Archive of Our Own

Something had to change.

It was untenable that the only good sex Shane had ever had was with Ilya fucking Rozanov. Pathetic, waiting around like some kind of addict for a few good fucks a year.

There were three plausible explanations for this behavior: 1) He just hadn't met the right girl. This was what he preferred to believe, but his experiences with women ranged from failed to mediocre, and he couldn't remember the last time he was really interested in any of the beautiful women who regularly threw themselves at him. Even the ones that seemed intelligent and interesting, he was more eager to converse with than anything else. Which forced him to consider that it might be: 2) He had a preference for men, and Rozanov was just the only convenient opportunity that had presented itself, lackluster gay bar blowjob aside. This was not ideal because Shane couldn't be gay, but he had to acknowledge it as a possibility, and it was at least better than: 3) Rozanov had him permanently dickmatized and nobody else would ever do. Or maybe Shane was a fucking weird pervert who was turned on by… competition? Rage? Being annoyed? Whatever it was, it made Rozanov the only person who had ever done it for him, and maybe could ever do it for him. This, obviously, was the worst scenario, and had him coming around a little more to the idea of the second.

One thing was certain: he couldn't keep hooking up with Rozanov forever. Their last hookup had been so charged, Rozanov calling him 'Shane' and 'sweetheart.' It scared him, and he thought if he could just move on to someone less... complicated... maybe his life would get a little less frustrating and confusing.

But how to test it? He'd been way too nervous at the gay bar to enjoy himself, and picking up someone like that wouldn't be his preference even if he weren't terrified of being recognized. Apps carried a similar risk, but at least he could make an anonymous profile and vet the guys a little first.

Making his own profile was daunting. He wasn't a bad-looking guy, but he obviously couldn't use a normal picture that showed his face. Looking up thirst traps from men to imitate made him too embarrassed, so he used some nice, tasteful shots from women for inspiration and snapped some pictures. They came out alright. Whatever, he had a profile, sparse as it was.

He browsed Grindr while traveling for a few away games in less popular hockey markets, but he could never quite bring himself to message anyone, and he was too overwhelmed to delve into the bombardment of messages he got from others. Until finally, after a painful loss in Tampa, he was so horny and buzzing with the need to distract himself from feeling like a failure that he dared to send out a single message.

The guy he picked was... large. Manly and hairy and undeniably male. His profile didn't include his face, but it included a tantalizing bulge pic hinting at an enormous cock. The guy said he preferred to top, so, perfect. Shane could get fucked by this massive guy and maybe that would shake him out of his humiliating fixation on Rozanov.

It was worth a shot, anyway, because he couldn't keep going on like this.

*

If Ryan didn't have a successful sexual encounter soon, he was going to develop a permanent complex. His new anxiety meds didn't make him any less horny, but he could barely ever finish anymore, even with the most beautiful men. He was on a streak of four failed hookups where he hadn't been able to come, and he rarely managed solo anymore, either.

Something had to change, and so he adjusted his search parameters and started scrolling for guys outside his usual type. It probably wouldn't work to fuck someone he was less attracted to, but maybe it would help him be less in his head, and if he could just get past whatever block he was having, maybe it would get easier. It couldn't hurt to try, anyway, and he was getting desperate.

A message appeared from a guy who might just fit the bill.

Hi. What are you up to tonight?

The guy was undeniably more athletic and built than his usual type, but there was still something very pretty about his body with its smooth skin. It was a little hard to tell without a face pic, but the framing of the shots and posing suggested an artistic sensitivity and femininity that Ryan appreciated. There was something oddly appealing about how that contrasted with his thick, athletic body, a dichotomy Ryan had never considered but definitely found compelling. He was curious, and this guy looked different enough from his usual hook ups that maybe it would shake him out of his funk. God, he hoped so, anyway.

He wondered if it would be better to state ahead of time that he probably wouldn't finish. Although, he'd probably never get laid if he did that, so instead he kept his messages somewhat vague but polite and interested. The guy agreed to meet at his place and he seemed normal enough.

Sweat gathered on his hands as he waited for the guy to knock, but it was fine. Worst case scenario, he'd just embarrass himself again. It would be okay, surely?

When the knock finally came, he took a deep breath and opened the door.

Well. The guy did have a pretty face. Unfortunately it belonged to Shane Hollander.

"What," Ryan said, frozen in shock.

Hollander squinted at him for moment as if trying to place him, his eyes going wide the moment it clicked just as Ryan got ahold of himself and moved to close the door.

"Wait!" Hollander said, interjecting his hand to grab the door. "Can we talk? I don't know anyone else who's..."

Shit. Ryan did not want to have a gay heart-to-heart or whatever the fuck with Shane Hollander. His chest clenched nervously at the mere thought. But Hollander was looking at him with his big, stupid, sad, pleading doe eyes and Ryan couldn't help but let him in.

"Thanks," Hollander muttered in relief as he hurried in the door and nervously shut it behind him. "Fuck."

Hollander looked a bit like he was on the verge of tears and Ryan had no idea what to do with that, but he couldn't kick him out now.

This was so awkward. He really should have just shut the door. "Um," he ventured, "do you want a drink?"

"Oh, sure. Water would be great."

Ryan nodded and gestured for Hollander to follow him to the kitchen.

"Price, right?" Hollander asked as they walked, his tone strained and carefully light. "You read that breakout pass pretty well in the third."

"Oh, uh, yeah. We've been working on reading the weak side."

Hollander cleared his throat. "Your place is... nice."

Ryan let out a half laugh at that. "Thanks, but it's not. With how often I get traded, it's never worth getting too settled."

"Right, that makes sense," Hollander replied, abashed. Of course a player like him would never need to worry about that.

As they stepped into Ryan's kitchen, Hollander took a seat at the bar. Ryan filled a glass from the purifier in his fridge and handed it over to Hollander, who immediately took a deep gulp as if steadying himself.

"So... what did you want to talk about?" Ryan asked, rubbing his neck.

"Right," Hollander said with an exhale. "Um, I guess I'm wondering, like... do you do this sort of thing often?"

"Not this specifically, no."

"Of course." Hollander let out a small laugh, and it eased the tension just slightly. "But, like..."

"I meet up with guys, yeah. Sometimes. It's hard to date anyone seriously when I never stay too long in one city."

"Okay," Hollander replied with a nod. "And it's... safe?"

Ryan blew out a breath. "Safe enough." He really didn't want to talk about it, but Hollander looked so pleadingly curious, he decided to elaborate. "I'm not really that careful about it. Sometimes teammates find out, but people don't ever really try to start anything with a big guy like me, so it doesn't matter. I'm not advertising it and I keep my eyes averted in the locker room. Teammates are happy to ignore it. And I'm not high profile enough that people really care about my personal life, anyway."

