Chapter Text
The rhythm of Ilya’s bouncing leg creates a quiet, rapid pulse in Coach Reilly’s office. The man himself is staring at his computer screen, but his eyes flick to Ilya here and there. After playing for the man for four seasons, he can see the ratcheting tension in his jaw, but Ilya can’t make his leg stop.
The phone in his pocket buzzes, but Ilya doesn’t reach for it. Mostly likely it is another message in the team chat. Whoever it is shouldn’t be on their phone, but they’re no doubt taking advantage of the fact the captain and the head coach are together.
Ilya’s leg bounces faster.
He should be on the ice as well or reviewing tape for their upcoming game against Carolina. He would much rather be doing either thing instead of sitting in Reilly’s office waiting for the GM to arrive like a naughty school child. He doesn’t know why he’s here. Reilly summoned him this morning via text. Upon arriving, they’d exchanged pleasantries and Desjourney’s asking about his journey back from Russia as they waited for the Raider’s GM to arrive.
Anxiety continues to drive his leg’s involuntary movement. He knows Russia’s Olympic team poor performance wasn’t solely on his shoulders despite being captain. He knows that. He knows hockey people know that, but he hasn’t shaken his father’s voice out of his head. He hasn’t forgotten the disappointed looks on his countrymen’s faces. He hasn’t forgiven himself.
The performance shouldn’t affect his role on the Raiders. His no trade clause is iron clad. But the C on his chest, that’s new and it’s fragile.
He’d been shocked when Reilly sat him down at the beginning of the season and told him that they were giving him the C this year. He‘d known it was coming eventually, but he didn’t think he’d get it this season. Since Ilya was a rookie the C had belonged to Leo Zadonsky, who is playing his tenth season for the Raiders this year. Seasoned and steady, Zadonsky, or Zsky as most of the team called him, had stepped down, feeling unable to take on the role of captain this year and recommended Ilya for the job.
He’s not in uniform at the moment, but he can feel the letter’s weight on his chest. Is he going to lose it?
Ilya forces his brain to come up with alternatives to why he is meeting with Reilly and the GM. He supposes the trade deadline is approaching, but Ilya is still relatively young in his career. He may be the face of Raiders as the star center and his notoriety thanks to the rivalry with Hollander, but he doubts they are coming to him for an opinion on possible movement on the team.
His mind turns to the only other possibility. Dallas Kent.
While Ilya was embarrassing Russia on home ice, Dallas Kent, the mediocre center for Toronto was making headlines and not in a good way. The news that Kent was missing and wanted for murder broke the same day as the Russian Olympic team’s catastrophic loss to Latvia. Other than the loss it was the buzz of the Olympic village and created some interesting conversations around why Kent hadn’t been invited to join the American team.
Ilya himself hadn’t payed much attention to the coverage, too caught up in his own troubles. His father’s ailing health is becoming more and more apparent and he spent the rest of his time in Russia researching options for care, speaking with doctors and trying to get Alexei and his stepmother Polina to see reason.
His return to Boston was a welcome change despite the unease and worry he feels for the way things were left in Moscow. Before Reilly pulled him into this meeting Ilya had been chomping at the bit with all the energy Svetlana’s prediction for the remainder of this season sparked in him.
Now he feels like an animal being led to slaughter.
His patience with not knowing why he hear is cracking, tongue already prepared to spill questions at his coach, when Gio Laurenti, the Raiders’ GM, enters the office with his phone still held to his ear.
He forces his leg to still.
“Rick,” Ilya recognizes the Raiders’ owner’s name, “let me have this conversation, Hollander and his agent are waiting on me and I don’t want to give them too much time to overthink this.”
Ilya’s lungs freeze. Why would Laurenti have Hollander and his agent waiting on him?
He suddenly wishes he looked at his phone to see if any of those buzzes he has ignored are messages from Hollander. Hollander texted him last night, but it hadn’t been anything other than telling Ilya he wanted to speak. Ilya figured it was about Sochi and talking about Sochi is the last thing Ilya wants to do. He’d almost sent a congratulatory text when Canada won gold over Sweden but his own loss still felt too raw at the time. He’s sure perfect Shane Hollander would have sent him a message if their roles were reversed.
