Chapter Text
---
January.
Laughters and songs swell around Shane, joyous and familiar. Dad's booming cheers, Mom's sharp remarks, the many stories and questions from his relatives, and the pops of champagne corks cutting through the cold night air.
“Three! Two! One!”
The sky answers in flames of fireworks, loud and colorful.
“Happy New Year!”
Everyone reaches for everyone else, arms tangling in tight hugs and lips pressing together in soft kisses. Shane is smiling and saying wishes back to his family, but his hands never leave his phone.
The screen glows gently, and Shane mouths the words quietly as he types them, each letter landing with a care that surprises him. His chest is tight when he presses send.
Jane: Happy New Year, Lily! :) |
The reply comes almost instantly, lighting up something in him—brighter than the fireworks and warmer than the champagne still lingering in his throat.
| Lily: Happy New Year, Jane 😉
Colors are swirling together as sparks rain down from the sky, and the sounds of glasses clinking have become distant and tingling. As Shane allows himself to relax into it, a thought slides into his mind, so easy that it's almost frightening.
He wonders how Rozanov is celebrating this new year, and how it would feel to celebrate with him.
This doesn’t make any sense, and he should be questioning why the thought even settles. They are not together, they are not even friends, not really. This thing that they just started doing is relatively recent, and Shane’s wanting is still so tender and novel. It makes him slightly unsteady, like stepping onto thin ice that might crack.
Yet, as Shane keeps watching the fireworks, he finds out that he doesn't really want to push the feelings away. Something is beginning between them, thrilling and fearful and quietly hopeful at the same time. It feels alive, like the new year itself, open and unwritten with possibilities. And so, he allows it to stay there, warm and humming in his chest.
---
Shane groans into the pillow as his cock spurts and pulses in his hands, body shuddering with a pleasant numbness. He lays there for a few moments, panting as the afterglow of orgasm washes over him.
Alright, he has to admit that this is getting a bit embarrassing, because he cannot stop thinking about Rozanov every single time he takes care of himself. Low voice whispering in his ears, soft lips kissing him, firm hands caressing his face, his shoulders, his chest, holding him tight—Rozanov’s entire body pressing against him, inside him. Fuck, just the simple thought of that annoying Russian is enough to send him over the edge.
Shane replays that night in his mind over and over, savoring it like a quiet secret—the way Rozanov had shown him things he didn’t know were even possible. When he pressed that tender moment into a kiss on Rozanov’s mouth, then on his forehead, he had wanted Rozanov to know how he felt.
Even his apartment has become different since their last time, with the air always feeling warmer despite him being the only person there—like Rozanov’s cologne still lingers in the air and Rozanov’s voice still echoes through the walls.
Shane cleans up and slides back onto his bed, reaching for his phone. He has been debating on whether he should text Rozanov, seeing that the Olympics is still more than two weeks away. It feels… too early, too weird. He doesn’t want to let it show that he has been counting down days in his head, measuring the distance of time between the two of them.
He knows he had said that they wouldn’t see each other during the Olympics, yet he cannot deny the way his stomach flutters whenever he thinks about the possibility of seeing Rozanov again, even from afar. He settles for something that seems casual and simple enough.
Jane: Good luck at the Olympics! |
The notification appears immediately—seen, as Shane stares at the screen for the familiar bubbles to pop up. Yet, minutes have passed, and the message never comes.
He waits for a while more, picking up a book to distract himself, until his eyes start to droop and his mind drifts in and out of consciousness. He sets his phone aside and lies down to sleep, trying to ignore the restlessness in his stomach.
---
When Shane wakes the next morning, he opens his phone first. It’s a normal habit—he tells himself—everyone checks their phone when they wake up, so there is nothing out of the ordinary here.
The screen lights up, and Shane only sees the same words he sent the night before.
He sits in silence for a while, wondering if he is overreacting. Maybe Rozanov is busy preparing for the Olympics. Yes, that makes sense, the game is hosted in his home country and his family will be there watching, so of course Rozanov must try harder. He is high-performing, disciplined, focused, and he carries his ambition proudly—somewhat arrogantly, even. Shane respects and understands that completely. He respects Rozanov as his equal, because he himself knows far too well what it’s like to become so absorbed in hockey that the rest of the world blurs at the edges of his mind.
Or, maybe Rozanov saw it and just forgot to reply. That’s fine, it happens, people forget things all the time. He shrugs and gets out of bed, maybe Rozanov will reply to him later today.
---
By the third day, something inside Shane starts to twist.
Seen. That small, clinical word beneath his text feels heavier than it should. Rozanov has read his message, has processed that information, so by this time he must have made a conscious decision to not reply to Shane.
He doesn’t know why this is bothering him so much. He has no right to be upset, he is not entitled to Rozanov’s time nor constant attention. He repeats it to himself, over and over like a reprimand. They are not… together, he isn’t even sure if they count as close—as friends. They are rivals, opponents, people who play the same sport and compete in the same league.
