Chapter Text
It started with the freckles.
Shane Hollander, freshly showered, was standing in front of the mirror, assessing whether tomorrow would be an arm or leg day, when he noticed it for the first time. There, splayed across his left pec, was a brand new cluster of freckles. The position and darkness of them gave the suggestion of a picture, but they were spaced so far apart that if there was a shape to it, he couldn't make it out. He traced his fingers over it. It reminded him of those join-the-dot books he'd enjoyed so much as a kid.
"Weird," he said to himself, ready to pull on his shirt and head down for dinner without a second thought, when a horrible thought struck him.
He remembered that documentary about skin cancer his mom and dad had been watching – the way some freckles and moles were actually cancer, especially if they appeared or grew suddenly – and a cold terror gripped him. He couldn't afford to have cancer now. He'd just turned sixteen a few weeks ago, and the Prospect Cup was around the corner. If he had to get treated for cancer, it would pull him out of his training and who knew if he'd ever get back to peak performance again?
He sat down on his bed, trying to swallow down his panic. Hadn't he always been so careful in the sun? Didn't he wear SPF in the winter like his mom had taught him? Didn't he apply every half an hour when he played somewhere hot? Why was this happening to him? He was panicked to the verge of tears, trying his best to do all those breathing exercises his dad had given him as a kid to deal with high-pressure game days.
God, his parents. They were going to be so heartbroken. He knew he had to go down and show them, but he was dreading the way they were going to react. He was only barely holding it together and if he saw his mom crying, he would break.
Deciding there was no point in putting it off, he pulled on some sweats and a zippered hoodie and made his way downstairs, trying his best to keep breathing deep belly breaths. He wanted to at least try and put on a brave face.
It didn't work. Of course it didn't work. Yuna Hollander seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to Shane, and she immediately frowned when he walked into the living room.
"Shane? What's wrong?" She said, getting up from the rerun of the game she and dad were watching and rushing over to put an arm around him. His dad was right behind her. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I think I might have cancer," he said, figuring there was no point in putting it off. He was trying his hardest to keep down the shake in his voice. His parents exchanged a worried glance. "Or, I don't know, at least something weird. On my chest. Lots of freckles that weren't there before."
"Oh, honey," said his mom, brows knit with worry. "Can I take a look?"
Shane nodded and unzipped his hoodie, preparing for his mom's cry of horror, for his dad to curse under his breath. He wasn't expecting a sigh of relief and an almost delighted laugh.
"Isn't it bad?" asked Shane, some of the panic easing at his parents' lack of panic.
"Not at all," beamed his mom, giving Shane a small kiss on the forehead. "Honey, it seems like you've got a soul mark."
"A soul mark?" said Shane, unsure of whether to be relieved or horrified. "I thought those were supposed to be crazy rare."
"Visible ones are," said his dad, exchanging a glance with his mom. She gave him an almost imperceptible nod and he continued. "Everyone has them, but only a few people can ever see them. They're like those… what do you call them…?"
"Blaschko lines," his mom supplied. "Like dad says, they're usually invisible, but some people have a genetic condition where you can see them."
"So you're telling me that you guys passed it on to me? You two have a soul mark?"
"Not me," said his mom. "I only have a tattoo."
"What does that even mean?" Shane said, slumping heavily to the couch, too confused and relieved to stand anymore. His parents pulled up chairs opposite him. In answer to his question, his dad rolled up one leg of his shorts. It took Shane a second or two to make it out, but once he did, he gasped. There, clear as day, was a freckled version of the dolphin tattoo that his mom got while drunk on a vacation to Mexico. It was made up of freckles, but they were so fine and close together that it couldn't be anything but the same tattoo.
"Soul marks show up because of marks on your soulmate's body. Scars, beauty spots, tattoos. The science is still pretty new and inconclusive but it seems that even without the marks, everyone has a soulmate and, good news, most people find them, even if they have to rely on feeling. You and dad get a bit of a head start being able to see yours. It's much easier to match a picture than trust your feelings. Or, at least that's what I've heard."
Shane looked down at the mess of freckles on his chest. There was the ghost of a shape there, but nothing he'd ever be able to make out.
"My soulmate has a pretty fucked up tattoo," he said, pleased and a little relieved when both his parents laughed.
"We don't know that it's a tattoo." His dad clapped a hand to Shane's shoulder. "It could be a birthmark or a scar. It'll become clearer when you find your soulmate and start building a relationship with her. That's how I knew your mom was the one. Once we started falling for each other, the dolphin went from random freckles to full picture really quickly."
Shane's head was reeling. Seeming to notice his distress, his mom declared an emergency pre-dinner dessert with an offer to Shane to ask any questions he wanted to while they ate their ice cream. He had so many. Why did it suddenly appear now? How do people feel it out when they're not visible? What was he supposed to do once he found his soulmate?
And most of all, the question he'd never ask out loud, but that had been ringing through his mind all the same since his dad had said "her":
What if his soulmate wasn't a girl?
Rozanov was an asshole.
