Chapter Text
The sound of squeaking hinges on the heavy metal door bursting open would’ve grated on Shane’s nerves at any other time but, right now, the sting on his hands as he pushed it and the hit of cold air on his face felt far too good to focus on anything else. As it clanged closed behind him, he brought his hands to his face, knuckles pressing into his eyes until spots danced behind his eyelids while he tried to get his heavy breathing under control. Boston’s days were pleasant enough, but the sun lasted less and less and nights got chillier and chillier as winter settled in.
Gosh, Boston.
Ever since he had learned what skating was and, subsequently, hockey, life had been pretty straightforward for Shane Hollander. He had approached the sport that made his body move exactly how he wanted and his mind quiet with the same determination a scholar did academia: fully, completely, devotedly.
It hadn’t been long before he had surpassed every kid at training, his edges sharp, hold strong, passes clean. His mother had seen the potential almost immediately and, soon enough, his destiny had been mapped out and he couldn’t have been happier about it: minor league and International Prospect Cup, the draft, 1st overall pick, Montreal, captaincy, cups, rings. He had everything planned, a clear path ahead, and success had been basically assured with the type of talent he was.
Or it had been until he had gotten himself a fucking stalker.
-
Shane had joined the Ontario Hockey League under the Ottawa 67’s as soon as he had been able to and pretty quickly attention had started pouring in from scouts, brands and… fans. He was used to people talking about him and, later, to hearing his name in either snide whispers he shut down as soon as he checked someone into the boards or in excited conversations from hockey enthusiasts. Most of the time, he could ignore the stares, but, about 3 months before his first International Prospect Cup, he felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.
It started with a chill running down his spine on the days practice was open to the public, which was often enough. It wasn’t something he could fully explain but at some point, he would feel the weight of a stare on him. Having eyes on him wasn’t anything new, but this was different, this made his skin itch and unnerved him but, as with any distraction, he tried his best to pay it as little attention as possible. He was mostly able to block it out and his performance was unaffected so it was fine.
Then the notes started. Tucked in his cubby, behind a water bottle or inside one of the pockets in his bag. They weren’t long, sometimes not even words, just smiley faces, all written in red marker.
I saw you today.
You’re so good.
(:
At first, he thought one of his teammates was behind it, but when he looked around nobody was waiting for his reaction, nobody acted different, so he dismissed it. This went on for a couple of days and he didn’t mention it to his parents because, while awkward and kind of weird, the notes were harmless.
Until they weren’t.
You do it on purpose, don’t you? Minx.
Your waist is the sluttiest thing I have ever seen.
Watching you makes me so hard.
This last one made his face go red and his stomach turn so violently he had to take a minute to not throw up. He didn’t open another one after that and just crumpled the notes up and threw them out. The unsettling feeling persisted but forcing himself not to read them had done wonders for him even if discomfort lingered for a few hours after practice.
A few days later, the texts started.
From: Unknown
To: Me
I’ll always be here (:
He had dropped his phone when he saw the message. He blocked the contact immediately but the texts kept coming.
From: Unknown
To: Me
You’re so mean to me. I wonder if you would be like this if I had you on your knees?
From: Unknown
To: Me
Come on, just a taste.
From: Unknown
To: Me
You’re a dirty slut. You know you want me just as bad as I want you.
From: Unknown
To: Me
Fucking bitch, answer.
No matter how many numbers he blocked, every day he would find more messages which increased in lewdness and aggressiveness. The notes wouldn’t stop either and the weight of the stare he was sure belonged to the person leaving them became more and more constant. Sometimes the feeling of being watched came from up above in the stands, others from the lower roads, always heavy, sticky. At first, whenever he turned, nobody would be there but the weight would come back as soon as he turned around. This went on for a while until he finally saw him or, well, his silhouette.
A dark green hoodie, the hood pulled over, black sweatpants, laser focused on Shane, the shine of eyes among the darkness that obscured his face. He had startled so badly that first time that he’d dropped his stick on the spot, the sound of it hitting the ice making him jump a little. By the time he looked back, the figure was gone but the uneasiness remained. He could feel the situation bleeding into his play, the thought of seeing his inbox full of messages and the notes stuck somewhere on his things, the flashes of green in his periphery, rattling him.
Shane knew his edges weren’t as clean and that some plays were slipping through him when before it had seemed that he could do them in his sleep. He had been named Canada’s captain in the International Prospect Cup U20 team pretty early on and could tell the coaches were starting to get frustrated with his sloppy play. But he couldn’t help it and they couldn’t demote him after putting the team on his hands and he still hadn’t told his parents even though they were giving him worried looks all the time now. His nerves were shot, he wasn’t sleeping all that well as he saw green everywhere, flinching every time he got a notification on his phone.
It all came to a head when two days before he was set to travel to Saskatchewan a package appeared on top of his bed after he was back from practice. He knew he hadn’t left it there and he approached it with trepidation. He opened it with anxiety wreaking havoc in his stomach and it proved all too warranted when he saw the pair of cum-soiled boxers inside with a note that read:
For my favorite bitch (:
The wave of nausea that hit him was so sudden he ran to the bathroom, his mother appearing on the door after she heard him slam it open in his hurry to reach the toilet; he told her everything after he was done. She was angry, not at him, which still didn’t make him feel any less guilty, and appalled and she made sure to march directly to the nearest police station after making sure he was alright. They filed a report but the investigation would take time and action couldn’t be taken immediately before they could identify the stalker. They took his phone as evidence, and to try and use it to trace back whoever was contacting him, along with the package.
He almost felt as if the whole thing was happening outside of himself. Questions were asked, which he answered, contact information exchanged between his mother and the officer who assisted them and by the time they were out, it was already dark. On the way back home, his mother told him she had already arranged for someone to come in the next day to change the lock and check for cameras. He nodded absently, he hadn’t even considered the possibility of cameras being installed in his room, as he tried to convince himself that all he needed to think about was hockey.
Sadly, no matter how much he repeated in his head that things were different now that his parents knew, sleep didn’t come easy that night or any other afterwards. He had established for himself a pretty rigid routine, and he liked it that way, but was so shaken by the whole ordeal that even while on the ice his mind wasn’t able to focus. He soldiered on even as he felt like he was drowning during most of the IPC, his hands shaking when he wasn’t gripping his stick like a lifeline. The noise of the fans permeated his consciousness, seemed louder than usual, his mind overloaded, seeing green made him flinch, the eyes on him spiking his heart rate. Passes didn’t connect, power plays where he usually was one step ahead, now he was one behind.
The disappointment radiating from his coach burned his throat with bitter embarrassment but they couldn’t bench him, not because they didn’t want to, but because that would be too big of a punch to their egos, to have been wrong about his genius; if only they knew it wasn’t his fault. He managed to have a decent quarter final with 2 assists against the Americans and even had a goal in the semifinals where they prevailed over the Czechs but everyone knew this wasn’t what his talent had promised, what they knew he was capable of, what he knew he was capable of. Despite it all, they made it to the final.
It had helped that his stalker seemed to have, miraculously, kind of disappeared for the time being as most incidents during the tournament happened because of paranoia and not because the man had actually been there; not having a phone had also helped and made Shane regret all over again not confiding in his parents sooner. As he laid on his bed the night before the last game against Russia, he reasoned that maybe the stalker had gotten wind of the police report and decided to step away. Whichever the reason, the important part was that he wasn’t there, or shown any signs of being there, and that thought had relief flooding his system until he could feel tears in his eyes that he didn’t let fall. Instead, he had practiced the breathing exercises his mother had taught him, making his heart stabilize, taken a melatonin gummy and gone to sleep.
The next day, even while not fully rested, he had actually felt better than he had in months. He knew he had too much to prove and he needed to end this fiasco of tournament on the highest of notes if he had any hope of repairing the damage to his image. Determination had filled him and as soon as his skates hit the ice he knew he was going to crush anyone in his path. It wasn’t going to be easy; the Russians had a reputation for being aggressive but smart. Their captain, Rozanov, had been on the tip of everyone’s tongue, and Shane knew he would need to be dialed in if he wanted to measure, if he wanted to somewhat salvage his chances at the draft.
As soon as warmups were done, he made his way to center ice. He was just about to bend down into position when a fine wave of ice covered his skates. Irritation filled him as he looked up and found blue eyes, filled with mirth, staring back at him.
“Hollander.” His name rolled heavily accented in Rozanov’s mouth, the r at the end a little harsher than usual.
