Chapter Text
Shane sees him leaning against the building as he approaches. There’s a cigarette in his hand and Shane wonders if he can’t read the no smoking sign. He knows it’s him because, if he’s being honest, he’s gotten a little obsessed with the guy. He’s read every ounce of coverage he could find on the “Russian hockey prodigy” Ilya Rozanov. He’s not going to tell him that, of course, but there’s no harm in meeting the guy.
“Ilya Rozanov?” he asks tentatively, coming up to stand next to him. “Shane Hollander. I wanted to introduce myself.”
Shane hadn’t expected him to be so attractive in person. He wasn’t blind. He’d known he was good looking from the few photos he’d found, but they weren’t the best quality and certainly hadn’t prepared him for seeing Rozanov in person. They’re about the same height, but couldn’t be more different in looks. Cute doesn’t feel like the right word for the curls peeking out from Rozanov’s toque, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.
He extends a hand out and Rozanov shakes it, looking Shane up and down in a way that makes his ears burn. When they let go, Rozanov puts the cigarette into his mouth.
“Oh,” Shane says, watching how his lips wrap around it. “I’m not sure you’re supposed to smoke here.”
Rozanov looks amused. His cigarette finally lights and he looks Shane in the eyes, expecting a challenge. “Okay.”
“You’re an awesome player to watch,” Shane says. He’s embarrassed by how shy he feels saying it. He has no reason to feel like this. He’s a good player, too.
“Yes,” Rozanov says.
Shane doesn’t say anything then because they’re just looking at each other. Rozanov takes a long drag of his cigarette before removing it from his mouth and holding it out for Shane. He shakes his head, of course. He would never smoke. But the thought of his lips being where Rozanov’s just touched makes his body react in a way that would be alarming if his head wasn’t spinning for some reason.
He knows Rozanov notices him looking at his mouth, because he smirks. Shane jerks his head away and looks at a pile of snow a few feet away. He tries to think of anything but grabbing the Russian by his coat and kissing him. Shane has only ever kissed a couple of people, and never a man before. Has he ever been this instantly attracted to someone? He can’t remember a time.
“You are from here, yes?” Rozanov asks. “Canada?”
Shane clears his throat and nods, finally looking back, eyes drawn again to that mouth. “Uh, yeah. I’m Canadian.”
“Maybe you show me around then?” Rozanov shrugs and stubs out his cigarette.
“Show you around?”
“Yes,” Rozanov says, sniffing and wiping his nose. “Hotel room is boring. Maybe you show me yours.”
Shane stiffens. He knows his face is getting redder, if that’s even possible. Despite the frigid temperature, he feels hot. His palms are clammy. Is Rozanov… propositioning him? He struggles to read situations sometimes or pick up social cues. It’s one thing that frustrates him about himself, especially in a situation like this where he’s trying his best to play it cool. If he’s wrong, he’s setting himself up for not only the worst kind of humiliation, but also exposing a part of himself he’s only just started to acknowledge.
“Show you my… room?” He asks dumbly, expecting Rozanov to clarify and Shane to realize that he has once again interpreted a basic social interaction the wrong way.
Rozanov huffs and looks up at the sky for a moment. “Did I,” he searches for a word. “Misread? You are not interested?”
Shane breathes in sharply, his heart beginning to pound in his ears. “No, uh, no you didn’t misread. Let me make a phone call and then, uh, I can show you. My room.”
He walks a few feet away and calls his mom. This is fucking risky. His parents are up in the hotel room waiting for him to go to dinner. And even outside of that, he doesn’t do this. He doesn’t take risks. He plays hockey and he tries his best not to make waves. He definitely doesn’t let players from rival teams into his hotel room to do god knows what. (He knows what he thinks is going to happen, but there’s a part of him that still thinks he’s interpreting this all wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.)
“Honey?” His mom asks. “Where are you? Your dad is starving.”
“Hey mom,” he says, trying to sound casual. “I’m actually gonna go out to dinner with a couple of the guys instead, so you guys can go ahead without me.”
She pauses, but Shane knows this is something that’ll make her happy. She's always been worried about him not making friends or connecting with his team in the way the others seem to do so seamlessly.
“If you’re sure,” she says.
“I’m sure,” he says. “Besides, you and dad never get a night on your own.”
She laughs softly. “Have fun, kiddo. We’ll see you later.”
He walks back over to Ilya and gestures for him to follow. “My, uh, my parents are going out to dinner, so we’ll have a couple hours, I guess.”
