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When Scott entered the Admirals locker room, he immediately noticed something was wrong. Multiple people were locked in on their own phones or someone else’s. Vaughny looked up at him, white in the face. Andersson seemed like he was going to be sick. Breezy was rocking back and forth, his eyes glazed over as if he didn’t realize he was even moving. Only Bennett seemed to be moving semi-normally, but even he kept looking around at their teammates with worried glances.
“Uhhh,” Scott began, letting his eyes drift over each teammate. Wagner had his head tilted up towards the ceiling, muttering under his breath. “What the fuck is going on?”
“You haven’t seen?” Vaughn breathed, his cheeks suddenly shifting to a burning red color.
Scott paled. Surely it wasn’t something to do with him. He briefly thought of the hot smoothie guy he had met the other day. He hadn’t even done anything with Kip. Surely a little light flirting wouldn’t have made its way to the internet, right? Had one of the European men he hooked up with over the summer finally figured out who he was and decided to ruin his life? Were his oral sex skills so bad that one of them had dedicated the last six months to finding him online so that they could expose him?
“Seen what?” Scott replied, trying to keep his voice even.
Vaughn hesitated before grabbing his phone, which had previously lain open on the bench next to him, and thrust it in Scott’s hands. Vaughn’s own hands were shaking slightly.
Scott turned the phone so he could see the screen better.
His eyes widened.
He was looking at Shane Hollander’s Twitter profile. At the very top, there was a pinned statement.
Scott read it once.
He read it again.
On the third read, he heard Carter swallow hard in front of him.
“Hollander’s gay?” he blurted out, staring wide-eyed at the rest of the room.
Now, here’s the thing. Scott had been keeping a secret from everybody in his life. Well, two secrets. One, that he was extraordinarily gay. And two, that he was and had always been extraordinarily attracted to Shane Hollander.
How could he not be? Hollander’s skill on the ice could arouse even a straight man. But then there was the everything else. The way he blushed easily and had always called Scott ‘Mr. Hunter.’ (Scott tried not to think too hard about why he had always been a little turned on by that.) The way Hollander would try not to laugh too hard, resulting in a low chuckle, or on rare occasions, a little giggle. The way his broad chest looked underneath his compression shirt. The way his thighs looked thick enough to choke—
Okay, maybe he had thought about him a lot over the years. Maybe he had thought about him too much. Maybe he had thought about marching over to many of Shane Hollander's All-Star hotel room doors and begging him to give Scott a chance. That exact urge was the reason why Scott spent most All-Star weekends out with their teammates or at the hotel bar.
Scott could barely get away from him in New York either. Every corner and billboard seemed to be plastered with another Rolex or Speedo ad that made Scott want to chew his own finger off. The other day, Scott had exited the practice facility to come face to face with a massive screen showing Shane Hollander in tiny white shorts and a tight tank top, walking backward on a treadmill. It had taken Scott a few minutes to unfreeze himself from the pavement. Fortunately, his other teammates had seemed equally distracted by the advertisement, so they hadn’t noticed Scott’s reaction. Although Scott doubted that their own focus on the billboard was caused by the same reason as Scott’s.
“Yeah, a video leaked of him talking to Rose Landry about it, and he posted that statement about twenty minutes ago,” Breezy called out, interrupting Scott’s stupor.
Scott couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that Shane Hollander was the first openly gay man in the MLH. Should Scott text him? He should probably text him. If only to offer his…support.
God, was he about to come out to Shane Hollander? Scott had never really come out to someone before, but suddenly it felt like something he needed to do right this instant.
His hand twitched towards his own phone as he handed Vaughn back his. He would do it later when he wasn’t in the company of his entire team.
Oh God, his team.
Scott glanced around the room. Suddenly, the sick expressions were making a little more sense. Scott couldn’t help but feel a little heartbroken. He had always hoped that they would at least be a little supportive if he ever decided to come out. Not that he ever would. Well…except maybe to Shane Hollander. For support.
“I feel bad for him,” Bennet said from the corner, also analyzing their teammate’s facial expressions. “Can’t imagine what he’s going through.”
No one said anything, but a few started slowly nodding.
“Do…” Gillis began nervously. “Do you think he needs our help? Like maybe one of us should text him.”
“I’ll do it,” Cameron said quickly, his hand shooting up into the air. He turned to Scott eagerly. “Do you have his phone number, cap?”
“What?” Gillis yelled back, offended. “I’m the one who suggested it! I want to do it.”
“Maybe there’s a power in numbers thing,” Wagner wondered aloud. “Maybe we could all text him.”
“No. No way.” Jalo called, crossing his arms.
Andersson shot him a confused look. “What? Why not?”
Jalo hesitated, his eyes darting around the room. “Well…I don’t know; I just feel like we shouldn’t overwhelm him.” He nodded his head like he was also starting to agree with what he had just said. “I can text him. Gillis and Cameron are too young anyway.”
“Too young for what?” Scott couldn’t help but ask, ignoring the outcries from Gillis and Cameron.
Jalo flinched and laughed nervously. “Just…I mean….Hollander would probably appreciate hearing from someone a little more experienced. Somehow, who knows what they’re doing.”
“Oh, and that’s you?” Carter asked flatly.
Jalo shot him a glare. “Oh, like you think you could do any better?”
Carter puffed out his chest slightly, pushing back his hair and trying to make himself taller than Jalo.
What the fuck was going on? This was the strangest form of homophobia Scott had ever seen. But maybe he just hadn’t seen enough hockey players react to openly gay men.
“I think I can handle it. Besides, I don’t need to text him. I’ll see him at All-Stars this weekend.”
Scott heard a few groans behind him, and someone let out a small ‘fuck.’ Scott, who had honestly forgotten all about All-Stars during this conversation, couldn’t help but perk up slightly. Bennett gave Scott a look and rolled his eyes.
Jalo only scoffed. “Yeah, man. Good luck with that.” He turned to Scott. “So, can I get that phone number, cap?”
Scott frowned but pulled out his phone to look for Hollander’s number before handing it over. He watched as Jalo typed it into his own phone while a couple of his other teammates leaned closer to peer at the phone themselves. Gillis started mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like numbers before hurrying over to his own phone, typing furiously.
Jalo handed him back the phone, and the team started to make their way back to their own lockers, coping with the presence of a gay man in the MLH in their own weird ways.
Scott looked at the screen, at Shane Hollander’s name taunting him.
But he couldn’t help but feel lighter than he had in weeks, and he made his way over to his own locker, preparing for practice.
He was going to All-Stars this weekend, and so was Shane Hollander.
And Scott was a gay man.
Who also happened to know, after repeatedly watching his interview, that a certain someone had hung a poster of Scott on their wall growing up.
So, Scott figured he might have a pretty good shot.
How many queer men could there be in the MLH, really?
* * * * *
“I really don’t think I should go.”
“Come on, Shane!” Rose called out from his phone, propped up on his bathroom sink. “You can’t let them think they got the best of you. And, you’re going to look hot, believe me.”
