Chapter Text
Hours stretch ahead of Paris before sunset colors its skyline like a bruise. Right now, the rooftops bathe in stark daylight, and people scatter from shade to shade like rats or wipe sweat off the brow on their routine walks from work. The Eiffel Tower sits above them like a strict overseer. She, too, has to wait for bright lights to coat her on the summer background of pink and blue.
Shane Hollander, of course, sees none of this.
Surrounded by the four walls of a hotel room, he could easily believe he was on a roadie back in the US. Judging by the dull ache in his body, they'd be at around game three out of five. It's just jet lag, he tells himself, jet lag or the fact that he's been feeling this way for months.
At least he's been put in a good hotel. Paris Marriott Rive Gauche smells and looks nicer. Something about the detergent, maybe; it's got a fresher scent, and it evidently bleaches the sheets until they're rough to the touch but a blinding, just-bought shade of white.
Unfortunately, it doesn't do any wonders for Shane's mind, anyway.
He feels, often, that he's left a piece of himself back in Sochi. Five long months ago, he carried home an Olympic gold medal and it still felt lighter than whatever was carved out of him there. It wasn't a physical wound, which only made it more difficult to sew himself around it; and it wasn't so explicable, either. His body remembers the cardboard beds regardless. Long live the Olympic village and his Canadian jersey; may the rest go to fucking hell.
Except it won't. Shane knows better than that after all those weeks that have been passing him by.
Still, even now, he checks his phone out of habit. No new notifications stare back at him — except the unopened Welcome to France! text — and he's got enough of a grip on himself that he doesn't go looking further.
Doesn't open his messages, doesn't scroll until his eyes catch on Lily, doesn't let himself read his own failed attempt to reach out for the millionth time, Hey! U doing ok?, who says that—anyway, Shane doesn't do any of those things. He's better than that.
What he's not better than is entertaining the thought of Ilya Rozanov in this same hotel. Maybe a floor up, or perhaps a floor down, but technically sharing space.
For the first time since Sochi.
And it's not that they're anything, or ever have been. That's been made abundantly clear time and again over the course of the last few years.
God, Shane should have left feelings behind in Sochi instead of his dignity.
It's just that he doesn't like rejection.
It's just that he doesn't like being turned away after letting himself be seen, especially in a different way than normal. There is rarely any use in being something other than Shane Hollander and his Olympic-winning hockey or his money-making face. He's so used to being hyphenated—Olympic-winning, money-making, high-achieving, record-breaking, Japanese-Canadian.
To be just Shane Hollander and then called nothing cuts too deep, and fuck, okay, he needs to stop thinking about this.
Mossy green curtains are plunging the hotel room into darkness, even this early. Shane gets off the bed and scurries towards the window to peek out. He mostly sees greenery and the sun jumping across tree leaves. Cars down below drive past in a white-black-blue-red blur. Everything seems so alive out there, and here Shane is, wrapped up in his own head like a mummy.
He knows it's bad when his thought process slims down to, I wish my parents were here.
They would drag him out of this hotel room for a fancy dinner. One glass of wine in, his father would start musing about going to the Roland-Garros one day. The staff would think his mother was a local at first glance, because how could she not be, what with her charm and style?
Still not a justifiable thought to have in a foreign city at twenty-three.
With a sigh, Shane changes into a set of dark-blue pants and throws on a white polo shirt with vertical stripes. The blue-beige-black combo seems a bit on the nose, but it's the best he's got if he doesn't want to look like he's about to hit the gym. He will be doing that later, obviously, and then tomorrow morning before practice, but he can be sociable. He can be normal. He can go down to the lobby, find the hotel bar, and nurse something non-alcoholic for a bit. Appearances and all.
Hell, he'll even chat to somebody about the upcoming exhibition game and nod his head obligingly when the other person says, At least you won't have to go far for the gala after, it's right here! Ha-ha! He will laugh, too, even if it sounds like the most horrible joke.
Shane is still thankful when he's alone in the elevator.
Pointedly, he avoids looking in the mirror and scrutinizing himself.
Exiting into the lobby, Shane grits his teeth through instant regret. The room is a beehive full of buzzing people. He will have to make it through groups chatting idly, and he notices a few more hockey players gathered around the reception area.
Disappear into the crowd, he tells himself as he swiftly steps away from the LIFTS - ASCENSEURS sign above his head. Looking downward, he angles his body left and right like he would on the ice in order to get across, where the barstools are.
Really, Shane shouldn't be surprised. It's a hotel and a conference center for a reason—it could hardly be quiet and vacant.
