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Shane never really thought romance was something that would happen to him. Not necessarily because he was unlovable by nature, but because when you were attracted to men, in the closet, and a professional athlete, things didn’t just magically fall in line the way they did for most people. Saying he had made peace with all that at the still tender age of 20 would be a lie; he hadn’t.
He still occasionally dreamed about finding some semblance of comfort, at the very least.
Or just someone with whom he could explore sexually, on nights he felt bold — or drunk.
If he couldn’t have someone to call his own, then surely sexual fulfillment could be the next best thing. Yeah. That. Except he didn’t feel particularly fulfilled right now, but maybe it had more to do with the fact that Shane was currently rocking a particularly bad hangover, only made marginally worse by the very real thought he may have just ruined his most solid friendship on the Montreal Metros team, for what was essentially… a very underwhelming fling. Shane cast a glance to the side, barely moving his head at all, as though that would make the world tip on its axis otherwise. Across the king size hotel room bed, somewhere in Buffalo, New York, Hayden Pike was still snoring away his hangover, blissfully naked, lying diagonally with his bare ass on full display.
This is bad, was the first coherent thing Shane thought, quickly followed by: Fuck, this is really, really bad.
He hadn’t been drunk enough to fully blackout, so he did remember most things. He remembered the drinks they had had at the bar with the rest of the team, remembered how they had kept tripping and laughing and clumsily bumping into each other as they had made their way to the elevator after leaving them behind, and he remembered very well how Hayden had stared at him, wide blue eyes a little glassy, a stupid grin on his face, and slammed into him at some point around the 3th floor. By the 7th, Shane’s tongue had been deep inside his mouth, and by the 10th, which was Shane’s floor, Hayden had laughed and said: ‘I keep forgetting you’re a dude, bro’.
Shane wasn’t a good enough flirt to have a particularly witty comeback to this, and even if he were, he clearly wasn’t a good enough drinker to be able to nail that on the fly. So he hadn’t said anything back, and as it turns out, Hayden hadn’t seemed to be looking for any specific answer — not when he had stuck his tongue back in Shane’s mouth before Shane could have even uttered a word, not when he had undone Shane’s shirt, and not when he had let Shane take him into his mouth.
Shane slowly sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, the wrinkled white hotel sheets pooling low around his waist, and considered his options. He could get up and slide into his underwear and pretend nothing had happened. Just two bros having had too much to drink and conveniently glossing over whatever the hell was that smell lingering in the air and the soreness Shane felt in his ass — admitting Hayden even noticed or remembered anything in the first place, both things, history had proven, he wasn’t particularly good at.
Or…
Or nothing. He didn’t have anything else. Flat out, nothing. He couldn’t even bolt, because it was his own room. All he could think about was the low rumble of his stomach still trying to process all the liquids he had the night before, the nausea slowly building up, and the crippling headache that made his ears ring. He needed a shower. Shane carefully maneuvered himself on the mattress, trying not to make Hayden stir, and swung his legs to the side before taking a few precarious steps towards the bathroom.
What a fucking mess, he thought flatly, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
He was pale in a sickly way, his skin an ashy gray, he had dark bags under his eyes, and his hair was a mess. There were a few faint marks over his collarbones and his neck that were already fading. But Shane didn’t feel any different. People said losing your virginity made you different, well Shane begged to differ. He had lost both, and didn’t feel fucking different.
It made no fucking sense. For months, he had seen Hayden’s curious looks in the showers, he had seen the way his eyes sometimes dropped to Shane’s lips when they talked, and Hayden was Hayden. He was nice, he was fun, and he liked hockey. They could talk for hours together without ever being bored, and so maybe, just maybe, Shane had told himself that if Hayden Pike had the hots for him, then maybe, things could be good for him too. How many relationships started every minute of every day with less than this?
Yes. Something like that.
Not that he was envisioning a relationship or anything, but a good fuck, at the very least, would have been nice. Instead of that, Shane had gotten maybe two minutes of weirdly stuttering doggy and an orgasm he had to give himself by jerking off while Hayden was gasping for air next to him. Even the kissing had been… sloppy. Moist. Like somehow there was too much tongue, if such a thing was possible. Shane ran a quick shower to try and clear his mind, counting the tiles in order first and then backwards to think of something else, but when he slid back into the room with a towel around his waist and tried to dig out some fresh clothes from his luggage, he found Hayden sat up in the middle of the bed, head bent forward nearly between his knees.
“Hey,” Hayden croaked out, slowly looking up, a swoop of brown hair falling in bleary eyes. “I think I’m dying.”
Shane let out a quiet snort, awkwardly tugging at the towel around his hips. “No, just piss drunk.”