Shane sighed and looked down at the outfit he was showing her. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt with baggy trousers.
“I really don’t think I look any different,” he said.
“Please. That shirt is leaving nothing to the imagination. And if you would just wear the earrings…”
“I’m not wearing the earrings.”
Rose whined. “Aw, come on, Shane—”
“I don’t even have my ears pierced!”
Rose shot him a flat look. “Please. Like that couldn’t be easily fixed.”
“I don’t want holes in my ears!” Shane said, exasperated, peeling off the shirt to throw on the next outfit Rose had sent him.
Rose whistled, and Shane rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to cover up his chest with his arms. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t already seen.
“I thought you didn’t mind being the hole,” Rose remarked with a smirk.
Shane gave her an unamused look. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“You don’t make any sense.”
“Nice,” he responded dryly. Shane sighed, throwing on a black shirt with a tan jacket.
“Wait! There. Right there. That’s the look,” Rose said excitedly, pushing the camera closer to her face so that she could see him better.
Shane looked down and raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
Rose nodded furiously. “Really. This is the one. This will get you aaaall the boys.”
Shane sighed and fiddled with the jacket nervously, assessing his appearance in the mirror. He leaned closer to his face, picking at some of the pores and lines he had developed over the years.
He lifted the phone closer to his face so he could better see Rose.
“I don’t think I’m going to be getting boys at All-Stars,” he said flatly.
“Well, maybe not all the boys,” Rose said, her mouth quirking up mischievously. “But maybe one…” she sang.
Shane shot her an unimpressed look before sighing and looking at himself in the mirror again. He looked okay, he guessed.
“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. I might be too focused on trying not to let all the other players hit me.”
“More like hit on you,” Rose said, turning her face away to continue applying her eyeliner.
“Come on, Rose,” Shane said with a sigh. “This isn’t LA. You and I both know people are going to be…weird about it. I’ll be lucky if they just ignore me.”
He hadn’t intended on being the first gay man in the MLH. When the video of him and Rose talking at the restaurant had been posted, Shane had sat in his shower for four hours. He hadn’t even taken off his clothes. He had just let the water slowly soak every inch of him, with the hope that the weight of it all would drag him down the drain too. That was how Rose had found him later. She had been the one to make him answer his parents’ phone calls and his teammates' texts.
He had been surprised to see the sheer number of messages from the Metros. Teammates he had never even texted individually outside the team group chat had reached out to him, asking if he wanted to come over to talk about it. He hadn’t taken any of them up on the invitation, but he had appreciated that none of them seemed too uncomfortable to suggest being alone with him in their apartments.
Shane had even received texts from players on other teams. He wasn’t sure how so many of them had gotten his phone number, but he figured that it was spreading around the league as quickly as the video had. Based on the texts, he figured All-Stars couldn’t be that bad. Even if some of them seemed to be mocking him by asking him on ‘dates,’ none of them were explicitly homophobic. They hadn’t texted him slurs or anything like that. Although a Buffalo player had sent him a picture of his bare chest out of nowhere. Shane had immediately deleted it. He didn’t need players testing if he was actually gay or something like that.
“Shane,” Rose said seriously. “It’s going to be okay. You’re Shane fucking Hollander. You’re the best and hottest player in the league.”
Shane shrugged. “That might just make it worse. If I were nobody, it would be easier to ignore.”
“Shane,” Rose repeated. “Say it with me. I am Shane motherfucking Hollander.”
Shane rolled his eyes but looked in the mirror again, standing up straighter and smoothing out his jacket. He nodded his head firmly.
He was going to go to All-Stars. He wasn’t going to shy away from people. He wasn’t going to avoid touching players to make them more comfortable. He was going to go in there and be the player he had always been.
“I am Shane motherfucking Hollander.”
* * * * *
Holy shit. It was Shane motherfucking Hollander, Carter Vaughn thought as Hollander casually strolled into the hotel bar, as if he hadn’t just caused two players to spit out their drinks.
Carter wasn’t gay. He wasn’t! But he had eyes.
And Shane Hollander was fucking hot.
Carter could remember so distinctly when he had first met Hollander. Carter had started with the Admirals the year after Hollander’s first year. But you could hardly tell that Hollander was only in his second season in the MLH by the way he moved on the ice.
Carter almost dropped his stick the first time Hollander had stolen the puck away from him. For some reason, he had wanted to give him the puck, his stick, and so much more after one quick glance that Hollander shot in his direction. He had shaken it off pretty quickly, but he would never forget how fast the blood had left his face and traveled…well…elsewhere.
He had sprinted home after the game, not even showering. He had immediately googled photos of Shane Hollander and stared at them until the early hours of the morning.
It wasn’t that Carter was gay. He would know. He had taken multiple quizzes after he was done looking at the photos—in incognito mode, of course.
It was just that Hollander was really fucking good at hockey.
It was just like Jalo had said after one of their games against the Metros. It’s just really easy to be turned on by great hockey-playing. Hollander had scored his first hat trick of the season in that game. Half of the team had shifted uncomfortably on the bench afterward. Not that Carter could blame them. Before heading to the showers after the game, Carter had to go into a bathroom stall to try to pull himself together.
Carter almost wished he could run into that stall again as he watched Hollander stalk across the room in a criminally tight black shirt and tan suit.
He tried swallowing to clear his mouth, but it did absolutely nothing.
“Fuck,” Carter heard a voice whimper next to him. He turned and saw Mason Kearns, a defenseman from Vegas, staring wide-eyed at the man across the room.
Carter gave the room a quick glance and saw multiple players looking over, some trying to act casual, others just blatantly staring. Carter scoffed. The homophobia in this league was horrible. He should probably go tell Hollander how terrible he thought it was. Offer a shoulder to cry on. Or Carter could cry on his shoulder. His big, strong, broad shoulder…
Hollander nervously looked around the room before settling next to fucking Rozanov of all people. Carter felt the entire room tense as the two began talking, Hollander shifting slightly back and forth in his seat.
Hollander ordered a beer. He never drank; everyone knew this. It must be because he was stressed talking to Rozanov, who, obviously, was horrified to be sitting next to a gay man. He was Russian after all. Carter had been to Sochi. He knew how Russia was to gay people.
Suddenly, Carter had a stroke of inspiration. He could go save Hollander. It was fucking genius. He could interrupt their conversation and put himself between Hollander and the homophobe. Maybe he’d even get to punch Rozanov in the process—who knows. Could be a good perk. And Hollander would be so grateful, he’d invite Carter to his hotel room. Maybe they’d chat. Maybe they’d become friends. Maybe Hollander would let him suck his—
Carter stood up before he even knew what he was doing. Ignoring the outraged gasps and hushed whispers behind him, he leaned over the two players and slapped his hands on both their backs.
“Cats and dogs!” he yelled. “Look at this! Fucking beauty.”
He couldn’t help but look at Hollander as he said it, letting his hand fall from Rozanov's back but drift lower on Shane's.
