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all his spindly roots
Shane waits, not quite patiently, while Rozanov re-straps his shoulder. This late in the season, everyone’s kind of fucked. He’s got his ankle iced and elevated. He’s got an erection, aching in his shorts, and he feels like he should sit on his hands. He wants to jerk off. He could do it there, on his couch, and come all over Rozanov’s bare chest like they’re in a porno. Last time they fucked, in a chain hotel in Boston, with Shane on his back and Rozanov on top, Shane had shot off so hard it settled on the mousy brown hair that dappled Rozanov’s stomach and chest. He’d watched the shine, the drip, half in a daze until Rozanov finished. He’d thought of it every night since.
He could do it now. Quick. Efficient. Like this godforsaken arrangement was meant to be, It would occupy his hands.
It would quench the ridiculous urge he has to to help Rozanov with his shoulder.
“Just tonight?” Rozanov asks.
“What?” Shane doesn’t understand. Of course it’s just tonight for them. What else could it be?
Rozanov nods towards Shane’s ankle. “Did you hurt it tonight?”
“Yeah. Some Russian asshole checked me too hard.” He waits. Rozanov says nothing. Shane doesn’t always communicate sarcasm well. “No, since Buffalo. That was, uh-“
“Last week.”
“Yeah.” Shane thinks he should check his freezer settings. The ice is melting too fast. His skin shouldn’t feel this warm. “You? Your shoulder?”
“No, since before New Year. Just soft tissue. Is fine.”
“Oh.” Shane goes back to watching. It’s kind of a treat, so see Rozanov like this. He’s exposed in way he never is unless they’re in bed. He’s human, too. Those muscles, the strength that dominates on the ice, are tight and shifting under splotchy skin. “Sorry, again.”
“Hollander, did I stop you? Quit with boring sorries.”
When Rozanov got here, Shane had still been running on the adrenaline of the game. Or maybe not. Rozanov always turns Shane’s body into a mass of energy, the edge of blade. Shane had grabbed him hard and pushed him against the wall and kissed him like he wanted it to hurt outside as well as in. He noticed the first time Rozanov winced and he kept going. It took a second grimace, a little grunt of pain, for Shane to pull away.
He is still kind of grimacing now. He twists his mouth like he’s playing with a mouthguard that isn’t there. Hollow cheeks. Full lips. It doesn’t do much to ease Shane’s want. He watches Rozanov’s mouth twitch and his jaw clench.
“What painkillers are you on?” Shane asks. Strong ones, presumably, if they’re making Rozanov gurn like he’s at a rave. Not that Shane’s ever been to rave. When he was seventeen he spent thirty minutes at a warehouse party with a guy from juniors. He’s been to nightclubs. He knows what people do.
“Just ibuprofen,” Rozanov replies, like Shane’s offended him.
“You’re …” Shane does a weak imitation of Rozanov’s jaw movements. He’s gratified from the small smile that smooths Rozanov’s lips.
“Tooth,” says Rozanov. “Habit. I keep wiggling it.” He opens his mouth to demonstrate, pressing his tongue against one his lower bottom teeth. Shane thinks it’s an incisor but he doesn’t know all the names. It’s a little sharp, made for biting not chewing.
“When did that happen?” Shane replays the evening in his head. Was it him? Did he throw his elbow back too far? Was it one of the guys on his team? That thought kind of twists his stomach.
“Ah, no. Little while ago.”
“What did the dentist say?”
“To leave my fucking mouthguard in place.” Rozanov smiles with an edge of salaciousness now. “Just loose. It will fall out or it won’t. I’ll get it checked after playoffs.”
“You’re not making play-offs this year,” Shane says, automatically. He’s making play-offs. He’s winning the cup. It’s happening. Rozanov had his year. This one is Shane’s.
“This is what you want to do? Talk about play-offs and teeth.”
“What do you think?”
“Here.” Rozanov takes Shane’s index finger and brings it to his mouth. “Touch.” Shane slips the tip past Rozanov’s parted lips and presses lightly against the loose tooth. It gives way a little, unstable in the cradle of Rozanov’s pink gums. Shane wants to tell him to listen to the dentist, to get it checked before it gets infected, to read the warnings about cigarettes and gum disease.
He presses a little harder. He wants to push the tooth free and let his finger rest in the newly-formed gap. He wants to hear another little gasp of pain and see the shock on Rozanov’s face.
Just for a second. Not for real. It’s one of those secret dark things that live in the depths of his brain.
“I’m -“ He stops himself saying sorry. “I wouldn’t have kissed you so hard when you got here if I knew.” That’s the truth, too.
