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Hayden hears them before he sees them. Muffled hissing and a thump like a body hitting a wall.
This part of the rink is supposed to be empty right now. Nowhere in the massive arena is ever really empty, not in the buzzing hive of game day, but here, where the dusty storage rooms and elevator motors live, is usually good for quiet. Hayden needs quiet right now. He set out from the locker room in search of it. He needs to clear his head before the game, to put aside Jackie and the baby and to settle his mind into the crystal fracture of ice and puck and net.
Hayden peers around the corner, unsure what he’ll find. He isn’t going to get in trouble for being down here, but sometimes it’s easier not to be seen. He doesn’t want to sign autographs nearly as much as he doesn’t want to explain to a startled maintenance worker exactly why one of the players is wandering around back here.
His mind takes a moment to process what he’s seeing. He’s not the only player down here after all. Shane is here, still in his black sweats, talking in a low, angry voice to—that’s Rozanov, Hayden realizes. Ilya Rozanov with his hand on Shane’s shoulder, shoving him back against the wall.
He’s still trying to gauge whether Shane needs backup or if this is something that Hayden should ask him about back in the locker room when Rozanov shoves him again, palms wide on Shane’s chest. Shane darts a glance down the hallway, but he doesn’t spot Hayden. His eyes are wide, a little panicked, and his jaw is grit tight.
Rozanov reaches past him, to a door that Hayden hadn’t seen, and forces Shane through.
“Fucking shit.” Hayden hustles. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he’s not leaving Shane alone with Rozanov. Especially not before a game. He’s not going to let Rozanov get in Shane’s head, not going to let Shane get suspended for fighting off the ice.
The door handle doesn’t turn, locked probably, but the latch is broken and it swings open anyway and hits the wall with a thud.
It’s a storage room. The walls are lined with old hockey equipment, sticks with fraying tape and a pair of battered skates hanging on the wall. Overflow, maybe, or old equipment slated for donation. Hayden barely processes it. His entire vision fills with the sight of Rozanov leaning up against the wall, his hand on Shane’s head as he shoves him down to the ground.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Hayden’s angry. Angry with both of them. Angry with Shane for letting Rozanov bait him into a fight. They’re about to play a game for fuck’s sake. Get it out on the ice.
It takes another long moment for the rest of the scene to permeate Hayden’s brain. Rozanov’s sweats are tugged down. His cock is hard, jutting out from his body. Shane is looking back at Hayden with wide eyes.
It only takes two steps for Hayden to cross the room, the door slamming shut behind him. “The fuck, Rozanov,” he snarls, fists coming up. Only the barest thread of self-restraint keeps him from swinging. He’s never been this angry in his life. Not when Rozanov has his teammate, has Shane like this. Blackmail, or manipulation, or he’s—Hayden doesn’t want to put a word to what Rozanov might be doing here. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at but leave him the fuck alone. Shane, come on. I’m gonna get you out of here.”
Rozanov’s face contorts in reciprocal anger. There’s fear behind that rage, and Hayden is thrilled to see it. He’s not going to get away with any of this.
“Oh, fuck,” says Shane, in a small voice. He’s still down there on the ground. Hayden reaches down, and helps Shane stumble to his feet. Rozanov’s gaze is darting between them, lingering on Shane. Worried about what’s going to happen to him now, Hayden thinks vengefully. He should be worried.
“Hayden, wait.” Shane digs his feet in, pulling back when Hayden tries to drag him to the door, to safety.
“Yes, Pike.” Rozanov crosses his arms over his chest. He’s doing a good impression of nonchalance, still leaning against the wall. He’s pulled his pants back up. He sneers. “Wait.”
“Fucking shit, Ilya, can you not,” Shane snaps.
“Whatever he’s got on you, it’s not important. Shane, we gotta go.”
“It’s not—” Shane rubs his hand over his face. “Can you just. For a minute?”
“Just what, Shane?”
“Just.” Shane’s voice wobbles. “I was gonna tell you. I wanted to tell you.”
Hayden’s heart sinks. “What’s going on? Is this a—I’m not going to let him get away with this.”
“No, fuck.” Shane looks at Rozanov, who lifts an eyebrow and murmurs something back at him in Russian. Shane rolls his eyes. His lips press together in something like a smile. They are, Hayden is starting to realize, less antagonistic than he had expected. Rozanov hasn’t made any threats, or raised his hands. He’s watching Shane closely, a line forming between his brows.
“Is not what you think,” Rozanov says, and shrugs expressively.
“And what do I think it is?”
“You think I make him do something he does not want to do. No. Shane loves sucking cock, I have to tear him away.”
“Ilya.”
Rozanov shrugs, an expressive gesture. “Is not true?”
Shane looks back at Hayden with those wide, tear-stained eyes. It’s not Rozanov that put them there, Hayden realizes with a shivering, sinking feeling. “Look, I don’t. You didn’t deserve to find out like this.”
“That you’re hooking up with Rozanov?”
“It’s a little more than that.”
“More than—” Hayden stops himself.
Shane sinks to the ground, cross-legged, like the weight of discovery is too much for his body to bear. He rests his head in his cupped hands, elbows propped on his knees. “Shit.”
Rozanov kneels next to him, not even looking at Hayden. Like he has bigger problems right now. “Shane. Is ok.”
“It’s not ok,” Shane says, his voice muffled through his hands. “Nothing is ok.”
“Is ok,” Rozanov repeats, his hand on the back of Shane’s neck. “Is Pike. He is bad hockey player but a good friend. He will not tell.” Rozanov does look at Hayden then, with a clear threat on his face.
