Chapter Text
Boys are often told they are messy. And they are. They chew on the strings of their hoodies, leaving broken plastic and frayed thread. They pull at the chains around their neck, letting the gold rub at their skin until it leaves a harsh red line. They yank at the bonds their parents use to train them or restrain them, believing the fighting will create someone stronger, someone braver. Someone kinder. They leave behind broken homes and messy sheets, not able to tell the difference between the two.
They are simply careless. They take for granted the things they are given and forget the things they need.
They break hearts they haven’t realized they have stolen, tucking them under mattresses next to lint and magazines, in the name of protecting themselves or something else just as stupid.
Oh, how careless boys are with the things they own.
Especially the things they don’t even realize are theirs.
* * * * *
2008 International Prospect Cup - Regina, Saskatchewan
“You will not be so nice when we beat you.”
“That’s not happening.”
Rozanov tilted his head in obvious disbelief. Shane started walking away.
“See you in final.”
Shane lifted his hand, which was still inside his jacket pocket, in acknowledgment. He didn’t know what he had expected from the Russian. An introduction? Maybe a returned compliment. He felt bad for feeling a little irritated at Rozanov’s response, especially given the state of his English. He just…well…
He had naively hoped that Rozanov had spent as much time thinking and studying his opponent as Shane had. Finding grainy videos from weird Russian websites, Shane had been able to watch some of Rozanov’s games, admiring the way his back stretched towards the puck and his legs spread out across the ice. He was a hell of a skater, and Shane couldn’t help but feel threatened by him, his cheeks flushing red with every click of his computer mouse and every drag along the bottom of the screen, allowing the video to start again.
Nervously approaching his competitor, his heart had raced when he had laid his eyes on Rozanov. He had shoved his hands in his coat pockets so Rozanov couldn’t see them shake from the bitter Canadian cold, but when he finally caught his attention, he couldn’t help but stick his hand out to shake Rozanov’s, as if guided by some unknown force.
And now he was walking back to his parents’ car, cheeks still burning and hands still sweaty. He tried to wipe them inside his coat pocket.
“Wait, Hollander!” an accented voice cried out behind him.
Shane turned back towards the rink, glancing at the car, which was still mostly out of eyesight. Ilya Rozanov was rushing toward him. Was he going to fight him? Shane felt his body tense as Rozanov approached. He was handing him something.
Oh.
It was a phone.
“You give me number, yes?”
Shane was momentarily speechless, gawking at the phone being presented to him.
“Er, why?”
“We play hockey together.”
“I mean, against each other, but yeah. So?”
“So, I practice English. Will need to chirp on ice.”
“You…” Shane blinked at him. “You want me to give you my number so you can practice…chirping?”
Ilya nodded firmly. “Yes, exactly.” He shook the phone at Shane impatiently.
Mechanically, Shane took the phone from him, their hands grazing. Shane wasn’t sure why it affected him so much. He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly thinking about his girlfriend, Jessica.
Shane quickly entered his number into Rozanov’s phone, typing his name out as well. He handed the phone back to Rozanov. Their hands touched again, allowing Shane to feel the callouses on the pads of Rozanov’s palm, slowly scraping along the edges of his fingertips.
Glancing down at the phone, Rozanov scoffed and began typing on the little keyboard. “Ah, no. Not your name.”
“Uh…that is my name.”
“No. I will use ‘Jane’?”
“Jane? Why Jane?”
Rozanov shrugged. “Would be weird if I text Shane Hollander every day. Does not look weird if I text girl.”
“What, so all of the girls you’re talking to are actually Canadian hockey players?”
Rozanov let out a sharp laugh, and Shane’s feet went numb. Probably because of the snow. “Mm, yes. Something like that.”
Shane smiled back, but he was replaying Rozanov’s words in his head. “You’re going to text me every day?”
He smirked and shrugged again. “Lots of English to learn. I will text so much. Soon you will hate me.”
