Chapter Text
It's two weeks before Shane makes it back to Tambour. An eight-game roadie, two meetings with sponsors, and dinner with his parents filled up the open nights. It's four days before Christmas, a month until the All Star Break, and Shane had to beg off a dinner invite from Hayden and bolt down a nutritionally complete meal in the coaches office after a meeting with management to be able to make it happen. They play the next two days, so Shane won't have an easy chance to get Justin to sign the NDA unless he's there tonight. And Shane doesn't have any idea what working at a bar looks like. Does he get vacations? Will he be taking time off for Christmas? And does he work all night when he works, or is there some time during the evening when he shows up, shoulders and arms and half-laughing smile?
Shane feels like maybe he should have asked JJ to go with him, because JJ would have gone, would have been delighted and sat at the bar for a couple of hours. Would have reeled in a few girls, or invited some other friends. But then Shane would have to explain the NDA, and he wouldn't be able to duck out with Justin if he…if. Instead Shane has a book in his satchel, and the envelope with the NDA tucked inside, and he's ready to sit at the bar for however many hours it takes.
"How many in your party?" the hostess asks when he walks in.
"Just me," Shane says, then, "I can sit at the bar?"
"We aren't busy yet, if you'd like a table," she says, then, "We have a couple of booths open if you'd prefer some privacy."
"No, I'm okay at the bar," Shane says, and he's never said no to privacy before, certainly not at a restaurant in Montreal.
She walks him over to the bar, and hands him a menu.
"Justin will be right with you," she says, and his stomach tightens around the remainder of his salmon fillet and kale salad.
He doesn't look at the menu, and he doesn't look up. Doesn't watch the hostess knock the bar and tilt her head in his direction. He reaches into his bag and pulls out his book and lays it on the bar. He can see Justin's shoulders shifting in his peripheral vision, the light from the bar glinting off of the lines where muscle meets tendon. He keeps his breath steady, his eyes down. Justin arrives in front of him as he's opening to the bookmark.
"Shane Hollander." He leans over the bar, forearm touching the book. Vetrova: The Legend pressed against rich, warm skin. "I wasn't sure you'd be back."
Shane leans back, looks up. Justin is smiling, lips stretched wide and satisfied. It looks real, and Shane remembers what those lips felt like stretched over him, what satisfaction felt like coiled in his belly. "Well," he says, and shrugs. "Here I am."
"What can I get you?" Justin asks without moving back. Shane lifts the cover of his book, slides out the NDA and a pen and nudges them towards Justin's arm.
"Can you sign this?"
"I'm going to have to read it first," Justin says, "My first break isn't for another hour or so."
It's not busy, but Shane really doesn't know what being a bartender means when it's not making drinks. Probably Justin has to cut limes and clean glasses and all kinds of things before the evening really gets going. "Okay," he says, and he knows it's all wrong. Stiff. Not the kind of easy flirting tone that Justin is using with him.
"I can probably have it signed by then if you want a repeat performance," Justin says, a little lower, smile more like a smirk. Shane can't lean back any further, but he wants to. Wants to stand up and walk away. But he also wants to lean in, wants to slide his tongue against the line of that smirk, wants to taste it.
"I…" he swallows the words he can't come up with. "Not here." That's more like it. "I can't…" he shakes his head.
"Sure," Justin says. "Yeah, no problem." He picks up a glass, looks at the light through it. "You did say I could make you another drink, though."
Shane isn't sure if he's allowed to ask, or if it's coming on too strong. It sounds like a line from a movie, or maybe a bad porno. But. He'll have to get the NDA back, and then once Justin's signed it, there's no reason not to suck his dick again.
"When do you get off?" he asks, probably too fast, a little slurred, and Justin's smile turns into a grin.
"My shift is over at eleven, but I might be able to duck out earlier, if it isn't busy." He looks to the door, where the hostess is on her phone. "Let me check on something. And, here," he pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket, unfolds it, and hands it to Shane. "New menu I'm working on."
