Chapter Text
Shane’s life was perfect, he had an amazing family, an amazing career, friends that cared about him, and thousands of people who basically worshipped the ground he walked on. He was young when he had risen to fame. He knew that not many people had the opportunities that he had. He was driven, passionate, and had everything anyone could ever dream of. He was admired constantly, people making comments about how jealous they were, about how he really had it all, and about how his life must be fucking amazing. Teammates made comments about how many girls he could be fucking, how many women would line up to be with him. He was showered with compliments, fame, money, media attention, brand deals, so much more.
But he never felt satisfied with himself. He still felt this yearning to become better, to look better, to play better, but all of it felt more and more unachievable as he got closer. He was unsatisfied with his life. As selfish as he felt saying that, he was. It wasn’t just his life and each of his small failures that made him unhappy, he was unsatisfied with himself. He didn’t like himself. No, he hated himself. His bland personality, his lack of true friends that weren’t just work pals, his shit ability to even make friends in the first place. Mostly though, he hated how he looked. Despite both swimwear companies and underwear companies – as flattered as he was – reaching out to him constantly, he still couldn’t see what the world saw in him. Each time he saw himself on that fucking TV in his parents house, in his hotel room, in his cottage, he could only see everything wrong with him. The way his face looked bothered him. He disliked his freckles, his feminine jawline, the way his hair always seemed to stick flat on his head and look entirely unfashionable, his eyebags that never seemed to leave his face no matter how much he slept. But he hated his body the most. He was smaller than his other teammates, never felt as attractive or masculine as they did. Didn’t quite have those perfect chiseled abs he saw around him in the locker rooms. No matter how little he ate, how healthy he ate, how much he marked down every calorie or turned down a beer with his team, he still felt flawed.
It started when he was about 15, maybe 16. He was playing high level hockey, working out half the time, going to practice the other half. His entire life was focused around the only thing he loved. He loved the sport. Playing it, watching it, analyzing it. He buried himself in schoolwork and after school activities for hockey, he avoided social gatherings, and hardly made any friends. Friends weren’t important when you had to be the best. Somewhere in his time playing high school hockey, his mom suggested a diet. She wasn’t telling him he needed to lose weight or that he was fat, she was just doing what she thought was best for him. His mother, bless her heart, had unknowingly opened up the flood gates of something horrible. Disordered eating. It started with balancing his diet. Eating the proper ratio of protein, carbs, fats, and sugars. Shane started to track what he ate. At first, he would forget things every so often and he wouldn’t put in small snacks he had. But somewhere along the way, he started to add each and every little thing to the list of things he ate. He started to add small pieces of candy, a couple goldfish his friend shared with him, mints, and even gum. He hadn’t started to truly obsess over his health and his weight, but by the time he turned 17, he decided that he needed to step it up. He needed to get better. MHL scouts would be coming to his games, seeing potential players to draft. He needed to be in top shape. There was no way he could pass up such an opportunity. His mother got more involved with his hockey as he got older. She would create workout routines for him, focusing heavily on his weak points, on the things he could improve, which only made him magnify his flaws more. Shane defined himself by what he ate. Everyday he focused on how he could lower his intake of sugars, how he could cut out certain foods, and how he could get healthier. For Shane, health became everything. He couldn’t enjoy small desserts, it would mess up his diet. It would send him into a spiral, it would plague him with guilt for the rest of the week. He avoided family outings, hanging out with friends, and birthday parties. All the places where food would be involved. It made it easier to simply not go instead of having to turn things down and put a potential spotlight on his behavior.
December 2008
The International Prospect Cup. Shane’s mother had been obsessing over it for months. She paid special attention to his performance, always having something to say about the way he passed, the way he skated, the way he took shots. There was always something to improve on. This was the deciding factor of what his life would become. The tournament divided teams by country, him playing for Canada of course. They would compete in a series of games while scouts watched out for young talent, players that would be drafted into the MHL. This was what Shane had been waiting for his entire life. As the weeks passed and it got closer, Shane became more stressed out. He knew he was the best player. He was confident in his ability and his team’s ability to wipe the floor with the other teams. However, there was one threat.
Ilya Rozanov.
He was good, really good, he was way too fucking good. When Shane first heard about him, he wasn't too scared. He was a young Russian boy that had a lot of talent. He was quick, strong with the puck, and confident. Whatever, so was everyone else on the ice. However, Shane watched one game and immediately knew. This was the guy he had to beat. Beating Rozanov would mean he was better. The best.