Shane cocked an eyebrow. “I already hate you.” But even Shane heard the comment go flat at the end.
Rozanov shot him a deadly smile.
“Yes. So much.”
Shane felt his face grow hot, his head burning underneath his toque.
“I really gotta go, but I’ll talk to you later?” Shane stammered out.
“Yes. You will,” Ilya remarked with a grin that was spreading across his face. Drifting off his breath, Shane caught the lingering smell of the cigarette Rozanov had held between his lips earlier, letting the taste of it roll around on his tongue.
He shivered and made his way back to his parents.
Slamming the car door closed, Shane sat in stunned silence for a moment, breathing hard, as if he had just finished a shift on the ice.
“So? What’s he like?” his mom asked from the passenger seat.
Shane thought about it. “Kind of an asshole,” he landed on.
His phone pinged, and he looked down at it, the light emitting a soft glow onto his fingers.
Unknown Number: Hello Jane
Shane blinked at the phone, listening to his dad start the car engine. It rumbled around him, shaking his body ever so slightly, forcing his legs to bounce and his spine to tingle.
He blinked again.
Clicking on the contact, he quickly typed out a name, as if his brain would try to stop him before his fingers finished. He clicked back to the messages.
Hello Lily
* * * * *
The lights of the arena seemed to dim as he met Rozanov for the first face-off. Radiating from the ice, the cold air found its way to Shane’s face, making him shiver slightly as he peered into Rozanov’s blue eyes that were looking at him through thick lashes. In the newly darkened room, Shane drew closer, bending over, resting his weight slightly on his stick.
Rozanov ran his tongue across the bridge of his lip, leaving a faint trail of spit along the bow, emphasizing the depth of it.
Shane inhaled sharply.
The puck dropped, and they clamored for it, attacking each other and shoving their shoulders into one another. The back of Shane's gloved hand ran along Rozanov’s arm, and Shane could hear him breathing heavily into his ear. Rozanov managed to slap it back to one of his wingers, and the game was on.
The game was fast, faster than Shane was used to, but his body raced to match the tempo, meeting Rozanov move for move. His team was skating around him, feeding him pucks and intercepting blocks, but Shane couldn’t help but feel like it was just Rozanov and him on the ice. His pupils grew larger, trying to capture every detail, every flinch in one direction or another to sense where Rozanov’s next move was.
Every time he stole the puck, racing down the ice, he knew that he would soon feel Rozanov’s body crash into his, driving him up against the boards. He knew. And he was doing the same thing to Rozanov, the urge to shove him growing over the course of the game. Constantly pushing and pulling at each other, Shane felt like he could still feel the impression of Rozanov’s body etched into his own, even from the bench.
Rozanov scored. And then Shane scored. And then Rozanov scored again.
Shane let out a moan of frustration as he heard the second buzzer sound through the arena, floating over the cheering crowd, taunting him. Staring at a celebrating Rozanov across the ice, Shane sketched the contours of his figure, taking stock of his movements, trying to learn and adapt. There was something hidden beneath Rozanov’s pads and cocky facade that Shane knew was there but struggled to see. He felt that the missing piece was the solution to playing a perfect game.
So he continued to study Rozanov, letting his blade smack against the Russian captain’s, feeling the strength behind it, allowing it to seep into his bones. He felt the urgency of the game rising in him, pooling in a pit in his stomach. He felt Rozanov’s smug grin growing, and Shane’s own movements began to feel sloppy and hurried.
And then the moment came. The moment when there are fifteen seconds on the clock, and the puck is stolen right out from underneath you, in spite of the stick that is clawing and scrambling desperately. It all came rushing at Shane as he watched Rozanov dart toward the other end of the rink, with fifteen seconds left, an empty net, and a point gap that was about to increase by one in the Russians’ favor.
They were going to lose. They had lost.
