Chapter Text
Montreal, March 2014
A month after returning from Sochi, Shane decides that he’s had enough.
Enough of the madness squirming his skin like a parasite. Enough of replaying Rozanov’s shuttered expression when Shane approached him in Russia and the cold bite to his voice when he’d spit the words your boring texts out without a hint of their usual playful banter. Enough of getting himself off in the shower to the memory of Rozanov’s smirk hovering over him, to the ghost of the smooth planes of that body that can stoke Shane’s desire like a spark igniting a wildfire.
Just… enough.
Rozanov hasn’t texted. That’s fine. Neither has Shane.
It’s evident that whatever lives between them—call it attraction, obsession, or just plain sex—has lost its appeal for Rozanov. Shane has grown boring, predictable, and therefore undesirable, and so Rozanov has discarded him like another one of his nameless conquests.
The thought makes Shane feel as though he’s bruised a rib, unable to draw in a full breath without feeling the tenderness in his chest. It’s just humiliation, he thinks. Or maybe fury. His feelings aren’t hurt. They can’t be hurt, not when he and Rozanov were never anything to each other. Not when they were only ever two rivals fucking because they were both horny and it was convenient.
That’s all it was to Rozanov, at least.
Whatever. Shane doesn’t care.
At home one night, feeling alone and sorry for himself, Shane realizes that there is one positive he can draw from the whole disastrous situation with Rozanov. Shane understands himself better now—maybe even to the point of tentative self acceptance. The Shane Hollander who grew up terrified that other boys in the locker room would catch him looking a second too long still lives inside of him, but he can admit without self-judgment that he likes men.
He’s not quite ready to say that he’s gay yet. There’s still a part of him that hopes he’ll one day meet a woman who can light his whole body on fire in the same way that Ilya Rozanov does. That would make things so much easier. But at the very least… he knows he's not totally straight. And that’s okay.
The thing with Rozanov, the years of sneaking around under everyone’s noses, has proven that Shane can keep parts of his life private. If he wants to, he can explore what it would be like with other people—other men, even—without risking everything he’s worked so hard for. He can be methodical and careful this time around, vetting potential partners sensibly instead of falling into bed after some kind of messed up mating ritual in a locker room shower.
And maybe he’ll meet someone who can fuck the memory of Rozanov’s body right out of Shane, until he can breathe again without the taste of ash in his mouth. Wouldn’t that be a relief.
Feeling more settled than he has in months, Shane resolves to try.
The very next day, he meets Matty.
Las Vegas, June 2014
Anticipation thrums underneath Ilya’s skin like a live wire. Tonight, he’ll be in the same room as Shane Hollander again. They’ll be presenting on stage together at the MLH Awards and afterward, he’ll coax Hollander back to his penthouse suite and fuck him until he can’t remember his own name.
He has it all planned out. He just has to get Hollander on board.
Seeing Hollander in a tuxedo does nothing to quell Ilya’s desire. He looks good—the sharp lines of his clothes contrasting with those soft, plump lips and wide brown eyes. Up close, Ilya can finally see his freckles again. He’s missed them. They don’t photograph well and Ilya has a hard time finding pictures of Hollander online where they aren’t airbrushed out.
Hollander is still pissed off about Sochi—Ilya can see it immediately in the set of his jaw and the way his shoulders rise up when they make eye contact—but no matter. Ilya will make it all up to him later tonight. He'll take his time with him, soothing him like the angry kitten he is.
After they present the award and run through their stupid scripted banter, after Ilya takes several selfies of them and dares to brush his fingers against the back of Hollander’s neck, after Hollander shoots him a look that promises either murder or very, very hot sex, Ilya follows him into the restroom.
He finds Hollander washing his hands at the sink. He doesn’t turn around when Ilya walks in but meets his gaze in the mirror, eyes flashing with fury.
“Hi,” Ilya says with a smirk. He takes several long strides and leans over to whisper in Hollander’s ear. “Long time no see.”
Hollander whirls around and scowls, leaning his upper body back. Ilya still has him boxed in so that they’re almost touching. If he took a single step forward and slotted a foot between Hollander’s they’d be flush against each other.
“What the hell do you want?” Hollander asks. He’s flushed, color rising from the collar of his crisp white shirt. Ilya wants to ravage him. He’s missed this so much—those bright, flashing eyes, the flare of heat in Ilya’s stomach when he catches Hollander’s scent up close. “Seriously, go fuck yourself, Rozanov.”
It thrills Ilya that underneath the anger, he can tell that Hollander is just as affected. That's how it’s always been between them, like a gravitational force that neither can escape. Ilya has tried—god, how he’s tried—to resist the pull of Shane Hollander. He pushed him away in Sochi for both their sakes, because they were in fucking Russia and Ilya felt the weight of an entire nation resting on his shoulders. Because Hollander looked so sweet and concerned in his stupid fuzzy Team Canada fleece and in that moment, Ilya would have happily forgotten his native tongue if it meant that he could reach out and touch him.
