Chapter Text
February 5th, 2026
Shane Hollander was selected first overall by the Montreal Metros in the 2008 MLH Entry Draft and won rookie of the year after scoring the most points ever (132) by a rookie.
Shane Hollander made his Olympic debut at Vancouver in 2010 at the age of 19 as the youngest member of Team Canada’s men’s hockey team among an unprecedented media frenzy. There were articles about him everywhere. Not only the youngest, but also the first Asian-Canadian player to make the country’s Olympic team. Then he was called again for the 2014 Sochi Olympics, before the MLH decided that players in the League were not allowed to take time off the regular season to join the national team.
Milano – Cortina 2026 was the first time that MLH players were allowed to interrupt the regular season to take part in the Olympics again, so the media frenzy was back with a vengeance. An element that fed into the madness was certainly the fact that Shane was universally considered the hottest player in the MLH (both People and Cosmopolitan had had plenty to write about him ever since he’d turned eighteen, which he had found borderline creepy) and there were as many fan pages about his goals as there were about his freckles and, to his dismay, his abs.
He didn’t look at media much, personally. His mother and manager Yuna had always managed his official accounts. He had a personal Instagram page with exactly three posts that was private and basically unknown to anyone but a few close friends, and he had decided not to follow any official hockey pages with it because he specifically did not want to know what people were saying about him. If there was ever anything important in the public discourse about him his mother would tell him anyway. Not that he had ever needed to deal with a media crisis, his image was pretty immaculate.
Structure and predictability were the pillars of his life. He woke up at 5:45 every morning. Ate the same breakfast every morning. Ran the same amount of miles on every odd day or worked out at the gym for exactly 60 minutes on every even day of the week. He played hockey, read about hockey, talked about hockey, dreamed about hockey sometimes. Usually weird nightmares where the puck got stuck to the ice and he kept hitting it until his stick broke and everybody laughed at him. On the few days off from the League he would show up for sponsorship events organized by one of the brands that paid him for sponsorship deals, or he would participate in the social media events organized by his team, sign hockey pucks for hospital kids, take pictures with shelter puppies that needed a home. He did not mind that he barely had any free days throughout the years because he did not like the idea of “free”. Free felt empty, free felt scary.
Shane Hollander only ate dietitian-approved, boring, protein-packed, healthy meals, which mostly meant a combination of Greek yogurt, steamed salmon, grilled chicken, broccoli, brown rice or quinoa. Dressing always on the side. A journalist had asked him, in the press conference after his last MHL game before the Olympics break, what Italian foods he was most excited to try in Milan and he had blanked completely. He must have looked lost because the journalist had felt compelled to come to his rescue.
“Good old pizza, maybe?”
“Yeah... Sure,” he had said, though he did not remember the last time he had eaten a slice of pizza. His 9th birthday probably.
But now he was getting off a plane in Milano (he’d rehearsed the correct Italian pronunciation, based on You Tube videos more times than he cared to admit, together with how to say words like grazie, buongiorno, sì, no) and his life was going to look all different. He knew his mother had packed his favorite workout outfits in his luggage, two of his many white cotton pajamas because he was not sure he could fall asleep wearing anything else, and the noise cancelling headphones that he had learned to use when noisy, overstimulating environments could not be avoided.
But the food was going to be different, his roommate was going to be some almost unknown guy from a different MLH team, his free time was going to be too much, and too… different. People expected him to have fun, to explore, to indulge in Aperol spritz and pasta, to take a train to Lake Como and fall in love with a dark-haired Italian girl for a day. His teammate Hayden, who hadn’t made the Olympic roster once, had said as much at least ten times. “Did you know that Milano once had waterways like Venice? They were mostly filled and covered in the 1930s, but there are still two, called Navigli. That’s pretty cool, right? Are you going to see them?”
Shane was convinced he had bought a Lonely Planet guide of Italy or something, based on how many random facts a guy who had never left North America suddenly seemed to know. He had not asked whether he had bought it before the Olympic team was announced in the hope to use it himself, or after, to live vicariously through Shane.