Shane smiled at him, which encouraged Carter to try to push his body further between Hollander and Rozanov. He heard a scoff behind him that he ignored.
“Yeah, should be a fun time,” Hollander said politely. Carter grinned.
He felt a hand on his hip, trying to shove him out of the way. Carter pressed further into the bar counter. Fucking Rozanov.
“Careful with this guy, though,” Carter said with a quick glare at Rozanov behind him, who was glaring back. “You can never trust him.”
“I do not think it is me he should not trust,” Rozanov snapped. Carter rolled his eyes, but slowly let Rozanov push him out of the way so that the three of them could all see each other.
“Come on, Rozy,” Carter almost sneered. “I have only good intentions here for my boy Hollzy,” Carter said, running his hand across Hollander’s back and trying not to pass out when he found his hand pressing into Hollander’s muscles unexpectedly. Holy shit, he was ripped.
Rozanov squinted at him like he was trying to piece something together, and Carter squirmed slightly under the attention. But he was not going to let Ilya Rozanov make him feel ashamed for his little…crush. It was fucking 2017. Rozanov could grow the fuck up.
“Are you going to the charity golf thing?” Carter asked, turning back to Hollander, who shrugged.
“No, golf isn’t really my thing. I thought I might try out the hotel pool, though,” he said, giving Rozanov a look for some reason.
Carter blinked a few times, feeling a bit stunned.
“The pool?” he asked weakly. Carter saw a couple of other players lean in closer as if they were listening to the conversation. Rozanov looked around at them as well and frowned.
“Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love Montreal, but I can’t say that I’m not excited to get out of there for a little bit of January. Might as well enjoy a bit of sun while I'm at it,” Hollander said simply, taking another sip of beer as if he hadn’t just changed Carter’s life for a second time this week.
Fuck. Hollander. Pool. Shirtless. Wet.
Carter grinned. “I think that’s a great idea! I’ll join you,” he said quickly. To his left, Rozanov’s jaw dropped.
Hollander frowned. “I thought you were going golfing?”
Carter laughed a little too loudly. “Nah, golfing is for old fucks like Scott,” he said, nodding a little further down the bar where Scott was drinking a ginger ale (which was weird because Cap always said he thought the drink was disgusting).
Scott squinted at him. “What are you saying about me now, Vaughny?”
Carter shrugged before throwing an arm around Hollander, who tensed slightly. He saw Scott’s eyes drift to where his hand was now resting against Hollander’s chest.
“Just that you’re not going to be joining me and Hollzy at the pool later,” Carter said.
Carter could have sworn that Scott glared at him for a moment before his eyes drifted back to Hollander. He took a sip of his ginger ale and grimaced slightly before taking a deep breath.
“I guess I won’t be. Maybe I can get out of playing golf, though,” Scott said, not taking his eyes off Hollander.
“Nah, don’t worry about it, Cap. It’s for charity!”
Okay, now Carter was sure that Scott was glaring at him. What was his deal?
Carter ignored him and drummed his hands on Hollander’s shoulders. “Come on, man, go put on your suit! I’ll join you out there.”
Hollander hesitated, glancing at Rozanov for a moment before shrugging and standing up. “Fine. Will you be joining us, Roz?” Hollander said as he pushed his stool in.
Rozanov stared at Carter before looking back at Hollander. Then he rotated off the stool, making a purposeful scan of the room full of people seemingly watching the three of them. Fucking homophobes, all of them.
“Yes. I think I will.”
Rozanov shot him a look, and Carter only glowered back in response.
Looks like his hero act would have to continue for a little longer.
Not that Carter was too mad about it.
He was about to have a wet, shirtless Hollander to keep him company.
* * * * *
Cliff Marlow was walking out of his room when Roz grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him in close.
“Meet me by the pool in five minutes. I need backup. Might need you to kill someone,” Rozanov hissed in his ear before storming off, throwing open the door to his own hotel room and slamming it behind him.
Cliff would like to say he was shocked by the request, but it wasn’t the first time that Rozanov had suggested he act as an accomplice to murder. They had never followed through on it, but Roz kind of felt like a younger brother to him at this point. He wasn’t sure there was anything Cliff wouldn’t do for him. He’d gotten Cliff a Stanley fucking Cup, for fuck’s sake.
Although he didn’t want to picture Roz as his brother, now that he thought about it. They were closer than that. They had been there for each other when no one else was. They had shared hotel rooms, partied together, and picked up women together. They had even fucked a few of those women together.
Well, and of course they had fucked each other, too.
That’s why they weren’t brothers. That would be fucking weird.
It wasn’t gay or anything. Roz just sometimes had too much pent-up energy. He played better after having sex. And Roz was great at picking up women, one of the best. But sometimes things happened that meant they couldn’t hit up a bar or club the night before the game.
And it wasn’t gay to suck dick to win a Stanley Cup. Anybody would if they had to.
Besides, Roz was objectively a good-looking guy. Symmetrical face. Nice hair. Strong jaw. Anyone could recognize that. He had pretty blond hair and made cute little noises when Cliff wrapped his lips around him. Those were just facts.
Cliff really didn’t mind. It was for the team. And Cliff took his role as alternate captain very seriously.
The last month had been fucking terrible too. Roz had screamed at every single person on their team by this point and had made Sebbin cry actual tears. Cliff had tried to help him out after Roz rejected every single woman he talked to at the club, but Roz hadn’t even wanted to talk to him.
So now, he was kind of glad Roz was asking him to help murder someone. At least it wasn’t someone on their team. At least he had a passion.
Marlow made his way up to the rooftop pool wearing his swim shorts and carrying a hotel towel. He was taken aback as he waltzed onto the scene of the soon-to-be crime.
There were a lot of fucking people up here.
Marlow frowned and looked around. It seemed like every player was here, standing around and looking over their shoulder. The right winger from Florida. The defenseman from San Jose. The goalie from New Jersey. Even Troy Barrett was sitting at the pool bar, a couple of empty glasses lined up next to him.
How many fucking people was Roz going to have him murder exactly?
He spotted Roz lying on a lounge chair, who waved him over. He shrugged and went over to join him.
“So, who are we killing?” Cliff asked, throwing his towel on the chair next to him that Roz had a leg over. It was a good thing he had saved it. There didn’t seem to be many open spaces for some reason.
“I do not know. Will keep you updated,” Roz said firmly, looking a little panicked as his eyes darted around the pool area. “Might be more than one. Could be massacre. Prepare to run.”
Cliff shrugged and plopped down onto the chair, crossing his arms behind his head.
“What are we waiting for?” Marly said, putting on his sunglasses.
“My worst nightmare,” Roz mumbled.
Roz was so fucking weird. Cliff didn’t mind, though. He really didn’t mind anything about him.
