Chapter Text
Shane watches the snow out the window for a moment before he finishes pulling his shirt back on over his head. Montreal beat Boston at home that night, and even though Shane had an early flight, they couldn't resist each other. Like always. The sex was great, like always. Rozanov was pissed, and Shane had rightfully gloated. He was rewarded for this via Rozanov fucking him face down into the mattress, hot and desperate and angry. That is until Rozanov became tender, like a cracked rib. He had kissed feather light and gentle along Shane's spine while his cock was buried deep inside of him. He gripped Shane so tightly he was sure he would bruise, but when Shane started cumming, Rozanov's voice was in his ear, whispering about how pretty he was.
After, Shane laid against Rozanov's chest. He watched Rozanov trace a line back and forth across his stomach, felt him laugh at something Shane said. He'd kissed the top of Shane's head for fuck's sake. But now, dressing to leave, Shane can hardly look at Rozanov, who he can feel staring.
It's too much. It's not enough.
"You are almost as slow at getting clothes on as you are on ice." Shane chances a glance up at him and regrets it immediately. Rozanov's gaze is intense and hungry, and part of Shane wants to give into it again. The other half wonders why he keeps doing this to himself. Then Rozanov cracks a small smile, and both halves understand. And god its worse to understand. It's worse to know why. Shane is so in love with Ilya Rozanov it makes him stupid.
"Trying to kick me out?"
"Mmm, I'm worried, your boring… it could spread."
Shane pulls on his sweatshirt. "Is that why you like Mira Stratton so much? She's not boring?" It slips out before he can stop himself. Shane hears his own bitterness in his voice and feels shame flood his stomach for even bringing this up. Rozanov had been shot by the paparazzi with the up and coming musician a few times in the past month. Shane has a Google alert on Rozanov's name. He tells himself it's just in case anything leaks, but he's not a good liar, even to himself. He'd stared at the first photo for a little too long, at Mira's beautiful face, her delicate frame cloaked in Rozanov's jacket at they leave some club. Shane had tried to imagine what it'd be like to be her-what it'd be like to be able to hold Rozanov's hand on the street and get approval for it. She probably called him Ilya. When he'd swiped to the next one in the article and saw Rozanov smiling as he kissed her, Shane threw his phone so hard onto the other side of the couch he'd cracked the screen.
Rozanov's eyebrows jerk up and he grins at Shane wolfishly. "Might be why...she's also really hot. Jealous?" As he speaks Rozanov gets off the bed and crosses the room, standing just in front of Shane, fully naked and way too smug.
"Maybe." He'd meant to say no. Really. Rozanov's eyes glint with delight and Shane's stomach starts to fill with dread. Was he just a game for Rozanov? Another amusement in the life of the MHL's most famous playboy?
"Don’t be jealous, Hollander. It's just…" Rozanov hums, thinking. "Part of the show."
He's so casual, not worried at all. Probably turned on, actually. Maybe this whole thing is just him fucking with Shane-maybe this is just sex for Rozanov like they keep saying it is. Maybe Shane is an even bigger idiot than he can even fathom. It's this thought that puts the bite in his voice, it's why he makes himself meet Rozanov's eyes.
"Right. Part of the show to have your tongue down her fucking throat?" Rozanov stares at him and all the humor dies on his face as Shane's words register.
"So what?" Rozanov's voice is a blade, raised and sharp. He stares Shane down like they're in a face off on the ice. " Do you want me to stick my tongue down your throat on the fucking ice? Jesus, what does it matter? Why do you care who I kiss?"
This cuts through Shane harder than any hit he's taken, the wind is almost knocked out of him. He feels tears threaten to spring to his eyes but he refuses to even think about them, trying to turn all his hurt into rage channeled into staring Rozanov down. Why does he care? How could he fucking ask him that? Shane searches Rozanov's face in desperation, praying to find any scrap of emotion, but Rozanov is blank, cold. The worst part is, Shane knows Rozanov is right. He's being ridiculous, it's not like Rozanov would even want to kiss him publicly in a world where they could do that. The sting of Rozanov's words hang between them for a moment as they stare at each other. Everything hangs between them; the years, the texts, each touch, each kiss.
But that's all nothing. Nothing to care about, apparently. Shane can't stay here, in this moment. He can't stay here, period. Letting go cannot possibly hurt as much as whatever the fuck this is. It can't hurt as much as the disgust in Rozanov's eyes when he'd asked if Shane wanted him to kiss him on the ice. Why does he care?
"I guess I fucking don’t." Shane says after another moment, pushing past Rozanov to the door. He heads out into the living area with purpose, his attention only on the door and not letting the tears that are definitely there fall. He hears Rozanov behind him, but he doesn't look back-he knows his resolve will crumble if he does. He can't keep doing this, can't keep getting hurt and pretending like Rozanov can be anything other than who he's made it explicitly clear he is. A tiny, pathetic part of Shane wants Rozanov to stop him, but he doesn't, he just follows behind him, silent. Before, when they'd inevitably pissed each other off, it'd taken a day or two, but one of them would always text a few days later, smooth it over. This time had to be different. When Shane's fingers land on the doorknob, he pauses.
