Archive of Our Own

It had been a very weird day, but Shane wasn’t going to jerk off about it a second time. He shifted slightly under the sheets; planted his feet on the mattress and got his knees up. He tried to think about unsexy things, too, like not getting picked first in the draft, although that wasn’t really as helpful as it might have been. Ilya Rozanov had been the number one pick. Ilya Rozanov, smirking and golden, winning it all and obnoxious with it. He’d said sorry to Shane and then smiled, not sorry at all. Usually working out was a safe way for Shane to calm down and quiet his thoughts, but god, that evening in the hotel gym had been the furthest thing from safe. Shane had stared at Rozanov’s mouth, couldn’t stop himself, years of not-staring practice forgotten in an instant. Shane had drunk from Rozanov’s fucking water bottle. Had let himself want, mindless, the pure buzzing thrum of it at the base of his skull the loudest thing in the room. Let himself notice Rozanov’s legs so close to his legs, how it felt to touch his hand. 

Afterwards in the shower he’d permitted himself the indulgence of thinking about Rozanov as he jerked off, not even trying to picture some girl, just a fantasy of Rozanov’s fingers on his dick and Rozanov’s mouth against his neck whispering “More.” He’d jackknifed at the waist as he came, orgasm so intense it was almost painful. That was enough. Had to be enough. He wasn’t about to get off twice in one evening to thoughts of another hockey player.

His ungrateful body didn’t seem to realise this. When he closed his eyes he saw Rozanov’s face in the gym, half-smiling. Something there, surely. Shane wasn’t historically amazing at discerning whether people wanted to be friends with him, and to be honest Rozanov came across as more obnoxious than friendly, but he also seemed… interested? Like he thought Shane was interesting, anyway. Shane was pretty sure he wasn’t misinterpreting that.

Somehow, without his conscious permission, his hand was back on his dick. He groaned and rocked his hips, just a little bit. Maybe if he didn’t move his hand it didn’t really count.

He felt dissatisfied and guilty after he’d finished, still dirty even after he’d cleaned up. He was hungry now, too, stomach growling. Bad for your digestion to eat late at night, but it would be hard to sleep otherwise, so it was probably okay, just this once. He rummaged in his suitcase and found a box of protein bars from a sponsor his mom had hooked him up with. Shane hadn’t actually heard of them before, which was maybe why they needed the sponsorship. POSSIBILITY PROTEIN. Kind of a stupid name. The slogan printed on the box read “Taste the possibility… decide the future!” 

“Jesus, Mom,” Shane muttered. “You know how to pick ’em.” On the other hand, they were presumably paying him a lot of money. The glossy faux-chocolate bar didn’t look appetising, but when he started eating it tasted incredible. Suspiciously good, almost kind of like a normal brownie. There was probably some catch, like it actually contained negative protein or whatever, but that was a problem for future Shane. When he’d finished eating he brushed his teeth again, and climbed for the third time that evening into the hotel room bed. This time he fell asleep instantly.

He woke up in a weird position, sitting up with his head slumped over his chest. Sitting up, because he was in an armchair. Why was he in an armchair? He’d gone to sleep in a bed. His body felt strange, too, taking up more space, which was insane. He’d eaten one protein bar that wasn’t in his meal plan, there was no way he could’ve bulked up overnight, that wasn’t how it worked. So, all right. Just calm down. He pushed his hands through his hair—which was long now, sliding easily over his fingers. His hair was long, and his body was different, and he was—he could feel panic staring to send its tendrils through him—in a fucking hospital room. In a fucking hospital room with… Ilya Rozanov? There he was, sleeping on the hospital bed next to Shane’s armchair. But this was a beefier, older, dilfed-up Rozanov: different, in the way of dreams. So—all right. Everything was fine. Relief flooded through Shane’s body. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, it’s all good. I’m asleep. I’m just dreaming.”

Dilf Rozanov blinked awake and smiled at Shane: a private, intimate smile, because apparently it was that kind of dream. A little weird when Shane had literally just jerked off twice in a row, but who was he to argue with his subconscious. Then Rozanov asked, “You want to swap?” 

The only possible meaning Shane’s brain presented for this was Do you want to have sex with me and take turns topping, which was honestly a little overwhelming, even for a fantasy. Jesus. He needed to stop watching gay porn, he needed to commit to only ever watching porn with at least one woman in it. He didn't even watch gay stuff that much, but obviously—

Rozanov clarified, unsexily, “I can take the chair. If you would like to rest.”

Shane said, “Uh.” Rozanov wasn’t real but Shane still didn’t want to say the wrong thing. “I’m okay. Thanks, though.”

Rozanov got off the bed and stretched, and holy shit, his arms. Whatever he was in dream hospital for clearly hadn’t affected his workout routine. Shane let himself look, given that none of this was actually happening, and Rozanov gave him a little smirk, as if he saw Shane checking him out and didn’t mind at all. “He is still sleeping,” he said happily. 

Shane nodded as if he knew what Rozanov was talking about. “Yeah, for sure.” Then he noticed where Rozanov was looking: at the baby in a cradle at the foot of the bed. Shane was being cockblocked by his own subconscious mind. Fucking incredible. “Wow, a baby,” he said. “Just what we needed.”

Rozanov widened his eyes as if Shane was joking and also kind of being a dick. “Yes, is such an inconvenience,” he said. “Definitely we did not spend lots of money and hire many lawyers and see many doctors to have this baby.”

“I guess,” Shane said. The dream baby snuffled in its sleep. It was wrapped up in a blanket, all pink-cheeked. It looked a lot like a large burrito, actually. Probably Shane’s subconscious was making some stupid point about childhood and consumption and fame and media or whatever, but he wasn’t particularly interested when he had dream Rozanov right there. “Hey, listen,” he said, reckless. He stood up from the chair. “You want to go make out somewhere?” It felt insane, just asking for what he wanted. It felt the way being high looked. Obviously not something that was possible in waking life, but wow did it feel great, in the dream.

It felt less great when Rozanov didn’t answer because he was too busy staring besottedly into the cradle. “He is so beautiful, Shane. I cannot believe he is ours.”

“So that’s ‘no’ to the making out, then.”

Rozanov looked at him then, face oddly fond. “So grumpy when you are nervous,” he said. “Come here.” He wrapped his arms around Shane, around Shane’s dream-broad shoulders. He was very warm. A hand settled between Shane’s shoulder blades, another at the small of his back. Warmth all around him, warmth like childhood, backseat of the car, heater on, radio quiet, his mom singing along up front, Shane drowsing, on the way back from the rink, sun just coming up. Rozanov’s body speaking quietly to his, telling him everything was fine. Shane tried to breathe in deeply so he’d remember the smell of Rozanov’s aftershave or cologne or deodorant or whatever, but knew that he never would, once he woke up; wouldn’t even know how he’d begin to describe it. “Scent like the feeling of sunshine on your face in winter,” unlikely to be a successful Google search.

Fuck. He wasn’t about to get weird about a dream hug, he wasn’t— 

“Shh, Shane, is okay,” Rozanov said. “Is a lot, right? Yesterday, just the two of us, and now today three. Is big change. Big responsibility. Okay to feel overwhelmed.”

“I just—” Shane said. His throat did actually feel thick, like maybe if he didn’t get it together he was going to start crying, which was fucking stupid. “You know, Rozanov, it would be kind of nice if this was real.”

Rozanov nosed softly at the side of Shane’s neck. “‘Rozanov’? This is how you talk to your husband?”

