Chapter Text
Yuna Hollander looked up from her phone to the slowly opening elevator door ready to step in. It's 9:30pm at night, her seventeen years old son had been left on his own device in a hotel room after a day of shooting his first national ad campaign. Any parents who didn't think of checking in with their minor children were the irresponsible ones who should never have kids.
Not a helicopter mother. Being there for your children was just parenting 101.
She paused as the door opened fully revealing not yet a man but beyond a carefree teenager.
Ilya Rozanov stared back at Yuna Hollander inside of the elevator. His eyes rounded in faint shock. And if it wasn't for the fact he was already leaning against the wall, he probably would be retreating back as well.
Oh, this kid. It took everything in Yuna–her pride and her rational thinking which she also prided on–to keep her from rolling her eyes at the boy. Stealing #1 draft picks from her sweet boy, haunting Shane's achievements for over the past two years, and of course he's breaking curfews to do god knows what.
Ilya Rozanov was bad news. A bad news who, if Yuna was being honest, was exceptionally good at hockey, but evidently lacked any self-discipline.
It was unfair that the boy was drafted first and her Shane was the second.
Whatever Rozanov was planning to do now, her Shane would never do that. Her Shane would know the importance of discipline and rules. Her Shane would never do anything Yuna's opinions on Rozanov–and she had a lot of them–had always been conflicted. At the end of the day, the boy was going to be Shane's biggest competitor and Yuna had no trouble expressing her total distaste of that boy just for that.
But Rozanov was tragically good at hockey, and Yuna was a die-hard hockey fan at heart. It was almost impossible to hate him; sometimes when the boy made an incredible shot, Yuna had to remind herself to look annoyed rather than awed.
"H-Hi." Rozanov smiled. He was masking his emotions too well for his young age, but still too young for Yuna to look past the disguise easily. His head kept high, voice even, but when Yuna squinted her eyes at him, the boy flinched, practically pressing himself into the wall in the process.
It was strange to see Rozanov anxious.
The Rozanov she saw earlier today was commanding. A lone figure on the set, yet somehow larger than the herd of people orbiting him. Sharp jaw with a sharper smile. Everyone around him was both attracted to him and intimidated by him.
This one in front of her right now was round and, absurdly, fuzzy. Round eyes, round little circle formed on his lips. His jaws loosened significantly, even his curls glowed a softer light.
This Rozanov reminded Yuna of her own son. Not the eighteen years old boy which Yuna just realized was the same age as Rozanov.
No, the Rozanov in front of her reminded Yuna the eight year old Shane, slightly panicked, caught sneaking a kitten into the house. Yuna smiled reminiscently to the panicked boy in her memory.
The boy in front of her, you see, was trying to develop an immediate superpower to phrase through walls .
When you were a bisexual man born in a conservative country, working in a conservative industry, with a talent for bad decisions—your latest being seducing your rigid, repressed coworker, who was also meant to be your future arch-rival—and you now found yourself in an elevator with his mother on your way to him. Panic felt not only reasonable but inevitable.
Ilya Rozanov had spent the past two weeks – a year, if he was being honest – to come up with a plan so he could see more Hollanders, now he's afraid that there might be too many Hollanders.
Ilya tried to smile; he made the mistake of glancing at his reflection in the steel wall instead. He froze, his reflection shaped like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He turned away too quickly, only to run straight into Yuna Hollander’s eyes. He wondered what he must look like to her. Would he look anything like the eight years old him with cavities and cookie addiction, and his beautiful mother had caught him, given into the temptation.
Probably.
If the cookie was shaped like Shane Hollander and came with a mother who could scare him to death with a single glare.
Cookie mama monster and the guy who's trying to steal her baby trapped in an elevator. The opening scene of a Russian comedy that would probably end with a murder making the evening news.
Cookie mama monster smiled back at him. Not a kind smile, not even an awkward smile since they were essentially strangers wordlessly staring at each other.
No, cookie mama monster was definitely judging.
It was clear to Yuna that Rozanov was up to something. Maybe he was the type of kid who always wanted to sneak around behind adults’ backs. Rozanov looked like the type would give his parents migraines for breakfast. Maybe that’s why his parents didn’t show up at all.
But then again. Yuna Hollander was not the parent. She simply did not care. Not about a Boston Raiders anyway.