Hayden let out a plaintive noise, burying his face in his hands. “That’s not what regular drunk feels like,” he muttered, his voice coming out thin as he squished his cheeks together.
“You’re still talking so it can’t be that bad,” Shane said, carefully crouching down to pick up a clean pair of underwear and a fresh change of clothes from his leather bag. He stood back up, one hand secured over the towel. He needed to say something. Preferably before Hayden started panicking. He cleared his throat, his heart beating loudly in his chest. “About last night,” he started.
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” Hayden said at the same time, and he must have realized how bad that sounded because he looked up with wide eyes. “Not- not because of- you, god,” he added quickly.
Shane stared flatly, forcing an awkward smile. “Thanks.”
Hayden let out a noise and rubbed a hand over his face and into his hair. “Look, I don’t know…,” he started, his voice sounding husky and rough as it trailed off. He paused briefly, long enough to swallow down before he said: “I don’t know what happened, I just don’t remember a lot and I...”
Oh god, this is painful, Shane thought. Half of him wanted the ground to open under his feet and swallow him up for good. The other half wanted to put Hayden out of his misery as soon as possible and, to some extent, Shane himself too. “We can just forget it happened,” Shane said, the magic words slipping easily out of his mouth.
As soon as they echoed in the quiet hotel room, something seemed to loosen in Hayden’s shoulders. “We can?”, he asked stupidly, sounding hopeful.
Shane nodded. “Sure. Yes. It’s not…”
Hayden nodded too. “It was just…,” he said at the same time. “I mean it was nothing, right?”
“Sure. Nothing.”
Shane would have lied if he said it didn’t sting at all. It did, a little, because Hayden was still his best friend and one of the few people with whom Shane had an easy time, all the time. But on the other hand… Two minutes of doggy, Shane reminded himself. He wasn’t quite looking for a repeat performance at the moment and although he did blame it on his hangover, he was reasonably confident he wouldn’t be able to in just a couple more hours.
Hayden let out a long, relieved exhale as he dropped himself flat on his back, his arms spread wide. “Oh, thank fuck,” he said loudly, blowing a strand of hair away from his face.
**
Shane didn’t really expect things to go back to the way they were. There was only so much normalcy you could hide behind after letting your best friend fuck you one drunken night, and while he was good at lots of things, he was fairly certain he’d suck at even trying.
Except things did go back to normal, in a strange, overly smooth way that made little to no sense to him. Hayden was still Hayden. Enthusiastic. Supportive. Always so eager to see him and talk to him, like nothing had happened. Once that horrifyingly awkward morning-after conversation had been out of the way, Hayden had slipped back seamlessly into that little box inside Shane’s mind he’d lived in since they had first met, and all Shane could think about was: that’s it? It wasn’t that he wanted Hayden to have a strong reaction, God no. But for the next few months after that night, Shane couldn’t stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Because it just had to happen.
It couldn’t be so easy, because nothing in his life, ever, had been easy before.
And the thing was, it wasn’t just Hayden, that Shane had started looking a little sideways. Sex in general had started being a topic of concern. Well, gay sex, mostly. It couldn’t be that underwhelming. People didn’t torch their lives for just… this. He had contemplated asking Reddit about it, but he was far too paranoid that someone, somehow, could trace something back to him, and so for months, he sat in his discomfort of wanting more. Of wanting something else. If by most social metrics, being gay was a crime or a perversion of sorts, surely there had to be a certain thrill about it that Shane had yet to experience.
But instead of doing something about it, he smiled and squared up his shoulders, and pretended he wasn’t hurting deep inside. He went about things the way he had always done it before: he focused on hockey, on being the best at what he could do something about, even if that meant headbutting often with Ilya Rozanov.
That’s how he ended up in Tampa Bay — because of hockey, not because of Ilya Rozanov —, though it was probably no one else’s fault but his own that Shane was shitfaced over the All-Star Weekend. No one cared about carding in an establishment filled with pro athletes and Shane had made the mistake of finding comfort in that. Other players, older players, were buying rounds like it was mineral water, and halfway through his third shot, Shane had the faint, distinct feeling that he was playing a dangerous game. The vets were just trying to mess with the rooks, in that kind of circle of life moment Shane’s generation of players would invariably reproduce themselves in just a few more years, but he decided he didn’t care. He downed the shot, let it burn his throat, pulled a face, and turned it back over onto the sleek black countertop of the bar.
He still had room for one more.
**
There was some room left for one, but probably not for two. The fact that the ground now swayed dangerously should have disqualified him from trying to move too fast. People slapped him on the back as he made his way through the crowd of older players barking out his name left and right, voices and faces blurring together. Every time he blinked, it felt like a few frames were missing.
