Chapter Text
Summer 2012
If he had ever allowed himself to think for more than a few seconds about what it might feel like to win the Cup, maybe Shane would have been more prepared for the aftermath. But as it is, the crash that follows the high is both unexpected and brutal.
He stays in Boston longer than he had last summer, the whole team wanting to be there for the assortment of events and celebrations that follow a victory. Even after all the official stuff is done, people seem reluctant to head home for the summer like they normally would, lingering like that will help to draw out the feeling of winning. Eventually it gets to a point where there's really nothing left to do but hang out at each other's houses and reminisce about the win, and that gets old quickly. Shane isn't the last to leave by any means, but by the time he gets on a plane home a good chunk of the team have finally retreated to spend the summer with their families.
The first few days are a much-needed break. Shane sleeps for hours longer than he normally would, and he actually follows Coach's orders to the team to take at least a few weeks off from working out to let their bodies recover. He goes for a few long runs around the lake when he's feeling restless, but other than that he relaxes, reads, and lets his parents cook him delicious food as he starts trying to gain back the weight he had lost through their grueling playoff run.
After that, though... after he's mostly physically recovered and the typical summer boredom starts to set in... that's when Shane starts spiralling.
At first it's anxiety. He would never have thought that winning the Cup once could make him want it even more, but he finds himself weirdly preoccupied with the absolute terror that fills him every time he thinks that it might never happen again. Statistically, most players never win the Cup. Winning it once is already a novelty, the almost-impossible accomplished. What if that's all Shane ever gets? What if he's already achieved the only major milestone of his career in his second season?
This is something Shane has always struggled with, playing hockey. He knows that if it were just up to him, it wouldn't be so bad. He could give it his all every year and worries about falling short would be something in his control. But Shane knows, especially now after having done it once, that one person alone is not enough to drag a team all the way through playoffs to a win. It depends so much on the team, the exact set of circumstances aligning so that everyone is playing their best and clicking with each other and that little bit of luck so that the puck actually hits the back of the net when it matters, and Shane doesn't know if he'll ever get that again.
It's not something he can control, and already it's driving him crazy.
His parents seem to pick up on his weird mood, and they mostly leave him alone to process how he feels about it all. Shane is grateful. Already, living with them for the summer is grating on his nerves the same way it had last summer, although he doesn't know why. His mom had apologised for the way she had reacted to his trade and he had forgiven her, so it feels like things should be back to normal, but they aren't. Shane puts it down to being more used to living on his own now and not having to justify every little decision he makes to others, and tries to keep his temper in check. He can't help but keep dreaming of a place of his own to retreat to in the summers, and he knows that if he doesn't take action on his plan this summer then it will be another year of this.
He brings it up over dinner one night about a week after arriving at the cottage. He's starting to get restless, his parents starting to ask questions about the rest of the team and what they're up to and Shane doesn't want to have to explain that even though he's happy in Boston and feels like maybe some of them are starting to be friends, he doesn't really keep in touch with anyone over the summer. So instead he drops the idea that's been swirling in his head for over a year now out into the open, unsure if it will be a total non-event or if it will cause an even bigger fight with his mother.
"I've been thinking of maybe getting my own place out here. For the summers. Buying a plot of land and having something built."
There's a tense moment of silence while Shane waits for a reaction. He doesn't look up from his food, twirling pasta in what he hopes is a casual way on his fork. He already knows that his mother won't like this.
"Why?" she eventually asks, exactly like Shane had known she would. Thankfully, he had already rehearsed his answer.
"I just... thought it might be nice, to have somewhere that's really my own. Somewhere permanent. I don't want to build something in Boston, since there's no guarantee I won't be traded again, even if it is years from now. But I figured... I'll always want to come here in the summers, right? So I could have a place here that's mine." It's true, every word of it, even if it's not the entire reason. But Shane knows he can't exactly tell his parents that he finds living with them to be almost suffocating, and he thinks this is the alternate explanation that will go over the best with his mom.
"I don't understand," his mom says. "Why wouldn't you just keep coming here in the summers? Do you not want us around?"
Shane closes his eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath. He had known that this would happen, and he also knows that he's an adult now and he doesn't really need his parents' permission to buy a house. But he's so aware of the tension that's been present between him and his mom for the last year, even after she had apologised, and he doesn't want to do anything to make it worse.
