Chapter Text
31 January 2016
“Hollander! Cool of you to join, fucking finally.”
“Relax, Vaughnny, missed me much?” Shane lifted his suitcase onto the overhead shelf and slid into the seat of the coach taking them to the arena for the All Star Game.
“Fuck you’re straight from the airport?”
Shane nodded an mmhm.
“Well, you fucking missed out, man,” Vaughn jostled his shoulder. “Last night at the bar.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmm, was a fun night, everyone hung out. Plenty of women too. Think most of the guys got laid.”
“Oh, yeah?” Shane inadvertently thought about Rozanov. He hadn’t heard from him last night. Not after texting that he wouldn’t be arriving until today because of a brand photoshoot. He'd received an “okay. see you tomorrow”, and then nothing.
He couldn’t tell if Rozanov was as disappointed at not hooking up as he was. It’d been almost a month since last.
Or, maybe Rozanov had just found a random Chicago girl to fuck. Probably.
Well, they still had tonight. If Rozanov didn’t–
He shook the thoughts.
“What about you, Vaughnny? Did you–”
“Nah, man, I’ve got a girl back home. I love her.” Vaughn beamed.
Shane nodded. Looked out the bus window at the snow falling softly. Then, he fixed his gaze back to Vaughn.
“Well, I’m here now. Let’s smash this game, huh?”
“Fuck yeah, Cap. Let’s go!”
The bar was already loud when Shane walked in. He’d taken his time in his hotel bathroom drying his hair, carefully sifting through his suitcase for something to wear. Settled on a navy blue polo shirt and jeans, he didn’t want to overdress, but he still wanted to look okay if he was going to see Rozanov later. If. It was starting to feel like a big if.
He wiped his palms on his jeans, scanning for familiar faces. Well, one in particular.
“Hollanderrrrrr! Join the fucking party already!”
“Hey Ericsson. Good game, great assist.” Shane, never not the captain, fistbumped his rookie All-Star right wing, and decided to circulate for a bit. Most of the players from both teams were already there. Not Rozanov though.
After he’d done the rounds, slapped hands, taken and given praise, he hit the bar.
The female bartender was attractive; auburn curls down to her shoulders, a few freckles dusted over her nose, blue eyes. No wonder so many of the guys hung out at the bar.
“Shane Hollander.” She smiled. “What can I get you?”
“Uh,” he smiled back, surprised. “I’ll take a—“ He wavered between ginger ale and an actual drink. Fuck it, the All Stars was the closest he got to an in-season vacation, after all. And he’d already won the game, and done the interviews, so.
“A vodka soda, please.”
“Coming right up,” she smiled again, and Shane could almost hear Rozanov scolding him for the boring choice. For not flirting with her too, probably.
“Congratulations on the win, man,” Scott Hunter called out from across the bar, beer in hand.
“Thanks.” Shane walked over. “It was a fun game.”
“Yeah, that last goal you scored off Rozanov? Fucking brilliant.”
The 2-1 victory for Shane’s team made it a little sweeter, but mostly it’d just been that; fun. Just fucking around on the ice, trying out new things. All skills and speed, no one played dirty.
It’d been more fun than he’d felt about hockey for a while, anyway.
“Speaking of Rozanov, how was it playing with him?” Shane asked, aiming for nonchalant, taking a sip of his drink.
“It was great, actually.” Hunter smiled. “I mean, as much a fucking asshole Rozanov is, he was actually a pretty decent captain.”
“Oh, yeah?” Shane nodded. Tried to think about facial expressions. “Well, that’s cool, I guess.”
“Maybe the league will put you guys together for next year’s All Star,” Vaughn said. “Would be a crowd pleaser. You could play on the same line. Battle it out for Center position.”
Shane thought about his face again. “Yeah, I don’t know about that. Haven’t really thought about it.”
The thing was, he had thought about it. Often, if he was being honest. How it’d be if they were on the same team, if there was no rivalry. Had basically wanted to play with him since he first saw him on the ice. Rozanov was an incredible player.
“Speaking of the devil,” Vaughn said, “where is Roz?”
“You tell me,” Shane remarked, probably too fast. He took a sip of his drink to recover. “We don't really, uh, talk.”
“Probably hooking up, I saw him with a girl after the game,” said Hunter.
“Hah, yeah, sounds like him,” said Vaughn, “I don't think anyone gets laid as much as that guy.”
Shane plastered on a smile. “Yeah.”
•
Shane was halfway through his second vodka soda when Rozanov materialized at the bar, sliding in between him and Ericsson.
