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Rose Landry sees Shane Hollander for the first time at a hockey game.
She’s with her brothers, drinking beer and wearing a green and white Ravens jersey. Her publicist Jenna loves it — apparently it’s good press to show up every bit the Michigan girl she is, approachable and authentic, even if she’s wearing a pair of jeans that cost four hundred dollars and her increasing stardom means she has to sit in the VIP area. It always ends with her trending on Twitter and gaining new Instagram followers.
“Fuck off,” John groans when Montreal’s captain scores his third goal of the night. “This is getting embarrassing.”
“Dude, it’s Shane Hollander. What did you expect would happen?” Peter asks and takes a sip of his beer. He’s got his arm wrapped around Rose because there’s a guy two rows down who won’t stop ogling her and while Rose is used to it by now — especially with her spending most of her time in the celebrity-obsessed city of Los Angeles — her family isn’t. It’s gotten worse since the first X Squad movie came out; she’d been warned about the more fanatic comic book fans, but she hadn’t quite expected the lechery of it all. Well, she does play a character who mostly just wears body paint and nothing else.
Rose flicks her eyes up to the jumbotron. There is a closeup of Hollander’s beaming face as he accepts shoulder pats and hugs from his teammates, his cheeks flushed and brown eyes glittering. He has freckles, glossy black hair and the kind of nose that half of Hollywood’s leading men have paid for.
“He’s cute,” Rose says, partly because she knows it’ll annoy her brothers, and partly because it’s true.
“He’d be cuter in Detroit colors,” Peter grumbles, glaring at the scoreboard.
John snorts. “He’ll never leave Montreal. I heard one of the Houston Drillers’ managers asked for him in a trade and the Metros’ front office pretty much laughed in his face.”
Rose’s attention shifts back to Shane Hollander, who’s now leaning against the boards and squirting water into his mouth, nodding at something his coach is saying with his mouth hidden behind a folded piece of paper.
Later, when she’s back home and done helping her mother with the dishes, she types Shane Hollander’s name into the Instagram search bar. His profile is one of the most impersonal ones she’s ever come across; it’s all professional pictures taken of him during games and commercial photoshoots co-posted by numerous different sponsors ranging from CCM and Optimum Nutrition to Reebok and even Rolex.
Still, he has seven million followers — more than any other player in the league, because he’s well liked and handsome and possibly the most talented center of his generation. Rose has to remind herself of the flurry of speculation that would certainly be prompted by her becoming one of them after being spotted at tonight’s game, so she locks her phone and puts it away before she can do something stupid like follow him or send him a message.
***
Montreal is good to Rose. The X Squad sequel she’s filming isn’t going to win her any Academy Awards but the crew is fun and she gets to work with Miles, who is the most L.A. a person could possibly be — intimidatingly beautiful, free-spirited, and gay. He knows everything about horoscopes, shows her movies she’s never even heard of and makes her go out with him and his friends when she’s homesick or heartbroken or fed up with the media.
“Hey babe,” he says one Thursday morning while they’re both getting their makeup done for another long day of shooting. He’s tapping away on his phone, relaxed in a way Rose never is until she’s on set. “Linda asks if we want to go out tonight. The guy she and her boyfriend sometimes sleep with has opened this bar slash restaurant thing in Mile End and she wants to support him.”
“Wait, Tyler’s bi?” Rose asks.
“Uh, yes,” Miles says, giving her a look. “Well, pan, I think. Didn’t I tell you about him and Linda trying to rope me into a threesome at the wrap party last summer?”
Rose shakes her head.
“God, that was so weird,” Miles laughs. “Like, I love Linda, but I’m gay. I’m not getting in bed with her and her sixty-year-old boyfriend who won’t ever shut up about that Tony he won two decades ago.”
Rose meets Miles’ eyes in the mirror and laughs. “To be fair, if I’d won a Tony I probably wouldn’t shut up about it either.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Miles acquiesces. “Anyway, you’re in?”
“Sure.”
Montreal gets even better after that.
***
Shane Hollander is probably the cutest guy Rose has ever met. He’s eloquent but not self-important, funny but not mean, shy but not dull. He can carry a conversation without staring at her tits every five seconds, actually listens to what she says instead of just waiting for his turn or even interrupt her, and doesn’t try to make everything about himself.
