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Shane was eight when he started getting recognized for his talent, and twelve when that recognition became inescapable. Fourteen when scouts and hockey reporters started talking about him as "The Next One;" fifteen when he was granted an exception to play early in the OHL. Throughout the ever-increasing clamor, he was able to focus on the puck, on lengthening his strides, on strengthening his backhand —
He was freshly sixteen when Number 37 on the Storm crosschecked him into the boards, a game too late in the regular season to matter to either of them, and he'd landed with a snap. Though he was skating again by seventeen, the talk had cooled to "hey, wasn't he—"
That is to say, by eighteen, Shane had moved from the OHL to the second line of McGill's hockey team, rather than getting drafted first as he'd expected. A Russian player had taken his spot, and the part of Shane that loved hockey, no matter what, no matter that his body was no longer as fast as his mind when it came to plays...
Shane could appreciate his skill, somewhere beyond the resentment. Still, after another bad hit had re-injured his knee, it was clear his future with hockey would have to be behind the bench rather than in front of it.
The coach at McGill had allowed him to finish his undergraduate as an assistant, and by the time he was just twenty-two, had pulled enough strings to get him assisting as a special teams coach in Montreal.
Montreal was something of a defensive powerhouse, these days, but their power-plays remained a mess. They lacked a true star-center, after many attempts at finding one through trades and haphazard free-agent signings. Shane, sometimes, could only imagine what he could have done with the team if that Russian player, Ilya Rozanov — if he had gone to Montreal at second, as he was supposed to. As he would have done if it had not been for that game in fucking Guelph —
Still, he was not unhappy. He was a coach for his mother's favorite team, and she still watched all of his games like she had when he was still playing in them. But still, some part of him could not help but wonder about what might have been, him in Boston, and Rozanov in Montreal.
If in another life, he was twenty-two, twenty-three, with his name carved in the Cup twice, maybe three times — if he had gotten to compete against Rozanov himself (beyond staying up late scheming how to neutralize him on the power play), who would have come out on top?
He could admit the man was skilled, and was a better player now than Shane had been at fifteen. At eighteen, though:
If things had been different, at eighteen, at twenty, and now: would he still have come out on top?
The phrasing of his thoughts forced a visual into his head, from the times he'd seen Rozanov from behind the bench, the times he'd seen him smirking at him from a MLH promotional video, from a billboard—
The man was handsome, with a beautiful slapshot, and played with an awareness that Shane hadn't yet managed to coach into his players. Rozanov was also safely straight, and untouchable, and in Boston, besides. With that in mind, and more free behind the bench than he'd ever been on it… Shane let himself think about it.
About Rozanov.
There were no gay coaches at any level of professional hockey, not that Shane was aware. He would not risk his second chance at the career with the MLH he'd always dreamed of, and certainly not for a Boston player he'd never spoken to.
But sometimes, when the team was on the road and he was alone in his hotel room, he would watch highlights, then go to the full games to analyze what led to each highlight. Porn couldn't give him this; the feeling of watching how Rozanov tracked the full game from the bench without distraction, how he bouldered through the opposition when he wasn't twisting around them, how he lined up his famous slapshots at the circle to tear past the goalie.
It wasn't quite satisfaction, but something stirring back up the competitive embers he'd thought burnt out. If he couldn't outplay him on skates, he'd be the coach to outplan Rozanov beyond planning around him. In the meantime, he'd think about those hand.
So passed some nights on the away games those first two seasons: watching tape until he felt empty, then sinking increasingly ambitious dildos into himself, biting into a pillow so none of the team personnel on his floor would hear him as he gasped out.
At the end of the second season, Montreal still hadn't made the playoffs despite having the highest PK% in the League. And Shane had an email in his inbox from the head coach of Boston, offering him a pay raise and a promotion.
Associate Coach, not an assistant special teams one. He'd basically been acting the part in Montreal, but…
He let himself imagine, for a moment, directing a play for a team that didn't suck. He forwarded the email to his mother.
The call came within two minutes.
"Hey," he said as he answered. "Big news, yeah?"