Suddenly, there was a shift in the energy. Men to his left and right were sitting up straighter. Declan Brooks looked like he was flexing his muscles. Cole Donnelly jumped out of the pool, posing on the edge of it with an arm bracing his head and a leg bent up. Mike Brophy started doing fucking push-ups. For fuck’s sake, Kyle Jensen was pulling out a book and flipping it open, his eyes scanning furiously down the page. Cliff had shared enough locker rooms with Jensen to remain unconvinced the man could read. Troy Barrett was ordering his fourth drink.
What the fuck—
And then Cliff saw it. Or rather, Cliff saw him.
Shane Hollander was walking onto the roof in the tightest swim trunks Cliff had ever seen.
He couldn’t help it when his mouth opened slightly. Cliff knew that Hollander was a Speedo representative, but he hadn’t realized that the advertisements weren’t even really capturing the whole effect.
Fuck, what was his workout routine? His thighs looked…well, they looked fucking massive.
Cliff couldn't draw his attention away from the thighs. Jesus Christ. Did he squat every day? Every hour? Were the thighs getting closer to him, or were they just somehow getting bigger by the minute?
He felt a shadow loom over him before he realized what was happening. Cliff blinked and looked up. Hollander was walking straight toward him and Roz.
He heard Roz clear his throat, and Cliff frowned. Was Roz planning on killing Hollander? Cliff ran his eyes down Hollander’s body, assessing his vulnerabilities. Fuck, did he even have any? Cliff felt like Hollander might just kill him instead. Maybe he’d let him.
Hollander smiled and looked at Roz.
“You gonna swim, or are you just going to sit here and look pretty?” Hollander said with a smirk.
Cliff felt like he had been punched with how quickly the air left him.
Roz hummed and lifted his arms behind his head, copying Cliff’s position and puffing out his chest. “I think I will sit and enjoy view.”
Cliff frowned at him. What fucking view? They weren’t even facing away from the hotel.
“Well then. Here is view, I guess. Check it out,” Hollander said casually with a wink before turning around and walking away slowly.
Way too damn slowly.
Cliff couldn’t help but lower his sunglasses. “Damn, Hollander,” he whispered.
Roz whipped his head towards him, gawking.
“No, Marly. Not you too,” Roz whispered.
Cliff chuckled, pushing his sunglasses back up and watching as Hollander slunk into the pool. The water was suddenly much more crowded. Carter Vaughn called Hollander over, inviting him to a little game of pool volleyball. Roz scoffed next to him.
So fucking weird.
He kept watching Hollander in the water, admiring the way his arm extended out to smack the volleyball toward the other side. He had a lot of power behind that arm, that’s for sure. Of course he would be good at this too, fucking beast.
Cliff couldn’t help but let his mind drift to the statement Hollander had put out earlier that week. So Hollander was gay. Cliff didn’t mind. He had a gay cousin anyway.
He wondered if it had been hard on him. Should he ask?
He bet Shane had a lot of pent-up energy he needed to get out, like Roz did. Everybody always said those two were cut from the same cloth. Maybe Shane needed Cliff’s help with that too.
* * * * *
J.J. Boiziau was fucking pissed. First, his best friend came out to Rose fucking Landry before him. Then he came out to the world without even calling him.
And now, everyone was trying to talk to his best friend at All-Stars.
He had made it his personal responsibility to take care of Shane over the weekend, making sure none of the players fucked with him for being gay. Even if he was pissed at Shane, he wasn’t going to let some fucking ignorant hockey player mess with his best friend. Not his best friend.
So he had been a little skeptical and more than a little frustrated when he arrived at the league dinner and saw Shane surrounded by players. There wasn’t even room for J.J. to sit next to him. Next to his best friend.
J.J. had to sit across from Rozanov, for fuck’s sake. Rozanov didn’t even bother to look at him, the fucker. Instead, he was staring down the table at the group that was leaning closer and closer to Shane while stabbing his fork into his steak. He wasn't even eating it anymore. He just kept driving the knife into the poor meat as if it had personally offended him.
But J.J. understood. He was staring at Shane too, trying to gauge whether anyone was giving him trouble. It didn’t seem like they were, though. Everyone seemed…almost friendly. Too friendly. Suspiciously friendly.
J.J.’s eyes narrowed as he watched Adam Bishop laugh and throw an arm around Shane to get him to share the joke. Matt Sweeney almost spilled the pitcher of water he got from the middle of the table while trying to fill up Shane’s glass. Zane Boodram was leaning over, showing Shane photos of his wife, and talking about ‘progressive’ relationships for some reason.
J.J. felt his stomach drop.
He knew what was going on.
He had seen this kind of behavior throughout his life. As a black man, he had experienced a lot of racism in his time. But sometimes it didn’t look the way everyone expected. Sometimes it was just the fact that he got invited to All-Stars every year, and why Crowell always took a photo with him at league events.
He just hadn’t expected it from a bunch of dumb fucking hockey players.
They were trying to tokenize Shane. Now that he was gay as well as Asian-Canadian, they saw an undeniable opportunity and were trying to cash in. They were trying to steal his best friend.
Who the fuck did they think they were?
He watched as Scott Hunter leaned over to tell Shane something, whispering in his ear and patting his back. J.J. felt one of his eyes twitch.
These fuckers didn’t know Shane. But they were trying to get on his good side. Trying to get some good fucking press. Trying to replace J.J. as Shane’s best friend. And who were they to replace J.J.? They weren’t J.J. They couldn’t be J.J. They weren’t Shane’s best friend.
They didn’t know Shane like he did. They didn’t know Shane’s routine like he did. They didn’t know what Shane looked like in the locker room. In the shower. He knew that. They didn’t. They had no fucking idea.
Scott’s hand was still on Shane’s back. J.J. wanted to run over and chop it off with Rozanov’s steak knife.
A waiter walked over and handed J.J. his pasta. He stabbed into it and started shoveling it into his mouth, his eyes not leaving the horrifying scene to his left.
He heard a loud clatter in front of him that broke his trance. The table went silent.
Rozanov was now glaring at J.J. for some reason, but the plate in front of him had completely shattered. Rozanov was still holding the steak knife that he had now impaled through both the plate and a bit of the table. The steak surrounding it was barely recognizable as meat anymore.
J.J. quirked an eyebrow. “You good, Rozanov?”
Rozanov yanked the knife out of the table, splattering J.J. with some of the juices. He yelped and wiped some of it away from his face, grabbing a napkin and trying to blot some of the stains on his shirt out.
“What the fuck, Roz!” he cried as the stains started to permanently seep in.
“Fucking perfect,” Roz growled back.
J.J. just stared at him. Well, at least J.J. had found one of the more overt homophobes to protect Shane from.
* * * * *
Wyatt Hayes really didn’t know why he had been invited to All-Stars this year. He was a pretty mid-tier goalie overall and a backup for Toronto. But apparently, some fans found his online comic book analyses pretty funny and voted him a fan favorite.
Not that Wyatt was complaining. Well, not about coming to All-Stars. He was a little upset about the reaction to his videos. He hadn’t meant them to be funny.