Shane blinked slowly in response, momentarily struck by the face in front of him. It wasn’t only the eyes, it was the chiseled jaw, the curling blond hair he could see escaping the helmet, the cocky smirk playing at the edge of pink lips. Rozanov seemed to delight in Shane’s silence and winked at him and that took Shane out of the momentary trance.
“Fuck off.” There was a little more bite than usual in the insult and while he could see shock flit across the Russian’s expression, it was quickly replaced with the beginning of a true smile. Before he could say anything more to Shane, though, the referee arrived and barked at them to cut it out.
The game started quickly after that with Shane winning the face off. He was intercepted not long after but taking the puck from Rozanov had adrenaline licking up his spine. His skates seemed to be fitting properly after feeling too big, his mind was tuning everything off expect the stick in his hands and where the puck was going. He was in the zone and everyone else was playing catch up… everyone, except Rozanov.
For every pass he made, Rozanov was there. For every shot Shane took at the Russian net, Rozanov took the puck back and made his own attempt at the Canada’s own. A slight miscalculation had the other running away, stick ready, deep lines carved into the ice as they raced behind each other. Russia’s defense line was rock-solid but their goalie wasn’t quite as tight. The opposite was true for Canada and while both teams managed to score a goal, one from Rozanov and Canada’s from an assist from Shane, the stalemate continued. It was one of the most exhilarating games Shane had ever played. He was, in what felt like forever, having fun and that made his desire to win bigger; an opening was all he needed.
He got his wish as Rozanov got a penalty after checking Canada’s left wing a bit too hard into the boards 3 minutes before the second period ended. It was enough. Shane scored a goal a minute afterwards, breaking the tie for a 2-1 lead. Dopamine flooded his system as red lights flashed and the horn blared when the puck found the back of the Russian net. They just needed to hold onto their lead for one more period and they would be champions and if any of his teammates wanted to score another goal, Shane wouldn’t complain about it.
Canada’s bench was in great spirits as he made his way to it. Friendly taps, a fist to his back, helmet bumps and a string of excited “Let’s go, cap!” rained over him. It was the first time this team felt like it was his, like he deserved the C on his jersey. Taking his mouth guard out, he made it to his seat and water bottle and started drinking when he felt eyes on him.
It wasn’t the feeling he had come to dread, to know the weight of, and when he turned, he found a sparkling, deep blue gaze trained on him. Rozanov was watching him, going slowly from Shane’s eyes to where he could see his lips pursed around the water bottle and then down his throat as he swallowed. A different type of heat pooled in Shane’s belly and he suddenly felt overheated. Rozanov’s eyes snapped back up and Shane had a second to process how the blue seemed darker than before when his goalie was jostling the bench and pushing him into a friendly half-armed hug. Shane almost chocked but he laughed, blue completely forgotten. It truly was incredible what contributing to the team could do for how others treated you even if only for a game.
Not long afterwards, their 15 minutes were up and he was skating to center ice once more. He got into position immediately, someone other than Rozanov was sent over and the third period started. The face off was won by the Russian player but Shane got it back almost immediately. He felt like he was flying on the ice, his mind going to that place which had made him one of the top prospects of the game even if he hadn’t been playing like one lately. He saw his right wing open and sent the puck to him but instead of the shot connecting, Rozanov appeared out of nowhere, hitting the Canadian player from the left, “Clean hit!” the referee yelled and Rozanov was off.
Cursing under his breath, Shane went after him but it was too late. His miscalculation had caught the defense off guard and as he saw Rozanov accommodate for a shot he knew before he hit it that the game was tied. The blaring sound of the goal a few seconds later confirmed it and he stopped for a moment to swallow down a frustrated scream.
“I’m sorry, Hollander.” His right wing said, a boy his age, face twisted in remorse. “I should’ve seen him coming.”
Shane shook his head, breathed deeply and turned a determined look on his teammate. “We just need to score again. Get into position.”
The next few minutes where basically a stalemate once more. Both teams played more aggressively, both desperate to seal the deal. Shane felt his lungs and legs sting with the effort, but his grip was strong and even as his stress grew the sensation of being challenged couldn’t be described as anything but invigorating. Rozanov was always on him, or Shane on him depending on who had the puck, and the, literal, push and pull made him more and more decided not to lose.
Nevertheless, going to extras was something Shane wanted to avoid at all costs. He could see his defense getting fatigued and, while they were all running on empty, if they fell behind there was very little chance Rozanov or his wings would miss a shot. The silver lining was that he could also see the Russians struggle to keep up, their skating wasn’t as sharp and they were being a little more cautious, everyone was trying to preserve energy.
Minutes ticked by and the clock was down to the last two minutes of official time. Shane gritted his teeth as one of Russia’s defensemen, recklessly, collided directly on his left side, breaking the defense’s wall, trying to force him out of the play but he held fast to the puck and used the impact to push forward. With one side open, Shane didn’t waste a second and dug his skates into the ice. He was racing against the clock, blood pumping in his veins and he knew he needed to make this shot if he wanted any chance at redemption.
He looked up, just for half a second to make sure his trajectory was correct, and that was the beginning of the end. A flash of green caught his eye, startling him, and just to the left where he was aiming at, he saw a sign with a big, red smiley face drawn in the middle. His heart felt like it had stopped and, unfortunately, it was enough of a distraction that his skate got caught on a chip on the ice sending him tumbling down.
As if in slow motion, he saw the puck slide a few inches away from him only to disappear from his view when a stick sent it flying in the other direction. He knew it was over even before the sound of the goal hit his ears. His breathing was erratic, heart pounding, not from exertion, but fear, and he couldn’t seem to find the will to lift his head. He was on his hands and knees, his gear feeling, again, constricting, oppressive. And then, he was sent tumbling on his side, something solid turning him around while he felt the air punched out of his lungs although not because of the impact but the surprise of the hit.
“What the fuck was that?!” His goalie, the one who had just been brimming with enthusiasm and looked at Shane with so much pride, was now looking at him as if he was nothing more than trash. “What the actual fuck, Hollander?!”
Shane could do nothing but stare, chest heaving, eyes blown, head a mess. The other boy pushed forward, gripping Shane’s jersey in one hand and lifting him a little off the ground.
“Say something! What the fuck did you just do?!” Spit was flying and Shane recoiled but the other boy just grabbed him harder. “Are you stupid or deaf? Did you forget how to actually play, you fucking fag?! WE LOST BECAUSE OF YOU!”
His mind drifted. Guilt, sadness, anger all mixed into a barrier that, in that moment, separated him from everyone else. He could feel he was being shaken and not too long afterwards hands tugged him and the other boy apart. Once they managed to let him go of Shane’s jersey, the hands on Shane disappeared, letting him thud down to the ice once more.
The others had separated them just so it wouldn’t escalate more than it already had but it was obvious that they did it for the goalie’s sake and not because they cared about Shane. The weight of their stares actually let him know that they were thinking the same, if not more degrading things, and he couldn’t help but hear a voice inside his head looping “you fucking fag” and “we lost because of you”. Bile rose in his throat and he had to blink back tears as he swallowed down compulsively to avoid, on top of it all, being sick on the rink.
Air wasn’t as forthcoming as it usually was but he was trying his best to not dive deeper into the panic attack that felt was kind of imminent. He looked away from his arguing teammates, deliberately avoiding the space in which the sign and green had been and which had just tanked his career. Not too far away, the Russians were celebrating their win. Helmets were off and adorning the ice, slapping, hugging and elated screams made them all look like a happy, overexcited white, blue and red blurb. Seeing their celebration was another gut-punch and he was about to avert his gaze when brilliant, frowning eyes met his.
Rozanov was standing in the middle of the rowdiness, being tugged from in every direction, but he was barely paying any attention to it. Instead, it seemed as if he was concerned. The way his eyes and mouth were slightly pursed gave the impression he wasn’t liking what he was seeing. Shane, despite it all, and for reasons he wouldn’t, couldn’t explain, felt warmth starting to pool at the base of his neck.
He had never been the best at eye contact and so, he quickly averted gaze. Hiding into himself was the only way he could think of to get through the next few hours. His body went into automatic mode and when it was time to congratulate the Russians, he greeted them in the most monotone voice he was capable of and with a loose handshake. It wasn’t the most sportsmanlike behavior, but they would have to excuse him as he was trying not to fall apart right then and there.
“See you at the draft.” Rozanov’s voice kind of permeated through the spell he had put himself under. Still, he only managed a noncommittal noise in response, head down. He couldn’t really think of anything beyond getting back to his hotel room.
The whole thing ended, surprisingly and thankfully, quickly after that and before he could even consciously make a decision, he was sprinting off the ice and into the locker room. He pulled off only the most necessary parts of his gear and stuffed it into his bag as quickly as possible, he was ready and out the door in record time. He was just rounding the corner down the hall when he heard someone, one of his teammates, scream:
“You’re a fucking fraud, Hollander! Useless son of a bitch!”