Shane’s subconscious was unwilling to get him laid but happy to marry him. Embarrassing. This was the shit they should warn you about in health class: don’t share water bottles after a workout, kids. “Fine. Ilya,” he said. “Look, I think I should probably try to wake up now—”

Rozanov laughed and kissed Shane’s mouth, and it wasn’t like it should have been. It should have been porny and spitty and full of groans, because this was a fantasy, but instead Rozanov kissed as if they knew each other very well. Relaxed and patient, unhurried, all the time in the world: it wasn’t fair. Shane had kissed people before, of course, but never anyone he really wanted to sleep with. He’d kind of thought maybe he never would, due to being a sensible person who made smart plays. And now he got to kiss someone he was very attracted to, in a safe way because it wasn’t real, and it was… comfortable? And warm and affectionate? Shane was going to fucking strangle his bizarrely chaste subconscious. He wanted porniness and spit and Rozanov’s teeth under his tongue, but he wasn’t sure how to take charge of things to get it. He couldn’t even keep the kiss going when Rozanov gently pulled back.

“I have good news for you,” Rozanov said. Then he added something in Russian, very slow and careful, as if he was expecting Shane to understand him. Shane didn’t, obviously, due to not speaking Russian because why the fuck would he, and Rozanov looked weirdly disappointed. “Ah, is okay,” Rozanov said. “You are tired. We will practise later.” 

It was weird, it was all weird. Occasionally Shane had dreams where he knew other languages but he was just able to speak them, his brain presumably generating plausible gibberish and then telling itself what it meant. He’d never had a dream before where he was supposed to speak a language but couldn’t. Which suggested that perhaps this wasn’t a dream, except it had to be—

He said, “I’m sorry, I think I’m just a little confused right now.”

A frown pinched between Rozanov’s brows, not angry. Concerned, worried. He reached out and touched his thumb to Shane’s cheek. “Shane—”

“I should—I need to use the washroom.”

Rozanov indicated with his chin towards the door of an en-suite Shane hadn’t noticed. “Okay?”

“I’ll come back,” Shane promised.

Rozanov’s expression was unbearable. So much affection in it: for Shane, apparently, somehow. “You will come back from your trip to the bathroom? Yes, Shane, I hope so.”

Shane blundered into the bathroom and locked the door. Fuck. If he wasn’t dreaming after all, then—what? He was going crazy, the stress of the draft had been too much and his mind was breaking down. He fumbled in his pockets, as if he might find a note there explaining everything—stupid, stupid—and found instead a phone. Okay, maybe a starting place. It was fucking massive, and heavy, and it didn’t have any buttons, and it unlocked when Shane looked at it, like something out of a spy movie. So potentially he wasn’t insane. Potentially he was actually in the fucking weird-phoned future, because he was pretty sure that if he was hallucinating his imagination wasn’t creative enough or thorough enough to incorporate technological design advances. Obviously the whole idea of being in the future was itself crazy, and he flinched away from it, but—

The calendar icon on the phone’s home screen said: May 28, 2026. A rushing sound in his ears, numb hands. He fumbled a bit as he opened Messenger. 

Jacki (who the fuck was Jacki?): Hey hon, all safe and sound at home. Kiddos are so confused, want to know where the baby is - ha! Hope you and Ilya and your precious son are well. Text me when you get home? We’re here if you need anything xx

Mom, to a group text called “Hollanovs”: Your dad says we should give you space and not ask you for pictures of the baby, so this is me not asking. Love you, honey

Dad to Hollanovs: She’s excited, is all

Rose (who the fuck was Rose?): so fucking excited for you baby. congrats congrats congrats!!!

Hayden (Pike?): Thanks for giving me my wife back (jk). Congrats man it’s a wild ride you got this though. Tell Ilya no vodka till kiddo is at least 18 months idgaf how they do it in the Fatherland

Yeah, Shane definitely wasn’t going to tell Ilya that. Okay. He could piece some things together. He and Ilya, who were married, had a baby, somehow. Hayden Pike’s wife(?) had carried the baby for them. Gestated it. Whatever. Which was crazy but made sense, maybe, if Shane and Hayden were friends. Presumably they were teammates, because Shane had been drafted by the Metros.

“Shane?” Ilya called through the door. “You are okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane said back. “One minute.” He pulled up Safari again and searched for Shane Hollander. His phone offered an “AI overview,” because apparently the future was science fiction. He was a—fuck. He was a former professional ice hockey player. Widely regarded as one of the greatest players of all time, and oh God, if this whole thing really was Shane’s mind doing some absolutely fucked wish fulfillment he was going to lose it. He’d played for the Montreal Metros and the Ottawa Centaurs. The Centaurs, really? Along with his husband, Ilya Rozanov, he was one the first two out queer players in the MLH. Credited with breaking down barriers in men’s professional sports. Three Cup wins. Retired at the end of the 2024-2025 season. Lived in Ottawa.

He looked Hayden Pike up next. Hayden still played for the Metros, even though he was older than Shane. Then he tried “Shane Hollander Jacki” and “Shane Hollander Rose.” Jacki was indeed Jacki Pike, okay—which explained all of the signage in the hospital room being in French; they must be in Montreal, where the Pikes lived—but Rose was Rose Landry, as in the movie star. Shane had dated a movie star, and then broken up with her so he could be with Rozanov and explode his life and tell everyone he liked men. Sure, why not. All of this made sense, all of it was fine.

He put his phone carefully back into his pocket and considered what to do. Start with the facts. This whole thing—this hospital, this baby, this man—was either real or it wasn’t. If it wasn’t, there wasn’t much he could do about it. If, somehow, it was, he needed not to fuck it up. So, fine. Accept it as true for now. Shane was, somehow, in the future, where he was married to Ilya Rozanov, and they were fathers to a newborn. Who—fuck, who Shane had just been ignoring and generally being a real dick about. Well, the good news was future-Rozanov seemed to really like future-Shane, so maybe if Shane pulled himself together they’d be okay.

He let himself back into the hospital room. “Hey, uh. Sorry about that. I was kind of… panicking a little? I guess it just, you know. Doesn’t feel real, sometimes.” It felt false to say, even though it was true; he couldn’t look at Rozanov while he was saying it. He flicked a glance up once he was finished, to see whether he’d been convincing.

Rozanov—Ilya—smiled a little smile, mostly with his eyes. “You think I do not know my husband?”

Ha. Ha hahahaha. “No,” Shane said. “Of course not.”

“You are nervous, Shane. That is all. We have been parents for what. Less than one day.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Remember you cried, when Jacki told us she was pregnant? I know you want this, Shane.”

Shane swallowed. “Of course.” Did he want kids? He really hadn’t even thought about it much. Kids and a wife had seemed like a far-off inevitability, something to worry about when he was older. He looked at the baby again, peaceful and oblivious in his crib. “Um, hasn’t he been sleeping for a long time? Is that okay, when he’s this little?”

Rozanov glanced at his phone. “Is less than two hours since he ate, Shane. He is fine.”

Shane wanted to confirm that was true, but he wasn’t about to wake the baby up. He went to the crib to look at him more closely, instead. There was no way to ask hey, who are his parents, genetically? Looking at his blobby newborn features it was impossible to tell, and Shane was supposed to know already. Maybe he wasn’t even supposed to care. 

As if irritated by Shane’s staring, the baby stirred and started squalling. 

“Ah, Davidka!” Rozanov spoke a long stream of soothing Russian as he picked the baby up and changed his diaper, then re-burrito’d him and kissed his tiny cheeks. The baby was still very sad. Rozanov switched back to English. “Here, Shane. Hold him while I get the bottle ready.”