The buzzer sounded, and the noise of the arena slammed back into Shane, where previously he had been able to keep it lingering on the brink of reality. He bashed his stick hard against the ice in frustration, just like his mother had always told him not to do.
He lined up for handshakes, trying to fix his face into what he hoped was a sportsman-like expression, but he couldn’t help but feel trapped in his own heavy breathing and flushed face. By the time he had reached Rozanov, his face had fallen into a slacked, relaxed position, feeling almost satiated by the thrill of a truly hard-fought game. As a ‘prodigy player,’ Shane had consistently felt like he was rushing ahead of his peers, never satisfied by their speed, their strength. But with Rozanov, he couldn’t help but enjoy the rush of being pushed to the very edge.
He reached for Rozanov’s hand, expecting the firm, hard handshakes that hockey players tended to give to prove their place, their dominance. But Rozanov’s hand didn’t clench around Shane’s, muscling his fingers together.
It was soft.
“See you at the draft,” Rozanov said quietly with a wink.
Shane said nothing, but he let out a deep breath with the air that had been collecting in his waist and ribs.
* * * * *
Lily: Was good game. Should do it again sometime
Shane stared at the text, sitting in a slouchy leather chair, waiting for them to call his boarding group. The chair was cracked from having carried so many travelers before him, the thin black strips of badly constructed fabric flaking off into Shane’s fingernails as he picked at the enlarging gash. He glanced around at his other teammates, holding his phone tightly between white knuckles, as if one of them would come rip the phone from him. Or as if the phone would magically bounce from his hands and the text would disappear into the stiff carpet below.
Shane bit his lip as he typed out a careful response. What was he even supposed to say? His phone slipped slightly as his palms grew clammy. He hadn’t felt this nervous texting anyone since he joined his first junior hockey team group chat.
Yeah for sure.
He slammed the phone quickly down into his lap, breathing hard. What the fuck was he doing?
He felt a buzz along his inner thigh and picked up the phone again.
Lily: wow hollander. This is all you say?
I thought we werent using our real names
Lily: you want me to call you jane?
It was your idea
Lily: yes
Lily: i will call you Jane
Lily: my lovely lovely girl
Shane’s eyes grew wider as he stared at his phone, rereading each letter of the last text. He felt his face turn red with embarrassment, and he pushed the keys of his phone a little harder as he typed.
Fuck off
Lily: ))))
Shane frowned. He turned to one of his wingers sitting a few seats down from him.
“Hey, Gentry. What does it mean when a girl sends you a bunch of parentheses?”
Gentry looked up at him slowly, a shocked expression spreading across his face.
“You’re texting a girl?”
Shane frowned. “I literally have a girlfriend.”
“I mean, yeah, but—” Gentry shrugged. “It’s not like you ever talk to her much. Especially not on the road.”
Shit, should he be texting Jessica more?
“Whatever, man. Do you know what the parentheses mean?”
Gentry just shrugged and shook his head, already turning back to his own phone.
Shane reread the text message. Staring at the name ‘Lily,’ Shane felt a pang of guilt hit him, filling up the edges of his throat.
He felt his thumb move the messages down the screen a little before gliding across the words.
Lily: my lovely lovely girl
He closed the thread and opened up the one he had with Jessica a few scrolls down, giving her a quick update on the game.
* * * * *
He started texting Rozanov everywhere. At practices between drills. Under the dinner table next to his family. Beneath the covers, swallowed in the darkness of his room. And if he wasn’t texting him, he was thinking about what to say next, replaying old text messages in his head, imagining the curve of each letter, the curl of each period. During practices, he swore he could see flashes of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye and small printed text scrolling across the ice. He was constantly within sight of his phone, often picking it up to stare at the blank screen even without an alert or buzz. His phone slept next to him, resting underneath his pillow in case he needed to draw it out in the middle of the night, desperate to remember every check, every glove that grazed the other’s when they had wrestled for the puck.
