Archive of Our Own

28 August 2018 – The Beginning

"I assume you know why I’m calling?"

Bella never wasted time on small talk. It was one of the things Shane liked most about her. And her words rang true; he did know why the Centaurs Player Liaison would be calling his office. Everyone in Ottawa had heard the big news.

Ilya Rozanov, Boston’s golden boy, would start the 2018-19 season as a Cen. A shock move for anyone that followed hockey. Leaving a Cup-winning team for a team whose motto had been "next year is our year" for 45 years straight? Shane couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. If it were Shane, he'd have clung onto Boston with all four limbs, like a barnacle on an old Victorian galley. God. If only it were him. Did Rozanov have any clue how lucky he'd been?

One commentator had claimed Rozanov was in the middle of a mental breakdown. Another claimed he owed money to the Boston mob - though how that could be resolved by signing for Ottawa, Shane couldn't quite tell.

"We’re rolling out the red-carpet treatment for Rozanov, and I’d like that to include providing him with the best Real Estate Agent this side of Saskatchewan. Are you available? I’ve heard he’s… particular."

Bella lingered over the last word, particular, and Shane sighed. For hockey players, blessed with an unlimited budget and a handful of brain-rattling concussions, that could mean anything.

He should say no. He’d said to his parents, after he’d found Pallier a nice 2 bed apartment after his mid-season trade last year, that he’d be taking a break from hockey players. After all, it only brought up strange memories.

However…

Shane got out his phone, checked his bank balance. His credit card balance, too. Then, he switched to the calculator app. If Rozanov was looking to buy… Well. Rozanov wasn’t just a golden boy; he was a potential golden ticket. Just at the right time.

"I can make myself available. Send me a list of requirements and I’ll put together some options. Is he looking to buy or rent?"

"Buy in the first instance, but not entirely against renting for the short term." Bella sounded happy at that. So she should; players didn’t usually bother with the paperwork that came with buying if they were only planning on hanging round for a single season. "We’ve told him he can stay in the hotel on our dime indefinitely. We want him to find the right place. It’s important that he’s happy. It’s important he feels at home."

Shane nodded to himself. Happy wasn’t something he could promise - but at home was something he might be able to help with. "I’ll do my best."

"You always do," Bella replied. She was gone before Shane could even say goodbye. 

Shane reached down, and slid open the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out one of his many empty notepads, crisp and new, and on the front, wrote Rozanov House Hunt in small, tidy letters. 

Rozanov came with a pre-packaged reputation for trouble. An asshole that home fans loved and away fans loved to hate - totally on brand with Boston (the city and the team). Not quite on brand for Ottawa (the team or the city). Rozanov was probably in Ottawa already; Shane wondered how he was fitting in, whether he'd already scoped out the best nightclubs, whether the comparative quiet of the city was already itching at his brain. 

Shane couldn't help with those parts of Rozanov's settling in, but finding him a property? Well, that was Shane's bread and butter. He'd set up private viewings - no open houses, Rozanov would only get gawped at - and hunt far and wide until he found a place Rozanov could really call home.

After all, that was the job.

1 September 2018 - Day 01 of the Rozanov House Hunt

There was a chill in the air, Shane was sure. It was the only explanation for why Shane’s knee ached, as soon as he left the familiar warmth of his home. He sighed, turned back inside, and re-emerged with a cane in tow - his prettiest, least practical cane, bought from an online vendor who didn't seem to have much thought for ergonomics. He didn’t strictly need it today, could make do without with only a little limp, but he could hear his physio’s voice in his head.

Better to use it before you need it, than need it and not use it.

Fucking Laura.

The first property of the day was for Ilya Rozanov. Shane had blocked out the whole morning to show the Centaurs’ newest star around a 2-storey 3-bed penthouse apartment in the city centre, clocking in at a little over $2.8m. It was a bit of a shot in the dark. Rozanov’s list of requirements, filled out by Bella, had been vague at best.

Budget: $3 million ($20k/month rentals)
Bedrooms: 3+
Property Type: Any
Required Features: Unknown
Preferred Area: Unknown
Notes: N/A

With nothing to work with, Shane had gone off what he knew of Rozanov from interviews, gossip rags, and a general knowledge of hockey player expectations.

Rozanov was a party boy, so being close to town would be a priority. He had no wife and kids, and, as far as Shane could tell, no pets, so an apartment would work - in locker-room terms, a classic fuckboy pad. He had an impressive car collection, so secure parking with the option of buying extra spaces would be paramount. Close to the stadium and training facilities - party boys always wanted a short commute for the morning after. A home gym - every NHL player wanted a home gym. 

It would be a surprise if Shane got it spot-on with this first property - but it’d at least give him a direction, some data points to work from. The Centaurs had given him an expenses card, too, so if need be, he’ll grab lunch with Rozanov when they were done, try and get a little more detail on exactly what he was after.

After Shane parked in the building's private parking lot - the space designed for a far more expensive car than his Toyota - he checked himself in the rearview mirror one final time. His hair was neat, tie straight, so he nodded to himself, then climbed out of the vehicle to wait for his newest client. He looked at his cane, resting in the back seat, and sighed. He’d rather leave it in the car, especially in front of a hockey player, even more so for Rozanov, but the twinge in his knee was only getting worse.

He picked up the fucking cane.

Ilya Rozanov pulled into the parking lot in a streak of bright red. A Ferrari. Nice. It was low to the ground, Shane wouldn’t stand a fucking chance of getting out of that thing without his knee and leg protesting, but Rozanov made it look easy.

Even in the underground parking lot, Rozanov had sunglasses on. He was in sports gear - a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and a pair of well-worn shorts. The getup was hardly unusual for a hockey player, but Shane, in his fitted suit, envied him greatly.

He looked good. No surprise there - Rozanov’s face belonged on billboards. Shane assumed, after seeing that face on TV for years, that he might be immune to its charm.

He was not. Fuck. 

At first, Rozanov didn't look the way he looked on the TV - he left the passion on the ice, Shane supposed. The muscles in his face remained flat, giving him a blank, unreadable quality. Intimidating. Undeniably attractive - and didn't Rozanov know it.

Then, Rozanov removed his sunglasses, slipping them to hang on the neckline of his sweatshirt. Where the rest of his face was blank, his eyes were sharp. They roamed around the cars, perpetually unimpressed by the Porches and Aston Martins and Maseratis and other mid-range sports cars filling up the parking lot. Finally, Rozanov's eyes landed on Shane's RAV4, and his frown gained a confused, almost amused edge. Shane wondered, unfavourably, if Rozanov had ever parked near a car worth less than $20k before.

Rozanov's gaze shifted from the car to its owner, looking down at Shane's shoes - orthopaedic and hideous - and his suit - cheap and itchy. He opened his mouth to speak, and Shane stepped forward, spitting his own words out before Rozanov could get the chirp in. "Mr Rozanov," he greeted, forcibly formal, and reached out his hand. "Shane Hollander. I'm the real estate agent that the Centaurs hired." 

"Just Rozanov," Rozanov corrected, reaching out to return the handshake after a long and awkward beat. He had a good grip – competitive, and Shane matched it. Rozanov looked Shane up and down. "Mr Real Estate."

"Just Hollander," he echoed back - not what he intended to say. Call me Shane. That was his usual opener to clients; he wanted them to feel comfortable with him, like he was their friend, like he’d solve all their problems with the flick of his hand and a new set of keys. Asking Rozanov to call him Hollander felt combative; like they were on the ice, seconds away from puck drop. Still, he didn’t correct himself. Maybe the last names would help Rozanov; after all, most of Rozanov’s friends would be hockey players, he probably hadn’t used an actual first name for anyone other than lovers and family in a long time. "Shall we?"

Shane led Rozanov to the elevator, talking through the building’s selling points; a 24-hour concierge team famed for discretion, good soundproofing for late night soirees, a low crime area for expensive watches. The next steps of the tour would be easy; Shane could do this with his eyes closed. All modern apartments at this price point were fundamentally the same; open living space, corridor to the bedrooms, at least two en-suites, a family bath. This apartment had the additional selling point of the master suite being on its own floor, but other than that, it was a carbon copy of a half-dozen apartments around town.

He led Rozanov into the living space, pointing out the top end features, just like he would for any other client. Something felt different, though, and when Shane started sneaking glances at Rozanov, he realized, with alarm, that Rozanov was not admiring the top-of-the-range Iripina kitchen. He was instead examining Shane, like a bug under a microscope. 

"Is everything alright?" Shane asked, vaguely disconcerted.

Rozanov looked him up and down again. "You are… familiar."

Oh. "I used to play hockey," It was an understatement, but I used to dominate at hockey felt a bit much. There had been comparisons between him and Rozanov, back when they were 16, before a clumsy hit and an awkward landing had changed everything. "I should’ve been the same draft year as you, but, well." He didn’t bother to finish the sentence. Rozanov seemed like a smart enough guy - and the cane was conspicuous enough.

Rozanov’s eyes traced the cane. "You did not play in the NHL?"

"I did." Less than half a rookie season, two years later than planned. A mistake - the reason Shane needed the cane now, years of surgery and physio crumbling to dust within 10 games at that level of intensity. "We didn’t play against each other." Shane had been on IR before the Cens played the first Boston game of the season. Shane cleared his throat. "The master suite on this property is really worth seeing…"

The stairs up to the second storey weren’t too steep, but they still took Shane longer than he would have liked. Rozanov hovered a little too closely behind him, and Shane gritted his teeth while he made his way up.

The master suite made the climb worth it. It looked as beautiful as the brochures had suggested, with a triple aspect view, and Shane had no qualms in showing it off. God, this was the kind of property people dreamed of. It was the kind of property that made Shane’s head buzz happily. Rozanov was still examining Shane more than the apartment, but he did occasionally glance at things Shane pointed out, and Shane decided to count that as a win. 

Still. As soon as they finished the tour, Rozanov shook his head. "This is not what I want."

A disappointment, but not exactly a surprise. Shane wasn't entirely sure how Rozanov knew he didn't like the place, though, since he barely fucking looked at anything. "Okay, well - "

"You do not know what I want," Rozanov continued, as if Shane hadn’t spoken at all, and Shane bristled. "We will get coffee. I will explain."

Shane followed Rozanov to a cafe around the corner. It was a busy Saturday, and so they ended up stuck in a small table, with half the other customers straining their necks to get a look at Ottawa's hottest new player. They were both a bit too big for the allotted space, and Shane's good leg nudged against Rozanov's.

Rozanov had not stopped studying Shane, and Shane shifted in his seat. He knew what Rozanov saw - a former hockey star, in an inexpensive suit, driving an ugly car, with a normal job and a fucking cane. God, he was probably Rozanov's worst nightmare. A car crash in human form. The thought raised his hackles. Maybe he was a washed-up hockey star in a bad suit, but his car worked just fine, and his cane was a necessary evil, and, despite the fact he thought he'd never be happy after leaving hockey, Shane likedhis job. Loved it. 

That thought brought him back. He loved his job, and right now, his job involved finding Rozanov the home of his dreams, no matter what Rozanov thought of Shane. Shane broke out his notepad and his glasses. He eased the arm of his glasses open with his mouth, an old disgusting habit that he’d yet to break, and Rozanov made a strangled noise. "Ah. Sorry," he said, wiping at the arm with his thumb. He hardly thought a hockey player would be squeamish – he knew how they treated their gumshields – but he apologized anyway. Rozanov waved him away.

Before Shane could think of what to ask Rozanov first, Rozanov beat him to the punch. "I want a dog," he said. Apropos of nothing.

"A dog?" Shane repeated, thinking through the statement. Shane was a cat person – his long-haired moggy Wayne at home was a testament to that – so he could understand the general appeal of a furry friend. He could understand, too, how it changed what you needed from your home. He tried to imagine Rozanov with a dog, but couldn't quite place it. Maybe he had a some-time girlfriend who wanted a tiny Pomeranian? "The apartment today was dog friendly."

Rozanov shook his head. "I want a big garden. For my dog," he clarified. Shane made a note, Houses only, 2000sqft land. 

"Okay, so no apartments. A house." 

Rozanov nodded. Their drinks arrived; green tea for Shane, something sweet for Rozanov. Rozanov swirled his drink, swiping at the whipped cream with his finger and licking it off. "Place today was not so expensive. We can go higher on budget."

Shane blinked. "Bella mentioned your budget was $3 million -"

"Ah. No. $3 million is more like minimum spend," Rozanov corrected. "I can spend up to $10 million. More if needed." 

Did anyone really need a house worth over $10 million? Shane thought about his commission rate, and kept his mouth shut. $3-10 million. Room for movement. "Did you have an area in mind?" 

"Near parks. For my dog." He said, as if Shane couldn’t add 2 and 2 together, and Shane resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Green space nearby. "I want good space for team get togethers. Plenty of bedrooms for guests." Good entertaining space. 5+ bedrooms. 

"I want a hot tub." Shane wrote down hot tub. Rozanov leant over to peer at the notepad. "Hot tub is very important." 

Shane nodded and kept his face neutral as he underlined the words hot tub. Hot tubs were disgusting vats of bacteria. It’d be quicker just to inject bacteria straight into the urethra and cut out the middle-man. It was probably the only fuckboy request Rozanov had included so far; Shane could imagine it now, Rozanov in a bubbling tub with 5 beautiful women. He wished that the idea of Rozanov’s nipples, peeking just out of the water, didn’t do something for him.

Shane shook the vision from his mind, glad Rozanov was no mind reader. "And in terms of property style," Shane prompted, and Rozanov frowned. "Modern, traditional, mock Tudor…"

"I like what I like."

"Which is…?"

Rozanov's eyes lingered on Shane.  "I know when I see it." Great. Really fucking useful. Preference unknown. Shane shut the notebook, enough to work with for now, and sipped at his tea. Rozanov kept staring at him, eyes scanning intently. "You will come watch my games? I am very good."

It felt like a challenge. I was better, asshole. "I'll catch one when I can," Shane replied, noncommittal. Nick and Evan would give him tickets in the family section for any game if he asked, but he'd rather wait until a good leg day. He hated taking his cane to games.

Shane slid the glasses from his face, ready to be done with Rozanov for the day. "You've given me much more to work with here, Rozanov. I'm sure I can find something that suits your needs."

Rozanov just kept staring at him, and Shane forced himself not to squirm. Finally, Rozanov spoke. "In four years, my Boston realtor could not find a property I liked. What makes you think you are special?"

Shane straightened his spine. "I’m the best realtor in Canada. If I can’t find you a property, no one can."

Rozanov hummed. He traced the rim of his cup with a single finger, and Shane forced himself not to stare at his long fingers. "Perhaps I skip second-best and hire Mr No-One now."

"Trust me. I’ll find you a home, Rozanov," Shane promised. Rozanov stared back, unreadable, but did not argue the point.

The cafe was too busy to linger, so they finished their drinks and headed back to the parking lot, exchanging numbers to arrange future viewings. Rozanov stood so close to Shane that he almost fumbled Rozanov’s expensive phone, their fingers brushing during the handover. Then, Rozanov was gone, speeding off in a streak of vibrant red that moved far faster than the speed limit. 

Shane didn't set off quite so fast. He owed his best friend Rose a call - she had been texting all morning for updates. 

She answered before the phone had time to ring.

"So, is Rozanov as hot in person as he is on the television?" She asked excitedly, not even a hello. God, she and Bella would make quite the pair. Straight to business. Rose was back in LA, between acting projects, and - knowing Rose - desperately bored, with no 12-hour filming days to fill her time. 

"Rose."

"Shane," Rose teased down the phone. If it had been an old landline, she would've been twirling the cord around her finger. "Answer my question."

Shane suspected that most people didn't discuss hot hockey players with their exes, but his relationship with Rose had hardly ever been typical. Most people didn't have a movie-star ex; even less people had to find out they were gay from their movie-star ex during a breakup. They'd met when one of Rose's actor friends had been looking for property; they dated for all of 2 weeks before falling into friendship. 

Rose had helped him so much when it came to coming out, and he had rewarded her with very little gossip; Shane hated the apps, and couldn't figure out how to meet people in person. He never had fun stories for her - he barely even had boring stories. Just nothing. 

He supposed he could, at least, give her this. Shane sighed, resting his head back against the rest. "He's even hotter."

"I knew it!" Rose cackled. "Miles said he was just hot for hockey."

"Hot for hockey?"

"You know, everyone around him has broken noses, fake teeth, wonky jaws…" Rose trailed off. "It’s not hard to look hot amongst all that."

"I'm fairly sure Rozanov’s broken his nose before. And those definitely aren’t all his own teeth." The slightly crooked nose only made him hotter, somehow. Proof of a hard-fought game. Shane hated him so much.

"Did he tell you why the fuck he's in Ottawa?"

"I didn't ask." Down the line, Rose groaned. "It's none of my business, Rose."

"God, you're such a bore sometimes," Rose complained. "Come on. What’s he like?" She asked eagerly. "Other than hot."

"A bit of an asshole."

"Like you."

"Particular."

"Like you."

"Stubborn."

"Like you."

"Straight."

That knocked the wind out of Rose’s sails. "Well that's no fun," she sighed. "Did he fall in love with the property, at least?"

"Not even close," Shane replied. "Barely even looked at it. He’s going to be a tough nut to crack."

"Well, at least you get to enjoy the view while you house hunt," Rose teased, and Shane sighed.  

God, would he ever.

10 September 2018 - Day 10 of the Rozanov House Hunt

"I googled you," Rozanov said, as he climbed out of his Lamborghini. Canary yellow. Subtle. 

Shane smiled blandly as he stood in front of the first property of the day, brochure held loosely in front of him in one hand, cane in the other. "Find anything interesting?" Shane asked, thinking of the thousand awkward Real Estate headshots plastered over his google image results.

"Old hockey tapes," Rozanov declared, and Shane's smile faded a little. "You were good."

"I was the best," Shane corrected. It was true - he had been the best, back in his youth, and now, the best was stood in front of him. Rozanov looked at him again, examining Shane as if he knew Shane's deepest secrets. Shane nodded at the house behind him. "Come on, I think you'll like this property."

It was a 5-bed 5-bath sprawling manor for $6.2 million. The decor was a bit old-school - more for an older couple, as opposed to a young sports star - but easily replaced. The building was old for the area, full of character, a bit of a wild-card choice for a sports star, but Rozanov seemed a bit wild.

The biggest downside was that the neighbours were a little too close. Shane was honest about that - but Rozanov seemed to have a bigger bone to pick.

"This hot tub has not been well maintained," Rozanov complained as they stood on the deck, staring at the built-in hot tub, big enough to fit 8 people. 

"So, you can replace it," Shane replied patiently.

"I will be too busy to replace hot tub. Then I will have a long day, and I will decide to have a soak in my rancid hot tub, and then I will catch diphtheria and die." Rozanov looked at Shane, accusatory. "You want me to die?"

Shane looked down. The hot tub looked no more or less rancid than any other hot tub. "I don’t think you can get diphtheria from a dirty hot tub."

"You are doctor now?" Rozanov asked, and Shane stayed silent. "This is not what I want." 

Shane nodded. It wasn't their only viewing today; he'd lose no tears over this one being a dud, but the frustration was thick in his throat. The house was great, and Rozanov couldn't look past the fucking hot tub.

Still. The next property of the day could be the one, so long as Rozanov had a bit of vision about it.

6-bed 4-bath. Hyper-modern and pristine white. $5.1 million. The property was unstaged, which wasn’t Shane’s preference. People usually saw a blank room and panicked, trying to figure out where to put the couch and TV and beds, instead of appreciating the spaces for what they were.

There wasn’t an ounce of personality in the property. All the walls were bland, all the floors linoleum. The size and layout were great, but Shane knew, even before they’d seen half of the property, that Rozanov was bored by it. He didn’t look away from Shane once, in the entire tour of the first floor; Shane didn’t see the point in wasting time climbing stairs if he didn’t have to.

"Not what you want?" Shane asked in the kitchen, wry.

"Not what I want," Rozanov agreed, and Shane mentally pledged to show him no more unstaged properties.  "We can leave and get lunch?" He asked, and Shane nodded.