Shane wished he’d at least had a few seconds warning; fucking four weeks since their last time together, and now Rozanov’s solid warm body was taking up space right beside him, messing with his mind in a crowd of all their teammates. The hint of Rozanov’s cologne, the semi-sheer fabric of his black shirt... Shane’s mouth went dry.
Rozanov smiled at the pretty bartender, ordering a beer before turning to Shane, frowning.
“What the fuck are you drinking, Hollander?”
“Uh…”
Rozanov cocked his eyebrows, but Shane was stuck on his chest and shoulders in that sheer-ish shirt.
He watched dumbly as Rozanov took the glass from his hand, keeping his eyes on Shane’s over the rim while he took a sip.
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane huffed, and vaguely heard an amused “wow, what a dick move” from one of the other players, meaning they had spectators.
Rozanov just shook his head, tsk'ed. Fingers brushing Shane’s for a millisecond as he handed the glass back. “Why ruin perfectly okay vodka with water?”
“It’s soda,” said Shane.
“Uh, is water. With bubbles.”
“Yeah, but–”
“Hey Caps,” Ericsson turned to them both, phone in hand, “did you guys hear about the blizzard? Sounds like we might not be flying out tomorrow.”
“Oh. That sucks.” Shane said, catching Rozanov’s eyes.
“Yes.” Rozanov kept his eyes on Shane as he closed his lips around his beer bottle.
“Totally,” Ericsson said, scrolling his phone and Shane watched Rozanov walk away, probably to do his own rounds.
“We’re playing Anaheim in two days,” Ericsson muttered.
“Mm. Fucking snow.”
Shane’s flight to Dallas was scheduled for 7am which meant he only had a few hours with Rozanov tonight. Unless—
“Hey, got any tips to beat Anaheim?” Ericsson asked, “their defence is hella strong this season…”
“Uh, yeah for sure.” Shane sipped his drink, struggling to hold a conversation, even more than usual. Ericsson was nice enough, but everything he said registered like a blur, just fuzzy, dissipating words. Shane couldn’t even remember when Montreal had last played Anaheim, couldn’t remember a fucking thing at the moment. All he could think about was the possibility of a few more hours.
He glanced over at Rozanov, saw him talking to a beautiful blonde woman in a tight black dress. He watched as he flirted with her, his hand around her waist, but he didn’t follow her to her table. Instead he leaned back against the wall, the blueish light from his phone making his jaw and cheekbones look razor sharp.
Shane felt the vibration in his pocket.
He waited a second, then excused himself from Ericsson with a half-assed, “I’m just gonna find a bathroom,” and slinked away to the lobby.
Lily:
What is your room number?
Jane:
1214
Lily:
5 mins? I can’t take boring bar anymore.
Lily: Want you.
Shane typed and retyped, palms clammy, two dots of heat on his cheeks as blood pooled between his legs.
Jane:
Same. So bad.
Shane paced his room for a total of 30 seconds before the knock came.
He crossed the floor in two strides, hauling Rozanov inside. Kicked the door closed with his heel and let Rozanov slam him into it like checking him against the boards.
“Fuck, I want—,” Shane moaned out, hands scrabbling at Rozanov’s waist, his hips, his shoulders.
“Yes,” Rozanov said simply, grabbed his chin and smashed their lips together. It wasn’t a sweet kiss, had them both panting against the door in a matter of seconds.
“What about that girl?” Shane asked when he caught a breath, fingers frantically working the buttons of Rozanov’s fancy shirt. “At the bar.”
“What about her?” Rozanov trailed wet kisses up his neck. “She was a fan.”
Shane buzzed at the wetness. “What—, what about the girl yesterday,” he swallowed. “Was she also a fan?”
Rozanov faltered, which was rare for him, and Shane knew. There had been someone.
Sliding his lips over Shane’s, Rozanov said, “probably, yes. We didn’t talk about hockey.”
“Oh. What did y—“
Shane’s feet left the floor; Rozanov’s warm hands grabbed his ass and hoisted him up. Shane automatically locked his thighs around Rozanov’s hips, his arms around his neck. He breathed him in; his cologne mixing with the scent of his skin and the faint metal of his cross and chain. The scent of him surged straight to Shane’s dick, always did.
Rozanov carried him to the bed, and stripped him completely, then clambered over him, his jeans open over his straining cock. “Do you really want to know?”
Shane hitched a breath.
For some fucking reason, he nodded.
Rozanov leaned down, face so close Shane could feel his breath on his lips. It was coming fast, just like Shane’s own.
He reached a hand down, wrapping his fingers around Shane’s dick. His thumb tracing circles over the wet head.
“Want me to tell you how wet she was for me?”
Shane’s lips fell open on a moan.
