Chapter Text
Shane Hollander was grumpy as fuck, exhausted, and needed to do a long, soothing yoga session. Badly. Unfortunately if he did that now, he’d end up asleep in the middle of his flow. Then he’d probably fall over and injure himself and how was he supposed to explain that to the trainers?
He’d taken a particularly brutal check into the boards near the end of the second tonight, and probably had a hell of a bruise on his knee. It had dropped him to the ice at the time, but despite the throbbing, he’d been able to get up and finish his shift. His line didn’t play again before intermission, and he’d iced it, then got a compression bandage on before the third.
It still fucking hurt, but he’d managed a goal and an assist before the final horn, so he couldn’t be too upset. The hit had come from Vincent Lamaire, who still hated him for beating him out as Rookie of the Year–fucking get over it, that was years ago–so that goal had felt particularly good. He’d managed to get around Lamaire to catch a pass from Hayden, then scored right as Lamaire crashed into him yet again. But Shane had been too excited that time to care.
He tried not to limp as he made his way into his condo. He pulled everything that needed to be washed out of his bag, stowed the bag in the closet, and dropped the dirty things in the washing machine on his way to the kitchen. He got out his post-game protein shake from the refrigerator and an ice pack from the freezer.
He drank the shake quickly, without really tasting it, then rinsed the bottle and put it in the dishwasher. With a can of ginger ale and the ice pack under one arm, he downed a few ibuprofen, snagged his mail off the island, and headed for his couch. He flopped down on the cushions and sank back into them with a groan. He was only twenty-five, but sometimes after particularly physical games like tonight, he felt eight-five.
He switched on the TV and pulled up highlights from tonight’s games as he propped his foot on the coffee table and settled the ice pack on his knee.
And of course, the TV just happened to be showing highlights from Boston’s game in Vancouver tonight. Rozanov had been on a tear lately, every hit he doled out a little more brutal than usual. He was spending more minutes in the sin bin than he typically did, and he already spent more time there than the average player. But he certainly made up for it by scoring a ridiculous number of goals. He’d pulled farther ahead of Shane than he wanted to admit.
But Rozanov couldn’t keep this up all season, so he had time to catch up.
Still, he didn’t look forward to the Raiders coming to town at the end of next week. Last month, when the Metros were in Boston, it had felt like Rozanov was targeting him. All the playfulness between them was gone. Not that Shane had expected the flirting and innuendo that previously made up the bulk of Rozanov’s chirps in his direction. Not after what had happened between them the day before. But he hadn’t realized it would be so… impersonal.
Hadn’t realized he’d miss it so much.
Whatever, it didn’t matter. They were both elite players, and they could continue to push each other on the ice, even if their off-ice association was done.
That part of Shane’s life was over. It had to be. It had been nothing more than youthful experimentation. And he could admit he’d liked the thrill of the forbidden. That’s all it was.
And if sometimes as he lay alone in bed at night, unable to sleep, he felt the ghost of Rozanov’s touch on his skin, the memory of his taste, well, that would eventually fade. If the way Rozanov had gasped Fuck, Shane as he came the last time they were together still echoed in his head, it was only because it had only been a few months. That, too, would eventually drift out of his memory.
Besides, Shane had a girlfriend now. Rose was amazing. He loved talking to her, and she made him laugh. She was undeniably beautiful. Kissing her was nice, better than kissing any other woman he’d been with. Sure, he didn’t get that same rush, the elation he felt with Rozanov. That would take time. The only reason it had developed so quickly with Ilya–no, fuck, not Ilya, he was Rozanov–was that rush of danger. The fear of getting caught. Which obviously wasn’t an element of his relationship with Rose.
More importantly, he could be seen with Rose in public. He could hold her hand in a restaurant. Hell, he could go to a restaurant with her in the first place and not be terrified his career would fall apart as a result.
And really, they’d only had sex the one time so far. First times were always awkward, so it was no wonder the chemistry between them wasn’t explosive yet. Sure, he hadn’t been able to maintain his erection so hadn’t come, but that was nerves. She was Rose fucking Landry.
He’d still made sure she, at least, had an orgasm. He didn’t love the way a woman’s pussy tasted, but Rose had seemed to enjoy it. He could put up with it for her. Eventually he’d stop being so self conscious–surely she’d been with some incredible men, she was a bonafide star, it was only natural he had performance anxiety–and it would be good.
And then he would forget completely what it was like to be with anyone else. The deep ache in his chest when those memories popped up would go away. He wouldn’t want to throw up at the mere idea of a tuna melt.
In his pocket, his phone chimed with an incoming text.
Rose: Hey, great game. I watched the highlights on a break. Lamaire’s an asshole. Sorry it’s such a late night for both of us.
Shane: He’s not my favorite, but he was just doing his job.
Rose: You’re too nice. How about dinner Wednesday, before you leave for your road trip? Gordon promised it’ll be an early one.
Shane: Sounds good. You pick where we go.
Rose: Perfect. I miss you.
Shane: Miss you too.
Rose: 💋
Shane: 😘
He dropped his phone on the couch next to him. Adjusting the ice pack on his knee, he turned his attention to the TV. Of course the two sportscasters were discussing Rozanov.
“What do you think has gotten into him lately? This has been over the top, even for Rozanov,” the bald Black man said.
“I don’t know, Jake. Girlfriend troubles?” the white man with graying brown hair replied, humor lacing his tone.