**
He tripped over his own feet as he approached the elevator, on the way to his hotel room, nearly falling face first in a fit of giggles. Wow, what the fuck, Hollander?, said a voice. It felt familiar, with a thick accent. Shane wasn’t sure which one. He had heard so many of them tonight, with the confluence of European players gathered in one spot, that he couldn’t have been able to tell even if a gun was pointed to his head. All he knew was that suddenly the ground was growing alarmingly close.
**
Fuck he was gonna regret this. Still, a giggle bubbled out of him, his face pressed into the mattress as hands crept down his sides.
**
The first thing Shane noticed, when he woke up, wasn’t the metal rod etched into his brain, right between his eyebrows, but the fact he was pretty sure his bladder was going to burst. The second thing was that his belt was digging into his hips and his lower stomach, uncomfortably so. Uh. Shane rolled around, slowly pushing himself up, bleary eyes scanning his immediate surroundings. He was alone, the hotel bed comforter only rumpled where he had fallen face first, with only a small stain where he had drooled in his sleep, and against all odds, he was still fully clothed.
Thank God.
Shane clumsily crept into the bathroom, tripping over his own two feet as he went. His leather shoes were still tied tightly and felt too heavy as he took a few ginger steps, but the crushing need to fucking pee made a quick work of sorting out his priorities. God, he was a fucking idiot, he thought dejectedly as he caught sight of himself in the mirror, water running down his chin as he ducked to rinse his mouth with tap water midway through washing his hands.
Last time he had let himself go like that, he had wound up with Hayden Pike in his bed.
He couldn’t just be risking his entire career every time he felt… every time he felt fucking lonely.
After ordering himself breakfast through the room service, Shane dragged himself in the shower, bowing his head under the spray, trying and failing miserably at washing away last night’s string of moronic decisions. He needed to clear his head before tonight’s event. The whole point of this weekend may not have been any specific form of professional achievement, but it sure as hell wasn’t to make a fucking fool of himself on live TV.
His hair was still wet when room service knocked at his door, the sound echoing in the quiet hotel room, and Shane slid into a fluffy white bathrobe, one hand holding it tightly closed. What he was very fucking not expecting was Ilya fucking Rozanov to be on the other side of the fucking door.
“What are you doing here?”, Shane stammered, his voice scratchy and weird, too caught off-guard to come up with anything. What the hell? Was it some sort of mind games? Wasn’t it fucking early for that?
Rozanov cocked an eyebrow, giving him a full once-over, and Shane hastily tied the belt around his waist without quite knowing why.
“I thought you were room service,” Shane mumbled, and while he made no attempt to move out of the way, Rozanov still managed to brush past him and slither his way inside before Shane could even deny him that pleasure. “What the hell?”
Rozanov took a few steps inside before he turned back. “I am checking in on you,” he said with a casual shrug. “You were very, very drunk last night. I assume this is what happens when you don’t have a lot of experience.”
Shane felt his cheeks flare up, and he found himself opening and closing his mouth. “Fuck off,” was all he found to respond at first. “I’m fine. I drunk a normal amount.”
Rozanov grinned that stupid grin that made everyone want to beat him with a hockey stick. “Ah, yes. Then who brought you back here?”
Shame and embarrassment crept up Shane’s spine, and he stared at Rozanov, chastised. He vaguely remembered someone’s voice, and he did remember someone’s hands on him, but he had woken up fully clothed so he just assumed, maybe, he had made the whole thing up. He hadn’t thought the hands and the voice could be those of fucking Ilya Rozanov.
“Don’t worry, Hollander, I’m a gentleman,” Rozanov said, voice infuriatingly smooth. “I don’t take advantage of people when they are drunk. I am not Hayden Pike.” That last part was said under the guise of dry humor, but something, in the set of Rozanov’s jaw told him everything he needed to know.
Rozanov’s disgust shouldn’t have cut so deep, but all Shane could think about was: I’m going to be fucking sick. His stomach was churning hard, twisting painfully and rising like the tides, and it didn’t take more than a second look at Rozanov for Shane to break into a sweat.
“Wha- You- I-,” was all he found himself able to stammer.
Rozanov waved dismissively. “Yes, yes. I know about that,” he said. “Don’t worry, is just because you told me. You are very chatty when you are drunk.”
“Please,” Shane croaked out, his voice wavering pathetically. “Please, stop talking.”
He couldn’t believe he had just told-
He couldn’t believe he had just told his fucking rival about his sex life. He couldn’t believe he had told a Russian man from arguably one of the most homophobic pro leagues in the world that he had let another guy fuck him, and he couldn’t believe he had told who that man was. Shane barely knew Rozanov, at least not nearly enough as the media seemed to think they did. They crossed path a few times a year during games, sometimes riled each other up a little through separate interviews, but that was it. There had been a joined photoshoot, once, for CCM, but Shane had to pull out at the last minute because of scheduling conflicts, and so they had shot the promo content separately.
