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The number one thing Shane’s teammates say to him is, “You should’ve been a goalie!”
He usually shrugs the comment off. If he’s feeling light and loose with post-practice endorphins or the thrill of stepping off a bus into cold sunlight, he laughs.
Whenever he’s joined a new team, since he was 12 or 13, he tends to bond with the goalies first. He gets them, and they get him. They don’t ask questions. If the trainers change his electrolyte flavor or pre-workout without asking, Shane has water instead. When he chats with the CCM rep at the draft gala, Shane makes her promise a meeting with the engineering team so that they can keep sending him the exact same stick model with the exact same fabrication for as long as possible.
And in the locker room shower, he always has shower shoes and shorts.
Goalie means weird. Strong proclivities — just preferences, really. But it also means a sixth sense. The goalies are more likely to see what others don’t, what Shane has been alone in seeing his whole life: the anticipation of hockey, its in-betweens, its suspension, its momentum. The invisible music of how bodies move on the ice, the tangible energy where gravity meets grooving rhythm and honed skill.
In his first five minutes alone on a rink with Ilya Rozanov, Shane knows: whatever that sixth sense is, he can feel it, too.
Between setups for their promotional shoot, the two of them skate slow laps. On each stroke, Rozanov rides his edges, cutting into the fresh ice at a deep angle that produces a satisfying hum. Later, when they juggle a few pucks, their sticks settle into the same rhythm, flip flop flip as the rubber seems to hang in the air.
If Rozanov understands this wordless language, maybe he gets its strangeness, too.
When the director calls them over, Shane is electrified, unable to contain his giggles. And across from him, with dimpled cheeks and curls poking from underneath his helmet, Ilya Rozanov is laughing, too.
It’s a good look on him.
“You look pretty,” Rozanov purrs.
Shane smirks, feeling light enough to fly. “You’re wearing makeup too.”
“Yeah, but I don’t look pretty,” Ilya defers.
Shane grins at him despite the forceful okay, let’s get serious! as they set up for their faux face-off.
After the first part of the shoot, the camera crew adjust their tripods and roll out more shipping cases full of gear. Lights perched on c-stands wash the ice in an aimless glow.
Rozanov watches for longer than is strictly comfortable as Shane removes his gloves, then his helmet, shaking out his hair.
“Hey,” he says. Shane looks up. “When did they tell you that you do commercial with me, and not just alone?”
Shane leans on the boards. “I don’t know, like two days ago?” He grabs the water bottle. Unnecessary – he isn’t tired, by any means – but it keeps his fingers busy. “Why, when did they tell you?”
Rozanov massages his nape. He seems nervous, which makes Shane nervous in turn.
“No, they told me nothing.” He pauses for a second, or maybe half, or maybe five. He looks down at Shane’s skates as he admits, “Was my idea.”
Shane’s heart pounds so loudly it echoes through his toes, through his blades, through the ice beneath them.
They’re the only two players here. Alone, together, at Rozanov’s behest. Rozanov called his agent, and probably the MLH Public Relations Office, probably multiple times, to get Shane alone. Maybe to psych him out. Maybe because he heard, or maybe because he wants — no, Shane tells himself, no way, impossible. His face burns.
For a brief, delirious second he stares at Rozanov, who stares right back.
“Shane!” someone calls from the crew’s general direction. Shane goes, relieved by the distraction.
The rest of the shoot passes in a blur. In the quiet, empty rink, the isolated scrapes of his two-foot stops and the rhythmic smacks of puck-on-stick itch Shane’s ears pleasantly. Direction is sparse, instruction flows off his back. He catches Rozanov looking, but tunes it out. He hits his marks. Focus and flow are facile to find.
When it’s Rozanov’s turn, it’s a little too easy to be entranced by his movements, too.
At some point, Shane’s mom wants to talk to him, squirrelling him away to the upper observatory gangway. Shane barely processes what she says about sponsorships, but nods as if he’s listening.
He can’t keep his eyes off of Rozanov. Laid back, showing off, his skill is incredible. His movement is like a dance to a song Shane has never heard before. There’s syncopation on his rushes and bass in his slapshot.