“Is this going down?” She asked hypocritically, knowing fully well it was going up because she had pressed up.
But Rozanov took the bait, relaxed his shoulder as he said, almost too regrettably. “No, this is going up.”
That should be that. Nodded. Smiled. Waved awkwardly at each other until the elevator doors closed, and neither of them would have to deal with each other again hopefully in their lifetime.
Except Yuna was a business woman and small talk was in her DNA. She reached out a hand to officially introduce herself right before the door was about to close. She tried to pull back, flinching a little too fast that might've defended gravity and tripping herself in the process.
Everything in her purse scattered on the floor as she butt landed on the same place. Somehow it was Rozanov who yelped in surprise.
Oh no. Ilya pried the elevator doors open and squeezed out of the iron safe box. He glanced at the watch on his wrist, it’s two minutes past nine. He’s late. From everything he observed in Hollander—and he might’ve spent too much of his time watching the man’s interview and hockey clips. The man was beautiful—Hollander seemed like the type who freaked out at a 9 p.m. movie when the commercials were still playing at 9:01 p.m.
And if Hollander were going to freak out, it’d be nice if he was freaking out after they made a mess of each other. Hollander also seemed like the type who’d have a panic attack after an amazing orgasm because they didn’t check the hotel room for hidden cameras for the hundredth time or something.
Ilya really, really wanted to be there, to see Hollander's freckles dancing on his cheeks as he panicked. But he couldn't. Hollander's mother had tripped. And never in Rozanov's life would he leave a woman lying on the floor like this.
Not even for someone as beautiful as Shane Hollander.
He knew how hard it was to get up by oneself after a fall.
Sometimes you fall so hard, you send your twelve-year-old son to the neighbor, hoping to spare him the burden of hauling you up. But then he came back to the lifeless vessel of your soul, stared, pulled, tumbled, and pulled again until his knees were bleeding. He still couldn’t lift you with his weak, pitiful little arms. His father later told him he was weak because he was lazy.
His grown body now moved on instinct with ease.
Picking up the scattered items on the floor. Picking up falling women on the floor. He was used to picking up pieces by now that on a good day the weight barely dragged him down anymore.
Yuna Hollander muttered a quiet thank you as he moved around her, and Ilya wondered if cookie mama monster even knew who he was?
“I’m Ilya.”
Which no one even asked.
He handed the purse back, spent a good half a second embarrassed, then proceeded to put on a ridiculously polite smile as if he was going to church with his own mother.
“Are you okay?” he asked, which, really, should be the first thing anyone says when someone falls in front of them.
Yuna moved her left ankle cautiously. She couldn’t feel any pain. In fact, her feet barely touched the floor as Rozanov took her full weight, practically lifted her into midair.
“Well. Thank you. I’m Yuna. And I’m quite ok, dear.” She patted on Rozanov’s shoulder, but the boy looked almost hesitant to take her words. “I’m really fine. Maybe just a little embarrassed.” She added amusingly.
“Is not your fault.” Rozanov gently put her back on her feet, “they should have, um, safety measures.” The “S”s and the “R”s rolled on his tongue vehemently like it personally offended him.
Yuna laughed. The Rozanov kid was surprisingly sweet and maybe kind of funny. Like her Shane. Only Shane was probably sweeter and funnier.
Maybe.
"Safety measures to enter the elevators?" Yuna half teased.
“Yes. Is too empty here. Too much space for people to fall. Dangerous.” Rozanov nodded to his own observation, a cute frown creased his brow, “you should sue them.” He said. Yuna thought the boy might be pouting a little.
She chuckled. Rozanov kind of grew on her a little bit now.
“I like the way you think. But I’m not suing anyone. That’d be quite embarrassing.”
Ilya nodded again. He was uncharacteristically awkward.
Standing next to Yuna had made him look like a lost puppy pretending to be a guard dog. His past experiences told him this was the time for him to gather the first aid kit he hid under his bed and start to tend the bruises and gashes. His brain, though, supplied that the woman in front of him wasn’t pushed nor beaten, nor was this woman his mother. Hollander’s mother was laughing, so Rozanov really didn’t know what to do with that.
“I get elevator.” He turned, a quick glance at his watch told him he was already thirty minutes late. Hollander’s mother was probably going to the lobby, and he could still go to the fourteenth floor after this. He hoped Hollander would still let him in after this.
