Archive of Our Own

There's only this, Rozanov tells him.

Shane's heart is throbbing in his stomach. Rozanov moves his body for him. Legs here. Arms behind your back. Look at me. That earns him a kiss to the chin. There's only this. The sweat-soaked sheets. Rozanov inside and around him. Only this. They're here and there and nowhere. A small corner of reality where the door stays closed. He reduces Shane's mind to white noise, a pleasant hum.

Rozanov's nails bite into the soft crease behind Shane's knee as he holds him open. The pillow under Shane's head is damp with spit and sweat.

"How long has it been?" Rozanov asks. "Has it been an hour yet? What do you think?" He fucks Shane with just the tip of his cock. Pulls out completely. Pushes back in. Drags something ugly out of him with every pull. But Rozanov doesn't care.

"I dunno," Shane mumbles and opens his eyes, fighting his own body. The nightstand, the curtains, clothes on the floor, everything blurs into a wonderfully incomprehensible mess. He knows what he must look like, tongue too thick in his mouth to swallow, to do anything else besides beg uselessly. It's a good thing he doesn't care. There's no space for that when Rozanov's focused on him like this. It feels like a reward to be the center of his attention.

His breath catches when Rozanov pushes fully in. The moment stretches. It's 23:17, again. Nothingness laid out before them. 

When Shane meets Rose, he doesn't think about Rozanov at all. What a relief that is.

It happens so rarely. For the past eight years, Rozanov has been living somewhere in the back of Shane's mind, a constant, unrelenting presence. And when it’s finally gone, it's only natural to think it must mean something.

It's Rose who asks him out two days later. She picks a pleasant restaurant, one that's not too crowded, and conversation with her comes so easily Shane decides he has to make this work. And because he likes her, he asks if he can kiss her, the two of them tucked away in a corner booth. Rose smiles when she leans forward to meet him. She can’t stop smiling when they kiss and it’s strange, pearly white teeth against Shane’s lips.

"You're a good kisser," she says when they come apart.

"You smell nice," says Shane, and regrets it immediately. Rose giggles. She compliments him a lot, tells him he's funny or cute or kind or hot. Shane tries his best to give back, but he's never been that good with words, and it sounds rehearsed.

Any day, now. Rozanov will send him something like i miss your hole, and Shane gets to say sorry, I have a girlfriend. Sorry, we need to stop this. Sorry, I'm actually taken now and this is wildly inappropriate.

The text never comes, though.

Shane brings Rose to his place after their second date.

He lets her look around in peace, take in the surroundings while Shane walks deeper into the apartment, flicking on a few lights. Nothing too bright. Then he tucks his thumbs into his pockets and waits.

"It's nice," Rose says then, "very you."

"So… boring?"

She tilts her head and frowns. "No, I mean—it's cozy." Her smile is sweet. "Peaceful. I like it."

Shane glances around them and tries to see what she sees. She looks nice here, in his home. Like she could belong, if he wanted her to. The thought comes to him with an electric jolt, a twist in his guts. Reaches inside Shane and wrenches something back into place. Yes, this is what he has been missing. 

He's staring, he realizes, and averts his eyes. Then he remembers she's his girlfriend and he's allowed to stare. It's encouraged, even. Rose likes it when he looks at her. She'd told him that when he'd apologized for staring a week or two ago. It's alright, she'd said, don't be silly. You're allowed to look. I like it when you look at me. I like that you want me. And Shane does. Want her.

They order takeout. Talk about their days. Shane enjoys talking with Rose. She's patient, but it doesn't feel coddling. She's charming and funny, understanding in a way most people in Shane's life aren't.

She kisses him after they've eaten. Rounds the table and sits on his knee and kisses him. Shane sets his hands on her tiny waist and obediently licks into her mouth when she parts her lips. She tastes like strawberry lip balm and soy sauce.

Her lips move to his cheek, jaw, neck. She lifts the hem of his shirt to feel his muscles shift under her palm, and Shane tenses involuntarily. Her touch is colder than it should be. It starts a shiver that runs through his whole body.

"I'm pretty tired," he hears himself say. "I'm sorry." He leans his forehead against her shoulder and swallows.

"Hey, it's fine." Rose kisses the top of his head before tilting his chin up. "Do you wanna watch something instead?"

It’d be easier if she told him to try anyway. If she took away the option to say no. She doesn’t, of course, because she’s being kind. She thinks this is what he needs. 

She doesn’t know any different. And she never will, because Shane wants to be what she needs.

"Sure," he says.

They put on a nature documentary. Something about the Atlantic. They watch a lone octopus crawl across the seabed somewhere near the coastline of Hawaii. Octopus cyanea, the narrator tells them, also known as the big blue octopus. Why's it called that, Shane asks, when it's clearly red. Rose snorts and kicks his ankle. It can change color, look. On the screen, the octopus has camouflaged itself to match the coral heads. Well, it's still not blue, Shane points out. And then: It's not even that big. Have you seen the ones that have like, four-meter-long tentacles—

Rose laughs. When the episode is finished, it's already eleven-thirty.

They sleep in Shane's bed. They don't cuddle. Shane tells her it makes him feel claustrophobic.

Now and then Shane listens to some of the guys talk about their partners or hookups, even if he doesn't particularly want to. Doesn't want to, but someone will clap him on the shoulder with a grin and say, honestly, you're the smartest of us, Holly. Staying single like that. You can do whatever you want, huh? And Shane would shrug and say, it doesn't take a lot to be the smartest here, which in turn will have the guys snickering around him.

The way they talk makes him uneasy. But he doesn't ask them to stop, either. It's expected. Put a handful of jocks into a room together and see what happens. That's just how it is.

It's a natural development that Shane's new relationship would end up in those conversations, then.

Everyone knows him well enough to not expect any actual input from him, but that doesn't stop them from throwing comments his way. Sometimes one of them shouts across the room, hey, Holly, now that you're getting your dick wet regularly—

Dude, don't you remember Boston Lily, someone hisses. But: Shut up, Boston fans don't count.

He’d seen Rose earlier that week. He'd put his arm around her waist and then asked, "Is this okay?"

Rose had laughed. "You're so polite," she said. Shane frowned.

