Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Shane is halfway through lacing his skates when his phone lights up on the shelf in front of him.

He stops so abruptly his fingers go slack in the laces.

For a second, he just stares.

The locker room keeps moving around him in a blur of noise and motion, but Shane feels like the whole world has narrowed down to the bright rectangle of his screen.

Ten minutes to puck drop.

Ten minutes until they hit the ice against Boston.

Ten minutes until he’s supposed to be leading his team out there with a clear head and sharp focus and every nerve honed for the game.

Instead, his stomach twists itself into knots.

Because there is only one person in the world deranged enough to text him right now.

The room around him is buzzing with the usual pregame chaos. Someone is laughing loud enough to echo off the concrete walls. One of the vets is chirping a rookie so relentlessly that half the room keeps breaking into laughter between pulling on gear. A few of the older guys are arguing over bets they definitely shouldn’t be making. Others are talking over each other about postgame plans—bars, clubs, women, bad decisions. Or wives, kids, and whatever version of peace passes for domestic life in the NHL.

It should feel normal.

It should steady him.

Usually, it does.

Tonight, it just makes the panic sharper.

Shane stares at the phone like it’s something venomous.

Something dangerous.

Like if he touches it, it’ll bite.

He should be used to this by now.

He isn’t.

His mouth goes dry as he reaches for it. The second it’s in his hand, he lowers the brightness all the way down, thumb moving on instinct before he even unlocks it.

And there it is.

Lily

Shane nearly drops the thing.

His pulse slams hard against his ribs.

Fucking Rozanov.

Of course.

Who else.

He unlocks the screen.

The message opens immediately.

Lily

 

At which angle you want me to slam you tonight? ;)

Shane squeezes his eyes shut.

Actually squeezes them shut and tips his head back like he’s asking God for strength.

Jesus Christ.

He can hear Rozanov saying it. Hear the awful smugness in his voice. That thick Russian accent wrapping around every word and somehow making the whole thing filthier. Rozanov always sounds amused with himself. Always sounds like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Because he does.

He always does.

“Asshole,” Shane mutters under his breath.

His thumbs start moving before he’s even fully decided what to say.

What the fuck is wrong with you—

He stops.

Deletes it.

Starts again.

Seriously?

Deletes that too.

He exhales sharply through his nose, jaw clenching hard enough to ache.

Why is this always impossible?

Why does texting Rozanov feel like stepping onto thin ice every single fucking time?

Nothing sounds right.

Nothing sounds unaffected enough.

Nothing sounds like he doesn’t care.

And caring—showing even a little too much of it—is exactly how Rozanov wins.

Lily

 

At which angle you want me to slam you tonight? ;)

what is wrong with you?

He stares at it for half a second before hitting send.

Immediate regret.

The little checkmarks turn blue almost at once.

Shane’s stomach drops.

Of course he’s there.

Of course he’s sitting with his phone in hand waiting for Shane to bite.

“Hey.”

Shane jolts so hard he nearly launches the phone across the room.

He twists around, heart in his throat.

Hayden is standing there in half his gear, helmet tucked under one arm, looking way too entertained already.

Shane locks the screen so fast it’s almost violent.

Hayden notices.

Obviously.

His grin spreads wider.

“Relax,” Hayden says, laughing. “I’m not Coach.”

Shane drags in a breath.

“Jesus Christ, Hayd.”

Hayden leans casually against the edge of Shane’s stall, eyes dropping to the phone clenched so tight in Shane’s hand his knuckles are white.

“Oh,” Hayden says, grin sharpening. “That explains the face.”

Shane frowns. “What face?”

“The one where you look like you’re either about to puke or commit murder.”

Shane glares.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

Hayden lowers his voice, eyebrows lifting in mock innocence.

“So. You hanging out with us after? Or are you busy with some girl tonight?”

Shane chokes. Actually fucking chokes. Heat rushes up his neck so fast it’s humiliating. His mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

He tries again.

“No—I mean—”

God.

He sounds guilty. He sounds so guilty.

Hayden’s grin turns feral.

Shane can practically see the moment he clocks it.

“Oh my God,” Hayden says.

Shane scrambles.

“No, Hayd, it’s not—”

But every possible explanation dies in his throat.

Because denying it too hard is suspicious. Because explaining anything is impossible. Because Hayden already looks like he’s put together enough pieces to be unbearable forever.

