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Shane Hollander would never buy a sex toy.
No, really, he would never. He doesn’t want one—he doesn’t—and if anyone would ever open the drawer of his bedside table and find it, he thinks he’ll die of embarrassment.
If he were to ever buy one—which he wouldn’t, for clarity—he’d set up a P.O. box on the other side of town under a fake name, order the thing under said fake name, and throw the packaging away in a community trash can so he’d leave no trail. He’d wrap the toy in a piece of clothing, probably a hoodie or something made of thick, unassuming fabric, so that if anyone were to peek into his bag on the way home, they wouldn’t immediately see it. Practical, a clean plan. Very Shane Hollander.
Not that he’s thought about it, or anything.
Also, he doesn’t need it. He’s got a bottle of lube, two hands, and a dream, and he doesn’t masturbate all that often, anyway. Sure, he’ll deal with morning wood, or quickly jerk off before bed to get sleepy, but he doesn’t feel sexy, exactly.
Porn generally weirds him out: he doesn’t know these people (so why would he want to watch them fuck?), the moaning and dirty talk are always way too fake and overdramatic, and when the actors look directly into the lens, Shane needs to close the tab immediately. His old teammates sometimes used to send him links, but he stopped opening those a long time ago.
Tapping into his real-life experiences doesn’t really do it for him, either—they are quite limited and… unimpressive on his end. He gets more embarrassed than aroused when he thinks about them, and honestly, he can’t really blame Jessica for breaking up with him when he moved to Montreal. It was a good excuse, a perfect cop-out, and while she was a lovely girl, he was never actually sad about it.
Then there’s his imagination, but he doesn’t believe that really works. His head keeps drifting off to completely unrelated and unsexy topics, like Ilya Rozanov, for example. Who is not sexy at all. Not even a little. Because Shane is straight.
So no, no sex toys on the horizon for him.
Or so he believed.
He got drafted a few months ago—second pick, he’s still fucking devastated about that—by the Montreal Voyageurs. He grew up watching their games, of course, with his mom being their biggest fan in probably all of Canada. Before Shane left for Montreal, she was quizzing him on all the players’ names and jersey numbers (which he passed with flying colours, naturally), and it was just a fun game; a little trivia night.
Now, though, he’s standing with his teammates—his teammates—in the city centre, side by side with fellow rookie Hayden Pike, and it’s all overwhelmingly real. He and Hayden are in the same boat: both in their first NHL season ever, and while Hayden is probably better at pretending than Shane is, they’re both nervous as hell.
The team went out for dinner last night, and Shane and Hayden had met with the unfortunate tradition of Rookie Dinner, a.k.a. the rookies spending half their signing bonus on a single meal (and many, many beers and shots) for all of their teammates.
Aside from that, it’s common knowledge that NHL teams love to haze their rookies at the start of the season, giving them a ludicrous, warm welcome to the league. Shane has been gearing up for this moment—he’s gone through the list of options in his head many times and has since concluded that the possibilities are endless. He knows for certain that he’ll be made to look like a fool in one way or another, but he can’t stand that he doesn’t know in which way.
As they walk up to the storefront, though, it becomes clear as day to Shane what they’re here to do.
In the shop window left of the lofty double doors, six mannequins are wearing the skimpiest, most uncomfortable-looking lingerie sets Shane has ever seen. Some of them don’t have fabric where there definitely should be; some of them have chains connecting the different pieces; some of them have pretty lace frills along the edges.
On the right side, there’s a large array of vibrators, dildos of various sizes, and crazy contraptions that Shane cannot begin to wrap his mind around. He tries to will his blush away.
“Okay, Pike,” Drapeau announces with a single clap of his hands. “Your girl must need one of these uh… outfits, right?”
Shane looks to his left and sees Hayden shift his weight, clearly just about as anxious as Shane is.
“I only met Jackie a week ago,” he mumbles.
“That’s perfect,” Mitty chimes in with a grin. “Just pick the one you’d love to see her in most. I’m sure the employees will be thrilled to help you grab it from the window for her.”