But Yuna stopped him before he could press any buttons. “Actually, could you press up?”
Rozanov paused. He could press up. But he really didn’t want to. Only one of them could get up, and he was really hoping it was him.
Unaware of the internal struggle she had accidentally put the boy in front of her through, Yuna continued, “I was going to take my son for a late night bite. Maybe you would like to join us?” The last sentence came out of her mouth before thoughts were properly formed in her head. But somehow it made sense. Rozanov was not bad, and Shane could use more friends.
“To dinner?” Rozanov turned around to her, stiffly.
“Well, yes. I want to thank you. And you like my son Shane, right? I've heard you're the one who made this filming happen?"
The news came as a surprise to Yuna at first. Ilya Rozanov had requested to do this commercial shooting with Shane. Yuna had laughed when the producer had told her that this morning. It had taken her only three long seconds to notice the dead serious look on the producer's face. Now to think of it, Yuna thought it was kind of sweet.
Rozanov scratched his nose, his cheeks were surprisingly pink too. "I didn't know you knew that."
"It's really nice of you. And to tell you the truth, Shane really respects you as a hockey player. We used to watch your games and your practices, Shane always enjoyed it very much. And you are both going to play in the MLH this year, so why shouldn’t you get to know each other a little bit?”
Her head was tilting slightly to her right. Hollander had the same look on him the day he approached Rozanov. That earnest attention all laser focused on one person was too dangerous. Rozanov lost his words then, he couldn't say no to Yuna Hollander now.
The plan. The plan he had for tonight was to know Hollander maybe more than a little bit. Rozanov thought remorsefully. It was not fair that he had endured a long, almost endless commercial shoot, be nice, be polite, just to have his reward taken away from him.
“I don’t want to, um-”
—fuck, what’s a word for I didn’t want to go, and I wished you wouldn’t either so I could go up to your son’s room and lick every mole and freckle on your son’s body.
And also if I ended up having dinner with you, your husband, and your son with all our clothes on, this would be the weirdest hookup I had ever had.
And your son would probably have a heart attack, then I would have to press my hands on his beautiful body and kiss his pretty lips. When he came back from the dead, he would probably be very hard. Because let’s be honest, I’m a sexy nurse. But then where would this leave us?–
“-make your dinner weird?” Was what his broken English managed to come up with.
It didn' t work. Of course it didn't work. Ilya knew he was fighting a lost battle before he opened his mouth. Yuna Hollander looked so kind, so sincere, so… motherly, how on earth was Ilya to say no to the woman?
“It’s not weird." Yuna shook her head, "We would all love to have you join us. Shane really does watch you play all the time. I talked to him during your commercial shoot today and he ignored me because you were skating. He would love to get to know you.” She didn’t say her son also needed more friends. She didn’t say sometimes she worried Shane might be lonely.
“Come on.” She nudged Rozanov in the shoulder, and pressed the elevator to go up, “Shane’s in 1410, weren’t you going to the fourteenth floor anyways?”
I know what room he was in. Rozanov thought to himself bitterly. He should be getting a mouthful of Hollander’s dick and spotting more beautiful freckles on the most beautiful naked body he had seen in his life twenty minutes ago. He couldn’t possibly say that in front of the cookie mama monster's face. Not when the woman was still wearing sharp heels and all those even sharper jewelry. The police would never find his body.
Rozanov still couldn’t quite figure out how to keep a poker face under a mother’s scrutiny, but he compensated by smiling so wide that the corners of his lips were practically at his eye level. That should make him look normal.
Nodded, back straight, and hands folded in front of him just the way his own mother had taught him, he said obediently, “I would love to.”
Yuna Hollander looked delighted, if not a little confused by the sudden enthusiasm. She thought maybe the boy was really hungry. Teenagers didn’t always know how to take care of themselves after all.
The elevator opened, and as they walked in, Yuna started to talk about how Ilya would get along with her son, Shane. Ilya nodded along wordlessly. He hoped getting along with Shane Hollander without clothes was still an option.
He wondered if Hollander was secretly the type enjoying sneaking around his parents. After all, some of his hookups were really turned on by that. His coach's son, Sasha, went feral a room away from where his father was lecturing the rest of his team.
Probably not. Hollander off the ice seemed like a panic attack wearing human body.
