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The thought came to Shane unbidden and unwanted. His thoughts could be like that, like heavy fusebox switches. One moment, the switch was one way, the next it had slid into the opposite side with a heavy, final clunk.
‘If Rozanov was outed, he couldn’t go back to Russia.’
He had the thought in bed, with the other man’s arm curled around his middle and his come cooling on the back of his thigh, his breath slow and warm across the shell of his ear. Nothing changed from one moment to the next, but the thought was emblazoned in glowing after-image on the insides of Shane’s eyelids.
‘He couldn’t go back to Russia.’
Shane squeezed his eyes shut, letting the dim light of the hotel room shutter back to black.
Thoughts didn’t equate to action, he had seen that as a friend’s Facebook status once. He hadn’t hurt Rozanov by thinking it.
He turned his head towards the comforting warmth and scent of the other man and pushed the thought away, ignoring it like a brief whiff of skunk smoke on the wind.
When he was back in Montreal and then back on the road, Shane’s thoughts weren’t always on Rozanov. He owed his team, his family more than that. He kept his discipline, he kept his mindset, he played some of the best hockey of his life.
But it was impossible to ignore him. The universe and, more specifically, all of the media coverage of the MLH, conspired to constantly thrust his rival in his face. The twenty-four hour news cycle needed to keep eyeballs glued to it, and what better way than to speculate on Hollander and Rozanov in context of one another’s careers.
They were almost constantly neck-a-neck, which was exciting when they faced each other and when they crashed together in their clandestine hookups. But Shane wished he could watch coverage of the sport that was the love of his life without being reminded that there seemed to be no mention of him that didn’t include Rozanov in the next breath.
And in his private moments, his body and his memory wouldn’t let him forget how Rozanov had made him feel. When he was alone in bed, those memories made him so horny he couldn’t see straight.
Rozanov poised over him with his knees bent and pressed up against his chest so tightly he could barely breathe with every thrust.
Rozanov grabbing him by the nape of his neck and using his weight to flip Shane to his belly - not easily, because Shane was strong too and he could push back, make him work for it, and he always rose to the occasion.
Rozanov looking up at him while Shane rode him with his thighs burning (it was called power bottoming, he googled it) and his head dropped forward and both their mouths open, panting shamelessly, breathing harshly, their names coming out in strangled groans.
And then, abruptly, the silence. Inevitable and cold no matter how the season had ended. Because Rozanov was a world away.
‘If Rozanov was outed, he couldn’t go back to Russia.’
“I was thinking.”
“You are always thinking, Hollander. In bed, on ice.” Rozanov drawled. “Less thinking now.” He said, and rolled his hips meaningfully down against Shane’s, causing him to shiver under him from anticipation.
“The- thing.”
“Thing?” Rozanov echoed, his accent spitting the word out- ‘ting’ like a church bell.
Shane turned his head away and let his cheek press into the pillow under his head.
“The video thing.”
He saw the realization appear in Rozanov’s eyes, and his lips parted in a playful grin.
“Shane Hollander decides he will finally get on camera for me, after every billboard in boring home town already got to see his a-“
“If you talk about it like that, we’re not doing it.” Shane said, brows furrowing.
“Do not pout, you’ll get wrinkles.” Rozanov said. He reached for Shane’s wrists and wrapped his long fingers around them, slowly dragging up both of his arms for his hands to be beside his head. “You are serious? Is okay?”
Shane turned his head back to meet Rozanov’s eyes.
“Yeah.” He said, feeling a thrill of frisson down his spine when he pushed his arms back against Rozanov’s grip.
He watched Rozanov bite the tip of his tongue, then bounded off the bed to retrieve his phone.
“It was for you.” Shane said later when Rozanov teased him by offering to send him the video, “I really don’t need to-“
“I send you.” Rozanov said, and Shane rolled his eyes.
“Fine.” He said. He dropped his hand to his pocket, and felt the buzzing of the video arriving in his messages. “I’m just going to delete it.”
“Liar.” Rozanov said.
The hardest thing about it wasn’t covering his tracks, wasn’t having to know that it was his ass that the entire world was watching Rozanov fuck. The hardest part was waiting, sending nothing and saying nothing.
Obviously he wasn’t going to publicly comment on another player being outed. When reporters raised it at the post game, he reacted exactly the way everyone expected Shane Hollander to react and firmly refused to talk about anything but hockey.
He didn’t hear anything from Rozanov for a long time. The lack of communication killed him, but for things to work, there couldn’t be any suspicion on Rozanov’s part that Shane had anything to do with it.
When he came to him (and he would, because who else would he have?) it had to be his idea, his desperation pushing him in Shane’s direction.
It came to a head quickly, with Rozanov at the back door to his building, climbing the stairs they had raced up like children as if he was marching to his execution.
Shane took out a beer from the fridge and set it down in front of Rozanov on the coffee table. Then he sat beside him. They sat in silence for a long time.
“Listen, my mom-“
“I do not want to hear about your boring mother, Hollander. I do not want to hear you at all.” Rozanov’s breathing was coming quick and shallow. Shane had never seen him like this before. Thrilling.
“You came here.” Shane reminded him gently. Ilya shook his head, his curls bouncing, like the violent motion could vibrate him out of this reality, the nightmare that had been looming over him for years.
The fear in his eyes made them glimmer like cut crystal. Stunning.
“There is nothing for me now.” Ilya said, voice hoarse, the strength bleeding out of him.
“You have your team.”
“Team will trade.”
“Your friend, Svetlana?”
“Couldn’t be seen with me. Too much risk for family in Russia.” Ilya raised a hand and dragged it down his face. He let out a sound like a wounded animal had burrowed into his chest. “My father will- and then he will forget, and Alexei will tell him again, as long as it takes for him to curse me forever-“
Shane reached out and placed his hand on Rozanov’s arm. The other man went perfectly still, and for a moment Shane thought he might jerk away, but instead he crumpled towards him, and Shane scrambled to wrap his arms around his shoulders, pulling him tight to his chest.
“You have me.” Shane said. He felt Rozanov shake his head.
“No. No, Hollander, they will-“
“They’ll see me standing with a colleague.” Shane said, giving Rozanov a squeeze.
The other man’s tone was hesitant,
“You think, your mother- could keep me in league?”
“I know she can.” Shane said. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the golden curls beneath him, and felt Rozanov shudder.
“Don’t worry, Ilya. I’ll take care of it.” He murmured, “I’ll take care of everything.”