Chapter Text
While the season had started better than anyone had expected, a 7-3 record during their first 10 games, things had evened out as the month progressed. They now sat at a 17-15 record, barely above five hundred and third in their division. A great start wasn’t indicative of how anything would go down and the season was long enough that things could change for either the better or worse at any given point. That didn’t mean frustration wasn’t running high right now.
Spurts of losing streaks plagued them, short, but cumulative enough that the whole team seemed volatile. While Shane and Rozanov had consistent playing time, and were making the most of it, cracks were apparent the more games they played as veterans struggled to adjust to them. They both mostly played center with either Marlow or Limmerick on their left and Connors or Smith on their right in either the second or third lines because even while their first outing as center and wing had been so good, Leclaire wanted to experiment a little more, have options, he said, and hadn’t paired them together since. Whenever they played first line it was as Hammersmith’s right wing or as centers when their captain had a day off.
Shane had actually been playing well or, even, great considering how the team sometimes fumbled around plays they practiced almost every day. 29 goals and 25 assists and they were a third of the season in, if he continued in this way, the ROY would be his. That was if Rozanov didn’t catch up to him. The Russian was just… so good. There was no other way to describe it and Shane wouldn’t even try to make it seem like he wasn’t doing things exceptionally.
Shane’s confidence would’ve been sky high if the probability didn’t also have to take into account the 31 goals and 22 assists from his fellow rookie and teammate. Rozanov was distracting in a way that made Shane both irritated and, sadly, unbearably horny. His playing style was more aggressive than most but he glided on the ice with precision and intent. Getting under other player’s skin with pointed comments seemed to be a key part of his play and whenever he checked someone into the boards or got slammed into them himself, his crooked smile and mocking eyes glittered under the lights of the rink. Shane felt himself be pulled under his spell almost as much as the fans on the stands or the opposing team’s players, everyone watching him with bated breath as a pass connected or a goal was scored so they could either cheer for or curse him.
It was infuriating because the cocky attitude was actually backed up by talent and everyone knew it. Shane found it kind of amusing how the narratives between the two of them spun: Shane was controlled with deadly accuracy, not a move wasted, and Rozanov was a machine, strong, sometimes reckless but almost never out of sync. Rozanov was electric and Shane found himself, more so at the start as he got front row seats to the show that was the Russian, counting down from one hundred in order to make the tightness in his groin go away. If it wasn’t because they played for the same team, he could only imagine the stories every single sports outlet would be weaving about a rivalry.
Nevertheless, even if they both were having incredible seasons so far, they weren’t playing an individual sport and two rookies couldn’t carry a whole team. Rozanov’s sharp tongue got him just as much love as it did trouble and just because you played on the same side didn’t mean you would be spared. A prime example was St. Simone, an older defenseman that, more often than not, found himself on the receiving end of pointed jabs that had his whole face darkening. Nobody liked to be told what they lacked but seniority didn’t seem to stop Rozanov from telling him slow he was or pointing when he should’ve cut a pass.
The older guy wouldn’t answer but the comments would make him tense up and his expression shut down which only made matters worse. LeClaire had even threatened to bench Rozanov if he continued in this way. Shane’s recurring issue had to do with getting his timing right. Few players were as fast as he was and the gap was more than obvious because either he or his wings were either a step ahead or behind in order to execute a play as they should. Some days were better than others but the truth of the matter was that things were too unstable; they could be really good one day and the next totally suck, they needed stability and they needed it fast.
He had considered the possibility of being more affected by the fact that he had killed someone but while it wasn’t that he had good feelings about the whole thing or forgotten about it, he would also be lying if he said he regretted it or that it affected him beyond the disbelief that he had gotten away with it. Lewis had fucked over so many times at different opportunities and land marks that should’ve been filled with nothing but joy but instead every single one had felt like the world was collapsing on top of him. A restraining order had been a temporary respite which then had been rendered useless once he wasn’t in Canda anymore and he’d needed a more permanent solution. Now that he could completely forget about him, his routine was back to normal.