And yet, he keeps staring at his phone, feeling the familiar and prickling discomfort under his skin. Why isn’t Rozanov replying?
It would be different if they were closer—if there had been something clear, something mutual and named between them. But there is no such thing, just the memory of Rozanov reaching out to him. Rozanov has always been the one to initiate, and Shane has grown used to that rhythm. He is comfortable with responding and receiving, happy to let Rozanov lead the way and tell him what to do. He likes routines, guidance, instructions, and he likes it when Rozanov gives them to him.
Now, he doesn’t know what to do or what to say. He has never seen something like this from Rozanov before, so what is the correct move? Is there a correct move? Is there a rule for this?
He feels unmoored without a signal, and he really, really does not like it.
---
More days pass, and he keeps finding himself sitting in front of his phone, fingers hovering but unmoving over the keys. Shane tries to approach this as logically as he could. Normally, if someone doesn’t reply, then it’s normal to wait. But for how long? There should be an average, right? There must be a socially acceptable window for silence before it’s appropriate to send out a second message. A week? Ten days?
But Shane doesn’t want to appear… needy. Just thinking about that word can make his stomach tighten. He doesn’t want to be needy, nor desperate, nor intrusive.
If he asks why Rozanov hasn’t replied, if Rozanov is busy, does that make him demanding? If Shane initiates too much, does that mean he’s overstepping? The uneasiness keeps bearing down on him. He doesn’t know what changed, feeling conflicted between wanting Rozanov to respond and respecting Rozanov’s personal space.
This feels wrong—this side of himself, and he doesn’t know how to confront it.
---
By the end of the month, Shane has felt worn out from thinking about Rozanov. The Olympics will start soon, he has a national team to lead and a gold medal to win. He has to focus on what truly matters, and his dreams on the ice will always come first and foremost to him.
Still, beneath his determination and passion for the upcoming games, there is a quiet but solid anticipation of potentially meeting Rozanov again. He wants to see Rozanov more than he can admit, but he doesn’t know if Rozanov wants to see him, and the thought makes him more uncomfortable than he realizes.
---
February.
It’s only day fifth into the Olympics, and Shane is already so fucking annoyed. He hates the way the media digs their claws into Rozanov—calling him embarrassing, disappointing, a failure of a player and leader on home ice.
His chest is tight whenever he sees it. Just like Rozanov, he is too used to being constantly put onto the spotlight, dissected by analysts and newspapers, scrutinized by brands and sponsors, hearing fans’ praises turn into boos and curses the moment his perfection slips. More than anyone else, Shane truly understands the loneliness of that spiral.
And so, he tries to start with something positive.
| Don’t be too bummed about your game with Latvia, you will definitely win next time!
The sentence feels thin—clumsy, and heat immediately floods his face and neck. Fuck, this is so shallow, only someone who doesn’t know anything about hockey would say that. He presses on delete, mulling the idea over and over in his head.
| Don’t be too bummed about your game with Latvia
He hesitates. It still feels wrong, dishonest—hypocritical. He knows what Rozanov must be thinking now, because if he was in Rozanov’s shoes, he would be dismantling himself from the inside out too, beating himself up over his mistakes, imagining the disappointment from his family and fans. Both of them know that it would be impossible not to.
How can he tell Rozanov not to do the very thing that he does every time he falls short?
He deletes the message entirely. The screen is blank for now, but his mind is not. He doesn’t know the correct tone nor the right entry point. Yet, he still wants to reach out. The urge swells against his chest, pressing onto his ribs. He just wants to let Rozanov know that he is not alone, that Shane also understands how heavy it feels when you think you’ve disappointed everyone.
A part of him whispers that he has no rights—they are not close enough for this, yet another part argues that not reaching out feels just as bad.
Shane feels trapped in a dilemma with no correct answer, his mind tightening with doubt and burning with concern at the same time. No matter what he does, it will inevitably come out wrong.
---
As Shane waits for Scott Hunter and Carter Vaughn, he scrolls up his conversation with Rozanov, re-reading them like they can offer him some clues on how to act. Rozanov likes to use emojis, make inappropriate jokes, and use vulgar words that he knows will annoy Shane. Shane will not admit it yet, but he has grown to like Rozanov’s teasing a bit too much. He will send a dry response, something mock-serious, and maybe even joke back. It’s a script that they are gradually building together—or at least they were.
He lingers on the last two messages that Rozanov sent him before they met at his apartment, his thumb grazing over the screen, over Lily.
Jane: It’s off De la Gauchetière. |
Jane: Use the back entrance please. |
| Lily: 😈
Jane: 🙄 |
| Lily: Here?
