains and their alarms haven't gone off yet.
In this light, face open and soft from sleep, Rozanov looks like someone that -
Like someone that -
Shane sits up, too fast. He feels dizzy.
Rozanov's eyes open, bleary. He blinks, frowns, seems to realise where he is, focuses on Shane. “Good morning,” he says, rough with sleep.
Good manners take over where there's nothing else but blind terror. “Good morning,” Shane replies automatically. “Sorry, I have to - “
Go? But where would he go to? This is his room.
He scrambles off the bed.
“Hollander,” Rozanov says.
“I'm just going to - “
“Hollander.”
“I, uh.”
There are condom wrappers on the bedside table. Rozanov's clothes on the chair. Used towels on the floor.
There's nowhere to go.
He makes it as far as the foot of the bed before he collapses to the floor, head on his knees, arms wrapped around himself.
“Hollander.”
Rozanov's voice sounds too close. Like, right next to Shane.
“Sorry,” he forces out. “I'm just, uh. Freaking out.”
“I see this,” Rozanov says.
Maybe he's trying to be funny. Shane can't tell, he can hardly breathe, he has nothing to spare to process Rozanov's tone of voice.
“Hey. Is okay.”
Shane shakes his head reflexively. He is not okay, he is so far from okay, and he doesn't have a map or a compass or anything to work with. How could he fuck everything up so comprehensively in one night.
“Hollander. Breathe. Is going to be okay.”
He shakes his head again. His hands and feet are freezing. He feels sick.
Rozanov's hand is on his back, rubbing gently, like Shane is a child. “Is just me, okay? You are with your friend. We are okay here.”
That - maybe does help a little, actually. Shane has so many things to freak out about it feels like they're on a carousel in his head, round and round, taking it in turns to bob up and down: You like sucking cock! You asked Ilya Rozanov to be your friend! You begged him to fuck you! - and it's not that Rozanov's words make any of the horses stop, but. Rozanov is still here. Rozanov is sitting with Shane, rubbing his back, calling himself Shane's friend. That probably reduces the chances that Rozanov is going to - Shane doesn't know. Tell everyone Shane likes dick. Taunt him with it on the ice. Take photos and post them on Twitter.
Oh god.
“Hollander. I am here. You are okay.”
Shane makes himself nod. He presses his eyeballs into his knees until the sensation drowns out everything else. He takes a breath and there's a little more air in the room this time. His voice, when he speaks, is scratchy but audible. “You won't - you're not going to tell anyone.” He can't make it a question, can't consider the possibility.
“I will not tell anyone. No one will know.”
Shane manages to choke out a laugh at that one. “Fuck. I think. I think maybe housekeeping might have some ideas.”
Rozanov's hand is still moving on Shane's back. “Hotel does not know anything. They will think you had feast of many beautiful chickens.”
That surprises another laugh out of Shane. He lifts his head from his knees and braves a glance at Rozanov. “I thought you were going to have, like, amnesia about that. From the vodka.”
Rozanov frowns. “What is ‘amnesia’?”
“Like, forgetting.”
“Amnesia,” Rozanov repeats to himself. “Okay.” He is looking at Shane, steady. It's a little overwhelming, but also, maybe, nice. “And is what you want? For me to forget?”
Of course Shane wants him to forget. Twelve hours of amnesia would be just about perfect. Rozanov would forget that Shane practically begged to be fucked, blurted out his feelings about liking dick, and then, in a state of intoxication fuelled entirely by endorphins and fatigue, asked to be friends like a six year old at the playground.
Then Rozanov could go back to being Shane's hockey rival. Just some guy with a cocky face and annoying chirps. Instead of -
Instead of whatever this is. A friend who sits on the dirty hotel carpet with him and rubs his back when he's freaking out. A friend who is an asshole ninety five percent of the time but doesn't laugh at Shane - or, no, he definitely does, but maybe only when Shane really needs to be laughing at himself too.
“No, uh. Sorry. Never mind. I don't - don't want you to forget.”
“Okay,” Rozanov says, like it's as simple as that.
“Okay,” Shane agrees. He thinks he might even be smiling.
It's probably a good thing that Shane's phone alarm starts chiming, and that he can't reach it from down here in their weird position on the floor, and that he knows it just gets louder and louder until he switches it off. Otherwise, there's a real possibility that he would take the easy option and just stay down here forever, rather than get up and face the real world and the rest of his life.
