Work Text:
MHL Awards 2014
Ilya was avoiding Shane. He knew what he did: five months of ghosting. He needed to put a stop to whatever this non-thing was. Two plans: avoid him completely, a wall of jokes or nonchalance. Plan B: only fuck Shane, no feelings involved, no lingering, no looking for his lips, his kiss, his touch, no hugging, no kissing.
He was haunting some corridor, planning to arrive just in time for the awards, when he heard his voice, Shane. He smiled first, and then realized the tone of Shane’s voice. Not his media-trained voice, not his talking-to-his-parents voice, or even his Hayden voice. He was whispering in a dark corridor.
Ilya approached, out of Shane’s sight. He was against the wall, FaceTiming, smiling at the screen.
“Yeah, it’s pretty intense.”
“You got this,” a male voice from the phone said.
“See you after the ceremony?” Ilya heard Shane say.
“Yes, I can wait. Still smell like your expensive shampoo.”
“Oh, you liked it?” Shane said in a flirtatious voice.
“I like it very much. The guys say I upgraded the locker room.”
They laughed. The locker room—another player? Ilya scanned the possible NHL players. He did not recognize the voice Shane was talking to.
“I have to get ready for the game. See you, hottie,” the man said.
“Can’t wait,” Shane said.
No. No, no, no. It was not supposed to be this. It was supposed to be: ghost Hollander coming back, maybe have some hot, impersonal sex, but stop the feelings. But Ilya had not thought Hollander would talk to other people—another man—smiling at him. He felt desperation, anger, sadness all at once.
He arrived just in time for the awards. He was expecting Hollander to say something mildly anxious, where the fuck were you, instead he just said:
“Rozanov, good to see you. Right on time.”
What do you mean? What the fuck, good to see me?
They made their show. Smiled, made the jokes. Ilya took the selfie, Shane smiling. On their way backstage, Shane ran into the makeup team—there was a stain on his shirt. He was heading to the bathroom. Ilya followed.
Shane turned.
“Rozanov?”
“Happy to see me?”
“Sure.”
“You miss me?”
“Not particularly. Replying to texts would have been nice… but you were busy, I guess.”
Ilya closed the gap and grabbed Shane’s chin.
“Fuck off.”
“I can fuck you if you ask pretty.”
Shane took a step back. “I am good, thanks. Good luck for MVP.”
And Shane left the bathroom. Ilya did not even kiss him.
Ilya won MVP, searching for Shane’s eyes during the ceremony and after, following him. He saw him making his way to the exit. Ilya followed him. Shane did not take the main exit; he went for a discreet back one.
Ilya walked faster, hoping to corner him, a chance to bring him to his room.
When he reached the door, he saw a man next to a car. Tall, dark hair, leaning against it. Ilya knew this man; he was on the Miami soccer team. They did not touch, but their eyes. Shane entered the car, but the car did not move. Ilya could not see inside. He could only imagine Shane kissing this man, or worse. Then the car left.
Ilya drank too much. He left the party and could not even pick anyone up. Tomorrow, he would be on a plane for Russia.
His summer was miserable. To add insult to injury, seeing Shane with William Anderson that night was not enough. Now, all the sports press were talking about their friendship. Ilya stalked Anderson from a burner account. The man was posting Shane learning soccer, him trying to skate, liking each other’s posts.
He hated him. Fucking loser. And if he was so good, he should have been on some European team, not in fucking Miami anyway. What did he want with Shane?
He sent messages to Shane during the summer. He almost wanted Shane not to answer, proving that he was mad—it would be something. But it was worse: Shane answered politely, like he was some fucking nobody.
October 2014
At the first game against Montreal in Boston, Ilya wrote to Shane.
Lilly: Coming to my place tonight?
Jane: Maybe
Lilly: Oh, you want me to beg
Lilly: Hollander?
Lilly: Please
Jane: ok
When Shane arrived, Ilya could not resist.