That night always comes back to him so naturally and clearly that it almost overlays the present moment. He remembers Rozanov’s voice softening when saying his name, the grasp of his hands on Shane’s skin strong yet tender, the way their lips touched as their bodies joined… He remembers sitting at the stairs for nearly half an hour after Rozanov left and smiling to himself, his mind drifting and floating into a quiet softness—a much welcomed respite from the constant need for controlled formation and rigid order in his head.
Shane pushes his thumbs hard against the side of his phone, grounding himself in the cool metal edge. He doesn’t think he can ignore this anymore, because it just feels so wrong to sit idly when he knows that Rozanov is dealing with so much shit right now.
He thinks and thinks, before settling on sending something simple and concise, enough to show that he cares, but not enough to be overbearing or overstepping a delicate boundary.
Jane: Hey! You doing ok? |
He presses at his forehead, frowning in annoyance and fear and worry. He wishes he knew how Rozanov is doing, if he’s feeling better and preparing well for his next game. Uncertainty is always the worst part, because it keeps him waiting, guessing, doubting—
“Hollander, what’s up, motherfucker?”
Shane almost curses out loud, jumping out of his seat when Vaughn grabs at his arm out of nowhere. Thankfully, he manages to catch himself and greets them with an easy smile. “Boys…”
“Holy fuck! Can you believe Russia?”
“Be nice, Vaughnny—” At least Hunter is trying to be reasonable, before Vaughn cuts him off. “They fucking lost to Latvia! Did you see that game?”
Of course Shane did, he has been watching everything with Ilya Rozanov in it.
“Yeah, it was a straight up shit show.” His answer comes out casual enough, but he is trying hard to not openly grimace at the thought of Rozanov in the most recent post-game interview. His eyes are empty, his stare blank and distant, his lips pressing together. Seeing Rozanov like that makes Shane ache with pity, sympathy, worry—and something else that he cannot name.
“A debacle.” Hunter nods, and Shane cannot deny that either.
“Hey, what did Roz say about it?” Vaughn’s question takes him by surprise, the words hitting and rattling in his head like a drawer yanked open too fast, everything inside slamming into everything else.
“Uh—” He looks away, shrugging to regain some of his composure. “I don't know.” I wish I knew. “Nothing to me, that’s for sure.” I wish he had said something to me, anything—
He lets out an uneasy laugh, trying to change the topic with a joke, “I think he knows Canada has this in the bag.”
That seems to work, because both Vaughn and Hunter laugh. “Uh-uh. It’s USA this year, baby! We’re fucking coming for you.”
They order some ice cream, and Shane is grateful that he doesn’t have to talk about Rozanov anymore.
The ice cream is very nice, its cool and smooth texture helping to clear his head. He complains to Hunter about the weird smell of black mold in his room, then asks them to come with him to support his friend Joe in figure skating.
“Well, I’m assuming your buddy might be gay.” Vaughn says, keeps his voice low.
Shane can feel the familiar and uncomfortable prickling under his skin again. He frowns, scrambling to find an explanation in his head. “I mean—”
“Fucking brave for a dude to show up to a place like this and be like: “Hey, here’s me.” Russia is not safe for folks like that. Fucking balls of steel, man.”
Vaughn goes back to his phone, and Hunter stays quiet. The air around them is strangely heavy, and the ice cream in Shane’s mouth suddenly turns too sweet and too dense, coating his tongue in a way that feels obstructive.
Shane pulls out his phone and stares at Lily. His thoughts branch off, latching onto what Vaughn said, hating the implications of it because there are just too many possibilities. He wonders if Rozanov is alright, if he is safe, if anyone is giving him trouble—
Fuck, he really wishes that he could see Rozanov right now.
---
Shane is clapping for his friend when he catches sight of Rozanov.
Under the cool fluorescent light, he stands out against the teal wall like something that doesn’t belong—too still and too sharp at the edges. He looks small and quiet. Even from across the stadium, Shane can make out the blank mask set on his face, and the sight makes his chest constricted.
Despite the uneasiness twisting low in his stomach, he stands up and makes his way towards Rozanov, throwing out a clumsy excuse to Hunter and Vaughn. God, Shane has wanted to see him again so badly, the wanting a constant hum in his mind and beneath his skin. With every step closer to Rozanov, his heartbeat spikes louder and louder—enough that he feels it in his throat—and his breaths come out more and more shallow.
“Hey.” He tries to keep it simple, but he cannot stop the excitement from seeping through his voice, bright and unguarded.
Rozanov turns to look at him, and Shane feels his stomach dropping. His face is drawn tight, brows pulled together in irritation, eyes flicking over him once and then moving away just as quickly. He shakes his head sharply. “Not here.”
The words are clipped and controlled, landing between them like a barrier, a blaring red line, a warning to Shane.
“No, I’m not… I saw you up here. I wanted to see how you’re doing.” He tries to justify himself, clinging to that purpose and hoping that Rozanov will understand.
“Fine. Go sit down.”
