Chapter Text
July 2021 - Ottawa
This is not how Shane Hollander expected his off-season to go.
By early July, he expected to be camped out at the cottage, maybe fielding calls from Farah to discuss his extension with Montreal.
Instead, he was shaking hands with the Ottawa Centaurs general manager, together holding up a black and red jersey with his name and number plastered on the back, trying not to embarrass himself by blinking too hard at the press pool’s camera flashes.
“Shane! How excited are you to be playing for your hometown team?”
A boring, softball question. Shane was grateful for it.
“I mean, that’s every kid’s dream growing up. When you picture yourself making it to the NHL, you picture yourself in the team you cheer for’s sweater. This,” he gestures to the jersey he has since pulled over his head, “This is very cool for 10-year-old Shane.” His eyes scanned the row of people at the back of the room and found his parents, who both gave him encouraging smiles. “I’m excited to be home and to get to work.”
“I’m sure it’s been a bit of a roller coaster the last few days, what with Montreal trading you to Los Angeles, only to be flipped to Ottawa two days later. Do you have any parting words for your former team? Or, er, teams?”
Shane let out a huffy laugh. “Yeah, it’s been a lot of emotions this week. But at the end of the day, this is a business. Everyone I talked to in LA was great and upfront with me that they’re in rebuild mode and they’re on the hunt for picks and prospects, so I knew anything was on the table. As for Montreal…”
Shane felt a sharp jolt in his stomach like he was about to be sick. He schooled his face as best he could and hoped he was projecting Grade A Deadpan Hockey Player™. “I loved my time there. I gave them everything I have. A couple of guys there are friends for life. But it was time for a fresh start.” Shane nodded as he spoke, punctuated by a tight smile.
“The Centaurs surprised everyone last year with their performance, and not long after the acquisition of Troy Barrett things seemed to really click for the group. With Rozanov out to begin the season, you’re likely going to be seeing a lot of time in that top line center spot. What about this team sticks out to you that you think can give them another playoff run?”
Shane felt another stomach jolt at the mention of the Ottawa captain.
“Just the camaraderie. I talked to Rozanov right after the trade, he was one of the first guys to call me, and he was telling me how close these guys are. They want to win for each other. They have the skill to back it up. I think we’re gonna go far.”
The Centaurs GM smiled smugly at Shane, then the mass of reporters. “That’s gonna do it for now. We gotta help this guy get settled in.” He clapped Shane hard on the back. “We’ll see everyone at training camp. Thanks guys.”
Shane gave one more lame smile to the crowd before following the man out of the room.
* * *
“So we’ve got the players lounge down this way, then further down the training room…”
Shane was doing his best to keep up with the bubbly man giving him the tour of the Centaurs’ facility. After bidding goodbye to his parents with a promise of dinner the following night, he was entrusted into the care of the Centaurs’ Senior Director of Communications. Harris had a bright smile, and seemingly bounced with every step he took that caused Shane to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from outright giggling at the man.
Harris thankfully had the decency to ask before shoving a camera in Shane’s face to record some content of their new star returning home. “People love this behind the scenes stuff. It’ll be great to get your face out here as much as possible, let the fans know the vibes are good. Is that okay with you?”
Shane had the sense that he was genuinely asking if it was okay, and if not Harris wouldn’t be offended by him saying no or branding him as difficult. It made him all the more okay with saying yes.
It had nothing to do with the collection of Pride pins on his lapel that made Shane feel slightly lightheaded.
They had stopped to admire a long mural outside the locker room chronicling the organization’s history when they heard a gruff, accented voice call out down the hall.
“So the rumors are true, then!”
Shane turned and saw Ilya Rozanov with his signature cocky smile plastered on his face striding towards them.
Well, striding may be a stretch. The brace wrapped around his left knee gave him a slight limp.
“Oh, hey Ilya!” Harris waved cheerfully. “What are you doing here?”
“Barrett told me you are in charge of showing the new guy around today. I had to come say hello. Even wounded, I am still captain, yes?” Rozanov reached them and gave Shane a once over with a smirk. “Hollander,” he said much more softly but not without confidence. Rozanov stuck his hand out to him. “It’s good to have you here. Welcome.”