His hands are trembling. He’s never done anything so risky. He’s never done anything even remotely close to this. Twice on the walk to the hotel he wants to turn and tell Rozanov that he changed his mind, but the desire is too strong. Is this what his teammates feel like when they think about girls? The guys are always talking about sex, and Shane had just never felt the spark. Sure, he had a girlfriend a few months ago, but they never did anything more than kissing, and she must’ve sensed that he wasn’t that into her, because she dumped him.
He’s relieved that they don’t run into anyone they know on the way up to his room. Rozanov stands close behind him as he unlocks the door. His hand fumbles with the key card when the Russian touches his waist. Even through his coat, it sends a spark through him.
He clears his throat as they step inside. He pulls off his toque and coat, tossing them on one of the beds. “So, this is my room.”
“Is nice,” Rozanov says, but he’s not looking at the room at all, he’s stepping closer to Shane until his back hits the wall.
“This is such a bad idea,” Shane finally says.
“What is?” Rozanov breathes against his lips before finally kissing him.
Shane has kissed before, but never like this. He’s only kissed girls, so he was expected to be “in control”, but this is different. Rozanov holds his jaw and takes the lead, allowing Shane to be along for the ride. His mouth is hot and commanding, and Shane’s knees feel weak when he licks into his mouth. Rozanov moans softly as Shane’s tongue tentatively meets his. Shane clings to Rozanov’s coat as they kiss. He’s annoyed that there are so many layers on him.
Rozanov must have the same thought, because he pulls back for a moment to remove his coat and toque but Shane leans forward, an embarrassing sound leaving his mouth at the loss of contact.
Shane has never been so hard before. Rozanov presses against him and kisses him deeply, and Shane can feel that he’s hard too. He does something bold, something so unlike himself, and presses his hand against the bulge in Rozanov’s pants.
“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov says, biting down on Shane’s lower lip and grinding against his hand. And then they’re unbuttoning each other’s pants and before he can think too much about it, Shane is on his knees.
Rozanov’s cock is huge and uncut, the head glistening. Shane has obviously never done this before but his mouth is watering, and he’s relieved Rozanov is just as into this as he is. He’s not sure how to start so he tentatively laps at the head. He can feel his own cock twitch when Rozanov lets out a hiss. He can’t fit the whole thing in his mouth. He can’t even fit half, but he holds the base and bobs his head as best he can.
“Da, like that, Hollander,” Rozanov grunts, gripping Shane’s hair and guiding him at a pace he likes.
The salty taste of precum mixed with the clean taste of Rozanov’s skin is making Shane feel drunk. He gets the crazy thought that this is what he was born for. That every moment of his life culminated in being on his knees for this perfect fucking Russian. There’s nowhere he’d rather be in his moment.
Way too soon, Rozanov pulls him off and tugs him to his feet.
“Was that… bad?” Shane breathes out. His whole body feels alight. His lips are wet and he wants to drop back down to his knees and finish what he started.
Rozanov grins. “Ah, no. Opposite. Is too much too good.”
Shane blushes and looks down. Rozanov tilts his chin up and kisses him. He tugs on Shane’s open pants and shoves a hand in. “Fuck,” Shane groans. He feels like he’s on the edge already as Rozanov’s strong hand begins to stroke him.
“I want to fuck you,” Rozanov mumbles against Shane’s lips, rubbing a thumb over the damp head of his cock.
“I, uh…” Shane pulls back. He can’t think with Rozanov’s hand moving the way it is.
“You are scared,” Rozanov says.
“I’m not scared.” He’s a little scared.
“No, it’s okay.” Rozanov pecks his lips and jerks him off a little faster. “Can finish you off like this. Feels like it won’t take too long.”
“I’m not scared,” Shane huffs and puts a hand on his wrist. “I don’t, um, have condoms or anything.”
Rozanov looks like he’s biting back a grin. “Worried about getting pregnant?”
Shane wants to snap back about STDs and the mess of unprotected sex, but Rozanov steps back and goes into the bathroom, coming back out with a small tube of complimentary lotion. Shane’s not sure how he feels about that being in his butt, and it must show on his face because Rozanov grins. “Is scent free.”
Shane nods as Rozanov steps closer and kisses him again. “You do not have to.”
Rozanov is stroking him again, now with a lotioned hand. The smooth glide and tight grip over his cock makes his toes curl. “I-I want to.”
What if he never gets this chance again? He wants to play hockey for a long time. It’s not exactly the most open and accepting sport. What if he’s never able to be with a man, and he says no to his only opportunity to know what it feels like?