"No, baby." Rose patted his chest, "I like it. It's refreshing. You're like, an actually nice guy."

Shane doesn't know what counts as actually nice, but he decides to draw the line here. Rose deserves better than being reduced to a topic for locker room talk.

"Well, we all know Hollzy is packing," Comeau drawls. "Guess he knows how to use it, too."

Shane flips him off. J.J.'s new living room is huge, but not so huge that he could hide comfortably. He says he's going to get a beer.

He counts the cans after grabbing one for himself. Thinks about Ilya. He rolls the beer can between his hands. Of course Shane knows how to use it. Just doesn't really have any need to. But that's the wrong answer, he knows. Ilya had implied as much. He has a girl, Svetlana. And Shane had pinned everything on him, thinking—well, it doesn't really matter what he'd thought.

He has Rose. And it's exciting, the idea of learning to want her.

There are seventeen cans in the fridge. It's probably not enough, judging by the commotion coming from the other room.

He's still thinking about it the next time he and Rose hang out. The fucking. They're watching another documentary, this time about the Great Barrier Reef. Shane listens to the narrator talk about ocean acidification and pollution and the six different species of sea turtles that visit the reef. He watches as the turtles swim peacefully around swarms of colorful fish and thinks about sex.

Rose's legs rest in Shane's lap. He massages her calves, and she hums contentedly. Tilts her head toward him and smiles and wiggles her toes. He kneads around her knees, and that's good too. When he presses his fingers to the backs of her knees, she jolts with a squeal, kicking his thigh.

She covers her mouth. Shane can see her eyes crinkle. "Oh my God, sorry, I'm ticklish there," Rose says, and before he can apologize, she laughs. Shane thinks he's smiling, too.

And then she's leaning over to kiss him, and he's into it, really. The turtles are put on pause, for now, and the blue glow of the ocean frames her. She looks like a painting. Hands, mouths. Keep your eyes closed. Open them again. This is nice, see?

"Do you wanna," she asks against his mouth, half-straddling his thighs, but it's not really a question. And Shane's starting to chub up, which is a relief, so he tightens his hold on her hips.

"Yeah," he says, because he does.

In the bedroom, Rose takes off her shirt and shimmies out of her sweatpants before sitting on the bed. She waits until Shane is shirtless, too, and then tugs him down. Shane knows what to do with this. He sucks a kiss into her throat, into the curve of her collarbone.

There's a choreography for this in his head. He settles between her spread thighs and tries to remember—

doesn't want to think about it

—kiss here, on the soft flesh of her breast. Remembers: Ilya palming his chest, his nails leaving white indents in their wake. Such pretty tits, Hollander, he'd said, do you like when I play with them? He'd twisted one nipple between his fingers then, cruelly, a delighted smile spreading across his face when Shane had moaned. Ah, you do, you love it.

Shane drags his tongue over Rose's nipple and hears her breath stutter. Does it once, twice, and then moves on. His lips reach the jut of her hip and the waistband of her panties, and Rose lets out a breathless laugh.

"You're so impatient," she says. Her fingers are cold when they brush over the crest of his cheek. Shane pauses. "I mean, I'm not complaining."

He blinks. Can't quite make her face out from here. "Can I eat you out?"

"Yes," she says, more of a sigh, "please."

Her fingers tangle in his hair when he kisses her inner thigh, nibbles the skin there, licks over the already damp fabric of her underwear. And when she huffs and wiggles impatiently, he drags them down her legs and folds them on the floor.

Rose guides his head, tells him to flick his tongue or to use his fingers or to press harder, and Shane thinks he could learn to like this. With her grip tight on his hair and her voice telling him what to do, he can feel himself getting harder, maybe only half-mast, but it makes sense when he's focused on Rose. She sighs and gasps and moans, her thighs tensing around Shane's head. He tries to follow her instructions dutifully until she curls inward and her cunt presses up against his face and a soft "fuck, Shane" falls from her mouth.

Shane wipes his mouth and chin with the back of his hand and sits back on his heels to see her. Her cheeks are dusky pink, her breaths a little shallow. She reaches for him, and he goes, lets her kiss him.

"Was it good?" he asks. Rose giggles.

"Yes," she says. "Want me to return the favor?"

Shane considers himself. His body. His cock is having trouble keeping up, but he wants it.

He flinches when Rose smooths her hands down his sides to his waist. Her touch is nearly freezing.

"Your hands are cold," he explains when she frowns. His skin pebbles all over. Rose's expression is still confused. "Are you cold? Is the heating not working?"

"No—I mean"—Rose isn't touching him anymore—"I'm not. It’s fine."

"Okay." It's not, but.

Shane's sweating. Cold, sticky sweat pours down his back. He can hear the wheeze of air passing at the back of his throat. Imagines the oxygen leaking out of his lungs like water out of a ship's battered hull. A balloon with holes poked into it, deflating and shriveling around itself.

She's cold. Like a corpse. Shane touches her arm and it feels waxy, he's sure of it. The rush of nausea nearly topples him.

"Shane. Where did you go?"

His eyes snap back to hers. And then skitter to the side, where a simple silver stud, heart-shaped, rests on her earlobe.

Saliva gathers in his mouth. The muscles of his throat don't work, constricting around nothing. His own body is going to choke him.

"I—I need to—” The words are too blubbery. He clamps his palm over his mouth and gets up.

Shane spits in the bathroom sink, the frothy glob slowly dripping down the drain. Spits again before rinsing his mouth. He's aware of Rose standing in the doorway. Keeps his head down, then, looking at the drain. A bottomless pit that could lead anywhere. Shane can feel her eyes on him, knows she's looking at him from where she's standing. Can't look in the mirror either, finds her there, too. Her two sets of eyes, examining him.

When the apology finally finds its way out, it comes with shame so heavy it nearly crushes him.

"So," Hayden starts, "about that double date idea."

Rose's text says, congrats on the win baby!!! and then, sorry i couldn't be there. Three heart emojis.

Shane doesn't have to hide his phone screen now, and isn't that wonderful? Isn't it wonderful how everyone knows Shane Hollander has a girlfriend? Shane can see the curious gleam in Hayden's eyes, even though he's pointedly not looking at Shane's phone.

Rose Landry, man, Drapeau had said when the news came out, in a tone Shane couldn't decipher.