It had scared him, that desire to be with Hollander—not just in bed, but out in public where anyone could see. So he chose cruelty over honesty.
It worked, kind of. Hollander stopped texting.
But Ilya hasn’t been able to forget the way Hollander’s body molds to his own, and tonight, he’s tired of fighting himself. He wants to give into this thing, whatever it is. He wants Hollander, plain and simple.
So that’s why he’s in this men’s restroom with Hollander, watching the other man’s breath grow ragged as his eyes darken and flicker to Ilya’s mouth. He’s still trembling with anger, but Ilya recognizes the desire there too. Fighting has never stopped them from falling into bed together before. Oftentimes, it even fuels their hunger for each other.
That’s it, he wants to say. Give in. Let me be your bad decision again.
“I want you in my hotel room tonight,” Ilya says, satisfied when Hollander’s pupils dilate in response. “I want to take you apart, slowly. Until you’re begging for it.”
“Fuck off, asshole,” Hollander breathes out, but the look in his eyes says yes and more please. “You can’t just come back here and–”
Just as Ilya is about to lean down and kiss the next words out of Hollander’s mouth, a buzzing sound startles them both. He glances down to see Hollander’s phone vibrating on the countertop with a text notification from someone named Matty.
Unease begins to pool in Ilya’s stomach. He watches as Hollander stiffens, then neatly steps to the side—out of Ilya’s bracketed arms—to pick up his phone and unlock it before quickly tapping out a response.
Ilya watches Hollander. Something is happening here, something that Ilya doesn’t quite understand. It feels like trying to remember a word on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t like it.
After a moment, Hollander looks up. The heat has gone out of his eyes and now he looks wary. A little awkward. He shoves his phone back into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and runs a hand through his hair.
“First of all, you can’t just show up and be all– you know,” he says, gesturing at Ilya’s body and looking him up and down. Normally, the once over would be flattering, but Ilya is too on edge to enjoy it. “And I can’t tonight. I have plans. My friend from Montreal, he’s… um, he’s in town. We have a late dinner reservation. He knows I barely eat at these events.”
This conversation isn’t going where Ilya expected, and he feels off-balance in a way he hates. Why are they suddenly talking about Hollander’s boring friend from Montreal? What the fuck does a dinner reservation have to do with the fact that they both want each other?
“After dinner, then,” Ilya persists. He’s aware that he’s pressing too hard, starting to sound a little desperate and unhinged. He can’t bring himself to care. “I have penthouse suite.”
He stops himself from saying, I booked it for us.
He stops himself from saying, I don’t know how to apologize for being an asshole and ignoring you for months, but I can’t stop thinking about you.
He stops himself from saying, I saw pictures of the penthouse suite and imagined you naked and flushed against the white sheets, bathed in neon light while I make every part of your body come alive.
When Hollander remains silent, Ilya tries again.
“You are free after dinner, yes?”
Ilya is prepared for Hollander to tell him to fuck off or shove him, even. That’s something he knows how to work with. But instead, Hollander bites his lower lip and looks to the side. Ilya has spent enough time these past years cataloguing every single one of Shane Hollander’s subtle expressions, and he knows this one. Hollander is hiding something.
Something that has to do with this friend from Montreal.
“Who is Matty, Hollander?”
He feels nauseous when Hollander immediately blushes and looks at his shiny dress shoes. It’s confirmation that Ilya is on the right track.
“None of your business, asshole,” Hollander retorts. It comes out without any heat, as though he’s just reciting familiar words. As though this back and forth with Ilya is something he’s performing by rote without any real feeling. “I don’t know why you care.”
“I don’t care,” Ilya says. “But I have never heard about this friend before. He must be very special, if you are inviting him to big award show.”
“No, it’s not like that.”
For a moment, sweet relief floods Ilya. He was wrong. His jealous imagination got the best of him. This Matty is no one, just a friend like Hollander says, maybe even someone he knew in high school who is now married with three kids. Another Hayden Pike—a boring, very heterosexual family man.
But Hollander keeps talking.
“I didn’t invite him to come with me. He has a business trip at the same time, which is cool. We haven’t– we’ve never traveled together before. It’s all kind of new…”
It’s sweet, the way Hollander is stumbling over his words and rubbing at the back of his neck self-consciously. It’s adorable, how he’s suddenly using the word we without thinking about it. His uncertain demeanor betrays the horrible truth—that Ilya’s first instincts were correct and that Matty is more than a friend. The realization makes Ilya want to scream.
He doesn’t want to know more. Please, don’t let Hollander tell him more. Ilya’s stupid mouth can’t help itself, though.
“When did you meet this Matty?”
Ilya never did have any sense of self-preservation.
“I met him in March,” Hollander replies matter-of-factly, like he’s reciting hockey stats instead of tilting Ilya’s entire world on its axis. “A little after Sochi. I was at this coffee shop by my place and there weren’t enough tables… he was nice enough to offer to share. We hit it off.”