Rozanov nudges him until he turns and faces the wall. Shane finally toes his shoes off as Rozanov tugs his pants and boxers all the way off. Shane blushes at first at being fully exposed as his shirt follows the rest of his clothes, but he braces himself on the wall as Rozanov kisses the back of his neck and slick fingers rub between his cheeks. His face burns hot. He has never touched himself there.
“Is your first time with a man?” Rozanov purrs into his ear as a finger breaches him.
Shane lets out an embarrassing whimper and feels himself clench around the intrusion. “My first time with anyone.”
Rozanov freezes. Shane is afraid he’s going to pull his finger out. “Hollander, you do not have to.”
Shane huffs. “Jesus Christ. I want to, Rozanov.”
After another brief pause, the finger inside him begins to move. “Then just relax. Just feel. Let me think for you.”
There’s a bit of pain when a second finger joins the first, but it’s gone in a second when they brush over his prostate. “Fuck!” He cries as his hips buck.
“Good, right?” He can tell Rozanov is grinning. “You’re almost ready for me.”
The third finger feels like a lot, but Shane welcomes it. Rozanov hasn’t even touched his cock but Shane feels dangerously close. Another brush over his prostate and his cock twitches. “Rozanov,” he pleads.
The fingers slide out of him slowly and he whines, but the blunt head of Rozanov’s cock is right there, pressing against him. “Breathe. I will go slowly.”
Shane nods, hands gripping the wall. Rozanov has one hand on his hip as the other guides him inside.
Taken is the word that comes into Shane’s mind as the breath leaves his body. There’s pain, but not like he expected. Most of all he just feels taken. Consumed, almost. Rozanov is huge. It feels like a thousand years pass just getting him fully seated inside Shane. Once he’s in, one hand remains on Shane’s hip while the other lightly strokes his cock, getting him back to full hardness.
When Shane nods, Rozanov pulls out only a couple inches and thrusts back in. Shane clenches and gasps. “Fuck!”
“Is okay?” Rozanov grunts, still only moving a couple inches.
Shane nods. He feels wild and outside of his own body. His nails dig into the wall. “More,” he gasps.
He doesn’t realize how much Rozanov had been holding back until he picks up the pace. The little grunts in his ear and the sound of skin slapping against skin spiral him to the edge way too fast. He bats Rozanov’s hand away from his cock just to stop himself from finishing already.
It doesn’t do much good, especially when Rozanov pulls Shane’s hips back a bit, changing the angle to brush his prostate perfectly each time. The high pitched whine that comes from Shane with each thrust should embarrass him but he’s too far gone.
“Is still okay?” Rozanov asks, sounding strained. Distantly Shane is glad he’s affected too.
Shane nods wildly. “Don’t fucking stop,” he gasps out, his hips pushing back to meet each thrust. More, more, more is all he can think.
He’s reaching the point of no return and nothing is even touching his cock. When Rozanov reaches around and puts a hand on his chest, nails digging in slightly, the mix of pain and pleasure is too much. Shane’s whole body tenses and he lets out a cry he’s a little worried can be heard in the next room as he spills against the wall. He can feel himself spasming around Rozanov’s cock.
“Oh god, Hollander,” Rozanov gasps and then presses in so deep that it steals Shane’s breath away, grunting as he spills deep inside him. Shane’s face burns at the feeling. He can feel every twitch and spurt inside him. It’s irresponsible and he knows it, but he’s glad they didn’t use a condom.
“Fuck,” Shane breathes, leaning his head against the wall. Rozanov’s still inside him, hands rubbing up and down his waist. He kisses Shane’s shoulder.
“I am dead, Hollander. You killed me.”
Shane laughs, still catching his breath. He winces a bit as Rozanov pulls out, and then cringes at the messy feeling left behind. The sensation of Rozanov’s come leaking out of him is both a turn on and really gross, somehow.
Rozanov goes into the bathroom and comes back with a warm cloth. He begins to clean Shane and the wall. Shane wants to protest that he can do it himself but he doesn’t. His body and mind are buzzing a bit and he lets himself float in that feeling until reality sinks in again.
“Nobody can know about this, okay?” He tells Rozanov who replies in Russian that Shane obviously doesn’t understand. “I’m serious.”
“I am not going to tell anyone, Hollander.”
“Okay,” Shane says. He pulls his boxers back on even though he’ll need a shower once Rozanov leaves. “I guess I’ll see you in the final then.”