"Oh," Hollander said, deflating. "Do you ever get recognized?"

Ryan almost laughed. "The guys I go for aren't typically big sports fans." Shit, that sounded kind of rude. "I mean, I don't usually message athletic guys like you. I'm—trying something new. But, uh, I don't really get recognized that often in general."

Hollander took a moment to process this. "This isn't really helpful." He winced. "Sorry. It's just..."

"No, I get it. It wouldn't be as easy for you. Sorry."

Hollander groaned and rubbed his forehead.

"Is this your first time..." He felt obligated to ask, to keep the conversation going, but god, he wished it could just be over already. How was Ryan supposed to face Hollander on the ice after... whatever this was?

"Yeah. Just my luck, right?"

"So you haven't ever..."

"I've had sex with a man before." There was a touch of defensiveness in his tone that Ryan found surprising. Hollander didn't seem the type to be exactly proud of fucking men.

"Okay, so, how'd you find him?"

"What?" Hollander flushed pink, eyes nervous. "Um, it doesn't matter. I can't replicate those circumstances."

That was interesting. Ryan was never one for gossip, but he couldn't deny that figuring out who one of the top guys in the league was hooking up with on the DL had him a little curious.

"And you can't keep hooking up with him?"

Now Hollander looked pained. "It's not safe. And it got... complicated."

Ryan nodded. His curiosity hadn't diminished, but he wasn't going to pry. Unfortunately, that left him with nothing else to say. Was it too early to kick Hollander out?

"It's just bullshit," Hollander blurted. "Why does it even matter? I was freaking out for weeks before finally being able to, like, message someone. Why does it have to be this big thing when it's not even—" He stopped himself, then flushed at his outburst.

Hollander always seemed like such a straight-laced, focused guy, all his attention on the game. That he was panicking over this was bullshit, but Ryan didn't know what to do say to make him feel better about it.

"I can't be like this," he continued. "I can't be fucking—"

Ryan waited, but Hollander didn't finish the thought. "Gay?"

He exhaled in frustration. "Right. I can't be fucking gay."

Ryan thought Hollander probably didn't have much choice in the matter, but he didn't want to piss him off and held his tongue. Instead, he asked, "Is there anyone you can talk to about this?" Besides me, please?

"No. I've never even talked about it with—the guy I was..."

"Seeing?"

Hollander inhaled sharply. "We aren't—weren't—anything."

That sounded loaded, but he took pity on the fact that Hollander didn't seem to have anyone to talk to and blurted, "Look, if you need someone to talk to about this stuff... I mean, I'm not great at it, but..." He fumbled for his phone. "You can text me. If you want."

Hollander hesitated and entered his number, pausing for a moment on the name before reluctantly typing in 'Hollander.'

"Most gay guys don't care about hockey," Ryan offered, taking his phone back. "Especially in the US."

Hollander stared at him. "I only messaged one person and you fucking play hockey!"

Ryan tried not to laugh. It wasn't funny, but.... it was a little funny. "That was—bad luck." He took a moment to think of something practical to say. "Listen, maybe my advice about how I'm doing it isn't that helpful for you. But what I can say is that people aren't going to want to believe you're gay, or into men, or whatever it is. No offense, but especially a star player like you. If you can give them any plausible reason to deny it, they'll take it."

Hollander swallowed. "But it's a story that would sell. Not everyone cares about hockey. Some people just care about gossip."

Ryan shrugged, trying to look apologetic, because it really would be shitty to be in Hollander's situation. "That I can't help you with."

Hollander groaned and rubbed his face again. "I can't believe I'm not even going to get laid out of all this."

The silence that followed was excruciating. Ryan shifted his weight, ready to show Hollander to the door and put this whole weird encounter behind him. But Hollander didn't move. He just sat there at the kitchen bar, staring at nothing, looking like he might actually crack apart.

"You should probably—" Ryan started.

"What if we just..." Hollander cut himself off, his jaw working like he was trying to force the words out. His face went red. "I mean. I'm already here."

Ryan's stomach did something complicated. What a terrible idea. Hollander wasn't even his type, even if he was good-looking, objectively. Pretty, in a way that probably got him a lot of attention from women.

And he looked so miserable. Like he'd worked himself up to do this and couldn't face going home with nothing to show for it. Ryan knew that feeling, the desperation of psyching yourself up for something and then having it fall apart, even worse to end in embarrassment like this. It was hard not to feel bad for the guy.

At least this would be simple. Low stakes. Shit, was he actually considering this? But maybe—maybe it would work this time. Maybe with someone different, someone who was even more of a mess than he was...

Neither of them moved for a long moment. Then Hollander stood, closing the distance between them. His hand found Ryan's arm, grip uncertain but present. When Ryan looked down at him, Hollander's jaw was set with determination, like he'd made up his mind and was going to see it through no matter what.

"Bedroom?" Hollander asked, his voice rough.

The confidence in that single word, even with how nervous he looked, did something to Ryan. At least Hollander could make a decision. At least he could say what he wanted, something Ryan always struggled to assert.

Ryan nodded and led him down the hall.

In the bedroom, things moved quickly—too quickly, maybe. Hollander kissed like he was trying to prove something, all intensity and no finesse. Ryan tried to match his energy, but his mind was already spiraling, cataloging all the ways this could go wrong.

When they broke apart, Hollander's hands went to Ryan's belt. Ryan's stomach clenched with anxiety, but before he could say anything, Hollander was sinking to his knees.

Okay. That worked. Just let Hollander take the lead.

Hollander took him into his mouth mostly soft, and wow, okay, the guy really did seem to love sucking dick. The soft sigh he let out around Ryan's cock as he started to plump up was doing it for him. Maybe this would be okay. This sort of situation had never entered his fantasies, but he felt sort of... powerful—and weirdly embarrassed—with one of the league's top players on his knees for him. Certainly he could imagine that this was some guy's fantasy, so he should try to appreciate it, even if it wasn't Ryan's.

Getting hard was never the problem, though. Any half-decent blowjob could get him going. Whether he could get out of his head enough to finish despite his meds working against him was another question. It didn't take long before he realized that talented as Hollander was with his mouth, this wasn't going to take him over the edge.

"Hey," he said, tapping Hollander's shoulder.

Saliva trailed from Ryan's dick to Hollander's lips, and he had a sort of glazed look in his eyes as he pulled off, as if there was nothing he liked more than a cock in his mouth. Nothing got Ryan off more than a partner who was really enjoying himself, so that was... something to work with, but it wasn't enough. He suspected he should cut his losses now, finish Hollander off, and then forget this ever happened.

"Uh, that was great. You're... very good at that. But I, uh... My meds make it difficult for me to finish sometimes. Most of the time. Pretty much all the time, really." He grimaced.

"Oh," Hollander replied, sounding disappointed. "Is there... something else that might work better?"

