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It’s the NHL End-of-Year Gala. Every State team is in the room, mingling and rewarding themselves for the games they played well, both won and lost.
Montreal Metros is in one of the tables at the front, together with New York Admirals and Boston Raiders. There’s a short program before the host announced, “See you folks in four hours for the countdown.”
Shane is dragged by Haden to toss glasses with the New York Admirals.
“You just want to toss glasses with Scott Hunter,” Shane teases.
“Nu-uh, it’s camaraderie,” Hayden defends himself.
“Oh, yeah? Then you’ll drag me to Boston’s table too?”
Shane used that question as an excuse to steal a glance on Boston’s table, which is the table right next to theirs. It wasn’t the table he glanced at, but the Russian member, who is busy with his phone. Shane is not disappointed, of course.
“No way, dude,” Hayden says as if it’s the most revolting thing he imagines he will ever do. “There’s no instance where I’ll be tossing glasses with that team, especially with Rozanov there.”
“That’s not very camaraderie.”
“Fiiine. But you’ll do the tossing of glasses since it’s your idea. I’ll be just your wingman.”
Shane chuckles at that, then he feels bitterness. He doesn’t know why.
For now, he will be Hayden’s wingman.
Hayden Pike is definitely having his fanboy dreams come true when Scott Hunter tosses drinks with him, and chats with him a little. Shane joins but distances himself so Hayden can have his moment. He glances at Boston’s table again, Rozanov is not on his seat anymore. Because of that, Shane looks around the room full of people.
“Hey, Hollander,” Hunter calls.
Shane turns his head, sharply. “Huh? Sorry.”
Hunter fights back a knowing smile. “You looking for someone?”
“Ah, no. I’m just, uh, looking around.”
“Okay. Hey, did you see the woman that was with Rozanov just now?”
Shane’s eyes widened and reacted at the same time Hayden reacted too.
“What?”
“Rozanov was with someone? Must be his agent.”
“She’s too beautiful to be just his manager, Pike,” Hunter replies. He nods his head to the direction of the bar.
The three of them spot Rozanov easily because there’s no one else in the whole room that radiates as much aura as he does. Notedly, as well as the woman he is with. Scott Hunter is not wrong when he said that the woman is too beautiful to be just Rozanov’s manager.
“Maybe Rozanov found a woman to settle with.”
Shane turns his head quickly at Hunter. There is a glint of terror in his eyes, but he hides it masterfully by turning his head away before Hunter could even see it.
“Oh, wow. Never thought Rozanov is the type of guy to bring a date to big events like this,” Hayden says. “He doesn’t look the type to date someone, you know?”
Hunter nods, agreeing, then he looks at Shane’s reaction, which is very schooled.
Oh, Hollander, you are on thin ice.
And that is cracking.
“Well, uh, I think we should head back to our table,” Shane prompts. “It’s nice seeing you, Mr Hunter.” He offers his glass as formalities before leaving.
Hunter taps his glass on Shane’s, and says, “Same goes, Hollander. You too, Pike. Happy New Year to both of you.”
The two return to their seats. Shane seems to be somewhere else entirely. He looks at the bar again, as he can, and he swallows thickly at the sight of his rival chatting with a gorgeous woman
One look at a crowded bar is all it takes for his search to finish.
Rozanov is indeed with a woman that is too beautiful to be just his agent, she also looks Russian. Shane grabs his glass of wine and takes two mouthfuls. He looks at the bar again and tells himself, They look like friends, maybe she’s a friend from Russia.
People stop by to have small exchanges with Shane, such as ‘congratulations on an amazing year’ or ‘good luck’. Carter Vaughn of New York approached their table and invited them for a drinking game: Gin Hockey. It's like Beer Pong but instead of throwing ping pong balls on a cup of beer, a player will slide a toy puck across a surface towards a glass of gin.
It's Montreal vs New York vs Boston.
There is a crowd of people forming around New York’s table, where they decided to be the venue of their game. Boston is winning with Ilya leading them to two points, New York seconds with Scott to one point, and Montreal trailing behind with Shane to zero.
“Shane, come on! You got this, buddy!” Hayden haulers.
”Show them what you got, captain!!” JJ haulers next.