But the alarm does go off, and it turns out Shane's legs do sort of work. He manages to get up, locate his phone on the bedside table, and shut it up. Then he sits down on the edge of the bed and swipes blindly through a few notifications from overnight, nothing important. No new messages from his mom. He makes himself open the message thread with her from last night and types out Sorry I missed you last night. I didn't see your texts. Meet you in the lobby 7:45. He tries to think of a lie to tell her - though he hates lying and Rozanov is not wrong, he is terrible at it. Maybe he can tell a half-truth, like - he had a drink with Rozanov and missed her texts. True in the essentials, right? Or -
“Hollander.”
Shane looks up. “Yeah?”
Rozanov is standing in front of him, fully dressed back in his clothes from last night, frowning. Shane has been half aware of Rozanov moving around the room while Shane messed with his phone - getting his stuff together, Shane presumed - but it seems like Rozanov has maybe also been tidying up, because the sex towels are gone from the floor, condom wrappers vanished. The giant bottle of lube has gone, too, and Shane devoutly hopes that's back in Rozanov's bag and not sticking out of the bathroom bin as evidence of their nocturnal activities.
“You have been staring at phone not moving for ten minutes,” Rozanov says. “Are you having panic attack again?”
“Oh. No. Sorry. I was - never mind. Thanks for like, tidying up?”
“Hollander.” Rozanov sits on the bed next to him. “Are you going to have panic attack again later?”
Speaking of being a bad liar. “I mean. Yeah, probably, to be honest.”
Rozanov hums for a second, then holds out his hand. “Okay. Give me phone.”
Shane unlocks his phone and hands it over. Rozanov takes it and starts tapping away. “I give you number. When you feel bad, you send text instead. Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay. Uh.” A sudden thought occurs to Shane. “But like - you can't send any sex stuff, okay?”
“Sure. No dick picks.”
“I mean it. If I'm texting you and someone sees - ”
Rozanov looks up from Shane's phone. There are those eyebrows. “Hollander. I am Russian.”
“So?”
“In Russia, they find out you suck cock, they put you in prison. I am not idiot.”
“Okay. Sorry. I know you're not, I just - sorry.”
Rozanov hands his phone back. Shane glances at it automatically, still sitting on the Contacts page. Oh. He looks up at Rozanov. Down at the phone. Up at Rozanov. “You, uh. You're in here as Ilya.”
The eyebrows are back. “Is my name, yes? You prefer to call me by last name forever?”
“No. No, I - I mean of course not.” Is Shane overreacting? He doesn't think he's overreacting. Rozanov has never called him anything but Hollander. Even when, like, his dick was inside Shane. So. Shane feels maybe this needs unpacking. “Unless that's what everyone - uh. Do other people call you Ilya?”
Rozanov shrugs. “Not many. With team is Roz.”
“But we're not teammates.”
Rozanov's look encompasses how much he doesn't need Shane to tell him that. “No. We are not teammates.”
“What about friends, or like, family?”
“In Russia is different.” Shane waits, and after a moment Rozanov says, “Is Ilyukha, sometimes, for Russian friends. For my father, my brother - ” Rozanov says something in Russian that doesn't sound anything like Ilya or Rozanov to Shane. The way Rozanov says it, it doesn't sound like a nice word, either.
“And, uh. Your mom?”
A longer pause. “My mother used to call me Ilyushenka.”
Rozanov is looking away from Shane, toward the morning light coming through the window. He's holding himself like he's made from stone, untouchable. Shane isn't sure he's earned the right to touch yet, either, no matter how much he might want to, so he breathes through the ache in his throat and finally offers, “That's beautiful.”
“Mm.” For a moment Shane thinks Rozanov is going to say something more, but then he gives a little shrug, and only adds, “Is like - love name? For parent.”
“Pet name.”
“Yes. Not for friends.”
“Okay. So Ilya would be - from a friend?”
“Canadian friend, I think probably, yes.”
“Okay. Ilya.”
“Yes.”
“And you should probably call me - Shane?” He's not sure why it came out as a question.
“Shane.”
Jesus that sounds weird coming from Ilya's mouth. Not bad, actually quite nice, but - it'll take some getting used to.