Shane rubbed his arms. It was fucking freezing in Sascachewan. He inhaled, feeling his throat cool and his nerves settle down slightly. He needed to see what this Russian kid looked like in person. It was an hour before training would start. Canada went first and Russia went second. He had a bit of time. He looked through the halls and eventually found his way outside to see a tall, handsome man with a confidence he envied. He was leaning against some rusty doors that were designated for viewer traffic. Rozanov was wearing a black jacket that was only buttoned up halfway, a black beanie, and khaki pants. Damn Russian was probably used to this kind of cold. His hair was golden blonde and it curled flawlessly under the hat, sticking out near the front and the back. He had his legs crossed casually and a look on his face that made you feel as if you were beneath him. Shane smelled cigarette smoke. Gross. This guy already seemed like a dick, making Shane want to beat him even more. Rozanov had his hand around the lighter, shielding the flame from the cold as he tried to light another cigarette he’d stuck between his teeth, the cold wind making the task challenging.
Shane took a deep breath. Fuck. He couldn’t just walk away now, that would be fucking weird. He’d seem like a pussy before even competing against this guy. “Um… Ilya Rozanov?” he waited. No response, “I’m um, I’m Shane Hollander. I wanted to introduce myself…” He extended a hand towards Rozanov. The Russian crossed his arms, giving Shane a cold stare. He looked down at his hand and back up at his face. He waited a moment then shook Shane’s hand. Rozanov covered the flame, flicking the spark on the lighter and leaning in to put the end of the cigarette over the flame, managing to light it this time. “Oh um-... I don’t think you’re supposed to be smoking here…” Shane said, putting his hand up to his mouth and making a smoking gesture in case Rozanov didn’t understand him. Rozanov put the lighter in his pocket, looking Shane up and down again.
“Okay.”
Shane felt awkward. He had no idea what to say to that. He moved on. Maybe he just needed to let Rozanov know he wasn’t out to get him. “You’re an amazing player to watch I-”
“Yes.” Rozanov interrupted him. He took another long drag of his cigarette. He was not pleasant to talk to at all. Shane thought maybe he would give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the media was wrong about him or they only saw how he behaved on the ice. No. He was a dick on and off the ice.
Desperate to get away from the very tall… handsome… golden haired man, Shane turned away, then awkwardly turned again to face Rozanov and end the conversation like a normal person. “I should… I should go… They’re waiting for me…” He gestured towards the back door, “But good luck in the tournament.” He extended his hand again. Shane winced. That was weird. He’s weird. Shit. He kept his hand extended, unable to go back. Rozanov smiled at him, making Shane's face heat up slightly. He took his cigarette out of his mouth.
“You will not be so nice when we beat you.” Rozanov stated, quickly shaking Shane’s hand and leaning back up against the rusted doors.
Offended, Shane smiled, “That’s not happening.” He said, shoving his hands back into his pockets. Rozanov gave him another sly grin. Overly confident piece of shit.
“See you in final.”
Shane made his way back to the locker room, shaking his head and letting out a laugh. Rozanov was exactly what he thought he would be. An overly confident, rude jerk. Shane opened the door to the locker room, immediately sitting down and throwing off his beanie into the cubby above his head. He couldn’t get the interaction out of his head the entire time.
On the ice, it was worse. He couldn’t focus on anything but the smug-faced, bitchy Russian staring at him from the stands. He was staring at Shane, just Shane. He was chewing on his hoodie string. Gross. His coach yelled something at him, but all he could look at was the empty seats around Rozanov. Shane heard the cutting of skates on the ice, realizing they were getting into teams for a scrimmage.
Shane leaned down at the face off center, looking to his sides and looking back up. He waited for the puck drop.
—
Ilya heard his coach bark something at him, but he was only focusing on the stupid Canadian boy and his parents watching him. His mother had long, black hair. He read somewhere that Shane Hollander was Japanese or something. He didn’t care. He only did the research to figure out his weaknesses. To learn how to destroy his competition. Well, he actually ended up going into a deep dive internet search about Hollander. He was born in Ottawa, was super average middle class, and had almost nothing interesting about him. Boring. Ilya looked over to Hollander’s left where his father sat. His father was white, super white. He looked like he had no idea what was going on. The boring Canadian’s mother was obviously the brains behind the whole thing. Ilya heard his name being yelled again.
