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Shane doesn’t drink often. He doesn’t mind when other people do it, though Hayden can be pretty annoying when he’s had one too many, but it’s never been for him. He doesn’t like the way it makes him feel. It’s the lack of control that makes him so uncomfortable. He already lives most of his life on eggshells, trying to be what he’s supposed to be, what he’s expected to be, and alcohol has always made the near-constant thrum of anxiety that sits heavy in the pit of his stomach even worse.
So he’s not sure how he ended up at this stupid fucking club in Boston, with another stupid fucking shot in his hand.
It’s J.J. Boiziau’s fault, really, as these things often are. Shane had been settling into bed for the night, weary and sore after a demoralizing 0-2 loss to the Raiders, when J.J. had called and practically begged him to come out.
“There is this girl,” J.J. had told him excitedly, “She invited me. This club, it’s amazing. Super exclusive. You know, high end place. But I don’t wanna go alone. I need a pal. A hockey player kind of pal who might want a few drinks after a shit game… Come on, Hollzy, please!”
Shane had protested as much as his aching head would allow, but in the end, he gave in, dragged himself out of bed, and tossed on a blue shirt that he didn't completely hate.
Maybe some small part of him did want to be out tonight to distract from the fact that no matter how hard he tried — and he really did fucking try — he couldn’t seem to get Ilya Rozanov out of his head.
They hadn’t talked in months, or rather, Rozanov hadn’t replied to a text from him in months. Shane had tried reaching out. He’d sent far too many unanswered messages about hockey games, restaurant recommendations for whatever city Boston happened to be playing in, the weather… he’d even tried straight-up propositioning Rozanov, asking if he wanted to come over after their last game in Montreal. But he’d gotten nothing. No replies, no likes. Fucking crickets. For all Shane knew, Rozanov had blocked him entirely, and Shane had no idea why.
From his perspective, their last stolen night together had been, well, pretty incredible. He’d been so, so nervous. Sex has always been a bit of a struggle for Shane. He’d slept with a few women in the past, some casual hookups that felt more like obligations and one steady girlfriend from high school who was very kind but not particularly exciting. He liked sex just fine, of course he did, but he always feared that maybe he simply wasn’t very good at it. Something always felt off.
The hours leading up to meeting Rozanov that night were almost unbearable. Did he prep enough? Maybe he should have been more thorough. Would he know what to do? He’d tried this on his own, in the quiet safety of his own bed, and he’d enjoyed it, but what if he didn’t with someone else, with Rozanov? Would his fear that he sucked at this be confirmed in front of Ilya Rozanov, who Shane was 100 percent sure would not suck at it? So many insecurities had been racing through his mind when Rozanov arrived, but it had all gone blissfully quiet when their lips met.
Shane honestly didn’t know sex could feel like that, that his body could react in such a visceral, instinctual way to someone else’s touch. Having sex with Ilya Rozanov felt like a revelation, like he’d opened a door that he didn’t know how to close again, and wasn’t sure he wanted to. It felt natural. Right. He couldn’t wait to do it again, even if he knew it was an increasingly terrible idea.
And then Rozanov had ignored every single fucking text from him for almost six months.
So yeah, after a game where Rozanov made every effort not to look him in the eye and avoided him so aggressively on the ice that he seemed more focused on dodging checks than scoring, Shane maybe wanted to go out and have a few drinks. And he maybe wanted to catch the gaze of a handsome man from across the bar and go home with him and let him fuck him until he forgot about stupid fucking Ilya Rozanov altogether. He wanted to call Rozanov while they were doing it, wanted to moan spitefully right into the phone like he never moaned with Rozanov, just to prove that he could, just to show that he didn’t need him at all, and he didn’t want him.
Shane is ashamed by how much he thought about this. It was always supposed to be casual. He shouldn’t care about any of it as much as he does. Caring like this, missing Rozanov the way that he does, it could mean something that he is too afraid to acknowledge, so he can’t linger for too long in these feelings. He needs to focus instead on being furious at the sheer audacity of Ilya Rozanov for ignoring him, so furious that he would do just about anything to stop thinking about his fury. All of this is to say that perhaps blaming J.J. for the night is not entirely fair.
