Chapter Text
“Alright guys,” announced the director, facing the group for the first time. “This is really simple. We’re going to take some skating shots of each of you. Have some fun with it. Show off. Then we’ll get the close-ups, and you’ll just say your lines, okay?”
Shane looked to his right and left, a roster like the All-Star Game, all of them nodding. Some wore their official uniforms, others the same impersonalized black and white jersey as Shane himself, with a tiny, rainbow Everyone Plays logo at the neck. He didn’t think to ask Montreal if he could sport the Voyageurs logo for this ad. Or was it a PSA? Scott Hunter, a few players down from Shane, blazed in the red of the New York Admirals.
“Thank you all for being here, doing this,” the director continued. “You have no idea how much it means to us.”
There were eleven of them total—more than Shane had expected, considering what he knew of the league. Two defensemen he’d faced last week in North Carolina. Scott Hunter. A forward from Jersey. The goalie from Florida, identifiable by his missing two front teeth, and a left wing from Pittsburgh that had almost dislocated Shane’s shoulder his rookie season. Two more from Anaheim had dragged themselves to the East Coast to support Everyone Plays.
The center for Chicago, fresh off a Stanley Cup win, sat second to last in their line, still preening. In other circumstances, Shane might have had the good sense to lean over and congratulate him, but he was more interested in the man on Chicago’s other side. Ilya Rozanov. Rozanov’s hair was sweat-slicked back, curling at the ends. He stared, expressionless, at something across the ice—maybe the camera setup, which the techs still swarmed and adjusted. Maybe the banner overhead from 1972, the last time Boston won it all. This was his home ice. Chicago was trying to tell him something, and he was doing a convincing job of ignoring it.
Not perfect, though. His eyes kept flicking in Shane’s direction.
Rows and rows of empty black seats extended from the ceiling to the benches, separated from the rest of the stands with sheets of Plexiglass. For their instructions, Shane and the others sat on Boston’s Away bench. The Raiders’ logo flourished at center ice.
The production team had turned off the overhead lights in the stadium for this shoot. Several lamps highlighted pale blue circles on one side of the rink, leaving the other in the dark and unused.
“Is that going to make the ice melt weird?” asked the person to Shane’s left—Bridgeman, from Toronto. He was in team uniform.
“No,” said Shane. One of Rozanov’s curls had fallen onto his forehead, and watching Rozanov brush it back, even from the corner of his eye, made the breath hitch in Shane’s throat. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
Bridgeman laughed, clapped Shane on the back. “Someone’s nervous.”
“Nah,” Shane said, immediately aware that the immediacy affirmed it. He wasn’t nervous; he’d done ads before.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Bridgeman. “It’s all fun. It’s a good cause.”
Yes, the cause was important. Everyone Plays advocated for LGBTQ+ inclusion across recreational and professional sports with special focus on men’s ice hockey. When Shane’s mother said he’d been asked to participate in their promotional material, he’d jumped at the opportunity. He made it all the way past the gate, onto his flight, before he needed to bite his nails.
Heading to Boston, home of Ilya Rozanov. Shane had the bizarre sense that Everyone Plays knew something, and that’s why they’d asked him. But what was there to know? If they suspected something about Rozanov, it would have been bigger news. And apart from Rozanov, Shane had no secrets. So. Shane was proud to support other guys with whom he’d shared the rink while training.
Rozanov’s head turned a fraction of an inch toward Chicago, his beautiful face now shaded blue in the lights. No, fuck, not beautiful. Good-looking. Shane remembered running his thumb along the ridge of Rozanov’s chin, the soft part of lips when Rozanov kissed him. He tried to narrow his gaze on the well-lit half of the Raiders logo on the ice. That logo, on the sweatshirt that Shane peeled off and tossed across the hotel room as Rozanov came down on top of him.
Montreal and Boston played right here not two months ago. Shane sat on this same bench during the game that preceded, yelling obscenities at JJ for not giving their goalie a fucking break. It was a piss-poor showing for the Voyageurs, a 3-5 loss, and his coach had not been pleased.
That night, Rozanov pinned him to the wall and made him beg for every stage, save for the urgent, bruising kisses. Shane had memorized the way Rozanov’s tongue moved when he moaned Hollander.
“Well, I’m up.” Bridgeman rose from the bench and opened the door. His line, “Hockey is about practice,” sounded far more complicated as the director coached it out of him in a million different ways.
Shane was unsurprised, around try fifty, that Rozanov voiced first what they all must be thinking. “Bored.”
No one took the bait. Scott Hunter closed his eyes and rested his head on his elbows. The rink’s cooling system whirred overhead. Shane’s mother had blocked out the whole day for this shoot; he expected to sit around here for at least five hours, like he did on his other commercials. Rolex had been particularly taxing. They had him with his shirt halfway unbuttoned on an expensive chaise lounge, getting reconfigured every fifteen seconds by a (very patient) woman named Brenda who made sure he brandished his wrist enough. In comparison, this would be child’s play.