“R—Ilya. I can’t—” But he was, somehow. The baby was small and angry, blanket falling off him, squirming and squawking. Shane remembered some long-ago conversation with his mom about a neighbour’s newborn, infants not being able to support their giant bobbly heads, and tried to make sure he was propping this one’s up appropriately. ‘Hey,” he said. “Uh. Your dad is getting you some food. Not too long now, eh?” Davidka—kind of a weird name, but apparently Shane had been nice and let Rozanov pick—wasn’t very impressed by this attempt at conciliation. He tried latching onto Shane’s thumb, a desperate gummy grab. “Yeah, no, that’s not going to work. Okay, here’s Daddy.”

Rozanov looked quizzically at him. “We agreed I am Papa, no? And you are Daddy.”

Fuck. “Right, yeah.” Shane watched as Rozanov expertly tilted Davidka in one arm and brought the bottle to his mouth with the other. Davidka settled immediately, gulping down milk at a speed that surely had to be overwhelming for his tiny body. “Is he,” Shane said. “I mean, is that—is he okay? He’s eating that milk really fast.”

Future-Shane had presumably developed some sort of immunity to Rozanov smiling at him, but actual Shane didn’t have any. He could feel himself flushing, like some idiot kid with a crush. “He is fine,” Rozanov said. “Do you want to—?” He motioned towards Shane, as if he was going to pass him the baby.

“No!” Shane said. “No. Um, you do it.”

Rozanov finished feeding Davidka, whispering to him in Russian, smiling down at him. How was he so good at babies already, when they’d apparently had this one for less than a day? “Here,” he said. “You hold him now.”

“Maybe we should just, you know. Put him back in his crib.”

“Shane.” Rozanov’s expression suggested that Shane was an idiot and also very precious. Shane squirmed away from it; looked down at the floor. “You cannot be scared of our baby.”

“I’m not scared!”

“Good. Then you will hold him.”

Shane reminded himself that he’d already done this once, and it had been fine, and Davidka was much calmer now so it would probably be easier, even. “He’s so small.”

“He will grow, Shane.”

He was a warm weight in Shane’s arms, surprisingly solid. Small enough that Shane probably could’ve supported him in one palm and done some bent-over rows. Shane looked at his sleepy face, the absurd baby curve of his nose, his tiny mouth that was just like Rozanov’s mouth, surely, his seashell ear. The baby blinked sleepily. 

But there was something wrong. There was something wrong, because the whole scene was too perfect to be real, and of course there had to be some flaw in the middle. When Davidka looked up at Shane, his eyes didn’t focus right. It was like they weren’t really connected to his brain at all.

“Rozanov, there’s something wrong, his eyes are all weird. We need the pediatrician, now,” Shane said. He said it very calmly, but perhaps with more volume than he intended. Davidka startled and began to cry.

Rozanov wrapped his arms around them both and whispered soothing things in Russian. After a minute or two Davidka snuffled and fell back to sleep. “Shane,” Rozanov said, stepping back, still holding Shane by the shoulders. “He is perfect. He is fine. We talked about this, remember? We do not need the doctor.”

“We fucking do!” Shane said, and then felt guilty. He had to clean his language up, if he was a dad. “Fuck!”

“Shane.” Rozanov took Davidka and tucked him against one shoulder. He kissed Shane’s forehead, took his hand and squeezed it. “Beautiful Shane. You are panicking, yes? Breathe with me.”

“I want to talk to the pediatrician,” he said again. Rozanov sighed and made a little acquiescent gesture.

The pediatrician was a brusque dark-skinned woman in scrubs. Shane did a little Hey, we’re both people of colour in a very white environment nod at her and got no acknowledgement whatsoever. Well, that was fine, as long as she knew what she was doing with babies. “Est-ce que il y a un problème, messieurs?” she asked.

“Uh, pouvons-nous parler anglais?” Shane asked, with a glance at Rozanov. The doctor nodded, in a way that somehow conveyed Of course, you big anglophone dummy. Or maybe Shane was projecting. He said, “It’s about our baby.” Our baby our baby our baby our baby our baby. Shane’s baby, because somehow he was a teenage father. Fuck.

“Yes?”

“His eyes won’t focus. When he’s looking at something, he’s just kind of like staring past it? He can’t make eye contact.”

For some reason the pediatrician looked at Rozanov, as if inviting him to explain this. He sighed and said, “Very sorry, Doctor. My husband is retired hockey player. Many brain injuries, concussions.”

Absolutely unbelievable. “Rozanov—” Shane began.

Rozanov cut him off. “He does not believe me when I say is normal for newborns. But if you tell him, maybe.”

The pediatrician turned to Shane and said, with patience that had the air of being hard-won, “We don’t expect newborns to be able to focus their vision or make eye contact. I’ll examine your son now, but everything you’re describing sounds perfectly normal.”

Davidka had strong feelings about being woken up. He flailed his angry little fists and scrunched his tiny face as he screamed. Shane wondered if they would want him to play hockey: if that was something they’d talked about. Presumably they’d talked about a lot of things before they had him. You couldn’t just have a gay baby casually.

Rozanov cuddled and shushed him until he calmed down, and then handed him to the pediatrician to be examined. A very cursory examination, to Shane’s mind. Just a couple of minutes. But the doctor seemed satisfied. She said she had no developmental concerns, that she would ask a nurse to give them some information about infant milestones. Then she looked at Shane and added,  “And Mr Hollander? I suggest you listen to your husband. He’s a sensible man.”

Ilya preened. After the doctor left he held Davidka up and said something serious to him in Russian. Shane made out the word “papa,” which wasn’t hugely illustrative.

“Are you telling him you’re a better dad than me?”

“No! Never would I say this. I tell him he is lucky boy, to have one sensible papa”—he indicated himself, with satisfaction—“and one pretty one.” He winked at Shane, who felt like maybe he should have been offended. Wasn’t, though.

When they were discharged Shane found out that the baby’s name was in fact Davey. Davey Joshua Hollander Rozanov. Davidka was just a Russian nickname. “Hey, we could call him DJ,” Shane said, as they made their way to the car. Rozanov stopped walking to stare at him.

“No! Shane. We talked about this already, remember? When I agreed to Joshua you promised no DJ.”

Fuck. No way out but through. Shane said, “Okay, but he might want to be called DJ when he’s older.”

Rozanov nodded. “If this happens we will disown him. Very sad. No choice.”

It felt like maybe there was a wretchedness behind the joke, but Shane could only guess at its outlines. He wished he knew anything at all about Rozanov’s family. It meant something, maybe, that they had named their baby after Shane’s dad and not Rozanov’s. 

He said, “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” hopelessly vague, but Rozanov looked at him as if he’d said something helpful and full of meaning, and squeezed his hand. Future-Shane and Rozanov were big handholders, apparently. It was kind of weird, but not bad.

Their car, when they got to it, was a noxious yellow Porsche SUV. Shane forgot that he was supposed to be very familiar with it—had maybe helped choose it, even?—and shook his head as Rozanov opened the door to the backseat. But Rozanov grinned at him, so that was okay.

“You love it really,” Rozanov said. “Your boring little Canadian heart beats faster when you see it.”

“I will never love this car,” Shane said, chancing it, and Rozanov did a little just-you-wait raised eyebrow thing. Shane realised he was flirting with his husband. To distract himself he bent to fuss with the straps of the baby’s car seat. He was asleep, tiny and beautiful in a little baby suit and hat, blanket tucked over his legs. 

Shane had no idea how you actually secured a car seat into a car, but Rozanov clicked it into place easily. Maybe they had practised together, before Davey was born.

“I will drive?” Rozanov asked, as if confirming an agreement from an earlier conversation.

Shane nodded. “I think maybe I should sit in the back with Davey.” A cunning plan: avoid a potentially disastrous conversation, and also make Rozanov think he was a good dad. 

