Archive of Our Own

“Go get laid, dude.” Hayden had snickered at him while they sat at the bar in the hotel. The others had laughed at the innocent joke while Shane's face felt like it would explode any second.
He scoffed at the memory, as if sex was some kind of magic fix, as if that was what made players better. Shane already played well. Really well. He didn’t need to screw someone to prove that to anyone, also not that it was anyone's business, especially not his teammates, even if Hayden was his best friend.

But the thought settled in anyway. It made him think about the last time he had anything that could even loosely be described as a friendly encounter. Or well… a sexual one. Hockey had taken up everything. His time, his energy, his conversations. He loved it. He loved talking about it. But still maybe…

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have someone to talk to about something else for once. Maybe his obsession with hockey wasn't that healthy after all.
So, Shane did the one thing that made the most sense: downloading the first “dating app” that popped up in the App Store to try to meet new people, preferably people who don’t know who he is.
He visibly cringed as he pressed the blue download button. Wanting to get it over with as fast as possible, he picked a username, about as creative as he was: athletic-loon.
He checked all the boxes without really looking. Added a random picture of a sunset, and then another of his bookshelf with a few hockey books among them. Technically, he was looking for someone who didn’t just like to talk about hockey, but still he had to show his passion right?

He didn’t write a bio, just checked the box with looking for chat and see what happens. That would be enough. He was already sure he’d delete the app soon anyway, too embarrassed to admit he’d ever had it in the first place.
He tossed the phone onto the mattress beside him, hands rubbing over his face. He felt like a catfish, like these weird people on that one MTV show.

But what else was he supposed to do? Sure, he would definitely get a lot of matches if he’d put his real face in, if people even believed that this was Actually Shane Hollander. But no, that would turn into an embarrassing scandal pretty quick- Imagine the headlines: Shane Hollander, Voyageurs Captain, Caught on Dating App.

Hayden would never let it go.

It was just for chatting, he told himself. He was bored and this was normal. A thousand people were on apps like this every night, probably other celebrities too. Still, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to match with a hockey fan or avoid them entirely, terrified they’d recognize him if things went well, even more terrified of what would happen if he actually liked someone enough to tell them who he was.

When he picked up his phone he had expected no message. Why did he even expect that his phone would immediately buzz with women who’d love to chat with him? He shook his head to himself. Opening the app again. He looked through his profile again, thinking about what to add to make it more exciting, when he suddenly received an “ice breaker”.

He looks at the name. Was that Russian?
Shanes opens the profile, there's no bio. Just like him only the boxes were ticked: looking for chat and casual meetings.
The only photo is dark, probably taken at night. A mirror shot. No face visible, Broad shoulders, Solid build visible beneath the tight black shirt, Shane’s eyes catch on the hand around the phone, long fingers, veins visible even in the bad lighting.
For a second, he’s almost impressed enough to forget the obvious.
It’s a guy.

Why was a guy texting him?

His thumb jerks to the settings, to his Search preferences.
Fuck. He’d accidentally checked all genders.
He removes the little arrow next to men, Problem solved.

Except… it would be rude to just ignore the message, right? Even if the opening line hadn’t exactly been friendly. Or maybe it was. Hard to tell. The tone didn’t translate well through text.
He stares at the screen for too long before finally replying

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Shane huffs a quiet laugh.
Ah. A man of many words.
Still, he was here to chat. He already knew he probably wouldn’t actually use this app to get laid. No harm in messaging a guy back. Even if said guy was kind of rude.

The reply doesn’t come right away this time.

Ignoring Shane's comment completely. He was now obviously referring to the second picture, the one of his bookshelf. So much for finding someone to talk about literally anything else.

Shane exhales through his nose and types anyway.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Of course that’s the next question. He stares at the screen, jaw tightening, already running through worst-case scenarios that make absolutely no sense.

He could lie. Say literally any team.

Montreal would be… fine. Plenty of people liked Montreal. It was generic enough. You wouldn't immediately think ‘ah yes that guy plays for Montreal, that’s why its his favourite.’

Shane frowns. Not the answer he expected.

Shane exhales sharply through his nose. He types back before he can overthink it again.

Shane stares at the screen before adding.

He was mostly joking. That probably wasn't his favourite team. But he was curious how he’d react.

It took a bit longer for the answer now.

That tore a laugh out of Shane, he went on the guy's profile again to check his age. Then wrote

Shane squints at the screen. That was oddly specific.

Shane huffs, rolling onto his side. The side of his face mushed into the pillow

He snorts into the pillow, muffling a laugh. Unbelievable

Shane rolls his eyes. Whatever the actual reason had been for downloading the app is long forgotten now. Even the fact that he’s texting another guy on a dating app, something that probably should feel weird, doesn’t bother him.
What does bother him is the thought of the conversation ending.
He’s already halfway through rewriting his next reply in his head when another notification pings.

now was the part where he should lie, no need for the guy to have more clues about who he is.

Shane’s already trying to think of another question when a new message comes in.

Shane rolls his eyes. No idea why he keeps putting up with this guy. He’s obviously an asshole.
Still it’s kind of funny and Shane is quite bored. Not boring. Bored.
Training doesn’t start until tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t have to be strict about his sleep schedule for once. That’s probably how he ended up here in the first place.

Shane exhales, rubbing his thumb along the edge of his phone. The guy probably isn’t expecting a real answer. Still, Shane gives him one. Better to be clear. No misunderstandings.

The little green dot next to the guy’s profile picture vanishes almost immediately after the message is read.

Shane’s stomach drops.

Great. He’d written too much. Way too much. He presses his lips together, already replaying every line in his head, wishing he’d just kept it vague like a normal person.

A few seconds pass.

Then the green dot appears again.

Shane blinks. Ah. He probably translated it.

The typing bubble appears a second later.

Shane lets out a soft, incredulous huff. Of course that’s the takeaway. He shifts on the bed, phone balanced in one hand, still weirdly engaged.

He closes the app, thumb hovering over the icon like that’ll help him decide.

This would be a good time to delete the app. The conversation had ended. He didn’t owe the guy a reply.

He could delete the app now, pretend it never happened.

Or maybe download a different app. Something normal. Chat with girls. Because he likes girls. Obviously.

Not that he’d actually meet anyone on there. He’s not stupid. It’s too risky.

Then suddenly his phone pings again.

Shane blinks.

He stares at the message, expression flat. It’s not even a weird question, not on this app, but something about how casually it’s dropped in makes him pause.

Shane groans into the pillow.

God, he does not want to have this conversation. Especially not with some random guy.

He types back slower this time.

Shane huffs a laugh. He sinks deeper into the mattress, phone held just above his face.

Three dots appear, disappear, reappear.

Shane’s mouth twitches amused.

Shane laughs to himself amused. Even though the guy wasn't friendly at all he kind of enjoyed the conversation. The guy seemed to completely ignore that Shane was signalling he wasn’t actually into guys. Maybe that was the thrill of it for him. Hitting on a straight guy. Because that’s what he is. Straight.

But there’s no chance in hell he’s sending a photo.

Especially after the guy told him he’s a hockey fan.

He definitely knows Shane Hollander, even if he doesn’t like the Voyageurs.

A second passes.

Shane shifts uncomfortably, sitting up a bit more. He doesn’t know what to think of this conversation. It’s confusing. The guy is somehow, and very rudely, flirting with him, and for some reason it doesn’t bother him as much as it should.