"Bonsoir," he says quietly when he takes the leftmost barstool. Chances are nobody even heard him, and that's just as well.
"Bonsoir," the Black middle-aged bartender with silver threading through his hair replies, bursting Shane's bubble. His name tag says Jérôme. "J'arrive tout de suite, monsieur."
Shane nods in response.
One would think that he'd find it easy to be here, huh? Mr. Star Center of Montreal shouldn't be so scared to speak his perfect French, should he?
While the bartender mixes an expensive-looking cocktail for someone down the bar, Shane wonders if this was a good idea at all. He's done a few charity and exhibition games, but none of them took him very far from Canada. There was one game during his rookie year right in Montreal; Shane had a grand total of seven minutes of ice time, but he remembers they were raising money to donate to food banks. A few years later, he Captained a horrible five-hour exhibition game to fund the rebuilding of a school complex in Ottawa, and there was also that one game in New York and he can't even remember what that one was for.
This one, in Paris of all places—it's not even a hockey country!—is donating all profits to cancer research.
Is this cause important to you, Mr. Hollander? reporters asked when the roster was announced.
Being a normal decent human being is important to me, yeah, he wanted to say but never did. He ended up disclosing private information instead. That is seldom the lesser of two evils, but he figured it was safer to talk about losing his grandma to breast cancer when he was five, rather than say what he was really thinking.
"Vous avez choisi?" Jérôme asks. By the look of him, it's probably his second attempt.
Shane rolls his shoulders. "Do you have anything non-alcoholic? Like ginger ale or just… sparkling water?"
The man gives him a short smile. "One sparkling water coming right up, Mr. Hollander."
Is it possible to sink into a barstool? Shane attempts it for sure, having been clocked for who he is and for speaking English.
Maybe—no, scratch that, certainly, this was a bad idea. The incessant insectile chatter behind him and the jazz music trying to fight its way through it are both driving him mad. Shane's happy to have picked out the leftmost chair; at least he can look to the side and out through the glass, at the street. When he looked up the hotel on Tripadvisor, a reviewer called it a nothing neighbourhood. Looking out into it, though, it only makes Shane want to get there, take a walk, let the trees shade him, stroll under the small nearby bridge, pretend he's somebody else.
A body slides into the barstool next to Shane's at the same time as Jérôme places a cold glass bottle in front of him. He pops it open, pouring its contents into a wide glass.
And Shane knows who's sitting next to him.
His body knows before his eyes do. Familiar cologne wafts up through his nose, and he involuntarily drags it in. Blood drains from his face when the scent hits his brain. The weight next to Shane is familiar, too, and his ears recognize the amused snicker.
No. It can't be happening this early.
"Water in Paris, Hollander?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Shane lets himself look. Rozanov is wearing an old band t-shirt that is so worn that the logo is indiscernible. Shane wouldn't even wear it around the house, but it looks chic on him. His hair, usually styled and coiffed, curls around his head freely. He and the mole on his cheek are looking positively dreamy and Shane hates it.
He hates it so fucking much.
Shane clears his throat. His fingers clench around his glass like he's squeezing the throat of his own anxiety and trying to choke it out.
Ultimately, he doesn't give Rozanov an answer.
"Hm. Okay," Rozanov mumbles to himself. He orders a beer and leans back in his chair and Shane really needs to stop looking.
But when has he ever been able to do that? He takes a small sip. The water is cold as ice.
"You have gotten more boring," Rozanov tries again. "I didn't know that was possible."
Shane puts his glass back down harder than he intended. A few eyes dart towards him at the loud clink. "Did you sit down here just to make fun of me?" he snaps. "Or what is it that you want, Rozanov?"
Some crossed lines are hard to navigate. To this day, Shane isn't sure which one of them committed the crime of crossing theirs. It could have been him, standing atop the bleachers in Sochi and demanding attention; it could have been Rozanov, standing atop the bleachers in Sochi and refusing to give it. That crossed line seems to have closed around them and burned into the ground like a parasitic circle they can't walk out of—even if it feels like they're each alone. Shane feels alone, at least.
Ilya's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It's hard to feel any satisfaction at it, though—not with his curls hooking over them now, falling down in curved threads and almost into his eyes.
"If you keep going like that," Rozanov quips in the end, quickly shifting his face back into an unreadable facade, "I will take calling you boring back. You will only be a little boring."
But Shane is done playing cat and mouse, especially because he finds himself playing the mouse more often than not. Lips pursed, almost like he'd actually say something or maybe spit in Ilya's face otherwise, he pushes his glass away and makes to stand up.
