Chapter Text
Canada’s fucking golden boy and Shane fucking Hollander had always been interchangeable titles. It had been that way since his name first hit the news stands way back in juniors.
Now he was 25, living the picture perfect life of a picture perfect hockey player. He kept his side of the street clean, played nice hockey (that wasn’t really a thing, but Shane sure tried to make it one), and had won two Stanley Cups while doing it. He’d done everything the way he was supposed to, everything by the book. His life had never been messy. He wasn’t the kind of person who caused messes. His secrets were dutifully kept bolted shut in a metaphorical bulletproof safe, under the bed he’d shared with another man, where that kind of secret belonged. It was contained, keeping the important parts of himself underwraps. Only one person knew the Real Shane, and he intended to keep it that way. He’d been trained that way, answering questions with practiced, perfect answers, never giving anyone a substantial reason to hate him, his name only seen in the headlines when they praised his performance. Shane Hollander and scandal weren't terms that were synonymous with one another.
Though, tonight, Shane Hollander and game winning goal also wouldn’t be seen in any headlines, even though, not ten minutes ago, he did, in fact, score the game winning goal against Detroit. But he didn’t know about the actual headlines that were circulating through every corner and faction of the internet at that moment.
Not one single person in the Metros locker room had been clued into the brewing scandal involving their darling captain, but their energy was so high from the win they could’ve snorted it if they so dared. Their unbridled joy was only fueled by the highly anticipated holiday break just beginning, giving them a few uninterrupted days off to be with the people they loved the most. Only made that much sweeter coming off of the brutal game that Shane had won for them.
Shane should have been thinking that way, offering himself unlimited amounts of praise, but of course, he was not. Instead, he thought about the missed shot, the pass he should have been able to intercept, and any other minor mistake he’d chosen to fixate on, poking at it in his mind until he evidently found a solution, haunting Shane Hollander and no one else. It didn’t matter to him that he scored three of the four points that had shone in bright white on the scoreboard of Bell Center. Still, he strode into the locker room, keeping his self-deprication to himself.
J.J. clapped him on the back as he reached his stall, “Capitaine! You were beautiful out there! An absolute angel on skates.”
Shane just smiled in response as some of his other teammates offered him a satisfied grin as they chatted with each other. Sometimes the simple idea of responding to praise made the depths of the pores he’d tried to scrub off his face itch. To him, hockey was something he obviously loved to the point of obsession, but it was also his job. His job to do well, so it was often hard to understand why it was such a shock that he typically excelled at his job.
What Shane had yet to realize was that most of the team and coaching staff had that same expectation of him: to be excellent all of the time. Which left only Hayden and J.J. to the task of personally complimenting his performance, excellent or not (but let’s be honest, more often than not, Shane was excellence personified). Shane seemed to be oblivious to that pattern, or the fact that his team saw him as a type of Hockey-Bot instead of an actual person with human desires and feelings.
Lately, he’d been rather unfond of the concept of praise or his own desires. It always reminded him of a gorgeous Russian man with sparkling blue eyes that sometimes looked hazel in the low light of hotel rooms, and the singular ability to make Shane weak in the knees. So so fucking weak. Though attempts had been made (and attempts had been failed) to keep any thoughts of Rozanov locked and boarded up from his mind. However, reminders of that man were everywhere since he left his Boston home nearly two months ago, abandoning his clothes and his heart in those four walls where the Russian lived. Mistakenly taking a t-shirt and sweatpants that didn’t belong to Shane, but many nights that shirt still found its way onto his body, as he hoped some of Rozanov’s scent lingered within the fibers of the cotton.
Shane was obviously hopeless, and he couldn’t even admit it.
Quickly, he was stripping off his gear and unlacing his skates when he heard his phone buzzing from inside of his stall. He tucked his pads neatly into the space before reaching for his phone. When he saw the caller, every ounce of blood drained from his face, leaving him frozen, staring at the screen as it vibrated in his hand.
Incoming Caller
LILY
He wanted to smash the phone on the ground, wanted to squeeze it in his palm until it shattered and glass embedded itself in his skin. But he didn’t do either of those things. He just let it ring and ring and ring, staring at it until it stopped. He exhaled all of the air out of his lungs into the room that was now too hot and smelled too much of sweat. God, he needed to shower and get out of here, but the breath was forced back into his lungs when his phone rang out again.