Laurenti folds all 6 feet of himself into the chair next to Ilya.
“What the fuck Gio?” Reilly starts.
Ilya blinks in surprise. Perhaps, Reilly is just as much in the dark as he is. Tension creeps up his spine.
Laurenti sighs as he rubs at the bridge of his nose. “What we are going to discuss does not leave this room. I’d be out of my job if they knew I was being this transparent with the two of you, but fuck, I want a Cup and we have a chance now, more than we did before and I don’t care about the politics or the League as a whole.”
Laurenti was hired as GM last season. The man was a decent a player in his prime, but he was much more suited to the role of a GM in Ilya’s opinion. He has an eye for talent and even better business sense. Ilya respects him a lot more than the last GM, but he doesn’t know him well and can’t read where this is going.
What does this have to do with Hollander? Why is Ilya in the room? Had someone found out about them? Gotten pictures somehow?
Ilya forces himself to breathe.
The last time they had been together was Hollander’s apartment. Hollander had been so careful, forcing Ilya to meet him at an emergency exit door. When he left, he had his taxi pick him up a block and a half away, in front of another apartment building. There had been almost no one on the street, no one that Ilya had thought payed him any particular interest to him. If Ilya were being honest though he wasn’t paying much attention at that time to anything else around him.
His thoughts were still full of Hollander; the smell of warm skin and sex that Ilya’s lungs greedily sucked in with each breath, the smooth planes of muscle and flesh that Ilya’s hands worshipped, the decadent sounds that poured onto Ilya’s ears like honey.
A sweet press of lips against his brow that was too intimate and too perfect.
Breathe.
“I’m sure you are both aware of the absolute shit show going on in Toronto.”
The rush of relief Ilya feels at the new direction the statement brings is dizzying. If he wasn’t gripping the armrests of his char as if his life depends on it he’d have fallen over.
Reilly snorts. “You’d have to be living on the moon to not have be aware of it. Heard this morning that they still haven’t found Kent. But, what the fuck does that have to do with Shane Hollander?”
Again, Reilly asks the important question. Ilya really likes his coach.
Laurenti grimaces. “That shit show is about to get worse.”
“Worse?” Ilya repeats. The man is still, presumably in a country not his own and even if he is innocent or found innocent he’ll never set foot on the ice again. What could be worse?
“Multiple allegations of sexual assault on top of the murder and a paper trail and a witness that show the Guardians’ administration was made aware of the allegations months prior,” Laurenti pauses for a moment before continuing, “and so was the MLH.”
“Holy fuck,” escapes Ilya’s mouth and his arm twitches in an aborted motion to silence himself. That is certainly worse. Laurenti shakes his head in either dismay or disgust. Reilly is quiet for a moment but Ilya can’t hold back though. “Sorry, Hollander? How is he part of this?”
“I’m not sure of the exact reasons Montreal has, but the League needs a distraction from the bad press.” Laurenti’s face twists with disapproval. “Crowell’s known to be friendly with the Morin family, they own the Metros. He must have asked for a favor and who knows what he’s promised them in return. Who better to distract from a scandal than Canada’s favorite son?”
The realization hits Ilya like a punch to the solar plexus.
“They’re trading Shane fucking Hollander?” Reilly questions with utter disbelief. It takes a half second more before he follows the question with another. “We’re signing him?”
Ilya’s head no longer feels attached to his body, but luckily Laurenti doesn’t let them wallow in their suspense. “He hasn’t yet, but he doesn’t have much of a choice, again nothing here leaves the room.” His eyes are on Ilya who quickly nods. “Unlike you, his contract had a modified NTC, not a full one but he does have a final veto clause that his agent must have fought tooth and nail for. There weren’t many teams on his list.”
But Boston is. Ilya ignores the warmth in his chest.
Laurenti turns completely in his chair to Ilya. “Crowell wants you two on the same team for the headlines and he isn’t being shy about it. He’s paved the way for this trade to happen. He wants a spectacle, something to distract from this shit show.” Laurenti leans forward into Ilya’s space and clearly says, “I don’t give a flying fuck what he wants. I want a Cup. Can you work with Hollander?”