Rozanov is watching him, amusement back on his face. “Or you prefer I say - what is your teammates call you. Holly, yes? Pretty name for pretty face.”
“No, Shane is good.” He's not going to blush.
“Okay, Shane.”
“And hey, uh. Ilya. Since we're friends.”
Eyebrows.
Shane takes a breath. “If you, like. I get that you probably wouldn't want to, and obviously I don't know anything about, like Russia, or speak Russian, but. If you ever wanted to, uh. Talk? About anything? I’d be. Happy to listen.”
He can't tell if Ilya's expression is amused, or tolerant, or, like, amusedly tolerant. Or something else altogether. But Shane feels better for having offered.
“Okay,” Ilya says eventually. And then, totally unexpected: “Thank you.”
Shane makes himself shrug, no big deal. “Anytime.”
Ilya doesn't say anything more, and Shane is just starting to wonder if friendship privileges could be stretched to include, like, one-armed hugs after moments like that, when his phone beeps with a message. It's his mom, OK, see you soon!
He checks the time. Fuck. It's nearly half past seven and he's not dressed yet, hasn't packed his stuff, hasn't brushed his teeth.
“I have to go,” he says, then remembers his earlier freak out, makes himself look Ilya in the face and clarify, “I mean, I really genuinely have to be downstairs and ready to get in a taxi in like fifteen minutes. So I should. You know.”
“Me also. I should go back to room.”
“Okay. So.”
Shane stands up. Ilya's bag is on the chair from last night, all zipped up and ready to go. Ilya stands too and swings his bag onto his shoulder.
Shane doesn't know how to do this. “I'll uh. I'll see you when the season starts?” he tries.
“Or in lobby,” Ilya points out.
Shane hasn't really considered that possibility. Shit. “Sure. But. My parents - so.”
He really needs to work on his English. But by some miracle, Ilya is nodding. “Probably best to do now,” he says, and - huh?
Oh. It's nothing like last night's kisses: one heartbeat, one press of soft lips.
“Bye, Shane,” Ilya says. And then he's gone.
****
Shane gets dressed, brushes his teeth, piles things into his suitcase. The state of the room is - well. It's worse than Shane's ever left a room before, but just regular-person mess, Shane thinks, not post-orgy mess. As good as it's going to get. He puts Ilya's minibar money out for housekeeping with a heartfelt, silent apology, and closes the door behind him.
It's quarter to eight on the dot when he makes it downstairs. His parents are already in the lobby, sitting with their bags in the little lounge area.
He takes a deep breath. Okay. Time to be normal Shane again. Never-tried-sucking-cock-Shane. Never-been-fucked-Shane. Yesterday-Shane. He did it for nineteen years, he can do it for one more day.
“Morning Mom, Dad. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
His dad looks up from his magazine. “Not a problem, son. You're not late. Taxi will be here in a couple of minutes.”
“Okay. Thanks. I'll just, uh.” He holds up his key card and nods toward the desk. “Back in a minute.”
Thankfully his parents are far enough away from the desk that they don't hear him settling the minibar bill. He swipes his credit card, hands back the room key, and it's done. Room fourteen ten consigned to history.
He sits down on the lounge opposite his parents. “Sorry again for missing you last night, Mom.”
She gives him one of her bright smiles. “Oh that's okay, sweetheart. We can do the paperwork at the airport. It's not like you to have fallen asleep so early, though. And you look a little pale this morning. You're not getting sick are you?”
“No, I, uh. I was actually out? With a friend. We went for a quick drink. And I forgot to take my phone with me, so I didn't see your texts until I got back to the room, and it was a little late by then, so - ” Jesus, stop talking, Shane.
“Oh!” Yuna's eyebrows are practically at her hairline. “Oh. Okay.”
Shane tries to ignore the feeling that he's owning up to a bad grade on a school assignment. “Sorry I didn't tell you I was going out.”
That gets another look from his dad. “You don't need to apologise, Shane. You're nineteen years old.”
“No, of course you don't,” Yuna hurries to add. “I just - I don't think I knew that you had a friend in Toronto. A hockey friend? Do they play for the Leafs?”
“No, uh.”
Behind his parents, the elevator chimes and the doors open. Ilya steps out, bag slung over his shoulder, hair a little less European than usual but looking unfairly fucking good for someone who's had as little sleep as Shane knows he has.