"It's not that," he says. "You know I love it here. That's why I want my place to be here, on the same lake if I can find somewhere. I'm sure I'd still be over here all the time."
"I think it's a great idea," his dad says, and Shane can't help but look at him in surprise. "I get why you maybe don't want to buy somewhere in Boston just yet, and it is important to have somewhere that's your own. Think about it Yuna, he could have way more space for his summer training than he does here. Build a proper home gym instead of having all his stuff take over your office all summer."
Shane holds his breath as his mom nods slowly. "I suppose that could be nice," she says. "But Shane, please don't feel like you have to. Even if it's a little cramped, we're happy to have you here all summer. You could never bother us."
"I don't feel like that," Shane says. If anything he's all too aware of how reluctant his mother is to let him go. "But... yeah, I had thought that it could be nice, getting to design something from scratch. I could have a gym, maybe even a small indoor rink. And I would probably still be over here to hang out all the time anyways, but if I had my own place then I could come whenever I wanted, and I wouldn't have to wait for you guys to have time off work or anything. I was wondering if maybe you guys could help me too? Like, to find some land and an architect and things?" This is his other card—he knows his mother can never resist a task to accomplish, especially because Shane has been trying to be more independent since the trade, handling things himself rather than letting his mother do it all for him.
"Oh, of course honey." Shane has to hold back a grin when his mother reacts exactly how he had thought she would. "I've seen a few plots up for sale already this year. Just yesterday I was saying to your father that the McKinnons must have finally decided to sell off their parents' land because there were a few signs up..."
Shane relaxes back into his seat as his mother gets going, turning his attention back to his pasta. He can't help the way his muscles relax a bit, some of the tension he's been carrying around with him draining out. He hates the feeling that he's walking on eggshells around his parents now, but it's one he still hasn't been able to shake, despite the fact that neither of them have said anything to him to cause it. Obviously the trade had been directly responsible for him winning the Cup, and even his mom can see that and therefore can't really wish that it hadn't happened anymore. They had both stayed in Boston for a week after the win, soaking things up right alongside Shane, cooking him meals and keeping his apartment clean so he didn't have to worry about anything but celebrating with his team. They hadn't asked too many questions either—about where he was going, what he was doing, who he was with. He had been grateful for their lack of hovering, if a little surprised, especially because half of the time he had said he was going to a party he had stopped off at Rozanov's house first. The man had been insatiable in the weeks after the win, and Shane had been almost just as bad.
Shane hasn't heard from him since he had left Boston. He's been purposely not thinking about it, and with difficulty he wrenches his attention back to his mother, who is in full planning mode now, trying to explain to her what he's been envisioning for his new place and how much he's willing to spend.
He still thinks about it, of course, and when he's finalised the land purchase and gotten the first designs from his architect back a few weeks later, he can't resist sending a picture to Rozanov. Only because he had said he would, and Rozanov had said he wanted to see. No other reason.
He refuses to acknowledge the way he jumps every time his phone buzzes for the next few days, but a reply never comes. It's fine.
Fall 2012
Shane is uncharacteristically nervous as he pushes through the doors of the rink for the first practice of training camp.
It almost feels like his first practice with Boston all over again. The fluttering in his stomach, the way his breaths are coming quicker than usual. He's not sure what's got him so worked up—he definitely doesn't remember feeling this way last year at the start of the season, and he had been far less comfortable with the team at that point.
Well, he knows part of what has him nervous. He hasn't heard from Rozanov in two long months—not a single word since the two of them had left Boston after their win. Shane hadn't reached out either, other than sending that picture of his new place that is now in the process of being built. He had never gotten a response, and he's not sure where that leaves them. They had been obsessed with each other after the Cup, and Shane had been sure that it was mutual, but over the course of the summer the doubts had started to creep in. What if that was it and Rozanov is bored of him now? What if they're back to being rivals, barely even friendly, now that Shane knows what it's like to have Rozanov inside of him, splitting him apart in more ways than one? He doesn't know if he could handle it, if it just all stopped with no explanation.
And Rozanov is his captain now. Shane doesn't know how that changes things.
