Chapter Text
September 10, 2015 - 5:45 PM
Lily: you think ccm shoot will be canceled?
Shane: Why would it get canceled?
Lily: the storm????
Lily: do you watch the news????
Lily: hollander????
Lily: hello????
Shane: Just saw it. They’re saying it’s too early to tell where the storm is headed.
Shane: Probably going to fuck Jamaica but then there’s no telling where it’ll go next.
Shane: Let me know if you hear anything.
Lily: (tongue out emoji)
September 12, 2015 – 9:37 AM
Shane landed in West Palm Beach, Florida just after 9:30 to cloudless skies and the bright Florida sun. No sign of the storm currently churning in the Caribbean. The meteorologists said that the weather had mellowed out and was at a tropical depression level, expected to pass cleanly over the Bahamas and then turn out to the North Atlantic Ocean, bypassing South Florida entirely.
Shane knew nothing about hurricanes, so he trusted the meteorologists when they said Florida wouldn’t get anything, but he was a little nervous at the near-empty plane. It could also be the fact that it’d left Montreal around 4AM.
There was really no cause for Shane to be concerned about this commercial shoot for CCM. At all. No storm coming to wreck South Florida like his mother was convinced would happen, no travel delays, no weirdness with the shoot team. No concern, even, about his fellow athlete filming with them, Ilya Rozanov.
No stress, no anxiety. No concern. At all.
Shane was in fact very stressed and very anxious about the upcoming trip. This was different than their normal CCM ads, of which they were both ambassadors of. They usually shot at separate locations and different times. This was the first time since before their rookie season that they were going to the same spot to film an ad.
CCM cited their rookie ad, playing up the rivalry, and hoping that the shoot would bring even more attention to their brand so many years later.
It would be way different than their normal hookups. They would have a more ambiguous and open-ended ability to see each other, without the restriction of flights and games to pigeonhole themselves in. No early flight for Shane to use as an excuse to avoid the embarrassment of being kicked out of a hotel room, no party for Rozanov to flee to after getting his fix.
Two days.
Shane and Rozanov filming together, surrounded by the CCM filming and design team, none of them aware that their star rivals were secretly fucking every chance they could. That every game the world saw them go head-to-head in was only foreplay, leading to apartments and hotel rooms. That the heated rivalry between them was inching further and further away from rivalry, and toward something entirely different.
Two days in sunny, perfect Florida.
September 12, 2015 – 12:15 PM
The property was nice, Shane had to admit it. The CCM team had done a great job at finding this location. It wasn’t the built-up, uber-fancy beachfront resort he’d been picturing in his head. It was a small plot of land, a 4-story hotel building at the back, and a pathway leading to the beach dotted with little bungalows. It was idyllic.
Shane let an attendant take his suitcase as he walked along the gravel path, hearing seagulls squawk and a light breeze whistle through the palms. Shane had a drop of sweat beading down his back, but he didn’t care. He’d have to change out of his heavy airport clothes, though.
“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Hollander,” The bellboy (Brendan, according to the nametag) said, gesturing to one of the rooms, “We have you and the other player mirrored in our two beach-view rooms.” Brendan led him across the gravel path where it fanned out into sand, to one of two identical bungalows.
Shane wasn’t sure he could call it a bungalow, it was more like a shack based on the size, but it was charming, and he loved it. The wooden slats were painted in (faded) pink on the outside of his bungalow, and looking back at the path, he could see Rozanov’s was teal.
Brendan unlocked the front door and moved to roll the suitcase inside. Giving him a, call up to the desk if you need anything! he left Shane alone on the porch.
Shane loved the decorative rope wrapped around the porch, the hammock strung up in the front, and the depiction of a fish made of sea glass right next to the red door.
Inside was just as charming as the outside. There was a set of sliding glass doors covered with sheer curtains, and next to those a king-sized bed. Shane could still hear the seagulls inside. He’d brought his earplugs and face mask, but thought he’d go without them tonight to get the full effect of his surroundings. Shane bypassed the small bathroom and went to open the curtains, flooding the tiny space with light.
He could see the ocean from his room, right out his windows. Between was about 20 meters of space, sparse with palm trees, an area with beach loungers, and a small grassy clearing with charming little sailboats on rolling dollies. There was even a mini beach bar.
Shane changed into athletic shorts and a shirt. He was still rubbing sunscreen into his face when he walked out the sliding glass door, heading to the beach to go see the views. He had on a hat and sunglasses, and unbranded shirts, hoping to avoid whichever tourists were at the hotel. There were a handful of people scattered at the bar, and more in the ocean or on loungers, but altogether it wasn’t too crowded.
He let his shoulders drop from his ears, a touch. The tension that followed him on every travel day was melting away with every breath of the humid air.
He made his way down the path and then through the half-sand, half-grass surface between beach and property. Surveying the ocean, Shane couldn’t see a hint of any storm in the distance. He knew it was there, but the sea was calm and there was only a hint of a breeze. No trace, so far.
He glanced at his watch to check how long he had until he was due to meet the film crew and Rozanov for their meeting. 10 minutes. Shane turned away from the ocean and started to make his way to the main hotel building to find the conference room.
He caught a glance of someone laying in a hammock on his way out, someone he had missed while beelining to the ocean. The face was hidden but there was a strong, tanned forearm hanging out, a beer nestled in the sand within reach, and he thought maybe- Ilya Rozanov.
Shane felt his heart jump to his throat as he tiptoed closer to see if Rozanov was awake or not. Sure enough, his face was completely relaxed, his jaw and forehead soft in a way that Shane had never seen it before, and he was pretty sure those eyes were closed behind dark Ray Bans. He wanted to peer inside that brain and see what was going on during sleep. What was he dreaming about?