Not enough to actually know. But enough to chirp Shane until one of them dies.

“Shut up,” Shane mutters.

Hayden laughs and pushes off the stall.

“Enjoy your lay, weirdo. Or don’t. I don’t care!”

“Man—”

But he’s already walking backward toward his own stall.

“Don’t let your her distract you too much.”

“Fuck you.”

Hayden salutes him with two fingers and turns away still laughing.

Shane wants to crawl into the floor and die there.

His phone buzzes again and he looks down before he can stop himself.

Of course he does. Of course he can’t fucking help it.

Lily

 

At which angle you want me to slam you tonight? ;)

what is wrong with you?

Only wrong thing with me is emptiness around my dick, Jane))

Shane nearly stops breathing.

A hot flush crashes over him so hard it feels physical.

His entire face burns, from his neck to his ears.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He slams the phone facedown onto the shelf.

As if not looking at it will somehow erase the words.

As if that’ll stop the immediate, traitorous response in his body.

Want hits him low and hard and vicious.

Sharp enough to make him suck in a breath.

No.

Absolutely not.

Not here, not now, in a a locker room with twenty other men within arm’s reach.

This is a horrible and a reckless habit —Rozanov sexting him before games.

Rozanov winding him tighter and tighter just because he can, knowing exactly what it does to him. 

How it sharpens every edge until Shane feels flayed open. 

How warmups become torture. 

How every hit lands harder.

How every shift burns hotter.

How by the third period Shane is half-crazed with adrenaline and frustration and need.

How all he can think about is the end.

The final buzzer.

Finding Rozanov.

No.

He forces himself to think the name coldly.

Like distance can still save him.

Like if he doesn’t think of the man with any softness at all, maybe he can keep control.

He hates how much he wants the aftermath.

Hates how much he craves the release.

Hates knowing Rozanov knows exactly what he’s doing to him.

“On the ice, ladies! Now!”Coach Thériault’s voice cracks through the room.

The spell breaks and Shane jerks upright.

Around him, the room shifts instantly into motion. Gloves snap into place. Helmets go on. Sticks are grabbed. The whole team starts filing toward the tunnel in a wave of noise and movement.

Shane grabs his gloves.

He can ignore it.

He has to. 

He takes one step.

His phone buzzes again.

Shane stops dead. His jaw clenches so hard it hurts.

For fuck’s sake.

He snatches the phone up, already typing in his head.

Something cold and vicious, something that’ll make Rozanov stop.

Fuck off.

I’m blocking you.

I’m not coming anywhere near you after the game if you keep this up.

Anything.

Anything to regain control.

But when he looks down—

He freezes.

It’s not Rozanov.

His stomach drops so fast it almost makes him dizzy.

A notification stretches across the screen.

You were added to “BOSTON WAGs 💋🏒✨”

His brain blanks.

He reads it once.

Twice.

Three times.

Like maybe he’s hallucinating.

Like maybe he got hit in the head in practice and this is the delayed concussion setting in.

You were added to “BOSTON WAGs 💋🏒✨”

What.

The.

Fuck.

The blood drains from his face so fast he feels cold all over.

Somewhere beyond the tunnel, the roar of the crowd swells through the concrete.

The arena is alive.

The game is starting.

And in Shane’s hand, messages start flooding in one after another after another so fast he can barely track them.

Shane Hollander—captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, control freak, chronic overthinker, and man currently on the verge of a full public breakdown, can only stare.

The phone buzzes again in his hand. Shane doesn’t move at first, his brain lagging half a step behind what his eyes are seeing, like if he doesn’t fully process it, it might not be real. The locker room noise presses in around him—laughter, shouting, the scrape of skates on rubber—but it all feels distant now, muffled under the sudden rush of blood in his ears.

He shouldn’t look.

He knows he shouldn’t look.

But his thumb moves anyway, like it’s not entirely under his control.

BOSTON WAGs 💋🏒✨

 

Unknown number (1):

Hi Jane, welcome to the WAG’s chat, we’ve heard that you and Cap have been dating for a while. So we thought that you should be added too!

For a fraction of a second, the words don’t mean anything. They register as language, but not as reality. Then something in his brain catches up, and the meaning hits him all at once, hard enough to knock the air out of his chest.

Cap.

The word lands like a punch.

Before he can even react, another message slides in.