Incoming Caller
LILY
Was Rozanov calling twice in a row when he likely knew Shane was still in the locker room surrounded by his team after not communicating for two months concerning? Yes, it absolutely was. Did he want to answer the call? Absolutely not.
Lucky for him, as the memory of Rozanov saying Shane’s name began to resurface, as it did many times every single day, his coach’s voice broke through.
“Hollander, Pike, you’re up for press,” barely making eye contact as he spoke, not waiting for them to follow before exiting.
Shane glanced down once more at his still ringing phone before declining the call, turning it all the way off, and shoving it back into his bag. He couldn’t think about that right now. Couldn’t think about him.
Hayden squeezed his shoulder, one of the few touches he found comforting from the few people he truly loved, “Ready?” his friend asked.
“Yeah,” he lied, then followed Hayden out of one room and into the other, repeatedly trying to shake the thoughts of Ilya fucking Rozanov from his mind.
The two men took their seats and Shane did what he always did before press and turned off any unnecessary parts of his mind, transforming completely into the Canada’s-Golden-Boy-Defending-Two-Time-Stanley-Cup-Winner-Captain-Of-The-Montreal-Metros persona he was supposed to emulate at all times, not the Fucking-His-Arch-Rival-But-Actually-Not-Anymore-But-Still-Completely-Obsessed-With-Him-But-He-Really-Needs-To-Get-Over-It persona that only two people on the planet knew about. He turned it off. He was Shane Hollander, and Shane Hollander scored a hat trick tonight and won against the Detroit Red Wings, and did not just get two consecutive calls from his long-term complicated as hell situationship, Ilya “Lily” Rozanov.
He turned it off.
He went into autopilot, as he typically did for things like this. Question, answer. Question, answer. Question, answer. The questions were predictable and, at this point in his career, he could easily answer them or side step parts of them he didn’t want to touch. For every two questions Shane answered, Hayden would answer one. It was simple, predictable.
Until right now.
He almost didn’t hear the question. It took a few seconds for his brain to piece the words together in the right order, but eventually he got there.
Can you explain your personal relationship with Ilya Rozanov since those photographs were leaked during the game?
Shane could feel his brain short circuit. The wires he’d meticulously placed over his 25 years on this earth all came loose because of one question.
Personal relationship.
Ilya Rozanov.
Leaked photographs.
Explain.
Incoming caller: LILY
His breath hitched, and he could feel Hayden’s eyes on him as his hands shook.
Everyone can see you, Shane, his brain reminded him.
He turned it off.
Or tried.
Finally he spoke again, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question,” he stated honestly, because he didn’t.
Everyone can see.
The reporter smiled, as if excited that she took him by surprise, that she got to be the one to tell him on live television. She was handing him his worst day on a silver platter with a plasticy grin.
“Shane, are you aware that several intimate photographs were leaked during the game? Photographs of Ilya Rozanov and yourself in a rather explicit position. It implies that your relationship is more than just a rivalry.”
For the first time in his life, Shane didn’t know what to do other than freeze.
Everyone saw.
He could imagine the headlines: Shane Hollander left speechless after gay relationship with rival Ilya Rozanov was revealed to him at press conference. Watch the full video here!
His brain wasn’t working like it should have. He couldn’t turn it off. He couldn’t feel his fingertips and he wasn’t sure if the microphone was able to pick up the raggedness in his breath. That wasn’t normal. What was normal? Would he ever be normal again? The entire world saw intimate photographs of him and Rozanov, whatever that meant. Now any future he’d once imagined for himself was so far out of reach that he could only see it with the curve of the earth in his periphery.
But thank God for Hayden Pike.
Shane heard his voice from some cavernous part of his mind where he was hiding. It broke through his spiral of overthinking and panic he’d slipped into on live television. He heard his friend scolding the reporter, this time unable to piece together his words, but he’d defended him. Hayden didn’t cower away from him in disgust. Then, his voice was closer.
“Shane, buddy, let’s get out of here.”
