Chapter Text
"The pair of you are storming ahead this season, both of you with more goals this early into the playoffs than any rookies in history. Do you feel confident in your ability to carry Boston through to the final?"
Shane glanced over at where Rozanov was slouched in his chair, before leaning in towards the microphone. He didn't know who thought a joint interview would be a good idea. He got it - the two up-and-coming young stars of Boston, breaking records and making history together - it made a good story. But so far, this interview had consisted of Shane answering the majority of the questions, while Rozanov sulked next to him, only contributing short, one-word answers. He wasn't sure how much of the reporter's questions he was actually understanding; how much of the familiar scowl on his face was just his brain working overtime trying to keep up.
"I mean, we can only do what we can do. The team's great, and we're all focused. We'll try our best, and maybe we'll get there, maybe we won't." He nudged Rozanov with his elbow.
"Yes." Rozanov nodded. The gathered journalists waited a moment for him to continue, before it became clear he was done speaking.
Another reporter spoke up, "I'm sure you're familiar with the talk of an alleged rivalry between the two you, an unofficial competition to see which of you will score the most points this season. Care to comment on this?"
Shane sighed internally. Again with this stupid so-called rivalry. Why was everyone so desperate to pit them against each other? When neither of the men spoke up, the reporter urged them for a response, "Shane? You came second to Rozanov in the rankings before the season started. Are you feeling a lot of pressure to prove yourself?"
He tapped his fingers rhythmically against the desk, trying to focus his thoughts. What could he say that would placate the reporters, while not fuelling the flames of all this rivalry talk? He had already made his way through most of his pre-prepared media acceptable responses that Yuna had helped him formulate prior to the interview.
Rozanov glanced down at where Shane's fingers were drumming an anxious pattern on the table, before speaking up, "Not to answer on Hollander's behalf, but we are just happy to play on the same team together. Hollander is a very talented player, I would not like my chances against him."
Shane let out a relieved sigh that Rozanov had responded for him, and in a surprisingly eloquent and articulate way. He looked over at him, surprised and grateful that he had apparently noticed Shane's nerves and chose that moment to step in.
He had not finished, however, "In terms of the rivalry, I am feeling pretty confident that I will win this contest. Hollander has, how you say, got nothing on me." He winked.
Shane scoffed. Of course he couldn't have finished on a nice note, and resisted the chance to brag. The gathered journalists laughed, put at ease by Rozanov's familiar banter.
"Shane?" The same reporter who had asked the question probed him again, "Your thoughts on this?"
Shane coughed, "Well, I suppose we'll just have to wait and see. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a game to prepare for." He stood up promptly, Rozanov rising behind him to follow as they exited the room, the flashes of cameras following them. As they walked down the corridor, the door swinging shut behind them, cutting off the sound of the journalists, he jostled Rozanov's shoulder, "You just can't help yourself, can you?"
"What do you mean?" Rozanov asked, his face a picture of innocence.
"Showing off. I'm trying to ease the media away from this whole rivalry thing they're trying to start. But you have to go and encourage them like that." He attempted to sound angry, but there was no real heat behind it, and the corner of his mouth threatened to betray him as it curled upwards into a smile.
"Ah, but you play better when you want to beat me."
Shane blushed, "I play great all the time."
"Yes, but when you want to prove you are better player, you try harder. You are more focused. I have noticed this."
Was that true? Was there a part of Shane that did want to prove to the world, and to himself, that he was a better player than Rozanov? He gnawed at his lip, "Whatever. Compete against yourself. I'm not getting involved in this." He sped away from Rozanov, hearing him chuckling behind him as he marched down the corridor, glad that he couldn't see the smile blossoming on his face.
Things had been going surprisingly fine with Rozanov recently. During the first of their away games, Shane's head had been somewhere else at first, his mind still reeling from their interaction in the club. He wasn't sure how he was meant to act normally around him after that, let alone share a hotel room. Hopefully he had been too drunk to remember any of it, and they can pretend the whole thing never happened. No harm done. Rozanov was still passing to him like normal, and they had the same mental connection as always that allowed them to stay one step ahead of the other players. But anxiety still gnawed its way through Shane's chest. They were meant to return to their hotel room after the game and pretend everything was normal, when Shane felt anything but normal.
He tried to convince himself that the likelihood was Rozanov didn't have an ounce of recollection of what he said, so it was only Shane feeling strange. Even if he did remember what he said, the sweet compliments that left Shane's insides feeling gooey, had he really meant it? Or was it just Rozanov being...Rozanov.
The atmosphere amongst the team was the usual animated liveliness that accompanied them after a winning game. They headed up to their respective hotel rooms, clapping each other on the shoulder, applauding each other on their play. Shane bid Hayden goodnight, before swiping his key card on the door of the room he was sharing with Rozanov, letting the two of them inside. And then it was just the two of them. Alone.
Shane felt his palms starting to sweat. Act normal Hollander. For Christ's sake.
"Good game tonight." He tried to sound casual.
Rozanov grinned, "They did not know what hit them. We make a good team." Shane smiled back, unable to guard himself against Rozanov's infectious grin, despite his catapulting stomach. Maybe things could be normal after all.
The evening went smoothly between the two of them, settling into their normal routine of taking turns showering, then lazing on their beds, scrolling on their phones in companionable silence. After a while, Rozanov's phone chimed.
"A text from Marlow. He's going out." He looked over at Shane, his expression making clear that Shane was welcome to join them, if he wished. Shane nodded, but didn't respond. Last time was a disaster that he did not care to repeat.
