Chapter Text
Shane Hollander just wanted to get through his junior year by winning hockey games and maintaining his 4.0. He didn’t have time for anything else. When he stepped off the plane at MSY a week before the semester started, the thick, humid air welcoming him back like a wet hug, he thought it was going to be simple. School had always been easy for him. He had been accepted to New Orleans University on a hockey scholarship, and he’d never once been in danger of losing it. And this year would be no different.
The uber pulled up to his new apartment a few blocks from campus in a quiet uptown neighborhood. The building was small, only eight units, with peeling paint around the windows and a sun-bleached wooden door that looked older than half the block. Shane grabbed his bag and stepped out into the heat, already feeling sweat collect at the back of his neck. He was beyond relieved to not be living in the dorms again. The constant noise, the stench, the random middle of the night fire alarms…he was ready to leave all that behind and focus on his studies.
Inside, the air was cool but stale. It smelled faintly of mildew. His footsteps echoed lightly on the sagging wooden stairs as he made his way up to the second floor. Apartment #6 sat at the end of a carpeted hallway, past #5 and directly across from #8. He could hear the soft thump of bass coming from across the hall and let out a slow breath. Please don’t let that be a sign of things to come. He moved here to escape loud music and dorm parties and his roommate fucking his girlfriend when he thought Shane was asleep.
Then the music cut abruptly, and Shane looked over his shoulder at #8, half expecting the door to open. Nothing happened, and the silence settled around him, making the hallway feel suddenly eerie, like he was being watched. He quickly unlocked his door, a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cool air around him, and stepped inside. The apartment was small, just a narrow living room and kitchenette with two doors off one wall, one leading to a small bedroom, the other to a bathroom hardly big enough to turn around in.
Shane let out a small sigh of relief. It wasn’t much, but it was quiet and clean. No one was going to be drunkenly knocking things over at 2am or whispering dirty things into some girl's ear like Shane wasn’t right there. No one would interrupt while he was halfway through an essay or drag him into conversations he didn’t want to have. He could maybe even bring someone back here, if he ever worked up the nerve to ask anyone out. If he ever let himself admit that whoever he wanted to ask out might not be a girl.
Shane dropped his bag by the door and looked around the empty apartment, a small smile curving his lips. Quiet. Private. So many possibilities. This year was going to be perfect.
-
The next morning came too early. Shane was used to early morning practices, but there was something about the heat that was already so oppressive even at sunrise, thick and heavy, that made getting out of bed and leaving the cool air-conditioned apartment behind more difficult. He got up anyway, his usual routine coming back to him easily. He showered, made coffee and a protein shake, gathered his gear, and stepped into the hallway. It was too quiet, every step making the floor groan. He paused for just a second and looked at #8. There was no music coming from inside this time. No sound at all. Shane shook off the feeling that he was being watched again and made his way downstairs and out into the too-wet morning air.
The walk to campus was nice. He passed several people walking dogs, biking, tending to gardens. They all waved and smiled. Shane loved New Orleans. The colorful shotgun houses, the loud but kind people. There was always something to do, and it didn't even always involve drinking. Though he appreciated that too. The NOU campus was beautiful, all live oaks dripping with Spanish moss and old stone buildings crawling with vines. He breathed a sigh of relief as soon as his feet crossed the threshold.
The locker room was already buzzing when he walked in. The sharp cold air of the rink cut through the lingering humidity, immediately making Shane feel more energized, more settled. Despite his love for the city, this was where he felt the most at home. The weather down here had been a bit of a shock to his system his first year. He’d gotten a lot of flak for being a sensitive Canadian. But he’d adapted, and the rink always brought him back to himself when he needed it.
“Look who made it back.”
Shane didn’t have to look up to know who it was, the light Russian accent, the low teasing voice. Ilya Rozanov dropped onto the bench beside him, shoulder bumping Shane’s just enough to be annoying. His hair was rumpled, like he’d just rolled out of bed, but there was still something annoyingly put-together about him even half-dressed for practice.
“Miss me, Hollander?” Rozanov added.
Shane snorted, pulling his laces tighter. “Not even a little.”
“Liar.”
Shane glanced up at him then, just briefly. Rozanov was watching him with that same expression he always had…half amused, like he knew something Shane didn’t. And it was just as irritating as it always was.
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane said, but his voice was lighter than he meant it to be, and his gaze lingered on that infuriating smirk longer than it should have.
Coach called them onto the ice before either of them could say anything else. The shift from locker room noise to the scrape of blades against ice, the familiarity of it, settled something in him immediately. He shoved Rozanov out of his mind and pushed off hard, letting his body take over, the cold air burning in his lungs.
