Chapter Text
Shane had known, objectively, coming to the draft was a bad idea. He was no longer a part of it, more or less told he was not allowed to be by the league itself, and his presence might make things awkward. His boyfriend’s parents couldn’t come, though, and Shane already had a non-refundable flight from before his life imploded. He couldn't sit with him or anything, but he could wait for him in the hotel. He could be a good, supportive boyfriend, even though Colt hadn’t seemed as excited as Shane had thought he would be at the idea.
Then, hour after arriving, checking into his hotel, and meeting his boyfriend, Colton Williams told him they were done.
“Hockey is so serious, and like - I was talking to some of the guys from the Dub, you know? - I can't just have some gay guy hanging around when I’m trying to break into the team. They’ll know. You should get that better than anyone else.”
And that is how Shane ended up riding a stationary bike in a random hotel gym alone at 1am after flying to a different country to be supportive.
The thing that really got under his skin, if he was honest, was that Colt wasn’t even drafted yet. He would probably go in the third round, late afternoon on day two, and that was generous, really. He was decent enough in the room but he just wasn’t that remarkable on the ice; most scout reports Shane had seen on Colton Williams tended to point out he was too slow, about twenty pounds of muscle off from where he needed to be as a defender, and got bullied off the puck too easily. Shane tended to agree.
He’s so caught up in his head that he doesn’t even notice Ilya Rozanov taking the bike next to him until he’s seated and keeping pace with Shane.
His almost rival.
Shane peddles faster.
Rozanov follows him.
Even in the U-18’s, there had been talk, after Worlds. Who’d go first, who’d have more cups, more money, the better career. Shane had watched his tape religiously, studying this big, handsome Russian who was faster than anyone else he had ever seen. Shane had been excited for this year's Prospect Cup, if only to introduce himself, then beat the smug asshole into submission.
Then someone on the Metros' scouting staff had heard about his billet mom walking in on him kissing a classmate and wanting him out of the house, and Ilya Rozanov had won without even trying.
Shane pushes himself harder, and Ilya matches him. When Shane looks at him, his smile is slightly feral, all challenge.
Shane pedals harder and he follows.
Is this what the combine would’ve been like? Both of us trying to out do each other?
The thought sours in his stomach. Shane had been disinvited, same is with the Cup. Told he was a distraction for the other draftees, when everything came out. His mom had tried to appeal, but Shane wasn’t dumb; there was no use to hold any hope of playing after that. College hockey with no hope to be drafted was his consolation prize, and he took it with a broken heart.
Ilya slaps at his thigh, clearly trying to throw him off, and manages to knock him out of his funk. Shane busts out laughing at how stupid the whole thing feels before he elbows him back, and gets pushed again. He takes a swing at Ilya's head and he ducks, almost falling off.
They both tumble off the bikes giggling, shoving. He offers Shane his water and he takes it, slamming back half the bottle.
Ilya takes it back and chugs the rest of it. Licks his lips, nudging Shane’s foot with his own, spreading his legs wider.
Shane ignores the way his shorts sit snug against his half-hard bulge in his pants, even if he feels like he’s doing it on purpose to tease. The adrenaline is probably getting to him. It means nothing.
“Boston,” He pants, tilting his head to the side as he gazes at Shane, “Will I like?”
“Probably?” Shane shrugs, “The city is great. The people aren’t like… super friendly, or anything. They're actually kinda mean but in like… a kind way? It’s a weird New England thing. Not that it'll matter, they’ll probably love you just by nature of you being in the Raiders.”
Ilya’s eyes narrow, studying him.
“You will be? Or have been?”
Shane hums, “Yeah to both, actually. I’ll be there for school in the fall.”
“Ah,” Ilya licks his lips, slow and deliberate. His eyes never leave Shane's.
“That is where you went to hide?”
Shane froze, whatever half-formed fantasy of crawling into Rozanov’s lap that his brain was conjuring being put out. It was the first time in a while someone had directly referenced what had happened, and it still stung.
“What does that mean?”
Rozanov has the fucking audacity to laugh.
“Hollander, I play you, two years ago, yes? With Under-18s. No one disappears that fast unless-”
“Fuck you,” Shane spits, feeling hurt.
Shane’s shoving himself off the ground and to his feet as Rozanov’s still chuckling. He trails off once Shane starts collecting his things.
“...Hollander? I don’t–”
The door swings shut behind him, cutting off whatever Rozanov intends to say.
