Chapter Text
February 2016 – Boston
Shane throws his head back, cosmos expanding and imploding at the same time. His brain drifts, hums, sings, soars, reaching its apex and then impossibly climbing further. If it wasn’t for the hands gripping his hips, nails digging into muscles, he surely would have floated away with no tether to return. There’s the rhythmic slap of the body above him, thrusting in time with shockwaves of pleasure that send his body to another plane of existence.
A light tap to his cheek brings the world slightly back into focus.
“This okay?” Rozanov asks, his own voice breathless, not pausing in his torment.
Shane nods frantically. He swears his voice was not his own when he moans out, “More.”
Incredibly, the word barely leaves his lips before the thrusts increase to a relenting pace. The grip on his hips tightens into a vise. Colors flatten and blur before exploding behind his eyes. He grips his own cock, hand moving of its own accord. He uses his other hand to push against the headboard. Desire and need pools in his lower abdomen before expanding outward. The world buzzes then screams around him, stars bursting and falling as a telltale warmth splatters across his chest. The man above him shudders and collapses on top of him shortly after.
Shane’s body trembles as his consciousness wades through the swamp and works its way back into himself. He looks down at the mop of golden curls beneath his chin. He runs a hand through them once, and then stops himself.
They don’t do things like that. They fuck, clean up, then leave. One. Two. Three. Expectations have been set, and Shane is nothing if not a rule follower.
As if reading his mind, Rozanov stands up and walks to his ensuite bathroom. Shane lazily catches the towel thrown his way, his movements sloppy from post-coital bliss. “I should probably head out,” he says, his voice neutral. “Got an early flight.”
Rozanov walks back towards the bed, stepping over his discarded clothes. He rolls his torso so he’s hovering over where Shane is splayed. “No stay,” he grumbles with the slightest hint of a whine.
Shane blinks in surprise. They have been doing this for years now, a quick but memorable – always so mind-blowingly memorable – fuck after a game. It’s never anything more or less. It’s their simple arrangement, a pattern to follow. And patterns bring Shane comfort. More importantly, it’s a pattern that worked. Ilya going off script fills Shane with unease. If they start throwing in unknown variables it runs the risk of changing their entire dynamic. It’s happened before, when Shane read too much, too soon into their encounters, and it left him with six months of unread messages and heartbreak. Shane choses to remain silent – noncommittal – and focuses on wiping the mess off his stomach.
Rozanov pauses, seeming to catch himself. “Just for a minute. Let me take care of you.” He places his hand over Shane’s, pausing his movements. Gently, he takes the towel from him and cleans him off with a devoted care Shane has only seen once or twice before.
Shane barely puts any thought into letting Ilya take over. His body is so used to registering every, fucking thing from the buzzing of the lights to the seams of his socks. The floaty headspace he can enter with the other man feels like a cool balm over his oversensitive skin. He leans back and watches as his abs are cleaned, first with a few halfhearted swipes of the towel then with Rozanov’s tongue.
Much to Shane’s chagrin, he starts reacting as the other man moves lower. Nothing too crazy, his body still recovering from his spent load. Just a small twitch. But it doesn't go unnoticed by Ilya who gives a slight smirk in response.
“What are you doing?” Shane asks, annoyed. Any later, he’ll have a difficult time finding an Uber back to the hotel. It’s definitely past the time when he usually left. He leans into his irritation. He has to as the only other emotion at his disposal is desire.
Rozanov peeks up from under his mop of curls. “Kissing and making better.” He sloppily moves his kisses to Shane’s hips, mouthing the tender areas.
Shane looks down at where red marks were already blossoming across his hips and thighs. By how sore his backside is starting to feel against mattress, he’s sure it’s even worse in places he can’t see. He leans back and closes his eyes, awareness slamming back to him at the thought of going to practice tomorrow. “Ugh, I don’t know how I’m going to explain those.”
“Just say you like it rough.” Shane glares as Ilya twists his wrist to place a hand over the reddened fingerprint shaped bruises. “And that maybe Lily has gorilla hands.”