Shane stared at Rozanov for what felt like a millennium, sure he was playing a trick on him, and was suddenly very aware of the camera three feet away from them. He hoped his gulp wasn’t visible as he clasped Rozanov’s hand firmly in his and gave it a small shake. “Thanks. I’m happy to be here.”
Rozanov softened his eyes slightly but said much more firmly, “Montreal are idiots.”
Shane felt his stomach start doing backflips.
Rozanov dropped his hand and clapped Harris on the back. “You’re in good hands with Harris here. Perfect welcoming committee.”
Harris smiled warmly at Rozanov. “It’s just my job, man. Nothing crazy.”
“Ah, but you make it crazy fun! Seriously, everyone loves Harris. Smartest, best person here. People try to hate him and they just fall in love with him instead!”
Harris barked a laugh, but Shane could see color rising to the tips of Harris’ cheeks. As if on cue, the phone in Harris’ hand started ringing. “Sorry guys, gotta take this, just one sec…”
Rozanov merely beamed as Harris wandered a few yards down the hall to take the call. The cameraman, assuming everyone was taking a pause, lowered his camera and began fidgeting with his equipment.
Rozanov turned his attention back to Shane. “So,” he said lowly, just loud enough for Shane to hear. “You happy to be home?”
Shane felt heavy under Rozanov’s gaze, the urge to run pulsing through his body but as if he would only run as fast as molasses. “Yeah, I, um…” He shook his head as if to sort his thoughts. “It’s weird, I’m not gonna lie. I never thought I would play anywhere else. But there are worse places to end up, I guess.”
Rozanov, with his hands on his hips, simply nodded and made a small sound of agreement. “LA would’ve been nice, though?”
Shane couldn’t help but laugh. “I couldn’t believe it when I got the first call. Thankfully things played out the way they did, I don’t think I’m cut out for that place.”
“Hm. Guess not,” Rozanov gave him a cheeky grin in return. “I heard the Montreal front office is pissed you ended up back in the division.”
Shane’s face hardened without him realizing. “Good. They should be.”
Rozanov bit his lip, clearly trying to suppress a wide smile from taking over his face. Shane avoided eye contact, instead his gaze landing on the pink flesh pulled between his teeth. He must have let his eyes linger too long, however, because when he chanced looking at Rozanov again he was met by his heady glare.
The first time he had been on the receiving end of that look over a decade ago, in a dingy locker room shower in Toronto, it had made him terrified. Later, against the door of his hotel room, it had emboldened him. Now, a mixture of the two swirled in his gut.
As they stared at one another, Shane wondered if they were having the same memory.
“I, ah, am sorry you are no longer captain. You will get an A, surely, especially with my bum knee,” Rozanov softly kicked his leg out and let it swing between them for emphasis, thankfully breaking the tension.
“How long are you out for?”
“At least the first few weeks of the season. Can’t start skating until October. Maybe November, I will be back. You can tell your friend Comeau I’m coming for him next time we meet.”
“He’s not my friend,” Shane stated as neutrally as he could. But by the glimmer in Rozanov’s eye, the quip still reeked of bitterness. He quickly tried to change the subject. “Well, don’t worry. If your C gets usurped, I’ll do it fair and square.”
Rozanov choked back a laugh. “Ah, you think it will be so easy? First you get my ice time, then you get my C? Just like that?” He snapped his fingers in Shane’s face.
“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Shane grinned. “Just that if it happens, it would be rightfully earned.”
“You are piece of work, Hollander,” Rozanov shook his head.
“It’s my first day, cut me some slack.”
“Mm, yes, first day and already coming for my job. Maybe we can’t be friends after all.”
“Is that what this is? You trying to be friends?”
Rozanov held his gaze and looked at Shane very seriously. “Friendly,” he corrected himself. “We don’t have to be friends, necessarily…”
Rozanov’s eyes drifted down to Shane’s mouth, where they lingered for just a moment too long before returning to hold Shane’s gaze.
Shane felt his heart fall to his ass.