He brought himself back to the present, just enough to form one coherent sentence, aimed in the general direction of the microphone, “My personal life is not a talking point.” He tried to hide any emotion in his voice, then he stood up, arm around Hayden’s shoulder as his friend held his weight at his waist, and they left the room, spilling into the hallway.
⟢ ⟡ ⟣
Ilya Rozanov had one thought after seeing the images of him and Shane, almost fully nude in some non-descript hotel room in some city he hadn’t figured out yet. He’d only thought of the fastest possible way to get to Shane (after some encouragement from a friend). Time was on his side, though. The pictures were posted at the beginning of the second period of Shane’s game against Detroit, and Ilya thanked God or whatever was out there for the abysmal lack of cell service in arenas across the continent.
Shane didn’t know yet. He didn’t know that not forty-five minutes ago, some asshole posted a series of pictures of Ilya and Shane. Less than thirty minutes later, “Ilya Rozanov”, “Shane Hollander”, and “Gay” were all trending on Twitter. The photos had been shared countless times at this point. Everyone and their mother was talking about the pictures. The first few were tamer. Incriminating, still, but at least they had their briefs on while Shane’s tongue was down Ilya’s throat, the both of them clearly enjoying it.
The next few enraged Ilya to the point of being homicidal. They showed Shane—his Shane—dropping to his knees before Ilya, face nuzzling into his groin. One of his favorite ways to see him now marred by the vast number of eyes that had witnessed what only Ilya’s should be allowed to see. If Shane would ever be his again.
The last few consisted of Ilya’s bare ass out for all the world to see as Shane’s legs wrapped around his hips and Ilya carried him toward the bed. Shane was obviously naked in the photos, too, but he was pressed against Ilya’s body, thankfully shielded from the camera. Ilya had stared at the photos for far too long, a small, shameful part of him pleased that there was now some evidence that he’d once had Shane like nobody else had, but he immediately found his rage again at the thought of the world seeing Shane like that.
Then there was one last photo that offered several implications and gave Ilya a lot of complex feelings. The last photo was taken in the After. When they were coming down from the high after finishing. Shane lay on Ilya’s chest, just simply and quietly. Both content in the aftermath of mutual destruction. They looked happy. Peaceful. Like they were something.
He deleted Twitter ten minutes ago after spending too long reading offensive tweets or unprompted thinkpieces about the nature of their relationship. None of it helped ease the ache in his gut for how Shane would react to this. And Ilya wouldn’t be there for him when his world came crashing down around him. Everything was now out of Ilya’s control and he couldn’t do anything to help Shane. Other than calling him the second he got off the ice, hoping he would pick up despite not speaking for months.
Ilya watched the clock run out on the Detroit vs. Montreal game playing on his phone, Shane scoring the last point of the game as the clock reached zero. Pride swelled in his chest for only a second before the feeling was replaced by dread as the Metros filed off the ice, followed by their captain.
He wanted to scream and cry and act incredibly irrational. Even though this was one of the few situations where acting irrational was actually the rational thing to do. He wished it was only him that was outed, so Ilya could take away all of the pain and shame he knew Shane would soon be feeling for himself. He really didn’t care what happened to him as long as Shane was okay.
Which is what led him here, sitting in an airport lounge in Logan wearing a black brandless baseball cap with dark sunglasses, hoping no one recognized him. Duffle bag at his feet, and a ticket from Boston to Montreal in his hand. He knew he needed to get on the first flight out while Russia was still sleeping, before his father and brother woke up to a new world with irrefutable evidence that Ilya was gay (technically bi, but he knew the distinction wouldn’t matter to them). His plane was boarding in ten minutes and he’d let it take him to Shane, praying the other man would let Ilya into his home. He didn’t allow himself to ache for his touch. It was better to think those days were over, but he just needed to be in the same room as him. It was the responsible thing to do, after all. It was the both of them in those photos. Ilya knew Shane well enough to know that Yuna Hollander would quickly find a hundred different ways to approach their very unique situation.
In two long hours, he’d be in Montreal, stepping out of the airport past the Canadian border, and Russia would be none the wiser. He’d already been benched by the league, despite LeClaire’s protests. A shock to Ilya that he hadn’t made any negative comments about his alleged relationship status with his rival. He didn’t much care that he was benched as hockey fell to the bottom of his list of priorities when he had no access to Shane, as they were thrust into scandal together.