But Shane had no interest in aperitivo or food traditions, Canada had enough lakes to last him a lifetime, and girls… well, girls were definitely not in his comfort zone.
He had tried dating a few over the last few years, but it had always been awkward.
He knew he was supposed to find them sexy, but he just couldn’t force himself to get excited at the idea of touching a girl.
Not long after his MLH draft announcement the number of girls interested in him had definitely spiked, and the offers had gotten bold. He remembered, clear as day, the night after his first official MLH match, when he was out at a club with his team and a girl had basically dragged him to the bathroom stall after a 5-minute conversation to give him head. Being at a club was a nightmare enough for him. He hated that the music was so loud, the floor so sticky, and unknown shoulders kept bumping into his personal space without warning. The bathroom had a foul smell, the toilet hadn’t even been flushed properly. He felt nauseous as the girl stuck her tongue in his mouth and unzipped his pants to grope his flaccid, uncooperative cock. He had blabbed that he was sorry, that he had had too much to drink (lies) and then closed his eyes and tried to think of something that would make his body react the way he was supposed to and no matter how hard he tried to focus on something appropriate, the only image popping up behind his eyelids was that barely clothed male model in the Calvin Klein campaign that had been plastered everywhere on the city walls.
He hadn’t lingered too long on that. He was not allowed to be anything but a good old heterosexual manly man if he wanted to make it out of the MLH locker rooms with his career in one piece.
When the Canada Hockey team landed in Milano Linate it was late morning and there were a handful of journalists waiting with their microphones and their cameras to get a glimpse of the hockey stars out of their natural element and in the real world.
Shane answered a few questions with the usual practiced tone.
Yes, he was honored and excited to have been chosen for the Olympics once again, especially as team Captain.
Yes, he had heard that his teammates had voted him “most valuable player” on the team in a recent CNN interview, he was honored and humbled.
Yes, he was grateful the MLH had paused the regular season to give them a chance to fly out there.
Which player was the most likely to spend the most time in the penalty box? Well, he hoped the game was going to have as little of that as possible.
When he finally got to his room in the Olympic village he felt exhausted, but he knew he could not fall asleep at midday, or his body would never adapt to this time zone. A nap was out of the question.
He took his clothes out of the suitcase, lined them carefully in the two little drawers his room provided. Took out his pajamas and placed a pair on his pillow, which he found a bit lacking in terms of consistency, but overall acceptable. The clothes weren’t folded in a perfect square, so he folded them again.
He texted his mom to reassure her that he had made it to his room safely, then he was about to sit down and start reading a book when his coach knocked on the door to let everyone know the team was going to have dinner at a Michelin starred restaurant in Milan that night, reservations had been made for 7 pm.
Shane grimaced. He had hoped he’d be given the chance to gulp down two protein bars and a bottle of water, take a shower and go to sleep, instead it seemed he’d have to get dressed, guestimate the macros of whatever fancy options the restaurant was offering, chitchat with his team and go to sleep much later than he had hoped.
He sighed, nodded, then started practicing the fake smile he was going to wear all afternoon.
His roommate, Jack, a young defenseman that usually played in the Pittsburgh team, was a lot more enthusiastic than him.
“Hey, do you want to go check out the Duomo square before dinner? A bunch of us are getting a cab, the restaurant is only 10 minutes from there.”
Shane offered him the first of many fake smiles.
“Sure, why not?”
At 3 pm Shane started to think that maybe being in Milano (yes, he kept pronouncing it obnoxiously accurately) was not all that bad.
Sure, the Duomo square was hectic, there were people taking selfies everywhere, and the pigeons were weirdly unafraid of humans, but the overall view was undeniably spectacular.
The Duomo was faintly illuminated by the pinkish sunset light, its pointy shapes stretching towards the sky beyond what Shane could see without stretching his neck.
He was fascinated by the many shapes adorning the façade, snakes, and bodies, and leaves, and outstretched arms standing still for centuries as the world around them buzzed and changed. He was even more pleased by the inside of the church itself, so dark, and quiet, and smelling of incense and cleanliness.