At least Hollander’s freckles would be prettier when he’s flushed. He was adorable panicking in the shower. That, somehow, was as exciting to Ilya as getting naked with Shane Hollander.
Shane Hollander the his 22nd lap of his hotel room and decided Ilya Rozanov was the world's worst jackass - for the 21st time.
First the guy had tricked him into filming a commercial with him, then he followed him into the shower and made a big deal about him getting hard while showering—he was an athlete, and they had been previously skating for hours! —then Rozanov had the gall to jerk off in front of him, in the shower, where anyone could have walked in on them.
Ilya Rozanov was bad news. The logical part of him had known this from the very beginning. It was just that logic didn’t work when Shane was near Rozanov and his heart was pumping weird chemicals into his blood that made his brain a pile of useless mush. This was why he was pranked into thinking someone hot and stunning like Rozanov would actually show up at 9 p.m. to hookup with, well, plain old him.
He heard a door knock on his 23rd lap and he was determined to ignore it. No way he was falling for it again. Rozanov probably was laughing with his lame friends on the other side of the door.
He took a deep breath, the cool air-conditioned air calmed the anxiety shimmered in his lower belly. For a brief second, he thought maybe he was being unfair to Rozanov. Maybe Rozanov was held up somewhere. But then he exhaled, irritation took back his mind again, and he decided in a minute he was going to open the door and yell. He just needed a moment to collect himself first.
The knock came again, and again, and again. Each more rapid and urgent, Shane sighed. With great annoyance, he opened the door and words, his heart, his entire life died immediately at the sight.
A minute brought him facing his mother standing on the side of the door with a six-foot-tall Russian hockey player hiding behind her five-foot-two frame in a final, almost ridiculous attempt at thoughtfulness.
There was Rozanov. And his mother. Shane was just glad he didn’t listen to that one comment he saw from the internet suggesting he should wait for his hookup in his birthday suit. He would die from the embarrassment alone.
Not that this was any better as he was gaping at the two people in front of his room with his mouth hung open so wide his jaws hurt.
His mother, the rock in his life, frowned with worry. Behind her, Rozanov had the nerve to smile at him, feigning innocence when mischief danced in his eyes.
Shane couldn't breath. Rozanov had tattled to his mother. It was the only explanation of that diabolical smile the man was wearing.
He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking, nor could he stop his heart from rattling in his ribcage, spreading panic throughout his body. He opened his mouth; his voice came out broken. ‘Mom’ could be an eighteen letters word, he wouldn’t know, couldn’t say it in one go or in multiple attempts. Not when Rozanov was standing behind his mother like a perfect, little snitch.
“Honey, are you ok?” His mother was worried. Did he look pale and cold like he felt?
You told my mother? You fucking asshole, I hate you! He glared, his eyes must have told the exact same message because Rozanov had actually looked apologetic.
Cockadail's tears, no doubt. He was losing it. Fist clenched so tight his palm numbed. He could punch the bastard, and he really was about to, but the Russian shook his head quietly behind his mom and Shane paused.
He didn’t know anything about Rozanov, didn’t quite like the man very much, but somehow he trusted the man, understood him, and that was enough. Shane took a deep breath, pasted on a smile that was probably fooling no one.
“Mom,” his throat was looser, and glared as the tall Russian’s name squeezed itself out from the gaps between his teeth, “and Rozanov.”
“Hello.” Rozanov smirked back at him and gave him a little wave. When his mother looked back at him, however, Rozanov’s face switched back to that pleasant, wide-eyed smile immediately.
Maybe he could still punch Rozanov. His mother probably will understand. Rozanov had a punchable face.
“Honey,” His mother came up to hug him. In front of Rozanov, she kissed Shane's cheeks like he was a child. He hid his face in the crook of Yuna's neck, eyes shooting daggers at the tall man grinning at him. The asshole just grinned wider.
Gently, Shane pushed himself out of his mother’s embrace, his cheeks burned as Rozanov quietly observed the whole scene.
Rozanov was wearing a tight tank top clad on his sculptured body, a Demi jean jacket, a pair of jeans, and his cross snugged in the curve between his manly chest. Rozanov looked like a catalog model walked out of a fashion magazine and Shane was the underdressed teenager still getting cuddled by his mother. Shane wished he was still wearing the suits from before.
“Are you ok, honey?” His mother asked again, which didn’t help with his bruised ego.