What do you two even talk about? You and Rose Landry? And Shane, trying to avoid a possible trap, had said: hockey. Simple. Obvious. Even though they don't talk about just hockey, they talk about movies, too, and Rose's friends' shitty Tinder matches, and the book Shane has been reading.

But he had mentioned none of those things. Hockey, he'd said.

Shane sends: it's alright. thank you. Hesitates and adds, i miss you. Heart emoji. Shoves his phone into his pocket.

"Uh," he says to Hayden, who's still not looking at him. "I don't know—I mean, Rose is pretty busy." The air in the locker room is hot and damp, steam rushing in from the showers. Bodies crowd the room, post-game sweat clinging to skin.

"I bet." Hayden pats Shane's shoulder sympathetically. You must miss her, sorry she isn't here, you know, when Jackie and I started dating, I hated being away from her, well, I still do—"It doesn't have to be a double date, though. It'd be cool to meet her."

"You can also just say you want an autograph."

Hayden rolls his eyes. "I want to meet her because you're my best friend, dude. And she's"—he makes a vague gesture—"important to you?"

Jesus fucking Christ.

Above them, the fluorescent lights buzz loudly. Shane wonders if anyone else can hear it. Probably not. The room is loud. But soon it'll be empty, and the lights will still be on, and the buzz will fill the room and no one will be around to hear it.

"I can, uh." Shane tugs on his socks. Takes them off. Puts them on again. "I'll ask about her schedule." They still feel wrong. "Yeah—yeah, it'd be nice. Cool."

The hallway is completely empty when he leaves. He can see the locker room door even from the other end; bright red against the white walls. Shane leaves and doesn't stay behind to listen to the lights.

Their schedules line up after two weeks. Rose is shooting in Montreal, and the Metros are facing a four-game homestand. Shane feels jittery, like he's shifted just an inch outside of himself. Rose asks if he's alright. It's normal, she assures him, I'm about to meet your best friend, of course you're a little nervous. But Shane already knows Hayden and Jackie will love Rose, it doesn't require any effort to adore her, and he isn't really all that worried about it.

The song playing on the radio is off-tempo. Shane asks if he can turn it off.

Jackie kisses Shane on the cheek and pulls him into a hug at the door.

"Are the kids—”

"With my parents," Jackie says. "I didn't want this to be too overwhelming, right?"

Shane shifts on his feet. "That's, uh, you didn't have to—”

She pats his cheek. "Hey. It's for me, too."

Shane's face has gone numb from the icy November wind, despite not having stood outside for more than a minute. He rubs a hand over his forehead, and leaves behind prickling skin. Jackie and Hayden are saying something to Rose. Sweat gathers at the back of Shane's neck.

While they eat, he lets Rose handle most of the conversation. Nobody here expects anything of him. He's mostly quiet; everyone is used to it by now. He watches the trees bend with the wind, their silhouettes dark against the dimming sky. Shane starts counting the white dots on the black and white curtains. Gets distracted by a loose branch, which a moment later is shaken loose by a sharp gust. Starts over.

"—to the cottage?"

He's cut off at seventeen. At least seventeen dots, and Hayden's looking at him expectantly.

Shane blinks. "Sorry, I zoned out."

"I was just wondering when you're gonna take Rose to the cottage. Since it's… you know."

He does not know.

A bead of sweat rolls down his neck, under the collar of his sweater. Shane scratches the spot. There's a stain on the tablecloth, right next to his plate. He covers it with a napkin.

"Well, I." He knows the stain still exists under the wrinkly napkin. "It has to be prepared for winter first. My parents will probably handle that." It doesn't answer the question at all. "Maybe in the summer? When we're not busy. And it's—nicer, in the summer."

"And we have more free time," Rose adds.

Hayden asks if she's seen the documentary, and she says yes, she has, and glances at Shane in a way that probably means something.

Shane picks up the napkin to look at the stain again. The wind rattles the windows.

Later, Rose stands in front of the photo wall Jackie has put up. She points at one photo, cooing as the tip of her nail taps the glass. It’s Shane with baby Arthur in his arms, sitting in a plush armchair. Arthur is fast asleep, his tiny fist holding Shane's index finger.

"You're so adorable," Rose says. They both look at the photo. Shane remembers when Hayden had pushed Arthur in his arms; remember to support his head, put your other hand here, look, you're a natural! He likes you already, don't you, Art? Don't you like Uncle Shane? "It's honestly a little unfair how cute you are."

"Oh," Shane says. The scrape of Rose's nails against his scalp makes his stomach twist. "Thank you?"

Sometimes Rose looks at him like she's seeing a lost, miserable puppy she wants to keep. She rises on her tiptoes and presses a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Her lip gloss sticks to his skin, but he doesn't wipe it off.

Jackie keeps her photos in neatly organized albums, which she's happy to show Rose when she asks. Shane hangs back in the kitchen with Hayden, who offers him a ginger ale while grabbing a beer for himself. The clink of glass against the marble countertop is awfully loud.

"I could actually have one, too. If you don't mind," Shane says suddenly.

Hayden's brows climb almost comically high, but he doesn't comment on it. They settle at the kitchen island, and Shane takes a swig of his beer. A normal person hanging out with his best friend. He thumbs the edge of the label. Thinks about peeling it, but they never peel as cleanly as he'd hope.

It's fine.

The kitchen tap is leaking. Hayden looks at Shane, forehead creased like always when he wants to ask something and is still figuring out how to do it without freaking Shane out. One-two-three. The droplets hit the bottom of the sink in a steady rhythm.

"This is—this is nice," Shane says. It's overwhelmingly domestic. Jackie and Rose on the couch, bent over Jackie's photo albums. Hayden and Shane having a beer.

Hayden nods. Then, "Do you like, want kids?"

Shane's beer nearly tips over. He grips it tighter. "Didn't we already have this conversation?"

"No, I mean yes, but I'm just asking if you want them. In general."

"It's a bit early for that, don't you think?" Shane tries a smile. "Haven't really thought about it yet."

Hayden shrugs. "It's not unusual," he says, tone light. "It didn't take us very long after we'd started dating.”