Shane holds the menu where he could look at it, tilts his face like he's reading. It's just after 4pm, which means that if he stays, he'll be here for seven hours. Seven hours isn't a normal amount of time to sit in a restaurant alone. If he stays, there won't be any question about what he's staying for. His lonely horniness on full display, bare and desperate.
So he can't stay. He'll have a drink and Justin will give him the NDA back, and maybe he'll come back after tomorrow's game. Or the day after. Or some other time. Maybe.
Maybe not. Because he doesn't need this. He has Rozanov. He has five times a season. He has enough to keep himself level. He knows what he's getting with Rozanov and it's not complicated. It's not new. All the questions have been wrung out of it, and now it's straightforward, it's reliable. Never more, never less: their bodies and their desperate thirst for each other and five times a season.
But then, it is less, sometimes. Rozanov was on IR for a game in the October, so that's four times. And there's no All Stars in Olympic years, and even with the next Olympics in China they probably won't. So that's four times next season. If Rozanov keeps wanting to. Because he didn't, after the Olympics, last time.
Shane focuses on the menu, reads the words.
Tilting at windmills - lime, agave, nonalcoholic tequila, ancho-tamarind rim.
Front and Center - ginger beer, rosemary, seedlip, lime.
Home team - butterfly pea flower iced tea with raspberry mint shrub.
All day, all night - espresso, coconut cream, vanilla, egg white float.
Dirty little secret - Celery tonic, tomato juice, olive and salami garnish.
He can't make sense of any of it, can't summon up an idea of what the flavors might amount to. He stares at it a bit longer, then sets it down, opens his book. He's not reading that either, just looking at the pages, a little bit cross-eyed, breathing shallowly.
He remembers it with crystal clarity: what it was like to have had Rozanov and then to not have him. To start to believe he could have that much, at least, and then to have it stripped away. And that was before it felt steady. Before it was part of the way he keeps himself balanced, before the pleasure, the satiation, turned into hunger, before he could count the days since he'd seen Rozanov by the number of strokes it took him to come in the shower. Before he got so desperate for cock that that he fucked a bartender in a supply closet with one of his teammates six meters away.
So. Okay. Maybe he does need it. Maybe he came to rely on Rozanov to give it to him somewhere along the line. But that's good to know. He needs sex—that's normal. He needs food, he needs water, he needs sex. That's fine. That's everyone in the locker room. Maybe he's not like everyone in the locker room when it comes to who he wants to have sex with, but he's not like everyone else in the locker room in a lot of other ways, and that's fine. That's never been the goal. The goal has always been to find his edges and hone them into blades. This is just one more edge, one more thing he knows about himself. That's good. That's an opportunity.
He picks up the drink menu again, scans it with an eye to nutritional content, and lands on the Home Team just as Justin and another man walk up to him.
"Shane, this is François," Justin says. "François Killian, Shane Hollander. Shane was at our friends and family event, what…"
"Two weeks ago," Shane says.
"Right. You made him that salmon with the…"
"Dehydrated vegetable tian and the olive oil mousse, yes, what did you think of them?" François says. "I want to go in that direction a little bit more for the menu, but we're not there yet."
"They were…yeah, good. I'm not much of a food guy, but I liked it."
"Good! Enough to come back, at least. That's great."
"Yeah," Shane says, and looks down at the menu Justin gave him. It's hand-written and a little battered at the corners. There are inky blue shadows along the edges like it's been handled more than just a couple of times. It makes something warm swell in Shane's stomach to know that Justin was hoping he'd come back, thought about it sometime beyond when he was working, thought about it and did something nice for when he did show up.
"So," Justin says, leaning into the bar between where Shane and François are looking across it, lips heavy and tempting and right where Shane can't help but stare. "I was thinking François could do like, a tasting menu or something? Since we're not too busy. Might take a couple of hours, but you brought a book, and you have an evening game tomorrow, right? So you can stick around for a while?"
Justin's eyes are on Shane, or maybe just over his shoulder, casual, but focused. A question about the thing he's not saying — the rare time when Shane knows with absolute certainty what the real question is.
Shane's worry about his lonely horniness being on display vanishes in light of Justin's hopeful gambit. I might be able to duck out earlier and repeat performance and might take a couple of hours triangulate against each other like a shot through traffic into something close to I will do whatever it takes to fuck you again.