The lunch – at an empty little Italian restaurant - started off awkwardly. Shane cracked out his notebook, and slid his glasses onto his face, but before he could ask a single question, Rozanov asked about Shane's family – an easy enough question to answer, considering his only family was his parents, who were currently enjoying a sabbatical in Japan. Shane caught himself before he asked the same question in response - Rozanov had taken time off the year before for his father's death, and a few people referred to him as an orphan around the same time. Hardly happy families. Shane pivoted, and instead asked how Rozanov was finding Ottawa so far.

"Sometimes maybe good, sometimes maybe shit," Rozanov chirped back, and Shane frowned, and Rozanov frowned back. "Is a meme, Grandpa," Rozanov explained, getting out his phone and showing Shane video of a soccer press conference. It sent them down a rabbit hole; apparently Rozanov’s phone was struggling for memory with how many memes he’d saved. Most of the memes were new to Shane, and Rozanov had great joy in showing them off.

Eventually, the memes ran out, and so Shane pivoted the conversation again. "How are you finding playing with the Centaurs?" Shane asked, wry.

Rozanov repeated his previous meme-influenced statement, and Shane laughed. Once they were on hockey, things became easier. They worked their way through the league, from bottom to top, discussing each team in turn.

Chatting hockey with Rozanov was fun. He considered Shane’s opinions seriously, and laughed when Shane was a bit mean. It was nice. The only other person who did that was Shane's mom, who was just as mean as Shane was. 

They finished at the top of the league, New York Admirals. Fresh off back-to-back cups. Rozanov groaned, tipping his head back. "I cannot listen to you praise boring Scott Hunter."

Shane froze. "You don’t like Scott Hunter?" Shane was hardly Hunter's biggest fan, but Hunter was gay; had made out with his boyfriend on the ice a little over a year earlier. If Rozanov had an issue with gay men, then Shane would need to chat with Bella about coming off the Rozanov case.

Rozanov tilted his head upright again, looking at Shane. "I do not care that he is gay. But he is pensioner, taking away jobs from young players." Rozanov fell silent again, still examining Shane. "I would be hypocrite, if I hated him for being gay."

Shane’s world tilted. "You’re gay?"

"Bisexual," Rozanov corrected. Before Shane could reveal his own preferences, Rozanov pivoted. "Why are you not a commentator?" Rozanov asked. Shane laughed, and Rozanov frowned. "I am serious."

In truth, Shane had considered it, around 2014, when he was finally breaking out of the fugue of his injury retirement. It was, ironically, too late and too early. He was too young to be taken seriously as a main commentator, and his name was no longer big enough in hockey circles for him to have any way to be considered as a big-name colour commentator. It was the same still now; his only connection to hockey nowadays was the occasional nod in a listicle of Great Players Lost to Injury. In 2016, some big name Youtuber had made a full hour-long video essay about him, calling him The Lost Gretsky, which was flattering and weird. Shane hadn't watched it. He didn't need to hear how good he could have been. 

"No one wants to hear me talk about hockey," he replied. 

"I do," Rozanov said, surprisingly sincere. Then he smirked. "When I retire, we can become commentary duo. Little and Large."

Shane frowned. "We're the same height."

"We are not," Rozanov insisted, standing up beside their table. "Up. Up."

Shane looked around – the waitstaff were all in the kitchen, and there were no other customers, so he stood, coming round to stand toe-to-toe with Rozanov. Their eyes were level, but Rozanov’s were distracted, looking up at his hand, where it traced a line from Rozanov’s head to Shane’s own. Shane took the chance to look at Rozanov’s eyes; they glistened, blue and gold.

"Ha!" Rozanov crowed, gesturing with his hand to show their height difference.

Shane laughed. "That is just your curls." He reached up and squashed them down to Rozanov’s scalp. "You look down on me metaphorically, not physically."

"That’s not true," Rozanov protested, but before Shane could tease him more, a cough interrupted them. The waitress had two piping plates in her hand – ratatouille for Shane, lasagna for Rozanov – and looked at them with raised brows.

They sat down, abashed, and dug in.

It was only when Shane was back in his car that he realized, with concern, that he’d not added a single thought to his notebook during the entire meal.

20 September 2018 – Day 20 of the Rozanov House Hunt

It was worrying, how much Shane fixated on the Rozanov viewings.

He’d had plenty of rich clients before. Shown any number of beautiful people around sprawling properties. But none had ever had quite this effect on him. Rozanov was challenging; he didn't let up for a minute, whether they were looking at houses or discussing hockey over coffee. He was relentless, and it infuriated and heated Shane in equal measure. 

It was almost a relief, then, when Rozanov turned up for their 5^th house viewing worse for wear, the morning after a big win. A crack in the veneer. "Heavy night?" Shane asked, wry. It was a pleasant day – likely one of the last warm days of the year – and Rozanov’s sunglasses did little to cover the smudges under his eyes.

"Hm," Rozanov replied as he entered the entryway of the $2.1 million townhouse. It was a risk – totally outside of Rozanov’s remit – but the identical neighbouring property was available too, for the same price, and together, they could make for a really interesting opportunity.

Unfortunately, Rozanov was not much interested in opportunity. "I do not want a project, Hollander," he complained, peering at Shane over his sunglasses in a way that made Shane’s stomach flip. 

They took their post-viewing beverages in the park that day - a coffee for Rozanov, a tea for Shane - and sat side by side on a bench as Shane prodded for more details, like picking at a scab. "So, you want a fully finished property? Everything perfect? Everything?"

"What is so hard to understand, Hollander," Rozanov groused. They were facing away from the sun, and he’d taken off his sunglasses to give the full weight of his gaze to Shane. "All it has to be is perfect."

Shane groaned, tipping his head back. "You’re never going to find a property that is exactly how you want it to be!"

Rozanov hummed. "You are quitting so soon?"

Shane lifted his head. "Never," he replied, sharp as nails, and Rozanov smirked. "You want perfect? I’ll find you perfect."

Rozanov raised his brows, but nodded, then reached into his backpack. He brought out a sports bottle, squirting a generous serving of water into his mouth. It was a hot enough day that the water looked refreshing; that was why Shane was staring, he told himself. Nothing to do with the long stretch of Rozanov’s neck, nor the way his Adam’s Apple shifted when he swallowed.

Shane swallowed himself, his mouth suddenly dry, and Rozanov offered out the bottle wordlessly, shaking it when Shane tried to turn it down. Shane took the bottle, his pants uncomfortably tight as his fingers dragged against Rozanov’s own, and he tipped the water back into his mouth, eyes shifting closed as he heard Rozanov whisper more into his ear.

Shane reopened his eyes.

Rozanov’s gaze was unreadable; God, he must have thought Shane was such a slut, panting over a water bottle like that.  It was so inappropriate; Rozanov’s his client, not a piece of meat. He handed the water bottle back, though his thirst was not quenched. Their fingers brushed again, and Shane’s stomach flipped.

The silence was charged with something. Shane couldn’t understand Rozanov at all; did he pity Shane? Was this some kind of ego boost for him? Either way, Shane needed to get back control; needed to break the silence that was lingering. "Where did you go out last night?" He asked.

Rozanov sipped his coffee. "I did not go out."

Shane shifted in his seat. "But –"

"I could not sleep," Rozanov shrugged. "Insomnia. I spent the night looking at dog photos instead."

That was far more sad and more wholesome than the night Shane had imagined. He supposed even men like Rozanov needed a night off from the clubs sometimes. "What dogs?"

Rozanov shifted closer, pulling out his phone, and brought up the Instagram page of a local rescue. "Now this, this is Nina…"

10 October 2018 - Day 40 of the Rozanov House Hunt

In the Bible, it took 40 days and 40 nights for Elijah to reach the mountain of God.

Shane found that 40 days of house hunting for Ilya Rozanov was far less fruitful.

Rozanov had been away for some of those 40 days for preseason games, or busy with sponsors, but whenever Rozanov was in town and free, Shane found him a property to consider.

13 properties. 13 duds. A thousand new notes in his little notebook, and none of them leading him to gold. Not what I want was a frequent epithet of Rozanov's, and Shane hated it.

The lunches and coffees afterwards, however, had unfortunately become one of the highlights of Shane’s weeks. Rozanov was razor sharp and funny and challenging, and bisexual, and so hilariously out of Shane’s league that he could do nothing but shake his head at his own avarice. But then, sometimes, sometimes, Shane caught Rozanov looking at him, and he could pretend to himself that Rozanov’s gaze was almost covetous, and he could live off that high for a good 24 hours.

Even outside of Shane’s inappropriate attraction, Rozanov was good company. Mostly.

"Where is your cane?" Rozanov asked, alarmed, when Shane climbed out of his car in front of a 4 bed 3 bath property, $4.9 mil. Shane bristled – not only at the question, but also at the fact Rozanov had arrived early enough to beat him to the house. Fuck. Rule one of real estate: be at the property ready to greet the client.

"I don’t need a cane every day," Shane replied. Admittedly, September had been a bad month, and every day that he’d left the house, a cane had been by his side. October, too, was shaping up to be a bad month, but today he could manage without. Just. If he ran into Laura, she might kill him.

"So you have left it in your car?" Rozanov prompted.

Shane could’ve lied. It would’ve got Rozanov off his back. Still, he shook his head. "No. It’s at home."

The alarmed look returned to Rozanov’s face. "But what if you need it while you are out?"

"Then I’ll go home and get it, Doctor."

Rozanov looked at him for a long time, and then nodded. "Is good thing you are with strong hockey player today." Rozanov weaved his hand through the crook of Shane’s arm, as if Shane were an old lady who needed help crossing the road. "I will carry you to your car, if your leg fails you."

Shane shook his arm free. "Not going to happen." Pride always had been his downfall. Shane’s leg could fall off and he’d still not let Rozanov carry him to the car. Shane marched towards the house at an inadvisable pace, and ignored the twinge in his knee.

At first, the tour seemed to be going well, but then they reached the master suite, and Rozanov turned to him with a frown. "This bedroom is West facing. I want East," he said, waving his hand towards the windows. "I need sun in morning. Do I look like a raccoon?" 

Shane frowned. They’d seen at least 3 properties before with West facing master suites. It would’ve been useful if Rozanov had mentioned this little titbit then, instead of keeping him on an information diet and spoon-feeding him new non-negotiable features at every fucking house viewing. Still. There was nothing to be done about it, not with Rozanov. This house would be a dud. Another one.

Shane closed his eyes, pictured the floor plan of the next house they were viewing today, and tried to plot it on a compass. The master suite was Northeast facing. Ish. Hopefully good enough.

He opened his eyes, and Rozanov was looking back at him with amusement. "Not what you want. I know. The next place might work. You’ve got the address, right?"

"Ah." Rozanov hummed. "I took an Uber here."

Shane tried to remember the last time he cleaned his car. Fuck it, if Rozanov complained, he’d leave him on a street corner somewhere. "I’ll give you a lift," Shane offered, and they headed out.

Rozanov regarded the RAV4 much as a child regards a broken toy. "This is very practical." The word practical sounded like an insult. He slid into the passenger seat anyway.

"Safest car on the market," Shane agreed as he slid into the driver’s side. It had also been cheap to customize. He’d investigated getting hand controls installed, at first, but then decided it was easier to just get an automatic with the pedals shifted to the left.

Rozanov looked at him expectantly, and Shane frowned back. "What?"

"No glasses?" Rozanov asked, tapping his nose.

"They’re only for reading," Shane replied, and Rozanov frowned back. "I promise, I can drive perfectly fine without them."

"Are you sure?" Rozanov replied. God, he was a menace sometimes. It had been years since anyone had made fun of Shane’s glasses; they were hardly in junior school anymore. Shane rolled his eyes and started the engine.

They made idle chatter as they drove, but then the radio cut out, and Rose’s ringtone echoed through the car. On the phone screen, supported in its cradle, Shane’s favourite photo of Rose popped up – from a Christmas fete, she looked so cozy – and her name, with a little heart beside it.

He sent her to voicemail, and then glanced across. Rozanov was looking at the phone with a frown. "It's just Rose. I’ll call her later."

"Rose Landry," Rozanov said slowly.  

Shane nodded with a frown. Sometimes people were weird about Rose – she was a big deal in some circles. He didn’t expect Rozanov to be strange about celebrities, though – surely he met them all the time? "We met when I was helping one of her actor friends find a property."

Rozanov nodded slowly, but didn’t speak again. The radio was loud enough that the silence didn’t feel oppressive, and soon enough, they reached the second property of the day.

$10 million. More bedrooms and bathrooms than any one man could need. You could have a different toilet for every day of the week, and still have a few left over for guests.  Rozanov didn’t even get out of the car. He took one look at the outside of the property and shook his head. "I would need staff of 100 to clean this house. You are trying to bankrupt me?"

"Just thought I’d show you what $10 million could buy," Shane replied. It had been a long shot, but at least now he could rule out some of the other behemoth McMansions in the area.

"I will never find what I am looking for," Rozanov declared sadly – a bit melodramatic, Shane thought, but athletes could be like that.

"Hey, I promised I’d find you a home," Shane replied, nudging him with his elbow. It didn’t wipe the malaise from Rozanov’s face. "Lunch?"

Rozanov was quiet for a long moment, and then shook his head. "No. I have team meeting today."

Shane tried to hide his disappointment. "We’re near the training ground. I’ll drop you off."

The drive to the training ground was quiet. Strange, for Rozanov to be so silent, but the drive was too short for awkwardness to set in.

When they arrived at the training ground, the players’ parking lot was all but empty. Shane supposed Rozanov was the first to arrive, and sure enough, after Rozanov clambered out of the passenger seat, he hung around on the pavement for a moment. Maybe it’d ruin his cool credentials if he was too early?

He seemed to realize Shane was watching and waiting, and nodded, walking into the building. It was only after he was out of sight that Shane reached over, calling Rose back.

"I’m losing my mind," he said, as soon as she answered.

"Still no luck with Rozanov, huh?" Rose teased.

"He’s infuriating," Shane said, his forehead falling forward to dink against the steering wheel.

"And attractive."

"And attractive," Shane agreed. Shane was a boiler with no outlet; Rozanov was heating him from the inside out, and there was nowhere for the steam to go. "God, Rose. I might have to redownload Grindr," he lamented.

Rose made a high pitched noise, involuntary, like an alarm. "Please don’t. I don’t know if I can live through helping you reword your sad sexts again."

20 October 2018 - Day 50 of the Rozanov House Hunt

Shane was almost vibrating as he drove towards the first property of the day. Embarrassing, but Rozanov had been away on the first roadie of the season, and Shane had missed him. Not that he’d ever dream of telling Rozanov that.

Arranging the viewing had been a struggle. Shane had text Rozanov a few times while he was away to try and arrange it, to no response. The messages weren’t even marked as read. Shane’d resorted to texting Evan, just to check that Rozanov’s phone wasn’t broken.

That had got Shane a response. Thank God for Evan, really; he’d clearly said something to Rozanov. Ok. 12pm Saturday. Hardly as casual or emoji filled as Rozanov’s normal texts, but hey, a response was a response.

Shane was about to turn onto the street when a call came through – Johnson, the Seller’s realtor. Shane hadn’t needed to drive to their offices this morning – the keys were in a lock box on the property. It was fresh on the market, and Rozanov was going to be the first person to set eyes on it. Shane had seen a floor plan, but no internal photos, so it’d be new to him, too. Shane pulled over, out of sight of the house, and accepted the call.

After the requisite pleasantries, Johnson got down to business. "I just wanted to give you a heads up on the Tremblay Drive property. The couple are still living there – they’ve gone away for a week during the viewings. We've removed photos, but the property is still dressed with their furniture." 

Not uncommon. Shane nodded. "No problem, I'll let my buyer know."

There was a pregnant pause. Second trimester, at least. "Just so you're aware, they have a... hobby room." 

Shane nodded. Did Johnson not think he’d read the property pack? He wondered idly what it’d be this time. The last hobby room he’d seen had featured intricate Lego sculptures straight out of a magazine. Far better than the creepy doll room he’d seen in a beige bungalow the year before. "I saw on the floor plan. The whims of the rich, I guess?"

Johnson let out a strangled laugh. "Sure." 

They ended the call, and Shane pulled around the corner. Once again, Rozanov stood there waiting. 20 minutes early. Shane sighed, and climbed out, cane in tow.

Rozanov wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. Hardly a surprise – Ottawa had lost every game on the roadie. Still, Shane was not quite used to Rozanov’s sulking. Rozanov was walking too fast for Shane to keep up on a bad leg day, so Shane let him stride ahead, reaching the front door of the property in record time.

$5.6 million. 5 bed (including hobby room). A relatively bland suburban mansion. Some of the doorframes were a bit too low, but otherwise, it was a relatively standard property.

Rozanov was quiet the whole way round, but he looked at the property more than previous places, and Shane thought maybe, maybe, he might’ve cracked it. Shane wasn’t the best with reading people, sometimes – maybe this quietness was just seriousness, aimed at a house Rozanov approved of.  Shane did, however, miss the weight of Rozanov’s eyes on him. He was greedy like that, sometimes.

"Next up is the hobby room," Shane said, heading for the next door, which was closed. Unusual for a house viewing, but Shane didn't think twice on it, wondering whether it'd be trains or dolls or art that he found. He opened the door a fraction -

And then slammed it shut.

"Hollander?" Rozanov asked, directly behind him. 

Shane turned to face Rozanov, his back close to the door. "It's just a box room. You've seen a hundred of those." 

Rozanov was a shark, and there was blood in the water. "I want to see the hobby room," he said, stubborn. He reached behind Shane, and slowly turned the handle, pushing past Shane to enter.

The room was painted black, with deep red curtains. The art on the walls was indecent, and the furniture -

Well. Shane knew it was for sex. He just wasn't entirely sure how some of it worked. 

"It's a South facing room which could easily fit a king bed, great for a guest room," Shane ploughed on, as if this was any other home. He stood in the middle of the room, as far from the furniture as he could manage. "It lacks an en-suite, so it'd probably not be the main guest room, but you could also use it as an office or –"

"- or a hobby room." Rozanov’s hand reached out to touch one of the leather restraints on the wall.

Shane slapped his hand away. "Don't touch that."

"Impact play already," Rozanov replied, and Shane was sure his own cheeks were beetroot red to match the curtains. "I did not know Ottawa had houses with sex dungeons."

Shane wasn’t sure who he could pay to have the ground swallow him whole. "Contrary to popular belief, people in Ottawa do have sex."

"I see that now," Rozanov agreed. He crossed the room, stopping in front of a strange, padded mound.  "I have only seen one of these on the internet."

Shane looked at it, confused. "A bench?"

Rozanov frowned. "You do not know what a Sibian is?" He asked, looking back down at the bench. "Is mostly for women -"

Christ, Shane did not need an explainer on whatever it was. "- that explains why I don't know it, I guess." 

That stopped Rozanov in his tracks. "You are..."

"Gay. Yes."

"And Rose..."

Shane frowned. What did Rose have to do with anything? "A friend. We dated, once, when thought I might like both." Shane looked Rozanov in the eye, now. It was safer than looking at the walls. "I don't." Rozanov’s gaze was intense; intense enough that, despite his better judgement, Shane looked away. Instead, he made eye contact with a dildo the width and length of his arm. Christ. "Maybe we should leave the sex dungeon?"

"Hm," Rozanov made no move to leave, but let himself be shepherded out of the room, eyes looking until the very last moment. The sullen seriousness was gone now, and Rozanov was alight – Shane supposed he had the hobby room to thank for that. "I am adding sex dungeon to my list of requirements," Rozanov said.

Absolutely not. Shane closed the door firmly and turned to face Rozanov. "With a little imagination and some discreet contractors, any room can be a sex dungeon, Rozanov."

Rozanov blue-screened for a second, and Shane decided that rendering Ilya Rozanov speechless was the biggest victory he’d ever had.

Still, not even a sex dungeon could distract Rozanov from the fact the house had low doorframes. Rozanov whined about almost hitting his head; he whined even more when Shane suggested blithely that he line the top of the frames with hazard tape, if he was so concerned. There was no looking past it; another "no" for the pile.

Shane couldn’t be disappointed. Not when Rozanov steered him straight to a café for lunch after, and spent the whole time teasing him about how he’d blushed. 

28 October 2018 - Day 58 of the Rozanov House Hunt

Christ. Shane pulled up to the day's house viewing 30 fucking minutes early, and still, Rozanov had beaten him there.

