Chapter Text
Author note:
Spiritually, this is in the same vibe family as the last HR pic I posted - all his spindly roots.
Emotionally, Shane is horny and lonely and deep in comp het valley. I don't particularly care to read many fics where either MC hooks up with other people so I am saying upfront this is not about the random female OC and the sex is of course between Shane and Ilya.
Practically, I split it in two because 10k felt too long for a one-shot. Second chapter will be posted tomorrow.
One.
Toronto was cold the way loneliness is sometimes cold and Shane wished he was home. Not Montreal. Maybe not Ottawa. Just somewhere his bones didn’t itch. He hadn’t seen Rozanov since early October. It had been unseasonably warm that night in Boston. The cab driver had called it an Indian summer and Shane had pretended not to hear because he didn’t know if that was offensive or not. They’d fucked in a Marriot that Shane booked on one of those third party booking sites. He’d pre-paid. He didn’t link the booking to his rewards account, even though he actually really loved seeing his reward points and airline miles build up. He didn’t need them or anything but it was nice to use them to upgrade his parents flights when they travelled. It was weird to earn as much as he did when his Dad got a government wage.
October was a long time ago. Maybe not, like, in the calendar sense of the word. But Shane had played like twenty games and been in like ten cities and scored like nine goals which was decent but not great. Rozanov scored twenty so far this season. He kept sending Shane reminder texts when the gap grew and Shane either ignored them or told him to fuck off. There’s no real malice in it anymore. Shane had more points. Shane got more praise.
Shane was in cold Toronto. The Metros won tonight. Shane didn’t score but he had two assists and he was happy for Hayden, who got his first goal of the season. He’s trained himself to think of the team first and not beat himself up if he doesn’t get a goal. The Metros won and they don’t have another game for days and the streets of Toronto were rapidly filling with slush. One of the guys on the team rented a suite in their hotel and since it’s not really going out, Shane didn’t really have a good excuse to stay in. He took the elevator to the top floor of the mid-range hotel, expecting a few guys and few beers.
What was the alternative? Stay in his room and try not to think about Rozanov? That was a lost cause the second they touched down in Toronto. They passed the location of the CCM photo-shoot on the way to the hotel and Shane got flashbacks like he was a fucking war vet or something. Honest to God flashbacks of Rozanov stroking his cock at Shane in the communal shower. Worse, Shane was struck with a memory of Rozanov laughing boyishly on the ice that simultaneously twisted his chest and made him want to punch himself in the face. It was one thing remembering something sexual. That was normal. Everyone did that. Shane looked up the term ‘spank-bank’ once on urban dictionary when after hearing some joke he didn’t get. There were lots of definitions. It was a user generated site. But it wasn’t normal to be slapped in the face with fond, even silly memories, of Rozanov that day.
Toronto was a big city. It felt newer and sleeker than Montreal. Shane could see why it was used as stand-in for New York in movies. It was a big city but he was pretty sure he could see the hotel from that first night he and Rozanov fooled around from this hotel. Shane wanted to jump back in time to that night sometimes. But he wanted to go as he was now, with a little more experience under his belt. He wanted that sharp excitement again with, like, thirty per cent less fear and maybe a little more stamina.
It was stupid. He wondered if Rozanov every thought about that night the way Shane did. Probably not. He hooked up with girls all the time. It was all over the internet and the locker room gossip network. Even the players who openly hated Rozanov didn’t hide their slack jawed admiration for his off-ice game. DSL. That was another term Shane had to look up on urban dictionary after one of the guys had said it about some blonde model spotted on Rozanov’s arm. Shane didn’t look in the mirror for like two days afterwards, in case he started making comparisons.
Anyway. Shane couldn’t stay in his room alone, squinting along the skyline at the hotel with what felt like only room 1410 in the world. So he went to the suite, expecting something lowkey and finding something rowdy instead. The suite was very nineties and that was the nicest thing Shane could think about the design. His team-mates were there, which was fine. Well, the younger ones. He was still one of the younger ones, even though he didn’t really feel like it. There were older guys too. Maybe marketing people? Promoters? They looked like they came straight from work but their work required them to dress sharp. There were girls. Shane wasn’t expecting girls.