"Hollander," Rozanov hisses. "Stop. I will be good."
Shane can feel his jaw working overtime. Out of fear that Rozanov will resort to touching his arm—or so he tells himself—he lets his body fall back into the barstool. It wouldn't be good to have a public fight, anyway. This is different than an NHL game; they might still be playing against each other tomorrow, but it's for something that shouldn't be tainted by… whatever this is.
Silence nests into the space between them. Voices start drifting in again; Shane catches phrases, light laughs, distant flirting from the other side of the bar. He lets his eyes follow it, landing on a pair. He sees a man, white and lean, sitting at a respectable distance from a woman of Asian descent; despite the distance, their torsos keep inching closer, like they already have an inside joke they're about to laugh at.
Next to Shane, Ilya looks in the same direction.
Shane's eyes nervously dart to him. The curls at Ilya's nape are damp with sweat even though the AC here is significant. And he's holding the slopes of his shoulders tensely, almost as if he was expecting to see the NHL Commissioner rounding the bar.
Some crossed lines are hard to navigate; some lines are hard to cross. To Shane, it's impossible to entertain that the sweat, and the tension, and the quick hiss could have anything to do with him. Impossible; he discards it.
He takes another sip, and his fingers come away wet as the water slowly warms. Before he remembers that he's not wearing black athleisure, he wipes them off on his pants, undoubtedly leaving a dark stain.
"I was wrong, before," Ilya says all of a sudden.
Shane's face contorts into a question mark when he looks to the side. He can't even begin to unwrap the meaning of before. Before what, before when, before where?
"You're different."
"Sure," Shane mumbles around a sigh. Despite knowing better, his hand goes back around the glass. For a moment, he presses his fingertips against the condensation and slowly peels them away one by one. He likes the sensation; so sue him. It's oddly calming, the way the drops of water stick to his fingers before breaking apart and rolling down the glass.
"Is it because Paris?" Ilya nags. "You've been here before?"
Shane scoffs. "What are you, a reporter?"
It makes Ilya say something under his breath. Something in Russian that Shane doesn't understand. The only thing he catches is a soft consonant hiding in the middle. It sounds the same as when the Russian telecasters said Ilya's name, back in Sochi—not that Shane watched the news, not that he was switching to the local channels, no, none of that.
The worst thing is, though, that Ilya is looking away.
"Sorry," Shane offers. He can't explain why. "You're not usually trying to actually talk to me."
When Ilya looks back, he does so with a scowl. "Not true," he argues like a petulant child.
Over his shoulder, Shane catches another glimpse of the couple; his hand is on hers, and his thumb is tracing the line of her wristbone.
"It is true." What he can't say out loud—talking about fucking and meeting in hotel rooms and bragging about dick size are not real conversations—lingers in the air.
In the end, Ilya shrugs and takes a healthy swig of his beer. "Maybe is true," he concedes. "I still asked a question. Don't be rude, Hollander."
"I'm not—" Shane stops himself. Counts five, four, three, two, one and forces himself to relax. This is what he's wanted, isn't it? To have Rozanov's attention beyond those hotel rooms; to be faced somewhere that isn't a bed. "I've been to Paris a few times with my parents."
Ilya purses his lips and takes another gulp, but he refrains from calling Shane boring again.
As if calmed, Shane feels his body loosen up. Sometimes he exists in a fight-or-flight limbo, and he wishes he could blame it on Rozanov's presence, but really, it's something that's been true his whole life. Started all the way in kindergarten, probably.
"What about you?" he asks, because no, he isn't rude. "Have you ever been?"
"To Paris?" Ilya shakes his head. "No. Is my first time."
"You probably shouldn't be spending it in a hotel lobby, then. Plenty of sights to see."
Rozanov hums. It's a familiar sound that Shane associates with body-meeting-body, and his attention snaps to it immediately.
This time, when he looks to the side, their eyes meet. Rozanov is gazing at him like Shane is a sight to see, and Shane can't be held responsible for the way he's gazing back. They're just looking at each other and it still feels like an invisible battery at the back of Shane's mind has finally been charged.
Shane could almost detest the quiet sparks between them, if only they didn't make him feel so… alive. Not alive with feeling, alive like… like when he scratches an annoying itch, or hears a word he likes. It's akin to satisfaction, or a small dose of endorphins being released across the hot wire that's his body.
The link is broken by the sound of barstools scraping.
