Chapter Text
Objectively, X-Squad: Darkest Night, is like an…okay movie. It has a coherent plot that doesn’t make people want to tear their hair out and it’s pretty fun for an action flick. More importantly, it’s a star-studded action piece that fills theater seats and has merch flying off the shelves, which is what the execs want. Which means that this is a technical success in up-and-coming actress Rose Landry’s book.
Now subjectively, it’s the most boring film that she’s worked on. An artistic failure in film history nerd and actress extraordinaire Rose Landry’s book. The money is good and the press is even better, but it feels like sleep-walking through blue-screen hell and Rose sure as fuck didn’t move herself halfway across the country when she was 17 just for that.
But she’s doing her time. Someday, it’ll get better.
For now—
“Okay, so I know you saw the movie,” she says as soon as she hears Shane pick up, “which means you have to tell me what you thought.”
“I thought it was great.”
“Liar,” she snorts, digging around in her bag for her wallet. She can almost taste the fries waiting for her just a few inches away, but there’s the question of financial payment and a surly-looking In-N-Out attendant currently giving her a weird look. Don’t they pay those guys to be nice? “Tell me what you really think, honestly.”
“I think that you did a great job working off your scene partners and that the CGI was impressive, your superpowers looked really realistic.”
It’s so honest without really saying anything; Rose can’t help the smile that threatens to curl at the corner of her mouth. “Well-said, Mr. I’ve Been Media-Trained Since Birth.”
“I, uh, do think that they should let you wear more clothes?”
“Oh, there’s an opinion!” Wallet. Finally. One step closer to dinner. “Sick of seeing this hot body already?”
“No, no, you look fine, you just should, y’know, get to flex your acting muscles without having to be, uh, topless? Ilya agrees. I think.”
Rose’s phone buzzes in her palm. She ignores it in favor of prodding because she really is genuinely curious. “Oh yeah? What else did he think?”
Frankly, Ilya Rozanov doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to have opinions on movies, let alone spend time watching movies. Especially not movies like X-Squad. He feels more like the kind of guy to…sit in the dark watching game reruns while plotting new and torturous ways for the Raiders to beat the hell out of their opponents.
Rose might not know jack shit about Ilya Rozanov, now that she thinks of it.
“He, uh, isn’t usually the biggest fan of superhero movies. He did say you’re pretty good, though?”
Another two quick buzzes hum against her skin.
“Sure he said that,” Rose hums as she steps forward, swiping her tray off the counter before her order number has barely left the attendant’s mouth. “I’m a big girl, you can tell me what he really thinks.”
“Rose…”
“What?” she says, except she’s just shoved fries in her mouth so it comes out a lot more like “whuagh?” before she swallows them down. “I can handle it!”
“God, he uh, said something like if you’re as good as everyone says, then you should try to be in movies that show that instead of, er, just showing your tits.”
Scratch that. Maybe Rose already knows all she needs to know about Ilya Rozanov.
“Ouch,” she groans into her burger before taking a bite. “Right in the heart. Or tit—"
One more buzz, yet another text. Rose flicks through her mental schedule, brow furrowing. Was she expecting to hear back from Darren about something urgent?
“Hold on, give me a sec, someone keeps texting me,” she says before pulling her phone away from her ear, using the knuckle of her pinky to scroll through her notifications.
Ah. There are a handful of texts from an unknown number. That in itself would be enough for her to delete them and block the number straight out, but she catches a glimpse of the messages before she can swipe away.
You have small tits, you should have better roles by now.
I did not say you were good.
Shane is liar.
Except now. I did say that.
It takes a second for Rose to ignore the dig at her body long enough connect the dots. Three of them, to be exact; Rose Landry to Shane Hollander to, apparently, Ilya Rozanov, if these texts are from who she thinks they’re from.
Which, what the fuck? What would Rozanov want from her? She and Shane barely made it three months and Shane is very gay, as they’ve all established; any guy reading her presence in his life as a threat has to have some serious trust issues.
Rose lifts her phone back up to her ear, starting to chew on her bottom lip before she stops herself. “Did you…give Ilya Rozanov my number?”
“I—wait, what?” The confusion is palpable in Shane’s voice, which means the answer is no. “Sorry, hold on.”
Rose hums and takes another bite of her burger to the sound of fabric rustling and Shane’s voice muffled by his hand over the phone. “Did you—how? When, you dickhead?”
There’s a tinny response, too far away to hear clearly, followed by a huff of “fuck you” that sounds way too fond, in Rose’s opinion.
“Okay,” Shane says at normal volume. “So technically, he took it?”
“Wow,” Rose drawls, less for the sarcasm and more because she’s honestly feeling a bit…confused. “So, should I be flattered or worried?”
“Maybe honored?” A voice suggests suddenly, far too cocky (and far too Russian) to be mistaken for Shane’s calm, even tone. “I am very busy being best hockey player in league, is hard to find time to watch movie just to see your—"
“O-kay!” she interrupts, loud enough that she can see a few heads turning in her peripheral vision. “Awesome, great, well it’s been fantastic talking to you two but I know it’s late there and I don’t want to keep you, so good night!”
Embarrassment and irritation start to wage a heated battle beneath her skin; Rose can feel her face turning red as a tomato as she hangs up on Shane and slams her phone face-down on the table.
This obviously isn’t the first time people have made comments about her body. It feels like her entire life has been spent fielding comments about her lack of a figure or too-big nose or legs that aren’t long enough to really be considered “sexy”—the list could go on forever, if she let it, but Rose doesn’t let things like that bother her. She can’t.
Ilya Rozanov should just be another voice in the sea of opinions that she’s learned to drown out. His opinions on her acting or her tits shouldn’t fucking matter.
It also shouldn’t fucking matter how hot he is, or how brutal he is on the ice (hello competency kink!), or how incandescently happy he makes Shane, but it looks like a lot of things are mattering more than they should these days so Rose just might be shit out of luck in that department.
She gingerly flips over her phone, tentatively knuckling at the screen like the text messages will bite her if she isn’t careful. She gives it until she has the burger wrapper crumpled into a ball in her fist, enough time for her cheeks to cool and her heartrate to slow, before she reads through the messages again and starts to craft her response.
By the time she has her responses queued up to send, Rose feels almost relaxed.
Ilya Rozanov is just a man. This is just another audition, another scene partner to figure out. It’s nothing she hasn’t done before and done well.
this body is all natural btw
no surgery, only maintenance at the gym tysm
Rozanov responds almost immediately.
Pics or did not happen.
Rose obviously doesn’t bother responding to that.
---
Fight choreography always kicks Rose’s ass. The table reads, line memorization, freezing her ass off on set, doing take after take after take—she can handle all that. Like a lot of it, even. But stunt training and fight choreo are the kinds of things that take every ounce of her brainpower to keep up with. It feels like playing HORSE with her brothers back home in Michigan, desperately trying to remember the steps of whatever convoluted routine Christopher cooked up before he made some stupid trick shot—which he would land. He always made the shot.
Rose has never quite cracked basketball.
Point being, it feels like half her body’s water content is currently leaking out of her pores from the exertion of trying to nail this bit of choreo. They’ve given her a staff to fight with, which is cool. Rose has managed to whack herself in the shin at least five times in the last twenty minutes, which is significantly less cool.