BOSTON WAGs 💋🏒✨

 

Unknown number (1):

Hi Jane, welcome to the WAG’s chat, we’ve heard that you and Cap have been dating for a while. So we thought that you should be added too!

Unknown number (2):

Hi Jane, it’s very nice to finally meet you. I’m Vanessa, St-Simon’s wife!

That’s when it fully clicks.

Not a mistake.

Not a wrong number.

Not something he can laugh off or ignore.

They think he’s—

They think Jane—

Shane’s hand moves before he’s even conscious of deciding. He slams the phone facedown onto the shelf with a sharp crack that feels too loud, like it should draw attention, like everyone in the room should turn and look at him and know exactly what just happened.

No one does.

The room keeps going.

His heart doesn’t.

It’s hammering so fast it almost hurts, a violent, uneven rhythm that makes his chest feel tight and wrong. He stares straight ahead, jaw locked, trying to breathe normally and failing. The words loop in his head, louder with every second.

Jane.

Cap.

Dating.

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck.

He drags a hand over his face, pressing his palm hard against his eyes like he can physically shove the panic back down where it belongs. His thoughts are tripping over each other, refusing to line up into anything useful.

Think.

He needs to think.

The obvious move is to leave the chat immediately. That’s what any sane person would do. Just get out before anyone notices, before anything gets worse, before he accidentally says something that makes this even more real.

But what if they just add him back?

What if leaving is makes it all worse?

His stomach drops so sharply it makes him feel nauseous.

Can they see that he read the messages?

Can they see that he’s there, right now, staring at it and not answering?

Does silence look suspicious?

Does everything look suspicious?

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The panic builds fast, hot and suffocating, climbing up his throat and making it hard to breathe properly. He can feel it in his hands, in the slight tremor he can’t quite control, in the way his thoughts keep slipping just out of reach every time he tries to grab onto something solid.

“Let’s go!”

The shout cuts through everything, sharp and immediate.

Someone brushes past him, shoulder knocking into his, pulling him bodily back into the present.

The tunnel is filling. Players are already moving out.

He’s out of time.

He doesn’t get to figure this out.

He doesn’t get to think this through.

Shane grabs his gloves on instinct, movements jerky and automatic, like his body is running on muscle memory alone. The phone stays where it is, facedown on the shelf, like if he leaves it there, he can leave the problem there too.

He knows that’s not how it works.

He does it anyway.

The noise of the arena swells as he steps into the tunnel, then onto the ice, the roar of the crowd crashing over him in a wave of sound and light and motion.

Usually, that’s enough.

Usually, it clears his head, burns everything else away until there’s nothing left but the game.

Tonight, it doesn’t even come close.

From the very first shift, he can feel it.

Something is wrong.

Not in a dramatic, obvious way. Not something you can point to immediately and name.

Just… wrong.

Like he’s slightly out of sync with everything around him.

The puck comes to him in the neutral zone, a clean, simple pass he could take in his sleep. His stick meets it, but not quite right. It bobbles for half a second before he corrals it, and that half-second is enough to break the rhythm of the play.

He recovers.

He always recovers.

But it’s not smooth. Not instinctive.

Forced.

Delayed.

On the bench, he stares straight ahead, trying to focus on the game, on the flow, on anything that isn’t the image of his phone lighting up over and over again in his mind. He can almost see the messages piling up, can almost feel the vibration in his hand even though it’s not there anymore.

“Hey.”

A nudge at his side pulls him back, it’s Hayden.

“Wake up,” he mutters. “You’re drifting.”

“I’m fine,” Shane says automatically.

The lie comes out too fast.

Too flat.

He hears it.

Hayden definitely hears it. But he doesn’t push, just gives him a quick look that says get it together before hopping over the boards for his shift.

Shane exhales slowly, trying to steady himself, but the tension doesn’t leave. It sits heavy in his chest, coiled tight, refusing to loosen.

When the goal comes, it feels almost accidental.

The puck slides loose into open ice high in the zone, and Shane reacts on instinct. He steps into it, pulls it onto his forehand, and snaps a quick shot through traffic before anyone can close the gap.

It’s a good shot.

A perfect shot.

The kind he’s built his reputation on.

The red light flashes.

The crowd explodes.

His teammates crash into him immediately, gloves hitting his helmet, voices loud and excited in his ears. Someone shouts his name. Someone else laughs.