"Take it," she said at the same time. Paused, and he could hear the sheepish laughter in her tone as she continued. "It's your decision, of course. But Montreal is rebuilding. If you want to get your name on the Cup…"
"Boston's my best bet. And—mom, I … I do," he said. "I still want to pick up that fuc—freaking Cup."
"Of course you do," she said, more softly, before her voice sharpened into the manager one she'd once adopted, back when things were different. "Get them to send you a proper contract. Review it with an attorney, and negotiate if you need to. You're an incredible coach, Shane. No one, on the ice or off it, has a mind for the game like you. Associate coach…that's putting you in the running for head coach, soon, even at your age. It is a tremendous offer."
Head coach. He thought about it, and realized, absently, he was smiling more broadly than he could remember.
It was only after he'd sent the request for a more formal offer that he remembered the Rozanov thing. He panicked, briefly, until he remembered to breathe.
It would be fine. He was a professional, and whatever attraction he had to Rozanov would fade once he had to deal with the asshole in person.
It was fine. Most of his focus had been redirected to needing to sublet an apartment over the summer, because the City of Boston did not believe in leases that did not start on September 1. Apparently, the whole city moved in and out on the same day. Shane, as he sat trapped in a moving truck three blocks from the apartment he was moving to, could not think of a single explanation that would justify this.
At least Boston drivers were better than Montrealers, though that spoke more of the Montrealers than it did of Boston. He drummed his hands against the wheel, and stared at the billboard showing the captain of his team.
The attraction had not left him as he'd hoped, dealing with Rozanov in preseason. He'd give it time, but if his options for entertainment were staring at Rozanov or Boston moving day traffic…
The billboard photo didn't capture the way Rozanov's hair caught a bit golden in the light, and the serious expression no longer fit the image he had of the man...
Shane forced himself to stare at the stalled Corolla in front of him. For the first time since leaving Canada, he leaned on the horn, more in punishment for himself than anything.
Rozanov's hair? Really?
As the season grew nearer, Shane was able to take more of a direct role in his coaching, and drilling plays still came to him naturally, even if his knee ached too much to skate them properly. But he was only closing out today's practice with a meeting in the room usually used by the video coach, to explain his special team units, and it did not go without comment.
"Why am I not on one of the squads? I am captain, yes?" Rozanov spoke as he raised a hand.
"These are the squads to practice the penalty kill. I'll cycle you in later, Rozanov," Shane said, managing to keep his tone professional.
Perhaps not as well as he thought: Rozanov, no doubt sensing his annoyance with the skill of a true rat, smirked. "Yes, why later? I have been given award, League MVP, these past two years, no?"
Shane glanced at the team waiting to see how this shook out, then refocused on Rozanov. "Yes, when you're on the ice, Rozanov. The rest of the team needs to practice how to handle when you're not."
"Which is a lot, Roz," Number 57, Kane, heckled.
"Ah, betrayal," Rozanov whined. It was, unfortunately, attractive, as much as Shane wanted to deck him. Shane was good at ignoring that sort of thing. Rozanov was still staring at his face, though, and he remembered he needed to speak.
"If you manage to go without a single penalty for the next two games, Rozanov, then I'll talk to Coach about dedicating a whole special teams practice just to your irreplaceable role on the PK."
"So very nice to me, Mister Associate Coach," Rozanov cooed mockingly. Shane pretended all he felt was annoyance. There was certainly enough of that to mask the rest.
"Anything for you, Rozanov," Shane said flatly, and the boys laughed, sensing the dismissal. "Maybe even bag skates."
The boys jeered as they left, and Rozanov let them exit ahead of him. He caught Shane before he could leave too, and closed the door.
"Coach Hollander, you do have space for me in these charts, yes?" he sounded a bit more serious now.
"Rozanov, I've spent my career planning for you in any Montreal game against Boston. I am perfectly aware of how effective you are on special teams," Shane met his gaze. It felt like a challenge, and he did not want to back down. "Look at them more closely. You could gel into any of these without an issue, without us needing to drill them. I'd replace you with Sebbin on the PK1, and with Cadyn on the PP1, in an actual game."
"Ah," Rozanov said, swallowing. "You were good coach for Montreal. Very observant, and so annoying. So this—it is not problem with me because of my … reputation?"
