Chapter Text
Then
“So, what’s up, Hay?” Shane asked softly.
Hayden looked across the porch swing at his best friend sitting at the other end, trying to hide the way his heart had just started to pound.
“What do you mean?” he asked. The words came out sounding slightly strangled, and he made a face and took a long gulp from the Moosehead can in his hand, trying to cover up the scratchiness as nothing more than a dry throat. “Nothing’s up. Just enjoying all the kids being asleep at the same time for once! No chores, no game, nothing to do for once but drink beer and shoot the shit with my best bud. It’s fucking ace.”
“C’mon Hayds, cut the bullshit,” Shane said—still in that gentle, careful tone, belying the curt words. “You’ve been acting weird all night.” His expression was hard to read, despite the bright full moon tonight—its light obscured even as it illuminated, making Shane’s face a mask of glimmering light and deep, harsh shadows. But the unusual expressiveness of his voice more than made up for it—it was positively dripping with sympathy, and Hayden squirmed internally with embarrassment.
You gotta tell him, babe, Jackie had said. If you don’t, you’re going to get so into your head about it, it’ll start to affect your game. And worse, your friendship with him. And then you’ll end up having to tell him anyway, and he’ll be upset that you didn’t trust him earlier.
Jackie was always right. And on the rare occasions she wasn’t, Hayden generally had even less of a clue. Trusting his wife was a mainstay of Hayden’s life.
Even if trying to come out to his best friend was one of the hardest things he’d ever considered attempting. Hayden rubbed his biceps. It was a warm night for spring in Montreal, but still chilly enough that they were both in their Metros fleece jackets, and the soft nap felt comforting below his callused fingers.
“Okay,” he said, letting out a lungful of air along with the single word. “Yeah, there’s… there’s something that we should talk about.”
“Okay,” Shane said, drawing out the end of the word a little. “That’s… You’re kinda worrying me here, Hay. Did I screw something up?”
“No, no!” Hayden said immediately, kicking himself. Of course Shane would assume that he’d done something wrong. “God, no, of course not, man. It’s… it’s something going on with me.”
“Oh fuck. Hayd, are you sick?”
Hayden had to laugh. “I mean, some guys on the team would probably think so…”
Shane glared at him indignantly. “Hayd, you better be fucking with me right now…”
“No, dude, I’m sorry. It’s not like… I mean, it is kinda a big thing, but it’s not bad. Or, at least, I hope you won’t think it’s bad,” Hayden couldn’t help but add, feeling a bead of sweat run down his back.
“Jesus,” Shane said, blowing out his cheeks. “You swore that you were finally getting that vasectomy!”
Hayden couldn’t help but laugh. Cackle, really. “I did!” he managed to gasp, between paroxysms. “I did. And fuck you for being off at the cottage while I recovered, man! No, Jackie’s not pregnant again, I swear. Oh my god.”
“Well, what else was I supposed to think you meant?”
“If you’d let me get in a word edgewise here, I’d tell you!”
“Right.” Shane rubbed the back of his head, chuckling a little. “Right. I’m sorry.”
“Nah, it’s fine,” Hayden said, waving away the apology. “It’s not like… I’m a just a little nervous, to be honest.”
Shane frowned a little—well, it was more of a pout, really, although the impact of it was blunted by the dim light. “You know you can tell me anything, Hayd. I’m always here for you.”
“Yeah, man,” Hayden said. “Yeah, I know.”
He really did know. He thought he knew. He…
Fuck. He didn’t know. Granted, imagining Shane as a bigot was… pretty difficult. But even though Montreal was an incredibly liberal city, the Metros locker room had never really caught up to the twenty-first century. Homophobic and misogynist slurs were a dime a dozen, from the coaches and management as well as the players. And Shane, their superstar captain, had never really done anything about it. Oh, he frowned and chided the guys if they used the worst ones, at least on each other. But he used the mild ones himself—Hayden had heard him call guys pussies or cunts during heated moments on the ice, had heard him tell players like Rozanov or Kent to suck his dick. And he never said anything when he got the racial ones thrown at him in games, either; he just let them roll off his back. Which kinda set the standard for everyone on the team. So maybe he would…
Fuck. Jackie was right. Hayden couldn’t let this go on, or he’d lose Shane anyway, through his own damn doubts.