“Wouldn’t you?” With a lazy smile, like he can read Shane’s mind.
“No.”
“Would you just take it, if I kissed you that hard?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Hmmm. We better be careful then.” Rozanov tosses the rolls of tape and bandages onto the coffee table. He had his own tape, buried in his deep pockets but Shane gave him the bandage. It was a normal thing to do. But the thought of Rozanov leaving here later, maybe going to bed and getting on the plane to his next game, with Shane’s bandages wrapped fast around his shoulders nearly makes Shane lose his mind.
Shane reaches for his ice-pack. It’s wilted now.
“Leave it,” Rozanov says. He slides off the couch, pushes Shane’s legs apart and grabs the bulge in his sweats. Sometimes Rozanov is sweet, maybe even gentle. This late in the season, there’s no sweetness left. He’s gruff when he palms Shane’s cock, gripping it tight right away. Shane can feel the callouses on Rozanov’s palm. When Rozanov twists his wrist, Shane’s hips buck up off the couch. “Mind your ankle.” Rozanov commands.
“Mind your tooth,” Shane says, when Rozanov swallows him down. There’s that first moment, when everything else disappears and Shane is reduced to need and want and the hot, wet suction on his dick. There’s always a sense of disbelief. Even now, years after the hotel room in Toronto, Shane still can’t fully believe that Rozanov wants this too. That he does it willingly, sometimes cheerfully, with the same innate skill he brings to the ice.
Shane gets lost in the sensation of it for a second or a minute and then he remembers that he meant what said.
“I’m serious, Rozanov. Be careful.”
Rozanov smiles around Shane’s dick. His lips are shiny. His jaw is sharp. His mouth is wide open around where Shane is leaking at the tip. He has a big smile. He doesn’t show it off a lot but it’s there. He has a broad, masculine face and teeth meant for biting. Shane thinks that Rozanov must never have trouble at the dentist, biting down on the x-ray slides. Nothing compromised there. When Shane goes down on Rozanov, he feels it in his jaw the next day.
Rozanov is big. Not as big as he says. Not that much bigger than Shane, really. But it’s easier for him to suck Shane off. Just a quirk of genetics and how their bodies were built. He never looks as lewd as Shane must, with a cock in his mouth.
“Hmm.” Rozanov hums around Shane’s cock. Shane thrusts forward, instinctually. “I think would be fun to tell the dentist I finally lose tooth sucking Hollander’s dick.”
“Asshole.”
“Yes, I won’t neglect it.”
“Rozanov, i’m serious.” He repeats himself. Look, I mean business. I am very considerate. My pre-cum is glazed around your mouth. “If you bleed on my rug I won’t touch your dick.”
Rozanov’s expression shifts. The posture of his mouth shifts, too. He sticks his tongue out, or maybe lets it hang out. It covers the loose tooth. It gives him less control, when he takes Shane inside his mouth again. it’s like Shane is fucking him, gently rocking into the heat.
“Fuck,” says Shane. He sits forward. Rozanov kneels up. Fuck. Fuck. The sounds his mouth is making. Obscene. Lewd. A chorus of fucking angels. “I’m-“
He’s close. He’s close enough to care less about the loose tooth and the ache in his ankle and Rozanov’s expertly wrapped shoulder. He’s hungry for it in the familiar way he’s thirsty after cardio. It’s not enough to exchange transactional blow jobs and loaded barbs. Shane wants more. He puts his hands in Rozanov’s damp hair and tugs.
“More?” Rozanov murmurs.
“Here. Please,” Shane says. He doesn’t know exactly what he wants but he’s happy when Rozanov joins him on the couch. He half falls on top of Shane, really, keeping all his weight on his good side and using his bad arm to open his own fly. Shane’s sweats are around his knees and Rozanov pulls them off after his own. he pushes Shane back until they’re both lying tangled on the couch.
Shane kisses him first. It’s artless and desperate. It’s selfish. He knows he should have done something more for Rozanov before the hunger took over. Shane’s fumbling between them for Rozanov’s dick. He always bumbles too much around him. Shane wants Rozanov to know how strong he is and that he can be good at this too but they never have enough time for it not to be urgent.
Still, Shane nearly sighs with relief when the warm skin of Rozanov’s dick hits his palm. It’s heavy and hot. It’s his second favourite thing to have in his hands, he thinks. Second. Second. He holds it for a second, just enjoying the weight and the heat until Rozanov lets out a whine and Shane remembers how to move his wrist.
He kisses Rozanov, eager and wet, and presses his own erection against Rozanov’s hip while they kiss. Rozanov takes charge, normally. Fucking. Kissing. Whatever. He’s almost always the first one to swipe his tongue into Shane’s mouth. Shane is the one open and waiting.