Shane lifts his stick, breathing hard, playing the part.

But it feels distant.

Muted.

Like he’s watching it happen from somewhere outside himself.

Because even now, even with the noise and the adrenaline and the physical impact of bodies slamming into his, his mind slides right back to it.

You and Cap have been dating for a while.

It unravels after that.

Slowly at first, then all at once.

A bad decision at the blue line turns into a turnover. He tries to force a play that isn’t there, and it backfires immediately. The puck goes the other way, fast, and Shane is already behind the play before he realizes what’s happening.

He pushes to recover.

He’s late.

Just late enough.

The shot beats their goalie clean.

The shift ends in silence.

On the bench, no one says anything right away, but the energy has changed. It’s subtle, but Shane feels it instantly—the awareness, the tension, the unspoken recognition that something is off.

“Come on, Shane,” JJ mutters as he sits down beside him, not harsh but not gentle either. “That’s not you.”

Shane nods once, short and sharp.

“I know.”

And he does.

That’s the worst part.

He knows exactly how he’s playing.

He knows exactly how it looks.

And he can’t fix it.

By the third period, it’s not subtle anymore.

Everything is just slightly wrong. His timing. His positioning. His reads.

Things he normally does without thinking now require effort, and even then, they don’t come out right. It’s like there’s a delay between what he sees and how he reacts, like his brain is still somewhere else, trying to process something it can’t quite grasp.

Because it is.

It’s still in the locker room.

Still staring at that screen.

Still trying to understand how something so carefully hidden could unravel this fast.

The hit comes late.

Shane chases the puck into the corner, forcing himself into the play, trying to compensate, to prove—something. He gets there first, just barely, reaching for the puck along the boards.

The impact hits a second later.

Hard.

Clean.

It drives him straight into the glass, shoulder taking most of it, the force rattling through his entire body.

Rozanov.

It has to be.

For a brief, suspended second, they’re pressed together, too close, bodies aligned in a way that is entirely normal in hockey and completely unbearable in every other context.

No one is looking at them like that.

No one ever would.

Not here.

Not in the middle of a game where everything about them is supposed to be rivalry and nothing else.

Rozanov leans in just enough, his voice low, almost swallowed by the noise of the arena.

“What is wrong with you, Hollander?”

There’s no teasing in it.

No smirk.

Just blunt, quiet observation.

And that—more than anything—makes something twist tighter in Shane’s chest.

Then he’s gone.

Pushing off, skating away, leaving Shane against the boards for half a second longer than he should be.

Shane pushes off too, but it’s worse now.

Because if Rozanov noticed—

If even he can see it, then it’s obvious, to everyone.

The rest of the game drags.

Shane plays on instinct alone, his body moving through the motions while his mind stays somewhere else entirely. It’s not enough. It was never going to be enough.

When the final buzzer sounds, the loss is deserved.

The walk back to the locker room is heavy, weighed down by something no one says out loud. Conversations are shorter. Eye contact is brief. The usual postgame noise is muted, replaced by something quieter and sharper.

Shane doesn’t try to fill the silence because he wouldn’t know how.

He already knows what they’re thinking, because he knows what he put on the ice tonight.

The reporters are waiting as always.

He answers the questions the way he’s been trained to, the words coming out smooth and automatic, completely detached from how he actually feels.

“Yes, we didn’t execute well tonight.”

“Yes, I wasn’t at my best.”

“Yes, we’ll regroup.”

“No, nothing more to say about the loss. It was fair.”

It sounds right, but in the end it means nothing.

He delays as long as he can.

Dressing slowly, even methodically.

But there’s no avoiding it.

When he finally picks up his phone, it feels heavier than it should, like it carries the weight of everything he’s been trying not to think about.

The screen lights up.

Notifications flood it instantly.

The group chat has exploded.

BOSTON WAGs 💋🏒✨ (43 unread messages)

Shane’s stomach twists hard enough to make him swallow against rising nausea.

Forty-three messages.

Forty-three chances for something to have gone very, very wrong.

His thumb hovers over the chat, hesitation stretching longer than it should.

For a moment, he considers not opening it.

Pretending none of this is real.

Pretending it can’t touch him if he doesn’t look.

But that’s already over.

He taps the screen.

The messages load.

He starts scrolling.

And the tight knot in his stomach pulls sharper, higher, until for a second he genuinely thinks he might be sick.