“Okay,” he said, steeling himself. “So… You know that Jackie had some tearing, during Amber’s birth?”
Shane scooted closer, the concern in his expression becoming clearer. “Yeah…”
“So, we couldn’t have, you know, like, regular sex, for a while after. She needed a couple months to recover enough to even try, and then it was just, uh, a little painful for her, for a while. Way longer than the usual… Yeah. Oral was still fine, but you know, we both missed, you know, penetration. So, we got a little, um, experimental.”
“Um, okay,” Shane said, drawling out the word even more than before. He rubbed the side of his jaw. “There’s a reason I need to be hearing way more than I ever wanted to know about your sex life, right?”
Hayden blew out his cheeks. Took a deep breath. Just rip off the bandaid, babe, Jackie whispered in his mind.
“So she tried pegging me and it turns out I really fucking love it and then she started saying some things while she was doing it that make me think I might be bisexual?” He managed to get it all out in one breath, then sucked in a much-needed lungful of air and choked on his own spit. He leaned over himself, hacking.
Shane was suddenly right next to him, pounding on his back. “Jesus, Hay. Are you okay?”
Hayden kept coughing, his throat spasming convulsively. Shane got up, suddenly, and went inside. Hayden jerked upright, despite the way his lungs were protesting—what would he do if Shane was leaving?—but before he could panic too much, Shane came back with a glass of water from the kitchen. Hayden took it gratefully and gulped down about half of it in quick, successive swallows. Shane sat down next to him again, rubbing his back this time. Right next to him, too, so that their outer thighs were pressed together.
That meant that he couldn’t be too disgusted by what Hayden had told him, right?
Unless he hadn’t heard it. It wasn’t actually impossible that Hayden had fucked it up badly enough that Shane hadn’t even tracked what he’d told him.
Finally, Hayden couldn’t stall any longer. He put the glass of water down on the porch table, next to his beer, and turned to look at his best friend. “Did you, uh. Did you understand? What I said?” he asked nervously.
“Yeah, I did,” Shane said, but he was shaking his head a little, with an odd, offsided smile on his face. “Look, no offense, Hay, but I don’t think liking butt stuff makes you gay.”
Hayden frowned. “I’m not gay, I’m bisexual,” he corrected. “Probably, I mean. Like, I haven’t done anything with a guy, obviously, but… Yeah. Pretty sure.”
Shane stared at him for a long moment. “How?” he asked bluntly. “How do you know, if you haven’t done anything?”
Hayden shrugged, a little annoyed. The last thing he’d expected after he came out was Shane trying to convince him he was wrong. “Jeez, man, I don’t know! I’ve just thought a lot about fucking guys, and it turns out it gets me fucking cranked, so I figure I’m probaby not a hundred percent straight!”
Shane turned away and leaned back, resting his head on the top of the seat cushion, and stared up at the underside of the swing awning. He didn’t say anything.
Hayden was starting to get more than a little annoyed, now. Okay, sure, he’d had doubts, he’d been nervous, but… He really had believed that Shane would be supportive. Hayden and Jackie had taken Shane in as a rookie, had him over for meals a hundred times; Hayden had been the best goddamn right wing a man could ask for; he was Hayden’s best friend, for fuck’s sake! He was their kids’ godfather!
“You know what, if you’re gonna be a dick about it, you can just fucking leave, man!” Hayden snapped. He got up from the swing and started pacing across the porch. “Jesus, I can’t believe—”
“What?” Shane squawked, overlapping Hayden’s words. “No, man, what the fuck are you even—”
“—that you of all people—”
“—talking about, Hayd? Of course I’m not going to—”
“—would be a fucking homophobe—”
“Hayden! No, I’m not a homophobe, Jesus—”
“Well, what the hell else am I supposed to think, Shane?” Hayden growled, turning on him. Shane had gotten up from the swing, too, advancing to meet him in the middle of the porch. Out from under the awning, the moonlight was stronger, shining full on his face, and Hayden was struck by how fucking gorgeous he was. It felt like a familiar, well-worn thought running through his mind, and really, how had he not figured this out earlier? He bit the inside of his cheek, hard. “You try to talk me out of being bisexual, as if I don’t fucking know who I’m fucking attracted to, and now you can’t say anything at all—”
“Fucking hell, Hay,” Shane snapped. “You just fucking sprung this on me, man, you gotta give me more than thirty goddamn seconds to catch up!”
