Work Text:
January 2012
“Come on, man,” Hayden whines as he plants both his fists at the foot of Shane’s bed. “If you don’t come out then I’ll know you blame me for the loss.”
“That’s stupid,” Shane grumbles, arms crossed over his chest and with absolutely no intention of being dragged to whatever bar or club Hayden and the others in the group chat (why was Shane even in the MET-BROS!!! group chat?) had in mind.
“Of course it is, so you know that’s exactly how I’ll take your rejection.” Hayden leans so far forward that Shane was sure he’d topple onto his legs. “My defense was ass. Rozanov blew right past me for the winning goal. And I have to live with that until I die.”
Shane throws his head back against the bedframe. He does not mention that Rozanov was only able to blow past Hayden’s poor defense because he had stolen the puck right from under Shane’s stick seconds before. The only reason everyone didn’t put the blame on Shane, where it belonged in his book, was Hayden’s blunder looked even worse in the moment.
“Until I DIE, Shane Hollander!” Hayden pounds the bed with his fist for emphasis.
“Can’t we just stay in the hotel and watch a movie?” Shane knows he sounds unfathomably lame. He wasn’t a “hit the bars” kind of guy on a regular day, but on a day when they lost to Boston? When he lost to Rozanov? He just wanted to stew in his misery.
Hayden’s eyes go very, very wide and his mouth turns into a pout. “You hate me.”
Shane stares at his teammate’s big eyes and trembling lips, the two of them at a stalemate. Determined not to break first, Shane gives his best glare. He lasts about ten seconds before the guilt that Hayden has effectively manufactured overwhelms him.
“Fine! But I’m back here by eleven.”
“HELL yes!” The pout is wiped away from Hayden’s face in record time as he breaks into a grin and punches the air. “You will not regret it; I’ve wanted to check this place out for ages. Only good reason to come to Boston.”
Hayden pulls out his phone and starts typing “MET-BROS, Hollander has jumped on the party train!”
Shane feels his phone buzz as Hayden sends the text. He glances at it, and immediately some of their teammates respond with a variety of ridiculous emojis and exclamations. He is momentarily flattered that they all wanted him to come out with them.
“Now, get your ass off the bed!” Hayden tugs his arm and Shane wonders if he’s going to regret this. “We’re out of here in ten.”
One of the odder things about being sort-of famous was you couldn’t just go to places like you used to when no one knew who you were. And if you did, baseball caps and sunglasses were necessary to avoid getting recognized. Shane was able to tolerate this, and it wasn’t like he got mobbed wherever he went, but people did come up to him if he wasn’t disguised. An occasional autograph in the vegetable aisle at the grocery store.
But this also meant that going out to regular bars and clubs was a no-go, especially in a city like Boston, which loved their sports. Whenever Shane went out with his teammates, they reserved spots at the more exclusive places that were meant for celebrities or the ultra-wealthy.
The high-end bar the seven Metros players entered was on the eighteenth floor of some skyscraper downtown. They had to be given a code to punch in on the elevator keypad to access it. Shane made sure to put the code in the group chat, so they’d all have it if they needed it.
The bar was both elegant and casual. No dress code, thankfully, because no one on the team wanted to wear a tie when they went out. They leave their coats at the coat check by the host stand and take their seats at their reserved table.
“Holy shit, not bad,” Hayden says, glancing around. The sensual low lighting in the bar made him look prettier than usual.
Their server is up to the table right away for drink orders. Everyone rattles off whatever beer they want, but when it was Shane’s turn: “Just water for me.”
Boos and heckles follow that announcement, but Shane nods at the server, unmoved, and she departs.
“I swear, man, I’ve only seen you with a drink once,” Mity says with a snort. “At the awards last year. You had to win Rookie of the Year to finally have a drink.”
Chuckles and nods of agreement from around the table.
“Well, that should motivate all of you then,” Shane says, smiling. “We stop losing, we win the Stanley Cup, I’ll let you get me drunk.”
Hayden laughs beside him. “I’m not loving our chances this year.”
“Not after tonight’s performance, aye, Hayden?” Koch says pointedly, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, fuck off, man. We said we wouldn’t talk about that game.”
