Chapter Text
Now: New York City (October, 2016)
Ilya is so surprised when he taps his phone and hears Svetlana’s voice—and realizes it wasn’t a butt dial—that the phone almost slides out of his hand.
“Ilyusha, come out with me tonight. I know you have the day off tomorrow … I watched your game yesterday—I’ll buy your drinks. Actually, no, you’ll buy mine—but come out because I want you to meet someone, she’s— we’re getting together tonight. Eight o’clock, at Indigo. See you then.”
It’s six-thirty, and Ilya had been in the shower when she called, attempting to wash away the post-practice sweat and the swampy feeling of disgust at himself for the way he’d played hockey the day before. Or the way his team had played. Not entirely his fault, he reminds himself, and he thinks the voice sounds like his therapist.
A little after eight, he pushes open the door to Indigo. He has been here before, but he doesn’t remember this until he is two feet inside the room, warm air and the smell of shitty alcohol hitting him in the face. The long bar at his left is shining, polished within an inch of its life in an attempt to look like it’s made out of some high-end wood. Ilya moves past a handful of people sitting on tall stools, letting himself make eye contact with a woman who turns to watch him and a man who tips his head. The music is too loud.
And he is too fucking tired for this tonight.
He spots Svetlana quickly, tucked into a back corner at a round table surrounded by a deep red leather booth. She is sitting with a woman about her age, with long dark hair and a glittery blue top, someone he should recognize but doesn’t.
He slides into the booth, feeling it sink underneath him, and leans his elbows on the table.
"Sveta. Who’s your date?”
It’s obnoxious to speak Russian right off the bat. Ilya knows this, but sometimes, when it’s been a few weeks or more since he’s spent any time with Svetlana or one of the very few other Russian-speaking people of his acquaintance—not counting his father or brother; they can go fuck themselves—he can’t stop himself. In Russian, he’s able to shed a small percentage of his body weight.
“Ilya,” Svetlana says, giving him a look he recognizes, and he rallies himself to be friendly, pleasant. “This is Rose.” She turns to the woman sitting right next to her, close enough in the booth to be thigh to thigh.
“Ilya,” he says, offering her his hand, which she accepts. Her skin is cool against his palm. “Very happy to meet you.”
“Rose,” she says. “I’m a big hockey fan!”
He tries to think—fuck, he knows something about Rose—if he hadn’t spent twenty-one minutes of ice time trying to win a fucking hockey game on his own yesterday, maybe his brain would have enough blood flow to remember.
“Rose knows Ivan,” Svetlana says, and it clicks. The actress. Yes, Svetlana has mentioned—
“Ah, Ivan, your favorite customer.” Svetlana rolls her eyes. Rose laughs.
“Yeah, he can be a bit much, right? But I’ve known him for a long time. We did some work together in a play I did a few years ago, too.”
“He seems like he might be an idiot,” says Svetlana. “But who cares, anyway. He bought two cars from me and needed your help for both of them, so I think he is my favorite.” She leans her shoulder gently against Rose.
“Which cars?” Ilya demands. “Tell me again.”
“It was a Jeep Grand Cherokee,” Svetlana tells him. “And a Lincoln SUV.”
“Jesus Christ,” he sighs. “Yes, now I remember. This was disturbing.”
He remembers hearing about Rose, too, but not—he is somehow surprised by how close Svetlana is sitting, the way they smile at each other. Sveta doesn’t usually introduce him to her dates, and when she does, they are gone before Ilya has the chance for repeated exposure. He reaches for her drink and helps himself to a taste. The color is very nice, a rosy orange pink, but—
“Ugh,” Ilya shudders. A French martini. He pushes the glass back towards Svetlana, running a finger across the condensation and then down her arm, which she pulls away.
“My friend Shane,” Rose is saying, basically ignoring him, pulling out her phone and checking a text. Svetlana shoots Ilya a look.
“Rose is friends with Hollander,” she tells him smoothly, and Ilya blinks at her.
“What?”
“Shane Hollander. You know. He’s a hockey player, too? New Jersey.”
“Yes, Sveta, fucking thank you, I am aware.”
“They are best friends.” Svetlana is eyeing him with some interest, like he’s a fucking elephant in a zoo and she’s hoping he’ll start giving himself a mud bath.
“Best friends. That’s nice,” says Ilya.
"He's going to come meet us."
Fuck. Now he has to deal with Shane fucking Hollander and his … face.
“It won’t be weird for you guys, right?” Rose asks him. “I know you’ve got the whole hockey rivalry thing, but that’s just sports.” At this, Svetlana gapes slightly.