But he was there now, getting clapped on the back and handed a drink that sloshed over the side of the cup. It felt like a challenge, sometimes, the way the guys called him Captain. They didn’t mean it off the ice. Or maybe they did. Like when the concierge called him sir. Anyway, Shane knew he wasn’t exactly sociable and he could take some light ribbing over his lack of appetite for this kind of thing.
But he wasn’t a total shut-in. He didn’t drink during the season, except for when he did. He didn’t like bars or nightclubs, really, but this wasn’t quite as bad. The bathroom sink was filled with ice and every time someone opened the balcony doors, the room was hit with frigid air and the acrid scent of weed. It was kind of like the parties he went to as a teenager, except he wasn’t a kid any more. There weren’t any flashing lights or thumping music. JJ was streaming a Drake playlist on the tv from his phone with the Chromecast he never travelled without.
Shane would never just leave his phone unattended like that in case a text from Lily popped up and his life fell apart. The first time the guys on the team showed him those little streaming sticks, which they mostly used to watch porn and/or Netflix, Shane wondered at their bravery and then he learned that they only streamed the app and not the whole phone screen.
Still, though.
Shane could be normal. It wasn’t too difficult to be normal when people were talking about things on his wavelength. He knew these guys. They talked about hockey, the last game specifically and the next game and the other teams. Shane could sense, sometimes, that they treated him differently. Like they weren’t just peers, even before he got the C. Like they had to show him they were serious. It didn’t last. The more they drank, the sloppier they got. They full-on gossiped about the other teams and they bitched about management and contract clauses and took jibes at each other that had more of an edge. Shane stuck with his first drink, glad of the illusion of melting ice.
They talked about girls. Shane felt like the light got more fluorescent. JJ was showing Adam the texts he got from a girl from Chicago and someone was wondering how long Hayden and Jackie had to wait after the twins were born. There was speculation about the few girls in the suite and it was all kind of icky. He didn’t quite get the jokes or know if the comments were jokes. He was petrified someone would ask him about girls. He had no girls.
He thought that Rozanov probably always knew what to say if someone asked him about girls. He had, like, a roster. A revolving door of eager girls with glossy lips and waists that made his big hands look huge. Not that Shane took much notice.
Anyway, it was hot in the suite and cool outside so Shane waited for a natural lull in the conversation to slip away. Just needed some air. The suite had a small wraparound balcony and he took himself off to the furthest corner. Out of sight. Just him and the cold Toronto night and the phone in his pocket with no interesting notifications.
He thought about taking a picture. His drink. The party. The swirls of smoke and the city lights. The CN tower in the distance. Something that said, look I’m a real boy with a social life. It’s not like he could post it anywhere. That wasn’t his brand. And who would he send it too?
This part of the balcony faced north, which was good. His room faced south and the hotel where he had first hooked up with Rozanov. The place he gave in to all his jumbled desires. It had ruined him, really. If he never opened the door that night, he might have been content with mediocre kisses and stilted encounters. He was cold but not cold enough to go back inside. He’d probably feel more comfortable if he finished his drink but it was the middle of the season and also he was constantly terrified of drinking too much and being found out. The bass leaked out with the whoosh of the balcony door and then a shadow fell over him.
“Sorry. Do you mind if I sit here for a sec? I don’t want to my hair to stink of weed smoke for work tomorrow.” It was one of the girls from inside. She was petite, with bright red hair and big eyes and she kind of reminded Shane of the girl who was in the same Spiderman movies as Andrew Garfield.
“Sure,” said Shane. He wasn’t going to be rude.
“I was at the game. Congratulations,” she said. “You play for Montreal, right? Or am I just congratulating, like, a random dude with no affiliation.”
“I’m on the team.” Shane smiled a little. She offered her hand and he shook it. Her skin was soft. His hands had been full of callouses since he got serious about hockey. “I’m Shane.”
“Erin,” she said. “What’s your number? Like on your jersey?” That was the second time she asked something and then offered further explanation. Shane needed to get better at keeping the confusion off his face.
“24,” he said. “It’s, uh, the one with C on the front. But I didn’t score tonight, so don’t feel bad about not remembering.”
“It’s still early,” she said.