Rozanov was leaning against the wall as Shane pulled up, looking intently at his phone. He had a fleece on, his hair ungelled, and Shane had to take a deep, cleansing breath before he climbed out of the car. As soon as he managed it, he was being beckoned forward by Rozanov. "Hollander! Come, look."

The enthusiasm made Shane wary, but still, he made his way over and sat beside Rozanov, looking down at the screen. It was paused on a video, the title card filling the screen. The title was in Russian, but the visuals in the thumbnail said enough. Half of the screen was Rozanov’s face, many years younger; the other half was Shane, when he was a teenager. Two photos had been spliced together to make it look like they were facing off against each other; something they never managed in real life.

"I watched this video many times when I was young. It is why your face was so familiar, that first viewing," Rozanov said, his tone filled with fond nostalgia. "It was 13 years ago, I had forgotten all about it.  Was only when I typed in Hollander in Rutube that I found this again," he explained, and pressed play. Footage of the two of them started playing, both young and sharp and fast. "My coach gave me a DVD of it to study, when he thought we would play each other in the Worlds. He took it back and recorded over it when he found out you wouldn’t play." On the screen, Shane’s younger self scored a phenomenal deke against the USA in a 2007 friendly, and the next shot was a closeup of his face, his grin spread ear to ear. Rozanov sighed. "I had such a crush on you."

Shane almost broke his neck from how fast his head sprang up. "What?"

Rozanov continued speaking, as if he hadn’t just blown Shane’s mind. "Should’ve remembered as soon as I saw your freckles at that first property viewing," he said, reaching up to tap his own cheek.  "I looked for you at the Championships, just in case my coach had been wrong, and you were playing. But I couldn’t remember your name; just that you played for Canada and had freckles."

The idea of Rozanov looking for him unmoored Shane. He looked down at the screen, and tried to listen, but it was in Russian, he couldn’t understand a word. "What are they saying?"

Rozanov listened for a second, and then began to translate. "They are saying how good we both are. I had declared my interest in joining NHL a month earlier, so they are talking about how no one is sure which of us will be first draft pick. They say we are both generational talents, and we will dominate the NHL for many, many years." The words hurt, a deep aching chasm in Shane's chest. Rozanov fell silent. When Shane glanced over, Rozanov looked sick with guilt. "Sorry. I shouldn't have - sorry."

"Don't be. It's nice to hear I was good enough to be getting international attention," Shane lied. God. It was awful to hear how good he could have been, even still. 

"I was not trying to hurt you," Rozanov said, and he sounded truly sorry.

"I know." Shane hadn't known, not really, but he took Rozanov's words at face value. He looked around, desperate for a change of subject. There was an absence of colourful cars on the street, and he frowned over at Rozanov. "You took an uber again?" 

Rozanov shrugged. "I do not like Google Maps. I normally use a map book, but it is annoying in a new city, so I only drive routes I know," he explained, and pointed an accusing finger at Shane. "You take me all over the city with house hunt."

"I'll pick you up in the future," Shane said, brushing the finger away. Rozanov’s hotel was out of his way, but fuck it. Bella had said to keep Rozanov happy. He’d put in his petrol receipts as expenses. If anything, it was a benefit to Shane.

The house was not what Rozanov wanted. The ceilings were too low, and Shane was ready to shove his own head through a wall.

The salad bar they went to afterwards made him reconsider his vendetta against walls. The food was tasty, and the company good. He didn’t have much to complain about, not really; not when Rozanov’s biceps brushed against his own, nor when Rozanov pressed an icy can of ginger ale into his hands, their fingers brushing, sending sparks down Shane’s spine. He'd read over Shane's shoulder as Shane made his daily notes about the viewings, adding his own colour commentary, and teasing Shane about his glasses, again. 

Shane waited until he got home to phone Rose that night. He lay on the bed, Wayne heavy on his chest, and closed his eyes.

"Rozanov had a crush on me when we were teenagers," Shane said, fingers buried in Wayne’s thick black fur, and Rose gasped like it was the greatest gossip she’d ever heard. "Back when I might’ve been something good."

Rose hummed, and he could hear her frown down the line. "Shane. You are something good."

"He showed me a video of how close in talent we both were," Shane continued, ignoring Rose.

"That sounds cruel."

Shane hummed, just as Rose had, and gave Wayne a firm fuss. Wayne arched into his hand, her fur as soft as ermine. "I don’t think he meant it cruelly. I think he wanted to acknowledge it."

"Acknowledge what?"

"That at one point, we were on parallel paths," Shane replied. "That there is a world out there in which I didn’t get injured, where we are equals."

"You’re equals now," Rose corrected, and Shane scoffed. "Maybe not in hockey, but you are talented Shane – shut up, you are. You help people find homes they can love. You’re smart and you’re funny and you care about people and people love you. Just because you can’t play hockey anymore doesn’t make him better than you." Rose went quiet for a moment, and Shane didn’t know what to say. "Please don’t seek out that video."

Shane had already found it on Rutube. He’d had to use Google Translate to track it down, but now it was lined up, ready to watch as soon as he was off the phone with Rose. "I won’t," he lied. Wayne looked up at him, judgemental, and Shane put his finger to his lips.

Wayne could be trusted to keep a secret.

7 November 2018 - Day 68 of the Rozanov House Hunt

The day before the Cens left on a 2-week roadie, Shane pulled up to the front of the Mayfair, unsurprised to find Rozanov already leaning against the wall, waiting.

Shane had now passed the original deadline he had quietly given himself for finding Rozanov a property. Over 2 months had passed since Bella’s first call; a month was usually more than enough for him to figure out what his client wanted and find at least one property worth bidding on, so two was excessive.

But with Rozanov, he didn’t even feel close to finding the one.

Two hours later, and the confirmation was through that Shane had failed. Again. He’d known this one would be a failure; it missed the mark in several ways, but Shane had nothing better to show Rozanov that was available for viewings that day, and. Well. He’d wanted to see Rozanov, before he disappeared for two weeks. He lied to himself, pretended any extra data points could be useful in the long run, but still, he felt itchy and awful and terrible about it.

That hadn’t been enough to stop him from doing it, though.

He suspected Rozanov knew, too. And wasn’t that the worst thing of all.

After, they went to a poky pho restaurant, the windows thick with steam. The voices of the other patrons were like a wall of white noise, everyone speaking low and private, and the place was packed, so Shane was pressed right against Rozanov, warm and solid.

Shane had his notebook out, but no intention of writing in it.  He perched his glasses on his nose, too, ignoring how they steamed a little in the warm restaurant. His tie was long gone; his shirt partly unbuttoned. He wanted to get to the bottom of Rozanov today; try and figure out what made him tick. Maybe that’d help in the house hunt.

Rozanov looked over at him. "You can ask the question, you know. I can hear your thoughts from here."

Shane nodded, and said his thoughts aloud. "Why Ottawa?" Shane asked, as he sipped on his broth. The question on the lips of half the city. "I’ve heard your press answer a hundred times, but I figure we’ve spent enough time together that I’d see if I could get the truth."

Rozanov smiled over his own bowl of pho. "You do not believe my romantic answer? That I fell in love with the city, that the coach woos me with his five-year plan?"

Shane shook his head. "Sorry." 

Rozanov nodded. He stirred his pho, lifting the noodles out and then lowering them back down. "The truth," Rozanov said quietly. "My mother’s Russia is disappearing. I no longer recognize what is left. When I retire, I do not wish to go back." Rozanov scooped some noodles into his mouth, a natural pause from talking. "When I went back last year, after my father died, I was… Unmoored. Reckless and angry." More noodles. "My brother caught me fucking a man. We let ourselves be caught." A spoonful of soup, this time. "My brother is police."

Shane inhaled sharply. "Is it illegal over there?"

"Ah. Yes and no," Rozanov replied. "Is not illegal to be gay. But to spread gay propaganda is illegal, yes. And there is no greater propaganda than a Russian sports superstar sleeping with men. I cannot go back." 

Shane understood. It still didn’t answer his question though. Not entirely. "But why leave Boston?"

Rozanov tilted his head, thinking. "This is more complicated. I love Boston, but it felt like one great long vacation, not like a place I could call home. I wanted a fresh start." Rozanov looked over at Shane, then back at his broth. "I am sure there is city in America that could feel like home, but I was perhaps not making good decisions at the time, and decided I wanted whole new country. So. Canada. Better for many reasons. I wanted same division; to stay on East Coast, there is only Toronto, Montreal, Ottawa. Montreal hate me. I hate Toronto. So. Ottawa."

"Process of elimination," Shane smiled. "Lucky us."

"Lucky you," Rozanov agreed. "Once I have lived here for enough time, I can start citizenship application." Rozanov would make a good Canadian – though he’d have to learn a few extra manners. Shane kept the thought to himself. After all, Rozanov didn't need any ego-boosts. "And you? Why Ottawa?"

There was a much simpler answer than Rozanov’s own. "I grew up here. My parents are nearby. I have a few friends on the Cens, back from when I was playing. My physio and medical team are here, too," Shane replied, gesturing to his knee.

"Friends on the Cens?" Rozanov asked, curious.

"I played with Nick and Evan," Shane said. They were the only two left from his time playing. "They gave my name to Bella, after their previous realtor was struggling to find Zane a place to live."

"Chouny and Dykstra," Rozanov repeated, as if he couldn’t imagine Shane having friends. Rude.

"Good guys," Shane said, looking at Rozanov over his glasses. "They hook me up with tickets sometimes."

At that, Rozanov frowned. "I can hook you up too," he promised. "I am surprised you still watch hockey."

Shane responded the same way he had to his mother, the first time he’d asked to go to a game after retirement. "I loved watching the game before I loved playing the game."

Rozanov shook his head. "If I had to quit, I think I would never watch a game again." He fell silent for a moment, probably realizing he shouldn’t have said that. "Sorry."

"No. It's ok. It's valid," Shane agreed. It was too personal for a pho restaurant, really, but Rozanov had shared with him, and somehow, the steam made it feel private. A place for secrets. "I didn't watch for a long time. I'd only ever lived for hockey since I was a kid, and being told I'd never play again broke me. The idea that I had to find a way to fill the time until I died with something other than hockey seemed impossible." Shane went quiet, and Rozanov let the quiet sit for a long time, until finally, Shane spoke again. "Real estate brought me back from that. Connected me to people. Made me feel like I was living again; my purpose was finding people homes. Once I had that, I decided I didn't want to live the rest of my life without watching another hockey game, and. Well. My boys hooked me up." 

Shane looked over; Rozanov was looking at his knee, as if it had personally wronged Rozanov. In a way, Shane supposed it had. Rozanov looked up again, then glanced at the knee once more. "What happened?"

"Just a routine collision, but I landed badly," Shane admitted. No one’s fault. It’d have been easier if the original accident were someone’s fault, somewhere for him to aim his anger. "I tore my MCL, and had a small fracture at the top of my tibia. It should've been a 6-month recovery, but I got unlucky. Bone infection that spread to the muscle." The worst infection his orthopaedic surgeon had ever seen. "They did all sorts of experimental shit on me after that, which we thought had fixed it. It didn't - not long term, or at least, not well enough to survive NHL hockey."

It wasn't the full story, but Shane wasn't about to recount that in a pho shop.

"Shit," Rozanov muttered.

"Yeah. Shit." Shane bumped his shoulder against Rozanov’s. Rozanov bumped back, and Shane smiled. "I’ll miss our property viewings while you’re on your road trip," Shane admitted.

"I’ll miss you," Rozanov said, and Shane’s stomach flipped. Christ, Rozanov couldn't just say things like that. Rozanov nudged him with his shoulder again. "I will send you funny memes, so you do not sink into boredom while I am away."

Shane smiled. "I’d like that."

26 November 2018 - Day 87 of the Rozanov House Hunt

Shane took pains to hide his frown, as he pulled up outside the Mayfair.

For some reason, instead of one hockey player, there were two. Standing together, like haunted twins.

"Hello," Cliff Marleau waved as he climbed into the passenger seat, Rozanov sliding into the back seat.

The lack of tie around Shane’s neck suddenly felt very conspicuous. He’d stopped with such formalities around Rozanov a while ago, leaving his tie in the glovebox, and his suit jacket in the trunk, but now, with another witness, he felt like digging both out, regaining a modicum of formality.

"Shane Hollander," Shane said, reaching a hand over to greet Cliff Marleau. Boston’s Captain, now that Rozanov was a Centaur. A man he’d seen on TV a hundred times or more. Cliff Marleau was a giant; he barely fit into the RAV4.

"Believe me, brother, I have heard all about you," Cliff Marleau laughed. "Call me Marly. I’m tagging along with Rozy today, hope that’s alright."

Shane nodded. What else could he do?

Marly was easy enough to talk to during the drive – even though Shane had to interject every so often to ask Rozanov to sit back, and for god's sake put your seatbelt on. The drive to the property was short, and Shane crossed his fingers that this might be the one.

$8 million. 5 bed, 5 bath, lots of natural materials, a hot tub and swimming pool. But, as Shane tried to show the pair of them around, he found himself, once again, under the microscope.

Every time he turned around, Rozanov and Marly were close together, staring at him and talking quietly – quieter than he’d thought either of them capable of. Shane tried to redirect them; show them the modern fireplace in the bedroom, or the very expensive marble countertops, or the Olympic sized swimming pool, but zilch. They were too busy in their own little discussion.

House tour over, Shane clapped his hands together once, and looked at them both, expectant. "So. What do you think?"

Marly looked around the entryway, and shook his head. "The vibe is off."

Rozanov nodded sagely, as if Marly had revealed a great philosophical truth. "Yes. Marly is right. Someone has died in this house, I am certain."

Shane sighed, but nodded, and then, they went out for lunch, as usual.

As much as Shane had been looking for some time alone with Rozanov after a fortnight of surviving on only memes and texts, he couldn’t help but admit that Marly was a fun guy. He was boisterous and loud, and full of a million embarrassing stories about Rozanov, which he took great glee in relaying to Shane, even as Rozanov whined in the corner.

He kept looking at Rozanov, too, and nodding, which Shane couldn’t understand at all.

They wrapped up lunch early – after all, it was a game day, Boston-Ottawa – but when Shane dropped them both at the Mayfair, instead of waving Shane off, Marly came around to the driver’s side, opening the door and pulling Shane out of the car. If he hadn’t spent the last few hours having a good time with Marly, it would’ve felt vaguely threatening.

The threat level dropped further when Marly pulled him into a gruff hug.

"You look after my Rozy, you hear?" Marly said, choked up.

Shane nodded, patting Marly on the back and looking at Rozanov with a question in his eyes. Rozanov threw him a double thumbs up – unhelpful. "I’ll be sure to find him a great place," Shane promised.

Shane watched on the TV that night as Ottawa lost, 5-3. Rozanov scored a brace, and he and Marly had done a post-game interview together, just like old times.

"Three points tonight has got to feel good, even during a loss," the reporter had said to Rozanov.

Marly had laughed, and jostled Rozanov with an arm across his shoulders. "He’s trying to impress someone," Marly had said with a wink, as Rozanov shrugged him away with a joking scowl.

Shane stabbed at his salmon dinner, and tried not to let jealousy consume him.

1 December 2018 - Day 92 of the Rozanov House Hunt

December was Shane’s least favourite month.

The frost stabbed his knee like an icicle. The ground was often iced over and slippy from it, so he had to be extra careful when walking, and it grew dark early, so he had to be extra vigilant not to trip over hazards.

And this year, it was an indicator of time passing, and his failures.

At the breakfast table, on 1st December, he was unsurprised when Bella’s name lit up his screen. 

"You know why I’m calling."

Shane knew exactly why Bella was calling. After all, there was only one Cens player currently looking for housing. "I’m pulling out all the stops. Rozanov’s a hard man to please."

"I know, but Shane, this is taking too long." Three months. Three fucking months. He’d never taken longer than a month to find players their dream home. He was losing his touch, and Bella knew it. "I think, maybe, we need to try a different direction. I’m sorry," she said, and Shane sighed. "We’ll still use you for future players, but it’s not working out with Rozanov." 

"Of course," Shane agreed, the words like sandpaper in his mouth, and Bella hung up.

She phoned back five minutes later.

"Rozanov told me he would camp out in my office and wail for a month straight if I took away his emotional support realtor," Bella said, voice painfully devoid of emotion. "You’re back on the job."

Almost as soon as Bella hung up for a second time, another call came through. Rozanov.

"Bella tried to fire you," Rozanov said, sounding as stressed as Shane had ever heard him. "Am I compromising your job? Are you losing money?"

Shane shook his head, though Rozanov could not see him. "It’s fine. She understands you are particular. Even if she had stopped me from working with you, she said she’d still use me for future players, and I believe her," Shane replied, and Rozanov breathed out. "The Cens compensate me well for my time. They know how you hockey players are, so they pay me by the hour alongside my normal commission. In exchange, I take a smaller commission at the end," Shane explained. He’d billed for less hours than he actually worked with Rozanov – otherwise, he’d feel like he was robbing the Cens. He could really use with getting this Rozanov thing squared off, though.  "Also, I have other clients."

Rozanov’s next answer was, at least, a little less anxious. "You are seeing other girls?"

"Sorry, baby, I didn’t know we were exclusive," Shane teased. Rozanov did not respond immediately, and so Shane continued, "I’ve got a property available this afternoon if you’re free? I’ll pick you up at 1?" 

Rozanov agreed.

Shane picked Rozanov up, as usual. It was, perhaps, a testament to Shane's poker face that Rozanov didn’t notice anything wrong until Shane was collecting his pair of crutches out of the boot of the car. "You are in pain."

"I didn’t want you to miss out on seeing this property," Shane said, a half-truth, but I didn’t want anyone else to show you around made him sound like a crazy fan.

"What is plan?" Shane started to speak about the floor plan, but Rozanov cut him off. "To stop pain."

Shane hummed. "I've taken painkillers, and I have physio tomorrow morning. Laura will fix me." It was another half-truth. Laura would make him feel worse. Her massages bordered on cruelty; but then, the next day, Shane could bear weight on his bad leg, so he allowed it.

He hobbled his way up to the property, Rozanov an anxious shadow by his side. $7.8 million; a sprawling mansion. Possibly bigger than Rozanov wanted, but had every other quality he was after.

"Sit," Rozanov instructed, as soon as they reached the kitchen, pulling out a bar stool. Shane was almost certain he should be embarrassed by how quickly he obeyed.

Rozanov pushed Shane’s good leg wider so that he could step between them. "In my only KHL season, when I was 17, they made me stay in education. I got to choose which classes to do." He flexed his hands, brows raised. "I chose sports massage," he said. Shane resisted the urge to gulp.  "I won’t touch your knee, but releasing knots in calf and thigh might help."

Shane nodded, suddenly hot all over. "Sure."

The massage was more intimate than Shane’s last sexual encounter. It shouldn’t be a surprise – everything about Rozanov exuded sex – but God. Having those big hands on his thigh, on his calf, on his hip, flexing and rubbing, the thumb making little, firm circles into the muscle. As sports massages go, it was awful, not hard enough, barely doing anything to break up the knots.

As a method of seduction, though, 10 out of 10. It clearly wasn’t what Rozanov was going for – his face was serious and frowning, glaring at Shane’s thigh as if it had wronged him. "The knots aren’t dissipating."

"It’s helping," Shane promised, hard enough to cut glass. 

Rozanov hummed, looking at Shane’s face. "Maybe I distract you from the pain some other way?"

Rozanov couldn’t mean what Shane thought he meant. "It’d be a really good distraction if I had to input the paperwork for the purchase of this property…" Shane diverted.

Rozanov nodded, and slowly stepped out from the crux of Shane’s legs. "I will give myself the tour, like dog who carries his own lead," he promised. Shane stayed in the kitchen, trying to box-breathe his arousal back under control, as he occasionally heard echoes of Rozanov doing his best impression of Shane in various rooms of the house.

When Rozanov came back, he shook his head, and Shane fought the urge to slump in disappointment. "It has good character, but I do not like the layout," he stepped up to Shane, helping him off the stool. "Come. I will buy lunch."

Shane sighed as he crossed back over the threshold. The house was fucking perfect. Rozanov was a nightmare. 

Rozanov swore that the sushi restaurant around the corner was good, and sure enough, Shane was pleasantly surprised by the quality of the fish. The food came quickly; a benefit, as Rozanov had barely finished eating before he was looking at his watch. "I need to leave soon." 