He is not looking at Shane, body angling away, shoulders rigid, voice tight and annoyed. Shane doesn’t miss the slight tremor when he speaks, like a wire pulled too tight, or the way he is clenching his jaw so hard that the veins stand out along his neck.
Shane knows this posture—tension, anxiety, overload—he knows it because he has lived in it. And he knows why, he knows that Rozanov is so burdened by the pressure that his country, his family, the fans, the press, the entire hockey world are all putting on him. He wants to tell Rozanov that he sees it, and he knows—
He hesitates, mind racing for the correct sequence of words. He takes a small step forward. “We—”
“We are not anything.”
The sentence slices cleanly through him.
Rozanov doesn’t even fully face him when he says it, just a glance from the corner of his eyes, sharp and warning. “Go away, Hollander.” His tone falls flat, dismissive, cruel.
Fuck—Shane’s eyes sting immediately, vision blurring at the edges. He looks down at the ground, swallowing down the knot of barbed wire in his throat. Rozanov is being so fucking mean right now, and all of Shane’s rehearsed bravery and careful concern is being crushed like petals beneath careless shoes.
Even so, Shane refuses to be intimidated by this. He knows Rozanov is not alright, he is just putting up his defense by acting like an asshole. He takes a deep breath, slow and deliberate. He tries to anchor himself, pressing his feet on the ground, squaring his shoulders, trying to make his voice steady.
But when he speaks next, the sound comes out small and trembling anyway. “Are you okay?”
“Please, go.”
Damn it, just fucking tell me what is wrong!
Shane is trying so hard, every word worries and frightens him—but he is fucking trying, and Rozanov is not fucking allowing him to. He just wants to talk, can’t they even talk anymore? What’s wrong with them talking? What’s wrong with him asking?
“You didn’t answer my text.”
Tell me what is bothering you, tell me what to do, tell me if I could help—
Shane flinches when Rozanov exhales sharply and turns towards him.
His eyes—the same eyes that once felt like gentle sky and calm water, that once looked at Shane with open wanting and tenderness—are now ice cold. They cut him open, deep through his flesh and grinding into his bone. Rozanov looks at him like he is a complication, an inconvenience that needs to be removed.
“No, I did not answer your boring text. Now will you go?”
He can’t—He can’t fucking do this anymore. Something collapses inside him, confidence leaving him like sand slipping though fingers, and he feels so embarrassed for even trying—only to be brushed off like a particle of dust on Rozanov’s sleeve. Small, insignificant, inconvenient, boring.
“Fine. Fuck.”
He walks away, humiliation hot and burning on his face, behind his eyes, deep in his chest.
He finds a corner and leans against the wall to calm himself. He tries to steady his breath, willing the sting in his eyes and the pressure in his chest to go away, as if they are something that he can control with sheer determination alone.
A memory suddenly slides into his mind, that night on the rooftop, after he won Rookie of the Year. He could see the stretch of Vegas below them, distant glitter of lights twinkling like neon stars. He was slightly drunk then, having taken more shots with Hunter than he planned too, buzzing with a pleasant lightheadedness that made everything a little brighter and a little easier. It was the same like today, when he came to see Rozanov, hoping for a conversation, or for something more after that, only for Rozanov to glare and yell at him. Shane had flinched back then too, caught off guard—feeling scared—by the sudden loud and sharp outburst, heart leaping in his chest.
He didn’t understand, didn’t know where the anger was coming from, and why it was directed at him.
But then Rozanov kissed him, with both of them in suits and out in the open night air. Shane had kissed back just as passionately and fervently, everything inside him twisting and blurring together—confusion, desire, terror—until he remembered himself, pushed at Rozanov, and walked away.
He hasn’t prepared for any of this—for the tenderness that follows the storm, only for the storm to sweep away everything again. He doesn’t know how to deal with Rozanov’s confusing words and contradicting actions, with both fire and ice, both closeness and distance, all at the same time.
Every time Shane feels like he manages to understand Rozanov a little, the pattern shifts, and he is once again left with splintered pieces that don’t make sense, and he doesn’t know what is happening between them anymore.
---
When Shane makes his way back to his seat, Vaughn gives him an acknowledging nod, but he can feel Hunter watching him closely. His heart jumps in his throat a little, but he forces himself to smile and shrug, forcing a casualness that feels like a lie even to himself.
He glances up to see that Rozanov has already left.
The ice skating performances continue to unfold, but they feel distant now—like background noises that he has no interest in anymore. His mind is elsewhere, replaying Rozanov’s face, circling over Rozanov’s words, and wondering if he did something wrong.
As they start walking back toward their accommodation unit, the cool air does little to clear Shane’s head. When Hunter throws the question at him, he isn’t expecting it.
“I saw you talking to him. You good?”
His brain short-circuits. It takes a second for him to process what Hunter just said.
“Uh… What?”
There's a brief pause before Hunter speaks again, this time lowering his voice. “I saw you talking to Rozanov. Was he being an asshole? Want me to slam him extra hard next game?”