“Playing a lot of soccer lately, Hollander.”
“What?”
“With your friend Anderson… or maybe more than a friend.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Yes, playing more soccer, or more than a friend?”
Shane looked at him with a smirk in his eyes. He was not ashamed.
“Both.”
Ilya’s stomach clenched.
“Oh, you’re not scared. I mean your secret.”
“He is a professional athlete too, and… we have the same secret.”
“Does he know you are here?”
“Why should he?”
Ilya approached and kissed him. Shane kissed him back. It was heated.
“You are more than friends, but he does not know that you will go on your knees for me tonight.”
“He does not need to know specifics. Because you and me are not anything, so it’s okay.”
Ilya stepped back. He looked at Shane’s face.
No. No. No. He cannot say that. Why was Shane saying that? But it was what Ilya wanted, that Shane stop acting like they were something. But now he couldn’t.
“So you are something with him?” Ilya asked.
“It’s a possibility,” Shane said. Then he continued, “Are we going to talk about William, or do things…?”
“Oh, William. First name. Serious…” Ilya said.
First name, a possibility, when Ilya was the possibility of nothing.
He reached back to Shane, cornered him, and kissed him angrily.
“Bedroom,” Ilya said.
In the heat of the moment, Ilya moved in a frantic rhythm into Shane, eyes locked.
“Say my name.”
Shane answered, “Rozanov, please.”
“No, no. Say my first name. Beg me.”
Shane looked at him. “Ilya, please.”
When they were done, Shane stood to put on his clothes. Ilya stopped him.
“Stay the night.”
“I can’t.”
“Your flight is late morning. You will be back at your hotel. Hayden can cover for you.”
“I know, but I have… a breakfast.”
“With him.”
“Yes.”
“Cancel.”
“Why?”
“He is not your boyfriend. Just possibilities?”
“I like the possibilities,” Shane said.
“Why? I am not a possibility?”
The way Ilya rejected him and then ghosted him. The feeling of dread, of emptiness, of panic. Over the past two years, Shane had developed more and more resentment, vague at first, toward his teammates—their flings, their serious girlfriends, their hidden mistresses, their wives. The way they could experience the full motion from hookups to marriage, via dating and monogamous relationships.
So Shane applied the old rule: get under another man to forget one. Did he forget Ilya? No. Did he sometimes jerk off thinking about him? Yes. Did he watch the replay of the Stanley Cup Final ten times? Also yes. At least when they presented the MHL Awards, he went in with mental fortitude—a weak one, with a maximum forty-minute window and no more than ten minutes alone with Ilya—but he had it. So when Ilya cornered him in the bathroom, he didn’t take the bait. He didn’t let his eyes wander to Ilya’s mouth, his neck, his perfectly fitted outfit, didn’t get lost in his cologne. Even when his hand touched his jaw, he evaded. He had gained that distance. It was a preparation that had required mental discipline, exposure therapy (Ilya on social media), and physical distraction, namely William.
He knew he could not come out. But the Olympic village, hanging out with other athletes, some gay and out, especially women athletes, made him want at least something in the closet. Coming back from Sochi and Ilya ignoring him had pushed him off the cliff.
Thinking that coming out to J.J. would give him a rest from matchmaking attempts was a mistake. J.J.’s matchmaking initiative was very inclusive. William was nice, hot, also in the semi-closet, also not wanting to get out. The sex was good—not even great. He just had to not compare it to Ilya. He had just realized that great sex with other men was not what he had with Ilya. What he had with Ilya was beyond great. It was close to a trance experience.
Maybe he felt like that because the lows were so low, so he experienced the highs too high. William was unwavering. They saw each other not more often than he saw Ilya, but they talked and made jokes. And he was not scared of him disappearing for days, weeks, months. Not scared of saying something wrong. They were dating, non-exclusive. William even told him about a fling he had with a very, very closeted basketball player that he could not name. He was nice. He was gentle. And that was what Shane wanted someone who was gentle with him.