There was a sheen of sweat in the dip of Rozanov’s strong throat where it met his collarbone, and Shane swallowed. He had the completely irrational thought of bending down to lick a stripe up that smooth skin but shook his head. They were out in public.
Shane looked at his watch, back at Rozanov, then back at his watch. Should he? What was the protocol for helping his hockey rival who fucked him every time they played in the same city?
“Hey.” He said, deciding to rouse Rozanov from his sleep. He didn’t get a response.
“Hey!” He said it louder.
“Rozanov.” It would be funny to let his rival be late to their meeting, but Shane was greedy for even the smallest interaction between the two of them. He was helpless, really. But Rozanov was dead to the world, that strong jawline still unclenched and lips slightly parted, and they were going to be late.
“Hey, asshole!” Shane gave a tug at the edge of the hammock closest to him, trying to rouse Rozanov from his sleep.
He succeeded, the Russian bolting up in alarm with an “Oy!” He pushed his sunglasses up into those golden curls and looked at Shane. “Ah, Hollander! Look who has finally arrived.” Ilya’s smile was blinding as they made eye contact. His hair was a mess of curls as it hung around his face, slightly matted at the back and sides from being pressed against the walls of a hammock.
“Hey,” Shane said stupidly. And then when his brain finished loading, “How long have you been here?”
“Very long time, yes. I left Moscow and came straight here instead of going to Boston first. Morning of yesterday.” Ilya leaned back into the hammock with an obnoxious yawn and reached for his beer in the sand, taking a swig.
“What are you doing? We have a meeting.”
“My flight was long but uneventful, Hollander, thank you for asking. And how are you?”
Shane felt his cheeks go red. “Sorry. I’m good. Just got in.” This was maybe the most awkward he’d ever been in his life around Rozanov since their first joint CCM shoot years ago. Apparently, he didn’t know how to act around this man without the cover of a hotel room and hockey game.
“Why do you look like you will go workout? We are at the beach, yes?”
“It’s hot out,” Shane rolled his eyes. “I don’t want to wear pants and I don’t have anything less warm.”
Surveying Rozanov, Shane could see bare feet tucked into the end of the hammock, long, white linen pants encasing strong thighs, a matching short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned at his navel. Shane’s eyes traversed across tan skin dotted with moles Shane had kissed many, many times, the smooth expanse of his pecs (dusky nipples unfortunately hidden), and all the way to the jaw where he could see a mouth open in a cocky smirk and eyes narrowed directly at him-
“Is there something you like to see?” Rozanov drawled, his accent thick, shamelessly stretching his arms up over his head and flexing those impressive muscles. Shane felt his cheeks burn as he scoffed and looked away.
“Fuck you, asshole. That’s not even how we say it.”
“Later,” Rozanov shot back. Shane walked right into that one. He also whipped around to see if anyone was within earshot.
“Do not worry,” He taunted Shane. “These Florida people are already drunk. And they do not care about hockey here.”
He was right, and there probably were very few, if any, hockey fans on the east coast, an hour and a half outside of Miami. This wasn’t New England or Canada. But Shane was still Shane Hollander, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax around Rozanov in a public place.
He rolled his eyes and started up the path, leaving the Russian still lounging in that hammock.
“Wait- wait. Hollander. Wait!” Shane could hear him struggling to stand up from the hammock and he laughed to himself. Then the slap of sandals as Rozanov finally caught up, striding next to him.
Rozanov took another pull of his beer as they walked to the main building, long fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle. Shane scoffed. It was barely noon.
“I love this state, did you know? So much less uptight than Boston.” Shane felt the side eye. “Or Canada. Less boring, yes? No one cares if I drink at noon. It feels like time for drinking, anyways, because I am still on Moscow time.” Shane rolled his eyes but let it be.
He let Rozanov’s longer legs eat up the distance faster than him so that they wouldn’t be seen close together. In response to his slow, Rozanov lagged behind as well. Shane stopped and pretended to pick at something in his shoe.
He got a weird look in response. “We’re in public, Rozanov. We hate each other,” he said defensively. Rozanov rolled his eyes.
“No, we do not, and they do not care about us here.”
“Okay, maybe this small town doesn’t care about us, but CCM certainly does.”
“Hollander, you are so boring.” God, Shane wanted to punch him in the face so bad. Didn’t he understand what would happen if even just one person pulled out their phone and took a video? He told Rozanov exactly that and got another eye roll in response.
“No one will care, they know we are both here for CCM, not on a romantic getaway.”
“Yes, but they will talk about us!” Shane felt like a petulant child, but Rozanov was being so infuriating. Rozanov looked at him and didn’t respond, his face unreadable. He opened his mouth as if to give a retort but closed it and looked away, eyes shuttered. He let Shane fall behind a couple steps and continued walking.
They made their way into the conference room on the second floor, which was more like a side-room of a restaurant meant for larger groups, with big windows that looked over the pool. Against the walls were set boxes and camera bags, and other gear that Shane couldn’t recognize, belonging to the CCM production crew. In the center of the room was a big table of about 10 people, maybe less.
It was a smaller group than he normally worked with, but he was typically at the CCM headquarters in Montreal with their full studio. He recognized Jonathan, the director, the director of photography, Christine, the camera operator, Carly, and their usual creative voice, Max, but none of the other faces.
“Oh good, you’re both here. Come have a seat and let’s talk about the plan for the next couple of days.” Jonathan gestured to the two remaining chairs around the wooden table. It had a glass top, where Shane could see the water ring from everyone’s beers on the surface. At twelve thirty, he thought to himself.
“Can I get you guys something from the bar?” Asked Max, standing up.
“Just a ginger ale,” Shane said overlapped with Rozanov’s, “Corona with lime, please.” They looked at each other, Shane giving him a raised eyebrow. The infuriating Russian raised one back.