The air is very warm and still. Shane blinks his eyes rapidly. "I'm not—”

"I know, you're married to hockey. Don't worry, you have time." It isn't reassuring at all. "My sister just had her first baby. D'you wanna see? She sent me a few pictures."

He digs his phone out and opens it before Shane can answer. Rose and Jackie's laughter carries across the room. Shane drinks his beer.

Rozanov says he'll be there at eleven. Shane makes sure everything's ready, and then he waits. Sits down on the couch and fiddles with his phone. He opens Twitter and closes it immediately, only to open Instagram a moment later. The first post he sees is a picture of Jackie and her brother. Apparently he turned twenty yesterday. Shane likes the post and closes the app. Minutes tick forward. Rozanov is late.

Shane tells him that much when he finally arrives. Shows him his phone screen, which says 23:17. Rozanov doesn’t remark on it. Neither does Shane. 

It’s only been three weeks. Not that long. 

"Marly wouldn't stop talking about his new girlfriend," Rozanov says with a dismissive wave and toes his shoes off. "I had to tell him I have beautiful girl waiting for me so he would let me go." He crowds Shane against the wall. "Beautiful girl who will be so mad if she can't have my dick in her mouth."

"Jesus," Shane mutters. The hallway narrows down to the sliver of space between them. "Fuck off."

"Hmm. I don't think I will."

Rozanov kisses him. All-consuming and hungry. Shane thinks he can hear footsteps upstairs, even though no one lives there. Rozanov kisses his pulse. It's his heartbeat, then, or the blood pounding in his ears.

No one has set foot inside the apartment since the last time they saw each other. Rozanov hoists Shane up onto the kitchen counter and noses the skin behind Shane's ear. The kitchen is spotless. He can't see a single speck of dust on the gleaming surfaces.

Shane's head hits the cabinets when Rozanov cups him through his pants. "Bedroom," he says and slaps Rozanov's arm. "C'mon."

Rozanov carries him there. The trip is a blur. His fingers digging into Shane's ass. Through the door; Rozanov kicks it shut because Shane likes the feeling of being cradled in the confines of the room. Wants to forget everything outside this bubble they've created for themselves.

They stay in bed for what feels like hours. We don't have enough time for this, Shane says when Rozanov opens him slowly, two fingers—then three, after he has already come once into Rozanov's mouth. He licks precome and sweat off the planes of Shane's belly and says no, we do. Look. And Shane looks, cranes his neck to see the digital clock on his nightstand, but from this angle he can't make sense of the numbers. His arousal pushes him this way and that, drags him through warm, murky waters.

Shane can feel his release in his fingertips when he comes for the second time. He clutches Rozanov tightly, his whole body humming.

"Are you in a hurry," he asks after. Rozanov's still inside him.

"No," Rozanov says into his neck. "I already told you. We have time."

"Hey, Hollzy," Wilson says from the other side of the locker room, "Heard your girl is here tonight."

Shane stares at the seam of his jersey sleeve. Pretends to inspect it, running his thumb along the line. Checking it twice, just in case. Tries to sound casual when he says, "Yeah, she is."

He imagines the room stretching and expanding behind him, rubber flooring and white, blinking lights as far as he can see. He would have to walk for hours to get out of there. Trapped in the locker room. That had happened to him once, years and years ago. Stepped out of the shower to find the door locked from the outside. Hey, guys, wouldn't it be funny if—

Says something, and his voice is delayed like he's a distance away, seeing his mouth form the words and hearing them arrive a second later: "So we better win this one, okay? Don't humiliate me."

It doesn't sound like him at all. He gets a few laughs.

And then it all comes rushing back in when Shane turns around. His teammates, the noise, that incessant buzzing. The red door, closer than he remembered. And when the time comes, he walks out of this room with everyone else, into the rink. Everything goes quiet in his head when he gets there.

Rose is on the jumbotron, showing off her Hollander jersey. She blows a kiss to Shane. Hayden makes an offhanded comment about how lucky Shane is. Yeah, I am, Shane says. Lucky, I mean.

Two days ago, over the phone, Yuna had asked about Rose. When can we meet her? You look good together, people love you two. Did you know you were trending on Twitter last week? Shane wanted to correct her. People love Rose. Outside hockey, no one really cares about Shane Hollander. Hayden had asked him a while back: did you hear? You're bringing us new fans. Well, not you, but your girlfriend. They'd been on the team bus, and behind them Drapeau had snorted. Do Rose Landry's fans even know anything about hockey?

In the end, it doesn't matter. Here, his mind empties pleasantly, the people on the other side of the glass become secondary. He calls the shots; there is no Shane, a little to the left, please? or let's go one more time, try to look a bit more energized, yeah? or we could call just a few paps, you know, to control the narrative. Shane doesn't think about Rose or the fans or the fucking narrative or anything else than this. Something that's his.

Something that's his and.

Detroit's 17 tries to catch him along the board. Shane gets a glance at his face, but it's blurry, the lights of the arena bouncing off his visor. 17 says something, chirps, maybe, but his mouth moves at the wrong angle, and Shane can't hear him. The smell of ozone is faint in the rink.

Shane blinks sweat out of his eyes. The ice winks back. 17 has already moved on.

The first rays of sun slant through the blinds when Shane jolts awake, sweaty and heart pounding in his chest. Rose stirs beside him. He shivers at the slightest touch, his thoughts lagging behind as he tries to remember the dream. Here, in his bedroom. His palm is warm and clammy where it rests on his belly, and he's—hard.

He goes completely still and watches as Rose's eyelids flutter, and then she's looking at him. Groggy and a little confused before she smiles.

"Good morning," she says and yawns.

"Hi." He keeps his voice quiet. She puts a kiss on his chest, and he discreetly tries to shift away from her. "I, um."

Rose rolls over, a playful glint in her eyes, and then, "Oh," when she feels Shane press against her hip. And there's nothing abnormal about morning erections. He gets them fairly often. But this time there's a wet patch on the front of his boxers and even the tiniest movement is enough to make the heat inside him coil, and it's not going away.

"I'm sorry," he says. Appropriate.

The smile turns sympathetic. "It's alright." Her fingers skate over his chest. "Do you want me to help you with that?"

Shane swallows. "Yeah, okay."

"Yeah?"