Shane rolls his eyes. He’s not sure if he wants to shut it down or keep going just to win whatever this is.

The next message is a number. Shane stares at it. What the hell? Did this guy really think he would just give out his number to a random dude on the internet?

Shane closes the app, shaking his head.

He cusses at himself as he opens the app again, takes a screenshot, then deletes the app. He places the phone on the charger next to his bed and then turns off the light.

His mood doesn’t get better at all. It has been days since he deleted the app, and he hasn’t really thought about it—not on purpose. But the screenshot is still in his gallery, and it takes all the willpower he has not to text the stupidly rude guy, which makes his behaviour even weirder over the next several days.

He doesn’t even know his name or what he looks like. It’s ridiculous how much control a stranger can have over Shane.

The guy is nothing like him—extroverted, always leading the conversation. Things that women have always expected from Shane. Things he can’t deliver. Maybe that’s why he enjoyed talking to him so much.

Being a hockey player, everyone expects him to be rugged, loud, and confident. To have a big mouth. But he doesn’t. He never starts fights on the ice; he wins by playing better, not by picking at other players.

He’s still grumpy. One encounter on a fucking dating app makes him overthink himself so much it actually makes him angry. So angry that even Hayden stops commenting on it. So angry that he snaps at Rozanov during a face-off, so angry he almost wants to punch him.

Shane is even angrier now, because looking at that stupid smug face makes him realize even more that maybe he isn’t that straight after all.

He doesn’t punch him, of course, as much as he wants to.

However, Shane isn’t the only one acting out of character, because he’s never seen Rozanov go quiet from just a look from him before.

He must have looked ridiculous. Nothing like himself, Shane thinks.

This has to stop. He needs to get a hold of himself and just get this bullshit out of his system before it gets in the way of his performance. He can’t bring his team down with him. He has to deal with his shit on his own.

He’s about to delete the screenshot so he doesn’t even have the possibility to text the guy, but instead he saves the number without a name.

Then he texts him.

So stupid.

He could hit himself. What a stupid first message.

He groans in embarrassment, earning a look from Hayden on the bed next to him. Hayden lifts a questioning eyebrow, “Everything okay?”

“Just a stupid message,” Shane mumbles truthfully.

Hayden goes back to chatting with probably Jackie, his wife.

Shane shifts slightly in the bed to make sure the other guy in the hotel room with him couldn’t see his phone.

The last thing he needed was Hayden trying to get his nose into his business and ask stupid questions about why he was texting some guy.

The reply comes a few minutes later.

Shane checks again to see if Hayden is snooping and catches him looking away as soon as he lifts his head.

It feels dangerous. But also kind of thrilling.

The typing bubble appears and disappears again after a few seconds before the message comes in.

He wants to add a guy like you, a guy that flirts with me and makes me look… gay?

Shane saves the number as Lily.

So it looks like that guy wasn’t out as whatever he was either. He had to ask him later.

He tries to delete the message again as soon as he sends it but it’s already on read.

Too late.

Fuck he was so stupid. Just changing two letters of his name. Stupid stupid stupid.

Shane cringes at his own message, shaking his head to himself and earning another side-eye from Hayden.

He makes a split-second decision that it’s probably for the best if he gets away from him, unable to trust his facial expressions against his best friend’s curiosity.

He makes his way to the bathroom, continuing his conversation with Lily while brushing his teeth.

So he remembers the reason Shane had downloaded the app.

But he isn’t sure if he means what he asked or if he really means ‘got laid yet, like your friend told you to?’

He sighs and then texts.

His fingers freeze for a second. The toothpaste he just wanted to put on his toothbrush falls into the sink.

He types a bit nervous.

Did he know already?

Was he so shit at keeping his identity a secret?

Shane relaxes immediately.

A snicker sounds behind him. “Oh my god.”

Shane whips around to find Hayden standing there, toothbrush in hand, peering at his phone screen.

“No way she prefers Boston!” Hayden’s voice ricochets off the walls of the bathroom, which suddenly feels way too small.

Shane locks his phone immediately, hoping Hayden hasn’t seen anything incriminating. “What the fuck, Hayden? Quit snooping!”

He thanks his lucky stars that he saved the guy’s number as a girl’s name. What would have happened if he hadn’t? Shane doesn’t want to know.

Hayden shows zero remorse as he moves to the second sink. “So, who’s this Lily?” he asks, squeezing toothpaste onto the bristles while Shane finally does the same, not missing this time.

“I don’t know yet. We just started texting.” Shane keeps it vague, knowing Hayden would catch an outright lie.

Hayden narrows his eyes at him in the mirror, toothbrush dangling from his mouth. “You don’t know yet?” he mumbles around the foam. “All you know is she prefers Boston? That’s a red flag, man.”

Shane rolls his eyes, trying to concentrate on brushing his teeth. “She’s not…” He catches himself. “It’s not like that.”

Hayden spits into the sink. “Uh-huh.”

Shane rinses, buying himself some time.

“It’s just chatting,” he mutters, then slowly adds, “You’re the one who told me to get laid, remember?”

Hayden’s face splits into an immediate grin. “Oh my god. Is this because of that?”

“Shut up.”

Leaning against the counter, Hayden studies him. “So? Is she hot?”

Shane’s brain freezes.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Hayden asks, lifting an eyebrow before he gurgles water noisily.

Shane grimaces. Disgusting.

“I don’t know what she looks like,” he admits.

Hayden stares at him, silent for a beat.

“Wait, does she know who you are? Does she know she’s texting the Shane Hollander?”

Shane groans, heading back toward his bed. “Stop snooping around in my business already. Please!”

“Sorry, man!” Hayden shouts from the bathroom. “I just never saw you text a girl before.”

“You make me sound so pathetic,” Shane huffs, plugging in his phone on the bedside table.

Lily would have to wait until tomorrow, when he was back in Montreal—when it was safer.

—

Shane turns off airplane mode when he lands in Montreal, and his notifications filter in.

Lily, a man of many words, was persistent.

Shane had tried to rest on the flight home, but his mind was racing. He thought a lot about the reason why he kept putting up with “Lily.”

He thought about the way he had looked at men his whole life. Shane always told himself he was just jealous of their physique, how they all seemed to mature so much faster than he did.

He thought of Finnley, Jessica’s best friend, whom Shane insisted on hanging around “just to protect his girlfriend,” now ex-girlfriend, of course.

He thought of Rozanov, with that stupid smirk on the ice, how he always seemed so confident.

But none of this meant anything. It couldn’t.

Now there was Lily and, God, he didn’t even know what his face looked like. He had only seen one very dark mirror selfie, without a face.

And for some reason, it was… exciting. It was exciting to chat with him. He had never done anything like this before.

Shane doesn’t answer Lily until the evening, settled in bed with his book, when he remembers he left him on read.

Shane groans. He has no idea what kind of picture he could send—preferably something that wouldn’t let Lily immediately figure out his true identity.

Lily seems pretty secretive about his identity as well, so maybe Shane could use that to his advantage and see what kind of pictures people send in a situation like this.

It takes a few seconds before Shane gets a picture.

A shirtless photo.

It looks like he’s sitting on his bed with only sweatpants on. Around his neck, resting against his chest, is a gold chain with a small cross. His face isn’t visible, and neither is his hair.

He probably has short hair, Shane thinks.

The cross looks… familiar. But a lot of men wear crosses like that, so there’s no way of telling who this is.

His eyes linger on it, on the way it dips slightly with the muscles of his chest.