But Shane can’t stop thinking about that loose tooth.
Shane tightens his grip and swipes his thumb of the head of Rozanov’s cock. He’s more sensitive there, than Shane. He’s not circumcised. When Shane circles his thumb and presses a bit harder, Rozanov exhales into his mouth. Shane presses his tongue in, searching. It’s the same taste as all the other times - mint and tar and spit and nothing. The same as when Rozanov first got here, except there’s the a bit of Shane in the mix now too.
Shane lets himself explore, while he rubs himself against Rozanov’s hard muscles. He wants to taste it all. Rozanov’s lips are a little bit puffier than when he first got here. Maybe a little raw from his spit and sucking Shane’s dick. There’s lip balm by Shane’s washroom sink. He hopes Rozanov uses it before he leaves.
Shane licks into Rozanov’s mouth, half searching for the copper taste of blood. It’s not there. He’s glad it’s not there. He can run his tongue along the ridge of each tooth the way he presses it against the ridges under Rozanov’s cock. One of the top teeth is a little jagged. A minor thing and Shane wants to ask how it happened. He imagines Rozanov chomping down on an errant popcorn kernel or opening a beer bottle with his teeth. He can’t ask. He can’t do anything but grind his hips against Rozanov, leave a smear on his beautiful skin, and summon all that wordless energy to jerk his cock with the attention it deserves.
There. The way Rozanov’s eyes melt when he gets close. The rewarding heaviness of his breath. The way he grunts when Shane finds the tooth and pushes it with his tongue. It shouldn’t be this hot or this weird. Shane’s had Rozanov’s balls in his mouth. Rozanov has put his tongue in Shane’s ass and feasted like a starving man.
But it’s hot and it’s weird. It feels intimate in a new way. Shane wobbles Rozanov’s tooth back and forth with the tip of his tongue. It’s familiar. He’s had plenty of knocks on the rink. A memory surfaces, one Shane didn’t even know he had, of being six or seven and losing his baby teeth. He remembers the childish joy at discovering the first hint of instability. He didn’t want to be the last kid his age without any grown up teeth. He remembers not being able to leave it alone. He worried at it until his tongue was raw. His mom kept giving him apples to eat. His dad joked that he should tie a string between his tooth and the door and slam it shut. Shane wants to ask Rozanov about losing his first baby tooth. He wiggles it back and forth, all pretence of other kissing abandoned now, and the tip of his tongue starts to feel like he ate something sour.
Shane imagines wriggling it loose and free from any connective tissue. It would land on his tongue. Maybe he’d taste rich blood before he knew what the weight meant. What if he swallowed it by accident? He used to think if you accidentally swallowed gum it would stay in your stomach for seven years. He liked the idea, in his deranged near-orgasm state of mind, of carrying Rozanov’s tooth around inside him like once of those calcified tumours. Rozanov could get a shiny new implant and no-one else would ever know.
He presses harder. The tooth stays in place but in Shane’s mind he imagines a gap there that’s fits just him. He doesn’t know what part of him. He just knows it’s somewhere no-one else has ever been.
Rozanov makes a noise deep in his throat, or maybe his chest, and Shane feels the weight of his body on top of his and the heady power of Rozanov keeping his mouth open. He let Shane kiss him hard. He let him fuck his cock into his mouth. He lets him wobble and worry his loose tooth and Shane can’t stop himself then. He comes all over Rozanov’s stomach.
He surges upwards, even though there’s nowhere to go, with the intensity of of it all. He pushes harder against Rozanov’s teeth and twists his cock so tight it must have hurt. He feels Rozanov’s hips stutter and cock twitch and breath leave his body and then the lava hot burst of his come all over Shane’s hand.
He leaves a short while later and Shane brushes his teeth so hard his gums bleed.
-
Montreal and Boston both make the play-offs. Shane doesn’t know how to feel about it so he just focuses on playing. It has to be their year. They hammer their way through the first round and it’s hard not to feel like he’s walking on air. Logically, he knows it’s the first step in a hard slog. His ankle is healed fine but his wrist feels a bit weak. It’s only the beginning. It’s fine. He’ll limp to the final. He’ll hold the cup with one hand. He laughs off lame jokes about jerking off, not quite getting why the other guys get to laugh at that but it’s not funny when they seriously say they don’t sleep with their wives during play-offs. Shane wonders if Rozanov was similarly celibate last year. Did he ignore everyone, not just Shane?