Shane gritted his teeth, eyesight blurry, as he hurried towards the parking lot and his parents.
-
Things hadn’t gotten that much better afterwards although his coach had had to bite his tongue on reprimanding him too harshly when his mom explained the stalker situation. Still, his coach’s “What were you thinking?” spun around in his head… as if he had asked for this, as if he had willed it to happen. On the other hand, there was also the fact that everyone knew how bad things had gone at the IPC and although they didn’t say anything directly to him, the judgment and obvious distrust in his play was apparent. Passes wouldn’t go to him, no matter how open he was, the defense wasn’t covering him and nobody was doing anything to correct the situation.
He was still in a strict no-phone ban, his email was also being handled exclusively by his mom, and every note he got was packed into a Ziploc bag he carried everywhere to hand it to the police at the end of each week; if anything suspicious happened he immediately told his mom about it. He finally got good news 2 weeks later, the police identified the stalker: John Lewis. 42 years-old, graying brunette hair and matching dark brown eyes with a slightly crooked nose, he was a few centimeters taller than Shane. He looked like your average neighbor and the sight of him had Shane feeling so angry he felt a full-body shiver. A restraining order was put in place immediately with the threat of arrest and several years in prison if Lewis were to violate it.
Shane wished he could say that that magically solved all his problems but things were never that easy for him. He was still being sidelined by his team and their dissatisfaction with him still getting playing time had started to bleed into officials matches. Every day his exasperation grew but he refused to tell his teammates what had actually happened because he wasn’t sure they wouldn’t take it as him excusing his poor performance while also mocking him for it. His coaches also agreed it wasn’t in the team’s best interest to let anyone else know and so it was kept under wraps even if the team’s chemistry was rotten.
Months went by and even though he had dreamed about the draft for as long as he could remember, he convinced his parents not to go to the actual event. The horrible results the 67’s had been getting, which hadn’t helped his numbers or image, had guaranteed that he wouldn’t even be a top 20 pick. It stung more than he could articulate and he didn’t want to be there, to see faces gloating at his failure.
He knew he was being harsh, he was getting drafted after all, but this was so far from the future he had pictured and worked for that the bitterness churned and brewed low in his belly. Most days he could reign in his inner turmoil and interact normally with others, but, unfortunately, this day wasn’t one of them, not even close; he was actually pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to mask his devastation if he had to socialize with anyone besides his parents. It also wasn’t like his image could get any worse and he didn’t think anyone would actually care if he was there or not.
The 3 of them were all in the living room, his mom ranting about the situation with his team while his dad tried to appease her. They were mercifully leaving him out of it and he turned the half empty can of ginger ale around in his hand as the ceremony started. Speeches were made about confidence, dedication, discipline, dreams coming true… Shane tuned it out; throwing his head against the backrest of the couch while he focused on breathing and not letting his anger get the best of him. He had just gotten his jumbled-up feelings somewhat under control and returned his attention to the TV when the first pick was announced.
“The Boston Raiders select Ilya Rozanov as the number one pick.” The camara zoomed in on Rozanov’s face and, if Shane hadn’t been busy throwing himself a pity party, he would’ve noticed that something more akin to relief than happiness flashed on the Russian’s face.
“Bullshit!” His mother’s scream had him whipping his head towards her in a second, alarmed. She was frowning while she continued. “Rozanov’s good but not good enough for a number one pick!” Her frowned deepened. “That should’ve been Shane’s!”
Shane, more often that not, appreciated how passionate his mom was about hockey and him. Right at that moment, though, he wished she would be more concerned about anything else besides him. He understood it, if anybody had been as excited and planned his successes more than him, it had been his mother. He got her frustration but he hadn’t been playing well and, as much as he hated it, Rozanov had. Rozanov deserved it, he could admit that, even as that thought had a pang of bitter jealousy course through him as the draft continued.
“… Toronto selects…”
That one stung. That was supposed to be his team.
“… fourth pick…”
“… San José selects…”
“… tenth pick…”
“… New York selects…”
“… twenty fifth pick…”
Time seemed to drag on and even if he knew that he had dropped in the league’s esteem, with each number that went by, the fall he had had in the eyes of every team was more and more apparent. He wanted to melt into the couch and never get up again.
“And with that, we conclude the first round of picks for this year’s draft. Congratulation to everyone!” The announcer’s voice was cheery; it grated on Shane’s ears. “We will start with the second and final round, for today, of picks after a five-minute break. We will be right back.”
An almost disbelieving laugh escaped him as he once again let his body fall backwards into the couch. He hadn’t even made it to the top 32. After working for years, having his sleeping schedule down to a T, practicing on every free spot he had, it still hadn’t been enough to buffer the free fall the stalker provoked. He felt drained of all energy, but impossibly restless at the same time. He knew it wasn’t his fault, circumstances beyond his control had affected him, but that didn’t matter because all that did matter was performance and he hadn’t been on top of his game for a very long time. Sports were unforgiving with those who dared to embark in them, Shane knew that better than anyone but why did this have to happen to him? Why did everything have to be so unfair? Why him?
He had been so inside his head that he hadn’t realized the draft had reassumed.
“The Boston Raiders select Shane Hollander as the number thirty-three pick.”
Shane didn’t react for a second and then bolted upright as his mother let out an aborted shout. His picture, undoubtedly so, was displayed on the screen next to a big “33rd pick” and a Raiders logo.
What. The. Fuck.
-
One of the good things about having an overly involved mother was that he hadn’t had to think about the logistics of moving to America, she had completely, and he made sure to thank her, taken care of it. The very next week they had all been on a plane to Boston with five planned visits to different apartment complexes that were close enough to TD Garden and had been either built or completely remodeled in the last 3 years. A freak out had been completely bypassed as moving and all it entailed took the front seat in his mind. Seeing emails welcoming him to the team as well as a package with his new Junior Raiders team branded gear was a bit of a shock. The predominantly black attire had felt unfamiliar, if not unwelcome, after a lifetime of imagining himself in Toronto’s blue.
Before he knew it, though, practice had begun, a lease signed and his parents were back in Ottawa. Funny enough, instead of the meltdown he had kind of expected after things settled down, being away from home had actually felt… liberating. His things had been packed, sent over, arranged in his new apartment and his new schedule was brutal. He knew he had more to prove as he was now known as the one who blew Canada’s chances at the IPC the year before. He didn’t talk about the stalker to anyone, just showed up earlier than anybody and left last every single day.
That wasn’t to say Boston didn’t know about the stalker, they did; his mother insisted it was a necessary precaution. Now that he was in a different country, his restraining order wasn’t valid in foreign territory, but the administration had taken him, surprisingly, serious and told them Lewis would have a permanent ban on the stadium; they also encouraged him to come to any of them if something happened. Susan, the head of HR, had looked particularly horrified and, even if the sympathetic face she did didn’t feel good, at least she wasn’t blaming him for the situation. It had actually been a pleasant change of pace to not be dismissed or lowkey blamed for what had happened. She told them that, if it came to it, they could either process his existing restraining order to extend to the US or open a new case; whichever was faster. He couldn’t be sure that the stalker wouldn’t follow him but at least he hadn’t received any messages nor any incidents had occurred since moving so breathing had become a little easier.
After all relevant parties had been involved and Shane had been able to focus on training, he was soon swept into the grueling pace of it. No place was left in his mind for anything else so it actually wasn’t until a few days into his new routine that he realized that he hadn’t seen Rozanov but he got to know why soon enough. Everyone loved to gossip and, sometime later, he heard the other boys talk about the junior team Rozanov had been assigned to, a more favored one by the organization because of course he was. The realization that they wouldn’t be playing together yet had carried with it a vague sense of disappointment that he squashed immediately. There also wasn’t anything Shane could to about it, so he dedicated himself to accommodating to his new routine, teammates, city and, little by little, he started to shine just like he used to.
That wasn’t to say everything was back to the way it used to be. While before he had been a firm center, during the next few months, the coaches had him practice left wing. Shane didn’t mind, hockey was hockey, but he resented, somewhat, the fact that he knew they were testing him to see if he could work as Rozanov’s wing. Still, he didn’t voice his annoyance, just got into position when he was asked to, which was somewhere around 40% to 45% of the time, and played just as hard as he always did.