He’s staring at the—well, very attractive chest of another man. His thumb hovers over the screen like he means to scroll away, but he doesn’t.

Heat creeps up his neck as he shifts on the bed, only mildly uncomfortable.

If Shane is being honest with himself, he likes looking at it—more than he’s ever liked looking at shirtless pictures of women. He’s always told himself he doesn’t like staring at women like that because he doesn’t want to sexualize them, because his mother raised him to be a respectful young man.

But he’s definitely sexualizing this man’s chest right now.

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring until his phone buzzes.

Shane quickly reads the text, then redirects his eyes back to the photo.

Another message comes in, ripping him from his staring.

The smartest thing to do would be to focus on not giving the guy the wrong—or, well, the right—impression of what Shane was actually thinking.

Shane reads the message, huffing out a breath.

Shane rolls his eyes at that. What did one thing have to do with the other?

Shane groans, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand that isn’t holding his phone. Is he really about to send that guy a picture of his bare chest?

He thinks about refusing, but then “Lily” would definitely assume he was all talk and secretly some lanky hockey nerd—or worse, a creepy old guy.

Shane takes off his shirt, trying to ignore how hot his face gets as he angles the camera carefully, making sure the photo doesn’t show anything that could give away who he is.

It takes him about four tries until he’s satisfied with the picture.

Then he sends it and…

Nothing happens.

Delivered immediately turns into read, but no message comes.

Shane feels something tighten in his chest—a feeling that isn’t unfamiliar, but one usually reserved for before important games.

He isn’t self-conscious about his body by any means. He knows he looks good, works hard to keep his physique, but deep down, he wants to impress the guy.

The very rude guy.

It feels like a challenge: trying to get a compliment out of him.

Shane frowns. What’s that supposed to mean? Was he purposely not writing in English?

What more exactly was there to show? What did this guy expect, a dick pic?

Shane pauses. He probably did. But there was no way that was happening.

The thought of such a personal, intimate photo of Shane Hollander reaching the public makes him cringe. He cringes even harder when he thinks about his mother, the crisis expert, seeing something like that.

He does not need a Rozanov-level scandal attached to his, so far, perfectly clean record.

A few seconds pass and his online status disappears for a moment before coming back.

Shane guesses he used Google Translate again.

Shane puffs his cheeks before blowing out all the air. What the fuck was he doing? This was crazy—possibly the craziest thing he’s ever done. It’s definitely not what he wanted to accomplish when he downloaded that stupid app.

Sure, he wasn’t talking about hockey, which was the goal, but he also didn’t want to text about blow jobs, because Shane isn’t into guys. That’s the only reason. Not because it makes him think about giving or receiving a blowjob, and definitely not because the idea might actually arouse him.

Sure, Shane isn’t as straight as he once thought, but he’s not ready to admit this. Not yet.

He should ignore him now. Lily had given him the green light to do so; he wouldn’t be mad about it. Maybe Shane should even block him.

But he couldn’t. He still enjoys texting with him, even though he has no idea who this guy is. Christ, he doesn’t even know if the pictures are real. They could just be from the internet, and now that he thinks about it, the picture does seem almost unreal.

Hockey fans don’t just look like that.

A few seconds pass.

Shane rolls his eyes.

Shane hesitates. That actually sounds… reasonable. It would be hard to find a picture of the same person doing a specific gesture.

Then a new picture comes in with the message.

It was definitely the same person on the picture, almost the same angle as before, two fingers raised lazily near his collarbone. His sweatpants were a bit lower than in the last photo, like he had to tug his hand out from beneath the waistband to show the peace sign.

Shane’s breath catches when he realizes he’s picturing what “Lily” must’ve been doing before taking that photo.

Shane expects him to say hold up two fingers or something, so he sits up a bit straighter in his bed, leaning against the headboard.

He types while getting up and walking to his wardrobe with the big mirror.

Shane rolls his eyes at his phone before he opens the camera trying to get a good picture.

It was definitely way harder to keep everything hidden in the background of a picture like this. After he took the photo, he drew over all the stuff around him, so it was only him in the picture: shirtless, wearing sweatpants and socks.

His phone vibrates with a “good night, Jane” from Lily as he puts it away, pressing his face into the pillow.

He was so fucked.

Weeks pass, sporadic conversations becoming more frequent. Shane hadn’t realized how rarely he texted people before this. He didn’t even text Hayden this much, probably because they saw each other all the time anyway.

With Lily it was different.

It started with random messages during the evening, usually when Shane was already lying in bed, or when Lily was bored somewhere late at night. Sometimes it was just a short what are you doing or a complaint about something stupid that had happened during the day. Other times the conversation would stretch for hours without Shane even noticing how late it had gotten.

What became clear pretty early on, though, was that Lily knew a lot about hockey, almost as much as Shane did. Shane had to admit that he really enjoyed talking to him about it. What Lily had to say about hockey was very different from what Shane was used to hearing from his friends, and it was almost… refreshing.

They argue about hockey a lot. Lily has very strong opinions about players and games, and he never hesitated to say exactly what was on his mind, never holding back. Sometimes Shane found himself laughing at the screen because Lily would say something so blunt it almost sounded ridiculous.

However, hockey was no longer their only topic of conversation.

Lily once sent him a picture of a burnt dinner, blaming the oven for it. Shane noted the ridiculously expensive oven in the background, recognizing it as one he had considered for his own condo.

Another time he complained for ten minutes straight about the gym being too crowded.

Shane found himself sending pictures back sometimes too: never anything that showed his face, but small things from his apartment that he knew weren’t public that could be traced back to him. Or the book he was reading, and cats he met outside.

He still didn’t know what Lily’s face looked like.

Naturally, Shane grew curious, really curious. But he didn’t dare ask for a face photo directly, because that would definitely result in Lily asking for one back, and Shane still wasn’t ready to tell him who he actually was.

Shane learned that Lily was originally from Russia and had moved to the states a few years ago, which explained the spelling and grammar mistakes that sometimes slip into his messages. Where exactly Lily lived, Shane didn’t know. But it didn’t really matter anyway; there was no way they would meet any time soon, if ever.

But there was still one big problem: Lily was a Boston fan.

Shane huffs and just couldn’t hold back as he writes.

He had gotten a lot more relaxed with what he wrote to Lily. He was pretty sure the last thing the guy would expect was that he actually was Shane himself, and he thought that making jokes like that would take the suspicion away even more.

Shane snickers at that. He has a pretty good idea who Lily’s favourite player is, which makes him shake his head to himself. Considering the guy is Russian too, Lily is probably a little biased.

“Are you texting with Lily?” Hayden’s voice comes from somewhere way too close to his shoulder. Shane immediately tilts his phone away before Hayden can see the screen, maybe a little too fast.

“Not this again. No, I’m not,” he says quickly, shoving the phone into his gym bag.

They’re still in the locker room after a win against Ottawa, not that the result is much of a surprise. Ottawa is a terrible team, and Shane honestly can’t remember the last time he’s seen them win. He hardly keeps up with them, not seeing a reason to. They’re predictable in all the wrong ways. In Shane’s professional opinion, they need to re-assign some of their players with Belleville.

He’s glad it was a home game though, not sure he could bear another night sharing a room with Hayden. Shane is pretty sure it’s only a matter of time before Hayden just straight up steals his phone.