On top of all that, he’s also really fucking attractive; he’s tall and made of lean muscle, his dark eyes are warm and earnest, there are freckles across the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones, and his skin is so flawless that Rose kind of wants to take a picture of it just so she can show it to her personal makeup artist if that didn’t lead to a lengthy lecture about the benefits of clean eating and forgoing alcohol.
He blushes when his friend and teammate J.J. Boiziau interrupts their flirting to ask them to join a game of poker, smiles when the butterflies in Rose’s stomach convince her to lay her hand on his solid thigh, and rests his hand on top of hers as he wipes the floor with everyone else playing.
When she leaves the bar with her heart still stumbling in her chest and Shane’s contact info saved in her phone hours later, she sends a message to her family group chat.
Please don’t get mad at me if you see me wearing a #24 Metros jersey soon. Just met Shane Hollander and I’m maybe a tiny little bit in love with him.
John texts back immediately: Traitor. Tell him to sign with Detroit and I’ll forgive you.
***
Shane’s two-storey apartment is gorgeous, albeit about as impersonal as his Instagram profile. Every piece of furniture is premium, there’s a white high-end kitchen that’s so spotless Rose wonders if it’s ever being used, a large TV hung up on the wall across from his B&B Italia leather sofa, and a distinct lack of photos and trophies and anything else that hints at the kind of man who lives here.
Rose looks around, feeling the weight of Shane’s gaze on her. She turns to look at him, expecting the burning want she’s used to from ex-boyfriends and casual flings, but Shane’s eyes are assessing and definitely lacking any trace of heat, which is… surprising. It’s not like Rose thinks she’s the hottest woman on the planet but she did trawl through her closet several times, searching for something that’d make Shane’s mouth feel dry, and finally decided to wear black tights, a black Khaite mini dress that shows off her long legs, and knee-high boots.
Maybe he doesn’t do this often and is nervous. There’s not a ton of information about his dating life out there, and Rose has first-hand knowledge of how difficult it can be to date when you’re a public figure. It’s neither romantic nor sexy to present someone with an NDA before even a first date. Not that she has to now, with Shane — she’s the bigger name internationally, but every sports fan in North America and beyond knows who Shane Hollander is.
“I, uh, ordered Thai,” Shane says with a gesture to the kitchen island. There are several takeout boxes sitting on the white marble countertop.
They sit at Shane’s dinner table and share the best lemongrass tiger prawns Rose has ever had. He asks about L.A. and if she feels at home there, if she still gets to see her family regularly, if she ever misses the intimacy of theater now that she’s in big-budget movies. He doesn’t ask about her diet or the undergarments she has to wear for X Squad, or if she’s had any procedures yet now that she’s in her mid-twenties.
Rose is relieved to find that he’s as charming as he was at Le Tambour, and spending time with him is just as fun as she remembers. Despite the more revealing outfit she put on tonight and the three glasses of wine they’ve each had, he still doesn’t leer at her the way other men might have. His attention is inviting, never arrogating, even when he watches her — the way she moves, the way she laughs, how she looks at him from under her lashes and reaches out to curl her fingers around his forearm.
“Where do you keep all your trophies?” Rose asks. If she ever won an Academy Award, she’d put it on the bookshelf in her living room for everyone to see and marvel at.
“Some of them are at my parents’ place,” Shane says, “but most of them are at my cottage. I have a, um, a trophy room there. Not big or anything, just…”
Rose giggles. Shane is so cute he makes her fucking giggle. “I know you’ve won a lot. Hockey fan, remember? It’s not embarrassing to need a room for all of your awards and medals and stuff.”
Shane smiles into his wine glass. “Where do you keep yours?”
“Oh, I haven’t won any prestigious ones yet,” Rose says. “Maybe one day. I do have a Tribeca Film Festival Award, though, which is cool, and I’m hoping for a CCA next year. An actor I once worked with kept his Oscars in his guest bathroom, though. I wouldn’t do that.”
Shane breathes out on a laugh. He’s so cute. “Yeah. Pretty arrogant to show off your accomplishments to your guests while they’ve got their pants down.”