BOSTON WAGs 💋🏒✨

Olivia:
Hi!!! Welcome 😊 I’m Olivia, I’m with Connors (well… boyfriend, technically, but we’ve been together forever so it barely counts as “just a boyfriend” anymore).

Betty:
Don’t listen to her, it absolutely counts 😂
Hi Jane! I’m Betty, married to Carmichael. Welcome to the chaos.

Rachel:
Oh yeah sorry, I totally forgot. Mb, i’m Rachel, Marleau’s girlfriend.

Maddison:
Hi babe!! Maddison here, married to Hammersmith. You’re very, very welcome in this group, especially if you’re who we think you are.

Olivia:
We’re really happy you’re here, by the way. Like… genuinely.

Betty:
Yes. Because if you’re his Jane… we’ve been waiting for you.

Maddison:
Not in a creepy way.
Okay maybe a little creepy.
But mostly relieved.

Vanessa:
We honestly didn’t think it would ever happen.

Maddison:
Like. Ever ever.

Olivia:
He’s okay, I’m going to say it nicely.

Rachel:
I won’t. He’s a complete manwhore.

Olivia:
Rachel...

Rachel:
What? It’s true.

Maddison:
It is true. We love him, but it’s true.

Olivia:
Okay, yes, but Jane, what we mean is… he’s never serious. Like, ever. We’ve never seen him keep the same person around for more than a few weeks.

Betty:
And yet here you are.

Maddison:
Which means you’re special. Like… actually special.

Olivia:
So we’re very curious about you. And also a little in awe.

Vanessa:
Mostly impressed.

Maddison:
Extremely impressed.

Rachel:
Also if he’s being annoying, you can tell us. We’ll bully him for you.

Betty:
Gladly.

Olivia:
Jane?

Betty:
You there?

Maddison:
???

Olivia:
We can see you’ve read it 😭

Betty:
Don’t be shy now, you survived Rozanov, you can survive us.

Maddison:
Wait.

Olivia:
What?

Maddison:
Game’s on.

Betty:
Oh my god, look at him.

Olivia:
He’s already being insufferable.

Maddison:
No I mean Hollander.

Betty:
Oh.

Olivia:
…yeah.

Maddison:
He looks off tonight, doesn’t he?

Vanessa:
Completely.

Olivia:
He’s missing things he usually never misses.

Maddison:
His passes are off.

Betty:
And he’s slow.

Olivia:
Not slow slow, but… distracted?

Rachel:
Exactly.

Betty:
Maybe pressure?

Olivia:
Maybe.

Maddison:
Or maybe Rozanov got in his head.

Betty:
Wouldn’t be the first time.

Olivia:
Still… I almost feel bad.

Betty:
Almost.
Because our men are winning 😎

Maddison:
As they should.

Vanessa:
We’re having a good night, ladies.

Olivia:
…Jane?

Maddison:
Still nothing.

Betty:
Okay maybe we overwhelmed her.

Maddison:
Yeah, we came in strong.

Olivia:
Jane, no pressure to answer, okay? We’re just… talkative.
But we’d love to meet you. Actually meet you.

Rachel:
Yes!!

Shane keeps staring at the screen long after it stops making sense, long after the messages blur into each other and the names lose shape. The tone stays the same, though—bright, welcoming, easy in a way that makes his chest feel tight. They’re talking to him like they know him. Like they’ve been expecting him. Like he belongs there.

Like he’s her.

“Sir?”

The voice cuts through the fog. Shane blinks, jerking his head up to find the cab driver holding the rear door open, waiting.

Right. Outside. The arena looms behind him, all light and noise and lingering adrenaline, the crowd still spilling out in waves. The game is over. He knows that much. The details are harder to hold onto—missed passes, a step too slow, the sick certainty of things slipping out of control. He remembers enough to know it wasn’t good. He remembers enough to know the Boston Bruins had no such problem.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher than he expects, ducking into the backseat. “Uh—Hôtel Le Germain, on Mansfield Street.”

The driver nods, repeats the address with a slight accent, and pulls the door shut. A moment later, they’re merging into traffic, the city sliding past in streaks of light.

Shane is already back on his phone.

Of course he is.

The group chat is still going, still alive with messages that pile up faster than he can read them. Names, comments, little fragments of conversation that all orbit around the same thing—him, except not him. Jane. Rozanov’s supposed girlfriend. The one they’ve been waiting for, apparently. The one they’re ready to welcome like she’s always been part of this.