“Just sports?” She’s appalled. Ilya snorts.
“Yeah, I mean— I know—but we can all hang out, I hope. Just like … normal people. Friends?”
“What do you think?” Svetlana asks him, and she’s got that look in her eyes again. “I definitely want to be friends with Shane Hollander. I’ve been waiting years for this. How about you, Ilyusha?”
“Okay,” is all he can say. He rolls his shoulders. What else is there? He won’t tell Rose Landry that what she’s saying is insane, and Svetlana can read him like a book. A tired, not very smart book. “Yeah, sure.”
“Great!” Rose looks happy, and now Svetlana is beaming, too.
“Great,” Ilya repeats. “I will go get a drink. Do either of you need another?”
“Oh, yes, please,” says Svetlana, smiling at him sweetly. “The same.”
“Me too, thank you, Ilya,” says Rose. She looks back at her phone. “Cool. I think Shane will be here soon.”
"This is excellent,” Svetlana tells Ilya, and he wrinkles his nose at her. “I can’t wait.” Rose looks up and smiles.
Ilya pulls himself up and goes to the bar, where a small crowd has now gathered. He waits patiently for a few minutes, hands in the pockets of his nice leather jacket, before he can order a beer and two overly sweet drinks. The music has gotten louder, and this isn’t even a place where people dance, but it’s oddly high-energy. Ilya can feel the bass pulsing in his wrists and his belly. Americans—only Americans would play this kind of music in a place where people are trying to sit and talk.
As he moves back to their table he sees a third person sitting on Rose’s other side, someone whose face he could probably pick out of a darkened room with an eye patch covering one eye. A face that is almost as familiar to Ilya as his own.
Hollander looks up and his expression is supposed to be blank, but Ilya can see the tight little downturn of his mouth, the slight sheen of disapproval in his eyes. He’s wearing a leather jacket, too, but his is a lighter, tawny brown. Ilya’s is the color of Hollander’s hair: dark and glossy.
“Oh, thank you!” Rose says happily, reaching over for her drink, and Ilya is forced to let his arm drift in front of Shane Hollander’s face for a moment before he can pull back and park himself next to Sveta in the booth.
“Ilya, you know Shane?” Svetlana says, waving her hand over the table as if this is enough of an introduction.
“Yes,” Ilya says. Fuck. If only he hadn’t lost a hockey game to this guy just yesterday. “Of course.”
“Rozanov.” Hollander tips his head ever so slightly. Somehow he already has a drink, something in a high ball glass with ice, pale gold and carbonated. Maybe Shane Hollander doesn’t have to wait in line.
“Is late for you,” Ilya offers. He makes a show of pulling back his sleeve and checking his wrist, and he’s not wearing a watch, which he thinks is funny for a second but then just makes him look like an idiot. “Almost eight-thirty. Not bedtime yet?”
Hollander looks at him, or around him, maybe slightly off to one side, and doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to Svetlana.
“It’s so good to meet you,” he says, and smiles at her. His stupid cheeks crinkle up a little around his eyes. “Rose has—she’s told me a lot about you.”
“A lot?” Ilya interjects. “How much can possibly be a lot? What is this—second date?”
“Well,” says Rose, blushing a little bit. “No, not really, I don’t think we’d invite you on our second date.”
“Ilyusha,” Svetlana says. “Number of dates is not important, for you. That’s need-to-know information.” She smiles sweetly and Rose laughs. Well. He's glad they're having a nice time.
“Ilyusha?” Hollander raises his eyebrows and looks across the table. “Is that, like—a nickname?”
Ilya’s fingers start tapping on his beer glass, hearing it from Hollander’s mouth. “Yes, Hollander, you are familiar with the word, nickname—”
"Please,” Svetlana interrupts him. “Can you just deal with yourself? Stop.”
Ilya inhales and holds it for a beat, then takes off the jacket that he had picked to wear because it fits him like a glove and goes perfectly with the short-sleeved silk button-down underneath. He shoots a look at Hollander, who is sipping whatever he has in his glass and looking to his left, at Rose. Ilya is almost directly across the table from him. He fights the sudden urge to kick him in the ankle.
Svetlana pets his shoulder a tiny bit. “Silky. Nice. What is this color? It’s like an easter egg.” Rose giggles. Ilya shrugs. Lavender, he thinks, and keeps his mouth shut.
“Lavender,” Hollander suggests, and then looks like he wants to die. His eyes close briefly. Ilya can't look away.