It was funny, in a morbid sort of way, how the answer to his anxiety and distracted play had been to completely eliminate the source of them. At this moment, though, there was little he could do to help the team overall. They were in a 2-game winning streak, not much but not nothing and more than a little rewarding after a previous 5-game losing streak before it. However, and in spite of the team’s tentative and recent success and added to his timing problem, Shane had actually felt his play slip and been unable to address it. For the last week, and ever since he realized their next 2 pm start, against Ottawa of all teams, was, basically, right around the corner, something was just not clicking as it usually did.
His sharp edges were a tiny bit sloppy, not enough to bench him, but enough for LeClaire to pull him to the side after he failed to connect a pass during practice for the third straight time. Shane had reassured him very intensely that he would be locking in and ready for their next game but days came and went and he couldn’t help but feel like as if there was a live wire under his skin, nerves, but not for the game, spiking all the time. His brain buzzed with aimless thoughts that didn’t lead him anywhere, as if he was missing something, which was ridiculous since his routine was the same as it had always been. He had worried that the association with what had happened before might bring up feelings of dread, guilt or fear, but none of that had actually materialized even as his play suffered from a different type of itch.
What was even more embarrassing was the fact that everyone was starting to notice. A small slump wasn’t surprising, everyone went through them, but something that extended beyond a couple of games became concerning quickly. With some of the old-guard players not meshing well with the new, younger additions to the lineup and Shane’s apparent inability to snap out of whatever funk he was in, a tense atmosphere started to brew. Hammersmith was trying his best to navigate and redirect comments muttered as he passed by but, he figured, the situation would come to a head sooner rather than later with the fact that Rozanov seemingly didn’t know when to leave something well the fuck alone.
He was relentless. For every missed pass or misstep there was a chirp waiting for Shane and it was starting to weigh heavily on him because, unlike the others, Rozanov never held back. “Where your head at, Hollander?”, “Forgot your backhand at home?”, “Was baby deer your coach before? Your feet are all over the place”. His nerves frayed a tiny bit more with every pointed comment or mocking word but there was little he could do about it because he was right. Shane had tried every single relaxing exercise, yoga routine, sleeping pills… nothing worked. It was driving him insane and even more so because the only thing he hadn’t tried yet, but was pretty sure would help, he would never be able to ask for.
It was more than a bit humiliating how much the thought of chocking on Rozanov’s cock again felt like, at the very least, part of the answer he was desperately searching for to get his head back on straight. Parallel to this, it was also very difficult not to think about it when that was what he mostly remembered from the whole “murdering his stalker” situation. Shane wished he could say he was angry at being left out of the disposal of the crime he committed, of not being completely in control of every step to take, but, honestly, not having to have had to worry about a thing and seeing how Rozanov had taken charge of the situation had been so insanely hot, once he’d had a bit of a breakdown about it, that Shane often used the memory of that domineering accented voice to get off when he could feel adrenaline pumping through his veins after a hard-won win or shut-out loss.
However, there was just simply not way Shane would be able to go to Rozanov and say “Hey, sucking your dick shut my mind up and drove me into the best headspace I’ve been in in months. Do you think you could let me do it again? I think it would be really good for my game and the team, thanks.” Yeah, because that was totally normal and not an expedited way to get a sexual misconduct warning from HR and creating a rumor that would spread like wildfire in the locker room. Well, maybe that last thing was a bit unfair given that Rozanov had kept his secret, even if it was just because he would also be charged with being an accomplice.