His teammates opted out of visiting the church and made their way to the Terrazza Aperol, which sounded like a nightmare to Shane. Why would he wait in line to drink an overpriced diet soda (he was certainly not going to have an Aperol Spritz, way too much sugar), sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs while being slapped by the February wind on a small terrace crowded with way more people than fire safety law should have allowed, for the pleasure to overlook the same square in which he had been standing?
Nope.
“I think I’ll have a look at the inside of the Church, then maybe walk for a while, I’ll catch up with you guys later, text me when you are done.”
Nobody had seemed surprised. He was happy to be left alone. Would they secretly vote him least likely to make friends? Maybe. Did he care? Probably not as much as he should have.
Shane explored the interiors of the Duomo like he had all the time in the world, which he basically had because his dinner reservation was hours away. He slowed down his steps in front of the statue of a saint he did not recognize, some old, bald man wearing a cape.
He was fascinated by the way in which the artist had detailed every muscle fiber, tendon, and vein in the body, like he was looking at raw flesh instead of a full body. He realized with a shiver that the man was in fact not wearing a cape around his shoulders, he was wearing his own skin, draped over his flayed body, which was why the supposed fabric actually had feet.
San Bartolomeo, a little tag explained, a martyr that had been skinned and beheaded by unfaithful people while he was spreading the gospel.
Shane had never been religious, but he was fascinated by stories of the bible for their brutality the same way he was fascinated by Greek mythology or ancient fables. The horrors of these stories were a welcome distraction from the horrors of the real world.
He bit his nail, as he often did, and wondered what it felt like to be skinned alive. If it started with the same tingle he’d get when he pulled too much at the little cuticles around his nails. If it was just like that, you pull at the stubborn piece of reddened skin too much and – whoosh – your whole skin comes off in one satisfying swoop.
He kept walking, slowly, breathing in the cold air and the humming sounds of people in prayer around him.
Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con Te... Santa Maria, Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori, adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte… Ave Maria, piena di grazia…
An old lady dressed in black was lighting a candle in front of an altar where a Madonna was sculpted in marble, reciting words in Italian that Shane did not need to understand to know she was praying.
Again, he was not religious, but he had always envied those who grew up believing there was someone out there looking out for the good of the world, believing there was order in the chaos, a purpose for everything.
He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the words of the praying woman, but he kept getting confused because there was another voice reciting what sounded like the same prayer no more than a few steps away, in front of the next little altar covered in candles and melted wax, and the two voices were annoyingly out of sync.
Shane took a step, like he was drawn to the other voice more, for some reason. It was a man’s voice. A low rumble of words, weirdly soothing, like a velvet glove caressing his ears.
…Madre di Dio, prega per noi peccatori, adesso e nell'ora della nostra morte… Madre… mamma…
The prayer stopped, suddenly, and Shane opened his eyes just in time to watch a tall, blonde man quickly stepped away from the altar and head for the door. It was too dark for him to make out any other detail, but he felt oddly drawn to follow that stranger. A ridiculous thought.
He stopped and looked at the painting behind the candles, instead. Sant’Agata, according to yet another useful tag. She was looking up at angels in the sky, one hand in front of her bloody chest, pointed towards the blessings of heaven, and the other one resting on a plate where her severed breasts lay bare, like discarded cuts of meat. She was the protector of abused women, breast cancer victims, and wet nurses, Shane read.
Suddenly the air felt a little too cold, a little too stuffy. He needed to get out.
When Shane got out of the church it was dark outside.
February days were apparently short in Italy too. For some dumb reason he had pictured Italy like a land of eternal sunshine and summer, which, in some ways it was, compared to Canada if that was as cold and dark as it got in Winter.
In the darkness of the square his eyes were drawn to the well-lit little ice rink that had been set up just in front of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. The Olympics rings that decorated the fencing were a clear indicator that this set up was a temporary thing meant to attract the attention of city goers and remind them that the Olympics were indeed about to start, but Shane did not mind that it looked so touristy. He was feeling so odd and out of place that the ice was calling to him like a motherly embrace.