“Oh, right!” Hayden yelled, then slapped his hand over his mouth. He and Shane both glanced apprehensively at the baby monitor on the porch table, waiting to see if he’d managed to wake up one of the kids. After a minute of silence, Hayden turned back to Shane, lowering his voice to an angry hiss, “Because you need more than thirty seconds to decide if you want to stay friends with a faggot?”
“Tabernak de câlisse,” Shane said hoarsely, degenerating into rude Québécois. “Don’t call yourself that, I—no, man, of course I don’t need… It’s just… It’s a lot, okay, and I—”
“Because if you can’t be a fucking ally right now, Shane, then I don’t know if I—”
“Hayden, I’m gay!”
“—even want to be your—” Hayden stopped talking midsentence as his brain—in some kind of last-ditch attempt at self-preservation—painted Shane’s words on the inside of his eyelids in bright neon letters, fifty-feet high if they were an inch. “What?”
“Fuck,” Shane muttered. He scrubbed a hand across his face. “I’m gay, Hayden.”
“You’re… gay.”
“Yep.”
“As in… exclusively attracted to men.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
Hayden opened his mouth. Closed it. He turned and went back to the swing, sitting down heavily, and picked up his beer, thinking hard, as the last several minutes—hell, the last several years—slowly rewrote themselves in his head. Shane followed him slowly, sitting down on the other end of the swing this time, and leaned over his own knees, burying his head in his hands.
“What about Rose Landry?” Hayden asked, finally. “Was that, like… a beard situation, then?”
That would explain a lot, in retrospect.
“No,” Shane rasped. He sat back up, picked up his own beer, and took a long gulp, his adam’s apple bobbing. “No, I—I didn’t know for sure, then. Or, like, I knew I was attracted to men. Some men, anyway. But I really thought… You know, I thought one day I’d meet a woman who I’d be as attracted to, as much as I am to… some men. And I really liked Rose. I do really like her, I mean; we’re still really good friends.”
“Oh,” Hayden said. Still processing, mostly.
“It was kinda her who helped me figure it out, actually,” Shane said. “I mean, if I couldn’t get it up for her…”
“Oh, fuck,” Hayden said, wincing. “That must have sucked, dude, I’m so sorry.”
Shane laughed a little—not as if he found it funny, but as if he couldn’t quite believe what was happening. “Yeah, it was… It was a hard time. But I’m glad it happened. I don’t know how much longer we—that I would have kept lying to… myself, without her.”
“Okay, and… Boston Lily?” Hayden asked, pretty sure he already knew the answer. Shane had always been so squirrely about his Boston hookup. For a while, Hayden had thought he was just that weird about sex, but then he hadn’t been like that with Rose, so—
Shane looked away, over toward the kids’ playhouse. “Yeah, um. Lily’s a fake name.”
“Lily’s a guy.”
“Yeah,” Shane repeated, his voice raspy and deep. “Fuck, this is weird. I’m sorry, I just… I’ve really never talked to anyone about it, except my parents and Rose, and I don’t know if…”
Hayden scooted closer, pulling one knee up onto the cushioned seat so he could pivot to face his friend. “Shane, it’s okay—I mean, I wish you’d felt safe to tell me before, but I get it, you know? I mean, I was pretty scared to tell you,” he added, laughing a little.
“Yeah, but you got over it,” Shane muttered. “I mean, jeez, Amber was only born last summer, so you’ve known you were bisexual for what, six months?”
“I—well, maybe eight or nine, but—”
“I’ve known for eight years,” Shane muttered. “Known for sure, I mean, not just… suspected. Fuck, man, I’m so sorry, I should have told you—”
“Hey, no, don’t—don’t do that to yourself, man,” Hayden said. He shuffled even closer, until his bent knee pressed into Shane’s thigh. Shane still wouldn’t look at him, staring down at where his hands were twisting in his lap, and on impulse, Hayden grabbed his hands, holding them lightly clasped between their torsos. “I don’t know if I would have told you if it weren’t for Jackie,” he admitted. “She told me that I needed to, that I’d get fucked up about it if I didn’t, that you would be… you know, cool about it. And if you knew since before we even met… I get it, you know?”