“Right?” Rose laughs. “He was such a dick. I hated him.” She takes a sip of her wine, and watches Shane watch her, wondering if his mind is abuzz with desire, too. His right thigh has slotted between both of her legs at some point, just enough for her knees to press against his, but he hasn’t moved closer, hasn’t tried kissing her yet. It’s confusing. “Are there any players you don’t get along with? Well, apart from Rozanov, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Shane repeats. Something in his expression shifts. “I mean, yeah, there are some guys I wouldn’t want to hang out with. Dallas Kent is an asshole. Troy Barrett. One or two guys on my team. Most of them are all right, though.”
“A friend of mine has a crush on Troy Barrett,” Rose says. “Just because he’s cute. Objectively. I mean, he’s a good-looking guy.”
“What, do you have a crush on him, too?”
“No.” Rose smiles, her pulse quickening. “I have a crush on someone else.”
Shane gives a slow nod as he exhales quietly through his nose, half a laugh. His eyes dart down to her mouth, and stay there for a beat, and then two, something flickering in them. When he looks up again to meet her gaze, her lips tug into a smile and she watches his curl up in response.
“Have any idea on who?” she asks, idly running her fingers over the soft skin at the back of his hand. “Because I could show you.”
Shane goes easily when she pulls him in with a hand on the side of his neck, feeling his heart pounding beneath her palm. His mouth opens when hers does, his lips closing softly over her bottom lip, as he brings one of his hands to the junction of her neck and jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek and his fingertips pushing into her hair.
He’s a good kisser, and respectful, not taking more than he’s being offered. It’s nice. It’s also… unexpected, maybe, considering what he’s like on the ice. Here, there is little of that confidence and none of that passion.
Rose pulls away to get up from her chair, round the table, and sit on Shane’s lap. He watches her straddle him with wide eyes and a set jaw, and smiles faintly when she wraps her arms around his neck.
“Okay?” she asks. Shane nods and guides her into another kiss with his fingers under her chin. His other hand finds her waist, fingers flexing, trailing up and down, like he can’t quite decide where to touch. He angles her head for better access, and she gasps at the first touch of his tongue, easing past her lips to meet her own.
Rose presses closer against the firm muscles of his chest and slips her hand under his shirt, flattening it over his abs.
He breaks the kiss to glance down, eyebrows furrowed, and Rose shifts her hips in a tight little circle.
Nothing. He’s not hard. Not even getting there.
Rose bites her lip, wondering if she should say something. Guys get weird about this, sometimes, like commenting on a flaccid penis counts as an attack on their precious manhood, but Shane’s already leaning in again to kiss her neck, right where she’s most sensitive, alternating pressing kisses with soft little pecks, and gives her waist an encouraging squeeze.
Rose rolls her hips again, running her nails through his glossy hair and over his scalp, and looks down between their bodies where she’s wet and burning up and he’s very slowly starting to get hard.
She reaches one hand down to tangle her fingers with his, and guides it between her legs.
He’s slow to push his hand underneath the band of her lace thong, and slower to cup her with his fingers. It takes him a few moments to find her clit, but she jerks against him when he finally does, her breathing growing louder.
“Yes,” she murmurs into his mouth. “That’s good.”
Shane’s eyes flicker up to her face, glistening, before he quickly looks down again. After a short stretch of stillness, he tentatively rubs her clit, his breathing shallow.
They don’t have sex that night, but he makes her come on his fingers and lets her blow him with his eyes closed and his hand pressed to his chest. They kiss again in the hallway as they wait for Rose’s Uber, which is a welcome surprise — most of the guys Rose has been with don’t like kissing after they’ve cum in her mouth, but Shane doesn’t seem to mind the faint taste of it.
“That was nice,” Rose says when her ride pulls up on the curb.
Shane looks at her, expression unreadable, before the corners of his mouth twitch into a barely-there smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but he leans his shoulder against the doorframe of his front door and gazes down at her, and Rose can’t help but push up onto her tiptoes to kiss him good night.
***
Things go well. So well, in fact, that Rose thinks she’s falling in love. It’s hard not to — Shane is probably the nicest guy she’s ever met, and funny, and charming, and so cute.
He goes out with her when she asks him to, meets some of her friends over dinner, and smiles when she introduces him as her boyfriend. When they inevitably get papped, he’s there to hold her hand and guide her through the frenzy of flashing cameras and shouting paparazzi. TMZ posts the photos that same night, and Rose’s mother calls just to tell her how handsome Shane is while Peter reminds her to please float the idea of signing with Detroit by him.