“You look like you are going to vomit,” Rozanov said calmly, leaning back against the dresser, crossing his feet at the ankles. His jaw was still sharp and tense, but the way he stared back at Shane was almost curious.
“Yeah? You think so?”, Shane managed, his voice strained. “Please, don’t… Don’t tell anyone about this.”
Rozanov seemed to ponder it for a brief moment. “I understand. It makes sense you don’t want people to know it was Hayden Pike.”
Shane’s heart was still hammering against his ribcage, and Shane took a few steps back to slowly sink down on the foot of the bed. “I don’t… We were just very drunk, it’s not whatever you think it was.”
Was he really doing this?, Shane wondered. Could he deny his sexuality, after whatever he had said the night before? Rozanov didn’t particularly hit him as a brainiac, but Shane didn’t think he could pull this off without knowing ten percent of what his stupid mouth had yapped about.
“Right,” Rozanov said. “Okay.”
“Whatever I told you, please don’t tell anyone,” Shane heard himself say, his hands reaching up to rub his face. “I know we’re not… friends, or anything, but please.”
This, he thought faintly. This is what they should advertise on TV to warn against the dangers of alcohol consumption. Don’t drink too much kids, otherwise you might end up begging your rival after disclosing a secret that could potentially put you in financial, professional and physical jeopardy all at once.
“So you like men, da?”
Shane squeezed his eyes shut behind his hands. He had never wanted to disappear more. Even like that, with his face hidden, he could still feel the weight of Rozanov’s curious eyes on him.
“If I give you an answer, would that make you leave?”, Shane said, his mouth dry, rubbing his eyes a few times more before prying his hands away from his face.
Rozanov shrugged. “Maybe.”
Shane swallowed down, pressing his lips tightly together. “Then maybe.”
“Just maybe?”
“You didn’t say I had to say yes or no,” Shane said, defensively.
For a second nothing happened, and then a grin broke onto Rozanov’s face. “That is fair,” he said with a nod, and he retrieved his phone from his pocket to give it a look. “Look, I have to meet up with a couple of guys. But this afternoon, I’ll be in my room. 1221. I will take a long, long nap before tonight’s game.” He pulled himself off the dresser, blue eyes settling over Shane. “If you maybe like men, I could maybe show you a few things I am pretty sure Mr Boy Scout doesn’t even know exist.”
And without waiting for a response, he walked over to the door and swung it open, just as a startled hotel employee stood with the breakfast trolley. “Morning,” Rozanov said, and he looked down at the breakfast spread, picked up a small piece of strawberry that was topping a bowl of porridge, and walked away with a wink thrown over his shoulder.
Shane managed to hold himself together for exactly three seconds more, before he ran to the bathroom and threw up.
**
Shane walked out of the elevator at 2pm sharp, and headed down the hall towards room 1221 with the firm intention of telling Rozanov to go fuck himself and, preferably, to mind his own fucking business. The fact it had taken Shane so long to muster both the strength and courage to do it was irrelevant at best. Rozanov had caught him by surprise, on an otherwise extra-shitty morning, and Shane was determined to give him a piece of his mind.
All those carefully laid out plans flew out the window the second the door opened itself, and Shane padded inside, sneakers pressing into the plush hotel room carpet. Behind the door, Rozanov gave him a look of triumph, a smug smirk stretching his lips.
“I just came here to talk,” Shane said anyway, because Rozanov didn’t have to know that his resolve had been crumbling like a pile of snow under the blazing Florida sun. He didn’t. It would have just helped selling this a lot more if Shane’s voice hadn’t wavered halfway through.
Rozanov hummed in response, taking a slow step closer, then another one. They were roughly the same size, but Shane still felt like Rozanov was huge, his shoulders looking ridiculously broad in his tight tank top. “Talking is boring,” he said, his deep voice making something coil deep inside Shane. “We can do so many more interesting things.”
Shane took a step back closer to the door. “I don’t care. I mean it.”
Rozanov cocked an eyebrow, taking another step forward. “So do I.”
This is not happening, Shane thought to himself. He must have died the night before. That was the only explanation he could muster at the moment. He must have drunk himself into a stupor, hit his head really bad, and promptly passed away after that. Somehow, that alone could explain the fact Shane had gone up willingly to Rozanov’s hotel room, or that Rozanov was getting closer and closer, until his hands were pressing against Shane’s flanks, crowding him against the hotel room door.
“What the fuck,” Shane breathed, just a whisper that needed no answer, barely a second before Rozanov kissed him.