“Okay,” Rozanov said, not overly impressed by Shane’s good dadness. “Here, take bag.” The bag was a backpack, filled with baby things. Way more things than one small baby could possibly need, but whatever. Shane grabbed it and climbed into the backseat.

During the drive to Ottawa he did some research on his phone. There were lots of photos of his wedding online, which was helpful. Him and Rozanov in matching tuxes in front of a big arch of flowers. Him and Rozanov feeding each other cake. And—Shane’s parents looking on, beaming. He put his phone face-down onto his thigh for a moment and looked out the car window. When he checked again the picture was still the same. Shane’s mom and dad, at his wedding to a man. More photos. Shane’s mom dancing with Rozanov and laughing the way she only did when she was actually relaxed, not just pretending. Shane’s dad giving a toast. Hayden Pike doing the macarena with several presumably Pike children. There were other hockey players as well, more than Shane would’ve thought. Rose Landry, too, looking radiant: dancing with Shane, kissing Ilya on the cheek.

It was just a lot, that was all. A lot of things Shane hadn’t thought he was allowed to want. Seeing them felt like finding out that gravity was actually optional, or that you could breathe underwater if you really believed in yourself.

It didn’t look like there was anyone at the wedding from Rozanov’s family, so Shane checked Wikipedia and learned that both his parents were dead. It was weird, knowing that. Their deaths sat too heavily with Shane’s relief about his own parents. He switched to looking up the house where he and Rozanov lived. Architectural Digest came through with a video tour, and Shane had to watch it without sound, because he didn’t know where future-Shane kept his headphones, but even just the visuals were helpful. That was what his living room looked like, okay. More black and gold than Shane probably would’ve picked, but the bookcases were nice. That was his kitchen, his gym, his bedroom. That was how he and Rozanov stood when they were on camera together, Rozanov’s hand on Shane’s back, sometimes smiling at each other, joking. Quick little flashes. 

“So quiet back there,” Rozanov said. “What are you doing? How is Davey?”

“Um, Davey is sleeping, and I’m watching the Architectural Digest video tour of our house again.” Honesty the best deflection, often. What are you doing, Shane? Studying old tape, Mom. Watching myself get slammed into the boards.

“Loser hobby,” Rozanov said. He sounded fond. “Home soon, Shane.”

They got home—“home”—and Shane did a pretty good job, he thought, of walking into the house like he’d been inside it before. It helped that there was Davey to fuss over. He’d woken up and was sad and Shane found himself bouncing idiotically at the knees, holding the baby to his shoulder and shh-ing. Rozanov somehow spilled a bottle of formula all down his shirt, trying to get it open, and it wasn’t really funny but they were both laughing. When he managed to get a second bottle opened and decanted it felt like a victory, Davey gulping hungrily while Shane held him, Rozanov’s hand warm on Shane’s thigh, all three of them connected.

“Well,” Rozanov said, when Davey was finished. “I am going to shower. You are okay with Davidka?”

Shane was weirdly hurt that this was a question, which was stupid, because he didn’t know anything about babies and hadn’t wanted this one. But future-Shane did and had, so Shane was sad on his behalf. He hadn’t been that awful at the hospital, surely. “We’re good,” he said. Rozanov kissed him, just quickly.

While Rozanov was showering Shane read through more of future-Shane’s text messages while Davey slept peacefully on his lap. He talked the most to Hayden and Rose, but Hayden didn’t give the impression of being likely to be particularly useful. So, Rose then.

“Hey,” he said, once Rozanov was back, hair in wet ringlets, fresh-scrubbed, distractingly handsome. Shane needed not to think about that. “I think maybe I want to talk to Rose. Can you watch Davey while I call her?” Deflective honesty again. Nothing to hide here, just calling my ex: from which Rozanov might have been able to infer that there was in fact something to hide, if he knew Shane. But he only knew future-Shane, who was open and out and honest in all things.

Rozanov said, “Yes, talk to Rose, my Rodney.” Something Russian that sounded kind of like that, anyway; probably Rozanov didn’t actually call him “Rodney” as a pet name. Shane knew from their text history that Rozanov did call him “Jane” sometimes, which was a little weird, but presumably future-Shane didn’t hate it or Rozanov would’ve stopped.

Rose had texted that she was at the gym but could talk. Shane went into the tree-lined backyard—manicured, massive, if you flooded the lawn you could freeze it into a hell of a rink, probably—and pressed call, and she answered immediately. “Hey babe! How are you? How is he? Can we FaceTime? I bet Ilya is so fucking cute as a dad.”

“He’s—” Shane began, but Rose was still talking. 

“Are you loving it? Should I have a kid? I feel like no because it is actually harder for women, I think. Like it’s harder for us to become parents and keep our identities? I fucking love how you guys were just like nope, we’re hiring a night nurse, no guilt about it—”

“Uh. Rose,” Shane said. He felt heavy with secrets and confused mixed-up misery. “Can I actually. I need to like. Tell you something.”

“Oh!” Rose said. “Okay, shoot.”

Shane explained it all, in one rambling gush of words. He did feel lighter once he’d finished, even though everything was the same.

Rose said, “Woah, okay, that’s a lot. You’re not fucking with me, right? I don’t think you would but let’s confirm.”

“I promise I am definitely not fucking with you.”

“Okay. Fuck.” There was a small pause, during which Shane stared at the sky and didn’t think about anything at all. Then Rose said, “Oh my god! Shane, you have romance novel amnesia.”

They argued about this for a while. Shane was certain he would know if he had amnesia; Rose was equally certain that that wasn’t how amnesia worked. It kind of reminded Shane of an internet thread one of the guys on his prospect team had shown him at the draft, two dudes on a bodybuilding forum going back and forth about how many days there were in a week. It was stupid but fun somehow. It felt the way having a sibling might feel, if you liked them. He asked, not feeling hugely hopeful, what the cure for romance novel amnesia was, and she said “Um, I think you need to have a near-death experience and be rescued by your estranged husband who’s also a duke,” and they both cracked up, and it would’ve been really nice if it hadn’t also been sad and horrible.

She was adamant that Shane needed a brain scan—“I’m so serious, baby, what if this is like, a weird stroke. Tell me you’ll call your doctor? Okay, will you promise?”—but also open to the possibility that there was something weird and supernatural going on. Shane didn’t believe in weird supernatural shit but also thought maybe it would be preferable to a blood clot or whatever fucking his brain up. Rose offered to hook him up with “my witch friend in LA who does crystals” but Shane turned her down, for now. Maybe he’d get to the point of consulting a crystals witch but he wasn’t there yet. 

She asked if he was going to tell Ilya, and he didn’t even have to think about it. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“I’m sure,” Shane said. “It sounds insane, because it is insane, and I don’t want Rozanov to be involved. I’ll handle it.”

“I guess you really don’t know him very well,” Rose said. “Wait, hold on. How old were you, when you fell asleep and woke up here?”

“Eighteen,” Shane said cautiously.

“Oh my god. Shane, are you a virgin?”

Shane wasn’t a virgin, actually. He’d had sex. He remembered the girl’s name and the fruit-sharp smell of her perfume, her hand sticky on the back of his neck, her mouth too wet, the feeling of wanting to escape her hand, her mouth, of wanting to be outside his own body. The texture, afterwards, of the tied-off condom. Slimy. Distressing. “I’ve had sex,” he said.

“Oh, Shane. Okay. Look, I know you don’t know it, but Ilya really is a good guy, all right? If you tell him you want to hit pause on sex stuff for a little while he’ll totally go with it.”

Shane’s brain stuttered briefly. The option of hitting pause on sex with Rozanov implied the existence of the option of not hitting pause. Shane wanted to think about that. He wanted to go back to Rozanov and tear his clothes off and try all the ways of not hitting pause there were. He said, “Thanks, Rose.” He promised once again to call his doctor. He promised to let her know as soon as he had news.