Since he had never been to one of these things, he didn’t really know or understand the vibes. However, he was pretty sure everyone was being really weird about Shane Hollander.
He hadn’t even seen Hollander yet since he hadn’t been able to make it to all the opening activities the day before. But as a goalie, he could tell when something was up. He could tell when a move of a stick seemed unnatural or different. And everyone seemed to be moving their sticks pretty differently around here.
No one seemed to be able to stop talking about Hollander. As Wyatt shoved his gear on in the locker room, he watched as player after player looked towards the entrance, waiting for their temporary captain to come in. Hollander was notoriously one of the first players in any locker room, but somehow, most of the team had managed to beat him there. Including Wyatt, but he had always liked showing up early to just get a feel for the rink.
Even Rozanov had managed to get there early with the rest of them and was now furiously tying his skates. Wyatt was vaguely worried that he was going to cut off circulation, but he didn’t say anything. It would help Toronto’s chances if Rozanov lost a foot, if nothing else.
“Dude, I really don’t know if I can call Hollander captain,” Wyatt heard a young player whisper to the guy next to him. He was pretty sure his name was Corkum.
“Man, don’t be such a homophobe,” the player hissed back.
“That’s not what I’m fucking talking about,” Corkum spat.
Suddenly, the door to the locker room swung open, and Shane Hollander walked in, carrying his bag over his shoulder. He froze when he saw the entire room staring at him.
“Uh—” Hollander began.
“Hollzy, let me take your bag for you,” Sullivan proclaimed, standing up quickly and sliding Hollander’s bag onto his own shoulder.
Wyatt watched as Sully carried the bag over to a stall in the middle of the room that was suspiciously clean. Hollander looked a little lost as he followed him and began to get ready.
Hollander took off his shirt, and Wyatt could have sworn that the room got ten degrees hotter. He couldn't help but notice the muscles rippling across Hollander's back as he leaned over to take off his pants as well, his arms flexing with each movement.
Listen. Wyatt wasn’t stupid. He had…experimented a little bit when he first joined the league, before he met Lisa. He had talked to his sister about it, of course. Even he and Lisa had talked about it. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he was sometimes attracted to men. Lisa had even told him she was cool if he ever wanted to explore that side of him a bit more. Not that he would ever leave Lisa. She was still the love of his life and always would be.
But he was a goalie. Every goalie had weird things that no one thought twice about. It just didn’t feel like that big of a deal. It didn’t seem like something he needed to think about or mention.
But suddenly, he was thinking about it. Suddenly, it felt mentionable.
Suddenly, he couldn’t peel his eyes away from Shane Hollander’s half-naked form.
And neither, it seemed, could anyone else.
Hollander threw on his skins, and Wyatt heard someone audibly groan. He couldn’t believe it. Had everyone lost their minds? Surely this wasn’t what it was like at every All-Star Game.
Not having noticed the reactions of the men around him, Hollander continued shoving on his gear, glancing around.
“You all got ready fast,” Hollander muttered to the room.
“Just trying to be prepared, Captain,” Cliff Marleau called out. Rozanov smacked his arm for some reason.
Shane frowned at him. “Whatever. I wasn’t going to watch you all while you changed if that’s what you were worried about.”
Some of the players almost looked disappointed, as if they hadn’t even considered the fact that maybe Hollander could watch them get changed, too. Corkum looked like he wanted to strip off his gear, only to put it back on. Sullivan was trying to flex underneath his pads, which mostly made him look stupid.
Wyatt wanted to give Hollander a bit of support. He seemed a bit down, all things considered. Maybe he didn’t like all of the attention. Wyatt wasn’t sure that he would want this many eyes staring at his naked body even if he did look like Shane Hollander.
So maybe he needed someone. He kind of reminded Wyatt of Bucky Barnes right now. Rugged. Misunderstood. Mysterious. Entrenched in public scandal.
Wyatt had blond hair. He could be Hollander’s Steve Rogers, even if only for the day.
Lisa would understand.
Hauling himself off the bench, Wyatt slowly approached Shane, the weight of the eyes around him feeling heavier and heavier with each step. He slapped Hollander on the back, grabbing his attention.
“Hey, Hollander. I’m excited to be on a team with you. Always wanted to try my hand at All-Stars, and I couldn’t feel better about being under you,” Wyatt said with a smile and only a slight grimace. He had meant to say ‘under your leadership.’ He hadn’t seemed to be able to get the last bit out.
Hollander smiled at him, and he felt his knees go a little weak. Thank God for stiff goalie pads.
“Thanks, Hayes. That means a lot to me. And you can just call me Shane.”
Wyatt blinked.
Oh.
“Okay, Shane,” he breathed. “You can call me Wyatt.”
Wyatt stuck out a hand towards Shane (Shane!), who took it and gave it a firm shake. Wyatt felt like every ounce of goalie focus was dialed in on those fingertips.
“Why the fuck does he get to call him Shane?” he heard someone whisper behind him.
“Alright, let’s keep it moving,” Boiziau called out, giving Wyatt a harsh shove and replacing him at Shane’s side. “We’ve got a fucking game to win.”
The group cheered, some a little too loudly, as if it had burst from them spontaneously. Wyatt felt a few glares as he walked back to his stall.
Chatter began to fill the room again, and players started filtering out.
One of his teammates started talking to Shane, almost repeating word for word what Wyatt had just said to him, sticking out his own hand at the end. Shane just blinked and shook his hand, too. Wyatt decided he didn’t really like that guy very much.
But then he watched as another player approached, sticking out their hand too.
“Hey, Shane. Excited to play with you!” he said. Shane shook their hand.
Another player shoved his way in. “Hi, Shane. Really excited to be on your team.” Shane shook his hand too.
Slowly, an entire line formed in front of Shane, all waiting patiently for their turn. Or not so patiently if you were Marlow, who pushed to the front of the line and grabbed Shane’s hand with a boisterous laugh. Boiziau stood next to Shane the entire time, his eyes narrowing further and further with each person. Wyatt hadn’t even known eyes could do that.
It was all a bit absurd. Shane must have thought so too because he looked up at Wyatt and gave him a little smile and a shrug on his tenth handshake.
Wyatt couldn’t help but bounce out of the room down the tunnel, as if someone had shot him full of caffeine.
Well, he felt that way until someone approached him from behind, leaning close to his ear.
“Stay in your own crease,” the person hissed.
Wyatt turned to find a seething Rozanov.
“What?” he asked, baffled.
“I said, stay in your own fucking crease,” Rozanov growled, getting little drops of spit on his face.
Wyatt shifted nervously back and forth on his skates, fiddling with his stick. “What other crease would I be in?”
Rozanov just glared at him and stormed onto the ice.
Wyatt blinked.
He guessed goalies weren’t the only ones with their weird quirks.
* * * * *
Nils Lundin needed to get out of the MLH.
He was watching from the bench as Shane Hollander completed the shot accuracy competition in record time, beating out his own score from a few years prior.