He pulls his hoodie over his head and slings his bag over his shoulder while the locker room slowly empties around him. Hayden is still talking to Shane, but he Irish goodbyes before he gets pulled into another conversation about Lily. Avoiding the conversation altogether is better than the alternative of lying.

When he gets home, he neatly puts his shoes and bag in their respective places, heading to the kitchen to retrieve a ginger ale from the fridge.

He flops onto the couch, switching on the TV. He’s nearly asleep when his phone pings with a message from Lily.

It wasn’t the first time Lily had asked something like that out of the blue. It was probably just another attempt at small talk because he was bored. Shane rolls onto his back holding the phone above his face.

He chuckles at the message, rolling his eyes.

The green active dot disappears.

Shane has a feeling Lily is Googling the names of the Voyageurs.

Asshole.

Lily knows so much about hockey, but can’t remember the names of some players of the best team in the league?

The green online dot reappears.

He weighs his options, wondering if it would be too obvious if he said his name first?

Probably. Shane rationalizes with himself that he is popular enough that it wouldn’t be too suspicious. Fuck. He’s putting way too much thought into a stupid party game.

He almost drops his phone on his face.

Lily thinks he’s attractive. Not just his body, but his face too. He ignores the tightness growing in his stomach.

Shane thinks about it for a few seconds.

Well technically the answer is obviously smash.

And Lily doesn’t know who he is, so it isn’t a scandal if he’s honest…

A second passes.

Shane’s eyebrows knit together slightly as he reads the message on his screen.

It isn’t exactly surprising. Lily tries things like this all the time, casually pushing the conversation in directions Shane usually avoids answering. Most of the time he simply ignores questions like that or changes the subject, pretending he didn’t see them at all.

But this time he hesitates.

Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s boredom, or maybe it’s the way Lily always manages to say things with that irritating confidence that makes Shane want to prove he isn’t as easy to fluster as the guy clearly thinks. Either way, his thumb hovers over the keyboard a moment longer than it should, because even though he already has a pretty good idea where this kind of question usually leads, part of him still wants to see what Lily will do next.

He hesitates for a moment before sighing quietly to himself. Fuck it.

He sits up a little, snapping a quick selfie that only shows his white shirt and grey sweatpants, his face hidden just outside the frame. He studies the photo carefully before sending it, once again making sure there’s nothing in the background that could give anything away.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Instead of answering, Lily sends a picture.

Shane sucks in a breath when he sees it.

Lily is wearing… a lot less than he is.

It looks like he’s lying on his bed, wearing only boxer shorts. The fabric stretches over his muscular thighs, a faint trail of hair leading up toward his stomach. The cross necklace from other pictures lies crooked against his shoulder, like he hadn’t bothered fixing it before taking the photo.

Shane stares at the image a little longer than he probably should.

He definitely did.

Fuck, that guy was way too attractive for his own good, and it started to freak Shane out that he indeed wanted to see more.

Shane groans. He knows this is a bad idea. The worst part of it all is that his body is reacting to it. He can feel the blood rushing down; being told what to do kind of turns him on, if he’s being honest. It’s something he’s never been able to have before, not with women.

He locks his phone, turns off the TV and gets up to discard his empty ginger ale can before retreating to his bedroom.

He pulls off his shirt and sweatpants, trying to ignore the embarrassing feeling bubbling up inside him.

Shane stares at the message. His heart feels like it might jump out of his chest at any second. This is insane. He’s never texted like this with anyone before, let alone a man.

There had been a few occasions when women tried to sext with him, but they usually dropped it pretty quickly when Shane didn’t take the lead.

But Lily was so confident in taking the lead, and Shane was getting really fucking hard from it.

He slams his phone down as soon as he sends the message, staring up at the ceiling. He should stop this right now. He’s getting into very dangerous territory and doesn’t want to think about what it might mean for him.

But Shane’s willpower isn’t strong enough. As soon as he feels the vibration of his phone announcing the message, he picks it up again at lightning speed.

Shane almost chokes on his own spit.

Sure, he had seen plenty of dicks through his career, in the showers after training or games. But not like this. He had never really thought he had a small one himself; he was pretty sure he was at least average, maybe even a bit above.

But shit.

This one looked like… eight? Maybe even nine inches, unless Lily just had really small hands.

Probably not.

He presses the phone against his chest for a second, staring up at the ceiling. His heart is still beating way too fast, his body reacting in a way that makes him feel both thrilled and slightly panicked at the same time.

He’s never done something like this before, and the fact that it’s happening with a guy he’s never even seen the face of makes it feel even more unreal. This is insane.

He’s lying half naked on his bed, staring at a stranger’s picture like a teenager who just discovered jerking off to porn. The worst part is that Lily seems completely relaxed about it. Confident. Like this is all perfectly normal.

It probably is for him; Lily seems like he has a lot of experience in stuff like this.

He also doesn’t seem to mind how bad Shane is at sexting, which he appreciates.

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut as he reads the messages.

He sends the message quickly, almost defensively, like he has something to prove. The three little typing dots appear almost instantly.

Lily didn’t deny it this time.

Shane puts his phone to the side again, this time to pull off his boxers. He feels embarrassed even though he’s alone in his room. There’s no one to witness what he was doing, and Lily doesn't know who he is. This was the perfect recipe for experimenting. It was just for his curiosity after all. Shane exhales hard through his nose. Fuck.

He picks up the phone again, angles it down. The dim light from the bedside lamp carved out shadows in the lines of his abs, the V pointing toward his groin. His dick curves up, the head shiny. He takes the photo without touching himself, sending it, and immediately wants to claw it back.

As if on autopilot, Shane wraps his fingers around the base and gives himself one slow stroke up to the head, thumb swiping over the slit. He shudders. Fuck, he hadn’t done this in so long.

Shane is in way too deep now and wasn’t going to leave this conversation without getting what he needs, seeing no point in backing down. He snaps another photo mid-stroke, the shape blurred a little around the edges. He sends it.

Typing with one hand is more difficult than he thought.

Shane huffs out a choked laugh. This felt unlike anything he’d ever done before, carrying him along much faster than he was used to, his hand moving in a steady rhythm.

He almost couldn’t believe what he was doing. Still, he opens the camera again, this time filming giving himself a few strokes, teasing the head with his thumb, breathing heavy. Before he sent it he double checked that he actually muted the video.

His hands were shaking as the “deliver” label changed to “read”.

This time he doesn’t get an immediate answer. About a minute later, he got a video in return.

His hand tightens around his cock as he clicks on it.

The clip is short, maybe ten seconds. Muted, just like Shane’s video.

The video is angled down from above, boxers shoved low on his hips. One hand is wrapped around his cock. Lily gives it a single, deliberate stroke: base to tip, slow enough that every ridge is visible. Precome beads at the slit. His abs flex with the motion, as he moved his hand.

Shane groans involuntarily through his gritted teeth, his own hand moving fast around his own length. Never in his live would he have thought that seeing a guy jerk off, turn him on this way.

His brain isn’t working right anymore. Words feel impossible. He doesn’t know what to text back that won’t sound stupid or desperate or both.

Shane’s movements begin to stutter as he attempts to open the camera with a few mis-clicks. He angles it just right as he speeds up his pace, stroking himself.

He comes with a choked, bitten-off gasp, body locking up. Thick ropes spill over his fingers, splattering across his abs. His cock jerks in his hand with each spurt, come dripping down onto his stomach.

His eyes squeeze shut, not even sure if the video was still showing what it’s supposed to. He stops the recording the second he’s finished, chest heaving as he stares at the screen for a moment, hand still trembling slightly.