The server returns with their beers and Shane’s water on a tray. Shane takes a moment to marvel at the service, though he supposed he shouldn’t. This is a place for rich people after all. If a server took longer than thirty seconds to bring what any table asked for, Shane imagined they’d get reprimanded.
They all clink their glasses together and take swigs, even Shane, though everyone eyes his glass of water with an air of judgement.
“I won’t say much about that game but…” Mity says, his voice just a bit hesitant. “You have to admit Rozanov played out of his fucking mind today.”
Scoffs and jeers in response to that one. Shane’s hand tightens around his glass.
“Oh, come on,” Mity says, looking around the table for backup and finding none. “I know we all hate him but the way he played today was a joke, why lie about it?”
“I’d get on my knees and suck your dick right now, Mity, before I said a single nice word about Rozanov,” Koch says easily.
“I know you’ve been looking for any excuse to do that, man, but not tonight,” Mity says, clasping Koch’s shoulder in mock-sympathy. “Shane, you’re the reasonable one here. Am I wrong?”
“Don’t look for help from Shane on this one, Mity,” Hayden says, chuckling. “No one hates Rozanov more.”
Six pairs of eyes all look to Shane, and his throat feels suddenly dry. He likes shooting the shit with these guys most of the time, but on the occasion when the topic turned to Rozanov, it was always uncomfortable. Got him thinking about things he…did not need to be thinking about in front of other people. Toronto hotel rooms. All Star Weekend. Fingers in his mouth…
Shane is spared answering Mity and all the questioning eyes at the table, but his relief does not last long.
“Oh, speak of the devil,” Koch says, his eyes on the bar entryway.
Shane feels a chill go up his spine and along with the rest of his teammates, turns to look in the same direction as Koch. Rozanov was there, alongside three of his Raiders teammates. Shane didn’t even process who the other three were because he was too busy trying not to panic at the sight of Rozanov.
He looks good. Of course he does. He always looks good. Dressed in all black, which Shane has come to see as his signature color. His hair is shorter than the last time Shane saw him, and he wants to run his hands through the locks.
It didn’t seem like Rozanov or the others had noticed Shane and his teammates. Shane whips his head back around and wills his teammates not to draw attention to them.
“Yo Marley!” Hayden yells out, holding his hand up high to wave.
Shane immediately wishes for the floor to swallow him whole.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Rozanov. In fact, he spent a lot of time hoping to run into him whenever they were in the same city for games or any NHL event. But he had no idea where they stood with each other right now. After Vegas, they had only been texting, and a lot of those texts consisted of Rozanov asking, sometimes outright begging to do…things to him. Things Shane isn't sure he could afford to do anymore.
Want to come while you’re in Boston?
Rozanov’s double entendre text from yesterday at the airport that Shane thought was nonsensical at first. He blushes at the memory of it and is grateful for the low lighting in the bar so no one could see it.
“Hayden Pike,” comes a voice from behind Shane, and the sounds of footsteps approaching. “I didn’t think you’d want to show your face outside the hotel tonight. Though you’re probably pretty popular in Boston today.”
“Real funny, Marley,” Hayden says and adds some rambunctious fake laughter for good measure. He stands and slaps Marley on the back in greeting. “Next game, try to spend less than half of the game in the penalty box, how about it?”
The rest of his teammates exchange cordial greetings with the Raiders. Shane knows he’s being rude, and his mom would scold him for this, but he doesn’t turn around or say a word, as he’s pretty sure he feels someone standing directly behind him.
“Stalking us to our favorite spots, Metros?” Marley asks the table. “I guess when you get out of a country as boring as Canada, you have to take advantage of every second.”
“Yeah, it’s so much better to come to the place where you have to sell your own leg and your mother’s to pay for surgery,” Koch jabs. “I should walk around in bubble wrap. If I get hurt here, I’m toast.”
“I think the Metros could afford to lose you,” one of the other Raiders throws out to a few chuckles of agreement.
“We were just talking about you, Rozanov,” Mity says and Shane stiffens even more.
“Oh, yes?” says a Russian tinted accent from behind Shane. Suspicion confirmed. “Only good things, I’m sure.”
“We were all just agreeing that last goal shouldn’t count towards your total for the season,” Hayden puts in. “Seeing as I gifted it to you. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Yes, very generous of you, Pike. I’ll be sure to thank you at my next press conference.” His tone is biting. It was always striking to Shane whenever he heard him speak in person. Television didn't do his voice justice.
