Work Text:
Ilya Rozanov has a girlfriend.
That’s what the internet is saying and saying it loud, great, blaring headlines and splashy photographs all across the tabloid news sites, from Page Six to TMZ. Not that Shane reads any of that shit. Not on purpose, anyway.
It’s just, he can’t avoid it sometimes. Rozanov is clickbait. Handsome, photogenic, his exploits the sort that people want to read about. Crazy. Wild. Sexy. Never with the same girl twice. Until now.
She’s really beautiful, Shane thinks, when he first sees the photos. Then he scoffs at himself. Of course she’s fucking gorgeous. Rozanov never fucks any woman who isn’t.
There’s something different about this one, though. Obviously there must be, she’s the one who locked him down. She’s young according to the reports, barely nineteen, with long, dark hair and youthful softness still in her cheeks. Not at all Rozanov’s usual type, but then, maybe that’s the appeal.
Shane thinks about how he was nineteen the first time he and Roz—but no. Fuck no. He’s not going there. He’s not fucking thinking about that, or anything to do with Rozanov. Not anymore. It’s done.
It was always going to come to this, he tells himself. It’s not like they could go on as they are—as they were—forever. It’s not like they could be—
No. They can’t be anything. Shane doesn’t want them to be. It’s just—he kind of wishes he’d known that the last time was the last time. He’d have—fuck, he doesn’t know. Savoured it more, maybe. Really focused on the way it felt, Rozanov’s hands and his mouth on Shane’s skin, his cock buried deep in Shane’s ass, filling him up so beautifully full and clearing all the clutter from the corners of his mind, to be replaced by sheer sensation. Shane wishes he’d fixed his memories of it more firmly in that clear mind so he’d have them ready to call up when he needs them. When he’s by himself and empty, without even the prospect of Rozanov to look forward to. Shane’s not sure when he’ll get fucked like that again, if he ever will. The times he’s tried sleeping with other people haven’t gone great. They weren’t bad exactly, he supposes. They just weren’t Rozanov.
He envies Rozanov that, so fucking much. That ability he seems to have to just fuck anyone and enjoy it. Shane's wondered about it over the years, what the hookups who aren't him are like. He wonders if Rozanov takes a systematic approach to them, like what he does with Shane is what he does with everyone. That would certainly save him time and effort. It might get boring, though, and Rozanov is easily bored. No, Shane concludes, it's far more likely Rozanov changes things up every time. Tries something new with every new person.
Maybe that’s why he got tired of Shane.
His girlfriend is young. Athletic-looking. Agile. She’d be able to keep him on his toes. Shane’s pretty flexible himself thanks to his yoga and he and Rozanov have done some stuff, but this girl probably has tricks Shane’s never even heard of. Maybe he should read up on sex moves, new positions, so his next hookup won’t get bored and go date someone else.
“Fuck this,” he mutters under his breath and slams his phone face down on his bed. He’s being ridiculous. This doesn’t have anything to do with him. Rozanov probably just met this girl and fell in—whatever. It’s not Shane’s business.
It’s just that he’s going to miss him. Deep, deep down in the darkest corner of his mind where he keeps all the thoughts he barely dares to think, Shane knows he’s going to miss Ilya Rozanov. And not just for the sex.
If he could be honest with himself he’d admit he’s not sure he can handle that.
(He can’t.)
The first game they play in Rozanov’s girlfriend era comes about a week after the first photos hit the tabloids. Shane’s still feeling pretty raw about it so he shuts down everything he can and just focuses on the hockey. Rozanov grins and tries to catch his eye in the face-off but Shane ignores him. He checks Shane hard and chirps at him but Shane tunes it out. It’s Shane and the ice and the puck tonight, nothing and no one else.
The Metros win, decisively. Reporters after the game comment on how Roz didn’t play like his usual self. That he seemed distracted, unfocused. Popular consensus is that his mind was on the girlfriend.
Shane refuses to think about it.