What the hell? He can feel the heat rising in his face, the familiar flush of embarrassment and discomfort. He doesn’t want to make this worse by dragging other people into it.
“Nothing. I just—I said hi.”
Hunter looks at him with a raised eyebrow, clearly not buying his surface-level response. But then, his expression softens. “Whatever it is, remember that you’re not alone in this. Ask me if you need anything, alright?”
Shane doesn’t really understand why Hunter is saying this. He also doesn’t really know what he needs, not right now. He doesn’t even know what is wrong, let alone what to ask for…
“Yeah, thanks.” That’s all Shane can manage, nodding slightly.
God, he just wants to get back to his room as soon as possible, so he can finally and blessedly be alone.
---
Shane is focusing very hard on leading Team Canada, yet he can’t escape the constant nagging thoughts that loop around Rozanov. He watches every game and analyzes every moment of his responses, even more vehemently than before. It’s not just about technical comparison anymore, it’s the only way he can gauge how Rozanov is doing. With each new match and interview, Russia keeps on failing, and Shane’s heart keeps on sinking.
Sometimes, he is frustrated at himself, because he has plans to set, strategies to finalize, gold medals to win, and his worry for Rozanov is becoming a distraction to his usual routine and certainty.
Yet, every night, long after his teammates have gone to bed, Shane stays up and thinks about what went wrong in their interactions. His mind churns the same questions over and over again, hoping to find a satisfactory answer that will loosen the knot in his chest.
He opens their conversation, lingering on his last message and Rozanov’s silence.
Jane: Hey! You doing ok? |
The way Rozanov shut him down was so sharp, so final. Shane’s heart aches again at the thought, but he wants to believe that Rozanov didn’t mean what he said. He looked stressed and hurt and raw, he looked like he just needed a hug to help ease that pressure off his shoulders. Shane knows he cannot fix it, but he wishes that he could have pulled Rozanov into his arms—kissed him on his lips and his nose and his forehead.
The urge to send something, anything, rises up inside him. He wants to explain himself, wants to let Rozanov know that he means well, that he wants to make things right and perhaps make Rozanov feel less alone.
He sighs and types out the words.
| I didn't mean to make you upset. I just wanted to see how you’re doing.
Shane stares at the screen for a long time, the blinking cursor staring back at him. The text is simple and self-explanatory enough, yet it hangs in the air around him, heavy with his fear of saying too much, too little. There is something inside him that is resisting. What if his message doesn’t fix anything? What if it makes it worse?
He can already feel the weight of Rozanov’s anger surging back. Shane had been sure then, when he came to see Rozanov, so certain that his intentions were clear, but all he did was carving an even wider wedge between them.
Maybe Rozanov needs more space. Maybe Shane should wait for a better moment—one that feels right, safe—before he can reach out again, so that it doesn’t feel like a mistake that constantly hangs at the back of his mind.
Slowly, he erases the message, one word at a time.
---
Team Canada takes home silver. It’s not a horrible result, not exactly—considering that it’s his first-ever Olympics. But still, it doesn’t really feel like a victory. He was close to gold, so so close, but not close enough. Scott Hunter and Team USA deserve it, but Shane cannot help the flicker of disappointment whenever he looks at his medal. If only he had pushed harder, strategized differently, or caught that one detail that he had overlooked—Canada could have won.
Then his mind drifts back to Rozanov, to Russia’s performance, and the tension presses in on him again, thick and suffocating. How is Rozanov doing right now? Is he with his family? Will this affect his performance for the rest of the season? His thoughts gnaw at him relentlessly. He will go back to Canada soon, and it will be weeks before they see each other again.
And there it is—the urge to reach out. His fingers itch when he holds his phone, but each time he starts, he keeps thinking every word over and over, typing and editing, then deleting, then back to typing, utterly unsure of what to say.
| I know you might be disappointed by Russia's loss but it's not your fault.
He frowns. The sentence is clearly well-intentioned, but it still feels wrong. Rozanov was the captain, and he did have a responsibility to lead and make the right calls. The words seem like they are meant for someone else—someone who wasn’t in charge, and that’s not Rozanov.
Shane bites his lips and tries again.
| Don't be too hard on yourself! It's a team effort, you did everything you could.
Again, the words fall flat. Shane always believes in teamwork, but a captain’s job is to make sure that his team is better and stronger, so if the team is falling apart, then that’s a reflection of the captain’s shortcomings. Shane is also a captain, and he knows this struggle far too intimately.
| I’m sure your family is proud of you, they must see how hard you tried!
The sentence hangs there, too certain. He realizes he doesn’t know anything about Rozanov’s family. Maybe they are supporting him, or maybe they are not, maybe they are just as disappointed as Rozanov is. He cannot say this, cannot make this potentially dangerous assumption. He feels like he is projecting now, speaking from a place of wanting comfort for himself if he was ever put in Rozanov’s shoes, and not from truly understanding what the other man might need.