She massages her shin with the heel of her palm as she stretches over for her phone, squinting down at her notifications.
There’s a bunch of texts waiting.
Some of them are from Rozanov.
Rose, for some reason, looks over her shoulder before swiping the chat open. Like it’s crime to be texting a world-famous hockey player that’s in a secret relationship with her ex-boyfriend.
Life is so weird, sometimes.
I understand your movie now.
They think you are only good for one line and then ass shot.
Ex boyfriend on writing staff? You suck someone’s dick wrong?
The worst part is that he’s not wrong. They really did just bring her in for a handful of quippy one-liners and closeups of her in as little clothing as legally possible for PG-13 rated action movie so—
Actually, scratch that. The worst part is that Rozanov isn’t wrong and he’s being funny about it. Even if he’s blatantly baiting her with that last bit. Rose can feel it like a challenge, a beckoning of fingers through the screen.
Bite back, it feels like he’s saying. Show me what you’ve got.
Asshole, Rose thinks to herself viciously as her fingers fly over the screen, bruised shin forgotten.
making comments unsolicited comments on how i give head?
don’t knock it til you’ve tried it
Camera likes your ass more than your mouth.
Feels like enough proof for me.
yeah well it’s not like i blew the camera operator
And that should be where it ends.
Except Rose keeps typing. Because apparently proving herself on this front is important to her now. What the fuck.
my 2nd (gay) bf stayed with me for over a year bc my head game was that strong
he thought he just didn’t like pussy
Rozanov replies with just two emojis: the tongue and the goat. It’s rather shocking that he’s picked up emoji slang, given that Rose knows Shane definitely didn’t teach him the phrase.
how do you even know what that means????
I am cool.
pics or it didn’t happen
It’s a joke. It’s not supposed to mean anything at all. Except her phone is buzzing 10 seconds later and Rose swipes the text thread open to a fucking selfie from Ilya Rozanov.
His gold cross necklace catches her eye first—half for the way it acts like a flashing neon arrow angled down the flushed, damp line of his throat (it’s hot and she’s not supposed to find it hot, she’s not!) and half for how Rose can’t imagine someone as ruthlessly dickish as Rozanov feeling any sort of connection to something as trifling as religion.
Most of his face is out of frame except for the bottom half of his face, mouth bracketed by his first and middle finger spread in a V. His tongue lolls out, wet and pink, and Rose feels an unwanted frisson of heat skitter down her spine.
It’s been a while since someone’s eaten her out. Or fingered her. And Ilya Rozanov has a nice mouth (plush lips, hint of teeth flashing at her, what looks like to be a dexterous tongue) and even nicer fingers (broad, tapered at the end, probably callused) and Jesus, Rose can’t tell if someone turned off the AC or if her body is still trying to cool off from training or—
That would be all Rose would have to worry about, except the rest of the screen is basically taken up by miles of sweaty skin because Rozanov’s shirt is sleeveless and his bicep is bunched up because he’s making a sex joke with his fingers and mouth and Rose really can’t decide between the two halves of her torn between exasperated disgust and unwilling interest. Desperately intrigued interest.
She reacts to the photo with a thumbs down emoji.
very uncool
shane is right, you are such a dick.
so what
you’re using your precious free time to watch my movies and make fun of my career?
No. Team movie last night.
I have not seen first X-Squad movie and this is apparently big sin.
it is
what else are you supposed to jerk off to before you go to sleep?
actual porn? so basic
Porn has bigger tits, yes?
you have absolutely no taste
And you have no tits. Should work on that.
Rose rolls her eyes, letting her phone dangle from her grip as she tips her head back. She rolls her neck, accidently catching her own gaze in the mirror as she looks up.
Objectively, she looks a mess. Skin damp with sweat, hair falling out her messy ponytail, dressed in leggings she’s had since she was a freshman in high school and a sports bra she got last month, a cute one with a curving band instead the usual straight line that screams attention! there are no boobs here!
She looks exhausted. Over-exerted. Fucked out, if someone wanted to interpret her messiness from that angle.
Rose looks good.
And in the moment, she doesn’t have an explanation for why she does it. Why she flicks her phone upright in her palm and props her arm up on her knee, aiming the camera at the mirror and snapping a shot. She hides her mouth behind the phone but lets her eyes show, focused down at the screen. Like it means less to her because she’s looking away from the mirror.
She gives it a onceover to check that there aren’t any costars lurking in the background. And then she sends it to Rozanov, tossing her phone away as soon as she’s done.
pics or it didn’t happen right?
Rose doesn’t know why she does it.
Except she does. Rose Landry’s never met a challenge she wouldn’t at least swing at, right? She has to prove people wrong; it’s why she moved halfway across the country, why she books herself back-to-back, why she can never stop and why she’s never satisfied.
If Rozanov thinks she can’t take it, then she’ll show him. She’ll dish it out and then some.
He doesn’t respond. Rose gets called away to work her ass off, and when she’s returned to her phone two hours later, he still hasn’t responded.
Maybe Rozanov’s the one who can’t take it.
---
It started as a thing when she and Shane were dating, but texting him good luck before every game has become something of a tradition. And now that she knows—is aware of? is in contact with?—Ilya Rozanov, wishing a good game for Shane feels that much more imperative today than it usually would.
GOOD LUCK!!! CRUSH BOSTON TODAY!!!!
Shane reacts with a heart almost immediately. He must be in the locker room gearing up to go. Which means Rozanov must be doing the same.
Rose lets her thumb hover over their messages. He never responded to the photo she sent all those months agao, and she’d almost deleted it from the thread out of…what, embarrassment? Irritation? Whatever it was, she didn’t follow through on it.
There’s a challenging slant to her expression in that photo, a sort of confidence Rose wishes she felt all the time. Today is not one of the good days; there’s a nasty cold getting passed around set right now and she can feel it trying to worm itself past her immune system. She feels worn and hollow, a little needier than she likes to be. That’s what Rose blames it on as her thumb slides over the screen, picking her words carefully even as she tells herself she doesn’t care at all.
jsyk im rooting for montreal today
Rozanov responds within seconds.
You cheer for team outside of your own country?
boston might as well be another country to me
you can get back to me after you’ve won the game
or after you’ve signed with the cardinals
He doesn’t respond. The photo’s been pushed up, out of sight, and it’s easier to take his radio silence like this, with the excuse of a game. Rose spends the rest of the evening moping around her hotel room, taking a steaming hot bath before rolling into bed and scrolling aimlessly as the game plays on the TV in front of her.
Montréal doesn’t do so hot. It’s almost painful to watch. They limp along, so it isn’t a complete shut-out, but by the time they call time and MLH Updates buzzes the final score to her on her phone, Rose is glad Montréal has effectively been put out of its misery.
rough one :(
call me after?
She gets a response faster than expected; Shane usually beats himself up for a couple hours before he’s ready to talk about how things went—
Except the response isn’t from Shane. The swipe of Rose’s thumb redirects to a different chat because this text was actually from Rozanov.
I will sign with Cardinals when I get bored of winning.
Will not happen for long time.
Maybe never.
Rose rolls her eyes. Of course he’s a gloater. How fun.
asshole
i saw that cross-check at the end of the last period
you’re lucky the refs were looking the other way
Lucky, maybe.
