Chapter Text
The Bonaventure didn’t usually intimidate Shane anymore.
It had during his first few months working there, back when every polished surface and marble hallway felt like something he wasn’t supposed to touch. Back when he still had to resist the urge to stare at celebrities checking in through the lobby or panic every time someone important asked him a question he didn’t immediately know the answer to. Three years later, he knew the hotel like the back of his hand.
He knew which elevators occasionally got stuck between floors and which guests tipped best during the holidays. He knew the exact tone wealthy businessmen used right before demanding something unreasonable and how to smile through it without grinding his teeth. Most importantly, he knew how to do his job well.
Which was why management trusted him with VIP guests.
Athletes, actors, politicians… Shane handled all of them with the same carefully practiced professionalism. Whatever they needed, he made it happen. Extra soap and toothpaste tubes first thing in the morning, last-minute reservations at impossible-to-book restaurants, emergency dry cleaning an hour before an event. The Boston Bears, unfortunately, were no exception.
The team stayed at The Bonaventure often enough throughout the season that most of the staff had stopped getting excited about it. The players were loud, messy and apparently incapable of surviving more than twenty minutes without requesting either various dishes of concerningly greasy foods and, oh, more towels. Never enough towels.
Shane could handle that.
What he couldn’t handle - and god did he try to - was Ilya Rozanov.
Officially, the team captain was polite enough. Charming, even, when he wanted to be. He had a small unofficial staff fan club that adored him despite the constant requests attached to his room number every single stay. Shane, however, had long since realized Ilya seemed to find personal enjoyment in making his life significantly harder. Ilya Rozanov would make various calls to the lobby requesting over-the-top midnight snacks only available at specific markets, a new remote because “TV is stuck on boring Canadian documentaries” only for shame to find the batteries inserted backwards. And always, always, the insistence that Shane specifically be the one to bring whatever he asked for.
Each visit left Shane progressively more convinced that prison time for homicide might actually be manageable if it meant never hearing room 1842’s phone line ring again.
By eleven, the hotel entrance began to quiet down, only a few guests making their way back to their rooms after a surely costly eight course dinner. A couple of hockey players, unknown to Shane besides the Boston Bears logo on the back of their shirts, announced themselves loudly as they made their way to the elevator, earning a few displeased glances from the people already waiting to get to their respective floors.
This was, objectively, one of Shane's favorite moments of the day, when the calm began to seep in through the walls and the silence slowly took over the hotel, the end of his shift gloriously awaiting him in just over half an hour.
The phone rang.
Shane knew the number that would flash the screen before he even looked at it.
“Your man is calling again” Rose murmured behind him, eyes fixed on the monitor in front of her, where the last couple of reservation changes needed to be addressed. Shane shot her a flat look as he reached for the receiver, already feeling the beginning of a headache behind his eyes.
“Is there anything we can do for you, Mr. Rozanov?" Shane's tone was tight, opting to ignore the entirely unhelpful looks full of sympathy he received from a couple of his coworkers. He could swear he heard someone slightly scoff somewhere in the lobby, suspiciously jealous of a man about to deal with Ilya Rozanov at eleven thirty at night on a Tuesday.
“Actually, yes.” Rozanov sounded thoughtful, as if there were so many things that he could ask for he was struggling to choose just one.
“There is weird stain on my bed sheets, I do not know what it is. I need you to change them, please.”
Oh, I’m sure you have no clue, is the thought that crossed Shane's mind automatically, all too familiar with the players' antics by now after their many visits.
“I'll be there in a few minutes, Mr. Rozanov. There is a matter i need to quickly attend first”
“Ah, no, no. This cannot wait. It is very urgent, Mr. Hollander. I can't sleep on dirty bed” Rozanov all but whined on the end of the line as if the suites provided by the hotel didn’t come with 2 meter wide beds and a spare guest bedroom.
“I can send someone else that is available at the moment, sir. Your sheets will be changed in no time." Shane tried, a small glimmer of hope at the possibility of avoiding any further contact with his obnoxious guest.
“It must be you,” the man’s voice came through slightly deeper than a second before, something heavier behind his tone Shane couldn’t quite put his finger on. “you want to make guests’ stay nice, yes? Perfect work.”
Shane… couldn’t really deny that. He did love to do his job as perfectly as he could, being rewarded with the guests’ grateful expressions and hefty, occasional tips that he couldn’t really complain about.
“I…” he doubted for a second, before a small, resigned sigh left his lips. “I will be there in a second, Mr. Rozanov.”
“Good. I will be waiting, Mr. Hollander. I hope you will not get lost on the way.”, Shane decided to ignore the obnoxious tilt in the other’s voice, hanging up with a quick, polite hum behind which lay the frustration brimming deep in his core.
As he made his way to the storage room to retrieve a set of clean, freshly steamed sheets, Shane took a second to contemplate what he hated the most about Ilya Rozanov. Was it the smirk that welcomed him behind the door every time he came up to “Kill a really big, scary spider. What if it bites me and I can't play? Would be so sad, Mr. Hollander. my fans will miss me too much.”, maybe the wink he received as he was dismissed, turning away quickly and making his way down the hallway hoping the air would cool the heat pooling under his freckled cheeks and busying his mind with the next day’s checklist he needed to clear first thing in the morning.
No, that wasn’t it…
The worst part was the words that never failed to leave Ilya's mouth right when Shane finished doing his task “Always so nice, Mr. Hollander. Such good work, the best”. The praise. No matter how much Shane fought against it, each syllable sat deep in his stomach, lighting up a fire he desperately tried to put out before it could spread, even if he was tempted to catch on it. Oh, so tempted.
Shaking the ridiculous, insidious thoughts off his head, Shane took the neatly folded sheets and held them against his chest, hoping they wouldn’t get wrinkled on his way to 1842; if that happened he knew damn well Rozanov would send him back down to retrieve another set just to get under his skin. He stepped out behind reception, pointedly making an effort to ignore Rose's wiggling eyebrows and whispered “Good luck, babe”. He didn’t need luck. He needed the night to be done and the obnoxious Russian hockey player out of his sight indefinitely.
The walk to the elevators was so familiar by now that Shane was sure he could do it with his eyes closed, probably walking backwards too. Room 1842, left out of the elevator, second hallway past the emergency exit, last door near the vending machine. He had no clue why Rozanov insisted on staying in the same suite every time the Bears played in Montreal, he could only assume the man was a creature of habit.
The elevator hummed on its way up, mirrors throwing his own reflection back at him no matter where he looked. Freckles dark under a slight flush against his cheeks, tie still perfectly straight despite the commotion of the day, expression already shifting back into something professionally neutral, detached and disinterested about anything related to Ilya Rozanov.
Because this was work. It’s all it was. All it ever would be.
He could change the sheets, how many beds had he made since he started working at The Bonaventure a few months after turning 21? Hundreds. This was just another bed. He could ignore whatever stupid antics the man staying in said suite decided to come up with tonight, do his job and leave. Simple.
The elevator doors slid open onto the eighteenth floor with a soft thunk.
Shane barely made it a couple of steps down the hallway before he noticed the door to 1842 had the informative hotel tag hung on the doorknob, the “Welcome in!” side staring at him almost mockingly. Of course it was.
Balancing the folded sheets against one arm, he lifted his free hand to knock.
“Doors open” a thick, accented voice came from the inside of the room, slightly muffled through the wood.
Shane fought against the urge to let his eyes roll, exhaling quietly before slowly pushing the door open with the side of his shoulder, careful steps as he walked inside the suite.
The lights were dimmer than he expected, only the bedside lamp and the standing one located near the sitting area left on, casting an almost serene glow across the room. Shane’s first instinct was to brace himself for the smell.
As it turns out, professional hockey players were not particularly different from any other group of men that often frequented the hotel. He would go as far as to say they were way, way worse. No amount of housekeeping expertise from the cleaning crew was enough to completely erase the lingering scent of sweat, damp equipment that never made it to the washing machine and whatever body spray they all seemingly had a secret agreement on using. Add the occasional towels abandoned in bathrooms with faint pink stains from reopened cuts or split lips, forgotten athletic tape stuck to countertops and a surprising amount of chewed-off mouthguards. Shane thought the cleaning crew often fought a losing battle.
Surprisingly, room 1842 smelled… kind of nice. He could even pick up a subtle cedar scent he could recognize as the complimentary room spray every suite was equipped with. Almost no guests ever made use of it.
Ilya Rozanov apparently did.
And to make matters worse, Shane’s brain chose that exact moment to supply the extremely unnecessary information that the suite smelled a little like Ilya himself.
It took him a second to notice Ilya sitting in one of the leather armchairs near the floor to ceiling windows offering the best view Montreal could offer; he was sprawled comfortably, legs stretched out in front of him like he had all the time in the world. He was already looking at Shane when he managed to make his gaze meet Ilya's face.
And there it was again, that infuriating smirk that welcomed him without miss, equal parts amusement and something else. Shane wasn’t sure if he couldn’t put his finger on what it was or if he just avoided thinking about it too deeply.
“Took you long enough” Ilya said, gaze following the other’s steps as he stepped further into the room. Shane placed down the sheets more firmly than necessary.