It takes too long for Shane to repeat his mom’s main points back to her. He doesn’t make eye contact when she glances at him, then at Rozanov, then back at him, skeptical and pensive. Then she’s off to take a phone call, and Shane almost trips over his skate guards on his way down to watch the rest of Rozanov’s session.
Rozanov returns to the bench and squirts water into his mouth. Shane joins him there. Shane thanks the crew. Rozanov does too.
“Showers are all yours,” the assistant director announces. “Whole rink’s booked out for another hour, so take your time. Thanks for sticking to the schedule.”
Then, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov are the only two people in the locker room.
Shane peels out of his socks, his jersey, his chest pads, his long-sleeved base layer. Hockey pants loose around his waist, he stares vacantly at the tile wall.
Oh, shit. He forgot his shower bag in the car. Panic rises in his throat. Time slows down.
Next to him, in only a jockstrap with his gear already scattered around his feet, Rozanov seems nonplussed.
“You will shower?” he asks, like Shane is stupid. He‘s smiling. Asshole.
The world might as well be closing in.
The thing Rozanov has no way of knowing is this: Shane’s mother has only yelled at him, really actually yelled at him, once.
It was a Wednesday. Shane drove to the pharmacy after his four-week post-op, and pored over the OTC section for an hour, reading every package. Dissatisfied, he went home and opened Amazon on the family computer instead. His dad was at work, and his mom was at class for her MBA. He ordered five different scar creams in various formulations – he’d need to test them rigorously before and during summer ice-time and overnight to see if they were greasy, or stained anything – and two types of scar tape, enough of each to last for the 12-week recommended cycle.
Crucially, with his mind clouded by anxiety over the impending one-year-to-go draft rankings, Shane did not check the prices before he checked out.
Yuna was furious.
“I had to leave class – during my final semester – because the credit card company called me and said someone was trying to spend three hundred dollars on Amazon,” she roared. His father leaned against the kitchen doorway, eyes on the floor. “Shane, I don’t understand. You’re 16. We buy everything for you. We pay for your training, for your doctor’s appointments. Your dad and I have taught you how to manage money. And you go behind my back–”
“Mom!” he shouted, voice breaking. Great, even more humiliating. “It was for scar stuff. The pharmacy didn’t have what I needed, and I didn’t want the order to be associated with my name – look, I’m sorry, I should’ve waited until you–”
And Yuna stopped in her tracks. She blinked a few times. Her and Dad exchanged a few secret-code glances. “Oh,” she said. “I see.”
“I’m sorry,” Shane repeated. All of them were on edge. Shane was too scared to say I’m scared. Shane was very good at hockey, and Shane was about to be very famous for it, and if just one thing went wrong before then, he wouldn’t be able to pay back his parents for all of the training it took to get him there. His mom had moved hell to get him blockers, had scheduled every weekly appointment with the PA who administered his hormones until he was 16. If someone clocked the scars around his nipples, if they didn’t fade to invisibility through Shane’s fastidious care, things would go wrong. On days like these, it was hard to feel like Shane. He felt like a pathetic and suffocating set of restrictions and medical procedures and schedules. “You can take out whatever is too expensive from the cart and order it yourself.”
“Let’s do it later,” his dad suggested. “Why don’t you take a few minutes while I talk to your mom, and then we can talk about how your post-op went?”
Rozanov’s eyes miss the two millimeters of raised skin at the four o’clock mark of Shane’s left nipple. Instead, he lingers on Shane’s collarbones. Plenty of players have looked at Shane for too long, double-checking something they can’t name. This feels different. Less like a test, more like… appreciation.
“Sorry,” Shane says, and wonders if he’ll ever get to hear Rozanov say it. Would he have a Canadian inflection too? “I forgot my shower shoes.”
“I am not some kind of pervert foot freak.” Rozanov laughs. “I do not care.”
“Sounds like something a pervert foot freak would say,” Shane fires back.
Rozanov purses his lips, but Shane can see him start to smile as he turns around to chuck his gear in the laundry bin.