“Or, how tight she was?” The pad of his index finger moved to Shane’s hole.
“Or, how she came on my tongue?” Rozanov kissed him, tongue slick and demanding. Shane broke, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest, his stomach, his dick.
“Fuck, Rozanov, enough, just—“
“Just what?”
Shane surged up and went straight for Rozanov’s cock, mouthing over the large bulge in his open jeans. Then he unceremoniously shoved the jeans and Rozanov’s boxers down, his tongue catching Rozanov’s hard, bobbing cock on the upswing.
“Fuuuuck,” Rozanov moaned, as he grabbed Shane’s jaw, forcing him to look up, making him strain around the girth of him.
“Look at you, Hollander, fuck.”
Shane’s eyes fluttered closed at the praise. His own cock kicking violently against his thigh. He was so wet.
He felt Rozanov’s hand in his hair, running his fingers through the short strands, and Shane had half the thought to grow it out just for Rozanov to pull it like he probably did with all the girls he was with. The thought alone punched out a moan, his mouth filling with saliva again mixing with Rozanov’s pre-come, and he couldn’t contain it; just let it drip down Rozanov’s length. Good thing Rozanov liked it wet and a little sloppy.
He started sucking in earnest, licking and massaging as much of Rozanov’s dick as he could take with his tongue. Fuck, he loved the feel of him, the taste. The way his hips snapped in short thrusts, holding back. Only, Shane didn’t want that; for him to hold back.
When he glanced up at Rozanov, he met his eyes again; pupils so dilated there was barely any blue-green left. Shane moaned again, broken and wet, and Rozanov’s hips stuttered forward, pushing a few more inches into Shane’s mouth, causing him to choke on it.
“Shit, sorry!” Rozanov pulled back, one hand coming to cradle Shane’s cheek. “Okay?”
“Mhmm.” Shane nodded, his cheek burning from Rozanov’s touch, from how much he’d liked it. He opened his mouth again, taking in as much as he could. Wanted to choke on him again.
Rozanov’s eyes squeezed shut. He kept his hand on Shane’s cheek, stroking over where his dick bulged the skin. His breathing was labored now, hips jerky.
“Fuck, pull off,” he gritted out, accent thick, but Shane defiantly stayed put. He wanted to swallow him down, feel him come down his throat. He kept sucking him, but Rozanov patted his cheek, then gave him a little slap. Shane batted his hand away but finally pulled off with a smile. Rozanov returned it, shaking his head, his cock thick and straining barely an inch from Shane’s lips.
“You are killing me, Hollander. That was close.”
Shane reveled in it. “Just want to make you come.”
“Oh, you will,” Rozanov said, pushing a hand at Shane’s pec to get him to lie down. “On your stomach.”
Shane’s cock throbbed. He wanted that, too.
Rozanov stood in front of the window overlooking the city when Shane exited from his shower. The curtains were open, the sky looking weirdly greyish, lit up by the city lights and the snow.
Shane leaned against the wall for a second, looking over at Rozanov in nothing but his black boxer briefs. His shoulders, his back, the way his hair curled at his nape. He looked fucking… otherworldly. Like he was sculpted from marble, but the sculptor dusted moles across his back to set him apart from a god.
He quietly padded over to look out the window too.
“Shit, it’s really coming down, huh?”
“Yes.” Rozanov waved his phone in hand. “But no news from Delta.”
“Oh.” Shane picked up his own phone, searching the airline’s and airport’s websites. Nothing about cancellations.
“What time do you fly out?” Rozanov asked, one hand stroking over Shane’s shoulder. The pad of his thumb running tiny circles.
“Early. 7. You?”
“Yes, 7:30.”
Shane checked his phone again for the time.
“That’s about 4 hours from now. We should probably—“
“Yes.” Rozanov dropped his hand and went to his pile of clothes by the bed. He dressed in silence; Shane watched as he put his sheer black shirt on, only bothering to button it halfway up.
Rozanov caught him staring. “Like what you see, Hollander?”
“Fuck off.”
Rozanov smiled.
“Goodnight Hollander.”
“Goodnight Rozanov.”
•
Shane’s alarm went off at 4:45 and he groggily pawed around for his phone on the nightstand.
The lock screen was filled with notifications:
Flight 723 to Dallas DFW canceled
All planes out of Chicago O’Hare grounded until further notice due to weather conditions.
Follow the airline’s website for more information
Blizzard and icy conditions affect traffic and air travel in large parts of Illinois and Wisconsin.
He laid back in bed, closing his eyes, trying to go back to sleep, but his heart throbbed in his chest. He would get to see Rozanov again tomorrow.
Today.