Both Shane and Ilya look in that direction; it's the couple, getting up and leaving together. They're not holding hands, but their shoulders brush with every step. Twenty minutes into their meeting and they seemingly can't stand the idea of distance anymore.
Ilya turns his head back. "We have, what, twelve hours before busy schedule starts?"
Unable to hide his confusion, Shane frowns. "Yeah, something like that, I guess?"
Like a co-conspirator, Ilya turns his entire body towards Shane. "Spend them with me," he says.
"What? Like—"
Like in your hotel room, or maybe in mine? So you can have me—so I can willingly give you whatever it is you want, just to leave me hanging again, just to ignore me, just to call me boring when I want to kiss you in the morning? Just to run away, just to let me do the same? Like acting that this is a rodie, and this is any and all the hotels we've checked into, and you know I will say yes? Like—
"Come see the sights with me," Ilya continues, cutting off the rambling string of thoughts spanning the whole inside of Shane's head. "Leave our phones here. Get out of here, da? Twelve hours, out in Paris."
Shane laughs. "You're insane."
"Why? Is a good idea. We can do whatever. Ignore the hotel, ignore sleep. Ignore Hollander, ignore Rozanov. I will do it anyway. Come with me."
It's a taunt. It must be. Or a test, to prove that Shane is boring, hates adventure, doesn't like the outside world. Mockery is an option, too, on this long-running list of reasons why. And it has to be one of them.
Because if it's not, then—then Rozanov is asking for something that Shane finds much more difficult to give. Sure, there is only one requirement, but it's possibly the biggest requirement Shane's had to face. It's directly asking him to forgo routine; to strip himself of the identity he clings so desperately to; to do all of this next to Rozanov.
It would be easier if we just went to a hotel room, Shane thinks. His, or maybe mine.
He opens his mouth to reply. Though he's not sure what his answer is going to be, on the list is another iteration of You're insane, but also No fucking way, Rozanov, and a quiet but resolute No would do the job, too.
"We can't just leave our phones here," is what ultimately trips out of his mouth.
The light in Rozanov's eyes is undeniable.
When they're on the ice, during a face-off, and Rozanov chirps, this is the look on his face. It settles there when he knows he's rattled Shane; when he knows the likelihood of winning the face-off has just grown exponentially. Always accompanied by a smirk, that look of his—except now. It's just in his eyes, the thrill of half-success.
"Why not? You are waiting for an important call?"
Clearing his throat, Shane drinks. Chugs half the glass down. "No."
"So? We can leave phones here, then, yes?"
"Yeah, and if something happens? How are you going to call someone?"
Ilya rolls his eyes with a grunt. "Then you open your mouth and speak your perfect French."
Shane bristles. "For your information, some French people would probably switch to English if they heard my accent, because Québécois sounds much different from—"
Ilya tsks and waves his hand. "Hollander, fuck your phone. Is not important. Nothing is going to happen, we'll be fine."
Stubbornly, Shane shakes his head. "You don't know that."
Losing his phone—even if metaphorically, it would be resting on his nightstand the whole time, obviously—is uncomfortable. There are too many variations to what could happen outside. They could get recognized; they might need to call a cab quickly. One of them could get hurt; Shane wouldn't be surprised if Rozanov decided to, like, sled down the stairs from Sacre Coeur on a trashcan lid or something. Then what?
"Nobody knows anything, ever," Rozanov argues.
And it is tempting to believe it.
Incredibly tempting to forget that most of the time, Shane knows everything—or at least as much as he can. How he relies on his knowledge of every minute of every day, how he survives because he knows exactly what 6 p.m. means and how it will bridge him over to 7 p.m., and so on and so on.
Shane feels himself stuck somehow, like he's suspended in the air by invisible hands. What if he didn't have that knowledge?
What if he let time shake him, from hour to hour and place to place?
He sighs. "What would we even do for so long? Walk in silence?"
Now Rozanov smirks, and the look is complete. "We could talk."
It rattles something inside Shane loose. He can't know what talking entails, but he gets the idea that maybe it wouldn't be a twelve-hour conversation about hockey. That maybe they could talk about more, especially if they want to walk out of here and forget who they are.
"If you want to forget about Hollander and Rozanov, what should I call you?" he asks. Holds his breath.
Ilya tenses again. The way he drinks his beer is not unlike the way Shane chugged his water moments ago, like he's giving himself time to gather up the courage.
Then he sizes Shane up. "Okey, let's start the game now. My name is Ilya. What's your name?"