Rozanov grins as he buttons his own pants. “You will not be so nice when we beat you.”
Shane laughs. He feels giddy in that moment. Despite everything, they’re still hockey players. “That’s not happening.”
They grin at each other for a few minutes before Rozanov steps close again. “I have to go.”
Shane nods and accepts the chaste kiss. “Yeah, my parents will be back soon.”
Later, in the shower, he hears his parents return from dinner.
“Shane? How was dinner with the guys?” His dad calls out to him.
“Good!” He calls back, trying to sound casual and not like he’s cleaning out his ass.
“We brought you back some tiramisu,” his mom says.
Normally, he wouldn’t eat something like that when he has games to play, but with skipping dinner and working up an appetite with Rozanov, his mouth waters.
He slides in bed after the shower and dessert, trying to get his focus back on hockey. He can’t be distracted by sex when his team is relying on him. He does, however, briefly wish he’d at least gotten contact info from Rozanov, though the other man had given no indication he wanted this to happen again.
He feels a bit dumbstruck. He just lost his virginity to Ilya fucking Rozanov. If it weren’t for the dull ache in his ass every time he shifted, he’d think it was all a dream.
Stupid, Shane thinks. He’s here to play hockey, and that’s all. But as he falls asleep that night, he dreams of curly hair and hot breath on his neck.
When they cross paths again in the final, the loss is devastating, but Shane knows he did his best. Everyone lines up to shake hands, and the disappointment is a tight knot in his chest, tangled with a bit of anxiety at touching Rozanov’s hand.
“See you at the draft,” Rozanov says with a grin, his thumb brushing knowingly over Shane’s knuckles.
Before Shane can respond or react in any way, the next player is shaking his hand. That evening, he sits at dinner with his parents. His mom is trying to make him feel better about the loss, but he finds he’s not as upset as he was earlier. He feels motivated. Motivated to play even better next time, and motivated to face Ilya Rozanov again.
See you at the draft.
He certainly will.
-
-
He’s the second overall draft pick. Shane should be proud, his parents certainly are, but he feels frustrated and disappointed in himself. He’s used to being the best, sometimes to the point of being bored, and Rozanov challenges that in ways he’s not used to. It’s thrilling and infuriating, especially because Rozanov doesn’t seem to be affected at all, that cocky grin ever present on his perfect face. Shane can’t help but think of what happened the first time they met every time he sees him online because, yes, of course Shane is still reading any article he can find on him. And if he set up Google alerts for Rozanov’s name then so what?
Cameras flash in their faces as they hold up their jerseys. Rozanov being right next to him and nudging his hand is distracting him, but he needs to pull it together. He forces a smile, holding up the number two with his fingers.
Later, his mother does most of the talking and mingling, being the hockey superfan she is. Not that Shane’s complaining in a place like this. He has never been that good in social situations, especially during long, overstimulating days like today. He has shaken so many hands and met so many new people whose names he’s already forgotten. He’s grateful, he really is, he just needs to sit alone in a room for a while and clear his head. He wants to go for a long, quiet run.
He looks up at one point, and sees Rozanov staring down at him where he’s standing with a man Shane assumes is his dad. Neither of them wave or make any expression, and Shane looks away when his mom nudges him.
“Right, honey?” she says. He didn’t even hear the question, but he agrees.
He feels outside of his own body through dinner and barely tastes the food. He climbs into his bed in the hotel, hoping that sleep will come fast, but it doesn’t. He knows there’s a gym downstairs. His parents are fast asleep and won’t even notice he’s gone.
He climbs on an exercise bike and puts his headphones in. He feels better immediately, like the thoughts slowly seep from his mind as the pain in his legs increases. He almost doesn’t notice when someone climbs onto the bike next to him. Almost. Of course Rozanov would also be awake right now. Just his luck.
Like everything, it’s a competition. Leave it to Rozanov to turn something like a late night workout into a challenge. They don’t look at each other and they don’t slow down, and it’s the best Shane has felt all day. The “race” feels endless, and Shane has no intention of stopping first. Rozanov seems to have the same idea as they both lean forward and grip the handlebars. Shane can feel sweat dripping down his face. It stings his eyes, but he keeps going.
Just when his legs start to scream in agony and he thinks he’s going to give up, Rozanov slows down half a second before him.
They’re too breathless to talk as they stagger from the bikes and flop down on the ground across from each other. Shane sees that Rozanov has a bottle of water and he regrets not bringing his own. He hadn’t even thought about it, too eager to get down here and burn off the stress of the day.