The second his lips pressed against Shane’s, two things happened simultaneously. One, Shane’s brain short-circuited on impact. Nothing, not a single thought could pass through his foggy brain and somehow come out on the other side making any kind of sense. Two, Shane’s lips parted almost instantly, allowing for Rozanov’s tongue to slide against his own. Oh, Shane thought, feeling his stomach perform a dive worthy of an Olympic medal as he closed his eyes and let Rozanov kiss him senseless. Oh, this was happening. Oh, this was different. Shane had kissed people before. A few girls he had dated when he was younger, a random guy one time, and then Hayden Pike. He wasn’t new to this, and still — the way Rozanov’s tongue explored his mouth, the way their faces were smushing close together, the way his hands were growing more possessive on Shane’s hips, all that was new, and pretty fucking dizzying.
Rozanov kissed like he was hungry.
And maybe, just maybe, Shane realized he was hungry too, the second Rozanov parted for air, and all Shane found to do was to grab him by his face, both hands resting on his cheeks, as he kissed him again with all his might. Rozanov let out a satisfied groan that sent shivers and tingles down Shane’s spine.
“Please, don’t tell anyone,” Shane whispered again, between two kisses, before diving in for more.
Rozanov’s response was muttered in Russian, something Shane should have most definitely not found as sexy as he did. But Rozanov’s mouth was trailing along his neck, and his breathing came out in a soft breeze grazing Shane’s skin, and all of a sudden he was so unbearably hard, half hoping he could disappear into the door forever.
“I’m serious,” Shane said, his voice pleading, but his hand came up behind Rozanov’s head, fingers sinking into his curls, and when Rozanov kissed him there, just below his ear, right underneath the jaw hinge, Shane let out a quiet moan.
“I know,” Rozanov whispered, this time in English, and he slid a strong thigh between Shane’s, applying just enough pressure against Shane’s groin to punch a gasp out of him. “Me too. Very, very serious.”
This isn’t happening, Shane told himself. It was the fucking opposite of what he had come for, and still, he couldn’t reasonably think of a single reason why he shouldn’t have been doing this. What about Rozanov’s thigh pressing against his aching cock could be so bad that he had to deny himself that? What about Rozanov’s mouth kissing its way up and down his neck was so bad that he had to shake him off and run away? Shane wasn’t sure he could have moved even if someone had presented him with a legal injunction to.
Instead, Rozanov pressed his thigh harder against Shane’s groin, and Shane’s head reclined back against the door with a quiet thump, a punched-out moan slipping past his lips. Almost despite himself, Shane realized he was grinding down, chasing that friction and that pressure like it was as vital as his next breath.
“Tell me, Hollander,” Rozanov whispered, hot and heavy into his ear, before he tilted Shane’s chin up to claim his mouth again. It wasn’t until they parted again, however briefly, that he said again: “Tell me you want it.”
Shane’s mind was fuzzy. No, he told himself, and still, he grinded down against Rozanov’s thigh, desperately. No, you don’t want it. You can’t want it. But what came out was: “God, yes. Please.”
Rozanov groaned again, and next thing Shane knew, he was pulled off the door and dragged further into the room, until, with a strong shove, he wound up on the bed, bouncing off the mattress while Rozanov was making quick work of getting rid of his pants. There, in the middle of a Tampa Bay hotel room, Shane set eyes on a naked Ilya Rozanov for the first time.
If he hadn’t known he was attracted to men before, Shane thought to himself as he stared up at this tall, muscular body, at his broad shoulders and his impressive pecs, his thick biceps, and the thick, hard cock, this would have been a very, very painful realization. But Shane knew that. He knew he shouldn’t want it, but he still did nonetheless — so much so that his mouth began to water.
Rozanov crawled on top of him, his hands finding their way almost immediately underneath Shane’s shirt, rough finger pads dragging along Shane’s ribs, exploring greedily on their way up. It wasn’t long before Rozanov pulled the shirt completely off him, then immediately set his mind on Shane’s pants, which he took off, along with his underwear, in one swift motion. The cool air of the room hit Shane’s bare skin, and Shane was so hard he found himself arching up against him, desperately trying to get some friction any way he could. Rozanov’s mouth found his, and Shane moaned into the kiss when Rozanov began to suck on his tongue, feverish hands sliding between their bodies to explore the hard planes of Rozanov’s chest, the crucifix around his neck dragging softly along Shane’s chest.
“I can’t believe you let Hayden Pike fuck you,” Rozanov mumbled.
Shane gave him a shove. “Fuck off, I don’t need your fucking opinion.”
Rozanov hummed. “It is very sad. No wonder you didn’t like it.”
“I never said-,” Shane protested, but Rozanov chose this very specific moment to let his hips roll against Shane’s, dragging their cocks together, and his voice trailed off instantly.