"Hot date?" Shane asked, dreading the answer.

"Mandatory team dinner," Rozanov replied. "I will be their hot date."

"You'll go out after, though, I’m sure. Find someone pretty to romance," Shane continued, as much to remind himself of the futility of his crush.

Rozanov was quiet for a long time, and when he did speak, it wasn’t what Shane expected. "Boston Rozanov is dead." 

"What?"

Rozanov stared at Shane, as intense as always. "I think, sometimes, you look at me and see a version of me from TMZ, falling out of clubs with a lady on each arm, instead of the man in front of you." He opened his arms wide, then let them drop. "I am different now. I need house with a yard for my dog. A kitchen I can cook in. Bedrooms for guests." 

Rozanov threw some bills on the table and stood up. He redressed in his thick wool coat, braced for the cold. "Bood is picking me up from here. I've left enough money for dessert." He leant down, placing a gentle kiss on Shane's cheek. He stayed close, whispering into Shane's ear, "Get the red bean mochi. You will like them," before walking away, coat billowing in his wake. 

Jesus. That cheek kiss. European men were built different.

9 December 2018 - Day 100 of the Rozanov House Hunt

100 days. Shane despaired to realize that he’d hit the milestone; a full century of days without finding Rozanov a home. He felt a little despondent as he pulled up to the Mayfair, ringing Rozanov to summon him down.

Rozanov's voice was tinny down the phone. "I am running late. Come up to the room." 

"I can just wait down here -"

"Net. Come up. I will feed you tea while you wait."

Shane sighed, but ascended to the penthouse, where Rozanov was staying.

Rozanov opened the door in nothing but a towel, slung low on his hips, and Shane worried for a fraction of a second that he might faint from how quickly the blood rushed from his head. "Sorry," Rozanov said, not sounding slightly sorry as he ushered Shane into the room. His curls were damp and flat to his head, and he still looked good.  His chest was large and full, like he could lift a fucking truck if it were in his way. "Green tea or black?"

"Green, please." Shane stood awkwardly aside as Rozanov pottered around the kitchenette in only a towel – brewing two teas, one green and one black. His back was as wide as a rink, and Shane wanted to lick every inch of him.

God. Rozanov was his client. This was beyond inappropriate.

Rozanov handed over the green tea, and Shane found himself glad of something to do with his non-cane hand. He lingered close to Shane for a moment, face unreadable, but then stepped away.

Rozanov put his own tea on the bedside table. "You don’t mind?" He asked, gesturing at the knot of his towel. Shane didn’t quite understand the question, and so shrugged.

Rozanov turned away, and the towel dropped.

Sweet Jesus.

Shane spun away almost as soon as the towel hit the floor, but he’d seen enough to keep him hard for the rest of the week. Below that wide back and tiny waist rested a firm, round ass. Shane wanted to bite it. 

While Rozanov pottered around the bedroom - God, he's naked back there - Shane moved around the entryway, looking for a distraction. There were trinkets scattered across the cabinet nearby, memories of another life, and Shane wandered over to look closer, taking in each one in turn. He put his tea on the side so that he could pick each item up in turn.

Polaroids of Rozanov with women and hockey players. A book of Russian poetry. Worn tickets to an old Boston Raiders game - Rozanov's first game, if memory served correctly. A ratty old gum-shield in dire need of a deep clean.

A Stanley Cup ring.

Shane couldn't breathe. 

He'd never seen one in person. None of the Cens players he was friends with had one. It was heavy, when he picked it up. It shined with pride. Shane imagined, for a moment, wearing one. Having a day with the cup. Kissing Rozanov on centre ice.

"Do you want to try it on?" Rozanov asked, and Shane jumped a little. Rozanov was so close – dressed now, and Shane wasn’t sure if that was a pro or a con.

Shane shook his head and put the ring gently down. That was a dream from another life; he did not get to have it now. "Maybe I'll buy myself a special ring when I find you a house." He smiled to himself. "The Rozanov cup ring."

Rozanov shook his head. "You cannot buy your own championship ring." He took Shane by the elbow, guiding him towards the door. "I'll buy it for you." 

The house was a dud. Of course it was. Rozanov had been apologetic, but that hadn't changed his mind. The ring would have to wait for another day.

14 December 2018 - Day 105 of the Rozanov House Hunt

"Shane!" Caitlin, Selena and Cassie cheered as he made his way into the WAGs suite at the TG Arena. He’d texted Evan at the crack of dawn to see if he could get a ticket, and Evan, as always, had come through. Shane had thrown his cane in the backseat of his car, Rozanov's annoying voice spurring him on, but he'd left it there, and now he’d climbed the arena stairs like he was 16 again.

"It's been too long, handsome," Cassie Boodram complained, once he was tucked in amongst them, the youngest Chouinard child swaddled safely in his arms. Angie was a big baby - comically so - and looked very cute in her tiny ear defenders. 

"I've been busy," Shane lied. He'd been waiting for a good leg day, but that year, they were few and far between. From what Laura had said to him, at his last appointment, they were set to get even rarer.  

"Bood says you're trying to find a place for Roz," Cassie said, curious, and Shane laughed. 

"I miss house hunting for Bood. His biggest concern was where the barbecue would go." Shane joked, bouncing Angie until she cooed. "Rozanov is a trickier client."

"I bet!" Caitlin Dykstra replied. Then, the lights dimmed, and the teams emerged.

Shane hadn’t told Rozanov he was coming tonight. He told himself that was normal – after all, he’d not messaged Nick or Zane either. He’d likely see them after, but there was no need to tell them he’d be there during.

It turned out, he didn’t need to tell Nick or Zane. Evan, on the ice, pointed him out to them, and they both waved like crazy.

Shane waved back, the wave faltering a little when Rozanov skated over to the trio, curious. Rozanov looked up, and then spotted Shane.

Rozanov's eyes went wide, and then flat and emotionless. He pointed his stick at Shane, and then skated away, ready for the game to begin.

Rozanov scored a hat-trick. Tallahassee weren’t exactly world-beaters, but 3-1 was a good Ottawa result.

After every single goal, Rozanov looked up at him. Stared him dead in the eye, from all that way away. When the final buzzer went, he’d stared some more, like Shane was an emperor and he a gladiator.  

Shane gave Angie back while they climbed down the stairs towards the player family room - no matter how good his knee was feeling, he wasn't about to risk her - but she was dropped back into his arms just as soon as they entered the family room to wait for the players to emerge. Shane didn't mind - she was easy enough to entertain, and Shane bounced her on his hip, his weight on his good leg.

"Are you trying to steal my wife, Hollander?" A booming voice called from the doorway, and Shane looked up with a smile.

"Zane." Zane Boodram was a force of nature. He took Shane by the elbows, looking him up and down. 

"I mean, what is this? You're going to start a mass ovulation event, all of that, holding cute babies like this," Zane declared. Angie let out a shrill baby laugh, head rocking back far enough that Shane had to adjust his hold, and Zane's eyes widened.  "Jesus, is that the jersey I gave you?" He asked, his number once again hidden behind Angie's head. He stepped in, switching his grip from Shane’s elbows to his hips. "Now I'm ovulating." 

The door of the family room banged open once more. "Take your hands off my realtor, Bood," Rozanov called across, pushing his way into Shane’s space and trying unsuccessfully to knock Zane’s hands away.

"Your realtor?" Zane teased, using his grip on Shane's hips to turn him a little, until the word Boodram was visible on his back. The shift pulled on Shane's knee, just a little - a warning signal as opposed to actual pain. "Shane’s mine, pal."

"I see. I have been betrayed," Rozanov said. He was looking at Shane’s jersey as if he was considering burning it on a Boodram effigy in the parking lot. 

Before Zane could reply, Nick appeared, a smile on his face. Centaurs always did travel in packs. "I've been sent to steal back my baby," Nick said, plucking Angie from Shane’s arms. She immediately burst into tears – likely from tiredness, but Shane let himself believe it was because she liked him. "You're coming for a drink with us, right, Shane?" Nick asked. Shane hesitated, and Nick’s eyes went wide and sad. "Come for a drink. Just one or two. We never get to see you - Selena and I have a babysitter, we never have a babysitter. It's a special occasion!"

"I’ll come for one," Shane agreed, and Nick bumped shoulders with him happily. The room was already starting to empty out, keen to drop kids with sitters and get to the bar.

Zane finally dropped Shane’s hips, looking over at Rozanov. "Want a lift to the bar, Roz?"

Rozanov shook his head. "Shane will give me lift."

Shane startled at how his own name sounded in Rozanov’s mouth. It belonged there, Shane suspected, He shut down that thought as fast as it appeared. "Your car isn't here?"

Zane snorted. "You think a Lamborghini or Ferrari could survive Ottawa winter?" He said, ignoring Rozanov’s glare. "Forget Real Estate - your boy needs a Car Salesman to show him the ropes." 

"Not my area of expertise, unfortunately. Unless you want a RAV4?" Shane asked, and Rozanov’s face despaired.

They headed out almost immediately, everyone rushing to make it to the bar. The players’ cars were nearby, but Shane had parked in the general admission section, and it was a bit of a walk through the chilly parking lot.

When they reached the car, Shane cranked the heating up high, and flexed his toes. The cold of the arena did a number on his knee, as usual. Whilst he waited for sensation to return, he glanced over at Rozanov. As always, Rozanov looked photoshoot-ready; his game day suit was unbuttoned to his mid-chest, showing off his Russian crucifix. Shane tore his eyes away, fiddling with the radio. "You played really well," he praised.

"I knew you were watching. Wanted to give you a show," Rozanov replied, voice low and quiet. "You should come to more games."

"I’ll try," Shane promised.

The drive was short, and at the other end, Rozanov hopped out of the car quickly. By the time Shane made it out, Rozanov was by the driver’s door, cane in hand, offering it out to Shane. "I don't need it."

Rozanov frowned. "Is ten-minute walk to bar." 

"I'll be fine."

Rozanov went quiet, looking at the cane in his hand and then back to Shane. "You don’t want them to see your cane?" He deduced, and Shane frowned. It was the truth, though it was embarrassing to admit.

"I don't want them to look at me like I’m a massive warning sign. One wrong fall and you too can be fucked up like Hollzy!" He said, trying to make it sound light, though it fell heavy on his chest.  

"You are their friend. That is all they will see," Rozanov replied. "You have let me see your cane." 

"I've only started needing the cane regularly again in the last year. I've been leaving the house less on cane days. You're my client; if I'd not let you see my cane, I couldn't have done my job." Shane kept his hands tucked firmly at his side, eyes on the outstretched cane. "I don't want them to see me with it."

Rozanov nodded, and lowered the cane to the floor, but did not put it back in the car. "Is mine. Is a fashion statement." 

"Rozanov –" Shane called, but it was too late. Rozanov was away from the car, cane in hand, waiting for Shane to catch up.

Evan and Nick were the first people they came across, who both took in the cane curiously. "Alright Great Gatsby!" Evan laughed, at the entrance of the club.

"You’re not injured, are you?" Nick asked, glaring at the cane in Rozanov's hand like it had personally offended him.

"Is a fashion statement," Rozanov replied lightly.

Nick laughed. "You Europeans, man. Crazy shit."

The team had reserved a few booths, and Shane slid into one, unsurprised to find himself boxed in by Rozanov moments later. Rozanov had a beer for himself, and a ginger ale for Shane. He threw an arm over Shane’s shoulders, leaning in close. "This place is fun," Rozanov called into Shane’s ear, eyes on the dance floor.

"You can go dance, if you like. You don't have to babysit me," Shane offered.

Rozanov shook his head. "I am happy here."

The bar was too loud for casual conversation, but Rozanov didn’t remove his arm from across Shane, and it was nice. Far nicer than any previous experience Shane had endured in such a place. They watched the revellers quietly, laughing at the antics of Rozanov’s teammates, and occasionally pointing out things – like when one of the rookies struck out, or when Johannsen showed off his sick dance moves.

Eventually, Rozanov shifted in his seat, moving away from Shane. "Bathroom!" He called, slipping away with cane in hand.

His seat was almost immediately filled by Nick, fresh from the dance floor and dripping with sweat. "It’s so warm in here," he complained, fanning himself.

"Come on. Let’s go outside," Shane offered, though the cold would do his knee no good.

They stumbled out together, and found an unoccupied bench in the smoking zone for Nick to cool off on.  Nick was, as always, a warm and familiar presence. They'd been friends ten years now; Nick had known every iteration of Shane that existed.

It was there, in the quiet of the night, that Shane decided to tell the truth. "It's my cane," he said. "For my knee."

Nick nodded slowly. "That makes sense," Nick replied, looking at the injured limb. "How's it doing?"

"Not good," Shane admitted. "I might need revision surgery soon."

"You still going to Laura?" Nick asked. Laura was the physio for the Cens, too – the most trusted voice in any room she was in.

"She's the one that thinks it needs surgery."

"Fuck, dude," Nick replied, clapping him on the shoulder. "Hey. If you want to recover at ours, you know you're always welcome, right? Or Sel and I can come stay at yours for a bit?"

"You're a good friend, Nick," Shane said. He butted their heads together gently, just like he used to do on the ice. "Sorry I've not been around much recently."

Nick threw an arm around his shoulders, butted him back. "I knew you'd come back eventually," he replied, and Shane smiled.

The next time the club doors opened, Rozanov spilled out, cane in hand. He looked between the pair, face unreadable. "I am getting tired."

Shane stood, Nick’s arm falling away. "I can give you a lift home," he offered, then looked down at Rozanov’s hand. "Can I have my cane back?"

Rozanov handed it back silently. During goodbyes, none of the Cens commented on it, and Shane felt his shoulders release, just a little. 

Zane walked them both to Shane’s car, keeping the pace slow in deference to Shane’s knee. He spent the entire walk complaining good-naturedly that he’d barely spoken to Shane all evening, until eventually Shane agreed to dinner that week. Zane hugged Shane for a long time, as if they’d been apart for years, not months. "Get home safe, you two," he requested, waving them off as Shane pulled away.

Rozanov watched Zane grow small in the wing mirror, before turning to face Shane. "You are friends with Bood."

Shane nodded. "I told you that."

"No. You said you were friends with Dykstra and Chouny," Rozanov corrected. "You said you were Bood's realtor." 

Shane hummed. It seemed like splitting hairs, really. "I was Zane's realtor, and then after, I became his friend."

"He doesn't get you tickets."

"He doesn't need to. Nick and Evan have that covered."

Rozanov fell silent for a long time after that, and it was only when Shane pulled up outside the Mayfair that he spoke again. "I thought as soon as you found me a house, you would go Poof! And disappear," Rozanov said. "But you are friends with Bood." 

Shane reached over, cupping Rozanov’s neck. It was a bold move, but Rozanov didn’t shake him away. "You want to be my friend, Rozanov?"

Rozanov stared at him for a very long time, and then closed his eyes, leaning back into Shane's hand. His lashes fanned across his cheeks. "I am tired, Hollander." 

"You want me to carry you to your room?" Shane asked. It was only half a joke, really. If Rozanov said yes, Shane would find a way to make it work, dodgy knee or no.

Rozanov shook his head. He covered Shane’s wrist with his hand for a moment, and then let go, slipping from his grasp. "Goodnight, Hollander," he called through the open door, before closing it gently and stepping inside.

Shane lingered a moment longer, watching Rozanov disappear from view. He took a deep breath, and pulled away from the curb. 

22 December 2018 - Day 113 of the Rozanov House Hunt

"Aren’t you meant to be on annual leave?" Shane said as soon as he answered the phone, three days before Christmas.

"Don’t." Bella sounded tired, a hazard of the job. He could hear Bella’s toddler Bethy crying in the background, and Bella’s husband trying to soothe her. "I want to start this by saying that I know you’re not a travel agent."

"Bella -"

"One of the Cens players just text me to flag that Rozanov seems unhappy with his hotel," Bella continued, rushed. "I’m meant to be taking time off to focus on Bethy, everyone else in the office is either up the wall with requests or off for Christmas -"

"Bella -"

"You know what he’s like. You know what he likes," Bella said. She sounded desperate. "I need him to be happy, Shane. I need him somewhere he can feel comfortable."

"Bella, I’ll sort it," Shane promised, and Bella let out a shaky sigh of relief. "Are you happy for me to book him into somewhere until after New Year's and put it on the expenses card? $150 a night budget?"

"Shane, you are my favourite person."

Shane laughed. "I think that title should probably go to your daughter."

"She’s three, she’s barely even a person yet," Bella scoffed. In the background, Shane could hear Bella’s husband asking a question. Bella didn’t answer it, but her next sentence sounded distracted. "Call me if there’s any problems?"

"There won’t be," Shane promised. "Have a nice Christmas, Bella. Send my love to Bethy."

It was only after they’d hung up that Shane realized he should’ve sent wishes to Bella's husband, too, but alas. Shane had never got around to learning his name.

Rozanov’s wool coat was being put to the test that day, as he stood outside the Mayfair, cigarette in hand. Shane watched him stub out the cigarette with a frown, his fingers white at the tips. Rozanov popped a mint before getting in the car; even that couldn’t disguise the smell. "They’ll kill you, you know."

"Really?" Rozanov replied, deadpan, and Shane dropped it.

"Change of scenery today, Rozanov," he declared as he pulled away, and Rozanov frowned.

Shane pulled up to a Hilton first. Hardly the bastion of excitement, but as good a place to start as any. "Good gym facilities, The rooms are a bit small, but I think it could work," Shane said, as they toured around a moderately sized penthouse room. Rozanov wasn’t paying much attention to the room, more focussed on frowning at Shane, but that was nothing new.

They went through a few other chain hotels, all as bland as one another, before they reached The Hazel Hotel. It was basic but big, and from the brochures, they had some spa facilities, which Shane hoped would catch Rozanov’s eye.

"They have a hot tub," Shane teased, and for the first time that day, Rozanov’s face almost morphed away from a frown. "Do you want to try it out?"

Rozanov was silent for a long time, but eventually he asked quietly, "Will you come with me?" 

This was Shane’s hell. Still, he needed Rozanov to stop frowning. It was making his stomach hurt. "Fine," Shane agreed.  

They went to the hotel gift shop, where Rozanov bought them both Canada themed swim-shorts, his mouth turning up at the corners at the sight of them. "I will be a real Canadian yet," he pledged, as they headed for the changing rooms.

Shane faced firmly away from Rozanov in the changing rooms. He couldn’t trust himself not to react at what he might see.

When he finally turned around, seeing Rozanov in the little red shorts was enough. If Canadian Baywatch were ever commissioned, Rozanov should put his name in the hat. He’d look good, running down a beach.

Rozanov’s own eyes scanned up and down Shane, and Shane hoped he wasn’t after new chirp material. Rozanov’s eyes didn’t linger too long over his knee, thankfully – the scarring there was mostly stark white, now, and didn’t stand out like it had in his younger days. "Your estate agent suits do not flatter you. You are big," Rozanov said. "Strong for desk jockey."

"I'd beat you in an arm wrestle any day," Shane replied, and Rozanov's eyes lit up. "Rozanov -"

"There is a table," Rozanov said, shuffling over. It looked like a towel station, abandoned, and Rozanov shifted the two chairs from beside it to face one another. "Money where your mouth is?"

Shane sighed and sat.

It was just like that first handshake, back in September. Rozanov's grip was tight, even before they started the duel, and Shane huffed. "Count of three?"

"No. Go," Rozanov said instead, immediately putting pressure on Shane's hand, which he met with pressure of his own.

Rozanov might've been a pro athlete, but Shane was strong. Laura had helped him put on more and more mass as he aged, building him for stability instead of speed; this kind of slow and precise work was right up his alley. 

With every second that passed with the two of them stuck in a deadlock, Rozanov's cocky smirk fell away. It was replaced by something more intense. Unfamiliar. 

"We'll be here all day at this rate," Shane gritted out, after a few minutes. "Quit on three?"

"No." 

"Don't you want to see the hot tub?" Shane tried instead, and finally, Rozanov's grip loosened. "Come on," he motioned, but Rozanov shook his head.

"Bathroom," Rozanov grunted, spiriting away for a moment. When he emerged, they headed together out of the changing rooms.

The hot tub at the Hazel Hotel was not in a good condition.

Maybe you could get diphtheria from a hot tub.