Shane did not intend to get this drunk, though. He spends the beginning of the night (which is like 10pm, obviously far too late for any reasonable night to be beginning) chatting with J.J. and nervously drinking at a pace he should probably be more mindful about. He doesn’t drink often, so his tolerance is pretty low, and the low buzz of alcohol that’s starting to course through his body makes the packed club a little more bearable; it makes him want to drink more.
When J.J. starts bringing over shots, Shane downs them without question. Look at him! He’s having fun! He can be fun! He can do this.
And it really is fun, for a while. With each new drink, Shane feels looser and more relaxed. He sways on the dance floor, letting strangers push and grind and writhe against his body. He feels attractive and powerful. He thinks that this must be the reason people drink and dance and spend the night with complete strangers. Is this why Rozanov does it?
Shane thinks that maybe, just maybe, he could get used to this feeling. He could be the kind of guy who does this.
He doesn’t think about how radiant Ilya Rozanov would look under the glow of these neon lights, or about how his strong hands would feel wrapped around Shane’s waist, moving in time to the music. And he definitely doesn’t think about how much he’d like to kiss him right now, or how desperately he wishes he could feel his weight atop his body again.
It becomes clear that Shane has moved beyond the point of having fun and feeling good when J.J. brings him another shot and his stomach churns instantly after taking it. He’d been in this sort of dreamy daze, but it’s soured in an instant. His mouth fills rapidly with saliva, and he knows suddenly that he’s about to be sick.
He rushes away, looking for the bathroom, unable even to stop and explain himself to J.J. Thankfully, J.J. is handing the other shot to the pretty redhead he’s been talking to, so he doesn’t notice just how much Shane stumbles as he walks by.
He makes it into the bathroom and into a stall just barely, not even thinking to close the door all the way behind him. He wretches into the toilet, drink after drink spilling back out of him, and then he leans his forehead against the cool porcelain of the dirty toilet bowl and takes deep, shuddering breaths. His head is swimming. He’s sweating through his stupid blue shirt. He closes his eyes. He just needs to rest for a moment, that’s all. And then he’ll feel better.
He has no idea how much time has passed when he feels a hand on his shoulder and hears a deep voice say, “Hey, you all right, mate?”
Shane looks up to find a very concerned-looking bouncer with a thick New Zealand accent peering down at him. He’s handsome, with tan skin, broad shoulders, deep brown eyes and long wavy hair. If he recognizes Shane from his hockey fame, he sure doesn’t show it.
“M’fine,” Shane mumbles. “Just resting.”
“I see that,” the man says. “But it would probably be better to rest at home, yeah?”
“Maybe. Probably,” Shane says. But then he thinks of J.J. somewhere on the dance floor. He shouldn't leave him. “My friend, the one dancing. He wanted to see this girl, so I came, and he bought shots, so many shots, and…” He’s struggling to piece the sentence together. His thoughts are a mess.
He realizes that he actually feels so fucking drunk all of the sudden, like, he can’t remember the last time he was this drunk drunk. He's pretty sure he’s never been this drunk before. The thought might normally send him spiralling, but Shane is actually too drunk for that too, so he just slumps back against the toilet and frowns.
The man shakes his head. He deals with one or two of these overserved patrons on most nights, though this guy seems considerably less belligerent than usual. He seems nice enough. He’d like to help get him home, because he knows he cannot stay in this club.
He picks up Shane’s phone, which has been balancing precariously on top of the toilet paper holder. He looks at it for a moment, then holds it down in front of Shane’s face and unlocks it.
This gets Shane’s attention. “Hey,” he says, “What’re you–”
“Don’t worry. I’m just seeing if we can get you a ride, maybe find your friend?”
Shane doesn’t have the energy to protest as the man taps around on his phone. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the awful taste of bile in his mouth.