-
Months went by and his second IPC started and ended so differently than his first that it felt like the first had been a dream, a nightmare. He had played great, the “A” high on his chest since the coaches didn’t trust him to be the captain again, but even with all their doubts he had driven Canada to the title. The final had been against Russia once more but, this time, Shane had scored the winning goal and closed the game with a 2-1 victory.
It had been almost a year since the last time he had seen Rozanov in this same tournament. He could see how the Raiders’ training had influenced his play, sharpened it. It had been just as exhilarating as the year before, perhaps even more so, as they mirrored each other’s plays and thwarted the other at every turn. When the final buzzer had sounded, announcing Canada’s victory, and he felt his teammates, most of whom where the same of the year before, hugging and celebrating around him, he didn’t push them away but didn’t return the gestures either.
He had, as he had before, turned to look towards the Russians and while they were understandably upset, shoulders and heads hanging low, his eyes quickly found Rozanov. Blue and brown clashed and Shane felt his stomach do a little flip. He smiled tentatively, just a slight curve to his mouth and tipped his head, Rozanov hadn’t smile back but he did return the nod before looking away.
Shane felt a bigger smile threatening to split his face in half and had had to suppress it for the rest of the day.
-
He had returned to Boston and continued to train under the Raiders’ junior team. It wasn’t even that he was bragging, but he had always been hyperaware of how his body was doing, what it lacked, his improvements. Even while on the highest level of triple A, he knew he was better than all of his teammates and it wasn’t particularly close. He was back to being a step ahead, his stride faster, shots clean and precise, muscles burning with effort.
By the time August rolled around, he was notified that he would be participating in the training camp this year’s pre-season. He had been elated, a new spring in his step as he marked down the days until the camp began; his excitement made time speed up or slow down depending on what he was doing at any given moment.
When it finally rolled around, it turned out to be absolute torture. Not because of his new and stockpiled practice routine, he couldn’t be happier about that, but because of fucking Ilya Rozanov. He hated how much the other boy got under his skin. Shane had always commanded attention be it for his appearance or talent and that made him impossible to ignore, although he always kept himself modest. The Russian, on the other hand, was also aware of his talents and he flaunted them in the most obnoxious way possible, reveling in the attention be that as praise or curses. He also had a mouth on him. It didn’t matter that they were all there for the same team, if you were in his line of sight, be it rookie or veteran, he would find something and chirp you about it.
To another rookie playing goalie, “Hey, I have seen coupon sheet with more saves than you.”
To a defenseman, St. Simons, “First time without toe-picks, huh?”
To one of the other wings, Marlow, “I’ve seen better hands on clock.”
Rozanov didn’t miss a chance, voice grating and pointed and loud. Mocking. What was curious, though, was that everyone pushed themselves harder afterwards to prove him wrong, change his mind, make him eat his words…
“Do you even know difference between forehand and backhand, Hollander?”
Irritating. Mean. He was so, so, so mean.
“Fuck off, Rozanov!” It was Shane’s default response, voice tight as Rozanov’s laughter rang full of glee, blue eyes dancing as he skated away, smile blinding.
He drove everyone insane, not just Shane, but he couldn’t deny the ripple effect it was causing when they realized that what he said wasn’t a completely baseless, rage-baiting comment; at least, not always. They were observations, most of the time, wrapped in quick wit that earned him rolled eyes or barbed insults in response. It was almost comical how it was making others push themselves further just so they wouldn’t be on the receiving end of his sharp tongue. Shane, for his part, didn’t know if the fire Rozanov ignited low on his belly was due to a fierce desire to punch him in the face so he would shut up or… or…
Fuck.
-
Two weeks before the pre-season games officially started the coaches put him and Rozanov on the same line. Sometimes he was center, sometimes he was a wing, both positions worked just as good. It was almost like they shared the same awareness of the game, both conscious and sure of where the other was even when they shouldn’t have. Passes connected, power plays were put into motion, one lead while the other followed.
It wasn’t perfect, sometimes he was a step too far, sometimes Rozanov hesitated; they were still rookies. The foundation for a strong line was there, though. After that initial practice in which they had shared a line for the first time, everyone around them panting in exhaustion while they looked each other in the eye, chests heaving, hearts pounding but stance strong still, Shane had felt in a trance. The blue of Rozanov’s eyes had been a brilliant band around an enlarged pupil, cheeks flushed and mouth open. The heat Shane had felt emanating from himself, both from the outside and within, had been a little concerning.
As he had seen Rozanov swallow hard, his Adam’s apple moving up and down and his mind blanking along it, he had averted his gaze. Once they had all been back in the locker room, everyone complained good-naturedly about how unfair it was to have them paired up, how good they were together. Shane knew they didn’t mean anything by the way they phrased things but it still had a smug feeling filling his chest. This continued for the remainder of the camp and into the pre-season games; besides Rozanov and him, 3 other rookies were selected.
The pre-season, even if more relaxed in nature since none of those games would reflect on the actual season, meant a huge opportunity for all of them. This was the filter that mattered most and while the other 3 rookies tried their best, it was quickly made obvious that Rozanov and he were leagues above them. Rozanov had gotten the first outing of any of them during the second period of their first game against the Florida Panthers; a goal and an assist to his name, they had lost but Rozanov had had a good performance with the time he had been granted.
Shane had been put in since the start of the second game, against the Buffalo Sabres, and been taken out mid-way through the second period; he’d gotten two assists, they won that one. Alternating them between center and wing throughout their time on the ice seemed to be the strategy the Raiders had decided on to test them, they had lost 2 veteran players to retirement the year before and that meant 2 potential spots on the roster were up for grabs if any of them were good enough.
They had them both in to start the third game against Montreal and it was, truly, electric. Shane had gotten over not playing for the team he had idolized his whole life not long after starting his new life in Boston, but he still couldn’t help but feel a spark of longing as he saw the white uniforms and helmets go about their warm-ups. A knock to the back of his head brought him out of his trance.
“You found too pretty lady on stands you can’t even pay attention to what you’re doing?” Rozanov’s mocking voice reached him and Shane rolled his eyes.
“Fuck off, Rozanov.” There was little bite in it since he had been distracted.
“He should share, right, captain?” Rozanov had turned towards Brad Hammersmith, the Raider’s captain for the last 3 years and 7 years their senior.
“Leave him alone, Rozy.” Hammersmith’s voice was exasperated but also amused, a combination of emotions only Rozanov seemed to evoke in equal measure, and then turned a good-natured smile to Shane. “You good, Hollzy?”
Shane nodded and Hammersmith made an acknowledging sound before going back to his own warm-up, Rozanov had skated away already; the game started not too long afterwards. Rozanov and him were playing right and left wing, respectively, to Hammersmith’s center. Things moved absurdly fast from then on. It wasn’t perfect, but while some passes were missed either from their captain to them or vice-versa, most of the time they were connecting. Their defensemen picked them up when something didn’t go according to plan and seemed motivated as they saw their forwards’ aggressiveness; few shots were getting past them. They ended the first period 1-0 from an assist from Shane to Hammersmith with 5 minutes to go on the clock.
As soon as he was back on the bench, knocking helmets and shaking shoulders was all that greeted him. A warm hand sneaked in between his jersey and helmet on the back of his head and he could’ve sworn he felt a light caress to the skin beneath, before his nape was pushed down rather aggressively. A rich Russian accent filled his ears as an indignant sound made its way out of his throat, “Great pass, Hollander.” The tone was low, almost husky, and Shane had to fight the blush he knew wanted to make its way up from his chest and directly to his face. The contact couldn’t have gone on for more than a couple of seconds but it took the rest of the break to settle his racing heart down.
When the second period started, LeClaire sent Shane in as their center while Hammersmith shadowed him from the left and Rozanov on his right. He had won the face off, rapidly taking the puck and skating a circle around Toronto’s center. He knew their right wing was hot on his heels and was considering what to do when he heard Rozanov tapping his stick against the ice. Without veering off course, he sent the puck flying just before he was checked into the boards. The air left his lungs but he pushed off rapidly and repositioned himself although it wasn’t necessary as Rozanov aligned perfectly with Hammersmith’s position. The horn blared, the red light illuminated the surrounding area and there wasn’t much Shane could have said about it since Rozanov turned a blinding smile to him while lifting a fist in his direction, mischievous blue eyes full of pride and joy he was sharing with Shane.
They ended up winning 2-0, not a blow-out but a solid win; neither of them had gone back for the third period. As he shook the Metros’ hands, he couldn’t help but feel that things were finally, finally falling where they were supposed to. The next 3 games they split, landing them in a perfect 50/50 situation which was already an improvement from the previous disappointing years for the Raiders even if they weren’t true games; projections and data were starting to take over the sport and theirs had LeClaire’s and the front office’s eyes sparkling. He ended up with 2 more goals and 3 more assists while Rozanov had scored 3 goals but only had 1 more assist. They had both been told that they would be forming part of the official roster together after they won the last pre-season game. 4 more days and they would officially make their MHL debut.