“Well, I thought you played pretty decent by your standards,” Mity says. “Hollander agreed with me, he just didn’t want to admit it.”
Shane freezes and feels all the eyes at the table drift back to him. He thought he could get out of this interaction without having to say a word, but Mity just ruined that. He makes a mental note to ask coach to give Mity an extra two hours of cardio at their next practice.
“Is that right, Hollander?” That Russian accented voice breaks through the awkward silence.
Shane does what he can to collect himself. Taking a deep breath and doing his best to look and sound unbothered, “I have no idea where he got that idea.” He takes a sip of his water and immediately wishes it was beer. A beer would allow him to look detached and casual. The water makes him feel like a little boy.
“Ah.” Rozanov’s voice behind him, a little closer like he was leaning in. “I guess I’ll just have to beat you harder next time then.”
“Gentlemen, your table is ready,” comes the slightly impatient voice of the host. Seems that the Raiders were throwing off the bar’s carefully cultivated atmosphere by standing around their table. Shane silently praises the uptight host for doing his job.
“See you guys later,” Marley says, stepping away.
“Pike.” Rozanov gives Hayden a slap on the shoulder. “Hollander.” He brings his hand to the back of Shane’s neck and squeezes ever so slightly. The touch feels like a brand. No one else notices a thing.
Rozanov sitting at a table across the room doesn’t feel much more comfortable for Shane than when he was standing right behind him. In fact, Shane would rather Rozanov not be within a twenty-block radius of him. At least. Maybe forty. Or maybe not within the same city.
The guys order another round of beers and boo him again when he again denies one. As much as he might like a beer, it seems even stupider now with Rozanov in the room. The last time he got drunk, he let Rozanov put his tongue down his throat in public.
His teammates all talk about inane things. Though Hayden at least throws in some cute videos of him and Jackie on vacation to make the chatter more tolerable. An easy, simple relationship, Hayden and Jackie had. What a concept that Shane wishes he was able to grasp.
Shane can actually feel Rozanov’s gaze boring a hole into the back of his head. He refuses to turn around.
Looking at his watch, he knows he has an excuse to leave by 10:45, as he insisted he’d be back at the hotel by eleven but lets out a puff of air when he sees it’s only 9:52. He could leave now, of course. But he knows Rozanov would look at that as him running away, and he doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction.
“Hey, man, are you okay?” Hayden asks after Shane hasn’t said anything for a while.
“Yeah, for sure,” Shane says, in what sounds like his least convincing voice.
“I know you didn’t really want to come out,” Hayden says apologetically. “But I like having you here, you know…” He trails off, and Shane realizes he’s trying to be kind.
He does his best to give him a smile. “I’m glad I came out, man.” He’s not sure if it’s true, but it’s what Hayden needs to hear.
While looking at Hayden, Shane spots out of the corner of his eye Rozanov headed back to the entryway of the bar. Shane can’t help himself from watching him as he heads for the elevator. He expects him to look back at him, but he doesn’t. Rozanov steps inside the elevator and the doors close behind him.
Leaving already? He wonders and hates himself for feeling a rush of disappointment.
But he feels his phone buzz and knows immediately who it is.
Lily
P2
His entire body heats and he shoves his phone back in his pocket, even though no one at the table would have been suspicious if they saw such an innocuous text from “Lily.” Besides, none of his teammates are even paying attention to him now. Hayden has turned his attention to arguing with Koch about who was going to win MVP this year.
Nothing had happened between him and Rozanov since last season. At least not really. Nothing beyond some suggestive text messaging, and Shane thought that was for the best. It was like quitting a bad habit, he supposed, and he had been doing a good job of it.
But this was the first time the opportunity to be alone with Rozanov again really presented itself. When quitting a habit, you know you’ve succeeded when it’s offered to you, and you can say no. Then you’re free.
Shane stands up and excuses himself from the table. No one pays him much mind.
Alone in the elevator, he smashes the button for P2, as if the elevator would move faster if the button was hit with twice as much force. He needs to get it together or all he’d be doing on P2 is collapsing in Rozanov’s arms from a panic attack, which sounds romantic in a way but not exactly what he's looking for tonight.