They both peered into the murky water, and Shane was full of apprehension. Looking at Rozanov’s face, he suspected that Rozanov felt the same. "There is a sauna instead," Shane offered.

"Yes. Sauna please," Rozanov agreed.

The sauna was in much better condition, and they sat on the wooden bench, side by side. Rozanov tilted his head back, sweat soon gathering in the dip of his collarbone, and Shane forced himself to close his eyes.

"Hollander," Rozanov said, breaking the peace. He sounded confused, and Shane opened his eyes, took in the crease between Roznaov's brows. "Why are we looking at hotels?"

"Bella heard you were unhappy at the Mayfair."

"Bood?" Ilya asked, and Shane shrugged - Bella had never said which Centaur spoke to her. Ilya sighed.  "I am not unhappy with hotel," he said, voice thick. "I am just unhappy. Is in my nature."

Shane shifted his hand along the bench, letting his fingers brush Rozanov's. "Depression?"

Rozanov nodded, looking anywhere but Shane. "Is worse, this time of year," he admitted. "Christmas - even stupid Western Christmas - is a time for family. I am having feelings about being alone." He spat out feelings like it was a slur, and stared out of the sauna window, as if he could disappear. "In Boston, I had Sveta, she was like a sister. But she is with her partner’s family this year."

"I’m alone this Christmas too," Shane replied, brushing his little finger against Rozanov's. "I usually spend it with my parents, but they’re still in Japan." Shane bit his lip, considered his options, then barrelled forward, full speed. "Come to mine. We can be alone together."

Shane expected Rozanov to decline, so that they could begin the invitation dance. It was the polite, Canadian thing to do. Oh, I couldn't possibly. No no, please, I'd love for you to come. Are you sure it wouldn't be a bother? No, I'd welcome the company. Well, if you're sure. 

But Rozanov was not Canadian. Not yet. "Okay."

"I’ll pick you up on Christmas morning," Shane said, shifting his hand away. "You’re welcome to stay til the 26^th, if you don’t have plans."

"It’s a date." Rozanov replied. He sounded a little breathless – it was probably about time to leave the sauna, Shane supposed.

A few hours later, once Rozanov was safely dropped at the Mayfair and Shane had made it home, Shane finally let himself freak out. He dialled Rose automatically, trusting that she’d know what to do.

"Rose, help," he said, as soon as she picked up.

"Are you ok?" Rose asked, worried.

"Rozanov is coming around to my house for Christmas."

"WHAT."

"I've been trying to pretend I'm normal about him, but I'm not," Shane said, breathless. "He's attractive, and funny, and sharp, and definitely not into me." 

"Okay. This is fine," Rose said, her tone very much saying this is not fine. "Shane. I’m about to give you some advice that you won’t find on the internet," she said, her voice low and serious. "You need to jerk yourself off and come exactly 45 minutes before he arrives."

"Rose!"

"You’ve got the horniness out of your system before he gets there, but you’ve got to give yourself long enough after that you’re not still in the gooey afterglow," she advised, ploughing forward. "And for God’s sake, do not use Rozanov as fantasy fodder while you’re touching yourself," she said. "It's the patented Rose Landry technique. It works every time." 

Shane fell silent for a long time. "When did you master this technique?"

"Hmm, I wonder which super-hot friend I might’ve had an unrequited crush on at one point, in the distant, distant past," Rose teased, and Shane laughed. "You think you can embarrass me, Hollander? I get paid to have fake sex in front of a full camera crew. I’m unembarrassable."

25 December 2018 - Day 117 of the Rozanov House Hunt

Shane couldn’t believe he was about to do this.

1 hour before he was due to pick up Rozanov from the Mayfair, he lay on his bed, his hand tentatively resting on his waistband.

15 minutes was usually more than enough time for him to come, and Rose was right. He needed to release tension before he saw Rozanov. This would help. The last thing he wanted was to make Rozanov uncomfortable.

He shifted his sweatpants down his thighs, his cock still soft. For the past 3 months, he’d found his thoughts drifting to Rozanov whenever he was alone in bed. He wasn’t entirely sure how to get hard without thinking of Rozanov anymore.

Porn had never been his preference, so he leant back and closed his eyes, imagining thick cocks, and dextrous tongues, and disembodied torsos, with tight pink nipples and strong corded waists.  There wasn’t time for him to finger himself, so he settled on wrapping a big hand around his cock, at first cupping himself, then moving his hand slowly up and down, dragging his foreskin on the way.

It took so long to get hard. He managed it. Just. But that was as far as he could get.

He imagined the disembodied tongues licking at his ass; the cock prodding at the back of his throat; the large hands plucking at his nipples. But slowly, he began adding blue eyes, blond curls, a thick Russian accent to the visuals, and he had to rip himself back, take Rozanov out of the equation.

He opened his eyes, looked over at the clock. Fuck. 40 minutes till he had to pick Rozanov up, and it was a 30-minute drive to get there.

He looked at his cock; hard but not close to coming. He wasn’t sure he could get anywhere fast if he kept trying to avoid the one thing that had him shooting off like a rocket, and he considered his options.

Was it better to turn up a little fuck-high over Rozanov, or with an erection that could carve wood?

Fuck-high. Definitely fuck-high. 

Shane let his thoughts roam to Rozanov. His hands, plucking Shane’s nipples. His mouth, firm where it pressed against Shane’s own. His cock, fucking into Shane’s ass. He’d be thick; of course he’d be thick. Long, too.

Shane arched as he imagined Rozanov’s voice. Such a slut. Look at you, pretty thing. You’re dripping. Come on, Hollander. Shane. Come for me.

It shouldn’t have been enough, but it was, and Shane groaned deeply as he spilt over his fingers, tugging at his cock desperately and working himself through the aftershocks. "Fuck," he whispered, still shaking as he climbed out of bed and set about straightening the sheets and wiping himself off. God, what had he done?

There was no time to dwell on it. Shane wrapped himself in his winter clothes and headed to the car.

Shane felt breathless, the entire drive to the Mayfair. He was always a bit spacey after he came, but this time was different; knowing he was driving straight towards the object of his fantasies made him feel like he was still coming, ass clenching around nothing, cock twitching pleasurably with the gentle hum of the car engine.  He reached the Mayfair too soon. How was he meant to see Rozanov like this?

Rozanov stood on the front step of the hotel, a small suitcase by his side. His toque was pulled low over his curls, but it was only doing so much to keep him warm. His cheeks were pink, and Shane wanted to lean in close, blow hot air gently across the bridge of his nose.

The trunk of the car had a knack to it, and so Shane hopped out to help. "Sorry I'm late! You should've waited inside," he said, moving around to the back of the car to pop the trunk - and running straight into a solid wall of hockey player.

Despite the cold, Rozanov's embrace was warm. "Happy Stupid American Christmas," Rozanov whispered into his ear, and Shane shivered.

"You're in Canada now, asshole. It's Stupid Canadian Christmas," Shane corrected, but instead of annoyed, it came out breathless. Fuck. 

"You are shaking."

"It's cold." He pulled away, looking Rozanov square in the face. The fantasy returned. Come for me.

Fuck. Shane's pupils were probably black holes. 

"Come. Let's get you out of the cold," Rozanov said, rubbing his hands up and down Shane’s arms. It felt fond, and Shane scolded himself for reading too much into it. "I will drive," Rozanov declared, no room for argument, and Shane handed the keys over without a fight.

It was only after he was already in the car that Shane realized he should’ve asked more questions. "Do you know how to drive in snow?" He asked, then peered down into the driver's side footwell, remembering another fact. "The pedals are shifted over."

"I will manage," Rozanov promised. "Seatbelt on," he insisted, and Shane clicked the belt shut.  "No Google Maps. You will direct me."

"Turn left at the next intersection," Shane said, and Rozanov nodded.  

The first half of the drive was fuzzy, Shane piping up to direct Rozanov where required, the hot curl of sex still heavy in his gut. Rozanov was a heavy, weighty presence beside him, and kept looking at Shan like he was a puzzle to figure out. Rozanov's gaze felt like a hot water bottle on his thighs; he was so warm and comfortable, at least at first. 

The closer they came to his home, however, the more a pit of dread built in Shane's stomach.

Shane had a good job, but he also had debts. Some of the more experimental procedures he’d had on his knee and calf, back when the goal was to get him back to the NHL, weren’t covered by Medicare or insurance, as he'd had to travel to the U.S. for them. As a family, they’d justified the cost as an investment; they’d recoup the amount ten times over once Shane was in the NHL.

He wasn’t the first person to end up in debt over a failed sports dream. He wouldn’t be the last.

A good chunk of the debt had been under his parents’ names from when he was underage, which he’d helped them pay off, but there was enough under his name that it had limited the size of his mortgage. He wasn't sure he could bear Rozanov's judgement. Not on his home.

Rozanov’s hand landed heavy on Shane’s thigh, and he startled. Shane's cock, which had been almost soft, sprang to life once more. "You are breathing strange," Rozanov said, squeezing his hand. "I am not so scary, I think. You can relax."

"I’m relaxed," Shane lied, and Rozanov threw him a sceptical look, pulling up outside Shane’s house as instructed. Shane stepped out, limping towards the door without his cane.

Shane was house proud, so sue him. He’d made compromises - his commute was a slog on busy mornings, the spare room didn’t even have space for a twin bed, and he didn’t have as much land as he’d hoped for - but it was cosy, and it was private, and it felt like him. He'd replaced all the chair rails with handrails so that he could move around without his cane, and the sofa was the perfect height so that he could get up without his knee aching, and it was a bungalow, so he never had to worry about stairs. He had a foldaway shower chair and rail in each bathroom, and the counters in the kitchen were low enough that he could sit down to chop vegetables, if he needed.

Rozanov’s minimum square foot requirement was 6000. Shane’s home was 600.

He couldn’t think on it any longer. He took a breath, and opened the door, stepping inside and trusting Rozanov to follow him in.

When he turned around, Rozanov had only made it one step inside the doorway, and was looking at Shane’s cane rack. Shane’s Dad had built it specially for his equipment; space for his three canes, and an extra rack for his sleek-black crutches. There was a box at the bottom where he kept some braces and compression sleeves; the whole thing was made of thick, heavy wood, with beautiful handles and cast-iron corners that made it feel like a showpiece, not an afterthought.

Next, Rozanov walked along the hallway, fingers tracing along the polished wooden handrail that almost blended into the wall. It proved useful, on days Shane’s leg was bad, and watching Rozanov’s fingers dance along the wood was strangely erotic.

"This reminds me of the house of my Grandmother," Rozanov said as he reached the end of the first rail. "My mama would take me there for Russian Christmas. Her mother’s home." Rozanov said. His voice was quiet, deferential. "Every tool she owned, every pan, every spatula, they were beautiful. Make the practical things beautiful, Ilyusha, and you will never have an ugly life."

Shane smiled. "She sounds like a wonderful woman, Rozanov."

Rozanov shook his head. "Ilya. Or Ilyusha," Rozanov – Ilya – corrected. "It is Christmas. I do not want to be a hockey bro on Christmas."

Shane nodded. "Shane, then." 

"Shane," Ilya repeated quietly. He looked down. "And who is this?"

Shane looked down, too. "Oh. This is Wayne."

He didn't tend to talk about Wayne much. She was private, in some indiscernible way. His fluffy best friend. His mom had found Wayne around the back of the hospital, when Shane had first been injured, and they'd brought her home "temporarily". When it became apparent that she'd be sticking around for the long term, the plan had been for Shane's parents to keep her; after all, it wouldn't be fair to Wayne, living with a hockey player who was on roadies for a third of the year. 

Funny how things change. 

Wayne also had a limp sometimes; the vets said she did have a historic limb injury, but it shouldn't have been bad enough for her to limp. Shane was almost certain she only did it to mock him. In his head she was still a kitten, even though it had been ten years, and he could see her starting to slow down. He swept her up in his arms, holding her for Ilya to examine.

Ilya pet her face tentatively. "He is a good cat."

"Wayne is a girl," Shane corrected, lowering her back to the ground, where she pottered off, her interest in the new guest satisfied. "We didn't know what gender she was at first, and once we found out, it had been too long, the name had stuck." Shane smiled to himself. "It’s funny, how much she makes my house feel like a home."

When Shane looked at Ilya, he was wearing an unreadable expression. "She is a good cat."

"Yes," Shane agreed. "A very good cat."

The house tour was quick, even though Ilya was nosy. Kitchen, living room, main bedroom, spare room/office, two bathrooms. Shane tried not to make it feel too much like a property viewing. There was a little too much stuffing crammed into a too-small home, and Shane knew how judgemental Ilya was about properties, but he tried not to tense too much - this house was for him, not for Ilya. Nevertheless, back in the living room, Shane waited for the verdict with bated breath.

Ilya looked around one more time, and then sat down. He sprawled on the sofa, his hand falling onto Wayne’s soft belly, looking right at home. "Your home is good. Like you." Ilya said, looking Shane dead in the eye.

Every knot in Shane's spine loosened at once. If his leg wasn't fucked up, he'd have dropped to his knees right there. "Thank you," he replied, unable to keep the shake out of his voice, and suddenly desperately needing some space to keep his head. "Stay there, make yourself comfortable. I should get started on Christmas dinner."

Ilya shook his head, hoisting himself off the sofa, much to Wayne’s annoyance. "I will help." 

Ilya did not help. If anything, his presence in the poky kitchen slowed Shane down. He was in the way, looking as delicious as the food, and Shane needed to get himself under control, but Ilya was there, crowding him, talking to him, looking at him. 

"This does not look like your usual food," Ilya commented as he watched another tray go into the oven.

It was not. It was a full and proper Christmas dinner, just like Shane's dad usually made. Inadvisable - there was a reason he was on an anti-inflammatory diet, and he'd feel stiff as all hell tomorrow, but that was a problem for Tomorrow's Shane. Today's Shane wanted to indulge a little. It was Christmas, after all. "It's Christmas," he said to Ilya, as if that were answer enough. He slid the final tray into the oven, and set the timer. "Okay. 30 minutes and everything will be ready."

Ilya nodded slowly, nodding towards the living room. "Presents now?"

"Sure," Shane agreed. In the living room, he went over to his old CD player, loading up the Charlie Brown Christmas CD he’d had since he was a kid. It set the tone; the rest of the room wasn’t exactly Christmassy, only a few fairy lights scattered over an old plant, but the music made it feel special. Festive. Intimate.

They exchanged gift bags, and suddenly Shane worried he’d fucked up everything. What if his present wasn’t good enough? "You first," Ilya insisted, and Shane tentatively agreed. There were a few little things – some dark chocolate, a cashmere scarf, and a few hockey books – followed by the main event. Shane lifted the brand-new Centaurs jersey from the bag with a smile, thoroughly unsurprised to find Rozanov across the back. "No more Bood jersey, hm?" Ilya said, and Shane nodded with a smile, tugging the jersey over his turtleneck jumper.

Ilya looked at Shane for a long time. Shane couldn’t read his gaze; he shifted under the weight of it. "Come on, open yours," he prompted, and Ilya slowly nodded, reaching into his own bag.

Shane had bought Ilya a few small gifts, too. Marshmallows, good chocolate, a pair of leather gloves, two puzzles. Underneath it all lay an envelope, which contained the main present.

Two day passes for a local award-winning spa. "It's a bit out of town, but it has a really good hygiene rating, so the hot tub should be okay," Shane teased, and Ilya read the voucher intently.

"Is for two people."

Shane nodded. "I figured you could take Marly or Sveta."

"Or you," Ilya replied, not looking up from the voucher. "You do not have to come in hot tub. But the sauna. And the plunge pool."

"Sure. That'd be nice," Shane agreed readily. "Feels a bit like I'm hijacking your present, but yeah, Ilya, I'd like to spend the day with you."

Ilya looked up. His voice was deep and thick. "Your present is gift for me, too. You look good, with Rozanov on your back." 

God. Shane was saved from answering by the ding of the oven.

He wrestled the jersey off, folding it carefully on the chair. Rozanov was not quiet in his complaints, but Shane was determined not to get gravy on his new present.

They ate in the kitchen, crowded around the little dining table in the corner. Ilya went back for seconds, and then thirds, and Shane marvelled. Shane worked out enough to have a healthy appetite, but he was no hockey player. He'd forgotten what it was like, the sheer quantity of calories they could power through. Wayne spent the entire meal staring at Ilya intently, and sure enough, Ilya slipped her a little meat, when he thought Shane wasn't looking. "She recognizes weakness, you know."

"Is Christmas for her, too," Ilya replied indulgently, slipping her a little more.

After dinner was through, they migrated to the sofa. Shane restarted the Charlie Brown CD, gentle notes hanging heavy in the quiet of the living room, and lit the fireplace, fanning the flames gently. He didn’t turn on the TV; it felt like it would only disturb the festive feel in the air.

Ilya was leant back fully on the sofa, hands resting gently on his stomach. "I am too full, Shane," he said, as Shane sat down beside him.

"I wonder why," Shane smiled. The sofa was small, but Ilya looked like he needed to stretch out, and Shane wanted to touch him, in a room that felt like it had slipped out of reality. Shane patted his own thigh. "Come on, lie down," Shane invited, and Ilya tipped slowly into his lap. He avoided Shane's knee, landing far, far higher on Shane's thigh, and pressing his head firmly into the muscle there, shifting as if he could convince the muscle to form a dip around him. Shane pulled his old patchwork blanket from the back of the sofa, covering Ilya with it, tucking it in around the edges.

Shane couldn't remember the last time he held someone like this. He wasn't sure, in truth, that he ever had. Ilya settled onto his lap, looking up, and Shane only hesitated for a second before dropping his hand into Ilya's curls. Ilya's eyes fluttered shut. Wayne slowly made her way up onto the sofa, settling herself on Ilya’s hip and humming out a deep and constant purr.

Containing Ilya's curls in gel should be a crime, Shane decided, as he carded his hand through them. Without product, they were so soft and bouncy; thick between his fingers, and tinged burnt orange by the light of the fire. Their softness in his hand was as comforting as a childhood teddy, and Shane's eyelids began to droop, heavier and heavier, until time stopped.

"This is it," Ilya whispered, ten minutes or ten hours later, Shane couldn't be sure. Shane creaked his eyes open and looked down. For once, Ilya wasn’t looking at him; he was instead looking at the fireplace. At the trinkets above it. At the big bay window Shane had commissioned.

"This is what?" Shane asked. He kept his voice just as quiet, as if it was a secret, just between the two of them, though there was no one else there to witness it.

"This is what I want."

Shane’s chest clenched with it. You can have it. You can have everything I own. "Well, you can’t have this house, it’s mine," Shane said lightly, as if he wouldn't give this house to Ilya with a silver bow on it, as if Ilya's simple statement hadn't wrenched him open. "It’s also less than a tenth of your budget. And doesn’t have a hot tub."

Ilya was quiet for a long, long time. Ilya's gaze dropped to the flames, the crackle of the wood the only sound left in the room. "There is room to add hot tub."

"Oh, so now you’re open to houses without hot tubs?" Shane replied, desperately light, as if he could wrench them back to the safety of teasing, and away from whatever dangerous water they had found themselves in.

"I am open to anything if you are involved," Ilya responded. The words were flirty, but his tone was sincere and quiet, and Shane floundered.  

"You're such a flirt," he chastised. Ilya's eyes fell shut, and Shane used his thumb to wipe away the crease that formed between them. "If you keep flirting with everyone, one day it'll get you in trouble." 

"I do not flirt with everyone," Ilya replied. He still sounded too serious, and Shane did not know how to fix it. "I am tired."

Shane nodded, and slipped gently from beneath Ilya's head. "Okay. I’ll show you to the bedroom."

Ilya tilted back up to sitting, shifting Wayne from his side, but he did not stand. "We are sharing?" Ilya asked.

Shane paused, looking away. "Oh. No. I'll sleep on the sofa."

"Hm. No," Ilya replied, standing up. He walked towards Shane, intent. "We are sharing." He said it as a statement this time, and Shane's mouth grew dry. "I think, perhaps, you think I am a tease, that I flirt with you for fun," Ilya continued. He came closer, backing Shane up until his shoulders were flat against the wall.  "I am not, Shane. I am flirting with you with intent." Ilya's hands came to Shane's waist, bracketing him in. Ilya leaned in close, his next words quiet. "You are the only person I have flirted with in many months. And I would like to share your bed."