“Yeah?” Shane pleaded, clutching at Hayden’s hands when he would have pulled away.
“Yeah, dude,” Hayden said. “Even if you kinda just went and made my coming out all about you.”
Shane gaped at him for a moment, his mouth hanging open, then visibly realized that Hayden was fucking with him, and started laughing quietly. “I did, didn’t I?” he asked finally. “Jeez, man, I’m sorry—”
Their hands were still clasped together between them, and it was starting to be a little awkward—not because Hayden wouldn’t have fucking loved to just keep holding hands forever, but because not showing too much affection, for too long, or in the wrong ways, had been so ingrained in him. He was just about to pull his hands loose when it suddenly struck him, and he tightened his grip, instead, leaning forward.
“Wait. You’re gay.”
“Um. Yeah…?”
“And I’m bisexual.”
“We’ve established that, yeah…”
“Fuck, Shane,” Hayden said, grinning so widely that his cheeks actually hurt a little. “How the hell did we get so lucky?”
And then he leaned even closer, slipped one hand up to cup Shane’s cheek, and brought their lips together.
Now
Hayden knocked on Shane’s door, his heart pounding irregularly.
Well, no. Not Shane’s door. Apparently this was Shane and Rozanov’s home, now, because fuck Hayden’s entire life.
It was Shane who answered the door, at least. But he just stood there for a second, blinking.
“Uh,” Hayden said. “Can I come in, or…?”
“Yeah, of course, sorry,” Shane said easily, moving aside. “I just… Why did you knock?”
Now it was Hayden’s turn to blink, even as he came in and toed his shoes off, operating on autopilot. It was a fair question; he’d had spare keys to Shane’s apartment for years, and at this point, he generally just texted that he was on his way and went over without waiting for an answer, letting himself in and shouting at Shane that he was there.
“I don’t know, man,” he said, running a hand nervously through his hair. “It didn’t seem right to just walk in, now that you don’t live alone any more. I mean, the two of you could have been… busy.”
To his surprise, Shane started laughing. When Hayden raised his eyebrows at him, Shane just shook his head.
“It’s a long story,” he said. “Let’s just say that I wish my parents were as, uh, tactful, as you.”
Hayden gaped at him. “Oh my god, they didn’t.”
Shane just shook his head again and wandered off toward the back of the apartment. “Come on, Ilya’s making dinner.”
“Rozanov cooks?” Hayden found it hard to imagine the massive, irritating asshole who’d bruised his ribs at least once a season for the last seven years doing something so… domestic. But at least it meant that they wouldn’t have to suffer through the bland, healthy, boring rabbit food that Shane made.
“Oh yeah, he’s a great cook,” Shane said, then laughed again. “When I had him out to the cottage, last summer, he let me do all the cooking. It’s apparently some Russian etiquette thing; like, if you try to help without being asked, it’s like saying you don’t trust your host? But he was desperate for me to let him take over. I kept asking him what he wanted me to make, and he’d choose, like, the easiest option each time, thinking even I couldn’t fuck up something like hamburgers or hot dogs, and then it’d turn out I’d made veggie burgers or salmon sausages. My dad made him some pasta when we went over to their place, and it was the first decent thing he’d had in a week. Not that he told me any of this at the time—I had to find it out later, when he came here for the first time and begged me to let him do the cooking.”
Hayden shook his head in disbelief. He couldn’t imagine Ilya Rozanov—the chirping king of the League—suffering through a week on Shane’s diet (even the slightly less horrific off-season version) without saying a word.
But then, everything he’d heard over the last couple of months had made it clear that the version of Rozanov that existed in Hayden’s head bore little to no resemblance to the real man.
“Wait a minute,” he said, as he and Shane walked through the spacious apartment. “How have I not ever walked in on the two of you? I mean, why would you give me a key, and let me drop in whenever, while hiding a giant secret relationship like this? Weren’t you worried I’d come over and find him here?”
He finished the second question just as they passed into the kitchen, and Rozanov, chopping away at something on the big center island, started laughing. “Yes, Shane, tell fifth-best Metro why he never saw me at your apartment.”
“Oh god, you’re such an asshole,” Shane muttered, leaning resignedly against a neighboring counter and sneaking a bite of whatever Rozanov was making. Looked like tuna steaks. Predictable. Hayden bet he wasn’t all that great of a cook. But then—
“Wait a sec, fifth best?” Hayden asked, blinking. “You’ve always put me somewhere in the teens.”
