Chapter Text
It had taken him a long time to accept reality. To accept that, despite having a degree and a very good GPA, he might never work in his field. And yes, it was tough, because if he had spent four years studying non-stop, it was to be able to pursue it professionally.
He had spent months without a job, applying to absolutely every physiotherapy listing he could find. And he still hadn’t gone to a single interview.
He knew his parents would never demand money or work from him, but there came a point when the stress of being stuck at home, watching yourself get rejected by a thousand different places, got to him. He needed a job—any job—as soon as possible.
And there he was. His first night working at a nightclub in Montreal, because it was the first thing he had found.
It wasn’t his environment, not at all. He felt a little intimidated while Rose, his coworker, patiently explained every drink they served and how to make them. They were behind the bar while the other two bartenders prepared everything needed before the club doors opened, glancing at shelves filled with dozens of bottles of alcohol.
It goes without saying that Shane didn’t know half of it.
“I know it can be overwhelming,” his coworker said when she finished explaining everything, with a kind smile on her face. “Don’t worry. We’ve all been there, so don’t hesitate to ask for help if you need it. And if not, just deal with the drunk people—they’ll accept anything you give them.”
He managed to make him laugh a little, easing some of the tension weighing on his shoulders. Rose widened her smile at that.
“You like hockey, right?” she asked, trying to make conversation. “Maybe you’ll get lucky. Tonight the Voyageurs play the Raiders, and the winners usually come here after the games.”
“Really?” he asked, completely thrilled. Rose laughed at the sparkle in his eyes.
“Completely. I’d need four hands to count how many times I’ve seen Ilya Rozanov hooking up with a girl.”
“He’s got a reputation for that. And for being an asshole,” he said, shaking his head. Rose laughed again.
“I can confirm the asshole part,” another coworker, Svetlana, said, leaning against the bar from the outside like a customer. “The number of times I’ve tried to get with him and I can’t even hold a conversation...”
“That doesn’t make him an asshole,” Rose said, tilting her head. “Maybe he just doesn’t like you.”
“Rose, darling, even you like him. And you don’t even like women.”
Shane laughed at the sight of both of their cheeks turning red, some more than others. He shook his head, feeling comfortable with them.
“I wish I had that kind of confidence and self-esteem,” he joked, earning confused looks from the two. Then they looked at each other again.
“I say at least five people will ask him for his number tonight.”
“Only five? I say at least ten.”
“What?” the Canadian asked, blushing as he glanced back and forth between them. “What do you guys think? Nobody’s ever asked me for my number.”
“Shane, darling, this job may have a thousand bad things, but your self-esteem will skyrocket. I promise.”
And they weren’t wrong. He smiled apologetically at a girl who almost ran back to her group of friends, completely embarrassed. He stayed there, awkward and on edge, watching as she covered her face with her hands in shame. He heard Svetlana’s laugh beside him, and he looked at her.
“Was that the fifth? Or the sixth? I’ve lost count,” she said teasingly, almost shouting in his ear to be heard over the music.
“They just want free drinks,” Shane excused himself in the same tone.
“Sweetie, love yourself a little more,” she kept shouting, while preparing a drink with enviable skill. “That shirt was a very good choice for your first night.”
Shane blushed, looking down at his clothes. Yes, his shirt might have been a little shorter and tighter than usual, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. At least, that’s how he saw it.
He shook his head, brushing off his coworker’s comments, and went back to serving people, scanning for the drunkest customer to follow Rose’s advice. And with that sweep of his eyes, he saw him.
He was leaning on the bar, forearms resting on it, hands intertwined. He wore a sleeveless shirt, showing off his defined biceps. His hair was slicked back, with a few stray curls escaping from the gel and falling over his forehead. His lips were curved slightly to the right in a confident, provocative smile.
Ilya fucking Rozanov was there.
Staring straight at him.
He looked away to find Svetlana again, hoping she would serve him and handle whatever this was. But, surprisingly, she was already at the other end of the bar, laughing and chatting with Rose as they moved with dexterity and coordination, preparing drinks.
He swallowed, glancing back at the hockey player, who hadn’t taken his eyes off him. In fact, now both of his eyebrows were raised, probably intrigued by why he had been ignored. Taking a deep breath, he approached him to serve.
“What would you like?” he exclaimed, leaning slightly forward. He was grateful that the interior of the bar was raised above the rest of the club—it helped him feel less intimidated by the Russian in front of him.
“Is it too soon to say I would like you?”