“Oh yes,” says Svetlana.
“What are you drinking?” he asks Hollander, and flashes back quickly to the last time they really spoke in person, off the ice: he had asked exactly the same question. He had been like a moth to a fucking flame that night. It’s truly disappointing that the memory seems to be imprinted on him permanently. Enough time has passed; he would very much like it to fade away.
“Oh, it’s, um. Just ginger ale. I don’t usually drink much during the season. And I had one last night.”
Ilya raises his eyebrows. “Except at All-Star games, yes? Plenty of drinks there?” A glass of vodka—watching Shane swallow it as if it was the last thing he’d ever choose for himself, like it tasted like pure rubbing alcohol. Maybe it did; even Vegas is hit-or-miss when it comes to vodka.
Hollander looks directly at him, and Ilya can see every freckle on his cheeks. The light in this place is making them pop. He takes a deliberate sip of ginger ale. There’s no straw in his glass.
“Sometimes at All-Star games, yes,” he says, and then, enunciating clearly so Ilya can hear every word over the increasing volume in this incredibly annoying place that can’t decide if it’s a bar or a nightclub: “Sometimes after a great win. Like yesterday. But not tonight. Svetlana, how’s work going for you?”
“Oh, fine, it’s fine. Do you need a new car? I would be happy to help you pick one out.”
Hollander smiles at this and says, “no, not right now, but I’ll keep you in mind,” like the perfectly sincere person he is.
Rose turns to him suddenly. “How did your conversation with Clark go last week? I can’t believe we haven’t talked since then.” Her cheeks are rosy, her second drink is almost gone, and Hollander stiffens ever so slightly.
“Oh, um. Fine. We’re just—we’re gonna cool it for awhile, I guess.”
“Cool what?” Ilya can’t help asking.
“Shane’s boyfriend,” Rose tells him. “Or ex-boyfriend. Probably. Hopefully.” The last word is almost a whisper, under her breath. Hollander pokes his elbow out.
“Hey,” he says, but it’s calm, and he’s actually smiling a little bit at her, although his cheeks are now as pink as hers.
“Never saw anything about you and a boyfriend.” Ilya can’t fucking leave it alone. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to leave it alone. The word boyfriend echoes in his head, his mouth, and now he’s remembering the single recent paparazzi photo he saw online. Hollander socializing, with a man: tall, with shiny blond hair. Definitely not a rival hockey player. Not even any kind of hockey player.
“Um, yeah.” Hollander doesn’t look at him. “Well, it was just—casual. And I try to keep those things private. Just. Well.”
Me too, Ilya wants to say. Hollander doesn’t have to explain this to him. Ilya is not a complete fucking idiot.
“Private,” he says instead. “Right.”
They all have to talk louder now, over the music, and Svetlana is casually touching Rose in a way that draws Ilya’s gaze. He will probably miss her, if she becomes part of a couple. But the thought of it is deeply comforting— like when one of the guys gets hurt, or sick, and there is someone at home to handle it. Someone who comes as soon as she can, who pays attention to what needs to be done, and does it. And Ilya doesn’t have to worry.
Most of his teammates don’t even know how fucking lucky they are, to be claimed like that.
Svetlana gently slaps his arm. He blinks and looks at her.
“What?”
“I said, tell me what happened yesterday with Robertson, he played like shit.”
“He plays like shit about fifty percent of the time,” Ilya reminds her, and sees the corners of Hollander’s mouth tip up. “So is not a big surprise there.” He really should not be badmouthing his teammates in front of his biggest professional rival. The lines here are getting blurred already.
“Not like last night,” Svetlana says.
“Is he hurt?” Rose asks him.
“Don’t ask me that right now,” he says, gently. “Not here.”
Robertson isn’t hurt, just a sometimes-mediocre player who ended up on Ilya’s team for a reason he hasn’t yet been able to figure out. But it's Ilya’s literal job to make sure Hollander doesn’t know these things.
Now it’s Rose’s turn to get an elbow from Svetlana, followed by a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Trade secrets,” she says, nodding at Hollander.
“Oh,” says Rose. “Oh! Sorry. Of course.”
“Is okay,” says Ilya. Hollander nods and doesn’t look at Ilya.
His single beer leaves him feeling even more tired, and once it’s gone, Ilya picks up his jacket.
“I will head home, now,” he tells Svetlana. It’s too bad Rose doesn’t speak Russian. It would make things so much easier, if she and Svetlana are going to be spending a lot of time together. As it is, he has to trust that Svetlana won’t let him scare her off.