It dawns on him then—like getting caught in a wintry shower of freezing snow and heavy rain—that he doesn’t know anything real about Rozanov. He knows Rozanov is the best player besides himself, having seen every single piece of footage and interviews of him, tracking his progress, memorizing his stats. He knows Rozanov likes to joke and tease him, getting on his nerves and making him annoyed, and yes—he knows he likes it and Rozanov knows he likes it too. He knows the scent of Rozanov’s cologne, spicy and bold and usually mixed with cigarette smoke. Shane complains about it every time, but he can’t deny that it’s slowly becoming more endearing to him.
And fuck, he knows the way Rozanov makes him feel whenever they are close, how every touch makes electricity run down his spine and bliss blossom in his chest. Whenever Rozanov kisses him—sometimes soft and slow and sweet, sometimes hungry and deep and knocking the breath out of him—his whole head spins and everything else in the world fades away, except for the taste and warmth of the other man against him.
But that’s all he knows about Rozanov. He only knows the physical, the scents, the moments—but he doesn’t know anything else. Shane doesn’t know what he likes to eat, what he likes to do in his free time when he is not training, and certainly not about his life and family in Russia. What they have is so much but also so little at the same time, like pieces of a puzzle that just don’t fit together.
The backspace key feels too loud, each click reverberating in his already messy mind.
He doesn’t know what to say, what Rozanov wants to hear—needs to hear. He only knows that he really, really does not like uncertainty, and he cannot say all these things that he is so uncertain about.
---
March.
Shane resumes the season with Montreal, and he is almost grateful for the sense of normalcy. It was amazing to compete in the Olympics, but he cannot think about it without Rozanov taking up the picture now. The team calendar and familiar faces of his teammates are comforting—and he hopes that it will be the same for Rozanov too, that Boston will offer him some relief and a return to what he knows best. He hopes that Rozanov will find himself again, that his performance will improve, with less of whatever burden he was forced to carry in Russia.
And on his team calendar, on the neat rows of date and steady line-ups, is the nearest date in which Montreal plays against Boston. Three more weeks, and he can see Rozanov again, even though he doesn’t know what to expect.
As always, he watches every match, every interview, every piece of news he can about Rozanov, who is still tight and controlled, but there is also a quiet determination beneath. As the days pass, Shane can see his confidence coming back, and he smiles to himself every time he catches Rozanov’s cocky grin on the screen. Boston is on a remarkable winning streak, Rozanov carrying them forward with sharp and calculated precision.
There is a bittersweet satisfaction and pride that linger in Shane’s chest—a strange mixture of happiness for Rozanov, and frustration at the still existing gap between them.
Waiting for Rozanov—for Lily—has become his daily routine. His thumbs hover over the screen, tapping at it absently, waiting, hoping, longing for that little notification to pop up. The buzz, the bubble, the vibration that tells him that Rozanov is responding.
The last message that Shane sent is still there.
Jane: Hey! You doing ok? |
He has stared at those words so many times now that they are starting to feel unreal and somewhat offensive. The question feels so small, so inadequate in comparison to everything that has happened and still left unsaid between them. It feels like a reminder, a very unfriendly one.
Would this be a good time to ask Rozanov now? Is he ready to talk? Shane has been patient, so that should be good, right? Rozanov seems better now, more of his usual self. But what if Shane is wrong again, miscalculating the signs again?
| You did great in the game today!
He deletes it immediately. Fuck, what the fuck was that? Yes, Rozanov did an amazing job, burning through defense and scoring at an angle so impressive that it left Shane’s mouth hanging open. But that text feels so wrong—Rozanov doesn’t need validation from him.
Yet the need to tell Rozanov is still there. Shane wants to know if Rozanov is truly feeling better, wants to be the one making Rozanov feel better, even though he knows deep down it’s not really his role to play.
It should be easier now, right? It has been a while, Rozanov has had his space, things should be clearer. Yet, it still feels so hard, the distance between them thickening with every day that goes by like layers and layers of ice that Shane cannot break through.
Shane clutches his phone tightly, his head too empty and too crowded at the same time. He just wants to be good, to make things right, but everything he tries feels either too early or too late, either too much or not enough, and there is just no right balance for him to cling onto it.
---
As the game with Boston nears, Shane starts to get restless. Even though he knows exactly what date it is, he cannot stop looking at the calendar every time he passes by it, anticipation building low and constant in his guts. His thoughts return to Rozanov more and more, thinking about their last conversation in Sochi, their last time entangling with each other in his apartment.
He is so anxious, yet he’s also eager, like standing on the edge of something big and unknown. And so, he keeps checking that damn calendar, tracking the days, counting down the hours in his head.
---
When the day actually comes, Shane is a mess of nerves.