Ilya opened his contacts and found Jane, staring at the name he’d put into his phone when they were just scared rookies. He supposed hiding who he was texting was unnecessary now, but he couldn’t bring himself to change the name, as if he’d formed some attachment to it. Like it had sentimental value. Ilya was not sentimental, or so he led himself to believe, but that was refuted by the cross he wore around his neck.
His thumb hovered over the “Call” button. Ilya had never called Shane before. That wasn’t something they did, despite how many times he was desperate to hear his voice over the past two months without him. Any string between them had been severed the second Shane walked out his door, Ilya’s shirt still on his back. The clothes Shane left still sat neatly folded on a high shelf in his closet, just in case. But Shane was sure to be back in the locker room right now and Ilya wasn’t about to risk someone else finding the news before he did, and using it as a weapon against him, to beat him down or back him into a corner.
He pressed “Call”.
The line rang for what felt like an hour until he heard his outgoing message. It didn’t take long for him to call again. This time, it rang three times before it was declined. Ilya called again and it went straight to voicemail.
Fuck.
He opened his phone back up to the Montreal broadcast, now in the press room as Shane Hollander and Hayden Pike walked into the room. Ilya had one earbud in as he listened to the broadcast, hoping that somehow no one in the entire Bell Center had opened any type of social media app. His hope grew with every boring question they asked about Shane’s stellar performance on the ice. Shane answered every question in his perfect media-trained way he always did.
Just another reason I do not deserve you, he thought.
They were wrapping up their final questions and Ilya held his breath as the last reporter asked hers.
“Can you explain your personal relationship with Ilya Rozanov since those photographs were leaked during the game?” she asked, giddy with anticipation to ruin Shane’s life as he knew it.
Ilya watched the gears in Shane’s brain stop moving and the manufactured smile on his face fell. God how he wanted to see him smile again. His real smile that Ilya once had the privilege of seeing.
Just as Ilya watched the one thing that mattered to him break before his eyes through the small screen of his phone, he heard the boarding announcement for his flight over the PA. Eyes still latched to the screen, he stood, duffle bag and ticket in one hand and phone in the other. The attendant scanned his ticket and he pretended to not notice the recognition in her eyes as he boarded the plane. Quickly, he found his seat in first class and focused back on the broadcast, Hayden now chewing out the reporter. Ilya made a mental note to not chirp him as much in their next game.
If you can still play by then.
He shook the thought away, not wanting to worry about the logistics of his career right now. He was busy worrying about Shane and ignoring the dozens of missed calls from his team. Mostly Marley.
Somehow, Shane brought himself back into his body to say, “My personal life is not a talking point,” which made Ilya want to kiss him. Hard. And for a long time. Then he got up and left with Pike, who seemed rather unbothered by the news, or at least really good at hiding it in front of a camera.
Fuck, did Ilya have to be nice to Hayden Pike now?
Another thought to leave for later. Instead he called Shane again and again and again, each call going straight to voicemail, before a flight attendant told him to put his phone away. He grumbled, but complied, turning his phone all the way off, not wanting to draw more attention to himself.
All he could do was put his earbuds in, nothing playing in them, so they were really just decoration. For the next hour, all he thought about was seeing his Shane again with his own two eyes, hoping reality would live up to his daydreams.
⟢ ⟡ ⟣
Even away from the media circus, it was getting harder and harder for Shane to breathe. The air was suffocating him, which shouldn’t have been possible, but there he was, trying his best to take a steady inhale. It wasn’t working out very well for him.
Hayden must have seen his struggle as he led him through the hallway and into a random office, shutting the door behind the two of them. Shane’s body immediately fell into a chair and he brought his head between his knees, doing anything to help himself not devolve into a full blown panic attack.
As soon as the door shut behind them, it opened again, Theriault stepping into the room.
“What the fuck am I looking at, Hollander? Tell me this isn’t real,” Theriault seethed.
“Coach—” Hayden started.
“Not talking to you, Pike. Hollander. Is. This. Real.” Shane had never seen his coach so angry, which was saying something, and it definitely wasn’t helping the breathing situation. He’d always been wary around Theriault, like one would be around a ticking time bomb, and it would appear the bomb went off and had exploded all over Shane.