“Done dicking around and staring off?” The coach yelled in Russian, pointing at Ilya.
“Yes. Sorry.” He apologized with a curt nod, trying not to let that boy get to him anymore.
—
Shane watched as the Russian players threw their sticks on the ice, their gloves in the air, and tackled each other in the corner of the rink right as the buzzer signified the end of the game. He frowned, looking at the back of Rozanov’s jersey, staring at the gold lettering. He lost. He lost against that fucking dick. He could already hear the, “Second place isn’t bad!” he would receive from family members and friends. It was bad. It wasn’t like his career was over. He was still moving up into the MHL, but knowing that he wasn’t the best and first pick bothered him. He was second pick. Dammit. Shane reluctantly lined up to shake the opposing teams hands, congratulating them but not looking them in the eye. Shane recognized the ungloved hand of Ilya Rozanov. He looked up.
“See you at the draft.” Rozanov whispered as he leaned in closer to Shane’s face, making his skin suddenly feel hot. He watched as Rozanov extended his hand to shake the person’s behind him. He told himself it was just the sweat and anger that made his cheeks warm. Nothing else.
May 2009
It had been six months and Shane was still just as bitter as he was when he was shaking hands with Rozanov after the final. But now, he was standing right next to him, holding his Montreal Jersey next to Rozanov holding his Boston one. He put up two fingers for the camera and smiled half-heartedly as the photographer snapped photos for the press. Second. Camera flashes blinded him as he was given the queue to walk down the carpet into the dining hall.
Shane held a stem glass of sprite in his hand. He wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol yet but the bar served them in stem glasses anyways. He stared at the barely sipped on drink. Sugary. His mom would never allow him to drink this at home. He was only allowed kombucha, water, and the occasional ginger ale. He swallowed hard, he didn't want to look rude. He took a sip and felt the carbonation burn his throat. He felt guilty. The owner was talking to his parents, praising Shane and talking about how thrilled he was to have him on the team. His mother was handling all of the talking for him, thank god. She put a hand on his shoulder, signalizing to him that he needed to speak up and at least act attentive. “Um, yeah, yeah I’m… I’m so excited to play for a team with such a um…” He had no idea what to say, “Such a great history.” He sounded like a moron in front of the owner. He could still taste the sugary sweetness in his mouth as he smiled. His mom thankfully took over the conversation to talk about how she loved the Metro’s.
—
Ilya looked down onto the first floor of the dining hall at the nicely combed black hair of a boring Canadian boy.
“Congratulations again, Ilya. We’re glad to have you joining Boston. You’ll be a strong forward on our team.” The owner said.
“He is strong kid, yes, but he needs discipline. He is um… how do you say… lazy.” His father added. Fucking embarassing being called lazy by your father infront of the owner of the team you’ve just been drafted to.
The owner laughed, “Well, that’s hard to believe from the way I’ve seen him play on the ice!” Ilya stared back down at the drink in his hand.
“I will work very hard for you. I promise.” Ilya replied, trying to cover up his father’s bitchy comment. His father said something to him in Russian. “Yes sir.” he replied.
—
The rest of the party was agony for Shane. Food, drinks, pastries, small appetizers that he knew he’d gorge himself on if he let himself have even one. Waiters carried around plates of foods Shane had never seen before. Fancy people stuff. He couldn't even tell what they were. He only knew that he wanted whatever the fuck it was. He stayed by his mom the entire time, scared to go off on his own. He didn’t want to talk to people, but he also needed his mom next to him to keep him from taking every single pastry he saw off of the waiter’s trays. They were small little cupcakes, chocolates, cookies, and trifles, but they were calories he couldn’t afford. Not even one. Not now. Especially not now. It was even more agonizing that Shane hadn't eaten anything prior. He wanted to look his best. The shirt he was wearing was tight. Although he had a nice blazer to go on top of it, he still didn’t want to risk taking it off and feeling gross and… fat. Fuck. He was so hungry. He needed to wait it out. He tried to get himself excited for the dinner he had prepared himself in the fridge at his hotel room, but he couldn’t bring himself to be excited about kale salad with already cooked chicken on it that would taste worse when he heated it up in the microwave. No dressing too. He didn't allow himself to have dressing. Too much oil, fat, whatever. No dressing.