Shane scowls but makes no move to stop Ilya as he continues his caresses. “Rozanov, I’m serious. We have to be more careful.”
“Hmmm, yes, we,” Ilya smirks. “I’ll remember next time you are begging for it.”
“Shut up.”
Shane hops out of the Uber in front of the hotel, thanking the driver and leaving a generous tip in the app. Snow started falling earlier in the evening, blanketing an already shin deep layer across the sidewalks and the parking lot. Boston’s well-equipped for the snow, meaning the major roadways and a pathway to the hotel’s main entrance has already been plowed and salted. However, it’s three in the morning – an hour after the bars have closed – if anyone recognizes Shane there would be little speculation as to what he was likely doing.
…Though the details would almost certainly be amiss.
Forgoing the main entrance, Shane steps off the sidewalk and trudges through the heavy snow, grimacing as the freezing water easily seeps into his Reeboks. Once he had left the sanctuary of Ilya’s bedroom, Shane’s consciousness forced its way back into his body, leaving him feeling raw and exposed. He ducks against the dry, icy air, tugging his jacket closer around himself. He tries to ignore the scratchy collar against the nape of his neck. The bruises on his hips make themselves known when they rub against his joggers. He rounds the corner of the building towards the back entrance only accessible by key. He reaches into his jacket pocket, numb fingers fumbling for the thin piece of plastic.
A shadow behind him is all the warning Shane has before a rough hand squeezes the back of his neck and slams his head into the brick wall in front of him. Pain explodes from his forehead and he falls to his knees.
“Wha-” he breathes, bracing his hands against the wall. The same hand grips his hair and tugs him upright, leaving him kneeling with his body facing the wall. While his mind is stunned by the speed of the assault, luckily, his body is no stranger to surprise attacks or to the sharp feeling of ice against his knees. He reaches for the hand clutching the back of his head.
The man behind him crouches and shifts his other arm in front of Shane. “Don’t move.” Shane cringes at the man’s hot breath in his ear. He glances down at the hand to see a small switch blade pointed above his collarbone.
The hand in his hair tightens. His eyes water in response. Shane keeps his gaze fixed on the brick wall. “What the fuck do you want?” He raises his hands by his head, fingers stiff and antsy to attack.
Shane considers his options. The man is armed and very likely dangerous. There wasn’t any instigating factor. Is it random? Or does he know who Shane is? He doesn’t see the man, but Shane likely has size and sheer power on his side.
“Be quiet,” another voice warns.
Great. There are two of them.
He may have to bide his time. It’s late but the parking lot is covered in street lights. Hopefully someone will see them and get help.
The other man starts fumbling with his jacket, prodding and searching as if Shane’s body is of no consequence. A hand slides into the pocket of his joggers, reaching deep and much too close for comfort.
Shane jumps, turning his body away from the roaming hands. “What the f-”
His protest is cut off when his head is slammed into the wall a second time. A warm dampness trickles past his brow and gets caught in his lashes before continuing down his cheek. He tries blinking it away only to have his head wrenched back again, this time with the knife at his throat.
“I said, don’t move,” the closer voice hisses.
Shane compulsively swallows and squeezes his eyes shut. He focuses on keeping his breaths steady as a hand reaches into his other pocket.
“Found it,” the second man grumbles as he pulls out Shane’s wallet.
Oh, just a mugging. Not great but survivable.
Shane exhales through his nose and waits to be let go. What he doesn’t expect is to be shoved to the ground. His shoulder takes the brunt of the impact, the snow cushioning his fall. Blood continues to drip from the gash on his forehead. He clumsily wipes it away but keeps his eyes lowered to the ground. He figures if he doesn’t see them, they can finally fuck back off to where they came from.
He watches two blurry pairs of feet as they presumably flip through his wallet, pocketing the cash.
“No fucking way,” one of the men mutters, “Look at this.”
There’s a pause. “Yeah, it’s definitely him. Shane fucking Hollander,” the other man breathes out, a mix of awe and disdain in his voice. He never understood why everyone says his name like that.
Shit. Shane clenches his fists in the snow.