He shook his head, “no, yeah. Just um,” he took a really good look at the scene in front of him: room 1410, 9:34 p.m.. The man jerked off in front of him in a commune shower, then promised to do some more with him in his hotel room tonight and his mother showed up at his room.
Together.
He swallowed, “surprised?” And so fucking confused.
Rozanov huffed out a laugh, when Yuna turned to look at him, he straightened his facial expression back to a meek smile and nodded, “Yes. I did not think I will see you again tonight.”
The way he said those words ticked something off in Yuna, but on the left of her, Shane was glaring back at Rozanov, so Yuna just rolled her eyes. Teenagers and their recklessnesses.
She claps her hands together, “Well, now we are going to get to know each other better by having dinner together.”
“What?” Shane blurted out at the same time as Rozanov uttered out an obedient “I would love to, Mrs.Hollander.”
Yuna gave Shane an unimpressed look before rewarding Rozanov with a pleased smile. “I told you to call me Yuna.” Shane thought he might be panicking again because his mother actually seemed to like Rozanov. Yuna?
“Okei. Sorry, Yuna.” Rozanov preened under Yuna’s gaze, all innocent, well behaved, and sweet. Shane thought Rozanov’s face was weird.
Yuna’s face softened at Rozanov, “that’s quite alright, dear.” Then as his mother looked back at him, no doubt was about to give him a stern talk. Rozanov’s eyes trained on him, a smirk surfaced on the Russian’s cocky face; it only brightened within each second.
If only his mother wasn't here. Shane wanted to push Rozanov against the wall and-
“We are going to dinner together.” Yuna announced, “So you should go change, remember you have to wear Reebok.”
Shane's mind was still stuck on attacking Rozanov with primitive passion, now the reality asked of him to eat with Rozanov like two civilized people. He opened and closed his mouth multiple times, gulping wasted air until a weak argument eventually came to rescue.
“But we already had dinner?”
“A late night snack then. Go change, Shane.”
“But we never eat snacks.” His voice went from weak to almost inaudible under his mother’s disapproving gaze.
“Go change, Shane.” His mother repeated, “We and your father will wait for you in the lobby. Come on, Ilya.” She left no room for Shane to argue.
Rozanov, like a small duckling, traced behind her on instinct. Then he stole a glance at Shane. There was something almost close to tenderness flashed through his eyes as he opened his mouth hesitantly.
“Um. Maybe I can use Hollander’s restroom first?” It was the way Rozanov spoke, too cautious, too polite, like some meek alter boy possessed his body that made Shane's skin itch. Rozanov was being weird and Shane wanted him to stop and act normal again.
“Of course you can.” Yuna was smiling at Rozanov, a genuine smile. “Me and David will wait for you guys in the lobby.” Then a warning look addressed directly at Shane, “Go change, honey.” She said it almost as if it's a threat.
And if Shane was anything less than a bag of firecrackers ready to explode now, he would do exactly that.
The door closed and Shane was shoving Rozanov against the wall the next second. The tall Russian let out a surprised yelp, his hands were too busy climbing on Shane’s neck as if he was aiming for a kiss that Shane had to bat those large, wandering hands away.
“Are you fucking serous now?” Shane growled frustratedly; he had to keep holding Rozanov at arm’s length because the man kept trying to lean in.
“Whaaat?” Rozanov dragged after several failed attempts to break Shane’s defense line. His body relaxed under Shane’s hold, and Shane immediately recognized the change of Rozanov’s tactics.
The Russian couldn’t break Shane’s hold so he slouched against the wall instead. His head lazily tilted back giving his eyes a better angle to flicker over Shane’s face to his body like light feather, pausing suggestively on his lips.
Shane let out an angry scowl. It didn’t help that his cheeks were burning under Rozanov’s gaze and his chest combusted with so many feelings switching from arouse to murdering rage within a second.
Choosing anger was easy, it was the loudest emotion in his head and it tuned out the rest, so he yelled, “why the fuck do you think it’s ok to show up with my mom? Is this some kind of prank?”
“I ran into her.” Rozanov shrugged, as if it’s normal.
“Then why didn’t you leave? What did you tell her?”
“Nothing. She fell, I helped her.” Rozanov rolled his eyes in annoyance. As if he was actually stupid enough to say anything about this to anyone.