“Glad to know the rivalry is still alive and kicking, boys,” Jonathan said with a laugh. “We’re counting on it for this shoot.” Shane thought to himself that the rivalry was just people’s imaginations pitting them against each other, but kept his mouth shut. He won the Voyageurs their first Stanley Cup last year, tying them with Ilya’s Cup. He was going for it again this year.
Jonathan continued. “This year we’re drawing on the recent strength of the Florida teams for a themed shoot, highlighting the contrast of ice hockey and the beach. I’ll let Max explain his vision.”
Max, who had returned with their drinks, spoke up and said, “Originally we were hoping for a beach shoot in full pads and covers, mixing sand and sea with ice, but with the upcoming weather we’re shifting gears to more of a stormy, dark vibe.”
“In terms of photographs,” Christine jumped in, “we’ll do a mix of solo shots in our new apparel line and then do some more creative ones with both of you guys. We won’t have any videography besides short form because we don’t have a rink.”
Around him, different people were chattering in response to the idea of tomorrows shoot. Ideas, first looks, first poses, direction of the sun at different points of the day, and other stuff Shane just tuned out. Rozanov had already finished his beer.
Shane personally thought this whole idea was stupid. Also offended at being the figurehead for a shoot that was meant to highlight the stupid Florida teams. But they were paying him to have a beach vacation and be famous, not disagree with their beach-ice hockey photoshoot, so he kept his mouth shut.
“The first outer bands of this storm are supposed to hit us around 3 tomorrow, so we’ll do makeup and first outfit in here at 1:30 and be on the beach by 2:45. That good with everyone?” Jonathan said, to resounding yesses from around the table. “We’re getting catering tonight from a local seafood joint down the street. It should be in this room at 6.”
This was the most relaxed he’d ever seen the CCM team, and he chalked it up to the laid-back atmosphere of the Florida beach. They’d never invited him to a vision meeting in Montreal, and certainly never offered him a beer. If this meeting were outside in the sand, he bet everyone would have been barefoot.
Breaking up the meeting, the group scattered. Some headed to a van where they were going offsite for lunch and others to the bar. Shane headed back to his room where he could avoid Rozanov for a couple hours.
September 12, 2015 - 3:35 PM
A thud on his door woke him up. He scrambled out of bed, confused. Wha-
“Hollander!”
Shane rolled out of bed and blearily swung the door open realizing a second too late that he was only in his boxer briefs. Rozanov pushed his way into the room, unheeding his feeble protest. He was still wearing the flowy linens, but now with even less buttons done, and the cuffs of his pant legs rolled up to expose his ankles.
“It’s the middle of the afternoon, what are you, old man?” Shane was too groggy to respond with anything witty.
“Fuck off, Rozanov. What do you want?”
“Moy kotik you look so angry, for what reason?” Ilya said with a smile, moving about Shane’s room without a care. He picked up Shanes’ neatly folded clothes from earlier, laughed, but carefully set them down. He moved over to the bed, where Shane’s abandoned book had apparently put him to sleep.
“Would you- stop it, Roz. What are you doing?” Rozanov didn’t even look over at him. “Are you drunk? And what does ‘moy kotik’… or whatever you just said, mean?”
“Ah, just,” Rozanov waved his hand, “a word for short, angry hockey players. It is a slur of the most offensive degree,” He finished with a wink in Shanes’ direction. “And no, I am not drunk. Russians do not get drunk. More...as you say, tipsy.”
“What are you doing here? Anyone could have seen you come in!” Shane said angrily, moving to wrench his book out of Rozanov’s hand and pull him off the bed. He succeeded in wrenching the taller man into a standing position, but Rozanov grabbed the book out of his hand, threw it on the floor, and pulled Shane into him in response.
Strong arms wound around his waist as Rozanov drew their hips together and looked him dead in the eye. “I told you I would fuck you, did I not?”
“You did, but-” The words were swallowed by Rozanov’s mouth as he took Shane into an all-consuming kiss. He didn’t make any pretenses, no soft peck or slow slide of closed mouths – this was all lips, teeth, and tongue. Shane was hopeless except to let out a small groan and return the fervor, a heat building in his lower stomach.
Shane did his best to keep his head screwed on straight, to remember that they were in a bungalow with probably very thin walls.
He failed, of course, as soon as Rozanov’s hands grasped his ass and lower back, kneading the muscles with strong hands. His hands were rough and calloused, and the friction felt wonderful. No chance of keeping a head when the other man was this good at kissing.
Rozanov moved from Shanes’ mouth do the underside of his jaw, the spot he knew full well would make Shane cave instantly. Sure enough, Shane moaned breathily and moved to run his hands underneath Rozanov’s shirt.
As much as he loved making out like teenagers, Shane was desperate to get clothes off. There were a couple buttons still done up, so he busied himself with undoing them one by one as Rozanov continued to lave and suck at Shane’s skin.
“Ah, fuck, Rozanov,” Shane breathed out, finally pushing the shirt over those strong muscles. “Don’t forget I have to be on camera tomorrow. No -ah, fuck- hickeys.”
Shane felt a grin against his neck and then the sharp sting of teeth nipping at his ear in response, but no words. Rozanov returned to Shanes’ mouth, now moving to push him into the bed, planting a hand on the top of his thigh. Shane instinctively raised his other leg in anticipation for Rozanov to keep moving him back. He was rock hard now, uncomfortable in his briefs, and he longed for Rozanov to take the last of his clothes off.
Instead of taking Shane out of his pants and finally giving his dick attention, Rozanov pulled all the way off and fully walked away to lean against the dresser.
Shane went cold and very empty all of a sudden, sitting straight up in the bed to see what was wrong, before catching Rozanov’s face on the other side of the room.
The smug asshole was tenting in his white linen pants, but he crossed one ankle over the other and cocked his head at Shane, with a smirk and a knowing glint in his eye.