“You would look good in green,” Rose quips, because she’s a good sister. And because Detroit is a tiny bit closer to Los Angeles than Montreal. “And it’s the same division, obviously, so you’d still get to win against Rozanov.”
Shane’s smile crumbles, just slightly. “I don’t know if I’d win against him if I played for the Ravens. Your defense is a joke.”
“Ha!” Rose slaps his shoulder. “Don’t ever say that to my dad.”
“He’d probably agree.”
“Yeah, well. Still,” she says. “He also hates Rozanov, so you could bond over that at least.”
Shane drags his eyes across the French restaurant. There’s a waitress approaching their table with two fancy-looking desserts they didn’t order. “I don’t. I mean, I don’t hate him. He’s fun to play against.”
“Fun?” she echoes, then glances up at the waitress, who sets the two desserts down in front of them with a whispered amuse-gueule and a blush at Shane’s small smile. “Oh, wow, thank you, that’s so sweet,” Rose says to her, then turns back to Shane. “I thought he was a menace on the ice.”
“He is,” Shane says seriously. There’s a sparkle in his eyes. “But I like it. I like the challenge.”
That makes sense, Rose figures. Rozanov has always been the only player in the league who could keep up with Shane.
“Doesn’t it ever bother you?” she asks. “To always be competing with him, I mean. It’s always the two of you, right? Top goal scorer, most points…”
There’s a pink tint to the bridge of Shane’s nose now, spreading to the smattering of freckles on his cheeks. “No, it’s kind of the opposite. It makes me better, I think, to have him to compete against.”
Rose nods, watching him. In the small restaurant, he’s so close to her. He’s still so careful about touching her, as if the whole world doesn’t already know about them by now, but all it would take is one deep breath to bring them together. Rose decides to take the risk; she leans in until she can feel his breath fanning over her cheek, tilts her head until the tip of her nose bumps against his, and kisses him.
To her relief, he kisses her back, a tender brush of lips.
“Shane,” she says, her voice soft, and it seems to startle him. He tenses, but Rose reaches out, touching his wrist.
“Sorry,” Shane says, pulling back and dropping his gaze to the crème brûlée still sitting untouched in front of him. He picks up his spoon and breaks the layer of hardened caramelized sugar on top.
“For the record,” Rose says, “I don’t think you need Rozanov.”
Shane’s eyes snap back to her. “What?”
“To be the best player,” Rose clarifies. “You’d still be the NHL’s leading goal scorer without him.”
Shane blinks. He gives a single nod and finally tries the dessert.
***
Shane eats her out the next time they see each other.
She’s shaking and desperate by the time he settles between her legs and curls his big hands around her thighs, and her fingers scramble for purchase on his wrists when he leans in. His breath is hot and damp against her, making her squirm, and he’s so good-looking that she just has to look at him and—
He’s looking down at her with something like panic written all over his face.
“You okay?” Rose asks, her voice soft.
Shane nods, not taking his eyes off her, which she would find hot if it didn’t seem like he was a few seconds shy of a full-blown panic attack.
So, Shane Hollander is yet another guy who likes blowjobs but hates going down on girls.
Yay.
Rose sits up. “Hey,” she says, “you don’t have to do that.”
“No, I do,” Shane insists, finally meeting her gaze. “I mean, I want to.” Then, a bit quieter, “Why wouldn’t I?”
Rose bites the inside of her cheek. “You sure? You look like you’re freaking out a little bit.”
Shane, shaking his head, licks his lips. His tongue is wet and pink, and Rose really wants it on her body. She wiggles her hips in his grip, and smiles when he flicks his eyes back down to where she needs him, her heart stumbling.
She watches as he uses his thumbs to part the neat furl of her labia, revealing more deep pink flesh that gets wetter under his sudden scrutiny. Shane takes a deep breath like he’s expecting to run out of air, which would be funnier if it also didn’t look a little bit like he’s steeling himself, then nuzzles her with the tip of his nose. He gives her one long lick, deep enough that his lips brush her skin, too, and flicks his eyes up to look at her from between her legs, just for a second.
He leans in again, eyebrows furrowed, and closes his lips around one slick fold.
Rose hums encouragingly, and reaches down to run her fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe the tense line of his shoulders.
It’s good. A little boring, maybe, but Shane is so concentrated on trying his best and listening to her body that she can’t be annoyed at it. He keeps frowning, like he’s upset with himself for some reason, and stopping short, like he’s unsure of how to proceed when she makes a certain sound or the flesh he’s worrying between his lips twitches.