“She fell?” Shane frowned. His eyes were judgey.
Rozanov threw his hands in the air, and exclaimed, “I did not push her!”
“Well, no.” Shane paused, he didn’t think Rozanov would actually want to harm anyone, let alone his mother. "Of course, not." His hand was still on Rozanov’s chest, he let go. Anger could only get him so far.
There were creases on the demi jean jacket as evidence of his aggressive shoves. He cleared his throat. Suddenly embarrassed of his quick conviction, if not slightly guilty too.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to doubt you.” He murmured.
Rozanov shrugged, “Is ok. You think I’m an asshole.”
“I know you’re an asshole.” Shane shot back, but he couldn’t help but add, gently, “but I know you’re not a bad person. And thank you for helping my mom.”
“I did not tell your mother anything, Hollander. I’m Russian, I will never share a secret like that.” Rozanov said solemnly, his chest rumbled under Shane’s palm as he spoke.
“I-I know.” Shane cleared his throat. The skin under his palm was too hot, too intimate, he had to drop his arm before the heat spread to him too. He took a step back. A step away was cool air and where reasons came back to his hazed mind.
He said, to whom he did not know, “and nothing happened anyways.”
“Something can still happen.” Rozanov was leaning on the wall giving him that stupid smirk again. "Nobody will know." Rozanov tilted his hip forward, every inch of his body was on display for the only other person in this room.
Shane couldn't help it. He was staring. Judging from that victorious gleam in Rozanov's eyes, he was being very obvious. Just a few hours ago, Rozanov was completely naked in front of him. Shane could still remember the bulged muscles under smooth, wet skins, and the angry red cock, peaking and disappearing in Rozanov's large palm.
Shane shuttered. Curse his perfect memory insisted on painstakingly remembering Rozanov's naked body in detail. Cruse Rozanov for having such an arousing body.
Rozanov huffed a laugh and walked towards Shane, his hips moved first before the rest of his body lifted itself off the wall. He crowded over Shane, blue eyes pierced through Shane like a wolf locked on his prey. Shane had to catch himself from leaning closer, but he couldn't fight off the urge to stare at Rozanov's lips as the Russian whispered, "do you want? We still have time."
"No?" There was an internal fight broken in him.
"Why not?" Rozanov leaned in, his hot, damp breath brushed against Shane's face. Their faces were mere inches apart, so close to each other, and Shane was so, uncontrollably, fucking miserably, hard.
"We- we can't." Shane whined, it would be embarrassing if he wasn't so turned on right now.
Large hands creeped on his waist, gripping him with a force that would surely leave marks for later. Shane couldn't care, not when Rozanov pressed his hips against him, his cock equally hard as Shane's. A relieved sigh escaped Shane's mouth. It was good to know Rozanov was as desperate as him.
"Why not?" Rozanov asked again, his hands started to rub hypnotic circles on Shane's back.
"I-" He gasped when Rozanov's body covered his. So fucking hot. Rozanov was setting him on fire. Any shred of self control he prided on was slipping, if Rozanov so much so just moved a little, maybe just to readjust himself, just one tiny friction, Shane would be on his knees, completely giving into his burning lust.
But Rozanov just held himself there. Hard muscle, tensed body, and even harder cock all pressed against him, but Rozanov didn't make any more moves. He was waiting. Shane realized. Rozanov was waiting for his lead.
And God. It was such a gentle gesture, he wanted to kiss the man. He can't. He really, really, really shouldn't. He wouldn't be able to stop once he started kissing Rozanov. He didn't think he would even want to stop kissing Rozanov, or touching him, or fuck.
Shane thought of the steamy shower not long ago. He really wanted to suck Rozanov's cock, or just to hold it in his mouth. He bet it'd feel so nice.
It's almost insane to want a man so much. Shane shouldn't be wanting a man so much. Especially not Rozanov, even if his body was screaming for the Russian in his arms.
Something on his face must have betrayed him. Or maybe just how tense his body had become from thinking about expectation and duties, and the responsibilities on his shoulder. Rozanov let go, Shane was instantly cold as the Russian took a step back. He wanted to grab the man and held on.
But Rozanov just shrugged, giving him a way out easily. “Later then.”
“No!" He said, like a reflex. It was his first instinct to say no to anything he wanted except hockey. "Not later. Not ever." His voice was still weak.