And Shane does want it. He wants it like the beginning of the longest stretch he's going to go without seeing Rozanov until playoffs, he wants it like two minutes of rough strokes in the shower, he wants it now and here and tonight.
"Yeah," Shane says.
"Amazing," Justin says back, and taps the menu in Shane's hand. "What can I make you — any of those look good? I'll let you download your nutritional whatever to François so he can wow you."
Shane looks at the menu again. "The, uh, Home Team?"
"Nice. That one should be fun. Specific gravity. Be right back."
Justin clatters off and François grabs a notepad out of his pocket and says, "So what do you eat?"
It only takes a couple of minutes to tell François about his nutritional guidelines, and then another couple of minutes of hockey talk, when it turns out that François is JJs friend, even though "friend" seems like a stretch when François explains that he picked up a girl JJ was trying to wheel one night after a game, and then ended up pouring her into a taxi home while JJ left with two different girls an hour later.
"He gave me his number, hand to god, while one of them was licking up his neck right there on the sidewalk. Said he owed me game tickets for my service to his night."
"Sounds like JJ," Shane laughs.
"Oh, so you're François' friends and family, then?" Justin says, setting a drink down in front of Shane. It's half blue and half red with a narrow line of magenta hovering between the two colors like a force field.
"Looks like," Shane says. "Did you ever end up getting those tickets?"
"Yeah," François says. "The game against Detroit in October. Took Chelle with me. This guy wimped out so he could make his 7am workout the next day."
"I mean, I regret it now," Justin says. Shane's not sure he should regret it, based on the way his arms look.
"I can get you tickets to a game, if you want," Shane says.
"But can you promise me a hat trick?" Justin's grin is full of implications.
Shane doesn't have a suggestive grin of his own, but he does smile, "I can always try."
Over the next two and a half hours, François brings out eight small plates with beautiful jewelboxes of food on them. Justin mixes up every drink on his menu, and Shane doesn't get that much reading done. Even though there's a steady stream of other patrons moving through, François stops to talk with him periodically, and Justin seems to find all his tools in front of Shane, moves over to talk to Shane every time someone orders a cocktail. He works with a casual ease, and swift, efficient movements that Shane can't help focus on. The conversation jumps between getting-to-know-you stories and the kind of easy question-and-answer banter that tells Shane neither of them is that intimidated by his celebrity. Whether that's because one of them has had his dick in his mouth, because one of them is close enough to JJ to understand that he's actually pretty much a human being, or some kind of alchemy of both things, Shane feels like the center of the fucking universe in a way he never has at a bar before, not even in the heady hours post-winning the cup.
He knows that it's because he's a celebrity. There's definitely no eight-course meal on the menu that the hostess handed him, and he notices her firmly steering other patrons away from him more than a few times, but it's just…comfortable. Uncomplicated in a way he's not used to feeling in social situations.
"Your final course," François says, and lifts a cloche off of the dish, "is a chilled miso strawberry soup with a coconut cream namelaka and kiwi caviar."
"And," Justin says, balancing the drink he's been mixing in front of Shane on an open hand, fingers curved to cup it in a way that makes Shane want to crawl into the cup. Instead he reaches for it, lets his fingers touch Justin's just for a moment where they're warm against the chilled glass. "An iced hop tea with lemon, açai syrup and a tincture of bergamot."
They're both amazing. Everything all night has been four or five bites of explosive flavor, and it's all been on plan or in small enough amounts that it's impossible to worry about whether there's something in it that doesn't fit his nutritionist's guidelines.
He eats the soup slowly, knowing that his last spoonful is going to be more lukewarm than cold, and that his last sip of tea is going to be watered down. Knowing that it's still going to be four hours until Justin is finished working. And someone is going to notice if he spends four more hours at this bar stool.
Between bites, Shane does some light internet searching on what an eight course tasting menu costs, so he can peel off some bills even if Justin tries to comp him, and replies to an email from his dad proposing a menu for Christmas dinner.