Warm-ups were quick…llaps and passing drills. Shane let himself sink into the muscle memory and routine of it, enjoying the way his body felt finally back at work. But his attention was drifting again, as it often did, to Rozanov. He was aware of him in the most annoying way. Shane was not the type of person to get distracted. He didn’t allow that, especially not during important things…like hockey or class. But he was always aware of Ilya Rozanov. Across the ice, along the boards, cutting through the middle like he knew exactly where the puck was going before anyone else did. It was irritating. The way he moved, the way he didn’t seem to try that hard and was still…better. Shane pushed harder.
At one point, Shane took the puck and moved it easily, keeping his head down and his focus sharp…not allowing himself to be distracted. Rozanov intercepted it anyway.
“So predictable,” he murmured as he passed, voice low enough that only Shane would hear.
Shane’s grip tightened on his stick. At the next opportunity, Shane anticipated it and cut Rozanov off first, shoulder to shoulder, just hard enough to make a point. Rozanov laughed. An infuriating sound that followed Shane down the ice.
The rest of practice passed without incident, at least on the surface. Shane did everything exactly the way he always did, his usual intensity already back in swing. And Roznov was always there. Shane wouldn’t let him get in his head…he was immune to that. But every time Shane adjusted, Rozanov adjusted with him. Every time Shane pushed forward, Rozanov was already there, keeping pace like it was nothing.
-
The locker room was loud after practice, everyone reconnecting after the summer break, filling each other in on their lives. Shane was listening to his friend Hayden Pike, the only other Canadian on the team, talk about a girl he’d met in Chambly over the summer.
“She was so hot, man,” Hayden said, a dreamy look on his face. He blinked a few times, then looked over at Shane. “So, how many girls did you bag this summer?”
Shane rolled his eyes. “I was busy all summer.”
“You need to relax sometimes,” Hayden said, pulling his gear off. “This is supposed to be the most fun time of our lives. Hockey, girls, parties…what more could you want?”
Shane just laughed. Hayden was a great friend, but he was also kind of an idiot. He definitely did not have a 4.0, and Shane wasn’t sure what his major was anymore. It seemed to change every semester. Hayden got up to hit the showers, and not a moment later, someone sat heavily on the bench on the other side of Shane. Once again, he didn’t need to look to know who.
“Rough first day back, huh?”
Shane didn’t look up. “Fuck off.”
A quiet laugh, too close to him. Rozanov wasn’t quite touching him this time, but still near enough that he was aware of the heat coming off him, the damp fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin.
“You try too hard,” Rozanov said.
Shane glanced over, frowning. “No, I don’t.”
“You do.” Rozanov shrugged, like he was just making an observation and not being an asshole. “You should relax, Hollander. It’s just practice.”
Shane held his gaze for a second, longer than necessary. “Maybe I just don’t like losing the puck to you.”
Ilya’s mouth curved. “Then don’t lose it next time.”
Shane rolled his eyes, grabbing his towel and standing before he could say something else. “Helpful.”
“Always…I’m a great teammate,” Ilya said easily, infuriating smirk in place.
Shane didn’t respond. He focused on what he was doing, on his routine, on anything that wasn’t the lingering awareness of Ilya Rozanov beside him, watching.
-
By the time Shane left the rink, the sun was already high, heat pressing down heavy and relentless. The walk back to his apartment was short, but it was enough for the humidity to settle into his skin again, undoing the cool clarity he’d found on the ice. He climbed the stairs more slowly this time, the familiar fatigue of hard skating settling into his legs.
The hallway was still quiet, and Shane barely glanced at #8 as he reached his door, already pulling his keys from his pocket. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and then stopped in his tracks, front door not quite closed all the way behind him. There was an envelope sitting on the counter just to the right of the entryway. Shane frowned. He was pretty sure he hadn’t left anything there. The envelope was made of thick, cream-colored paper. Too nice to be junk mail. His last name was written across the front. Hollander. No first name, no apartment number or address of any kind. It was handwritten but so fancy and perfect it almost looked printed. A slow, uneasy feeling crept up his spine. He was sure he’d locked the door.
Before he could open the envelope, a sound came from the hallway…a door opening. Shane turned immediately, pulling his door fully open again. The door to #8 was just swinging shut. For a split second, before it closed completely, Shane caught a glimpse of golden brown curls, broad shoulders…familiar and unwelcome. Rozanov. Shane just stood there, staring at the door, his grip tightening on the doorknob. Then, slowly, he turned back and closed his own door. Ilya Rozanov was a problem for another time. The envelope was still sitting on the counter, waiting.
Shane picked it up. It was heavier than it looked. He slid his finger under the flap and opened it. There was a single card inside, the same thick, expensive paper…the kind that he knew from wedding invitations and fancy parties his parents might be invited to. In the same handwriting, four lines:
You have been observed.