Luckily, the facility has responsive plumbing. Pleasantly hot water flows at a steady pressure within a few seconds. Shane strips efficiently out of his gear pants and tights, trying not to cringe at the clammy tile beneath his bare feet. Chest towards the wall, he faces the showerhead, sighing as the spray flattens his hair.
To his left, two shower heads down, Rozanov turns on the water.
Steam fills the space between their bodies, warming the floors and walls. Shane rinses his hair efficiently, sizing up Rozanov from under his own bicep. Mouth open, water running down his throat, Rozanov seems relaxed.
It’s not like Shane is oblivious. Rozanov is handsome, but were his eyelashes always that long?
Something warm and liquid and definitely not shower water flows through Shane’s lower belly.
You’re going to get caught, his brain whispers, and he’s about to look away for good, really, but what’s one more glimpse? Shane’s free hand wanders, cupping over his groin, covering what he isn’t packing. Feeling reckless, he pushes towards his pubic bone, suppressing his own gasp. What’s a little more color for the fantasy he’ll conjure later?
On the next glance, suddenly, Rozanov isn’t lost in his own world. He’s looking back at Shane.
“Fuck,” Shane whispers.
Rozanov stares at him intently, mirroring the placement of Shane’s hand on his own body. Then he raises an eyebrow, turns to face Shane, and drops his hand.
His pink, soft cock starts to fill out.
Shane has seen his fair share of unfortunate boners and a plethora of porn. But the real-time intimacy of seeing someone get aroused chokes his lungs as much as the dense shower mist. Rozanov gets hard fast, swelling bigger and bigger until his erection points proudly at Shane.
Instead of doing anything with it, he keeps washing his body — first his back, then his legs, then his arms. It seems so easy for him to show off, and with good reason. Flexed triceps form channels for water to sluice through. Acres of skin and muscle ripple as he moves. Rozanov’s ass, thick and round with coiled power. Rozanov’s neck, which Shane mentally rips into with his teeth, its elegant tendons accentuated by how Rozanov’s wet hair is plastered away from his face.
Shane wraps his free hand around his own shoulder, framing his delt, one of his favorite well-earned muscles. Maintaining eye contact with Rozanov almost burns, but he does it anyway, trailing his fingers across his collarbone and tweaking one of his nipples between his thumb and forefinger.
Rozanov gives him a dirty grin. Shane’s stomach drops fifty floors. Dreamlike, as the water cascades down his chiseled torso, Rozanov’s hands follow the same path. One stops on his lower stomach. One wraps around his cock and tugs in long, lazy strokes.
“Fuck off,” Shane grumbles half-heartedly. They need plausible deniability. Anyone could walk in. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.
When he gathers the courage to meet Rozanov’s eyes again, Rozanov looks like he wants to hunt him down.
“Not here,” Shane says, clipped. Rozanov nods. When Shane is certain Rozanov’s attention is elsewhere, he slips his middle finger over his folds and finds his cock hard, jutting out past them.
If Shane let him, if he turned around, Rozanov would see. Not here, he repeats internally, pushing the swirl of desperate arousal and exhilarating fear aside as he aggressively scrubs himself down.
Rozanov knocks on Shane’s door at 9:02pm, almost exactly on time. He looks good, a dual-tone denim jacket slung across his broad shoulders and a black tank top straining across his chest. The gold cross necklace that has haunted Shane’s dreams since the night after the draft winks at him from between Rozanov’s collarbones.
The entryway is his, now. Shane steps back, ceding. Rozanov closes the door behind himself with a soft click.
They stare at each other. Rozanov’s eyes trace Shane’s mouth, then draw an obvious line down his body and back up. Electricity thrums under Shane’s skin in waves and tingles like a TENS unit cranked all the way up.
Fuck, he just put this t-shirt. No way he could sweat enough to leave pit stains on the solid gray in just a few minutes. Get it together, dude. You might as well be panting like a dog.
“So,” Rozanov says as their eyes meet. Shane has only heard this low and goading tone in his coyest press quips. Then his voice drops somewhere new and lower. “You still want?”