“What a fucking day,” Rozanov huffs. He takes a sip of his water and then nods at Shane. “Is everything you dreamed of?”
Shane looks down for a second, a familiar feeling of inferiority coursing through him briefly, before looking back at Rozanov. “Almost.”
Rozanov grins and shrugs. “Sorry,” he says in a singsong tone.
“No you’re not.” Shane huffs out a laugh.
“Montreal is… nice, yes?” Rozanov asks in between sips from his bottle.
It takes Shane a second to process the other man’s words, distracted by the sight of him swallowing and the gleam of sweat on his neck. “Uh, yeah. It’s awesome.”
“Boston is nice too?”
“I think so.” Shane had never spent much time there. “People like it there.”
They don’t say anything after that. Shane watches Rozanov drink, kicking himself again for not bringing his own. Rozanov must notice this, because he holds out the bottle. Shane waves him off.
“Do not want to share with me, Hollander?” Rozanov says with mock offense, keeping the bottle held out and shaking it in his face. “We have shared a lot more than water.”
Shane’s face, which had only just started to cool off from the workout, flushes deep red. It’s not a lie, but he doesn’t have to be so direct about it. Shane doesn’t do risky stuff like that, so the fact that he’d gone as far as to let Rozanov take his virginity in the hotel room he’d been sharing with his parents freaks him out. He’d tried to push it out of his head and focus on hockey, but sitting across from Rozanov like this is making him hazy.
Shane takes the water from Rozanov. It’s ice cold and he takes a few big gulps before trying to pass it back.
“More,” Rozanov whispers, looking him in his eyes. Shane looks back and keeps drinking.
When he passes the water back, Rozanov’s hand overlaps his and he gets goosebumps along his arm.
Rozanov leans back against the wall more and Shane tries his best not to look down at Rozanov’s crotch. “You have been with others since then?”
“That’s private,” Shane says, looking away. Of course he hasn’t. He’s never been that guy.
“That’s a no,” Rozanov laughs. He scoots forward, close enough that Shane can smell soap and sweat. He puts a hand on Shane’s knee. “Is okay. I can help.”
Shane swats his hand away. “Are you crazy? We’re in public. Anyone could walk in.”
Rozanov rolls his eyes, his grin still in place as he leans forward enough to plant a chaste kiss to Shane’s lips. “Is late. Besides, we can’t go to room.”
Shane knows he should shove him away but his body is already reacting. He hasn’t let himself indulge in anything like this, not in his own thoughts and definitely not with other people. He’s never been the type to go out looking for a hook up, especially not when hockey has always been the forefront of his life. He doesn’t know what it is about Ilya Rozanov that makes him want to plunge headfirst into the feelings of desire he tries so desperately to ignore most of the time.
Rozanov’s hand is on his inner thigh now and he leans in to kiss Shane again who accepts his kiss greedily. It quenches him more than the water did. He grips the front of Rozanov’s shirt and opens his mouth easily for the other man’s tongue. Much like their first kiss, Shane feels outpaced. It’s so obvious who has the experience between them, but he’s too turned on to care and Rozanov’s hand moving higher up on his leg is distracting him.
“Are you gonna fuck me?” he breathes into Rozanov’s mouth as the other man palms him through his shorts. He wants it so badly, and he’s been afraid to admit to himself that he was terrified he’d never get to know what it felt like again.
“Would love to, Hollander.” He bites Shane’s lip and pulls back to tug his shirt off, dragging his nails down Shane’s bare chest. “But no supplies. And too messy.”
It makes sense, but disappointment courses through him. At the same time, the cool air of the hotel gym makes Shane’s skin prickle, doubly so when Rozanov leans down, kissing Shane’s inner thigh and tugging on his shorts.
“But I’m all sweaty,” he murmurs but lifts his hips anyway, allowing Rozanov to pull his shorts down just far enough to free his cock.
Instead of responding, Rozanov takes the head of Shane’s cock between his lips and swirls his tongue around it. Shane clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from crying out. The last thing they need is an employee looking in here. He keeps that hand over his mouth and moves the other to Rozanov’s damp curls.
If there was ever a question of if Rozanov had done this before, it’s answered swiftly by the methodical way he takes Shane apart in only a few minutes. Shane watches as he’s taken to the root several times while, every few seconds, Rozanov pulls off to tease him with his tongue. He does his best to stop himself from gripping Rozanov’s hair and fucking his mouth, but his hips do jerk a few times. Rozanov takes it in stride, swallowing around him and letting outs soft moans that seem to jolt straight to Shane’s balls.