Honestly, Shane shouldn't have been surprised to learn this – Ilya Rozanov certainly gave no indication on or off the ice that he wasn't – but he still found himself disappointed. After years of watching his career, so similar in success to his own that their names were almost always brought up together in hockey circles, he just was hoping that that the competition between them was friendly.
No such luck.
Despite his standoffish vibe, Shane couldn't help but feel a tug towards him, It wasn't just how the media pitted them them against each other. Shane couldn't explain it. It shouldn't make sense, but throughout the buildup to the Prospect Cup, he'd felt compelled by… something to seek him out. To approach him and introduce himself. And so, summoning up all of his courage, he found his opportunity and just went for it, introducing himself and shaking his hand, trying hard not to think about how that point of contact was the single craziest feeling he'd ever experienced in his life.
Of course it was something else entirely, his inability to be cool for even a moment, that compelled him to warn Rozanov about smoking in a non-smoking area. Shane could have kicked himself, especially when Rozanov blew out a plume of smoke deliberately, blatantly ignoring Shane's words. And then, to add to it, Rozanov made it clear that he thought Russia would win.
So Ilya Rozanov was an asshole. The realization did absolutely nothing to quell that pull he felt towards him. In fact, Shane found himself drawn to Rozanov for the rest of the tournament. He didn't seem to be able to keep his eyes off of him, and what made it worse was that every now and then, he'd catch Rozanov's looking right back at him.
Shane tried to shake it off. This wasn't going to help Canada win. Best to stop thinking about Rozanov altogether if he wanted to keep his head in the game.
If Rozanov was similarly in his head about Shane, he was doing a much better job of hiding it. In the end, much to Shane's dismay, Russia won. Shane couldn't help but feel like it was his fault.
As they shook hands after the match, Shane felt it again, stronger than ever – that same strong, magnetic pull. He still wasn't sure Rozanov was feeling the same thing, sure he was imagining the way his gaze temporarily flitted down to their clasped hands. But one snarky remark about seeing him at the draft later, the moment and the pulling feeling were gone. The memory of it lingered though, long after Shane was back home in Ottawa. It came back to him clear as day as he lay awake staring at the ceiling, fingers absently trailing over the freckles on his chest.
It would be crazy to say that he missed him. He definitely didn't. God, he barely fucking knew the guy. But he didn't have a better word for how… bereft he suddenly felt.
"Fucking Rozanov," said Shane, grumpily turning over and forcing himself to sleep.
His second time meeting Rozanov was just as weird. He'd forgotten how strange he'd felt during the Prospect Cup, and how for days afterwards he'd felt like he'd left something important behind.
Whatever he'd forgotten, it all came back to him the moment he saw him again.
Shane wasn't stupid. With time to process, he knew what he'd felt last time wasn't typical. It wasn't normal to constantly think about how a fellow players' lips looked wrapped around the end of a cigarette. It wasn't normal to fixate on that sly sloping grin he'd been given for just a moment. It wasn't normal to be looking forward to hearing his name in his accent again, all rounded vowels and rolled Rs, like a cat's purr.
Fuck. This wasn't good.
Shane pinched the taught skin between his thumb and pointer finger, telling himself to get it together. He could make it through today without fixating on Rozanov. There were any number of talented players he could divert his attention to.
But only one number one.
Of course he was the first draft pick. Of course. And of course, of all the teams in the league, they'd been drafted to Boston and Montreal. And of course he couldn't stop thinking about Rozanov's pleased little smirk at the announcement, or the clandestine little wink he'd given Shane when the attention had shifted to the third draft pick.
And of course underneath it all was that familiar pulling sensation, like a riptide dragging him into deep waters.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He knew there would be no sleeping that night, but he wasn't going to lie around staring at the ceiling. If he couldn't rest, he might as well be productive. Grabbing his iPod and earbuds, he made his way down to the hotel gym, ready to work out these confused feelings one way or another.
Unfortunately, someone had the same idea.
He felt him before he saw him. There was that pull again, the one that was becoming all too familiar to Shane. The one that tingled at the back of his neck and made his hair stand slightly on end. The one that somehow threw the world off its axis and also made everything make more sense.
Shane turned to see Rozanov peddling on the bike next to his.
He'd matched Shane's speed almost immediately and Shane took that for the challenge he knew it was. Stealing a glance over at Rozanov, who looked unfairly cool and godlike in his black vest, he started pushing as much as he could, daring him to keep up. Rozanov more than took the bait. They both took turns increasing their speed, upping the ante until they were spinning faster than was probably sensible, each daring the other to give up first.
It wasn't going to be Shane. He wouldn't let it be, not after today. Not after getting picked second. And certainly not when he had to prove to himself that whatever this… thing between Rozanov and him was, it wasn't attraction. It was getting harder to do. Even now, the world had narrowed down to their two bikes. Rozanov's heavy breathing, louder than the EDM blasting in his ears, seemed to be the only sound in the world. Rozanov's sweat-drenched body, almost glowing under the florescent lights, was the only thing in Shane's periphery.