Eventually the bowl is empty and there are four sad ice cubes at the bottom of the glass, and there aren't any more excuses. He looks up, and Justin is there, sliding a folio across the counter to him. Which, at least he won't have to fight about that.
But when he opens it, there's only the signed NDA inside, and a sticky note with a phone number and a smiley face on it.
Justin watches as he slides the NDA back into his book, as he pulls the wallet out of his pocket and retrieves five crisp hundred dollar notes and folds the folio shut over them.
"That's too much," he says.
"Sorry," Shane shrugs, even though he isn't. It was good. They earned it. "I have to head out."
It's only just past seven, but Justin doesn't even make a motion to argue. "This was fun," he says, "We should do it again sometime."
The words are so high-school-date goodbye-at-the-door that Shane feels a little bit worried that Justin wants to kiss him right there—the warm light reflecting off the bottles behind Justin are an echo of the suburban streetlights of his youth. Shane never really wanted to kiss any of the girls he took on dates in school, never knew what else to do with those moments except the thing that was expected of him. He wonders how Justin spent those nights. Kissing girls half-heartedly on their parents stoops, or stopping in a dark corner off of a cul-de-sac with another boy, licking into his mouth, sloppy and desperate, hardly worried that someone would see.
Shane's throat catches with the curiosity, the ache of it. He reaches out his hand, grateful for the bar between them and how easily Justin understands of what Shane is attempting. He takes Shane's hand and brushes his thumb once over the ridges of Shane's knuckles, squeezes.
"Thanks," Shane says. Then, "I'll definitely be back."
"Good." Justin purses his lips, halfway between a smirk and a smile. "Will you text me a copy?" He tilts his head towards Shane's book, and lets go of Shane's hand.
"Yeah." The book goes into Shane's bag, and he smiles, attempts something like the half-nod half-head-tilt that Justin's just done, and turns to leave.
He leaves a folded hundred on the hostess station as a thanks for her discrete attempts to keep the evening quiet for him and heads to his car.
When he gets home, he pulls the book out of his satchel and sets it on his desk. He runs through a quick mobility routine to work out the way his joints stick from three hours on a bar stool, and gets ready for bed. If he jerks off in the shower to mingled thoughts of Justin's smirking lips and Ilya's grunting thrusts, that's his own business.
Christmas washes over him in a haze of kisses to his forehead, brushes of his mom's hand against his shoulder, and, "You really didn't have to, Shane." His parents commissioned him a painting of his cottage in the snow, and he's already looking forward to seeing it on the wall in his condo in Montreal, a reminder of the two or three times a year he feels truly unobserved.
"Oh, we are going to fly in for the New Years Classic," his mom says, Christmas morning as they sit in front of the fireplace. Shane's mom is tucked into his dad's chest, his arm slung over her shoulder. They're listening to the copy of Sonny’s Crib that was Shane's Christmas present to his dad. Yuna has her hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee, her eyes closed as she sinks into his dad's hold. Shane tries to pay attention to the music, but he's not even really sure if he likes jazz. The records thing started when Shane was in juniors—his parents closing out the day with conversation and calm. Shane's thumb finds the chip in the rim of his mug. His favorite, one Yuna probably would have thrown away if it weren't eh one Shane always chooses. He lets the edge of his nail scrape against the grit of the ceramic. His mom's stocking feet bounce to the rhythm where they dangle over the sofa's arm.
"Great," Shane says. "Do you have a hotel yet?"
"Yeah," she says. "Greta booked us at the Four Seasons downtown. You're at the stadium Hilton, right?"
"Yeah." The New Years Classic is played outdoors. A football stadium pressed into duty as a rink, ice new and fresh for one game only. It only started happening Shane's rookie season, and this is the first time Montreal has played. Against Boston. The commentators sometimes call it Pond Hockey Gone Pro. It's nothing like pond hockey. It counts the same as any regular game towards points and standings, and if anything there's more pressure from the league. More eyes—Metros fans driving down in droves, staying at the same hotel as the team, bundled up and drinking, feral for a win.