He refuses to think about how normally his blood would be pumping, his belly dancing with excitement and the anticipation of seeing Rozanov, feeling his touch, hearing his voice. His mind produces several variations on the theme of Haha loser, we beat your ass that he could use to taunt Rozanov into fucking him extra hard tonight before he remembers he’s not seeing Rozanov tonight. Not tonight and never again.
The full reality of that never again lands on him with soul-crushing weight and for a moment Shane struggles to breathe. Rozanov is never going to fuck him again. Never kiss him again. Never touch him again or even be near him anywhere but on the ice.
Shane feels like he might actually want to die.
Get a fucking grip, he tells himself. It was always going to end like this, one way or another. You need to let it go.
"Hey, man," Hayden says as Shane white-knuckles the shelf above his cubby and carefully regulates his breathing, "you okay?"
"Fine." Shane offers up his best approximation of a smile. "Never better."
Hayden seems convinced.
Shane’s in bed early that night, in his hotel room with his glasses on and a book in his lap that he’s comprehensively failing to read when his phone buzzes once, then again, and he picks it up and looks at the messages without thinking.
Lily: You didn’t play too bad today. Almost good. Maybe will reward you😜 😏 🍆 💦
Lily: What room are you in?
For the first time since the pictures dropped Shane feels angry. The fucking nerve of him, he thinks. Acting like he can just crook a finger and Shane will come running. Like it doesn’t matter who he dates, he can still have Shane to fuck. Like Shane is just a willing hole where he can stick his dick when they’re in the same town and forget about the rest of the time.
He really doesn’t give a fuck about me at all.
Hand shaking with fury, he presses the button to block Lily’s contact. Then he turns his phone off and doesn’t think about it for the rest of the night.
He doesn’t.
Life goes on.
More photos appear, new ones every day it feels like. Rozanov and his girlfriend (Tatiana Petrova, apparently. Russian, like him. How convenient, Shane thinks) out on morning coffee dates, shopping for groceries. There’s a whole series of them at a furniture store and another standing outside a realtor’s office, looking at the listings in the window.
They’re moving in together then, which is really fucking fast. It hasn’t even been a month. Shane doesn’t care he doesn’t care he doesn’t care. Maybe she’s pregnant, he thinks, and that’s the reason for the rush, a thought which chases him into the gym and dogs him through the most gruelling workout he can manage. He drives himself hard then harder and then harder still, past his limits to the point where all he can feel is the pain in his muscles and all he can think is how good it will be when he stops. It will feel so good when all of this just fucking stops.
He starts keeping his phone turned off most of the time until an all-caps email from his mother reminds him that he has an obligation to remain reachable. For her, for his sponsors. His time isn’t just his own.
The first notification he gets when he leaves the phone on again is an article about Rozanov that he reads with the device clenched hard in his hand and his better instincts screaming at him to just fucking put it down. Rozanov hasn’t been seen out at the clubs since before the first photos with Tatiana, apparently. Proof he’s settled down, so the article states. Tatiana has tamed the beast.
Tamed him everywhere but on the ice, where multiple sources agree that Rozanov has been playing rougher than usual. Playing angrily, almost viciously. His domestic bliss isn’t translating to his game, it would seem. Maybe being tamed just doesn’t suit him, Shane thinks. Maybe he’ll end up leaving Tatiana the way he left Shane, abandoning her alone with their baby to raise all by herself. That doesn’t sound like something Rozanov would ever do, but Shane ignores the insistent voice in his head that keeps telling him so because it’s not his fucking business. Rozanov is not his problem anymore.
No, not not anymore. He never was.
For his part, Shane is playing like the devil himself is at his heels. He leads the Metros on a tear, undefeated through the month of October and first in all the MLH in points. They have a two-Cup run to defend after all, Shane thinks. He intends to get a third one or die in the attempt.
Hockey, he tells himself. That’s all there is. All he cares about. Hockey will never fuck anyone else or move in after less than a month or leave him feeling so hopelessly sad in rare, unguarded moments that he fears he’s going to cry. Hockey he can have.