He couldn’t keep living like this. It was hard enough being a gay man playing professional hockey. And now they were trying to sabotage him by throwing Shane fucking Hollander in his face.
It didn’t matter that Hollander was gay now. Lundin had as much of a shot with him as he had before.
He wanted to date. He wanted to be out. But even with Hollander out, he didn’t feel like he could. He didn’t really want to while in this league. The culture had started to wear him down bit by bit.
He watched Shane Hollander pump his fist in the air and let out a little, “Let’s go.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Nils groaned and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling and breathing hard.
The players around him were cheering loudly, all standing up and leaning so far over the edge of the boards that Nils was worried they would fall over. Three different voices shouted, "Yeah, Shane!"
Nils looked down the bench and saw Scott Hunter clapping hard. Carter Vaughn had both hands cupped around his mouth. Cliff Marleau was whistling. Wyatt Hayes shot Hollander two thumbs up and yelled something that sounded an awful lot like, “Let’s go, Buck!”
Yeah. It was time to go back to fucking Sweden.
* * * * *
Zach Carson couldn’t believe it. He was playing left wing. For Shane Hollander.
He couldn’t believe it.
And he couldn’t believe how hard he was.
Zach had no idea what was going on. He thought about taking a moment to call his doctor, but that almost felt more embarrassing than being hard on the ice. It was just something physical. Something bodies did. Who knew why anyone ever got hard, really?
He couldn’t help the little whimper that escaped him when Shane Hollander slid him the puck. He hadn’t been in the MLH for very long, but Zach could say with near-certainty that each play with Hollander was going to make it into his top favorite moments on the ice ever.
Not that that had anything to do with the fact that he was hard. He was just excited. Excited to play great hockey. Shane had told him to give it his all. Why would his whole body not give it its all at the end of the day?
Besides, Zach was almost certain that he was playing better than he ever had before. He kept feeding pucks to Hollander, who was scoring truly beautiful goals; there was no other way to describe them. He looked magnificent. He looked godly.
Some people were probably bothered by the whole gay thing. Zach wasn’t. He thought he would be. He was a good Christian boy after all. But for some reason, it felt like just another part of Hollander’s amazing hockey playing.
He had seen some people talk online about how it made sense. Shane Hollander had always been pretty. They said it seemed only right that he was the gay guy to come out of the MLH.
Zach didn’t really get that, though, because he didn’t really think Shane Hollander was pretty. That was almost the wrong word to describe him. He wasn’t pretty when he slapped the puck into the upper left corner of the net. He wasn’t pretty when he slammed one of their opponents into the boards, stealing the puck from them. He wasn’t pretty when he turned so quickly on his skates that Zach could have sworn he was going to fall over.
No, he was intense. Powerful. Glorious. Not pretty. Not girly.
He was the most masculine person Zach had ever seen.
And honestly, that made sense to Zach. Gay people liked men, so why would they not like masculine stuff, right?
As Zach watched Hollander weave between players like it was easy for him, Zach couldn’t help but want to reach out and touch him. Zach had grown up going to church every Sunday, and he’d paid attention to enough of the stories. So he couldn’t help but remember the woman who was healed simply by reaching out to touch Jesus’s robe. He kind of got it now. Zach felt like if he reached out to touch Hollander’s jersey, something would happen. He wasn't sure what. Maybe he would be healed of something; he wasn’t sure. Or maybe he would just get really good at hockey.
Hollander slid the puck to Zach, and he shot it into the net for another goal. Hollander skated over to him and slapped him on the shoulder, and Zach tried to stifle a moan.
He had indeed felt like something had happened.
“Nice shooting!” Hollander called as he skated away.
Zach decided he would call his doctor after the game.
He skated back towards center ice for the next face-off, standing opposite Troy Barrett. Barrett was acting weirder than usual. He wasn’t chirping. He wasn’t saying slurs. In fact, he wasn’t really saying much at all. But he had looked like he wanted to all game.
Zach leaned over his stick, ready for the puck drop, when he heard Barrett yell, “Gay!”
He looked up in confusion. Hollander looked over, too, frowning.
“Not your best, Barrett,” Hollander called. “It’s a little more creative than just calling me a slur, but not by much. I would have expected more from you given all your practice.”
Zach gawked at him, and Barrett went pale, simply hunching back over his stick, keeping his eyes on the ice.
* * * * *
Troy was a fucking idiot. He didn’t know what had come over him.
One moment he was admiring Hollander’s ass, and the next, his body had suddenly decided to come out to Hollander in the middle of the game.
He managed to regain some semblance of control over his mouth so as not to completely humiliate himself. But he couldn’t stop the single “gay” from escaping.
He wanted to die.
At least Hollander thought he was being homophobic. For the first time in a long time, he almost didn’t regret all of the slurs he had spat at different players over the years. Thank God for homophobia.
He would take yelling “gay” across the ice and receiving a range of baffled to horrified expressions from his teammates any day.
That was so much better than saying what he had been about to say, which was “Hey Shane, can I call you Shane? I’m gay. Like super gay. You’re gay too! We should talk about that, right? In your hotel room? Or mine? 9 p.m.?”
So yeah. It could have been fucking worse.
* * * * *
Scott’s plan wasn’t exactly working. Shane Hollander was apparently a very hard person to get alone. Everywhere he went, he was followed by a swarm of players, and Scott wasn’t about to come out to more than just one hockey player.
He skated onto the ice, preparing himself to face off against Hollander again. He couldn’t help the rush of excitement that filled him every time he leaned over the circle with Hollander across from him.
He was happy to be on the opposite team this year. Maybe he could check him into the boards for a second, holding him there and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. The sweet nothings being ‘I’m gay’ and ‘Please fuck me.’
Every time he tried, though, fucking Rozanov was there, shoving himself between them and checking Scott so hard his teeth clattered together. What the fuck was his deal? This wasn’t even a real game; everyone knew that they were supposed to back off at All-Stars. He wasn’t even being a good winger, as he deliberately skated out of his way to slam into Scott again.
Hollander could tell too. He shot Rozanov a harsh look that Scott could tell meant ‘get back to your fucking spot’ and ‘pass me the fucking puck.’ Scott almost wanted to point and laugh at Rozanov as he slumped back to Hollander’s right, looking properly scolded. That’ll teach him.
The ref, who should have been checking on Scott or Roz after another peculiar hit, skated over to Hollander instead, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey, Hollander, you alright? It looked like you might have taken a stick to the knee out there,” the ref asked kindly. Hollander gave him a soft nod in response.
“THE FUCKING REF?” Rozanov yelled from across the ice. Hollander gave him an angry glare, and Rozanov looked down at the ice, muttering and kicking his stick with his skate.
Scott had always known that Rozanov was a fucking problem.
Play continued, and Roz finally was starting to act like the winger he was supposed to be. It was quite the spectacle to watch. Scott almost wanted to sit down on the ice and just admire the way the puck slid naturally from Hollander’s stick to Rozanov’s. He hated it. It was the best hockey he’d ever seen.