"Do you and the guys have any plans for after the game?" his mom asks. And Shane knows it's not a test, not a trap, but it feels like one. Are you a good enough captain that you're planning on commemorating this once-in-a-career game? He takes a sip of his coffee, the center of his lip resting against the rough surface of the divot in the mug.
"We fly back that night," is the answer he lands on. The game will end sometime around 4:30, their plane will be wheels up at 9pm, landed by 10:30, then the VIP room at some bar JJ suggested and sleeping in his own bed for three nights.
If they weren't leaving the same day he'd be able to spend an hour in a Boston VIP room and the next four melting into Rozanov. He already feels the lack of it. It's better when he sees Rozanov after the game—more intense. A taut bow string, still vibrating with the energy of the ice.
Before can be nice—relaxed, chirping, loose. But after is his favorite.
"Maybe we could get dinner before you fly out," his mom says. And he should say yes, he's just said he doesn't have plans.
But. "I don't know." Rozanov. After. "It's pretty tight between the game and the flight."
"It doesn't have to be long," his mom says, scooting up and blinking her eyes open to look at him. "We'd just like to see you."
"I just—I don't think so. Next time you're in Montreal, though. For sure."
The record ends, and Shane's dad lifts his arm up. Yuna leans forward so he can stand and take the record off, put it back in its sleeve, choose something new.
"What do you think, Yuna? Tatum? Piano Starts Here?" his dad asks, and his mom hums deep in her throat.
Shane doesn't know that one.
The music starts again and his parents lean back into each other. Shane's mug is empty. He keeps holding it.
They touch down at 6pm New Year's Eve. Some tiny municipal airport with the bus already waiting to bundle them to the hotel.
Boston has a good club scene, and it's an afternoon game, so they don't have a morning practice. A group of the guys are going downtown to find trouble, and Shane should stop them, but it means fewer eyes on him, so he doesn't.
come to my house, Rozanov texts. It makes Shane's whole body go static. He's never been to Rozanov's house. Just his apartment in town, a penthouse he's pretty sure Rozanov uses exclusively to fuck and sleep, if the state of the kitchen was anything to go by.
I got a room by the stadium. Shane sends back. Then he feels like an idiot, because of course he did. He always has a hotel room when he's in Boston but they never fuck there. Further from the stadium than the team. A different hotel. Then, I was thinking for after?
why not both, Rozanov sends, and then i will come to your stupid hotel. send address.
Shane sends it and requests a ride. I'll be there in fifteen he sends.
forty for me Rozanov replies.
Shane fumbles a few times during check-in, and he sends Rozanov the room number something closer to twenty-five minutes later. He has the room for two nights, because it was the only way to make sure he'd have it after the game.
The room is normal. Standard. It's a road trip hotel, the off-brand version of hotels the Voyageurs stay in on trips. He takes off his shoes at the door and lines them up, walks around and turns the lamps on. A paper standee tells him to save water by leaving his towels hanging unless he wants them changed.
It's a little too bright. He turns off the reading lamps attached to the headboard. Better.
He turns down the sheets on the bed and sits on the comforter, thinks about taking off his pants, unbuttoning his shirt, then doesn't. He doesn't want to answer the door like that. He suddenly feels naked without his shoes on, but then, if he put them back on he'd have to stand by the door until Rozanov gets there, which would be dumb. He stands up from the bed, and grabs his dopp kit from his satchel, digs to the bottom and pulls out the lube and condoms, puts them on the bedside table closer to the door. Puts his bag back together, crouches down to open the mini fridge. It's clean and empty. He takes out his phone and types Boston tap water safety then, because this isn't actually Boston, opens the map, zooms around, goes back to the browser. Mansfield MA tap water safety. There's a lab report he skims, and decides to chance it. The cup is in a plastic sleeve. He runs the water until it's cold, and chugs it. Lets it fill and chugs it again. Pees. Washes his hands.
Two sharp knocks.
He leaves the towel on the hook and opens the door. Rozanov slides through the opening, lets the door close behind him.
"You should have come to my place, Hollander. Much nicer."
"Oh fuck you," Shane starts to say, but he gets cut off by Rozanov's lips somewhere in the middle.