He made his way through the crowd towards the ice rink entrance and one of the volunteers minding the line noticed he was wearing an athlete’s jacket.
“Hey man,” the volunteer shouted, gesturing towards him “do you play for Canada? What sport?”
Shane was taken aback a little. Canadians were so serious about their hockey that he could not stop at a gas station without someone asking him for a selfie, so the fact that his fleece was the only thing giving away his athlete status was very new. He suddenly felt the tingle of anonymity like a shiver along his body.
“Yeah, hockey team”
“Cool, we have some hockey gear, do you want to shoot a few pucks with the kids?”
Shane was not particularly eager to do that. He was hoping to blend back into the crowd and not be recognized for a while longer, but he was media trained enough that he knew the answer could only be “Of course, I’d love to”
And so that was how Shane Hollander, Montreal Metros captain, 4 times Stanley Cup winner, two times Conn Smythe, Art Ross, and Hart Memorial trophy winner, and current MLH highest scorer, ended up throwing very slow pucks towards Italian children in the middle of Piazza Duomo while wearing very uncomfortable blue plastic rental skates that were probably not his size.
People took a few pictures, so he had to remember to smile. Ten minutes went by before he felt like he had a right to leave, except, someone stopped him in his tracks as he was about to undo his skates on the bench.
“You want to play against someone your size?”
Shane looked up from his skates.
He saw a man, that he estimated was not quite his size, but rather a few centimeters taller than him and with much wider shoulders, wearing a dark wool hat over blonde curls and a matching dark wool coat. His skin was more golden than it had any right to be in the dead of winter, but he was probably Italian, judging from the accent, so that surely helped him in that department.
His voice was strangely both familiar and excitingly new.
“I beg your pardon?” was the only thing Shane managed to say in reply.
“Oh, I don’t need to pardon you, you will have to pardon me. You will not be so nice when I beat you.”
Shane suddenly realized this Italian stranger was challenging him to play hockey and he could not hold back a little, cocky laughing sound.
“Oh, that’s not happening”
The man just smiled and shrugged.
Yep, this challenge thing was definitely happening now.
Shane got back on his skates and grabbed a puck. There were other people on the ice rink, kids and adults. This was ridiculous, he could not be challenged to play in such conditions.
He had to figure out a way to separate a part of the ice from innocent bystanders before simulating some sort of face off.
“I can hear you thinking” was all the stranger had to say to him before he skated past him really fast bumping against his shoulder and Shane was lost in the overwhelming feeling that he was too close, close enough to feel his warmth and linger in his smell for a second too long before he realized the guy had stolen the puck from under him.
“Fuck” he muttered, before jolting to skate behind him, but it was too little too late, the ice rink was so small that the other guy had already reached the net at the end and shot a perfect goal. Shane was actually annoyed.
“Well, that’s not fair, we hadn’t even started, I wasn’t…”
“Blah, blah, blah… mamma mia, do you ever relax? It’s just a stupid game”
Shane frowned.
“No it isn’t. It’s an Olympics sport”
The handsome stranger replied by laughing quietly and shaking his head. He was already taking off his skates.
“And I didn’t catch your name” Shane added – equally annoyed and intrigued.
“Ah, that is because I didn’t give it to you. This was fun, I’ve got to go, though. Good night, Shane Hollander”
And just like that, he was off the ice and into the crowd. Shane just stood there, uneasy and unsure of what had just happened.
“What the fuck” he muttered to himself. This day was not going the way he had expected when it had started.
At exactly 6:55 pm Shane was arriving at the restaurant that his coach had booked and a waiter was escorting him to his team’s table.
He had googled the place beforehand and found out that they only did a tasting menu that changed weekly, nothing à la carte, so it would be pretty fucking hard for Shane to know what he was eating beforehand, which annoyed him deeply.