Lily: you are very boring jane
Is that the chirp you’ve been building up to? This is what all those english lessons were for?
Lily: only need few words for you.
Lily: Boring.
Lily: Plain.
Lily: Dull.
Lily: Tedious.
Did you swallow a thesaurus?
Lily: I do not know this word
Look it up
Lily: You are the worst english teacher
Lily: So mean to me
Lily: I like it
Fuck off lily
Lily: ))))
Shane had figured out that Rozanov used parentheses as smiley and frowny faces. Apparently, it was a Russian thing. Shane often found himself having to delete more of his messages to his teammates after he started including the parentheses in his own texts. But he felt his restraint wavering by the day, letting Ilya Rozanov fill his body, cigarette smoke curling around his toes and Russian characters falling from his fingertips. He almost couldn’t be angry at himself for drawing a little parenthesis next to his mom’s name on his hockey stick. Almost.
Shane was determined to beat this, eventually. He was allowing himself a short indulgence in…something. There were so many kids his age doing so much worse—staring into video games, procuring pills from contraband bottles, ravaging porn magazines. Shane was allowed to have a similar distraction that he would grow out of. This was just hockey. It made sense that he would think about his competitor. Shane was a professional. He was going to be great.
But only if he could stay in control.
He found himself avoiding certain foods more, restricting his diet further, and working out for longer hours. His own hunger was poking at the edges of the silhouette he had worked so hard to shape. The one his mother had trained to be disciplined. The one his father had encouraged to be considerate. Shame was seeping in through his skin, and he let it pool in his stomach where he otherwise would have let indulgent meals rest. He made his showers shorter and his mornings earlier.
Lily: are you awake?
Shane felt like he was always awake, constantly fidgeting, waiting for the next text. He had never felt so betrayed by his own body, which, for the first time, didn’t seem to want to work with him, pushing against every attempted crossover, every flick of his skate, and every pivot in a different direction.
Yeah
Lily: You wake up so early
How else am I going to beat you
Lily: will never work. Cannot get up early enough
He started hanging out with Jessica more. She was beautiful. Her hair was brown, and her eyes were green. She was kind and always laughed at the jokes Shane wasn’t actually telling.
Shane respected her, so he didn’t usually touch her.
But the more they saw each other and the more attention Shane gave her, the more Jessica seemed to touch him, leaving a hand on his thigh or a foot resting against his own. Shane had never enjoyed physical touch with most people, never having very physical relationships outside of the teammates he would push against during practice, so the feeling of her slender hand running along his arm left him feeling slightly itchy and sick.
But he was in control, and he knew that this behavior was expected of him. So he let her hands travel, trying to reciprocate where he could. He kissed her, trying to remember movements as if they were hockey plays. Lip goes here. Tongue goes there. Hands move downward. He let a hand travel along the base of her hip, feeling the bone that jutted out there, and tried not to think about the phone buzzing against his other hand, still stuck in his pocket.
He broke up with Jessica five days later.
* * * * *
“—the Boston Raiders select Ilya Rozanov.”
Fuck.
Flanking him on his left and right, his mom and dad clapped politely, his mom a little shorter and harder than his dad. He felt a quick nudge from his mom, and he met her urgent eyes. He plastered a smile on his face and gave a look that he was sure did not read as ‘incredibly proud of all my hard work’ or ‘pleased with my new team,’ joining his parents in the applause.
He watched as Rozanov prowled onto the stage, taking the jersey they handed him and shaking the hands presented. His smile, which was usually cockier and flashier, was slightly restrained, as if he was trying to comb back the corners of his smirk with the rest of his curly hair.
Shane felt like his head was fogging up, the panes surrounding his brain blurring from the heat radiating within his body. He tried to clear the condensation, cracking open a few windows to allow for cool air to circulate, but the mist remained. He made the mistake of looking at Rozanov with a bit more focus. His suit was well-tailored, hugging the slope of his back and calmly sliding down his legs with irritating precision. The dark jersey he was holding up to an appreciative audience was reflected in his eyes, making them appear pitch-black. Shane felt like he was drowning in those eyes, and he couldn’t understand why he wasn’t trying to gasp for air.