You have been selected.
Thursday. 11:45 p.m. St. Lucien Chapel.
Come alone. Tell no one.
Shane turned it over. The back was blank. He read the front again. And then again. Observed? Selected? By who? It must be a prank. He was very sure he’d locked his door, though. Who could have gotten in? His mind flicked straight to Rozanov. But no…that didn’t make sense. They were at practice together. He had already been there when Shane arrived, or at least come in right after, and he’d just seen him walk into #8.
“What the fuck?” Shane breathed quietly. An anonymous invitation to…something. Ominous and dramatic, straight out of a bad movie. And yet, it was real, sitting here in his bland apartment, its opulence sticking out like a sore thumb. Shane’s skin crawled at the thought that someone had been inside while he was out. This was supposed to be his sanctuary…quiet and safe. He set the card back down but didn’t step away. His eyes lingered on it, like he might figure out its mysteries if he looked long enough. He started to reach for it again, but pulled his hand back. He didn’t quite want to touch it again, the violation of his space still lingering. That too neat handwriting looked more and more like a threat.
He should ignore it. Toss it in the trash, forget about it, move on. He didn’t have time for this kind of thing. Classes were starting soon and practice had already begun. He had a routine, and he intended to stick to it. There was no room for complications or distractions. Or whatever this was. His mind drifted back to #8. He’d only been back for a day and the distractions were already piling up.
The quietness of the apartment didn’t feel as comfortable as it had earlier. Shane shook it off and took a few steps toward the bedroom. Then he stopped and looked back, the card drawing his attention again before he could stop it. Shane didn’t like not knowing things. And whoever had left that envelope in his apartment, whoever had gotten in without him noticing, clearly knew something about him. And had access to his private space. That alone was enough. Shane stepped back toward the table, picking the card up again, more carefully this time.
“Fine,” he said quietly. He would go. Maybe just to look through a window and see who was inside. He couldn’t not. He needed to know. And he also needed to have his locks changed. He was going to nip this in the bud sooner rather than later. Thursday…two days away. Then he’d put it aside and be ready for the semester to start next week. Back to normal, his plan for a perfect year still intact.
-
Ilya made the walk back from practice without even noticing the heat. His mind was on his new neighbor…his teammate…the adorable nerd he’d been flirting with since the first day they’d met at hockey practice two years ago. The one who was right now probably finding an envelope sitting in his apartment and wondering what the fuck was going on. Ilya’s stomach tightened at the thought. He knew it was happening today. A few months ago he might have been delighted at the thought. Another way to see Hollander. More opportunities to win him over. He was pretty sure they played for more than one of the same teams. Though you’d never know it by observing Hollander. He seemed to only care about hockey and classes. Ilya cared about those things too. But he also cared about fucking and parties and enjoying life away from the weight of his father’s expectations. When he’d gotten a full ride to NOU for hockey, he’d packed his bags and hardly looked back. He went home to Moscow for a few weeks each summer, and he spent the entire time counting down the minutes until he could return to New Orleans, the city that had accepted him with open arms and no expectations. Other than doing well enough to stay on the hockey team of course.
That was all true until the previous semester when a heavy off-white envelope showed up in Ilya’s apartment. At first, he’d been thrilled. He felt like he’d stepped into some kind of Eyes Wide Shut kind of shit. A mysterious invitation slipped into his locked apartment while he was out. Just the thing to spice up his social life. Not that Ilya’s social life was ever too boring. He never had trouble finding someone to sleep with or a party to crash. But after nearly two years of that, he had welcomed a new distraction. Now that distraction was threatening the other distraction he really wanted to be consumed by.
When he made it back to the apartment building, the first thing he noticed was that #6’s door was cracked open. He knew it was Hollander’s. Ilya had moved here the previous year and had gotten to know the landlord. A useful thing it turned out. He’d had a heads up about Hollander. And he’d spent far too much time thinking about it since. He didn’t even know why. Sure, Hollander was hot, and Ilya had eyes. But he was also boring and probably a prude. Still…there was something about him. Something about the idea of seducing him that had Ilya completely hooked. It was a challenge, and Ilya liked a good challenge. And now that challenge was ten feet across the hall.
He walked up to his door as silently as possible, rolling each step so the carpet would swallow the sound. He stopped in front of it and glanced over at #6. Through the crack in the door, he could just make out the line of Hollander’s shoulder. Ilya’s stomach sank. He knew what Hollander was looking at. For a brief moment, he thought about getting his attention. Telling him…telling him what? Not to go? He couldn’t. It’s not like they’d stop at one invitation.
Instead, Ilya quietly slid his key into the lock and turned it. The lock clicked open and the door groaned on its hinges. Ilya hurriedly shut it behind him, not wanting to catch Hollander’s attention this time.
