Chapter Text
June 2014, Las Vegas
The elevator had been warm earlier — almost too warm — with Shane sweating under his tux on his way up to the penthouse. He had been angry at Rozanov for ghosting him for six months and frustrated with himself for capitulating to Rozanov so easily in that backstage bathroom, but overwhelmingly he had felt eager to finally be alone with Rozanov, to feel the high of being the sole focus of Ilya Rozanov’s undivided attention.
Now there’s an uncomfortable chill to the air. The anger and frustration have drained, the anticipation is over, and all that’s left is a hollow emptiness. He lets his head thump against the metal panel, paying no mind to the floor indicator above as the numbers slowly tick down.
S: We didn’t even kiss |
Shane stares at the text on his screen. Stupid, desperate words. Stupid and desperate, that’s surely what Rozanov had thought of him earlier this evening in the bathroom when Shane had nearly cried on his shoulder. Rozanov had touched him everywhere tonight, after watching Shane touch himself, yet all Shane can recall now is the sensation of Rozanov’s hand on his chin, turning his face toward him in the empty bathroom. Rozanov had kissed him then.
S: We didn’t |
Shane slowly deletes each letter with freezing fingers.
—
“—signed by Friday, and they’ll schedule a shoot for next month. Shane, are you even listening to me?”
Shane taps out of his message thread with Lily that still shows Penthouse 1 at the bottom of the screen and looks up at his mother guiltily across the airport cafe table. “Sorry, mom. I have to sign the contract by Friday?”
“Yes, and I’ll pass along your availability for next month.” Yuna sighs. “Is everything all right? You’ve been distracted today.”
“I’m fine.”
“Is this because of Rozanov?” Yuna makes a face. “Lord knows he didn’t deserve to win MVP with how dirty he plays.”
“No, mom,” Shane insists, glad his mother doesn’t know how close she is to the truth. “Rozanov was a shoo-in for it this year with the Raiders winning the Cup. I’m just tired.”
Yuna casts him a doubtful look but returns to talking about contracts and photoshoots. All the while out of the corner of his eye, Shane’s phone screen remains conspicuously dark.
—
Shane tells himself not to reach out to Rozanov, not to let this be a repeat of the months after his cold dismissal at Sochi with Shane sending out cautious overtures only to be met with silence.
Shane lasts three weeks before he caves.
S: Have a good summer!
He presses send before he can think too hard about it. It’s the kind of innocuous message that would be normal between two friends. Casual. Polite.
Boring.
After ten minutes with no response, Shane begins second-guessing. It’s just after 9pm in Moscow, and while sure, Rozanov might be out on the town and not checking his phone, it’s also a Monday. Maybe Rozanov saw his text and rolled his eyes before tossing his phone aside. Maybe Rozanov is in a club on a Monday, showing his friends the message. This Jane, she is good in bed, yes, but she is so boring, Shane can picture him saying with a smirk.
Shane can’t look at his phone anymore. He sets it face down onto his coffee table where he doesn’t have to see its blank screen taunting him. Of course Rozanov won’t respond to him. Why would he, when there’s no opportunity for Rozanov to get his dick wet until next season? It was stupid to get his hopes up, stupid to send the text in the first place. Anyway, so what if Rozanov never responds to his friendly overture? It’s not like they’re even really friends anyway.
It’s well past lunch time now, though Shane really doesn’t feel hungry right now. He gets up to make himself a sandwich anyway, just to give himself something to do. It’s not until several hours later, after he’s cleared the remnants of his lunch and cleaned the entirety of his living room and halfway convinced himself that he doesn’t care whether or not Rozanov responds, that he finally gathers the courage to look at his phone again. To his surprise, there’s one new unread message from Lily.
L: Don’t have too much fun 😛
Shane stares at those five words for far longer than they deserve before reminding himself that he doesn’t care, and deliberately sets his phone back down.
(And if Shane opens his text thread with Lily again late that night, scrolling through their three years of sporadic texts as he’s lying in bed, well, nobody needs to know.)
—
October 2014, Boston
It’s still early in the season, but the Metros have been off to a strong start with five wins, an overtime loss, and only one regulation loss. Even though Boston is one of the toughest crowds to play in front of, the team is full of energy as they run drills during morning skate. There’s a new message from Lily waiting for Shane when he checks his phone in the locker room afterwards.
L: see you soon ;)
Their text thread has been dormant for months, since the beginning of summer, and while Shane wasn’t not expecting Rozanov to reach out with the two of them in the same city, his nervous system sends a ping down his spine all the same.
L: need sexy russian to comfort you after you lose tonight?
Shane scoffs. Boston may be coming off a Stanley Cup win and have the home crowd advantage, but they also lost one of their veteran defenders to retirement and have two other players out on IR. If their messy performance in Pittsburgh earlier this week is any indication, the Metros will have no problem clinching the win.
S: You mean after YOU lose
L: I can be shoulder to cry on
L: or I can comfort you in other way 😈
Shane rolls his eyes and starts to type his response.
“J.J. and I are going out for lunch, you wanna come?” Hayden asks, suddenly appearing over Shane’s shoulder.
Shane startles and hides his phone screen against his stomach. “Yeah, sure man, give me a few more minutes,” Shane says, trying to pretend like his knee-jerk response was not to act like he had been caught with porn on his phone. Hayden quirks an eyebrow at him but mercifully doesn’t say anything.