”Thanks, guys,” Shane responds, a mix of condescending and apologetic. He fidgets with the fake puck on his hand, whilst fighting back the competitiveness swelling in him.
He got the puck in. They have a point now.
“Finally got a point,” Rozanov teases with a cheeky grin.
Hollander glares at him. “Don't get too cocky.”
Rozanov shrugs, which Hollander takes as a silent challenge. So he accepts it, and loses with two points against Boston's four points.
“It's alright, Shane, at least we lost with a good fight,” Hayden says with a friendly pat on Shane's shoulder.
Shane only hums. He couldn't find himself responding because he could feel the disappointed gazes of his team at him. He appreciates Hayden, absolutely, but it gives him small comfort because it's like one reassuring Hayden to ten disappointed teammates.
On their table, Hayden offers him a glass of champagne. He hates champagne but it's the nearest alcohol he can drink.
Three hours before the countdown and five glasses of champagne
Shane feels less tense, a bit drunk too. He was having small talks with some people, however, he can’t pay attention to who they are because something at the bar catches his eyes–A tall, maybe also Russian, man that is wearing silk black long sleeves with rose patterns tucked in skin-tight black pants throws himself on Rozanov. The man is pretty, a fact that Shane could not not acknowledge.
He cannot hold back the frown on his face as well as the strong urge to drag that man away from Rozanov. It sounds ridiculous, even to himself, how much he gives a damn about the man on Rozanov. It's more ridiculous that with the amount of champagne he has drunk, his feet have a mind of their own now because they are leading him to the bar.
Svetlana has left Ilya to mingle with other hockey team managers and coaches. Ilya thinks that she's making connections with every hockey team so she can have information to give to her father to make sure the Russian team has good tactics against the possible players the US will put together in next year’s Winter Olympics.
He stays at the bar because he cannot stay on his seat on their table because Montreal is literally right next to them. Shane Hollander is literally five feet away from him. There is a swelling feeling inside that urges him to make up a reason to go to Hollander, talk to him, or even stand next to him. It's stupid and ridiculous because he should not even acknowledge it from the beginning or even. But Shane Hollander has him hooked.
“Mister Ilya Rozanov,” a familiar Russian voice whispers to Ilya's left ear. A sultry finger also traces his broad shoulder.
“Sasha.” Ilya acknowledges his childhood friend who presses himself on his shoulder. “Not here.”
“Aw,” Sasha whines then removes himself from Ilya, and sits on the bar stool next to Ilya’s. “I remember you chasing to touch me behind closed doors when we were teens.”
Ilya chuckles. “Yes. But we’re not teens nor behind closed doors.”
Sasha displays a smile that hides the bittersweetness of reminiscing his dynamic with Ilya, who is more than just the only real friend, besides Svetlana, he had when he was a child.
“Right. Is it just me or the vodka here is shitty?”
Ilya nods. “It is shitty. Every vodka here in America is shitty. I don’t recommend staying here.”
“Really? But you are planning to stay here, no?”
“Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure but…it is better here than Russia.”
Sasha is about to say something when a man approaches them.
Shane Hollander stands in front of the two, who turn their heads at him and give him confused looks.
”Hollander?” Rozanov asks, surprised and confused.
Sasha looks at Ilya, then to Shane Hollander, and then his eyes pique in interest. “Oh, so this the iconique Shane Hollander. I’m Sasha,” he says with an invitation for a handshake.
Shane is sort of confused if the pretty man (Sasha) is Russian or French, or both. ”Uh, hi, nice to meet you,” he stutters before shaking hands. He turns to Rozanov who hasn’t removed his eyes on him. “Hi.”
”Hello.” Rozanov keeps his voice as neutral sounding.
The awkward silence that follows their very brief greetings garner a suspicious eye from the third person present.
”Congratulations on your win against Texas. I, uh, forgot to say it when we were playing the game.” Shane smiles, both to genuinely congratulate Rozanov and to himself for thinking of that. If he hadn't, he might have just stood there awkwardly, interrupting Rosanov and Sasha's conversation.
Rozanov nods. “Thank you. You too, against Ottawa.”
”Thanks.”
And there’s awkwardness again. Shane looks at his glass of half-drank champagne, which could be his sixth glass at this point. Ilya looks at the floor and runs his hand on his nape, a gesture he does to cope with the nerves.