“Of course I’m not going to tell anyone,” says Hayden, who until approximately two minutes ago had been ready to march into the commissioner’s office and demand retribution. He’s not an idiot. There’s obviously more between them than—well, than hockey. More than a hookup, maybe. Rozanov is stroking gentle circles on Shane’s back while Shane hiccoughs.
“I’m gay,” Shane says into his hands.
“Yeah, I’m getting that. It’s, uh. Fine.”
“Fine?” Rozanov asks, his voice tight.
“Fuck off,” Hayden snaps, with real heat behind it. “He’s my best friend. This doesn’t change that. Still doesn’t make it a good idea to hook up with Ilya fucking Rozanov before a game.” Hayden is scrambling for a thread of sanity in this conversation, a bright byline to cling to. It doesn’t last.
“We’re um. Together.”
“Lovers,” Rozanov supplies, and Shane elbows him in the side, but he’s laughing when he does it, a jagged little sob mingled in with an involuntary snort of amusement.
“Hayd, do you want to meet my boyfriend?” Shane asks, and grins up at him. His face is damp. “This is Ilya.”
Hayden’s mind has fallen to static. “But you have a girlfriend. Or a girl, anyway.”
“Not Rose fucking Landry,” says Rozanov, rolling his eyes like it's a joke. Maybe it is.
“You have a girl in Boston,” Hayden says like a litany. “You always text her. Boston Lily. Oh fuck.” The realization settles on him like bricks, and Hayden has to sit down, too. The three of them, sitting together on the floor of a dusty room. He hopes no one else shows up.
“I have your number in my phone,” Hayden tells Rozanov. This may be the first time they’ve ever spoken outside of shouting at each other on the ice. “I got it off Shane’s phone in case anything ever—it’s been years.”
“A long time,” Rozanov agrees, uncharacteristically mild.
“And you’re—”
Rozanov shrugs again. It’s less casual now, like a layer has been stripped away, or cleared. Melted and reformed. “I love him.”
“Yeah, ok,” Hayden says, and lies fully down to stare at the ceiling. Shane rests a hand on his arm and squeezes. “You couldn’t have told me this any other time? We have a game in like. An hour.”
“Two.”
“Next boyfriend, can you introduce me before I see his dick?”
“There will not be a next one.” Rozanov says it with certainty. Shane doesn’t disagree with him. Hayden thumps his head against the ground and swears again.
“That’s… good? I guess? I don’t know how to process this right now, Shane.” Rozanov bristles, and Hayden adds, “It’s not the gay thing. Jesus. Give me some credit. It’s the—” he flaps his hand in Rozanov’s direction, trying to encompass what must be a decade of enmity by now. “Is this like…new?”
“No,” Shane says, and there’s a world of emotion in that word.
“Ok.” Hayden collects himself with an effort. He’s picked up some of Shane’s breathing exercises over the years. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Repeat. “We’ll talk about this later, ok?”
“You’re not going to talk me out of it.”
Rozanov pulls Shane to him, and Shane goes with an easy affection that Hayden has never seen out of him before. Hayden can’t be happy about it, not yet. It’s too fresh. He’s a little hurt that this is how he had to find out, but Shane—Shane looks happier than Hayden has ever seen, even now with red-rimmed eyes and an animal wariness.
“Maybe I can come to yours after the game?” Hayden asks, tentatively. “We can, uh. Chat.”
“I thought you did not want to see dick.” Rozanov has apparently given up on what passes for good behavior from him.
“Ok, gross,” Shane says. His voice is steady now. “No, we’ll um. We’ll get dinner, ok? Maybe tomorrow. I’ll tell you about it.”
“Yeah, ok.” Hayden says, and closes his eyes. In the black behind his eyeballs maybe things will make sense. “I still don’t like him.”
“Is ok. I do not like you either.” There’s a sound like scraping as Rozanov pulls himself to his feet. “I must go to team. If you win, is because I am playing with blue balls.”
“Fuck you, too,” Hayden calls after him. The door clicks shut again, and Shane sprawls out next to him on the floor, chin on his hands. Hayden feels like a little kid who’s snuck away from the party. Someone will come looking for them eventually, but not yet.
“I wanted to tell you.”
Hayden studies his face. Everything Shane thinks is always there, written across his features. He doesn’t think Shane knows how earnest he is. How honest. It must have killed him to keep it a secret.
"Who else knows?"
Shane's mouth twists. "My parents. Rose, maybe. Half of it, anyway. I don't know if she's figured out it's Ilya."
Christ, Hayden thinks. He knows now, at least. He can be part of this tiny crowd. Even if he wasn't trusted to know, at least he can prove himself trustworthy. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
Shane pulls his lip between his teeth like he’s considering. “After, ok?”
Hayden rolls onto his stomach and then up to his feet. “Yeah, all right.” Hayden’s not going to get his moment of quiet after all. Maybe it’s fair play. Rozanov certainly won’t be thinking clearly, either.
Hayden stops him with a hand on his elbow before Shane can open the door. In here, with the dust in his nose and the flickering yellow light, they are in a different world. “I’m happy for you,” he says, and finds he means it. “We’ve been, me and Jackie, you know. We worry about you. And I’m happy you have someone.”
“Even if it’s him.”
Hayden nods, serious. “But if you ever want to upgrade—”
Shane laughs again, bright and clear. “I don’t think you’re my type.”
“We good?” Hayden needs the answer to be yes. He needs Shane to know that his changes nothing, except that Hayden is going to mock him forever for his shit taste in men, starting as soon as the shock wears off.
Shane swings an arm around his shoulder, warm and close. “Yeah. Yeah we're good.”