He doesn’t make her come on his tongue but he fingers her until she does, which is better, even if the orgasm isn’t the most intense one she’s ever had. He seems more confident doing that; he knows how to scissor his fingers to make her feel good, when to go faster, when to slow down.
Afterwards, she heads to the bathroom for a quick shower and, before closing the door behind her, looks over her shoulder to see Shane take a moment, running a shaking hand over his face.
***
“I just don’t know what he’s into,” Rose complains to Miles, three days later. They’re hanging out in her hotel room, waiting for their pickup. For probably the millionth time since arriving in Montreal, Rose wonders why they couldn’t just stay at a hotel closer to the studio in which the green screen was set up.
Miles makes a face. “That bad?”
“No,” Rose says. “I mean, sort of? It’s not awful, it’s just… Weird. I don’t know.”
“Maybe he’s a virgin.”
“He says he’s not.”
Miles cocks an eyebrow at her. “Guys lie about that all the time, babe. Straight guys probably even more often than gay guys.”
“He’s had girlfriends and he looks like that,” Rose says. “He’s not a virgin.”
“Yeah, he is cute,” Miles purrs. “Have you asked him what he’s into? Maybe it’s freaky shit.”
“Freaky shit?”
“Yeah, like, hentai stuff.”
“Miles,” Rose whines. “No way. He almost had a panic attack looking at my…” She points between her legs.
“Yeah, you’re much better than him,” Miles laughs. “Just say it. Say pussy.”
Rose grimaces. “No, I hate that word.”
Miles gives her a look. He reaches out to take her hand and squeezes it gently. The friendship bracelet Rose gave him as a joke sparkles around his elegant wrist. “You deserve to have good sex, baby.”
“It’s not bad,” Rose says and, at Miles’ exasperated groan, adds, “It’s really not. I think I just need to give it more time, or something. I don’t know. But I really like him.”
Miles lets go of her hand and plonks himself down on the bed dramatically.
“You’re going to one of his games with me, by the way. He got me seats.”
“Only if there any other hot players I can look at,” Miles says, already unlocking his phone. Rose scoots over to lie next to him and snuggles into his side as he checks the Metros’ roster. “He’s cute. Nice eyes.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s Shane’s best friend. He’s married and has, like, four kids, though. Maybe five. I don’t actually know.”
Miles hums, mouthing something that looks a lot like boring. He exits out of the current tab and opens a new one to check the Raiders’ roster next. He seems to find someone whose look he likes, because his eyes go all round and sparkly. “Oh. Wow.”
“No,” Rose says the second she sees what player profile he’s got open. “Absolutely not.”
“What? Do you not find—“ He squints at his phone “—Ilya Rozanov hot? Look at him! He’s gorgeous. God, that bone structure.”
Rose laughs. “No, I do. He is gorgeous, but no. Shane and he have this intense rivalry going on. It’s a whole thing.”
“Hot,” Miles says appreciatively. “I could make Shane a deal: fuck his rival before their next game against each other. Should be an easy win for him against someone who’s limping.”
“No.”
“Fine, let’s all be boring. Rozanov looks like he tops anyway.”
“I thought you couldn’t tell that from someone’s appearance.”
“You can’t,” Miles says, scrunching his nose at her. “But I can. It’s his vibe.”
Rose rolls her eyes fondly. A minute later, their phones alerting them of their waiting pickup finally put a stop to Miles’ fantasizing.
***
“There he is,” Miles says, and Rose averts her eyes from Shane stretching on the ice to see him pointing at a Raiders player with the number 81 printed on the back of his jersey. “I’d bottom for him.”
Rose laughs at him. “Have you Googled him yet?”
“No, why would I? Does he also have five children?”
Rose shrugs. “Honestly, he might. He’s got a bit of a reputation.”
“Oh no, he’s good at sex,” Miles deadpans, then leans in close and lowers his voice. “Maybe he could teach your boyfriend a thing or two.”
“Oh my god, Miles, shut up.”
***
Ciel is fun.
Miles has wanted to go ever since Linda told them that that’s where she and her boyfriend met the guy they sometimes hook up with, and, after twelve endless hours of shooting, Rose is grateful for the distraction. She thinks she might be developing a hatred for the particular shade of blue she’s painted every time her character shows up as Mystique.