"Not really, I—"

"Do you wanna fuck me?"

Jesus Christ. Ryan had been pretty set on not fucking Hollander, but the desperate, eager look on his face was hard to resist, and he didn't want to disappoint him any more than he had to.

"Is that what you want?"

Hollander nodded slowly. "I prepped and everything, so..."

"I still might not finish. It doesn't mean I'm not... enjoying myself."

"Okay."

And it was okay. Ryan had never in his life been attracted to another hockey player, but Hollander made some really fucking gorgeous noises as he took him from behind. His ass was fantastic, too, round and smooth and bouncy. He looked pretty like this, a flush spreading down his back as he moaned shamelessly into the bed. It wasn't not doing it for Ryan.

"Oh, fuck, right there," Hollander groaned. "Please, I'm close."

Ryan wasn't. But it felt good to get Hollander there, at least, and he so tried to keep up the same angle and rhythm.

"I'm coming," he gasped. "Oh, fuck, Rozanov—"

Ryan stilled in shock as Hollander kind of seized up in either panic or orgasm or both, Ryan's dick slipping out as he fell onto his side. He was past the point of no return, his come spurting sadly against the sheets. It was one of the weirdest orgasms Ryan had ever seen.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. I am so sorry. Fuck."

Ryan had no words or any idea what he was supposed to do with the situation. He registered that Hollander was definitely panicking, and he should probably do something about that, but he was too stunned to do anything. It's not that he even cared, really, that Hollander was thinking of someone else—he couldn't blame him, of course he was—but Rozanov. Did that mean—

"It's just, like, force of habit," Hollander was babbling. "Wait, no, I don't mean—"

"It's—fine," Ryan forced out.

Hollander was curled up on the bed, rubbing his face in his hands as he groaned at himself.

"It's fine," Ryan repeated, because he really needed Hollander to be fine, and hopefully to leave his apartment as quickly as possible, too. That'd be nice.

"You didn't finish," Hollander muttered from behind his hands.

"No, I—" Ryan cleared his throat awkwardly. "I wasn't going to, anyway."

"Great."

Hollander finally uncurled himself and started pulling his clothes back on with jerky, frantic movements. Ryan did the same, both of them facing away from each other.

"I should—" Hollander started.

"Yeah."

"You can't—Nothing happened. Or is, uh, I mean—what I said was—"

Hollander looked like he was about to combust from anxiety and it weirdly made Ryan feel more calm. "I didn't hear anything," he promised.

"Right," Hollander breathed, seeming ever so slightly more settled. "Um, thanks."

At the door, Hollander paused, looking like he wanted to say something. Apologize again, maybe, or make some excuse. Ryan really didn't want to hear it.

"We never—" Hollander said.

"Never," Ryan agreed.

The door closed behind him, and Ryan immediately deadbolted it like Hollander might try to come back. He wouldn't, though. That was the one good thing about this trainwreck—they'd both be perfectly happy pretending it never happened.

Ryan tore off the top sheet of his bed and threw it in the laundry, replacing it with a fresh one, and then headed for the shower. He had a feeling this was going to be one of those memories that made him cringe at 3 AM for the rest of his life.

*

Mid-season trades were always the hardest. Just when Ryan was beginning to get his bearings with a new team, he'd be shipped off somewhere new and have to do it all over again, this time with a much shorter timeframe before playoffs.

At least Boston was a good team, and they needed a guy like Ryan. He was settling in as well as he ever did, and he didn't miss the Florida heat.

“Roz! You gotta see this. You’ll shit, man!” Cliff called out one morning after a game in Detroit.

Ryan was eating his breakfast sandwich alone at a table in the hotel lobby somewhat adjacent to his teammates and couldn't avoid overhearing them.

“No,” he heard Rozanov say, something weirdly tight in his voice.

“Right?” Cliff laughed. “She’s, like, a super-giant movie star! How the fuck did he even meet her during the hockey season?”

“She’s been filming a movie in Montreal,” Victor read. “They met at a mutual friend’s party... according to unnamed sources.”

Roz snorted.

“There are pictures,” Victor said. “Look.”

Okay, maybe Ryan was a little curious. He pulled out his own phone and typed in 'Shane Hollander.' This had to be about him, right? The search results revealed a headline reading Is Rose Landry dating NHL star Shane Hollander?, along with some photos of the man in question with a beautiful redheaded woman Ryan recognized from recently starring in some big blockbluster.

Jesus Christ. Ryan had struggled through his own gay crisis in his youth, but the girls he'd tried to kiss were never movie stars, and his failed attempts with them were never in magazines. His stomach churned in sympathetic embarrassment for whatever Hollander was going through.

He looked over to the other table to see Roz scowling.

“Probably nothing,” Roz said, his face betraying that he thought it was something.

Interesting. And none of Ryan's business, but he couldn't help but feel bad for all parties involved here. Clearly Roz and Hollander were nursing some sort of feelings for each other, but what were they supposed to do about it? What could they do? Sometimes Ryan really hated hockey.

He pulled up his text thread with Hollander. There was basically nothing in it, aside from a confirmation of his number and a half-hearted attempt from Hollander to compliment Ryan after a good game. If Hollander was trying to date a woman, it made sense he wouldn't bother trying to get any more advice from Ryan. Not that Ryan had much to offer, but... still. Hollander didn't know any other gay players, aside from apparently Rozanov, so he'd hoped he could be some help.

He stared at the screen. What could he even say? Nothing, probably. This was something Hollander needed to figure out for himself.

*

The first game against Montreal was weird. Hollander seemed off the whole game. Not just playing badly, but distracted in a way Ryan had never seen from him. He was slow to react, missing obvious plays, like his mind was somewhere else entirely. Rozanov was being strange, too. Ryan had watched enough footage to know that when these two faced off, there was usually an edge to it: aggressive forechecking, pointed chirping, a competitive intensity that made their matchups exciting to watch. Tonight they barely looked at each other. When they did share the ice, Rozanov played like Hollander wasn't even there, avoiding him instead of targeting him.

Ryan should leave it alone, but he really didn't like playing with Rozanov when he was like this, even if they didn't share that much ice time. Roz could be unpredictable on a good day, but when something was eating at him, he became impossible to read. His linemates kept hesitating, unsure where he'd be or what play he was making. Without Rozanov executing with his usual confidence, the whole team dynamic started to fall apart.

And it wasn't just this game; Rozanov had been off for weeks, short-tempered at practice, making careless mistakes, his head clearly somewhere else. If this kept up, the team would start sliding, and soon.

Fuck, was he really going to get involved? But if not him, who? Nobody else could possibly know what was causing Roz to play like this, but Ryan had a pretty good idea since the change had coincided with the Hollander/Landry news. Ryan shouldn't care—it wasn't his problem—but he'd finally landed on a good team, one that had a real shot, and he didn't want to watch it fall apart because their star player couldn't get his head right. He was tired of moving, tired of losing. Maybe he could... help.