While he was walking back to the house across future-Shane’s stupidly large lawn, his phone buzzed. He checked the screen, expecting some follow-up from Rose, and saw instead a text from—from Possibility Protein. 

Mr Hollander, you’re halfway there! You have twelve more hours to explore this possibility. Taste the possibility… decide the future!

“Oh my fucking god,” he said, and sent a string of replies in quick succession.

FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES

How are you even doing this 

Put me back

What is wrong with you

What the fuck!

Error: messages not delivered. Shane shoved his phone back into his pocket with a silent scream. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to go back, was part of the problem. Or no, obviously he did. He wanted to play hockey, he wanted to have a career. He didn’t want to be retired at eighteen with three Cup wins against his name and no memory of them. Only twelve more hours of this weird future life: fine. For the best, probably. But he was going to make the most of them.

The trees sent long evening shadows spiking over the grass. As Shane walked back to the house and the shade slid coolly over him he considered how future-Shane would initiate sex with his husband. Rozanov was easy, right? That was the impression he gave, anyway. That was the impression Shane had gotten, even though Rozanov hadn’t wanted to neglect their newborn to make out earlier. Once the baby was asleep Shane could look at his husband and say Hey, do you want to…, and Rozanov would know what he meant, and say yes. Probably? He seemed to like future-Shane a lot. 

If he was going to be having sex he needed to shower. And they hadn’t eaten dinner yet. He took his phone out again and Googled “anal sex after eating,” then second-guessed every decision he’d made in life ever and slammed the tab closed. It was going to be fine, most likely, and if it wasn’t Shane would be back in 2009 soon anyway.

Rozanov was puttering around the kitchen when he got back to the house. Oddly domestic. Shane wouldn’t have imagined the Rozanov he’d talked to at the draft doing anything so unremarkable as cooking. “Davey is asleep,” Rozanov said. “With Alicia.”

Shane, flipping rapidly back through his useless truncated memories, remembered Rose mentioning something about a night nurse. “Great,” he said. “What are you cooking?”

“Pasta with amatriciana.” Rozanov held up a hand like a man forestalling an objection. “Big exciting day for us, Shane. We can eat carbohydrates.” 

Shane didn’t care what they ate. He was trying desperately not to look at Rozanov’s mouth, his arms. Obviously they weren’t going to have sex right that minute, so he needed to be chill. “Sounds good. I might just go, you know. Check on Davey.”

Rozanov looked pleased, as if Shane had passed some sort of secret test. Hopefully there hadn’t been too many others he hadn’t noticed. “Give him kiss from Papa.”

“Yeah, of course.” 

Shane navigated carefully to Davey’s nursery. The middle-aged white woman knitting in an armchair in the corner was presumably the night nurse Alicia, whom Shane had presumably met before. Interviewed before? How did you find a night nurse, anyway? “Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi Shane,” Alicia said back. “He’s asleep.”

This was not really necessary for her to say. Davey was obviously asleep. He was strapped into his crib in some kind of baby straitjacket, and the crib was rocking and shushing him, which Shane, admittedly not a baby expert, was 99% sure had not been a thing in 2009. He went over and looked down at Davey and his peaceful little baby face. It was impossible to talk with Alicia there, so he thought pointedly instead, like praying in church at Christmas. Hi Davey. It’s your dad. Kind of. A version of your dad, I guess. Um. I didn’t really want to have you, or plan you—no. Fuck. Sorry. Okay, let’s try that again. I guess—I’m a version of me that didn’t plan you. But I think it’s pretty cool that you’re here. I hope you have a good life. I hope you get to do the things that you want to do. I won’t be here to see it, because I’m going back—well, who knows, but probably. But I hope some version of me gets to see you grow up. He thought for a moment and added I love you. It wasn’t entirely true, but in the space between it and the truth there was something green and hopeful. He kissed the tip of his finger and gently touched his fingertip to Davey’s eyebrow. 

Alicia smiled at him as he backed away towards the door. “You can check the monitors any time,” she said. “Get some rest, Dad.”

Shane didn’t really like that at all, but he tried to appreciate it for what it was. “Thanks,” he said, and fled.

Back in the kitchen Rozanov had plated up two big servings of pasta and set them on the island. Two glasses of white wine, too, and a bowl of side salad. “He is okay?”

“Yeah,” Shane said. “He’s great.”

They ate their pasta, which was like spaghetti but thicker. Thick spaghetti tubes in a cheesy sauce with little specks of bacon. Rozanov ate as if he’d never enjoyed anything before and feared he never would after, and Shane tried not to watch him too obviously. The pasta tasted good in a rich, creamy way that made him feel guilty, so he mostly ate the salad. 

“I'm glad you talked to Rose,” Rozanov said. Shane startled.

“Um, yeah. Me too.”

“I hope—” Rozanov hesitated and twirled some more pasta onto his fork, staring as if it required his full concentration. “I hope that you will talk to me, too, when you are ready. About whatever is going on.”

“Nothing is going on,” Shane said. It was unconvincing, he could hear that. He searched for a plausible misdirecting truth. “I think—I think I just have more feelings about being a dad than I maybe expected? He's so small and he can't look after himself at all, and I knew he would be like that but I didn't know it enough, maybe. It's just—it’s scary, I guess. Because what if we fuck it up.”

While Shane was talking Rozanov put his hand on Shane’s hand. He rubbed his thumb over the backs of Shane’s knuckles in a calming gentling sort of way, which Shane’s dick unfortunately interpreted as an exciting sexual advance. “I think you will be an excellent dad,” Rozanov said, in a tone of voice that suggested perhaps Shane was a skittish loser horse, the sort of horse who was scared of normal horse things. “I do not think we will fuck it up, Shane.”

“Um,” said Shane. He needed his dick to relax. He needed to get himself together. “Yeah. Thanks for cooking. I’ll just tidy up, then I'm going to shower.” 

“You want me to join you?”

“No!” Shane couldn't have sex for the first time in a shower, he'd break his neck and die. “I mean, you showered earlier, so. I'll be quick.” He rinsed all the dishes and put them into the dishwasher—Architectural Digest coming though once again, it was hidden in a wall and he never would have found it without the video tour—and smiled at Rosanov. Rozanov smiled back, but in a way Shane couldn’t read. Did future-Shane not clear up when Ilya cooked for them, usually? That seemed unlikely, given that he’d also been raised by Yuna Hollander. Shane worried about it all the way upstairs. A coach had told him once to picture his fuckups as cans on a string rattling along behind him, and then imagine cutting the string. It was supposed to help you move on from your mistakes, but when Shane tried it now the can kept hopping after him, under its own power.

The counterintuitive shower controls were a good distraction. Shane figured them out, eventually, and washed more thoroughly than he ever had before. The amount of shower gel he used could’ve kept an OHL team clean for a week. He slid a finger cautiously back along his taint and discovered that future-Shane kept his asshole waxed. Shaved, maybe. Laser hair removed. Did they even do that for butts? Shane couldn’t really imagine himself going to some beauty spa and asking to have his asshole lasered, but then again he couldn’t really imagine himself marrying a guy, and there was photo evidence of that all over the internet. It felt weird, touching himself there. It was kind of hot. He’d never let himself, before. 

Of course he’d suspected that maybe he’d like it. He’d overheard a conversation once between a few of the guys after an OHL game, friendly guys, decent, talking about some player on the other team: about how he was gay, although to Shane’s knowledge he wasn’t, and “gay” wasn’t the word they’d used. Tom Marchand had said “Look at the way he smiles, he fuckin’ loves to take it, I know it,” and it had all been very uproarious and funny. A chirp back, “Yeah, you know what that looks like, Marchy?” Everyone laughing, a great atmosphere in the room. Shane had let himself go into hockey robot mode. When he got home he'd stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, smiling, trying to read his own face. 