One person is very not awkward, and is actually enjoying what is obviously oblivious to the two hockey players.
Sasha leans to Ilya’s ear and whispers in Russian. “Is he the reason why you dont want to fuck me anymore?”
Ilya lifts his eyes so fast. He stares intensely with a warning. “Shut up, Sasha. Don’t start here.”
His warning garners a mischievous grin.
Sasha heeds the warning and makes a show of putting his hand on Ilya’s knee, then running it up to his midthigh. He does his signature hooded eyes and flutters his eyelashes. “Oh, Ilya, you are one bad liar.”
”Sasha, stop,” Ilya says with a clear warning in his voice. “We’re not kids in a playground. Behave. You wouldn't cause a scene your father will hear about, yes? You wouldn’t want to be trapped in Russia, never to return to France, hm?”
That's when Sasha’s mischievousness shifts into disbelief. “You’re playing dirty, Ilya. Fine. If you won't have fun with me, I’ll have fun with…” he lingers then slowly turns his head to Shane.
Shane has been gripping his wine glass the whole time he has been watching and listening. He might not understand Russian but he can understand when someone is intentionally doing things to provoke him. His eyes never left Sasha’s hand on Rozanov's thigh. The strong urge to pull Sasha's hand, or, in truth, Sasha away from Rozanov is boiling back. Even in a drunken stupor, he feels ridiculous how possessive he is being.
In perfect French, Sasha speaks to Shane. “Why are you still standing there, Mr Hollander? Is there something you need with Ilya?”
There’s a sting with the casual showcasing of Sasha calling Rozanov by his first name like it can just naturally roll off his tongue. Like, he is showing Shane how personal his relationship with Rozanov is, compared to the strictly-professional relationship Shane (can only) have.
Shane responds in French. “I want to talk with Rozanov. There’s something I would like to discuss with him.”
”You can do that here. I won’t listen.”
Shane wants nothing more but to punch the smirk on Sasha's face. And that is very unprofessional of him.
On the other hand, Rozanov is looking back and forth between them. It frustrates him that this is how Sasha chooses to retaliate—speaking a language with Hollander that he cannot understand. English is already difficult, now French?
“It’s personal,” Shane says with a tight smile.
The smirk on Sasha’s lips just keeps becoming mischievous. “Personal? Are you two friends? I thought you’re rivals.”
”I’m not sure what is the definition of our relationship, but we’re on good terms. There’s just something I really need to talk about with him. Just the two of us.”
Sasha squints his eyes. “If I know no better, I would believe you. But I think you just want to have Ilya for yourself.”
“If I know no better, I think it’s you that wants to keep him for yourself with how you wouldn’t let me talk to him.”
“Someone’s feisty.” Sasha grinned happily. “Forgive me for wanting to set boundaries to things I own.”
With a bold gulp, Shane replies, “Someone’s delusional.”
The grin and mischievousness on Sasha’s face turns into a frown and a nerve has been struck. He stands up and towers over Shane; Shane competes by raising his chin as high as he can.
Rozanov is off of his bar stool, and is standing beside Sasha. “Whatever you two are fighting about, stop it,” he says in English.
”I just want to talk to you but he acts as if he has the say who can and can’t,” Shane says with genuine indignation, making sure Rozanov will look at him. He feels like a kid, but whatever. “Who even is he, Rozanov?”
That question makes it clear to Rozanov that Hollander has downed a significant amount of alcohol, because Sober Hollander will never ask that question with a significant number of people around.
He steps in front of Hollander, making himself the wall between him and Sasha.
“We will talk upstairs. Not here. We’re not alone, Hollander.” He whispers the last part, but Sasha still hears it.
”What is your relationship with him, Ilya?” He asks in Russian and with a hand on Ilya’s arm, tugging him to make them face to face.
”Enough, Sasha,” Ilya sternly says, also in Russian.
”You’re siding with him?” Sasha asks incredulously.
”I’m not siding with anyone. I’m saving the both of you from embarrassing yourselves."
Despite not knowing the exact translation, Shane can tell that Rozanov is pacifying Sasha, which ignited a pinch of joy in him.
Shane decided to be ridiculously drunk (with champagne or with the idea of Rozanov pacifying Sasha in favor of him).