Gross. Shane hates how the guys talk about this stuff, how they joke about fucking women like it’s a group activity. He hopes to god that it isn’t. He peers at his shoes, not wanting to look at the shop window again. Out of respect for the mannequins, maybe?
Either way, he doesn’t have much time to analyze it, because Drapeau speaks up again, louder this time.
“Hollander, poor, single Shane Hollander, what to do with you,” he teases, and the group chuckles. The embarrassing heat creeps over Shane’s face.
“Oh, I know!” Drapeau exclaims in fake-surprise, as if this entire thing hasn’t been planned out for ages. “You will go up to a worker and ask them what their best-selling dildo is.”
Shane nearly chokes on his own breath. “What?”
“You heard me, Hollander,” he continues, a shit-eating grin unfurling over his face. “And don’t even think about coming back out until you’ve bought one.”
There goes Shane’s entire P.O. box plan—idea, not plan. He wasn’t ever going to do it.
Obviously.
He knows this is part of the deal, part of the initiation, and he’s not going to argue on his second week of the season, but he would honestly rather strip naked and run a lap around the city than torture that poor employee with dildo-related inquiries.
So there they go, Shane and Hayden, both freshly eighteen years old, off to the fucking sex shop.
Shane’s discomfort must be well visible, because Hayden softly bumps into him as they walk into the store. “Hey, it’s just hazing,” he says lightly. “I’m never, ever giving this lingerie to Jackie, and you absolutely don’t have to keep whatever they make you buy.”
Shane swallows. “No, yeah, for sure.”
“See you on the other side?” Hayden asks as he claps Shane on the shoulder.
“Yeah, good luck, man,” Shane sighs, and Hayden takes a left, leaving Shane alone in the middle of the lube section.
He stands there for a moment, looking at all the different flavor variants (why the fuck is birthday cake even an option?), but if he’s honest, he’s stalling. Hayden’s voice is faint in the background, but he’s clearly talking to an employee, asking for advice. Shane envies him a little; at least Hayden can hide behind the it’s-for-someone-else excuse. Sure, Shane could say that, too, but when unprompted, it would probably just sound like a huge lie and, in turn, make him look even more pathetic than he already does.
God, does this store have a back exit he can escape out of?
“Can I help you with anything, sir?” A man with a name tag that reads Jerry asks him. He can’t have been that much older than Shane, with a light stubble and blonde hair that reminds him a little of–
“No, well, I mean, yeah, maybe?” Shane stumbles awkwardly over his words.
He is not necessarily a socially awkward person, especially not when he’s on the ice and in his element. Right now, though, he is most certainly not in his element.
“Um, so, do you have any, like, dildos?” Shane manages to produce the words, scraping over his tongue like sandpaper.
Yeah, this is it. This is his lowest point.
Jerry is very professional, thank god, and guides Shane over to the correct aisle. The walk feels endless, even though the store isn’t big at all, and Shane keeps instinctively scanning the people around him, on the lookout in case someone recognizes him.
They finally stop in front of a giant wall, displaying at least two dozen different types of dildos, color-coded in rainbow order. Shane can appreciate that, at least.
“So, uh, sorry to ask, but which is your most… popular?” Shane would love to die right about now.
“Well, that depends on what type you’re looking for,” Jerry explains. “We have some realistic ones, then there’s the more fun-colored ones, and if you’re looking for a challenge, I can point you to our larger dragon—”
“That’s okay!” Shane cuts him off quickly and instantly feels guilty for being rude to this perfectly kind stranger. “Sorry, just… something simple, maybe?”
“All good!” Jerry says, and Shane finds the man far too chipper for this humiliating conversation. “Our purple six-inch one is doing quite well at the moment.”
Shane can’t even envision how big six inches is, but he is one hundred percent certain that he needs to leave this interaction. Right now.
“That’s fine, that’s perfect, I mean—thank you, erm, Jerry,” he nods, grabs the box practically without looking, and rushes over to the checkout counter.