His skin feels tight when Rose's hand trails down his stomach. She drags her knuckles down his length over the damp fabric and tugs Shane into a proper kiss.

"Good dream?" Rose pulls his cock free, and her hand is very soft. Small. Shane thinks about the dream. Here, in his bedroom. Moonlight poured on the bed. Just enough to see the moles on Ilya's back.

"Ye-es," Shane's breath catches when she presses down under the head. Gentle. Not hard enough.

"Do you wanna tell me about it?"

Shane tries to hold on to the dream but it's slippery, the details already dissolving. But what he can remember is. The weight of Ilya's body pinning him down, the shape of his mouth on his spine. They didn't talk. Shane was too scared of the things he would've inevitably said.

"I don't remember much," he says. "But it was… nice."

Rose's laugh is soft. Like her hands. Shane wonders if he should have lied and said it was about her. That's what she wants to hear, right? She wants her boyfriend to dream about her. He closes his eyes and grasps at whatever remains of the dream he can reach. Ilya's hand on his neck, holding him down. Ilya's teeth in his shoulder. Pressure wells up behind Shane's eyes. You should try thinking about this: Rose's body pressed against yours. The curve of her hip. He's still leaking into her hand. The soft, wet heat of her. What it would feel like.

The friction of Rose's palm on his cock is too sharp. Shane wants to open his eyes, wants to look at her, he should look at her. The muscles in his abdomen tense. He should look at Rose.

"Are you close, baby?"

Shane is. He has to be. But the more he chases it, the further it gets. His heartbeat is somewhere in his chest, throat, stomach, in his fingertips.

He feels the exact moment he starts to soften in Rose's grip. He wants to bury his head in the pillow, hide, but he forces his eyes open and grabs her wrist.

"I'm sorry," he says again. He finds himself apologizing to her too often. "It's not, you know, your fault."

Rose looks at him. Gently, "I get it. You just woke up." She rubs his elbow once and turns to grab a tissue. Shane wants to tell her that he really was close, that she made him feel good, but he doesn't.

"I'll make up breakfast, yeah?" Rose pushes herself up and pulls her hair up into a ponytail. "We have two hours before my pickup gets here."

Shane nods. He waits for her to go downstairs before he heads to the shower.

They manage to meet up in New York, the Metros going against the Admirals on their home ice and Rose being a guest on a late-night talk show. So. A stolen night in a hotel room, New York scattered below them. Lovely, isn't it, to watch the city move, swell and stop, the sound of it a constant thrum underneath you.

After taking his shoes off, Shane drops his bags next to the bed and collapses onto it. The room has a popcorn ceiling. There's a tiny stain in the corner closest to him where the paint has started to crumble. He should move his bag. He doesn't want flakes falling onto his things.

The walls are bare. Faint, silvery stripes highlight the otherwise white wallpaper. There are seventeen stripes on the wall across from him. The air conditioning hums. He counts the stripes from left to right, and then from right to left. What an unsatisfying number.

Yellow light floods this side of the room when the bedside lamp is turned on. The mattress dips and creaks under new weight.

"I swear I've been in this exact same room like, a million times," Rose says. The scent of her perfume is enough to drown out the stale, almost chemical-like smell of the air blowing from the conditioner. "All in different cities."

Citrus-like. Sweet, but not too overpowering. Shane likes her perfume. She knows it.

Not all hotel rooms have popcorn ceilings, he should point out. Or seventeen stripes on the north wall. Has she noticed that?

The light flickers behind her. Silence. Rose smiles, brushes her fingers through his hair once.

Shane has never liked popcorn ceilings. But she's right: it's just like every other hotel room.

It would make sense if the moments with Rozanov started to feel repetitive. If the novelty started to wear off after six years. If the rooms blurred together and lost their shape. None of that happens. Every time feels like they're discovering something brand new, like they're learning each other over and over again despite the comfort of familiarity.

And so it makes sense, then, that Shane pays attention to the details. The ceiling, the color of the carpet, the shape of the lampshades. It's all simultaneously familiar and not.

In this room, the wall is mustard yellow. A pale yellow pattern on top of it, delicate swirls meant to resemble a vine, if Shane had to guess. He feels woozy, unable to focus on anything. He'd drunk one beer before coming up, and that shouldn't have been enough to even get him even tipsy. He stares at the wall with half-lidded eyes, trying to track the swirls and his palms keep slipping where they're propped on Rozanov's chest, sweaty and slick.

Shane can't hear the murmur of traffic. Can't hear the rain pattering against the window. He can barely hear himself, the weak, pathetic sounds escaping him. His head has been filled with cotton.

Rozanov smacks his haunch. "Why did you stop?" he asks. "You have a job to do." Shane thinks the loops of his curls are not that different from the pattern on the wallpaper, which seems ridiculous. Endless loops, curving around nothing, nothing at all.

Then Rozanov adds, "Are you tired already?" and Shane shakes his head. Lifts himself up, every muscle in his body straining, and sinks back down onto Rozanov's cock. Rozanov's smile is saccharine. "It hasn't been very long yet. I think you can do better than that."

Shane wants to argue. They've been here for at least forty-five minutes. He wouldn't be this worn out otherwise. But he sucks in a breath, a mouthful of dusty air, and keeps going.

Rozanov's hands are hot on him. Thighs, hips, waist. The world shrinks down into this: Rozanov's hands, pushing him up and pulling him down—Rozanov, inside him, making himself a home at the base of his spine, taking root in Shane's nervous system.

"Thirteen minutes," he says. He shows his watch to Shane, who can barely see the numbers. It shouldn't still be that, he’s sure. "Until eleven thirty, yes? Then I take over."

Rozanov sets the watch aside. Thirteen minutes. Shane swallows around a sob. His tongue is thick in his mouth. He can see yellow behind his eyelids, the swirls, he opens his eyes. Thirteen minutes turn into forever, here. Loops and loops and loops, never-ending.

A week until Rose's birthday party, and Shane googles "birthday present for girlfriend." Reads an article titled 21 Tips And Ideas For Finding The Perfect Gift For Your Girlfriend, comes to the conclusion that she probably doesn't want succulents or scented candles or a fish hotel, and settles on jewelry.