Sometimes it feels like he never opens his mouth except when he's kissing Ilya Rozanov. Like Rozanov is seducing him into revealing the part of him that can unhinge his jaw and devour. His teeth ache afterwards—the space between them—where whatever holds his lips shut has had its first good stretch in months. Rozanov's cock, sure, but that's not about the jaw as much as it is the pockets of his mouth, the tenderness of his throat. But Rozanov's lips? Kissing him? It's cavernous.
Rozanov shoves Shane towards the bed, unbuttons his shirt, tugs down his sleeves. Travel clothes: a collared shirt and trousers. Rozanov is in joggers and a tank, fleece-lined bomber jacket already shed behind him, and it hasn't even been that long—it's barely been weeks, let alone the months he sometimes has to weather, but Shane needs Rozanov's flavor like a vital nutrient. Once the tie on the joggers is loose, he tugs the waistband below Rozanov's balls and nudges Rozanov to sit on the bed as Shane drops to his knees. Shane nuzzles into the crease between Rozanov's thigh and his groin, feels Rozanov's cock plumping against his cheek. There's a spot here that Rozanov likes when Shane bites, scrapes his teeth over. He does it.
"Fuck, Hollander," Rozanov says, and his hand drops to Shane's head, holds him tight to the spot, eggs him on. Shane sucks there, the crease of Rozanov's thigh and the plane that rises into his cock. There's a constellation of moles hidden in the trimmed thatch of Rozanov's pubic hair. Shane can only sometimes see them. He ignores how it makes him feel when Rozanov's thumb slides over one of the moles to grip Shane's jaw, nudge him towards his cock.
There's a web of broken blood vessels when Shane releases the suction there—a new supernova in the constellation. His smile against Rozanov's cock is lazy and satisfied. He lets his tongue spread over his lip and slides his mouth from the root of Rozanov's dick to the tip.
It's so good, always, Rozanov's dick: smooth and salty and earthy. Tonight it's tangy with the sweat of nearly an hour in the driver's seat and the slightly acrid notes of his laundry detergent. Sometimes it's overlaid with the locker room soap—chemical and drying— sometimes bright or heavy with cologne. Always Ilya beneath it.
Shane breathes deep and sinks down.
"Fuck!" Rozanov groans as he leans his weight back. His stomach tenses and he thrusts weakly into Shane's throat. Shane pulls back, focuses on the head, teases, sucks, swirls. It's not long before Rozanov is coming in Shane's mouth, a gush that Shane lets drip back over Rozanov's cock as it hits his soft palate, tongues back up, swallows with no little satisfaction.
Shane has thumbed his fly open by the time he stands up. He lets his trousers dip with gravity, and shoves his boxers down with them. Then he steps into the canyon between Rozanov's thighs.
"C'mere," Rozanov says, reaching for Shane's hips. He pulls until Shane's tight against him.
Then they're kissing again, Shane's neglected cock is pressed against Rozanov's softening one, and fuck—fuck that's hot. It's tacky with Rozanov's cum and Shane's saliva. It's plush and velvet and so fucking warm. He's whimpering into Rozanov's mouth, biting and thrusting and gasping.
"Fuck, goddamnit, wait," Rozanov says, and Shane stutters to a stop, panting, trying to catch his breath. Rozanov grabs Shane's flank, drags him up so that his ass is just hovering over Rozanov's cock, his own cock dragging over Rozanov's stomach. "Okay. Fuck, Hollander. Okay, you're good."
Shane starts thrusting again. And it's…not quite as good. Dragging friction a little too much before Rozanov hikes up a shoulder, brings his hand to his mouth and breaks their kiss to spit into it. He waits for Shane to pause, waits for Shane to pull back with a question in his eyes and then reaches down to smear the wet over his stomach.
Then, like he hasn't done anything at all mind-melting, he presses a hand to the small of Shane's back and bucks up into him.
Shane can't keep a rhythm. He's lost in Rozanov's dark, panting mouth, in the promise of Rozanov's dick hovering just below his ass, in the texture of Rozanov's stomach as his cock skates over it, as it builds a thunderous tension down Shane's spine.