"What reputation?" Shane said, attempting to think of anything Rozanov was known for other than 'the most dominant shooter in the MLH.' "Why would I have a problem with you being good at hockey?"
Rozanov laughed, more genuinely than Shane had heard from him before. As though it had surprised him too, and Shane realized that after years of watching videos of the man, this was the first time he'd seen him smile with his teeth. "Ah. Is not problem with cocky Russian playboy?"
Oh, that reputation. Shane resolutely ignored the heat he felt building in his ears and across his face. "What does that have to do with your special teams performance?"
Rozanov watched him for a moment, and Shane did glance away for a moment. A smirk tugged at the corners of that mouth, and Shane forced himself to look into green eyes again rather than keep watching it. "What indeed. It was problem for last coach, you see."
"As long as what you do off-ice doesn't keep you from practice, it isn't my concern," Shane said.
Rozanov's lips curled further. "Even if what I do off-ice is fuck pretty men, Coach Hollander?"
The background noise— the electric hum of the lights, the thonking noises of the fan — abruptly tuned out, and all Shane could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat.
"Even then," Shane said, throat feeling dry. He wondered if his face was as red as it felt. "Was that an issue with the previous coach?"
Rozanov moved closer to him. It was more of a prowl, really. Shane felt as though he were slowly getting pressed into a corner, between the increasingly amused smile and the sudden darkness in light eyes. "Ah, he only knew about the women. And it is mostly women, I admit. I rarely find pretty men who are worth the trouble."
"Oh?" Shane managed.
"But the problem, Coach Hollander," and Shane was going to need Rozanov to stop saying his title like that, all low and whiny, "I like the trouble."
"Yeah, I'm sure you do," he said, more breathlessly than he intended. Rozanov's mouth curled that much further, and finally, he pressed Shane fully against the wall.
"Do you like trouble?" Rozanov hummed, eyes dark.
"I don't seek it out," Shane answered honestly.
"But do you like it?"
Shane stared at him, a little helplessly, and the edge of mockery he felt from Rozanov's amusement faded to something a bit gentler.
"Let me ask again," Rozanov said, still sounding cocky enough that Shane couldn't decide if he wanted to shove him away and leave, or… or… "Different way this time, yes? Run play before we start, Mister Coach."
"What play?" Shane asked.
"Oh, I don't know,"Rozanov shrugged broad shoulders. "Get on your knees."
Shane dropped without thinking at the words, until his legs screamed in protest of the maneuver before he made it all the way there. Rozanov caught him before he fell entirely.
"What is wrong?" he asked, voice suddenly serious. "You are hurt?"
"Just the injury from when I was playing," Shane answered, more revealingly than he'd intended. But then, Rozanov rarely used articles in English. Shane doubted he'd recognize the difference between The Injury and an injury, if it had even registered at all. "Perhaps this isn't a good idea."
Shook his head, humiliation at his own condition clearing the arousal fogging his thinking. "No it's definitely not a good idea. What the fuck, Rozanov? We've only known each other a month; I'm your coach—"
"You know what may help, if your knee is causing issue," Rozanov interrupted. "If we use bed, you can lie down, and I can stand at side, and feed my cock into your mouth until it is as much as you can fit."
Shane stopped fussing with his knee brace, unable to help but visualize it, as clear as any play. He raised a brow, refusing to let that last part slide. "As much as I can fit?"
"Am very big," Rozanov said mournfully, the asshole. Shane's gaze flicked down and back to catch Rozanov smirking once again.
"Fuck off," Shane said, and pushed past him to open the door. Closed it again, and stared at Rozanov somewhat helplessly.
Once again, he watched the smirk flash to something real, and it changed the whole of Rozanov's face from handsome to something too devastating to look at for too long. The MLH was truly undercutting its sales by having him scowl at the camera and play the Russian Machine.
"What is your address?" Rozanov asked.
Shane told him.
"And ah…if I go there tonight, around seven, to knock on your door?"
I only have a couch, a coffee table, a TV, and a bed, Shane thought. Our options will be limited. He let himself look at the full stretch of Rozanov before settling back on his face. "I might open."
"I might knock."