The doors open to a parking garage. Shane immediately realizes that he stupidly forgot his coat, and the open air of the garage is freezing. All he has is his cashmere sweater. In Boston. In January. Because he is so eager to get his dick sucked.
I am an idiot. A horny idiot.
He glances around and doesn’t see anyone. Briefly, he thinks about headed back up to the bar to grab his coat before he hears a low whistle. Looking to his left, he sees Rozanov standing a few parked cars away. He has a cigarette in his hand and gives him a small wave.
Shane forgets all about his coat, and the fact that he was freezing, and walks towards his Russian rival, but not too fast, at least he hoped not. No need to look over excited.
He arrives to where Rozanov is standing at what he believed was a not-humiliating pace. Rozanov, as usual, looks the picture of composed. He hadn’t forgotten his coat upstairs and is leaning against a black BMW, his cigarette nearly finished.
“You’re still smoking,” Shane blurts out, stating the very obvious, as only someone completely at ease would do.
Rozanov exhales heavily and slumps his shoulders. It didn’t take long for Shane to annoy him. He tosses his finished cigarette on the ground and crushes it with his foot, keeping his eyes locked with Shane’s as he does so. “Better?”
Shane shrugs.
“You are difficult to please today.” Shane had missed the sound of his voice. Hearing him speak while stalking him on YouTube wasn’t quite the same as hearing the cadence in person.
“I wasn’t going to fawn all over you in front of my teammates and yours, if that’s what you’re mad about,” Shane scoffs.
Rozanov smiles a little. “No, you are right. We both know you were impressed today.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, Rozanov.”
A breeze drifts through the parking garage then and Shane shivers.
“Cold?” Rozanov asks unnecessarily. He opens the door to the backseat of the BMW.
Shane stiffens in anticipation.
“Get in,” Rozanov tells him, his tone a familiar one.
Shane doesn’t hesitate. He slides into the backseat.
The door has barely closed behind Rozanov before Shane is on him. Lips finding his and his hands digging into those curls. There was no one in the parking garage, and the windows looked tinted from the outside. Shane feels reasonably assured that no one was going to catch the two of them in here.
Rozanov was ready for his ambush and responds in kind, hands moving around Shane’s waist and holding him close as his tongue pries his mouth open. He tasted like cigarettes, a flavor Shane could do without, but Rozanov is too good at this for him to care.
Shane hoists himself up to straddle Rozanov’s waist in his seat, and he doesn’t miss the surprised noise Rozanov makes, his hands trailing around to Shane’s front before finding his destination.
“So hard already,” Rozanov says against his mouth, his lips quirking up. “For how long? Since the bar? Or since I texted you in Montreal?”
“Shut up,” Shane says without much venom. He kisses him again. It was intoxicating to be this close to Rozanov after so long. The last time they had been truly alone together they had agreed to…well, that post-Montreal meet-up hadn’t exactly happened. Weather had conspired against them. For the best Shane had tried to convince himself.
Shane’s hands were everywhere and he was feeling a bit overwhelmed. He moves his hips down and smiles against Rozanov’s mouth. “You’re hard too.”
“No shit.” Rozanov has already removed his coat and tossed it to the floor, and he lifts Shane slightly, turning so he is lowering Shane onto his back over the seats. He comes down on top of him and Shane squirms, sensing that familiar swing in control that always seems to happen when they’re together.
Shane leans up to kiss him again, and when Rozanov positions himself between his legs, Shane wastes no time in pushing his hips up, the hardness in his pants becoming more urgent by the second.
Instead of tearing his pants from him and swallowing him down like Shane may have wanted, Rozanov stills his movements and pulls back slightly, a questioning look in his eye as he stares down at Shane.
“You have not been with anyone else.” It’s not a question.
Shane feels himself blush and forces himself to stop grinding his dick on Rozanov’s thigh like a horny teenager. He supposes it was rather obvious that he hadn’t been touched in a while. Hell, it had been over a week since he had even bothered to masturbate.
Still, he is not going to confirm or deny Rozanov’s statement out-loud, even if it’s obvious. He doesn’t need Rozanov’s ego any bigger than it already is, or to give him anything else to hold over Shane’s head. Don’t want anyone but me, Hollander? He could just hear it now.
But Rozanov sees the truth all over his face. “Oh, Hollander.” He leans down and kisses him softly. “You should not deny yourself so much. Is not good for you.”