Can he work with Hollander?
Ilya’s mind stalls on the question, not knowing how to answer it so he asks, “How are we staying under the salary cap?”
Laurenti and Reilly both give him less than pleased looks, no doubt clearly seeing his avoidance, but Laurenti humors him. “Zadonsky wants to go out west.” Ilya nods, knowing this to be true. The reason Zadonsky gave up captaincy was because of his wife’s complex pregnancy. The baby, a girl, was born in November and continues to suffer with health issues. His wife’s family lives somewhere in the Bay Area from what he remembers and Zadonsky hasn't been quiet about how he is hoping to end up there next season. Despite it being what the man wants, the thought of his captain since he was a rookie being traded now doesn’t sit right with Ilya.
Laurenti looks at Reilly to deliver the news, “San Francisco is in, I worked with their GM last night with Zadonsky and his agent. He’s happy about what the move will mean for his family.”
Ilya watches Reilly mouth tighten at the news, but the man doesn’t allow any other show of emotion. He wonders if his coach is thinking the same thing he is. This will be a loss for the team. Many of the veterans still see Zadonsky as their captain, even if they have been welcoming to Ilya taking the postion. He’s also a versatile player, being able to play wing along with center and his defensive stats are unmatched on the forward line even when compared to Ilya. Losing him will be a blow, even if it means gaining Hollander.
“This opens the second line center position for Hollander as well,” Ilya comments, mind whirring at the thought. Ilya is confident in his abilities. He belongs on the first line, but so does Hollander. He can’t help but feel territorial. The Raiders are his team. He handpicked Marleau and Hammersmith as his wings.
Reilly must pick up on where Ilya’s thoughts have taken him. “The first line stays as is. I’m not going to fuck up two lines to experiment this deep into the season. I know San Francisco is young and could use Zadonsky’s experience but I didn’t think they needed any help on their forward line.”
Laurenti’s mouth twists like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Crowell had a hand in incentivizing San Francisco to take him. When we spoke on the phone, I mentioned that I wouldn’t let Zadonsky go unless I knew he was going where he wanted.”
Reilly hisses out a breath. “What a fuckin’ conspiracy.” The coach shakes his head before turning his eyes back to Ilya. “So, are you going to ruin it all by telling us that you and Hollander are a no go? I don’t want this to mess up the team’s chemistry, Rozanov.”
Ilya swallows down a snappy retort. Of course this will fuck up the team’s chemistry. But beyond that, he doesn’t know if he wants Hollander on the same team as him. He fucking loves playing against him. He won’t admit it, even with a gun to his head, but facing off against Hollander is the most fun he has on the ice. Every victory against him is sweeter than ten others that are not.
The phenomenal sex they have afterwards is just icing on the cake.
Ilya has no doubt that Hollander will eventually win a Stanley Cup, but he wants to beat him to it, not win it with him.
He fingers twitch, wanting to fiddle with his ear but he doesn’t allow the pacifying motion. He also recognizes that this situation isn’t really in his control. No matter what Laurenti or Reilly says, look at what strings Crowell has already pulled to get this far. Fuck. Montreal is going to riot when they find out Hollander is being traded. Perhaps that is the point.
As he turns the almost unbelievable idea of Hollander being traded over in his mind, Ilya realizes he doesn’t want Hollander to go to another team when he could join Boston.
After years of playing against each other and whatever they were doing in hotel rooms across North America, Ilya knows Hollander. He’s loyal to his core. It’s one of the things that makes him boring. He never would have left Montreal willingly. Ilya isn’t nearly as attached to the Raiders. Sure, they made him 1st round draft pick, but even that win was only as sweet as it was because he beat Hollander. He doesn’t feel loyalty to the Raiders for making the choice. It was just good business. They looked at his stats, perhaps his on ice persona and decided he could give them something they wanted.
Reilly takes his continued silence as a negative. “I get why the League wants this Gio. Hollander is a phenomenal player, but-”
“Yes,” Ilya answers steadily. “I can work with him. We won’t fight. Hollander is machine on ice. You know this.”