When Hollander scored off an assist from Rozanov, Scott watched as multiple players nodded in admiration. It had been a beaut of a goal.
But the nods shifted as Rozanov quickly skated up to Hollander, kissing the side of his head.
Scott felt like he had hit the ice, the cold seeping into his bones. He looked around to see if everyone else was seeing what he was seeing.
They were.
Both teams had come to a complete standstill, gawking at the two players. Vaughn looked about ready to hit something. Carson’s face was bright red. Barrett was slowly sloping to the side as if he actually was going to hit the ice.
Rozanov detached his lips from Hollander’s helmet and shot them all a crazed grin. Scott just blinked back at him in return.
What the fuck was that?
The ice was silent as they finished out the game. Hollander’s team won, obviously. None of them had even stood a chance. Half of the players were still staring fixedly at Rozanov while the other half had continued to stare at Hollander.
Scott had no fucking idea what was going on.
They had started preparing to file off the ice when it happened. Dylan Rhodes, a young player from Washington, approached Hollander right before he went through the gate, the rest of both teams lazily hanging about, chatting causally. They all froze when they saw the move.
Rhodes coughed slightly to get Hollander’s attention. “Hey, Hollander, I um…I was wondering if I could get your number.”
Someone dropped their stick on the ice behind Scott, and it clattered loudly. Scott didn’t even bother to turn and look to see who it was.
Hollander blinked at him. “What?”
Rhodes blushed furiously. “Oh, well, some of us started making a little All-Stars group chat so that we could maybe hang out tonight, and we thought it would be cool if you joined. We could all, like, celebrate, or something,” Rhodes managed to stammer out.
Everyone on the ice stood silent, waiting patiently to hear Hollander’s answer, their eyes wide.
Hollander scratched the back of his head before staring at someone behind Scott. “Oh, um…thanks for the invite, but I’m probably going to stay in tonight.”
Hollander gathered the rest of his things, shooting one last glance at whoever he had been looking at before. “Might want some company, though, who knows,” he added quickly before marching down the tunnel.
It was like Hollander had dropped an atomic bomb on the rink.
About thirty players stared as Hollander walked away, none of them moving. Scott heard a little “Holy shit” whispered on his left. Carson let out a little whimper on his right. Even Scott felt like his arms and legs had gone completely numb.
Suddenly, a player behind him surged forward, pushing past the immobile bodies before spinning around to stare at all of them, blocking the entrance to the tunnel.
Rozanov was breathing heavily, staring down each and every one of them, eyes blazing.
Before Scott could even blink, Rozanov took his stick and smashed it against the wall next to him. He held the broken stick out towards them, its splintered end pointing menacingly. He pushed forward, forcing a few players to back up so as not to get impaled on Roz’s makeshift shiv.
“WHAT THE FUCK,” someone yelled.
Rozanov swung the stick back and forth, almost slicing one of the Los Angeles players.
“Whoa, buddy! What are we doing?” Marlow called out, his hands above his head in surrender. Rozanov just shoved the stick closer to him.
A few of the younger players looked about ready to pass out as Rozanov marched closer to them, all of them slowly gliding further onto the ice.
Where the fuck were the officials? Scott looked behind him, looking for a ref or anyone, but they were all turned around, staring at one of the large TVs in the arena. It was playing that stupid Hollander advertisement.
“Listen to me,” Rozanov hissed. He took his time looking at each player. “Back. The fuck. Up.”
“Rozanov, what the fuck are you even talking—” Boiziau began, but Rozanov just shushed him and pointed the stick at him. Boiziau gulped loudly.
“Stay the fuck away from him,” Rozanov spat at them.
He spun around quickly, stepped off the ice, and threw the weapon down, the loud clang making a few players jump.
Before he left, Rozanov grabbed Rhodes by the jersey, yanking him close to his face. Rhodes let out a small yelp.
“Add me to the fucking group chat,” Rozanov sneered before storming down the tunnel.
The rest of them stood there for a moment. Scott felt a little bit stupid for some reason. They were all glancing around at each other. He watched as Marlow shifted back and forth, looking a little guilty. Hayes sighed, picking up the fallen stick and staring at it for a moment. Vaughn looked like he wanted to throw up. Boiziau was quietly mumbling to himself.
Suddenly, Scott felt like he was hit with a ton of bricks. A rush of clarity surged through him, and now, he felt like he wanted to throw up too.
Holy shit.
Carter. Marlow. Hayes. Boiziau. The ref. The pool. The group chat. Even Troy fucking Barrett.
Scott looked around the rink.
His jaw dropped.
Holy shit, the MLH was so fucking gay.
* * * * *
It was too bad that Shane liked hockey so much.
He was beautiful to watch on the ice. You could see his love for the sport oozing into every play.
It was a damn shame.
Because unfortunately, Ilya was going to have to kill every single person in the MLH.
Ilya had prepared for many things in his time as a bisexual man. He had prepared for accidental outings. He had prepared for videos leaked to the internet. He had prepared to be shipped back to Russia and thrown into a prison, never to be seen again.
He could never have prepared for this.
He had to stop himself from sprinting to Shane’s door. From banging on it loudly, begging Hollander to let him in. From slamming it shut afterward and locking every single lock before also adding on the four locks he had spontaneously ordered to his own hotel room.
He stopped himself from doing all of that.
But it didn’t mean that Ilya wasn’t at his door the moment he had finished showering. It didn’t mean he hadn’t thrown back on his game day suit.
He should have bought flowers.
Fuck.
He pushed back his still damp hair, trying to tame some of the wild curls, rocking on the balls of his feet, waiting for the door to open.
The door swung open to reveal a cozy-looking Shane who had his phone up to his ear. Shane smiled at him.
“Hold on, Hayd, give me one sec,” Shane spoke into the phone before pulling it away and hitting mute.
Shane grabbed Ilya’s hand and pulled him into the room. Ilya couldn’t help the grin that spread onto his face. Shane took in his appearance and tilted his head.
“Why are you wearing a suit?” he asked, frowning.
Ilya looked down at his own choice of outfit. “I, uh, I wanted to get into the spirit.”
Shane blinked at him. “The spirit?”
“Mm, yes. I go to a hot man’s room. I want to look nice. Want to put in an effort,” he said, shrugging.
Shane rolled his eyes, obviously thinking Ilya was making fun of him. He wished he were.
“Just give me a moment, okay?” Shane said, tilting the phone to unmute it. “Sorry about that, Hayd. A couple of the players wanted to invite me to a bar.”
As he heard Pike’s voice echo through the phone, Ilya couldn’t help but reach forward, snatching the phone from Shane, who gave him an outraged look in return. He hit the speaker button before strolling over to the bed, forcing Shane to follow him to hear Pike talk.
“How’s everything going with them?”
Shane sighed and sat down next to Ilya on the bed, the phone lying between them. “Fine, I guess. Nothing I didn't expect, I suppose.”