"Really?" Shane asked. It did not feel real, that was for sure. Ilya leaned in further, until their lips met, and Shane’s breath caught. Ilya brought a hand up, cupping Shane’s jaw, pressing gently at the hinge until Shane’s mouth fell open, deepening the kiss until Shane could feel it in his toes. Ilya was warm and firm and so, so good. Ilya pulled away a fraction, and Shane struggled to think. "Oh. Really." 

"Yes, really," Ilya smiled, running his thumb along Shane’s kiss-swollen lips. "Will you share your bed with me?"

Maybe Shane had undercooked the meat. Maybe this was all a food poisoning hallucination. "Yes. Yes," Shane agreed, tilting forward until Ilya kissed him again. This time, Ilya did not pull away quickly, licking into Shane’s mouth until he was panting.

The kisses slowed, then stopped. "Shall we get ready for bed?" Ilya asked, eyes dark, and Shane nodded, moving away on shaky legs to retrieve a towel for Ilya.

"You can shower here -" Shane waved at the family bathroom, "-and I’ll use the en-suite." 

"Okay," Ilya said, collecting his dopp kit and takin it to the family bathroom. Shane nodded to himself, at a loss for a moment, and then made for the en-suite.

Shane showered. His knee wasn’t bad enough that day for him to need the shower chair, but he leant on the handrail as he washed himself. When he stepped out, he didn’t wrap the towel around his waist, like he usually would. Instead, he stood in front of the full-length mirror, which hung on the back of the door, and thought about what Ilya might see, if he cared to look.

Shane’s upper body looked good, but he was proud of his legs. Proud of how much muscle he’d built there, in spite of his knee. The left knee itself was a knot of scar tissue, from repairs and replacements and scar revisions, but he was fairly sure Ilya wouldn’t care; what hockey player didn’t have a few scars?

What would they even do? Jesus, Shane had washed relatively thoroughly, but there was no storage in this bathroom, so he kept his douche in his bedside table. Should he go out and retrieve it? Was that presumptuous? 

He wrapped his towel around his waist, and stepped into the room. Ilya was already spread out over the bed, a pair of tight, black boxers his only coverage, and Shane swallowed.

"Ilya?" He called, and Ilya’s gaze shifted to him, eyes roaming greedily until they met Shane’s gaze. "When I get in the bed, is the plan just to go to sleep?"

"If you like," Ilya agreed. "Or, if you like, we can do more than sleep."

"Okay." Shane took a steeling breath. He didn’t want to explain this once they’d started, so he remained standing, not looking at Ilya. "I can’t kneel. Or be on my hands and knees. On my back or side is fine, or standing. I can stand."

Ilya shifted to the side of the bed, sitting on the edge. "Okay," Ilya agreed, as if it were nothing. "Come here," he beckoned, holding his hand out, palm up.

"You come here," Shane challenged instead, even as he stepped closer to Ilya. Ilya stood, hands falling to Shane’s waist, toying at where the towel was tucked. He kissed Shane desperately, hands flexing.

"Can I?" He asked. Shane nodded, and the towel dropped.

Then, Ilya dropped.  "Fuck, Ilya," Shane muttered as Ilya buried his face in Shane’s crotch, breathing deeply. Ilya’s hands on his hips held him steady, taking a little pressure off his knee.

Ilya adjusted his positioning, and took Shane’s cock into his mouth, sliding down to the hilt. "Fuck! Ilya," Shane said, because apparently his vocabulary had shrunk to nothing more than expletives and Ilya’s name.  

Ilya moved up and down, sucking and licking at the head of Shane’s cock, and Shane closed his eyes, humming in pleasure. One of Ilya’s hands left Shane’s hips; his finger traced the crease of Shane's ass, and Shane reached back, stilling his hand. "I’ve not prepped."

Ilya pulled off at that. A string of saliva hung for a moment between his lips and Shane’s cock, like a charging cable. "It does not bother me. Hazard of the trade."

"It bothers me," Shane huffed, and Ilya rolled his eyes. "No ass stuff."

"Fine," Ilya said, shifting his hand back to Shane's hip.  "Come here," he muttered, and took Shane down his throat once more.

"Holy Shit Ilya," Shane muttered. Ilya pulled off again, until his lips were kissing the tip of Shane’s cock.

"Say my name again," he commanded, breathless. 

"Ilya. Ilya. Ilyusha." The last one got the biggest moan, and so Shane repeated it. "Ilyusha. You're so beautiful." Ilya made a disparaging noise around Shane's cock, and Shane hushed him. "You are! Jesus. Look at you," Shane praised, running his fingers along Ilya’s jaw. "So pretty."

Ilya pulled away. Shane’s cock bobbed wetly in the air, and Ilya stared at it, hungry. "You are a menace," he muttered, standing up to kiss Shane on the lips. "You liked?"

"You're so good at that." He pushed away his jealous thoughts - how many men had Ilya practiced on? - and the self-conscious ones - he didn’t have that much experience, would he disappoint Ilya? - and instead let himself live in the moment. 

"You are determined to give me praise kink," Ilya laughed between kisses. "Tell me I am pretty again." 

"So pretty. The prettiest person in Ottawa."

"Hm. Is untrue. Am not even prettiest person in room," Ilya replied, and Shane flushed. "Get on the bed. However is comfortable." Shane nodded, and climbed onto the bed, parallel to the headboard. He lay down on his back until his head fell off the bed, inviting.   "Shane..." Ilya muttered, a warning in his voice.

"It's comfortable," Shane replied, arms outstretched. "Come here?"

Ilya stepped out of his boxers, and then inwards, close to Shane.

Fuck, even the underside of Ilya’s cock was pretty. Shane opened his mouth, inviting, and Ilya stepped closer, letting his pretty pink cockhead kiss Shane’s lips. He thrust in a little, letting Shane wrap his lips all the way around his cockhead, his tongue licking at the edge of Ilya’s foreskin.

It was nice. Gentle. Shane pulled back, looked up at Rozanov impatiently. "I can take more. I'm not delicate."

Ilya fell to his knees with a thud, and Shane’s knee twinged in sympathy. Rozanov leant forward and kissed Shane upside down, like Spiderman. "If there is one thing you will never be, it is delicate," Ilya promised against his lips. Ilya stood up, and fed his cock into Shane's waiting mouth again, this time burying himself to the hilt. He still went slowly, but every time he thrust inwards, he held there a moment. Shane had never been so full. Ilya's cock was halfway down his throat. It made him dizzy with arousal. Ilya's hand came down, tracing the bulge in Shane's throat, and then sank lower, cupping his pec. Shane shuddered out a breath, which must've felt some kind of way on Ilya's cock, as he shuddered too. "Close," he muttered, though they had not long started.

The next time he drew out, Shane breathed "Please Ilya" against his slit, and Ilya buried himself again, the pace a little more frantic. Shane’s mouth was wet already, but now Ilya’s cock was dripping pre-come, slicking Shane’s mouth and throat even more. He pinched at Shane’s nipples, coaxing soft cries from Shane’s lips, and the vibrations tipped Ilya over; he spilled down Shane’s throat, deep enough that Shane couldn’t even taste it. He lamented the fact, wished Ilya had spilt on his tongue instead.

Ilya climbed on the bed, mouth on Shane’s nipple, hand on Shane’s cock. "Next time I will eat your ass," he promised, biting down on Shane’s nipple and setting a ruthless pace with his hand. 

Next time.

Fuck, Shane was on cloud nine. He flexed in Ilya’s hold, back arching so that Ilya had better access to his chest.

Ilya bit down and then blew on Shane’s wet nipple. Shane felt frantic with want, and, only a few seconds later, was painting Ilya’s hand with his spend, shaking through the final throes of pleasure.

Ilya was gentle in manoeuvring them to the top of the bed, and then disappeared, emerging from the en-suite with a wet hand towel. "Next time," Shane said dumbly, as Ilya wiped Shane clean. "That's what you said during sex. Next time. You want to do this again?"

"Yes, Shane. I want to do this again," Ilya said, no room for misinterpretation.

"Good. So do I," Shane agreed. "I'm not good at reading between the lines sometimes. You need to say things plainly, okay?"

"I am not good at speaking plainly. But I will try. For you," Ilya promised. "I meant what I said. Boston Rozanov is dead. I am not a Red Sox fan anymore, I am not looking to play the field." He leant in, kissing Shane’s lips gently, almost chaste in comparison to how they had spent the previous half hour.  "I have spent the last three months only wanting one person. Now they are here, in bed with me, and I am not looking to let them go."

"I'm right where I want to be," Shane promised. "You should probably find a new realtor."

"What?" Ilya frowned. "No."

"We can’t fuck if I’m your agent."

Ilya raised an eyebrow. "You are not doctor, or lawyer, or teacher," he reminded Shane, dipping down to punctuate the words with kisses to Shane’s neck. "The relationship between a hockey player and his realtor is not sacred. There is no conflict of interest."

"I don’t think Bella would be happy if she found out," Shane argued back, though it was at best a half-protest.

"Psh. Bella loves me," Ilya replied. "She will be more annoyed if I have to train up a new realtor."

"Train up?"

"Yes. You know my likes and dislikes now. You are trained like a show pony," Rozanov teased, and Shane reached over to tweak his nipple meanly. "I am certain that you will find me a home. The last few have been close to perfect." 

"Thank you," Shane whispered, kissing Ilya’s forehead. "Can we sleep, now?"

Ilya frowned, leaning back to look at Shane fully. "Will your knee be okay?"

"Don’t kick it and it’ll be fine," Shane agreed, his consciousness already fraying at the edges. Ilya was wrapped around him, coiled warm, and Shane closed his eyes, rubbing the tip of his nose across Ilya’s forehead.

Slowly, like sinking into a hot bath, Shane fell to sleep, the heavy weight of Ilya welcome on his good side.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to wake up with a stiff leg, the next morning. After all, he’d eaten about 10,000 inflammatory foods the day before, and there was a chill in the air. Still, it was unpleasant, to realize he could barely bend it.

Ilya, by his side, looked concerned. "From the sex?"

"From the food and cold," Shane corrected, though it was probably a little from the sex too; how he'd squirmed on the bedsheets, without a care in the world. He looked down, bending and straightening the joint as best he could. "Help me up?"

Ilya agreed readily, and together, they made their way to the kitchen. Shane took up a chair and directed Ilya around, talking him through feeding Wayne and where to find the kettle and teabags, until they were both sat at the kitchen table, a cup of tea in front of each of them.

It should’ve been awkward. It was not. Ilya’s presence was quiet and solid, and Shane never wanted him to leave.

The quiet peace was disturbed by the ringing of Shane’s phone, insistent. Shane looked down at the screen, then over at Ilya, curious.

 "It’s Rose," he said, as if Ilya couldn’t also see the screen. "She knows you are staying over, but she thinks you’re straight."

Ilya nodded. Before Shane could ask his intended follow up, can I tell Rose about last night, Ilya reached forward, answering the call and putting it on speaker. "Hello, Rose Landry."

"Rozanov?!" Rose exclaimed. "Oh my God. Is Shane there?"

"He is in front of me," Ilya agreed, knocking his foot against Shane’s good leg. "Rose Landry, I would like to ask you a favour."

"Go on," Rose prompted, curious and breathless.

"Keep your phone call with my realtor short. I want to blow him again before lunch."

Shane was fairly sure this blush might be permanent. Down the phone, Rose cackled. "You got it, babe," she promised, and Ilya said his goodbyes, taking his tea out onto the snow-covered porch, which doubled as Wayne's catio. Through the window, Shane could see the gentle glow of a cigarette. In the morning sun, Rozanov could probably see all the way down to the lake from the porch. Shane hoped he enjoyed the view.

Down the phone, Rose sounded entertained. Finally, he had gossip worthy of her. "Shane, Oh My God! What happened to the patented Rose Landry technique?"

"I’m sure the technique is fine, but my execution of it wasn’t great," Shane admitted. He could see Ilya’s profile through the window now, and his stomach flipped. "I’m in over my head here."

"Just remember, babe, you’re hot shit," Rose said, matter of fact. "Rozanov is lucky to get his hands on you."

"Sure," Shane scoffed. Before Rose could protest, he spoke again. "Look, I’ve got to go. Speak soon?"

"Speak very, very soon, Shane." Rose replied, and then they said their goodbyes and hung up.

Shane looked out the window, to where Ilya was standing. The cigarette was gone, and instead, Wayne was in his arms. Shane couldn't hear what Ilya was whispering, but watching them together made his chest ache. He took a deep breath, and stepped outside.

3 January 2019 - Day 125 of the Rozanov House Hunt

If Shane had any illusions that house hunting for Ilya would be easier after they slept together, they were cast aside almost immediately.

"The house had potential," Shane groused as they climbed back into the RAV4, Ilya wearing a pissy scowl. It was a $4.8m sprawling property, with a basement gym and an attic conversion, and Ilya had immediately hated it, and taken no pains to hide his feelings.

"It smelled of rotting moss."

"It was only one room," Shane replied – the smell had, in fact, been awful, but nothing a good deep clean couldn’t fix.

"I deserve better," Rozanov declared primly, and Shane rolled his eyes. Rozanov looked over at Shane, clearly done with house talk. "We could go to Ramona’s for lunch?"

"The sandwich place?" 

"It will be budget-friendly for expenses. I am a cheap date."

Shane rolled his eyes. "I’m not putting our first date on the expenses card."

Ilya smirked. He leaned over the console, kissing Shane fleetingly. He whispered the next words onto Shane’s lips, the hot air sending sparks down his spine. "This is not our first date. Our first date was 4 months ago. You are very slow to put out."

"Go fuck yourself," Shane whispered back. He leaned away, putting the car into drive, even as Ilya lingered close. "After, we could go to your hotel and make out a bit?"

"Hm. No," Ilya replied, and Shane's stomach dropped with disappointment. "We will go to your house and fuck, Shane."

Oh. That was acceptable, Shane supposed.

8 January 2019 - Day 130 of the Rozanov House Hunt

Shane was going to kill Ilya Rozanov. Maybe a murder-suicide, to keep things neat.

"This is not what I want," Ilya said, after Shane had shown him around the property that Shane had secretly been calling Ilya's Dream Home in his head. Shane sighed, exasperated, and Ilya looked over with a raised brow. "Is not near lake or river."

Shane gaped for a moment, before gathering his wits. "At no point has that been a requirement!" He was tempted to get out his notepad, wave it angrily at Ilya's retreating back, but he restrained himself. Just. 

"It has been all along," Rozanov replied, walking towards the car. "You should listen better." 

Shane bit his tongue. Hard.

"We are near your house, yes? We can hang on sofa and watch Property Brothers?" Ilya asked. Shane shrugged – property TV was always a bit too dramatic for him, but the second Ilya put it on, Shane would be sucked in. Ilya hummed. "You should have TV show. You are not so good at house hunting, but you are hot. People would watch."

"Gee, thanks," Shane replied drily. "What'd the show be about?"

"Hockey House Hunting with Hollander," Ilya said, as if he’d already planned it out. "They will follow you finding a home for a hockey star." Ilya looked across to Shane, a smirk on his face. "Not for me. This would be impossible, 20 seasons long. No. Your next Hockey client. I will be cameo appearances only, and leave the audience weeping for more."

"You’re such an asshole."

"You love it," Ilya teased.

Unfortunately, Shane did.

17 January 2019 - Day 139 of the Rozanov House Hunt

Somehow, impossibly, being Ilya's Real Estate agent was even more frustrating, once they started dating. 

Shane could kill Marly, for introducing vibes to house buying. He received no useful feedback from bad vibes, nothing that could go in his notebook, and yet Ilya mentioned it now on every house he did not like.

"You're going to have to be more specific," Shane prompted, as he came to the end of a $3.8m modern build that was not what Ilya wanted. Ilya hadn't looked up from his phone once during the entire tour, and merely hummed in response to Shane. Shane reached over, snatching the phone from Ilya's hands and looking at the screen blankly. "Why are you looking at sex swings?"

"Internet says they are good for people with bad knees," Ilya responded, claiming his phone back primly.

Shane sighed, and led them to the front door. Evidently, the house was not what Ilya wanted. 

Back in the car, Shane looked over at Ilya, who was still tapping away on his phone. His curls were captured in gel, sunglasses on his face. He looked beautiful and untouchable. "Do you think we're moving a bit fast?" Shane asked, still stationary outside the unwanted house.

"Do you?" Ilya asked in return, looking over his sunglasses.

"You're looking at sex furniture to help with my knee," Shane said pointedly, and Ilya sighed.

"We have been talking for over 4 months. Most hockey players would have you married and pregnant by now," Ilya replied, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to Shane's lips. "If we had met at the World Juniors, like we were supposed to, we would have had seventeen children by now, I am sure of it."

"Jeez, Rozanov, you've got no concern for my figure," Shane replied, and Ilya reached over, caressing Shane’s shirt, where it rested over his abs. 

"I am not saying we get married tomorrow," Ilya started, kissing Shane fleetingly once more. "But can we skip the stage where we pretend we are casual? This does not feel casual to me." 

Shane couldn't help the small smile that spread across his face. "You want to be my boyfriend?"

"Ugh, this word, boyfriend. I do not like it. It is very, hm, Primary School." Ilya rolled his eyes. "I want to be your lover."

"Absolutely not," Shane bit back. He thought on it again. "Partners?"

"We sound like cowboys," Ilya said - though it wasn't a complaint. "I will be Butch Cassidy. You can be Sundance Kid," he declared. Shane didn't mind too much; he'd always had a crush on Robert Redford. Ilya kissed him again, lingering close. "I have four hours before practice. Maybe we go to yours and you have nice long shower, get extra squeaky clean?"

Shane raised an eyebrow. "Do you think we can make do without the sex swing?"

"I think we can make it work."

1 February 2019 - Day 155 of the Rozanov House Hunt

February came quickly, that year; the month of January sped by, a cycle of terrible house viewings and gentle meals and intense, toe-curling sex. 

Shane refused to relent in the house hunt, though he was ready to tear his hair out. Ilya’s house insults were more mercurial than ever; still, Shane would find the one if it killed him. 

Outside of the viewings, things were going well. Outrageously well. Shane was fairly certain most relationships weren't this serious after a little over a month, but at this point, he'd stopped questioning it. He and Ilya worked. That's all there was to it. 

If only the house hunt was so simple.

Shane pulled up outside the Mayfair, ready for the day’s viewing. 

Ilya wasn't waiting outside for him. Strange, but not entirely unheard of. Shane picked up his phone.

"Hey, I'm outside," Shane said as soon as the ringing stopped.  

"Oh." It was a strange noise from Ilya. Soft and uncertain, and so unlike him that for a moment Shane worried he'd called the wrong number. "Shane. I am sorry. I cannot come today."

Shane hummed. It'd be disappointing to miss out on seeing Ilya, but he couldn't be too disappointed. Hockey schedules were brutal. "Something came up?"

The phone remained silent for a beat. "No." 

Not busy, then. Ilya's voice was still strange; not sick, but not well, either. "You're in your room." Shane looked up at the hotel through the windscreen; it was 7 storeys, the elevators better fucking work. "Do you want company?" Ilya didn't respond, and Shane nodded to himself. "I'll come up."

"You do not have to."

"Fuck off," Shane responded fondly, and hung up. He pulled the car around into a visitor bay, and went into the lobby. 

"Mr Hollander?" The receptionist called, and Shane made his way over to her outstretched hand, a silver card at the end of her fingertips. "Mr Rozanov called down. He said to give you a key."

Shane thanked her and headed up to the top floor. He let himself in quietly, and headed to the bedroom. 

"Oh, Ilya." 

There was an Ilya-shaped lump in the bed, a halo of greasy golden curls emerging from the top. Ilya faced the window, small and silent in the big bed.

Shane didn’t hesitate; he moved to the bed and climbed up, curling around the back of Ilya readily. It was too intimate, for where their relationship was, but Ilya needed to be held, and Shane had strong arms.

"I have ruined my life." Ilya whispered towards the window, so quiet that Shane could barely hear him. "I was sad in Boston, so I upended everything, left a fucking Stanley Cup winning team for mediocrity. And now I am sad here instead." Ilya was silent for a long while, and Shane leant forward, resting his forehead against Ilya’s neck. "It is good, in some ways. I have you. I like team. But it has not fixed me." 