He kisses Svetlana on the cheek and grasps Rose’s hand, squeezing it with both of his and saying, “I am so happy to know you, Rose Landry, please take my best friend in all the world home with you tonight” and Sveta actually fucking blushes. He lifts his hand awkwardly at Hollander as he stands and gets a nod in return, which leaves him even more irritated, so he says “good luck tomorrow”—New Jersey is playing Philadelphia—“you probably need it with the way your backhand has looked lately,” and Hollander just rolls his eyes as Ilya walks away.
***
He usually leaves one light on in this apartment—the kitchen, or the bathroom—but he forgot tonight, and the darkness is thick around him until he can click on the lamp near the couch.
Ilya throws his jacket down next to him and untucks his shirt, pulling out his phone and typing a name into the search bar.
There’s not much new about Shane Hollander. Not since the last time Ilya looked, which was not as long ago as he would prefer.
Hollander scores hat trick; leads the way to victory in game against New York Rangers is the first thing he sees, and he definitely doesn’t click that link, he was fucking there in person.
Devils’ Captain Shane Hollander sets record for most points scored by a New Jersey player
‘It’s all about routine’—Read about Shane Hollander’s elite hockey preparation: a macrobiotic diet, regular yoga, and eight hours of sleep every night
He has no idea what a macrobiotic diet is, but Ilya doubts very much that ginger ale is on the list. Still, this one catches his eye. The photo is Hollander in a yoga pose. Warrior one (or maybe two), Ilya isn’t a complete ignoramus—this is an unusually wonderful English word—the light catching on his biceps and the curve of his ass in little shorts in a way that makes Ilya’s eyes linger.
With some effort he clicks back to the previous page and scrolls down a few more headlines.
Rozanov and Hollander face off for the first time this season; in spite of strong showing from the New York captain, the Devils take the game 4-3
Hollander vs Rozanov: their legendary rivalry heats up again in 2016
Ilya doesn’t click on the link. He has a small knot in his stomach, and reading these articles won’t help. He thinks back again to the last time they had been face to face, before tonight, and wonders if Hollander is somehow better at forgetting.
***
Then: All-Stars Weekend, Las Vegas (February, 2015)
Whenever post-game get-togethers were hosted in Nevada, Shane did everything within his power to minimize the time he spent with his team off the ice. He hated Las Vegas; his ears went buzzy and his eyes began to squint shut involuntarily after about fifteen minutes.
The hotel was a Four Seasons, which meant towels that were nubby but also soft, and Shane had a view of the puddle-shaped pool. The windows did not overlook the Strip, which was very nice, because Shane didn’t feel the need to look down and see eight thousand megawatts of electricity powering the energy of twelve million lights and fifty thousand pedestrians.
His phone buzzed.
Josh: Hey man. Heading out! Time to go, meet you in the lobby in ten mins
Josh: www.taogroup.com
Josh: Nvm, don’t click the link. Just put on a tight shirt or something. Sports coat. Nice jeans
His teammate was dressing him now. Excellent.
Shane: I don’t
Before he tapped send, Josh was incoming again:
Josh: Don’t even think about it. You’re coming out with us!!! See you downstairs. I’ll buy your first drink, captain
Shane closed his phone. This wasn’t his first time in Vegas, in spite of the way Josh talked to him as if he were still an awkward teenager, and ten minutes later on the dot he was standing in the lobby. It was gold and white, with floors almost as shiny as mirrors, and Shane was briefly captivated by the little cornucopia-shaped mosaic inlay, featuring black and rose-colored marble. There was a sculpture in the middle, too, which reminded him of a tube-dwelling anemone he’d seen at the Boston aquarium a few years back. If he looked at it hard enough, the loud voices of the group of players standing ten feet from him sort of faded out a bit.
He could feel his shoulder blades tightening as he tried not to eavesdrop. Where was Josh? It had been ten minutes. He was ready to go wherever so he could count down one hour and get back here to his room.
“—told him fuck no, I never thought that, right?”
“Are you serious, man? Of course you did—”
“It was his sister, dude. That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah, but did you see her? Fucking hot, is she coming out tonight?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask Roz. He’ll know.” There was a burst of laughter and Shane turned his head, scanning the open room, willing Josh to appear. Instead, the elevator door opened and Ilya Rozanov stepped out. There was a young woman with him, her hand tucked into his elbow, fingers clutching the sleeve of his tight black shirt.
Shane turned away quickly and pulled out his phone. Josh had two more minutes, he was already four minutes late. In two more minutes Shane would get back into that same elevator and go back up to his room.