Montreal won in the afternoon and the team gathers in the hotel bar in the evening. They’re on five am flight but everyone’s too keyed up tor rest. The evening game, Boston vs New Jersey, is playing on a too-small television. The speakers are turned up to compensate for the size of the screen. They crackle and Shane’s head hurts. He never feels comfortable watching Rozanov play where other people can see him. He worries his face will give something away. He’s meant to hate him. Sometimes, he does. Other times, maybe this time, Shane feels so inexplicable drawn to Rozanov that a glimpse of his shoulder on a dusty tv screen feeds his soul.
Shane squeezes a wedge of bitter lemon into his soda water and tells himself not to care.
It’s clear from the first period that Jersey have the advantage. Boston aren’t fast enough, tonight. Rozanov’s not getting that much ice time. Shane wonders about his shoulder. Did it get worse? Is the coach making him rest? Rozanov will hate being left out. Or maybe there’s a plan, there. Preserve his energy. Let Jersey wear themselves out before unleashing Rozanov’s aggression.
Shane hopes his face makes the right expression when Boston concede two goals in the first period. At least with the speakers so loud, he can’t be expected to talk much. He lets his mind drift during commercial breaks. It’s never not weird to see his own face in an ad break. He lets his mind drift when New Jersey dominate an otherwise lacklustre game. He imagines being the one to knock Boston out of the play-offs. It would be good, maybe too good, to beat Rozanov like that. Maybe he’d like it too much. Maybe he’d get cold.
Boston hold them off in the second period. The third is hungrier, like it’s just occurred to them what exactly is at stake. Fights break out. Even on the small screen and with the fuzzy commentary, it’s clear the atmosphere is ugly. The minutes and seconds tick down. Shane squeezes another wedge of lemon. The juice spritzes out and stings a scratch on his knuckles he doesn’t remember getting.
Boston are losing. Boston aren’t making it past this round unless some miracle happens on the ice.
Rozanov happens instead. He’s a clever player. Of course he is. He wouldn’t be good if he was just brawn and bravado. He knows as well as the audience that this isn’t going to be Boston’s night. But he plays like his life depends on it and some part of Shane understands that Rozanov is doing this for the audience. He plays like he owes Boston fans a debt or maybe a show. He’s aggressive - a ruthless whirling dervish on skates. Shane can’t look away.
From Shane’s vantage, watching the broadcast, he thinks he might see the chance before Rozanov does. Rozanov may not even have decided what angle to take but Shane can see it clearly mapped out on the ice. New Jersey are tired now, too. They don’t normally play, well, this well and Rozanov’s line are terrorising them at their weakest.
Rozanov and Marleau pass the puck back and forth with the kind of natural chemistry Shane rarely manages. They get past Jersey’s defence, rough and brutal. Shane sits forward on his chair. It won’t take Boston further but it will give their fans something to cheer about.
Rozanov takes chances. That’s his thing, right? He doesn’t hesitate. Even with Jersey’s captain hot on his heels and the impossible prospect of going further, he takes his shot and scores.
The puck hasn’t even hit the net when the guy from Jersey descends on Rozanov and they both crash face first onto the ice. Boston are celebrating the effort, the dignity of this one valiant goal, and the broadcast has moved on to the crowd and the ticking clock.
Shane is distantly aware of his team-mates griping, cursing, using words like show-boating and drama queen and fucking ridiculous and cock-sucker. He tunes them out. He’s used to it. He’s used to feeling wrong.
When the camera cuts back to Rozanov, he’s between the ref and Marleau and his sweater is covered in blood.
“The fuck happened to him?”
“Did someone get a good hit in while the camera was on the crowd? Is that why the camera cut to the crowd?”
The commentators don’t know either. Play is stopped. It’s nothing too unusual. Except Shane can hear his heartbeat in his ears.
Rozanov is being sent off the ice, as per, and there’s barely anything left on the clock. New Jersey fans are already celebrating. The camera stays on Rozanov while he takes his time skating off. Even in this hotel bar hundreds of miles away, with the shitty tv and crackly sound system, Shane can tell that the Boston fans are eating this shit up. Rozanov did it for them. The camera is right on his face when he smiles, savage and beautiful. His mouth is full of blood. His eyes gleam. Shane, selfish and irrational, prays for the camera to cut away.
“Doesn’t look too serious, then,” JJ comments. “Broken nose, maybe? Serves him right.”
“Sure,” Shane says.
But it’s not. It’s his tooth.
Shane can’t text right away. They’re still in bar. Rozanov must be still with the medics. Boston will have press and meetings and the inevitable soul-crushing shame that will creep in once the high of Rozanov’s goal is overtaken by the reality of being out of the play offs.