He hated him. His stomach churned and skin tingled as he watched Rozanov walk behind the stage with the Boston managers. He had won. Again. Shane could almost hear the horn sounding above the hum of the crowd.
Shane felt a buzz in his pocket.
Lily: Sorry
Shane scoffed loudly, making his mother give him a sharp look and a disapproving glance at his phone. Shane’s name was about to get called; he knew that. He was going to be on the Montreal Metros, which he knew, logically, was the better fit for him, geographically and culturally. He didn’t have the aggression that the Raiders prided themselves on fostering in their players. But he couldn’t help but keep his phone open, texting underneath the table, with frequent glances towards the movement on the stage.
No you're not
Lily: I am sorry you are upset
Shane frowned. That hadn’t been the response he was expecting.
Im not upset
Lily: Liar
The word echoed in Shane’s head as the evening continued. As he accepted his blue-and-red jersey. As he took pictures with his parents. As he shook hands with the Metros’ general manager.
Liar liar liar liar liar liar liar
“Hollander! Can we steal you for a photo? We need one with the top three draft picks,” a man called from the corner, standing next to Rozanov and the third pick, Dylan Korogyi.
Shane felt Rozanov’s eyes meet his before he had fully processed them rotating in his direction. Somehow, Shane didn’t feel like he was looking him in the eyes, instead landing on something slightly below them.
Liar
A woman pushed a jersey back into his hands, and he steadied himself before walking over to the group, where he was rushed to Rozanov’s side.
“Come on, boys, let’s see those jerseys,” a photographer called, holding the camera over his face, light flashing into Shane’s eyes, making him flinch slightly. He held up his jersey, stiffening when he felt a hand graze his own as Rozanov did the same. The edges of their pinkies rested against each other as they kept their jerseys up, the name on the back lining up evenly with the one next to his, almost blending together. He stiffened and raised two fingers with his other hand, signaling his disappointing position, trying not to glance at Rozanov’s own ‘number one’.
“Can I get some smiles? Where’s that smile number two?”
Shane let his lips fall open, his teeth poking through.
Liar
* * * * *
Lily: Jane
Shane was lying flat on his hotel bed, breathing hard and staring at the ridges on the ceiling. His parents were down the hall from him, probably already asleep, snoring contentedly next to each other. Shane rolled over and looked at the phone lying innocently on the pillow beside him. With a groan, he grabbed it, the plastic slapping hard against his palm.
Lily
Lily: You are awake
I wouldnt be texting you if I was asleep
Lily: Funny
Lily: Come to the gym
Why?
Lily: I feel like running
So? Run by yourself
Lily: Is more fun if you are here
Shane set the phone down and pushed his palms against his eyes until little spots of color filled the blackness. He felt the phone buzz against his chest and glanced back down at it.
Lily: Scared?
Shane blinked
He blinked again.
Be there in ten
Shane entered the hotel gym wearing baggy shorts and a tight white compression shirt that emphasized the curve of his pecs and the hard stomach beneath them. He wore the thin top like a suit of armor, exaggerating the shadows in his muscles. Rozanov was already there, walking on a treadmill and sporting a loose tank top that exposed his long arms, which hung lazily at his sides, bouncing with every step.
Looking over his shoulder upon hearing the door swing open, Rozanov shot him a careless grin, watching as Shane walked over to the treadmill beside him, hitting a few of the buttons to match his pace.
Well.
Or a few clicks faster.
Rozanov watched the numbers increase and smirked, slowly reaching to increase his own.
Shane hit his button a few more times.
Rozanov did the same.