Hockey is all he needs.
They play the Raiders in Montreal in the middle of November. Game-day morning Shane opens his phone to a picture of Rozanov grinning fondly at Tatiana as she laughs. The caption claims he’s never looked so happy but he has, Shane thinks. He, Shane, has seen that grin on Rozanov’s face many times. It’s not unusual for him to look like that at all. The press has no fucking idea what they’re talking about.
He tries to ignore the picture but his teammates won’t fucking shut up about it. They’re all gleefully crowing about how Roz is whipped now, locked down, tamed by pussy. Shane wants to crawl out of his own goddamned skin.
“Can we stop fucking talking about Rozanov’s dick?” he snaps, finally, when he can’t take another second of it. “I don’t want to think about that asshole at all unless it’s on the ice. Okay?”
To their credit, his teammates appear genuinely abashed. “Sorry, capitaine,” JJ says, “I forgot how much you hate him. It is funny, though, yes? You have to admit.”
“I’m not laughing,” Shane says through gritted teeth. “Let’s just win this fucking game.”
They do win, and easily too. The ease is unusual for a Montreal/Boston matchup, but Rozanov is weirdly subdued the whole time. He doesn’t chirp at Shane, barely looks at him, and when Shane sneaks a glance across the face-off dot, Rozanov seems… tired? Sad? Paler than usual and with smudges beneath his eyes that didn’t show up in the paparazzi photographs. Shane frowns.
He wins the face-off so easily it’s almost like Rozanov let him. The Metros win the game 4-0.
Shane should be happy about that.
Instead, for some reason, the image of Rozanov's pale face and unhappy eyes stays with him, follows him into the locker room, to the press conference, even out into the parking lot as he heads home. He can't fucking shake it.
“Hollander.”
Shane nearly jumps at the sound of his name, uttered from the shadows. He hears a footstep and then Rozanov himself appears beneath the stark white lights that illuminate the players’ lot. His face looks—weird. There’s an emotion on it Shane has never seen there before.
“What do you want, Rozanov?” he demands.
“You blocked me.”
He sounds—hurt? Like Shane is the one responsible for ending things between them. Like Shane is the one all over the fucking tabloids with a gorgeous younger woman. Shane clenches his jaw.
“Yeah, well. I didn’t think we had anything more to say to each other.” He turns away and heads for his car, yanks the driver’s side door open as Rozanov’s baffled “What?” sounds in his ears.
“I can hear your chirps on the ice, I don’t need them in my phone too.” Shane moves to get into the car but Rozanov darts forward and grabs his arm before he can. His touch even through layers of fabric sends fire blazing across Shane’s skin. Fuck, he has to get out of here, he thinks. He has to get away before he does something really fucking embarrassing, like beg somebody else’s boyfriend to fuck him. He rips his arm from Rozanov’s grip.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he hisses and yep. That’s definitely hurt on Rozanov’s face. Shane’s never great at reading emotions but it’s pretty unmistakable. It makes him furious.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he snarls.
“Like what?”
“Like I hurt you.” Which makes it sound like he’s accusing Rozanov of hurting him and he’s not. It’s not like that. He’s not hurt, he just doesn’t want to deal with this face to face. It’s why he blocked Rozanov in the first place. Anyone else would take the fucking hint. “I’m not going to be your fucking, side piece or whatever. Just leave me alone.”
“Side piece?” Rozanov echoes. He frowns as Shane buckles his seat belt but doesn’t move out of the way and so Shane can’t shut his door. He turns to glare at Rozanov and determinedly ignores the leap in his belly at the expression on his face. The hurt is still there, along with confusion, but as Shane watches comprehension begins to dawn.
“Side piece,” he says again. “This means when someone has an official partner but is still fucking a different person. On the side, yes?”
“Yeah,” Shane says. “Can you get out of the fucking way?”
“Hollander, I have no official partner.”
Anger surges in Shane again. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”
“I am not.” Rozanov’s voice is imploring. It’s—honest. “I have never. If I had a girlfriend I would tell you.”