In the end, Shane couldn't even remember who slowed down first, just that there was a moment where they were both spinning, and then as if a flip had switched, they were coming to a stop. It was the hardest he'd pushed himself in a while and, absolutely spent, he collapsed to the floor. He wished he'd remembered to bring water. He could feel that horrible dry stickiness starting at the back of his throat as he tried to get his breathing back to somewhat normal.
Rozanov settled opposite him with an excited, "Whoo! What a fucking day, huh?". He looked so fucking pleased with himself that all Shane wanted to do was punch him. Or ki– kick him. Anything that would stop his dumb stupid dimpled face looking so fucking smug.
"Is it everything you dreamed of?" Rozanov asked, knowing that it wasn't. Knowing that Shane was as annoyed as he would be if he'd come second. Shane responded on autopilot, because how was it possible to find someone such an asshole that the very curve of his lips pissed him off, but to also feel like he wanted to crawl inside of him and live there? He found his eyes following the beads of sweat that dripped from his chin to his neck, joining the small ravines flowing towards his neck. Unbidden, his eyes then slipped to where Rozanov's water bottle was dangling loosely in his graceful fingers. It hovered right over the one spot Shane was trying to avoid looking, but was finding increasingly difficult to do.
He was abruptly pulled right back into focus when Rozanov said, "We will, uh, we will be seeing each other a lot?"
Fuck. Boston and Montreal. He'd almost forgotten. They would be. A good number of their games in a year would be played against each other, and each time, it was going to include this constant unexplainable tension and magnetism. It was going to be a nightmare.
"Yeah," he nodded. "Montreal and Boston play against each other often."
He knew he wasn't imagining the way Rozanov was opening his legs a little wider, letting his hand rest on his knee so that Shane's eyes were drawn to his shorts. He hoped to whatever god would listen that it was just folds in the fabric he was seeing. Because the alternative was threatening to cause a situation of his own.
Shane was certain Rozanov caught him looking, because immediately his water bottle lowered so that it would be in his eyeline. Fuck. With an expression Shane couldn't read, Rozanov took another sip from his bottle, this time, making sure his eyes were firmly fixed on Shane's.
Of course he'd remembered to bring water. Who went gyming without water? Certainly not Shane ever again after today.
Before he could avert his eyes and direct his thoughts to safer things, Rozenov was insistently holding out the bottle to him. Shane tried to wave his hand, tried to say 'no, thank you' without actually saying it, but Rozanov began shaking the bottle, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, and who the fuck was Shane kidding? With the way he was gawking at Rozanov, he probably looked every bit as thirsty as he felt.
Their fingers brushed as the bottle changed hands and that pulling sensation became stronger than ever. It felt like the roll of two mechanisms about to click into place and just not getting there. Shane's throat was suddenly so dry, it was sticking to itself. There was no saying no to the water now.
Rozanov watched him as he drank, and something about his eyes sent shivers up Shane's spine. He seemed to be drinking in as much of Shane as he could, and it was all too overwhelming for him. Shane found his gaze instead dropping to the much safer territory of Rozanov's chest. Having had a bit of the water, he moved to give it back, but he caught Rozanov mouthing a firm 'more' before he could. Shane couldn't have disobeyed then if he'd tried, a thought that both terrified and thrilled him as he dutifully took another mouthful.
This was dangerous. Rozanov was dangerous, and as he handed the bottle back to him with another deliberate brush of fingers, he resolved to push this from his mind – a feat made all the more difficult when Rozanov fucking winked at him. Twice.
Jesus Christ he had to get out of here.
Making an excuse he knew Rozanov didn't fully buy, he raced back upstairs to his room and threw himself into the shower, hoping the hot water would melt away the gaze he could still feel lingering on his skin.
It did the opposite. Here in the private of his shower, he could finally admit that being looked at like that, even by Rozanov (maybe especially by Rozanov), felt really fucking good. His cock certainly agreed, filling so eagerly at the memory of Rozanov's lips wrapped around the nozzle of the bottle, that there was nothing to do but give it exactly what it wanted. He stroked himself hard and fast, imagining long graceful fingers in place of his own and his name growled out in a deep Russian voice. Imagining a self-assured smirk pressed into his neck. Imagining his clever tongue –
Shane had never come harder in his life, the force of it taking the strength from his already shaky knees. He wasn't proud of it. After rinsing his hand under the shower and wiping away some of the condensation on the shower wall, he stared at himself in the reflection.
This is the last time you're allowed to fantasize about Rozanov, he told himself, not daring to say it out loud.
It had to stop here. It would be super fucked up and unhealthy to carry this into his career. Whatever had happened, whatever that was back in the gym, it would stay there and he'd never think about it again.
Besides, there were other considerations. Somewhere out there in the world, he had a soulmate. A real actual soulmate. The last thing he needed was to complicate that unnecessarily.
If his soul mark perhaps looked a little darker and more defined in his reflection, well, he'd blame that on the dark glass, the flush of his chest, and the hot water.
Hot water indeed.