Soon, they were sprinting side by side, panting loudly. Shane felt a small whimper escape his lips as Rozanov masochistically reached to increase his own speed again. Rozanov seemed to stumble briefly before pushing his feet faster, the movements becoming rushed and less paced.
Droplets of sweat were trailing down the inside of Shane’s thighs, clinging to the seams in his shorts. Rozanov’s throat bopped, glistening with the sweat leaking across his brow and along his cheekbones. Shane pumped his legs faster, further, fighting for that last goal to finally clinch the win for him.
“Fuck,” Shane gasped and pulled the emergency stop key from the machine, letting the belt carry him to the end of the frame, breathing hard. Rozanov quickly pulled his key as well, stepped off the machine, and crouched over, letting his arms rest on his knees.
Shane carried himself, stumbling a little, over to the mirror that lined the wall, and he leaned against it, letting his sweaty hair leave streaks in the glass. He closed his eyes, feeling the pressure of his heartbeat sound loudly in his ears. He felt a body press against the mirror next to him.
“Woo!” Rozanov cried with one of the many breaths he was panting out. “What a fucking day, eh, Hollander.”
“Yeah,” Shane breathed, feeling his neck grow slightly sticky from the drying sweat. He pushed more of his weight into the mirror, trying to keep his legs from collapsing.
“Is everything you wanted?”
Shane almost laughed.
“Almost.” He lifted his eyes to peer at the Russian beside him, who was already focused on Shane. Rozanov’s lips parted slightly, letting more air into his lungs, the edge of them glistening with perspiration that had yet to be brushed away.
“What else did you want?” Rozanov asked, his mouth twitching to reveal a slight smirk.
“Asshole. You know what I wanted.”
“Mm. Yes, I do.”
A tense silence filled the room for a moment, bouncing around the weights and the still-warm treadmills.
“Montreal is—is nice, yes?”
“Yeah, it’s awesome.” Shane gave Rozanov a pointed look. “Boston’s nice too.”
Rozanov let out a little breathless laugh that glided along the mirror into Shane’s own throat. “Yes, well. Cannot all be best player in league.”
“Oh, and that’s you?”
“Mm. Yes.”
“You wish.”
“Well, who is best player then? You? Mr. Second in draft?”
“It could be. Maybe it’s Scott Hunter.”
Rozanov scoffed loudly.
“Scott Hunter is very old.”
“He’s really not,” Shane retorted, but his mouth was still drifting into a lazy smile, his brain clouded by his continued heavy breathing.
Silence found the room again. Shane couldn’t help but let his gaze drift down Rozanov’s face, head falling to look at the chain that hung loosely around his neck, at the way the gold cross rested on his chest. His eyes flicked up, but he kept his head low, staring at Rozanov through his brow. Rozanov was peering at him, mouth still hanging open slightly. He lifted his water bottle to his mouth, sucking on the end of it. Shane watched the movement, listening to the sounds of the liquid moving down Rozanov’s throat.
Rozanov raised an eyebrow and shook the water bottle at him, breaking Shane’s trance.
What was wrong with him? Why did he feel more breathless now than he did getting off the treadmill? His mind was flashing through a series of images as if trying to provide him with clues to a puzzle he couldn’t solve. A poster. A spray of ice from a sharp stop. An arm. A mole.
Rozanov tilted his head down slightly.
“You do not want it?”
Shane shook his head, dazed. “What?”
“The water. You do not want?”
“Oh, I…I…” His voice tapered off as Rozanov pushed off from the mirror to put his body in front of Shane's. He saw little flashing warning lights ping across his mind, but felt his body drifting slightly forward, as if drawn into the gravitational pull of a stupid black shirt with thin straps that hung across the dip in Rozanov’s clavicle.
Too close. Way too close.
Rozanov moved slightly closer.
“You want?” he said quietly, his voice slightly gravely, and Shane could feel the whispers of breath land on his lips.
He felt like the mirror was shattering behind him, his feet getting cut by the falling glass. His brain was hit with the shock of sudden clarity.