Hayden is nowhere to be found; he probably left the store as soon as he got what he needed. Shane swipes his card to pay and thanks all the stars in the sky for the discreet bag the cashier stores his… purchase in.
“Shane Hollander,” a deep voice sounds behind him. Maybe Shane is losing his mind, but it sounds an awful lot like–
“Rozanov,” he states grimly as he turns around, the bag in one hand, desperately gripping it so Rozanov can’t take a peek inside.
“Doing some pre-game day shopping?” He asks, grinning widely. Shane would love to just punch him square in the face.
He just shrugs, probably feigning nonchalance. “Hazing, you know how it is.”
“Right, hazing,” he teases, his eyebrows wiggling as he says the words. “But don’t relax too much tonight. We will beat you in game tomorrow.”
Shane isn’t sure if his cheeks can get redder, but if they can, they definitely are. “I’m not—shut up. We will win.”
“Okay,” Rozanov says lightly, and then nods at the bag clutched in Shane’s hand. “Have fun, Shane Hollander. Maybe it will make you play better. Improve your weak backhand.”
“Fuck you!”
“Next time,” Rozanov winks, then walks off into the store behind them. Shane just stands there, mortified, the white paper bag now a crumpled mess in his grip.
Ilya Rozanov has just caught him buying a fucking dildo in a sex shop. Well, the man didn’t exactly know what the purchase was, and, why was Shane even so embarrassed? Rozanov was there just as much as he was.
Shane shakes his head, forcing the thoughts out of his stupid, stubborn brain. He heads out of the store without looking back.
He’s welcomed back with hoots and cheers from his team, slinging their arms around the back of his neck as if he’s some kind of warrior who returned victorious from battle. Shane shoots a glance at a bewildered Hayden, whose hair is like a bird nest sitting atop his head, so he must have been greeted similarly.
One of Shane’s teammates—Laine—snatches the bag from him and barks out a laugh when he sees the object. Of course, a series of heckling and teasing goes around the group, but Shane isn’t really listening anymore.
——
Shane sits on his bed, rewatching the previous game they’d played. Improve your weak backhand. Rozanov’s chirps clung to the front of his brain throughout the entire day.
Because he’s Shane’s opponent. They’re playing against each other tomorrow.
That’s all.
So he’s watching his game from the other day on his laptop at half the speed, laser-focusing on all the things he did wrong.
He’s not skating enough on his outside edges in the first period, making his pivot way too slow and not at all in time to catch Boiziau’s pass. His stickhandling in the last few minutes is downright sloppy and—fuck Rozanov—his backhand is weak. The lack of conviction in his shot causes the puck to slide across the ice with far too little power: pathetically easy to block by the LA goalie.
Shane sighs dramatically and flops backward on the bed. He is not going to let Rozanov get in his head about the game tomorrow. Shane knows his own weak areas. He will focus on them. It’s fine.
The browser automatically plays a 2009 Bears goals compilation, and Shane scoffs at YouTube assuming he wants to watch Boston games after watching a Montreal one.
Maybe he should learn to understand their play better—Shane tells himself that’s the reason he doesn’t click off the video.
His room is still rather bare; half of his stuff is still in moving boxes, even though he’s been in Montreal for more than long enough to have everything squared away and cleaned up.
On top of a pile of boxes in the corner is the unassuming, crinkly white bag. He stares at it like a ticking time bomb that could explode any second.
No. He’s going to return it to the store tomorrow.
The smacking of hockey sticks and roaring of the crowd buzz from the clip playing in the background, but Shane can’t focus on it at all. He peeks at the bag from the corner of his eye. It’s like it’s demanding his attention, calling to him like the fucking board game in Jumanji.
He gets off the bed and fishes the box out of the bag.
Looking won’t hurt anyone, right?
He realizes now that he hadn’t actually taken a proper look at the toy when he bought it, so desperate to get out of the store and away from the wall of cocks that he just grabbed the box and bolted to the checkout counter. He properly takes it in now, and it’s… a lot.
The employee—Jerry—said six inches, and it’s dawning on Shane now that six inches is a hell of a lot more than that one finger that he managed to get up there that one time. He’s got lube, so that’ll probably make it easier, but it’ll take him more than a minute.