He had also read that the whole place was vegan, which on the one hand maybe meant healthier than if the team had picked a KFC for the night, but also where was he going to get his protein?
Once everyone made their way to the table (the Aperol spritz guys were the last ones to arrive, visibly tipsy and looking very cold), the waiter explained the menu for the night, starting with a first course of artichoke ravioli in a vegan brown butter sauce, and asked for any allergies.
After a gluten free request and a shellfish allergy that got a condescending “we are a vegan restaurant, don’t worry, no fish here”, Shane tried slowly raising his hand.
“Yes, sir?”
The waiter smiled politely but coldly.
“Uhm… I am on a macrobiotic diet, I kind of don’t eat a lot of things, but it’s hard to explain, so…uhm… maybe if you could just ask the chef to put like the butter sauce thing on the side, maybe…”
The look he got in response was as cold as death.
“I will ask the chef, I cannot guarantee, ok?”
Shane nodded sheepishly. He hated being a nuisance, which was why he’d rather just shove protein bars into his mouth until he hit the necessary amount of calories for the day and get back to business without being a pain in the ass for the restaurant industry.
Ten minutes later the first course arrived, and Shane’s raviolis looked gorgeous, except they were drowning in an oily sauce that probably had 2,000 calories per spoonful. He sighed and raised his hand. The waiter was immediately at his side.
“Yes?”
“Uhm… could you ask the chef for sauce on the side, maybe? Would that be possible…? I am so sorry”
The young man swiped the plate from under him and headed back to the kitchen, only to be back 30 seconds later with the same plate.
“Unfortunately the chef says it is indeed not possible, but he’d like to let you know why himself if you’d like to follow me to the kitchen.”
Shane’s face turned red.
“I… I did not mean to offend… I…”
His roommate, who was sitting next to him, and already half-done stuffing ravioli in his mouth gave him a big shove on his back.
“Oh come on Hollander, stop being so perfect and have a cheat day. You’ll get us all expelled from Italy if you don’t appreciate these people’s food. Go and tell the chef you’d like some extra fucking butter and get back here.”
Shane was mortified but he was too polite to do anything but follow the waiter towards the back of the restaurant.
“Wait here,” the young man said, once he had led Shane to a small, quite room on the side of an empty bar area, “Chef Rozanov will be here with you shortly.”
Rozanov. That did not sound Italian.
Shane barely had time to finish that though before the kitchen doors swung open and a tall blonde man in his late thirties wearing a white a chef uniform stepped outside, swinging a kitchen towel on his shoulder.
He was carrying a small saucepan and a deadly smile, which was all too familiar to Shane, considering this was the man that had just scored a goal against him in the tiny ice rink a few hours before.
“You?” was the very elaborate and smug response that his brain managed to put together. Not his greatest comeback.
“Ah, io, esatto. You recognize me, yes? When the waiter told me some hockey player guy wanted the ravioli without the sauce I also recognized you immediately, you know.”
He was now standing very close to Shane, leaning on one elbow that was resting on the empty bar counter next to the saucepan. Shane finally had the time to appreciate how tall and muscular he was. The fabric of his shirt sleeves was struggling to contain his biceps, covered in tattoos and bulging veins as he put his weight on his elbow and stared Shane dead in the eyes.
“I am sorry” was all Shane had to say, regretting it immediately because his Canadian politeness had taken over his body before he remembered that this Rozanov guy was actually being insufferable.
“I beg your pardon. I am sorry. You apologize a lot, Hollander. It’s not a good look. And neither is asking a chef to change his recipe. Would I ask you to play hockey slowly because I want time to see where you go because it is more convenient for me? No. You want butter on the side? I’ll put it on the side if you promise you’ll pour it on the ravioli before you eat them, will you though?”
“That was not the plan” Shane admitted.
“No, I thought not. That is why I sent you the plate as I intend it to be eaten. You see, the artichoke is cooked at exactly 90 degrees for two hours to keep all the sweetness in, and the vegan butter is browned just enough to get those nutty, roasted flavors, and once you put that together it’s a fucking orgasm in your mouth. But if you only eat the artichoke you won’t get that, will you, now, Hollander? And you will think it is too sweet, and that Ilya Rozanov cannot cook for shit, and we don’t want that, do we?”