His grip tightens around the phone until his fingers ache.

He is not supposed to be here.

The thought lands heavier now, sharper for how undeniable it is. They don’t know who he is. That should make this easier. It doesn’t. It somehow makes it worse. Because every word they send, every assumption they make, builds on something that isn’t real. On a version of him that doesn’t exist. On a relationship that has no name, no definition, nothing stable enough to justify any of this.

He’s not dating Rozanov. Not in any way that could survive daylight. Not in any way that could be explained, or defended, or even clearly described. Whatever exists between them lives in stolen time and closed doors, in tension that never quite settles and decisions Shane keeps telling himself he’ll stop making.

And he is not a girl.

He’s a hockey player. A captain. Someone who should know better than to sit in the back of a cab after a loss, scrolling through a group chat meant for wives and girlfriends like he belongs among them.

The longer he looks at it, the worse it feels.

Intrusive. Wrong.

Like he’s crossed into something private and shouldn’t be allowed to stay.

Like betrayal, even if he can’t fully explain why.

Shane exhales slowly, trying to force some order into the mess in his head. This is fixable. It has to be. He just needs to handle it before it spirals any further.

Simple. Direct.

He tells them they have the wrong person. That he shouldn’t be here. That they need to remove him.

Then he leaves.

They won’t add him again.

It should work.

It has to.

He shifts in the seat, the hum of the engine and the blur of passing headlights filling the silence as he opens the chat fully. His thumbs hover over the keyboard, poised to type.

Hi, I think you have the wrong—

He stops.

Deletes it immediately.

Shane drags a hand down his face, frustration flaring hot and sudden.

And then another thought hits him, colder.

Wait.

How the hell did they even get his number?

His eyes narrow as he looks back at the chat, at the list of names, at the easy familiarity in their messages. He’s careful. He has to be. His number isn’t something that circulates. Very few people have it. Even fewer who could connect it to anything involving Rozanov.

Which leaves exactly one possibility.

Shane lets out a quiet, humorless breath, his expression darkening as the realization settles in.

Rozanov.

Of course it’s Rozanov.

Who else would do something this reckless? Who else would think adding him to a WAG group chat—under a fake name, no less—was anything but a disaster waiting to happen?

“I’m going to kill him,” Shane mutters under his breath, staring at the screen like it personally offended him.

The driver glances at him in the rearview mirror but wisely says nothing.

Shane barely notices.

Because before he gets the chance to track Rozanov down and make good on that promise, he has a much more immediate problem sitting in his hands.

The chat is still active.

Still waiting.

Still expecting Jane to answer.

Shane swallows, tension coiling tight in his chest as the cursor blinks at him, patient and relentless.

He cannot stay silent forever.

He has to say something.

Carefully. Controlled. Neutral enough not to raise suspicion, distant enough not to invite more questions.

Handle this first.

Then deal with Rozanov.

BOSTON WAGs 💋🏒✨

Jane:
Hi girls. You are all being really nice to me, and I appreciate it, but I don’t think I should be here.

Vanessa:
OMG, there you are! And why would you say that :(

Olivia:
Hiii!

Rachel:
Glad you’re not dead though ;) and yeah, why?

Jane:
I’m pretty sure Rozanov wouldn’t want me here. I’m not his girlfriend.

Betty:
Wait, what?

Betty:
Rachel, did he give you the right number? Is she like… a hookup?

Rachel:
Yes, he did. There is no way this is a mistake. He wants you here, babe.

Jane:
I’m sorry, but this is not possible. We are literally just hookups.

Vanessa:
Damn. That man SUCKS. And you’re so polite about it too, I can’t.

Olivia:
I don’t understand what is happening :(

Rachel:
No, listen. That man is completely whipped for you, hookup or not. I talked to Cliff, and he told me Roz is literally blushing while texting “his Jane” 👀

Betty:
Ohhh, so this asshole hasn’t made it official yet. We can fix that very quickly.

Jane:
Oh my god, please no. This is a huge misunderstanding, really.

Vanessa:
Oh come on, Jane. We’ve already adopted you. There is nothing you can do about it anymore.

Olivia:
^

Rachel:
I’m sure he wants you here, and there’s no misunderstanding at all. And anyway, we’re really glad to have you.