He had gotten the email a few weeks ago, and even then he hadn't known what to feel about it. He hadn't mentioned it to either of his parents, figuring that they would find out during training camp like the rest of the world, because he didn't want to hear his mother ranting about how the honour should have gone to Shane instead. Shane knows that isn't true, knows that he isn't a leader in the way that Rozanov is, and he's fine with that. He had known it was coming, even—there had been no way that they would have chosen anyone else, with Nelson retiring. And maybe Shane had held out a tiny morsel of hope that he would one day have an "A" on his jersey, but he hadn't really been surprised when the call hadn't come this year. He knows he has a hard time connecting with the team, that even after a year and a half he still doesn't really know if any of them could actually be called his friends, and he knows that isn't normal. So he's not surprised.
It doesn't stop him from being jealous though. Even knowing that he doesn't deserve it, he knows that maybe in another life it could have been him, getting appointed as captain of a team in only his third year playing. Maybe it would have happened, if he had been a little better in Montreal, if he had bonded with the guys more and management hadn't decided to trade him away so early. Maybe that had been the plan, until they had seen how awkward and weird Shane had been and had decided to try their luck finding a suitable captain elsewhere.
Shane does his best to shove the thoughts out of his head as he throws his bag down on the bench and starts changing into his gear. He's the first one here, like always, so he has some time to get his brain back on board with hockey, which is what he should be worried about. They now have the almost impossible task ahead of them of defending their Cup win—Shane already knows that it will be even harder than winning it the first time had been.
People begin to trickle in slowly, greeting each with shouts and claps on the back and questions about everyone's summers. Gradually, the room fills up, the sound of overlapping voices fading into a low hum as Shane tapes his stick and listens in to the conversations around him. He's greeted too, of course, guys reaching out for fist bumps and asking perfunctory questions about his summer, but he knows that they're only doing it to be polite and he doesn't mind too much in the moment. It's not like he wants to participate in any of the conversations around him anyways—he hadn't done much of interest over the summer, not like the rest of these guys who had apparently been going on exotic vacations and partying it up instead of relaxing at their parents' cottages.
Now that he's been on the team a little longer, he can see the dynamics more clearly, the groups that slowly start to form. There's Marlow and St-Simon and Oregan over on one side, the younger guys that Rozanov usually hangs out with when he's not with Shane. In the middle of the room there's Carmichael and Hammersmith and some of the other veterans, looking a little diminished without Nelson's tall figure in their midst. There are a cluster of rookies and guys from the minors near the door, all obviously nervous and trying to hide it, not talking to each other but sticking close. Those are the guys who will be fighting for a spot on the opening night roster over the next few weeks of camp. Then finally there are the new guys on the opposite side of the room from Shane, the ones who had been traded over the summer from other teams. Holm, a defenseman from Philadelphia, and Erikson, a centre from Vancouver. Shane is fairly sure they're both European, since they seem to be blending in easily with some of the other Europeans who have been playing in Boston for years. Shane hears a rapid smattering of a different language—not one he recognises—and can't help but stare a little as Holm throws his head back and laughs at whatever is being said. Shane can't imagine being that at ease in his first practice after being traded. He forces himself to stop staring.
His people-watching is interrupted by the arrival of Rozanov, who announces himself in his typical fashion—loudly, and interspersed with swear words. The door bangs open dramatically, every head in the room turning to look, and suddenly the object of too many of Shane's thoughts this summer is standing there in the flesh, looking no different than he had a few months ago. His hair is maybe slightly shorter, his skin slightly darker from the sun. Shane doesn't know why he had expected anything else.
"Are you fuckers ready to win another fucking Cup?" he yells.
Everyone else starts yelling too, banging their sticks on the benches, and Shane even tries to join in a little. He can't deny that Rozanov walks in like he owns the room, like he is the leader of this team. He's already dressed, except for his skates—he must have gotten here even before Shane, maybe for a meeting with the coaches or something—and the "C" looks right at home on the front of his jersey.
Rozanov takes his time making his way around the room, stopping to chat with everyone like he always does. He lingers for a little longer with the new guys and the rookies, and again when Marlow envelops him in a playful headlock, but eventually he makes his way over to his stall to put his skates on.
The layout of the stalls in the locker room hasn't changed over the summer, so Rozanov's stall is still right next to Shane's. He makes sure he looks busy by the time Rozanov starts making his way over, digging in his bag for a new roll of stick tape even though he had finished taping ages ago. He's not quite sure what to expect—he doesn't think he would be surprised by anything, from a casual greeting to complete silence.
"Hollander," is what Rozanov says, plunking himself down on the bench and reaching for his skates.