“Rozanov,” he moans, faster than he’d like to admit. “You better stop.”
Rozanov pulls off and leans back on his heels, tugging his own shorts down. His cock is rigid, the tip already wet with precum, and there’s a satisfied spark of electricity through Shane’s body that he had that affect on him.
Rozanov winks at him when he realizes that Shane is staring, and leans back against the opposite wall again. He pats his thighs. “Come here.”
Shane is too turned on to be embarrassed, but he does feel a little exposed as he climbs onto Rozanov’s lap, shirtless and cock out. Rozanov adjusts Shane’s position so their cocks are pressed together, and Shane does something bolder than he expects from himself. He balances with one hand on Rozanov’s shoulder and leans his head down to spit over the heads of their cocks, using his free hand to begin stroking them together.
Rozanov groans, leaning his head back against the wall. It’s louder than Shane would prefer but it’s so hot to hear a sound like that from him. “Da, good boy, Hollander.”
The praise has Shane half gone already, and his hand moves faster. They’re both leaking so much precum at this point that the wet sounds of his stroking fill the room. He can feel Rozanov’s hips pushing up, increasing friction.
“Rozanov, Rozanov,” Shane whispers, his voice strained. “I’m so fucking close.”
Rozanov grips Shane’s ass hard and that’s what pushes him over the edge. His rhythm becomes sloppy and he spills over his hand. Rozanov swears and follows him over half a second later. It’s a mess.
Shane sags against him, his hand covered. The post nut clarity kicks in and he realizes how gross they are, both sweaty and covered in come. Rozanov tucks them both back into their pants and grins up at Shane.
“Move,” he says. “So I can get us cleaned up.”
Shane huffs a laugh and flops down next to Rozanov. He watches the other man get up and toss Shane’s shirt back to him. He goes over to the cleaning station and comes back with several sheets of paper towels.
“We will be seeing each other a lot, yes?” Rozanov asks as he wipes off Shane’s messy hand.
Shane nods and lets him. “Yeah, uh, Montreal and Boston play each other a lot.”
Rozanov nods, and once he’s done cleaning, he holds a hand out. “Give me your phone.”
Shane’s confused but does it anyway. He watches as Rozanov types in the name Lily and sends a text to his own number from Shane’s phone. He places the phone back into Shane’s hand. Shane grins, watching Rozanov pull his own phone out.
“What’s my name gonna be? Shannon?”
“Jane,” Rozanov says, leaning forward to kiss Shane. “Now go. Shower and bed.”
Shane nods, feeling exhausted suddenly now that Rozanov mentioned it. Between the workout and getting off, he feels pleasantly sore, his mind relaxed for the first time all day. He pushes himself to his feet and waffles awkwardly for a second.
“So…” he says.
Rozanov rolls his eyes. “Oh my God, Hollander, you are so boring. Will text you. Promise.”
Shane flushes at being so obvious, but he nods. “Okay. Goodnight.”
He hurries out of there and gets to his room as quickly as possible. His parents are still asleep, luckily, and he takes a long, hot shower. The steam soothes his sore legs. Now that he’s relaxed and had time to unwind (or time to get unwound), he lets himself feel excited. He’s going to be playing hockey. Professionally. He gets to make a career out of the thing he loves the most and he feels giddy about it. But if he’s honest with himself, that’s not the only thing he’s giddy about, though the other thing is a much more terrible idea.
He can’t believe he has Rozanov’s number. And yes, the other man said he’d text, but what would they even talk about. It’s not like they could even hook up that often. Only when their teams played against each other, and even then, only if they were both free. Shane had never been one to go out very often but he could imagine he’d be dragged out and about at least every now and then by his new teammates.
He gets out of the shower and into clean boxers before climbing into bed. There’s a text waiting on his phone.
No freaking out. Goodnight Jane
He doesn’t respond, but it eases something inside him. He falls into a deep, thankfully dreamless, sleep.
The next morning, he has breakfast with his parents.
“I don’t care that he’s the number one pick,” his mom says. “In no universe is he better than you. And can you believe that kid? He’s so cocky.”
“Mom, it’s not a big deal. A lot of hockey guys are like that,” Shane says. While it’s not untrue, he’s certain there’s nobody quite like Ilya Rozanov.
“Well I say fuck him!” she says, crossing her arms. “Right up the butt.”
“Yuna!” Shane’s dad says.
Shane lifts his coffee mug, hiding his grin. If only she knew.