Unbelievable. “I’m not a chicken.” Shane scoffs, bristling. He stares back. Tilting his head ever so slightly, he catalogues Rozanov’s thick neck, his curvy chest, his solid hips, the bulge in his jeans —
“Fuck,” Shane croaks. Suddenly, he’s not feeling so brave.
Rozanov swaps their positions, crossing behind Shane, further into the room. He circles Shane like a tiger, or maybe, Shane thinks hysterically as he turns toward Rozanov, like one of those 3D scanners from Star Trek.
Rozanov walks towards him, so Shane walks back until his back hits the wall. Rozanov presses him into it, his hands on Shane’s hips. His presence is sure and strong, his Cupid’s bow obscene as he licks his lips. Shane wonders if Rozanov would wrestle him. If he would be strong enough to beat Rozanov at something through sheer force of will.
“This is such a bad idea,” Shane murmurs, mostly to himself.
They both know he’s not going to stop it from happening.
Rozanov grabs his chin, then loosely at his neck, breathing hot on Shane’s throat.
“What is?”
And then he kisses Shane.
More accurately, Shane is being kissed. It’s not his first kiss, but it feels like one. It’s possible that he’s been kissing wrong, or missing something. Several somethings: a strong hand cradling the back of his head, their hips pressed urgently together, both of them gasping for air in low registers.
Rozanov pulls away, hands skimming Shane’s shoulders and upper arms. “Off,” he mumbles, fingers under the hem of Shane’s t-shirt. He traces Shane’s obliques, the vee of his hips. Shane shivers.
This is as far as he’s gone with anyone else. It’s never been safe. Is it safe now?
There’s never been time, but tonight, he has nowhere to be.
He’s never been brave, but this time, they’ve both got a lot to lose.
Fuck, fuck, fuck waiting. Fuck winning, just for this hour. Fuck the rivalry, fuck worrying about seeing him again. Ilya Rozanov is hot, so what? Shane is an 18-year-old newly minted adult, and Shane is turned on, and Shane wants him.
Nerves fizzling in his stomach, Shane lets Rozanov strip off his shirt. Feeling frantic, he fumbles for Rozanov’s belt, brushes his cock, dives in for another kiss.
When they come up for air, Rozanov strips off his own shirt smoothly.
Then he plunges two fingers past Shane’s lips, shoving towards the back of his mouth. Shane moans, tonguing and sucking them. The desperation in Rozanov’s gaze is too intense to process.
Shane closes his eyes. Shane sinks to his knees. Shane tugs down Ilya Rozanov’s pants, and finds his cock somehow harder than it was in the showers, closer to purple than red or pink. Has he been thinking about this? Has he waited to touch himself, waited to see if Shane would touch him?
Shane sucks the head of Rozanov’s cock into his mouth, delicate skin velvety-hot on Shane’s tongue. He can feel both of their pulses in his jaw. Testing his own limits, he bobs his head shallowly a few times, but it doesn’t feel like much. Try something else. Pulling back, he wraps a hand around Rozanov’s shaft, working it gently while he maps the shape of his crown. He hollows his cheeks, draws circles with his tongue. Rozanov tastes musky, precum salty on Shane’s tongue. Shane feels brand new. Shane might be able to do this forever, actually.
“Wait, wait,” Rozanov gasps.
“Bad?” Shane asks, stomach sinking. If his shirt was still on, maybe he could camouflage into the floor.
Rozanov laughs. “No,” he murmurs. “Too good.” He drags Shane up, back to standing. “Maybe the first guy who sucked me off just did really bad job.”
Shane swallows, licking the inside of his lip. “You’ve been with a guy before?”
“Just one,” Ilya says, studying Shane’s face. “Coach’s son, in Russia. We were teenagers. You?”
Shane shakes his head. “Never.”
“Well,” Rozanov drawls, so close to his ear, “then I have big performance to give.”
His hands go for Shane’s ass, greedy palms kneading his crease.
Somehow, like a fucking idiot, Shane forgot about this part. His stomach sinks like an anchor into an unforgiving shore.