The voices lower. “We could fuck up their whole season.”
In the muted silence of the fresh snowfall, Shane can easily hear their whispers.
Shit, this was bad.
“We would know before anyone. Get some bets in before morning.”
…This was really bad.
Rolling his shoulders back, he leaps to his feet and launches himself at the closest man, tackling him to the ground.
“Oh fuck!” Shane can’t tell who yells it over the ringing in his head. Straddling the man, he lets loose, his fists slamming into the man’s head repeatedly. He’s rarely one to get into fights on the rink, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to throw a punch. He’s spent years using his muscle mass to his benefit. Seeing double barely slows him down. Dazedly, he thinks how proud Ilya would probably be.
Shane is only able to get three or four punches in before an arm around his neck pulls him off. He stumbles up and backwards against the other man’s chest. Gripping the arm, Shane does a cursory glance around. Luckily, it appears that neither man has the knife anymore, likely lost in the snow. The man behind him brings his now empty hand up to tighten his hold, but Shane lunges forward, twisting sideways to block the chokehold. Floundering, the man grabs the collar of Shane’s shirt, ripping it in the process.
One last jab to his temple has Shane stumbling, dizzy and off kilter. The world spins in a kaleidoscope of streetlights and snow-covered cars. Damn, three hits to the head in a night. A concussion is pretty much inevitable. His feet slip underneath him, his body tumbling into the snow.
Both men stand above Shane, one with blood dripping down from an obviously broken nose. “I’m going to fucking kill you,” he seethes, his teeth painted red.
Black dots dance around Shane’s vision. He can only think of using his arms to protect his head and neck as a boot stomps repeatedly down on his body. He feels one particularly firm kick shift something in his chest. Tucking his body into himself, he coughs violently trying to get the air back into his lungs. Warm spittle falls over his lips.
“Dude! STOP! Look at him!”
Shane doesn’t move his arms. He had tried submitting. He had tried fighting. Maybe playing possum would get him back to his hotel room. It’s barely an act at this point.
“He’s fucked. We got what we wanted. Let’s go.”
One last kick lands on his ribs. Shane moans through bloody lips.
“Fucker,” the man spits on him.
Shane tries his best to ignore it when the rapidly cooling saliva slides through his hair and down his temple. He hears the receding sound of boots crunching in the snow. He decides to wait for minute to ensure they’re gone before heading back to his room.
His head pounds and his breaths rattle. Snow flurries swirl underneath the streetlight. It’s almost peaceful. He just needs to wait a few more seconds.
Darkness engulfs him.
Awareness feels like emerging from a warm pool.
Twenties… Male… Blunt force Trauma
It comes and goes like the lapping of tides.
En Route…Massachusetts General
His body trembles as they cut through his shirt and joggers. He feels multiple sets of hands pull the wet clothes off of him. He tries to push them away but he can’t find the strength to move his frostbitten hands. He voices his displeasure with an anemic groan, his head rolling from side to side.
Sir…Sir… “SIR, can you hear me?”
A bright light sears his vision. His head throbs with his heartbeat. Each breath feels like a knife sliding through his ribs. Too much. It’s all too much. He welcomes the warm waters as they lap over his arms and legs, pulling him back down.
Shane’s consciousness comes in fits and starts. He first feels way too cold, then way too warm – the thick blankets suffocating him. His head rolls. The world spins and he drifts along with it. He’s untethered again and this time there is no one gripping his body, forcing him back to earth. The feelings of pleasure that usually fill his body are strangely absent. A male voice rumbles above him. It’s loud and clear, but Shane’s brain can’t connect the words.
“…Roz?” Shane slurs. He swallows and tries again. “Rozanov?”
The male voice replies. A low tenor of jumbled nonsense. Shane lets himself slip back under to the sound of it. Ilya will take care of him.
Ilya wakes to the smell of Hollander’s shampoo and sweat. He turns his head and buries his nose in the pillow, inhaling deeply. He smiles at the tanginess of the fresh citrus scent. It’s different from the more earthy shampoo he uses. Each time he sees Hollander, the Canadian unknowingly sinks his teeth in a bit deeper.