Shane nodded, his forehead rocking against the soft skin of Ilya’s nape. "Okay. So what is the plan?" He replied, squeezing Ilya’s waist. "To be less sad."

Ilya sighed, his stomach expanding under Shane’s hand. "I do not know," Ilya lamented. Shane let the silence linger, let him think on the question some more, and soon enough, Ilya continued. "Some months ago, Sveta found a Russian therapist, here in Ottawa. I could call her." He sighed again, as if the mere thought of therapy exhausted him.  "I could speak to team doctor." This, too, was said with a heavy sigh. "I could get a dog."

He sounded much more optimistic on that last point, but Shane shook his head. "A dog won't make you happy."

"It might," Ilya argued back, bringing one of Shane’s hands up and resting his lips against the knuckles. "Routine is important, no? And spending time outdoors?" He turned his head a little, though Shane was still mostly out of view. "Does Wayne not make you happy?"

"She does, " Shane agreed, kissing the back of Ilya’s neck.

"Human connection. Is important. You, and teammates," Ilya continued. "I have lost Marly and Sveta." 

That got a laugh from Shane. "I can't speak for Sveta, but you've definitely not lost Marly." Shane lifted himself onto one elbow, so that he could more effectively see Ilya. His other hand was still held captive in Ilya’s grasp. He tried to pull it away, but Ilya only held on tighter. "Okay, Marly's a bit further away, but he loves you. Anyone can see that."

Ilya did not smile back, but his eyes were soft. "He liked you." Ilya shifted Shane’s hand across, pressing his lips to the ring finger. "Told me to put a ring on it." 

Shane kissed the back of his neck, and then climbed out of the bed, hand outstretched. "Come on. Let's get in the shower."

Ilya sat up, easing himself to standing with a wary look on his face. "There is no handrail or chair in my shower." 

Shane shrugged. "You'll just have to hold me steady, then." 

Ilya's hold on his hips didn't relent in the cubicle, leaving Shane free to take charge of washing them both. He didn't bother with his own hair, but took great pleasure in working the shampoo into Ilya's curls, the suds running down his forearms as he massaged them into Ilya's scalp.

After, once they were both dry and dressed, Shane found himself sat in Ilya's lap, his hands back in Ilya's hair, tugging at the curls. They were so soft, and Ilya's eyes were closed in rapture.

Shane hated to break the spell, but he had to ask. "What do you want to do?"

Ilya's eyes creaked open. "Can we go to your home and hang out with Wayne?"

"Of course."

An hour later, Shane was pottering around his own kitchen while Ilya played on his phone on the couch, Wayne snug on his lap. Every so often, Shane caught a glimpse of the two of them through the doorway, and he worried his heart might burst.

Dinner on the couch wasn't his normal preference, but it had been a strange day, and Shane didn't want to disturb Wayne. He brought the steaming plates through to the sitting room. It was only when he sat down next to Ilya that he realized what the other man was watching. "Don’t watch those," Shane instructed, reaching over to pause the video on Ilya's phone. The final shot – Shane in full hockey gear, two weeks before his injury – lingered until Ilya turned his phone off.

Ilya hummed, accepting a warm plate. "You were so good. You deserved to play ."

"Let’s not talk about what I deserved." The words came out bitter, and Shane wished he could take them back.

"Shane?"

He stabbed at his salmon with his fork. "I don’t want to talk about it."

Ilya hummed. "Maybe you need to talk about it," he suggested. Before Shane could scoff, Ilya continued. "I have had big emotional reveal today, now it is your turn. Come on, Hollander. Do not leave me hanging."

"You're blackmailing me with your depression?"

"It has to have a little silver lining," Ilya responded. He raised his brows, waiting. "Come on, I do not have all evening."

Shane sighed. He looked at his plate – if he was going to say this aloud, he couldn't look at Ilya. "My retirement was my fault," Shane said. He could almost hear Ilya's frown. "Not the initial injury, but what happened after." He took a deep breath. Other than the doctors and his parents, no one knew about this part. He could never bear to tell them – not even Rose. He pushed through. "After I got injured, everything hurt a lot. I thought that the pain was just weakness, that I could train through it. I let it fester for weeks, didn't mention it to anyone. It turned out it was an infection; it ate everything in its path." He risked a glance over at Ilya, whose face was blank. "If I'd just looked after myself better -"

Ilya interrupted him. "So, as a teenager, thought you were invincible. You and every other teenager on the planet."

"If I’d just –"

"Shane."

"I nearly bankrupted my parents," he confessed.

Ilya frowned back, putting his half-eaten dinner on the coffee table and shifting Wayne off his lap, then turning to face Shane fully. "You were sixteen."

"I have debts," Shane confessed. He put his own dinner on the coffee table, scraping a hand down his face. "That’s something you’re meant to tell your partner, right?" His voice was shaky, and Ilya's hand landed on his forearm, warm and secure. It gave him the strength to forge forward. "I paid off what my parents owed, but while I was doing that, my own debts spiralled. They don’t know." They could never know. They'd never have dreamed of going to Japan if they knew Shane's financial situation. "It wouldn’t have been fair to them."

"It’s not fair to you," Ilya replied, squeezing Shane's arm. "You were sixteen. A baby." He pulled Shane in, rearranging them until Shane was lying on top of Ilya, like a large heavy blanket. "Your leg hurts more than usual now."

Shane nodded. "My physio thinks I need more surgery to try and fix it, but I can't bring myself to schedule an appointment."

"Why not?"

"Why haven't you booked in with the therapist your friend found?" Shane bit back, and then cringed at himself for overstepping.

Before he could apologize, Ilya snorted. "We are a pair," Ilya laughed, and Shane smiled into his neck.

They were quiet for a while, but Shane could hear the words that Ilya wanted to say. "Don’t offer," he whispered against Ilya's collarbone. Shane knew, as sure as breathing, that Ilya could make his debts go away in a second. It'd be pocket change to him. But this was all so new; he couldn't do it. Not now. "I know you want to, but don’t. Please."

"Okay," Ilya agreed gently, brushing his lips against Shane's forehead. "But I will say one thing, Shane Hollander. You do not always have to do things the hard way."

Shane sighed, and let himself sink into the embrace.

3 February 2019 - Day 158 of the Rozanov House Hunt

Shane woke up in pain. 

It wasn't necessarily unusual. His knee hurt most days. It was a problem this day, however. Because this day, he had a promise to keep. 

He'd been half out of his mind with lust the night before, when Ilya had said it. "Come to tomorrow's game against Boston," he'd asked, in a way that didn't feel like a question, while licking and biting at Shane's ear, his hips drawing delicious tiny circles to grind his cock deep into Shane's ass, and his hands grabbing at Shane's waist firmly. 

Yes, God yes, Shane had replied. There wasn't not much he wouldn't have agreed to in that moment. 

Behind him, Ilya shifted, revealing himself as awake. "You will come today, yes?" 

"Like, right now, or..."

Ilya squeezed his pec. "To the game, pervert." 

"Yeah," Shane agreed, though a part of him wanted to say no. "I think it might be a cane day, though."

"Oh, this reminds me," Ilya hummed, sliding out of the bed and walking over to his suitcase. He was shameless in his nudity, and Shane was just as shameless in appreciating the view. "Pass for player parking lot," Ilya declared, handing over a slip of paper. "I told Bella my guest needed step-free access to suite, and she said that wasn't possible, but there is a route that only involves 10 steps." 

There was a ticket to hang on his rearview mirror, and a map. The map had a line drawn across it, highlighting the way to get from player parking to the suite, and when he flipped it over, there were full written instructions, in Bella's precise handwriting. "This is too much."

"A parking space and some directions are too much?" Ilya asked, sceptical. He leant down to the bed, dropping a kiss on Shane's lips. "Wear my jersey," he instructed, and Shane nodded.

After that, the morning was rushed. Shane had received a lead on a property the night before, and they could just about make it for a viewing before morning skate. He was just tugging his socks on when he heard Ilya call out from the kitchen, and he made his way through to investigate.

"What is wrong with her?" Ilya asked, alarmed. Shane watched dispassionately as Wayne sprinted the length and breadth of the house, like a cat possessed.

"This is just standard cat stuff," Shane replied, and Ilya frowned. "They use the litter tray, then sprint around the house to get the devil out."

"I am definitely dog person," Ilya muttered in response, even as he leant down to stroke Wayne as she steamed past him. "Why is she not limping?"

"The vet thinks she only does that for attention. I think it's to mock me," Shane muttered fondly, and Ilya's eyes went soft.

"Not mocking. Copying her favourite person," Ilya responded, crowding in close to kiss Shane. "Maybe I will develop a limp too."

"Don't you dare," Shane warned, pinching Ilya's side. "Come on. we'll be late for the viewing." 

The viewing did not go well.

"Where the fuck are we?" Ilya asked, as soon as they pulled up to the address. "If we were any further East, we would be in Atlantic."

Shane rolled his eyes. It was barely further East than his place. Perfectly acceptable. "There's not that many properties in your price bracket in Ottawa. I had to widen the search."

Ilya huffed, and refused to get out of the car, declaring, "If I wanted to live this far East, I would have signed with Montreal." 

Shane sighed and turned the car around, heading for the training ground. Every mile they travelled seemed to soften Ilya back to the lovely partner he was, instead of the hellish client from Satan's pit, until they were parked outside the training ground,  where he bestowed on Shane the sweetest, warmest kiss.

Ilya didn't exit the car immediately. He looked at Shane intently, eyes still on his lips. "I do not wish to hide tonight," he said, punctuating his words with a kiss. "Do you mind?"

Shane had nothing to hide. Not from the Centaurs. "Fine," Shane agreed. He patted Ilya's knee fondly. "If we split, I get Evan, Nick and Zane in the divorce." 

"You can have Marly too. He likes you more than me." Ilya said with a smile, sliding out of the car before Shane could counter.

That evening, Shane stepped into the WAGs suite and was greeted by a worrying sight.

 "What happened?" Shane asked, alarmed, putting his crutch aside and moving towards Zane, who was only standing with the air of a pair of crutches. His hands hovered over Zane's elbows anxiously, as if he might collapse inwards at any moment.

"An ankle sprain. Not even on the ice - I tripped on a step at home," Zane lamented sadly. 

Shane kept hovering. "Laura's seen you?"

Zane nodded. "I've got an essay of care advice to prove it. I'll be back on the ice in no time."

"Don't rush it." He nodded at his cane, propped on the side. "Trust me on that." 

The game was competitive. Ilya was a demon on the ice, but Boston were relentless towards their old Captain, and dragged it into overtime. When the puck slid into the Ottawa net, Shane deflated with the rest of the arena. A terrible way to lose.

Shane followed Zane down to the family area after – apparently there was a step free route there too, who knew? Once they were there and seated beside one another. Zane threw an arm over Shane's shoulders, squeezing him tightly. "You're coming out with us tonight, right?"

Shane nodded. "Just for one," he warned when Zane cheered.

A familiar voice came up from behind. "Bood. Get away from my realtor," Ilya warned, lifting Zane's arm out of the way. Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane then, and, as if there were any ambiguity left to worry about, planted a loud, wet kiss into his hair.

"Oh shit," Zane laughed, clapping Shane on the good knee. "Double date when?"

"Soon, Zane."  

Zane's face fell serious. "Shit, are you still his realtor?" He asked, voice full of concern. "Isn't that against, like, the Hippocratic Oath?"

Ilya let go of Shane to throw his hands in the air. "Hippocrates did not give a shit about real estate!"

"Wow, Roz. I knew you were old, but I didn’t realize you knew Hippocrates personally," Zane chirped back.

They went to a different bar, this time. Slightly quieter, though not by much, and the floor was just as sticky with spilt drinks, but Shane didn't complain. The Raiders had joined the Cens in the bar, and for a while Ilya was the centre of attention, while Shane caught up with Evan, Nick and Zane in a quiet booth. In spite of his declarations that he'd only stay for one, somehow Shane outlasted all three of them, waving them away fondly as he watched Ilya with the Raiders.

Eventually, Ilya and Marly made their way over. Ilya slid in opposite Shane, while Marly crowded Shane's side.

"So…" Marly prompted, looking between the two of them. Ilya nodded, and Marly's smile was as wide as the Rideau. "Dude!" He jostled Shane merrily, throwing a big arm over his shoulders.

"It’s new," Shane warned. "We’re taking it seriously, but yeah. It’s still fresh."

Marly leaned in, conspiratorial. He smelt a little of stale beer, but not enough for it to be a problem. "Did you know, the first time you met Rozy, he was hard for the whole property viewing?" Marly whispered in Shane's ear. Shane's brows rose of their own accord. "Solid as a fucking rock. The whole time. He told me afterwards; he said you walked up a flight of stairs in front of him, and he spent the whole time wanting to bite your ass like it was a pear."

Across the table, Ilya looked worried. "What are you telling him? Marly –"

"He likes your glasses. Did he tell you that? He said you do this thing with your tongue to open them –" Marly made a gesture with his tongue, and Shane's brows raised. Did he really look that obscene?

Ilya groaned. "That is it, friendship over."

"Aw, Rozy, don’t be like that," Marly groused, jostling Shane once more. "I’m just making sure my new brother-in-law knows how much you like him."

Shane smiled fondly over at Ilya. "Trust me. The feeling is mutual."

Marly's smile grew even wider. "Well. Good."

12 February 2019 - Day 166 of the Rozanov House Hunt

Shane could not remember the last time he'd taken a day off in February. 

It was not a particularly busy time in the real estate world, but after the excitement of Christmas, the first quarter always felt like a time to knuckle down and get to work. 

But. Ilya asked. And so Shane booked it off. 

"Happy Spa day," Ilya greeted as soon as he was in the car, and Shane smiled, accepting a kiss hello.

"That's what we're doing today? I've not brought my trunks."

"I have it covered," Ilya responded, pulling out another pair of tiny red Canada trunks, just like they'd both worn at The Hazel. Shane sighed, and Ilya laughed, covering Shane's hand with his own.

The Spa was empty when they arrived. Suspiciously so.

"I like my privacy," Ilya had replied at Shane's questioning look, and Shane had asked no further questions.

The Spa was good. More enjoyable than Shane expected. The air was a little salty, and there was soothing gong music playing, and Ilya was at his elbow every step, directing him into tiny saunas and long, cool pools. "Next time we come, we should get massages," Ilya declared when they were in the steam room, stretched out lithe along a bench. His feet were in Shane's lap, and Shane ran his hands over the arches, pressing in with his thumbs.

"I've only ever had sports massages," Shane said. "Well, other than that leg massage you gave me in November."

Ilya's head pinged up. "That was a sports massage," he argued.

Shane laughed. "You might want to get a refund on that training," he teased, and Ilya kicked his good thigh.

Then, finally, the piece de resistance.

For such a nice spa, the outdoor hot tub was small – it could fit maybe 6 people, at a push. The air outside was frigid, and the steam coming off the water was enticing. Though it was only 6pm, the sky was jet black, the tub only lit by a few fairy lights. "It was sterilized this morning," Ilya whispered into his ear, like it was the dirtiest sentence in history, and Shane shivered. "Will you join me?"

"Yes," Shane breathed back. He never wanted to say no to Ilya, not when he was like this.

He climbed in tentatively, Ilya helping Shane over the lip, and the warm water was nice. Soothing. God, and the jets against Shane's back were pummelling him in the best way. He sat a little way from Ilya at first – as far as they could be from each other in such a small tub, just letting himself enjoy it.

He looked over at Ilya, who was watching his own hand rest on the surface of the water, the bubbles bouncing it up and down. "I have never been in a hot tub before," Ilya said, and Shane gaped at him.

"Ilya!" 

"What?"

Shane splashed him, outraged. "Finding you a house has been significantly harder because of your fucking hot tub requirement, and you've never even been in one?"

Ilya paused, and then opened his arms. In spite of his frustration, Shane slipped over to him, letting Ilya pull him into a loose embrace. 

"It always seemed romantic to me," Ilya said, cradling Shane. "A big hot bath, under the stars." 

"Hot tubs are sleazy," Shane argued weakly.

Ilya shrugged. "This does not feel sleazy to me," he said into Shane's ear, his breath hot in the night air. "It feels like me and my cowboy, warm and cosy." His lips brushed the shell of Shane's ear, and he could feel the gentle smile there. "This is, I think, what comfort feels like."

What could Shane do but kiss him?

They stayed in the hot tub until they were wrinkled like prunes, and then shuffled inside as quickly as possible, the Winter air icy against their skin. Once they were back in the changing rooms, almost dressed, Shane asked, "Shall we head back to your hotel?"

Ilya shook his head. "No. To your house."

A ridiculous notion. His house was 30 minutes further than the hotel. "We're on the wrong side of the city. Your hotel is far closer." 

Ilya shook his head again, stubborn. "My hotel does not have Wayne. You would abandon your child overnight?"

Shane rolled his eyes. "The neighbours can feed him. They've done it before."

Ilya looked at him as if Shane had suggested throwing Wayne in a trashcan. "No. We are going to your house." 

14 February 2019 - Day 168 of the Rozanov House Hunt

Bella called again on Valentine's Day.

He was in the car on the way to Ilya's hotel when she rang. It had been over 5 months of looking, by that point, and Shane couldn't blame her for her impatience. "Shane, I know the team approved an indefinite stay, but honestly, I didn’t think we’d need this long."

Shane hadn't thought they'd need this long either. Even if he found Ilya the property of his dreams today, he'd only move into it in Summer at the earliest now, and Shane felt like shit about it. That said, there was cause for optimism. "I have a property lined up for him to see today," Shane said, voice full of hope. "I’ve got a good feeling about it." 

"Okay, Shane," Bella replied, before she hung up. She hardly sounded like she believed him, but fuck her doubts. Shane was almost certain he'd cracked it. He'd gone through his notebook a thousand times, checking there was nothing that could slip him up, but this was it. This was the house.

He couldn’t help but buzz with adrenaline as pulled up outside the hotel, watching Ilya walk over with a smile.

Ilya didn't go to the passenger side straight away. Shane rolled down his window, heart flipping as Ilya leaned in to kiss him gently. "Happy Valentines," Ilya whispered, a hair's breath away. "Your present will be late. I am sorry."

"Happy Valentines," Shane replied back, closing his eyes and the distance between them once more. "We said no presents." Pulling away was a battle, but thoughts of the property steeled his resolve, and he retreated. "Come on, get in."

The buzzy adrenaline only grew louder as they came closer to the property, though he refused to tell Ilya anything about the property itself.

"You really like it this much?" Ilya asked, curious, and Shane nodded. 

"I think it's perfect," Shane replied, and Ilya reached over, covering his hand where it rested on the gearstick. Shane glanced back with a smile. "I like it so much. Honestly, I can't wait for you to see it." At the next red light, he dipped over to Ilya's side, brushing a kiss against his lips. "I think I've finally figured you out." 

Ilya's eyes were soft as pillows, and his hand came up to cup Shane's cheek. "You have figured me out," he repeated, and Shane nodded.

The property ticked every single box Ilya had. Need and Want. 5-bed 5-bath, just shy of $6.5 million. It was massive, and the decor was perfect. The kitchen was EXACTLY Rozanov's spec. The entertaining space could host 50 people. The master was on the second floor, with a double aspect that showed off the river and the woods. There was already the hardware for a sex swing, tucked in a discreet corner. It had an infinity pool, a hot tub, and a fucking sauna. 

Fuck, if Shane was a superstar hockey player with millions in the bank, he’d be barging Ilya out of the way to steal this for himself.

Shane pulled up to the curb outside, slipping out of the car and up the front steps at a speed he rarely reached on his cane. He trusted Ilya to follow, and had the front door open before he turned back to check on Ilya.

As soon as Shane turned around and saw Ilya’s face, he knew that it would be a no. "Ilya -"

Ilya stepped inside and scuffed his shoe on the floor of the hallway, frowning. "Ugly tiles. Slippy." He looked at Shane accusingly. "You want me to fall and die."

The floor was perfectly serviceable, and also - "The floor can be replaced." 

"Garden has no path. All grass and flowers." Ilya cast a cursory glance around the entryway, and shook his head. "There is bad energy here. I do not like it."

"Ilya. This is fixable," Shane replied, forcibly, desperately patient.

"Hm. No."

"I need you to consider these places seriously," Shane tried again, moving deeper into the house.