Not that it matters. He won’t genuinely use it. He’s returning it to the store tomorrow.
He hasn’t opened the box—he’s just peering through the clear plastic window of the packaging—but he can see clearly that it’s bright purple. Not a subdued dark indigo, not a pretty pastel mauve, no. This dildo is fucking electric violet. With glitter in the silicone, because why the fuck not? It’s the least Shane Hollander object on the face of the earth, but for some reason, he owns it now.
He sits back on the bed, box on the nightstand. This is not his plan for the night—no, he planned to read two chapters from the book he’d been working on: Play Better Hockey: 50 Essential Skills for Player Development and then get some much-needed sleep later. Not admiring his brand new toy.
Focus, he is watching hockey.
The Bears' goal compilation must have ended at some point, because playing now is a compilation of all of Ilya Rozanov’s fights from his time in the Russian league. This man seems to be fucking haunting Shane.
He can’t help but laugh, though, when he sees that the video is twenty-one minutes long. If Shane were to add up all the quarrels he’s had on the ice, his video would probably be a whopping twenty seconds, and none of the fights were even instigated by him.
Rozanov, in the video, draws his fist back, and it lands clean across the face of the opponent’s right-winger. The poor sucker’s expression twists in pain as the impact sends him gliding back a few feet on the ice.
The linesman pushes the two apart and yells something in Russian before the guy can get a hit in, and Rozanov looks fucking smug. He’s grinning and puffing, and there’s a heat building in Shane’s stomach.
The saliva flies from Rozanov’s lips as he yells what Shane can only assume are god’s worst obscenities, and he knows it’s objectively disgusting, but Shane feels the overwhelming urge to catch the spit with his mouth.
He lowers his hand instinctively and lightly palms himself through his sweats, his cock already half-hard.
It happens, alright? It has nothing to do with the man on his laptop, throwing around other players with such force that the plexiglass vibrates when they hit the boards. And it most certainly has nothing to do with Rozanov’s flushed, sweaty skin.
He rubs himself through the fabric again. Shane is not curious about how his dripping sweat would taste when he’d run his tongue over that face.
He’s not.
What he is, though, is painfully fucking hard. He’s breathing heavily and throws his head back onto the pillows when he reaches into his pants, his hand finally on his cock. The skin-on contact is a relief, but it’s not enough. It’s rough and a little too dry, so Shane grabs the (neutrally flavored) lube from his bedside drawer.
After pulling off his pants and boxers in one smooth motion, he squirts a generous amount of lubricant on his fingers. He shivers at the cold wetness when he starts stroking again, but god, this feels better.
Shane is decidedly not thinking about whether Rozanov would grab him like he shoves his other opponents—only hockey-related, of course, Shane is not gay. He wonders if he would press his strong hands into Shane’s body.
He can’t remember the last time he’s been this keyed up when touching himself, this into it. His slick fingers inch further south, and he starts slowly circling his rim.
Straight men can touch their assholes!
Shane pushes a finger in, only the first phalanx, and lets out an involuntary gasp. His gaze is still glued to the screen when he pushes in further, until his finger is buried to the knuckle. It’s weird, a strange pressure, but it’s not bad.
Shane curls the finger a little, moves it back and forth, breath hitching, until he feels like he’s ready for more. He pulls out, bites his lip at the loss, and then lines up two fingers to press slowly inside himself. And it fucking burns. That can’t be a good omen for later.
Later meaning nothing. Because he is not using the dildo.
And he’s not thinking about Ilya Rozanov while fingering himself.
He’s thinking about Ilya Rozanov while fingering himself.
The burn ebbs away gradually, and Shane begins to make scissoring motions with his fingers, loosening himself up and relaxing the tight muscle as much as he can. The angle is a little awkward, and his arms are ever so slightly too short.
His eyes fall on the box next to him, again, and this time around, he can’t even pretend not to want it anymore.