In French, while tiptoeing behind Rozanov, he says, ”Go fuck youself, Sasha.”
Sasha snaps his eyes at him, both sending daggers. But then, he thought of a better thing to use to stab Shane.
He cools his angered expression, and replies in French. ”Childish. Though, Ilya will fuck me later so that is not my concern. Oh no, but it will be to you.”
And that’s what made Shane do the most shocking hat trick: he sucker punched Sasha. Everyone at the bar gasps, even Rozanov, whose eyes are wide in shock.
Sasha, who is not stunned at the very least, holds his left cheek and moves his jaw to ease the soreness. In Russian, he says, “You will regret that, you bitch.”
Rozanov holds him by his stomach to stop him from launching himself at Shane, who is, despite being inebriated, surprised at himself and unfazed by the angry Russian.
“Hollander,” Rozanov calls to bring him back to reality, “get away from here.”
Shane opens his mouth to say something, maybe an apology, to Rozanov not Sasha, but Haden is right beside him.
“Shane? What the hell happened?”
“I…uh…I just want to talk to Rozanov,” Shane says, softly and sadly.
Haden is taken aback. “Oh. You can talk to him later, buddy. We just, uh, have to sober you up a little, alright?”
“Hm–kay.” Shane sounded so small that Haden had to pull him in.
“Jesus, I can’t believe you can throw a punch.”
Before taking Shane away, Haden turns his head to Rozanov and internally debates if he should tell him or not. But Shane looks so sad he didn't got to talk to Rozanov.
Argh, Shane, why do you even want to talk to this guy?
With a frustrated groan, he calls Rozanov and says, “eleven-twenty-eight.”
Rozanov responds with a confirmative nod, immediately understanding what those numbers mean. When Haden and Hollander are far from Sasha’s radius, he lets Sasha go.
By the sight of Sasha’s back, rising and falling, Ilya prepares himself to receive a string of Russian cuss words. To his surprise, when Sasha turns to him, there’s no anger on his face, only amusement.
”You do like the feisty ones, Ilya. Feisty and pretty.”
Ilya realizes that Sasha staged everything to confirm a suspicion: Him and Hollander might know each other a bit personally…behind closed doors.
Instead of giving Sasha more satisfaction, Ilya asks for a cup of ice, then hands it to Sasha. “For your cheek,” he says in Russian, “your pretty face might have to endure that bruise for a couple days.”
Sasha pouts. “That’s the only reason I’m mad at your feisty kitty.”
”Sasha,” Ilya warns, but the corner of his lips twitched. His childhood friend giggles at him.
“Ilya, Sasha,” Svetlana calls as she approaches them in a hurry. “What the hell happened?” She sees Sasha holding the cup of ice on his cheek, and immediately grabs his jaw to check the bruise slightly turning purple. “Tsk. Sasha, who did you pissed off this time?”
”No one. I attempted to pet a cat. It punched me.”
Svetlana knows he’s bullshitting her so she turns to Ilya, hoping to be the one who will give a sensible answer. Her mistake is thinking Ilya will give a sensible answer, because Ilya just shrugs and says, “Yes, a cat punched him.”
She lets go of Sasha’s jaw and curses them both. “Fuck both of you. But seriously, who?”
Sasha looks at Ilya, Ilya sighs heavily and answers, “Shane Hollander.”
”Seriosusly?”
Sasha raises both his hands and says, “I need to smoke,” and strides across the room.
“I need to talk to someone,” Ilya says then beelines towards the hallway that leads to the elevators.
Svetlana sits on a bar stool and orders a glass of vodka and curses her two best friends.
At 1128
Haden has Shane sulking at the end of the bed.
What is taking Rozanov so long to get here? I shouldn’t even let him near Shane, but Shane looks so sad.
He approaches Shane, crouches to meet his teary eyes. “Shane, buddy,” he says softly, “do you want water?”
Shane shakes his head.
“Okay. Um, what do you want?”
A knock comes from the door.
Hayden sighs in relief. He walks to the door, opens it, and is immediately greeted with, “Where is he? Where is Hollander?”
“Whoa, whoa. Hold on a second, Rozanov.”
Hayden is forced to press both his hands on Rozanov’s (solid) chest to stop him from walking straight to Shane.