He decides he'll buy her earrings, asks Yuna for advice, and in the end he picks small pearl drops. The pearls hang from a delicate gold chain with a tiny diamond stud on top.

The price gives him a pause. The earrings aren't outrageously expensive. And he wants to give her something nice, wants to get this right. He could afford something with a higher price tag. It's the thought that counts, he reminds himself, and buys the earrings.

Rose's friends take full responsibility for the party. Shane has met some of them, briefly, during brunches and sometimes after a game when Rose had dragged them there with her. They're nice. They're not into hockey, which is a relief in its own way, but leaves Shane very little to talk about. So he stays silent, mostly, his hand on the small of Rose's back. The restaurant is empty since some of her co-stars are there too, and Shane feels uncomfortably out of place.

He thinks about the box that sits in his pocket. Dark blue, velvet. Thinks about giving it to her, happy birthday, babe, pulling the box out and then he realizes what it would look like. So before they bring out the cake, he holds Rose's elbow and leans closer and says, "I didn't forget your present, by the way."

"Oh?"

"But it's—do you wanna come to my place after?"

"I'd love to," Rose says and her smile is genuine and wide and beautiful and Shane tries his best to match it.

The cake is huge and over-the-top with its frills and decorations. Rose's friends insist on photos: her blowing the candles, posing with the cake, cutting a slice. They want Shane in the pictures, too. Just be casual, look at Rose, try to be candid, okay? As if Shane knows how to do any of that. And then, looking at the photos, you look so cute, oh my God those heart eyes—well, it's the honeymoon phase, right?

Someone slides a full plate in front of him without asking. Shane thanks them. The cake is probably good. Sugary. He pokes at the slice with his fork, takes a bite, chews until it's so bland it borders on disgusting. He chips off small pieces, moves them around, pretends to get distracted by the conversations happening around him.

They move to a bar afterwards. It's eleven-forty. Rented out for the night, just for them. A classy rooftop bar, one of Rose's favorites, high above the city and surrounded by tall glass walls. They make a small crowd, but it's warm and sticky and Shane thinks everyone is standing unusually close to each other, but maybe that’s an actor thing. He looks up through the skylight and feels like he could fall into the night sky.

He dances with Rose instead. Even though it makes him feel like a newborn deer. It's her birthday, after all. From this high up, Montreal looks small. Shane could fit the whole city in the palm of his hand.

Rose loves the earrings. That's what she tells him. She tries them on in Shane's en-suite, standing in front of the mirror. Leans in close to see the pearls catch light. Remember that pearl necklace, she says, the one I wore to our date last time, these would go perfectly with it. Shane sits on the edge of the bed and she climbs into his lap, little pearls swaying. He doesn't really have an eye for these things. He thinks Rose is beautiful no matter what. So he says, I think you look good in anything. Rose hums. Thank you, baby.

She's happy. It's in the way that she kisses, playful and interrupted by the smile she hides there, smears it across Shane's lips. What do you want, Shane asks her. Rose pretends to consider this. Pulls back and narrows her eyes. What if, she starts, you fucked me?

Shane pinches one pearl between his teeth. Playful. Casual. What else does he have left to give?

Eventually, Montreal plays against Boston. Shane doesn't let himself think anything of it.

The silence that hangs over the face-off dot is unusual and dripping with tension no one wants to address.

Rozanov doesn't say anything. Doesn't look at him. In a way, it's worse than if he just chirped at Shane like he normally does. And it takes more than silence to throw Shane off, but he does feel—what? Ignored? Tossed aside? He's self-aware enough to recognize he has no right to feel that way. But Rozanov is in front of him and—

The puck drops; Rozanov steals it.

In Boston, early April: two hours after losing to the Raiders, Shane opens his hotel room door to Rozanov. Rozanov drops onto the couch, legs spread and arms on the backrest like he belongs there. Technically neither of them belong there, but in this moment, this is theirs. For a couple of hours.

Shane is hovering. Waiting for something. A kiss, or even just a touch. Rozanov looks amused.

"Get condoms and lube," he says. Shane does as he's told. He's good at that.

The television is on when Shane returns. Rozanov is lounging on the couch, sweatpants slung low, and Shane doesn't know if he has it in himself to be patient about this.

He sets the condoms and lube carefully on the coffee table.

Instead of moving, Rozanov gestures at the screen. A home renovation show. Shane doesn't recognize it.

"This should interest you, Hollander. It's about real estate," Rozanov says.

Shane snorts. "Fuck you."

"Yes, well, soon." He pats the cushion next to him. "But first I want to see what they do to the house. Sit down."

Obediently, Shane sits down, still frowning. "Do we have time for this?" Adds, as nonchalantly as he possibly can: "Do you even want to—you know."

Rozanov looks at him like he said something truly stupid. "Don't be silly, Hollander. Obviously I want to fuck you." Now, yes, Shane does feel a little stupid. "I just need to rest little bit. Was very hard work, winning the game."

Shane shoves him with his elbow. Rozanov's grin is so wide it must hurt his cheeks. "You are always so worried about time. Relax. Will be good for you."

They never have time. Still, they finish the episode.

The first period kicks off.

Shane feels sloppy. Not fully there. Rozanov is not faring much better, either. It's like he's gunning for Shane, chasing him, demanding his attention. Slams him against the boards like he wants to crush Shane there. His eyes are cold, hard. His stick jams into Shane's ribs and all air leaves his lungs, pain flaring. It curls in his stomach, sharp and searing. He feels hot. He feels like he could melt through the ice when Rozanov collides into him.

His focus slips away from him. It’s just him and Rozanov and the ice between them. Shane lets himself have this. 

Right after he and Rose hit the headlines, Shane picks up his phone and navigates to Ilya’s Instagram page. 

He’s posted something on his story. Shane doesn’t open it. Doesn’t want Ilya to think he’s been stalking him. Checks his Twitter profile next; the most recent tweet is from a month ago. It would be silly to be disappointed, so he isn’t. He takes a deep breath and jostles his shoulders. Yes, this is good. 

He watches the Raiders game that night, as if checking Ilya's socials wasn't enough. Holds his hand on his groin and feels himself plump up. Raiders win, 6-4, and Shane goes to the shower and takes himself in hand, gets himself close with rough strokes that are too fast, too tight. Like Ilya would've done it. And he doesn't let himself come. It doesn't count if he doesn't finish. Shane stands under the ice cold water for fifteen minutes and goes to bed.