Shane grips the steering wheel hard. “I saw the pictures. You’re out with her every fucking day.”
“Yes,” Rozanov agrees, “but is not what you think. Hollander.” He reaches out, slowly enough to give Shane plenty of time to smack his hand away or tell him to keep it to himself. Shane does neither and so Rozanov’s hand settles on his thigh. Shane hears his own breath catch, hears Rozanov’s shaky exhale. Fuck but he’s missed being touched. Rozanov’s fingers flex as he says, “Please, let me explain.”
Shane says nothing, even as Rozanov’s touch makes him ache.
“Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice is so soft. “Please.”
“Get in the fucking car,” Shane says.
They arrive at Shane’s apartment and take the elevator from the parking garage. Shane knows he probably should be worried about someone spotting them but he’s far too busy spiralling. What does Rozanov mean, it’s not what you think? What else could it be? Why did he look so hurt, why the hand on Shane’s leg, why what why?
Once inside, Shane tosses his keys in the bowl by the door and removes his shoes. Rozanov does the same. He’s used to it now, taking off his shoes at Shane’s place. He does it without even thinking. He even lines them up neatly right next to Shane’s.
Shane turns away from the sight and stalks into the apartment, then turns back abruptly to find Rozanov behind him. He stops walking when Shane turns and eyes him warily, like Shane is a baby deer who might startle.
“Can we sit?” he asks.
“No.”
“Okay.”
Rozanov stands like he doesn’t know quite what to do with his limbs. He looks around the dimly-lit room, spits a word in Russian under his breath, then looks up to catch Shane’s gaze. “Tanya is baby sister of Vasily Petrov,” he says quickly, before Shane has the chance to look away. “My teammate from juniors league and cousin of my friend Svetlana. He does not play hockey anymore but Tanya does. She has been recruited by the women’s team of Boston University and Vasya asked me to help her get settled.” His eyes are intent on Shane’s face, watching carefully for his reaction. “This I agreed to gladly because Tanya is a sister to me too. I watched her grow up from when she was a small baby who annoyed Vasya, Sveta and me by crying. She is not my girlfriend, and not only because Vasya would have me murdered if I touched her. But she is someone I care about and so I take care of her.”
His eyes plead with Shane to believe him and he has never, Shane knows this, never once lied to him. Not in all the years they’ve known each other.
“When the pictures started coming out,” Shane says slowly, “you didn’t say anything. They said she was your girlfriend and you didn’t deny it.”
Rozanov huffs. “I did not think anyone would believe it. I did not think you—” He breaks off, swallows hard. “Did you really believe I would date someone seriously and not tell you?”
“We don’t really tell each other things,” Shane says.
“No,” Rozanov agrees. His voice is strange and so is his face as he takes his phone from his pocket and stares at it. He seems to be weighing a decision, thumb hovering over the screen, then he mutters “Fuck it,” taps a few times and thrusts the phone at Shane who takes it almost in self-defence. He watches as Rozanov’s expression shutters into complete unreadability, then looks at the phone in his hand to see the text thread with Jane, starting with a message that he recognises.
What room are you in?
The ones that follow are all marked by exclamation marks in little circles, sent after Shane had blocked him. There are—so many of them. Shane begins to read.
The first come immediately after the last:
Hollander?
Motherfucker did you block me?
Then, sent an hour later:
Fine don’t talk to me. I don’t want to talk to you.
Sent at two a.m. the next morning:
I hate you fuckign hollander fucking perfect freckles fuck. I hate you so much
And at three that afternoon:
This is lie, I don’t hate you I miss you. Please talk to me what can I do? Tell me what I did and I will fix it I promise please
Another one that day at nine p.m.:
I’m so sorry. whatever I did I am sorry
Shane looks up but Rozanov’s expression is still blank. He gives a jerky nod at the phone and with a trembling thumb, Shane scrolls.
Sent the following week:
You are playing so beautifully tonight. I watch all your games, did you know? I record them if I cannot watch them live and sometimes I watch more than once.