Social stuff was already pretty difficult for him, was the thing. He’d had to spend a lot of time working out what normal acceptable behaviour looked like: how players spoke to each other, how to hold your face when someone was talking to you, what sort of joke was okay and what was too mean and not funny. He’d fucking learned it, too. He was never going to be the most sociable, but he was managing. It would’ve been stupid to jeopardise that to confirm something he hoped wasn’t true anyway, so he hadn’t. Why take the risk of trying something dangerous and learning you liked the taste of it?

Well. He was in the future, and he was married to a man and everyone knew about it, and he was fucking trying the dangerous thing. He got one soapy finger inside himself, no problem at all. A big fuck-you to Tom Marchand, to all the guys he’d played with who’d acted like being gay was the biggest imaginable punchline. Hey check it out, I’m doing this anyway. It was so much easier than he had expected that he wondered for a split second whether maybe he was going to be preternaturally good at getting fucked, like he was at hockey. Banish the thought. Not helpful. Two fingers, twisting them around trying to get as clean as possible. It didn’t feel good in the same way that touching his dick did, but it was… interesting. The stretch of it. Shane had always liked pushing himself. He got a foot up onto the shower bench. More shower gel, playing with the rim of his hole, how it felt just to circle it with a soap-slick finger. How it felt to push back in. He was enjoying it now for its own sake, not just as a fuck-you. When he thought about Rozanov touching him like that he had to close his eyes and steady himself. It was crazy to think that that was all normal for future-Shane. He got to have sex he liked with someone he liked, all the time. Shane hoped he appreciated that. 

He found himself wondering about the first time future-Shane and Rozanov had hooked up. They got married in 2024, so obviously sometime before that. How had it happened, though? Rozanov must’ve made the first move, but Shane had been brave enough to accept it. It didn’t make any sense to imagine kissing in the showers after a game but that was what Shane pictured. Steam everywhere. Rozanov approaching him, smiling. Calling him pretty. Leaning in to kiss him on the mouth—

He stopped himself when he realised he had two fingers as far into his ass as he could get them and his other hand wrapped around his dick, on the grounds that he was in the body of a 35 year-old and his refractory period was probably depressingly long. He didn’t want to not be able to come when Rozanov fucked him.

He and Rozanov shared the walk-in closet next to the bathroom, he knew from Architectural Digest. Fortunately, unless future-Shane had developed a surprising predilection for leopard print and Adidas, it was pretty clear which side were his. Shane put on fresh briefs and a t-shirt. Shorts, no shorts? Maybe no shorts would seem presumptuous. Maybe tiny shorts with a slutty little inseam were a good compromise. He wondered why future-Shane even owned tiny slutty shorts and then realised it was probably to look good for Rozanov. Jesus.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Not bad, just different. The long hair looked better than he would’ve guessed. A whole lot of thigh on display but that was fine, that was the point. Dick bulging through his shorts, and that was the point too. Dilf Shane. Down-to-fuck Shane. No more gawky teenager. He could feel his pulse racing the way it did before a game, and cool shocks of awareness zipping down his arms and legs. Go time.

He walked into the bedroom and found Rozanov lounging on the bed. He hadn’t expected that: had thought Rozanov would be downstairs, still. “Hi,” he said stupidly. Rozanov was very handsome, smiling, the warm bedroom light gilding his lovely curls.

“Hello, my zaychonok. You want something?” Rozanov had his legs splayed out, one hand cupped over his dick, and he was staring at Shane’s thighs, so he was teasing, probably. Shane wished he knew for certain. He wished he knew what “zaychonok” meant. 

He was so busy thinking about this that he answered without censoring himself. “I always want.” A grotesque naked mole rat of a thing to say. 

But Rozanov was smiling at him. “I know this, Shane. Come here, hm?”

“I,” said Shane. “Can we actually…” It was just that future-Shane was used to having sex with Rozanov, and Shane wasn’t, and Rozanov would definitely be able to tell. Unless. “I was wondering if we could, um, mix it up a little?”

Rozanov tilted his head to one side. “Of course. You want to top? Is fine, I always tell you this. Is good for me either way.”

Shane hadn’t realised how much he didn’t want to top until he was asked. “No! Um, I mean, no. I was thinking more. We could role-play?” His voice cracked. Awesome that that could still happen when you were old and retired. “Like, um, maybe. We could pretend that I’m a virgin and you’re, uh. Not?”

“I love your beautiful brain, Shane Hollander,” Rozanov said, to all appearances sincerely. “Very sexy. Okay. How do you want me to be?”

Just the way you are, Shane’s beautiful brain supplied. He said, “What?”

“You want me to be gentle? Caring lover, in charge, showing my innocent partner how good sex can be? Or—”

“Oh,” Shane said. “Yeah, that. Um. Caring and—yeah.”

Rozanov nodded. “You want to take break from pretending, you say ‘Stop,’ yes?”

“Yeah. Uh. That makes sense.”

“Hey!” Rozanov said. “Is okay. We try this, see if we like it. I think, maybe pretend is wedding night. You are my beautiful husband and I am so excited to finally touch you. Sound good?”

“I—yeah,” Shane said. He could feel himself sweating in places he’d never noticed his skin before.

Rozanov nodded and stood up; rolled his head from side to side and shook out his shoulders, like he was warming up before a performance. It was kind of funny, but also Shane wasn’t sure what the joke was, and the thought of Rozanov laughing at him was an acidic burn down the back of his neck. “We don’t have to,” he said.

Rozanov stopped fucking around and looked at him; walked over till he was standing right up against Shane. “Moy Rodney,” he said again. “You were so beautiful today.”

It took Shane a beat to realise Rozanov had begun the roleplay. “Uh, thank you,” he said. “Ilya. You looked good, too. In your tux.”

Rozanov’s hands skimming along Shane’s sides, up and down, settling at his waist; Rozanov’s mouth whispering against the side of his neck. “I have wanted to do this for years. I have ached to touch you.”

Shane nodded. If he moved his hips forward his pelvis would press against Rozanov’s and he would feel Rozanov’s dick. Maybe. If he was hard. Shane was: couldn’t remember ever not being. The tiny slutty shorts were struggling. 

“Have you ever made love before, my Shane?” Rozanov asked, voice dark and suggestive.

“Yes,” Shane said defensively. “Not a lot, but—” Then he recalled his brain from his dick and remembered what they were doing. “I mean, uh. No. This is my first time.” 

He could feel Rozanov’s smile against his cheek. “I love you,” Rozanov said, and it was unclear whether it was part of the roleplay or just him being overwhelmed with feelings for future-Shane. Either way Shane didn’t really mind, because Rozanov was wrapping an arm around him and crushing their bodies together, finally. Fuck, it felt good. Somehow the pressure of Rozanov’s body alleviated all the pressure on Shane’s mind. Suddenly he was weightless, unburdened by worry. He tentatively nudged his face against Rozanov’s face, kissed Rozanov on the mouth, and Rozanov kissed him back. It was everything Shane had wanted back in the hospital: Rozanov’s tongue in his mouth, Shane meeting it joyfully, figuring out how to respond, what felt good, what made Rozanov groan. Rozanov’s hands were on Shane’s ass, now, and Shane’s hands were in Rozanov’s hair, and Shane’s heart was racing a million miles an hour. It was like being on the ice, knowing how to move and where to be and what the play was, except on the ice he’d never had another guy’s hard-on jammed up against his. 