Rozanov did stop, then looked down on Hayden’s hands, then back up to Hayden’s eyes. “Pike, stop touching my breasts.”
Immediately, Hayden retracts his hands to his sides, blushes, and blurts, “I’m so sorry. I–I didn’t mean– Oh, screw you, Rozanov.”
Rozanov has a hand on his mouth to stop himself from bursting into laughter. His eyes catches the sight of Hollander, sitting on the end of the bed, looking their direction with doe eyes and sad pout. He pushes Hayden aside and doesn’t heed on any of Hayden’s protests.
He kneels in front of Hollander, then gently places his right hand on Hollander’s knee.
“Hollander,” he calls, softly.
“Rozanov?”
The sadness on Hollander’s face quickly dissipates, lighting up on the sight of Rozanov, who swallows thickly.
“You’re here,” Hollander says. His voice is as soft as his eyes to Rozanov.
Rozanov tells himself that it’s because of the alcohol, that Hollander is clearly very drunk, because a very Sober Hollander will never look at him like that, nor talk to him with that voice.
“Yes. I’m here. What do you want to talk to me about?”
Hollander purses his lips and takes a deep breath. He exhales then says, “Nothing.”
“Nothing? Hollander, you punched a guy to talk to me. You're saying it’s all for nothing?”
“No. No, not for nothing. No.”
Rozanov wants to know, but he suddenly remembers that they’re not alone.
“Leave us,” he says without taking his eyes from Hollander.
“Sorry, what was that?” Hayden steps forward, and is about to go further near Rozanov but Rozanov looks over his shoulder and sends him a stern look that makes him halt on his steps.
“I need to talk to Hollander, Pike. I will not murder him, so leave.”
Hayden is very hesitant until Shane gives him a reassuring nod. “Fine. But I’ll be right outside the door, Rozanov. Shane, just scream or make any sound and I’ll barge in, okay?”
Shane gives him a thumbs-up.
Now, it is just the two young stars of the night.
Rozanov looks at Hollander, who is rubbing his face with his palms. “Are you sobering up, hm? How many soda did you drink, Hollander?”
Hollander puts his hands down on his sides. “Shut up. I’m legal age.”
“Really? So tonic water, then?”
“Fuck you, Rozanov.”
“Ah, there he is, sober as the day he was born.”
Hollander snickers; Rozanov grins.
“You look nice there,” Hollander says, boldly.
Rozanov lifts his eyebrows in interest. “So this is what you want to talk about with me?”
Hollander frowns on remembering what he just did. His cheeks flushed a faint pink. “Oh my god. I just punched someone in a room full of important people. I’ll be the headline tomorrow for that.”
Rozanov, in his natural obnoxiousness, bursts out laughing. Hollander shoves him, making him stumble on the floor, still laughing. He follows suit, laughing in disbelief.
The Russian pushes himself up and stands in front of his archrival. “You are full of surprises,” he says with amusement.
Hollander is bashful.
“But we weren’t alone, Hollander. That can’t happen again,” Rozanov says with sudden seriousness.
Hollander stops smiling. With a thick swallow and darting his eyes to the floor, Hollander replies, “Right.”
“You were upset.”
“Am not. I was drunk and—“
“You were upset at Sasha with me.”
Hollander groans in distaste, to which the other finds interesting.
He hooks two fingers under Hollander’s chin to make their eyes meet. “You don’t like someone else near me, Hollander?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Hm.” He thinks of a way that will make Hollander be honest (and make Pike wait longer). “Let’s play a game, Hollander. You lie, I take off a piece of your clothes. You tell truth, you take mine off.”
“What kind of game is that?”
“To sober you up and make you tell the truth.”
“And what will happen if one of us has nothing left to take off?” He receives a dangerous smirk as a reply.
“We have two hours to find out.” He walks towards the door, pondering if he will lock or not. He decides not to, so he turns around and stands in front of Hollander again. “You should probably tell the truth so we finish early. Your friend might open the door any minute.”
Hollander suddenly feels like his throat is dry. “Why not lock the door?”
“Huh, why didn't I think of that?”
“Oh, fuck off.” There's the scrunched face that Rozanov adores.
“Admit the truth, Hollander. Why did you punch Sasha?”
