Chapter Text
“The loneliness of what we did; the loneliness of what was done to us.” —Author Unknown
2010
Moving cities, losing friends—well, that was all part of the game. Sure, Scott’s old teammates had made promises to keep in touch. But really, that meant that when they played against each other, they’d go out for a drink. But most of them were mated now with young pups of their own. How was Scott supposed to compete with that? So, when his contract was up, he decided it was time to go.
Returning to New York was bittersweet. The city felt exactly the same—skyscrapers making him feel as small as an ant, the familiar haze of smog, tourists clicking their cameras, pigeons cooing in the gutters, and cabs honking. And the ghosts were waiting where he left them, reminding him of a time when being alone didn’t scare him.
And now? Now he was the newly minted captain of the New York Raiders, and he still didn’t know how to lead this team.
The team was still adjusting—a new coach, a new captain, half the roster replaced over the summer, and two starry-eyed rookies trying to survive their first year in the big leagues. They hadn’t found their rhythm yet, and it showed in every sloppy pass and frustrating loss.
Scott was trying. God, he was trying, but he was so fucking tired. He’d never felt his age before. For Christ’s sake, he was only twenty-seven! But Scott felt it now. His body felt like a stranger, but maybe that’s what he deserved when he spent so much time hiding himself.
Which made this fucking commercial shoot—the last place on earth he wanted to be. Originally, it was supposed to be a “Next Generation Spotlight.” Just another excuse to pit the two shiny rookies against each other.
Hollander and Rozanov were all that anybody was talking about.
Scott would be lying if he didn’t admit it stung just a bit. It wasn’t that long ago that he was the shiny new rook…
But was Hollzy sick, and despite the size of his ego, Rozy wasn’t compelling enough to carry a commercial on his own yet.
So, someone in marketing—clearly desperate and probably surviving on caffeine and spite—decided to spin it into a “seasoned pro mentors the next generation” angle. And because Scott owed the director a favor he definitely should’ve forgotten by now, he got dragged into this circus. He felt like a dancing monkey.
His patience was already hanging by a thread.
And Rozanov’s salacious smirk wasn’t helping.
“Cut!” When the director finally called it, Scott let himself breathe. He offered a curt nod, forced out a few strained words of politeness, and made his escape before someone decided the light was off or demanded another take.
The locker room was empty when he stepped inside—except, of course, for Rozy. Scott froze mid-step, breath catching before he could stop it. Something low and unwelcome sparked under his ribs, twisting tight like a fist he didn’t know how to unclench.
The rookie had beaten him there, already stripping off his gear, a careless halo around his feet. His curls were damp, dark with sweat, clinging to the nape of his neck as a bead slid down the long line of his spine and disappeared into the waistband of his boxers.
Scott ripped his gaze away, taking a deep breath as he stripped off his own gear. Think of anything else. Think of anything else.
There was something else too—a faint sweetness under the sharp tang of sweat, teasing the edge of his senses. Soap? Smoke? Something else? He blinked, trying to place it, but it slipped away before he could. Subtle, fleeting, entirely distracting.
The next thing he registered was the water—the sharp, steady spray hissing against his shoulders. He closed his eyes, letting the heat wash over him, letting the exhaustion and loneliness settle like a weight he could finally feel without pretending.
And then he felt it.
Eyes.
Scott blinked. Rozanov was beside him, standing closer than he had any right to be. His gaze roamed over Scott’s chest, down the lines of his abs, trailing lower until Scott felt it somewhere deep and wired in his chest. Then, Rozy licked his lips.
Scott’s throat went dry. He should look away. He knew he should. But the heat of the water, the faint sweetness lingering under the sweat, the daring in Rozy’s eyes—they kept him rooted.
The Russian’s lips quirked, a challenge flashing in them. Scott swallowed hard, reminding himself: professional. Boundaries. Not allowed.
But the water was hot. The kid was right there. Scott’s patience—and some small, guilty part of him—was already fraying.
Then Rozy turned, so Scott had a full view of him as his slender fingers wrapped around his cock and began to lazily stroke it.
“Fuck,” Scott muttered.
Rozy’s grin widened. “You like what you see?” His voice was husky, teasing.
And before Scott could think, before he could stop himself, he was pressing Rozy against the tiled wall, kissing him hard. Teeth clashed, tongues danced, hands sliding over hips gripping hard enough to bruise, to mark.
“I want to fuck you.” Rozy’s hips arched, his erection brushing against Scott’s.
Scott groaned, his teeth tugging on the kid’s ear. “Not here.”
***
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