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Shane Hollander is drunk.
Shane Hollander is very drunk.
The club is deafening, playing songs that Shane doesn’t know at—what must be—max volume. His team, the Montreal Metros, is milling about the place, most on the dance floor, slobbering over beautiful women wearing scraps of fabric. Shane tries to melt into the booth, the bass rattling through his bones until he can hardly tell where his own edges are. Any other night, and Shane would be far away from this, asleep in a hotel room with a nice face mask on and his portable white noise machine soothing him to sleep. But tonight they are Cup winners, and the team wouldn’t take no for an answer.
So Shane is at some club with a trendy one-word name—Crave, or Crash, or something silly like that. The air is thick with sweat, spilled cocktails, and a hint of citrus cleaner that can’t quite mask everything else. Light slashes through the haze, splintering into shards of neon pink and electric blue, pulsing on the sticky floor and bouncing off sequined dresses. The music thrums in Shane’s bones, vibrating his chest and making it hard to tell if his heart is beating faster from the alcohol or the bass. Bodies are everywhere, perfumed and pressed close, movement all around him a blur.
And Shane is drinking gin. Gin! It tastes a little bit like pine trees at first, sharp and unexpected, before settling into something smoother. His body feels light, floating just above the chaos, held together by the warmth in his veins. The swirl of celebration and the dizzy rush from the drinks tug him between pride and discomfort, excitement and vulnerability, until the only thing holding him steady is Hayden’s reliably warm shoulder pressed close beside him.
The VIP booth where he sits with Hayden is dimly lit and still so loud that he has to shout to be heard, but tonight none of that matters. Tonight, he is a Cup winner. A drunk Cup winner. But it still counts.
J.J. saunters over to the booth with Laine and Taylor in tow, all three of them jamming onto the black leather couch. It’s a bit of a squeeze. The small couch isn’t meant for a group of hockey players, but they manage to make it work.
“How are we doing, boys?” JJ asks in a booming voice, and Shane can’t help but smile. His teammates are just so nice. He loves them.
“I’m great,” Hayden says, lifting his beer in response before giving a small nod in Shane’s direction. “I think our fearless leader may be a little on the drunk side, though.”
JJ gives a mock gasp, clutching imaginary pearls at his neck. “I never thought I would see the day we got Shane Hollander drunk,” he says with childlike glee. “We have to celebrate this. This is a once-in-a-lifetime night.”
“We’re already celebrating,” Shane says, and even to his own ears he can hear the slight slur to his words. It makes him want to giggle.
“Yes, we are,” JJ says, grinning. “I propose a game of truth or dare!”
Laine and Taylor agree easily, always falling in line with JJ’s brand of fun. Hayden, though, sits back, pulling a face. He glances around the group, lips pressed together, before muttering, “I’m not a 15-year-old girl,” and scratching absently at his jaw. He shifts in his seat, shoulders hunched, looking like he’d rather melt into the couch than play. He meets Shane’s eyes for a flicker of solidarity, but then shakes his head with an exasperated huff.
“Why do we need to play a game?” Hayden grumbles, tipping his bottle as if it can shield him.
But after a chorus of loud protests and a nudge from Laine, Hayden finally rolls his eyes and shrugs in defeat, giving in to the inevitable.
The first few rounds are easy.
I dare you to do a shot of Malört.
Who is your least favorite player on the team?
I dare you to lick the table.
I dare you to ask that waitress for her number.
If you had to sleep with someone on the team, why would it be me?
Shane completes silly dares and answers hypothetical questions, most of which are about the Metros.
But somewhere in the middle of the game is where things go awry. JJ has just finished taking a shot of Rumple Minze—and looks like he enjoyed it—when he turns to Shane.
“Hollander, truth or dare?” he asks with a maniacal smile that means trouble.
“Truth.”
JJ scrunches his face at that, clearly not pleased that his evil plan isn’t going to plan. But then his expression lights up with newfound intensity.
“If you’re gay,” he starts—and that is a very bad start to a question, Shane thinks—“then who was the girl you visit in Boston every time we’re there?”
And shit. He knows he’s got him with this one.
“What was her name?” JJ asks the group.
Hayden’s eyes catch Shane’s for a second, unsure what to do to help, but before he can interject, Laine jumps in.
“Lily!”
JJ snaps his fingers.
Hayden is the only one who knows about Lily—about Ilya—and Shane is not ready for this. The truth about Lily is a secret as sharp and fragile as glass, the kind that could shatter everything if anyone else heard it—especially here, with teammates and friends always watching. If the truth about Ilya got out, it wouldn’t just mean embarrassment. It would unravel the careful lines Shane has drawn between his private life and the rest of the world, exposing the part of himself he’s worked so hard to protect.
Even drunken honesty isn’t quite enough for this.
“Okay,” Shane says, “then I pick dare.”
There are grunts of disappointment from the boys, and maybe a sigh of relief from Hayden. But JJ looks undeterred.
“Excellent,” he says, rubbing his hands together like a Bond villain. Shane briefly considers that this may have been his plan all along—ask a question Shane wouldn’t answer, so he’d end up taking the dare. What an evil bastard.
“I dare you to get a tattoo,” JJ says with a smirk. “Of our choosing.”
He gestures at the other three men on the couch with him. Even Hayden smirks at that.