It's his worst game of the season, he's sure of it. His right side throbs wetly, warm. He's unreasonably smug about it. And Rozanov might have ruined him, but he could let himself think that he's ruined Rozanov, too.

Rose's hands are under his shirt. Raising the hem of it, hips swaying against his. He squeezes a smile onto his face. Inexplicably, he feels dirty. He shouldn't be touching her.

Shane scans the crowd. Rose is saying something, he thinks, her lips move. Or maybe she's just singing along to the song that's playing. His tongue is like sandpaper. Why are there so many people there? Don't they know there are other clubs in Montreal? He swallows, throat clicking.

She pulls his hand. Much like a doll, he moves with her.

His eye catches on—on fucking Marleau, right on the same dance floor as him. Rose tilts Shane's head back to her before he can process it. Smiles, close, so close, like this: put your hands on her waist, she tugs it a little lower, on her hip, on the top of her thigh. Her arms loop around your neck.

A drink gets shoved into his hand. Shane takes a mouthful. It's not cold enough, but the smoothness of it feels good as it goes down.

Pink, purple, blue, to the tempo of the song. Pink, purple, blue. Shane is hot and cold at the same time, from one sensation to another, nothing in between.

Checks his clock. 23:17. Raises his head like he's possessed, his body knows where to look even when he doesn't. From a distance, Ilya's eyes are black. Shane feels like a prey animal. Something to be lured and trapped.

Why are you here; why are we here? Ilya kisses the girl in front of him. The kiss lasts seventeen seconds, Shane counts, what are we doing? Ilya is dragging the tender, ugly parts of them out here for everyone to see. Seventeen seconds, or at least until Rose leans in and Shane insistently presses his mouth on hers to remind himself of what he wants.

The kiss breaks. Shane has to leave, his body lurching. When he meets Ilya's eyes, he sees the gesture for what it really is: a reminder of his place. 

The drive home is over too quickly. Shane can see the club lights flicker behind his eyelids. He opens his eyes. Rose's dress glints. It slides off her body, spilling down the stairs. A pool of pale, white light.

He thinks about the woman Ilya had danced with. Wonders if he took her to his hotel room, tugged down the zipper of her dress. If Ilya thought of Shane while he undressed her. There are so many steps between him and Rose, she's standing at the top of the stairs, hair falling over her shoulders. Again: like a painting. Something you're not allowed to touch.

They’re in bed, and Shane keeps his eyes shut. Imagines Ilya. Curls sticking to his temples as he fucks into the girl from the club. Is she on her back? Riding him? That doesn't really matter, because it's not her Shane is thinking about. It's the vein on Ilya's forehead that becomes visible when he's close, instead; the bow of his lips; how his arms flex and tremble when he finishes inside Shane.

Underneath him, Rose's breathing picks up. Her nails dig into his neck, biceps. "Shane—I'm gonna—"

Ilya would laugh at Shane if he saw him right now. He shakes.

With that, lips in Rose’s hair, Shane comes. Manages it just so, Ilya's voice clear in his head. Da, Hollander. Just like that.

They clean up separately. By the time Shane steps out of the bathroom, Rose is half-asleep. He thinks about apologizing but he can’t. She’d be so fucking kind about it, too. It’s fine, really, it’s okay, she offers him endless grace, all the time. Even when she doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for.

Shane gets under the sheets. Careful as to not wake her. Rose murmurs something into the pillow, her hand patting around the mattress until it finds his. He lets her take it. Her hold is tight. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, and only after a moment does it occur to him to press his hand into hers.

Shane imagines doing this for the rest of his life. The thought lodges itself firmly in his throat. 

Rose flies to L.A., the 3,000 miles between them offering a reprieve. It's easy to pretend this is all it would ever be. 

Can't wait to see you, she tells him over the phone. And Shane replies, yeah, same, I've missed you. He's been telling her that every time they call. 

She's excited and stunning, her lipstick leaves behind a faint, dark red mark when she kisses Shane on the cheek. A new shirt, blue and long-sleeved, just a few shades darker than Metros blue. High collar and a slit in the back. She gives him a twirl, her black skirt fluttering.

"Do you like it?" she asks.

"I do," Shane says. Blue suits her. "You look good."

"Thank you," she smiles sweetly, "You, too."

"I look the same as always."

"Well, then you always look good."

Shane lets out a noise at that. A groan, or a snort. Rolls his eyes, too. Rose laughs.

He asks if she's hungry. She keeps watching him, picking lint off his shoulder. Not really, she replies. Pets the soft, short hairs at the nape of his neck as she loops her arms around him. Something sours in Shane's stomach.

A part of him shuts down when he kisses her. Shane nips at Rose's lips, slips his hands under her shirt to feel the warm, soft skin. It feels like he's making up for something, but he just isn't sure what. He tries to convince himself. See, you can do this. Look how beautiful she is. Isn't this a good thing? Isn't this good?

Rose yelps when Shane hoists her up, locking her legs firmly around his waist. When he starts to walk, she smacks his shoulders and arms. Wriggles in an attempt to get down. You're going to drop me, Shane, I swear to god. She tries to sound stern, but the corners of her lips are twitching. No, you're not carrying me up the stairs, Jesus fucking Christ, put me down. She giggles. Shane is grinning, too. Her laughter is contagious. He shouldn't laugh when he needs to focus. Have a little faith in me, okay? I'm an athlete. This is basically nothing. The words come out strained. Hope tastes so sweet when he licks it off her neck, sucks the skin between his teeth. Careful to not leave a mark. Maybe he can make this work after all.

He's not hard when he rolls her nipples between his fingers. He's not hard when he kisses the middle of her chest, then down her stomach, then the curly hairs between her legs. Shane pulls her to the edge of the bed, her legs on his shoulders, and kisses the inside of her thigh. Takes a deep inhale and hopes it comes off as teasing rather than nervous. Parting her with his fingers, he circles her clit with his tongue. If he's good, this will be enough. He won't have to worry about his cock which is still limp and useless in his boxers.