“Yes,” Shane answered through shaky breaths, head still draped between his knees. “Yes, it’s real.”
Theriault let out a huff and a noise that could only be described as a growl, “I really wish you lied to me. Do you understand the shit storm this scandal is gonna cause? One of my players fucking another player. Un-fucking-believable.”
Shane lifted his head and met his coach’s eye, something he typically would’ve avoided, but he had a nagging feeling that told him he needed to see the storm in Theriault’s eyes. He’d never seen someone look at him with such hate and disgust. He thought it would make him sad, seeing the disdain on his face, but it just infuriated Shane. He glanced over to Hayden, pushed to the corner of the room, warily observing the interaction in front of him. Shane’s gaze found his coach once more, and his brain was not working properly at the present moment; his life was crumbling before his eyes, and his coach was an ass, so what did he really have to lose?
“Do I understand?” Shane’s voice was still threadbare and weak, but he persisted. “My entire life just blew up on live television, and you are asking me if I understand what this will cause? You’re the one that doesn’t understand if you’re coming in here and speaking to me this way. This is my nightmare.”
Words stopped coming to him and he stuck his head back between his knees, attempting even breaths.
Theriault scoffed, as if his star center’s panic was inconveniencing him. It probably was, but Shane was too focused on the simple act of breathing to care about his coach’s opinion of him.
“You need to go back out there and deny this shit before it grows legs. I can’t have one of my players…” he paused, reaching for whatever insult he was trying to find, but Hayden didn’t give him the chance to find it.
“Oh, shut up, Theriault.”
Shane’s eyes flicked to Hayden, now taking a step away from the corner he’d found himself in.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t know how to put this nicely, so I won’t even try. Are you even capable of empathy? Or is Shane just some emotionless player you can order around to whatever you want whenever you want? Maybe you’re not aware but he is a person who experiences real feelings and emotions, and I don’t think you fall anywhere on his list of concerns seeing as he was just outed. So I’m gonna need you to get the fuck out of here.”
Again, thank God for Hayden Pike.
“You’ll regret speaking to me like that, boy,” Theriault spat, his scowl permanently etched onto his face.
“Maybe. But probably not. Now, get the fuck out or you’ll remember how it feels to get your teeth knocked out by a professional hockey player,” Hayden said, then smirked.
Theriault grumbled, speaking one last time, “You’re benched, Hollander,” then he turned on his heel and left the room, taking the heavy weight he’d brought in with him.
“What a dick,” Hayden stated matter of factly.
“Thank you,” Shane groaned from in between his knees.
“I’ve always got your back, man,” he said, pulling another chair in front of Shane and sitting down. “Can I ask, or is that too much?”
Shane inhaled deeply and brought his head up to meet Hayden’s gaze, then nodded at his friend.
“Are you okay?”
A small laugh escaped Shane. That was not the question he’d expected.
“That’s the question you’re asking?”
Hayden furrowed his brows, “Of course. I’m kind of worried about you right now.”
“You don’t hate me?” Shane asked, dejectedly.
“Why would I hate you, Shane?”
“Because I lied. About everything.”
Hayden shook his head slowly, pressing his palm lightly against Shane’s shoulder, “You didn’t lie. You just weren’t ready. Maybe you still aren’t, and that’s okay. I’m not mad at you.”
Shane couldn’t believe it. He’d felt so strongly in his core that Hayden wouldn’t want anything to do with him if he’d found out. But maybe that was just his insecurities bleeding into his perception of his relationships.
“Really?” Shane asked.
“I mean, you have terrible taste in men, but I couldn’t be mad at you for that.”
They both chuckled at that, the slight reprieve from this new ache was welcome.
“But I do feel obligated to ask. Rozanov?”
Shane looked away, as if studying the wall past Hayden’s head, “I don’t know. I mean yes, we were… But we haven’t talked in months. I fucked it up and now I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Do you want to fix it?”
Shane considered, but deep down he knew the answer, “So badly. More than anything.”
“Okay,here’s what we’re gonna do,” Hayden said, emulating Yuna Hollander the best he could. “I’m gonna go back in the locker room and get all of our stuff, and you’re gonna meet me at my car. We’ll come back and get yours later, but you can’t be trusted behind the wheel right now.”
Shane nodded in agreement before Hayden went on.
“Then we’re going back to your apartment where your parents will be. You can shower, and then with Yuna’s help, we’ll come up with a plan, okay.”
Nodding once more, Hayden’s sentence replayed in Shane’s mind.
Your parents.
Yuna.
“Fuck. My parents. I hadn’t told them yet,” about a thousand different realizations dawned on him in the flash of a single second. “Wait, shit, fuck. Hayden, do you have your phone on you? I left mine in my locker.”
“Yeah… Why?”
“I need to see them. I know my mom will have seen, no matter how badly I don’t want her to. I need to know what everyone is seeing or I will go insane.”
Slowly, Hayden reached into one of his pockets, pulling his phone out and unlocking it. He tapped the screen a few times, presumably opening Twitter. It must have been the very first thing to come up when the app loaded. Hayden stared at the screen for a moment, likely swiping through each photo. Awesome.
“Seriously?”
Hayden’s eyes flew to Shane’s, caught red handed, “Sorry, they were just right there.”
Warily, Hayden handed Shane his phone and he snatched it out of his friend’s grasp before he could think twice. His eyes went straight to the headline.
Unnamed source leaks intimate, explicit photographs of Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.
Despite the nagging voice in his head to stop, he clicked through the pictures.
The photos were… not great. They were somehow better than he’d built them up in his mind, while also being the worst and most humiliating thing he’d ever seen posted about himself. Some of him and Rozanov making out. Some he was on his knees in front of the Russian, face pressed into his crotch. And the last ones, he was naked, but shielded by Rozanov, and Shane’s legs wrapped around Ilya’s waist, whose ass was fully out for the world to see. At least it was a fantastic ass. And then the last photo. The two of them intertwined, Shane’s head on Rozanov’s chest. They appeared so comfortable laying next to each other like that. So trusting. It might have been the worst of the photos. It would be the hardest to deny.
“At least you look great,” Hayden said, trying to lighten the mood. It only worked a little.
“I look like a bottom,” Shane admitted, mournfully. That was the worst part. That it was clear Shane was the bottom in the relationship. Not that he was ashamed of being a bottom; he definitely didn’t want to be a top, but he knew the hockey world wouldn’t see it in any positive way.
Hayden stayed quiet, which was probably for the best if Shane wanted to keep his panic subdued. He handed the phone back to Hayden before he found himself looking through the replies.
“It’s bad, but at least it’s not like a full sex tape or something,” Shane stated, trying to find comfort in his own words. “I’d really prefer it if my parents never saw it though.”
Hayden pushed out a laugh, “If I know anything about your mom, it's that she definitely looked at those, but only for manager purposes. She might have kept them from your dad.”
He had a point. David Hollander was not the type to pry. And if his mom had seen them before he’d gotten the chance, she’d likely discourage him from looking at them.
“We should get you back,” Hayden said, and Shane agreed. The sooner he was out of this arena the better.
The pair stood up and headed to the door.
“Go straight to my car and talk to no one. You don’t owe anyone anything. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
Shane nodded. It seemed like the only way he could communicate at the moment, after everything. They stepped into the hall, moving toward the locker room, Hayden a step ahead of him, protecting.
Outside of the locker room, a few reporters lingered, immediately bombarding him with questions upon his arrival. Shane pushed past them, not acknowledging their existence in the slightest. Hayden dipped into the locker room, leaving Shane alone to make his way out of the arena.
The emptiness of everything around him hit him instantaneously, and all he was left with was those images at the forefront of his mind.
They brought him back to that day. If he remembered correctly, it was the NHL awards back in June, when Rozanov had conspicuously texted him to meet in his penthouse, and, of course, Shane was too weak to do anything but comply. He’d entered the room and didn’t hesitate to attach his lips to Rozanov's. Somehow they spilled into the bedroom, having shed random articles of clothing on their way, leaving them shirtless with Shane’s hand down Rozanov’s pants, stroking his already hard cock. Their pants eventually joined the rest of their clothes scattered on the floor and Rozanov kissed him hurriedly, as if he’d vanish at any moment. Or that’s what it felt like. He could never really know what the other man thought, besides the fact that he’d enjoyed himself.