But Shane is here, looking handsome in a simple white tee, and despite the fact that he played an awful game against Boston today and she promised not to make him dance, he lets her drag him to the dance floor. He smiles when she slips her hands underneath his shirt and tips his head down when she tilts hers up to kiss him and even sways a little to the music with an arm wound around Rose’s waist.
Her heart is beating fast with how firm Shane’s body is against hers, how his hands are dipping under the thin fabric of her dress and running over the line of her exposed back. There’s the thrill of how public every touch is, how no one cares if she kisses her boyfriend because everyone’s wrapped up in their own bubbles, nothing piercing hers for once except Shane’s attention and the incessant beat of the music.
As usual, he’s a little awkward and Rose wants to get closer to him, wants to get him out of his own head and finally feel him all over and inside of her, but this is nice too, for now — dancing with him, feeling his hands on her body and his lips on hers. She can be patient.
Two songs later, Miles returns with the drinks he got them, and Rose watches Shane’s throat work as he takes a sip of his beer.
“Thank you,” Rose mouths to Miles, knowing she won’t be heard over the music anyways, and rolls her eyes when he presses up against Shane’s back.
Shane doesn’t seem to mind too much, so Rose tugs their bodies a little closer together, and feels all of Shane, and looks up at his pretty face only to find that his eyes have darted to something behind her.
Suddenly, his body language shifts; he tenses, eyes fixated on whatever it is he’s staring at, and Rose presses a kiss to his throat, another to his clenched jaw, and then one to his mouth. He kisses her back for a beat, then two, before he pulls away.
“I gotta go to the bathroom,” he says, not looking at her, and disappears into the crowd.
Miles takes his place smoothly. His arms wrap around her body. “Guess who I saw at the bar.”
“I don’t know,” Rose says. “Who?”
“Ilya Rozanov. He’s even hotter in person. Also definitely a top.” He grinds against her playfully. “Where’d Shane run off to? I wanted to dance with him.”
Rose lays her head on Miles’ shoulder. “Bathroom.”
Miles hums into her ear.
***
The first time they have sex is— well. It’s the first time, and they are both a little bit drunk. Rose is willing to look past it.
Any night spent with Shane is a good night, she reminds herself. What does the odd bout of mediocre sex with a careful, too-gentle man matter, when they’ve only been dating for a few weeks? It takes a few attempts, sometimes, to become good at sex with a new partner, to learn their body and find out what they like and dislike. Rose knows that in theory and practice, because she’s had a lot of bad sex in her life with men who were either too focused on their own pleasure or… well, not into girls.
But Shane isn’t a shy theater kid. He’s an athlete with perfect body control and any sense of self-consciousness erased by years and years spent in communal showers and shared hotel rooms. He’s one of the hottest men Rose has ever seen and she lives in fucking Los Angeles, where every single waiter looks like he could be on the cover of GQ or something. He has journalists writing articles about him that read more like love letters to both his game and his disarmingly awkward charm, and her fans fawning over how ridiculously attractive he is when she posts photos of him on her Instagram.
Despite all this, when Rose lets her dress slip off her body on his stairs and kisses him in his bedroom, he gets so nervous — while trying so hard not to look nervous at all — that his touch becomes clumsy and unsure and his breathing quickens.
Feeling bad for him, she sucks his dick as far down as her throat will allow her, and then, once he’s hard, wraps her legs around his waist as he pushes in.
It feels good, the way an attractive body on top of hers always does, and Shane holds her in his strong arms, pets her hair and kisses her as he builds up a steady rhythm. She arches into him, moaning, because he’s deep inside of her and it feels good, but there’s something missing.
“Shane,” she whimpers, spreading her legs a little wider, and her voice has gone all soft and high. He pulls away from her at that, and meets her gaze. She cups his cheeks and smiles around another moan, trying to convey the right mix of devotion and desire to get him to do what she wants, but Shane just stares at her for a beat and then drops his forehead to rest against her shoulder.
He comes minutes later, staring at his plain white bedroom wall.
***
They have sex again a week later. It’s good, until it isn’t; Shane goes soft halfway through and can’t get it up again with her mouth around his dick until he strokes himself to full hardness with his eyes closed.