Rozanov approached the group of guys he had been listening to, and Shane watched them greet each other. He watched Rozanov’s shoulders, his hands, his smile, his ass … for just a split second.
He would have to be blind or a liar to deny the simple fact of Rozanov’s hotness, and Shane was neither of these things. He’d been playing against the guy for years; this wasn’t even the first time he’d come across him in going-out clothes. Or whatever.
Shane was very careful about not letting his gaze linger. He had taken to looking up or down when he needed to zone out for a minute, up towards something like art or a window or even the ceiling, or down towards his shoes. This was the best way, he had found, to avoid whatever weirdness came along with being gay. And a professional hockey player.
Awkward, but oh well. He’d been awkward his entire life; why stop now that he was no longer closeted?
He turned away and locked eyes with Josh, who was suddenly there, bouncing a little on his toes, looking happy and way too energetic.
“Let’s go, man, Smithy’s already there, he says it’s lit.”
“Lit?” Shane had to smile at that.
“Shut up, come on.” Josh smiled back and started walking towards the big lobby doors.
“Don’t you have kids to say goodnight to, or something?”
“Fuck off, it’s—“ Josh checked his watch. “It’s ten-twenty. They’ve been asleep for hours. I talked to them earlier.”
“How’s Laura?”
“The same as when you asked me that this morning, man. Come on.”
They walked past the other players and Shane somehow, in spite of his very best efforts, ended up making eye contact with Rozanov, who smirked and let his eyes travel down Shane’s body and then back up. Shane felt his cheeks heat.
“How far is this place?”
“We’re not walking. The Uber should be here in,” Josh checked his phone again, “two minutes. Come on.”
The relative heat of the Las Vegas night hit Shane like a pillow, soft and comforting in spite of the noise. Fifteen minutes later, they walked into the club, and Shane knew immediately that he would not be able to stay. The music was so loud he could feel the bass in his chest and his ears were instantly ringing. He looked to Josh, who met his eyes with a grimace.
“Come on, Smithy said he’s on the terrace with the guys.”
Shane fought the urge to cover his ears with his hands as they moved around the edge of the room. The chandelier—if that’s what it was—threw purple light over everything and his legs were jelly from the game. His back felt clenched and tight.
“Hollander! Get over here. Macky!” Smith waved them down on the terrace and handed them both glasses of … something. Shane took a sip. Vodka, maybe. Gross. At least it had ice. And a lemon wedge.
Shane sat and looked around, taking tiny sips as he listened to Josh give Smithy shit about the game.
He was handed another drink, which he set aside, and a little plastic bag with something in it. Shane looked down at his hand. “Ear plugs?”
“For going inside, cap, you don’t want to damage your hearing!”
“So fucking loud,” Josh agreed, shoving his own pair into his pocket.
“Thanks,” Shane said. He had no plans to go back inside. He slid the ear plugs into his jacket, and when he looked back up at Josh, he saw Rozanov on the other side of the terrace, in all black—black jeans, that tight black tee shirt, and a black jacket that he was shrugging off his shoulders and tossing onto a lounge chair. The lights cast dark shadows but Shane could see muscles moving under pale skin as Rozanov tilted his head back to laugh, could see his Adam’s apple bob when he took a swallow from his glass.
Shane let his mind wander, drink still cold in his hand. He pinched the lemon slice and licked the tang off his thumb. He should socialize. He wanted to sit and let his teammates’ conversation float around him, and not have to participate, and continue to sip this drink that tasted vaguely like something he might use to clean his kitchen. And maybe just watch Rozanov, twenty yards away or so, aesthetically-pleasing asshole that he was. He looked down at his glass, still half full.
“You having fun, Hollander?”
Shane’s head jerked up, and now, instead of across the terrace, Rozanov was there, three feet from him, smiling in a way that Shane couldn’t quite decipher.
“Oh, uh. Yeah, I guess.” Shane lifted his glass. Rozanov snorted.
“What is this? Water?” Shane was offended. So what if it was?
“Vodka.” He stood up, a little too quickly, but his head only spun a tiny bit.
“Ah,” said Rozanov. “You like vodka?”
“Sure.” He took another sip, aiming for the spot where the lemon had been, hoping for more citrus than burning. Rozanov laughed, but it didn’t sound, like, mocking. He watched Rozanov’s face as he took another sip. If Shane didn’t know better, he might think something about this whole situation was actually delighting him.
“Why do you have this, if you don’t like it?”