He snatches Rozanov’s fingers, bringing them forward, and watches them turn pale under his wringing grasp. It’s not that it didn’t feel good. It’s that Rozanov doesn’t know.
“I need to tell you something,” Shane announces sternly.
Rozanov cocks a brow.
“I’m not— like you.”
“How? You are not Russian?”
“No! Jesus, Rozanov, I—“
“What?”
“I don’t really—“ And how will this translate? Straightforward. Crudest is best. “Have a dick.”
Rozanov frowns. “You are man, yes?” Shane nods. “So?”
Frustration and shame wash through Shane, pulling tears to his eyes.
“Shit,” he huffs, ready to turn away. “Forget it. Let me—“
Rozanov stops him, hands secure on Shane’s hips.
“Seriously,” he urges. His mouth hovers by the shell of Shane’s ear, lips ghosting beneath his lobe. Goosebumps rise across Shane’s skin, breath high in his chest. “I don’t care. I want to see you.”
Twice he tugs at Shane’s waistband. Hesitantly, Shane gives him room to work, and is rewarded with curious fingers between his skin and his boxer briefs.
They’ve made it this far, and as much as Shane hates to credit him, being wanted by someone this talented, a true equal, feels heady and validating.
“Okay. Go ahead. You can, uh–” Shane says, and Rozanov sinks to his knees, a mirror image of Shane from moments earlier.
Cool air brushes his ass as his pants and underwear come down. Rozanov’s warm breath fans across Shane’s exposed cunt, his hard cock peeking out from his bush.
Horrible silence hangs around them. One second, then two. Shane squirms, ready to call the whole thing off. But when he finally looks down, Rozanov is transfixed.
“Fuck, Hollander….”
He glances up, beseeching. Shane winds his fingers into Rozanov’s curls and nods. Two of Rozanov’s careful, dextrous fingers pump Shane’s cock to full hardness, gathering slick from his seam and spreading it.
Then Rozanov stands up so fast that Shane almost falls over and smashes their noses together in an enthusiastic kiss.
“Hollander, you have cock and pussy.”
Shane might explode. “Uhhh-huh.”
“This is amazing,” Rozanov exclaims, genuine. His green eyes sparkle in the low light. “My two favorite things. Let me eat your pussy.”
“Um,” Shane flounders, world tilting sideways like a highway ramp taken too fast. “I never— I mean, inside of me, I don’t—“
Rozanov’s eyes widen. His hand starts to withdraw, leaving a wet trail through Shane’s bush.
In a flash of clarity, Shane redirects him to cup his clothed groin instead. He pushes his pubic bone forward. Rozanov pushes back, exhaling sharply.
“Sorry,” he says, apologetic. The word sounds different than the kind of sorry Shane usually hears. So much about Ilya is so hard to catalog. “Let me try again?”
Shane nods, and gently squeezes Rozanov’s cock through his pants.
Rozanov winds an arm around Shane’s waist. He rubs Shane’s bicep, then his delt. He grinds the heel of his other palm against Shane’s swollen cock, fingers cupping his molten cunt. “How about after you finish sucking my cock, I suck yours, too?”
“Yeah,” Shane says, and smashes their mouths together to end the conversation, walking Rozanov backwards to the bed.
Rozanov hits the mattress, shedding his shoes and pants and socks and underwear in a flurry of fabric. Then he reclines, fully nude.
Shane folds his clothes as he takes them off, because he always does. One thing at a time. Pants first, then underwear, then his socks, in a neat ball. This has a cool bonus effect: it makes Rozanov impatient, gnawing on his own lip. It’s real, it’s happening. They’re going to fuck.
“Come here,” Rozanov beckons. Shane does.
Giving his best impression of a Shakira music video, Shane crawls onto the bed with his back arched. Then he slams down next to Rozanov with enough force to jostle both of them. Shane can’t resist the urge to get one over on him.
Rozanov startles with a little ah! sound. Shane sticks his tongue out at Rozanov’s peeved glare, but he does settle down, shimmying slightly so that they’re laying hip to hip. Then they lapse into silence, staring at the ceiling.
“So,” Rozanov starts, nudging Shane with his chin. “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know,” Shane admits.