“How do people not do this all the time,” he gasped, thoughtless, in between kisses. Rozanov laughed into his mouth, and then picked him up, hands under the backs of his thighs, and carried him over to the bed. Shane wondered half-hysterically if maybe he was dreaming after all, and then forgot to think about it further because Rozanov was on top of him, head on Shane’s stomach, worrying at the waistband of Shane’s shorts with his teeth. 

“Too many clothes for wedding night,” Rozanov growled, mouth full of fabric, and Shane was laughing and turned on all at once, helpless and full-up as if the laughter and arousal occupied the same chamber of his body. Rozanov’s face was right there next to Shane’s dick. 

He nearly said “Rozanov,” but caught himself just in time. “Ilya,” he said instead. “Ilya, I can’t—”

“You can, beautiful Shane,” Rozanov said. He gave up trying to yank Shane’s shorts and underwear down with his teeth, and instead used his hands. Unsurprisingly this was more effective. Shane thought maybe he should have been embarrassed about how hard he was, dick lolling proudly against his stomach, but there was no space for embarrassment when Rozanov was looking at him like that. “Shirt off,” Rozanov said. “Let me see you.” He was taking his own clothes off, too, and fuck it was insane how beautiful he was. Even his dick was beautiful, big and blunt and gleaming at the tip. Shane didn’t know how future-Shane handled it.

He realised he could just say something. Rozanov thought he was future-Shane anyway. “You look incredible.”

Rozanov nodded seriously and said, “Yes.” Then he grinned, when Shane flicked him in the stomach, and dropped back into his roleplaying voice. “But let’s focus, hm? Do you know what happens, between two men on their wedding night?”

“Uh,” Shane said. “I know the outline, I guess.”

Rozanov’s head lowered for a second, as if he was composing himself, but when he looked at Shane again his face was calm. “The outline, yes. The outline is I am going to put my dick in your ass and fuck you until you see stars. But there are important details to consider.”

If Shane didn’t get some friction against his dick soon he was actually going to die. He wondered if it would be rude to start stroking himself while Rozanov talked. Probably, right? “Details?” he asked. Rozanov’s dick was nudging up against Shane’s thigh. It was crazy to think about it being inside Shane. He could kind of imagine it, but not in any way that felt real.

Rozanov said, “I need to get you ready. Cannot just plunge a cock into my virgin husband’s body, would be irresponsible.” He’d started tracing a fingertip around one of Shane’s nipples, which was very distracting.

“Oh. Yeah,” Shane said. He closed his eyes, just for a moment, so he could concentrate on the feeling of Rozanov’s finger.

“So I am going to eat you out.”

Shane’s eyes flew open. “Holy shit. Really? I mean—I mean, uh. Yeah, I guess. All right.”

Rozanov leaned over and kissed the nipple he’d been playing with, then sucked on it. He hummed in satisfaction when Shane yelped. “Ah, you are going to make so many beautiful noises for me tonight. Okay. On your stomach, please. Chest down on the bed, ass up in the air.” 

Shane was into the whole eating-out idea, but also nervous. Chest down ass up sounded very exposed. “Is that really the best position?” 

Rozanov widened his eyes. “Oh, sorry. Which of us is the virgin here? Is it me? Because I thought I was the one who knows what he is fucking doing.” 

He was such an asshole. Shane liked him so much. He rolled over onto his stomach and got his chest down on the bed and ass up in the air. 

“Beautiful,” Rozanov said. “So fucking beautiful. Best ass in Ottawa.”

“Just Ottawa?” The minute Shane said it he worried a little bit, that Rozanov might not realise he was joking. On the other hand it was difficult to care too much. Rozanov was rubbing his palms over Shane’s ass cheeks, and either Shane was just unprecedentedly horny or his ass skin was particularly sensitive, because it felt incredible. 

“Hm,” Rozanov said consideringly. He kissed Shane’s right ass cheek. “No, you are right. Not just Ottawa. Best ass, in all of Ontario.” 

Shane laughed, even though his dick was about to explode. He felt Rozanov’s thumbs pull his ass cheeks apart, and then it was happening: Rozanov’s mouth on Shane’s hole.

Shane hadn’t really watched much rimming porn. He’d kind of expected that Rozanov would just go right in there, fucking into Shane’s asshole with his tongue, but instead he started with kisses. Slow open-mouthed kisses, like he was making out with Shane’s hole. “Holy shit,” Shane said. “Rozanov—Ilya.”

Rozanov pulled away and said with great satisfaction, “The first time my innocent husband has ever felt this.” Something about the way he said it suggested that actually he and future-Shane did rimming a lot. Then he put his mouth back. Shane bit the sheets. He was pretty sure he couldn’t come without his dick being touched, but Rozanov’s mouth kept going, and sensation kept building, fizzing up Shane’s spine and at the back of his throat and in his balls and in his belly. It felt like being outside during a lightning storm, wild energy looking for an outlet, not finding one. Rozanov’s tongue was in Shane’s ass now and spit was dripping down onto his balls and it was filthy and the best thing he ever felt, maybe. If didn’t get fucked soon he was actually going to cry. “Rozanov,” he said.

“Hollander,” Rozanov replied. But he pulled back and knelt up on the mattress. For a moment Shane thought he was getting a condom, and then he remembered that they were married and monogamous—presumably? there hadn’t been any other hookups in future-Shane’s phone, at least—so they probably didn’t use condoms at all.

“Holy shit,” he said. “I’m going to get fucked raw.”

Rozanov let out an amused breath. “So eloquent. Yes, you are going to get fucked raw. You will like it very much, I promise you. Have you ever touched yourself here?” He circled Shane’s asshole with a fingertip. It was so sensitive from Rozanov’s mouth that Shane nearly hissed.

He remembered they were roleplaying, this time, but answered honestly anyway. “In the shower, before.” 

The very tip of Rozanov’s finger pushed into Shane’s hole. It felt as if all the blood in Shane’s body was pooling there and in his dick, lazy and hot. 

“Ah. Is that why you were in shower for such long time? You were touching yourself?”

Shane said, “Yeah. I wanted to be”—perfect for you, good for you—“ready.”

Rozanov lunged forward and bit him on the back of the shoulder—what the fuck—and then started scrambling around, pulling a bottle of lube from somewhere and uncapping it, muttering things in Russian that Shane really hoped he wasn’t supposed to be able to understand. “I was going to finger you until you started crying,” he said, pumping lube over his fingers, sliding them into Shane, “but I think—oh, fuck, Shane. You feel so good for me, always.” 

Rozanov’s fingers felt so much better than Shane’s own had done that he was retroactively mad at himself. What the fuck had he been doing wrong, in the shower? Not hitting whatever angle or depth Rozanov was that felt like it was diffusing sparks low into his belly, that was for sure. He was holding onto the sheets for dear life, now, trying not to babble. 

Rozanov said, “Of course I would take longer, if this was really your first time—but can I, Shane, please, I need to fuck you—”

“Go on,” Shane said, “do it, I want you to—” His chest was pressing down into the mattress and he was sweating into the sheets, ass up, so slutty, waiting for Rozanov to give it to him. He couldn’t really think about what he was doing without wanting to explode, but he didn’t need to, because Rozanov was nudging up against him, and then pushing inside of him, and it turned out that every shameful squirming half-articulated fear Shane had ever had about himself was absolutely true, because he fucking loved it. Hockey didn't even come close, scoring a game-winning goal didn't come close. Shane wanted to live inside his body forever.