Thank fuck he won’t have to deal with him again.
Shane goes to BU in the fall. Plays his ass off with the team, forces himself to go to parties and events. Feels awkward when girls hit on him and he has to explain that he’s gay over and over. He starts sticking to the guy who plays on his wing, another Canadian named Hayden who actually seems to be interested in something other than asking him what it’s like having a brother on the second line of the Metros, or getting outed. Tries not to hate his roommates in their shitty three student rental suite and their willingness to eat his meal prep. Settles into his architecture and structural engineering degree. Keeps up with the few guys from Juniors that are still willing to talk to him.
He goes to the Metros/Raiders game when his brother is in town after he invites him and feels shitty about how uncomfortable it makes him. He spends most of the night trying not to flinch whenever Comeau calls someone a cocksucker or faggot at the bar and everyone except JJ laughs, his brother included, and looks the other way when Matt tries to hook up with some girl that was not his girlfriend, knowing how his objection would be received.
It’s… okay. It’s not the same as what he had planned for his life two years ago, but it’s fine.
He gets a kitten, around the beginning of December. One of the girls in his study group for his residential planning and engineering class found a whole box of them out by the parking structure, and he ends up bringing a sweet, shy little grey tabby home in the pocket of his sweatshirt that night. He names him Teddy at her suggestion, and he makes the city feel a bit less isolating.
He goes back to Ottawa for the Prospect Cup and watches Russia win again and tries to ignore the way seeing Colt and Rozanov both makes him feel. He ignores Colt’s dirty looks and Rozanov’s staring, and ends up back around the locker rooms while the boys clean up, waiting to say goodbye with most of the team before he heads out with some of them who invited him for dinner.
Then there's a hand tucked into the crook of his elbow and when he turns, Ilya Rozanov is there, barefoot and stripped to the waist.
“1075,” He murmurs, “around eleven, yes? We are in same hotel as Canada. I am booked separately for being Captain. I will have to be with team, for party, but after…”
Shane stares at him blankly.
“Hollander. Shane. I like to say sorry about draft, but...”
He glances around, clearly taking in the people that are watching them, and Shane relents.
“Okay. Eleven, then.”
Rozanov nods, then stomps off back towards his locker room. Shane watches him, the warm, nervous feeling he had that night in LA coming back even though he’s desperately trying to clamp it down.
“What the fuck are you doing, Shane?”
Shane turns to look at Colt, standing a few feet behind him, hair wet and in street clothes.
“What?”
“This dude doesn't talk to anyone except to be an asshole and hates all of us but will talk to you?” He sneers, “He probably wants to fuck you, and you act like it’s okay?”
Shane’s stomach rolls as he turns back, to where Rozanov’s standing, casually leaning against the wall, talking with Russia’s goalie. His phone rings and he turns away, answering it.
“Are you jealous of me or of him, Williams?”
Colt flinches, to his satisfaction. JP Marleau calls for Shane from the locker room entrance, ready to go along with Jarrod and Raf, and he lifts his hand in recognition, before turning back to Colt.
“Good Luck in Dallas, Colt. Hopefully next year you make it past training camp.”
Shane’s there five minutes late, and Rozanov nearly looks panicked when he arrives.
“I figured it was better to be slightly late,” Shane says, as he awkwardly sits on his bed and he closes the door behind him, “In case the guys lingered, or whatever.”
“Ah. They were not here, they are down in Dima’s room.”
Rozanov stares at him, leaving against the door. He looks so much older, even though they are almost exactly the same age. Shane feels more self conscious than normal, just a dumb college freshman around some future superstar.
“I am sorry, about draft. I did not know, yes? About the people finding out you are gay.”
Shane nods. He can’t bring himself to look at Rozanov, even as he pushes himself away from the door and comes to stand in front of him.
“In Russia, when you stop, they just say nothing. And you were not famous, so it was hard to even find for English, and I just thought, ah-” Ilya frowns, like he's trying to think of the words.
“I let the pressure get to me?”
Rozanov nods.
It made sense. And really, Shane could see how chirping him was just his typical hockey bro asshole behavior, and not him specifically targeting Shane.
“I should say sorry too, really. Um. You just… seemed like you were flirting? And then dropped that bomb, and it felt… I dunno. Shitty. Like you were making fun of me.”
Rozanov winces, clearly understanding what Shane means. He drops down next to him on the bed, casually leaning back on his elbows.