He shot off a text to Hollander:

Want to hang out after the game?

Um... Just hang out?

Ryan flushed.

Yes. You seemed a little off during the game? If you want to talk, I'll be at the Golden Goose after.

Yeah maybe

Thanks

Okay, well, offer made. He tried. He doubted Hollander would take him up on it, anyway, but at least he had the opening.

Two hours later, Ryan was nursing his beer at the Golden Goose, checking his phone for the third time. This was stupid. He shouldn't have reached out. What was he even going to say if Hollander showed up? Hey, sorry I accidentally got in the middle of whatever drama you have going on with my new teammate, but please sort it out so we can stop playing like shit?

He was just about to leave when Hollander finally walked in, looking every bit as uncomfortable as Ryan felt. Ryan waved him over and led him to a booth tucked in the back corner. He'd picked this place specifically because it was low-key enough that players didn't usually get recognized and the booths were tucked away to provide enough privacy to talk.

Hollander grabbed a drink at the bar and then took a seat across from him. Neither of them said anything for a moment, Ryan's brain struggling to come up with anything helpful now that they were actually here.

"So," Hollander started.

"So."

More silence. Hollander took a long drink and then said, "Tonight was a shitshow."

"Yeah," Ryan breathed, glad he didn't have to be the one to say it. "It was."

"I don't know how to fix it." Hollander stared at his beer, turning the glass in his hands. "It's never—it's never affected the ice before. I mean, obviously there's been, like, the competitive thing, but not like this. Not where I'm playing like shit."

Ryan nodded slowly. "You mean with Rozanov?"

"Obviously." Hollander's voice was tight. He glanced up, then back down. "We left things weird the last time we—the last time we talked. And I don't know how to make it normal again. Or if I even can. But we can't—I can't let this shit affect my game so I need to figure something out." There was something determined in his eyes as he said it.

Ryan nodded in what he hoped was a sympathetic manner. "Have you tried talking to him?"

"No." Hollander let out a short laugh that had no humor in it.

"Why not?"

"Because I have a girlfriend now." The words came out defensive. "So it's—it's over. That whole thing. It's done."

Ryan studied him for a moment. Hollander wouldn't meet his eyes. "Okay. But if it's over, maybe that's the problem. Maybe you need closure? Leaving it open-ended like this—"

Hollander went tense, his expression bordering on panic.

"I mean, you can't just avoid each other forever," Ryan continued, trying to sound reasonable. "You're going to keep playing against each other. If you ended things without actually, like, ending them properly, then..."

"Yeah, I guess," Hollander agreed, but he looked a little like Ryan had just suggested he jump off a bridge. "It's just—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know what I'd even say. 'Hey, sorry I freaked out and ran out on you, but I have a girlfriend now so we're good, right?' That's not—"

He stopped mid-sentence, his face draining of color. "What the fuck."

Ryan followed his gaze to the bar to see Rozanov was standing at the end visible from their tucked away corner, ordering a drink.

"Did you know he would be here?" Hollander sounded accusatory, almost panicked.

"I—no, I didn't—" Ryan fumbled for words. He'd known it was a possibility—the team came here sometimes—but he hadn't brought Hollander here for a confrontation. He'd just wanted somewhere private to talk.

Hollander looked like he was about to bolt. His eyes darted between Ryan and Rozanov, calculating. "Does he know you're..."

Oh. Ryan hadn't considered the optics. Roz knew he was gay, and he must have known Hollander was too, or something like it. That might look suspicious, like there was something going on between them.

"Um, yeah?" An unfortunate incident with an audible Grindr notification in the locker room had outed him. Roz was the only one who had seemingly clocked it, fortunately.

"You two haven't..."

An incredulous laugh startled out of Ryan. "What, me and Rozanov?"

"I don't know!" Hollander hissed.

"No," Ryan said, stiff and embarrassed. "Not my type and... no. Definitely not."

Hollander seemed to relax a little at that, but it was short-lived as panic quickly overtook his features. "Shit, he's coming over here."

Ryan turned his head to see Rozanov strolling over. He really should not have gotten involved.

"Hello," Roz said, sliding up to the booth and leaning an arm on the edge of the backrest on Ryan's side. "Did not know you two were friendly."

Hollander went red, which was not very subtle. Ryan had no idea what his own face was doing. Probably nothing good.

"Price has never played on your team," Roz continued in a faux-breezy tone. "Funny, since he has been traded to half the teams in the league. Never Montreal."

A good chirp would be appropriate here to lighten the tension. Unfortunately, none came to mind, so instead Ryan imagined sinking into the booth and disappearing from this horrible confrontation.

"Why do you care?" Hollander asked, a slight waver in his voice.

Roz put his hand up in a placating gesture. "No, I don't care. Just asking. Small talk, I think it is called—you are familiar?"

Ryan should just leave. Could he leave? Roz was kind of blocking his exit.

"We're just hanging out, Rozanov," Hollander continued, and the lack of actual explanation definitely ruffled Roz's cool demeanor, though he was trying not to show it.

"Ah, yes. Famously you two are very friendly with other players. Always 'hanging out.'"

Hollander shrugged as if that was the end of it. Roz looked like he wanted to press but was thinking better of it. Ryan was just glad nobody seemed to be looking over here, because the tension between the two of them was not subtle. Then again, they were supposed to hate each other, so maybe that was enough of a cover for whatever the hell was actually going on.

Roz put on a smile. "The blonde yoga instructor I was talking to will be missing me." He made to leave and then pointedly turned back. "Congratulations, by the way, on landing beautiful girlfriend, Hollander. I was surprised such a stunning and interesting movie star goes for boring guy like you."

Hollander's face went even redder as he thinly replied, "Guess some people find that appealing."

Roz seemed to have no response to that, which was unusual. In the short time Ryan had known him, he'd never heard him miss a snappy comeback. Roz simply nodded his head in parting and then went back to his blonde.

"Fuuuucking hell," Hollander breathed when he was gone.

"Wow."

"What?"

"Oh, he's just... really jealous."

A brief, tentative smile flickered across Hollander's face. "Really?"

Ryan nodded. Surely now would be a good time for him to leave, right? Nothing about this was going well at all and his plan to 'help' was clearly backfiring.

Unfortunately, Hollander seemed to be having another crisis.

"Ugh, what am I supposed to do?" he mumbled, rubbing his face in his hands.

"Maybe just talk to him?" Ryan offered nervously. "Tell him you need closure because of the girlfriend?"

"Right," Hollander answered, as if this was his first time thinking about her. Even though Roz just mentioned her, Rose Landry clearly wasn't on his mind. "Fuck."