Shane had his own hotel room, which was nice. His parents were always involved and his mother was very overbearing. He was happy to finally have a room of his own that actually had a lock on it. His mother had a habit of barging into his room. He knew that she would probably knock on his door to wake him up at the ass crack of dawn, but at least he had the ability to put on a shirt before he unlocked the door. He laid in bed once the feeling of being partially full wore off, which didn’t take very long. He ate later, putting off eating until he was REALLY starving. It was near 2:30am when he got tired of constantly checking his phone and contemplating ordering food and charging it to the room. Fuck, he needed some way to tire himself out and to stop thinking about food. He threw the blanket off of himself, carefully tucking it back into the bedframe before smoothing it out. There was a gym and a pool and he was not using the fucking pool. His clothes sticking to his body when he got out? Nope. He wouldn’t risk someone coming in and seeing him looking like a wet dog. The gym would help him burn calories faster and more efficiently.
The gym was quiet and small. There were only a couple machines there and Shane opted to work cardio. He was focusing on tiring himself out and burning calories. He didn’t need to risk flattening his neck with a fucking dumb-bell. Despite no one being in the gym, he still felt insecure. There were mirrors across the entire wall in front of him. Probably for gym bros to take pictures of themselves and post thirst traps. Ew. He ignored the reflection of himself in the corner of his eyes and sat on the bike, immediately cranking up the difficulty. His gaze was fixed on the monitor, watching as the ‘calories burnt’ went up slowly. He closed his eyes, feeling sweat already start to drip down his face. He heard the door open and close, assuming it was just some other guest he could ignore.
Nope. The other person chose to use the bike right next to him, and when he looked up, he saw none other than Ilya Fucking Rozanov. His shirt suddenly felt too tight, his shorts too short. He was showing too much. Would Rozanov notice how thick his thighs were? How wide his torso was? How absolutely horrible and sweaty and pale he looked? He watched as Rozanov cranked up the speed on his bike. He was paranoid. He couldn’t let Rozanov see how unathletic he was. He had to one up him. He had to prove himself.
—
Ilya looked at Hollander out of the corner of his eye, smirking. Boring and slow Canadian. He was better. He knew he was better, but he had to prove it. Had to shove it in the pretty boy’s face. He pedaled faster, sweat already starting to drip down his face and his breathing already starting to quicken. He upped the difficulty and grabbed the handle bars. This was fun. He saw Hollander glare at him out of the corner of his eye. He was squeezing his eyes shut, already struggling to keep up with him. He almost looked like he was about to cry.
After 10 agonizing minutes, Hollander hit the cool down button. Ilya slowed down, not caring about his workout anymore. He’d won. Ilya put his hands on the back of his head, smiling as Hollander focused on the screen in front of him. Ilya shot him another smug grin.
—
Shane’s heart quickened despite slowing down. Fuck. It wasn’t the fact that Rozanov was obviously pleased with himself for beating Shane, it was the fact that Shane felt unfit. He felt slow. He gripped the handle bars, his breathing quickening. It wasn’t the burning in his lungs or the heartbeat pounding in his ears, it was the shame and disappointment he felt. The fear of how Rozanov saw him. The fear that he wasn’t good enough and the embarrassment that came along with it. He trained and dieted for his whole life just to be beat by some stupid Russian man who smokes. Shane obviously wasn’t eating well enough, working hard enough, eating little enough. He must’ve been weighing himself down somehow. He stood up to leave but immediately collapsed down on the floor, leaning his head up against a weight machine by the mirrored wall. He couldn’t stand. Fuck. His hands were shaking. It wasn’t even the workout anymore. It was the complete and utter panic he felt that was drowning him. He couldn’t move.
Rozanov breathed heavily as he sat across Shane, leaning his back up against the other side of the machine. He smiled, mouth wide open and gasping for air. He was making fun of him. Dick. Rozanov’s shirt clung to him, sweat dripping down his body. He laughed softly, taking a long swig from his water bottle.
“What a fucking day, huh Hollander?”
Shane looked up and glared. “Yeah.” he said, his bitterness evident in the way he said it.
Ilya tilted his head and laughed, “Sorry.”
“No. You’re not.”
Rozanov laughed again before taking another long sip from his water bottle. When he started to make small talk with Shane, all Shane could respond with was “Yeah. Uh huh.”