Rozanov was gripping Shane's hips, not touching Shane’s dick at all, and when Shane tried to touch his own dick Rozanov slapped at his arm, so it was impossible not to acknowledge that it was the simple act of taking a dick in his ass that was driving Shane crazy and getting him so close to the edge of orgasm he could almost taste it. His skin felt sensitive all over. The pleasure was somehow diffuse and intense all at once, and Shane was rushing after it but never quite catching it, throwing his hips back at Rozanov, shameless. “Rozanov,” he said. It came out like a moan and he didn’t even care.

Rozanov pulled out and flipped Shane over and slammed back in, and Shane gasped and pulled him down and kissed messily at his mouth. While they kissed, stupid and desperate, Rozanov did something with Shane’s thigh, pushed it up, and Shane threw his head back and arched his back and that was it, the orgasm he’d been chasing. It started like a normal orgasm but it lasted forever, dragging at him as intense as a tide. When it finally subsided Shane had come all over his chest. Jesus, he had come on his neck. Vaguely he was aware of Rozanov saying “Fuck—Shane—” and pushing even deeper into him and shuddering.

Just as the whole “covered in come” thing was starting to tip from hot into gross, Rozanov heaved a great gusty sigh. “I know, I know,” he said. “You want to be cleaned up. I am going.” He pulled out of Shane, who belatedly realised there was also come inside him and decided simply not to think about it, and padded to the bathroom. When he came back he cleaned Shane up with a damp washcloth. It was warm and Shane felt warmed by what that suggested. Rozanov liked future-Shane so much he didn’t want to clean him with a cold cloth.

When Shane’s skin was free of come, Rozanov took the washcloth back to the bathroom, and then returned to bed and bellyflopped onto Shane’s chest.

“Miserable failure,” Rozanov said, into Shane’s pecs. “Could not keep up virginity play. Needed to fuck you too badly. I am sorry, Hollander.” 

Shane could feel himself smiling in a way that probably looked goofy. It was okay though, because Rosanov couldn’t see his face. He petted Rozanov’s hair and said, “Thanks for indulging me.”

Rozanov grunted and rubbed his face against Shane’s chest. “Of course I have to indulge you, when you wear little sex signal shorts.”

“Sex signal shorts?”

“You only wear those shorts when you want sex,” Rozanov said. “Is cute.”

Shane was so post-orgasm euphoric he found it romantic that he and future-Shane had such similar thought processes. He said, “Hey, at least I’m consistent.” 

Rozanov kissed Shane's nipple. “Ah, we should check on Davey.”

Shane had absolutely 100% forgotten that they had a kid. “Oh, yeah," he said. "For sure.” 

Rozanov slithered half-out of the bed to retrieve his phone from his abandoned shorts. Shane took a moment to appreciate his husband’s legs and ass, still on the mattress, and although his dick didn’t exactly get hard again it was interested. So maybe there was life after thirty after all. “Got it,” Rozanov said, returning in triumph with his phone in his hand. “Okay, where is the app. Here we go.” He turned his screen so they could both see it: a feed of Davey’s nursery. Davey was sleeping still in his crib, while Amelia or Amanda or whoever read a book. “He is a good sleeper,” Rozanov said. “Like his Papa.” Shane could see that Rozanov would claim every one of Davey’s good qualities or attributes as his own, and that he would be half-joking, but also quite sincerely proud. He kissed Rozanov’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he said. “Sorry I was a little weird today. Maybe we can do some Russian practice tomorrow. And we can take pictures of Davey and send them to people.”

Rozanov put his phone down and said, “Shane, we have been together for fifteen years.” That wasn’t something their Wikipedia pages mentioned, holy shit. But Rozanov was still talking. “I know you are a little weird. Is okay. Is part of your…” He gestured at Shane. “Your rizz.”

Shane had no idea what that meant, but he nodded seriously. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve always said that, about my rizz.” And Rozanov grinned at him. Rozanov liked Shane’s jokes. Rozanov liked Shane. Once again Shane hoped future-Shane knew what a lucky fucking bastard he was. He closed his eyes against a sudden tearful stinging.

Rozanov pulled him close and said into his hair, “Shh, shh, is alright. I love you, Shane. All of you, yes? Not just the normal parts.”

There was a horrible vulnerable feeling flopping around in Shane’s chest. He said, “I love you too, Ilya.” 

He thought he would lie awake half the night, but he fell asleep quickly, Rozanov’s arm warm around him.

He woke up in 2009, in his Los Angeles hotel. His body was his old eighteen-year-old body and when he touched his hair it was short. His phone was his old phone. He checked Google, just to be sure, and learned that it was the day after the draft. He had been the number two pick, drafted to the Montreal Metros. All right then. Right back into his old life. He showered and got dressed and went to meet his mom for breakfast.

“Hey, honey,” she said. She gave him a quick smile over her wholewheat toast but then went back to staring at her phone, clearly deep in manager mode. “Okay, scheduling. The Possibility Protein guys have an office here and they’ve been hounding me for a meeting with you, but don’t worry, I put them off—”

“No!” Shane said. “Wait. Um, I do want to talk to them.”

“You do?”

“I want to get more involved, with my sponsorships,” he lied. “And I think this would be a good place to start. If it’s not too late.”

His mom said, “It's definitely not too late, honey. If you’re sure?”

“I’m definitely sure. And, uh. I’d like to meet with them without you there, Mom. I promise I won’t sign anything. Just—for practice.”

“All right then,” his mom said, clearly a little suspicious, but willing to humour him. He wasn’t going to feel guilty about it. “I’ll call them.”

The Possibility Protein guys turned out to be a woman. She was vague and distracted with blurred-looking eyes behind thick glasses. She kept calling Shane “Mr Hollander.” When he explained that he preferred to be called Shane she said, “Of course, Mr Hollander. We at Possibility Protein are alive to all of your preferences, I assure you.”

“Okay,” Shane said, “that’s not—okay. Can we talk about yesterday, please? What the fuck happened? I went to sleep and woke up in fucking 2026.” It felt wrong, cursing in a business meeting, but he figured it was probably acceptable given the circumstances.

“You experienced the possibility, Mr Hollander!” she said. “Now you get to decide the future.”

This response made Shane feel more insane than the actual time travel had. He tried very hard to sound patient and reasonable as he said, “I don’t understand what that means.”

The Possibility Protein woman blinked vaguely at him. “It’s very simple,” she said. “If you liked that future, you can have it. If you disliked it—well, then we really need to look at our information-gathering. But you can certainly taste further possibilities, if you like. There are so many lives you could have, Mr Hollander. You are fortunate.”

So many lives. “Could I marry Rose Landry?” 

She hummed and looked intently over Shane’s left shoulder for a moment. “Yes. I can confirm that several of your possibilities include marriage to Rose Landry.” 

He thought about this. Then he thought about Ilya Rozanov. About their ugly car and lovely house and future-Shane’s sex shorts, about Rozanov telling him he loved all of him, not just the normal parts. About three Cup wins and retiring early, about Davey and his tiny baby face, about the way Rozanov’s face looked when he looked at his son. 

He said, “The life I saw yesterday. That one. I want that one.”

The Possibility Protein woman nodded at him. “Wonderful!” she said. “I will now remove your memory of the possibility.”

Shane’s grasp on patience and reasonableness slipped further. “What the fuck? Why the fuck would you do that?”

“You won’t be able to experience that future if you’re anticipating it,” she said, as if he was being very stupid.

“But—why not?”

“Mr Hollander, the illusion of free will is necessary for human flourishing. We’ve tried alternatives and there’s simply no way to make them work. If you want the future you saw, you must give up the memory of it.”

Shane said, “So I’ll meet Rozanov again and just… not know that I’m going to marry him?”

“That’s right,” she said, and took her glasses off and polished them, and put them back on and smiled at him. The effect was disconcerting. “But trust me, Mr Hollander: you’ll figure it out.”