He could watch other skaters for hours. He did, willingly, on the tapes Theriault kept in the screening room. Bridgeman took a running start and skidded ice into the cameras, earning a round of applause from the film crew. As if it was hard. Bridgeman favored his left leg when he skated. Shane hadn’t noticed that before, and he tucked it away for future use.
“One side is open,” Rozanov tried again. He stood up, replacing his helmet and securing the buckle underneath his chin, and inched down the line of players, pressed against the boards.
“Sit down,” said Hunter, eyes still closed, as a parent would admonish a child. “Patience is a virtue.”
“You would know,” Rozanov said, continuing past the Carolina guys. “Waiting long time for the Cup.”
Fuck, his voice. Shane crossed the laces on his skates, tightening them at the ankles, to avoid the image it recalled. C’mon, Hunter, don’t take the bait.
“What have you been doing the last three years?”
Damn it. Boston made it close this year, runner-up to Chicago.
The smile practically bloomed on Rozanov’s face—that damn shit-eating grin. Shane hated how much he liked it, last trip to Boston. Rozanov’s thumb was in his mouth and fuck he wanted something else, so he’d met Rozanov’s eyes and pleaded for it, no words required. Now Rozanov paused, two players down from Shane, his ass at eye level. “Delayed start this year. Next year, I promise.”
“Very patient.”
“Save it, guys.” It was Chicago. “We’re working together today.” With a Cup under his belt, of course he had to intervene. Even Shane rolled his eyes.
In a normal game, this would have riled Rozanov to the point of treachery, but Rozanov merely shrugged and pressed his way down the bench, making the fit seem tighter than it was, taking longer than he needed. His gaze caught on Shane’s as he passed, and even that made the pit of Shane’s stomach ache with need. Oh god, could Everyone Plays see it? Were they filming it?
Sometimes Shane wanted to grab Rozanov by the shoulders and scream, How? How can you look at me after this? How can you be so normal?
He knew the answer. Rozanov was an asshole. But he didn’t like it.
“I’m going to skate,” said Rozanov.
Shane couldn’t help it. If Rozanov was there, in front of him, he had to say something. “They’re shooting. You have to be quiet.”
“I will skate quiet.”
“Just sit down.” He thought about pulling on Rozanov’s jersey, taking a fistful of the fabric and yanking Rozanov onto the bench. He went so far as to uncurl his fingers from his stick before reconsidering, tightening his fist, leaving it be. To the other players on the bench, the action would be more aggressive than they expected. To Rozanov, it would seem too declarative, too possessive. Shane was trying really hard not to be possessive.
Though it was a given, when they were in the same city, that Shane would get his mouth on Rozanov’s neck, Shane harbored no delusion that he was the only one who touched Rozanov that way. Maybe the only one in Montreal, but even that seemed too much to hope for. More than likely, a line of women as long as this line of players had gotten their fill of Rozanov since Shane had last sucked him off in Boston.
Fuck, that night in Boston. Shane cared about losing, sure, but it was so much harder to care when Rozanov stood over him, ordering, “Tell me what you want.”
Rozanov glided out the bench’s door and onto the unlit side of the ice, without—Shane realized—his stick. He began winding graceful laps around the limited space, first forwards, then backwards, then switching between the two every few strides.
“He’s such a dick,” said one of the North Carolina men. “Guess his agent made him do this.”
“God knows it wasn’t his idea,” agreed Chicago.
Scott Hunter huffed. “He’s never done anything he didn’t want to.”
“Must be a hefty chunk of change.”
Shane wasn’t getting paid anything to be here, save for the catered lunch and dinner he’d share with the film staff. He gave his endorsement as a gift to a cause he believed in.
This was Boston’s ice. A Boston player needed to be here. He knew when he took the flight that Rozanov would be around, Boston’s best man. Did Rozanov know that he would be here, too?
More importantly, did that knowing mean anything to Rozanov? The smug bastard attempted a waltz jump and landed with surprising grace, despite his hockey skates. He circled his section of ice again, picking up speed, turning over his shoulder to make sure the bench had seen. Well, Shane had seen. No one else was paying attention. Shane found himself shielding his face, like Everyone Plays would swivel the cameras at any minute, catch him staring at the curls poking from Ilya Rozanov’s helmet. Like they could hear what he’d said, on his knees, the last time he’d visited Boston: “You. I want you. Wherever you want me.”
They hadn’t invited him here in a we know you’re fucking around with your rival kind of way. Shane Hollander was an ally.
Bridgeman left the ice after forty-five minutes, drained and sweaty, and Shane was not enthused to be taking his place. The director, however, had another little twist. “Shane, can we actually have Ilya out here with you? I’ve got a vision.”
Shane nodded, because how else could he react? He was a professional. Rozanov ran purposefully into the boards, hooking one arm over to stop himself. A few minutes later, the director had them arranged in a position that mirrored their CCM shoot—facing one another, sticks poised to fight for the puck. Another woman with a clipboard fed them a new, different line, split mid-sentence. Shane’s visor kept fogging with his breath. Might be a good thing. They paused far too often to wipe it clear, and Shane could use those moments to pull himself together. In their CCM shoot, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing when he saw Rozanov’s half-smile. Now, with Rozanov’s hazel eyes so close, Rozanov’s expression so intense, Everyone Plays would have to be blind to miss it.