Rozanov rolls onto his side. He takes in the sight of Shane’s cock, then lays a hand on Shane’s thigh, fingertips brushing the nest of curls around his cunt. Shane’s breath hitches. Watching his face, Rozanov starts touching him.
“Is this ok?” he asks.
“Fuck,” Shane groans, and spreads his legs, presses their foreheads together.
Rozanov alternates touching Shane and himself, finding parallel: batting at the underside of Shane’s cock, then pressing the head of his own towards his own stomach; jerking Shane off, then himself; tracing their tips and circling their shafts. Shane is dripping. His hole must be as wet as his mouth.
Oh, right – that’s what Shane was supposed to be doing.
He pushes Rozanov flat on his back and pins him down with an arm across the chest, dedicating himself to the blowjob with renewed intensity.
“Yeah,” Rozanov breathes, “da, yes, yeah.”
If Shane places his fingers right, he can take Rozanov’s cock without going too deep and gagging. Rozanov seems to like it when Shane wraps his pinky finger tightly around the base of his shaft at the bottom of a stroke, and when Shane hollows his cheeks and looks up, Rozanov is panting through his mouth.
Just a little more, Shane thinks. He breathes through his nose. Spit drips past his lips. For show, he presses Rozanov’s cock into one palm, and licks up the length of him. Shane sinks back down with a smirk, hands roving indulgently, feeling every tremor as Rozanov’s abs spasm.
“Fuck, Hollander,” he gasps, pulling Shane off of his cock by the hair. Shane swallows, empty and open-mouthed, and watches from a claustrophobic distance as Rozanov’s face scrunches and distorts as he works himself over brutally fast, then tenses and opens. A pained groan, and his cock starts to pulse, spilling into his own palm.
Rozanov kisses Shane, his deep, pleased noises still vibrating in his chest. Shane’s eyes flutter shut. Between each kiss, Rozanov exhales a little more. Something in Shane’s chest feels small and tender. His hairline is tacky with sweat, and his cunt throbs.
“Not bad for first time,” Rozanov finally manages to say.
“What the fuck,” Shane responds. Rozanov shifts like he’s going to leave, but he’s just reaching for a tissue from the nightstand. He wipes off his palm, tosses the balled-up tissues on the floor, then sits up. Shane balks. “That’s it?”
Rozanov considers, frown exaggerated, head bopping side to side. “Mmmm.” Then he swings an arm under Shane, pulling him down the bed and knocking the breath out of him.
“Let me show you how to do this,” Rozanov murmurs, propped up on his forearms, hovering over Shane, darting down to kiss his belly. Then he’s between Shane’s thighs, a hand behind one of Shane’s knees to bend his leg up. Shane plants that foot on the bed, defiant, and Rozanov seems to get it, moves his grip from behind Shane’s knee to the curve of his outer thighs, hands big and warm and appreciative.
He kisses Shane’s inner thigh, which tickles, and then higher up, tousling the sparse hair closer to Shane’s groin. Shane can feel Rozanov’s breath, his mouth millimeters away from his straining cock. Can feel it like the heat death of the universe. Someone whines. Oh, that’s him. And then he can feel Rozanov smile, lips brushing the crease between labia and hip socket.
“You smell good,” Rozanov says, low and devastatingly approving. He noses at Shane’s cock, which twitches under the pressure. “Mmm, so hard for me.”
“Fucking - do it,” Shane pants, a pressure behind his eyes, need bursting out of him. “Rozanov.”
“Suck your dick?” he asks, kissing Shane’s tip ever so lightly. With every repetition of the word, Shane grows hotter, closer to the bonfire.
“Yes!” Shane forgets to worry about the volume of his voice. Shane forgets everything. His hips twitch up, and Rozanov’s hands catch them, curling under him, over his ass. “Please,” Shane adds, and he can barely breathe, and then Rozanov wraps his lips around him.