“You probably shouldn’t flirt like that, anyway,” Shane tries to joke, “it might give someone the wrong idea. Colt Williams said something to me about us just talking, before.”
“Williams is self hating gay, this is why he noticed. He is ex-boyfriend, yes?”
Shane's tongue feels like lead, unsure of how to respond.
“Is obvious,” Rozanov adds, when Shane says nothing, “When I talk to you before, he spends who time staring like he wants to fuck you but also hates you. He is sad little closet boy. I am right?”
Shane chews his lip, nodding. Rozanov snorts and rolls his eyes.
“He is untalented asshole that will ride bench for his whole career if he makes MLH. He could tell the whole world we are fucking and no one would pay attention because he is boring nobody.”
Rozanov grins at him when Shane laughs, shaking his head.
“Also, I was flirting at draft, but not for that. I wouldn’t do it to make fun.”
Shane just gapes at him.
“What?”
Rozanov raises his eyebrows at Shane.
“Is hard to believe?”
A nervous giggle makes it out of Shane before he can help it.
“I mean, yeah? Why would you even…?”
Ilya sits up, so close Shane can pick out the little flecks of gold in his eyes.
“You are hot. I am hot. I think ‘maybe we fuck.’ If you say no, is okay.”
Shane is so fucking confused.
“But you don’t… like me?”
Rozanov grins, squeezing Shane’s thigh.
“Hollander… you do not need to like someone to fuck them, yes? Though I do not think it will be too hard to.”
“To what?”
“Like you.”
Shane wants to tell him that it probably will be. That most people do find it hard to like him. Even his own boyfriend didn’t like him, most of the time, and he has a grand total of two friends in school, and that barely counts because Jackie is Hayden’s girlfriend.
Instead he just squeaks as Rozanov gently trails his fingers over the bridge of his nose and his cheek bones before cupping his chin.
“And these… they are making me fucking crazy. I cannot stop thinking about them.”
“My freckles?” Shane frowns, as Rozanov traces his lower lip with his thumb, “I hate them.”
He looks at Shane like he's just insulted him personally.
“Why?”
“They feel… I don't know. Childish, I guess? I look like a little kid with them.”
Rozanov shakes his head at him.
“Ah. No. These are lies. Things I think of doing to you because of freckles… not childish.”
Oh.
“Yeah?”
“Hm. Yes.”
Rozanov kisses him, then.
It’s nothing like kissing Colt, or Marc from his econ class when he got caught. Rozanov kisses like he means it, like he gets off on the kissing as much as anything else. Colt always seemed annoyed to do it; like he had to so Shane would let him push his head down onto his dick without complaint, and wouldn't say anything when he came in Shane’s mouth without warning. It always felt like the minute Shane’s lips were on his, all he wanted was for it to stop.
Rozanov doesn’t stop, only breaking the kiss to get their clothes off. It’s Shane who has to break it, once they’re both naked and hard and Shane is flat on his back with Rozanov in between his thighs, looming over him with his dick pressed to his hip.
“Uh. So. I’m not like… prepped? Or anything? Um,” Shane can feel his face on fire, “And also I’ve never…I mean, I’m not like, a virgin or anything but I haven’t… with someone, but I’ve had like, toys. Um…”
Rozanov smiles like he thinks he's adorable, stroking Shane’s jaw and kissing him again. Shane should find it annoying but he doesn’t.
“Hollander, just because I don’t fuck you does not mean I don’t get to have sex, yes? I can suck your cock and be very happy about it.”
“I don't know,” Shane mumbles between kisses, “Colt never wanted to.”
“Why?”
“He said it was too gay. Mostly we just jerked each other off, and sometimes he’d let me suck his dick.”
Rozanov looks like he doesn’t know whether to find it funny or be mad. He settles for pressing his face to Shane’s shoulder and muttering something in Russian. He kisses his neck, his jaw, his ear.
“We make us both happy, this time, hm?”
Then he slithers down his body to take Shane down his throat.
Shane should be embarrassed by how fast he comes, once his mouth is on him. He probably would be, if it wasn’t for the fact that Rozanov barely lasts much longer when Shane does the same, coming in Shane’s mouth as he tries to swallow everything he gives him, the whole thing almost enough to get him hard again.
“Fuck,” Ilya pants after, as they lie side by side and catch their breath, “He is stupider than I thought, giving that up.”
“Was it okay?”
Ilya laughs. He swipes at the corner of Shane’s lips, then feeds his thumb back into Shane's mouth; bitter-salt bursts on his tongue and Shane chases the taste of Ilya gladly, letting him fuck the digit in and out.