He has been waiting for this, but now he feels like he’s suffocating in it, like it’s crawling under his skin and buzzling at the back of his mind. He’s supposed to be ready for the game—practice, team pep-talk, warm-ups—but he is so consumed by the thoughts of Rozanov that it’s getting dangerously hard to focus.
It’s the game, but it’s not just the game. It’s everything wrapped in a convoluted web of feelings that he doesn’t know how to name and to organize.
As he gears up, Shane keeps glancing at his phone. This texting thing, this back-and-forth with Rozanov, it’s supposed to be their usual habit. Every time, Rozanov would text him first, and it would be so easy for Shane to respond back and fall into the flow of their conversation. It gets his blood boiling and his head crystal clear, the promise of Rozanov’s body against his even more alive after an intense game.
He hesitates, but then settles for their usual suggestion, something they both understand. Sex is… simpler, for both of them, he thinks. It’s how they can best connect, where they fit together effortlessly, without pretense and complications.
Jane: See you soon. |
His heart skips a beat, that familiar feeling of anticipation settling in as he waits and waits. His thumb taps against the screen, waiting for the bubbles to pop up and the familiar buzz vibrating in his hand.
Come on, come on...
He slowly becomes hyper-aware of the environment around him, the sounds of his teammate chatting, lockers clanging, bags and clothes rustling. Minutes pass, yet they feel dragged on like hours. When Hayden calls out for him and there is still nothing, the tension in his stomach has started to become unbearable.
His grip on the phone tightens before he shoves it back into his locker with a sharp sigh.
Sex is what has been tying them together from the very first place, and if even sex cannot get Rozanov to talk to him, then he doesn’t know what can anymore.
Fuck, fuck—he can’t believe he just had that thought. That’s just really fucking pathetic. He grits his teeth and wills down his frustration. Maybe Rozanov just hasn’t checked his phone, he can still check it later, can still reply to Shane later, and maybe they can still meet up later.
The stadium is alive with the usual pre-game buzz. The cool air rushes to greet him as Shane steps onto the ice, making him feel grounded and normal again, allowing him to push the noises and statics to the back of his mind. His eyes scan the rink, and there is Rozanov, talking to his teammates, his face animated and his posture relaxed.
Shane watches him for a while, feeling the tug in his chest. He really wants to—needs to talk to Rozanov, to clear up whatever this horrible thing is between them. Yet, he worries that it will look weird to everyone if he just approaches Ilya Rozanov in public, who is supposed to be his biggest opponent and sworn rival on the ice.
A sense of something that feels like disaster creeping up on him, but somehow not doing anything feels even worse. Alright, if he’s just brave enough to step up and say something casually, maybe it will not feel that awkward. Shane doesn’t even expect much, maybe he can just say a casual hello in the hope that Rozanov will say hi back.
He breathes in, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart, the buzzing in his ears. He’s not sure, but he has to try. He skates towards Rozanov, prepares the greeting in his head, so at least, at least they can still see each other as normal—
Rozanov turns, and their eyes meet.
His face—which was smiling just a moment ago—hardens into something ice cold, before he quickly shifts away and skates further into the circle of Boston players.
Shane stops dead in his chest, pulse thudding loudly in his ears, chest tight like it has been stabbed. His mind coils into itself, surprise and confusion and hurt taking over.
What the fuck was that? Why did Rozanov react to him like that, and then just… leave?
He feels like a puppet with its strings cut, falling down rumpled on the floor, stuck in the empty space between what he thought could happen and the harsh reality of what is actually unfolding in front of him.
Shane is so, so aware that he is playing horribly. His passes are too late, he is misjudging distance, his brain is screaming corrections at him—and yet it is also traitorously pulling him sideways to look at Rozanov. He can hear that asshole chirp and holler and laugh at the other Montreal players, except that he won’t look at Shane.
Not once, not even when Rozanov slams him into the board with eerie precision and immediately skates away, leaving him reeling and struggling to draw breath.
Frustration and anger well up. Shane is the captain—he is supposed to be the stabilizing force, he cannot let Rozanov get into his head and distract him. It’s immature and stupid, he is supposed to be better than this. He hates that his brain is betraying him and not allowing him to compartmentalize. Hockey is his life, he should care about it more than anything else, and definitely more than a cold, distant, contradicting asshole who won’t even acknowledge his existence.
Yet, as the game drags on, he only gets clumsier and sloppier. When the timer finally runs out, he is exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with skating nor physical collisions. Montreal loses only by one point, but Shane doesn’t even care about the results anymore.
---
Shane stays mad for days after that blasted game. He tells himself that he played badly because he let himself get affected by Ilya fucking Rozanov, and so the solution is simple and obvious: remove Rozanov from his mind. He needs to compartmentalize, refocus, separate his priorities from distractions. He has done it countless times with other things, it’s just a matter of discipline and willpower.