“Ah,” Rozanov breathed out, pinning Shane with that stare, “now he is happy to see me.”
“What the fuck. Come back,” Shane all but whined. Maybe it was a full whine. There was a ringing in his ears, so he wasn’t quite sure how his voice was perceived.
“I think that I will wait just one moment, Hollander. To make up for you being weird today.”
“Please,” Shane begged, clenching his hands in the sheets of his bed. He was so painfully hard and so massively pissed off at this man, he could cry. But he wouldn’t because that would be horribly embarrassing and Rozanov would be so fucking smug.
Something must have bled out into his expression, though, because Rozanov’s face morphed from cocky and sure to impossibly fond, smirk changing to a little smile.
“Look at you, begging for me. I have been waiting, thinking about taking you in my bed, maybe fucking you in front of those big windows, and here I find you. Almost naked, just as eager for me.” Rozanov’s soft tone contrasted sharply with the dirty words. Almost, Shane dared to imagine, he sounded loving.
“Are you going to be good for me this week?” Rozanov asked, gazing imploringly into Shane’s eyes.
“Yes, Roz- fuck, yes I’ll be good.”
“That means you need to be okay talking to me, kotik,” Rozanov’s voice morphed into teasing lilt, as if he was sharing a secret, as he took a step closer to Shane. “Even if there are people around.”
He continued, moving to press Shane’s shoulders into the mattress but leaving his legs on the floor, Shane staring up at him, greedily sucking in the words. This was so different then their usual routine in-season. They’d never hooked up outside of their scheduled hockey event except from the first time and at the NHL awards, but they had always been distracted with so many other factors. Rozanov was offering a part of him that Shane found himself desperately wanting – a chance, maybe, hopefully, to relax.
Rozanov confirmed it a beat later when he said, “No one here expects us to ignore each other the whole trip, Hollander. We can…as you say…loosen the reins. Welcome to Florida, Hollander.” With that, he leaned in close to Shanes’ mouth, bumping their noses together. He looked softly into Shanes’ eyes searching for something, Shane didn’t know what. Satisfied with whatever he found, Rozanov kissed the tip of his nose, and then switched modes entirely and captured Shanes’ mouth in a bruising, hard kiss.
“Tell me you understand, Hollander.”
“I…fuck…I understand. I’ll be good.”
Shane was too taken aback to do anything, including inhale a breath, as Rozanov consumed him again. He’d do anything to keep kissing Rozanov, to keep the warm weight on him, to continue the intimacy and comfort. He was dizzy from the switch-up, and maybe the lack of oxygen to his brain. He got his break when Rozanov pulled off of him, leaving his torso cold and weightless, pulled his underwear down, and swallowed Shane down in one go.
Welcome to Florida, indeed.
September 12, 2015 – 5:00 PM
They’d been lounging on Shanes’ bed for the last hour, a post-fuck haze surrounding their showered bodies, when Shane realized that this was the longest conversation him and Rozanov had ever had.
Conversation wasn’t the correct word for whatever strange, back and forth, twenty-questions adjacent, thing they had going on, but it was continuous and had been going on for almost an hour, and Shane didn’t know what was going on. They had both showered separately in Shanes’ bathroom, but instead of dipping to his own room, Rozanov was still sprawled out on the bed, head pillowed on Shanes’ lap.
Shane was careful to keep his hands to himself, not wanting to disturb this moment, avoiding spooking Rozanov into making up some excuse and leaving. Rozanov, however, seemed incredibly relaxed. He was answering Shanes’ questions animatedly, hands waving in the air as he spoke in that distinctly European way. Every so often, usually accompanied with a tease, he’d reach over and touch Shane, tugging at his ear, slapping a palm up under his jaw, even once grasping Shanes’ thigh.
Shane was asking questions, and Rozanov was answering, and they were going back and forth, but there was no chance he’d remember the conversation afterwards. He was so laser focused on doing anything he could to keep Rozanov right where he was. He didn’t want to go deep into analyzing why he had that feeling, but he chalked it up to enjoying time with a friend, like he would Hayden. But, you know, with more physical contact and post-fuck looseness.
Shane had his eyes tracing the individual strands of golden hair twisting up from Rozanov’s scalp, not paying a lick of attention to whatever the man was talking about. Some team party, something about Cliff Marleau.
“Hey, dickhead, why do you not listen?” Rozanov snapped good naturedly, reaching up to slap Shanes’ cheek to get his attention. In response, Shane grabbed a fistful of blonde curls and tugged.
It had the…opposite effect of annoying Rozanov. Instead, Shane watched as his beautiful hazel eyes fluttered shut and the man let out the most cat-like sound he’d ever heard a human make, some sort of purr. He reached up and grasped his wrist, holding tightly.
“Do that. Again.” Rozanov said, rubbing his head back and forth where Shane was trapped, frozen above him. They’d never touched like this while just hanging out. They’d never just hung out, period.
Tentatively, Shane tugged again at the mess of hair, eliciting another soft sigh.
“Good. Yes, you can go harder. I have strong head.” Shane shook his head to himself, fondly, and let his hands trace the patterns his eyes had followed earlier.
He loved this kind of contact with Rozanov, and he was incredibly afraid to admit it. They’d never done this. He caught himself holding his breath and loosed it. He found some strands at the base of Rozanov’s neck and followed them up until they fell out from between his fingers. Shane repeated the same thing on the top of his head, then the sides.
It was a rhythmic, almost-brainless sort of motion that required no thought and elicited no need for conversation, so locked in on the feeling of smooth hair between his own fingers.
“This is nice, no?” Rozanov asked. Shane thought he caught a glimpse of timidity in the question that wasn’t really asked as a question. Maybe he’d imagined it. He had no idea why Rozanov, the strongest and most self-assured person he’d ever met, would be timid or unsure.