He felt bad for the girl. Maybe this was an opportunity to push a little. "She's very beautiful," he started tentatively.

"Yeah." He sighed. "Yeah, she is. And I'm not even thinking about her, I'm thinking about fucking—" He gestured his head vaguely in Roz's direction.

"Well," Ryan ventured, "personally speaking, no matter how beautiful a woman is, she's never going to hold my interest for more than conversation."

Hollander stared blankly in front of him, sighing as he processed. After a moment, he swallowed and said, "No, you're right, I just—" Tears sprung to his eyes and he looked desperately like he wished they hadn't.

Hollander needed to get out of here or people were going to start paying attention to his freak out, but he needed to calm down first before he could make a seamless exit. Ryan looked over at at the bar and noticed Roz's blonde was gone. He was chatting with someone else instead, but his eyes kept flicking over to Hollander with a small frown.

"Let me get you a drink," Ryan offered. Maybe that would help.

Hollander nodded absently and Ryan got up to go to the bar. He went to the opposite side from where Roz was standing to place the order, but it wasn't long before Roz was sliding up next to him.

"Why are you making Hollander cry?" Roz asked in a low voice, a weird mix of nonchalance and accusation in his tone.

"He's fine," Ryan replied. "He's just... going through something."

Roz frowned at this and clearly wanted to ask more, but he remained silent.

"His situation isn't easy," Ryan added, attempting to be placating.

"And what do you know of his 'situation?'" The jealousy was back.

"Um... what do you?"

Roz's nostrils flared almost imperceptibly. He leaned in, and in a low whisper, hissed, "Do not fuck him."

It was a bold statement, an acknowledgment of something and Ryan was surprised Roz would dare to say it. Whatever was going on between the two of them was definitely more serious than Ryan had initially imagined.

He should say something like 'I don't know what you mean,' or 'we're just friends,' or even just a nod and a walk away.

What he blurted instead was, "Too late."

Fucking hell, Ryan. Of all the impossibly stupid and insensitive things to say. Now Roz looked like he was about to cry, his face going red in a mixture of anger and hurt. It was the most expressive Ryan had ever seen him. What was happening?

The bartender dropped Hollander's drink in front of Ryan and he took with a nod of thanks. For a brief moment, he considered setting it back down and bolting straight out of the bar. Let Roz and Hollander sort out their drama themselves. He'd already done enough, fuck.

But he couldn't abandon Hollander when he was so upset. Ryan knew what it was like to realize your whole life trajectory had to change, that the future you'd imagined, the one everyone expected from you, wasn't going to happen. The wife, the kids, the normal life where you didn't have to hide or lie or worry about your career ending because of who you are. Ryan had gone through that reckoning when he was still kid, and it had been terrifying even without the added pressure of being a star player in the spotlight. Hollander was spiraling in real time, and leaving him alone right now seemed cruel.

Fuck, and he needed to say something to Roz. Could he try to take it back or pretend he was just chirping him? As he stood there, frozen in anxious indecision, Roz turned away from him and stormed out of the bar.

Well. That could not have gone worse. Ryan had managed to devastate his new star teammate and probably torpedoed any chance of a functional working relationship, all in under five minutes. Impressive, really. His track record for self-sabotage was truly unmatched. Maybe he should just accept that he was cursed to bounce between teams forever, burning bridges as he went.

He trudged back to the booth where Hollander was waiting and slid over the drink.

"I think he might try to kill me," Ryan muttered.

"What? What did you say to him?"

"I, uh, sorry. I accidentally let slip that we—"

"Jesus Christ."

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine." He took a drink of the whiskey ginger Ryan had ordered, grimacing a bit at the alcohol. "But also, like, what the fuck? He sleeps with a zillion other people and I hardly ever do. Why does he get to be mad about it?" Hollander looked surprised at speaking so openly and nervously darted his eyes around to make sure nobody in the bar was paying attention to them. They weren't, thankfully.

"Uh, you make it sound like you're still..."

Hollander groaned. "I need to break up with my girlfriend, don't I?"

Ryan shrugged and tried to give a sympathetic look. "Well, if you're not into her..."

"Fuck," he sighed. "I should be. She's really cool. And beautiful."

Ryan shrugged again.

Hollander stared into his drink. "It's just—it would be so much easier if I could just be into women. You know?"

Ryan did know. "Well, sure, but..."

"I keep trying to convince myself that I am, but..." He trailed off, then looked up at Ryan with something close to desperation. "How did you know? Like, for sure?"

"That I was gay?"

Hollander winced at the word but nodded.

Ryan thought about it. "Um, I tried dating girls. It felt like going through the motions. Like I was playing a part. With guys, even when it was complicated or scary, it felt—real."

Hollander swallowed hard. "Yeah."

"You should probably talk to Rozanov," Ryan said carefully.

"I know." Hollander took another drink. "I just don't know what to say. Or what I even want."

"Do you want him?"

The question hung in the air before Hollander finally admitted, in a choked voice, "Yeah." He let out a breath through his nose. "But it's impossible. He can't even—it's... complicated in Russia, I think, not to mention here with—everything."

Ryan nodded slowly. The situation was fucked, no way around it. "So what are you going to do?"

Hollander laughed bitterly. "I don't know. Start with breaking up with Rose, I guess. She deserves better." He let out a shaky breath. "And talk to him. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"I don't know if I can handle it if he—" Hollander stopped, shook his head. "I don't even know what I want him to say."

Ryan took a drink, feeling out of his depth. "For what it's worth," he offered, "I think he wants you too."

Hollander looked miserable. "Maybe." He sniffed. "He, uh, he looked pretty upset when he left? I couldn't really see."

"He was very upset," Ryan confirmed.

They sat in silence for a moment as Hollander downed the rest of his drink. He seemed to be working through something, his jaw tight, fingers drumming against the empty glass.

"You and I are... good, right?" he asked finally.

"Yeah. We're good."

"Okay." He took a deep breath like he was steeling himself. "Cool. I'm, uh. I'm gonna try to talk to him. 'Cause we can't... play like that again. The media already..."

"That's a good plan," Ryan tried to assure him. It didn't come out overly convincing, but Hollander seemed fortified by it all the same.

"Thanks. Yeah. Okay. I'm gonna go."

Hollander stood, grabbed his coat, and left without looking back.

Ryan sat alone in the booth, staring at the two empty glasses. What a shitshow, but at least he got Hollander to hopefully dump his beard and talk to Rozanov, so maybe he helped?

He didn't know how he was going to face Rozanov in the locker room again, though. For once, another trade didn't sound so bad.