Shane waits, and when nothing else is forthcoming, he replies the way he always does. "Rozanov." Distantly, in the back of Shane's mind, he hears his own voice gasping "Ilya", an echo of a memory. He shoves it down.
The tape on his stick suddenly looks wrong. Shane rips it all off and starts again, hands moving automatically through the familiar motions. It keeps him focused and prevents him from sneaking any glances towards the side until Rozanov stands and leads the way out onto the ice for practice.
On the hockey side of things, Shane isn't really expecting anything to change this season, and he's quickly proven correct. Coach still has him on the first line on Rozanov's left wing, Marlow on the right. Shane purposely doesn't stare at the shiny new "A" on Marlow's jersey, a reminder that Shane is the only one on his line now without a letter. The same way he pushes down the tiny bit of hope that had still been lingering that maybe this year he would be back at centre. He knows that Coach would probably be stupid to change something that's obviously been working so well, but Shane can't shake his discomfort with playing wing. It feels unnatural, and it baffles him that even though he's still scoring goals, no one else has noticed that he isn't as good a winger as he is a centre.
The first practice is short, everyone getting their hockey legs back after a summer spent recovering from a longer than usual playoff run. There's lots of friendly chirping as they scrimmage, the third and fourth lines getting shuffled around to find a spot for the trades and prospects. Shane puts his head down and tries to focus on his own game. He hadn't trained as hard as he normally does in the summers, not wanting to aggravate any of the small injuries he had picked up during their Cup run, and he knows that he'll have to make up for it in these next few weeks of camp if he wants to be as ready as he usually is for the start of the season. The others also seem dialled in, maybe feeling the pressure to repeat the same way that Shane does, and even though it's only the first practice and obviously they have a lot of work to do, Shane leaves the ice in good spirits.
It's only afterwards, back in the locker room with everyone making plans to go out for drinks together, that the insecurity settles back in. He wonders if Rozanov wants him to not go, to stay away now that whatever it is they had last year is obviously over. Shane supposes he could go and hang out with the veterans again, like he had often when he had first joined the team, but he had never really had much to contribute to their conversations about their families and kids, and he had gotten used to Rozanov acting as a sort of social buffer last season. Shane internally curses himself for his stupidity—he had known that coming to rely on Rozanov would be a mistake.
Still, it's the first practice of the season, and he can't bring himself to just go home, not when it seems like everyone else is eager to go out. He knows he needs to do better, needs to try and actually make friends, so he fakes a smile and nods when Marlow asks him if he's coming. The same smile stays frozen on his face when St-Simon makes a joke about Shane picking up, reminding everyone of the blonde he had gone home with after camp last year. Internally, he cringes, and pointedly doesn't look at whether Rozanov has a reaction to that.
His apartment is close enough to the practice rink that he had walked here earlier, so he catches a ride with Carmichael to the bar the team have chosen for tonight. The newly traded guys apparently don't have cars with them either—whether because theirs haven't made it to Boston yet or because they just hadn't brought them to practice, Shane isn't sure—so it ends up being four of them in the car as they pull out of the parking lot.
"So Hollander," Erikson says. Shane can't help but glance back from where he's sitting in the passenger seat to look at the new guys in the back. They look so at ease, so comfortable even in a car with complete strangers, and Shane can't help but envy that. "Hell of a run you and Rozanov made during playoffs last year."
Shane shrugs and smiles, turning back to the front and exchanging a glance with Carmichael. "Yeah," he agrees. "It really was." He knows the hockey media had spent all summer waxing poetic about it, the sheer amount of goals scored by the Hollander-Rozanov-Marlow line unheard of in recent memory. Shane still finds it hard to believe that he had been a part of something like that.
"Shame about the Conn Smythe though," Erikson goes on.
Shane shifts a little uncomfortably. No one has actually said anything to him about the fact that he hadn't won the Conn Smythe. Of course he had secretly hoped for it during their run, but he hadn't been surprised when it had been Rozanov instead, and as far as he could tell none of his teammates had been surprised either. He had so obviously deserved it.
Shane says so. He doesn't want these new guys, or Carmichael for that matter, to think he has anything against Rozanov. Regardless of whatever fucked up thing is going on between the two of them, Shane knows that he doesn't want it impacting their game or anything with the team. "Rozanov deserved it," he says. "He was instrumental, on the ice and off. I think everyone who was here last year would agree." He knows that it's a little backhanded, a way to tell them to shut up about things they know nothing about, reminding them that he had been here to win the Cup and they had not, but unfortunately it doesn't seem to deter them.