Reilly looks conflicted. Laurenti stares him down but then breaks into a grin. “That’s what I want to hear.” He looks down at his phone and frowns. “Fuck, Hollander’s agent must have reached out to some of the other pre-approved teams. They’re balking.”
“Hollander is here, in Boston?”
Laurenti nods, “Yes, I wanted to speak with him myself, get his measure.”
Ilya isn’t exactly sure what the phrase means. “Let me speak with him.”
They both look at him as if he’s insane and they might not be wrong. “Trust me.”
Laurenti turns to Reilly who sighs. “This is a terrible idea.”
Shane’s life turns into a nightmare the day after he returns to Ottawa from Russia with a gold medal around his neck. The Hollander’s sit down to dinner, which is more like a late breakfast for Shane, when his phone rings. He isn’t going to answer it, just check it to see who he has to call back later, but the name on the screen catches his attention. Farah, his agent, isn’t one to call for no reason.
When she tells him he is being traded he thinks he must have misheard her. She repeats it.
He is dimly aware of his mother taking the phone from his hand and putting it on speaker.
He doesn’t want to hear his mother argue with Farah. A very nasty part of him wants to lash out at his mom. She was the one who insisted on the modified no trade agreement. He’d wanted to get rid of it, secure a full no trade agreement after he resigned following the end of his rookie contract. Now look where he’s at. Being traded.
“Boston?” his mom spits out as if the city’s name is poison.
The mention of Rozanov’s team slams Shane back to the present. Boston. The team that had been Shane’s request on the approved trade list. Never in his wildest dreams could he ever imagine being traded to Boston of all places by the Metros no less.
“They’re still working on the loose ends but, Shane, they want you in Boston tomorrow morning. I am flying from Montreal tomorrow morning. There’s a flight from Ottawa that gets in pretty much at the same time. I want to be with you for this.”
“Wait, the way you’re talking makes it sound like a done deal already,” his mom starts.
“It isn’t. Shane, you can say no. I’m expecting other teams will start reaching out soon. Shane hasn’t been officially put up for trade.”
Shane inhales sharply. “Then maybe there’s some sort of mistake? Are you sure?”
“I’m sorry. I spoke with Rousseau myself. It’s going to happen Shane. I’m not sure how Boston got this information. If this were anyone other than Montreal and Boston, I’d have believed some sort of collusion.”
The spark of hope that this all was some terrible mistake dies. He tunes out the rest of the conversation as his mom continues to try and dig out more information from Farah. Eventually he heads to his room and packs. While he’s methodically refilling toiletries his dad pokes his head into the bathroom. His father is trying to catch his eye in the mirror.
“I’m fine.” Shane lies with a steady voice. “Players get traded, it’s part of the sport.” It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. He’s being ridiculous.
His dad nods. “It is, but I don’t think anyone saw this coming, Bud. You’re allowed to be upset about it.”
Shane pauses as he watches his face wash drain into the travel container. “I am upset. I can be upset and still keep moving.”
His dad makes a sound of agreement. “But it’s okay to be upset and not move for a little while. It’s okay to be upset and be loud about it too.”
They both can still hear his mom in the kitchen. Shane taps the bottle on the counter to force the liquid to settle without air bubbles. “I think mom is being loud enough for the both of us at the moment.”
His dad snorts. He turns around to leave the bathroom doorway, but pauses halfway. “This isn’t personal Shane. Don’t take it to heart.” Shane swallows down bitter words that it feels fucking personal to him and nods his head. He can spiral and torture himself over the why of this situation later. He needs to pack and then make decisions about what he’s going to do with his apartment (and the other unit on that floor) in Montreal.
He’s on the first morning flight to Boston the next morning and he hasn’t slept in 19 hours and only manages to drink a Gatorade when his mom looks like she’s going to shove a protein bar down his throat.
His mom wants to fly down with him to Boston, but Shane vetoes that plan. He doesn’t want her in his ear or her eyes on him while he goes through this. He loves his mom, but sometimes her presence is just too much and his nerves are already scraped raw. He wishes his dad could have accompanied him, but it would have hurt his mom to ask.