"Don’t text me."
"Hol-" Shane's out the door and slamming it behind him before he hears whatever bullshit apology Rozanov was going to throw at him.
Six Weeks Later
"Fuck!" Shane doesn't even hear himself yanks his helmet off his head, roughly tossing it in his locker.They'd lost. He'd fucking lost. To Boston, on home ice. In double overtime.
"S'okay, man." Someone says, a bit hesitant. Shane doesn't turn to look, clenching his fists as hard as he can in his gloves. He closes his eyes, focusing, forcing himself to calm down.
"It fucking isn't." He mumbles, but opens his eyes. He starts to take off his gear, trying and failing to not look pissed off. He hates losing. But right now he hated the real reason he was upset even more. It wasn't just losing, It was Ilya fucking Rozanov. Shane was too tired to pretend otherwise. But he could not lose it here, in the middle of the fucking locker room.
"Shane." Hayden's voice cuts through the noise in his head. His voice is low, keeping it between them as the other guys bitch and moan around them. "Look it fucking sucks. But I mean double fucking overtime-and we played like hell."
"I know."
"It was anyone's game."
That was generous of him and they both knew it. Shane had been playing exceptionally this season, even since the fight. This should've been an easy win for the team, for him. But Rozanov fucked it up, like always. God Shane hates that "since the fight" is a metric in his brain now, another factor to add to his stats. Was that even a fight? It was just Shane realizing what Rozanov had been telling him all along and getting upset about it. He needs to get over himself. He needs to scream. He needs to kiss Rozanov and he also needs to push him down. Maybe at the same time. But he can't ask for that. He won't. He's not going to lose twice.
"Don’t let Rozanov get in your head, man. It's simple, he sucks. Fuck him, forget him! Simple." Hayden says.
"Hope you get better at pep talks before your kids are old enough to understand you." That makes Hayden laugh, and Shane finally looks up. He notices the other guys, while not thrilled to have lost, don’t seem to be nearly as pissed as he is. Hayden offers him a tired smile when Shane catches his eye.
"I'm saying though; forget it, dude. You'll get him next time."
"Yeah." Shane says, his voice empty.
"I know you're gonna say no, but I'm having beers back at mine-"
"No." Shane says, not bothering to elaborate or make up a lie. He doesn't have to. One of things he appreciates about Hayden is he always seems to sense when Shane needs to be left alone, and he doesn't take it personally. Hayden claps him on the shoulder. "Alright, buddy. Just go home and relax."
If only it were that simple. Shane gets snagged by a few reporters on the way to his car, and he silently thanks his mother for his extensive media training. Three easy answers he'd memorized versions of years ago, fill in the blanks. When he makes it to his car, he pulls his phone out of his hoodie pocket. Shane's going to mute news apps for the next 24 hours. He should probably text his parents, but he isn't looking at his texts. Shane loiters in the parking lot, messing around on his phone. He pulls down his muted notifications and is hit with his Google alerts
"Incredible Victory for Rozanov and Raiders, 4-3 at Montreal..."
"Rozanov scores final goal in double overtime, hometown upset for Hollander and Metros…”
"Ilya Rozanov Game Winning Goals Compilation-Updated!
Shane forces himself to stop scrolling. He deletes them and the rest of his Google Alerts without reading any more. He opens his messages app and scrolls, finding their thread.
Lily (1/23/15): Door is unlocked 😘
He stares at the emoji, hating it, hating Rozanov. Shane catches his own reflection in his phone and sees how pathetic he looks, making puppy eye at an emoji. He sets his phone down, glaring at it. He was surprised that Rozanov hadn't texted him. He was so pissed Rozanov hadn't texted him. And he would've been pissed if Rozanov had texted him. Shane puts his forehead on the steering wheel, exhausted by his own bullshit.
"Fuck!" He lets his voice get a little too loud, he feels his throat start to hurt, feels tears start to form in the corners of his eyes as emotion washes over him. What was he doing? Why did he still care? He had spent the past few weeks trying to prove himself right-that he didn't care anymore. That Shane could move on. That he doesn't love Ilya, and it's just really good sex and he'd tricked himself into having feelings because…. Because of the way Rozanov used to hold him, how he used to look at him. Because when they'd kiss goodbye, it would feel like something real. But it couldn't be, and it was probably just part of the fun for Rozanov, the fake intimacy. Shane had fallen for it, like a fucking idiot. Rozanov had warned him not to care, and it was clearly so easy for Rozanov not to care, it seems, when it comes to Shane. And here Shane is, crying alone in his car, desperately trying not to care and failing. Yet another thing he’s lost to Rozanov. He stays like that, his head still against the steering wheel, until Shane feels his neck start to cramp. He sits upright, flexing his fingers and taking a breath. He needs to go home, but it suddenly seems so daunting, starting his car, following the familiar drive, returning to an empty bed that should have a very smug Boston Raider in it.