All in all, things had gone well. Actually, things had gone exceptionally, absurdly, well which was why, Lewis, the motherfucker, decided to appear again.
-
It was the day before the first game of the season and they had had a light practice. Just some drills and general power plays to go through to be as fresh as possible for the game the next day. Unconventionally, but not unheard of, it was going to be a 2 pm start; they were hosting the Panthers. Shane could feel the buzzing under his skin, anticipation building. Everyone had been talking around the locker room, veterans and rookies laughing good naturedly as they changed out of their practice clothes, gear and headed to the showers or left for home altogether. Shane was actually the only one left behind in the locker room because he had been texting back and forth with his mom since she and his dad were landing earlier the next morning to be there for the game.
Their exchange had run a little long as his mom had called after a few texts and went over everything for his prep before Shane told her he needed to get a move on if he wanted to be home by 8 and have a full night’s sleep. She had let him go with an “I love you, see you tomorrow” that had sounded a little chocked up and he had squeezed his phone a little more tightly as he said it back. He had been about to, at least, rinse himself before the call, but had put on sweats, shoes, and a hoodie while talking to his mom so the cool down wouldn’t affect him as much. As the call disconnected, he reached into the side pocket of his bag, the one he always tucked his phone in, when he felt it.
Paper, folded, not his.
Shane froze for a second, grip slacking, phone tumbling into his bag. His heart rate spiked and with trembling fingers and shallow breaths, he pulled the paper out. He opened it and there, in red, lonely at the center where the crease formed, was a smiley face. He heard the showers’ door opening and he couldn’t help it.
He ran.
He ran through the maze of hallways and doors until he arrived at one of the lesser used back entries. TD Garden was massive and like with any big place, there were bound to be some semi-abandoned spaces. This particular one connected to a smaller, more exclusive but old parking space that players and high-profile people used to use to get into the building; it was small, roofless and connected to the old parking lot with a, bizarre, half tunnel. Nowadays, after renovations and a better, designated parking space, it had been become a lesser-known smoking area or, sometimes, an alternative way to get the trash out late at night.
He’d always made sure to find a place to which he could escape to in case things got overwhelming. With the 67’s it had been a storage room that smelled slightly of humidity but that had a big window at the back. At home in Canada, he could always go out to the nearby forest. Here, he’d gotten to know about it after an HR person had mentioned it when he had first gotten the official tour of the facilities. He’d found himself coming a couple of times after practice or the most recent games when emotions were still too high and he didn’t feel it was safe for him to be behind the wheel just yet. All parking lots were connected, and this was no exception, so he could always just walk to his car from here anyways.
There was also the added bonus of no assigned guard stationed during the day, no cameras either, since it was a closed off area, and the door only opened from the inside…
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit!
Shane closed his eyes and smacked the back of his head against the concrete wall harder than he probably should have. He’d left all of his things inside including his bag with his keys and phone. He hit his head a couple of times more, not as hard as the first time, but enough to feel it, before pressing his hands to his eyes until spots danced behind his eyelids. His pulse had somewhat calmed down as he reminisced but it was picking up again.
The stalker was back. The fucker had actually followed him all the way to another country and was trying to ruin his life again. His hands shook as he dug his nails at the front of his scalp to try and contain his tears. Things had been going so well. He was finally doing what he had always wanted at the level he’d dreamed of, he had been selected by a team, gotten a roster spot, he was playing tomorrow!
“Fuck.” Shane murmured. “FUCK!”
Shane, actually, wasn’t usually an overtly superstitious person when it came to the game. Although, that, more than anything, was because of the repetition that surrounded it. His routine was ingrained in every breath he took and very rarely did he have to deviate from it; it didn’t matter if he put his right skate first or his left, the important part was that he had all his gear ready. It was when his usual was disturbed that he felt off-kilter.
With the first game of the season being a noon game in the middle of week, that qualified as something he had to adjust for. Having games start at noon was a rarity in and of its own, just about 3 or 4 games a year were during that time, but the league was trying something different this season and this was what they had been dealt.
When games were earlier and no morning practice was scheduled to keep them fresh, Shane made it a point to be home by 8’o’clock, finish dinner by 8:25, shower at 8:30 (jerk off if he felt too restless), prepare his bag for the game from 8:45 to 9:05, brush his teeth and apply cream to his face before tucking in at 9:15 and reading until 9:55 before going to sleep at 10. He would then wake up at 6 am, change and be ready by 6:15 to do some light cardio, shower at 7, breakfast at 7:15, watching tapes and analyze his notes on the other team until it was time for him to leave for the arena; he always arrived 3 hours early minimum.
He was already fucking up his schedule. It had been almost 5:20 when he’d hung up with his mom and he didn’t know how long he had already been out here for and now he would need to basically round the building to get his stuff because he had left without anything and he couldn’t text anyone on the team because his fucking phone was on his stupid bag because of this fuck ass stalker.
“Fuck,” he murmured once more, resentment emanating from every single pore. “Fuck, what am I going do?”
Uneasiness danced in his stomach. He was fucked. He wasn’t making it home before 8 considering the Boston traffic. He was going to go to bed at God knew what hour since his anxiety wouldn’t let him rest and he would probably have to skip dinner so he could pack everything for tomorrow. He wouldn’t be getting up at 6, that was for sure. Anxiety rolled off of him in waves, his breathing labored as each part of his carefully curated routine fell apart. Tugging at the short strands of hair on top of his head wasn’t helping and bile was rapidly filling his mouth. What if they didn’t let him play once he told the coaching staff the stalker had reappeared?
Shane was trying so hard to not completely unravel, that he missed the sound of dragging steps.
“Shane…” the voice wasn’t loud, it was actually quiet, raspy and unfamiliar, and that, more than anything, made Shane’s body jerk.
Blinking quickly, Shane’s froze as soon as he was able to see clearly because there, a few feet away, was John Lewis. Cheeks hollowed, brown eyes almost black, pale faced, green hoodie and jeans.
“Shane…” A smile that looked more like a grimace appeared on Lewis’s lips, his posture tilted towards the wall, as if he needed the support.
Shane felt his eyes pop open, taking a step back to make the space between them a little bigger.
“W-what the fuck are you doing here?!” Shane’s stuttered and his tone was shriller than he would’ve liked it to be but he really couldn’t control it right now.
“I’m here for you.” Lewis frowned, as if Shane was being ridiculous by questioning him, and his expression changed once more but this one was dark, mania painting a scary picture on his face. “And to take care of that Russian pig.”
Hair standing on end, Shane’s expression morphed into confusion. “What are you talking about? What does Rozanov have to do with anything?”
“DO NOT SAY HIS NAME!” The outburst had Shane taking another step back. “I have seen the way he looks at you! The way YOU look at HIM!” Shane could feel his face draining of color and Lewis noticed because his expression darkened. “You’re mine, Shane. MINE!” Spit was flying out of his mouth but instead of feeling fear, with each word that left Lewis’ mouth, Shane felt anger simmer. “I saw you first! I did!” Lewis thumped his chest with his own fist and Shane wished he would send himself into cardiac arrest. “Who does that good for nothing think he is?! Your eyes are mine, your hands are mine, I made you, I gave you everything!”
“What the fuck are you even talking about?” For a moment, his anger gave way to incredulity and Lewis stared at him once more with a hazy expression. He seemed pleased by Shane’s question.
“If it wasn’t because of me, you wouldn’t be here today.” His voice had gone soft, proud. “If I hadn’t recognized your talent, encouraged you to keep going, you wouldn’t be here.” He smiled a yellow, greasy smile. “I went to every game after I first saw you during your first open practice with the 67’s. You were so good, even then, but you were so alone, didn’t talk to anybody. I knew I had to reach you, let you know somebody was there for you.” A grimace appeared on his face, displeased. “But you stopped reading my notes, I could see you slipping away, trying to leave hockey, leave me!” Where those fucking tears in his eyes? “And then you went to the police!” His eyes refocused and he took an angry step forward, Shane took two backwards, maintaining the distance.
“I sent you a gift and you gave it to the police!” His face twisted in pain and Shane wanted to vomit once more.
“You sent your cum-stained underwear, you freak!” Shane’s voice dripped disgust.