Jane:
Oh. I’m really sorry about all of this. I’ll talk to him, it was probably just one of his jokes.

Betty:
I’m about to rip his family jewels off.

Olivia:
Betty!

Vanessa:
No but she’s right, he’s even dumber than I thought. I’m keeping Jane in the divorce.

Rachel:
Cliff told me you’re Canadian, is that true?

Jane:
Well… yes. I have to go, girls. I need to sort this out with him.

Betty:
Wait, you’re like… seeing him right now?

Vanessa:
Post-game sex like that???

Jane:
…

Olivia:
Girls!!

Rachel:
Go put your man in his place, Jane!

Shane barely waits for the elevator doors to fully open before stepping out, his stride quick and purposeful as he crosses the quiet hallway toward his room. The hotel is calm in that muted, expensive way—thick carpets swallowing sound, soft lighting casting everything in gold—but it does nothing to settle the storm still coiled tight in his chest. He reaches his door, swipes the keycard, and pushes inside without hesitation, immediately turning to lock it behind him with a sharp, decisive click.

For a moment, he just stands there.

The silence presses in, heavy after the noise of the arena, the game, the crowd, the chaos in his head. His phone is still in his hand, the last messages from the group chat lingering on the screen, and he feels that same spike of disbelief all over again. None of this was supposed to happen. None of this was planned.

Everything else is.

That’s the point.

Shane has always been careful. Methodical. He doesn’t bring Rozanov to his place—never has, never will. It’s too risky, too personal, too easy for things to bleed into spaces they don’t belong in. The hotel is safer. Neutral. Controlled. Especially since the Boston Bruins always stay here when they’re in town. It makes everything simpler, cleaner, easier to explain if anyone ever asks questions.

At least, it used to.

Lately, even that has started to feel insufficient. He’s caught himself thinking about buying something—an old building, something that needs work. A renovation project would give him an excuse, a reason to come and go without scrutiny. Somewhere private enough to disappear into. Somewhere that could exist in that same in-between space their relationship occupies—unofficial, unspoken, but real enough to keep coming back to.

The thought lingers for a second before he pushes it aside.

Not now.

Right now, he has a different problem.

Shane pulls up his messages and types quickly, fingers moving with sharp precision. He doesn’t overthink it this time. There’s no room for hesitation.

He sends the room number.

Then he waits.

The seconds stretch into minutes, each one dragging just enough to keep the tension high. Shane paces once across the room, then stops himself, jaw tightening as he forces himself to stand still. He knows Rozanov will come. Of course he will. He always does.

Exactly ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door.

Right on time.

Shane crosses the room and opens it without a word.

Rozanov is leaning casually against the frame, like he’s been there longer than he has, like he belongs there. There’s a grin already playing at his lips, sharp and self-assured, his eyes immediately locking onto Shane with that same infuriating intensity.

“Haven’t chickened out,” he says, the words edged with a scoff that feels more like a challenge than a joke.

Something hot and immediate flares in Shane’s chest.

“Get in here,” he snaps, grabbing Rozanov by the arm and pulling him inside before he can say anything else. The movement is rougher than necessary, driven more by frustration than anything else, and the door shuts hard behind them with a solid thud.

Rozanov doesn’t resist. If anything, he looks amused, letting himself be dragged further into the room as his gaze drags slowly over Shane, taking him in piece by piece.

“You’ve missed me, I see,” he says, voice low, almost thoughtful, as if he’s assessing something only he can see.

The look in his eyes is enough to make Shane’s breath hitch before he can stop it.

It would be so easy to let it go there.

To forget the reason he called him up in the first place.

But Shane forces himself back on track, jaw tightening as he holds his ground.

“Why did you do that?” he asks, his tone sharp, stripped of any softness.

Rozanov’s brow lifts slightly, genuine confusion flickering across his face even as his hand comes to rest against Shane’s side, casual and familiar.

“Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Shane shoots back, stepping away, but Rozanov follows immediately, fingers catching in his shirt and keeping him close.

“I really don’t know,” Rozanov replies, his voice dropping lower, the accent thicker, rougher around the edges. “And I suggest you explain fast.”

There’s a weight to it now, something heavier than teasing, something that makes Shane acutely aware of the distance—or lack of it—between them.

His back meets the wall before he even realizes he’s been retreating.