Oh God, he was going to lose his fucking mind if Rozanov didn’t touch him. Worse, he was going to fucking explode. He’d never been so hard in his life before, he was pretty fucking sure of it.
“Yes, you told me,” Rozanov said again, giving another roll that made Shane gasp out loud. “You said, ‘he didn’t even make me come’. That is very rude. I wouldn’t have left you like that.”
“Y-yeah?”, Shane breathed out, and Rozanov pecked him on the lips before he started diving down, trailing his mouth along as he went further and further down.
“Yes. But of course, I am not Hayden Pike. My lovers never complain.”
Shane’s face scrunched up in disgust. “God, don’t… Don’t use that word.”
“Why not?”
Rozanov cocked an eyebrow, looking up from where he was busy sucking a half-hearted bruise low on Shane’s abdomen. He should probably tell him not to do that. He couldn’t- What if people saw it and asked questions? What could he possibly say? Ilya Rozanov did that to me? The thought alone was enough for Shane’s hopelessly hard dick to twitch and start leaking, and he let out a strangled noise.
“It’s just… It’s just gross, okay?”
Rozanov snorted. “And your cock in my mouth, it’s not gross?”
“Shut up,” Shane mumbled, half because he did want Rozanov to shut up, half because the thought of it, of his mouth on his aching cock, was enough to make Shane’s head spin.
Rozanov settled lower on the bed, and in one swift move, hooked Shane’s leg over his shoulder. “Make me,” he said, pressing his lips up Shane’s quivering inner thigh. “Come on, Hollander. Tell me.”
Shane squeezed his eyes shut, feeling them prickling like he was about to cry. “Please, suck my dick.”
“Hmm. So nice,” Rozanov muttered, and finally, finally, he took him into his mouth.
The relief of it all was so intense that Shane nearly started sobbing on the spot. What he did instead was worse: he let his hips buck up, his cock hitting the roof of Rozanov’s mouth and making him gag briefly.
“Oh, shit,” Shane gasped, clumsy fingers reaching over and hovering above Rozanov’s head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”
But Rozanov didn’t look mad. Instead, he looked up at him with dark eyes, spit coating his bottom lip. “So fucking eager, uh?”, he cooed, and Shane wanted to disappear for a quick second. Rozanov pinned his hips down into the mattress, and took him into his mouth again.
All he could do was let Rozanov devour him like no one had ever had before. Where did you learn this, Shane wanted to ask, the deeper Rozanov took him, his cock soon hitting the back of his throat. How many men have you ruined like this? Because Shane was pretty sure he was fucking ruined at the moment. Rozanov’s tongue swirled expertly across the head of Shane’s cock, his cheeks hollowed out, and fuck. Shane had never thought-
Fucking Rozanov?
The spectacle of Rozanov’s head bobbing up and down his length had Shane crying undignified curses to no one in particular, and Rozanov pulled away just as Shane was beginning to feel his orgasm coming, saliva dribbling down his chin. Shane’s body tensed up, and he pushed himself up on one elbow.
“Asshole,” he hissed, and he had half a mind to reach forward, sink his hand into Rozanov’s curls, and shove his head down to finish the job.
“You didn’t come here for sad little blowjob,” Rozanov simply said, his voice rough but cajoling as he eased Shane’s leg down and crawled back up until they were face to face.
He kissed him senseless, tongue immediately pushing its way inside Shane’s mouth, and Shane didn’t remember the last time he had tasted himself on somebody else’s tongue. Maybe never. Maybe girls didn’t like that. He couldn’t remember. He didn’t want to. There just seemed to be a lot of things he liked doing, or at least, having done to him, that girls didn’t like to do, Shane thought, not long after, when Rozanov pushed a second finger inside of him and began stretching him open. He prodded at Shane’s prostate like it was a game, like it was something worth savoring and making last.
“Fucking hell, Rozanov,” Shane heard himself cry, blindly reaching for Rozanov’s wrist, “I’m not… I need to…”
The rest of his sentence was lost when Rozanov pressed into his prostate, pulling his fingers out just what felt like seconds shy from Shane coming. Shane started protesting, but every word died on his tongue when Rozanov flipped him over onto his stomach.
“Come on Hollander,” Rozanov said, one large hand splayed across one of his butt cheeks. “I can’t be doing all the work here.”
Shane felt his cheeks heat up in sheer embarrassment, and he slowly pushed himself up on all four. A flash of a memory brought him back to a hotel room, a couple months ago, and the painfully awkward feeling of emptiness Shane had felt when Hayden had been fucking him. Oh God. He did fuck Hayden Pike. And it was bad. What if Rozanov was bad too? What if Shane was bad? Plenty of people survived being a bad lay. Probably. Shane had no idea. It wasn’t like he was in a position to enjoy the kind of relationship most people—
Before he could finish that thought, Rozanov’s cock was pushing in, carefully at first. Shane’s head dropped forward, hanging low. “Oh fuck,” he gasped through the uncomfortable stretch, but instead of laughing it off, Rozanov rubbed a gentle hand along Shane’s side, and Shane felt something shift in his mind.