Ilya's heading to the reception desk, but as he crosses the lobby he glances at the seating area and his eyes catch Shane's. He gives the tiniest nod of acknowledgement, blink and you'll miss it. Shane tries to keep his own face under control and drags his attention back to his parents.
“Oh!” Yuna is saying. “Oh. Was it a - a - female friend?”
Shane pretends not to see the glance she shoots his dad, and his frown in response, but he can't miss his Dad’s, “Yuna. Enough with the inquisition.”
He forces a laugh. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mom. Just a friend. And yes, he plays hockey but not for the Leafs. He uh - plays for Boston actually.”
“For Boston?” Yuna repeats.
“Yeah. I, uh. Went for a drink with Rozanov?”
“With Rozanov? Ilya Rozanov?”
“I don't know any other Rozanovs, so yeah.”
Shane’s gaze has crept, unbidden, back to Ilya at the checkout desk. His mom must follow it because she says, “Oh! Okay. I see.” Then she does that thing she always does, assimilates surprising new information in like two seconds and immediately puts her game face back on. “Well. You can introduce us then.”
“What? Mom, no, he doesn't want to - ”
But his mom is already smiling brightly at Ilya across the lobby, and giving him a wave.
Ilya looks a little confused, but he smiles back politely and then looks at Shane, clearly questioning.
Shane takes a breath. Be brave. If you're going to be friends you're going to have to acknowledge him in public. It'll be weirder if you don't.
He can't quite make himself use Ilya's first name in front of his parents though. “Rozanov. Hey!”
He gets a double eyebrow raise from Rozanov in response, and has to nod and wave Rozanov over before he comes to join them.
“Hey,” Shane manages. “Morning.”
At least Rozanov has his hands full with his bag, so they can skip the awkward public greeting issue. Shane has no idea what would be appropriate - a handshake? Slap on the back? Bro hug?
Rozanov just gives him a nod. “Hollander. Good morning.”
His dad has put his magazine to one side and stood up to be introduced. His mom is quicker off the mark, though, and she's already got her hand out, stepping forward. “Hi there,” Yuna says. “I'm Yuna Hollander, Shane's mom. I'm glad we get to meet properly at last.”
Rozanov swings his bag out of the way and leans in to take Yuna’s hand. “Hello,” he says. “It is very nice to meet you, Mrs Hollander.” His English is somehow more careful this morning with Shane's parents, not rough or sleep-slurred, and it absolutely does not in any way make Shane feel anything.
“Please, call me Yuna.” His mom steps back, gives Shane a look, and Shane clears his throat. Right. Manners.
“And, Uh. This is my dad, David. Dad, Ilya Rozanov. But you know that already.”
I sucked his dick last night, Shane's brain supplies helpfully.
“Good to meet you, Rozanov,” his dad says, taking his hand in a firm shake.
He fucked me in the ass! Twice!
“Ilya, please,” Rozanov says. “And you also.” He steps back, adjusts his bag again and now he's the one giving Shane a look, like what the hell do you want me to do now, possibly the least self assured that Shane has ever seen him. Who knew it was meeting Shane's parents that would finally put him off kilter.
“I was just apologising to my mom for leaving my phone behind while we were out at the bar last night,” Shane says. “She was trying to get hold of me.”
Fortunately Ilya can take a hint. “I am sorry also,” Ilya says. “I did not know Shane had left phone behind.”
“Oh it's fine! No harm done.” She gives a little half-laugh. “You boys weren't talking hockey last night, were you?”
“No, Mom.”
“Because you wouldn't want to hand Boston an unfair advantage, Shane.”
“Mom, the season hasn't started yet.”
“Still, you never know. You might let something slip.”
“Mom.”
“Mrs Hollander. I do not know Shane very well yet, but already I know he is very serious about hockey. I am sure he would never do anything to hurt team. Is much more likely that I will say something by accident against Raiders.” Well, fuck. That might be the most English Shane's ever heard from Ilya in public.
“Well!” His mom looks torn between outrage at the idea of a player accidentally being disloyal, and interest that it might be to the advantage of her beloved Metros. “Well. That's very kind of you to say, Ilya, but I'm sure you wouldn't - anyway.”