Hollander chews cheek, pondering. “He was being a pain in the ass. Ugh, I don’t understand why he thinks he gets the say on who can and can’t talk to you. What is your relationship with him?”
“Ah, is that your question to me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Before I answer that, take one clothe off of me.”
Hollander stands up and reaches for Rozanov’s bow tie. Rozanov watches him untie it.
“Sasha is the son of my coach back in Russia.”
“He’s…the boy you used to have a rendezvous with.”
“Runde—what?”
“Ah, rendezvous means secret meetings. Like, like this.”
Rozanov hums in understanding. “Are you jealous of Sasha?”
Hollander folds his lips, knowing full well he will lose this round of questions. “Not really.”
”Tsk, tsk, Hollander. You are a bad liar.”
”I’m not,” Hollander says, defensively. “I am, sort of, but not so much.”
Rozanov chuckles, then smiles in bewilderment on how Hollander's cheeks are turning red. “Okay. You still lied so I’ll take this off.” He pulls Hollander’s necktie, then tosses it on the bed. “I’ll also take your jacket.”
Hollander just stands there, letting his archrival take off his clothes, one piece at a time because he cannot admit the truth.
They take each other in. Both of them have internal battles of throwing the stupid game out of the window and just rip every piece of clothing off of each other, and perhaps do something more scandalously-worthy to be the headline for the first day of the new year.
A knock came from the door.
“Shane?” Hayden calls. “Say my name if you’re still alive!”
Rozanov and Hollander both roll their eyes.
”Tell Pike you’re alive,” is all Rozanov says before pushing Hollander on the bed and unbuttoning his pants. He pulls the pants and underwear, letting those pool on Hollander’s legs hanging on the end of the bed.
”What—What the hell are you—Ah!”
“Shane?!”
”Hayden! I’m ah—alive! Just ten more minutes!”
Rozanov stops on littering Hollander’s inner thigh with kisses and bites to chuckle. Hollander knows why, which is why he is covering his face with his arms.
Rozanov crawls up to him, to get a taste of his upper lip. “Ten minutes, hm? That should be world record.” He receives a punch on the shoulder, to which he responds with a more languid kiss.
The kiss made Hollander rethink whether he is drunk from six glasses of champagne or from the way Rozanov’s tongue is exploring every crevice of his mouth and rubbing their tongues together. Hell, if only Rozanov will not be an asshole about this, but he thinks he might come undone, untouched, with just Rozanov’s mouth on his.
On the other hand, Rozanov feels like he is running miles with the way he pants by just devouring Hollander’s mouth. His hands are gripping the comforter so hard because he has an epiphany that if he is not gripping the comforter, he might grip onto Hollander. The pain is not the concern, but perhaps the mark it will leave on his hands—the feeling of Hollander’s smooth skin warming on his palm.
He pulls away. Hollander chases.
”Ten minutes,” he says to Hollander’s eager mouth.
Hollander did another hat trick that catches Rozanov in surprise: he whines a ‘no’. And Rozanov can’t help but growl.
His hand searches for something on the bed. He grabbed something, and then held it above Hollander's mouth.
“Bite,” he orders, to which the other obeys willingly. “Good boy, Hollander. Bite it so your friend will not hear you moan my name.”
With just that, Rozanov is moving down the end of the bed, reclaiming Hollander’s inner thigh, whilst Hollander bites onto the thing. His bite gets harder and his muffled moans get longer as Rozanov licks his cock like how someone licks their popsicle before it melts. Well, they only have ten minutes so might as well speedrun things.
As he feels himself get on the edge, his hands find their way above his head, gripping the bedsheet, and his legs are fighting the hold Rozanov has on them.
“Roz-a-noff,” he moans through the thing he is biting. “I’m cl-ose.” He guesses Rozanov took that as an encouragement to suck his cock faster and take his cock deeper. “Fah-ack…”
On Rozanov’s end, it’s all wet noises and ragged breathing. An audible ‘pop’ comes off when he pulls his mouth off, replacing it with his right hand. He lifts his eyes to look at Hollander, biting the piece of clothing, gripping the bedsheets, and thrusting his hip in tone with the speed of Rozanov’s hand.
