Chapter Text
There are five miles left on Shane’s commute when his car stalls on Route 136. A litany of swears light up the inside of Shane’s luxury vehicle at the same time his check engine and coolant lights blink. It’s cold, but not freezing. Mid-November and Shane is not dressed for it, having just come from practice. He has his Metros jacket on, but there’s little else to protect him from the wind that threatens to make him shiver.
It’s thirty-five minutes until the tow truck comes, and another ten before the driver turns to Shane as he’s finishing loading Shane’s new(ish), reliable(ish) car onto the truck bed.
“So, where to?” He asks nonchalantly. It takes Shane by surprise and he pulls his head out of his phone (mid-Google search of check engine and temp lights blink 2014 Land Rover meaning).
Shane starts to stammer and his gaze keeps traveling between his car and his phone. “I, uh, I have a guy.”
Urgently, he opens his contacts and tries to find the mechanic that Hayden had recommended to him when he bought the car. The truck driver taps his foot rhythmically against the pavement. Shane begins to panic, scrolling and scrolling until he finally finds the name. Cars whiz by on the street. Shane only managed to pull off to the side of the road before his car completely fucked him over. The noise, the pressure, the entire scenario has a panic forming in the back of Shane’s mind.
“Got it!” When he looks up at the driver, he’s met with an unimpressed and impatient expression. “It’s only a few blocks away.” But when Shane gives the name, the guy scoffs.
“That’s for American makes,” the guy drawls to Shane, as if it’s something obvious that should carry all the context Shane needs. He rolls his eyes. “Your car is not an American make.”
Shane balks. Why should that matter? Don’t mechanics just fix… everything?
“Don’t worry,” the truck driver sighs. “I got a guy.”
Shane hops in the tow truck and the driver seems to take pity on him. It’s only when he looks over the paperwork that he rereads the name thrice and gives Shane a shocked look.
“You’re Shane Hollander!” It’s almost impressive it took this long for him to notice. Unfortunately for Shane, the rest of the ride (an agonizing seventeen minutes and forty-three seconds) to the mechanic is spent in Shane’s personal hell — stuck talking about himself and his season stats and incredible gameplay with no way out.
Finally, they arrive, and Shane realizes he’s bereft of anything to tell the mechanic. A decent 73% of Shane’s knowledge is overtaken by hockey, leaving little room for anything else (18% for nutrition, 6% for hobbies outside of hockey, and a staggering 3% for his relationships). Cars have never been an interest of his and picked this one out of a line of new releases. Once the car is unloaded, Shane is given the lowdown and takes a deep breath as he repeats to himself:
“Ask for Grigori,” the truck driver told him, unloading the car into the empty lot of the shop, “tell him it’s your engine. Let him know you’ve got misfires, probably need to get your converter replaced.”
Shane balked at him. “That sounds serious.”
The driver shrugged. “It is. You really fucked this car up, man.”
Shane hangs his head in his hands, lamenting this situation he somehow put himself in, when a mechanic strolls out from the garage. The oncoming fall weather has Shane pulling his jacket closer to his body as he watches. The mechanic puts a cigarette in his mouth but doesn’t light it yet; Shane studies him carefully as he approaches—
Blue denim coveralls are undone at the top, stained with oil and zipped down halfway. Long sleeves tie around a slim waist and a black tank top fits to the mechanic’s torso as if it was painted on, showing off sleeves of tattoos over muscled arms. Under a black beanie is a mop of golden curls, beneath them piercing hazel eyes and sharp cheekbones. Eyes that don’t leave Shane’s, making the time it takes for him to reach Shane feel eternal. Between smiling lips hangs the cigarette, near falling out before he takes a moment to light it.
“You must have fucked this up bad for Drew to leave it in my lot,” he nods at the Land Rover as he speaks. A thick, yet understandable Russian accent catches Shane’s attention immediately. The mechanic puts his hands in his pockets as he continues, “What did you do?”
Well… that isn’t exactly how Shane thought this conversation would start. The mechanic circles the car to inspect from the outside. By the time he is back to the front, the cigarette is half gone. Shane watches long fingers pluck it from his lips and a pink tongue darts out to lick at where the cigarette previously rested.
“I didn’t do anything.” Shane immediately feels defensive, though if he is honest, he has no idea what happened. “It just stalled on my way home, lights were blinking and—”
The mechanic interrupts Shane with a dramatic wave of his hand, smoke flying about as he gesticulates. “What lights?” he asks and rounds the car to open the driver-side door.
Shane feels odd — this guy barely greets him (really, he doesn’t greet Shane at all; he’s all business) and sets to immediate work to invade Shane’s property. There’s a sort of… strangeness to this approach that makes Shane feel off-kilter. Shane Hollander is not used to being treated so carelessly by a stranger. His chest feels tight, his cheeks flushed. It’s as if those hazel eyes, never lingering far from staring Shane down, have read the full scoop on him. He quickly studied Shane’s body language, the words he said, and got all he needed to know. When the mechanic ducks below the steering wheel, the hood of Shane’s car pops open.