Before he can second-guess himself, he sends the short clip—only realizing a second too late that he forgot to mute it. Panic immediately spikes in his chest as the message switches to delivered. Fuck. If Lily listens closely, he’ll hear it: the breathless sound he made at the end, the low, broken moan. His stomach twists at the thought. What if the guy recognizes his voice somehow?

Lily doesn’t text back right away.

The radio silence stretches long enough for Shane to grab a tissue from his bedside table and start cleaning up, trying to slow his breathing while his phone lies next to him like it might explode at any second.

Lily’s sprawled against dark sheets, thick streaks of come painted messily across his defined abs, dripping into the sharp V of his hips. His hand rests casually in the mess, fingers shiny and smeared, thumb having dragged a slow line through one of the thicker ropes like he’s showing off the evidence.

Shane stares at the screen, breath still uneven. His own spent body twitches faintly, oversensitive.

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know if he should say anything.

So he doesn’t.

He puts his phone on the charger and gets up, needing a shower, maybe get his thoughts back together and calm the fuck down.

He would text him back tomorrow. It’s just too much right now.

-

A few weeks pass and he and Lily didn’t text as much as they used to. Or rather, Shane didn’t really answer as much.

He just felt kind of uncomfortable.

One thing that hadn’t changed is that his best friend is still a professional snooper. Every time he picked up his phone in Hayden’s proximity, he tried to get something out of him regarding Lily.

“Dude, y’all have been texting for months now! Have you met her yet?” he pries once again.

“It’s complicated,” Shane huffs, already growing a bit annoyed again.

They were at the Pike’s place with a few other teammates and their girlfriends or wives awaiting the announcement of the All-Star Game. Everyone was eager to know if the time had come for Hollander and Rozanov to share a line. Shane’s mind was somewhere else, a million other things taking precedent over Rozanov.

“You always say that. There’s no way she’ll dip if you tell her who you are. Like, you’re literally a hot millionaire hockey player. Don’t look at me like that.”

Shane lifted an eyebrow, throwing Hayden a skeptical look.

“Just let this be my business, alright?” Shane sighs, pulling his phone out of his pocket to distract himself from the looks on his teammates’ faces that told him everything he needed to know about the All-Star lineup.

Instead of participating in the conversation, he reads the message Lily had just sent him.

Lily is, as always, up to date on the hockey news.

Shane lies.

His stomach did that annoying little twist again. He hadn’t even decided if meeting Lily was a good idea, and now the option was suddenly right there.

“Yo!”

Shane instinctively tilted his phone down when Hayden’s voice appeared right next to his shoulder from behind the couch.

Hayden leaned a little closer, clearly trying to read the screen upside down. “Is that Lily?”

Shane sighs, locking the phone. “You’re unbelievable.”

Hayden grinned. “So it is Lily.”

“I didn’t say that.”

JJ asked from the other side of the room, “Who’s Lily?” but immediately dropped the question when he saw the look Shane gave him, lifting his hands defensively.

Hayden lowered his voice slightly. “So? What’s she saying?”

“Nothing important.”

“Bullshit.”

Shane groans quietly and rubs his free hand over his face. Suddenly, he wasn’t holding his phone anymore.

Hayden is.

He had just grabbed it and jumped away from Shane to read the message.

“No way!” Hayden says, eyes widening. “Dude, this is your chance!”

Shane immediately got up. “Give it back.”

Hayden held the phone above his head like he was five years old again. Now Shane knew where Jade and Ruby had gotten their behavioural issues from.

“She wants to meet you,” he said, laughing. “At the All-Star Game!”

“Hayden—” Shane tried really hard to keep his voice down. Thank God the others were too concentrated on reading the All-Star details.

“And you’re thinking about it?”

Shane finally snatches the phone back. “Yes, I’m thinking about it.”

Hayden grinned even wider. “Perfect.”

“So, when do we meet her?” Hayden adds casually.

Shane frowns. “We?”

Hayden shrugs. “Can I come along? You know… make sure you don’t get murdered by some creepy old dude.”

“No way.” Shane shakes his head. “And she’s not a creepy old guy.” She is a guy, though, Shane thinks to himself.

“You can’t know that. I mean, you’re also basically a catfish,” Hayden says. “A positive catfish, if that’s possible.” Hayden snickers.

“I’m not a catfish! I didn’t send her pictures of a different guy. I just never sent her pictures of my face,” Shane says, and immediately regrets it.

“Face? So you’ve showed her other stuff? Oh my God.” He laughs, and the others start looking at them now.

“What’s going on?” Jackie, Hayden’s wife, calls out.

“Nothing!” Shane almost yells before Hayden can say anything stupid.

“If you drop it, I’ll maybe tell you about her after I meet her,” he says, defeated. Shane is unsure if he would actually do that, but it’s enough to satisfy Hayden for the time being.

Shane unlocks his phone again, feeling Hayden’s eyes on him as he texts Lily back. This time, Hayden knows better than to start teasing him again.

He really hopes Lily doesn’t want to meet somewhere in public. It takes a few seconds until he gets an answer.

So was that it? Lily wanted to meet up too…

He recalls the message from that one night.

I wish I could fuck you

Was this going to be happening?

Was he really going to meet a stranger to have sex in a hotel?

He turns his phone over, putting it away for the evening. Shane attempts to refocus his attention on his teammates, who were pretty excited to see Shane and Rozanov on the same team.

He hated to admit he was curious as well. Rozanov was a really good player, and competing against him was always exciting, even though his chirps were next level.

They would definitely win the All-Star Game; that was glaringly obvious.

A few days later he gets an email with the hotel details for the All-Star weekend, opening the email whilst sitting in the locker room, absently scrolling through the league’s usual wall of information. The schedule came first, followed by media obligations, travel details, and a list of the mandatory events they were expected to attend throughout the weekend. Nothing about it was particularly surprising. The league planned these things the same way every year, and after a few seasons Shane had gotten used to the routine.

He skims through most of it without paying much attention to detail. He’ll read it more carefully later when the event was closer and plug everything into his calendar. Once he reached the end of the email, he locked his phone again and tossed it onto the couch beside him, already moving on with his evening without giving the information another thought.

A few hours later he’s half watching something on TV, not really following the plot, when his phone buzzes on the cushion next to him.

He unlocks his phone to find a text from Lily.

A second message follows almost immediately.

Shane shifted slightly on the couch, sitting up a bit straighter without really realizing he was doing it. A moment later the next message appeared: the hotel name.

He stared at the screen for a second, a faint sense of familiarity tugging at the back of his mind. He had definitely seen that name before today.

Frowning slightly, he leaned forward and grabbed his phone again, opening the All-Star email to find the same name staring back at him from the travel section.

For a moment Shane just looks at it, then leans back into the couch and lets out a quiet laugh under his breath.

That was… convenient.

Or really stupid and risky.

Which made it exciting as well.

“Hollander! You ready for the game?” Scott Hunter greets him as Shane joins the others in the hotel bar for the All-Star weekend.

The “new” teammates always meet up first, seeing who made the team that year and trying to build some kind of bonding before the events start. Shane recognizes a few of the players already, but not everyone is there yet. Even though he hadn’t exactly rushed getting his luggage into his hotel room, he still isn’t the last one to arrive.

He chuckles slightly, greeting Hunter back. “Sure. It’s gonna be pretty exciting to see.”