Like an off-switch had been flipped, quieting a low-humming noise.
A deep exhale came out through his parted lips, and he didn’t quite realize at first that it sounded like relief. Rozanov’s hands felt big and strong on his bare body, hiking up Shane’s thighs to place him exactly how he wanted, and Shane should have found something to say, he knew he should have, but all he could think about was: do it, please.
Do whatever the fuck you want.
Take whatever the fuck you need.
Thank God, Rozanov couldn’t see his face, because Shane knew he was bright red at the thought.
It wasn’t long before Rozanov started setting up a pace. It wasn’t long, before Shane started biting down on his lip, his stance widening at the knees, spine dipped into a sharp, desperate curve, his body adjusting to take Rozanov deeper and deeper, and it wasn’t long, either, before he tried to muffle his whimpers in the hotel bedding. Shane’s arms gave out, dropping down to his elbows, his forehead rubbing against the fine cotton thread with each snap forward of Rozanov’s hips.
“See,” Rozanov panted, and Shane could barely hear him at all above the soft, creaking sound of the headboard and the sound of skin meeting skin almost in between each word. “I can’t believe,” another thrust, “you let”, another thrust, “Hayden Pike”, another thrust which, this time, felt sharper, deeper than even before, and punched out a loud moan out of Shane’s throat, “ruin this.”
This? Shane’s hazy mind wasn’t sure what ‘this’ was supposed to be. His first time? He wasn’t sure Rozanov would care enough about that. His ass? The thought had Shane whimpering out loud, biting into the sheet as Rozanov drove into him. Not that he had a lot of room for comparison, but if anyone, ever, had ruined Shane’s ass, it was certainly not Hayden Pike. And the worst part? Shane found himself begging for more.
“Oh, God,” he cried, fumbling with his hand behind without quite knowing what he was looking for, at least not until Rozanov’s hand clamped down on Shane’s forearm, then crept down and awkwardly slid their fingers together. It was fucking ridiculous, and the angle was comically wrong. Shane could feel it even in the way Rozanov’s hips stuttered out of tempo. It lasted barely a few seconds, and then Rozanov’s hand was gone, his fingers digging into Shane’s thighs all over again as he jack-hammered into him.
“Rozanov,” he choked out, eyebrows pinched together as he pressed his forehead deep into the comforter, and he could feel the aching build of his orgasm, his hard, swollen cock trapped between his body and the mattress already leaking through the sheets. It took another few deep thrusts before he was coming, fingers digging deep whenever he could reach — the sheets, the pillows, anything he could find to hold onto. It rippled through Shane like a fucking hurricane, sudden and blinding, with Rozanov’s name lingering on his tongue.
Shane lost track of time after that; a handful of seconds went missing. All he knew was that soon enough, Rozanov flipped him over until he was on his back, on the side of the bed that didn’t have come stains on it, and Shane’s legs clasped easily around Rozanov’s waist — almost too easily.
“Fuck, fuck, I can’t-” he babbled as Rozanov pushed back in. He paused, briefly, just long enough to lean down and crash their mouths together in a filthy, desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue, before he started to fuck him again. It was a different angle now, deeper somehow, and Shane could only whimper into his mouth, his hands scrabbling at Rozanov’s shoulders for purchase, holding on for dear life as the overstimulation pushed him dangerously close to the edge again.
Rozanov’s thrusts grew shallow and erratic, and he came with a low rumble.
**
“Come here,” Rozanov said, his voice still a little rough, as he walked over the bed with a wet washcloth.
Shane’s cheeks were still warm from the exertion, but no doubt they grew redder at the thought. “Thanks, I can do it myself,” he mumbled, reaching over.
Rozanov held the washcloth out of his reach and Shane rolled his eyes and dropped himself back down on the bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Rozanov wiped his stomach clean, and then slid it between Shane’s legs in a way that felt just a tad too purposeful. Shane’s dick twitched, and Rozanov waggled his eyebrows.
“You have to let me rest, Hollander,” he said, dramatically, on his way to dispose of the washcloth in the bathroom. “We have a game tonight, remember?”
Oh God, Shane thought, reality hitting like a bucket full of cold water dunked over his head. They fucking did. The world hadn’t stopped turning while they were busy blurring the lines of common sense. Shane threw a quick look towards the clock hung on the opposite wall. It was a little past three. He needed to get the fuck out of here. He needed to get his bearings back, maybe eat something, maybe stretch or—
“Hey, don’t panic,” Rozanov said, coming back to drop himself next to him. They had kicked the come-stained comforter off the bed at Shane’s insistence. “Is just for fun, okay?”