Ilya remained exactly where he was, feet planted. "I do not like it, Shane," he said, no room for argument. His face was disappointed. "You cannot change my mind."

Shane bristled against it. He'd done well to find this place. This place could be the one. "But if you’d -"

"I said no." Ilya's tone was final. He turned away, heading for the front door. "Come on. Lunch."

Shane didn't move.

When Ilya turned around, he raised one eyebrow.

Shane braced himself, prepared to dig his heels in. "Are you even taking this seriously?" 

Ilya snorted. "Of course. I am very serious when I say this is not right."

"You only saw the fucking entryway!" Shane bit back. "I’m giving you great options, and you don’t even fucking consider them."

Ilya was infuriatingly calm. His next words were precise and cutting. "Perhaps they are not so great. Perhaps you are not as good at this job as you think."

"Fuck you," Shane spat out.

Ilya pressed his lips together, eyes settled in the middle distance. "You say you have figured me out, and then you bring me to this," he dismissed, as if Shane had shown him the content of Wayne's litter box instead of a beautiful fucking home.

Shane threw his free hand aloft. The cane shifted a little on the tiles, but not enough to throw him off balance. "What you want is impossible, Rozanov! Perfect doesn't fucking exist!"

"I do not need perfect. I need a home," Ilya replied quietly. Then, he left, not even fighting for his fucking corner. 

Shane pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes firmly, willing the angry tears gathering there to go away. It would've hurt less if Ilya had taken a melon baller to his gut. This, this was failure. Failure so absolute that he couldn't breathe.

He took his time pulling himself together. Used the downstairs en-suite to tidy himself up. He stared at the claw foot bathtub until his eyes ached. When he'd looked at the property brochure, he'd imagined him and Rozanov, cocooned in that tub. It mocked him with its beauty.

He sighed, and headed out to the car, not sure what to expect.

Ilya was leant against the car, back to Shane. A thin curl of smoke wisped into the air above him.

Being in a car with Ilya right now would hurt. The sting was fresh; Shane could still feel the dismissive words in his gut. He was tempted to tell him to fuck off and walk.

Instead, he unlocked the car, and nodded for Ilya to get in.

The journey to the hotel was aching in its silence. Shane's knuckles were white against the wheel; Ilya's crumpled pack of cigarettes bounced against Ilya's thigh.

By the time Shane pulled up outside the hotel, the tension was so high he thought he might be sick.

After the car stopped, Ilya remained in the car a beat longer, as if he were rolling words around in his head. "It was not what I want," he settled on.

Defeat was an unfamiliar feeling to Shane. He'd not felt like this since the hockey days, the harsh sting of a loss poisoning him from the inside out. "I don't think I can give you what you want," Shane replied, eyes forward, willing his voice not to waver. The house had been his best bet. The final throw of the dice. There was nothing left.

From his periphery, he could see Ilya nod slowly, and then climb out of the car. Shane pulled away as soon as he was clear, unwilling to watch him walk away.

The whole affair left him shaky, and he pulled up to park around the corner, leaning forward in the chair until his head rested on the wheel. Then, he rang Rose. 

"Ilya hated the house I showed him today," he said, before Rose even had a chance to say hello. Shane could hear his voice was wet, and it only made him more upset and angry. "I don't know what to do, Rose. I can't get it right with him, no matter how hard I try."

"Oh Shane, I'm sorry," Rose said, sympathetic. "I'm sure you'll crack it."

"I'm completely out of ideas," Shane lamented. There were no tricks up his sleeve - this felt like the end of the line. 

Rose hummed, considering. "Well, what's the closest he's come to liking a house?"

Shane ran through every single house he'd shown Ilya. There was only one, really, that he'd ever seemed keen on. "He seems to like my home."

Rose laughed. "That's just because you're in it," Rose replied, teasing, and Shane shook his head. 

"No. There was something else," Shane realized, slowly easing himself back in the chair. "Sorry, I have to go. I have an idea."

"You've got this, Shane. Good luck babe!" 

17 February 2019 - Day 171 of the Rozanov House Hunt

It took 72 hours to get everything in place.

72 hours without speaking to Ilya - the longest Shane had gone since November, but in his defence, there was a lot to arrange. He texted Ilya that lunchtime.

Free for a house viewing this evening? You'd need to make your own way, I'll meet you there.

Ilya had replied with a thumbs up and nothing else. Shane sent him the address, and tried not to overthink it.

Shane had to pull some strings to get the keys to the $4.5m staged property so late in the afternoon. He'd have to return them in the morning, which the seller's realtor had accepted, on the condition of no funny business. 

Shane had smiled politely, and wondered privately what the realtor might consider funny business.

When the door went at 7pm, Shane had everything in place. "Shoes off," Shane instructed Ilya as he crossed the threshold, waving towards the shoe rack, pushed against the wall. Ilya's brow was lowered, but Shane paid it no mind and wandered in, trusting Ilya to follow. He went to the kitchen first, walking round the counter casually and opening the fridge, emerging with two beers.

The curtains were drawn, only the lamps lit, a cosy amber glow cast across the well-dressed open plan space. Ilya was looking around, confused, taking in far more details than he usually did, and Shane smiled. "Come on. Living room’s over here."

The TV was already playing the West Conference game. And, in the middle of the sofa, slept Wayne. The piece de resistance. 

Shane sat next to Wayne, the other half of the sofa notably empty. Ilya remained a few steps away, shifting nervously. "I am sorry for last time."

"It’s fine, Rozanov," Shane replied. "I’m sorry too. I was unprofessional. You’re allowed to say no to a property," Shane said, burying his hand in Wayne's fur. "Come on, sit down and watch the game with me."

"Ilya. Please, Shane. Call me Ilya," Ilya said, tentatively coming over to sit with Shane. "And I like it when we are unprofessional."

Shane nodded. "Okay. Ilya," he said, and Ilya's eyes shuttered closed, thankful. He covered Shane's hand with his own, where it rested on Wayne's back.

It wasn't a great match - Shane was not sure what else he expected, from Vegas and Vancouver. It was fun to dissect with Ilya though, sipping at their beers and talking hockey. "I am serious about our commentator career," Ilya warned, his thumb brushing over Shane's knuckles warmly, and Shane laughed. 

At intermission, Shane stood, stretching his back. "I'm going to grab a blanket," Shane said, wandering to one of the master bedrooms. He trusted Ilya to follow, and sure enough, Ilya did, hovering behind Shane as he retrieved the big blanket from an otherwise empty cabinet.  "There’s another master suite across the hall. Not often you find a home in this area with two," Shane said, conversational, as he handed the blanket over.

It was Shane's patchwork blanket from home, and Ilya seemed to recognize it, running his hand along the pattern. When they returned to the sofa, Ilya sat down first, spreading the blanket across his lap, and Shane lifted the puddle of Wayne on top of it, then bullied his own way in until Ilya had to wrap an arm around him. Shane's head came to rest in the juncture of Ilya's arm and chest, comfortable on the soft heft of his pec.  Shane's eyes didn't leave the TV, but he could feel Ilya looking down at him.

They made it halfway through second period before Ilya finally spoke. "Shane?" He whispered, hand running down Shane's tricep. "What is happening?"

Shane glanced up, his head not leaving Ilya's pec. "I was thinking about what you like about my place," Shane said, his fingers drumming gently on Ilya's stomach. "It doesn't meet any of your requirements, but you seem to like it there anyway, and I tried to figure out why." He paused, looking up at Ilya. "I think, maybe, in order to really like a house, you need to see what it would feel like if you made it a home."

"Shane."

Shane barrelled on. "I know Wayne's not a dog, and the sofas are pretty hideous, but I thought maybe I could show you what your life might be like here," he continued, lowering his hand to bury it in Wayne's fur. "Watching hockey and having a beer, with a pet on your lap and someone that cares for you by your side." Ilya didn't respond, and Shane sighed. "It's stupid, but -"

Ilya cupped his face, and Shane fell silent. "Shane," he whispered, guiding him upwards.

Ilya kissed him like the world was ending, right here in this fancy house, a sub-par game of hockey the soundtrack to the apocalypse. Shane’s hand left Wayne, cupping Ilya’s waist instead, holding him so tightly his hand ached.

Ilya moved away, and Shane chased his lips, kissing him one final time before letting him escape. Ilya didn’t go far; he let their foreheads rest together gently, his eyes wet.

"This house is not what I want," Ilya whispered, and Shane sagged like a puppet with its strings cut. "The master bedroom is Westward facing. I want East. There are only three parking spaces. I want four."

"I know," Shane replied. His voice betrayed him; the words came out shaky. "But there are two master suites in the property, and  –"

Ilya interrupted him. "The house has two storeys," Ilya ploughed forward, still cupping Shane's face in one big hand. "You are unsteady on stairs."

"Well, I’m not looking at this place for me -"

"What I liked about your place was that it was yours," Ilya said, resolute, and Shane's words caught in his throat. "It is a home you can be comfortable in." Ilya closed the distance, brushed his lips against Shane's, and lingered close still. "The Valentine's house. You told me it was perfect, and yet there was no room for you in it. It made me think you were not thinking of how you would fit in my home."

Shane flexed his hand against Ilya's waist. "It had everything you wanted. I could've made do with a flight of stairs -"

"No," Ilya insisted, kissing him briefly again. "I want the hot tub. And East facing bedroom. And lots of parking. But I also want no stairs, and no slippy floors, and pretty handrails on every wall."

"Ilya -"

"I think, maybe, I am firing you as realtor," Ilya said, the sting of his words soothed by the gentle stroke of his thumb against Shane's cheekbone.

"Oh?" Shane said, leaning into the touch. "Because I broke the Hippocratic Oath?"

Ilya gave him a warning glare. "Why would I need realtor when I no longer want to buy a home right now?" He asked, and Shane frowned. "You have spare bedroom," Ilya suggested. "You are looking for a roommate, perhaps? I am good for rent," Ilya continued, and Shane’s heart skipped. "And then maybe, in a year. If everything is going well. We house-hunt again. Together."

Shane let out a shaky breath. "You’ve got this all planned out, huh?" 

"All I want is to be with you," Ilya replied. When Shane didn’t respond, Ilya seemed to falter. "Six months is fast, no? If it is too soon for me to move into your home, you can put me in a rental property instead for now, I will not complain." 

Shane reached over and cupped Ilya’s face in his hand. "God help me, I want you in my home."  He kissed him firmly, and could feel Ilya’s smile against his lips. "When it comes to real estate, I’m even more particular than you are."

Ilya laughed. "I would not want it any other way," he declared, squeezing Shane firmly. "I have more money than the Church. Maybe we could buy land and build a home from scratch, so that it is exactly how we like."

Ilya was handing Shane his dream home on a silver platter. Shane tucked his face into Ilya's neck, holding him close, and willed his rock-hard cock to ease off, just a little. It was kind of ruining the romance of it all. 

Ilya shifted against him, and Shane knew he was caught. "There are two master suites we could christen," Ilya offered. 

"Absolutely not," Shane replied. He stood up, scooping up Wayne as he went. "Let's head home, Ilya." 

24 February 2019 - Day 07 Post-House Hunt

Shane checked the oven clock. 5:25pm. Almost sunset; the last rays of Winter sun streaming through the windows of his home as he pottered around, making sure everything was perfect. The sides were clear, and his work bag empty, his Rozanov House Hunt notepad tucked into a drawer for future use. 

Ilya was 20 minutes away. It'd been a long week apart; he'd left on a roadie the morning after they'd made up, but now he was in an Uber, with all his belongings from the hotel packed in the trunk.   

Ilya had more things in storage, Shane knew. Fitting that into the house would be a challenge. They'd make it work, though. After all, if there was one thing that both he and Ilya were good at, it was adapting.

The living space was tidy, and so Shane headed through to the bedroom, giving it one final visual sweep. Everything was in place; even Ilya's belated Valentine's gift.  

It had arrived two days after Ilya left, complete with a handyman to install it. Shane had blushed the whole time Jerry was working. As soon as he was done, and Shane was blessedly alone again, he'd snapped a photo, and pinged it to Ilya with a frowny face.

Shane hadn't realised Ilya was serious about the sex swing; Shane had tipped the handyman with everything in his wallet to make up for the awkwardness. All things considered, Jerry did an admirable job of controlling his face, for the most part.

Ilya had groused about Shane paying the tip - the present was for him, he should not pay for anything - but Shane had been flush with cash. Ilya had, after all, paid a full year's rent upfront that week. $50k. Far over market price, especially since the room Ilya was "renting" didn't even have a bed in it, but Ilya had insisted.

Ilya had begged for a video of Shane in the swing. Shane had said no, had sworn he'd never do such a thing, but when Ilya video called him that evening, he answered from the swing, naked. 

They'd had fun, that night.

The bedroom was tidy, too, so Shane climbed into the swing. The back support lay flat against his spine and the straps cupped his thighs comfortably.

Fuck, but it really was comfortable. He sat back in it, slipping feet into the stirrups, and imagined Ilya between his legs.

Sex furniture really shouldn’t tug on his heart strings like this, but fuck. Ilya’s easy accommodations blew Shane away sometimes.

A quiet meow took him out of his fantasies before they could even fully form, and then Wayne hopped up – thankfully landing on Shane’s lower stomach, instead of his crotch. She curled up immediately, demanding pets, and Shane granted them, letting the sexual thoughts slip away.  

Shane’s phone rang. He considered ignoring it - he was in a fucking sex swing - but he was fully dressed, and it wasn't a video call, so reluctantly, he swiped to answer.

"Hello Shane."

"Bella," Shane greeted. Bella didn’t respond immediately – strange – and so Shane prompted further.  "How are you? How’s Bethy?"

"Bethy has seven different mood swings before breakfast. She’s probably fine right now, but I can’t promise she will be in 20 minutes," Bella responded. She fell silent again, and then asked, "How are you?"

"I’m doing well thank you. How nice of you to ask," Shane replied, polite. "Were you phoning for something in particular, or just for a chat?"

Bella cleared her throat. "Rozanov just rang to inform me that he no longer requires his hotel room. But he has not bought a place, and is not looking for a place to rent."

"That’s correct."

"And the new address he gave me is in Thurso. Don’t you live in Thurso?"

"What a coincidence."

Bella went silent for so long that Shane checked to see if she was still on the line. Eventually, she spoke. "Have we been paying for you to go on dates with Ilya Rozanov?"

"I take my job very seriously, and can assure you, I was working my hardest to find the right property for Ilya," he replied primly.

"Ilya," Bella repeated. She sounded incredulous. "When I said the red-carpet treatment, this is not exactly what I had in mind."

"I can reimburse my fee, if this is a problem," Shane replied. He pet at Wayne gently, his fingers disappearing into her thick fur. It wouldn't be ideal to repay the Cens, but he could make it work. After all, he had a lodger now. 

"You’re the bane of my existence, Shane, but fuck it. Rozanov’s happy, so I’m happy," Bella replied, and Shane smiled to himself. "Keep it to yourself for now, but we’re expecting to get Marleau from Boston before tomorrow’s trade deadline. Can you make time to help him house hunt? Please don’t romance this one, for god’s sake. The last thing I need is a love triangle between two of my players and the realtor."

"I’ll dial down the charm this time," Shane promised. "Speak soon, Bella."

"You're a menace, Shane Hollander. I'll be in touch." The phone beeped as Bella hung up.

Shane checked his phone. 5:40pm. Ilya would be home any minute. Shane reluctantly climbed free from his swing, Wayne meowing her discontent at being dislodged from her new favourite napping spot. He collected two beers from the fridge, his Bluetooth speaker from the side, and headed out to the back porch, leaving the backdoor open.

It didn't take long for Shane to hear an Uber puttering down the road, coming to a stop out front. 

"My Shane?" Ilya called out as he entered the house.

"I'm out back!" Shane called back, staying where he was, though every bone in his body urged him to run towards Ilya as fast as his leg would let him.

"You are teasing me, Hollander. Why are you not already in the swing, ready for me?" Ilya replied. Shane could hear, through the door, Ilya dropping his coat, and fussing Wayne, speaking to her as if he'd been away for a year instead of a week.

"Would you get out here?" Shane called back, and Ilya huffed.

"You do not greet me at the door, you are not in sex swing waiting, and you expect me to hurry?" Ilya complained good-naturedly. His footsteps were loud, and Shane could hear him come closer and closer to the back door. "Mr Real Estate, I have a good mind to put you over –"

Ilya fell silent as soon as he saw Shane. Wayne was in Ilya’s arms; Shane's two favourite creatures, stood together, and his heart ached with fondness.

"Happy Valentines Day," Shane said from the hot tub. Brand new, installed the day before, paid for by part of Ilya's rental fee. Romance wasn't his strong suit, but he'd done a pretty good job, if he did say so himself. Fairy lights and LED candles twinkled all around, the speaker was playing gentle acoustic music, and there were some chocolate covered strawberries on the side, along with the beers – though Shane wasn't entirely convinced that eating in the tub would be sanitary. The temperature was good – great, even – and the steam must look inviting. 

And yet, Ilya stood stock still.

Shane looked to his face for answers. Ilya's lips were pressed tightly together into a thin, downturned line, and Shane frowned. "If you don't like it –"

"Shut up," Ilya interrupted. His voice was wet, and he immediately buried his face into Wayne's soft fur.  

Fuck, Shane had really messed this one up if Ilya was near tears. "Baby –" Shane started, moving to stand.

Ilya shook his head. "Do not get out of the hot tub," he ordered, and Shane sank back into the water. "I just need – give me a moment." Ilya placed Wayne gently down on the porch, and then slowly, automatically, began to strip.

Ilya's eyes were glistening, and looked even bigger and wetter as he stepped into the hot tub, sinking into the water and into Shane's arms. Ilya mashed his face into Shane's neck, clinging like a limpet, and Shane held him back just as tightly. "I love it," Ilya whispered, squeezing at Shane's waist. 

"Yeah?" Shane asked, and Ilya nodded against him. "Okay, well. There are some ground rules. Absolutely no sex in the hot tub." Ilya snorted, but nodded. Shane continued, "We're going to clean it more than the manual recommended, and do a full drain and clean every six weeks, and we have to make sure that the cover is on properly whenever we're not in, to keep Wayne safe." He kissed Ilya's hair, brushing some of the curls back behind Ilya's ear. "Okay?"

Ilya pulled away until they were facing one another. The fondness was written on his face, in every crinkle around his eyes, which were still a little wet. "Okay," Ilya agreed, bestowing a gentle kiss on Shane's lips, and then trailing more across his cheeks, as warm and soothing as the water around them. "Is nice, no?"

It was surprisingly nice. The water pressure felt good against Shane's leg, and was warm like a bath but with way more room to stretch out. Having Ilya coiled around him only improved matters; Shane could be in a tepid inflatable wading pool, and so long as Ilya was there, it'd be good. "Yes, Ilya. This is nice."

Ilya's face dipped down, until his lips were against Shane's collarbone. "I have never felt so beloved," Ilya confessed into his skin. Shane dragged his fingertips in little circles around Ilya's shoulder blade, and buried his face in Ilya's curls.

"I know you're making a big compromise, living here," Shane said, words muffled by Ilya's hair. "I wanted you to have something you really wanted."

Ilya kissed Shane's collarbone soundly. "Shane. I am exactly where I want to be. Hot tub or no hot tub."

Shane smiled. "So I should return the hot tub?"

"Absolutely not." He tilted his head up for a kiss, and Shane closed the distance, lazily making out with Ilya like they had all the time in the world. Against his hip, Shane felt a familiar hardness, and he pulled back, brow raised. Ilya laughed. "No sex in the hot tub, I know. Is very unfair, My Shane. You make me such a nice home, and get me so comfortable in my sexy hot tub, and I cannot even do anything about it."

Shane hummed. "We could go inside and Christen the swing?"

"Hm. In a moment," Ilya agreed, shuffling them around until Shane leant against him. "I want to be hot tub cowboys a little longer. Is okay?"

Shane snuggled close, kissing Ilya's shoulder. "We have all the time in the world," he agreed, looking up at Ilya, who was watching Wayne clean herself on the other side of the porch. Ilya wore a soft smile on his face, his limbs loose and lax, looking more comfortable than Shane had ever seen him. Shane's chest swelled with pride, because somehow, in spite of it all, he'd done his job. 

He'd found Ilya Rozanov a home.