Or maybe I am just that good.
🙄
---
when was the last time you saw shane?
Rose gives in to the urge to chew her bottom lip just for a second. She never thought she’d be grateful to have Rozanov’s number, but right now it feels like a lifeline.
Shane had been…distant at dinner. He’d been distant over text for the past week or so too, but it’s worse like this, in-person. Zoning out, nearly snapping at her a couple of times, distracted to a fault; she’s never seen Shane this out of it, not since he first told her about him and Rozanov. Not since they sat down that fateful night and she pried it out of him that he was gay. It worries her, all of it.
Rose taps her screen with her nail, nearly dropping her phone as it lights up with a buzz.
Two weeks ago. In Boston.
Is he alright? Something happened?
Rozanov’s concern is palpable through the screen. As bad as the situation is, it feels good to have someone on her side, someone as concerned about Shane as she feels.
nothing happened
i thought he was taking the loss to the monarchs harder than usual but idk
are you two fighting or something?
Rozanov’s reply comes instantaneously.
No.
He has been struggling.
Self-esteem.
Changes in team management, making his job harder.
He will not talk about it much to me.
Oh. That’s something Rose can understand. Love for the game, the craft, can only take you so far. At a certain point, all the rules that surround the thing that you love, the thing that it feels like you were born to do, they start to become a cage. And the thing that you love, the thing that is so deeply ingrained in who you are, starts to weigh heavier than you can handle. And it hurts but there’s nothing you can do about it and—
Well. Rose knows the feeling well.
You are still with him?
yeah, he came over to mine to hang for a bit
Her head jerks up as Shane walks out of the bathroom. The line of his shoulder is stiff, hands shoved in his pockets as he looks at her.
“I should go,” he says with a jerk of his head. He gives her a smile, the soft one that she only ever sees when she pulls away from a hug and Shane is just looking at her, calm and content. The curve of his mouth is still brittle, despite it all.
If Rose didn’t know him better, she might let him go.
Her phone buzzes in her hand.
Do not let him leave.
She nearly scoffs. As if. She extends her hand, beckoning Shane over.
“Nope,” she says, popping the “p”. “Can’t leave without cuddles. I’m touch-starved these days, didn’t you know?”
Shane lets out a half-hearted scoff, but he steps closer. Lets himself be pulled down to lie on the couch, arms wrapping around her waist as her fingers push through his hair.
“Your hair’s getting longer,” she murmurs, letting her nails scratch against his scalp. Shane’s hum turns into a groan, head pushing into her touch. “It’s a good look.”
“Thanks, my hairdresser suggested I try it out.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s alright.” One eye peers up at her, warm but guarded. “Don’t like when it gets in my eyes.”
“Mm.” Rose redirects her touch, smoothing her palm over the strands that have been trying to escape over his forehead all evening. “You should cut it shorter, then.”
“But what if—”
“I don’t think your hairstyle impedes your ability to play good hockey. Which is what matters.” Rose flicks his forehead lightly. “You can find someone that can cut it shorter and make it look cute. Besides, it can’t be as bad as how you had your hair back when you won Rookie of the Year. When was that, 2011?”
“Fuck off,” Shane snorts, digging his knuckles into her side. Rose yelps, pushing uselessly at his wrists.
“You looked like a dumpling with that hair, it was so cute. Number 2 cut for boys, coming right—”
Rose cuts herself off with a shriek as Shane grabs her, flipping their positions. “Better watch out, Rosie,” he warns with a breathless grin, “do I need to bring up the time you cut your own bangs before the Oscars in 2009?”
“You wouldn’t,” she hisses, pointing an accusing finger up at him. “I was drunk when I told you and you were sworn to secrecy, you have to keep your promise—"
“I will, I will,” he acquiesces, palms angling down to face her placatingly. “Won’t tell a soul, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still make fun of you for it.”
Rose groans, shaking her head. “Fine. Truce, then?”
“Mutually-assured destruction,” Shane corrects with a grin, offering her a hand to pull her up to sit. Rose tucks her legs to her chest, cheek resting on her knees as she glances up at Shane.
“So, I’ve solved one of your problems. Anything other ones I can solve? Maybe things you’re having a tough time with that don’t you want to talk about?”
Shane’s eyes narrow at that. “Who have you been talking to?”
“Can’t a girl just casually read a guy’s mind?” Rose says with a pout, reaching up to pat his cheek. “Can’t I be worried about my friend who’s been acting weird all evening?”
“Sorry—”
“Nope, no polite Canadian apologies here,” she says quickly, nudging him back to face her from where he’d been starting to pull away. “I just wanna know you’re okay, babe. You’re worrying me.”
Shane’s expression twitches, lips pressing together tight. And Rose wishes she didn’t know how to read his face, wishes she couldn’t already tell that he’s not going to open up to her about this, at least not tonight.
“There’s nothing we can do about it,” Shane says after a beat, shaking his head. “Just have to…ride it out, I guess.”
“You can ride things out with help,” Rose says as gently as she can, laying her hand over his. “And you have a lot of help, Shane. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, except it sounds like he doesn’t, and so the only thing Rose can do is reach over the wrap her arms around his neck to hold him tight. Tight enough that Shane goes from letting himself be held to clutching her right back, arm bracing to her spine and face pressing into her neck. She can feel his breath against her skin, tight, hot puffs of air as he shudders in her arms.
“You’re okay baby, I’ve got you.”
“Yeah,” Shane says into her hair, hopelessly muffled. She drags her fingers through his hair, down to the back of his neck to squeeze tight and—
Rose feels her phone start to buzz in her pocket.
Shane stiffens in her grip.
Fuck, why is her phone ringing now?
“Someone’s calling,” Shane says, the tenseness back in his voice and no, no, that’s not what she wants at all.
“No, they’re not,” Rose says stubbornly, tightening her grip over Shane. He exhales hard against her throat.
“Rose—”
“Fine, fine,” she hisses, pulling back enough to fish her phone out of her pocket.
It’s Rozanov that’s calling. A quick flick of her thumb shows her the texts she missed from him, curt and urgent.
Shane is still there?
He is okay?
Rose Landry, respond.
ебанный в рот.
Goddammit. She takes the call. “This better be important,” she hisses, except Rozanov just completely barrels over her with a brusque “Shane is still there?”
“Yes, he is, and we were having a very nice moment until you—”
“Put him on.”
“Oh, since you asked so nicely,” she mutters sarcastically, letting herself have the eyeroll before holding her phone. “It’s for you. Rozanov’s worried about you too, you know.”
Shane’s face twists even as he takes her phone. Light catches the damp spots on his cheeks as he turns and Rose feels a pang echo deep in her chest. She reaches out without a second thought to thumb away the tear that trickles down Shane’s cheek as he says, “Ilya?” into the phone, quiet and shaky.
As much as she’d like to stay, Rose knows this is her cue. She can give them space. She can exit gracefully; she’s made a living out of it, hasn’t she?
But Shane grabs her as she moves to leave, fingers warm and insistent against her wrist. He tugs her closer, eyes wide and glassy as he looks up.