She seems to become aware that Ilya is still holding his bags and that they're all standing in a weird circle, and says brightly, “Are you waiting for a car as well, Ilya? Shall we sit down for a few minutes and get to know each other?”
Mercifully, blessedly, before they have to do any more awkward small talk, the concierge calls, “Taxi for Hollander?”
“That's us,” his dad says.
“Oh well,” Yuna says. “Maybe some other time.”
Ilya's smile is polite but also clearly ninety nine percent relief. “Yes. Maybe another time.”
“Well. We'd better be off.” His dad holds out his hand again for Ilya to shake. “Nice to meet you again, Ilya. Good luck for the start of the season.”
“But not too good luck!” Yuna chimes in.
“Mom!”
“Sorry, sorry,” Yuna laughs. “Shane, we'll start loading the bags, okay? Don't be long.”
His parents finally get going. Shane braves meeting Ilya's eyes. “Sorry. I know that was weird but Mom asked me to introduce you and thought it'd be weirder if I didn't say anything and - ”
“Shane. Is fine. I am glad to meet them.”
“Okay, well. I'd better go too, they're waiting for me, so - ”
For lack of any better ideas, he holds out a hand for Ilya to shake.
Ilya looks at it for a moment then takes it and pulls Shane in for a hug, Shane's face pressed into his shoulder. Ilya's got the same jacket on as last night and Shane’s suddenly full of the smell of Ilya's cigarettes, clean sweat. Ilya pats him on the back, twice, punctuation, and steps back.
“Was nice to see you, Shane.”
“You too, Ilya. Have a safe trip.”
****
His mom can't even let the taxi pull out into traffic before she's saying, “So, Shane. Ilya Rozanov? Really?”
“Can you keep your voice down?”
At least his dad is doing a good job in the front, keeping the driver occupied with small talk about the weather.
“Well, if you're planning to be friendly with him, then I don't see why I can't say his name.”
“It's just - it isn't a big deal, okay?”
His mom gives him a look.
“I mean it shouldn't be a big deal. But I know people might want to make it one because of the rivalry or whatever, so.”
“Yes, I can't imagine why anyone would be interested in the idea of you, the Metros’ top draft pick, being friendly with Boston's,” his mom says drily. She pauses, then, “Are you sure this isn't going to be a problem when you play against him?”
“Mom. Do you let dad win when you play cards?”
“I would rather die.”
“Right. So it's possible to like hanging out with someone but still play hard against them.”
“I suppose.” She runs the strap of her purse through her fingers. “Well, I guess it's good that you're making friends.”
Shane doesn't roll his eyes but it's a close run thing. “Mom.”
“And you two did look like you were having fun on the ice together yesterday. It was nice to see you laughing. As long as it doesn't affect your hockey - ”
“Mom!”
“But do you really think it's a good idea, Shane? I mean, I can't deny he's a strong player, but he's got a reputation already.”
“He can definitely be an asshole, but uh. I think a lot of it might be an act.”
“Which we don't want affecting your image.”
“I'm not planning to, like, start copying everything he does.”
“Hmm. Well, maybe you'll be a good influence on him. And if it does get out that you two are friends, maybe we can spin it to our advantage. You know, you're such a nice guy that you're even friendly with ‘bad boy Ilya Rozanov’.” She actually does the air quotes.
Shane doesn't even bother to dignify that with a response.
His mom clears her throat. “So. What did you two boys find to talk about? If you weren't talking about hockey.”
Shane shrugs. “I don't know.” Sex. Monkeys. More sex. Steak. “Food, I guess. And Russia, a little. His family or whatever.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I think - I mean, he didn't like, say, exactly.” This feels like breaking a confidence but Shane really wants his mom to like Ilya, for reasons he is not going to explore more closely. “And please don't ever say anything to anyone, but I think his mom passed away, and like. I get the feeling he maybe doesn't get on so well with his dad and his brother back home.”
“Oh. Oh, well. That's sad.”
“Yeah.”
“Does he have any family over here?”
“He didn't mention any.”
“Hmm.”
Nineteen years have taught Shane to be worried when his mom says ‘hmm’ in that tone.
“Mom. What are you planning?”
“Nothing.”
“Mom.”
“Nothing! I was just thinking - well, it's far too early to make plans. But if you boys are set on being friendly, and he doesn't have family to go to, I just wondered if maybe he'd like to come for the holidays.”