"I will be off then." Rozanov removed himself from his bed and stretched, his shirt lifting slightly, revealing a strip of his stomach. Shane swallowed.
He cleared his throat, "Don't wake me up when you get back tonight. Or...tomorrow morning. Whenever." As if Rozanov would be returning before the sun came up.
Rozanov smirked, shrugging on a jacket, "Do not worry, I will not interrupt your beauty sleep, zvozdno-vesnushchatyy mal'chik."
Shane frowned as the door slammed shut. He had said something in Russian. An insult? A chirp? He whipped out his phone, pulling up Google translate and typing in what he thought he'd heard. It took a couple of tries to get the spelling right, but eventually he had an answer.
His heart fell to his feet. Star-freckled boy. He did remember.
Another game, another hotel room. They were all starting to blur together in Shane's mind. He was stuck in a strange haze of planes, hockey, hotels, and Rozanov. A lot of Rozanov. He was everywhere - anywhere Shane went, there he was. It made sense; they played on the same team, of course they would see each other every day. But even when he got back to his hotel room, ready to wash away the long day of hockey from his shoulders, there he was. And he was forced to confront the whirling vortex of feelings that arose every time he looked at him.
Sometimes they would talk and joke, and things would almost feel normal. Shane would start to feel like they were actually becoming...not friends, but...allies? Begrudging teammates who shared a room and didn't hate each other's company?
Other times, and these were the times where Shane had no idea how to act, Rozanov was quiet and closed off. He would sit, resting his back against his bedframe and stare at the wall opposite him. If he didn't know better, Shane might have assumed he was taking drugs or something. But he knew he would never risk doing something that could get him kicked out of the playoffs. When he was in one of his slumps his expression would turn vacant, melancholy, staring off into space, eyes unfocused, like he was not really present in the room but lost in some memory from long ago.
One particular day, he was especially out of it and wouldn't respond to Shane when he talked to him, even to offer a grunt of acknowledgement or withering look when he said something particularly stupid. He didn't look like he was even registering Shane's voice at all.
At first, Shane didn't think much of it, assuming he was just in one of his moods, as usual. Tired from the countless games they had played, annoyed at the constant media attention - he could think of hundreds of reasons that could explain his dismal mood. He got it. He figured he just needed some space.
He grabbed his phone and wallet, and headed out of the hotel, deciding he might as well grab some food, leaving Rozanov to it. He wasn't his responsibility anyway. It was a nice day out - the sun high in the blue cloudless sky, a warm breeze in the air. He breathed it in, shaking his shoulders loose and trying to relax himself. He'd been working hard, he could feel it in his stiff joints and sore muscles. He should take the rest of the day to relax, have a moment to himself for once.
That was what he told himself as he walked into the supermarket, walking over to the display of snacks and sandwiches. But he couldn't shake off the niggling feeling in the back of his mind. Was Rozanov really ok? Sure, he could be distant sometimes, like he wasn't all there, but this time seemed extreme even for him. He hadn't spoken a word to Shane all day, even to tease him when he had stepped out of the bathroom in the new tracksuit he had been sent from one of his brand deals, which cost more money than a sensible person would ever willingly spend on clothes, and came in an ugly shade of green that was reminiscent of cat sick. He had shrugged it on reluctantly - he knew the rules, he had to wear whatever his sponsors sent him, no matter how ugly. But he hadn't even gotten a smirk out of Rozanov, and this would have been an easy target for his usual ribbing. His mind made up, he picked up a second sandwich and an extra drink - a coke, Rozanov's drink of choice - and hurried back to the hotel room.
The scene he was met with was not what he had been expecting to see at all. Was Rozanov...crying? He was hunched over on his bed, facing away from the door so Shane couldn't see his face. He was curled up in a fetal position, looking strangely small for such a large man. His shoulders were shaking and Shane could hear the sound of sniffling, interspersed with quiet sobs.
Now Shane was really worried. He had never seen Rozanov like this. He looked so childlike, so innocent and vulnerable, that he moved without thinking. Unable to stop himself, he eased himself down on the bed next to him and took hold of his shoulders. When he didn't get pushed away, he pulled Rozanov towards him so he was nestled into him, his face buried into his chest. Wrapping his arms around him, he begun to stroke his hair. He felt him relax a little, and continued to hold onto him as he shook.
Shane lost track of time, unsure how long they spent wrapped around each other. It felt so natural, that he didn't even question it. Hugging Rozanov close as he cried, his hands stroking his back soothingly, petting his hair. He was shaken, fearful of what could have possibly happened to make Rozanov like this. At the same time, he felt at peace. It was comfortable and instinctive, like this was right where he was meant to be. He could easily spend hours in that position, running his hands through Rozanov's curls, trying to ease his pain through his touch. He gave into the feeling, letting his body take charge and guide him to do what felt right. He placed a soft kiss onto his forehead.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He finally asked, as Rozanov's trembling started to subside, the tears on his cheeks starting to dry.
Rozanov said nothing, and Shane wasn't really expecting to receive a response. But then he murmured, his voice laced with pain, "It's the anniversary. Of the day my mother died."
God. He hadn't known that. He gave his shoulder a squeeze, "I'm so sorry. That's awful."
Rozanov sniffed, "She was beautiful. And so funny. And so full of love."
Shane's imagination conjured up images of his own mother dying, and he immediately pushed them away. It was unimaginable. An impossibility.
"Tell me about her."
So he did. Curled up against each other, they spent the evening talking and sharing stories, as the sun went down outside, the orange glow of the sunset giving way to a clear, dark night full of stars.