“Let’s get you outside,” the man says after a few minutes of fiddling on Shane’s phone. “Some fresh air will do you right.”
Shane murmurs a quiet affirmative as he lets the man help him to his feet and lead him outside. The walk through the club is a blur of bleeding colors, flashing lights, and distorted music. Shane tries to look for J.J. in the pulsing crowd but his head is so swimmy and it’s hard to focus on anything. His vision feels weird, like he’s in a fishbowl peering out.
The chill of the night air snaps him back into some semblance of focus as he steps outside with the bouncer. It doesn’t sober him up; nothing could right now, but it helps. He’s able to stand up a little straighter. He also realizes that he should feel embarrassed about this. This is embarrassing. Heat floods his already flushed cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles as the man helps him brace himself against the wall outside the club. “I’m not usually like this.” Shane laughs. “Not ever like this.”
The man pats his shoulder cheerfully. “Don’t sweat it, man. I see it all the time. Least you made it to the toilet, right? Here,” he says, holding out Shane’s phone.
When the hell did he get that? Shane wonders, but he doesn’t say that; he just reaches out and takes it.
“Your girl should be here soon. You’re a lucky man that she waited up this late for you.”
“What?” Shane says, fumbling his phone and nearly dropping it. “My what?”
“Lily,” the bouncer says with a smile. “She was the last person you texted so I figured it was worth a shot. I’d rather not send you home in a taxi this drunk. Have a good night, bud. Get home safe. And drink some water before you go to bed.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing back into the haze of the club like he hadn’t just dropped a fucking bomb on Shane’s entire life.
“What the fuck,” Shane says, because this, this does sober him up a bit.
He gets his phone unlocked and his fingers tremble as he clicks on his messages. Sure enough, there is a string of unanswered texts sent to Lily.
“Oh my god,” Shane mutters as he scrolls through the increasingly embarrassing messages he has no memory of sending.
Shane’s mind is racing when he looks at the time in the corner of his phone. 2:01am. He could text Rozanov, tell him not to come. Or maybe call him, if there’s no time to text.
But his hands are shaking and his head is spinning and suddenly everything feels too loud and too bright and too intense, even though he’s standing outside in the cold, quiet air. He’s shivering, he realizes. Shaking all over. His field of vision is narrowing and he can feel panic rising in him. He slides down the wall and covers his face with his hands. He just needs to think, just for a moment. And then, once he remembers how to breathe again, he can fix this. He can make it right. He can pretend someone took his phone and call himself a ride and–
“Hollander?”
Rozanov’s voice is like a lighthouse in the dark. The panic that was once so broad and nebulous funnels into a pinpoint directed at the broad silhouette that looms over him in the glow of the streetlamps. Shane drops his hands to his side and squints up.
Rozanov is wearing baggy black sweatpants and a white t-shirt. His curls are unruly, looser and messier than usual. Shane hates that he can't help but wonder what they feel like. He looks… ruffled, soft, like someone who’d been asleep very recently.
Shane opens his mouth and a hiccup escapes before he can say anything.
Rozanov curses under his breath. Something in Russian. Shane’s heard it before, on the ice and in the bedroom. The way he says it now sounds different, though. Rozanov squats down to Shane’s level. His eyes scan over him, and if Shane didn’t know better, he’d swear he looked concerned.
“You are okay?” Rozanov asks.
Shane shrugs, trying very, very hard not to seem as drunk as he is. “Yes. M’good. Just… a little tiny bit drunk, maybe.”
Rozanov lets out a small laugh. “Mm, yes. Tiny bit. You are here alone?”
“No,” Shane says. “No, J.J. is inside.”
At this Rozanov’s expression darkens and he mutters something else in Russian.
“What?” Shane asks.
“Your J.J. should not leave you alone on the street like this.”
“He didn’t. I mean, I… I don’t think he did.”
Rozanov frowns. “Come. My car is down the street.”