Her name was Erin and she talked a lot which was honestly fine by Shane. He liked when people took the lead, conversation wise. She told him she was part-Belgian and part-Irish and he could easily make sense of that. Red-hair. Her name. She spent a big part of her childhood in Brussels and switched to a French that Shane could mostly understand. She worked for Ernst and Young, which Shane had half an idea was something to with tax or accounting because his Dad had complained before about private consultants working with the Treasury Board but he didn’t think that was anything he should work into conversation. She was there with her friend Maya, who was with Rishi who did something with sales at the Toronto stadium and got them tickets sometimes for games.
“He’s, like, a major fanboy,” she said. “He tries to be the ‘guy’, you know, for visiting teams. The weed guy. The club guy. But Maya likes him and I like free tickets so…”
“So you don’t even like hockey?” Shane asked.
“i can’t answer that,” she said. “I’m hoping to apply for Canadian citizenship one day and I don’t want anything to jeopardise that.”
Shane laughed a little. His drink was nearly gone. His phone hadn’t buzzed once. The drink was stronger than he realised. That’s what happened when someone else poured it a party.
“I won’t report you,” he said. He considered getting another drink, so he’d have something to do with hands. He thought maybe he should offer the girl his jacket and then saw she had the runner thing from the hotel bed on her lap. “Oh my God,” he said. “You should throw that over the railing. Have you ever considered just how many germs are on those things? They’re, like, never changed between guests.”
“It’s on top of my clothes,” she said.
“Still.” He shuddered.
“It’s cold,” she said and Shane could see where it was going. His pulse wasn’t racing or anything but she was pretty and nice and it was kind of, expected? There were lots of guys here and she talked to him. How lame would he look if he got up and walked away. He didn’t have anything smooth to say but when she kind of inched closer, he didn’t move away. It was fine. They were tucked away in a corner of the balcony. He could do this, if she initiated. If she took the lead.
He felt like she was going to kiss him when another girl peeked around the corner. “I’m fine, Maya,” said Erin.
“Oh my God,” the girl replied. “I should have fucking known I’d find you with another hockey player. Rishi is going to the corner store. Do you want anything?”
“No, bitch,” said Erin, affectionately. “Shoo. Sorry, Shane. She’s the worst.” Shane had pulled back a little and his heart had finally sped up a little. He wasn’t naive. He’d never had to look up puck bunny on urban dictionary. Some girls chased guys in jerseys the same way guys chased, like, bikini models or whatever. Was it offensive? He didn’t know. Again.
“Another hockey player?” Shane asked.
“She makes me sound so bad,” Erin said. “I hooked up with another player. Just one. A while back.”
“From my team?”
“No.”
“Oh. Toronto?” Shane ran through a list in his head of Toronto’s current players. Guys he’d played against and guys he’d played with in Juniors and at Sochi.
“No. One of the American teams.”
Right. Toronto’s last home game was against Buffalo. He didn’t really know anyone on that team.
“Sorry,” said Shane. “I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business if you hooked up with some American guy.”
“He wasn’t American,” Erin said. “He plays for Boston, I think. But he’s Russian. Ilya Rozanov.”
Shane Hollander considered hurling himself off the side of the building. Pros: This conversation would be over. He’d never have to think about Ilya Rozanov again. Cons: His parents would be sad. No more hockey. It would probably fuck up the rest of Montreal’s season.
He was still deliberating, when the girl spoke again.
“Oh, you know him? Sorry. You have a face.”
“Not really,” he replied, quickly. “We were drafted together so, yeah. And there’s the whole rivalry thing. Don’t google it.”
“Seriously?” Erin was smiling. It wasn’t serious to her. Was it serious to anyone? “Like, what Superman and Lex Luthor?”
“More like Djokovic and Nadal,” Shane offered.
“Do they play hockey too?”
He smiled, despite himself. “Tennis. But forget that. Think, like, Coke vs Pepsi. That’s the narrative, I guess. But he’s an asshole. I don’t think you can say that about drinks.”
Erin sipped her drink. “He didn’t seem like an asshole. He told me my name was pretty. He was nice.”