“It was a token of affection! A good luck charm!” Lewis’ expression was back to being terrifying, Shane could see he was calculating something; he braced himself. “I was kept from you, but then you moved here, and I had to follow you, slip through the border to come find you, because I know you did it for me, because you wanted me to be able to reach you. You missed me!” At Shane’s affronted noise, he smiled; Shane’s indignation was once more at the forefront. “The way you looked at me at the IPC last year, the way I affected you, I knew my love had gotten to you, you did so well in those last two games and then you saw me, saw ME!” He chuckled; Shane balled his fists. “But then that Russian pig got in the way, I saw how he kept looking at you, searching for your gaze, and you gave it to him.” His stance had relaxed somewhat but it was now tightly coiled as his tone turned accusatory. “You didn’t look for me again.” He sounded on the verge of tears.
“Why the fuck would I look for you when I hate you!? I lost concentration because of you! You’re a delusional fuck.” Shane spat, his voice tremulous with the restraint he was holding onto by a thread. A snarl around Lewi’s lips appeared.
“And you’re a bitch! A dirty fucking slut! You go around, opening your legs for anybody! Making eyes at them while I’ve been here the whole time!” Shane’s breathing was labored, rage rushing through his veins, fear forgotten. “I’ve been in the shadows, waiting for you, letting you know it’s me who’s always been there! And this is how you repay me? By moving to another country for a Russian cock that will never be as good as mine? Because you weren’t good enough for Montreal or any team worth playing for? You useless-!” Shane saw red.
The next few moments, fortunately or unfortunately, Shane would never be able to recollect completely.
One second his body was coiled, anger boiling over, and the next he was crashing into Lewis, the other man landing on his back, a chocked gasp living him as his head hit the ground. Lewis struggled against him, he was stronger than he’d looked and managed to flip Shane on his side, Shane’s left shoulder colliding harshly against concrete, but Shane had adrenaline, youth and fury on his side. He could no longer hear anything other than the thoughts chasing each other around in his head.
How dare this piece of trash talk about him like that? How dare he say everything he had achieved was because of his putrid existence when all Shane had accomplished had been in spite of this fucker who had made it his life mission to torment him? Who did he think he was to mock Shane’s effort? To paint Shane as weak when he had clawed his way out of the mental chamber torture this pathetic excuse of a human had tried to trap him in? He had almost lost everything, his lifelong dreams and ambitions, because he had caught the eye of the wrong person! He wanted to take credit for “seeing” Shane? What the fuck did that even mean? And like fuck Shane would let him! Fuck him! Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him, FUCK. HIM!
When spots started appearing at the edges of his vision, he felt himself coming back down to earth. He was astride Lewis’ torso, his whole body arched over him, both hands wrapped around the older man’s neck so hard that he could already see purple bruises forming underneath his fingertips. Lewis was not moving and Shane’s already rapid breathing became deeper, shallower. His eyes traveled, slowly, up from his own hands towards the face that had haunted him for almost two years now. His mouth was barely parted, foamy saliva dripping down the sides, cheeks an angry, splotchy red, clear snot dripping from his nose and down into the sideburns he sported.
Shane stopped there, not wanting to reach the eyes. He knew what he would find, but if he didn’t confirm it, if he didn’t look just yet, he would be able to live in the world of before. Before this happened, before he lost control, before he had destroyed his own life. He had just closed his eyes for what felt like an instant when the sound of the squeaking, heavy metal door had his attention snapping towards it.
“Oh, so this is how it ends,” Shane thought.
“Holland-,” Rozanov started saying but he stopped when he took in the picture before him. Blue eyes widened and Shane wished it would’ve been him underneath Lewis; unresponsive, not breathing… dead. The door swung, with another clang, and closed behind the other boy.
Shane let his head fall down, shoulders low, hands still a tight seal against Lewis’ throat. He could feel tears pooling behind his eyes, his body trembling with the effort not to sob. He heard the soft sound of something hitting the ground and Shane would’ve reacted under any other circumstance but he was about two second away from having a panic attack.
“Hollan-,” Shane flinched, Rozanov’s voice closer than before. A hard whispered Russian word, a curse most likely, reached his ears. “Shane…”
It was said so softly, gently, with apparent, genuine care and Shane felt his eyes sting with more tears he refused to let fall even as they pooled at the corners.
“Shane, three things you see.” Rozanov’s voice, to his surprise, continued to pierce through the fog he felt around his brain. “Shane, tell me three things you see.”
Shane swallowed hard, turned his head and took a deep breath before very, very slowly opening his eyes.
“Ground.” His voice was thready.
“One, good, another.” The drag of Rozanov’s accent around the consonants was very pleasant to hear when his voice wasn’t forming harsh words or barbed chirps.
“Wall.” He tried to clear his throat, but it mostly made him feel like he was going to choke so he just swallowed the little saliva he had in his mouth.
“Two, that’s it, one more, please.” Shane’s breathing stuttered at the last word, hands tightening again and making vertigo assault him. It most have shown somehow because Rozanov’s voice turned a little alarmed. “Hey, hey, hey, is okay, breathe. Hear.” He listened to Rozanov’s exaggerated mimic and he was powerless to do anything but follow it. “In on nose, out on mouth.” They did that a few more times until Shane got his breathing, somewhat, under control, eyes squeezed shut once more. “Okay, one more thing you can see, come on, Shane.” Shane wanted to melt into his voice. He opened his eyes just enough to peak through them.
“Cigarette butts.” It was true, on the ground to his left were some scattered around.
“Great, good job.” Rozanov’s voice was controlled once more, it was oddly comforting. “Now, tell me three things you hear.”
“Your voice.” It came immediately and he heard Rozanov swallowing hard.
“Great, another one.” Again, if this had happened at any other time, Shane would’ve noticed the raspiness in Rozanov’s voice, alas… A gust of, chilly, wind zoomed past them.
“The wind.”
“Excellent, one more.” He truly, really, liked the compliments, he could feel his brain starting to slow down a little.
“Traffic.” Distantly he heard horns blaring.
“Amazing. Okay, last thing.” Rozanov’s voice was still gentle but a little more commanding and Shane found himself leaning in a bit closer to hear him talk. “Move 3 body parts.” Shane didn’t want to and had just started shaking his head when Rozanov spoke again. “Head, good, second body part, move.”
There was something in the way Rozanov pronounced things that felt soothing, almost hypnotic. He rolled his shoulders.
“Shoulders, nice.” He honestly couldn’t get over the softness in Rozanov’s voice. Since when could he sound like that? “Now, Shane, can you move your hands? Or flex your fingers?” That was when Shane realized that, all this time, he hadn’t let go of Lewis’ neck. He promptly let go and threw himself off the body, mind spiraling.
“Shane, Shane, Shane,” Rozanov’s gentle coaxing made it impossible not to turn to him, even if he avoided his gaze. “Hey, is okay, look at me.” While just a moment ago that was the last thing he wanted to do, now he found it impossible not to and his fear filled eyes found Rozanov’s. The other boy was squatting, hands held in front of him, palms up, voice soft. “Is okay.” Shane tried to get words out, to tell him how much it wasn’t “okay”, but the knot in his throat wouldn’t move. “Shane, breathe.” Hands signaled the pattern they had followed before, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and Shane let himself be led, his gaze trained on Rozanov’s chest.
“Oh God.” Shane said after some time, kneeling and ignoring the body beside them. “Oh my God.” His voice broke. “What am I going to do?” He turned his glassy eyes towards the sky as if the answer would be written there. Of course, it wasn’t.
“You are going to stay here.” Rozanov’s voice brooked no room for argument and, that, more than anything, had Shane inhaling and exhaling easier. “I will take bags, bring car here and then, you will help with getting him into the back.”
“What?” Shane’s voice was incredulous, eyes back on the other boy’s face.
“This happened. Is okay. We deal with it.” He said it so nonchalantly, as if he were talking about taking out the trash and not manipulating a body. “You stay, I come back, we figure it out, okay?” Blue eyes jumped around Shane’s face and Shane could feel a tear slip down the left side. Rozanov’s hand moved towards him, hesitated, before, gently, wiping it with his thumb. Shane resisted the impulse of following the touch when Rozanov fell back on his haunches before standing up. “I go now.” Shane took a deep breath.
“Okay.” But as he said it, fear appeared once more. “Wait. What if someone comes?”
“Is late, nobody comes, not even Jerry.” Rozanov deadpanned.
“Jerry?” Shane blinked in confusion.
“Guy who guards parking lot. Keep up, Hollander.” The switch back to his last name was more of a shock than Rozanov knowing the parking lot’s guard name. “Only comes after midnight and few people come here.” He could probably see Shane’s lingering nervousness because his eyes softened. It was incredible how they went from frosty ice to warm liquid. “Is going to be fine. I come back in 5 minutes. When I turn around, count. Let me know how long I take, okay?”