Shane buries his hands in Rozanov’s hair and keeps his mouth on his, if only to leave this topic of conversation. He tilts his hips up for good measure, feeling the heat in Rozanov’s pants and wanting it closer. His own heavy breathing is loud in the silence of the car, and he knows he looks and sounds desperate, but Rozanov already figured out that it’s been a long time for him.
When Shane’s hands make their way around Rozanov’s back and he starts tugging at his shirt, trying to pull it off, Rozanov’s hand presses against his chest. “Settle,” he says gently. So instead, Shane brings his hands to his own sweater and begins pulling it up, but Rozanov takes his wrists in his hands, stopping him. “Settle down,” he says, pushing his arms to either side of his head and holding them there.
His hands shackled by Rozanov’s, he keeps moving his hips, seeking pressure, but Rozanov pins him down there too, using his own hips, knocking a gasp out of Shane, but effectively stilling his body.
With nothing else to do, he leans up to try for a kiss, only for Rozanov to move away, denying him that too. Shane makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, unsure what to do now, staring up into those big, dumb blue eyes.
Rozanov doesn’t appear to be in any hurry. His gaze trails over Shane’s face and neck before he leans down and kisses the corner of Shane’s mouth, then his lips trace over his cheek and to his jaw, soft and feather-like. Shane tries to respond, to lean into his touch.
“No, no,” Rozanov breathes out, making eye contact again. “Stay still for me.”
Rozanov does not make that easy. He places his mouth on Shane’s and allows Shane to kiss him back, but when Shane ventures too far, leans into him just too much, tries to take control of the kiss, Rozanov tells him no and they have to start again. Rozanov setting out clear parameters for him to follow. It’s teasing and far from the pace Shane is used to with Rozanov.
Finally, when Rozanov appears satisfied with how Shane is responding to him, he rolls his hips down, brushing against Shane’s neglected dick. Shane gasps and snaps his hips up in response, but Rozanov is there immediately, his hand on his hip, holding him still against the seat cushions and telling him no.
Shane hears a whining sound reverberate in the car and is mortified to realize it is coming from him. Rozanov doesn’t look surprised, however. He kisses the tip of his nose. “I know, Hollander. Is okay. You’re doing well.”
Something in Shane’s stomach flutters at that, though he does not feel like he is doing well. He feels like he is going to have an unfortunate accident very soon if Rozanov doesn’t get a move on.
Still, he lets Rozanov keep up what he’s doing, his hand still holding Shane’s hip in place as he grinds against Shane with slow, purposeful strokes. His tongue is in Shane’s mouth again, and Shane kisses back. Only as much as Rozanov has let him, never too much.
He can see how much this is doing it for Rozanov, Shane completely pliant under him, and that thought only makes Shane harder. Rozanov only breaks from kissing him to mutter, “That’s good, Hollander,” every few seconds, which is not helping matters.
When Shane feels like his dick can’t take much more of this before bursting, he dares to move his hands to Rozanov’s shoulders to give them a gentle push. Not enough to move him, but enough to make a clear request, one he punctuates by looking at him with wide, questioning eyes.
Rozanov’s smile returns. “You need something, Hollander?”
“Come on, Rozanov, please.” Shane’s voice sounds a lot breathier than he would have liked. “I did what you wanted.” I was good he does not say.
“You did, didn’t you?” Rozanov agrees, nodding. He hasn’t stopped rolling his hips, but he slides his hand between their bodies and finds Shane’s dick, holding it over his jeans. “You’ve needed it all day, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Shane says, wincing and hoping that saying what Rozanov wants to hear will hurry things along. Though this wasn’t a lie. “Since the game.”
“Thinking about your dick in my mouth is not the best strategy for winning hockey games, Hollander,” Rozanov and tightens his grip over Shane’s jeans, as if to make his point, and shakes his head in mock-disapproval, like he’s a coach correcting an error. “I’d say your performance today proved that.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Hollander says, but there’s not much conviction behind it. Rozanov’s hand is too distracting. His hips twitch upwards.
“I’m afraid sucking your dick will be a no tonight, Hollander,” Rozanov says as Shane grinds against his hand.
Shane looks at him, frowning, trying not to look pathetically disappointed. “Why?”
“Because, Hollander, I can’t have you making a mess on these nice leather seats. Is very expensive in here,” Rozanov explains, glancing around them before he leans down to Shane’s ear when he starts to argue. “And we both know how wet you get.”
Shane’s face flames hot. He doesn't have anything to say to that. As if his body wants to prove Rozanov’s point, he feels his dick leak in response.
“But because you asked so nicely, and I know how badly you need it,” Rozanov continues, removing his hand from Shane’s dick and resuming his previous rhythm. “I’ll make you come.”
“But…can’t we—?” Shane really hates how desperate he is to think of a way to get Rozanov’s mouth on his dick. But the way Rozanov is moving on top of him, this is not a bad alternative. Shane finds himself responding, doing his best to match Rozanov’s pace.
“We could have had a nice evening at my place,” Rozanov says, his hands trailing up Shane’s chest and gripping him there. “I would have touched you wherever you wanted, opened you up, made you come with my cock inside you.”
Shane hears himself whine again at the image and moves his hips faster, feeling Rozanov’s clothed dick against his. He is grateful that Rozanov is letting him do this now.
Why do you need him to let you do anything? That one obtrusive voice in his mind asks.
“But you wanted to hump me in a parking garage instead, Hollander.” Rozanov stills then, as if to make sure this point was beyond dispute. Shane can't stop, he continues grinding against Rozanov shamelessly, too close to his release to care how he looks.
“So, you’ll come like this or not at all,” Rozanov says, watching Shane’s desperate movements beneath him with a certain awe in his eyes.
A corner of Shane’s mind, the one that always screamed at him with questions about whatever the hell he was doing, was stunned that he was about to get off by dry humping Rozanov like some kind of animal. But as good as this felt, with Rozanov stoic and watching as Shane squirmed beneath him, it wasn’t quite enough.
“Rozanov, please,” he gets out in desperate breaths. “Touch me, I need it, please.”
Rozanov doesn’t need to be asked again. He places his hand on Shane’s hip and holds him still again, grinding his own hips down against Shane’s cock. His movements are quick and uncoordinated, clearly on the verge of losing his own control. But it’s enough. Shane’s orgasm sneaks up and overtakes him. He comes in his jeans as he grips Rozanov tight around his back, burying his face into his neck.
When he comes back down, Rozanov is still holding him, moving his hips against him, coaxing him through the aftershocks. Oddly generous, as he always was. But as Shane watches him, reality creeps back in, as it always did.
“Thanks,” Shane says quietly, still not able to meet Rozanov’s eyes.
“Oh, anytime,” Rozanov says, playfulness returning to his voice.
“Uh…did you…?”
“I don’t come in my pants, Hollander,” Rozanov laughs and pulls himself up and off of Shane.
“Asshole.” But Shane couldn’t help but laugh in return. He was still lying down on the seat cushions. Not quite able to move yet. He thought perhaps he should offer to let Rozanov finish in his mouth, but he was starting to feel like he had been gone for too long. He needs to go grab his coat, show his face at the table, and head back to the hotel. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls his phone out.
“What are you doing?” Rozanov asked.
“Calling a cab.”
“No, you’re not.” Rozanov plucks the phone out of Shane’s hands easily.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Shane moves up on his elbows and looks at Rozanov, who was holding his phone away from him.
“Is rude, Hollander,” Rozanov says. “Come out with your friends for so little time? No. You will stay.”
Shane barks out a laugh, but the smile falls off his face when he looks at Rozanov and realizes he’s completely serious. “Rozanov, I kind of just…” He glances down at his crotch, not in the mood to admit out loud that he just came in his pants like a teenaged boy.
Rozanov moves closer and examines the front of his jeans. On closer inspection, he puts his hand over Shane’s soft dick and Shane winces, his dick giving a valiant twitch at Rozanov’s touch, though that certainly wasn’t happening again.
“Is okay, you cannot tell,” Rozanov provides his verdict, looking back at Shane’s face with a nod.
“You want me to go back to the bar and sit with my friends like this?” Shane is still not comprehending.
“Yes. You will go back up to the bar, sit with your friends, order yourself a, what was it you like? Ginger ale, yes? Order yourself a Ginger ale, and then after, say, one hour, you can go back to hotel.” Rozanov explains this easily, as if he was describing a set of practice drills.