"Yes, sakharok, there you go, look at you, fuck," Rozanov says.
"I'm…" Shane gasps.
"Yes. Fucking do it."
The noise Shane makes as he comes feels inhuman. A gasp and a whimper and a scream tangled in his solar plexus, careening out of his throat leaving him hoarse and breathless.
His chest is still heaving as Rozanov gets up for a towel, wipes himself off and tosses it to Shane.
Shane swipes at the cum still lingering on his chin and cleans up what he can find on his stomach. He throws the towel at the nightstand, and drags himself up to the pillows.
Rozanov comes back to the bed and slings his leg over Shane's stomach, kisses Shane's neck. "You think it will be fun?" he asks, "Tomorrow? It has been a long time since I've played outside."
"Yeah," Shane says, then, "I don't know. I think it'll mostly be the same. Probably the crowd will be the real difference. Bigger, further away."
"Yes." Rozanov says with a nod, mouthing against Shane's jaw. "Quieter."
"Might be nice, but it won't be a pond."
"Yes. Too smooth."
"And refs."
"Mmmm," Rozanov slides a hand into Shane's hair, tilts his head down into a kiss. The kiss stretches the concept of time, Rozanov's hand on his chin guiding his every move, until his arousal is winding tightly in his stomach once again.
"Okay," Rozanov says, eventually, pulling back. "Long drive for me, see you tomorrow."
Shane's erection isn't ready to go, but it isn't subtle, either—Rozanov's leg bumps against it as he heaves himself to the side of the bed and stands.
Rozanov's chubbed-up cock isn't subtle either. Shane watches as he pulls up his sweats, tugs on his shirt, looks around for his jacket. Shane rolls to stand as Rozanov goes to slip on his shoes and meets him as he stands, reaches for the door. Shane lets Rozanov pull him into a kiss and positions himself so that his naked cock rubs against Rozanov's clothed one.
"Oh, you are not finished?" Rozanov asks.
"No, I'm good," Shane says. "See you tomorrow." He turns and walks back to the bed. Rozanov can't see his face. Shane doesn't hide his smile.
"You are not funny," Rozanov says, toeing off his shoes and shucking his coat again. He stalks back to the bed, shoves his sweats down and presses himself tight to Shane's back, cock twitching against Shane's ass.
Shane shrugs.
"You would let me go without fucking you?"
"Pretty sure you're going to fuck me tomorrow."
"Yes, but much nicer if I fuck you tonight and tomorrow." Rozanov nuzzles into Shane's neck, open-mouthed, close and humid, his voice deep and low, "You will be so loose, maybe we can fit my whole hand in."
Shane whimpers, then, shamelessly, tilting his neck to give a broader canvas and canting his hips back, "Yes, okay, yes."
The Metros win the classic. It was anyone's game until the third, when a half-dozen chance moments went the Metros way. Then they were two goals ahead and unstoppable.
Rozanov is scowling as they stalk off the ice.
Shane sends eta 5:20 as he boards the bus back to the hotel.
He showered at the stadium but there are a few other things he needs to accomplish hygiene-wise before meeting Rozanov. He showers again, zips his overnight bag closed, and opens his satchel to look inside for the third time.
His phone beeps. He opens his text app too fast to pretend he hasn't been waiting one particular message.
But it isn't Rozanov. It's his mom.
You sure you don't want to get dinner with us before you leave? I got a reservation at the hotel restaurant for 6pm just in case.
I checked the menu and you'll be okay. Let me know.
Love you!
He pulls on his jacket and buttons it as he looks at the hotel floor plan on the back of the door. If he goes down the south stairwell he won't have to go through the lobby. He sets his pickup location to the Hibachi restaurant across the street, and waits until his ride is confirmed to check the peephole and head for the stairs.
When he gets in the car, the plan crumples like a brand new defensive line. He hadn't thought anything of the license plate the app had shown him, but as soon as he gets in, he knows that the driver is a Metros fan. The license was Canadian, the driver is wearing a blue and red toque, and her accent is textbook Québécois.
"Ah, you are staying far away," she says.