“It’s—Smithy gave it to me.” Shane jerked his elbow towards his teammate. “I guess he got a bottle.”
“Ah.” Rozanov studied him some more. Shane tried to not stare back.
Fuck. The lights of the Strip were sparkling all over the place, some sort of giant flashing billboard sending little shards of glittery light onto Rozanov’s face, his lips were pink and wet from something—his drink, or his tongue. Shane had a sudden urge to step forward. He wondered what those lips would feel like under his mouth. Especially that top lip, it looked so—
Okay. The problem was probably that he had never actually socialized in a normal way with Rozanov before. Press conferences, yes. The occasional interview. The endless questions about him from the media—their rivalry, their scoring race, who had won what. Watching his games. Shane was used to all that. They had been orbiting each other closely for many years, ever since the beginning, without ever actually—without Shane ever being this close, face to face. Not like this. Somehow, in six years, it had not ever been like this.
“You dance, Hollander?” This startled a laugh out of Shane.
“No. Not really. You?”
“Yes,” Rozanov said, considering. He sipped his drink and didn’t take his eyes off Shane’s face. “Sometimes.”
“I can’t—it’s too loud in there.” Shane’s drink was almost gone, which meant he could leave soon, and he would—he wanted to, but he also wanted—something else entirely, something that involved some very poor decision making, such as running his thumb over Rozanov’s lip. And that would actually be a complete disaster. “I’m going to head out soon.”
“Out?”
“Back. To the hotel.”
“Hollander,” Rozanov started, then interrupted himself with another swallow of whatever was in his glass. Shane looked away from his throat and put his own down on the small table an arm’s-reach away.
“What?”
“Is early, yes?” He looked at his watch. “Only eleven-fifteen.”
Shane looked around. It did seem that everyone else here was probably just getting started. “I’m beat,” he said. “And we’re flying out tomorrow, so …”
“Everyone is flying out tomorrow.”
“Are you—what, you want me to stay?”
“That’s not what I said.” Rozanov gestured to Shane’s glass. “Another?”
“No. No thanks.”
“Ilya!” A high-pitched voice floated over them, and Shane watched as the same young woman from the hotel—at least he thought it was the same one, it was honestly hard to tell, which he felt a little bad about—lurched gently into Rozanov’s side. He watched as Rozanov smiled slightly and turned his body towards her.
“Be right back,” he said, in the direction of the two people now standing about two feet from him, talking to each other. Shane watched whoever’s sister this was run her brightly painted nails over Rozanov’s forearm. He’d leave after going to the bathroom.
He made his way back inside, considering the ear plugs. It could be a problem if he started to lose his hearing by the time he was thirty. It would make hockey a lot harder.
When he didn’t hear the bathroom door close behind him, he turned and saw Rozanov following him inside. Rozanov, who had left his jacket outside, his curls slightly sweaty against his face, those gleaming blue-green eyes pinning Shane as he moved forward, slowly backing him toward the mirrored wall on one end of the fancy bathroom.
“What the fuck,” Shane whispered, lifting a hand and letting it fall on Rozanov’s shoulder when he was close enough. He felt heat and hard muscle. “What—”
“Hollander,” Rozanov murmured. “Can I—is this—“ and then he was close enough to lean forward and put his mouth on Shane’s jaw, the corner of his mouth.
Shane heard himself whimper softly. What was happening? His hands were on Rozanov’s chest but he wasn’t pushing him away, instead he was grasping that damn shirt and pulling him closer, taking what he wanted, which was to feel Rozanov’s body against his own, to inhale the smell of sweat and cologne. Suddenly their mouths were close enough to meet, and he smelled liquor and felt the heat of Rozanov’s breath and the soft pressure of those damn lips against his. Shane’s mouth opened and then Rozanov’s tongue was sliding in, filling him with heat, making his hips rock forward.
Rozanov pulled back quickly and Shane had a glimpse of heavy-lidded eyes and cheeks flushed like he’d just come off the ice and he heard a soft murmur “is okay? Hollander—”
The answer was clearly to pull him back in.
Rozanov sucked on his tongue and the heat rose higher, aching and desperate, deep in his pelvis. Shane could feel the hard ridge of Rozanov’s cock against his hip and made another soft sound, pulling his mouth away from Rozanov’s to look down between them, reaching quickly and immediately for the button on Rozanov’s jeans. He needed—he wanted—yes, this, the hard length of Rozanov’s cock in his hand, to watch his head tip back and his mouth fall open with a soft groan.