He could still hardly hear through his anxious thoughts and his panicked breathing. He pushed himself further back into the bar he was leaning against, trying to get as far away from Rozanov as he could. He folded his arms over his stomach, trying to shield himself from the prying eyes of the hot… muscular… sweaty man that was staring right at him. He looked at the ceiling, blinking repeatedly trying to keep tears from flowing down his cheeks. He felt so exposed.
“We will…” Rozanov breathed heavily, “We will be seeing each other a lot, yes? Boston and Montreal…” Rozanov looked like he was struggling to find the words, “Play against each other a lot?”
Shane nodded. Fuck. Rozanov had his knees propped up but his legs… spread. Fuck. Shane caught himself staring in between his legs. The way his shorts rode up slightly, exposing more of the Russian man’s tanned skin, more of his legs. God, those shorts were so tight on him. Shane was staring right at his-
No. Don’t even think about it. He looked back up at Rozanov. He smiled at him again, extending his water bottle towards Shane, shaking it side to side so the water sloshed around. He was teasing him, taunting him. Shane looked at the curve of Rozanov’s lips, the sharp edge of his jawline, the rosiness in his cheeks, and the way his curls clung to his sweaty forehead. He felt his stomach flutter. Fuck. He took the water bottle. The Russian’s hand grazed his own. He was being an asshole. It was nothing. Nothing was happening. It was just Rozanov being Rozanov. Shane took a long sip from the water bottle, his eyes going back to the other man’s face as he chugged the cool liquid. The way he was breathing heavily. Fuck. His eyes went lower towards his neck. The way he could see the smooth, glistening skin so clearly. He couldn’t stop staring.
“More.” Rozanov demanded. Shane bit his lip, looking at the ceiling. He listened, doing exactly as he was told. He let out a sigh and wiped his forehead off with his sleeve and handed the water bottle back, feeling Rozanov’s fingers brush against his as he took it back. He needed to get out of there. Too many feelings. It was confusing him. His mind was fucking with him. Shane quickly stood up, avoiding Rozanov’s piercing blue eyes. It was just the workout. It was just the nerves getting to him, the proximity. It meant nothing. These things he was feeling, they meant absolutely nothing.
—
Ilya stared at Hollander’s ass as he walked out, smiling. He could see each and every muscle on his back through his sweat slicked shirt as he opened and closed the gym door. He was gone. Fuck. The way his white shirt clung to him and the way he could see through the fabric from the way sweat dampened his clothes. He wanted to destroy him. He wanted to make him suffer, to make him angry, to make him lash out. He wanted Shane to yell at him, to grab him by his shirt, to fucking spit on him, to-
…
He needed to get back to his hotel room.
Right as Ilya locked his door, he ripped his shirt off and yanked his shorts down to relieve the pressure he felt. Fuck, he needed this. He almost tripped walking to his bed, still trying to kick his shorts off of his ankles. He threw himself onto the bed, immediately palming himself through his boxers after carelessly kicking his shorts to the floor with a soft thud. Holy shit. This was really doing it for Ilya. All that was on his mind was the sweat soaked Canadian man. The image of him panting for air, cheeks flushed, raven hair tousled and messy with sweat... Ilya’s fingers played with his waistband, teasing himself. He needed those soft hands on him. He needed Hollander’s entire body on top of him, to feel his weight and warmth. Ilya gripped his hair, the sweaty locks laced through his fingers briefly while he tried getting his thoughts straight. His eyes slipped closed and his head leaned back into his plush pillow. His hand fell from his hair and gripped the sheets beneath him while he finally allowed himself to drag his other hand into his boxers. His fingers grazed over himself, each little touch already sending sparks of pleasure up his spine.
“Fuck.” He whispered, forcing his hand back out of his boxers. He grunted out of bed and reached for his shorts he had previously thrown across the room, digging through the pockets and finding his phone before plopping down onto the edge of the mattress. His fingers eagerly tapped against the screen, barely even needing to think about what they were doing.
Shane Hollander
He clicked on the first picture that showed up on his browser. Ilya shifted the grip on his phone so it was in one hand, and with the other he fumbled with his boxers, sliding them down just enough to let his cock out. It was a waist up photo of Shane in a perfectly tailored suit. Black shirt underneath… dark blue blazer… black tie…
Ilya wrapped his hand around himself and let out a quiet whimper.