“Stay,” he asks softly, except Rose can feel how it’s closer to a plea and fuck, when has she ever been able to say no to Shane? The second he plopped into her booth with a huff, letting his walls down just long enough to drag a weary hand over his face, she knew that he was going to be part of her life as long as she could hold onto him.
Rose has gotten very good at grabbing onto what she wants and refusing to let go; it’s the only way she knows how to live, now.
She settles herself against Shane, tucking her head under his chin as she wraps her arms around him. He mirrors her movements, hands settling loosely at her waist so his knuckles can follow the ridges of her spine, up and down and up and down.
“Yeah, ‘m okay. I know you were texting me, I just…”
Shane shakes his head. Rose hums, letting her nails draw patterns through the hair at the base of his neck.
It’s okay, she presses into his skin instead of saying it out loud. I’ve got you.
She can’t tell how long they sit there, tangled up in each other as she drifts to the tinny sound of Rozanov’s voice through the phone and the occasional hum and response from Shane, voice vibrating low and comforting against her ear. But however long it is, it doesn’t feel long enough. Eventually, Shane shift beneath her, pulling her phone from his ear as he taps her shoulder, and Rose finds herself letting out a whine as she pushes her nose into his chest.
“Sorry, I’m flying out early tomorrow.”
“I know, I know,” Rose sighs, giving him a kiss on the cheek before she wearily clambers off him. “But do you think I can bribe the Metros to delay the upcoming game so I can steal you for a night or two?”
Shane scoffs under his breath. “You only want me for my muscular, toned body.”
“Not true, I also want you for your weird, off-putting sense of humor. I can’t live without it,” Rose says with a mock roll of her eyes, accepting her phone with a flourish. It’s hot to the touch; there’s probably only a couple percent of battery left—
Shane catches her in a hug, sudden and tight.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, soft and tired but relieved.
Thank you, Rozanov texts by the time she’s changed into pajamas, his words simple and sincere.
She doesn’t need any of it, as nice as it is. She’d’ve done all of it and more for Shane because she loves him.
Maybe, for him, she can learn to tolerate Ilya Rozanov. Just a little.
---
if new jersey scores today, im gonna fly to boston about it
Ah, you are saying you miss me?
IM SAYING WE’RE GONNA HAVE PROBLEMS IF YOU LET THE EASTERN CONFERENCE’S LOWEST RANKED TEAM SCORE AGAINST THE RAIDERS
DO YOU NOT AGREE??
Enough with shouting.
We will crush them.
Do not worry))
---
Final – Wednesday, January 24
New Jersey Demons 0
Boston Raiders 4
---
It’s less of a shock to have a text from Rozanov waiting for her after dinner. Well, less dinner and more reception; premieres have their ups and downs and one of the major downs is that they don’t fucking feed her until past 9pm.
Rose’s finger smudges against the screen while she reaches down blindly to undo the straps of her heels.
They fired ex-boyfriend on writing staff for second X-Squad movie? You have more lines now.
That movie one had been slightly better than the first, in that Rose had a better idea of her worth and started to learn how to advocate for herself on and off set. Otherwise, it was crappy in that it was still a mindless action movie and she was not be paid enough for it.
Baby steps, her manager had said.
Rose likes her new manager a lot more.
Some are better. Most are not.
Rose scoffs to herself, kicking her shoes to the side as her fingers fly.
good evening to you as well
couldn’t find anything better to do than watch x-squad movies and talk shit tonight?
Team gave me homework.
I am good student.
the shit talking was part of your hw too??
bet i could run circles around you in school
He replies in seconds, typing bubble bobbing eagerly above her blinking cursor.
You look like you run slow.
Irritation flares before Rose can tamp it down.
It feels so stupid, how quickly he riles her up. How such a basic insult like “you run slow” makes her blood boil when she’s spent half her life building walls against the people that spend their free time calling her repulsive, horrifying things online. Ilya Rozanov should be the equivalent of a gnat in her life.
So why the fuck does what he say matter so much to her?
And for that matter, why does Rose even text back? Why does she catch the insults and hurl them right back? Why does she talk to him, humor him, indulge him in all these little ways that—
“Fuck,” Rose hisses, throwing her phone down on the sheets and digging the heels of her hands into her eyes.
She does it because she likes it, doesn’t she?
She likes this little thing they have, this ultimately harmless back and forth that’s as frustrating as it is fun because Shane will always matter more to Rozanov than Rose will, and Shane will always matter more to Rose than Rozanov will and they both get that. There’s an unspoken line there that they can’t and won’t cross for Shane’s sake and it’s…safe. Safer than most relationships Rose has.
She can’t count how many times she’s been burned, how many times she thought it would be different because this time, they meant it. They meant it when they said she could have the part because she was born to play it. They meant it when they said she could make a difference for all the other girls out there who wanted to be just like here. They meant it when they said they loved her, when they said just one more drink, when they said just a little more because it was okay, she was going to be fine, and—
But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Ilya Rozanov frustrates her. He’s a cocky motherfucker who pisses her off and sometimes makes her want to commit murder purely for the crime of being too fucking annoying.
And Rose likes it. She likes that he’s sharp and funny and that he lets her hone the edge of her own humor on him in her own way. She likes that he texts her after Boston’s wins just to brag and that he leaves her on read when she texts him about losing and that he’s insufferable and talented and that he lets her be that too. Annoyed. Messy. Not Rose Landry, on all the time. Just Rose. The way she aches to be, all the time.
This is the fucking problem with going to therapy; you start to realize things instead of basking in blissful ignorance while trading juvenile insults with Ilya Rozanov via text.
“I’m going to be mature about this,” Rose announces out loud to her empty apartment, and leaves her phone on the bed to go take a long, boiling hot shower instead of channeling all her frustration in cursing his entire existence in their text thread.
Her hair’s nearly dry by the time she picks up her phone again, and she’s better for it. Calmer. Grounded, or as much as she can be when she’s still trying to parse the unfortunate breakthrough of this evening. Rose decides on a nice, neutral response after all of that introspection.
running circles around something is a figure of speech, look it up
Unfortunately, it’s hard to stay neutral.
and i run just fine btw. dickhead
You run like you are more worried about looking good than being fast.
Lowball insult. Rose knows exactly how to counter that.
that’s bc you’ve only see me run in movies when im heels and full costume
let me do it in tennis shoes and ill beat you any day
Only running on ice matters.
i can do that too
Better than me?
i can do anything better than you
Is it true? No.
Does Rose feel delusional enough to think that in this moment, it might be true? Maybe.
The best excuse she can come up with is that Ilya Rozanov does things to her brain. Terrible things, like simulating what it’d be like to temporarily lose access to her prefrontal cortex.
Oh, so you speak Russian better than me?
Well, it’s convenient that Rose already has a Google Translate tab open and set to “Russian to English”. She will not be examining any further why she has such a tab open.
да
Я тебе не верю.
I know you are on Google Translate. Stop it.
The messages come in quick succession, fast enough that it catches Rose by surprise. Fast enough that she can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of her, sudden but genuine.
It’s strange how he does that. How he coaxes these things out of her without even trying. Rose can’t decide if that says more about her or about Rozanov at the end of the day.
She’s still smiling against her will as she types “fuck you” into the English side and reverses the translation before sending him a screenshot.
i’ll never stop
That is bad translation.
fuck off, go be a good student and finish your hw
Как пожелаешь.