“It’s almost midnight, Mr. Rozanov.” he spoke with his back turned to the blonde man. “Contrary to what you might think, the hotel does contain other guests.”
“Hm,” Rozanov tilted his head slightly to the side, eyes glinting with too much interest for a man requesting an urgent sheet replacement. “but you still came”.
Well, fuck. There it was.
That feeling again. Like every interaction between them was somehow balancing the edge of something Shane didn’t fully understand. Something bigger.
“It is my job after all, Mr. Rozanov." Turning away from the other man’s stare, Shane made his way to the unmade bed, exhaling through his nose to hide the tension setting on his shoulders. His eyes looked for any signs of spillage or bodily fluids, quickly running the cleaning protocol through his mind and the products the cleaning crew would need if the stain went through to the mattress. That is, if the stain was bigger than a coin and hadn’t taken Shane almost a minute to find.
He narrowed his eyes. “You called me up here for this?”
Behind him, he heard Ilya shift on his seat, the leather creaking under his weight as he let out a thoughtful noise. “Maybe.”
“Jesus Christ.” He should’ve seen this coming, he felt kind of dumb at this point, for putting himself in this situations by willingly walking into Ilya Rozanov’s trap time and time again. Apparently, an entire conversation about television batteries wasn’t enough of a warning for him.
Because now he was standing for the who’s-keeping-count time in the middle of room 1842 staring at what could barely be called a stain and a pair of hazel eyes trying to burn holes in the back of his neck. A quiet, barely-there chuckle followed him as he yanked the corner of the fitted sheet covering the mattress with a bit more force than he should. He wanted to leave as quickly as he could.
“You seem very hostile tonight, Mr. Hollander.”
“And you,” Shane muttered under his breath, bundling the “dirty” sheets in a ball under his arm before reaching for the comforter. “have too much free time.”
“Maybe I just enjoy your company.”
Shane nearly tripped on the rug framing the bed trying to get to the other side.
He refused to turn around and acknowledge the heat rapidly climbing up his neck as he fumbled with the maroon pillow covers. Why did they put so many pillows on the bed? He needed to have a talk with Rose about the distribution of sleep-related decor because fuck if it wasn’t taking him forever to get through all seven silk covered pillows and cushions.
“You look stressed.” Ilya observed, pondering. “Maybe you should take a break.”
“I would rather throw myself into running traffic.” He could feel the other’s smile widening in pure, unabashed amusement.
Suddenly, the mattress dipped next to him, which made Shane turn abruptly. “What are you doing?”
Rozanov made no intention to hold back his widening smirk. “Supervising.”
And normally, Shane could deal with this.
Normally, he would be able to smile through impossible requests and demanding guests without letting any of it past his professional mask; it was part of the job, he always reminded himself. Hospitality and service at the level of The Bonaventure demanded incredible patience from its employees, no matter how much or how often it was tested.
During the last Bears’ stay two months prior, Shane had been able to handle it almost expertly, he had something to look forward to as his two weeks off were approaching, hovering over him through every frustrating interaction like the sweetest reward, which it was. Retiring to the cottage by himself for a full 14 days only accompanied by nature, the chilly breeze of November mornings by the lake that made his muscles slightly ache pleasantly as the stress of routine melted away into the pine forest surrounding his getaway. His safe space.
He didn’t have anything pushing him through this right now. Nothing that made the set of his jaw any less tight or his hands soften their grip on the bed sheets he was still holding. Tonight he was tired.
Seven consecutive shifts left his entire body aching in a deep, exhausting pain that the few hours of sleep he managed to get on a good night never quite fixed. His shoulders hurt, his feet ached, and he had almost childishly been thinking about the end of his shift, finally getting home into a scorching hot shower and collapsing face-first completely boneless into his bed without another person asking anything from him.
Instead, he was being taunted by a 6’3 European block of muscle, apparently too dainty and poised to lay on the other side of a bed with the ghost of a stain on it.
Shane turned to the opposite side of the bed with the clean fitted sheet, the elastic making a sharp sound against the corner of the mattress before he moved on to tucking the extra fabric along the side of the bed. There was another creak as Rozanov stood up from the bed, standing behind Shane quietly for a moment.
“You are actually angry.” he eventually said, quieter than Shane expected, as if he was actually surprised by the realization.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Rozanov. Now, I would appreciate it if you could just let me do my job so we can get this over with.” If nothing else, the years working at The Bonaventure had taught him how to perform well under pressure, so he continued pulling the sheet properly with precise, practiced movements. Just another corner, and then he would get the fuck out of there.
“You could have sent other employee up.”
He should’ve kept his mouth shut at that, not give in to his game. Instead he heard himself bark back at the Russian.
“And let you waste another employee’s time? After you kept insisting I be the one to come? Leaving me no choice but to say yes as it happens every goddamn time you stay here?”
Ilya’s mouth twitched. “There he is.”
Shut up. Shut up. Don’t answer him.
After a beat of silence. A cackle, easy and amused, and it was enough for Shane’s last thread of patience to snap sharply in half.
“You know what?” he was facing Rozanov now, trying his hardest to keep his eyes fixed on the other man’s and not cave in to his instinct of avoiding eye contact. He had to stand his ground. “I’m really tired of this.”
For the first time since Shane entered the room, Ilya seemed to be caught off guard.
He barely noticed it.
“I’m tired of you calling the lobby every thirty minutes because you’re bored, I’m tired of having to accommodate every one of your obnoxious demands just because you’re a celebrity guest here, and I’m exhausted of pretending all of this is a normal thing for a guest to ask for when it’s clear you just think this situation is hilarious.”
No response.
“Do you have any idea how draining it is to treat with you?” Shane wanted to run away, yet he stayed put even though his breath was coming out a bit faster than he would like it to, but his tone remained low and firm.
Maybe this would be the time he received an apology, an act of accountability on how much of an asshole he had been to Shane for over a year now. If he simply said sorry, then they could call it even and just continue on their ways, never to be crossed again. It didn’t matter that he had grown accustomed to the incessant ring of the phone, knowing immediately what room it was coming from as if it had its own ringtone in Shane’s ears. So what if sometimes, after leaving the suite on the eighteenth floor, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of the request Rozanov had asked for? Whatever that meant, he wasn’t interested in finding out or digging any further into what was clearly a sadistic joke on the other’s part; and this was his damn job that was on the line, for fuck’s sake.
The Russian opened his mouth slightly, as if he was debating on what his next words should be. Shane’s breath caught in his throat, trying to stop his mind from spinning off its rails.
Then, to Shane’s demise, he smiled again. Softer, smaller this time.
“I think I know a little bit.”
Oh my god.
Then he was stepping closer without thinking, anger burning too hot beneath his skin to care anymore. “Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?”
That finally seemed to wipe away some of Ilya’s smugness off his face. Shane could deal later with the consequences of swearing in a guest’s face (a very important one at that) and losing his temper during his shift. He simply couldn’t be bothered to care at that moment.
Rozanov’s expression changed subtly, but remained grounded, and if Shane squinted he could swear there was still a certain cockiness behind it. Shane’s stomach twisted nervously.
Because now they were standing way too close.
Shane could make out a slight, faded scar on Ilya’s chin in the dimly lit room, the pale golden freckles and moles decorating his skin very differently from the clusters gathered around Shane’s cheeks. He momentarily wondered if Rozanov had more on his body. Like the one right under his bottom lip.
He hated that mouth. The smirks that curled around it, the snarky comments it let out. The praise that sat warm and heavy in Shane’s chest for hours afterwards and he was unable to shake off until the hockey team departed.
His breathing became embarrassingly shallow. Still, Shane refused to back away first, his competitiveness making an appearance on holding eye contact stubbornly with another man. He refused to let Ilya think he was intimidated by him in the slightest. Even if he absolutely was.
Then his gaze dropped, just briefly.
Pink, deep cupid’s bow, full lips gently parted as if planning to say something before thinking better of it. Shane’s stomach was flipping violently now. Shit.
His eyes shot up so fast he could’ve sworn the room wobbled a little, panic rising in his throat. His chest hurt a bit, and if it was because of how hard his heart was thumping against his ribcage, Shane could turn a blind eye to it.
Neither of them were moving, and everything was becoming too tangible. Too real.
Shane was now painfully aware of the warmth radiating from the Russian’s body in front of him, the faint smell of detergent and expensive cologne that would usually make Shane’s nose twitch at the over-the-top musk; he could feel his own fingers tightening their grip around the discarded bed sheets he was still holding.
Shane could now faintly smell the remnants of cigarette smoke on Rozanov’s clothes. The hotel had a very strict ban of smoking in any spaces other than the very explicitly designated smoker’s area on the second floor. The furthest window to the right of the room being slightly ajar made much more sense given they were in the middle of January in downtown Montreal.
“You’re not supposed to smoke here.”
Ilya’s eyes seemed to look for something back in his, all teasing gone from his gaze in a moment’s notice. If Shane didn’t know better, he would think Ilya seemed to almost hold back his breath so the cigarette smell wouldn’t reach him as strongly.
“Mr. Hollander.” The air left Shane’s lungs in a shallow exhale. Had he always said his last name so softly?