His eyes wandered away from Rozanov, behind the man was a door. A door just a few minutes ago his mother walked out of. Or had it only been minutes? Shane wouldn't know. His heart might be racing a bit at the thought of his parents, of how close it had been for his mother to catch him and Rozanov in the act.
He shook his head firmly, all the filthy thoughts flung out with it. If only.
"Not when my parents were waiting in the lobby. Not when we are about to play for rival teams.” He said, with all the authority he could muster in him.
"Okei." Rozanov grinned easily which meant the man wasn't at all convinced.
His life was at the verge of collapse and here was Rozanov, all carefree smiles and stupidly infatuating. Shane huffed, “this is all your fault.”
“How?” Rozanov frowned. "You wanted, I wanted. Not my fault."
Shane blushed. He wasn't going to walk back into whatever this was, so instead he said, "I mean the dinner."
“Your mother fell. I should leave your mother alone on the dirty- thing?” The Russian gestured wildly at the floor, Shane hated he knew what Rozanov meant. He hated even more that Rozanov kind of had a point.
“It’s called a carpet.”
“Fine. Whatever. I helped your mother, yes? She asked me to dinner.”
“Then say no!” Shane paced around the room, getting his coat and sponsored shoes from the hotel closet, his nicer shirts and pants from the drawers under the tv.
Rozanov followed behind him. “And be rude to your mother?”
He was half undressed before he realized Rozanov's eyes were trained on his chest. It was his dignity that stopped him from covering himself like a blushing maid. “Turn around. Stop staring at me, you weirdo.”
Rozanov hugged his chest with a short “no”
Shane huffed. Tensions from before still lingered in his lower belly, he tried again weakly, “I need to change.”
“Then change.” Rozanov hooked an eyebrow at him and dared.
Never the one to back down from a challenge, Shane did just that. Shirts yanked off him and he met with Rozanov’s eyes dead on.
It was a fight, a quick strike in order to score, to render your opponent defendless so fast they couldn’t tell what hit them until your puck was in their net, and the horn cried in defeat from your attack.
Shane couldn’t tell who won who lost, not when he and Rozanov were both panting. To think, two professional athletes breathless because of what? Him being shirtless?
The way Rozanov looked at him–Oh no, when did they stand so close to each other again?–Shane could see how the tall Russian’s pupils dilated, how lust darkened those beautiful green irises.
He had to look away. Years and years of practice on self-discipline just so he could turn away from something he had truly wanted.
Want, as it turned out, was a dangerous thing, and Rozanov was the most lethal Shane had faced in his entire life.
He took a step back, and another just to be safe. His parents were waiting downstairs. He would not disappoint them.
He turned away from Rozanov so he wouldn't face his own defeat. He put on a new shirt, words, however, came out like a whisper. “I-It’s still your fault you know.”
“Finnne.” Rozanov’s voice trailed behind him. “Is my fault,” Shane could practically feel the hot, wet, breath hushed out of Rozanov’s body and traced down his nape, “Am too sexy, too beautiful. Irresistible” Heat radiated from his back, so much heat it was going to engulf him–why did Rozanov have to be so big? Big hands, big muscle, big everything–
“Irresisitable? Where did you learn that word?” Shane laughed, still too nervous to face the Russian.
“Is true, no? I walked into the shower, you saw me naked, and you got very hard.” Rozanov’s hands were reacquainting itself to Shane's waist again.
“I was skating on ice before.” He stood willingly in Rozanov’s arms. Just for a minute, he told himself, he needed to find the right shirt and the air condition was too cold.
“You were not hard when I got in.” Something soft landed on his nape. Curved lips, a brief kiss, so tender Shane instinctively exposed his neck wider, asking for more.
It took a second, maybe one more kiss or five, before his eyes widened with realization. He was getting hard again, and Rozanov. Was poking at him from behind.
“Hey, no.” He whimpered and a remorseful sigh hovered next to his left ear. It soon faded, dissipated in the sudden distance stretched between them.
Part of him couldn’t tell if he should feel surprised, relieved, or hurt that Rozanov backed away so easily. Part of him still thought Rozanov was pretending to like him just to play a prank somehow.
But when he looked back at Rozanov, only slightly out of breath, the Russian was pouting. His heart had stupidly decided that Rozanov was adorable. Strangely, he felt guilty.