Shane checks his phone obsessively while he travels. He tries calling Rozanov one last time before he takes off, although he’s not even sure why. What would he say to him? Is he looking for permission to join Boston? He doesn’t need Rozanov’s permission. He swears off looking at his phone again when his call goes to the rudest and funniest voicemail message he’s ever heard.
So the asshole is set on ignoring him. Nothing new.
We are not anything.
Point fucking taken.
Why is he going to Boston? Why is he even entertaining this offer? Others will come, they have to.
His contract is put up for trade on the official channels just as his flight is pulling into Boston Logan.
Farah meets him at the airport in a skirt suit with her dark hair neatly braided down her back. He wonders if she slept last night. As they walk to meet whoever from the Raiders is picking them up, she explains what she knows.
The entire flight he’d been turning it over in his head. Why was he being traded? What had he done wrong? How could he have given any more to the team than he had the past 3 and a half years? Fuck, he’d just resigned with them. Where had this come from?
He stops dead in his tracks when Farah gets to the why of it all.
To learn that his career was being upended for a publicity stunt is almost worse than the Metros management deciding he’s a player worth cutting loose. Shane knows morally he should have more disgust for Dallas Kent’s actions than the MLH’s but it’s the League’s that has his stomach churning with betrayal.
“So they want us to crash and burn? Destroy an entire team’s chances at the Cup?” he asks, filling in the blanks that Farah is dancing around. It’s all so unfair and so wrong. Shane has kept an eye on the Raiders’ standings, just like every other team in the Eastern conference. They are in excellent shape and even with a lot of season left to play they will no doubt comfortably secure one of the three regular playoff spots.
If he and Rozanov were as adversarial as everyone thought, this trade could ruin that. It is infuriating for Shane to think about faceless men sitting in corporate offices somewhere pulling the strings to this farce.
Farah grimaces. “They want you to make headlines. They want a spectacle to point at while they as quietly as possible throw whoever is expendable under the bus.”
Shane realizes with stinging clarity that he or at least his career is considered expendable to the League. Sure, even after this he’ll still be a top player, but who knows what will happen to him on a new team. Whether it be Boston or one of the other teams on his list. If Miitka wasn’t nursing an injury and their back-up goalie wasn’t complete trash the Metros would have a decent run at the Cup this year and with some adjustments a potentially excellent run next year. It is what he’s been building towards for the last four years. Next year could have been his year, with a C on his chest to boot since Couillard announced his retirement and all but told Shane the position would be his next season.
All of it now up in smoke.
Farah is looking at him with concern and Shane shakes his head and motions for them to set off again.
He can be upset and move at the same time.
They are picked up by a Raiders’ staff member as they cross through the point of no return. Carl, as he much to enthusiastically introduces himself, has an a thick Bostonian accent and enough missing teeth that suggests he played hockey himself when he was a younger man.
Carl plays tour guide as he drives them from the airport. It’s a welcome distraction from Shane’s thoughts and he responds to show Carl that someone in the car is listening to him, because Farah is not. She is typing away on her phone, no doubt drafting multiple emails to be ready for whatever decision Shane is about to make.
He still doesn’t know what he’s going to do.
Before walking into the Raiders’ practice facility, Farah pulls him aside.
“We need a minute,” she tells Carl with a smile. The man nods and gives them a respectful amount of space.
“Your trade was posted an hour or so ago and I’ve reached out to the other teams on your approved list. Listen to me Shane, Boston was given an unfair advantage here, now that it’s out there other teams are going to offer. The MLH can’t force you to sign with Boston.”
But the MLH did force the Metros to put him up for trade. He wonders if they even put up a fight.
There has to be more that the League has done than just give Boston an inside scoop, which is already unethical and Shane’s no expert but also probably illegal. He’s young, only in his fourth season and on his second contract but his salary isn’t something most teams have readily available. He doubts any other team on his list has the space or can make it as quickly as they need it. The trade deadline is up in a few days, most of the movement has already happened or been planned out at this point.
“Let’s talk to the GM and then let’s take some time to look at who responds to me.”