“Fuck, Hollander.” Then Rozanov was moving again, jerky and urgent, working Shane’s jeans open and pushing them down, one hand sliding behind him to grab his ass, the other shoved in his underwear, stroking his cock gently, watching Shane’s face. Shane squeezed his eyes shut and felt Rozanov’s mouth on his neck.
“Tell me,” he heard, words breathed into his cheek. “Hollander—please—”
Shane covered Rozanov’s hand with his own for a few moments, increasing the pressure, thrusting forward, and it was a little rough and he was so fucking hard he couldn’t think, and then he was pushing Rozanov’s jeans down too and they were moving together, so close, hands and hips rocking. Before his brain could catch up to anything that was happening Shane was coming hard, pulsing in Rozanov’s hand and muttering “fuck, oh fuck” when he felt the answering heat and the deep groan vibrating against him as Rozanov came a moment later.
They stood there against the wall, locked together. Shane’s legs were shaking a little. He breathed out and in, twice, and with the next breath he came back to himself. The bathroom wall was still cool against his back. The hum of the air system blotted out the ringing in his ears. Rozanov was still leaning against him, breathing hard, his chest expanding and contracting against Shane’s, little puffs of air hitting Shane’s ear. He slowly pulled his hand out of Shane’s underwear.
Shane pushed him away, fumbling with his clothes. He stepped to one side and reached for a paper towel.
“What the fuck,” he hissed. His whole body was warm and little licks of pleasure were still shooting through his limbs.
“Yes,” hummed Rozanov. His hands were loose at his sides and then he was doing up his own pants. Flushed cheeks, mussed hair; Shane looked away. His hand twitched, he was close enough that he could still reach out and feel Rozanov's lips with his fingers, if he wanted to, if this wasn't already the worst decision he had made in his entire adult life—
“Are you—experimenting, or something?” He heard his voice crack.
Rozanov’s head jerked back, just a little.
“What?”
“Suddenly interested in men?”
A muscle in Rozanov’s jaw ticked.
“Believe it or not, no. That is not what is happening.”
“Then what?”
Rozanov shrugged, looking casual and unconcerned in a way that made Shane want to smack him.
“Thought it might be fun. I was right, yes?”
Shane was temporarily stunned, his mouth opening but no words coming out. The vodka was still swirling faintly in his head.
“Fuck. You.” The words came out low and angry. “This is practically a public bathroom.” He could see all the stall doors, open and empty, but that was just dumb luck. Anyone who came in right now would know what had just happened. Anxiety rose in his chest.
“Yes, well. You did not seem so worried about that when you were fucking my hand a minute ago.” Rozanov moved to the sink. Shane pushed himself away from the wall and went to the sink farthest from him, soaping his hands, lifting his shirt to wipe off his belly. He was a fucking mess. His heart pounded and he leaned forward, gripping the counter with both hands.
“Hollander. You are okay?” Shane didn’t look up.
“I’m fine. Have a good night,” he said tightly, and turned to leave.
“Hollander,” he heard again, as he stepped out and let the door close behind him.
***
Then: New York City, February/March 2015
It was the transition from sunny and sixty degrees back to an icy, damp thirty-five that triggered Ilya’s bad mood.
Russians knew winter, and so did New Yorkers. Ilya was both, and he was used to it. He knew how to wind his scarf the right way and tuck it in so it would cover most of his chest, and he had the right coat for windy days. He even had a light box, which his therapist had recommended to him and he programmed to come on for thirty minutes every morning, November through March. It helped a little, maybe.
At least once a year, Ilya would start hoping that it really was winter that hurt and he’d start thinking again about moving to a warmer place. Florida, or California, or anywhere spring came sooner than fucking May and the sun never set at 4 p.m. Then he’d remember the warm summer days that he had missed because he couldn’t get up out of bed, off the couch. The days his mother took over his memory. The days he’d spend going through the motions of his life with a gnawing pit of sadness in his chest, when the sky was too heavy and nothing made the world seem worth it. Not even the cutest dogs, not even the city’s best syrniki. Not even a solid win against Shane Hollander.
Wherever he went, there he would be, with the same brain in his skull, the one that bullied him with shit like why are you like this, do better, what is the point of you anyway. At least here in New York City he had his teammates, and his apartment where he could eventually have a small pet, if his schedule ever allowed it. Svetlana. Many other beautiful, sexy women he didn’t know yet, women who were interested in him for a night, or two. And New York City really did have fantastic Russian food, even if he rarely went to find it. At least it was there.
Also—Shane Hollander right across the river.