He reaches out to help Shane up and Shane can’t help himself. He flinches like he’s been burned.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snaps.
Rozanov holds his hands up and rises to his feet. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “Okay okay. No helping.”
Shane glares up at Rozanov as he uses the wall to hoist himself up. He’s too drunk to identify exactly what he’s feeling but he knows for sure that he’s fucking pissed. And he doesn’t want to go with Rozanov. He can take care of himself.
“I’m fine,” Shane says, his words slurring. “Go home. You don’t have to… I don’t wanna fuckin’ see you.”
“Hollander,” Rozanov says. “You can be angry all you want, but I cannot leave you here like this. Canada’s golden boy, drunk and alone, roaming the streets of Boston like a mad man… is not a great look.”
“Fuck off,” Shane murmurs, but there’s not much fire in it. Rozanov is right, and he knows it. He needs him right now, and he hates that. Shane stares down at the ground and kicks at the cigarette butts scattered around them on the dingy sidewalk. When he looks back up, he refuses to meet Rozanov’s eyes. “Fine,” he says after a moment, swaying a bit on his feet. “Whatever.”
Rozanov holds out a hand to help steady him but leaves it hovering over Shane’s arm. “Can I… Is okay, if I help?”
Shane just shrugs. What the fuck ever.
Rozanov’s touch is firm, stabilizing, but still gentle as he places his hand on Shane's shoulder and gives it a small squeeze. Shane can't tell if he wants to pull away from the touch or lean into it, so he focuses instead on putting one foot in front of the other.
“Easy, Hollander,” Rozanov says as he leads Shane slowly down the sidewalk.
Shane gets the hang of walking like a normal person again after a few steps, but Rozanov's hand is still on his shoulder. Shane can't stand how much he feels it. It makes it hard to think about anything else. He steps to the side, trying to shrug it off, but in doing so, he clips the toe of his shoe on the curb. He doesn’t fully go down, but he stumbles and Rozanov’s grip on him only tightens. Shane huffs and keeps walking.
Rozanov leads him to a ridiculous orange sports car and unlocks it.
“Are you serious?” Shane asks, gesturing towards the gaudy Porsche or Corvette or whatever the hell it was.
Rozanov raises his eyebrows. “This is my car, Hollander.”
“Of fucking course it is,” Shane says, shaking his head.
Rozanov opens the passenger door and ushers Shane in. “It was this or the motorcycle,” he says. “And I do not think you want to wrap your arms around me on the back of the motorcycle right now.” He pauses to think. “Or maybe you do. Next time, maybe.”
Rozanov closes Shane's door and walks around to the driver's side before Shane can say anything back. And there are a lot of things he'd like to say back. First, he is absolutely not getting on a motorcycle. Second, there will be no next time. Why would Rozanov even say that? And most importantly, Rozanov really shouldn’t have a motorcycle at all. They’re so stupidly dangerous. The statistics are almost baffling. He wonders if Rozanov has seen them; Shane should send them to him. Just a couple of links. He hopes he'll remember this in the morning, because a motorcycle is the kind of thing that gets people–
Rozanov starts the car. It roars to life obnoxiously and pulls Shane from his train of thought.
“Are you trying to draw attention to us?” Shane grumbles as the car’s engine thrums.
Rozanov rolls his eyes. “Put your seatbelt on, Hollander.”
Shane rests his head against the window as Rozanov starts driving. He thinks about saying all kinds of things to him, but the window is so cool against his skin and the sound of the road is so soothing. He doesn’t even mean to do it when he closes his eyes.
Shane wakes up to Rozanov turning the car off. His head is starting to hurt and there’s a horrible taste in his mouth. He lifts his head up and looks around, blinking as he fully wakes up. He doesn’t see his hotel. Instead, they’re parked outside a sleek modern house. Rozanov unbuckles his seat belt.
“Rozanov,” Shane says. “What is this?”
“My house,” Rozanov says, like it’s obvious.
Shane thumps his head against the window and groans. “Why are we at your house?”