"Still," Holm chimes in now. "You can't deny that it would have been you, on any other team. It must have been tough, stepping aside and letting him be the star."
"Stepping aside?" Shane can't help but echo. He has no idea what they're talking about. He hardly thinks he's stepped aside for Rozanov—if anything, training together, seeing him play every day, has only made Shane work harder since being traded to Boston, and his stats reflect that.
Erikson shrugs. "You can't deny that's what it looks like," he says. "From the outside at least. There you two were, set up to be these huge rivals, equals basically, on some of the oldest teams in hockey. And now he's got a Conn Smythe, he's still playing centre on the first line, he's got a letter on his jersey." He leaves the rest unsaid, but of course Shane hears it anyways. You don't have any of those things. He's better than you, in every way, and somehow it happened despite your absolute best efforts. Without you being able to do a single thing to stop it.
Thankfully, at that point Carmichael decides to interject, coming to Shane's defence. "That's definitely not how the team sees it," he says, and his words aren't directed at Shane, his eyes instead fixed on the mirror so he can see the two new guys in the back seat. "We'd never have made it all the way to the Cup if it weren't for the both of them."
"Wasn't implying otherwise," Erikson shrugs again. "Just saying how it looks from the outside. Obviously I wasn't there, I don't know. But even if it is different, with the team, it must still be hard, right? To answer questions, when to everyone else it looks like he's won?"
The question is directed at Shane, who feels a cold weight settle in his stomach. Does it look to everyone else like Rozanov has won? Logically, Shane knows that their rivalry was never really based on anything, that there's nothing to win. But is that how it seems to the rest of the world?
Somehow, Shane manages to force words out of his mouth. They're automatic, the kind of thing he'd say to the media while barely registering the question. He's suddenly thinking back through every time he's said these words in the last year, trying to remember the questions that had prompted this response. Had the implication been there all along, that he's somehow lesser? "I don't really think about stuff like that. I'm pretty focused on hockey."
Thankfully, from there the conversation takes a turn, with Carmichael asking them about their own playoff runs last year with Philadelphia and Vancouver, both of which had been comparatively short to Boston's. Shane allows himself to zone out a little until they pull into the parking lot of the bar and the topic veers back to Boston's victory. He smiles a little at Carmichael's recounting of the victory party, which he can tell has already been exaggerated and embellished considerably over the course of the summer, and when they get inside Shane makes sure to choose a seat far away from either of the new guys.
Of course, that leaves him sitting with Marlow and Rozanov and their crew, but he supposes beggars can't be choosers.
He doesn't plan on staying long tonight anyways. Not when last year had left him so uncomfortable with his teammates' ribbing that he had taken a girl home. He's reasonably confident he wouldn't do that again, not with everything that's happened since, but he doesn't intend to stay long enough for people to get drunk enough to start trying to set him up.
Marlow, as always, is an easy conversation partner, and Shane genuinely does have a good time nursing a ginger ale and talking with him and Oregan about their chances for this season. Some of the guys from last year are still out with injuries sustained in the playoffs, so the start of the season will be a rough one, but his teammates are just as confident as Shane that they still have what it takes to go all the way again.
When most of the group gets up to dance, Shane decides that's his cue to leave. It hadn't been an awful night, so he grabs his jacket and gives his excuses, happy to quit while he's ahead. As he makes his way over to the door, however, pulling up a rideshare app on his phone, Rozanov materialises at his shoulder.
"Leaving already, Hollander?" he asks.
Shane swallows. He hadn't failed to notice that Rozanov has barely looked at him all night, even though they had been mostly sitting with the same people. Somehow Rozanov always seemed to be involved in a different conversation across the table from the one Shane had been having, never interjecting like he usually would.
"Yeah," he says instead, trying and failing to keep his voice casual. "You know me." Even he can hear the little tremble in it, and he mentally curses himself. He doesn't think this would be so difficult if he just knew why Rozanov had seemingly lost interest out of nowhere. The night of the Cup win had been possibly the best sex of Shane's life, and they had continued hooking up for weeks afterwards. He's not sure what had changed over the summer, for Rozanov to not return his texts and to ignore him all day at practice.