He tells himself that watching Rozanov’s footage and interviews is purely professional, strategic, necessary. They are rivals, for fuck’s sake, their teams affect each other’s rankings and performance statistics and that’s why he needs to know what Boston is doing to adjust Montreal’s tactics. It’s not because he wants to see how Rozanov is doing anymore, but because it’s a matter of responsible leadership to his team and fundamental integrity to himself.
Except that the routine that once felt stabilizing is now fucking irritating. Every time Rozanov’s face appears on screen, something in his chest constricts. He notices how Rozanov is composed—nearly back to his normal, arrogant self—as he answers interview questions with that familiar sharp confidence and smirks to reporters.
Great for him then, that asshole is functioning perfectly well and acting perfectly fine with everyone, but apparently not Shane. He is deliberately, selectively targeting Shane like an anomaly, and it makes the anger inside him spike so hard that it’s dizzying.
Then, he gets angry at himself for even caring, at the fact that he cannot simply shut Rozanov out of his mind. He has always prided himself on discipline and restraining his impulses, but now it just feels humiliating.
So he doubles down on blaming Rozanov, because it’s easier to write Rozanov as the asshole than to admit that he himself is a fool for misjudging the situation. That arrogant and distant asshole doesn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything other than himself. Shane cannot believe how he can just act like nothing happened, like nothing ever existed between them, like Shane doesn’t even fucking matter to him. All Shane ever wanted was to reach out, only to be left in the dark to drown in the howling sea of a million thoughts in his head.
---
The final week passes in a daze. Boston is on fire, and Rozanov appears everywhere, as the news and analysts praise his impressive comeback. And because some of Shane’s teammates are too damn intrusive and love to gossip, he cannot escape being dragged into tabloid news—even though he has told them repeatedly that he really doesn’t want to see and really doesn’t care about them.
“Holy shit, have you seen this new one?” Laughter fills the locker room. “This is the third girl he’s been photographed with this week!” The screen is passed around, and Shane can see too clearly how Rozanov is wrapping his arm around a woman’s slender waist, his lips tipping close to her ears as they leave a nightclub.
His teammates laugh again, but it just makes the churning in Shane’s stomach worse. Every new photo, every new headline, they all remind him that Rozanov is moving freely in a world that he has no place in, that the warmth and passion that Rozanov once gave him is being washed away, like rocks crumbling beneath relentless waves.
---
At night, when Shane is alone with himself again, he can feel every nerve under his skin prickling. He is still angry at Rozanov, but his rage has become more tangled and messy, mingling with the dull ache of shame. He doesn’t know why he is feeling this way. Logically—as he reminds himself so many times before—they are not together. They are not anything, like Rozanov told him in Sochi. They never were.
And so, it doesn’t fucking matter who Rozanov sticks his dick in, because that’s none of Shane’s fucking business.
Still… Rozanov is—was the first man he has ever been with, the first person to ever stir something inside him that he didn’t know existed. He was the first one that Shane allowed himself to hope for, to care for, to imagine true and genuine intimacy with. He remembers their second time, after he had been scared shitless at the possibility of being caught by Scott Hunter in the hallway, how Rozanov had whined “I want to fuck you” into his skin—the memory coming to him easily and sharply enough to hurt. It’s vulgar, it’s crass, but all Shane felt at that moment was a scary but exhilarating sensation of being wanted.
That night at his apartment—the nervous, intoxicating thrill of kissing Rozanov, the way his stomach leapt at the sight of the other man, the blind-hot waves of pleasure that Rozanov brought him. He had opened his soul and body for Rozanov to come in—he trusted all of it, trusted Rozanov for it.
And the moment after Shane was brave enough to give Rozanov everything he could give, Rozanov turned his back on him.
Shane’s eyes are starting to burn as the doubt seeps in.
Is that all there is to it?
Has that been his only appeal for Rozanov? Something new and inexperienced, something safe to chase because he didn’t know the rules yet? Was he just another conquest, a challenge to win, to test and then discard once the novelty faded?
Now that Shane had said yes, had let Rozanov fuck him—did Rozanov check him off the list and move onto the next target?
He had tried so hard to learn the rules of the games, tried to play it, tried to initiate it. He truly wanted to see Rozanov, hoping that he could make Rozanov feel better, because sex was something steady and reliable and good for them both.
And that asshole didn’t bother to check his messages, didn’t even bother to acknowledge him.
Rozanov has always called him boring. It was part of their rhythm, a script that he thinks he can follow, Rozanov’s constant jokes and his mocking indignation in response. Yet, he always wonders if there are truth behind that easy teasing, truth that he is just too oblivious to truly understand.
Rozanov’s voice in Sochi echoes back to him. His texts are boring, and he is boring, and that’s why Rozanov told him to go away, that’s why Rozanov didn’t see his messages, didn’t look at him, didn’t care about him—
He grinds his face into the pillow, trying to will away the ache in his chest and the cold seeping deep into his bones.