Rozanov’s other hand comes up, fingers brushing along his jaw, tilting his face just enough to force eye contact. His gaze is intense now, focused in a way that sends a sharp shiver down Shane’s spine.

“Don’t—” Shane starts, but the word falters.

“You gave Cliff my number,” he says quickly, pushing the words out before the moment slips. “So whoever he’s with could add me to that WAG group chat.”

The sentence comes out in a rush, like if he hesitates even a second longer, he won’t say it at all.

Rozanov stills immediately.

The shift is unmistakable. His hand stops moving, his expression sharpening as he pulls back just enough to properly look at Shane, searching his face as if trying to figure out whether this is some kind of joke.

It isn’t.

“I did not do that,” he says after a beat, slower now, more deliberate.

Shane frowns, confusion cutting through his irritation. “Then how—”

“Cliff,” Rozanov interrupts, exhaling sharply as realization settles in. “It must have been him.”

He drags a hand through his hair, annoyance flashing across his features.

“They threw flour at me in the locker room,” he adds, irritation bleeding into his voice. “Whole bag. I was in the shower trying to clean it. Phone was left.”

There’s a pause.

Shane stares at him, the image forming too vividly in his mind to ignore—Rozanov covered in flour, furious, his teammates laughing while he’s stuck dealing with it.

A breath escapes him.

Then another.

And suddenly he’s laughing.

It slips out before he can stop it, sharp and unrestrained, the tension cracking open just enough to let it through. It’s rare—real, unfiltered—and it catches even him off guard.

“Yeah,” Rozanov mutters, unimpressed. “Very funny, Hollander.”

But Shane doesn’t stop right away. The laughter lingers, easing something tight in his chest, if only for a moment.

“This is why you were off tonight,” Rozanov says after a second, his gaze returning to that assessing sharpness, studying him closely.

“They texted me before the game,” Shane admits, the humor fading as quickly as it came.

Rozanov’s hands have already found him again, grounding and familiar, settling lower as if the conversation is already shifting back into something else.

“So,” he says, a hint of amusement creeping back into his tone, “you are my WAG now.”

Shane exhales sharply, trying to stay focused despite the way his body reacts to the proximity, to the touch.

“No,” he says, more firmly than he feels. “I’m not. Tell Cliff to tell whoever it is to remove me.”

Rozanov doesn’t even hesitate.

“No.”

The word lands heavy.

Shane blinks, thrown off. “What do you mean, no?”

Before he can process it, Rozanov shifts, lifting him slightly, forcing him to react, to brace himself. Instinct takes over, Shane’s hands coming up, his balance adjusting without thought as the distance between them disappears entirely.

“Stay,” Rozanov says, simply.

Shane stares at him, disbelief clear in his expression.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I am.”

There’s no humor in it now. No teasing. Just that same steady, unreadable certainty that Shane has never quite been able to break through.

“Rozanov, if they find out—if they talk—this isn’t something we can just—”

“If,” Rozanov cuts in again, quieter this time, but no less firm.

Shane exhales, frustration rising again. “Husbands, boyfriends—people talk. If this gets out, it’s over. For both of us.”

Rozanov watches him for a long second, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful, more deliberate.

Then, more quietly, he says, “Stay in the chat.”

Shane frowns, thrown by the change in tone.

“Talk to them,” Rozanov continues. “Be what they think you are. You have no one to talk about us with.”

The words hit harder than Shane expects.

They land somewhere deeper, somewhere he’s been carefully avoiding.

Rozanov’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“So do it there.”

Shane searches his face, looking for the joke, the angle, the manipulation. There’s none. Just that same steady insistence.

“You would actually want that?” he asks, the disbelief still there, but quieter now.

Rozanov nods once.

“Yeah. I would.”

And just like that, the argument loses its footing.

Shane feels it happen in real time. The logic is still there, the caution, the list of reasons why this is a terrible idea—but it’s suddenly harder to hold onto them, harder to push back when this is the first time Rozanov has asked for something that isn’t fleeting, isn’t temporary, isn’t just about the moment.

This is different.

And Shane doesn’t know how to refuse it.

He exhales slowly, the tension settling into something heavier, something more complicated.

Then, after a long second, he nods.

It’s small. Reluctant. Defeated in a way he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

But it’s enough.

Because the moment he does, Rozanov’s expression shifts instantly, something sharper flashing in his eyes as he closes the remaining distance between them without hesitation.