---
Rose isn’t quite sure when this happened, but when she picks up her phone to send Shane his customary pre-game “good luck” message, she finds that she is also aware that Boston is playing today. A quick Google search confirms this; Boston against Tampa Bay at 4:00pm PST.
Huh. Through some witchcraft or a trick of God, it seems Rose is now the unwilling knower of the Boston Raiders’ season schedule.
Well, now that she’s aware of this, it’s only good manners to wish Rozanov good luck too. Though, maybe wishing him “luck” is a bit of a stretch for what she’s doing.
30 minutes before faceoff, when she knows Rozanov is in the locker room gearing up for the game with his team, is when she strikes.
break a leg
He responds almost instantly, which means she nailed the timing.
What does that mean?
Rose lets him marinate with her words. He doesn’t soak in much flavor.
You do not mean this.
when have i ever not meant what i said?
You do not hate me that much, yes?
Hm. More marination.
Watching the typing bubble bob up and down like a sinking ship fighting against the waves is incredibly satisfying. Nothing can really beat watching a guy squirm in real time; it’s one of Rose’s little guilty pleasures, to be the instigator every once in a while just to remind herself that she still has it—
A new text notification pings, but not from Rozanov. Or, not from Rozanov in their private chat.
Today 3:34 PM
IRS (SPAM LIKELY)
Shane your ex-girlfriend is threatening me.
[IMG_514.JPG attached]
A group chat. With Shane. That’s not what she expected at all.
Rose doesn’t have time to parse how she feels about it before Shane fires a response back.
Shane ♡
What am I supposed to do about it?
IRS (SPAM LIKELY)
Tell her to stop.
Save me.
Shane ♡
Practice’s starting gtg
IRS (SPAM LIKELY)
You are worst boyfriend.
Rose snorts, fingers flying over the screen as she shoots a private message to Shane.
“practice”
I really do have practice!
i know i know
have fun!
Shane reacts with a heart and then the two of them vanish, only for Rozanov to reappear on her TV as the Raiders do their very best to crush Tampa Bay under their heels.
There’s something weirdly…lively about the way Rozanov plays this evening. All cocky shots and risky checks and a general air of recklessness that he always does so well. But it feels different tonight.
He doubles down in the third period, slicing through Tampa’s defense like a well-sharpened knife, and Rose feels herself leaning forward on her couch, eyes glued to the screen.
Rozanov snatches the puck, angling in. There’s another playing bearing down on him, a check that’s barely skirting the line of decency and he can’t keep the puck safe, he just can’t—
Except he scrapes one foot out, body turning, fast enough to slip around the other Tampa player that’s been riding his ass for the last five minutes.
Rose’s fingers dig into the couch cushions as Rozanov turns, graceful and brutal all at once, slamming into his opponent and taking the momentum to plant his foot into the ice to wind up and—
---
Final – Tuesday, March 12
Tampa Bay Thunder 2
Boston Raiders 3
---
Today 9:48 PM
IRS (SPAM LIKELY)
Next time, tell me to break my arm.
Maybe then I will not be able to knock out Martel’s teeth.
Shane ♡
That was fucking brutal
that was fucking awesome
Shane ♡
Don’t encourage him!
sorry
that was very bad and you should never do it again
(you should totally do it again)
IRS (SPAM LIKELY)
Shane, you did not tell me you have ex-girlfriend that is full of bloodlust.
Shane ♡
That’s because I had no idea
every day we learn something new, don’t we?
---
Rose is halfway through removing her false lashes when she feels her phone buzz against her thigh. A swipe of her pinky finger shows that it’s Rozanov, which means he gets to wait until she’s removed all her makeup and them some. The hard-to-get game is funnier when she plays it with him, mostly because there’s nothing to get between the two of them.
The irony of it amuses her. It amuses her even more that Rozanov is so incredibly oblivious to it; he always replies immediately, when he can.
You were very young when you started acting.
Rose rubs hard at her eyes, now that she can do it without risking giving herself an infection. Place your bets folks, she thinks wryly to herself, 50 bucks on Rozanov texting me in the middle of reading my Wikipedia page or 50 bucks on Shane letting some secret slip about me mid-conversation.
and im sure if i looked up online, it’d be the same for you
I play hockey, not acting.
dickhead
you know what i mean
But I would be best actor if I did.
Rose rolls her eyes, thumbs posed to find a gif in her arsenal that can (try to) convey the depths of her disdain. Except Rozanov follows his text up with a photo of his TV, bright screen over a grainy dark background. It’s not quite in focus. But it doesn’t take long for Rose to put two and two together.
oh my god
She owes somebody 50 bucks. Or maybe 100.
Coming Around. The first “real” movie she was ever in. She remembers it like it was yesterday, her first time on a big set in Hollywood with all the lights and people and Tom fucking Cruise playing her uncle. She’d nearly vibrated out of her skin when he put his hand over her shoulder for a take.
where tf did you find that?? it’s not streaming anywhere??
Hotel TV. Movie is bad but you are less bad.
Well. The movie did miserably in the theaters. There might be compliment in there somewhere.
i was like, 13 when they shot that
Better than your newer movies. Did you hit your prime at 13?
It’d be easy to make herself laugh it off, fire back something smart and sharp. It’s not the worse she’s heard; hell, it’s not even the worse she’s heard from Rozanov himself.
But it’s been such a long day of making herself do little, easy things. Tilting her head and smiling for the camera is easy. Doing short little interviews are easy. Signing a couple things and talking to a few fans is easy. Dodging the paparazzi that tried to follow her home is easy. Letting down the guy that tried to chat her up while she picked up her takeout was easy.
It’s all supposed to be easy now, isn’t it?
Rose blows out a breath, spine curving as she presses her forehead to desk and closes her eyes. She should eat dinner.
i wanted so badly to be a star, Rose types out instead of getting up to eat, still bent in half over her desk.
i poured my whole heart into all 10 lines i had
probably too much heart tbh
Should try that again sometime. It makes you better at acting.
Does it? Can earnestness and excitement really compare to skill, to experience and knowledge? Rose knows so much more now. She feels like a completely different person compared to that young, nervous girl from Michigan who could never stop touching her face and laughing too loud.
Rose Landry never touches her face when she has makeup on and she always laughs at the exact right volume for the situation. To Rose from Michigan, Rose Landry is practically an alien from another planet, all sleek lines and brand deals and face plastered over billboards. But that’s what Rose wanted. Wants. Right?
She sighs low in her throat. Her stomach twinges. She can’t tell if it’s hunger or something else.
if you say anything about my tits
You are 13 here, I am not pervert.
But you should do more movies like this. More heart. Less X-Squad.
unfortunately, there’s this little thing called money
and things like x-squad pay good
It’s such a cliché artist’s question: when did the money become more important than the art?
The cynic’s answer is that it always was. Rose isn’t exactly cynical, but she likes to herself logical. Practical. You can’t do art without money. You can’t do anything without money.
She makes a lot of money now. She’s good at it. Maybe that’s what Rose Landry did; traded her earnestness for conformity. Maybe now she’s a better celebrity but a worse actress. Wouldn’t that really be ironic?