All at once, Shane understands why people write songs about fucking. Horny, desperate, driving drums and tense strings, yeah. His thighs clamp around Rozanov’s ears, fingers scrabbling for purchase in his curls. Rozanov groans against him, nose slipping against Shane’s pubic bone as he sucks harder, and Shane cries out, feet kicking desperately against the sheets. It’s like Rozanov’s jaw was made for the width of Shane’s hips, with their layers and layers of dense, capable muscle.
Finally, his body has a different kind of power.
“Fuck,” Shane hisses. “Oh my god, that feels– Rozanov—“
Bobbing his head in a steady rhythm, Rozanov looks up through his lashes. He drags the flat of his tongue through where Shane’s cunt is wettest, shifts his weight on the bed like he’s trying to maximize his leverage, and switches up the pace.
“I’m gonna—“ Shane feels exposed, held, resonant, unreal. Mmmmhm, Rozanov hums again, and digs his fingers into Shane’s ass, hard.
Shane comes, for the first time, under someone else’s control.
The orgasm thrashes through him, wrings him out like a towel and then snaps it against his ass, merciless. Then it mellows, but Rozanov doesn’t stop, so he grinds into it, fucking Rozanov’s face. He’s moaning, shaking, curling in on himself, but Rozanov pins him down harder and takes Shane in and keeps him there, tongue laving back and forth on the underside of his cock.
“Holy fuck.” He’s about to come again. “Oh, oh god.”
Ugly, desperate noises pour into high, oversensitive whimpers. His vision goes white. His blood rushes in his ears. Rozanov’s throat works as he swallows, choking a little. Mortification surges through Shane. It only drags out the high for longer.
Eventually, he pushes Rozanov off. Eyes blown wide and blurry, his mouth is obscenely shiny, like fresh ice under arena floodlights. “Fuck,“ he croaks, followed by something in Russian.
Before he can process what he’s doing, Shane drags Rozanov up his body and kisses the tangy, earthy taste of himself out of Rozanov’s swollen mouth.
Rozanov smacks Shane’s stomach and flops onto his back, licking his lips. Shane gasps for breath, as well as words. “I didn’t think–“
“That you would come so quick? Or come twice?”
Shane smacks him back, brimming with fondness. Shut up, he doesn’t say. His body feels tingly and effervescent. He can be nice. “You didn’t have to.”
Rozanov shrugs. “I liked it.”
Hysterical laughter overtakes Shane, and then it’s got Ilya, too. Is this what being a teenager is supposed to feel like? A bad decision that turned out just right. A cascade, a rush, a flying feeling from somewhere deep in the back of his skull. Hoping, for a moment, that it lasts forever–
Rozanov sighs. “God, I want a cigarette.”
So, it definitely won’t.
Like an electrical grid resuscitated after a blackout, all of Shane’s neurons blast online. Oh, fuck. The tabloids. Their contracts. His teammates. Rozanov’s teammates. He has to see this guy — this irritatingly sexy guy who he just lost his virginity to — in like two weeks, and act normal about it.
“You’re not gonna tell anyone about this, right? Cause no one can know.”
Whatever Rozanov says resembles no, shit in Russian, or at least the sentiment of it does. “Hollander, look. I’m not going to tell anyone.”
His last name sounds good in Rozanov’s mouth. His cock felt great in Rozanov’s mouth. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
Shane has no choice but to believe him.
Rozanov sits up in Shane’s hotel bed, leaving his imprint on the sheets. “I have early flight tomorrow, so–“
“I do too,” Shane interjects. He pulls his knees up towards his torso. The wet hair on the backs of his thighs catches the breeze as the aircon whirs to life. Years ago, he used to hate that sensation. Now he finds it affirming.
Rozanov stands and stretches. He yawns, and so Shane yawns too. He picks up his clothes and starts to get dressed. Shane watches, distantly wondering if he should help locate Rozanov’s shirt, but his mind is moving too fast to decide on a course of action. He stays put.
They steal glances at each other as Rozanov slowly becomes the version of himself that the rest of the world knows. Stepping into his pants, he seems more spacious, his limbs relaxed. Shane did that. Shane kind of really wants to do it again.
Rozanov looks at him. “Good night, Hollander.”
“Night.”
A soft, lingering glance, and then he’s gone.