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Shane’s a clean player. A good sport. Canada’s golden boy. He’s seen fans call him the people’s princess, like he’s the wasian reincarnation of Diana on ice. His mom loves that one.
All that to say, Shane doesn’t start fights. He’d gotten into it with Scott Hunter that one time, sure, but the guy had practically been begging for it. He puts clean hits on players when the game requires it, but he doesn’t get his gloves off for much.
He locks eyes with himself in the changing room mirror, shaking the tension out of shoulders and stretching his neck to either side. He’s Shane fucking Hollander, and he doesn’t let other players get under his skin. He’s in a league of his own, he tells himself, nobody else can touch him. Except– one player can. One cocky, shit-hot Russian playboy, who’s just taken to the ice if the cheers of the Boston home crowd are anything to go by.
Boston probably boos when he takes to the ice, but he wouldn’t know, he doesn’t hear it. It’s just the blood rushing in his own ears and his constant internal monologue; do not look at Rozanov do not look at Rozanov do not look at Rozanov. There’s only so long he can listen to his own advice though, and soon enough it’s time to face off at centre ice.
Because the universe hates Shane and the league loves their rivalry, it’s Rozanov on the other side of the face off circle when he gets there. Rozanov has spent a couple of months now acquainting himself with the concept of not talking to Shane if their recent one-sided message history is anything to go by. Shane hadn’t even gotten a congratulations after Sochi, or any sign of life from Rozanov since.
Of course, Rozanov chooses this moment, their first time face-to-face since the Olympics to break his silence. “Hollander. Long time, no see. Have missed you very much.”
Shane flicks his gaze up just long enough to catch that unfairly endearing, shit-eating, lopsided grin and return it with his own hard look.
“You did not miss me too?”
Shane feels his jaw tick, and he directs his words at the ice. “Shut the fuck up and play the game, Rozanov.” Shane wonders if the referees usually take this long to get their asses to centre ice and drop the puck, or if Rozanov just has a special way of making thirty seconds seem interminable.
“But this is the best part of the game.”
“What is? Waiting for the world’s slowest ref to drop the puck?” Shane mutters, eyes meeting Rozanov’s again. He’s lucky only Rozanov seems to hear it.
He’s actually, honest-to-god pouting, “no. The best part of the game is chirping pretty Canadian boy.”
“Fuck off.”
The ref, who’s finally made his way to the centre circle, doesn’t comment on Shane’s language. He suspects the guy knows Rozanov probably deserves it. A second later the puck is smacking the surface of fresh, perfect ice, and disappearing behind Rozanov’s stick before sailing off to Marlow at his wing. Shane gives chase immediately, catching up quickly but failing to intercept the puck before Marlow slings it across the front of the goal to the other wing. He circles back behind the goal and goes for the puck again, but Rozanov’s got him up against the boards with a bruising shove before Shane realises what’s happening. It’s clean enough, even when Rozanov holds him there for half a second, Shane’s back to his chest and murmurs, “we do this again later, yes?"
Shane shoves away and Rozanov lets him go, grinning behind his mouth guard. The Montreal goalie has intercepted the puck from Boston’s left wing, who Shane privately doesn’t think is a strong enough player to play on a line with Rozanov and Marlow. He taps his stick against the ice, asking for the pass and receiving it quickly, racing down the length of the ice and passing the puck off to Hayden. Hayden’s shot is blocked by the Boston goalie, but Shane gets the puck on a rebound. Before he can blink, he’s hitting the boards again, Rozanov’s chest and pelvis shoving him against the wall. Rozanov’s mouth is almost touching Shane’s ear when he mutters, “fuck, you feel good.”
“Get off me,” Shane shoves him back and heads for the Montreal bench. Hayden yells something at Rozanov as he follows Shane back, and they jump off the ice just as their second line hops the boards.
“He’s such a fucking dick,” Hayden huffs, spitting his mouth guard out into an ungloved hand and grabbing his water bottle.
“Tell me about it.”
The rest of the first and second periods pass by without a successful Montreal goal. Boston’s slipped two goals past them, both Rozanov’s, and Shane is seething. Every time he gets near the puck Rozanov is on him, shoving Shane hard, muttering absolute filth into his ear like they’re not being watched by thousands of people. On their way back to the bench at the end of the second period, Rozanov skates right up to him and practically purrs, “come on Hollander, is no fun out here without you.”
Shane shoves an elbow sharp into his side, “don’t fucking speak to me, Rozanov.”
A ref skates up to put a hand on Rozanov’s chest and push him away from Shane. Rozanov, ever infuriating, just goes peacefully and laughs, “there you are.” He sounds fucking fond.