Still, he couldn’t help but feel like his skin didn’t fit quite right and the irritation he felt every time Rozanov opened his mouth didn’t help one bit. The constant nervous energy ricochetted along his arms and legs, muscled coiled as if waiting for something to happen. Adrenaline rushed through his body and when nothing he tried to dispel it worked, he crashed into fitful bouts of sleep that left him more and more exhausted. He was usually very level-headed but, now, any tiny annoyance made him want to snap and more than a few arguments that got out of hand by his “arrogant tone”, Cross’, a defenseman, words, had left him feeling exasperated and angry at himself for not being able to snap out of it. And so, he gritted his teeth and did his best to concentrate on drills and strategy because there was little else he could do.
-
Days went by and, with them, things continued their rollercoaster ride. They lost against the Admirals, a crushing 1-5 game, followed by another loss to Colorado on a close 1-2 finish. They’d managed to get away with beating Buffalo, 1-0 game that shouldn’t have been as close as it had been but nobody complained when the final buzzer had the whole arena shaking. Sometimes, all a team needed was a string of wins, opponent’s talent notwithstanding, because a W was a W no matter how it came to be. Ottawa was waiting for them next, a team they should be able to beat without much trouble, and the thought of another win sounded like the best way to build momentum. As practice came to a close, Shane gritted his teeth while trying to get through the drills that he would’ve, on any other occasion, been able to complete without much thought but that just weren’t going his way.
To make matters worse, Rozanov had been relentless and Shane’s already frayed nerves had been ready to snap at any given moment. He knew he wasn’t playing up to standard, that something had been eating at him and only gotten worse as the game against Ottawa loomed ever closer but he didn’t know what the fuck it was and Rozanov pointing how out of it he was wasn’t fucking helping either.
“Shane Hollander…” Shane felt his already tense muscles clamp up further as Rozanov’s voice drifted closer, provocative, derisive. He skated a slow circle around Shane and Shane looked up into the rafters, maybe if he ignored it, he would leave. “Will you disappoint them?” Shane’s gaze snapped back at him, the curl of Rozanov’s smirk was mean.
“No.” His tone was hard, angry. Rozanov’s smirk deepened, turned cruel.
“Wouldn’t be first time, huh?”
One second Shane was looking at Rozanov’s face and the next they were on the ice, a tangle of limbs, hands pulling, legs kicking, intent fully on harming each other. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds and neither really got a punch in since they were still wearing their gear and didn’t manage to take their gloves off before the others were pulling them apart, but, for one second, Shane, inexplicably, felt some of the tension leave him. The boiling something that had been thrumming just out of reach found an out through the violence, that small outburst of strength clearing his head just enough to be noticeable to him. He didn’t fight against his teammates, more out of surprise at the relief flooding him, and, strangely, neither did Rozanov.
Shane was panting, just on the cusp of realizing something, but the sparkling blue eyes looking back at him had lava coursing through his veins. He wanted to punch Rozanov, break his nose, see blood pour down his face and stain the black uniform in a way that made the material glisten as it got wet. The clash of his body against Rozanov had made his head rattle and he wanted to do it again, press close, deep, feel the give of skin under his hands. His eyes traveled from eyes to lips and the sharp spike of arousal as he imagined kissing that horribly tempting mouth while spit and blood combined was enough to wrench him out of the hold he was in.
“ROZANOV! HOLLANDER!” LeClaire’s voice cut through the voices and Shane turned to see him red in the face with anger. The adrenaline left him and he could feel his face paling. LeClaire pointed a finger towards Rozanov. “What the fuck do you two think you’re doing?!” It looked as if he was ready to pop a vein and it would’ve been funny if his coach’s anger hadn’t been, partially, directed at him. “We have a game tomorrow! A season to play!” He directed his gaze to Shane. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Hollander, but whatever you’ve got going on, you can’t, and I’m so serious, take a go at your teammates. You speak to me, your captain or a veteran. If you do this again, I will have no option but to bench you.” Shane swallowed hard and nodded. “Say you understand.”
“I understand, coach.” His throat felt like gravel.
