Chapter Text
Shane found himself standing outside a steam room.
A steam room... He’d never been in a steam room in his life.
He’d have to admit, it was beautiful.
It was tucked away in a quiet alcove of the wellness resort, almost hidden from the main paths.
It felt a little like stepping into a natural grotto. Warm stone walls held the heat, and mist showers surrounded the steam room, releasing soft clouds of vapor that drifted slowly through the air. Between the rising steam you could look up and catch glimpses of the open sky above. Everything smelled faintly of minerals and damp stone.
Behind him the tall panoramic sauna rose with its wide glass front, looking out over the lake, but here in the alcove the sounds were softer — just water dripping, steam hissing, and the low murmur of people around him.
It was beautifully made, with small black stones inlaid into the walls, which made it feel even more like it was all just part of nature.
It was designed to feel relaxing, which was exactly what he was supposed to be doing.
But unfortunately, he wasn’t relaxed. Not even close.
It was too crowded for his liking. He could almost feel the impatience of the people around him, eager to enter the steam room and get a good spot.
Why was he so sensitive to these things? He rolled the building tension out of his shoulders. Whose idea was this anyway? Why was he even doing this?
He reminded himself that this was necessary, that it was needed. But in the moment, with the presence of the crowd, he wasn’t sure this was helping him in any way.
But he would try; he owed himself that. So, he stayed and waited for the session to start.
Shane was a 24-year-old professional hockey player, and even he, self-critical as he was, could admit that he was good at hockey. Great, even. It was one of the only things that could quiet his overwhelming thoughts, the anxiety of the expectations everyone had of him, the expectations he had of himself to always be the best he could possibly be.
Lately, though, it was getting harder and harder to quiet his mind—so much so that even playing hockey felt like a heavy weight. And his body was tired, so tired and bruised and heavy. He started making stupid mistakes on the ice, and he started to dissociate more and more. His teammates noticed. His coaches noticed, which only made the pressure even higher.
Hayden had looked worried after the last game, where Shane was body-checked hard by one of the Boston Bears players, and it took him longer than normal to get up from the ice.
Because he was hurt, sure... but also... because he didn’t want to get up anymore.
“You need a break, man,” Hayden had said. “I don’t like where this is going.”
The next day, he sent Shane a link to one of Jackie’s favorite spa retreat centers.
“Jackie has been raving about this place for years. It’s super private, and all visitors have to sign an NDA, so there’s nothing for you to worry about. I booked you a whole weekend since we’re out of the playoffs anyway, and everything’s paid for.”
“I know you don’t like being pressured into anything,” he sounded apologetic, “but I really feel like it would be good for you to relax for a bit.”
He ended the text with all the details of the weekend, which included the most expensive wellness package they offered, with various massages and wellness experiences and even something called a “sound bath”—whatever that was.
“Look,” Hayden had said, “if you really don’t want to go, no hard feelings, okay? But just... think about it, please.”
Shane’s first instinct was to decline. He wanted to work on his game, to try harder, to be better. He hated this failing feeling of his mind and body. But even he could acknowledge that what his body and mind probably needed was more rest.
So, he said, “Fuck it,” packed a bag, and went on the ridiculous wellness retreat that was supposed to fix him.
And now here he was, standing outside the steam room with 20-something other people waiting to go in for something called a “honey herb scrub experience.”
Finally, the doors to the steam room opened, and a bald, tall guy covered in tattoos walked out. He was only wearing a hammam towel and flip-flops, carrying a large tray of three ice balls. Shane walked in first. It was already warm and damp in the steam room. The man instructed them to sit down on one of the dozen little two-seater benches that covered the walls of the round room. The benches were separated by large lit-up amethyst crystal caves. There was soft yellow lighting in the otherwise dark room, and a large bowl in the middle with hot lava stones in it.
“Couples together,” the man said. “Singles can pair up.”
Shane picked one of the benches closest to the door, just in case he didn’t like it and needed an escape. He prayed to whoever was listening that he wouldn’t get paired up with some random stranger and could at least try to enjoy this whole thing.
The rest of the people poured in and picked a place to sit, and Shane let out a small sigh. He felt some of the tension leave his body when the last of the participants walked into the room and found a seat. No one was near him, and he could breathe a little easier. He closed his eyes for a second and just enjoyed the warmth on his skin.
“Room for one more?” a heavily accented, low voice asked. Shane’s eyes refused to open. He would recognize that Russian-accented voice anywhere.
But there was no way, was there?
He opened his eyes and looked at the back of a tall, muscular man wearing only a black hammam towel around his waist.
Shane’s gaze shifted up and saw the man’s brown curly hair. His gaze slid down over his shoulders and back, which had a few rough-looking scars on it. His skin had a few moles splattered all over his body. Down his gaze went over the most incredible ass he had ever seen. It was so round it was almost diabolical, and those thick thighs...
Shane’s breath hitched.
This couldn’t be happening... please, please let this be some kind of doppelganger of the person he thought he was seeing.
Right in that moment, the instructor kindly told the man to sit down. He gestured to the only empty space left.
The space... next to Shane.
The man slowly turned around, and it felt like the whole world stopped for a moment. Shane started sweating more than he already was.
Was it suddenly stifling hot in here, or was his mind playing tricks on him?
The man turned fully now.
Shane met his hazel eyes.
There he was.
Ilya fucking Rozanov. Captain of the Boston Bears.
His rival.
Here, in a fucking steam room at a spa.
What. Were. The. Fucking. Odds.
The steam room in question:
