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It was a weird night. Montreal played—and won—against Toronto, but Shane Hollander still felt devoid of any emotions but anxiety and concern, because two days prior he watched his sworn enemy break his wrist on live television.
He hadn’t texted Shane back, which was normal-ish for them, but after two days of radio silence Shane was getting very antsy. To the point that he was pacing around his hotel room with his phone clutched so hard his knuckles turned white. He should have been laying down and trying to sleep. They played a hard game. He earned the rest. However—
It was an hour and a half flight from Toronto to Boston.
For a lot of fucking money, obviously, but Shane was a famous hockey player. He was in a million ads. He had more money than he knew what to do with no matter how much he donated yearly, or poured into run down buildings, or set his parents up with. Taking a private flight would hardly make a dent in his savings.
Besides the fact that it would be insane to show up at his actual fucking rivals house, there was the environmental factor of it all. Taking a private jet as one person for a frivolous reason was basically giving the earth a middle finger. Not to mention he’d have to take one back to make it to practice the next day. Honestly, the idea was ridiculous, and it was ridiculous that he’d bitten his nails down so far from mulling it over.
“This is stupid,” Shane grumbled. He turned his phone over as he continued to pace, opening it with the full intention to delete the app he downloaded to see what was available.
If he was quick, he could leave from a private airport in less than twenty minutes.
Shane cursed loudly to himself and booked himself for the flight. Then he immediately found an environmental charity and matched the money he spent on the flight twice over. After he was sure all of the funds had transferred he threw his phone across the room before he could do more damage to his bank account.
“Fucking motherfuck—” he threw some clothes in a drawstring bag he usually used for practice. He felt nearly violent with how absurd he was being. Rozanov always made him do things he never would, but this—this was on him. Shane hadn’t even gotten a text back and now, instead of pushing his rival to the back of his mind, he was taking a private jet five hundred miles to show up at a doorstep he probably wasn’t even welcome at.
But… he needed to know he was okay. Not from news outlets, or from some website. He needed to see Ilya Rozanov in front of him, in one piece, with a stupid fucking smirk on his face when he realized Shane had abused his wealth to see him. He felt frantic and his mind wasn’t going to settle until he confirmed for himself that Rozanov was alright. However much he hated himself for it, it wasn’t going to change, and maybe accepting it would at least put some of his misery at ease.
He was still going to be pissed about it, though.
*****
The nice thing about big cities was that transportation was twenty-four hours. When he landed in Boston at eleven’o’clock, Shane had no issue scheduling a ride to Rozanov’s apartment building. Only when he was standing at the front doors, his finger hovering over the buzzer that would alert Rozanov someone was there, that he thought he should’ve brought something. But what the fuck would he even bring? Flowers? A card? A teddy bear? They were rivals, fuckbuddies. Not even friends.
“Fuck,” he grumbled and then dropped his hand. Luckily, he knew there was a CVS open all night around the corner—one time Rozanov had to run over and buy condoms there, leaving Shane naked and hard and panting on his couch. His face flamed at the memory but he ignored it and walked purposely to the store.
When inside, he stared at the aisle of cards for various occasions. There were a lot of ‘Get Well Soon’s, but they usually mentioned God or Jesus or sympathy. There were some blank ones, but in that case Shane would have to come up with something to write himself. Then there were the funny options or the ones that said something like ‘sending hugs’. He and Rozanov had never hugged. It wouldn’t make sense. And a funny one felt kind of like a chirp, which was a little safer, but still not great. Because he did want Rozanov to get better. Both for the competition and his personal sex life.
Finally Shane settled on a card with a dog clutching flowers in its mouth printed on it—Rozanov liked dogs, didn’t he?—and ‘feel better’ written inside an inoffensive cursive. He grabbed a pack of Sharpies, too, even though he knew he couldn’t sign his name. Maybe he could write his number or something. His initials? He wasn’t sure, yet, but… for some inane, ridiculous reason, he wanted the card to have his handwriting in it. He wanted Ilya to have something in his home that came from Shane, unquestionably.
And the stuffed brown bear he grabbed on a whim was just because it was cute.
Back at the apartment building, Shane ripped open the pack of Sharpies and opened the card. He bit his lip hard as he considered what to write, but it hit him after a moment or two of staring at the blank paper—from Jane, he scrawled. Quickly, he put the card in its envelope and straightened himself up, holding it and the bear in one hand and pressing the button that would buzz up to Rozanov with the other.
A few seconds passed. Shane was about to press it again, or call him, when a scratchy voice warbled from the intercom. “Hello?”
He tried to speak. Had to clear his throat. And then—“um, yeah, can you buzz me in?”
Silence. A huffed breath from the other end. In a disbelieving tone, “Hollander?”
Shane really should have planned this better. His cheeks felt hot. “Yeah, dude. Come on, it’s cold.”
It was quiet again for a beat or two and then the telltale click of the front doors opening cracked in the air. Shane hurried over, swinging one open before it locked again and then he shuffled to the elevator. Rozanov lived pretty high in the building which unfortunately gave Shane way too much time to overthink as he bounced on his heels. He couldn’t tell how Rozanov felt about his visit over the gravely intercom—he had let him in, sure, but was he just going to kick him out after he’d come all this way? Was he crossing a boundary that he should’ve known not to touch? His heart thudded unforgivingly in his chest by the time he got off on Rozanov’s floor.
Shane basically had to force himself to turn the corner and walk to the apartment door he had stood at a handful of times. He tucked the hand with Rozanov’s gifts behind his back and then knocked with his free knuckles.
Some footsteps thudded behind the door and then the lock flicked open. Shane swallowed nervously as the knob turned and Rozanov was revealed. He looked—well, like shit, with greasy hair and eyebags and his right arm in a navy blue sling, but somehow still in a sexy way. But mostly, he looked disbelieving. “How are you here? I watched game, it was in Toronto?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” he mumbled, trying not to revel in the slow, pleased smile Rozanov got when he found something Shane did endearing.
“Come in,” he stepped aside to give Shane room to get by. He did so obediently with the consolation gifts still tucked behind him as Rozanov closed the door again. Unfortunately he still noticed. “Oh? Did you bring something?”
Shane considered dropping everything and running. “Um, yeah.”
“Okay,” Rozanov ticked his head, those slightly greasy fucking curls flopping adorably. “Give.”
Shane held out the bear and card. Rozanov took them, that smile still on his face. “Hollander, you brought me teddy bear?”
“Because of your stupid tattoo,” he rolled his eyes. “Throw it out if you want.”
“Never,” he said immediately. His long fingers wrapped tightly around the stuffed animal. The card, he held back out with two fingers. “Open for me.”
“Bossy,” Shane commented.
“One hand,” he nodded down to his sling.
Shane’s heart clenched at the reminder of his injury. Obediently, he opened the card’s envelope and then passed it back. Rozanov held it open with his thumb, reading the little cursive note and then what Shane had signed. He stared at it for a few beats—too many—and Shane suddenly got the awful thought that he hated it. That this was a line crossed.
And then Rozanov looked up, his expression soft and genuine. “Thank you, Hollander. You are…” his eyes flickered over Shane, his lips pursed like there was much to be said, but he couldn’t let it out. “This was nice.”
“I was worried,” he said softly, and then sobered slightly. “It wouldn’t be a real competition for the Stanley Cup if you’re out for the season.”
The softness faded quickly from Rozanov and then he snorted, setting the bear and card down on the nearest surface. “You would not be so lucky. I will be good as new next time we meet.”
He hoped so.
Shane felt a little looser now that the gifts he brought on a whim were out of the way. He took in Rozanov—really took him in. He looked tired, hurt, his shoulders curling inward on him. Nothing like the machine Shane faced on the ice. It made him feel weak for Rozanov. He wanted to… to hold him. To help him. That’s why he came, wasn’t it? Truly, deep down, he wanted to make sure he was okay and take care of him.
Not that he intended to unpack that any time soon.
His heart thundered traitorously against his ribcage as Rozanov sighed and stepped into Shane’s space. His hand easily found his face and palmed his jaw to pull him into a soft kiss. Shane melted into the touch. It was gentle at first, only turning lewder when Shane accidentally whined quietly and Rozanov smirked into this kiss.
“Come,” Rozanov said as they parted, his grip loose on Shane’s wrist as he guided him to the bedroom. He went easily. The path was all-too familiar, but this time he wasn’t shucking off his clothes or being pinned against the wall intermittently.
Rozanov’s room only had one lamp on, otherwise it was dark save for the tv mounted on the wall display—himself?
Shane blinked a few times. Vaguely he registered it as the yoga video he did years prior, at his cottage. When he looked at Rozanov in question, he just shrugged. “You—?”
“Is so boring,” he explained, as unashamed as ever. “Helps me sleep.”
“Asshole,” Shane shook his head. It was a shitty excuse, but he accepted it, unable to form the words he wanted to anyway. Rozanov pulled him to the bed and they settled into it. The frozen image of him in downward-facing dog remained on the tv, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when Rozanov was tugging him to rest against his chest.
For the first time since he’d seen Rozanov’s accident, Shane felt himself relax. Tension melted from his limbs as he listened to the calm rhythm of the heart under his ear, the one belonging to the person he’d been worried about for days. He sprawled his arm across Rozanov and brushed his finger tips over the rough canvas material of his sling. “Does it hurt?”
Rozanov half shrugged underneath him. “It is okay. Like… a knuckle that won’t crack, yes? No sharp pain unless I hit it on something.” His uninjured hand stroked down Shane’s back. “Is unfortunate, though. My right hand.”
“Your dominant hand,” Shane said.
Rozanov nodded woefully. “Da. Yes. I cannot write. Or hold spoon very well. Or jerk off.”
“How awful,” Shane deadpanned. His sex drive definitely wasn’t low, but he knew he didn’t jerk off or fuck nearly as much as Rozanov did.
“It is!” He said defensively. “Once a day I would come. Twice sometimes. Now I cannot very well. I am—how say—pent up.”
Shane moved to rest his chin on his chest so they could make eye contact. “You want some help with that?”
Rozanov grinned, running his fingers through Shane’s hair. “I would not say no to a pretty boy offering to solve this problem.”
The corner of his mouth twitched with a repressed smile. He shifted, kissing Rozanov on the lips before he moved down to settle between his strong thighs. His cock was already half hard under his boxers against the cradle of his hips.
Shane pushed his T-shirt up and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses against Rozanov’s abdomen and hip bones. He reveled in the shiver he could tell ran through Rozanov. His fingers hooked in the waistband of his underwear and he tugged downward. Rozanov got the idea and lifted his ass a bit, just enough that Shane could get his quickly hardening cock in his hands.
Slowly, he stroked Rozanov to full mast. He sighed above him like he was relieved. Maybe he really was pent up from not being able to come efficiently. He looked at Shane from under his eyelashes. Looked… adoringly, almost. Shane tried not to read into it. He refocused on Rozanov’s dick. This, this was safe. Pleasuring him came naturally to Shane now after so many years.
He flicked his tongue over his slit, gathering the precum that had gathered there and making Rozanov moan softly. He wrapped his hand around the base of it to hold him steady before he slowly worked up to swallowing him down, wet and messy. He felt Rozanov’s hand on his forehead, gently pushing his hair aside so he could see Shane suck him off.
Honestly, he loved feeling Rozanov’s cock in his mouth. It satisfied whatever odd oral fixation he had, to have something so heavy and full between his lips. And today Rozanov was particularly rigid and sensitive—he jerked, surprised, when Shane moved his hand to fully deepthroat him. “Oh fuck, Hollander…”
Shane hummed in acknowledgment, starting a choppy rhythm that had Rozanov’s head falling back on his pillow. He glanced up to watch his Adams apple bob as he swallowed, like he was overwhelmed and trying to stave off his orgasm. That wouldn’t do. Shane moved his hand to fondle Rozanov’s balls. His breath hitched above Shane, his fingers tightening in his bangs. He would smile if he could—he was close, Shane could tell. He might’ve known Rozanov’s body better than his own.
Sure enough, Rozanov tensed and groaned loudly, pulsing down Shane’s throat only a few seconds later. Shane pulled off him only after he was sure he was done, enjoying the blissed out expression written on Rozanov’s face.
After a moment, he crawled back up to Rozanov’s side and was quickly tucked against him, small kisses peppered across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied with a roll of his eyes. Like it was such a hardship. Rozanov’s eyes were practically glued to his face. Shane wanted to squirm anxiously under the scrutiny, but he forced himself to just stare back. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Rozanov murmured. The back of his knuckles brushed Shane’s jaw. “I think… I wished for this.”
Shane’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. “What?”
“I wanted you,” Rozanov replied quietly. “Here. With me. But… seemed impossible. So I ignored. And then—you are at my door. Like magic.”
Shane wanted to melt into a puddle. This was so vulnerable compared to their usual interactions—he was out of his league, but he wanted Rozanov to keep going. He wanted to tuck his words down deep inside him and remember them when he was lonely, when he missed him. His chest clenched. “I—I was really worried about you, you know.”
The corner of his full lips twitched. “You worry about everything.”
He pushed him playfully. “Shut up, asshole.”
“No. Never.” Rozanov kissed him again and he sunk into the contact. They made out slowly and lazily for a few minutes, and then Rozanov drew back, his hand resting on Shane’s face. “Stay for a few days.”
It wasn’t a question, but Shane replied like it was. He needed to put up a fight even if all he wanted to do was sleep next to Rozanov and take care of him in the morning. “I have practice tomorrow.”
Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “Skip it so we are evenly matched.”
“You wish,” he shot back. And then, “I’ll stay the night, but I have to leave in the morning.”
“Okay,” Rozanov agreed. “In the morning.”
Shane fell asleep on his chest, dreading the moment he would have to leave the warmth of Ilya Rozanov.