Whatever it was. Fuck. Shane’s gloves prevented him from biting his nails between takes.
“Alright guys, cut. Give us a second to reset.” The director gestured to one of the people manning the lights. Equipment shifted around them.
“You’re out of breath,” Rozanov noted, relaxing.
“Fuck off,” said Shane.
“We have not done anything.”
There were other reasons. At least the Rolex shoot was just him, no one else to worry about. A line of sweat traced Rozanov’s cheek, and Shane had visions of licking it. Kissing it.
“Did you like my jump?” Rozanov swiped his sleeve across his face. “I practiced it. I knew you would want to see.”
“Anyone can do that,” Shane spat.
“You watched.”
No comeback to that, because he had.
“I bet that is what you’ll do tonight,” said Rozanov. He’d found his groove. There was the smile again. “Sit alone in your hotel room. Watching me.”
“Go to hell.”
“The same hotel as before? And next time?”
“205,” Shane breathed. It was the only way to turn this back on Rozanov. Rozanov acknowledged the offer by running his thumb along his bottom lip. Then the cameras were rolling again, Rozanov’s expression had hardened into its competitive mask, and they were rivals.
Four months later, in the intensity of the early season, Everyone Plays aired the campaign’s first ad. During Vancouver versus San Jose. Shane had the night off before an afternoon game against Buffalo the following day. Neither team playing tonight posed a threat to Montreal. Vancouver recently traded their captain in exchange for two up-and-comers and a first-round draft pick. San Jose’s killer center might get them to the playoffs this year, but not to the Cup. Next year, he’d be wary of them. Part of him—the part he feared—only watched so he could remember what had happened immediately after the Everyone Plays shoot. His hotel room, the empty hallway, Rozanov’s knuckles rapping the door.
The other guys’ segments were fine. The commercial opened on Scott Hunter in his Admirals uniform, zigzagging toward the camera with a puck. “Hockey is about talent.”
A few more action shots of other players, then Bridgeman: “Hockey is about practice.”
One of Anaheim’s players checked the other, but no one hit the boards or the ice. “Hockey is about dedication.”
Shane was sure other players had recorded more lines than those that appeared in the thirty-second clip. At least everyone got a moment to shine in their skating shot, some flying across the ice, sending slap shots into the empty goal, putting on their equipment with dramatic flourish.
Then, the moment he cared about. Rozanov appeared first, the bastard, whip-fast across the screen, Shane on his tail. On shoot day, Shane should have had more energy—his team had been out of the playoffs for a while, and Rozanov’s had pushed until the final game. This was embarrassing. More embarrassing, though, that Shane had waited beside his door that night. He knew by the creak of a floorboard when Rozanov was standing outside, could’ve opened the door before Rozanov knocked.
The screen cut to Rozanov by himself. “Hockey is about respect—”
Rozanov had barely closed the door before Shane was on him. The Boston sweatshirt came off again. Shane did what he’d wanted to do since they met outside the rink in Regina, Saskatchewan, what he had never stopped wanting since Rozanov had extended a hand and shook. He kissed Rozanov with a force that nearly knocked him over.
The camera panned to Shane. “—on and off the ice.” They faced off, a puck dropping between them in cringey, comical slow-motion.
Shane’s own shirt came off, discarded to the corner of the room rather than folded (as Shane would have preferred). Rozanov tasted like cigarettes. Their teeth bumped together. In his lust to get closer, feel more, Shane bit down on Rozanov’s lip; Rozanov rewarded him with a whimper. They stumbled backward towards the bed, fell together in a way that had practically become muscle memory.
“Hockey is about supporting your team,” said Pittsburgh, though a shot of Shane winning the puck still played in the background.
Watching the ad play, Shane thought, without really meaning to, of the poor director’s earnest ideas as he and Rozanov had come together on the ice. “We have the biggest rivalry in sports here, so like, it will be really cool if this is the one place you’re united. For this cause. Really packs a punch.”
Oh, they were united for this cause. United, that night, all the way to 205. Rozanov yanked down Shane’s pants, then his underwear, tossing both from the bed—all this without removing his lips from Shane for longer than it took to inhale. It would leave a mark.
“Do you want—?” Rozanov asked, and Shane cut him off by sucking a bruise in the pit of Rozanov’s collarbone. He had never wanted anything so much. How was it even a question? He turned to his stomach and let Rozanov do the work of prep, every necessary minute and not a second more.
In the ad, all eleven players appeared in neat rows like their All-Star roster. Out in front, Chicago with his damn Stanley Cup and his hockey stick.
“Everyone plays,” said Chicago. He turned the stick in his hand to show off the rainbow tape at its end.
In Shane’s Boston hotel room, Rozanov threw his head back and cursed in Russian, his palms searing hot where they held Shane’s hips in place. How wonderful for Everyone Plays, to have the endorsement of such great allies.