It was a ridiculous thing to ask. Shane should laugh in his face, grab his phone, call a cab, and get out of there. And delete Rozanov’s number from his phone to top it off. For the sake of his sanity.
But…he feels the tiniest flip in his belly over the thought of doing exactly what Rozanov had told him. It isn’t a new sensation either. He felt it the first time when Rozanov had told him to get on his knees in that hotel room. He had dropped to the floor without a second thought, and his dick stiffened faster than he thought possible.
He needs therapy. Probably.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
Rozanov’s eyebrows shoot up, like he really hadn’t been expecting Shane to agree. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” Shane moves to sit up and adjust his clothes and hair, so he’d look remotely presentable and not like he just got dry humped in the back of a BMW. “It would be rude to just bail.”
Rozanov nods silently, his gaze not leaving Shane’s face.
Shane feels the need to change the subject from what he just agreed to do. “Nice car, by the way.”
“Is not mine.”
Shane freezes for at least five seconds before slowly turning to face Ilya fucking Rozanov again. “It’s not what?”
“Is not mine,” Rozanov repeats. “Is Marley’s. I borrowed his keys.”
“It’s—you just—WHAT?” Shane could not form a coherent thought. Rozanov had just pinned him down and kissed him and grinded against his dick until he came in someone else’s car? Another player’s car?
“Is okay, I knew he would not come down.” Rozanov looks way too relaxed about this.
Shane could only gawk at him, completely thrown by Ilya Rozanov once again. He wasn’t sure he’d ever understand this man in any way. “Are you an insane person or something?”
“Or something,” Rozanov says, smiling.
Shane suddenly feels the need to get out of this car very urgently. He says an abrupt goodbye and pushes his way out, glad that Rozanov makes no attempt to stop him. Marley may not come down according to Rozanov, but Shane is hardly going to bank on that.
As he rides the elevator upstairs, he thinks that might have been the stupidest thing he’s ever done. But no, the stupidest thing he had ever done was probably opening the hotel room door that night in Toronto or giving Rozanov his room number earlier that day. All of that was probably stupider, because it got him involved in this twisted situation in the first place. And now here he is. Riding an elevator back up to his teammates with his briefs stained with come.
When he reaches the floor of the bar, he remembers what he had agreed to do. He glances at the coat check. It’s not like anyone is aware of this him and Rozanov. He could say his goodbyes and leave right now. That would probably serve Rozanov right after what he just told him about the fucking car.
Feeling his own come starting to dry against his inner thigh, he takes his seat next to Hayden. Thankfully, some of the guys had made their way to the bar and no one seems to have taken notice of his long absence.
Hayden has his phone out and is telling him about something ridiculous Scott Hunter claimed in his press conference today. Shane tries to keep up, shifting a bit uncomfortably in his seat.
A few minutes later, Rozanov returns to the bar, not sparing a glance for Shane as he moves back to his table. Shane notices him toss the car keys to Marley and cringes. He checks his watch. 10:41. He has an hour left to stay here and he has really let Rozanov ruin his plan to get back to the hotel by eleven.
The minutes at least tick by easily enough when he has Hayden to talk to. Shane can tell he had a couple more beers while Shane was…away, and a drunk Hayden was always good for amusement. He has plenty of thoughts and needs an outlet to share them, and Shane certainly needed the distraction for the moment.
But whenever the conversation stalls, Shane catches Rozanov looking at him and tries not to pay it any mind. Then he remembers the other thing Rozanov had told him to do, and wonders if Rozanov is waiting for it. He tells Hayden he’ll be right back and goes to the bar.
When walking back to Hayden with his Ginger ale, he steps closer to Rozanov’s table than is necessary, trying to make sure that he can see the glass. This feels kind of stupid, making sure Rozanov knows that he has the drink, that he did what he wanted, but also strangely satisfying.
He lets Hayden think that this Ginger ale is a beer when he sits back down again. Far be it from him to spoil Hayden’s delight.
Looking over his shoulder as he takes a sip of his drink. Rozanov is staring, his eyes so dark Shane feels he could drown in them. He turns back and looks at his watch again. 11:01. Forty minutes to go.
He knows he can leave now. Nothing is stopping him. Not Rozanov. Not anyone. He could get up and go.
But he won’t.