“Yeah, it is.” Shane replied, falling silent. They were both quiet for a while after that. Shane would have paid his entire Rolex deal for that year to know what Rozanov was thinking about.
Was he thinking about a girl in Boston? Or a girl in Moscow? Perhaps many girls. At the same time. Maybe he was trying to think of ways to end things with Shane before the season started, with the Bears out for blood and to tie-break their Stanley Cup record.
Maybe Rozanov was thinking about how hard it was to continue seeing each other in season. How he might’ve wished they had more time. Maybe he was savoring every moment, afraid of spooking a goodbye. Maybe every time Rozanov left a hotel room first, he was insecure about being kicked out. Maybe, when Rozanov wanted to stay up and talk, he would unfold one article of clothing at a time and put it on so slowly.
Maybe, Shane thought to himself, I’m projecting.
Shane was jerked out of his musings by his phone ringing from the bedside table. He looked over at the Caller ID and saw his mom’s face on the screen. Talk about a mood killer. He would hate her a little bit if Rozanov left his room over this.
He looked apologetically down at Rozanov, who had jolted in surprise at the intrusion, roused from his trance, and said, “I’ve gotta take this, sorry. I’ll get rid of her.”
Rozanov waved another hand and replied, “Do not worry, Hollander, I do not care about your boring conversation with your mother. Keep a hand in my hair, please.” With a pleased smile, Shane leaned over and answered the phone.
To his surprise, his dad was the one to greet him on the other line. Shane didn’t want Rozanov to leave but also wanted to avoid embarrassment, so Shane replied in French.
“Allô?” Rozanov jerked his head underneath Shane’s still hand, so he shifted the weight of his phone to between his ear and shoulder and used both his hands to massage and pull at Rozanov’s hair.
“Hey, buddy. How are you?” His dad said, voice calm.
“Good, what’s up? Where’s mom?”
“She’s in the den watching the news. Have you seen the most recent update about this storm?”
“No, what’s happening?” Shane felt Rozanov glance up at him and quickly resumed his ministrations before Rozanov did something stupid like open his mouth to demand, with his dad listening, that he keep scratching his head.
“The track shifted, Shane. The eye is gonna pass closer to you now, south of you guys over Miami. It’s got a name now. Tropical Storm Jane.”
“Jane?” Shane said incredulously. Rozanov was now very aware of the conversation and looking up at him. “The storm is named Jane?” He asked in English, making eye contact with Rozanov.
Rozanov mouthed, “What the fuck,” at him, with a soundless laugh, but Shane just shook his head.
If his dad had questions about the language change, he didn’t voice them. “Yeah. You guys should still be okay, but your mother is starting to freak out. That’s why she’s glued to the news. Apparently, there’s this famous meteorologist flying over from Texas, Jim something?”
“Tell her we’re going to be okay. No one here is worried about the storm at all, we haven’t even heard anything.” Shane rolled his eyes at Rozanov who could probably hear the conversation through the tinny speakers. The man was sitting up now besides Shane, their knees pressed together as Rozanov tried to eavesdrop.
“Shane, honey? Are you there?” He heard his mom’s voice and groaned to himself. He pushed Rozanov’s head away where it had crept up close to the phone. The man came right back with a huff, like a dog looking for a treat.
“Yeah, mom.”
“How are you doing on food? Does the hotel have a good emergency supply? I’m online right now for a grocery delivery service down there, I can have water and canned food delivered within two hours.”
“Mom,” Shane warned, embarrassed. Rozanov was right there. Listening. “I’m fine. I’m at a hotel. No one cares over here. We haven’t even been warned about any negative effects. Hell, we’re even planning the photoshoot to happen around the first bands of the storm!”
“I’m just worried, sweetheart. You’ve never been through a hurricane before.”
“Neither have you,” Shane retorted.
“Yuna, he’s got a whole brand team there just for him. He’ll be fine. It’s not even a hurricane, anyways.” He heard his father, Voice of Reason, finally step in. “Son, let your mother worry.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Shane said, silent. He didn’t know what to say after that, not with Rozanov sitting right there. “I’ve got to head to dinner with the team soon, so I’ll talk to you guys later, okay?”
“Bisous, mon chéri !” His dad closed, before his mom could jump back in and derail the conversation.
“Bisous !” Shane answered, hanging up and throwing his phone down the bed with a sigh. He mentally judged the distance between him and Rozanov before committing to a collapse against his shoulder. Rozanov shifted him so now their roles were reversed from earlier, with Shane laying in the other man’s lap.
Shane closed his eyes for a second and then laughed. “Tropical Storm Jane?” He snorted. “You’d better watch out, Lily.” Rozanov gave him a bright smile and pat on the shoulder.
“I do not know if anyone has chance against the wrath of Tropical Storm Jane, Hollander. Everyone needs to watch out.”
Shane was still chuckling to himself at the irony when Rozanov asked, “What does ‘bisous’ mean?”
He felt his face go hot and blood rush straight to his cheeks and neck. “Uh, ‘kisses’, I guess. It’s a kind of way to end a conversation in French, usually with people you’re super close with, like family. I’d never say it to, like, J.J.”
“Hollander, that is so boring and so cute at the same time.”
Shane was still red, turning his face to hide from those hazel eyes and that smile. “It’s embarrassing, is what it is,” he muttered. “My mom is a helicopter mom.”
“A what? What does this mean, ‘helicopter mom’?” Rozanov grabbed Shane’s face to turn him back forwards to make eye contact, long fingers wrapping around his chin.
“Like, when parents are hovering around you, being overprotective, overbearing. She needs to lay off, I’m a fully grown adult. You know?”