"I can drive you home," Rozanov says, swiping the phone out of Shane's hand. Shane is so surprised that he doesn't even try to stop him.
"What? You aren't staying?"
Rozanov shrugs, nonchalant as ever. "No," he says. "Not tonight. Better things to do."
Shane freezes then, hopefully imperceptible since he hadn't really been moving to begin with, hesitating just inside the door to the bar. Surely Rozanov doesn't mean...
He doesn't seem to notice Shane's confusion. Confident as ever, Rozanov leads the way out into the night, not even sparing a glance behind them at where their teammates are all still drinking and dancing. "What about the team?" Shane can't help but ask.
Rozanov just shrugs. "They will assume I left with a woman," he says. "Is what they always assume."
That doesn't answer Shane's actual question, which is why on earth Rozanov has suddenly done a one-eighty after ignoring Shane all day, but that's too pathetic for him to voice aloud. So instead he just follows Rozanov quietly to his car, a garish yellow thing that's probably more expensive than the house Shane grew up in, and climbs into the passenger seat without a word.
He just has time to wonder whether the entire drive will be spent in this same, awkward silence when Rozanov taps impatiently on the dash.
"Is going to be a little difficult for me to drive you home without your address Hollander."
"Oh." Shane rattles it off automatically. Even though Rozanov had said inside that he would drive Shane home, he had still sort of expected to be taken to Rozanov's place instead. Shane wonders if this means they aren't going to fuck tonight after all. They've only ever done that at Rozanov's, and in a few random hotel rooms when they had been on the road and after the Cup. As far as Shane can remember, none of his teammates have ever been to his apartment—he's not one to host, and he briefly wonders if he'll regret sharing the address with Rozanov. But it's too late to take it back now.
The drive is quiet, but Rozanov at least doesn't seem to be feeling any of the tension that has crept into Shane's body. He hums along quietly to the radio, barely even glancing over at Shane, like this is totally normal and he hasn't just spent all day and all summer ignoring him.
Shane can feel Rozanov's eyes heavy on his back as they ascend the stairs to his apartment. He fumbles a little with the key, almost expecting to turn around and have Rozanov be gone. He hadn't actually said anything when they had pulled up in front of Shane's building and Shane had directed him to the visitor's parking spot, hadn't indicated the real reason he's here. Shane's not stupid—based on past experiences, he knows where this is going, but he still has a hard time believing it.
He hovers uncertainly once they make it inside, after he's toed off his shoes and walked down the hall to the living room out of habit. He would usually make himself a snack at this point, maybe spend the rest of the evening watching tape on the couch, but he doesn't know the script from here. Doesn't know if he's supposed to just act like nothing has changed or if they're going to talk, if Rozanov will tell him what he had done wrong.
As always, Rozanov is the one to take charge. Before Shane can decide whether it would be too weird to just go sit on the couch like usual, there are hands on his waist, pushing him up against the nearest wall, and a mouth on his neck.
Embarrassingly, Shane sinks into it immediately. Any pride he may have had, any righteous anger at being ignored all summer, it all drops away as Rozanov's body presses up against his deliciously. He can't stop the high-pitched moan he lets out, nor the way he unconsciously grinds up against Rozanov's thigh, already half-hard through his jeans.
They don't last long against the wall. Now that he knows he can still have this, Shane is impatient, and Rozanov seems to be feeling the same way. He manhandles Shane over towards the couch, and before Shane can collapse onto it, he feels hands on his waist again, turning him around, pushing him down by the back of his neck. He finds himself bent over the arm of the couch in no time, feet still planted on the floor as Rozanov shimmies his jeans and briefs down his legs. Shane has to suppress a shiver at the cool air on his suddenly bare skin. He doesn't know what's happening here, and he can admit to himself that he feels vulnerable like this, letting Rozanov put him where he wants without even a word spoken aloud, but he also can't deny that he finds it mind-numbingly hot. It's never been like this between them before, there's always been an undertone of softness to everything, but Rozanov's hand is firm and steady on the back of his neck and it's doing things to Shane.
He tries to rub off against the arm of the couch, to get at least a little friction on his dick as Rozanov palms at his chest and his ass, but as soon as he moves there are hands on his hips again, pulling him upwards and away from the fabric. "No," Rozanov says, voice deeper than Shane has ever heard it. "None of that. You will come from me fucking you, nothing else."