Ilya Rozanov was going to kiss him.
He was going to kiss him.
And Shane was going to let him.
“Hollander?” Rozanov said, impossibly soft. He lifted a trembling hand to run across Shane’s jaw, the little bit of stubble he had sending small vibrations across the rest of his face as the fingers pushed against each pore.
He heard his voice before he felt his tongue push the words out.
“I want,” he whispered.
He felt a pair of lips graze his own. For a moment, nothing happened. It was just skin on skin. The tension between them teetered precariously but did not snap.
And then Rozanov used his thumb to softly pull down on the skin beneath his lip, drawing his mouth open further before slotting his lips between Shane’s.
Holy shit.
His entire body relaxed into the kiss, and he grabbed desperately at Rozanov’s shirt. His mind, which was usually buzzing with tapes that displayed the same ten seconds on an endless loop, went completely silent. Rozanov ran his hand up and down Shane’s jaw, continuing to release some of the tension there, allowing him to slip his tongue into Shane’s mouth, running it along the back of his teeth. Rozanov moaned slightly, and the vibrations crawled across Shane’s nose, making him shiver violently.
Rozanov deepened the kiss, pressing Shane’s head against the mirror, and Shane pictured his reflection pushing back against his body. Rozanov’s hands wandered down his back, caressing the base of his waist. Shane stopped himself from pushing the hands further down, his own hands trailing underneath Rozanov’s shirt, feeling the press of hard muscle beneath his fingertips.
He was going crazy. He was crazy. He had never felt anything like this in his life and was already clawing for more, desire running through the blood that coursed in his calves, his biceps, his neck. He felt dizzy, as if his body was about to hit the ice. He dug his skates in, pushing harder.
Rozanov pulled away, and Shane heard an embarrassing whine fall from his lips. God, what was happening to him? Shane was panting hard. His mouth was dry. Rozanov watched his lips, and Shane opened and closed them slightly, making a sticky sound with each movement. Slowly, Rozanov lifted the water bottle that had at some point been set down on the rack of weights beside them. He lifted the bottle and took a long swig, his eyes not leaving Shane. Shane watched every movement.
Rozanov held the water in his mouth and leaned forward again. Shane felt the gulp of water spill into his mouth, and he moaned loudly, swallowing the water as Rozanov swallowed the noise, tugging at his lips.
He pulled away again, his face maintaining its close distance.
“Hollander,” he grunted, almost whimpering.
“Rozanov,” Shane returned in kind.
“Where is your room?”
Shane had only been drunk once in his life before. He had hated it. Hated the way the buzzing in his head only increased, but with less concentration. Hated the way his body couldn’t remember how to move. He couldn’t understand how the rest of his teammates seemed to enjoy it, smiling and giggling through more swigs of beer and shots of god knows what. He didn’t understand what they were feeling.
But he imagined it felt a little like this.
“Sixth floor,” he whispered.
Rozanov grinned, and Shane felt his breath hitch, his eyes running along each tooth. He grabbed Shane’s hand.
“Take me.”
They ran down the hallway, stifling laughs and nervously checking around corners. Reaching Shane’s door, his hands shook as he pulled the hotel key from his pocket, Rozanov kissing the back of his neck. The door clicked open, but before Shane could pull the handle, Rozanov turned his body around and kissed him hard, the handle pressing into Shane’s back.
Without thinking, Shane reached up and grabbed a handful of curls, kissing him back just as desperately. Reaching the other hand behind him, he pushed down on the handle, allowing them to fall into the room, the door shutting softly behind them.
Nobody had seen them. Not Shane’s parents in the room, only a few doors down from his. Not the Metros general manager snoring loudly on the eighth floor. Not Dylan Korogyi, who was talking excitedly to a friend on the second. Not Rozanov’s dad sleeping soundly on the seventh.
No one.
Except the security camera at the end of the hall.