She reaches out slowly, as if waiting for Shane to indicate her touch won’t be welcome. When Shane doesn’t move, her hand squeezes his upper arm firmly.
“If you don’t want Boston we will figure it out,” Farah promises, but it sounds empty to Shane’s ears. “This isn’t the exact scenario we worked that veto stipulation into your contract for, but we can use it. You have the final say here Shane.”
Shane nods and focuses on moving forward.
He can be upset and still later.
They are shown into a small meeting room where Gio Laurenti, the GM of the Raiders, is waiting for them. He is tall with a wiry build and a good amount of hair for a man his age. “Hollander, good to meet you and thank you for coming on such short notice,” Laurenti greets hand outstretched. His voice is higher than his size suggests, so much so that it’s almost jarring.
Shane shakes it stiffly and hopes the expression on his face is pleasant.
“Now, I’m not going to beat around the bush. You know why you’re here. This is a shit situation and you’re unfortunately caught up in it through no fault of your own.”
The comment stings and soothes in equal measure.
“We would love to have you in Boston, but I want to be sure that the rivalry with Rozanov won’t be a problem.”
Shane wants to laugh or cry, probably both. “Well, I can’t speak for him, but we are both professionals. At the very least, I can promise you I won’t drop gloves first.” His voice sounds off to his own ears and he sees Farah glance at him from his periphery.
The GM doesn’t seem to notice but searches Shane’s face for something and Shane has to fight to hold his gaze and not look away first. He can sense that this is important and as much as he’s not sure he even wants to sign with Boston, he really can’t take the hit of them taking back their offer.
Not after Montreal threw him away.
Fuck Montreal.
He wishes he meant it.
Shane doesn't know what if anything Laurenti finds in his eyes but the man nods and looks away first. “Alright, let me make sure everything is in order. I’ll be back in say 20 minutes, I’m sure you two need to chat and then we’ll get the paperwork in front of us.”
He and Farah are then left alone and she doesn’t waste time. “Brooklyn has responded, they have the cap space and will take you.”
Shane’s stomach flips in disappointment. The Brooklyn Scouts aren’t a terrible team but they aren’t phenomenal. With him and some building and some luck they may be ready to make a Cup run in three years, maybe two years with a lot of luck.
Montreal will be ready next year, his mind traitorously supplies.
“I hate their colors.”
Farah blinks at the response and then lets out an almost startled sounding laugh. “You’re not wrong, orange won’t suit you.”
Shane slips and checks his phone. There are several messages from his mom and his teammates, no doubt about him going up for trade. Hayden and JJ both are included in that. Nothing from Rozanov.
What the hell is he doing here? Yes, it would be a poetic middle finger to Montreal, but seriously? He’s sitting here in Rozanov’s house, about to sign with Rozanov’s team and the man can’t even text him back.
Can he really work with him? He wants the answer to be yes, that he can bear it. For the sake of good hockey and a shot at the Stanley Cup he can take facing Rozanov every day knowing the man doesn’t want him anymore.
Shane’s eyes burn.
Because that really is the crux of it. Rozanov doesn’t want him anymore. And it is fine or was fine before everything, before the Metros decided they don’t want him either.
Fuck, when did he become so pathetic? This is why he can’t be upset and still at the same time.
“Shane?” Farah’s brown eyes are looking at him with open concern.
He licks his lips. “I think coming here was a mistake.”
Farah waits for a moment as if to see if he’ll say more. He doesn’t. “You could get used to the orange,” she offers.
Shane manages a laugh that doesn’t hide the half formed sob that escapes him. “I could.”
His agent stands and makes her way to the door. Shane wonders if she sees how close he is to breaking down and means to give him some privacy. “You wait here, I’ll arrange a ride to the airport or we can look into trains to get us to New York.”
Shane nods and lets his eyes fall closed as the door shuts behind her.
He has a few moments to himself, in which he answers his mother’s texts before the door is opening again and Ilya Rozanov is standing in the room. He catches Farah throwing him a worried look from the hallway before the door shuts and Ilya quietly turns the lock on the handle.