“You never say how it happens, Hollander.”
Shane’s brain feels like it’s been sucked through his dick and takes him a second to register he’s been asked a question.
“Say what?”
“Why everyone finds out you like men?”
“Oh, Uh. A scout found out. Someone from Montreal, I guess, and it just… spread like wildfire. After that I had no hope.”
Ilya turns on his stomach, his brows furrowed as if he doesn’t understand.
“And your brother says nothing?”
Shane opens his mouth, then closes it. Bites his lip in thought.
“Me and Matt aren’t full siblings. His mom and our dad split when he was two. His mom got custody of him, so he was only really around sometimes on weekends and like… a few holidays a year? My parents dated in college and ran into each other when dad was midway through his divorce and just… clicked, again. They got married and I came along pretty quick. I don’t really think he gave a shit about what happened to me, because he really doesn’t care about the Hollander side of the family much.”
“Ah,” Ilya winces, “You do not get along.”
“Not really, no. Dad… he tried really hard. We were both into hockey and stuff, and he tried to find common ground with that, but he had no interest. He barely has interest in my dad being around so like… this little brother thing isn’t really what he wants, especially because I took hockey so seriously.”
Ilya looks so sympathetic, petting his side. It makes Shane feel over exposed, and he turns his face away.
“There’s a lot of weird resentment, I think. His mom’s pretty… whatever, you know? Like she married some rich guy after dad, and they both gave him whatever he wanted, but mostly to like… make him the perfect hockey playing son worth bragging about. Best equipment, as much icetime as he wanted, private coaching… whatever.
“With me, my parents were super involved, even though we were nowhere near as rich, and I think he kinda… hated it? Which is weird, because Dad tried to do a lot of that for him, but he just point blank refused it until he stopped. But also like… Mom works in brand management and PR anyway and was going to basically take over doing that for me, was going to build this whole… brand around Shane Hollander, Asian hockey prodigy or whatever. He was pissed about that too.”
“Then you got outed.”
Shane looks up to give him an awkward smile.
“Yeah. Kinda ruined everything. Hard to be a brand when no hockey team will take the risk of pissing off homophobic fans and the league says you’re not worth the effort.”
Ilya made an annoyed little noise in the back of his throat, and then kissed him.
“So. Um. When do you go back?”
Ilya kisses him again, rolling them over Shane was on top of him, propped up on his chest.
“I don’t. Boston, ah… they think I am going to be important, yes? And my contract in Russia with junior team can be done now in new year, so they want me to do English for press, and also teaching for media?”
“Media training.”
Ilya hums, trailing his fingers over Shane’s face. Shane felt slightly embarrassed by the attention, and ducked his head pressing his cheek to Ilya's chest.
“Yes. So I go to Boston now, and do it all, and find apartment, and spend all my time learning terrible language, and going to practice with team.”
“Your parents were cool with that? Won’t your family miss you?”
Ilya goes very still for a second, before relaxing, stroking a hand through Shane’s hair.
“My father knows this is for best.”
Shane swallows, feeling like he made things awkward.
“It’ll be cool to have you there. I could help with the English, maybe? We could like… tandem, or whatever. I’m doing Russian, so it’d be nice.”
The hand petting Shane’s hair stops abruptly.
“You are taking Russian?”
“Yeah. I have a language requirement and the only things that were available were Russian and French, and French felt like cheating.”
Shane almost thinks Ilya’s crying, from the way his shoulders are shaking. It’s only when he looks up to his face that he sees he’s laughing.
“You did not pick class that would be easy pass because it felt like cheating so you pick Russian?”
“Yeah? If I’m gonna pay for it, I wanted to learn another language."
It turns out Ilya’s really, really pretty when he smiles and it’s not some smug, irritating thing. Even if he is laughing at Shane, his hand cupping his cheek makes up for it.
“Is that dumb?”
“No no, Shane, is good, yes?” He grins, swiping his thumb over Shane’s cheekbone, “You teach me English for hockey, I teach you all the good Russian. Like yes Sir and please let me come and harder daddy.”
“Fuck you,” Shane laughs.
“No, fuck me deeper, Ilya, I want your come in my hole.”
Shane’s dick jerks at the thought. Ilya smiles, smug.
“I hate you.”
“You want handjob in shower before you leave?”
Shane doesn’t not want that, so he gets up, leading Ilya to the bathroom.