Shane makes a noise he hopes is noncommittal.
"Drowning your sorrows?" she asks next, and then they're pulling up to a light, and she turns to look at him, and says "Crisse! Shane Hollander?"
He shrugs, "Yeah."
"Why are you going to a hotel?" she asks, and then, "Sorry, rude of me. I didn't ask. Your second goal today was beautiful. I haven't seen hockey outdoors since I was a child."
"I'm not going to a hotel," he says. Blatant lie. What the fuck is he doing?
She's started driving again, at least, and she's pulling onto the highway, so she only looks back at him in the rear view mirror, but he wishes she wouldn't. She's a steady driver, at least. The wheel heading in the right direction without any jerking or weaving.
"No, I think…" Her phone is clipped into a stand on the dash and she zooms in. He wishes her eyes were on the road. It would be an absurd way to die—on his way to a clandestine gay hookup after the New Years Classic in a car driven by a fan. "Yes, this is a hotel."
"No, it's a restaurant. I'm supposed to be meeting a friend at a restaurant." Dumb. A fucking dumb lie. He can hear his voice creaking and catching with it.
"Well, let's go there and I will show you," she says. "Or — what's the restaurant called? We can go there instead."
"I'll have to text my friend. He just sent the address."
He opens his phone and panic searches for restaurants near the hotel. There's nothing plausible that's even on the same side of the highway. There's nowhere he'd actually eat on the same screen of his phone. "It's…Trattoria Della Nonna," he lands on. When they get off the highway she pulls to the side of the road, taps the name into her phone and sets off again.
"You know carb loading is for before a game, right?" she asks. It's a joke. He can tell it's a joke from the way she says it, but he has no idea if it's funny.
"Oh, yeah," he says with a laugh so wooden he wants to burn it.
She pulls up to the restaurant and stops the car. "Can I get a picture?" He shrugs. She takes a selfie from the front of the car before he slides out. The car doesn't move as he walks toward the restaurant. He opens the door and steps inside and tries not to be too obvious about the fact that he's watching for her to drive away.
It's 5:15, and it's a half hour walk from the restaurant to the hotel. The idea of finding another ride sits like two pounds of chicken breast in his stomach. Fuck.
"How many in your party tonight?" the hostess asks brightly, and Shane feels like a cloud of gnats is climbing up the back of his neck. Like he's swallowed a puck. Like he's taken a shoulder right to the diaphragm.
"Just me."
Rozanov probably wasn't coming to the hotel anyway. Got enough the night before, too pissed off about the loss to be worth the effort for the hour Shane would have been able to stay. Shane would have sat on the bed in his socks and sweats for twenty minutes, half an hour, and then jerked off a little angry in the bathroom. Packed up his lube and condoms and gotten a ride back to the team hotel just in time for the bus back to the airport.
It's better that he's not doing that. That he's here instead. He'll have a sparkling water and whatever he can eat off the menu and leave. Catch his parents to say hello and goodbye. Go home.
His phone beeps. He pulls it out already trying to tamp down his nauseated rage so that he can type something calm in response to whatever his mom's sent.
But, then, it's Roaznov: 5:28, where the fuck are you?
The breath he takes is a very normal speed, very normal depth. No one would call it a sob.
Trattoria Della Nonna, he types. Then, it's a long story.
you want me to come? fuck you in public? Rozanov replies.
Fuck you.
i would rather fuck you.
Well you're out of luck this time.
you are four minutes away. just come.
It's a half hour walk.
get a ride
Oh, your service has a car out here?
uber
Can't. There are two cars in this town and one of them is a metros fan.
So that's that. Shane takes a sip of the ice water in front of him and scans the menu. His throat is sour and tight and he's blinking too much. There's a farro salad with sea bass that he can do.
He's setting down the menu when his phone beeps.
alley west of restaurant
What?
i am outside restaurant. alley to the west.
What?
i am your uber
green lotus
don't worry
no one will see
Shane unfolds the napkin and pats his face down, finds an American twenty in his wallet and pins it underneath the water glass. He lifts his hand in the hostess' direction on his way out the door and rounds the corner.