“Ah, I…yes. I…do know.” Shane didn’t think Rozanov actually understood, but the other man didn’t ask for more clarification. They were both silent for a beat, Rozanov now moving his hands through Shanes’ hair.
Shane noted the careful tone in Rozanov’s voice when he next spoke up. “They are good at being parents, Hollander. You should not be embarrassed about them.” Shane remembered exactly zero times that Rozanov had ever talked about his own parents.
“Are they going to get the news about this storm in Russia? Do you need to call them?”
“No, Hollander. They will maybe see about the storm but they do not pay attention to me like that.” He waved his free hand, as if to pass off any concern. Shane thought that the other man was playing the situation off as unimportant, because the hand that was massaging his head stopped its motion and instead went to fiddle with the gold crucifix around his neck.
He thought that he was maybe a massive dick for complaining about his family to a guy who kept details about his family background locked tight in his chest. Shane knew absolutely nothing about Rozanov’s home life except for the fact that he was born in Russia and went back every off-season. Had just returned from there, in fact.
Shane didn’t have time to think of an appropriate response because Rozanov spoke up again. “Do you think I could borrow them, sometime? Your family, I mean.” There was a touch of humor in his voice, the self-deprecating kind.
“Are- is your family not- good?” He asked, stammering his words a touch. He hoped Rozanov would seriously answer instead of skating around the topic or deflecting with humor.
“They care a lot about my success as a hockey player,” He replied, but Shane could feel Rozanov picking around words as if he was leaving pieces of the puzzle scattered around the room. Shane wasn’t good at puzzles and was even worse at picking up on indirect communication.
“That’s good, though, right?” He said, a little bit stupidly.
Rozanov gave him a pat on the cheek like one would a child. “They care much about hockey and not enough about Ilya. My money pays for their life, Hollander, that is what keeps them…interested, as you say.”
Shane didn’t know what to say. He thought if he opened his mouth he’d ruin the whole thing, but he did it anyways. “I’m sorry, Roz- Ilya. That they suck.” He hadn’t meant to switch up to calling Rozanov Ilya, but it’d had happened anyways. The other mans’ eyes warmed as he gazed at Shane.
Ilya was really good at eye contact, Shane thought.
“It is okay, Hollander. But I would like your mother to deliver me ‘key lime pie’ from the store on her fancy delivery-app.”
The tension broken with Shane’s laughter, Rozanov pinched Shane’s side to make him curl up in defense, and used the momentum to pull Shane up so that he was leaning against Ilya’s strong chest, arms banded around his front.
Shane felt a little kindle of warmth in his belly from the conversation. He felt so honored that Rozanov had opened up to him like that. He tried not to read into it so much, but Shane could feel himself imagining the two of them like friends instead of just people who hooked up every so often.
Ilya pressed a kiss into the skin behind Shane’s ear, and Shane allowed for himself to relax against the larger man, letting his head fall into the crook of his shoulder. Ilya looked at the time on Shanes’ watch, which Shane noted as 5:42 PM.
They had 18 minutes until meeting the CCM team for dinner, but that didn’t stop Shane from nuzzling his head against Ilya’s neck, turning to breathe into the soft skin. He kissed the side of Ilya’s neck, addicted to the contact between the two of them.
He didn’t know why, but Shane felt his heart pounding in his throat. Maybe it was the multiple forms of intimacy they had been practicing. They’d never talked about family before, and Shane felt so comfortable in his arms. The weight of huge arms, tight across his chest, felt like the most comfortable vice, like a weighted blanket, like an anchor, keeping him from drifting away.
Ilya seemed to sense the change in Shanes’ energy because he whispered into his ear, nibbling at the top, “What do you want, kotik?”
“You,” Shane whispered back, feeling unfathomably brave. He darted his tongue out from behind his teeth to lick a stripe up Ilya’s neck. The other man loosed a breath, pinching one of Shane’s nipples. Shane groaned into hot skin. He could feel the quick flutter of Ilya’s pulse beneath his lips.
“You have me,” He responded. Shane thought that there was no way that Ilya meant that in the way he hoped it meant but dared to dream anyways. He allowed himself the fantasy that they weren’t Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov, that instead they were just two men who had met at a coffee shop, or at the gym.
Ilya rubbed one of Shanes’ nipples with a delicate, single finger and pinched the other, rolling it between two. Shane arched his back in pleasure, a sigh escaping him. He shifted uncomfortably where he half-lay, and Ilya took it as a cue to move them so that Shane was seated in between Ilya’s legs, now fully leaned up against the other mans’ chest. Neither of them had put anything on other than briefs after their shower, so their bare skin was pressed together.
They had 18 minutes before they had to be rivals again, but right now Shane couldn’t imagine a universe in which they’d ever been anything but lovers.
One of Ilya’s hands remained on his front, sliding from nipple to pec, to Shanes’ biceps, the skin of his neck, and then back down to his nipple. The other traveled lower, pinching, and circling skin as it snuck underneath the band of Shanes’ underwear.
Ilya didn’t bother taking them all the way off as he trailed a hand down Shanes’ fully hard cock, thumb circling the tip and then sliding back down. There was a drop of precum forming, Shane could feel it damp against his underwear. Ilya’s hand made a slow trail back up to his tip, Shanes’ heart pounding even harder in his chest, he was now writhing against the man.
“Please, Rozanov,” Shane whimpered. “Don’t fucking tease me,” he could barely get the words out.
“But you make it so easy, malysh,” Ilya groaned back.
A rush of pleasure filled him and the sensations and at the Russian words. He clamped both hands down on Ilya’s thighs as the man jerked him harder. He fell into a rhythm of pants and moans as Ilya touched him, pulling up and twisting his hand.
Behind him, Rozanov was moving against Shane in a rhythm as well. Shane could feel the hard length of Ilya pressed against his lower back, twitching, and he was rolling his hips into Shane’s back.