“Mom! Jesus!”
“Not if you have any injuries on board that he can't know about, of course - ”
“Mom! Injuries are not the problem here!”
“Well, what is the problem then? I don't like the idea of his being alone at Christmas. It's always so sad for the international players. And he seemed like a nice boy this morning. Very polite.”
“That is not a reason to invite him for Christmas!”
“There's no need to overreact, Shane.”
“I am not the one overreacting.”
“It was just an idea. We could even go to the cottage if you boys have time, give him a real Ontario experience.”
The idea of Ilya at his family’s cottage. Sitting around his parents’ dining table, eating his dad's pancakes. Having a snowball fight. Building a fire in the firepit on the deck, bundled up in his mom's scratchy woollen blankets. It’s completely impossible.
His mom settles back in her seat and looks out the window. “Keep it in mind, okay?”
Like he's going to be able to stop thinking about it.
****
Check in and security at Pearson are the same as ever, except today Shane can't shake the feeling that everyone he walks past can see Ilya's hands all over him.
How do people do this? Like, statistically speaking, a fair proportion of the people in this airport probably had sex last night. How are they all just going about their business like nothing happened? Shane keeps catching himself touching his neck, his jaw, where Ilya kissed him.
He signs the Reebok contract for his mom, and then excuses himself to find some breakfast. He's not hungry but he knows he’ll feel like shit later if he doesn't make an effort. Also. He really needs some space from his mom right now. She knows him too well.
He sits down with his smoothie, tells himself that he's just getting out his phone to check if there are any updates from his trainer about summer plans. Then he thinks he'll just check and make sure Ilya put a real phone number in his contacts, and not, like, a prank number or whatever.
It looks real.
If he leaves it a few days and then texts out of the blue, that'll be even weirder, right?
And Ilya did say to text if he was freaking out. Maybe he's not fully freaking out, but he's also not not freaking out. He's just. Every time his thoughts stray a little too close to the details of last night, they skitter away again in self defence. As soon as he lets himself actually think about it, he's pretty sure he's going to lose his shit completely. He's saving that for when he gets home.
But what the hell is he going to say?
Weirdly, he can hear Ilya's voice in his head: Hollander. You are being very boring. Stop having panic attack and send text.
It kind of helps.
Shane: Sorry again about my mom.
Shane: This is Shane by the way.
Shane: Hollander.
He doesn't get a chance to panic-type a fourth text before Ilya responds.
Ilya: Hello Shane by the way Hollander
Ilya: And is fine. She was nice
Okay. This is good, Shane can do this.
Shane: I mean, she's awesome, but also she can be a little intense.
Shane: Especially about hockey.
Ilya: Yes. Is so strange since no one else in your family is like this
Shane: Fuck off.
Ilya: No
Ilya: She is Japanese yes?
Shane: Yes.
Ilya: Is where you get your pretty face
Shane: Fuck off.
Ilya: Your dad was also nice
Ilya: And he did not make me feel like he was planning to kill me and hide body when I win cup and Conn Smythe before you
Ilya: Which was nice
Shane: Stop saying nice.
Ilya: Would you rather I say boring
Ilya: Because he was reading New Yorker
Ilya: Is your dad where you get your boring from Shane?
Shane: Fuck off, Ilya.
Ilya: Still no, Shane.
Shane is fairly sure he's grinning like a loon in the middle of departures. He hopes no one recognises him and wants a picture.
He types My mom wants to invite you for Christmas, then deletes it. Types, Do you like s'mores? because Shane doesn't, the mix of textures doesn't work for him, but he bets Ilya would love them, would go in for the first bite before the marshmallow has cooled enough not to burn his tongue, would end up with melted chocolate on his top lip, face lit up by the glow of the fire - and then deletes that too.
Just be fucking normal about something for once in your life, he tells himself.
He's pretty sure Rozanov isn't sitting around agonising about whether to text Shane again. For Rozanov, last night was just another in a series of opportunistic hookups. Rozanov agreed to Shane's stupid request to be friends because Rozanov isn't, despite appearances, an asshole, and Shane was clearly going through something.
Rozanov is not going to keep texting him. Not like this, anyway, not once he's reassured himself Shane isn't having a mental breakdown in the middle of Pearson International.