When they get back to the locker room, Shane takes his phone out. He’s usually strict about not touching the thing from the moment they head out on to the ice to the end of the game, but it’s calling to him like a siren song. Sure enough, there’s a text from Lily on his lock screen, the first since the Olympics.
Lily
Fuck
You look good tonight
Been too long 😛
Need to be inside you… need to feel you
Shane scoffs, shoving his phone back into his locker. Rozanov is provoking him on purpose, trying to throw him off his game. It’s not like Shane had been particularly on his game before, but he feels fucking enraged now, seeing red.
When they take the ice again for the third, Shane catches one glimpse of Rozanov’s smirk and decides the only way Rozanov’s feeling him tonight is Shane’s fist in the side of his face.
Ten minutes in, Shane sees his chance. He takes possession of the puck and skates up along the side of the boards, just a touch slower than usual, as he races towards the goal with Rozanov at his heels. When Rozanov checks him, Shane is ready. He greets Rozanov’s force with a strong shoulder, throwing down his stick and his gloves before he’s even recentred himself.
Rozanov looks a little thrown off, but practically fucking joyful as he drops his own gloves, grinning. Shane wants to punch it right off his face.
He lunges forwards, shoving Rozanov by the chest hard against the boards, fist snapping up to catch Rozanov’s jaw and skimming across his mouth. Rozanov is a better fighter than him, sure, but Shane doesn’t think he actually wants to turn around and take Shane’s head off. His intuition is right– Rozanov just shoves him back a little, enough that it looks like a fight rather than Shane just attacking him. Shane goes for another punch, clipping Rozanov’s nose and cheek hard. He’s waiting for a retaliatory punch, but it never comes. Rozanov grins, spits blood, and wraps his fingers in Shane’s jersey, pulling them chest to chest. “Da. Just like that, Hollander.”
Blood pouring from his nose and lip, Rozanov has no right to look so sexy. Shane shakes his head, banishing the thought. Then, as soon as it started, the fight is over, refs pulling them apart while Pike and Marlow jump into the fray to support their captains. Rozanov puts his hands up in a gesture of innocence and Hayden backs up, tugging Shane away from where Cliff Marlow is posturing in his face.
“Geez Hollzy,” Hayden mutters, stopping in front of their bench with Shane to wait for the penalty, “didn’t know you had that in you, man.”
Shane shrugs, “he deserved it.”
In the end they both serve a five minute major for fighting, and Shane gets another two minutes for instigating. A Boston player scores during the 4 on 4, and Rozanov finishes off his hat trick during the two minute power play. Shane can’t do anything to save Montreal during his last couple of minutes on the ice, and it’s a brutal four-nothing shut-out on Boston’s turf.
/
Shane gets back to his hotel room with little incident. Everyone gives him a wide berth, and Hayden does his job as Shane’s A, handling the post-game interviews for him when it’s clear Shane’s wired and at risk of saying something out of line to the press. They would love to talk to him, Shane’s sure. They’re probably foaming at the mouth just thinking about scoring a sound bite of Shane admitting why he had finally given in and attacked his seasons-long rival.
He still shares a room on the road with Hayden sometimes, but Shane had accurately predicted that he would want some space after playing Boston. He drops his bag by the foot of the bed and checks his phone. A text from his mom who’s concerned about the fight, check in messages from a couple of his teammates, and a new flood of texts from Lily.
He delays the inevitable as long as he can, flicking off a text to his mom to tell her he was fine and he’d call tomorrow, a quick message to the team apologising for leaving so quickly after the game and telling them to rest up, and then a separate text to Hayd, thanking him for handling the press.
When he’s all out of people to text, he finally opens his thread with Rozanov.
Lily
[Lily shared a pinned location]
^ My address
Come over
ASAP
Door code is 7102
I have been hard since you snapped at me
Were you hard too?
I think you were
All that blood…
Shane shakes his head and locks his phone again, dropping it on the bed. He hadn’t showered at the stadium and he shudders now at the sensation of peeling off his t-shirt and sweats, almost gagging at the feeling of dried sweat clinging to his skin.
He washes his knuckles in the shower, grimacing at the shallow scrapes on his hands.
Only when he’s finished, when the fight with Rozanov is nothing but a couple of disinfected scratches across his knuckles, does he check his phone again.
Lily
[Missed call]
Answer the fucking phone
Please
[Two missed calls]
I know which hotel you are in
I will come to you.
Will knock on every door until I get to yours.
Call me
The last message is a few minutes old. Shane isn’t sure that he believes Rozanov would actually show up at his hotel. It wouldn’t be that hard for Boston’s star to find a hook-up in his home city tonight after a win like that.