One of Ilya’s hands remained on Shane’s torso, and every twist of his nipple sent a zing of heat through him.
Shane wouldn’t last long, he knew that. Rozanov was showing him no mercy, wasn’t drawing this out in any sense. His back was arched, and he was digging his head into the top of Ilya’s shoulder. Writhing beneath his hands, Shane was at the mercy of Ilya. He prayed the man wouldn’t stop to do something crazy like stop to talk about their feelings.
“I- Keep going- please,” he panted, closing his eyes against the feeling rushing through him. His toes were tingling now, maybe from pleasure, maybe a loss of blood flow, he didn’t know. Ilya was babbling something in his ear, in Russian, and Shane couldn’t understand but it was making him feel all sorts of hot anyways.
He should learn Russian, he thought.
The tingling in his toes rushed up through his legs and then exploded as Shane came all over Ilya’s fist, coating him and the top of his stomach as he cried out, hunching inwards at Ilya still rubbing him out. The overstimulation was at the same time too much and not enough, and he was still coming as Ilya slowed his movements.
Aftershocks of his orgasm and exhaustion were moving through him but Shane could feel damp on his back, almost like-
“Did you- did you come?” Shane asked incredulously, turning to face Rozanov.
Rozanov looked away bashfully, his cheeks turning a little red, but didn’t answer.
“Look how the tables have turned, huh.” Shane said, getting up to hop in the shower. He had a certain satisfied pleasure coursing through him, both from the orgasm but also that Ilya had been so aroused that he’d come untouched. It was usually the other way, Shane coming way too early and easily. He was very satisfied that whatever he’d done, Ilya had come just as fast.
Shane would have loved to bask in the post-orgasm haze for a little bit longer, but there was nothing like a meeting-time to keep him focused. He kissed Ilya quickly on the mouth and headed in. “We’ve got to shower quickly before dinner. We’re gonna be late.”
Ilya looked at him a little bit blankly and nodded. “I will, uh, go to shower. In my room.”
“Why? It’s faster to shower together. Aren’t you always going on about saving water? And you have your clothes in my room already.” Shane realized, when he didn’t get a response, that Ilya was starting to act a little weird. His hands were rubbing at the tops of his knees as he sat at the side of the bed. The expression in his face was a little…off.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Shane asked, a little unsure. The post-sex bliss was fully gone now, and Rozanov wouldn’t make eye contact with him. Ilya almost always made some sort of comment when Shane came too quick, but Shane never actually minded any of them. Had he offended Ilya? Shane would never try to make a joke again.
What had he done wrong? This kind of formalness was normal for before they started fucking regularly during the season, not for the last couple years and certainly not expected after the day they’d just had. Usually if Shane made an unfunny joke, Ilya was quick to shut it down, typically just on the edge of mean but not unfriendly.
Shane had the sudden urge to flee out the front door and return to his hotel room with Hayden or the safety of his house to wait weeks until they’d eventually forget about the weirdness, but they were both in Florida together stuck at this CCM shoot. He couldn’t give up now, though, they’d been doing so well.
Shane’s heart was dropping lower and lower in his chest as he didn’t get a response from Rozanov. Where had it gone wrong in the last 10 minutes? Looking at Rozanov right now was like looking into a blank portrait, frozen in time and starting off to the side.
“Is…what is happening right now? Is this about what I just said? Or…your family?” He asked, desperately, throwing out the first things he could think of. But it was apparently the wrong fucking thing to say, because that frozen expression shattered and Rozanov whipped his head around, eyes narrowed, and his mouth screwed up into a tight frown.
“I will go shower in my own room, Hollander, if you will be okay for five minutes.”
Shane was floored. What the fuck? “Jesus, Rozanov. Okay. I’m sorry,” he added at the end, trailing off a bit. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was sorry for.
His confusion was very quickly morphing to anger as the other man stood up and started gathering his clothes from around the room, pulling them on. He was moving as if the room was on fire. Yeah, Shane was definitely at anger now.
Nothing? Seriously? Shane wanted to shout at him, but the words were caught in his throat. That was probably a good thing. What did I do wrong?
Neither of them said a word for the awkward couple seconds that Ilya was getting ready to leave, until he went to open the door.
“See you at dinner?” Shane didn’t mean it to be a question, but it came out anyways, desperate for anything from the other man, desperate for some sign he hadn’t ruined everything. He got no response. Instead, Ilya walked out the door and closed it behind him, slamming it either on purpose or accidentally. An asshole, either way.
Shane winced at the sound of the clatter of whatever decorations were hung outside his room and then the sudden silence surrounding him.
What. The. Fuck.
September 12, 2015 – 6:17 PM
Shane was late for dinner. And when he arrived, he saw that Rozanov wasn’t even there yet.
“Hollander!” Jacob said, standing to wave him into a chair as he approached the table. “Glad you could make it, there have been some updates.”
Shane immediately thought about Ilya. Maybe the other man had bailed on the ad shoot because of whatever freak out had happened earlier, or that he was involved in an accident. Maybe somehow CCM had found out about the two of them and were cancelling his brand deals.
He should have been less relieved when Jonathan continued with, “It’s about the storm, Tropical Storm Jane is now building to become Hurricane Jane when it hits the coast of Miami.”
Thankfully, Shane was able to pivot and turn his attention to the actual reason that he was in Florida in the first place, for a shoot. “What does this mean for filming tomorrow?” He probably should have asked about their safety instead of the plan, but Jonathan was always more than happy to talk about the shoot.
“Shoot wise, about the same. Maybe we’ll have some timing issues tomorrow. The storm is tracking a little faster now, so I think we might want to get our first shots done around 8:30, or maybe even 8 tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, so what time for everything else?” Shane asked the question but used it mainly as an excuse for the rest of the team to start going through the schedule for tomorrow while he could mentally check out.