“And you!” LeClaire turned to Rozanov. “If I see you provoking others or trying to pick a fight with any of your teammates, I will have you doing a regime so intense you will barely be able to walk. I will permanently put you in as backup wing. You’re good, but not irreplaceable, so stop acting like you aren’t. Am I clear?” Shane didn’t turn to look at Rozanov, eyes trained on the ice.
“Clear, coach.” Rozanov had the decency to at least sound somewhat chastised.
“Practice is over. Go home, all of you. We have a game to win tomorrow.”
Shane felt a couple of pats on his shoulder as everyone filtered out of the rink and into the locker rooms but, right now, he needed to leave, staying, even just for a quick shower, didn’t feel like an option. As soon as he was in front of his cubby, he started stripping and changing into the sweats, shirt and hoodie he had arrived in. He didn’t pay attention to anyone else, just concentrated on getting everything off, either accommodating or folding it into his bag, and getting out as soon as possible.
Once he was done changing, he walked calmly out of the locker room, although he didn’t say goodbye to the few others that were lingering before heading to the showers. If he was asked, he would deny it, but he could feel himself basically sprinting towards the parking lot once the door closed behind him. He was rounding a corner, not too far from the lockers, when he felt a hand close around his wrist and stop him in his tracks. The speed with which he had been walking meant he was yanked backwards while the other person collided with him.
“What the-?” The question died in his throat and his mouth filled with bile. “Rozanov.” The name felt like burning coals on his tongue and he could feel his breathing stuttering; how he wished the other man didn’t affect him like this.
“Hollander.” There was color high on his cheeks and his hair was sticking to his scalp, golden curls weighted down, now a brownish gold instead of the their usual brilliant one. The fact that Shane was even noticing these things made his irritation spike again.
“What the fuck do you want? Let me go!” Shane shook his arm out of Rozanov’s hold. It looked as if he wanted to reach for Shane again but thought better of it when he saw Shane’s defensive stance.
“Are you okay?” Of all the things Shane had expected to come out of Rozanov’s mouth, that was not even in consideration. For a moment, he could feel his anger turn to bewilderment before it came back again with a vengeance.
“What the fuck do you care?” Shane knew his face was probably splotchy from indignation but he really didn’t care, all he wanted was to get Rozanov out of his face and get to his apartment. This whole thing was already fucking up his routine. “You’ve been on my ass for the last week about my sloppy play or not good enough skating and NOW you’re asking if I’m okay?” He let out a snort, Rozanov’s face barely changed and that made him even madder. “What I need is to not see your stupid face or hear your annoying voice. I know myself, you know NOTHING!” He jabbed a finger into Rozanov’s chest and, for the first time, he saw a flash of something in those blue eyes. “You’re not my friend, we’re barely acquaintances and if I tolerate you is because we play for the same team.” The Russian clenched his jaw and Shane felt pleased by the small sign that he was, somewhat, getting to him. “I don’t care about you outside of the rink, I never will, and I don’t want your fake concern either. So do us both a favor, Rozanov: don’t look at me, don’t think about me, don’t talk to me, don’t even breathe in my direction if it’s not strictly necessary. Leave me the fuck alone.” As he said the last word, he dug his fingers into Rozanov’s chest and pushed, vindication running warm and triumphant through his veins.
Rozanov barely moved and stared at him for a few seconds and, bizarrely, Shane hoped he would answer with something nastier, that the argument would escalate, maybe even get physical. Instead, Rozanov’s gaze traveled all over his face, he took a deep breath, turned around and left Shane standing in the middle of the hallway watching his retreating back. The nerve! Indignation filled him once more.
“FUCK YOU, YOU ASSHOLE!” Shane screamed after him but Rozanov didn’t falter in his step and, within a few second, he was gone.
Recognizing that nothing more would happen and with his energy levels rapidly depleting, even if his anger still burned hot, Shane readjusted his bag on his shoulder and, finally, made his way to his car.