“Are you going to murder me Rozanov?” Shane asks as he comes to his feet. He’s not sure how but he’s glad his voice is firm once again.
The other man snorts and his smile is real.
Shane’s heart doesn’t flutter at the sight of it.
“No. Hockey would be boring without second best player.”
“Asshole” is in his mouth but Shane swallows it down. He turns away from him to look out of the meeting room’s floor to ceiling windows.
“You will sign with us,” Rozanov states. As if the decision is already made
“You don’t know what I’ll do,” Shane objects without turning around.
Rozanov scoffs, “It is best option.”
“You don’t know my options,” Shane returns.
He hates him. He hates that he’s right. He hates that this is the easiest breathing has felt since he learned that Montreal is giving him away.
He feels Rozanov move behind him. “Hollander.”
Almost against his will, Shane turns around. The other man is still an appropriate distance away. Rozanov takes another step forward. Not so appropriate now.
Shane’s eyes skid away, focusing on the bland wall over Rozanov’s left shoulder.
“The Raiders are going all the way this year.”
It’s Shane’s turn to scoff, as his eyes darting to an equally bland wall over Rozanov’s right shoulder. “You don’t know that.”
Rozanov tsks and Shane can’t help the way it draws his gaze to finely shaped lips. “Repetitive, Hollander. Makes me miss ‘fuck you’ and ‘asshole’.” Shane glares, meeting Rozanov’s impossible blue-green eyes. “I do know it. And that big hockey brain of yours knows it too.”
Shane’s eyes return the wall where its safe. “Oh come on,” Rozanov goads. “I know you’ve thought about it. Montreal-” Shane flinches at the name and there is no way Rozanov doesn’t catch it, “-isn’t going very far with goalie hurt-” Shane frowns. Miitka’s injury isn’t one that will put him on IR, which means no one should know about it. “-and without you— no playoffs. Admirals are too inconsistent and they won’t win against New Jersey. New Jersey might be challenge, but with both of us…” Rozanov trails off, lips twisting up into a smile. “And we can handle anyone on the West coast.”
Shane’s gaze drops to the floor as he contemplates the prediction. He has thought about it. If he didn’t know Rozanov would be completely insufferable about it, Shane would admit he thought the Raiders had a very good shot, even without him.
“You could have Olympic gold and Stanley Cup in same year. Makes me so fucking jealous,” Rozanov groans. Shane can’t tell if the thought really pains him or brings him pleasure. It is remarkably similar to how Rozanov sounds when he is feeling pleasure.
Fuck, Shane can feel his cheeks heat and he refuses to get hard in a goddamn conference room with Farah and the GM of the Raiders no doubt outside the door, perhaps even listening, just in case he and Rozanov start swinging at each other.
He licks his lips and nearly groans himself when he sees Rozanov’s eyes hone in on the movement, pupils expanding.
“This is a bad idea.” he whispers.
Shane knows he doesn’t need to explain that “this” is referring to more than just him signing to the Raiders.
Rozanov hums in agreement and Shane feels the vibration of it in his chest. The other man steps closer and Shane stupidly doesn’t push him away. “You are right, is bad idea, but…”
“But?” Shane breathes into the space between their lips.
“I want it.” The quiet words settle over him like a blanket. Shane ducks his head so Rozanov can’t see. Shane will die on the spot if Rozanov somehow realizes from his expression how badly Shane needed to hear that. It makes everything between them clear as mud, but it also bandages something cracked in his chest that he’s been carrying since that day in Sochi.
Rozanov pulls back, trying to catch Shane’s eyes but Shane stubbornly avoids him. He almost expects Rozanov to force him with a hand as he’s done in the past, but perhaps that’s a step farther than even Rozanov is willing to take in such a public setting.
“Okay, okay. You sign with Boston. We win Cup together. We save League from catastrophe that is Dallas Kent.”
“Fuck Dallas Kent,” Shane says on reflex. A beat later he follows it with “Catastrophe?”
Rozanov’s grin is all teeth. “You are not only one with big brain Hollander. And we will make Metros very sorry they gave you up.”
Shane smiles and it hurts less.
“Okay.”