The idea scares Rose. It scares her so much that she fires off another message before she can think, something to swat the thoughts away.
idk why i'm telling you this
it’s not like it matters
It matters. I need better things to watch than boring superhero movies.
but then what would you jerk off to at night?
Rose forces herself to get up, to unpack her takeout and pop it in the microwave because it’s long since gone cold. She needs to eat. She needs to stop thinking.
She drums her fingernails against the counter, counting down the seconds on the display. She grabs her bowl straight out of the microwave and burns her fingers. She juggles her cup of water and silverware and through it all, wills her heart to slow the fuck down.
She sneaks a look at her messages. And even through the anxiety, through the pounding of her heart and the tightness in her chest, she reads Rozanov’s response and feels herself start to smile.
Ha!
Now who is pervert?
---
This premiere sucks. Partly because the alcohol selection sucks, partly because there isn’t anything to fucking eat except for these little salmon crostini bites and mini cupcakes and those are both foods she hates with a vehement passion, partly because people keep trying to talk to her except all they want to know is what her workout routine is for her upcoming role and how she can stay so thin even though the paparazzi photos from two days ago showed her coming out of Krispy Kremes with a dozen doughnuts like she immediately took it home to scarf down the whole box—which, what sane adult can do that? She’s not a toddler desperately trying to meet God via sugar overdose—
Today 10:24 PM
this premkere SUCKS
get me out of here befofe i murder someone
She sends the group chat a photo of the plate of hors d’oeuvres she’s been carrying around for the last hour and a half like the props department handed it to her and then told her that if she even so much as breathed on it, they would eat her alive. They probably wouldn’t, but Rose would never take that chance because props people are vindicative. She’s heard stories about how shit has gotten leaked despite being under NDA. It’s a terrifying thought.
can you commkt murder via crostini?
suicide murder combo maybe?
IRS (SPAM LIKELY)
Crostini?
Bread is not sharp enough. Go find knife.
oh okay hold on lemme just steal one ftom catering real quikc
She starts moving in the direction of the catering table as a joke. Sort of. Except the flow of the crowd forces her in the opposite direction and after a few weirdly dizzying moments of being jostled around, Rose finds herself on the rooftop lounge area. She has no memory of getting here.
The space is blessedly empty, at least. Also, her phone’s buzzing with a call.
“Catering wouldn’t give me a knife,” she answers. Rozanov scoffs.
“Are you drunk?” He says in lieu of a normal greeting, as blunt as ever, and Rose groans, letting her head roll back limply to look up. The sky sucks in L.A.; there aren’t any fucking stars like there are back home.
“Nooo, no, just a little tipsy. Promise.”
She hears a scoff from Rozanov’s end. It might actually be closer to a laugh.
“You are worse than Shane.”
“Not true,” Rose shoots back, indignant. “Shane is such a lightweight, which is weird because he has all that muscle.”
Muscle is nice. That’s the worst part of having dated Shane for a couple months; he was the most fit guy she’d been with in forever and now she’s fucking spoiled because he had all that bulk that felt so nice when he hugged her and fucked her (badly, but still) and now she’s touch-starved and single.
What the fuck, Shane Hollander?
“I would kill for that right now,” she says, vaguely aware that there was an awkward pause between her previous statement and this one. Not that she really cares, either way.
“You want to have big muscle like hockey player?” Rozanov asks after a moment, sounding so baffled that it makes Rose want to laugh. She does laugh, a little, before she remembers that she’s feeling indignant and upset over this whole situation.
“No, I want to have someone with big hockey player muscles to fuck me right now. Ugh.” She groans long and low, tapping her forehead against the cold metal railing before remembering that her foundation will rub off if she isn’t careful. If it hasn’t already. She can’t remember how much she touched her forehead this evening. “Sometimes I hate being single.”
“Single is good, yes? No boring Canadians or stupid Americans to bother you.”
“Yeah, but what if I want them to bother me? With their dicks?”
Rozanov barks out a laugh, so sudden that it makes Rose jump. It’s a nice laugh, once she gets past the surprise of hearing him express a genuine emotion that doesn’t center around being a massive asshole.
“Rose Landry,” he drawls, “you are famous. No man would think fucking you is bother.”
“Is that how you feel? If you had to fuck me?”
Rose can tell the moment the words have left her mouth that they’re the wrong ones. That’s the rational part of her brain talking. The part of her brain is definitely drunk gives a careless shrug and points out very reasonably that Rozanov was the one that brought up the benefits of fucking her, so it would only make sense that he would be—
“Sorry, sorry,” Rose says, the media-trained part of her reflexively barreling over the parts of her brain now bickering insistently inside her skull. “‘m drunk. And you’re gay.”
“Mm, you are drunk. And wrong. I am not completely gay,” Rozanov says with a shrug that she can practically hear over the phone. “I like to fuck women.”
He likes to fuck women!! The drunk part of her brain repeats in something like a scream and Rose might lose her balance for a moment.
“You do?”
“This is big surprise?”
Not really, but—
Rozanov has nice hands. And a nice mouth. And he’s really good at hockey, when he’s not being an asshole. Especially when he’s being an asshole. Rose would have to be blind not to notice the millions of attractive things about Ilya Rozanov, even if she refuses to the acknowledge them most of the time.
Her body is choosing to acknowledge them right now and that is not helpful in the slightest.
The railing feels very cold and hard against her fingertips as she clutches it for support.
“I dunno, thought it was like, just a cover. Not a cover, but like, y’know, hot women are everywhere and convenient but then you meet Shane and then bam, he’s the one. Everything makes sense with him?”
“Mm, is like that, but women are still hot. Even if Shane is very hot.”
“He is, isn’t he? Not fair how hot he is because he has such a cute face and you think you’re safe but then abs and shoulders and very nice arms and thighs and he sounded so good when we had sex and he wasn’t even really enjoying it with me, so with you it’s probably—"
Rozanov cuts her off with a laugh and it sounds sharp. A little mean. And it suddenly occurs to Rose that she was running her fucking mouth about her ex to his current boyfriend. They don’t…she and Rozanov don’t do that. She shouldn’t be doing that. Except—
“If anyone else said this to me, I would punch their teeth in.”
Indignance flares briefly in her chest. “What, so nobody is allowed to even look at Shane and appreciate how sexy he is?”
“Is different with you. You dated him.”
It takes a few moments for the words to sink in.
You’ve had sex with him. It’s different, with you.
Oh my god. Ilya Rozanov is jealous. Of Rose, the girl who couldn’t make it last with Shane for more than three months.
“You’re jealous. That’s also really hot,” Rose feels her mouth say before her brain can catch up and that’s three strikes for this phone call, which means her quota for the evening has officially been maxed out. “Jesus, ’m actually pretty drunk, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are.”
“I should go home.”
“You should.”
“Mm.” Rose presses her cheek to the metal railing because it feels nice and because if she’s going to go home soon, her makeup won’t fucking matter. “This is the part where you, uh, say you hope I crash my car or something, right?”
Rozanov chuckles, a completely different laugh from the handful that’s given her this evening. This is one low and amused. Indulgent. The kind of laugh that feels dangerous even when Rose isn’t drunk.
“Get home safe, Rose Landry.”