Literally and figuratively.
He looks down at his fully erect cock and mentally blames it on morning wood. Surely the fading traces of Hollander wouldn’t be enough to have him this hard and wanting.
If so, he has a real problem on his hands.
He reaches down and takes care of himself, pretending he doesn’t think of freckles against flushed cheeks when he comes.
Ilya’s barely out of bed when the doorbell chimes. He lazily throws on a pair of joggers, hoping whoever the fuck it is will drop off whatever purchase he forgot about and fuck off. He has a few hours before practice, and he has no interest in giving up any of his time with meaningless encounters. He’s selfish like that.
So lazy. Selfish too. But lazy more so.
The doorbell chimes a second time.
Fuuuck.
He thumbs open his doorbell camera app, surprised to see two police officers standing on his porch. He runs a hand through his hair and takes a breath. It’s probably nothing. Something to do with the neighbors. He doesn’t bother with a shirt before opening the door.
Both officers look to be around his age, the one with a buzzcut is maybe a few years older. They can barely contain their glee at being on his doorstep, the younger one is doing an especially bad job at hiding his smile.
Good, they are fans. This can work in his favor.
“Hello. Ah – ” Buzzcut coughs and swallows. Ilya watches as he straightens his shoulders and sets his jaw. Okay, Officer Buzzcut takes his job seriously. “Mr. Rozanov. We are hoping we can ask you some questions. Should only take a minute.”
Ilya thinks back to the past few days. He’s been in town the past week. Three games in six days. He hasn’t had much time to do anything outside of hockey. Of course, there’s been a night out or two, but he’s always careful – more careful than others – of keeping his antics on the legal side of debauchery. He’s here on a visa, and the expiration date on it looms in the back of his mind.
Best to make nice with the law. He gives his best smile and says, “Of course, come in.” Bribing the police is frowned upon here, and he doesn’t know how corrupt these two are. But he can still get on their good side by inviting them into his home.
He leads them towards his kitchen. Out of the corner of this eye, Ilya sees the younger cop openly starring around, wide eyed, like kid in a candy store. There is nothing personal or of value in this place. No photographs, no memorabilia. But the man still seems happy to take in every piece of décor as if it tells him something more about the hockey superstar. At least he has the wherewithal to gather himself when Ilya turns back towards them.
“Please, take a seat,” Ilya gestures at the barstools at his island.
“No need. We don’t expect this to take long,” Officer Buzzcut replies.
Ilya nods and leans back against his stove. The kitchen isn’t small but it feels cramped with the two men staring at him. He may need to look at buying a new place soon.
A second or two passes before the younger officer speaks. His voice is deeper than Ilya had expected. “First, we are huge fans. Killer game last night. We apologize for showing up like this. It’s just a box we need to check off.”
Ilya nods again. They are being so nonchalant about the whole thing – so different from Russian officers – he starts to wonder if they would have shown up at all if it wasn’t for the fact he’s Ilya Rozanov. People have the tendency of inserting themselves into his life.
The officer continues, “Mr. Rozanov, if you don’t mind us asking, where you between the hours of one and four last night?”
Well, at one he was buried balls deep in Hollander’s ass.
Despite internally smiling at the image, Ilya keeps his face stoic. “Here. Why? Something happen?”
Officer Buzzcut points at the entryway. “We noticed a doorbell camera when we entered. Is there a way we can take a look at that footage?”
Ilya frowns. He should say yes – he’s expected to say yes. Agree and let the cops be on their way. The footage would easily prove that he spent the night at home. But it would also prove that he wasn’t alone. And if these cops know Ilya Rozanov, then they definitely know Shane Hollander.
“I’d like to know what this is about.” His tone remains neutral. His words more curious than anything. Not enough to be a problem, but it buys time to figure out if there’s something else he can give to get them out of his house.
The older officer speaks again, his voice clinical. “Shane Hollander was attacked outside of his hotel early this morning. The medical staff report he was saying your name. We know it is likely nothing. But we have no other leads, and we have to start somewhere.”