Twenty minutes later:
You are so hot when you score I am surprised ice does not melt under your skates. Is a problem Hollander. Problem for me specifically
Was my problem. Fuck.
Three days after that:
Sometimes I have a thought and I want to tell you it because I think you will like it. I don’t know if you will because we never talk about things. But I think I know you. I think you will
A day later:
Can you know someone when you barely talk to them and when you do talk is about sex and hockey only? I think sometimes we talk *with* sex and hockey. You and me. With others is different, sex is sex and hockey is hockey. But for us?
This is very philosophical and yes before you ask I did look up that word. Though is very similar to Russian word. Also genetic is very similar. Sometimes you are mean about my English, Hollander. I do not think you try to be but you are.
Two weeks after that:
I met a dog today. His name is Henry. His owner says he is a border collie. He is very dignified and wears a collar with a bow tie.
I like dogs. I think this would surprise you to learn about me. Maybe not, though.
Hollander, I want to ask if you are surprised to hear I like dogs. Please talk to me. I fucking miss you
And a week after that:
It has been one month now since I saw you. Longer since we fucked. It feels like forever
Can you miss something you never had?
An hour later:
I can.
Then later that same day, three days ago:
I have to stop texting you, Hollander. Every message is not received. I keep looking at my phone with stupid hope because my stupid brain thinks soon you will reply but you do not. I think you will not, ever.
I can’t do this. I can’t. It’s time to stop.
Today. This morning:
We have a game tonight. For the first time I do not want to play you. I do not want to have you look through me in the face-off and ignore me on the ice. Like I am not even there. Like I am nothing to you. Maybe I am nothing maybe I am only one who—fuck
The last two were sent an hour ago. Right before Rozanov had gone to the parking lot to find him.
I can’t stand this. If you will not unblock me I will find you and make you talk in person. Just tell me what I did that’s all I ask. I cannot live not knowing how I fucked this up. I promise you I didn’t mean it. I would never. Never want to hurt you
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Shane. I’m sorry
Shane doesn’t know how long he stares at the screen. He scrolls up and down through the texts several times, reads them again and again. There’s a lump in his throat and a heaviness in his chest and he doesn’t like either of them.
“I’m sorry too,” he says. “For assuming the worst.”
He looks up at Rozanov, who shrugs. His face is still a mask. “Worst is what is usually assumed about me.”
“But I know better,” Shane says “I know you better.”
Rozanov’s mask cracks and he smiles, wry and lightly bitter. “Do you know me, Hollander?”
“I think I do.” Not as well as he’d like to, maybe, but there are some things Shane definitely knows. He knows exactly how to suck Rozanov’s dick to make him come embarrassingly fast and how to suck it so that he doesn’t come for ages. He knows the way Rozanov feints when he’s about to pass the puck behind him and he knows the difference between his teasing chirps and his genuine anger. He knows, fuck, now he knows that Rozanov likes dogs. It doesn't surprise him. “I knew this girlfriend thing and not telling me about it didn’t seem like something you would do.” Shane hesitates; this is fucking scary but—it took guts for Rozanov to let him read those texts. Shane can have guts too. “I was just so hurt I didn’t listen to my common sense.”
Rozanov is silent for a long moment, then he says, “Hurt?”
“Yeah.” Shane nods. “I was hurt that you would just drop me like that. We’ve been hooking up a long time. I thought at least you’d tell me when you found someone better. ”
Rozanov snorts. “Better than you?”
Shane shrugs. “Easier to be with. Less complicated. Less boring. Has to happen eventually, right?”
Rozanov’s jaw is clenched so tight it’s twitching. He takes a small step forward; when Shane doesn’t retreat he closes the remaining distance between them. His hand comes up to grip Shane’s chin and force their eyes to meet.
“Hollander,” he says. “No one is better than you.”
Shane’s heart does an awkward belly-flop in his chest. “Not even you?” he attempts to joke.