“Because you are so drunk that you cannot stay awake for a 15 minute car ride, and I am clearly better friend than your idiot teammate.” Rozanov opens the car door and steps out.
Shane opens his own door, falling against it slightly as he gets out. He is still very drunk, yes, but he’s not a fucking baby and Rozanov has made it pretty damn clear that they are not friends, so he tells Rozanov this.
“I’m not a fucking baby. And you're not my friend.”
Rozanov looks up at the sky for a moment before turning back to Shane. “Just come inside and drink some water and then, when you are more sober, I will drive you back to your boring hotel. This will also give me a short rest from taxi duties. Please?”
Shane nods after a moment, and Rozanov, placated, turns and walks up to unlock the front door. Shane follows him, taking each step carefully.
Once inside, Shane bends down to try to take his shoes off but the action makes him dizzy, and he thuds back against the wall.
Rozanov wraps an arm around his waist, touching much more of him here than he did in public, and pulls him up.
“But my shoes,” Shane murmurs.
“Hollander,” Rozanov says, averting his eyes. “It is fine.”
Shane relents and follows him through the entry and into the kitchen. Shane can’t help but look around in admiration. The place is beautiful, slick and modern with an inviting open-concept. It must get great light in the mornings. “Wow,” Shane says under his breath. He wonders if Rozanov had the place built, or if he knows who built it, but it feels like a weird time to ask, so he swallows the question.
Rozanov crosses the kitchen and fills a glass of water from the fridge. He carries it toward Shane but doesn’t hand it to him.
“This way,” he says, and Shane follows him into the living room. Rozanov sets the glass of water on a table in front of a plush dark couch.
“Sit,” he directs, and because Shane can’t help but listen when Rozanov tells him to do something, he sits.
Rozanov takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch, as far away as he can sit from Shane. He lets his head fall back, sighs, and closes his eyes. Shane watches him, taking in the details of his skin and his hair and the way his muscles ripple under his shirt when he moves. Rozanov seems to sense Shane’s gaze because he squints an eye open.
“Hollander, drink,” he says sharply, sitting up. “You are going to feel so bad tomorrow if you do not drink.”
"I'm going to feel bad tomorrow anyway," Shane says. But he picks up the glass of water and takes a drink and holy shit, is it good. He hadn’t realized how sore his throat felt, or how much he needed to wash the acidic taste from his mouth. He downs the glass in one gulping go.
Rozanov smiles and then looks away. “Good.”
Shane sets the glass back down hard on the table. Rozanov’s attitude is really starting to piss him off again. He’s been ignoring him for months and now… Shane is sitting in his living room and drinking water because he told him to.
“So. Are you gonna say anything then?” Shane asks sharply. The words aren’t as eloquent as he was going for, but he looks to Rozanov for an answer anyway.
“About?”
“Seriously? You haven't answered a text from me in, like, six months! You won't even acknowledge I exist. And now, even on the ice, you're such a… And it’s so fucking… “ Shane lets out an exasperated groan. “It makes me feel crazy. You make me feel crazy.”
He stops himself from rambling more because he knows the alcohol is what's making him want to go on. Tomorrow, he'll probably spiral about bearing these vulnerable truths, but tonight, he can hardly hold them in.
Rozanov is quiet for a long time. He doesn’t look at Shane. He keeps his eyes trained straight ahead. “What do you want me to say, Hollander?” he says, finally.
Shane drops back against the couch cushion.
“I don’t know,” he says. Then, in a small voice, he asks something that he would never, ever ask if he were sober, “Why don’t you want me?”
Rozanov turns to Shane now, and when he speaks, his voice sounds broken and tired, like something deep inside him has cracked.
“This is what you think? That I don't want you?”
“What am I supposed to think?” Shane leans his head back and stares up at the ceiling. “Maybe the sex was bad or I was finally too boring. Maybe… I don’t fucking know.”