Jake laughed. “Good one, Keith. We all know Ilya Rozanov doesn’t do girlfriends. From what I hear, he’s rarely with the same woman twice.”
Shane ignored the flash of annoyance in his gut. He knew of at least two people Rozanov had been with multiple times. Someday, when he was ready to settle down, Rozanov would probably even marry that Russian woman. The goalie’s daughter he knew from back home.
He’d certainly made it clear to Shane that he had options. That Shane wasn’t anything special.
Not that Shane wanted to be special. Rozanov wasn’t special to him either. Just someone to fuck. Sure, it was incredible sex, but it was still just sex. Shane could certainly live without it.
Not that he had to; he had Rose.
He dropped his head to the back of the couch and scrubbed a hand over his face, groaning. His head was so messed up. It was ridiculous. Everything had felt off since that day in Boston. Which made no sense. He and Rozanov were nothing. So why did it hurt so much now that they were less than nothing?
And why couldn’t he stop imagining what might’ve happened if he hadn’t left that day? If he’d stayed the night like Rozanov asked. Would he have opened up to Shane about his phone call from his father? It was clear from his tone of voice that things back home were not good, even if Shane didn’t understand the actual words.
Fuck. It didn’t matter anyway. Shane left, they were done, and he was with Rose. He could never have a future with Ilya Rozanov. But he could picture himself falling in love with Rose Landry, building a life with her. The hockey star and the movie star. It was the stuff of the rom coms his mom made his dad watch. Hell, it was the stuff of a rom com Rose might star in.
That idea made him smile for the first time in several hours.
On his TV, Jake and Keith continued discussing news from around the league. Shane half paid attention. But when they once again turned the focus back to Rozanov–this time how he was so far ahead in both goals and points, Shane a distant second in both categories–he grabbed the remote and changed the channel. He put on the CBC, then turned his attention to the stack of mail he’d brought in with him.
It was the usual, mostly junk, solicitations for donations, banking offers, a menu for a new Thai restaurant that opened in the neighborhood. The latest Sports Illustrated and another magazine beneath it. On the cover of SI was some American football player named Ben. Shane paid no attention to American football. Unless the Blue Jays were in the playoffs, he ignored all sports outside hockey. And even then, he was usually too busy with the start of hockey season to do more than check scores.
He thumbed through the issue, looking for coverage of hockey. But it was largely American football, both college and professional, in this issue. An article about a basketball player nicknamed the Greek Freak. More football. More basketball.
Finally, a brief article about hockey. It focused on an equipment manager in North Carolina, who a couple weeks ago played a game as backup goalie, and ended up getting less than ten seconds of ice time.
Shane and his teammates had heard about it, of course, and joked around in the locker room about how it must have felt for the guy. Weird, they’d concluded. Probably both exciting and anticlimactic. There wasn’t much else to the story, but it was nice the guy had gotten a mention in SI. Unfortunately, that was it for hockey coverage.
Shane tossed the magazine on the pile with the rest of his discarded mail, which would go in the recycling bin.
He checked the TV to see what was on. It was a world news program, and they were currently discussing the rise in hate crimes in Russia since the implementation of their anti-gay laws in 2013.
Oh, shit.
Shane grabbed the remote and turned up the volume. Things may be over between him and Rozanov, but that didn’t mean he wanted the guy in a Russian prison when he was home during the summers. And this was a human rights issue even if it didn’t affect Rozanov.
The screen showed footage of various people being detained in brutal conditions, interspersed with pictures of people who had been beaten, while the voiceover explained the various acts of violence committed against people suspected of being queer.
Shane lost track of time as he listened to horror story after horror story about conditions in Russia. He remembered sitting in that yogurt shop in Sochi a few years ago, and Carter Vaughn saying something about how brave it was for gay athletes to even be there to compete. He’d been so relieved that the only person who knew his secret had even more reason to keep their activities to himself than Shane did.
In his mind’s eye, he could picture standing with Ilya in the upper deck of the ice rink. The memory was so clear, it could’ve happened earlier that day. The way Rozanov had been so abrupt and cold toward him, when the previous time they’d been together had been so impossibly intimate.
He recalled the sick feeling when Rozanov wouldn’t even look at him. How much it hurt, even as he hated himself for letting the other man have that kind of power to hurt him.
Suddenly it made more sense. Rozanov had been protecting both of them. Safeguarding their secret. But Shane had been so caught up in his own confused feelings that he hadn’t seen anything other than rejection.
Though considering Rozanov then didn’t speak to him for several months, it had also been somewhat of a rejection.
Fucking hell, why was he letting Rozanav take over this much mental space? He grabbed the remote, aimed at the TV, and stabbed his finger on the power button with more force than necessary. He was done thinking about any of that shit tonight. Preferably forever.
He should go to bed, think about how much he was looking forward to dinner with Rose in a few days, maybe read some of the history of hockey in Ontario his dad had given him for Christmas. And then get some sleep. He had to be up early tomorrow, like he was every day.
He’d quickly flip through the last magazine he’d gotten in the mail, then head to bed. He reached over and picked up the whole stack of mail. He’d absentmindedly discarded the mail to be recycled on top of the magazine. So he shifted that pile to the side.
At the bottom of the stack was the annual ESPN Magazine Body Issue. And as he glanced down at it, Ilya fucking Rozanov stared back at him.
Naked.