Shane blinks. Rozanov's first name—and the way he said it—runs across Shane's mind, right to left, and he can feel it. It buzzes and paralyzes him for a second; it draws a physical reaction out of him, making him shiver.
"Shane," he says breathlessly. "I'm— Shane."
"Do you want to get out of here, Shane?"
He feels himself nodding. There are still a few sips of his stupid sparkling water left, but his plan to sit here, be sociable, and then hit the gym while everybody else has dinner has flown out the window.
"Let me quickly run up to my room to grab a… a hoodie or something. And to leave my phone there?"
"Same," Ilya agrees. "See you at reception in ten minutes?"
"That — yeah, that works."
They pay quickly and hop off the barstools. Shane is barely aware of his frantic heartbeat—it only registers because it stops, misses a beat, goes thump-thump— thump instead of thump-thump-thump as Ilya touches his wrist. The very thing Shane was so afraid of happening. And it doesn't kill him, it doesn't wound him—it merely reminds him that he's alive. Holy shit, what is he doing?
"Don't change your mind," Ilya tells him. His voice sounds different. Even though he's putting it as a demand, there's a shade of pleading to it, which is just another thing Shane can't bring himself to believe.
"No," he says. "I won't. I'll be there in ten minutes. Ilya.
"Okay. I will see you in ten minutes, Shane."
Is there still a hint of disbelief when Ilya says it? Yeah, maybe. Shane can't blame him; he can barely believe it himself, that he agreed, that he's about to walk out of this hotel and not return for twelve hours, that he's doing this, that Rozanov—that Ilya—
In his room, Shane is out of breath even though he took the elevator up. Part of his brain is questioning this. Like, why is he so prone to saying yes when Rozanov asks? And it goes all the way back, doesn't it, to those showers, to Ilya in a towel so loose and low around his hips, asking for Shane's room number, and Shane giving it, saying I might open even though it had been decided at that point that he always would; it goes back to that hotel room and frantic outfit changes, and sitting so still in that creaky hotel chair in the hopes it would settle his insides.
Here Shane is again. A different hotel room, a very different city.
"Stop freaking out," he tells himself. "You've literally seen each other naked."
Except seeing each other naked has always been easier than seeing each other clothed and out in daylight when it comes to them. Hasn't it?
Shane stops himself from changing. Yes, he still thinks the polo shirt is unlike him, but it looks fine. He tells himself it looks fine at least twenty times.
The only hoodie he's got is the black Reebok one; at least the logo is small, at the breast, and not slotted across his chest in big blocky letters. He hangs it over his arm. His pants are fine, and his sneakers are worn in; comfy. Should be fine even if they walk around the whole night.
The whole night.
Right before a very public, very media-heavy charity game.
Jesus Christ.
At the last second—Shane is almost out the door—he remembers to leave his phone behind. The Welcome to France! text still sits unopened, and Shane leaves it that way. Places it on the nightstand, right next to the Moleskine with his hockey notes jotted down in neat handwriting.
Shane fixes his hair, just a little bit.
One side of his brain is going: this is insane, don't do this, just stay in this room, what can he do? Whether you like it or not, he's hurt you, and chances are you've hurt him too because you can't read a situation for shit, so what are we trying to do here? Get some fucking sleep instead.
The other side of his brain is going: He's hurt you, and you've probably hurt him too, and what if this is your only chance to talk about it? What if Paris makes the difference?
Shane walks out on both.
Although he's two minutes early, Ilya is already at the reception desk. Leaning against it, one hip jutting out, and Shane knows exactly where he'd touch it so it would feel like gravity no longer works and he's holding on to it to stay on Earth. He hasn't changed his outfit, either.
Shane's hands are clammy on approach, so he hides them in his pockets. When Ilya stands up and straightens up, the one- to two-inch difference between them feels monumental. He finds himself looking up, but the thing is that Ilya seems to be doing the same.
"Ready to go?" Ilya asks, quietly, so nobody overhears.
"Yes," Shane breathes out. "Where are we going?"
"I don't know, but somebody said there's plenty of sights to see. I'm sure we will run into them."
Oh, okay, so no plan at all. That's fine.
"I'm sure," Shane responds, even though he's nervous and that nervousness is sitting at the back of his throat like a rose bud ready to open and prevent him from breathing.
"Let's go," Ilya decides.
Shane can't do anything but follow.
The digital clock above the reception desk reads 18:57. Almost 7 p.m. then, not that Shane's body has acclimatized to the different timezone.
Either way, twelve hours stretch ahead of them when Shane and Ilya walk out of Paris Marriott Rive Gauche, together.