He doesn’t add out loud that he has wondered for a long time what it would be like to play on the same team as Ilya Rozanov.

“Yeah, for sure,” Hunter nods as they sit down with the others.

A few of the other players greet him with nods or quick handshakes as he settles into one of the empty chairs. The table is already half covered with glasses: someone’s beer, someone else’s water, and a bowl of pretzels in the middle that nobody is really touching.

JJ is sitting across from him, scrolling on his phone with a focused expression that immediately makes Shane suspicious.

“What?” Shane asks him.

JJ looks up, grinning.

“I’m creating something very important! A group chat,” JJ announces proudly.

A few groans immediately follow.

“For what?” someone Shane doesn’t recognize asks.

“Team bonding,” JJ says, still grinning. “And so everyone can get to know each other. Helps us play better, eh?”

He starts passing his phone around the table for the players whose numbers he didn’t have yet.

Hunter takes the phone with a quiet sigh. “I remember when we used to just talk to each other. Face to face.”

“In what?” sounds the unmistakable voice of Ilya Rozanov. “1820?”

Scott punctuates his syllables, “Ha-ha, you’re hilarious.”

“And you are old, why are you even here? Didn’t you retire like 10 years ago?” the Russian says while filling his mouth with a handful of pretzels after sitting down.

Hunter glares at him. “Very funny.”

Rozanov just shrugs, still chewing on the pretzels.

“Is true,” he adds after swallowing. “You look like you remember first hockey game, ever.”

A few of the guys laugh.

Shane’s lips also twitch, but he doesn’t dare laugh. It kind of reminds him of Lily’s opinion on Hunter. He wonders if Lily likes Rozanov so much he started copying his opinions. He makes a mental note to ask when he has the opportunity.

“Careful,” Hunter says dryly. “You’re gonna end up on the bench before the weekend even starts.”

Rozanov just gives him another cocky grin as he takes JJ’s phone that was pressed into his hand to also type in his number. From the corner of his eye, Shane can see Rozanov saving his number under the name best player in the league like the smug asshole he is.

-

The weekend passes by faster than Shane expected.

Only after the skills competition, when Shane is still sitting on the bench, does he allow his thoughts to drift to Lily. Lily, who is somewhere in the crowd watching the game, maybe even scanning the stands in hopes of finding Jane.

As far as Lily is aware, Shane is just some random guy who likes hockey too much. In reality, Shane is out here on the ice, skating under bright arena lights in front of thousands of people, pretending to be exactly that.

Shane is going to have to explain why the random hockey fan Lily has been texting for months suddenly turns out to be Shane Hollander.

The actual Shane Hollander.

He still has absolutely no idea how he’s supposed to do that.

The conversation plays out in his head for half a second while his eyes follow some guys on the ice.

“Hey, there! I’m Jane—ah yeah, that player you’ve been insulting for weeks? That’s me.”

Somehow that doesn’t feel like a great opening line.

Shane exhales slowly through his nose and forces his attention back to what’s actually happening around him. There’s no point thinking about it now. The meeting is still plenty of time away, and right now he has a game to play.

-

Playing on the same line as Rozanov felt strange at first. Shane has spent years trying to stop him on the ice, memorizing the way he moved, the way he protected the puck, the way he always seems to know exactly where to go before anyone else does.

Now he was supposed to work with that instead against it.

It turned out to be… surprisingly easy.

Rozanov is still an asshole, of course—that part hadn’t changed. But he was also one of the smartest players Shane had ever shared the ice with. Half the time he seems to know what Shane was about to do before Shane had even decided himself.

They ended up scoring twice together, which Rozanov was extremely smug about afterwards.

By the time Sunday came around, the competitive energy from the games had mostly faded. The official events were over, media obligations were finished, and most of the players were just enjoying the last free evening before everyone went back to their normal teams.

When Shane gets down to the pool, most of the other players are already there. Some are in the water, splashing around or leaning against the edge while they talk. Others are sitting near the small bar with drinks in their hands, enjoying the warm afternoon sun.

Shane’s phone buzzes with a message from, none other than, Lily. Shane gets the message just as he’s pulling a light flannel shirt over his shoulders before heading down to the pool to join the others.

Shane gets the message just as he is pulling a light flannel shirt over his shoulders before heading down to the pool to join the others.

Technically he could send it right away, but his nerves spike again the second he thinks about it.

Maybe he should get a drink first, or two, from the hotel bar before this whole situation actually happens. Imagine not only your ‘sex date’ turns out to be the Shane Hollander, but he also has a full-blown panic attack while meeting you. Great first impression.

He walks up to the bar and orders something stronger than he usually would. As the bartender sets the glass down in front of him, Shane feels someone watching.

Hunter is leaning against the counter a few feet away, eyebrows slightly raised as he looks at the drink in Shane’s hand. Shane isn’t exactly known for his love of alcohol.

“Celebrating the win,” Shane says with a small, nervous smile.

Hunter studies him for another second, then he just shrugs like he doesn’t actually care and turns back to his own drink.

With the glass still cold in his hand, Shane heads over to the pool area and drops down onto one of the lounge chairs.

“Finally,” JJ calls from the water the moment he notices him. He’s already in the pool with a few of the others, resting his arms on the edge. “Hollander decided to join us.”

Shane lifts his drink slightly in response but doesn’t say anything.

JJ’s gaze flicks briefly to the glass in his hand, curiosity flashing across his face, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he just pushes himself backward and dives under the water again, disappearing beneath the surface to wet his hair.

Shane leans back in the chair, the sun warm against his shoulders, and takes a slow sip of his drink. He pulls out his phone to check the time: five p.m. Three hours left until he’s supposed to meet Lily. The thought tightens something in his chest again, the same nervous pressure that’s been following him around all day.

He exhales slowly through his nose and places the phone back down beside him. There’s no point thinking about it yet. If he starts going over every possible version of that conversation now, he’ll just make himself miserable for the next three hours. Better to relax while he still can.

He sinks a little deeper into the lounge chair and lets his eyes wander over the pool area instead. Most of the guys are either in the water or sitting nearby with drinks, the whole atmosphere loose and easy now that the weekend’s events are finally over.

Eventually his gaze drifts to Rozanov. He’s in the pool a few metres away, talking to two kids who Shane assumes belong to one of the other players. Even from here Shane can tell that the usual smugness is still there, but his usual arrogance is noticeably toned down. From what Shane can make out, Rozanov is actually trying to keep the conversation a little more family-friendly than his usual trash-talking self.

Shane realizes he’s been watching for a little too long and forces himself to look away. He doesn’t mean to stare. Ever since he’d started getting used to the idea that he might be into men, looking at other guys had begun to feel different somehow. It made the whole thing feel slightly forbidden, like he was doing something he wasn’t supposed to do—especially with someone like Rozanov, his loud, arrogant rival who was known for leaving a trail of women behind him in almost every city they played in, and definitely not someone Shane should be sitting here quietly admiring.

He downs the rest of his drink and sets the empty glass down beside the chair, briefly considering getting another one. Shane doesn’t drink much alcohol, so his tolerance is probably low enough that he’s starting to feel this one already. He doesn’t want to be drunk, just wants to loosen the mental barrier that’s been making him so nervous all afternoon.

The drink definitely does what it’s supposed to, which is why it doesn’t take long before his eyes drift back to Rozanov.