He found himself at home again, after their next game, looking in the kitchen drawer where he shoved his paperwork at the beginning of every season. He didn’t think too much about it as he shuffled through his folder looking for the email he needed: Nicholas Jameson, MLH Player’s Association. He pulled out his phone and sat on the couch.
From: Ilya Rozanov
To: Nicholas Jameson
Subject: Contact information
Hello,
I am hoping you could please send me Shane Hollander’s cell phone number? I would like to touch base with him about
Ilya paused. He deleted the second sentence and typed his name, hitting “send” before he could have second thoughts.
A few days later, he had Hollander’s contact in his phone. His fingers moved in slow motion as he opened a new text message.
Two years ago, Ilya had been sitting on this couch watching a game, New Jersey versus Toronto, and Hollander had been on fire. Ilya had been reaching for the remote to turn the television off when a sports news story came onto the screen. He saw a photograph: Hollander, in his usual jeans and t-shirt, at a restaurant with someone. A man. And then one more, with the same man, at a…club? Some place dark where people were dancing.
Ilya heard the sportscasters speculating with only one ear.
“New Jersey Devils’ captain Shane Hollander was spotted out on the town a few nights ago with a companion, and fans are curious—is this a new friend? Could he possibly be something more?”
Ilya’s fists clenched in his lap. He knew exactly what he was looking at. The fucking paparazzi were trying to—trying to out Hollander. He stood and clicked the television off, surprised by his own anger. And it buzzed through him: Hollander is gay.
Hollander's Instagram post came the next morning. There were two photos, one of him winning his first Cup, and one from the day of the draft. Ilya could see the sleeve of his own fucking jacket in the second one.
“Yes, I date men. I would appreciate privacy, and want the focus to stay on hockey. I remain dedicated to my team and my sport.”
Ilya had walked around his apartment for ten minutes, seething. He wasn’t smart enough to avoid the comments on the post, either. Maybe Hollander’s team, or … his mother, or his friends (did he have friends? Surely he had at least one friend) or someone had kept him from looking.
That had been the first time he’d wanted to contact Hollander directly, but he couldn’t ever figure out exactly what he wanted to say.
Sorry you are dealing with this fucked up situation.
You know you are not the only one. (Everyone knew, there were a few other gay players, or former players, but not a captain or an MVP or a Cup winner, not yet).
You are brave
It should not have happened like this
If not for Russia
The line had been there, and in the end Ilya had been too cowardly to cross it.
But now:
You were drunk. It was my mistake.
Were you drunk?
If you are sorry, I am sorry.
Was not an experiment.
If not for Russia
If my father
If
If
If
He typed the message out slowly.
Hollander, this is Rozanov.
He backspaced and added his first name.
Hello, this is Ilya Rozanov.
He could hear it, in his own voice, with his stupid accent.
Nothing else came to him, but the urgency persisted. Ilya pressed “send” and let out a soft groan of frustration.
He stared at the phone. It was 9:12 p.m. on a Thursday night. Hollander might already be asleep. Eight hours, every night. Ilya tried for that himself, with rare success.
A minute later, text bubbles.
Hollander: how did you get my number?
Ilya: from player’s association
Hollander: do you need something?
Ilya did not know what he needed. To see those freckles again up close. To lick them.
Ilya: Please do not tell anyone
Ilya: would really fuck up my life
Hollander would probably rather take a trade to fucking Buffalo than tell anyone what he’d done with Ilya. He’d probably rather retire to fucking—Texas or something. Ilya should never have followed through on the irresponsible impulse that had surfaced in Vegas. It had been—so fucking hot—such a stupid mistake. Still, he didn’t think this was why he had tracked down Hollander’s number.
He sat there, hand slightly sweaty, waiting.
Hollander: No shit
The minutes passed, until Ilya let out his breath and tossed his phone away, a feeling in his chest like he’d lost something he’d never really had.
***
A week later, he sent his final text to Hollander, after four drinks and two separate, angry phone calls from Russia.
First, his father, demanding to know where he was, and why he hadn’t come home after practice the way he had promised he would. Reminding Ilya of his many failures, as a hockey player, a son, a brother, a person. He had forgotten so many things, and he seemed to remember every fuck-up of Ilya’s life.
Then his brother, needing more—more money, more help, more planning and arranging and caretaking from afar. Ilya had ended up hanging up on Alexei and smoking a cigarette out of his living room window, which he had never done before. He blew the smoke out as far as he could and inhaled damp, frigid air; he looked at his phone and pulled up Hollander’s contact. Don’t do it.
Ilya: Off day tomorrow. Want to meet?