“You have to stop doing that,” Shane heard himself let out, voice almost a whisper he was sure the other would be able to hear with the minimal distance between them.
Rozanov’s brows pulled together slightly, a shadow of confusion washing over his sharp features. “Doing what?”
“This,” Shane swallowed hard, hand coming up to wave dumbly between their bodies. “whatever this is. You need to stop.”
A beat of silence stretched along the walls of the barely lit room, Shane’s eyes cast down to his own shifting feet, an attempt to put some invisible wall that would force the other man away from him, unable to reach him even if either of them or worse, both of them ached to do so.
For a split second, something heavy and uncertain hung between them like time had turned thick and viscous, dragging each second on to feel like a full minute. But standing there now, trapped between the bed and the imposing presence of Ilya standing in front of him…
Shane wanted something else- more.
His gaze slowly ran up, eyes casting over the solid muscle of the other's abdomen underneath the flimsy material of the grey tank top he was wearing, up the column of his throat where his Adam's apple sat; he watched it go up as Ilya swallowed heavily. Shane could’ve continued trailing his eyes up to the rest of his face, instead he paused on his lips. Again.
And this time he couldn’t make himself look away. This was a big fucking mistake. He should’ve left the second he was done with the stupid sheets, he should be back in the staffs’ quarters hearing Rose rant about the elderly group coming in next thing in the morning that would occupy over half of the eighth floor. He was sure Kip hadn’t bothered to double check the room count to make sure all the keys had been taken back to the lobby by the players from the New York Admirals when they had departed that same evening.
But he was here, watching Ilya’s attention flick downward too, his eyes darkening almost imperceptibly in the darkened room.
Then Ilya was leaning in just enough to make Shane’s entire body tense up in anticipation. Oh my god, what was happening? What were they doing? What was he doing?
And worst of all, why hadn't he pulled away the second their breaths had begun to share the same space in the narrow space between them?
Panic slammed into Shane’s chest all at once.
He jerked back abruptly, nearly stumbling against the edge of the mattress as he shoved past the Russian before either of them could say, or worse, do anything they wouldn’t be able to turn back from.
“I have to go,” The words stumbled from Shane’s lips, breathless as he staggered towards the door. “my shift ended five minutes ago.”
He hadn’t even noticed the sheets had dropped to the floor, and he quickly leaned down with trembling hands, gathering them messily.
“Mr. Hollander.”
The quiet call stopped him for half a second, long enough for his pulse to kick painfully against his ribs, pleading to escape him. It was long enough for Shane to almost wonder what Ilya would say if he decided to turn around. To be tempted.
And that was the problem, why he needed to leave right that second. It wasn’t about the teasing anymore, the corny attempts at flirting, not even the almost-kiss (is that what it was) that hung between them like a wire waiting to be connected or begin to rust at its edges.
What made the alarm ring in his ears was the reckless, traitorous part of Shane that wanted Ilya to ask him to stay.
“Goodnight, Mr. Rozanov”. His words came out clipped, solid, professional. A weak shield, the only one he had left to keep him from crumbling.
And then he was gone.
The door clicked shut behind him, echoing down the hallway like a gunshot. Shane stood there for a moment staring at nothing but noticing everything at the same time, the hallway immediately colder than it had been inside Ilya’s suite.
Somewhere behind that door, there was an answer Shane wasn’t ready to hear, a conversation that remained unfinished. As he stepped inside the elevator and the doors closed with a small click, a question slipped in. It made his stomach churn.
Would Ilya have laughed?
If he hadn’t pulled away and instead leaned in to close the lingering distance between them.
If he had stayed.
Would Rozanov have stepped back, a wolfish grin spreading across his lips as he dismissed Shane and thanked him for his “service”?
The thought burned hotter than embarrassment, because for a moment, Shane had wanted it. All of it. If Ilya had known it, if he’d noticed it…
The elevator started chiming down through each floor, and Shane’s eyes remained glued to the maroon carpet speckled with dust and a few pebbles, probably from outside the hotel. He would have to leave a note for the morning staff to remind them to vacuum it first thing in the morning.
Swearing under his breath, Shane’s mind threw the image of Ilya Rozanov back at him. He shook his head forcefully.
Two days, and the Bears would leave for Boston. Two more days and everything would be over.
He could pretend nothing had happened. That he hadn't almost put his job on the line for the possibility of something that had never actually been offered. He could feign that Ilya Rozanov had never gotten under his skin.
It was a good plan, a sensible one. The kind Shane usually excelled at following.
He could forget about Ilya Rozanov. He had to.
He almost believed it.
Deep down, he knew he didn’t.