Shane didn’t have the most expressive smile, but something about it drew Ilya in. The way his soft pink lips curved just slightly… He wanted to feel them. He wanted to feel them on him. Kissing his skin, wrapped around his dick... Ilya shifted in place and settled back against the headboard, pulling his boxers all the way off. He gripped his phone tighter, his other hand finding a rhythm sliding up and down his cock, occasionally swiping his thumb at the bead of precum leaking from his tip. It had barely even been five minutes.
“Mmh… Hollander… such boring Canadian…” Ilya cooed, breathing heavily, “But such pretty face…”
Ilya’s gaze traveled from Shane’s gentle smile to his freckles. He had more freckles on the left side of his face, each one perfectly spaced out. They decorated his cheeks and spread to his forehead and chin.
Ilya licked his bottom lip, “Such weak backhand…” he grunted, offering his dick a small squeeze “But such pretty freckles…”
Then there were Hollander’s eyes. Oh fuck, his eyes. They were dark brown and almond shaped. He wanted to see them in person. He wanted to be the one who made them roll back in pleasure, or in pain. Either one was fine.
“I want to make you beg…”
Before he could even shift his focus to anything else, he felt that familiar rush of pleasure through his body. He jolted, back arching as he stroked himself through each spurt of cum. A few seconds later all he could feel was the satisfied buzz on his skin. He hardly even lasted 8 minutes.
It wasn’t enough. Again.
May 2010
Shane was sitting on his parents couch, scrolling on his phone. He jumped when he heard his mother scream from across the room, jumping up and down and yelling Shane’s name.
“Shane! Shane! Shaaane!” She yelled, running towards him on the couch.
“Mom! Mom! What? What’s so-” he was cut off when his mom shoved her phone in front of his face. He took a minute to read the email out loud to himself. Some company wanted to do a photo shoot with him. With him? He didn't even read who sent the email. All he could focus on was that a company wanted him, of all people, to promote whatever they were selling. He smiled until he saw Ilya Rozanov’s name in there too.
They wanted to do a photo shoot with him and Rozanov.
What the fuck?
“They want me and Rozanov to do a photo shoot together?” He said, looking back up at his mother.
“Yes! Aren’t you excited? This is so good for you. You’ll be getting good media coverage, more brand deals in the future-” his mother went on and on. Shane looked at his hands. Photo shoot. His mother grabbed his shoulders, shaking him out of his trance.
“You can finally stick it to Ilya Rozanov. You’ll look better in the photos. Oh my god, Shane. Shane!” She exclaimed.
“Yeah mom it’s um… it’s great…” Shane said, putting his hand on his mother’s. It wasn’t great. He hated having his picture taken. Almost as much as he hated Ilya Rozanov. Almost.
June 2010
Reebok, the company that Shane was doing the photo shoot for, had Shane bring all of his hockey equipment to a rink they had rented out for the entire day. He was quickly greeted by a tall man who extended a hand towards him. He shook it weakly. His mom put her hands on his shoulders, immediately starting to talk about how happy they were that the company chose Shane. Shane looked at his poorly tied shoes. He was excited, but he dreaded facing the flashes of the camera.
Shane hated getting his picture taken. Not because he had to stand in an awkward position and force a smile until they got the right angle, but because he hated seeing himself. He hated seeing how he looked in photos. He felt like the camera brought out his worst features, his worst insecurities being the only thing he could focus on when he looked at the results on news articles and advertisements. He always looked too wide, too short, too unkempt, too… fat. He always looked too fat. No matter how much he sucked in, how much he covered up, he could still see each and every imperfection, every small crease in his skin where he bent. And if he could see them, the viewers could see it too. This wasn’t just a family photo that he could hide from in the china closet at his parents house. This would be on the TV, his hotel’s TV, his parents TV, Rozanov’s TV, everywhere. It would be all over social media, maybe even on fucking billboards.
Shane was told that the shoot started in an hour and he was free to use any of the locker rooms in Rink A. He walked towards the rink doors, pushing them open and seeing the dark empty sheet of ice he’d be getting his picture taken on. Fuck. He turned into the nearest locker room, glad that this time he wouldn’t have to get borderline naked in a room full of 20-something people. When he opened the door to the locker room, he made direct eye-contact with Ilya Rozanov.
Great.