For what? He dared not to think too deeply.
“We can’t.”He said, almost apologetically, “I don’t want to lie to my parents.”
“You tell your parents everything?” Rozanov frowned.
“Pretty much, yeah.” He shrugged, “Not this, obviously. Just well. Other things. They trust me, and I don’t like to let them down.”
Rozanov studied him for a quiet second. There was something foreign flickered in his eyes, but before Shane could examine it any further, Rozanov backed away; the foreign look hid under their distance.
“Ok.” said Rozanov. He looked like he actually meant it and Shane didn't know how to feel about that.
Shane averted his eyes, throat itched with a need to make a sound, any sound to break this sudden silence. He coughed, startled no one but himself. The other man in the room had been standing quietly where he was, looking at Shane taking off pants, putting on new pants, and then the very important Reebok shoes he must be seen wearing everywhere he went.
Rozanov studied his movement without heat or any tease. Which somehow bothered Shane more than the fact he was about to have late night snack with his parents and his almost-hookup.
There was pressure building up in him. The wrong kind. Not the one sent thrills down to his spine just a few minutes ago, but the one that formed a tight clutch around his stomach.
He was pacing a little, acting busy as a desperate attempt to stall. Because this had been a terrible idea. The entire night was a bad idea, now he was going to sleep on the bed that he made with a naked man in the shower and his very inappropriate dick insisting on getting hard on every unfortunate opportunity possible.
“This is such a bad idea.” He said just as much.
Rozanov only shrugged, “is just dinner.”
“Late night snack.” He impulsively corrected it. Why was he like this? “And it’s not just a late night snack. It’s with my parents.” Panic rose in him again, he tried to calm himself by walking it off but at some point he found himself racing back and forth in the room, slightly short of breath.
He was only stopped when a hand held his wrist, a small patch of warmth on his cold hand.
“Hey.”Rozanov tried to get his attention. He fought the hold at first, instinctively, but the grip was strong, unyielding. “Hey.” Rozanov tried again, taking his chin with the other hand so he had no choice but to look at the Russian. “Is going to be fine.” Rozanov’s voice was surprisingly gentle.
“You don’t know that.” Shane huffed.
“Is fine. I will be horrible, your mother will hate me. Your parents will never want to see me again. Until I beat you the next time on national television. And your mother will tell you to be more like me.” Rozanov had the gall to wink at him at the end of his little speech.
“Fuck you.” Shane laughed as he shoved Rozanov off him playfully. When the Russian let go without much of a fight, he immediately mourned the loss of contact.
His hand was now cold again. He held himself back from doing something stupid like reaching for Rozanov’s hand again.
“Ok.” Rozanov wiggled his eyebrows at Shane.
“Shut up.” He rolled his eyes, “And my mom obviously knows I’m the better player here.”
“Ok.” Rozanov nodded, but his eyes gleamed with a playful challenge, “Only beat you twice, but ok.”
“Well, it won’t happen again.”
“We’ll see.”
At this speed, they were going to be here forever, arguing in circles. Somehow Shane kind of liked getting competitive with Rozanov, he liked it even more when Rozanov met his every move. Not backing down. Not shying away. Just there, firmly holding his ground and knew Shane would do the same.
Rozanov made competing fun.
Shane rolled his eyes; he couldn’t quite figure out how to hide the smile that claimed his face. When he chanced a look at Rozanov, he found the Russian smiling back at him, so maybe it was alright.
Just when they were about to head to the door, he turned to Rozanov one last time, “And please don’t be rude to my mom. You don’t have to pretend to be anything. Just be yourself.”
“You don’t know anything about me, Hollander.” It sounded like a challenge and a confession.
Shane grinned, “oh, I think I know.” A competitive asshole. He didn’t say that out loud. He didn’t think he would be able to mask his fondness.
Rozanov’s eyes lingered at the pair of Reebok on his feet, at his mother’s request. There was that foreign look flickering in his eyes again.
With a slightly crooked head, Rozanov challenged, “No, you don’t, Hollander.”
Shane huffed. Maybe he didn't know Rozanov's birthday, but he knew Rozanov enough to decide that sometimes this man needed to learn to shut up.
Rozanov was still grinning at him, eyes danced between him and the door. Before Shane even registered what was happening, they were racing each other to the elevator. Rozanov only won by cheating.