Shane is not sure that he's not going to have a breakdown in the middle of Pearson International.
Are you spending the rest of the summer in Boston? Or going home? he types out, then deletes that as well.
Fuck. Okay.
Shane will have to set himself a limit. One text initiating contact with Rozanov per day, max. Next week he can go to second daily. That way, by the time the season rolls around, maybe Shane will have weaned himself off thinking about Rozanov to the point where he can face him across the ice without totally losing his cool.
Shane puts his phone on airplane mode. Shoves it in his bag, throws the rest of the smoothie in the bin, and goes to find his gate.
****
Shane makes it all the way through the flight, gets back to his apartment, takes another shower, and sorts his clothes for the laundry, all without his phone. Thinking about Rozanov doesn't count, as long as Shane isn't texting him.
He has to turn off airplane mode to put a food delivery order in, though. And there's a text from Rozanov waiting for him, timestamped an hour ago:
Ilya: 16th October
Shane makes himself go out of his messages and sort out his food plan for the week before he lets himself reply, tries to keep it as disinterested as possible even though the curiosity is practically killing him:
Shane: ??
Ilya responds almost straight away. He's probably on the plane, bored, nothing to do.
Ilya: I have looked at calendar for games this year. October is first time I will come to Montreal to kick your ass
Okay, this Shane knows how to respond to.
Shane: In your dreams, Rozanov.
Shane: Also, the rosters aren't decided until after training camp. How do you know you'll even be travelling with the team?
Ilya: You are being idiot again Hollander. Of course we will both be playing this year
Ilya: Although actually you maybe not, you have not fixed weak backhand yet
Now Shane's stupid grin is back. At least he's in private this time.
Shane: Fuck you
Ilya: Yes. Is why I send date
Shane: ??
Ilya: You are very slow today Hollander. 16th October we have evening game against each other in Montreal. Raiders will not fly out again until next day
Ilya: Problem is Canada is very boring. I don't want to sit around in hotel room after winning game so I will need idea for something to do
Shane: And you're asking me? I thought I was boring too?
Ilya: Yes very boring. But sometimes you have good ideas
Ilya: Not as good as my ideas of course
Shane bites his lip. Are all these references to last night intentional? Probably not. Probably Shane is reading too much into it.
Shane: I don't know. Do you mean somewhere to go out with your team? I'm sure someone will know a bar or club or something. That's not really my scene.
Ilya: Wow wow wow. You are really really slow today Hollander
Shane: Fuck off Rozanov. I didn't get much sleep last night
Ilya: I know
Ilya: Me also
Ilya: But was worth it
Shane has to put his phone down and press his face into his knees for a minute before he can get himself together enough to reply.
Shane: For me too.
Shane: Worth it I mean.
Ilya: So what do you think?
Shane: About where to go in Montreal?
Ilya: Yes. I will need to go out because otherwise will be stuck in hotel room with teammate
Ilya: Am sure teammate will be interesting person but think I would prefer to have real boring Canadian experience
Shane's bottom lip is never going to be the same again, the way he's chewing on it.
Shane: So now you want boring? I am so confused.
Ilya: Hollander. Read carefully. I want to do something after game in Montreal. Not with team
Ilya: Maybe will be hungry, feel like steak
Ilya: Do you know any good place to get steak in Montreal?
Oh. Is he really - ? Holy shit. Holy shit.
Shane looks around his apartment. The place still smells like fresh paint and feels a little empty, even though he's got all the important furniture in. Shane's planning to hire a designer to do the finishing touches. He tries to imagine Rozanov here, lounging against the kitchen island, always taking up so much space. Or - or Rozanov on the brand new sofa, Shane kneeling on the ground in front of him and sucking him off while Rozanov watches TV, one hand casually resting in Shane's hair. Or Rozanov bending him over the barely-used dining table and fucking him.
Is he allowed to want that?
Is he allowed to have that?
He's pretty sure he's not misinterpreting Ilya's texts, though. Ilya's being careful like Shane asked him to, but Ilya is also - asking. A clean pass to Shane in front of an empty net.
Shane takes a deep breath, types out his address, and presses send.
Ilya: ?
Ilya: What is this place? Does not look like restaurant
Shane: Not a restaurant, Ilya.
Shane: Front door code is 1919.
Ilya: See you in October, Shane.