Of course he just had to choose the only locker room that Rozanov would be in. Shane bit his lip. He couldn’t really turn back around. Not when they were going to be near each other for the next couple hours getting their fucking picture taken. That would make things even more awkward than they already were. Okay. No. It’s fine. He’ll just sit in the complete opposite corner of the room and keep his eyes down. He threw his bag down and took off his hat, feeling hot suddenly. He looked up through his eyelashes. Rozanov was staring directly at him. He didn’t look away. Shane tried to distract himself as he started pulling things out of his bag but he still felt the Russian’s gaze on him the entire time. He looked at the other man’s large hands, pulling his skate laces tight and tying them neatly. He was almost done. Maybe he would leave the locker room before Shane had to start getting undressed.
Nope. He didn’t. Even with his helmet on and his skates tied, Rozanov sat there. Staring him down. He leaned back, head resting on the door of the cubby behind him.
“What?” Shane asked. Maybe if he was rude enough, Rozanov would leave.
“Nothing. Just watching.” He replied. “You are slow.”
“Fuck off.” Shane said, glaring at him as he slowly started to take off his sweater. He really needed to start getting ready.
Every move Shane made, he was aware of how his body looked. When he bent down to untie his shoes, he was aware of how his stomach would fold. He felt insecure. Shane’s hands shook as he untied the string of his sweatpants, hoping that Rozanov would get the hint and look away. No. He got the hint, he just didn’t look away. Shane sighed, anxiously looking down at his feet. He slowly pulled his pants down to his ankles, stepping out of the pant legs and setting them down on the soft floor. Shane started to get dressed as fast as he could. Shin guards, suspenders, socks, elbow pads, he raced through it all despite how slowly he took off his clothes. Right now it had become armor not just for the rink, but for covering his insecurities. He couldn't stand being seen in such little clothing any longer. When he finally tried his laces and grabbed his stick, he rushed out of the locker room.
They started off by doing solo shots of him and Rozanov. They had Shane do a series of poses. Shooting a puck, hand on his hip, holding his stick, all of the basic shit. The part he was anxious about was the photos with him and Rozanov facing off at the center. They were given directions to skate towards each other, lean down and put their sticks on the ice like they were facing off in a game. The photographers had them hold that position while they took way too many fucking pictures. Shane’s back started to hurt from constantly bending down to face Rozanov. Despite the awkward eye contact, the only thing Shane was worried about was his softer jawline showing up in the photos. He was terrified of the photos coming out and seeing the contrast between Rozanov’s sharp jawline and his slight double chin. Shane pushed his tongue up to the roof of his mouth and clenched his jaw as tight as he could for each shot. It had been almost an hour of shooting the exact same shot.
“Okay, a little more intensity, I want you to skate up,” The photographer pointed towards the center, “And put your sticks down at the same time, alright? Thirty more minutes.”
By the fifth time they did that, Rozanov started laughing each time he made eye contact with Shane.
“I’m sorry-” he smiled, trying to control his laughter, “I’m sorry.” He looked over at Shane. Shane couldn’t resist laughing.
“I know we’re exhausted, just a couple more shots alright? We’re almost done.”
The photographer ended the shoot once they had gotten enough photos. Shane was relieved. He hadn’t eaten in two fucking days just to prepare for this. He leaned against the boards and took his helmet off, setting it on the edge of the door.
“You're happy we do commercial together, yes?” Rozanov asked, untying his skates and looking up at Shane.
“Oh yeah, yeah I uh… I was surprised they wanted both of us to be here…” Shane scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Didn’t think they wanted to see us anywhere near each other unless we were playing together since um… y’know...”
Yeah he fucked that one up. Rozanov shrugged.
“Was my idea.” He said bluntly. Shane just stared at him.
“Wh-” Shane stopped himself, he didn’t want to know the reason. “... Oh.”
Shane was glad to be done with the photoshoot. But he had a couple of weeks before the photos were actually released, which gave him enough time to freak out about how he looked. He was able to get undressed without Rozanov staring him down. They had the ice rented out for about another hour and Rozanov decided he would use up the time. Thank god. Shane took his time folding his jersey and organizing his bag. He zipped it up and headed towards the public showers. Shane had about 40 minutes to shower before Rozanov would enter the locker room to undress. It gave him enough time to shower, put on his clothes, and slip out before he had to suffer through another interaction with that Russian freak.