-
Even with everything feeling wrong, Shane couldn’t help but stick to what he knew. His apartment was quiet and the roiling in his stomach told him he was hungry even if he felt as if he would vomit anything he tried to eat. By the time he was settling into bed after a lighter than usual dinner and getting everything ready to leave the next day, his stomach felt upset but not because of the meagre food he’d ingested but because he couldn’t help but feel that he had missed something, as if a step in his routine was missing.
But that was ridiculous. He’d done’ everything as he always did and all that was left, for this day, was to wait for the clock to strike 9:55 so he could go to sleep, he’d even put on raining sounds as background noise to see if that would help him relax, let sleep in; it didn’t, although he didn’t turn it off either. He really didn’t understand what was going on with his brain. Static filled it as he tossed and turned around in the bed, trying, and failing, to find a comfortable position. He’d done the same thing for years; he didn’t even need to think about what to do next and he rarely even consulted the time; he had everything down to a T because he was nothing if not a creature of habit. His pregame ritual before an evening start had always been the same and the only exception had been the last time… and as the thought crossed his mind, he felt his pulse stop and then rabbit inside his chest.
Thinking about how he had disposed of his stalker was done in very measured and short terms. Compartmentalization had been his best tool so far to not obsess over the whole situation but he couldn’t help but open that box, just a little, now. It was true that after it had happened, he’d been able to play some of the best hockey he ever had and sleep hadn’t eluded him as it had ever since those notes appeared in his cubby for the first time. And he wasn’t stupid, he recognized that he started slipping once he’d realized that another 2 pm start was on the horizon, his mind adrift and never quite reaching shore.
The restlessness he couldn’t quite place kind of settled with the idea of flesh giving under his hands, absolute control over continued breathing or lack of it… physicality winning over brains, the instinct of survival taking over and the sweet release of tension as victory consumed him when the other person lost their will. These things had never before formed part of his desires or common thoughts and he’d believed once the immediate threat of Lewis was gone, the feelings he’d gotten from the experience would also dissipate with him. Shane hadn’t changed anything, because he’d never done well with unprecedented change, and just because he’d been derailed once didn’t mean he had to change. He’d actually done the same things he always did to prep and, even with everything that had happened in practice, he’d been back at his apartment in time to get everything done as he was used to. Repetition was his safe place, keeping things as they were was the best course of action and it had never led him astray.
But… maybe… that… was actually the problem?
Last time, he had taken a life, handled a body and then gotten his brain shut down by the very same man that had made it his mission to get under his skin whenever possible. Rozanov had seemed to have known what he needed even before Shane did. From his words to his actions to how he called Shane’s name, it had been as if he had had a direct lens into a part of himself that not even he knew existed. It had been the combination of that extreme violence culminating in such unfiltered orgasmic bliss that had led to his performance the next day. He had felt a bit of that clarity during the few seconds Rozanov and him had been trying to harm one another but it had been too fast, too arbitrary to take as solid proof of what was bothering him so much. Maybe it had been a fluke.
Shane frowned as he stared up at the ceiling. The more he thought about it the more clearly he could see the new thread to his routine take root, the correlation between everything that happened that day tying in nicely into his awareness and understanding of it. Literally the only thing “missing” from how he went about things was killing someone, getting off with the person who had helped him without even having to ask and heading home to get on with his night time routine even if it had been delayed by a bit. A groan escaped his throat. This couldn’t be happening to him, he couldn’t have possibly added and entirely too complicated and full-on illegal with the promise of several years of prison step to his prep.
With an arm covering his eyes and his stomach plummeting as certainty wrapped slowly around his brain, Shane ignored the craziness that was the entire concept of having created such a ridiculous jinx for himself. And even if it was true, how was he supposed to deal with it? Go look for someone to kill and then ask Rozanov to make him come? Not only was the idea preposterous, it was humiliating to such a degree that his throat closed up with horror; his dick also twitched in his pants but he ignored it in favor of not triggering another melt down. And so, as with most things that made him this uncomfortable, he quickly folded the thought and feelings regarding such an unfathomable notion into a mental cabinet, turned up the rain sounds and did his best to drift off.