Shane flicks on the TV and scrolls through channels for a few minutes, landing on some spy drama with Rose Landry and watching half-heartedly for a while. His phone starts ringing again, another call from Rozanov, and he declines it. Three little bubbles appear to indicate Rozanov is typing, and he watches, anticipation tight in his stomach.
Lily
[Image attached]
Shane sits up, fumbling to turn the TV off. He clicks into Rozanov’s contact and hits the call button before he can overthink it.
The call connects, and Rozanov greets him with a breathy, “Hollander.”
“What the fuck are you doing at my hotel?”
He can hear the smile behind Rozanov’s huffed laugh. “I am looking for you.”
“You need to leave.”
“I don’t think you want that.”
Shane grits his teeth, “you don’t know shit.”
Rozanov hums, “I’m in my car, in the garage. Come down and see me, or I come see you.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yes, later. But not in car, the leather is too nice.”
“Not ever, asshole.”
Rozanov just laughs. “I just want to say hello to you, Hollander. You have ten minutes, or I come upstairs.” Then the call cuts out.
/
Rozanov’s car is an ostentatious red Porsche, because, of course it is. Seven minutes after Rozanov hangs up the phone, Shane is sliding into the passenger seat.
“Hi,” Rozanov grins.
“Fucking drive.”
“Bossy.”
Shane huffs, “you’re fucking stalking me. I’m allowed to be bossy.”
“I forgot how much fun we have, Hollander.”
“Drive.”
Rozanov puts the car in drive, “where to?”
Shane finally turns to look at Rozanov properly, bewildered. “You’re the kidnapper. You choose.”
Rozanov nods sagely, “is traditional, I suppose.”
Shane slumps in his seat, and the car finally starts moving forward, crawling towards what he assumes is Rozanov’s Boston home.
They make it to Rozanov’s house without exchanging any further conversation, just the vague thumping beat of whatever awful Russian rap is playing over the aux. Rozanov seems satisfied enough now that he has Shane captive in his car. They pull into a garage filled with similarly flashy sports cars, and Shane rolls his eyes because, again, of course.
Rozanov leads the way upstairs into the house quietly, constantly sneaking glances back at Shane as if to gauge his reaction to the house. Unfortunately for Rozanov, Shane was also a pro-hockey player on a multi-million dollar contract, and the tacky displays of wealth that probably impressed most of his hook-ups didn’t move him.
Ilya leads him into a large kitchen and opens the fridge. “Beer?”
“No, thank-you.”
“Vodka?”
“No.”
Ilya shrugs and takes out a lowball glass and a couple of ice cubes, then pours himself a drink. “Good game.”
“Fuck you.”
“Good game for me, obviously.”
Shane sighs, bracing his hands on the other side of the kitchen island across from Rozanov. “Why aren’t you out celebrating then?”
Rozanov shrugs, “cannot stop thinking about the pretty boy who hit me.”
“I’m sure you could find some other guy who’d hit you. You’re annoying enough.”
Rozanov chuckles then, loud and resonant. “I missed you.”
“Did you?” Shane raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Wouldn’t know it.”
“You are annoyed. Will you punch me again?”
“Maybe.”
“Exciting.”
“In the crotch this time.”
“Ahh, you are thinking about touching my dick.”
Shane huffs, “I’m not.”
Rozanov just grins and steps around the kitchen island, passing by Shane and down a hallway. Without Rozanov looking back at him, Shane has an opportunity to really appreciate what he’d been missing since the Olympics. Rozanov’s grey sweats ride low on his hips and hide nothing, and his Raiders t-shirt is cropped just above the tightest part of his trim waist. It’s fucking absurd, and Shane follows him to the bedroom like a man possessed.
Rozanov sets the glass on the bedside table and drops onto the bed, pulling his t-shirt over his head and throwing it to the floor. He pats the space on the bed next to him, kicking off his sweats.
Shane doesn’t take off his own clothes, but he crawls into Rozanov’s bed, drawn towards the evidence of their fight written in bruises and scrapes across his face. In the low light of the bedroom, pretenses that he isn’t interested abandoned, Shane reaches forward and cups Rozanov’s jaw, tilting his face to see the injuries littering the right side of his face.
“Wow,” Shane breathes, impressed with his own work. Slowly, but with firm pressure, he runs his index finger over the bruising across Rozanov’s cheek. Rozanov hisses when Shane traces the bridge of his nose– not broken, but not far from it. Shane isn’t thinking, he just presses the spot that made Rozanov hiss even harder, digging his index finger into one side of the bony bridge of Rozanov’s nose and his thumb into the other. He squeezes hard, and Rozanov yelps underneath him, hips jerking up.