“He won’t do it,” Hayden says, shaking his head.
And it’s that motion that makes Shane agree—not the dare itself, but Hayden believing he won’t do it.
“Okay,” Shane says simply. “Let’s go.”
They leave the club in a hurry. It’s late in Montreal, and there really shouldn’t be any tattoo shops open, but JJ makes a quick phone call and, fifteen minutes later, they’re walking through the door of a brightly lit tattoo parlor, and JJ is grinning like he’s won the lottery.
“It has to be small,” Shane says, a bit of his drunkenness ebbing away at the reality of what’s about to happen.
The other men confer in a circle, flipping through books of flash tattoos and eagerly discussing this permanent mark in hushed tones. A page is flipped, and Shane hears Hayden say, “I’ve got an amazing idea,” followed by whispers and excited reactions. Hayden then has the audacity to turn and wink at Shane like he’s got a big secret.
JJ shows the tattoo artist—a big bald man with arms covered in American traditional tattoos—who nods, says something like “no problem,” and walks over to Shane.
“Okay,” he says, as Shane sits in one of the waiting chairs, a slight queasiness in his gut. “Where do you want it?”
This is something Shane hadn’t even considered. He glances at JJ, Hayden, Laine, and Taylor, who are looking at posters on the wall and chatting among themselves, waiting.
JJ holds up his hands. “We already picked the design, buddy. We’re not picking the spot too.”
Hayden, on the other hand, is full of ideas. “I think you should get it on your ass,” he says, barely holding back a laugh.
Shane gives him the most unamused look he can muster, but he can’t deny that it’s an option. He doesn’t want it somewhere visible, in case they picked something awful. He’d like to think Hayden wouldn’t do that to him—JJ absolutely would—but he’s not willing to bet on it.
“Okay,” Shane says, glancing at the tattoo artist. “On my ass, I guess.”
The man just shrugs, clearly used to this kind of request, and gestures toward the table for Shane to lie down while he prepares his station.
Shane’s heart is racing as he slides his briefs halfway down, exposing his left cheek. The pain of the tattoo barely registers—not because he’s still that drunk (the needle is very sobering), but because he’s so focused on what’s being permanently marked on his body.
The whole process doesn’t take more than twenty minutes, and Shane hopes that means the artist is efficient, not rushed. Hayden insists the tattoo is super simple, so it shouldn’t take long.
Shane isn’t sure he believes him—at least not until he’s standing in front of a mirror, looking over his shoulder at the fresh ink.
“Hayden,” he says, aiming for calm, “why the fuck do I have the number 18 inked on my ass?”
All four men break into laughter.
“It’s not 18,” JJ says, barely able to speak through it. “You’re seeing it backwards in the mirror. It’s 81.”
He’s full-on cackling.
“Why wou—” Shane starts, then stops, glaring at Hayden as realization hits.
“It’s Rozanov’s number,” Laine adds helpfully.
Shane’s face burns, his skin prickling with a wild mix of embarrassment and disbelief as he shoots daggers at Hayden Pike. Rage and panic flare—he can’t believe Hayden picked that number, can’t believe it’s permanently on his skin—but underneath it all, something about it feels achingly private. Almost tender.
Nobody else here knows what it means. But Hayden does.
Hayden, the only one who knows about Ilya. The only one Shane trusts with all his messy, secret hopes.
The mortification is threaded through with warmth, the giddy rush of being seen and known, even if the world has no idea. But it’s also terrifying. His heartbeat thuds in his ears, and he wonders if anyone else can tell, if they can sense the affection tangled up in his scowl.
Hayden, who picked the tattoo. Hayden, who picked his boyfriend’s number to put on his ass.
Hayden is smiling, barely holding back laughter, clearly enjoying the joke only the two of them fully understand. But that alone isn’t enough.
“What’s wrong, Shane?” he teases. “It’s not like Rozanov will ever see your ass, so it’s not a big deal.”
He snorts, trying to hold it in.
“I know you two are friends now, but it’s so fucking funny.”
Shane keeps glaring, but his anger is already slipping. Because it is funny. And because he can’t wait to see Ilya’s reaction in less than a month, when they spend a few weeks at the cottage.
The thought sends a nervous thrill through his chest. He can already picture Ilya’s sly grin, the way his eyes might widen the first time he sees it. For a moment, Shane wonders if he’ll be able to keep the secret, or if he’ll crack and send a photo before they even make it to the lake.
Maybe it’ll make Ilya laugh. Maybe it’ll start something else entirely.
The anticipation pools warm and sharp in his stomach, making the whole thing feel more dangerous. More electric. The rest of the summer seems to hinge on that moment, and he’s both terrified and desperate for it to come.
Shane shakes it off, saving thoughts of Ilya for a more private moment.
“Hayden,” he says with a smile, “truth or dare?”
The flash of terror across Hayden’s face—realizing retribution is coming—almost makes up for it.
Almost.
About thirty minutes later, Shane decides they are absolutely even—when Hayden Pike has a brand-new “24” tattooed on his ass.
“Jackie is going to kill me,” Hayden mutters as they walk back toward the club.
And Shane can’t help but smile—at the thought of Hayden’s wife’s wrath, and at the very different reaction his own tattoo will get from Ilya.