It took him a very long time, closer to 1 am, to fall into a fitful sleep plagued by the phantom of breath stopping beneath his hands and blue eyes guiding him towards the light.
-
He’d woken up tired, cranky and with the certainty that today’s game was going to be a disaster. Nevertheless, he forced himself to go through his patterns, a bit of comfort coming from following his, inoffensive, tried and true routine. He wished he could say it helped but the issues at hand were more complex than just being in a slump. He was tired, sleep-deprived and his only wish for the day was that his teammates had had a better night than he had because they would need every single head to be screwed on right if his game wouldn’t, or more accurately, wasn’t going to, be up to par.
-
It was going to be so, so bad.
The locker room, usually filled with chatter and raucous laughter, was mostly silent. Everyone focusing on getting their gear on but without engaging in conversation. Not even Rozanov had anything to say as he followed everyone and put on their uniform and geared himself up for the game. Rozanov hadn’t even looked his way and this fact had Shane’s stomach feeling like it had taken residency at his feet.
Right.
Cool.
Shane closed his eyes slowly as he let his forehead fall onto the wooden frame of his cubby.
They were, all of them, so incredibly fucked.
-
“Well, Adrian, I guess hoping for a win here truly was too much to ask for.”
“It would seem so, Jacob. A, truly, disheartening defeat to an Ottawa team that, and I say this with all due respect, had no business beating the Raiders even if they haven’t been performing lately.”
“With a final score of 3-1, the Raiders now sit with a record of 20-26, pretty much bottom of the barrel and although there’s still, basically, half the season left to play, things aren’t looking good for the Boston boys. And I have a question that I think a lot of fans had running around in their heads as the clock winded down: where in the ice was Shane Hollander?”
“Where was Ilya Rozanov? This was truly a pathetic performance by the team as whole, with a few exceptions, of course. The only goal for Boston came during the second period from captain Hammersmith, a true bastion of reliability for this team, from an assist from Marly. The team’s captain continues to be cornerstone to this rotation, but that was pretty much all the offense had going for them today. Ottawa’s defense seemed to be an iron fortress with how low the shots on target number was for Boston. ”
“Yes, and while it may seem unfair, we have to talk about how neither Hollander nor Rozanov have had their head in the game for a while and, to be honest, Jacob, after a terrific start, it looks like rookie nerves have started to manifest in both of them. Hopes and dreams shouldn't be placed on the shoulders of two new players, but something shifted, and not for the better, with both of them and they haven't been able to connect as they had seemed to at the start of the season. Credit where credit is due, Ottawa just knew how to press and take advantage of Boston’s sloppy play.”
“Yeah, you truly can’t take away Ottawa’s win. But talking about Hollander and Rozanov, and not to dismiss the absolutely historic season they’re both having, they’ve proven to be as streaky as the team around them. Reports have been coming in that tensions have been high in the locker room with veterans not being able to keep up with them and while what they bring to the table is greatly appreciated and the youth the lineup needed, they also have to remember that this is a team sport. They have to adapt to the team as the team does to them.”
“Exactly, I mean, I think, and this is obviously my perception and not anything confirmed by the organization, that the idea is to rebuild around these two. They have the talent, potential and charisma to do great things but they’re also young and thirsty for success that can, at times, blind them to the fact that they’re not playing alone, that to prove themselves, they also have to blend into the current team dynamic. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but this thirst for success can be a doubled edged sword if egos aren’t managed accordingly. And this goes for everyone, as the clash of old and new blood can’t be a good thing for anyone on the team. There needs to be a middle ground.”
“I think this is, actually, and excellent topic meant for a lengthier and very interesting conversation but we will have to wait to have it after the next commercial break. We’ll be right back.”