“I suppose we don’t”
Shane was half fascinated, half terrified about the reaction his body was having to these words. His mind went back to the skinned San Bartolomeo in the Duomo. He thought now he had a bit more of an idea of what it felt like to have somebody peel away a layer of you and leave you raw and exposed. Plus, his head was stuck on the way Rozanov had grinned while saying “a fucking orgasm in your mouth” so he barely registered that the man had stuck a fork in the saucepan and gotten a buttery ravioli out of it.
“Here”
He lifted it towards Shane’s mouth with the same unforgiving boldness with which he had caught him by surprise on the ice rink.
Shane’s mouth wasn’t moving. His brain wasn’t really working either. He was just standing there awkwardly, hands in his own pockets. Eyes to the ground. The room suddenly felt smaller, and like a lot of air had been sucked out of it. Why did this feel so personal, so intimate?
“I am sorry… I did no think… I am… I just..”
“Oh my God, Hollander, you are so boring, shut up” and with that Rozanov, grabbed his chin with his left hand and lifted his face. Shane’s eyes were forced to get off the floor and found themselves staring up at the man’s blue eyes. Rozanov’s fingers pushed slightly on his cheeks, and his lips parted. It felt slightly obscene, the way the chef’s thumb caressed his lower lip and Shane thought for a second that he was about to suck it into his mouth, which he would willingly have done, he realized, except it wasn’t Rozanov’s plan apparently because he took advantage of that moment to sneak the ravioli in his mouth instead.
“There,” he said lazily as Shane chewed, “Good boy.”
Then he let go of Shane’s face and patted him on the shoulder.
“Now you will go and eat the rest of your dinner, sì? Bene. Buon appetito”
And with a wink he disappeared back into the kitchen.
Shane ate most of his meal in silence that night. He forgot to count calories. He could only think that his ears felt like they were about to combust. That his face felt different where it had been touched. He kept looking over his shoulder to see if Rozanov would get out of the kitchen, but he never did. He probably also checked whether he was still wearing his own skin or had left it on the floor like a used towel.
He kept replaying the interaction in his mind, wondering what had happened. Was this normal? Was this an Italian thing? People often talked about cultural shocks when travelling to Italy, about how the Italians were very serious about their food and you better not try to order a cappuccino in the afternoon, but he had never heard of chefs force feeding their food to clients who refused to try it while holding their face.
The whole journey back to the Olympic village felt like a blur. His roommate and a couple of other guys had decided to stay for one last drink before heading to bed, so Shane was alone when he got out of his clothes and into the shower.
Ilya Rozanov’s face was printed behind his eyelids. His cocky, crooked smile when he had teased him, both on the ice and at the restaurant. His unruly golden curls that looked so soft, like the perfect consistency to run your fingers through. The golden chain that was barely visible around his neck, dipping under his shirt.
Shane wasn’t sure when he had stopped lathering his body with soap and started touching his hardening cock, but he definitely had. He leaned his forehead against the shower tiles and moved his right hand faster, pleasure pooling quickly in his gut. He reached for his balls with the other hand, squeezing and pulling lightly.
He thought of Rozanov’s hands. He moved his own hand towards his ass, playing with it lightly.
It was a timid movement, unlike that of the hand that had grabbed his chin like he had a right to, that had caressed his cheeks oh so possessively. And his mouth had been so close. So, incredibly close.
Good boy.
The memory of those words apparently was enough to make Shane come. He only had to give himself a couple more strokes and then he spilled all over the shower walls with a moan. He hoped the sound of the water running had drowned out any incriminating noises in case his next-door neighbors were in their room.
He suddenly felt exhausted. Overwhelmed. And deeply, painfully ashamed. The rush was gone and he would have to live with the thought that he had spent his first evening at the Olympics jerking off to the thought of a strange Italian man named Ilya Rozanov.