When they broke their kiss, Rozanov whispered in Shane’s ear, ordering him to get on his knees, and Shane obeyed immediately, shoving his nose into Rozanov’s briefs, wanting nothing more than to have his cock down his throat. Within a minute, Shane had gotten what he wanted, tears forming in the corners of his eyes as the Russian fucked his mouth, muttering a mix of Russian and English as Shane hollowed out his cheeks. After a moment, Rozanov pulled him off of his cock and pulled Shane up, locking their lips together once again. Shane’s briefs found their way off of his body and Rozanov hauled him up, Shane responding by wrapping his legs around the other man, all while licking into his mouth.
Rozanov deposited Shane onto the bed, made quick work of opening him up, then before he knew it, he was being fucked by the most beautiful man Shane had ever had the privilege of laying his eyes on. Rozanov continued to kiss him while they fucked, only stopping to nip at his jaw and whisper praise into the shell of his ear. It was perfect then. It was perfect when they both came at the same time. And it was perfect afterwards when Shane’s head rested on Rozanov’s chest, especially when they lingered, clinging to each other for just a few minutes longer than they should have. Sometimes Shane got himself off to the thought of Rozanov inside of him that night. Other times he got off on the memory of their slowing breaths as they clung to each other before Shane forced himself out of the bed.
The photos were an outrage. That was their moment. It was never meant for anyone else. But now everyone saw and everyone knew and there was nothing Shane could do to erase it so he could have it to himself again.
When he made it to the parking area, his thoughts drifted further into Rozanov. He’d called Shane right after the game. The call had confused him at the time but now it made sense. Before he knew it, he was filled with deep, intense dread before he could place the feeling.
Russia.
The thought had very briefly crossed his mind amidst the chaos, but he hadn’t allowed himself to dwell on it then. But fuck. Rozanov was still a Russian citizen and now he would never be allowed to go back to his home country. Shane felt the need to cry again. No matter what part of himself or his life he’d lost tonight, it wasn’t near to what Rozanov was going through, losing his country because some idiot online wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.
God, he wanted to fly to Boston and do nothing but hold Rozanov, and apologize for anything and everything and promise he’d do whatever he needed to make it better. Somewhere deep in his soul, Shane knew that to be true. He’d do anything for him. That thought used to frighten him more than it did now, but that was scarier than anything else.
Shane only waited at Hayden’s car for less than five minutes before his friend appeared in front of him with both of their bags, then he took his seat on the passenger side of Hayden’s SUV, trying not to spiral as his friend wound through the streets of Montreal. Shane was just staring blankly at his last message with “Lily”. It was boring, as Rozanov would say, simple instructions of how to get into his house in Boston. Shane wanted to wait to call him back, for them to have some privacy, but privacy went out the window the second those photos made it onto Twitter.
He pressed “Call”.
It went straight to voicemail.
It’s Ilya, I will never listen to your voicemail.
Just the sound of his outgoing message made Shane’s heart stutter.
Why the hell didn’t he answer? Shane had at least a dozen missed calls from Rozanov, so why wouldn’t he answer when Shane called him back?
He called again. No answer. And again. Still no answer. Rinse, repeat, enough times to set off alarm bells in his mind.
Why the fuck wasn’t he answering?
Had Rozanov watched the press broadcast? Did he see how Shane fumbled through simple sentences? How he froze on live television for everyone to see? Was Rozanov angry at him for not denying any relationship speculation outright? Should he have looked into the camera and said how much he despised Ilya Rozanov and anything to the contrary was fake? Oh, God, was Rozanov going to be sent back to Russia where God knows what will happen to him, all because Shane lost any ability to lie under pressure?
Through the haze of his worries, he found himself typing out the first text he’d sent to Rozanov in months.
JANE: I’m sorry. Please call me.
Shane put his phone down and stared back out at the road.
“You good, buddy? I can hear you spiraling over there.”
“He’s not picking up now. I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe he’s upset with me. Angry that I didn’t deny it to save face.”
“Hey, don’t do that. You were blindsided for a soundbite. You didn’t deserve that. And for what it’s worth, I think you handled it pretty well.”