But as her stomach tenses, when she clenches around his fingers, she pulls his hair and pants, "I was—Shane—don't you wanna fuck me?"

"Oh," Shane says, like he didn't know this. "Alright."

Rose's face does something he can't decipher. "You don't have to if you don't wanna." Kind, again.

"I do," he insists. "But, I."

He stays on the floor. On his knees. She props herself up on her elbows. Watching him, always watching him, Shane thinks she knows things about him he doesn't, just by watching.

"Come here?" Rose asks. He doesn't move. Stuck kneeling. Even though she can already see everything.

Shane swallows. "Sorry, I just—I'm feeling a little weird tonight."

He can't look her in the eyes. Rose pulls her legs up, against her chest, and leans her cheek on her knee. One hand still stroking his hair. 

"Okay, it's fine." She withdraws her hand and rolls her shoulders. "I need to take a shower."

Shane lets Rose have the en-suite and uses the guest bathroom himself instead. He stands there for too long, but when he returns to the bedroom he's still sweating. Or at least he thinks he is. He considers a second shower.

Lying in bed next to each other, Rose asks to hold his hand. She's still squeezing it by the time she falls asleep.

Rose’s rental in Montreal is modest. Sparse but tasteful. Inoffensive in its refusal to commit to any clear style or trend. Shane has been here before, twice, but Rose prefers his place. It’s cozier, she’d said when he asked. 

There’s one episode left of the docuseries they’ve been watching. It’s about deep sea creatures, Rose tells him. She curls up against his side. I was obsessed with anglerfish as a kid, it looked so scary. 

Shane isn’t quite sure what anglerfish is. But when one drifts past the camera, he does recognize the lure. The narrator continues talking about marine snow and whale falls. His voice is calming. It fades into the background easily. They sink into a fragile, hazy lull. 

Rose is the one to break it. 

“Hey,” she says, quiet and careful. Her thumb moves over the inside of his wrist in an absent motion. Back and forth. “Shane. Do you… Are you attracted to me?” 

Shane opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He manages to look at her, somehow. He feels far away from himself. 

“It’s not a trick question, I promise,” she says softly. 

“I,” he starts. Glances back at the screen. The anglerfish is more ugly than scary, he thinks. His stomach clenches so hard he nearly doubles over. “I think I might be gay.” 

He could see Rose nod from the corner of his eye. “Okay.” 

“I’m sorry, I—I tried to. Not be… that.” He keeps staring at the television. “I wanted to be—I tried.” 

Rose doesn’t say anything. Her fingers are still curled around his hand. 

Then she says, “It’s okay.” 

Shane shakes his head. He feels hot in his t-shirt and sweatpants. He licks his lips. His eyes sting. It’s not really okay, though, he wants to say, is it? 

“It’s not you,” he tries. It’s not you, it’s me. There you go. “I did—I do love you. Just not…” 

“Not romantically?” Rose nods again. Bites her lip. “Yeah, I know.” She exhales. It sounds shaky. “I love you, too. This is not—You’re a good guy, Shane. You really are.” 

She removes her hand and wipes her palms on her jeans. “Was there someone else?” 

“Not when I was with you,” Shane says. “But before that. Yes.” 

A third nod. She turns her head to the side so he can’t see his face. When she looks back, her waterline is wet. 

“I care about you a lot, okay?” Rose rubs her cheek. “I want to, maybe, to stay friends. I think. But I need time, I need—space.” 

“I’d like to be friends,” Shane replies. He doesn’t want to lose her. But it’s not up to him.

Rose doesn’t smile, but her lips twitch. “We could try that. Maybe.” 

An irrational urge to cry threatens to overtake him when he gets home. He stands in the hallway and stares at the rug under his feet and closes his fist, opens it. Closes it, nails sink into the soft meat of his palm, opens it. Tears well up but he swallows them, his resolve absolute. Closes his fist. Goes for a run instead.

He picks a route he knows is quiet at this time of the evening and runs. Away from something, towards something else, he doesn't know, he just runs. His quads burn but it's the good kind, gives him something to focus on. Grounds him. Shoulders down and relaxed. Spine straight. Chest up. Core tight. This his body knows how to do. Carry him forward. Breathe: in for three, exhale for two. Count your steps: Inhale, one-two-three. Exhale, four-five. Through your nose. After a while, his lungs start to burn, too. He bites down on his lip.

No matter what he does, something is always missing. Nothing seems to hold. There’ll always be someone asking him to be something more. Less. Something else. Never a space where he hasn't had to make himself more palatable. 

His chest is tight. Shane pushes faster. Eventually, his thighs turn numb in the cold. He looks at his legs and thinks they belong to someone else. 

There's only one person he keeps coming back to. Who knows what he is. The tang of blood spreads in his mouth. It feels good. Makes the burn brighter. His vision clears.

What do you want, Shane Hollander, you ask.

There's only this: the quiet whir of the elevator. His own back to him in the mirror. He’s been here before. 

Sometimes when he was a kid, Shane would stand in a moving elevator and close his eyes. And if he tried hard enough, he could pretend the elevator was moving in the opposite direction. Down instead of up, up instead of down. He would change the trajectory of it with his will alone. Now he watches the numbers go up, screen blinking slowly. The remains of salt and lime are sour when he licks his lips, but not entirely unpleasant.

Maybe he should've drunk something sweeter. More amicable. But then again, he's pretty sure Ilya likes him best when he's a little bitter. When he gets to lick the fight out of Shane's mouth, to push and provoke and then soothe Shane into compliance right after.

The elevator is empty. The too-bright light, constant buzzing, cold metal of the handrails, it's all so familiar. Comforting. But amid the comfort, there's an underlying sense of something new and terrifying. He already has one foot out the door. And he hopes that when he decides to cross the threshold, he won't have to do it alone.

He’s going to do it anyway. He can see it now, how this is something he can't escape. Cannot fight. Everything will always lead him back here: an elevator, a hallway, a hotel room. And Shane can't drag it into the light quite yet, but he will carve a permanent space into this world for them to exist in. Because he fucking wants to.

The hallway is empty, too. His steps are quiet on the carpeted floor. No sound, like he doesn't even exist. No traces of him. Here and there and nowhere.

There's a door in front of him. Room 1217. Shane reaches for it.