If they were going to shoot in the morning, they’d probably rebook his flights for the afternoon once shooting ended, without a need to stay overnight. And if they did that, it would probably be a quick turnaround from shooting to heading to the airport, meaning there’d be little time to see Rozanov and figure out what the fuck was going on.
Not that Shane would have anything nice to say, at least judging from right now, he was feeling some serious whiplash from the emotional rollercoaster they’d been on.
Maybe he’d become Hurricane Jane. Or, even worse, maybe he’d cry.
If they didn’t get a chance to talk, or fuck it out, like they did after particularly tough games against each other, who knew when they’d next play against each other. Or if this was it.
Maybe this was Rozanov’s last straw, whatever had happened between them. Maybe Shane had asked too many questions, had gone one step too far. He’d misjudged their conversation for intimacy.
The next time they were together, he would keep his damn mouth shut.
And this was the line of thinking that Shane had finally uncovered in his brain. That they had gotten too close, too fast. That their uninterrupted afternoon had revealed what Shane had always feared to be true, that the two of them were nothing to each other except hockey rivals that sometimes got together to fuck.
That the warm Florida sun, relaxed atmosphere, and the removal of all their distractions had turned him into someone who looked too closely at a very transactional relationship. He’d missed all of Ilya’s signs and signals that this wasn’t intimacy. He’d misread facial expressions all day, heard subtones in words that meant nothing, and took it to mean something completely wrong.
And Ilya never showed up for dinner.
September 13, 5:37 AM
Shane was going to abandon this shoot and go back to Canada where they were respectful of others’ sleep. He gave a vague shout to whoever was banging on his door before the sun was even up and blearily rolled out of bed to unlock the door and swing it open.
It was Brendan, the hotel attendant.
“So sorry, Mr. Hollander, we tried calling the desk phone,” He started, apologetic. He handed Shane a ceramic mug of hot coffee he’d brought along with him.
“It’s alright, what’s going on?” Shane asked, taking the mug, growing more and more aware by the second.
“We just got the most recent update on Jane from the National Hurricane Center, and we’re being advised to move all guests away from the beach area and to the interior building onto the second through fourth floors.”
“Oh. Uh, should I be worried?” Shane hadn’t ever gone through a hurricane, but it couldn’t be any different than a snowstorm or blizzard, right?
“No, no, we’ll be fine. It’s just, the airport is closing within the hour because of crosswinds and our beach huts are at a small risk of storm surge. Do you know anything about hurricanes?”
Shane gestured towards Brendan to come in as he started gathering his stuff to transfer rooms. “No, not really.”
Brendan nodded and continued to explain. Brendan was a total towhead, surfer-type, and his laid-back tone and body language suggested that he definitely thought it was a smaller deal than the NHC thought it was.
“The storm is getting a lot stronger than any of us thought it would be once it left the islands. The warm waters makes it stronger, you see. Great for us wind junkies,” he paused and laughed, “but also means that the storm is gonna be pushing a lot more wind and water towards us in the coming day. A lot more than anyone thought.”
Shane stopped what he was doing and just stood there, looking at Brendan.
“No, no! It’s going to be okay. Seriously. In all of my life, I’ve never had a huge problem with storms. It’s fun, I promise.” At this, Shane started to listen as Brendan described the hurricane party that the hotel had hosted in the 2nd floor conference room a couple years before, at the kitesurfing and windsurfing some of the staff would do when the swell started to come up, and the other shenanigans during hurricane season.
He finished putting his stuff together (It had taken all of 5 minutes, really,) and allowed Brendan to grab his bag to move rooms.
“Unfortunately, since we’re condensing, we had to put you and someone else from the CCM team in the same family suite on the third floor. You’ll have your own room but in a suite with a Jack-and-Jill bathroom, shared living area, balcony, and kitchenette. It’s the other hockey player, I confirmed it with Jonathan before we made the arrangements. Everyone else has been doubled up since check in. You and Ilya Rozanov were the only ones in the bungalows. I hope that’s okay, because now our interior building is full of all of the other guests having to move from the garden, too.”
At this, Shane froze.
He was going to have to share a suite with Rozanov? The same guy who’d bolted out of Shanes’ room yesterday like it was on fire? The same guy who’d touched him so sweetly and opened up to him and then completely changed personalities to become a raging asshole?
They moved to head outside of the bungalow, where Shane immediately noted the cool temperature and wind. He was grateful for his mug of still-warm cup of coffee in his hand. There were soft market lights lighting the pathways but no hint of dawn yet. Shane got a horrible sense of foreboding. The wind was strong enough to whip his clothes around and tug at the ankles of his pants. Brendan kept on walking, completely oblivious to Shanes’ discomfort.
Him and Rozanov? In the same suite? And the airport was closed, this fucking storm was getting stronger (it felt like it was on top of him already), and he had to completely change plans.
This blissful weekend he’d been hoping for was falling apart at the seams. First, some stupid photoshoot vision he didn’t understand in the slightest. Second, a hurricane was coming to hit them. Third, Ilya had been a complete fucking dickhead and Shane cared way too much about it.
He wouldn’t survive the weekend.
And as him and Brendan entered the front door of his new hotel room, dropped Shanes’ bag in the front entryway and walked into the room, four things happened in quick succession that completely proved his point.
- Brendan the Bellboy led Shane to the hotel room door and gave him the keys before making his goodbyes and heading back to the stairwell.
- Shane entered the room to Ilya Rozanov, who looked up from where he had been pacing in front of big sliding glass windows, shouting in furious Russian.
- Shane Hollander dropped the ceramic mug of hot coffee, shocked at the yelling, which shattered onto his white sneakers.
- The hotel lights flickered once, twice, and then finally went out.