Shane watches his back as he moves through the water, the droplets sliding down the lines of his muscles, his skin practically glowing in the warm rays of the setting sun. He hasn’t taken off his sunglasses yet, still holding onto the small illusion that no one can actually see where his gaze keeps returning.

His gaze only pulls away when the sound of several messages comes chiming in from his phone. Shane finds that the group chat has finally become active. Shane shakes his head, turning the ringer off before tossing his phone aside again. Whatever chaos JJ had started in there could wait.

When he looks up again, his attention drifts back to the pool almost automatically.

Rozanov seems to have heard the same notifications. His phone is lying on the ground next to the pool. Shane watches without really thinking about it as Rozanov turns around and plants both hands on the edge of the pool, hoisting himself up in one smooth motion. He settles on the tiles, his legs still dangling in the pool while he reaches to pick up his phone.

That’s when Shane notices it.

The thin gold chain around Rozanov’s neck shifts slightly as he moves, the small cross sliding against his chest. For a second it catches the light of the sun, reflecting briefly as Rozanov leans forward to look at his phone and starts typing.

Shane’s stomach drops.

For a moment he feels like he might actually throw up, and it’s not from the alcohol.

There’s no way. Shane must have had too much to drink, the bartender must’ve given him a double or worse, someone spiked his drink with something stronger. His mind must be playing tricks on him. Maybe it isn’t even a cross. Maybe his eyes just aren’t focusing properly, and his brain is filling in the rest, stitching together details that aren’t really there. Or maybe he remembered the pictures wrong.

He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away from the Russian, trying to steady his breathing. When he opens them again, he deliberately looks anywhere but toward the pool.

The thought makes him reach for his phone again. He glances around first, making sure no one nearby is paying attention to what he’s doing, the glare from the sun no longer protecting him. The last thing he needs right now is someone looking over his shoulder.

Thank God Hayden isn’t here.

Shane unlocks the screen and opens his chat with Lily, quickly navigating to the pictures they’ve sent each other. His thumb scrolls through the gallery, searching for that one photo Lily had sent months ago, the shirtless one on the bed with the chain resting against his chest.

Before he finds it, a new message comes in.

Shane’s heart jumps when a notification slides across the top of the screen. For a split second he just stares at it, his brain struggling to process what he’s seeing.

Shane slowly lowers his phone just enough to glance back toward the pool, gripping it with white knuckles.

Rozanov is still sitting on the edge, legs in the water, phone in his hand as his thumbs move lazily across the screen.

And suddenly everything made sense: why Lily knew so much about hockey, why he always talked about the Bears like he knew them personally, why he had opinions about players that sounded less like a fan and more like someone who knew them personally, why Lily had a room in the same fucking hotel.

He could hit himself.

Lily
Ilya

About as creative as he had been with his name.

Holy shit.

He had been sexting with fucking Ilya Rozanov. He had literally seen his dick. He was about to meet Rozanov in about—an hour. There was no way he could follow up with that meeting.

He should cancel. That’s obviously the only solution, just say something came up, say he got sick, say literally anything that keeps him from walking into a hotel room with Ilya Rozanov in an hour.

He starts typing on the thread with just Lily.

hey, I can’t today I think I got sick

He stares at the message for a second before deleting it.

He tries again.

maybe we should meet another day

Delete.

Shane exhales slowly through his nose, leaning forward slightly with his elbows on his knees. His brain feels completely stuck. Every version of the message sounds stupid the second he types it.

His gaze drifts up again.

Rozanov looks relaxed, scrolling through something on his phone with that same lazy expression he always has when he’s in his own space. One arm is braced behind him against the ground to hold himself up, his legs still dangling in the water, whilst he holds the phone loosely in his other hand.

Shane looks back down at his own screen and types before he can overthink it again.

For a second nothing happens.

Then Rozanov glances down at the screen. His brows pull together slightly as he reads, the relaxed expression on his face shifting into mild confusion. He looks at the phone for another second, like he’s deciding what to do with the message.

Then he starts typing.

Shane’s gaze drops back to his own phone the second he notices the movement. On his screen the small typing bubble appears, three dots blinking while Rozanov writes his reply.

A moment later the message comes through.

Shane closes his eyes for a second, trying to think of a reply that doesn’t sound completely stupid. Before he can type anything, his phone vibrates again.

Shane exhales slowly through his nose and forces himself to answer.

The reply comes almost immediately.

Shane’s jaw tightens.

He groans quietly through gritted teeth the second he sends it.

Shane stares at the message, frustration building in his chest.

He types before he can stop himself.

He hits send.

Rozanov is looking at his phone, the relaxed expression gone completely. Confusion flashes across his face as he reads the message again, like he’s trying to make sense of it. Then he slowly pushes himself up from the edge of the pool, water dripping from his legs as he stands there, eyes still glued to the screen in his hand.

This is a terrible idea. Every instinct in Shane’s body is suddenly screaming at him to get up, walk away, pretend none of this ever happened.

Across the pool Rozanov lifts his head slowly, scanning the area around him. His expression is still confused, brows drawn together as he looks from one group of people to another like he’s trying to spot something that would answer whatever was going on in his head.

Shane immediately lowers his head, pretending to focus on his phone like he’s doing something completely unrelated to texting anyone.

His heart is beating so loudly he’s almost convinced everyone around the pool can hear it.

His phone vibrates in his hand.

Rozanov walks past him, still looking down at his phone while he types, completely focused on the screen. Water is still dripping from his legs as he reaches one of the lounge chairs and grabs his towel from it, barely sparing Shane a glance as he throws the towel over his shoulders.

Shane stands, trying his best to look casual as he heads back toward the building. On his way inside he sets the empty glass down on the bar counter, still having enough manners not to leave it outside for the staff to deal with later.

Now was probably the best time to get out of here before anyone catches onto how strange he’s starting to act.

It turns out to be a very stupid decision, because the moment he presses the button for the elevator, someone stops beside him.

Rozanov’s drying his hair with the towel, phone tucked into the side of his swimming trunks while he waits for the elevator. Shane stares straight ahead at the closed doors, suddenly very aware of how little space there is between them.

His heart is beating so loudly he’s convinced he might actually combust any second. He focuses on the decreasing floor number, waiting for the elevator to carry him to safety.

“Something bite you?” Rozanov suddenly says.

“Huh? No—” Shane manages, his voice coming out a little tighter than he intended. He should probably look at him like a normal person would, but his body just refuses.

He can feel Rozanov’s eyes on him.

He pulls out his phone, trying to distract himself. He opens the group chat that’s overflowing with messages from the others, letting the screen fill his attention while he scrolls through the chaos.

The messages move quickly, stacked on top of each other.

Another message pops up.

The elevator doors slide open and Shane steps inside quickly, pressing the button for his floor almost immediately.

Rozanov follows him in a second later.

Shane notices from the corner of his eye that he doesn’t press another button. Instead he pulls his phone out of the waistband of his swimming trunks, which probably means they are staying on the same floor.

Someone writes.

He sends the message automatically, because unlike most of the others he actually reads the emails and listens when the coach talks.

He realizes what he just did a second too late.

Next to him, Rozanov suddenly sucks in a sharp breath, the sound quiet but unmistakable in the small elevator.

Shane glances sideways just in time to see him staring down at his phone, eyes narrowing slightly as he reads the message again before glancing up at Shane, who has never felt as uncomfortable as he does in this moment.

Rozanov doesn’t say anything right away. He looks back down at his phone, then up at Shane again, like he’s comparing two things that suddenly fit together.