The dull thud of his phone vibrating in the center council catches Shane's attention, pulling him out of his spiral. When he wraps his hand around his phone, he hates the small and stupid flicker of hope in his chest that's there, despite everything. Rozanov isn't going to text him. Shane makes peace with this, takes a breath, and flips his phone over to look at the screen.
Lily (2)
Shane drops his phone as if its burned him, probably cracking it again. He starts his car and pulls out of the lot too fast, as if this is something he could out pace.
"I'm not going to look." Shane says to his phone when it buzzes a few more times from where it had landed on the passenger seat. "Fuck off. No distracted driving."
He makes it about ten minutes down the road before Shane caves and pulls into a gas station, parking at a far pump. Shane stares straight ahead at nothing, dread and excitement pooling together in his stomach. He picks up his phone and taps the notification which now says Lily (4):
Lily (12 minutes ago): sooooo
Lily (12 minutes ago): am I still in trouble?
Lily (5 minutes ago): ?
Lily (5 minutes ago): I miss your mouth
Heat floods through Shane's cheeks and sweeps low in his chest, equal parts desire and rage. How fucking dare he. How dare he wait so long only to say shit like that? Is that really all Shane is to him? Is his mouth really that memorable? Does Rozanov really miss it? Or is this just Rozanov fucking with him, again? Shane's brain flashes back to the game, unwittingly.
He'd been closing in on the puck when he'd felt someone behind him. Shane had just enough time to brace before he was slammed into the boards. He knew who it was before he even spoke, the smell of cigarettes, sweat and his cologne unmistakable. "Oops." Rozanov's voice was right in his ear before Shane violently shrugged him off. A whistle blew and they backed up as the ref skated over. "Missed seeing you pinned against the wall, Hollander." Rozanov's tongue darted out of his mouth as he smirked and Shane hated him then, hated himself too, for noticing. "Fuck off!"
Shane stares at the texts, seething, the artificial glare of the light from the gas pump above him forcing him to turn the brightness on his phone all the way up. The words glare up at him from the screen and he reads them again and again, torn. He could respond, give into what he wants. Shane had proven his point, hadn't he? His cock loves the idea of telling Rozanov to come over and showing him just what he'd missed. He reads the texts again, pausing on the second one. Was he still in trouble? Shane feels his heart start to race; interesting of Rozanov to care about that. But all he missed was Shane's mouth. All Rozanov missed was fucking him, according to these texts, according to what he said on the ice. Montreal was a big city, he'd just won the game, Rozanov could find someone else to fuck, since he loved doing that everywhere else in the world.
Shane should text him that, and then he should block his number. He should call Hayden and tell him he's changed his mind, or see if J.J. was going out. Shane tried to picture it, going out, meeting some girl, taking her home…having her in his bed, not knowing what to do with her, wishing beyond anything that she was Rozanov.
"I hate you." Shane says to his phone. He throws it in the backseat, puts his car in drive, and heads home. When he walks into his condo, he doesn't bother to turn on any lights. Shane pointedly leaves his phone on the kitchen counter and heads straight for the shower. Shane stays under the water for a long time, trying to give into the sensation of how the water feels on his battered body, but he's still tense. He keeps replaying the game in his head, searching for the point it went wrong. He keeps landing on Rozanov slamming into him, the smell of him, the weight of him against him, even if just for a few seconds… "I miss your mouth" Breaks through into his thoughts, and he's half hard before he knows it. Shane touches himself, fucking into his own hand, imagining it’s Rozanov's mouth. Imagining Rozanov was making him touch himself so he could watch Shane again. He doesn't last long once he starts thinking about the way Rozanov looks at him when he makes Shane show off. But when he comes against the side of the shower, Shane doesn't feel better.
Frustration rises up in him again; he knows what would actually get him to relax, but Shane won't let himself answer that text. Not when that's all Rozanov has to say for himself. Shane gets out of the shower and heads to the kitchen, having at the least made himself hungry. He doesn't let himself look at his phone while he heats up some leftovers from the night before. When his phone buzzes on the counter, the sound echoing in the dark kitchen, Shane freezes. It's probably someone else, his mom or Hayden. There's no way it's him again. And it wouldn't matter if it was-Shane can't imagine anything Rozanov could text him that would change anything. Shane turns his phone back over and looks at the screen.
Lily (1)
"Fuck." He says out loud, a flash of satisfaction running through him. For someone who didn't care, Rozanov sure is texting him a lot. Shane takes a breath in, feeling smug that even if he can't make Rozanov care about him, at least Shane has some sort effect on him. Or his mouth does. Still, Shane wasn't ready to forgive him just because Rozanov missed getting head from him. He decides that no matter what this next text is, it doesn't matter, he'll do the right thing and tell Rozanov to fuck off. Shane opens the text.
Lily (1 minute ago): Miss you.