Rozanov barks out a laugh. “The sex was not bad. That is not…” He grows serious and shifts to face Shane, trying to catch his gaze. “Hollander, I say you are boring because, well, yes, you are, but your boring is... it is who you are. And I... You should not..." He trails off, shaking his head in frustration as he struggles to find the right words. Finally, in a quiet voice, he says, "It is just not like that."
Shane keeps looking up at the ceiling, pointedly avoiding Rozanov's attempts at eye contact. "Then what is it like?" he asks, trying to keep any emotion out of his voice.
“It is more like-- Hollander, would you look at me?”
Shane shakes his head and he doesn’t care if it makes him look like a petulant child. He’s afraid of what will happen if he looks at Rozanov right now, afraid of the emotion that will push through the stoic act and almost certainly show on his face.
“Shane,” Rozanov… Ilya says. “Look at me.”
Shane finally looks at Ilya, and at first he thinks it's a trick of the light. But no, when Ilya blinks, he can see that these are tears brimming in his eyes. He looks wrecked. He looks beautiful. Shane has never seen him like this.
“The sex was not bad. It was the opposite, it was... Blyat. I… I do want you, okay? Of course I do. It is not that.”
“Then what is it?” Shane asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing," Ilya says instantly. Then, more controlled, "You did nothing wrong. It’s me. I am… afraid, I think.” Ilya sniffs and looks down. He picks at a loose seam on his sweatpants.
“Of what?” Shane asks with another hiccup he wishes he could stifle.
Ilya waves a hand between them. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know.”
“Of our teams finding out? Or… Russia?”
“Yes, those things too.” Ilya looks away, pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, and gathers himself. “Hollander, it is very late. I should take you back now.”
Shane flops back against the couch again, his nose scrunched in annoyance. “That is such bullshit. Afraid? You think I'm not afraid? I'm afraid all the fucking time. No, you... you were just being an asshole.”
“I was. But I was not trying to hurt you,” Ilya says, and then, softly, like he’s almost afraid to say it out loud. “I would never try to hurt you.”
Shane laughs bitterly. “Sure, Rozanov, thanks for that. You're really nailing it so far." Shane sits up straighter and runs a hand over his face. "You know what, you're right, it is late. I think I'm ready for you to take me back.”
Ilya looks at him like he wants to say something else, and Shane could swear he’s starting to tear up again, but he just clenches his jaw and rises to his feet.
The ride to Shane’s hotel is tense and silent apart from Ilya drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. Shane stares hard out the window of Ilya's ridiculous car, watching the trees blur by. He’s not feeling quite as drunk anymore, and he’s certainly not enjoying it like he was in the club. Now he mostly just feels like shit.
Ilya pulls into the parking lot and circles around it until they reach the hotel’s back entrance. Even now, in the elusive hours before the sun begins to rise, they can never be too careful.
“You are okay?” Ilya asks, finally breaking the weighty silence.
“What do you think?” Shane mutters, his voice harsh, bordering on cruel.
“I think you will be okay,” Ilya says.
“Thank you for coming to pick me up,” Shane says as he opens the door and gets out. It comes out wrong, too clipped and indignant, but he really is grateful. He doesn’t want to think about how this night would have gone without Ilya.
“Hollander,” Ilya calls from the open window as Shane turns to walk toward the hotel entrance. Shane pauses and glances back at him. “Let me know how bad the hangover is in the morning. I know many cures. I can... send them to you. If you want.”
Shane meets Ilya’s eyes. A silent acknowledgment. They both understand. They don’t need to say it.
Ilya's lips curve up, just slightly, the smallest hint of a smile. Shane dips his head into a nod and lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
“Okay, Rozanov,” Shane says, "I'll text you."
And then he walks to the hotel entrance and pulls his key card from his pocket.
Ilya waits until he’s fully inside before putting his car in drive and driving slowly, much more slowly than he usually drives, out of the parking lot and back home.
In the morning, when Shane wakes with a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and spotty memories of the night before, there is a text waiting on his phone.