A soft curse falls from Shane’s lips when he pulls his fingers out and reaches over to the box, practically tearing it apart. He’s getting impatient, but there is no way in hell that he’s going to put something inside of himself before cleaning it.
So he walks over to his ensuite and rinses the toy under lukewarm water, taking the opportunity to skim over the instruction manual as well. The key points that he makes sure to remember are: The first time can hurt, be patient! Usage of water-based lubricant is recommended.
With wobbly legs, Shane waddles back to the bedroom and settles on the sheets with his legs spread apart and his cock angry and red on his abdomen.
He can do this.
After slicking the toy up with what is probably far too much lube, he presses it to his entrance, but immediately stops when the tip pushes past the rim. His body screams in protest, rejecting the foreign object, but he is determined now. He can, and he will do this, and he will be good at it.
On-screen, Rozanov is now throwing his gloves on the ice and grabbing a player Shane doesn’t know by the jersey. Their faces are mere inches apart, and even with the shitty camera quality, the fire in Rozanov’s eyes is clear as day.
“Oh, my god,” Shane whispers to the empty room as he pushes the dildo in further. It’s barely an inch, but he feels like he’s being split in half.
Shane wonders if Rozanov would also look like that while pushing someone down, with his big hands pressing on their waist. With face and shoulders flushed, thrusting into them with that muscle power that Shane has experienced firsthand on the ice.
Someone else, anyone. Not him. Of course.
When he finally manages to bury the toy all the way to the base, Shane doesn’t think he’s ever felt this full before. It’s much more intense than anything he’s ever done before, and tears prickle in the corners of his eyes.
It’s also… not that mind-blowing?
The initial pain has dwindled, and the stretch does feel kind of nice, but it’s more overwhelming for him than anything else. He takes a deep breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth, lips pursed—and goes to shift his hips when–
“Oh fuck!” Shane exclaims, loud as hell in the otherwise empty apartment. He shoots up, eyes screwed shut at the sudden jolt of pleasure.
Oh.
He has heard of the mystical existence of the prostate—he’s not a prude—but he’s never actually made its acquaintance until today.
He plunges the toy in again at the same angle, and fuck, that feels good. The sensation is not as strong as regularly stroking his cock, not as sharp; it’s more of a deep, rumbling thunderstorm. With each drag of the tip against that one spot, he feels it building in his stomach, and he can already tell he’s getting addicted.
Shane flips himself around onto his stomach and opens his eyes for the first time in a good few minutes. His laptop started playing one of Rozanov’s interviews. Shane has no clue what the man’s talking about—he can hardly hear with the volume this low and the blood rushing through his ears—but he’s shirtless, sweaty, and he’s wearing that infuriating smirk from cheek to cheek.
Shane picks his rhythm back up, the toy hitting his prostate over and over with this new angle. Biting down on his pillow smothers his moans a little, but the wet, sloppy sounds echo in the room.
If he closes his eyes, he can almost feel Rozanov’s hands on his hips, thumbs pressing into his back dimples as he slams into him.
He lowers himself, rutting into the mattress while still steadily thrusting the toy into himself. God, it’s so much, but the pressure inside Shane builds and builds, and he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to.
When he opens his eyes, Rozanov is looking straight into the lens and winks. Shane hates how that is the thing to send him over the edge.
His orgasm crashes into him like a freight train, unexpected and forceful, his entire body trembling as he spills all over the bed. He keeps slowly moving the dildo, rocking back onto it, and he’s coming for what feels like hours before he’s officially fully wrung out.
“Holy shit,” he whispers into the pillow, to no one, really.
He is never doing that again.
Definitely not.
Shane has barely landed back on earth when his BlackBerry buzzes three times on the nightstand where he left it.
Mom:
Hi honey!
Just checking to see how you’re settling in. Is your team being nice to you?
Also, Rozanov (Bears) will be joining your CCM photoshoot on Friday. Thought you should know.
Shane looks around him: clothes crumpled on the floor, the dildo and bottle of lube still lying on the cum-stained sheets, and Rozanov’s face plastered across his laptop screen.
Friday will be interesting.