He wants to text right away.
He waits.
He hopes, another illogical tangent, that Rozanov will congratulate him for making it through. Another part of him wants to gloat.
Shane has to settle down early. He has to stretch and take an Epsom salt bath and reply to the well-meaning messages from his family and the few old friends who pop back up when Montreal does well.
He has more games to get through. He has a cup to win.
So he texts first
Jane: Commiserations
Lily: Normal people just say hard luck
Shane had considered that. Then he decided that Rozanov would turn it into innuendo.
Jane: Congratulations Jane.
Lily: You talk to yourself now?
Jane: no. just letting you know what normal people say back
Lily: well done
Jane: did you stop bleeding yet?
Lily: you saw?
Jane: it was on in the hotel bar. Your fans loved it
Lily: they better. I bleed so much medical team says no alcohol. It makes you bleed more or some shit. Out of play offs and no drowning sorrows
Jane: will it stop you?
Lily: no. I am unstoppable
Jane: did it break? Or did the whole tooth come out?
Lily: whole tooth. Down to root.
Jane: did you swallow it?
Lily: no. fell into gear. Equipment guy found it and gave back to me. I have it in tissue in my pocket. What the fuck am I meant to do? Put it under my pillow for tooth fairy
Jane: you’re lucky it didn’t end up on eBay
Lily: do you want it?
Shane nearly drops his phone. Thank God he has his own room tonight. He couldn’t handle a witness to … this.
Jane: ?
Lily: I send to you for good luck charm.
Jane: fuck off
Shane’s skin is on fire.
Lily: put it on chain around your neck like lame guy after vacation with shark tooth. Is token. Like rabbit foot
Shane’s whole body thrums at the thought. It’s stupid. Ridiculous. He would never.
He wants it so bad.
He thinks about wearing Rozanov’s tooth under his clothes, sharp against his skin. He thinks about how it would bite into him if someone checked him or his gear was too tight. No-one would know. He would know. When he was alone, he could suck it into his mouth like one of his hoodie strings. It could rattle against his own teeth and scratch his tongue.
Fuck. Get it together, dude.
Jane: I’ll make my own luck, thanks
He’s kind of proud of himself. Normal. Not too delayed. Rozanov might not even realise he’s doing to Shane’s brain.
Lily: you want to see? Own room this trip?
Jane: yes
Shane expects a picture of the tooth to pop up on his screen. Something jagged and vaguely pathetic. Something to quench his thirst.
But Rozanov sends a picture of his lower face instead
Shane can see blood crusted on his nostril, like whoever cleaned him up wasn’t ballsy enough to get right in there. There’s a little left on the thick stubble on Rozanov’s jaw. He’ll shave now anyway, that he’s out of the play offs. There’s some discolouration, the start of a bruise beside his bottom lip.
But none of that’s the focus.
It’s the open mouth, the one that’s sucked Shane’s tongue and his cock and all his his fingers. And the gap there, dark and open, where the missing tooth should be.
Shane sucks in gasp. Fuck. He’s fucked. He’s actually a freak, he decides. He likes this too much. He imagines kissing Rozanov and poking his tongue into that gap. He imagines a toothy blowjob, which he probably wouldn’t even really like, but suddenly seems like the best prospect in the world. With the same force of will that pushes him through the last mile of every run, Shane gathers himself.
He chews the inside of his cheek and has absolutely no idea what to say.
An image pops into his head, unbidden and entirely unsexy, of what Rozanov would have looked like as little boy losing his baby teeth. Shane bites down harder. It’s not meant to be like this.
Jane: gross
Lily: getting temp denture now. Will have implant next time you see me
Next time. Shane never quite believes there’ll be a next time until it happens. Rozanov’s season is over and Shane has a cup to win. He won’t see that maddening gap in person. He doesn’t have any right to it at all. He has to delete the picture. He has to make it out of the play-offs.
Lily: dentist is giving lecture about dry socket
Lily: medic says no phone until anaesthesia wears off.
Lily: big word, yes? I love autocorrect
Jane: stay out of trouble
Shane alway deletes any pictures Rozanov sends him. He deletes anything incriminating.
He stares at the picture for a long time. He can’t even jerk off. He still has a cup to win. He can’t stop looking at the photo. His own teeth ache. He thinks that he should have fucked Rozanov’s mouth harder the last time they hooked up. He should have knocked the tooth out himself. He could have kept it squirrelled in his cheeks and swallowed it later. He remembers something otherwise forgotten from when he was a kid. Someone had told him that if you swallow an apple seed a tree will start to grow in your stomach. It scared him then. It scares him now.