Oh. So that is how you get the hood up.
The mechanic looks at Shane with an expectant stare again. He’s towering over the opened hood of Shane’s car. Strong arm muscles flex under black ink as he leans over the engine and inspects what is wrong.
“Hello?” The butt flicks ash off as he lets go, stomping the remnants of it on the ground. “Which lights were blinking?”
Shane has had enough — this guy is clearly an asshole and Shane is wasting his time. It can’t be that hard to find another luxury British vehicle mechanic in Montreal.
Shane crosses his arms. “I’m supposed to ask for Grigori.”
The mechanic scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I am his son.”
“Well, the driver—”
“—Drew,” Asshole Mechanic interrupts.
“Drew,” Shane corrects, “said to ask for Grigori.”
The mechanic squints at him and there’s that strange feeling crawling under Shane’s skin again. He feels analyzed under the gaze; eyes slowly travel from Shane’s face downward, and then snake back up to meet the irritation in Shane’s eyes once again.
“He’s dead,” the mechanic states. Shane feels his stomach drop. The stranger rests against the front of Shane’s car in a relaxed position, arms crossed in front of himself and a serious glint in his eyes. “I’m Ilya.”
There’s a smile that ticks up at the corners of Ilya’s mouth that Shane catches — it’s intriguing, like this whole display of machismo was just an act to rile Shane up. Fuck— does this guy know who he is? Is he fucking with Shane because of it? It’s unimpressive and Shane is over this conversation immediately.
Before Shane can say anything about Ilya’s behavior, the mechanic speaks up again — his head is tilted to the side and that smile has softened to something… cute.
Shane looks away.
“Now can I fix your stupid British car? It’s stinking up my nice lot.”
Shane looks back and scowls at him, then proceeds to tell the mechanic — Ilya — everything he needs to know. He shows Ilya the interior, where the lights blink. He gathers whatever immediate things he needs before his Uber arrives. He walks back to the shop lobby with the mechanic as question after question is answered to the best of Shane’s ability.
It isn’t until Shane is handing the keys over, when their fingers brush and linger, that Shane’s stomach decides to drop again. It’s not out of shock this time, but something more. Something heavy — he feels his face flush as he keeps his eyes on Ilya’s. They hold their stare for a moment, then two, and Ilya smirks and does something Shane finds utterly unthinkable.
He winks, then clutches Shane’s keys in a fist and shoves them in his coveralls pocket.
Shane’s face feels like a furnace as he turns tail and waits for his Uber outside of the shop.
_/\_
It’s four and a half hours before Shane gets a phone call from the mechanic’s shop (Rozanov’s, he learns) about his car.
“Hello?” Shane answers his phone tentatively, trying to dampen the hope in his heart that Ilya is the one on the other end of the line.
He feels stupid, like he’s waiting for his crush to call. The last thing Shane needs right now is to form a crush on his goddamn mechanic.
“Hi,” the voice starts, and Shane has to mentally slap himself at the excitement his heart gives him when he recognizes the voice. “I am looking for the owner of the badly used ‘14 Land Rover in my luxury car lot.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Do you really get a lot of repeat customers with an attitude like that?”
“Of course,” Ilya says casually, and Shane thinks he can hear a smile in his voice. “We are only European Luxury shop within twelve miles.” There’s a pause, and Shane recognizes that he is smiling too and that has to fucking stop. “I’m calling to update you on your car, by the way. Not just give you shit.”
“Oh, that’s what this is?” Shane finds himself laughing. “I thought you just took delight in pissing your customers off.”
“Eh, maybe the cute ones,” Ilya quips back. The comment is hanging in the air for only a half-second before Ilya speaks again. “It looks like your engine is misfire— coolant levels are empty.”
“Is that… bad?” Shane runs a hand through his hair.
Ilya laughs on the other end of the line and Shane can hear him say something in Russian to another person before putting the receiver back to his lips. The sound of his laugh, the sound of the other language, has Shane’s heart flipping in his chest.
“Yes, it is bad.” Shane swears under his breath. “You know you are supposed to refill your car’s coolant, yes?”
Shane mentally slaps himself. “Uh… no?”
Ilya says something again in Russian, but continues. “Well, because of your severe lack of care, your engine is misfiring and has no way to cool down. No way to cool means overheat, means misfire, means car goes to shit.”
“Uh…” Shane scrubs a hand down his face. “How shit? Am I going to be able to pick it up today?”
Ilya laughs louder this time. “No,” he says after a sigh, clearly enjoying the conversation with Shane’s lack of experience. “I need to order parts, can take a few days to arrive and then I have to fix it. Going to be a few days before you will have car back.” A pause. “Sorry,” he adds, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
Shane wants to scream. He’s going to have to immediately call admin at Metros HQ and arrange for a car for the week. He hates using the team’s car service. He’ll have to cancel plans with his parents for dinner as well— everything feels very out of place all of the sudden. It’s extremely frustrating, and the lack of control over the situation has Shane beginning to spiral, but Ilya’s voice comes back over the phone — Shane feels… strangely calmed by the softness in his tone.
