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Shane is halfway back to the hotel before he realizes that the shirt he has folded between his fingers that he’s been rubbing since he got in the car is Ilya’s. He jerks his hand away like he’s been burned, making a noise of disgust. The cab driver glances at him in the rear view mirror and then looks away again. Shane looks out the window for a few minutes, brooding, and then realizes that he’s rubbing the fabric again. It’s so silky, so soothing.
He picked it up off Ilya’s bathroom floor. There was something in his head about people wearing their boyfriends’ shirts, even though Ilya — Rozanov — is not his boyfriend. But the shirt felt so nice against his skin, so much better than the shirt Shane had worn there. If Ilya noticed, he didn’t mind. He picked it back up in a hurry after. Well. After. After they fucked on Rozanov’s couch. After Rozanov had called him “Shane”. After he called Rozanov “Ilya”. Like maybe they are actually boyfriends, or at least like each other.
He’s ashamed of how fucking good it felt, hearing his given name in Rozanov’s husky voice. It’s not like Rozanov hasn’t said it before. “Shane Hollander”, pronounced with deliberate disdain. Rozanov only says “Shane” to provoke him.
Until now, anyway. This time, Rozanov sounded like he meant it differently. Like they meant something different to each other.
Shane’s not crying, but the only reason is that the feeling of the shirt between his fingers is calming him down. He kind of wants to cry. He’s doesn’t know why. He would think the whole fucking afternoon was a hallucination if it weren’t for Rozanov’s shirt. It feels so good. He doesn’t understand how it feels so fucking good. It’s just a shirt, for fuck’s sake.
He takes it off, as soon as he gets back to the hotel. He doesn’t need Hayden asking any questions. It’s the kind of thing Hayden would definitely notice.
When he gets home, he puts Ilya’s shirt in his closet, way in the back, where he can’t always see it. But he takes it out, every so often, and touches it. When he puts it against his face, he can almost smell Ilya’s cologne or detergent or whatever.
He’s glad Rose doesn’t find the shirt. Fortunately (he hates to think of it that way, but there’s some relief there too), she wasn’t over at his place much. She wore his jersey, but never his t-shirts. She wouldn’t have been digging around. But Ilya’s shirt would have been noticeable, out of place among the rest of Shane’s things.
It’s a weird few days after they break up. Shane kind of doesn’t know how to exist in a world where somebody else knows he’s gay. And he trusts Rose, absolutely. It isn’t that. Maybe their romance wasn’t built for a happily ever after, but their connection is real. But it’s like his head is so full of thoughts he can’t sort them out. He keeps ending up in random rooms in his place, not really sure how he got there, staring into space.
That’s how he ends up in the closet, which is ironic.
He’s only bought one brand of t-shirt for a long time. When he looks around his closet, it’s all variations on the same thing. Track pants and sweats, cotton t-shirts and wicking workout shirts. He has two pairs of jeans he doesn’t really wear. All his underwear is basically identical. He has white socks and black socks, but they’re all the same kind, the same height. He has his tux, of course, and his dress shirts. He never wears an undershirt with them, even though it irritates his mom. Something about the way the fabrics touch makes him uncomfortable, the undershirt and the buttoned shirt and the jacket. It’s too many textures, too hot, too much. There are other bad textures too. Anything microfiber: something about it feels sticky or itchy or something he can't describe. He hated the fucking Team Canada sherpa fleece, even though it was soft. Fleece is usually okay for him, but that one wasn't. Maybe it's because of the way he was feeling in Russia anyway: worried about Ilya, on-edge about everything else, not sleeping enough on his uncomfortable bed in his smelly (moldy?) room. Somehow the feelings permeated the fabric. As soon as he got home, he gave it to his mom. She loves it.
Rozanov has better clothes and that’s not fair. Even his athletic clothes are cooler than Shane’s somehow: different seams or better fabrics or some shit. Shane doesn’t have any idea. Shane has no idea what kind of clothes to buy. He’s hated filming commercials for clothes. Half the time he’s wet for some reason, and the clammy fabric makes his skin cringe. Maybe that’s why he likes his Rolex and Reebok deals so much. Wearing a watch or some sneakers is easy. He never wears the underwear he models. The suits are okay, but they’re on the outside of his other layers. Shane doesn’t really care what he looks like.
But maybe, for the first time, he wants to. Maybe nobody but Rose knows (okay, and Rozanov). But maybe he can make some changes in his life. Something to make his outsides match the way he feels inside. Lighter. Less…constrained. More grownup. Like he finally knows where he’s going.
He picks up Ilya’s shirt, rubs it between his fingers. It still feels good.
“I think I need a stylist,” he texts Rose.
“I’ve got someone for you,” she responds immediately, with a little heart emoji. “omg you’re going to LOVE them.”
Ten seconds later, she texts him a contact labeled “Jordan”.
“I kind of have a…thing…about textures?” he tells Jordan when they meet. They’re at a coffeeshop near Shane’s place, somewhere he usually doesn’t get recognized. The people who buy their coffee here are the kind who use the word “sportsball” when they talk about hockey and quiz the barista about which shade-grown coffee was grown in the most shade. The drinks are expensive, but it’s not like Shane can’t afford it. He laces his fingers around his cup and tries not to look nervous. They got through the small talk in line and now Jordan is asking him what he wants. Shane hasn’t ever really known what he wants.
Except Rozanov. But that’s not exactly relevant to this conversation.
Jordan nods. “We can work with that.”
“I guess that’s why I always wear athletic clothes,” Shane says. “They’re comfortable. They feel right. Maybe that’s just because they’re what I’ve always worn? It’s kind of my routine.”
“Is it just textures, or is it the shape of your clothes too?” Jordan asks. “Like how tight they are, what shape they make around your body.”
“Uh, I never thought about it,” Shane stalls, “but yeah, I guess textures and shapes.”
“Okay,” Jordan says, making notes on their tablet. “I can work with that.”
Jordan takes their job very, very seriously, as it turns out. Fortunately, they also seem to know every discreet boutique in Montréal, so it’s not as weird of an experience as it could be. If the people helping them recognize Shane, they don’t say anything about it.
“Clothes send a message,” Jordan tells him.
“I mean I know that,” Shane says. “I spend half my life in my team colors.”
“Okay, yeah,” Jordan says. “We can start there. But these are your clothes, Shane. It doesn’t have to be a uniform. You get to decide what the message is.”
It’s kind of an exhausting day, to be honest, but at the end of it, Shane has a new wardrobe. He likes all the clothes. They feel good against his skin. He feels like his outsides match his insides, sort of, or maybe he can make them match better. Maybe he’s not ready for his clothes to say “Shane Hollander, gay icon”, but he’s okay if they don’t always say “Shane Hollander, star athlete”. There are parts of him that hockey can’t have.
Not anymore.
He’s ready to send a new message.
When he goes to Tampa for the All-Stars Game, he wears Ilya’s shirt under his new linen blazer. It seems more concise than a text. Shane never knows what to say, anyway. Words aren’t his forte. Ilya’s good at that kind of stuff: secret messages, hidden meanings. He’ll understand.
Shane steps into the bar and sees Ilya. Ilya looks him over, a quick flicker of his eyes, and one corner of his mouth quirks a little.
He understands, just like Shane knew he would.
Shane’s ready.