Of course he was nice to her. He wanted to fuck her. Shane knew Rozanov was capable of being nice. He didn’t get all those women by being mean. Shane wanted to ask Erin if Rozanov had actually had sex with her or was hooking up just, like, making out at a party like this one. He didn’t. It would be weird. It wasn’t normal to be this interested in a guy like that. And come on, Rozanov wasn’t going to settle for some juvenile first base stuff when he could and did have sex whenever he wanted.
With people who weren’t Shane. All those glossy girls. The coach’s son in Russia. Other guys, probably. Shane’s throat hurt.
“I don’t really know him,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s fine.”
“Was…was it recently?” He had to know. The last time he’d hooked up with Rozanov was October. It felt vital to know if this flighty girl had been there since.
“Oh, no,” she replied. “It was like, last spring. I’m not…”
“You don’t have to -“
“I know what people say about girls and athletes. I get it.” Her smile was pretty. She had a petite pixie mouth and her lips weren’t full of that sticky stuff girls wore. “He was nice. I had fun.It was a long time ago.”
Shane nodded. He wasn’t disappointed. He wasn’t. She seemed like a nice girl. He was the loser, hiding on balconies and thinking about someone who didn’t really want him. He was the one teased by his team-mates and pitied by his parents.
“Good,” he said. “People, uh, should be nice to you.”
“People. Any person in particular?” Erin was sitting close to Shane. He could smell her hair. Almond, maybe. Something heavy. Would he give in? Would it make him feel worse about himself or a bit less other for a while? Get the guys off his back. He didn’t really get worked up over girls. Not like he did with Rozanov. He probably just hadn’t met the right one yet.
“I’m nice,” he said. “Nicer than him. We’re competitive like that.”
It wasn’t what he planned on saying. But he couldn’t say the things he was thinking. He was thinking about Rozanov kissing this girl in the all-consuming way he kissed Shane. He was thinking about Rozanov’s hands in her bouncy hair or on her chest. Did he leave a mark on her neck? He was careful not to, with Shane. Did he come inside her or on her? Why was this making Shane’s head spin?
Erin kissed him. Her lips were soft and she felt breakable, even before he touched her. She had a small face, small mouth, small manicured hands on his shoulders. She smelled clean and her flesh was so pliable under his hands. He put one hand on her waist, the other on her knee and suffered a brief terror that he would crush her bones. She kissed carefully, and Shane didn’t want to be disrespectful or anything but he was a little bit drunk and lot sick of thinking about Rozanov.
Even now, he was still thinking about Rozanov. Shane’s mouth was pressed against this girl, who’d been kissed by Rozanov too. Tongue in the same mouth. Hands on the same flesh. He felt kind of depraved, thinking about what Rozanov would look like in this position. He thought about Rozanov undressing her and putting his mouth on her. Shane thought, wildly, about pressing his own dick into the same place Rozanov had been and pulled the girl tighter. He put one of his hands in her hair, desperate to feel something real and to angle her head a little so she’d kiss deeper. Deeper like..
She yelped.
He broke away, half afraid she could read his perverted thoughts. Is this what it took to get him worked up?
“My hair,” she said. “Please don’t rip out my extensions.” Her smile was cute, sheepish and Shane felt like an ogre. Was that a thing other guys knew to be careful about? Was it awful that he wanted to ask her if Rozanov pulled her hair? Did he make her feel weightless and boneless? He almost wanted to ask her to come down to his room. He never did this. He never got turned on like this with girls.
“Sorry,” Shane said. “I got, uh, ..”
“It’s fine.” Erin put her hand on his knee. “You’re nice. Very polite.”
His cheeks were warm. He barely felt the weight of her hand on his leg.
He wondered if he kissed like Rozanov. Shane had kissed girls before that night in Toronto. Once he got taller and broader and hockey was something to be admired, there was never any shortage of girls who wanted to kiss him. But it was different with Rozanov. With him, Shane learned what it was like when you really wanted it. He had questions he couldn’t ask. Did the cigarette smell secretly turn you on? Did he press his tongue all the way inside? Did you do what he told you? Did he fuck you so hard you felt it in your chest? Did you quiver too? Was he sweet after? Shane had nothing but curiosity and notes he couldn’t compare and a terrible, bubbling fear that there was actually something seriously wrong with him. Deviant. Weirdo. Loser.
He’d bet his best Rolex that Rozanov didn’t think about him like this.