“Okay.” That was definitely something he could do.
And with that, Rozanov walked away and Shane started counting.
-
Rozanov had actually taken seven minutes and forty-three seconds to come back. He had parked his black Range Rover with tinted windows at the entrance of the tunnel connecting to the parking space; the trunk left open.
“How long?” He had asked and offered Shane a hand to help him up. He had answered, Rozanov had hummed and then said, “You feeling better? I need help with him.”
Shane felt his stomach churn, but he gave an affirmative nod. Rozanov had wrapped a cloth around Lewis’ face, which Shane had been grateful for because he didn’t want to see it, and then they had proceeded to drag the body to the car; Shane lifted it by the legs while Rozanov looped his arms around the shoulders. It was difficult because even with their combined strength and level of fitness a dead body was heavier than what one would imagine. By the time they got to the car and once they had arranged it to Rozanov’s satisfaction on the trunk, they were both panting from exertion. Rozanov closed the trunk and turned to Shane.
“Get in. We’re not done yet.” Shane could do nothing but obey, he owed Rozanov that much. The car ride was mostly spent in silence except for a brief exchange as Shane tried, and failed, to not let his brain run wild.
“How come you’re not freaking out?” Honestly, if it had been Rozanov in his place, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have run from the scene. He wouldn’t have reported him, probably, but he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have helped him either; shame ran through him at the thought. But not just anybody saw you on top of a person you’d obviously just murdered, fuck, and offered to help without asking questions first. He could see Rozanov shrugging on the window’s reflection.
“My father is police, my brother is police, I’m Russian…” He trailed off for a second. “Figure it out, Hollander.”
And while that answered nothing, or maybe it did but it escaped Shane, it was clear Rozanov wasn’t going to say anything more, if the harsh line of his mouth was anything to go by, so Shane decided to shut up as well.
-
Before long, they were pulling into the parking lot of an apartment building. Shane tensed up when he realized there were, most likely, cameras here. How were they going to drag a body across a parking lot and into heaven’s knew where? He balled his fists on his thighs and, once more, tried to remind himself that he needed to trust Rozanov not to get them both arrested, because whatever he could come up with was more than whatever Shane could in his current state and both would be going to jail if this got out.
They drove all the way down to a third basement where instead of individual parking spots, bigger spaces with automatic doors were. Rozanov pressed a button on something on the roof of the car and the shutters on the spot he had stopped in front of lifted slowly. Bright lights illuminated the space which was pretty empty, actually; another car would probably fit in there. There was, what appeared to be, a big freezer just besides a door which he assumed led to the inside of the building and on the wall to Shane’s right, sat a small shelf with some empty vodka bottles. Shane heard the shutter coming down and Rozanov unlocking their doors.
Shane got down.
Rozanov had opened the freezer, it had to be around 2x0.5 or something like that, and Shane couldn’t figure out why he would need something like that but decided it really didn’t matter. Once he had secured it so it would stay open, Rozanov made his way to the back of the car.
“Come, help me.” He heard Rozanov say and so, he made his way to him.
Rozanov was pulling the body by its shoulders. “Take the legs before they hit ground.” He saw the head loll in Rozanov’s hold, the neck bending at an angle no live human would let it. He concentrated on the legs.
Once they both had a secure hold, they grunted their way to the freezer. When they got to it, Rozanov instructed him to put the legs in first, as straight as possible and when he let go, he went to support Rozanov. They lowered the upper half inside, with little accommodations that made no sense to Shane, and then the lid was closed. Only the slight chill of the freezer having just been opened remained as well as the dread slowly crawling up his throat.
He’d done it. He’d really fucking done it. The severity of the situation hit him all at once as well as the repercussions that would come if even a whisper of it ever leaked. Air was becoming scarce in his lungs, vision swimming and mouth dry, acrid. He was going to go to jail, he would get arrested, spend his days counting down towards his end, the career that hadn’t even started gone up in flames because he…
“Shane…” The noise sounded muffled, far away. “Shane…” He was so shaken, he could barely distinguish it was his name that was being said. “Breathe.” How could he? He was sure his life was over. “Feel,” What? “Feel.” Shane couldn’t even begin to comprehend what that meant when he felt his face being grabbed and shaken. He blinked rapidly, blue swimming across his vision. “Concentrate. Listen to my voice.” He blinked some more, felt tears fall and focused on the cold sensation they left behind. Screwing his eyes closed, he took as deep a breath as he could and slowly opened his eyes afterwards. His vision was a little hazy at the edges still, breathing short and hiccup-y, but he could clearly distinguish Rozanov’s face, his eyes intently looking into his, mouth pursed, brows furrowed.
Again, Shane felt his head be shaken with small, controlled movements. That’s when he realized Rozanov was holding his face with one hand, fingers firm and digging, but not hurting, on both his cheeks. Shane, and he would be embarrassed about it later, turned his face towards the touch until he dislodged the spread grip and directed it so he could nestle it against Rozanov’s palm, nose peaking on the dip between his middle and pointer fingers. The other boy let him and the scent of the shower’s soap and the calluses dragging against the soft skin of his lips had a much more of a calming effect than anything else before.
He breathed deeply, without a stutter like seconds prior, something dislodging in his chest as he let his own hands press Rozanov’s more firmly against his face as silent tears fell. There was no sobbing, just the steady stream of stress leaving his body through a salty stream. His nose was becoming clogged, spit accumulating in his mouth but instead of pushing him away in disgust as he thought Rozanov might want to, he felt his other hand land on the back of his neck, thumb digging a little into the top of his spine. The pressure had something molten rushing through him and a gasp escaped his mouth, eyes rolling.
His lips parted against the palm enveloping half his face and as the drag of his lower lip against the work-rough surface processed, he let his tongue touch the ridge of the callus tikling him. When he wasn’t stopped, he flattened his tongue, nails dug a tiny bit on his neck, and he explored the uneven planes of the skin now moist with his saliva. He didn’t open his eyes, just followed what he could only assume where the wrinkles and lines of Rozanov’s palm, back and forth, until he felt like he could draw them from the memory mapping them with his tongue. He heard a chocked off groan and, suddenly, it wasn’t enough.
From where his mouth was almost at Rozanov’s wrist, he made his way upwards around the side and towards his thumb and when he reached the tip, he took it in, tongue wrapping around it. Almost instantly, the void he’d felt until now was, somewhat, satisfied and Shane could feel a moan escaping his throat even while the thumb muffled him. He opened his eyes slowly, he was sure he looked a mess, but it was probably nothing compared to the way Rozanov was looking at him: pupils almost swallowing the blue, color high on his cheeks, mouth parted, breathing uneven.
Shane’s worries seemed so distant in this moment, things that were important weren’t so anymore, or, at least, not now. Not when Rozanov was looking at him as if he was a wonder. He felt another finger, the pointer one, tap the side of his mouth and he opened immediately, accepting it in, humming happily as they played with his tongue, tickled his gums, scrapped gently along his bottom teeth. The motion of pushing and pulling, almost bobbing on Rozanov’s fingers had him in an almost hypnotic state. But even as good as he was now feeling, there was still the hum at the back of his mind that told him there was something he should be thinking about, something urgent, a plan.
“Get on your knees.” It wasn’t an order, it wasn’t a command, but Shane felt compelled to obey either way. He let go of the fingers, even if he didn’t really want to, and let his knees hit the concrete floor. It kind of hurt but when he looked up and saw the almost manic, amazed expression Rozanov wore he forgot all about it and shot him a small smile. Waiting. “блять.” The expletive was said with such feeling Shane felt oddly proud. He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because the next second he was face to face with Rozanov’s cock and, yes, yes, yes, this was what he needed.
It was big, slightly curved to the right, an angry red tip with a pearly white bead of precum adorning it and nestled in curly, dark brown hair at the base. Shane’s mouth filled with saliva, his gaze locked in on his prize. “Careful with teeth.” He saw as Rozanov’s hand wrapped around the base and then he felt Rozanov’s other hand at the back of his head, guiding. He went, no resistance, as his lips made contact with the spongy head, teeth protected by the pillowy inside of them, giving it a small kiss before opening wide. It wasn’t his favorite taste, kind of musky and sweaty, but the weight, the pressure on his jaw as he opened more to accommodate him further in…
Shane trained his eyes on Rozanov’s navel, felt his brain go absolutely quiet as he got closer and closer to it. Rozanov, however, was going so slow, Shane felt like he could’ve taken him all in one go, but any time he tried to speed up the process, Rozanov would pull at the hair on his nape, stopping him, lingering for a few second before reassuming movement while Shane fought against the whine in his throat at being denied. His breathing worked in tandem with the pace the other boy set: deep, slow, intentional. By the time his nose made contact with Rozanov’s pubic hair, his heart rate was stable, jaw sore, stretched almost to the point of pain and a mind that seemed to be leaking out of his ears.