“It’s still televised,” Shane said, tone clipped, and he sat up, rubbing his hands across his face, trying to forget about the fact that Ilya Rozanov was laying naked by his side — and failed, spectacularly.
Instead, a nervous laughter bubbled out of him, and he shook his head to himself. He was about to play in the All-Star Weekend, and he had just spent his afternoon so far fucking Rozanov. Well, being fucked by Rozanov, so far as semantics were concerned. As if fucking his best friend on the Montreal Metros wasn’t enough, somehow he had to go out of his way to fuck his rival from Boston too.
What the hell had happened to him?
He had always been called dedicated, serious, focused. Some of his youth coaches had even hinted that, perhaps, he needed other hobbies. What the fuck would they think, if they saw him now?
“Oh, fuck, this is so bad,” Shane said, shaking his head.
“Why?”, Rozanov asked flatly, and when Shane turned back to look at him, he found him lazily splayed on his side of the bed, one arm flung behind his head making his bicep bulge.
“Because I… Because we shouldn’t…” His voice trailed off, making his annoyance flare up. “Just admit you were trying to get in my head.”
Rozanov rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, because I fuck every guy I am trying to throw off his game. Jesus, Hollander, I thought you were smart or something.”
“I am smart,” Shane protested. “I’m smart enough to know I shouldn’t be doing this, and not with you.”
“So it was fine when it was Hayden Pike, but suddenly it is a problem?”
“Yes! No!” Shane found himself at loss of a response, once again dropping his head into his hands. “I don’t know. I just… I think I preferred when I thought it just wasn’t… good.”
“So you think it was good, yes?”, Rozanov said again, and Shane didn’t even have to look back to know there was obnoxiously smug smile on his face.
He did anyway, because… Because a naked Rozanov was too fucking beautiful not to stare at. The thought alone made Shane want to suffocate himself with a pillow.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Rozanov, it wasn’t a hard thing to beat,” he said, turning away.
“I am not worried about beating Hayden Pike. I want to know if you liked it.”
Yes, Shane wanted to say, but somehow, couldn’t. It’s like it was stuck at the back of his throat. All he was able to offer in response was a small, awkward nod, his gaze slipping away to the side, far away from Rozanov’s reach. A quick sweep of the room found his tee-shirt thrown on the floor, and his underwear still stuffed inside of his pants not too far. “I need to get back to my room.”
He rolled off the bed and grabbed his underwear, trying his best not to think about Rozanov’s eyes shamelessly racking over his body as he moved around.
“Hollander,” Rozanov called again after a moment. “It’s just sex, okay?”
Shane nodded, lips pressed tight. “Right, okay, yes.” He crouched down to retrieve his shirt and pull it back on. A question was still on the tip of his tongue, and one fleeting, curious glance at Rozanov still laying down, utterly unbothered, made him ask: “Do you… Do you do this often? With other men?”
Rozanov responded with a casual shrug. “Not as much as I want to. Last time I tried, the guy didn’t show up.”
“Really?”
Rozanov’s blue eyes landed on him, almost thoughtful. “Oh, yes. There was a whole photoshoot to get him to come and he didn’t even show up. Said he had schedule problems.”
Shane frowned, but Rozanov’s eyes didn’t budge. “What?”
He thought back about that promo shoot for CCM they were supposed to do together. Surely this wasn’t what Rozanov was talking about. They did plenty of shoots every year, and that was without even factoring… whatever sponsorships Rozanov had, which Shane quickly realized he knew nothing about. It is possible, a voice said in his head, but how likely?
Rozanov sat up casually. “I was planning on cornering you in the showers,” he said, and Shane felt his dick twitch in his underwear. He quickly bent down to retrieve his pants from the floor and put them on to try and hide it as best as he could. “Maybe let you get down on your knees.”
That got a huff out of him. “Let me?”, he scoffed, his cheeks warm.
Rozanov grinned. “Uh-huh.”
Shane shook his head. “Fuck you, stop making shit up.”
“Who says I am?”, Rozanov said, with a cocked eyebrow, and he stood up on his knees on the mattress, coming face to face with Shane.
Staring into his blue eyes made Shane’s knees buckle more than he’d like to admit. He looked away, swallowing down, and patted his pockets in search of his phone and his hotel keycard. “I really need to go,” he said, clearing his throat, and he took a step back, then another, putting some more distance between them. “I guess I’ll just… see you around, then.”
Rozanov flopped back on the bed as Shane walked over to the door. “Try not to get hard when you see me, Hollander. Very… impractical.”