“Okay! Sorry about that, Shane. We should probably keep it moving. Ilya, do you wanna tag along?”
Shane whipped his head around to face Harris, having completely forgotten where he was and why. He was getting a tour of his new team’s facility, he reminded himself, because he had been traded, twice, and was chatting with his new captain.
Who just happened to be Ilya fucking Rozanov.
Ice suddenly flooded his veins, and Shane swore he felt the Earth under his feet move, but miraculously stayed standing and no one noticed his panic beginning to set in.
“Ah, no, I should leave you two to it.” Rozanov reached out to shake Shane’s hand once more. “Hollander, it really is good that you are here. I meant what I told you before. This is a good group of guys. And you will make us better, surely.”
Shane’s throat suddenly felt a little tighter. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
Rozanov tightened his grip on Shane’s hand. “Call me if you need anything.”
Then the fucker winked.
Shane definitely felt like he was going to be faint.
“Harris! I’ll see you later, my friend.” Rozanov finally let go of Shane’s hand and patted Harris on the arm as he walked away. “Welcome home, Hollander!” He called over his shoulder.
Shane took a steadying breath before turning back to Harris. “Where to next?”
* * *
June 2010 - Toronto
The moment Shane heard the door close behind Rozanov, he thought he was going to be sick. Blood rushed to his head as anxiety coursed through his veins, setting him on fire from the inside out. He found himself kneeling on the floor next to the bed, head between his knees, still completely naked. This can’t happen again, he thought to himself, trying not to replay the evening’s events on a loop in his mind. It won’t happen again.
And, not from lack of want, it never happened again.
Their first All-Star game as rookies, six months after their rendezvous, Rozanov had slipped Shane his room number. Shane sat in his own hotel room for hours, agonizing over every possible outcome if he went ahead and knocked on Rozanov’s door. In the end, he couldn’t go through with it. What happened at the commercial shoot… it was a one time thing. It simply had to be. Shane had far too much on the line, and surely so did Rozanov. They never needed to acknowledge it had ever happened.
And credit to Rozanov, he never acknowledged it.
The next time they ran into each other at that year’s NHL Awards, Rozanov drunkenly stumbled into Shane’s shoulder to congratulate him on his Rookie of the Year Award, flashed him a cocky grin that could have been interpreted as flirty if Shane wanted to, but he ignored it in favor of shaking his hand before they quickly parted ways. And that was that.
So time passed. They chirped each other in the face-off circle, threw out digs in the press, were cordial at league wide events where they had to play nice. They continued to let the media play up their rivalry. And when Rozanov took a record breaking pay day and left Boston for Ottawa in free agency, Shane thought that maybe the narrative would die out. Ottawa wasn’t nearly as big of a rival to Montreal as Boston was.
The fans, however, didn’t forgive and forget. Voyageurs fans and players alike hated Ilya Rozanov’s guts no matter which sweater he was wearing. And so it continued. Chirps, digs, cordial when needed. They knew how to play this game, so why stop now?
But no matter how hard Shane tried, he could never erase the memories of the night that echoed in him every time they bent their heads over the puck. Every cheeky smirk Rozanov flashed at him, he saw the same one he gave Shane from between his legs. Every handshake they gave each other in greeting burned Shane’s palm, as if his skin remembered the way those same hands had danced across his body, as if it was calling out to him. Every time he watched his lips stretch around his name, “Hollander,” in his thick accent, he remembered the way those lips had felt on his own, the way they had looked wrapped around his cock.
So when the call came early last week that Los Angeles had flipped him to Ottawa in exchange for a decent defenseman, one of their top prospects, and a handful of draft picks, of course the first thing he thought of was Ilya Rozanov.
Not his family, not his hometown, not the exciting team they’re building. Shane only thought of eyes the color of the sea, his hand pulling on dark blond curls, and the sound of a Russian accent moaning his name that rang out in his mind more often than not when he jerked off.
This is fine, he thought. I can do this. I can be his teammate and be normal.
But one look from Rozanov, his remark about them not having to be friends…
It was going to be an uphill battle. And a very, very long season.