Ilya wonders how the man can sound so detached while uttering some of the worst words Ilya has heard on this side of the prime meridian.
“What. This is joke.” Must be. It’s the only explanation. He grabs his phone out of his pocket and immediately swipes left to his news feed. His phone has the gall to make him scroll down to the fourth story to find what he’s looking for.
BREAKING: MLH star Shane Hollander admitted to Massachusetts General Hospital.
Shane was…attacked? He might be a soft Canadian, but he’s also two hundred pounds of pure muscle. Someone had hurt him bad enough to put him in the hospital. Bad enough that he asked for Ilya …by name. He thinks of Hollander’s voice, breathless with want and desire, moaning out his last name. It’s quickly superimposed with groans of pain.
The hand holding his phone trembles slightly when he clicks the headline. A moment after it loads the officer interrupts him.
“I assure you it’s true. We all know you and Mr. Hollander know each other professionally. So, the quicker we can prove you weren’t there, the quicker we can be out of your hair.”
“Is he okay?” The question comes out in earnest. He looks between the two men, impatiently waiting for an answer. His lungs burn. He’s not sure he’s taken a breath since he read the headline.
His reaction catches them off guard. He can see that. Both sets of eyebrows furrow as they stare openly at him. His behavior is out of character. He can see the switch in their minds. They’re studying him – now police officers first and fans second. They think he’s overreacting, maybe even putting on a bit of a show.
Shit. He’s got to get a grip. He clenches his hands once and forces a breath out. He shoves his phone back into his pocket. He can feel it burn against his thigh.
Buzzcut answers before Ilya is forced to ask again. “We don’t know the details, and we really aren’t at liberty to say.”
Liberty? What is liberty? Shit…Shit. Blyat. English is leaving him. He needs to focus.
“Mr. Rozanov. The footage?...From the doorbell camera?”
He swallows, burying down thoughts of a languid body, sharp tongue, and freckles that mimic the constellations on a clear winter’s night. His hands still and his shoulders relax. He coolly looks at both officers, his face back in its stoic mask.
“No. I cannot show. You need to leave. I cannot help.” His voice is calm and even but leaves no room for rebuttals.
The younger man tries anyway. “Mr. Rozanov, I know he is your rival, but we’re just doing our jobs here.”
The three men stare at each other at an impasse.
“Is there any other evidence you were here last night?” Buzzcut asks.
Ilya thinks for a moment. He isn’t even sure what would constitute as evidence. He had a food delivery service drop off dinner but that was well before the times in question. There was his cellphone. Maybe they could look at his location using cell towers or whatever. He had seen that on multiple TV shows. But that could mean forfeiting his phone, which has just as much incriminating evidence as his doorbell camera.
Ilya shakes his head. “No. Nothing.”
“What about a DNA swab? We can get one done pretty quickly.”
DNA? He knows that from TV shows too. They could use the swab to see if his DNA matches with anything found on Hollander. …Which it would. Even with a condom, Ilya’s imprint was likely in all sorts of places. Last night, it was hot to think about – Ilya leaving his mark everywhere, where everyone can see but no one would notice. There was probably more of Ilya’s DNA on Hollander than Hollander’s. His stomach flipped at the implications.
This test can never happen.
“You need to leave now.” Ilya walks back towards front door, not waiting to see if the officers follow. Laws here are different. He doesn’t need to give them anything. He knows this. There’s something they need first. The word takes a moment to reveal itself. “Get a warrant,” he coldly states as he opens the door. He hopes he’s right. He’s ninety percent positive.
“Mr. Rozanov – ” the younger officer tries. He’s looking at Ilya like someone who is losing a friend.
“Get out,” Ilya grumbles. These parasocial relationships are exhausting at the best of times.
“Of course,” Buzzcut replies, unperturbed unlike his partner. “Have a good rest of your day.”
Ilya tries to ignore how they glance at him suspiciously as they walk past him and out the door. So much for garnering any favors.
Shit. He needs to get to the hospital. And a lawyer. He probably needs a lawyer.