The elevator hums quietly as it moves upward.

Then Rozanov starts typing.

Shane’s stomach drops when his own phone vibrates, the sound far too loud in the narrow space.

The elevator continues climbing floor by floor while the silence stretches between them.

Shane can hear the faint rustle of the towel around Rozanov’s shoulders when he shifts his weight against the wall, continuing to type.

Shane’s grip tightens around the phone.

Across the elevator, Rozanov’s reflection shifts faintly in the metal panel of the doors as he tilts his head slightly, watching him with open interest now.

“You know,” Rozanov says after a moment, his voice low and thoughtful, “this is very strange.”

Shane finally risks a glance sideways.

“I text someone,” he continues slowly, holding up the phone just a little. “And every time I send message…”

His gaze flicks briefly to Shane’s hand.

“…your phone vibrates.”

The elevator slows before coming to a stop.

Rozanov’s mouth curls slightly at the corner, that familiar smugness creeping back into his expression.

For a second, Shane considers just running out of the elevator, locking himself in his room, and never looking at Rozanov ever again. He would drown himself in the shower or try climbing out the window.

Instead, he locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket, using every cell in his body to force his expression into something neutral.

“I get a lot of messages,” he says evenly.

But he already knows it’s over. Rozanov knows. He’d seen that Shane’s number is Jane’s number—that he is Jane.

Rozanov watches him for a moment, his expression unreadable. The faint smile on his mouth doesn’t disappear, though, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

“That so?” he says.

The elevator door finally opens, and Shane steps outside. Even though he really wants to make a run for it, he manages to pull himself together enough to step out as casually as possible.

He hears Rozanov following behind him.

“So…” he draws out the O far longer than necessary. “Jane.” It’s not a question.

“Very creative… Shane,” Ilya says, as a matter of fact.

Hearing his own name from Rozanov feels even weirder than hearing him call him Jane.

“Like Lily is much better,” Shane mutters, more to himself.

Rozanov lets out a quiet laugh behind him, the sound low and amused as they walk down the hallway. The carpet muffles their footsteps, but Shane can still feel him there, close enough that the awareness of it prickles along the back of his neck.

“Oh, I know Lily is not very creative,” Rozanov says easily. “But at least I did not choose a name that is one letter away from my real one.”

And then it hits him: the fact that it’s Rozanov.

The fact that Ilya Rozanov now has months of messages from him. Messages where he’d flirted, argued, joked. Pictures—very fucking personal pictures.

His stomach tightens.

His feet stop moving.

For a moment, he doesn’t even turn around. He just stands there, staring at the patterned carpet while the realization settles properly in his head.

Rozanov comes to a stop behind him.

“I need you to delete everything I sent you,” Shane rushes out.

He hears Rozanov sigh as he circles around Shane, now facing him, but he doesn’t say anything. Shane can feel the weight of Rozanov’s eyes on him, like he’s trying to imagine what he looks like under his clothes.

Shane takes this as an opportunity to continue. “And then we’re going to pretend this never happened.”

His voice doesn’t sound as strong as he wants it to, as strong as he needs it to. The fear of what Rozanov could do with all those pictures—and especially the video—is overwhelming in the moment.

Rozanov tilts Shane’s chin up with a thumb, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Is that what you want?”

His eyes look so dark in the dim light of the hallway.

Shane’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he can form words again. “Yes, of course.”

He glances back toward the elevator, fearing someone walking in on them.

“You don’t sound very sure.”

Shane swallows, his jaw tightening. The hallway is far too open, far too exposed. Anyone could step out of the elevator behind them or come around the corner from one of the rooms. There would be no alternative explanation for the way they are standing.

“I’m very sure,” he mutters, pulling his head back slightly until Rozanov’s hand drops away. “Delete the messages, delete the photos, and we both forget this ever happened.”

Rozanov studies him for a long second.

The towel is still draped loosely over his shoulders, his damp hair falling messily into his face as he tilts his head a little.

“You were not saying this yesterday,” he points out.

Shane exhales sharply through his nose. “Yesterday I didn’t know I was texting my biggest rival.”

A faint smile returns to Rozanov’s mouth, and he blinks slowly.

“Ah,” he says pointedly. “So, the problem is that it is me.”

“Yes,” Shane answers immediately, as if it’s the most obvious explanation in the world.

“I think… is not me you hate,” Rozanov says slowly. It’s almost gentle, but the smirk taints it. “Is you. You hate that you like it. That you like me.”

Shane’s jaw locks so hard his teeth ache. “That’s not—”

“Is true.” Rozanov steps closer again, crowding without touching. “You send me a video. You moan for me. You came so hard thinking about my cock. And now? Now you know it’s me, and suddenly it’s bad? Suddenly it is a scandal?”

Shane’s face burns. He glances down the empty corridor again—still no one—but every second feels like borrowed time.

“You don’t get it. If this gets out—”

“It will not get out.” Rozanov’s voice drops lower, rougher. “You act like this would only harm your career.”

Shane realizes, a second too late, how selfish he’s been. He hadn’t even thought about how it would affect Rozanov too. This wouldn’t just destroy him—it would destroy both of them.

“I am best option for you to be… curious,” Rozanov says, voice thick with his accent. “I already see most of you. You already see almost all of me. Just now we also see the faces.”

He licks his lips, voice dropping to a murmur as he leans in close to Shane’s ear.

“You already come so hard watching just short clip of me, and now you have the chance to touch me. You can moan my real name, right against my mouth.”

Shane’s breath hitches, and he steps back. He hates how his body reacts before his mind, pulse hammering, heat pooling low despite everything.

“Stop saying shit like that.”

“Why?” Rozanov’s eyes flick to Shane’s mouth, then back up. “You’re hard, aren’t you?”

“You’re—” His voice cracks. “You’re unbelievable.”

He’s grateful Rozanov doesn’t glance down, because he would absolutely find exactly what he’s describing.

Rozanov’s mouth quirks as he looks at his phone again.

“There’s still time until 8pm. Take a shower and calm down,” he says, clearly hinting at their planned meeting.

Shane exhales shakily, dragging a hand down his face, struggling to meet Rozanov’s eyes.

“This is insane. We can’t—”

“We can.”

Rozanov’s hand lifts slowly, giving Shane plenty of time to pull away—but Shane doesn’t move.

His palm settles against the side of Shane’s neck, warm and steady, his thumb brushing lightly over the racing pulse, fingers cupping the back of his neck.

“Room number, Hollander.”

Shane’s eyes flick to Rozanov’s mouth for a split second—traitor—then snap back up again. He’s breathing too fast; his thoughts scattered somewhere between panic and something much more dangerous.

Instead of answering, his gaze drifts toward the door just a few steps away.

Rozanov follows the movement easily, and a knowing grin spreads across his face.

He steps back then, the contact disappearing as quickly as it came.

“Thirty minutes,” he says, pulling the keycard to his own room from the back of his phone case.

The elevator dings somewhere down the hallway.

Shane exhales slowly through his nose and finally pulls his own keycard from his pocket. He slides it into the lock and pushes the door open, stepping halfway inside before pausing.

For a moment, he just stands there in the doorway, one hand still resting on the handle.

“Finally taking your friend’s advice,” he hears Rozanov say behind him as the Russian unlocks his own room two doors down.

Shane frowns slightly, confused for a second before the memory clicks into place.

Go get laid, dude.

The stupid sentence that started all of this in the first place.