Shane dares another glance at his phone once Hayden has turned back around.
L: 4 seasons 1309
S: 👍
—
Shane is feeling confident in himself and the outcome of the game all afternoon, right up until the point he meets Rozanov’s eyes for the opening face-off.
“Hollander.”
Then, it’s as if the months have fallen away; the crowd grows muted, the air loses its chilly bite, and Shane is standing in front of Rozanov in that bathroom again, pathetically eager for any scrap of attention Rozanov will deign to give him.
“What, nothing to say to best hockey player in the league?” Shane blinks and the noise and the cold rush back in. Rozanov stares at him with a slight tilt to his head, the corner of his lips lifted up in an arrogant smirk.
It’s not even a good chirp, by Rozanov’s standards, but Shane is too off-balance to even throw back a reflexive “Fuck you,” and then it’s too late; the puck drops, Rozanov flicks it backwards to Marlow, and the game begins in earnest.
Rozanov immediately takes off, receiving the pass that Marlow sends back to him and weaving through Montreal’s defenders. Shane swears under his breath and gives chase. He closes in on Rozanov, but Rozanov shoots a smooth pass off to Hammersmith before Shane can steal the puck.
“You have gotten slower, over summer,” Rozanov calls.
Shane ignores him as he backs off, still tracking the puck. As J.J. comes up to Hammersmith and checks him into the boards Shane quickly skates toward the neutral zone. J.J. manages to gain control of the puck and fires a neat pass off to Shane. Shane tears away toward the opposing goalie, dodging Carmichael and looking for an opening to pass or shoot. Hayden is open on his left, but Shane sees a flash of black and gold behind him out of the corner of his eye and knows instinctively that it’s Rozanov, barreling toward him to try and force a turnover. Before Shane can react, he’s slammed sideways into the boards and the puck goes careening away.
“Fuck,” Shane exclaims, as Rozanov scoops up the puck with a wink.
Play shifts again to the other side of the rink. Shane and Hayden come up on either side of Rozanov, angling to knock the puck away from his stick, but he fires a pass off to Marlow, who carries it further into the Metros’ defensive zone. Rozanov breaks free of Shane and Hayden’s coverage, opening himself up to Marlow’s pass back to him, and then with a flick of his wrist he shoots. Shane watches in dismay as the puck sails over Miitka’s shoulder.
The horn goes off. Shane grits his teeth. 1-0, Boston.
—
Unfortunately for the Metros, it seems that the Raiders’ loss against Pittsburgh three days ago was indeed a fluke. By the end of the second period, they’re down 3-1. The Metros are visibly frustrated as they leave the ice, a marked difference from the optimism that pervaded the locker room just this morning. It’s not on Shane — or at least not all on Shane — Montreal’s opponents this year thus far have all been easy victories, giving them false confidence going into their match with Boston. While the Raiders are less consistent than the Metros, on their best days they’re near unbeatable.
And Rozanov — and by extension the Raiders — is on fire today. The Metros simply aren’t ready for them this early in the season.
The third period passes much the same as the first two. Hayden ekes out one more goal for the Metros with Shane on the assist, but Rozanov also scores once more, his first hat trick of the season. Shane watches morosely from the bench as Rozanov skates by in celebration, pumping his fist in the air to the roar of the crowd.
Another line change, and with four minutes left on the clock, Shane pushes back onto the ice and finds an opening. Hayden passes the puck to Shane, setting him up for a clear shot on goal. Shane snaps the puck toward the net but he projects just a little too much and the goalie easily blocks it, riling up the already boisterous Boston fans who smell victory in the air.
Three more scoreless line changes and the final horn goes off. The arena erupts in raucous cheers as the Raiders celebrate on the ice.
“That’s how we fucking do it, boys!” Marlow yells as Rozanov knocks helmets and clasps his teammates’ shoulders with a huge grin on his face that makes something in Shane’s chest grow tight.
Shane glides off the ice in defeat. Final score, 4-2, Boston.
“Putain, I hate losing to those motherfuckers,” J.J. complains as the Metros re-enter the visitor locker room.
“Calisse, je déteste toute cette ville,” Gagnon concurs. “Fucking Rozanov.”
“Chin up, guys,” Hayden says. “We’ll get them next time and it’ll be even sweeter on home ice, right Cap?”
Bless Hayden and his efforts to keep team morale up, but the last thing Shane wants to do right now is give a pep talk to his team. He understands the need; a loss can be shaken off, but a loss against Boston when they were expecting a win threatens to derail the momentum they’ve been building from their early season winning streak.
“That’s right,” Shane says. He clears his throat. “Good game, everyone. It wasn’t the win we wanted but we’re only getting started. Hayden, solid goal in the third. Mitty, they were hammering you hard but you made some great saves. We’ll learn from this, tighten our coverage, and Boston won’t see what hit them in December.”
“Oui, capitaine.” J.J. claps him on the shoulder and a few other teammates give vague murmurs of agreement.
It’s not his best speech, but sue him, he knows he’s off his game today. It’s not like Shane played badly — or at least not badly enough that anyone on his team would think anything of it. He came out of the game with a goal and an assist, which is on par with his usual performance. However, Shane knows he didn’t play his best today, and worse, he knows Rozanov knows he didn’t play his best today.
Rozanov is going to be insufferable tonight, Shane knows it already. Shane also knows that the thought of Rozanov smugly lording his win over him won’t be enough to keep him from knocking on his door.