For once, there is no teasing in Rozanov’s face. No unreadable mask. Just honesty, stark and clear. “Not me,” he says. “Not anyone. You are the best person I know.”
“Roz—” Shane begins, but he has no chance to finish because Rozanov kisses him.
Shane melts into it. He tries not to, tries not to be so fucking easy for Rozanov all the time but he can’t help it. It’s been too long and he’s missed this so fucking much. He hears a whimper escape his throat as he kisses Rozanov back, as his fingers sink into silky curls and he’s enveloped by warmth and strength and the peace that settles in his mind whenever he’s in Rozanov’s arms. He sighs into it, leans into it, hungry for more but then Rozanov pulls back. Only far enough to meet Shane’s eyes again but Shane makes a small, protesting noise and for a moment Rozanov looks feral.
“Hollander,” he says. His voice is gritty, barely leashed. “Don’t mess with me.”
“What?”
Rozanov leans his forehead against Shane’s. His breathing is laboured. “Does this—does this mean—”
Shane doesn’t know what it means. He knows he believes Rozanov doesn’t have a girlfriend. He knows this makes him feel happy in a way that’s probably too big, too strong for just the realisation that he can keep his current hookup and doesn’t have to bother finding a new one. He knows the way he felt when he thought he and Rozanov were done is probably something he should think about, maybe reckon with. He knows the feelings he felt when reading those texts are new and more than a little terrifying.
He knows he doesn’t want to think about any of that right now.
“Yeah,” he says, and kisses Rozanov again.
Rozanov’s moan rises from his chest, deep and desperate. He kisses Shane with a ferocious intensity that makes him feel so wanted, like Rozanov’s missed this as much as he has.
Which, according to those texts, he has.
It’s a heady feeling and Shane savours it as Rozanov strips off both their clothes then goes to his knees. He presses his face into Shane’s belly, breathes in deeply as his hands stroke up and down Shane’s thighs. Shane’s knees go weak and he collapses onto the arm of the sofa, lets his legs fall open for Rozanov and his deadly mouth, which trails a slow path down Shane’s abs to his cock. Shane’s eyes flutter closed and his fingers clench in Rozanov’s hair.
“Fuck, Rozanov,” he breathes. His hips roll up to push his cock past Rozanov’s lips and deeper into his mouth. Rozanov moans low and resonant as he sucks Shane down, his hands flex on Shane’s ass as his throat flexes around the tip of his cock and Shane knows he won’t last long. “I’m gonna—” he gasps but Rozanov just sucks him harder, faster, his rhythm perfect, until Shane comes hard down his throat and they both groan.
Rozanov keeps Shane’s dick in his mouth until it softens. His breath ghosts across Shane’s overheated skin, through the fine hairs on his belly. The silky strands between Shane’s fingers feel like all that’s tethering him to Earth.
His eyes are still closed when Rozanov releases him. Shane feels him rise to his feet, feels the heat of both their bodies on his skin. Feels Rozanov’s fingers stroke his cheek and brush the hair back from his face.
“Hollander.” Rozanov’s thumb brushes gently across Shane’s cheekbone. “Hollander.” A pause. Shane’s eyes stay closed. Rozanov’s voice is as soft as his touch when he tries a third time. “Shane.”
Shane opens his eyes to the sight of a face he’s known since it was seventeen. It’s settled over the years, that face. Sharpened. Tautened. Shane knows it anyway, as well as he does his own.
The expression on it is one he’s never seen before.
Shane thinks about Rozanov’s texts, the ones he wrote knowing Shane would never receive them. He thinks about how he felt reading them, and how he’s felt over all these last lonely weeks. He thinks about his jealousy, his desires, what both of those say about him. He thinks about how he feels now knowing that this man is still, at least a little bit, his.
He thinks about all of this in the narrow space that exists between beats of a heart and then he says, softly but with absolute certainty, “Ilya.”
He’s rewarded with the most blindingly beautiful smile he’s ever seen.
And that, he thinks smugly, is what it really looks like when Ilya Rozanov has never been so happy.
Suck it, journalists.