“You know why,” Shane said.
And of course, Ilya knew. Sochi, the ghosting, the push and pull. But Ilya thought he could come back better. A thought he had after making the decision he would be done with Shane, at the NHL Awards, after MVP—he would stop, he needed one more, but this time he had a plan to keep the distance. But Shane did not give him the last drink, the last one. Instead, he was alone in the totally sober intoxication of we are not anything but you’re haunting my night and my day. We are not anything, but I need you to be something to me. I need you to need me. So yes, he knew why. He should have said it, explained to Shane all the fear, the loyalty, the abandonment (of his sick and dying father, of his patria and the shame), of wanting things he could not have—wanting Shane. So he murmured:
“Yeah, sorry about that.”
That, this, those—indefinite. Sorry about the lack of texts, calls, words, and kisses. Sorry about too much of me. Sorry about that. Me, Ilya Rozanov, estranged in the U.S., estranged in Moscow, in transit in my own heart, trying to avoid you.
“I don’t want to be a possibility… I want to be your only option,” Ilya said, his mouth brushing Shane’s before capturing it in a kiss.
Ilya sank to his knees. He took Shane into his mouth the way one takes something back — with memory, with intent. Shane said his name, and it came out broken, like something he had been holding too long. Ilya rose, pressed him down against the bed, and moved across him slowly: neck, jaw, the corner of his mouth. Not kissing so much as reclaiming. Then he pulled back, just far enough, and asked: “Tell me you miss me.”
“I miss you.” The words left Shane like air.
“I will make you forget,” Ilya said. “Everyone else. Everything else.”
Ilya undressed him slowly, each piece of clothing removed like a decision. He flipped Shane onto his stomach, spread him open, and let his mouth drag along the soft skin of his inner thigh, his balls, until he reached his hole. Shane cried out. Ilya groaned low, he wanted more, needed more, the image of Shane stepping into another man’s car dissolving at last, every other possibility burned away. He traced the shape of what they could be with his hands, his mouth. He would give Shane everything. He would tell him that he remembered faces, that he had been drawing him, searching for him all along. He pressed a lube-slicked finger against him and entered slowly,
“More” Shane asked.
He added a second finger, working them slowly, then rose to press his mouth against Shane’s again
“Ilya, yes, more!”
“You are so good for me,” Ilya answered. He removed the fingers and placed the condom.
“Flip over”
He pressed himself to Shane's entrance but did not move, holding still, watching him.
“Please, Ilya, come fuck me.”
“Tell me you need me.”
“I need you.”
“Only me”
Shane stayed silent.
“Say it,” Ilya asked, pressing lightly on Shane's hole, teasing.
“Only you, Ilya”
Ilya entered him. A sound escaped Shane, low, broken, undone. Ilya set a rhythm, steady and deep. “Please,” Shane breathed. “Harder.”
Ilya lowered himself, kissing Shane as he drove into him harder. “Look at me,” he said against his mouth. “I am all that you need.”
“Yes, Ilya, only you can do this to me.. “
“You are so good, Shane” and he drove deeper, kissing him through it. Ilya's name in Shane's mouth was a song, worn and desperate. Shane came apart in waves, and Ilya followed, holding him as long as he could before the warmth between them grew uncomfortable.sy with the mess.
He kissed him once more, soft and unhurried, then cleaned him gently. They lay tangled together in the dark, Ilya's head resting on Shane's chest.
“Send him a message,” Ilya said, trying to reach for Shane’s phone.
“What? ”
“Say you are not doing breakfast tomorrow. And never.”
“No. I will call him to talk to him.”
“You will block him. Never talk to him again.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he is nice. And even if I don’t date or sleep with him anymore, he is nice,” Shane said.
“I don’t want to.”
“I know. I will not block him.”
“You will never sleep with him again.”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Will you never sleep with other people again?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then.”
“Now sleep.”