God. Shane feels close from the words alone, and Rozanov has barely even started. He can't seem to speak, so he just nods and braces himself a little better against the arm of the couch, head pressed up against the cushions.
Rozanov is quick and efficient with the prep. There's a brief pause when he has to venture further into Shane's apartment to find lube and condoms, and he leaves Shane with a light smack on the back of his thigh and an admonishment not to move. Shane doesn't, even though he feels a little stupid waiting with his bare ass in the air while Rozanov wanders through his bedroom. He doesn't have to wait long, though, and when Rozanov returns he wastes no time slicking up his fingers and opening Shane up.
By the time Rozanov finally pushes into Shane, hand back on his neck and pressing him lightly but firmly into the couch, he feels like he's going to combust. Rozanov, at least, seems similarly worked up, bottoming out with a gasp and what Shane assumes is a litany of Russian curse words.
In the unfamiliar language, however, almost lost in Rozanov's moan, are the two words that have been playing on loop in Shane's head for months now, ever since the last time.
"Fuck, Shane."
Shane can't help his gasp, or the way his hips stutter backwards without any conscious thought on his part. Rozanov stills for a moment, maybe coming to his senses, but that's the last thing Shane wants.
"Ilya, fuck, move," he says. That earns him another groan and Ilya finally, finally starts fucking him properly.
It's over far too soon, Ilya gasping into Shane's neck as both of them shake through their orgasms. Shane can't help but think of the couch cushions and how he'll have to buy some really good cleaner to get rid of the mess, but he can't bring himself to care enough to stop it. Afterwards, when Ilya collapses on top of him, pressing his stomach against the wet spot, he can't bring himself to care much about that either.
There's no sound aside from their quiet panting until Ilya finally pushes himself up with a groan. Shane manages to twist around before collapsing on the couch, watching with drooping eyes as Ilya disposes of the condom and grabs a few tissues to clean himself up.
As always, once he comes down from the high Shane feels abruptly self-conscious of his nudity. As Rozanov starts pulling his clothes back on, Shane reluctantly forces himself upright and does the same. He remembers the way they had cuddled in that hotel room after the Cup, holding each other as they had fallen asleep. He knows he's not wrong in thinking something has changed, that this Ilya who is getting dressed and obviously heading out immediately is a different Ilya than the one he had been hooking up with at the end of last season. It's not so different from how things had been before though—before the trade, before everything had changed. So Shane forces down his confusion and tries to keep his expression casual.
"You want a drink or anything before you head out?"
Rozanov raises an eyebrow at Shane. "You have good Russian vodka in this apartment?" His voice is laced with sarcasm. When Shane rolls his eyes and shakes his head, Rozanov just laughs. "Did not think so. Is fine Hollander. Thank you."
Shane realises belatedly that he doesn't really have anything to drink other than sports drinks and ginger ale, so it's probably a good thing that Rozanov had turned him down. Still, he can't help the stab of disappointment.
"I guess I'll see you at practice tomorrow?" he says instead, feeling like he should say something with Rozanov still hovering in the doorway.
Of course, a grin tugs at Rozanov's mouth. "Yes Hollander," he says slowly. "Generally team captain goes to practice. Did you drink too much at the bar earlier?"
"Fuck off."
"Working on it," Rozanov winks. "See you at practice, Hollander."
Shane moves as soon as the door clicks shut, heading for the kitchen. He makes himself a snack and cleans up the mess on the couch, frowning a little when it leaves a stain. But in his mind, he stays frozen in that moment for a long time, even as he goes through the motions of getting ready for bed on autopilot. Turning over their words even as he lies in the dark that night, wondering if he's imagining things or if there truly was something different about the whole thing. Something off.
It's in the early hours of the morning when he finally manages to put his finger on the part that's bothering him the most, the realisation that has solidified for Shane that something is different between them now compared to last season. It comes after hours of tossing and turning, sleep refusing to find him, even though he knows he needs the rest in order to perform well at practice tomorrow.
They hadn't even kissed. Not once, the whole evening.
When Shane finally does fall asleep, it's restless, the sick feeling in his stomach never quite leaving him. He can't help but replay fragments of the night in his mind, transposed with flashes of memory from last year, Rozanov's soft lips pressing into his, stretching around his dick, gasping Shane's name in his ear.
He plays like shit at practice the next day. By whatever small grace the world has to offer him, his new captain says nothing, just watches with a slight frown on his face.