He crawls back to be face to face with the other, whilst his right hand did not stop for a second. “Yes, come for me, Hollander.”
The moan that Hollander lets out is already muffled, but it gets more muffled when Rozanov presses open-mouth kisses on top of it.
Hollander is thrusting his hip more eagerly, essentially fucking Rozanov’s hand. Then Rozanov goes back down, takes Hollander in one swallow, and takes all the load in three gulps. Six glasses of champagne has nothing to compare with the way Rozanov makes Hollander lightheaded.
Rozanov sits beside Hollander, who is removing the thing in his mouth.
”Is this my necktie?”
Rozanov snickers. “There are other things you should worry about, Hollander, besides your necktie.”
Hollander chuckles because it is so obnoxious that he worries about his necktie rather than the fact that he is half-naked, sweaty and smells like sex, and there is an impatient Hayden that might burst from the door.
He sits up, pulls his pants and underwear up, not completely, just enough for him to be able to walk to the bathroom. But then he glances at Rozanov, who seems to be doing some breathing exercise. He was about if Rozanov is having a panic attack, then he notices the tent that Rozanov is trying to put down.
”I, uh, I can return the favor.”
Rozanov shakes his head. “It’s okay. We don’t have time.”
Right. Hayden and the countdown.
”I’ll just clean myself,” he says, to which he receives a cort nod.
Hayden is inside the room when Shane walks out of the bathroom. Immediately, Shane darts his eyes on the bed, which, to his surprise, has no evidence of his and Rozanov’s short rendezvous. Speaking of Rozanov, he stands by the dresser, his hands in both of his pockets, and looks as flawless as he always looks in a suit.
“You alright, Shane?” Hayden asks. “Do you need medicine or something?”
Confused, Shane looks at Rozanov to know what made Hayden ask such.
“Are you not vomiting anymore, Hollander?”
Ah. Okay, message received.
”No. I feel better now.” He says with the tone he uses to convince his parents that he is okay whenever they ask how he is doing. It seems to work on Hayden too.
”Great,” Hayden says with a sigh of relief. “Coach is looking for us now. There’s like someone that will do a speech to burn time the remaining minutes before midnight.”
Shane nods, then he looks at Rozanov. “Thanks for watching over me while I let out my load.” There’s an innuendo that got Rozanov smirking, and Hayden grimacing.
”Well, we are friends off the ice. Friends watch over each other, right?” Rozanov throws a pointed look at Hayden.
Hayden understands what that pointed look is. “Hey, I watched over Shane before you knocked on the door, and while he’s talking to you. I was watching by the door.”
Rozanov shrugs dismissively. He turns to Shane. “I’ll see around, Hollander.”
”See you around, Rozanov.”
Before Rozanov could reach for the door, Shane says, “I’ll return the favor next time we play against each other.”
Rozanov schools the smirk on his lips before looking over his shoulder. “I’ll look forward to that,” he says, then winks, and steps out of the door.
At the Montreal Metros table—Five minutes before midnight
Shane feels many eyes looking at him from all directions, so he distracts himself with the block game on his phone.
Minutes flew past, he is in level 81, and everyone is standing up as the last ten seconds flashes on the white wall. He keeps his phone in the pocket of his jacket, holds his glass of water, in preparation for the toast.
7…
His phone busses. He pulls it out and sees a text message from Lily.
I have your necktie. Might tie it somewhere ;)
6…
Shane feels himself swell by the various images of where Rozanov might tie his necktie on.
5…
He texts back. Don’t do something weird with it.
Immediately he receives a reply. You used it to muffle your moans awhile ago. You’re the one that did something weird with it.
4…
Jane: Fuck off. We’re in a room full of people.
Lily: Didn’t stop you from cumming in my throat.
Lily: Are you hard again? I can see you from my table.
Jane: Stop.
3…
Rozanov does stop. Shane feels ridiculous because he feels discontent. He looks across Boston’s table and immediately locks eyes with Rozanov.
2…
They hold each other’s stare.
1!
Rozanov winked at him right when the whole room erupted in cheers.
Shane averted his eyes back to his team's table and got pulled by his teammates to watch the fireworks show from the huge balcony. His phone buzzes. He never checks message notifications this fast.
Lily: Your room again. I’ll show you better fireworks ;)