It was one of Rozanov’s most annoying chirping habits, ranking everyone on his opposing team, generally to their detriment (although he’d been known to up-rank guys who weren’t much liked just to piss everybody else off). It should have been easy to shrug off… Except that the way he did it, he clearly wasn’t just making the numbers up on the spot—he had some kind of internally consistent metric that he was using, and it was nearly impossible to not try and puzzle it out.
“Yes, well,” Rozanov shrugged. “Turns out you are more interesting than I thought.”
Hayden stared at him, dumbfounded. “You… you rate players based on how interesting they are?” he sputtered. “And you think being bisexual makes me…”
“No, no, I rate players for how good at hockey they are,” Rozanov said, halting Hayden’s fumbling sentence. “But going both ways is most valuable hockey skill.”
“Hey!” Shane objected.
‘You have many other valuable skills,” Rozanov murmured, putting down his knife and pulling Shane closer to his side. “Let me and Pike have this one, mm?”
Hayden watched, feeling numb, as Shane smiled and blushed—blushed!—his skin tinting a dusky pink underneath his freckles, and let Rozanov tug him into a kiss.
Oh. Oh fuck. Fuck, that was hot.
“You like watching, Pike?” Rozanov asked, without turning his face away from Shane’s.
“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Hayden snapped reflexively. “… Yes.”
Shane pulled away from his boyfriend, blushing furiously. “Stop teasing Hayden,” he murmured. “You promised you’d try to behave.”
“But I want to hear you tell him why he’s never walked in on me fucking you,” Rozanov said, with a light, playful whine in his voice.
Shane groaned. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” Rozanov said, leaning into his boyfriend and catching his earlobe in his teeth.
“No, I don’t,” Shane admitted, melting against him with a small, breathless moan.
Jesus. That was almost nauseatingly cute. And also fucking hot.
“I also want to hear why you were never worried about me walking in on the two of you fucking,” Hayden said. If only because if he had to stand here and watch them make out, he was going to do something incredibly stupid.
“Et tu, Hayden?” Shane asked, shaking his head. “Oh god, fine. You know that investment property I bought in Griffintown?”
“Uh, the one with the condos that you keep saying you’re going to flip or rent out and never actually—oh my god.”
Shane rubbed his jaw. “Look, it’s still a good investment! It was just, you know, handy, so—”
“Shane, did you buy an entire fucking building just so you could fuck your archnemesis?!?”
“ … Shut up,” Shane muttered. “He was never my nemesis, for god’s sake.”
“You did. Holy fucking shit.”
“First time he brings me there, I think he is planning to murder me,” Rozanov said, clearly enjoying himself immensely. “He makes me come through alley, so no one can see me—”
“See you,” Hayden repeated disbelieving. “At a property that, like, ten people in the whole world know he owns—”
“Fuck off, Hayd, it’s part of the public record—”
Hayden started laughing at the whining note in Shane’s voice and couldn’t stop. He felt slightly guilty when Rozanov joined in, the two of them cackling in harmony; but not enough to get him to stop. Shane crossed his arms in front of his chest, visibly sulking, and that just set both of them off more.
“Oh my god,” Hayden finally wheezed. “Holy fuck, dude, I love you so much.”
Shane’s offended aura deflated like a stuck balloon; he let his arms fall to his sides and looked down at the floor too late to hide a goofy smile. How had Hayden gotten so lucky to have him for a best friend?