“It sucks, yeah,” Ilya empathizes. “Not going to take that long. I can get the parts in two days and have your car back by…” there’s some muttering off to the side and Shane thinks about when his next game is. “...Friday? If everything goes well.”
That’s four days from now, but Shane can survive.
“Now about the bill—” Ilya starts, but Shane is so overwhelmed with the lack of control, the bill is the last thing he cares about.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” Shane cuts him off. “The cost is no problem, just charge me whatever and I’ll pick it up as soon as possible.”
There’s silence. Shane thinks he may have lost Ilya on the other end of the line. He pulls the phone back and sees that the call is still connected.
“Hello?”
“Just like that?” Ilya sounds surprised for the first time since Shane has briefly known him. “Cost is no problem — this is luxury car. You sure you don’t want to know how much?”
Shane pinches his brow. Even if money isn’t a problem, he knows hearing the number will only make his stress levels rise. Right now, Shane is itching to hit the gym and work out some of this tension.
Ilya’s voice is nice to hear, though. Strangely, it comforts Shane. The easy banter that he has, the asshole-way he teases Shane. It’s familiar, like chirps on the ice, but there’s something about the tone and accent of Ilya’s voice that makes Shane feel different.
“It’s fine,” he repeats. “Please keep me updated. Thank you, um…”
“Ilya.” And while Shane knows that’s who he has been speaking to, it’s honey to his ears to hear the other say his name pitched low over the phone. “Rozanov.”
Ilya Rozanov.
“Thank you, um, Mister Rozanov.” Shane feels the heat in his face by the time he hangs up his phone. He drops the device in his lap and puts his head in his hands. There’s a warmth all over him; he feels his face flush and his stomach weigh heavy and—
He’s half-hard. What the fuck— since when did a simple phone call about his fucking car’s engine get him hard? Shane stares at his crotch and he knows the answer is as obvious as his bulge.
It’s nothing to do with his car. It’s all about the sultry voice that bid him goodbye a moment prior.
Shane slips a hand over his groin before he can think. Any thought to hit up his home gym once he got off the call is a joke to himself and the universe. He leans back on his couch and spreads his legs; the heat from all over channels itself into a central part of Shane’s body. He’s tired from practice (and especially from the mental exhaustion that this ordeal has caused him), but there’s a new energy that sparks in him as he slips a hand below the waist of his workout shorts.
Shane hisses as he grips himself. There’s an awkward movement to shuck his shorts lower and once he can fully stroke his cock from end-to-end, his mind is already occupying his thoughts with what to fantasize about. The drag is familiar, how he’s touched himself a thousand times, but the fantasy is new.
Shane spits in his hand as he lets his mind wander, following the road that leads back to the auto-shop.
Long fingers. Long, pale fingers that flick a cigarette’s ash out onto the pavement. A smile catches Shane’s eye, wolfish and flirty and coiling around Shane’s arousal like the cigarette smoke that billows out. Fingers that coil around where Shane’s fingers are — similarly to how they touched and gripped parts of the car’s interior as Shane watched from a distance. Miles of ink that etch pictures into milky white skin. Shane can’t recall any of the details, but he remembers being caught off guard with his piqued interest — muscled and tatted, half-wearing messy coveralls and hiding hair that Shane wants to grab onto.
The arch of a slender back as he stood taller to inspect different angles. Shane wonders if there’s ink there, too. What else is hiding under those clothes? The curve of an ass that caught Shane’s attention as he bent over to pick up new tools— and the tools.
How he handled them with delicacy, curling his fingers around the body of each new device. There’s nothing sexual about a socket wrench, but Shane thinks that if anyone could make it hot, it’s Ilya. There’s that smile again, turning to Shane and gripping a towel between oil-slick hands. Long, deftly working fingers swipe over and through the dirty cloth to clean the oil from the skin. Hazel eyes watch Shane— they’re watching him right now as he touches himself to the mere thought of Ilya’s hands on his fucking couch.
What would Ilya do if he were here right now? Shane thinks back to that mouth, smiling and easy as he sucks smoke in from a cigarette. Shane thinks about the hollow of his cheeks, how those lips would look wrapped around Shane’s cock and sucking. Bobbing his head and bouncing his curls, but not before Shane could get a tight fist coiling and guiding the motion. Fucking into the heat of Ilya’s cocky mouth — there would be no clever comeback if Shane shoved his cock down Ilya’s throat.
What would Ilya tell him if he were here right now? Russian speaks in Shane’s ears, but he has no clue what the words mean.
He hopes they tell him to come, because he does. He spills over his shaking fist as his chest heaves. There’s sweat coming through his clothes, legs giving a weak shake and his head falling back to rest against the couch.
“Fuck,” Shane says to himself. It echoes in the large, empty living room. “Fuck!” He says louder to no one.
He is so screwed.