“Sorry,” Shane murmurs, “I don’t know why–, sorry.” He knows why. He’s still angry with Rozanov, despite how turned on he is. He wants Rozanov to hurt a little too.
“Is okay. Good.” To emphasise his point, Rozanov catches one of Shane’s dainty wrists and moves his hand over his very hard dick. With one hand on Rozanov’s face and the other on his dick, Shane presses down on his nose again, and feels Rozanov’s dick kick against his palm.
“You like that?”
Rozanov looks dopey, stupid, like he’s lost in pleasure. “I love that.”
Shane nods, eyeing Rozanov’s lips. The bottom one had obviously been split by Shane’s punch and had healed up just enough not to be bleeding anymore. Rozanov looks breathless, anticipating Shane’s next move. Anticipating the pain.
Shane ducks his head, capturing Rozanov’s top lip and licking over the sharp cupid’s bow. His mouth moves over Rozanov’s, light at first, then harder, punishing when he finds the spot where his fist had split it earlier. He bites down, sucking and dragging his teeth over the sensitive spot, swallowing Rozanov’s cry and shifting to straddle him properly. He cups Rozanov’s face, one hand cradling his swollen, bruised cheek, stroking and soothing the area before he draws his hand back a couple of inches and lands a light slap.
“Good?” Shane asks, even though he’s pretty sure he has his answer in the way Rozanov’s hips hitch up against his.
“So good.”
Shane rolls his hips down and bites Rozanov’s lip hard, earning him a breathy moan. “You were trying to goad me into a fight tonight, huh? You wanted it.”
“Yes, fuck. You’re so fucking pretty when you’re angry, Hollander.”
Shane snorts, “is it foreplay for you? The fighting, the chirps, the checks?”
Rozanov grins, “with you, always.”
“Not everyone?”
“I do not check Pike because I want to fuck him,” Rozanov scoffs, like the idea is offensive.
“Just me and Scott Hunter then? Lucky us.”
“Not–,” Rozanov pants and groans when Shane slaps his cheek again, “not Scott Hunter.”
Shane nods, “you want to fuck me, or is that going to hurt?” Rozanov had been going after Shane during the game, but he’d been getting every hit back double from Montreal’s enforcer, Davidson. He had really wanted to annoy Shane into punching him, clearly.
“I want to fuck you, and it’s going to hurt,” Rozanov flipped them, groaning when Shane gripped his side for balance. Sure enough, bruises were blooming across Rozanov’s ribs. Shane pinched Rozanov’s waist, right over one of the bruises. It wasn’t quite as satisfying as playing with the injuries he’d given Rozanov, but he enjoyed the pained moan all the same.
It must have hurt to work Shane open, crouched between his open legs and fingering him vigorously, but Shane made no move to help him. He didn’t move into a better position for Rozanov to fuck him either, lying there pliantly while Rozanov hauled them around with pained little noises and fought through the hurt to fuck Shane.
Shane was gentle. He was kind. He didn’t go out of his way to hurt other people– not in hockey, not in life. In fact, he lived his life deliberately avoiding hurting people. He signed jerseys and high-fived kids after games. He trained one-on-one after practice with the rookies. He happily babysat the Pike kids. He gave his team pep-talks and remembered their birthdays (or, he put them in his Google calendar, and his Google calendar remembered them). Shane was a good person.
A good person who was coming undone underneath a guy who was whining and tearing up in pain while he fucked him. Every time Rozanov’s face twisted up, Shane’s cock twitched and leaked pre like a hose. Could he be a good person and a person who got off when the guy fucking him was in pain? Shane didn’t have time to ponder that before he was coming, Rozanov following a couple of jerky thrusts later.
Rozanov collapses next to him, shivering and breathing hard.
“Are you okay?” Shane eyes Rozanov’s injuries.
“So fucking good.”
Shane swallows, “I’m sorry for hurting you.”
Rozanov scoffs. “I’m sorry for kidnapping you from your hotel.”
“I liked it,” Shane admits. “I don’t know how you figured out where I was staying, though.”
“Blame your fans. They are the stalkers, posting your hotel on social media. I am only secondary stalker.”
“That’s kind of scary.”
Rozanov hums, “yes. Very unsafe. You should stay here when you are in Boston. Very secure.”
“Uh huh.” Shane wants to get up and shower again, but he has to check first. “Are you sure that you liked that? You were in a lot of pain.”
Rozanov props himself up on his elbows, “I am sure, Hollander. I fucking loved it. Next time you scratch my back too, yes? Want your claws all over me.”
Shane shakes his head disbelievingly, “I’ll make sure you look like you lost a fight with a mountain lion next time. But right now we’re showering, and I’m looking over all those injuries.”
Ilya shudders, “yes please.”