Shane shook his head, not considering any comforting words, “I totally froze. Shut down.”
“Who wouldn’t? Don’t beat yourself up. And what did you say at the end? ‘My personal life is not a talking point’. That was awesome.”
Shane chuckled at the fuzzy memory. It was kind of awesome.
Hayden continued, “Don’t overthink it. Maybe his phone died, or he turned it off. I bet his is exploding right about now. Or he could have fallen asleep.”
“I don’t think I could fall asleep right now without hearing from him no matter how hard I tried.”
Hayden stayed silent for a moment. Amid all the craziness tonight, Shane was so glad he had him.
“So, how long has this been going on between you and Rozanov?” Hayden asked cautiously.
Shane signed, his mind flicking through a series of memories: A handshake or two outside of an arena in Regina. The two of them in a hotel gym in the middle of the night after the draft. A knock at his door in a hotel room in Toronto where Rozanov kissed him for the first time, rearranging everything Shane had once known about desire and sex.
“A long time. Since before rookie season,” Shane admitted.
Hayden’s gaze shot from the road over to the passenger seat where Shane sat.
“What.” Shane said, monotonously.
“You’ve been fucking Rozanov for longer than I’ve known you?”
“No, no, no,” Shane chuckled and Hayden exhaled loudly. “He’s been fucking me for longer than I’ve known you.”
“Oh, my God, Shane,” he laughed. “Who are you and what have you done with Shane Hollander?”
Shane smiled to himself. He knew it was a rhetorical question, but he still considered it. For seven years he had been hiding a huge part of himself from the people he loved the most. He hated the way it happened and that coming out properly was taken away from him, but at least everything was out in the open. Now he could share this part of himself with his best friend without fear.
“Maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world that I can talk about my sex life with you now.”
Hayden smiled at that, “Yeah, okay, buddy. But ease me into it. It might take me a minute to adjust to this new reality where you and Rozanov are a… thing.”
“Don’t worry, I’m gay. I am very experienced with being eased into things.”
“Oh my God. Who are you?”
Shane sighed, pleased with himself for torturing his friend, thankful for the distraction from everything awaiting him on the other side of the car door.
“And we’re not really anything right now. I still have to fix that.”
Thinking about that conversation made his heartbeat quicken. He couldn’t tell if that was in a bad or good way.
“And this is something you want to fix?”
Maybe the question was a dig at Rozanov, especially since Hayden had asked earlier that night, but Shane ignored it. He’d come to terms with it a while ago that no one really knew Ilya Rozanov like Shane did. Yes, he was an asshole, but Shane knew there were so many more layers to him than that, and he wanted the chance to know him better, on a deeper level. If Rozanov would have him.
“Yes. He’s all I really think about. I’ve tried to stop, but I can’t. The more I sit with it, the more I’m certain that he’s it for me. But the last time we were together in Boston, he asked me to stay the night, which we had never done before. I agreed, but it got to be too much too fast. He made me a tuna melt. He bought ginger ale for me. We were talking about… nothing. Mundane shit. Then we had sex again and he said my first name and I said his back. All shit we didn’t do. It just got so overwhelming and I couldn’t handle it. So, I ran away. Made up some obvious lie on why I had to leave and I haven’t talked to him since. I left wearing his clothes, Hayd. I think it’s the worst thing I’ve ever done,” he finally stopped himself, knowing he’d probably admitted too much.
Hayden turned down the street his apartment was on, “He’ll forgive you. I mean he’d be an idiot not to. You’re Shane Hollander. What guy wouldn’t want you?”
Shane smiled at his friend, “Thanks,” he said sincerely. “Maybe I’ll fly out to Boston soon to see him since he probably won’t want to leave the States after this.”
“Oh, fuck. I didn’t even think about that. Russia’s like not at all safe for gay people, right?”
“Yeah,” Shane answered solemnly. “I don’t think he’ll ever be able to go home again.”
“Oh,” Hayden muttered. “That’s… really sad.”
“Yeah,” Shane knew the true weight of their situation was hitting Hayden. Just how serious it would be. He wasn’t sure what the fallout would be, or how the dust would settle.
He just hoped he got to keep Ilya in the end.