The shower was relaxing. Shane always liked playing at this rink. The showers were clean, the water pressure was perfect, they even sold soap at the counter. Of course Shane brought his own. He had all of his soaps lined up on the shelf next to the shower head. Body scrub, coconut and lavender shampoo, coconut conditioner, all of that shit. He finally felt alone and content. He ran his hands through his hair, enjoying the humidity until he heard the shower next to him turn on.
No. Rozanov had another half an hour to skate. Why was he here? Why wasn’t he on the ice? And at the shower next to him? Fuck. Shane turned away, shielding most of his body from Rozanov. But he was naked, completely exposed. He knew Rozanov was staring at his ass. Shit. He tried to inch away, but he was in the corner, trapped. There was no other shower to move to without walking past Rozanov. His ass was on full display. Which meant his stretch marks were on full display as well. This was worst case scenario, like, worse than Canada-being-fucking-nuked case scenario. He was painfully aware of how much more muscular Rozanov was, how much smaller his waist was, how much more defined his pecs were. Shane felt like he was lesser th-
Oh… Holy shit.
Shane broke the number one rule of public men’s showers. Don’t. Look. Down. He looked down. It was fucking massive. It tapered off from under a happy trail of more curly hair, a few shades darker than he was used to seeing against Rozanov’s skin. Rozanov must’ve been hard from the way it softly pulsed in the steamy atmosphere. Why the fuck was he hard?
Shane caught himself staring at Rozanov as he turned around to rub soap over his ass… He was envious. The more he looked at the other man, the more insecure he felt. Everything about him was better than Shane. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he started to admire him. There was something about the way the tall Russian man caressed himself slowly… completely naked… dripping wet…
He made eye contact with him. Rozanov winked, looking down, and looked back up at Shane. Shane realized he was hard too. Like, really fucking hard. He somehow hadn't even noticed until now. He was too distracted by the way Rozanov was caressing his ass right in front of him.
“Fuck off.” Shane said, turning back around. When he turned his head back to see if he was still staring at him, he froze. Rozanov had his body facing Shane now, legs settled a little too far apart to be considered casual, and his hand on his dick. He never broke eye contact. Stupid pervert. Shane couldn’t keep his eyes off of him now. Apparently also a fucking pervert. Rozanov was overzealous, already stroking himself fast enough to hear the faint sound of skin slapping mixed with the water that hammered against the tile. He wasn’t wasting any time, his cock looking ready to burst at any moment, but he was holding back. Holding back for Shane to join him.
This was getting too weird. He wanted it to continue, but these were public showers, anyone could walk in.
“Not here.”
As soon as he washed off the soap from his body and got the suds out of his hair, he grabbed his things and headed towards the lockers. Fuck. He grabbed a fresh towel from the stack and unfolded it, not caring to wrap it around his waist so he could focus on drying his hair. He needed to get out of there now. He dragged the towel over his body, making sure each part of his was completely dry. Even while rushing, he couldn’t stand the feeling of his clothes sticking to him after a shower now that he’d finally gotten them back on.
No. He needed to address this. He needed to let Rozanov know he was not hard because of him. If he didn’t, it would bother him for the rest of the year. All he would be able to think about when he heard “Boston” was when he got a boner from staring at their star center. No, he needed to address it or else it would destroy him. So he waited. And he waited. He heard footsteps coming his way. He tried to keep his head down, trying to avoid bringing more attention to his awkwardly timed boner. Rozanov acted casual, like nothing even fucking happened.
“Look um… we can forget that happened in there, alright? We don’t have to talk about it, we don't have to… yeah. We can forget it…” Shane stuttered, tying his shoes.
“Hmm…” Rozanov turned towards him, leaning against a locker and crossing his legs, “Is what you want?”
“Yeah.”
Rozanov laughed, backing up and opening the locker he was leaning against.
“You are bad liar…”
Shane tried to ignore him, trying to tie his shoe faster despite the shaking in his hands. Rozanov got closer until he was standing right in front of him. Shane looked up. From where he was sitting, he was face to face with his crotch. He swallowed hard, tilting his chin up to meet the man’s gaze.
“Tell me your room number.”
Shane didn’t speak for a moment. He tried to think of a response. He tried to cough up a “fuck off” or a “that’s gross.”
“1410.”
“So… if I come to 1410 tonight around maybe…” Rozanov leaned his head back and adjusted the towel around his waist, pushing it a little further down, “9 o’ clock…”
Shane tried to stop himself. “I might open.”
Rozanov smiled, “I might knock.”