The rest of the pre-dinner period passed surprisingly quickly. They had a game against Toronto the day after tomorrow, so Shane and Hayden started dissecting how the Guardians’ first line had been playing—always a fun opportunity to shit on Dallas Kent and his toadies, the fuckers—while Rozanov passed around some kind of fucking nonalcoholic cocktail, ginger beer paired with muddled lime and crushed pear and honey that was actually fucking delicious. Then Rozanov made some contributions to Hayden’s Kent-bashing agenda, and it turned out that his chirps were way less fucking annoying when they were directed at a team that Hayden didn’t like. And then, the motherfucker pulled a fancy appetizer plate out of the fridge—actual fucking caviar; and some mixture of chopped olives with garlic, herbs, and some tiny round balls that looked like curly bugs but were intensely flavorful and savory (jeez, Hayden hoped they weren’t actually curly bugs, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask); and a minced tomato and basil spread—all in separate tiny little bowls with spoons to load them onto little toasted sourdough points arranged around them. Shane helped himself liberally, cramming the food in his mouth with happy little noises, and the last of Hayden’s dislike melted away into a quiet, bewildered resentment.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed how fucking weird Shane was about food. It wasn’t like it hadn’t fucking worried him. He just… hadn’t known what to do about it, other than keep having him over for dinner. But no matter how hard Jackie had tried—and she was a really great fucking cook!—he hadn’t ever seen Shane actually enjoy eating before. And trying to talk to him about it had been a giant fucking waste of time. At worse, Shane would get all defensive and withdrawn, and at best, he’d shrug and say he didn’t really care about food as long as it fit his diet. Which was clearly fucking bullshit, because Jackie had tried like a hundred different fucking recipes from websites about macrobiotic diets, and Shane had always eaten them with an indifferent air that reminded Hayden oddly of how he felt about lifting weights—something that had to be done, and would make him feel better once it was over, but was just mildly unpleasant while it was happening.
When Shane excused himself to the bathroom during his third helping of dinner—ahi tuna and black bean ceviche over corn tostadas—Hayden couldn’t help it any longer.
“Where the hell did you learn to cook,” he hissed, leaning over the table toward Rozanov, “and how the fuck are you getting him to eat like this?”
It wasn’t like the food was that great—oh, it was good and all, but not better than Jackie’s cooking. And it certainly wasn’t Russian, other than maybe the caviar, so where was all of this coming from?
Rozanov leaned back in his chair and looked steadily across the table. For a moment, Hayden was certain he was going to play it off—act like he had no idea what Hayden was talking about, and leave him even more at sea than he’d been originally.
Then, finally, he said, “Is the textures.”
Hayden cocked his head and waved his hand in a “go on,” gesture, and Ilya leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table.
“Nothing mushy, soft, or creamy,” he said. “If you make tofu, must be grilled or baked; he does not like how slimy it is when you cook in a pan.”
“Hold on. I need to make notes,” Hayden said, pulling out his phone. He opened up a text window to Jackie and typed out what Rozanov had said already. “Okay, go on.”
“He hates eggplant and cooked tomato—too soft, bad texture. Fruit must be very fresh. Very hard avocados, not soft, and no guacamole. If you make salads, he hates dressing, but does not like it too bland, either—put in fresh herbs and nuts, chopped onions, apples. And he does not like dips—is why the olive tapenade was chopped, not pureed.”
“Pureed?” Hayden repeated.
“It means when you—”
“I know what it means, shithead! How do you know what it means?” Rozanov raised his eyebrows, and Hayden winced. “I didn’t mean that how it came out. Just, like, it’s not exactly a word you come across every day…”
Rozanov shook his head. “When I was drafted, I could read and write English fine, speak it okay, but had hard time understanding when people talked—so fast, and with so many different accents. So I started watching American daytime TV.” He shrugged. “Cooking shows helped the most—not too much shouting or fast talking, just same words over and over.”
“Huh,” Hayden said. “Okay, I guess that tracks.”
“So glad you approve,” Rozanov said drily.
Hayden winced again. Fuck, everything was coming out of his mouth wrong tonight. “I’m not… Look, I appreciate you telling me. Jackie’s gonna be so happy—she’s been trying so hard, and it sucks to see Shane eating with that look on his face like he really couldn’t care less, you know?”
Rozanov nodded, thawing a little. “Tell her also, she must chop everything to same size—no pieces too big or too small.”
“Holy shit, okay, yeah.” He quickly added that and sent the message. “This is gonna be a fucking game changer. How—I know you two have been together for a long time, but you haven’t been cooking for him that whole time, right?”
Ilya shook his head. “Only since last summer, mostly. I ask Yuna and David, then experiment.”
Hayden blinked in shock. “Jackie’s been experimenting for seven years, and I don’t think she’s figured out half this stuff.”
Rozanov smirked. “Helps that I know what his face looks like when he is very happy, and when he thinks something is gross, but is trying to hide it.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Hayden muttered, picking up on the innuendo almost immediately.
“No,” Rozanov said, smirking even wider. “I am going to fuck you, remember?”