She keeps hearing it. Her own name, syllables curling over his tongue and echoing in her ears. In the Uber. As she locks the front door. As she kicks her dress aside and wipes the makeup haphazardly off her face before falling into bed, phone battery dangerously low.
You are home?
yeah
gn
Her phone slips out of her hands, lost to the sheets.
Get home safe, Rose Landry.
God. Rose might be a little fucked.
---
“Did you have fun with the kiddos yesterday?”
“Yeah, it was good,” Shane says, shrugging at her through the phone screen as he falls backwards onto his couch at the cottage.
The cottage. She and Shane are both in similar tax brackets, but she’s never going to stop giving him shit for calling that place a fucking cottage. She puts up with it because she loves him to bits, but that doesn’t make him any less delusional. “The twins are a fucking handful, though.”
“Yeah, when have they not been?” Rose takes another bite of her salad, letting herself wiggle in delight. There’s just something about this place, they have to be putting crack cocaine in their dressing or something.
“Fucking never,” Shane says with a laugh. “They’re cute but I feel bad for Hayden and Jackie. They have their hands full, even when I try to help.”
Rose hums sympathetically. “Sounds tough. Also sounds like a them problem.”
“Hayden’s my friend.”
“Oh, did you also birth the kids with him?”
“Rose,” Shane says, reproachful except for how she can see the corner of his mouth kicking up. “Don’t be mean.”
“I’m not trying to be! I’m just saying, the kids aren’t yours. You can help as much as you can, but until those kids I don’t know, leave a lego for you to step on that makes you throw out your back, they aren’t your responsibility.”
“Spoken like someone who doesn’t interact with kids at all.”
“Hey! I get along with kids just fine, they love me.”
“I didn’t say anything about kids not liking you, because I know—oh shit, hold on, the oven’s—”
Shane grimaces at the phone, everything blurring for a moment.
“Sorry. Here, Ilya, keep Rose company for a sec, I gotta go—” His voice trails off into something unintelligible. By the time she can see what’s going on, it’s Rozanov’s face that’s looking back at her through the screen.
He grins at her easily.
“Hello, Rose Landry.”
Rose ignores the way her heart jumps to her throat.
“I feel like an unwanted child right now, being passed between parents,” she says with a sigh. Rozanov’s grin widens, and Jesus, but he looks good when he smiles. Not the cocky smirk he gives the cameras after a game (though that look is very good for different reasons), but a genuine smile, crooked and almost boyish in its enthusiasm.
“Sorry, Mom is busy, you have to talk to Dad.”
“Fuck off,” Rose groans, flipping him off. He returns the gesture easily, almost mocking.
“Never. This is good though, I have question for you.”
“I might have an answer.”
“Hm.” He tilts his head. “Last time we called. When you were very drunk—”
Goddammit.
Rozanov hadn’t asked her about the drunk call and they’d texted about other stuff since, useless, boring stuff since, and Rose had been hoping this meant she was in the clear and could forget the whole thing ever happened but when has life ever been that kind to her?
“I wasn’t that drunk—”
“Mm, no, you were. Anyways, when you were very drunk, you said things. About Shane.”
Fuck.
Rose should have known better than to think she could escape this. Should have known better than to drink so much, to let herself call Rozonav, to be so honest in a way that she hasn’t been allowed to be since she was 17 because she doesn’t get to have that kind of life, not anymore.
“Look,” she says, pressing her fingers to her forehead. “I, I’m sorry about that. I get chatty when I’m drunk and I was running my mouth, I shouldn’t have said—”
“No, no,” Ilya says with an impatient wave of his hand, “I do not care about your apologies.”
“Oh, well fuck you, then—”
“Слушай сюда, were you lying? About any of it?”
It feels vaguely like Rose’s body is going hot and cold all at once, caught between two points. The icy fear of having to explain that no, none of it was a lie because she was drunk and horny and lonely. The burning thrill of hearing Rozanov’s voice slide into his native tongue, clipped and cool and—
“What? No, I—”
“You miss good sex,” he interrupts impatiently, giving her a sharp look that she can feel even through the screen. “You think Shane is hot. You like that I am jealous. Anything I missed?”
“No, you’ve basically summed up all my problems ever,” Rose snaps. “Why do you even care? I was drunk and I got too chatty and you should forget I said any of it, really.”
Rozanov’s gaze bores into her. “Do you want me to forget?”
No.
No, she doesn’t want him to forget at all. She wants Rozanov to remember that night the same way she remembers it.
A buzz in the tips of her fingers. A giddy thrum to her pulse. That strange, safe feeling that could have been because of the alcohol or the wind against her face or the knowledge that she got to be herself with him, just for those few minutes where she spoke her mind and didn’t have to worry too hard about the words that came out because they were all her and he didn’t expect more than that.
“No,” Rose says quietly, teeth digging into her bottom lip as she picks at some dry skin on thumb. “Not if you don’t.”
“Good,” he says, and Rose can’t tell if she’s imagining it, the way his gaze goes sharp as it drags down. “Do you want me to solve some of your problem?”
She laughs out loud at that. “Sure. Fuck, why not? Who knows how you’re going to do that, though.”
“Trust me.”
“I really don’t,” she says, less because it’s true and more because it’s familiar. Easy. As easy as the way Rozanov’s mouth curls at the corner as he winks at her.
“Good girl,” he says, and Rose doesn’t have time to clock how that makes her feel because Rozanov is looking behind the phone and something about his face softens and she can only assume that he’s looking up at Shane because Shane’s face does the exact same thing when they’re out to dinner and he starts talking about Rozanov. And she’s happy for them, she’s truly so incredibly happy that they have each other, even if there are parts of her that ache as Rozanov stretches up with a little noise and is rewarded with what Rose sees as the dark blur of the back of Shane’s head as he leans in for a kiss.
It’s quick and pretty tame by their standards, but Rose can still see the way Shane’s shoulders relax into it, the flutter of Rozanov’s fingers over the back of Shane’s head, and she can’t help it, she wishes she could but she just can’t.
“Gross, get a room,” she chirps, ignoring the way her chest tightens as Rozanov flips her off without looking. Shane’s mutter of, “you were being rude, weren’t you?” doesn’t help much as he snatches the phone back. “Sorry about that, still working on training him.”
“Old dog, new tricks?” Rose says, because she’s funny. Shane laughs, phone shivering in his grip.
“Something like that.”
“I know plenty of tricks,” Rozanov says reproachfully. Except he doesn’t sound very put-upon at all. Doesn’t look like it either as he leans into frame to nose at the side of Shane’s neck. Rose watches his eyes fall half-lidded, sees his gaze flicker towards the screen as he presses forward, lips dragging down the line of Shane’s throat.
Shane’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, head tilting reflexively to the side to give Rozanov better access as he lets out a soft sighing noise. He seems to remember where they are a moment later, eyes jerking open as his fingers reach up to shove at Rozanov’s chin.
“Ilya—”
Rozanov ignores him, pressing closer to kiss harder down Shane’s skin.
His teeth flash. Shane’s breath hitches. And through it all, Rozanov still won’t look away. His gaze stays fixed on Rose, burning a hot path into her that trickles down her spine, idle but scalding. It isn’t until his fingers are digging into the underside of Shane’s jaw that Shane twists away, tongue flicking over his lips even as he glares.