Shane blinked several times, straightening suddenly as he understood Ilya’s words. The other let out a loud laugh, so loud it could be heard over the music, making Shane blush even more. Was he mocking him?
Ilya quickly composed himself, and with a small gesture of his hand, motioned for him to lean forward again. Shane hesitated for a second, then did so, resting his elbows on the bar to hear him better.
“Just kidding,” he added in a lower voice now, deep, almost drawn-out. Still, it could be heard clearly over the music. “Although... not entirely.”
Shane swallowed nervously. What was Ilya Rozanov doing, flirting with him?
“Playing tricks on the staff? You’re earning yourself a kick-out,” he responded, trying to joke to hide his nerves. Ilya’s smile tilted a little more.
“Did I make you uncomfortable?”
The question caught him off guard. He blinked, looking for an answer that wouldn’t expose him.
“No,” he finally said, too quickly. “You just surprised me.”
Ilya hummed at that, leaning a bit closer over the bar, invading his space without actually touching him. Shane noticed the scent of expensive cologne mixed with alcohol and something cleaner, fresher. It vaguely reminded him of ice.
“So,” Ilya continued, “are you going to ask me what I want to drink, or are you just going to keep staring at me like I stole something?”
Shane blushed instantly, looking away and straightening up, distancing himself from the Russian.
“Of course. Sorry. What would you like?”
“Something strong,” he replied, almost without thinking. “But don’t cover the taste.”
“That’s not very specific.”
“I trust you.”
Shane looked up again, meeting those clear eyes locked onto him with an intensity that made him forget where he was for a second. He cleared his throat, turning to prepare the drink, grateful to have his back to him.
“Are you new here?” Ilya asked from behind.
“Can you tell?”
“A little,” he admitted. “But not in a bad way. I just come here often, and I’d remember a face like yours.”
“It’s my first night,” he confessed, trying to ignore the last comment while feeling himself blush again as he grabbed a bottle he vaguely recognized. “So if you don’t like it, you can ask any other bartender.”
Ilya let out a low laugh, not responding further. Shane carefully improvised a drink, taking all the time in the world to impress Ilya Rozanov. Throughout the process, he noticed the other’s gaze never left him for a second, but he didn’t dare meet it.
Finally, he placed the glass in front of him carefully.
“Try it.”
Ilya took it without looking away from his face. He sipped slowly, deliberately. Shane waited nervously, fidgeting with the edge of the bar.
“It’s good,” he finally said. “Very good, actually.”
Shane couldn’t contain the proud smile that spread across his face. Ilya returned it, and just as he was about to say something, someone interrupted.
“Ilyaaa!” someone shouted in a high voice, so loud it caught the attention of several people over the music. A girl had approached the Russian, hugging him from behind and pressing her face into the hollow of his neck. “I’ve been waiting for hours! Tell these idiots to hurry up!”
Ilya sighed, closing his eyes for barely a second before turning to her with a practiced smile.
“Five minutes,” he said over his shoulder, not letting go of the glass. “Literally.”
The girl pouted exaggeratedly but pulled just enough to look at his face, whispering something he couldn’t hear. Ilya chuckled, shook his head, and finally turned back to the bar.
“Sorry,” he said, though his tone had no trace of apology. “Things happen when you come accompanied.”
Shane nodded, forcing a smile as if he didn’t care at all. As if he hadn’t felt that small flutter in his stomach seeing the girl’s hand glide along Ilya’s side.
“It’s fine,” he replied. “Anything else?”
Ilya watched him a few seconds longer, as if evaluating him. His eyes dropped to his hands on the bar, then back up to his face.
“Yes,” he finally said. “Tell me your name.”
He blinked, surprised. He hesitated for a few seconds before answering.
“Shane.”
“Shane,” Ilya repeated slowly, savoring it. “Got it.”
He gave him one last tilted, dangerous smile before leaving a bill on the bar and sliding the glass toward him.
“See you, Shane.”
And then he turned. The girl latched onto his arm as if she’d won something, pulling him onto the dance floor. Ilya didn’t even look back.
Shane stood still for a few seconds, the bill still under his hand and a feeling of discomfort in his stomach.
“Ouch,” Rose said beside him, appearing out of nowhere. “That hurt just watching from here.”
“Nothing happened,” Shane hurried to say, putting the money back in the cash register.
Rose raised an eyebrow.
“Of course, darling,” she said, looking toward the dance floor where Ilya was already dancing with the girl, laughing, completely at easy. “Welcome to Ilya Rozanov,” she said, giving him a gentle pat on the arm. “He disarms you... just to leave you for someone else.”