*

By the time Shane made it to Rozanov's house, he still had no idea what he was going to say to him, but he knew he had to say something. Price was right, they couldn't leave things open-ended and expect to maintain a professional relationship without issue, but the idea of ending things and getting 'closure' made him feel vaguely nauseous, even though that was the most logical thing to do. He didn't want it to end. He wanted more in a way that he wasn't allowed to want, and maybe it was unfair to tell Rozanov that, but he didn't care anymore. He was sad and confused and he wanted him, and that was enough to give him the courage to knock on the door.

It swung open a moment later. "What?" Rozanov's voice was flat, expression unreadable.

"Can we talk?" Suddenly Shane remembered the blonde from the bar. He hadn't actually watched Rozanov leave to tell if he'd been alone. "Oh, shit, wait, do you have company? Sorry, I—"

"I am alone." Rozanov looked at him for a long moment, then stepped back and held the door open, turning without another word as he walked inside.

Shane slipped off his shoes, closing the door behind him, and followed him into the kitchen. He instinctively leaned against the counter, but it was too familiar to the last time he was here, and he awkwardly straightened, taking a step away from it.

"So?" Rozanov crossed his arms, cold in a way he rarely ever was with Shane. "You want to talk? Talk."

Shane felt his courage falter under that stare. Rozanov's eyes were red-rimmed, though, the anger not quite masking something rawer underneath. "So... the game was a shitshow today."

Rozanov's shoulders tensed as he turned away slightly, almost rolling his eyes. "You are here to talk about the game? What, you play like shit and it's my fault? Come to yell at me?"

"You played like shit, too."

Rozanov gave him an unimpressed shrug, and there was something strange in his expression that Shane had never seen before. He looked almost... scared.

Shane exhaled. "Look, we need to fix this. Whatever's going on."

"Nothing is going on." He gave a slight shrug with crossed arms.

"We can't play like that again. The media's already asking questions."

"So you are here because of the media?"

"I'm here because—" Shane stopped himself. "I don't want you mad at me."

"Who is mad? I'm not mad."

"You're not mad?" Shane's voice rose with disbelief.

"No."

"Bullshit."

Rozanov's voice rose in frustration. "What is there to be mad about?"

"I don't know! But you are."

"So what?" Suddenly Rozanov sounded tired. "What do you want?"

You. The word appeared in his mind, clear and certain. Steeling himself, he said, "You."

Something in Rozanov's expression softened briefly, but his posture remained rigid. "You are greedy. Movie star girlfriend, Ryan Price, now you need me too?"

"I'm going to break up with Rose," Shane said quickly. "And Price... that was nothing." He folded his arms. "You sleep with other people all the time. You're always telling me I should be getting laid more often."

"I am not fucking any of your teammates."

"He wasn't your teammate at the time!"

Rozanov looked surprised for a moment, or maybe relieved, before his expression shuttered again. "Maybe I should fuck Pike, then. Would be fair, no? He could score for once."

"Stop." Despite himself, Shane felt the corner of his mouth twitch.

Rozanov huffed, almost a laugh, but didn't quite let himself smile. The kitchen fell quiet again. Shane knew he needed to say something else, something that would actually help, but he didn't know what.

"If it makes you feel better," he mumbled, "I said your name when I came and it was so awkward that he didn't finish."

For a mortifying second, Rozanov just looked at him. Then his expression started to shift, eyes brightening. "You are serious?"

Shane flushed, embarrassed at what he had admitted but happy to see Rozanov looking less upset. "Why on earth would I lie about that?"

"To placate me," he replied, a shit-eating grin blooming on his face. "Good job. I am feeling very placated if this is true."

"Why do you know that word?"

"You are deflecting. See, I know many big English words now."

Shane rolled his eyes and then reluctantly admitted, "It's true."

Rozanov looked like he was trying to hide the delight on his face and failing. "I am very sad for him, missing life's greatest pleasure of coming inside you."

"Shut up," Shane laughed and then shuddered. "It was really awkward. Like, horrible."

"And yet you met up with him again. Tonight." The accusation in Rozanov's voice was morphing into simple curiosity.

"Well, there's not really a lot of people I can talk to about... you know. Nobody, except you. I guess I just thought it might be helpful to hang out with someone who knows about me, after that terrible game, try to get some advice or something? Even if it's awkward. God, it was so awkward."

"Price is awkward guy," Rozanov agreed. "Not what you would expect."

"He's sweet." Rozanov raised his eyebrows. "He was trying to help me even though it was really uncomfortable for him. Both of us."

"Ah. Because you are both gay?"

The word made him cringe, even though he realized the truth of it. He took a steadying breath and swallowed. "Yeah."

Rozanov clicked his tongue. "I had a suspicion," he teased, "the last time my dick was in your ass."

Shane rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help the small smile that tugged at his lips. The tension that had filled the kitchen earlier had shifted almost entirely, replaced with something lighter but no less charged.

Rozanov stepped closer, his expression going from teasing to something more intent. His hand came up to rest on the counter beside Shane, bracketing him in. "So. You want me, you are gay, you break up with girlfriend..." He leaned in.

Shane's breath caught, but he managed to put a hand up between them. "I still have a—I haven't broken up with her yet."

Rozanov groaned petulantly, but he was still smiling. "You are a very good boy, not cheating." His face was very close. "But what about me? I am suffering. You have made me suffer. You should take pity and kiss me a little bit."

"Ilya—"

Ilya's grin became even brighter. "Shane."

Warmth bloomed in his chest at the name despite himself. His resolve was hanging on by a thread under Ilya's intent gaze. "Not until I talk to her."

Ilya pressed a barely there kiss to his jaw and then pulled away. "Fine."

Shane tried to collect himself, but Ilya was still close, watching him with dark eyes. Shane's gaze dropped to Ilya's mouth without meaning to.

"Maybe you text her," Ilya suggested, his voice low.

"C'mon."

"Is very easy. You type, 'Sorry, Rose, I am gay, so we must break up.'" Ilya tilted his head. "Takes five seconds."

Shane let out a shaky laugh. His resistance was crumbling. "Maybe I could call her. From the other room."

"Yes, okay. You go call." Ilya stepped back, giving him space but looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Shane grabbed his phone and headed toward the living room, but it wasn't exactly private with the open floor plan, and he was embarrassed about being overheard. He found a door to a patio and stepped outside.

He shook out his hands, trying to psyche himself up, and then pressed call.

"Hey, babe," she greeted. "What's up?"

"Hey." His voice came out shakier than he intended.

"Is something wrong?"

"Um." He took a breath. This was it. Just say it. "We need to talk. About us."

There was a pause. "Okay..."

"I don't think this is working. Not because of you—you're great, you're amazing, actually—but I just..." He forced the words out. "I think I'm gay."

"Oh thank god."

Shane's hand tightened on the phone. "What?"

"Sorry! That sounded rude. It's just, I sort of... guessed... and I wasn't sure how I was going to break it to you."

"Oh." He let out a confused laugh. "Wait, you were going to tell me I'm gay?"