He pushes in, then, and finds a rhythm that’s mechanical rather than driven by passion. He keeps his face tucked into the crook of her neck as he fucks her, panting softly into her hair as Rose pulls her knees up to her chest in search for a better angle. Her breathing stutters when he kisses her neck, meticulously plotting out each placement like he’s threading together a game plan rather than doing whatever feels right, but it’s nice to have his attention, and even nicer to feel his plush lips on her skin.
If she’s being honest, though, the sex is… lackluster. It’s incredibly disappointing to find that Shane Hollander of all people — beautiful, charming Shane Hollander, who’s nothing short of a miracle on the ice — doesn’t even make it into the top ten of guys she’s slept with.
After several minutes of uninspired thrusting, she reaches down to touch herself and comes while Shane’s hips are still pushing his dick in and out, in and out, never changing pace, like he’s stuck in a pattern, even when she grows wetter and softer after her orgasm and her walls start clinging to him.
No man has ever lasted this long with her.
She comes again, quietly, half an aftershock of her first orgasm.
Shane is still going.
Rose catches herself glancing at the clock on his nightstand. It’s been over half an hour and she’s getting sore.
“Shane,” she says, softening her voice and lifting her hands to cup his cheeks. “Let me suck you off, maybe?”
She expects Shane to protest, but his face slackens in what looks like relief and then he shrugs, which is not a response to a blowjob offer Rose has ever gotten. “Okay,” he says, and pulls out carefully, watching her face for signs of discomfort.
Once it’s over and they’re both tired, Rose turns on to her side to look at him. “Are you okay?”
Shane drags his gaze away from the ceiling to meet hers. “Why? Was that… bad?”
“No,” Rose lies, taking his hand. “I mean, not really. It just felt like you could’ve kept going for ages. I don’t think I’ve ever had that.” And you still wouldn’t have come. The thought comes unbidden, and she quashes it hastily, before it accidentally makes its way past her lips.
Shane frowns. He presses his lips together, sits up, and rubs his palms over his eyes. “I’ve, uh… I’ve had a long day but it felt good. I mean, I liked it.” His voice doesn’t shake when he says that but it is quiet, and there’s a tiny wrinkle between his eyebrows, a crack in the facade.
“I know.” Rose runs her hand up and down his back. “It’s fine, I promise. It felt good for me, too.”
Shane winces.
“No, really, it did!” Rose rushes to say, playfully tugging at his arm. “You made me come twice.” Technically it were her own fingers that pushed her over the edge the first time, and her second orgasm was more overstimulation than anything, but she’s not mean enough to mention that.
“I’m sorry,” Shane mumbles, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with you.” Rose presses a soothing kiss to the nape of his neck, then pulls him down to lie next to her again. It’s probably a testament to how much she likes him that she doesn’t mind comforting him after some truly underwhelming sex at four in the morning. “We just need to get to know each other. It’s normal.”
She reaches for him, brushing soft fingers over his freckles. Shane closes his eyes, keeping still beneath her touch. A faint tremor runs through him, but he doesn’t turn his face away.
She’s beginning to have a suspicion.
***
It’s a cloudy afternoon when Miles confirms her suspicions. “I think your boyfriend might be gay.”
“What?” Rose asks, looking up from her phone.
“Look,” Miles says, pushing his plate aside; they’d gotten Chinese takeout from a cute little restaurant on Rue Chamberlain. My treat, Miles had said with a soft look in his eyes and a kiss pressed into Rose’s freshly dyed hair. “I could be wrong, but he’s… Well, no, actually, I definitely think he’s gay, babe.”
Rose puts down her chopsticks and sits up straight.
“I’m sorry,” Miles says. There’s that same softness in his eyes again, and now Rose sees it for what it really is — pity. Her stomach drops. “Maybe he’s not figured it out yet. I don’t think he’d be leading you on if he knew because he does seem like a genuinely nice guy, but it’s, like, pretty obvious. To me, at least.”
Rose gives a single slow nod. She’s spent the last two days recalling every moment she had with Shane, every touch, every kiss, every conversation, only to come to the conclusion that there is no way he’s as into her as she is into him, so Miles bringing it up shouldn’t knock her off-balance. Still, there’s a lump forming in her throat that makes it hard to get any words out.