Hollander has never invited Ilya into his home. Ilya has no idea which coffee shops are in his neighborhood, but his mind conjures the scene so clearly—Shane Hollander's meet-cute with a nice stranger. A stranger who saw a beautiful man walk into a coffee shop and jumped at the chance to get to know him. Hollander must have found it refreshing after Ilya snarled at him at the Olympics and ghosted him.
Three months. Maybe four. Long enough to catch feelings. Long enough to be boyfriends, even.
Ilya feels sick. He can’t bring himself to ask how serious it is.
Hollander keeps talking, oblivious to Ilya’s inner turmoil. The worst part is that Ilya knows Hollander, knows that even when he’s angry, he’s never cruel. He’s not deliberately rubbing salt into Ilya's wounds because he has no idea he's delivered a killing blow. He’s just answering a question, sounding almost relieved, like he doesn’t have anyone else to tell about his nice new friend.
“.... he knows I can’t be like, out, and it’s early days still,” Hollander is saying, his voice earnest. “But he’s been good about it. Very understanding. His family is religious so…”
“I don’t care about your boring boyfriend, Hollander. I was just curious whether he can fuck you like I do.”
The words come out mean, just as Ilya intended. Hollander’s expression shutters and he takes another step away from Ilya. It takes everything in Ilya to not reach out and grab at the sleeve of his jacket, to beg him to stay here tonight and forget about his dinner reservation with Matty.
“You know what, I don’t have to deal with this shit,” Hollander spits out. He spins on his heel and walks out of the restroom, the door swinging behind him like a slap to Ilya’s face.
Ilya braces his hands on either side of the sink and takes a deep breath. His head is spinning; he feels a little dizzy. Tonight’s MVP win feels hollow. It doesn't feel like a victory at all, not when he doesn’t get to celebrate with Hollander in his bed. Not when Hollander has a date with another man, a man he might already love.
He’s so focused on trying to steady his breath that it takes a moment for him to realize that he’s not alone anymore. Scott fucking Hunter is standing in the doorway, giving him an unreadable look. How long has he been there? Did he see Hollander storm out of the bathroom? Can he tell that Ilya’s insides are bloodied and raw?
“You okay, man?”
“Fuck off,” Ilya snarls, and pushes himself away from the sink.
He checks Hunter with his shoulder as he exits the bathroom and hates that when he catches the other man’s eye, he doesn’t look offended. He looks like he might understand, which is ridiculous, because Hunter understands nothing.
He couldn't.
The thing is, it’s not really about the sex.
Don’t get him wrong, Ilya would rather rip out his own eyeballs than imagine Hollander in bed with someone else. He’s aware that he’s being an asshole and a hypocrite. There’s never been any expectation of exclusivity between them, and Hollander never said a word about the dozens of women that Ilya slept with since they started hooking up.
It's everything else that strikes him like a punch to the gut.
Coordinating travel plans. Booking a table at a fancy restaurant and getting dressed up. Chatting idly over coffee in public. Dropping the word we, easy as anything.
All these things that Ilya has never considered as a possibility for him and Hollander. How could he? They can't—not with the MLH and Russia and their public images on the line. Not when the world sees them as rivals and would balk at the idea of someone like Ilya getting his grubby hands all over professional hockey's pristine golden boy.
Ilya is mortified to discover that despite the impossibility of it all, he wants those soft, simple things. He wants them with Hollander, who hates him. He wants them with Hollander, who might already be in love with someone else.
Back in the penthouse, he gets drunk on expensive vodka and takes out his phone. He's itching to text Hollander but has no idea what to say. Hollander wouldn't respond anyway. He seems like the kind of person who would be considerate of his dining companion and not check his phone.
When Ilya pulls up the thread between Jane and Lily, he's confronted with the last few messages. They're all from Hollander, all sent when they were in Sochi and Ilya was wound too tight from being around his family to cope with Hollander's warm, concerned gaze.
Jane: haven’t heard from you in a while
Jane: are you here?
Jane: did you want to meet up?
Jane: just checking in
Jane: ok, message received. I’ll leave you alone
Jane: i just hope you're ok
The last message makes Ilya's vision blur. Even when Ilya was being a completely irredeemable asshole, Hollander chose kindness. That says something, Ilya thinks, about the difference between them. It says something about the kind of person who could ever come close to deserving Shane Hollander.
The lights outside are too bright and Ilya's head throbs from the long day and the vodka in his system. He sits on the edge of the king sized bed and looks around his empty hotel suite. It's far too big for just one person. It was never meant to be for just him.
Ilya could go out, he supposes. There are a thousand places to meet sexy, willing women in this neon city. It wouldn't take long to find one to bring back here.
The problem is that Ilya doesn’t want any of them.
The only person he wants is lost to him, and Ilya all but shoved him out the door.