-
The next evening, Shane was returning from a run, his mind still on the invitation. He’d been thinking about it nonstop since yesterday. With the occasional detour to the fact that Ilya Rozanov was across the hall. A fact he wouldn’t soon be forgetting because the moment he stepped onto the second floor, the unmistakable sounds…low groans and skin slapping against skin…of two people having sex greeted him. He knew immediately they were coming from #8. He walked quietly to his door, trying to control his breathing, still heavy from his run. He closed his eyes briefly, the noises from across the hall rocketing through him, and his dick hardened instantly. What the fuck? He didn’t want to examine too closely why it’d happened so fast. Sure, people having sex…that made sense. But the only voice he could hear was a deep, low one. There was no mistaking who was moaning like that. Shane pressed a palm against his cock, willing it to calm down. He fumbled in the pocket of his shorts for his keys. Right at that moment, a loud, “Oh, fuck,” came from #8, thick with arousal and a sexy Russian accent. Shane nearly groaned out loud. He pulled his hand free of his pocket and bit down on it, trying to stop himself from reacting. From thinking about it at all. Trying to focus on literally anything else.
Then Shane heard another voice. A woman’s. “Sorry to fuck and run, but I’ve got a meeting across campus in twenty minutes.” There was movement. He heard rustling and thudding near the door. Oh shit. Shane shoved his hand back into his pocket, trying again to get his keys. He was not getting caught listening to his neighbor…to Ilya Rozanov…having sex. He was not doing that. He finally got his keys out...and promptly dropped them. The door to #8 swung open and a pretty blonde stepped out. Shane looked up, his face burning. The blonde gave him a small, awkward smile and continued down the hallway to the stairs.
“Hollander.” That low voice again, edged with laughter now. “Hi, neighbor.”
Shane didn’t want to look up at him. He wanted to disappear right through the floor. Through the earth. Never to return. But he couldn’t, and he apparently couldn’t stop himself from looking. Rozanov was standing in the doorway, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of loose shorts. His hair was a mess, like someone had been running their hands through it. Because someone clearly had. There was a light sheen of sweat across his chest, catching the curve of his pecs, the faint scattering of hair. Shane’s eyes dropped to his abs before he could stop himself, following that trail of hair down, down…
His gaze snapped up to Rozanov’s face. His usual smirk was there, but his eyes were dark, searing right into Shane.
“Like what you see?” Rozanov asked, eyebrows lifting slightly.
“Fuck off,” Shane said, but his voice came out too high.
“We’re neighbors now, Hollander, maybe you should be nicer.” Rozanov shifted, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossing loosely, smirk still in place.
“Maybe you should be quieter,” Shane shot back.
“I don’t think that’s what you want,” Rozanov said, letting his eyes drop to Shane’s groin, slow and deliberate.
Shane followed it. His dick was very obviously hard, pushing against the thin material of his shorts. Jesus. Maybe Rozanov would think it was because of the girl. But judging by the smirk and the way he was biting his lower lip like he was trying not to laugh, Shane was pretty sure he knew exactly what was going on. And Shane was not interested in doing this. He finally grabbed his keys and turned back to his own door, pointedly ignoring him.
“Want me to give you heads up next time?” Rozanov called after him. “You can bring popcorn.”
Shane huffed out a breath. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Mm…maybe,” Rozanov said. “But I think you like it.”
Shane turned back despite himself, every ounce of effort going into keeping his eyes above Rozanov’s shoulders. Though that wasn’t much better. Shane wanted to slap that smirk right off his face. Or something worse. His traitorous brain helpfully supplied an image of pressing his mouth against it, feeling that curve shift under his lips. Fuck. No…he definitely didn’t want that. And he needed to do something, or someone, soon to make sure he remembered that.
“Just keep the noise down,” he gritted out, keeping his lower half angled toward his own door. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Rozanov half-naked, or even fully naked, before. They’d shared a locker room for two years. But Shane did not let himself notice other men in locker rooms. He didn’t let himself notice other men at all. Mostly. And now here was the worst possible scenario for him to be throwing that out the window.
“Want a beer?” Rozanov asked, as if they weren’t standing in the hallway, both sweating from different activities, pretending Shane hadn’t just heard Rozanov…finish…with a girl. He wanted to die right on the spot.
“No,” Shane said, letting the irritation cover up whatever else was happening. “I’m going to take a shower.” He paused. “You probably should too.”
Then he turned around, stepped inside, and closed his door behind him. A laugh followed from the hallway. And it went straight to his already aching dick.
“Fuck,” he muttered. This was a problem. Rozanov was a problem. And somehow, that wasn’t even the biggest problem he had.