"I was thinking about it!"

"God, sorry," he said with a wince. "I must have been terrible in bed, huh?"

"Well, it's not your fault," she said gently. Shane's mind flashed to his awful night with Price and he cringed. "You were very sweet and attentive, but it's hard to fake interest."

Shane sighed. "Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to put you through that, I really thought—"

"It's okay." She cleared her throat. "So..."

"So?"

"Is there a guy?"

He didn't answer right away, which apparently was damning enough.

"There's a guy, isn't there?"

"Maybe," he admitted with a reluctant sigh, and maybe a little bit of a smile. "It's complicated."

"I definitely want details."

"Yeah? You still want to..."

"I care about you, Shane. I would like to stay friends, like actually friends. And I get the feeling you might not have a lot of other people to talk to about this."

"Okay," he said, smiling for real now. "Wow, this conversation is going a lot easier than I imagined."

She laughed on the other line. "So, is your guy there? Is that why you called me instead of waiting until our date tomorrow?"

He flushed. "I, um, maybe. Should I have waited?"

"No, it's fine. I'll try not to be too heartbroken, but you owe me details for almost cheating on me."

"I didn't—" But maybe he kind of did? She was taking it well, in any case. "Okay. I'll... we can talk about it tomorrow."

"Sounds good. I'll see you tomorrow, babe."

"Yeah. Bye."

"Bye."

He took a moment to collect himself after hanging up and then walked back inside. Ilya was sitting on the couch, arms leaning on his thighs. He was trying to look nonchalant, but his leg was shaking slightly.

"Well, I'm officially single," Shane said, plopping down on the couch next to him.

The look Ilya gave him was hard to interpret. "It went okay?"

"Better than I expected. She kind of... guessed that I was gay."

A grin tugged at Ilya's mouth. "You must be very terrible in bed with women."

"Yeah, well. It was terrible with Price, too," he muttered.

Ilya hummed softly. "Never terrible with me." He leaned in and pressed a kiss under Shane's ear. "You torture me, fucking other people."

The words didn't sit right with Shane and he pulled back. "But we're not—"

"No," Ilya sighed with a grimace. "You know we can't—"

"I know, but I can't..." He swallowed, finding his courage. "I can't pretend I don't have feelings for you. And I think you have them for me, too."

There was something raw on Ilya's face, breaking through his usually composed exterior. It looked like longing. "Yes," he admitted quietly. "But we can't be anything more than this. You know this."

Shane exhaled through his nose. "But you would want to, if—"

"Yes!" The word came out exasperated, desperate. "And what do you think we should about it, hm?"

Shane blinked at him, caught out.

"You don't know," Ilya said, deflating. "Because it is impossible."

"You wanted me to break up with Rose."

"Yes. Because I am illogical and I want things that are not possible."

Shit. Shane's chest felt tight, something hot and aching building behind his ribs. There was no answer, but Ilya was right there next to him, vulnerable and wanting and his, and Shane couldn't just sit there. He reached for Ilya and kissed him.

Ilya made a sound, surprised and then desperate, and kissed back like he'd been waiting for it. His hands came up to Shane's face, gripping almost too tight, and he whined into Shane's mouth in a way that made Shane feel insane.

They shifted on the couch, pulling at each other's clothes with clumsy urgency. Shane's shirt came off, then Ilya's, their hands moving to waistbands as they panted into each other's mouths. Shane pulled off his pants and underwear and let them fall to the floor, for once not giving a second thought to how they might wrinkle. Ilya's hands were on his ass immediately, his fingers dipping lower to tease at his hole.

"Wait," Shane said, pulling away from his mouth. "I didn't, um, think we were going to do this, so I didn't... you know..."

Ilya looked confused for a moment and then amused. "You always prep?"

His face went hot. "Obviously."

"Hollander, your diet is like rabbit food. I do not think you need to do this every time."

Shane made a face. "Is it not... gross? To skip it?"

Ilya's finger traced around his rim as he pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Will be okay. I will take the risk."

Shane still felt mildly grossed out, but he was so eager for it, he decided not to press as he took Ilya's face in his hands and kissed him deeply. Ilya's hands stayed on his ass, fingers dipping shallowly into his hole.

"I want you in your bed," Shane said, already imagining how he wanted it, on his back with Ilya above him. It was always most intimate like that.

"Fuck," Ilya breathed.

They made their way into the bedroom, stumbling a bit as they went, still kissing and touching. Ilya pushed Shane back onto the bed and crawled over him, reaching for lube from the nightstand. He worked Shane open with his fingers, slow and thorough, until Shane was squirming and making impatient noises.

Eyes dark and intent, Ilya slicked himself up. Shane pulled his knees up, opening himself up completely as Ilya lined up and pressed in slowly. The first push had Shane groaning. Ilya sank in to the hilt and slowed, letting Shane adjust. The sensation of him was so overwhelming each time, making Shane gasp and tremble at how full and fucking good he felt, practically gagging for Ilya to move.

"Relieved you are not topping?" Ilya teased, the attempt at lightness undercut by how breathless he sounded.

Shane laughed, unable to even defend himself. He was relieved. He wanted it like this every time. "Yeah," he breathed, wrapping his legs around Ilya's. "Fucking move."

Ilya obliged him with a slow, teasing roll of his hips that sent heat shooting through Shane's entire body.

"Ilya, fuck," Shane panted, clutching at the flesh of Ilya's back and pulling him close. "Harder, please."

Ilya picked up the pace, but kept it controlled, deliberate. He stayed close, their bodies pressed together, his face buried in Shane's neck. Every thrust was deep and purposeful, like Ilya was trying to prove something, or maybe just couldn't stand any distance between them. His breath was hot against his throat, noises of pleasure muffled into the flesh. It was almost too much, the intimacy of it, the way Ilya was looking at him when their eyes met, like Shane was the only thing that mattered. It scared him a little, that look, and with what it made him want.

But then Ilya shifted his angle, getting it just right, and Shane couldn't think about anything except how good it felt and how desperately he needed more. His fingers dug into Ilya's back, probably leaving marks, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya groaned. "You are perfect. Why are you perfect?"

Shane's orgasm hit him suddenly. "Ilya," he groaned, pulsing between their stomachs.

A moment later, Ilya thrust in deep and shuddered, coming with a choked sound against Shane's neck.

They stayed like that for a beat, both breathing hard. Ilya kissed him, messy and uncoordinated, before carefully pulling out and tossing the condom into the bin. He shifted to the side but stayed half on top of Shane, one leg still tangled with his, face pressed to Shane's shoulder.

Shane's heart was still racing. His body felt loose and satisfied, but his mind was starting to catch up to what had just happened, how intense it had been, how impossible their situation still was.

Ilya's hand moved lazily across Shane's chest, tracing patterns on his skin.