Nothing outside of hockey had ever made his brain disconnect to the point of letting his body do the thinking for him but here, right now, with Rozanov’s cock brushing the back of his throat and the dull distant feeling of pain on his knees, not a thought lingered. He was perfectly content in this limbo of existence where all he had to do was relax and let somebody else do what they wanted, he just had to stay pliant and take it. He lifted his gaze for the first time in what felt like forever and what greeted him was the underside of Rozanov’s jaw, his long neck stretched and his Adam’s apple rapidly moving as he swallowed with difficulty, head tipped back.
Shane moaned, or as much as he could with his mouth full, and the pull on his hair at that was deliciously harsh. Rozanov moved his other hand to cup the right side of his face and, slowly, slowly, always so damn slow, directed his head. Halfway down his length, Rozanov would stop and bring him back to his navel, Shane’s nose buried in the tight curls at the base of his cock. After a few minutes of that, he felt a solid pressure push in between his legs. The shock of arousal that travelled up and down his spine was so sharp he almost chocked, eyes snapping to Rozanov’s face. He hadn’t realized he was hard until now.
“You’ve been good, so good.” Rozanov’s voice was strained, accent thicker than ever before, gaze dark. Shane wanted to drown in all of it, live forever in it; at no point did Rozanov stop moving him over his cock. “Good boys deserve reward, yes?” At that he pressed just a tiny bit more firmly with his shoe onto Shane’s crotch and then gave a hard thrust into Shane’s mouth, spearing himself down Shane’s throat.
It was too much, too good, too many sensations at once, and Shane came in his pants with his nose filled with Rozanov’s scent, his pubic hair grazing his nose, Rozanov’s cock choking him, knees most likely bruising, body shivering from head to toe; his vision whitened for a few seconds. When he came back to, Rozanov was on his knees too, in front of him, Shane’s jaw was sore, mouth empty, one of Rozanov’s hands running gentle fingers through his hair, the other had a thumb tracing a lazy path from the top of his cheek the side of his nose, and they were forehead to forehead just sharing oxygen as they came back down to earth. Still not over what had just happened, he nuzzled Rozanov’s nose with his own, eyes closed in bliss. He felt the whisper of lips underneath his right eye but when he opened his eyes, Rozanov wasn’t as close as before.
“You need to go home.” Shane could feel his face scrunching up, understanding the words being said but not actually getting their meaning. “We have game tomorrow.”
Oh.
Oh.
Right.
Shane shook his head a little from side to side and Rozanov’s hands fell from where they had been; he wanted to ask for the touch back but the vulnerability he had felt just moments before had evaporated and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be denied. “Ye-,” Shane’s voice was rough. He cleared his throat; it still had a rasp to it but it was better. Rozanov’s gaze dropped to his mouth for an instant before he looked up again. “Yeah.”
“Can you stand?” Rozanov’s voice sounded pretty neutral, if a little breathy, and Shane felt his face heat a bit with embarrassment.
“Yeah.” He groaned as he stood up, knees protesting and now the pain of kneeling on concrete was making itself known. He looked at the ceiling, counting down from sixty until he felt like his legs wouldn’t give out on him. By the time he felt stable enough, Rozanov was holding out his bag out to him. “Thanks.” He murmured as he accepted it.
“You can call Uber from lobby, come on.” His tone wasn’t mean, but it wasn’t warm either. Shane followed but before he went through the door he spoke.
“What… what will…” The awkwardness was choking him and not in the very pleasant way he had just experienced but in the way that made him want to be blown to actual pieces. “What will you… do… with him?” He gestured without turning to the freezer just to the side. Rozanov sighed.
“I will take care of it. I know people.” He must have seen the distrust on his expression because he added, with a bit of exasperation mixed in. “You can buy silence. You can buy ways to make body disappear if you know the right people. I know the right people.” Shane was about to open his mouth to argue when Rozanov beat him to it. His frosty gaze melting and aquamarine shinning, Shane’s defenses were absolutely useless against it. “Trust me… Shane. I will take care of it.”
Shane sighed softly, but nodded as he went in after Rozanov and into the hallway that connected the small bodega-like parking spaces. The cum in his pants was already starting to get sticky and feel gross; he could only thank whoever was listening that the fabric was tick and black which at least hid most of the incriminating evidence. While they waited for the elevator, Shane pulled his phone out, of course there was no signal, but he needed something to focus on other than the fact that he kind of wished he was still on his knees for Rozanov and how disappointing it was he couldn’t remember the feeling of Rozanov coming down his throat.
-
His uber had arrived quite quickly, barely a ten-minute wait. They had waved goodbye woodenly to each other and exchanged an equally tense “See you tomorrow,” before Shane made his way out the building’s reception area and into the car that would take him to his own apartment.
Shane had been kind of on edge the whole ride and, really, every second since he found that goddamned note, that he didn’t even notice the time until he went into his kitchen intent on preparing something simple to eat when he saw the clock on his electric stove.
9:13 pm
While the whole ordeal had taken more than three hours, he was still on time to eat a light dinner, shower and prepare his bag before heading to bed at a decent hour. He was surprised to realize that even while things had derailed so much, he wouldn’t need to skip any important steps of his routine. With that in mind, and hanging onto it for his sanity’ sake, Shane let himself fall in the ease and familiarity of patterns he knew by heart. He was in bed at 11:25 and out like a light within the next ten minutes.
He had the best sleep he had had in months.
-
The next day, nothing could have prepared Shane for how it went. He had woken up at 7:05 and gone about his business as usual in the morning and while his knees had, indeed, bruised, it wasn’t too bad he couldn’t blame it on hockey. His mom had also texted him that they were on their way and would see him in a few hours; he answered he couldn’t wait to see them. Surprisingly, and thankfully, no intrusive thoughts about the day before assaulted him upon waking and he decided not to look a gifted horse in the mouth as he prepared to leave.
He had arrived at TD Garden at precisely 11:00 am and was surprised to see a quarter of the team already there… including Rozanov. Shane had felt himself grow tense but when the Russian treated him as always, chirping him (“Got enough beauty sleep, Hollander?”, “Fuck off, Rozanov.”, tones teasing, laugh spilling into the locker room from the others as they heard them bicker) and anyone else who crossed his path, he relaxed. A buzzing energy that could only be associated with the anticipation of the first game of the season weighted over everyone and any apprehension Shane may have had was quickly dispersed as he let himself get lost in the adrenaline and expectation of it all.
-
“And with that, the Raiders have won their first game of the season! 4-1 for our boys in black and gold. The team seems to be clicking well, Sam.”
“Oh, that’s putting it mildly, Jacob. I know the season has just started but I think I’m talking for every fan that just watched this and all that will check the highlights later: Hollander and Rozanov are the future of this franchise and there’s so much to be excited for.”
“There sure is. Their final stats are 2 goals and an assist for Rozanov and three assists and a goal for Hollander. The fact that these two sometimes share a line should be changed to a permanent fixture. It was almost scary how in sync they were. I know there were some concerns regarding their ability to play wings for each other or even another player, but I think those are going to be firmly squashed soon enough. Also, we shouldn’t forget Marlow scored the Raiders’ first goal with an assist from captain Hammersmith.”
“Of course we can’t forget about Marly, but I think he would agree there’s little anyone will talk about that’s not these two rookies’ performances tonight. What a way to break into the big leagues! Can’t say it didn’t feel uncanny at times, though, even more so during Hollander’s second assist for Rozanov’s first goal and second overall for the Raiders. For now, though, they’re still too green, this was their debut game and there were times where things weren’t going quite as they should, but I think they’ve just earned themselves a chance to try and see what magic they can produce. Sometimes it really almost felt like they knew where the other would go without having to even look or think about it.”
“You can practically see the chemistry oozing between them, they’re compatible in a way few players are. And it’s not just me saying that! Rozanov’s smile and Hollander’s answering ones are great indicators already of a healthy dynamic that can, should, and most likely will, feed into the team’s overall mood and performance. But, I digress, let’s not get too ahead of ourselves. Whether LeClaire mixes it up or not, whether this game was a fluke or not, one thing’s for sure: it’s looking good, everyone, even if only time will tell how this all unfolds. Now, we’ll be back after a short break to talk more about the season’s opener in detail.”