“Ilya,” he says, low and dangerous in a way that Rose’s never heard from Shane before. Except there’s some give to his words, a little wobble at the end that makes her think— “We’ve talked about this.”
“We did,” Rozanov agrees. He reaches out to draw his thumb over Shane’s bottom lip and Rose feels her heart leap to her throat even as Shane reaches up to smack Rozanov’s hand away irritably.
“Once with Hayden was already—”
“Well,” Rozanov interrupts easily, “lucky that you are calling Rose Landry and not Hayden, yes?”
They share a look.
“Oh,” Shane says after a few beats. The phone’s fallen slack in his hand, Rose’s view gone askew. “This is…the other thing we talked about.”
Rozanov hums, turning to lift Shane’s hand and look directly at Rose. It’s a little jarring; she almost forgot she was part of this conversation.
“You do not mind, do you?” He asks, casual as anything. Like he wasn’t asking about solving her problems barely a minute or two ago. Like he isn’t offering her something she never thought she could see, not in a million years.
“Not at all,” Rose says, feeling strangely lightheaded. She can feel her pulse throbbing in her fingertips. “Shane?”
He’s looking at her, wide-eyed through the screen. She wishes for a moment, absurdly, that she could reach through the glass to cup his cheek in her hand. That she could feel his flushed skin under her palm, feel his throat work under her fingers. That she could make this even more real.
“Do you—I mean, you’d want to…?”
Rose nods, pressing her knuckles to her mouth. She’s never been a nail bite, but she could start right now if she wants, she’s that nervous.
Shane looks at her for a long moment before nodding back. “Okay. Okay, we can…” He glances to where Rozanov looks up at him. Drags his thumb over the curve of Rozanov’s cheek. “You can go ahead.”
Rozanov’s mouth curls at the corner as he bites at Shane’s jaw. Shane’s eyelashes flutter, mouth falling open as Rozanov slips out of frame. His hand stays though, pushing up the hem of Shane’s shirt just enough that she can see where his fingers are digging into Shane’s chest and—
Rose blinks. Tries to collect her brain from where it’s doing a fantastic job of melting out of her ears.
“Did you, uh…should I keep talking to you? Or—”
“No, yeah—ngh, yeah,” Shane grits out, eyes fluttering open. They’re unfocused for a moment, hazy even as they center on Rose, and she can’t even imagine being jealous in this moment about how the few times she had sex with Shane, he was always achingly aware and present. “We were talking. What…what were we talking about?”
“How I get along great with kids.”
“Right, yeah, kids,” he repeats, the tail end of his words going breathy. There’s a wet noise in the background, soft but noticeable. Shane lets out a tight grunt.
The pieces would be harder to put together if Rose didn’t know what was happening. But she does know. And with what she knows, she can imagine what’s happening out of frame. Rozanov pressing his palm to Shane’s ribs, looking up through his lashes as he mouths at Shane’s cock.
Shane’s head tips back as he lets out a gasp. Heat drops between Rose’s legs, sudden and sharp.
“Shane?”
“Yeah, yeah ‘m here,” he says hoarsely. She can tell how flushed his cheeks are, even through the screen. “Kids. Yeah. You’re good with kids. I like kids, even if they’re…if they’re a lot and…”
There’s a wet popping sound. Shane hisses through his teeth, jaw tightening.
“Oh, so you like kids, hm?” Curls bob at the edge of the screen. Even if Rose can’t see his face, she can still hear Rozanov’s cocky grin. His hand creeps up Shane’s chest, slapping lightly at his cheek before cupping the burning skin, thumb stroking a hard line over Shane’s drawn lips. His fingers push in, crawling towards Shane’s open mouth before Shane shoves them away with scowl.
“Would you quit that—”
“You want me to give you some?”
“Were you two really this bad when you were on the phone with Hayden?” Rose blurts out. She can’t help it; they’re being so obvious.
Rozanov laughs, low and pleased. He glances at Rose, a twinkle in his eye, before turning to look at Shane, who’s started to chuckle a little as well. Rozanov’s arm moves. Shane’s laugh twists into a moan, a real one, loud and unsteady, and Rose claps her hand over her mouth to tamp down the answering sound that vibrates low in her throat.
“Not so obvious,” Rozanov says, palm lightly slapping the side of Shane’s neck. The phone shakes a little as Shane tries to push it away, the two of them wrestling for control for a moment. “But I hope Pike could still tell—”
“Can we please not—talk about Hayden right now, holy fuck,” Shane spits out, fingers tangling in Rozanov’s curls. Rose can feel his muffled laugh in the pit of her stomach, hot and knowing. She presses her thighs together, watching the almost predatory shift of Rozanov’s shoulder blades as he slinks out of frame.
And the phone can’t catch all of it, but it catches enough. The wet sound of Rozanov’s throat working over Shane’s cock. The soft shift of fabric as Shane grinds his head back against the couch. Rozanov’s soft moans. Shane whimpering behind his fist, the muscles of his abdomen flexing as Rozanov works him over. Rose can feel her breath coming faster, matching Shane’s as he gasps and groans.
She wants to squeeze her eyes shut. Wants to curl into herself and press the knuckles of her hand between her legs and feel this relentless heat burn her from the inside out—
Shane lets out an honest-to-God whine, and Rose feels all of her focus snap back to him.
She can’t close her eyes. She can’t miss a second of this.
His cheeks are flushed, lips bitten red and swollen, and Rose wishes so badly she could reach out to touch his face. Even from however many thousands of miles away, she can feel the energy between the two of them in Montréal focusing like lightning about to strike down.
“Shane,” Rose says. And she has no idea why she adds this, why the words come out of her mouth soft but sure, but they do and she can’t take them back. “Shane, look at me.”
His gaze darts to her. His pupils are blown hopelessly wide as he moans, a breathless ah ah ah that makes all of the blood in Rose’s veins practically vaporize in three seconds flat.
He looks fucking gorgeous.
There’s a particularly loud, wet sound and the phone shakes in Shane’s grip as his face twists. His wide-eyed look falls as his eyelids droop, lashes flattening over his cheek with a sliver of his gaze shining wetly through.
“Fuck, Rose, I—”
The phone jerks and falls onto the couch. All Rose can see is the ceiling but she can hear the horribly clear noises of Shane grunting as he comes, short, staccato little noises that almost mask the sound of Rozanov groaning low in his chest. He’s swallowing again and again, throat clicking thickly over the loud wheeze of his breath, and Rose has no doubt that he’s just swallowed all of Shane’s come.
She’s so turned on she feels almost lightheaded with it.
What feels like an eternity is really only a few seconds, and everything shifts back into the correct color and movement speed of real life as the phone shifts, Rozanov picking it up as he lets out a satisfied noise. It sounds rough vibrating up his throat; Rose feels an answering shiver of heat zip up her spine.
Rozanov collapses on the couch beside Shane, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Shane’s eyes are shut tight, mouth slack as he catches his breath. Rozanov chuckles, leaning over to give Shane’s cheek a kiss.
He glances at the screen. His own pale skin is flushed pink, tongue flicking over swollen lips that were just wrapped around—
Rozanov gives her a wink and all Rose can think is oh my God.
Oh my fucking God.