"That was..." Shane started, unsure what even say.

"We are fucked, maybe," Ilya breathed.

A laugh startled out of Shane. "Yeah," he agreed, kissing him.

When they pulled apart, a heavy silence settled in the room.

"So... what now?" Shane asked.

"How about you don't fuck other people, hm? Was bad enough seeing you with Rose, but I think, well, he's gay, so..."

"Shut up," he said with a huff of laughter.

"But with Price, another player... it was different. I did not like it."

"Yeah, I could tell," Shane said with raised eyebrows. "But, what, I can't hook up with people, but you can? That's not fair."

Ilya sighed, his fingers trailing along Shane's ribs. He sounded exhausted. "Has not been fun, lately, hooking up with other people."

"So you want... exclusive?" Shane's chest felt tight, hopeful and terrified at once. "But we don't see each other that often."

"So we Skype."

"That would be... enough for you?"

Frustration crossed Ilya's face. "No, I want you all the time, but—"

Shane's breath caught. Ilya seemed to realize what he'd just said, his eyes widening slightly.

"I want you all the time, too," Shane admitted quietly.

Ilya pulled him into a kiss, deep and almost desperate. When they broke apart, Shane tried to gather his thoughts. "But we should talk about how this would actually—"

"Shane, you are making me think too hard after sex. Need another orgasm to relax."

Shane laughed, running his hand down Ilya's hip. "Yeah, alright. I can help with that."

Ilya grinned and rolled them over, pulling Shane on top of him. The logistics could wait.

*

Ryan settled deeper into the couch cushions, Fabian warm against his side. It was nice, being here like this, in Fabian's apartment, without pressure or anxiety about the next game or trade. On the TV, Montreal was dismantling Ottawa in a first-round series that had been lopsided from the start. Ryan's team hadn't made the playoffs, so he had retired without fanfare at the end of the regular season.

"We really don't have to watch this," Ryan muttered.

"I think it's good for you," Fabian replied. "Hockey's such a big part of you, even if you're not playing anymore. Ease out of it, you know?"

"I guess." Ryan shifted slightly. "It's just weird knowing I'll never go back."

"You'll figure out what your relationship with it looks like now," Fabian said. "It doesn't have to be all or nothing."

Ryan nodded and then said, "Uh, Rozanov invited me to help coach at his hockey camp this summer, actually."

Fabian pressed a hand to Ryan's chest as he blinked up at him. "Wait, really? When?"

Ryan shrugged, a little embarrassed. "He approached me at Harvey's funeral."

"So you'd get to teach a bunch of kids all your moves?" Fabian asked with a grin. "That is adorable! You should definitely do that."

Ryan blushed. "Yeah, I'm thinking about it."

"Which one is Rozanov, again? Russian guy, right?"

Ryan gestured at the screen with the chin. "81. He's the one that just ran Hollander into the boards."

Fabian watched the replay with a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know, hockey is really not my thing, but it seems like it would be kinda hot to get all roughed up like that."

Ryan huffed a laugh.

"What? You never got a little hot ramming guys against the wall? Or getting rammed?"

"No," Ryan answered honestly. "It's not like that."

But when it came to Hollander and Rozanov, he imagined that maybe it was. After their painfully awkward encounter at the Golden Goose, Hollander must have actually taken Ryan's advice and talked to him, because Rozanov had been friendly with him at practice the following day, and in their next game against Montreal, the pair were back to their usual competitive and intense dynamic. And then Rozanov had moved to Ottawa, a terrible team—it was a miracle they'd even gotten the wildcard spot in the playoffs this year, even with their new star center. Nobody seemed to be able to make sense of the decision, but it was the closest team to Hollander's, and Ryan privately wondered if that had something to do with it.

Despite how uncomfortable his role in the whole situation had been, Ryan couldn't help but feel gratified that he might have helped those two figure things out.

"What?" Fabian asked, bringing him out of his thoughts.

"Hm? Nothing."

"You're thinking about something." A curious smile crept onto his lips. "Did it ever get you hot and bothered? You ever hook up with anyone about it?"

"No!" Ryan answered quickly. "Not... exactly." He was sure his face was turning red as he remembered that awful encounter with Hollander.

"You're blushing!" Fabian teased.

Ryan sighed. "If I tell you this, you can't tell anyone."

"I promise."

"Some of your friends are gossips."

"Don't pretend like you don't like a little gossip sometimes, too," Fabian said. "But, fine. Yes. I promise. No telling anyone. My friends don't care about hockey, anyway."

Ryan took a breath. "Okay. So. Awhile ago, I got a message from this guy on Grindr, back when I was in Tampa. He was pretty paranoid, wouldn't show his face in the photos, and when he showed up at my place, it was... a very famous player."

"Ooh, interesting. Not Hunter, I assume? Rozanov? No, wait, tell me it's Shane Hollander—that man is gorgeous."

"I'm not telling you who it was," Ryan said, feeling his face heat. "Anyway, he was freaking out because he'd been hooking up with... someone... and didn't know if he was actually into men or just that one guy. He wanted to test it, I guess."

"Aw, identity crisis hookup. Been there."

"He looked so miserable," Ryan explained. "Like he was about to have a breakdown. And I felt bad for him, so I invited him in to talk. Tried to give him some advice about being closeted in hockey. And then he asked if we could hook up anyway, and I just..." Ryan shrugged helplessly. "I said yes."

"You had sex with him because you felt bad for him?" Fabian looked incredulous. "Babe."

Ryan rubbed his face. "Don't. I already know it was a bad idea."

"So, did it help? Did he figure it out?"

"I think so," he said, remembering how miserable Hollander had looked at the bar when he finally admitted to himself that he was gay. "Seems like he's back with the guy he was hung up on."

"How do you know?"

"Um." Ryan watched as the screen showed a replay of Hollander and Rozanov jawing at each other after a whistle, standing just a little too close, their eyes sparkling. "It's just a guess."

Fabian's eyes bounced between Ryan and the TV. "Wait, are they both players?"

Ryan flushed. "I probably shouldn't say anything more."

"Not like I can really tell most of them apart, anyway." He smiled. "This is actually heartwarming, though. I like to imagine you mentoring the baby hockey gays. It's cute."

"I don't know if having a terrible hookup really counts as mentoring..."

"It was terrible?" Fabian tilted his head to look up at him.

Ryan flushed again. "I had just switched meds and it was... well, you know."

Fabian hummed thoughtfully. "I bet it wasn't such a bad time for him. You undersell yourself, believe me."

"He... finished, at least." Ryan grimaced. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. Can we turn off the game?" He leaned down and kissed Fabian, slow and deliberate.

"Okay, yeah." Fabian reached for the remote and clicked the TV off. "Much better plan."

Ryan pulled him closer and let himself stop thinking about hockey entirely.