Ilya blinked, and he stopped breathing for a moment. Shane had expected this? Ilya couldn’t help but start to dissociate while staring at the horrible hotel art. Shane knew all of these men were going to be after him? Had they been after him the whole time?
Suddenly, Rose Landry didn’t seem so bad. Maybe he should send her flowers.
God, had he already fucked up? He had left Shane alone for so long.
The handcuffs Ilya had purchased along with the locks didn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore. Should he run and grab them, locking Shane to the bed? Florida was nice. Shane would like Florida.
Over the phone, Hayden scoffed. “Man, those guys are idiots. You deserve so much better.”
Ilya’s jaw dropped, and his eyes widened, twitching slightly. Of course. He should have suspected Pike first. He was always around Shane. He should have known those little helmet taps meant something. He slowly turned to see Shane’s reaction.
Shane shot him a confused look before shrugging. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.”
That fucking means a lot? What the actual fuck was going on? Ilya had always disliked Pike. Now he understood why.
“No worries. Don’t let those guys get you down. You’re the best hockey player there is and an attractive guy. They’re just intimidated,” Pike said calmly as if every word wasn’t driving a knife into Ilya’s eyes.
Ilya wanted to throw something. He wanted to blow up the building. Not with Shane in it, of course.
Ilya knew what he needed to do. If the other guys were going to try to ‘get Shane down,’ he was going to do it first. He would win, as he always did. As Marlow, who was now dead to him, loved to say, he was going to lock him down. Russian passport be damned.
Ilya grabbed the phone from the bed and hung up on stupid fucking Pike, interrupting whatever conversation Shane and he had been having.
“What the fuck, Ilya!” Shane yelled in outrage, grabbing at the phone. But Ilya just tossed it on the bed and took both of Shane’s hands in his own, holding them still.
“Shane. You like me, yes?” he said carefully, his eyes focused on Shane’s face.
Shane blinked, stammering a bit. He was so cute. Which, in hindsight, was a massive problem. Ilya wondered if he could convince Shane to try and grow his playoff beard early. The scruff always looked terrible on him. Maybe that would buy them at least a few weeks.
“Oh! Um. Yeah. That’s actually what I wanted to talk—”
“Okay. Good,” Ilya interrupted, nodding furiously. He pushed forward, kissing Shane forcefully, making Shane let out a surprised sound. But Shane quickly kissed him back.
Shane shifted onto his lap, and Ilya grabbed onto Shane’s ass, clenching tight. This was his ass. No one else’s.
Ilya broke away, still holding onto Shane to make sure he didn’t try to run away again. This was a dangerous position for them after all, and Ilya was not about to have a repeat of Tuna-Melt day.
“Okay, you like me. I like you, yes? We are boyfriends now,” Ilya said seriously.
Shane blinked at him, stunned, before laughing. “We are?”
Ilya moved his hands up, holding Shane’s head between them and forcing Shane to nod with him. “Yes. We are. No one else okay?”
Shane’s laughter transformed into a wide grin. “Okay,” he said softly.
Ilya smiled back, struggling to stop it from transforming into a smirk.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to kill anyone after all. He’d fucking won. He’d always known he was the best in the league.
Well, he thought as he looked at Shane’s smile and scattering of freckles across his cheeks, maybe second best.
Ilya leaned back onto the bed, pulling Shane on top of him, kissing him furiously again, his suit wrinkling in the process. Shane was grabbing him closer by the lapels. He broke away for a moment, fingers running along the edge of the jacket.
“You know, I almost wore a suit the first time we hooked up,” Shane said shyly.
Ilya paused for a moment before laughing.
Of course he had. He was perfect.
Ilya couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before.
He couldn’t help but kiss him for that, pressing his entire weight into Shane.
* * * * *
All-Stars Group Chat
Dylan Rhodes added Ilya Rozanov
Wyatt Hayes added Shane Hollander
Mike Brophy: Whoa Hayes you actually got the number! Can’t believe you did it
Wyatt Hayes: Well of course. Me and Shane are tight, I told you
Nils Lundin: “Shane” huh?
Wyatt Hayes: What? We’re friends now
Kyle Jensen: “Friends” 💀
Kyle Jensen: Brutal.
Wyatt Hayes: Whatever. I told Shane he should join the chat even if he didn’t come out with us
Adam Bishop: Come out with us ha
Cole Donnelly: And you would say Bish
Adam Bishop: wtf is that supposed to mean
Cole Donnelly: I think you know
Pete Corkum: Hey I don’t think any of us are in a position to judge
Zach Carson: wait I don’t get it wdym
Troy Barrett: Jesus fucking Christ
J.J. Boiziau removed Shane Hollander.
Cole Donnelly added Shane Hollander.
Cole Donnelly: God Boiziau don’t be so fucking greedy
Declan Brooks: Yeah just because you get to be around him all year doesn’t mean the rest of us do.
Declan Brooks: Fuck off
J.J. Boiziau: No.
J.J. Boiziau removed Shane Hollander.
Cole Donnelly removed J.J. Boiziau.
Cole Donnelly added Shane Hollander.
Dylan Rhodes: Thank God honestly
Zane Boodram: You guys do know that Shane can see all of these texts right?
Matt Sweeney: Good. Come here boy! Come here! Pspspspsps
Troy Barrett: Oh my fucking God
Carter Vaughn: Barrett I will kick you out if you continue to be homophobic
Troy Barrett: Wow. Yeah no I’m done here anyway
Troy Barrett left the chat.
Pete Corkum: Good riddance
Scott Hunter: You all are absurd
Carter Vaughn: Don’t hate the player hate the game Cap
Ilya Rozanov removed Shane Hollander.
No.
There is no game
Game over boys
Ilya Rozanov sent a photo.
(The photo shows Shane Hollander, asleep on the pillow next to Ilya Rozanov. He is lying on his stomach, and his bare back is towards the camera. His back and shoulders are covered in dark hickeys. Ilya is smirking and raising a middle finger towards the camera.)
Adam Bishop: WHAT THE FUCK
Declan Brooks: God fucking damn it
Kyle Jensen: WHY GOD. WHY
Mike Brophy: NOOOOOOOOO
Zach Carson: I’m confused. What am I looking at right now?
Matt Sweeney: I LOST TO A FUCKING RAIDER??? AGAIN????
Cliff Marlow: GET IT CAP
Thin fucking ice Marly. Thin. Ice.
Wyatt Hayes: fuck
Pete Corkum: I really fucking hate you Rozanov
Scott Hunter: Jesus fucking christ. I guess now I know what all the fucking noises next door were
Kyle Jensen: THE WHAT???
Declan Brooks: Jesus christ Jensen, what did you think happened? Hollander wandered into Roz’s room and was attacked by a fucking leech?
Adam Bishop: Yeah Jensen, Hunter literally said there were fucking noises
Wyatt Hayes: Hot.
Carter Vaughn: GET AWAY FROM HIM SHANE
Dylan Rhodes: brb. I need to go bleach my eyes
Nils Lundin left the group chat.