“Nicer than-“ Shane started, and stopped when JJ, Drapeau and some of the other guys on the team basically burst around the corner.
“Capitane,” JJ said. “We need you for a sec.”
“Kind of busy, bud,” Shane said.
“It’s serious.”
Right. Shane wasn’t an asshole. If his friends, his team crowded onto a cold narrow balcony to ask for his help, he wasn’t going to ignore them for a girl he just met. He waved an excuse to Erin and wondered if she would follow. Would she suggest going somewhere quieter? Would he go along with it? He sometimes did. Never with a head full of fantasy like this though.
“What’s up?” Shane demanded, as soon as they were back inside.
“Are you going to hook up with that girl?” Drapeau asked.
“None of your business,” Shane replied. Did that mean they hadn’t seen them kiss? Or that they didn’t count kissing as hooking up. The guys exchanged looks. “What?”
“Just be sure to wrap it up, man,” JJ said.
“Again, none of your business.”
“Look, she’s got a reputation.”
“I was talking to her. I wasn’t proposing marriage.”
“She’s a puck-bunny.”
“Like that ever stopped any of you.”
“She slept with Rozanov,” said JJ. “The weed guy told Adam. Last season.”
“Oh.” Shane couldn’t admit he already knew. Once again, he had to be a freak in private.
“You don’t want his sloppy seconds,” said Drapeau. “It’s gross. ”
“Right.” Shane nodded. He was deeply uncomfortable with all of this. The language was nothing new but it never really meant anything to him before. He felt he should object, say something about respect or whatever, but that would just draw attention. These guys were hypocrites. Shane knew for a fact that Drapeau had slept with one his old team-mate’s ex-girlfriends. He’d heard them joke once about running a train on some girl and yes, he had gone to his old friend urban dictionary for answers.
“You can do better.” JJ clapped Shane on the back. “They call him community dick in Boston, you know? And can you imagine what he’d say on the ice if he heard.”
“How would he hear?” Shane said.
“Ain’t no secrets in hockey, Captain.”
-
The wind bit hard when Shane went back to the balcony. Erin was waiting. Shane wasn’t an asshole. He made his apologies and shook her hand and said it was nice to meet her. He got the impression she wasn’t overly disappointed. Heck, maybe it was her thing. There were plenty of other players here who didn’t have this weird … whatever with Rozanov. It wouldn’t be embarrassing to anyone else if they had sex with the same girl as Ilya Rozanov. It would possibly be a badge of honour. Shane didn’t even know if he would have tried to have sex with her if the guys hadn’t interrupted. Would she have wanted him? Did he just want to scratch an itch and feel a little bit closer to Rozanov?
“Are you on Instagram?” Erin asked. “I’ll follow you. In case…”
“I don’t really manage my own account,” Shane said.
Back in his hotel room, he turned the thermostat as high as it would go. He felt foolish, really. Sick. Maybe ashamed. He showered off the phantom scent of almonds and brushed his teeth twice and turned on the tv for company. Boston had played that night, too, down in Tampa Bay. The highlights were over, the credits were rolling. Shane had missed the post-match commentary and interviews and just saw a final sweeping shot of the crowds, waving Rozanov signs.
Because it was his job and he took it seriously, Shane put on his glasses and read some of the coverage of the latest games. He’d do his own tape tomorrow when he was fully sober. This was about the competition. Rozanov scored twice in Tampa. Shane watched both clips, envious.
Jane: Your second goal was top-class. I hate you
Lily: Liar. What about the first?
Jane: It was a fluke. Left-wing wasn’t even trying
Lily: Which of yours were flukes?
Jane: Fuck off
Lily: don’t be a sore loser
Jane: We still won
…
…
Jane: it’s really cold here
Lily: Yes, Toronto is cold in Winter.
Lily: or is your bed cold, “Jane”?
Jane: is it nice in Tampa?
Lily: No. I got three mosquito bites. You want pictures?
Lily: it’s warm, though. Like Moscow summer. More humid. Everything is wet
Jane: stop
Lily: stop what? Is this "hard" for you to read?
…
…
I met a girl
Did you use condoms all the time
Do you finish yourself off with
Will you
Jane: goodnight lily. Try not to get eaten by mosquitos in your sleep