Thankfully she doesn’t have to, because Miles isn’t done talking yet. “I know you like him a lot but… Honestly, Rose, you’ve been dating for weeks. No straight guy would’ve wanted to fuck just twice by now, and only managed to get it up the first time. Drunk.” He grimaces and gives her hand an apologetic squeeze. “Sorry, that was a little harsh. I just think you deserve better.”
Rose bites the inside of her cheek so hard it hurts. “Are you sure?” she asks, just to get his opinion.
Miles looks at her for a long moment. Then, he sighs, lifts his hand and starts counting with his fingers. “He’s scared of pussy. You’ve had sex twice and it’s so bad that I can barely stomach listening to your recounting of it because I feel sorry for you and sad for him. He’s awkward in the way you are when you’re uncomfortable and don’t know how to present yourself without drawing attention. You wore the sluttiest little dress when we went out and he never stared at your tits or grabbed your ass.”
Rose stares at her kung pao chicken.
“And he didn't punch me when I kissed his neck, which I’m pretty sure a straight guy would’ve done,” Miles continues. “Sorry about that, by the way, but I needed to make sure it wasn’t just wishful thinking on my part.”
“It’s fine. I didn’t mind,” Rose mumbles. “I know he’s gay.”
“You do?”
Rose shrugs. “He hasn’t said anything to me, but… I’ve thought about it.” She huffs a laugh. “Hard not to.”
Miles studies her seriously. He steals a piece of her chicken, and smiles around his mouthful of rice when she shoots him a playful glare for it. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“I don’t know why this keeps happening to me,” Rose says, a small bubble of hysterical laughter escaping her.
“You’re a little maternal,” Miles says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “All the sad closeted boys feel safe with you. Maybe you need to find a heterosexual man with a mommy kink.”
Rose grimaces at him. “Ew. I’ll take the gay guys over that.”
“Or you could refer them to me,” Miles suggests, lips twitching up into a lopsided grin. “I wouldn’t mind introducing Shane Hollander to the joys of anal sex. God, I bet he looks cute in nothing but a jockstrap.” He mulls it over for a beat, then adds, “I think I’m starting to understand why you like hockey so much.”
A bark of surprised laughter erupts out of Rose’s mouth before she can even think to hold it back. “What happened to your crush on Ilya Rozanov?”
“I tried flirting with him at Ciel but he just, like, glared at me for a moment and then turned away.” Miles waves a flippant hand. “So, I’m over it. He gives off selfish lover vibes anyway.”
Rose rolls her eyes at him good-naturedly. She doesn’t realize her smile is fading until Miles gives her a gentle nudge.
“What’s wrong?”
“Do you think— Would it be insensitive to ask Shane?”
“Ask him what? If he’s gay?”
Rose nods.
Miles takes his time pondering her question. Eventually, he says, “Depends on how you go about it, I guess, but I’m not sure if I’m the best person to answer that. I mean, you know I grew up in LA. My parents are total hippies. I don’t know what it’s like to have to be closeted. I suppose it might different for him.”
Rose’s heart clenches. Are there any openly gay hockey players? She doesn’t think so. Maybe there are some who’ve quietly come out to their teammates but chosen to keep their private lives far away from the media’s prying eyes. She knows there’s one guy who used to play with Peter before he eventually moved to Sweden, but that can hardly be compared to the scrutiny Shane is under as one of the NHL’s superstars.
Miles’ soft voice jolts her out of her thoughts. “Maybe don’t ask him when it’s just the two of you, though. Some guys can get… defensive. Not saying he would, but, like, always better to be safe.”
***
Shane doesn’t deny it. Rose knows he wants to, but he misses the window between her careful prodding and the moment he should’ve said no, I’m just stressed, I’m actually falling in love with you. Her heart breaks at the tears in his eyes and the tense line of his shoulders and the anxiety coiled around him so tightly that his body barely moves over the course of their entire conversation.
He’s hung up on someone, and feeling ashamed of it. He doesn’t admit to either of these things, but it’s obvious in the unguarded emotion softening his eyes when he answers her questions. Maybe for the first time since she met him, all of his walls are down, and Rose realizes she loves him.
They kiss outside of the bar. It’s short and tender, a perfect Shane kiss, sweet and honest and friendly. It still has Rose’s skin tingling because it is Shane Hollander, but it’s warmth blooming in her chest, not heat.
Later, when she’s back at the hotel and unable to help herself, she texts Shane.
I love you and I hope it works out with that guy you like. ❤️