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Shane doesn’t drink.
Or, at least, he doesn’t drink often, and when he does, it’s never that much. It’s always a respectable amount, and it’s usually because he is at an event and he needs to be extra on.
He’s never really considered that his team can drink him under the table on a normal night out.
And that’s sort of a problem, because he’s had four beers. Probably, most likely five beers. Somewhere along the way J.J. had dragged him over for a round of shots.
Notoriously, he abstains from almost everything. He optimized his lifestyle to maintain peak performance. During the season, hockey is his entire life and he is regimented down to the minute.
So when he agreed to go out after Montreal’s win–after a significant losing streak–his team reacted like they’d won all over again.
Four-maybe-five drinks in, he has a tight grip on the ledge of the bar, and is trying his hardest not to sway on the barstool. It’s as discreet as he can manage, because no one else seems anything more than tipsy. Every so often, he catches himself swinging his feet.
Shane should have gone slow, but people just keep handing him beers. Every time a teammate caught his eye, it was followed by another drink.
So now, he’s here. And Hayden has been talking to Shane, mostly monologuing to Shane, about his kids for twenty five minutes.
“None of them have ever walked this early, man. We’re completely fucked. I have four fucking kids running around,” Hayden said as he sipped an honest to God margarita. Like he’s never gone out with the team before. This is not the kind of place you order a margarita, even Shane knows that.
“Hey, I told you to stop at two,” Shane reminds him.
Shane loves Hayden’s kids and he’d never let this thought come to the surface while sober, but Christ. In this moment it was never ending. It wasn’t really helping Shane’s boring crisis. Which had, in fact, become sort of a crisis.
Hayden’s about to start again when–
“Hey,” Shane interrupts, “I’ll be right back. I need some air.”
He thinks extremely hard about the steps he takes as he makes his way to the door. It’s not a crowded bar, but he still feels relieved to find no one lingering outside. It’s a side street and quiet enough that he can breathe. He slumps against the brick wall and tilts his head back. The sky is mostly clouded over, but the moon shines through, surrounded by a faint rainbow ring.
He tries not to think. He’s very, very bad at not thinking. He tries to think about the building across from him, the people who might be inside, but of course it doesn't stick. He sees a couple making dinner in the apartment across the street. The kitchen light is soft and there are plants lining the windowsill and they are laughing.
He’s feeling so goddamn sorry for himself. He’s maybe never felt so sorry for himself in his entire life. He doesn’t like this version of himself and he doesn’t know why it’s coming to a head at this very moment.
Well, no, that’s not entirely true. But for the most part, it’s tucked away in a corner that he allows himself to visit as sparingly as possible. He’s practiced enough mindfulness to get away with it.
And maybe this is why he doesn’t drink. Maybe this is an important reminder of that. There's no amount of mindfulness that can balance out the amount of alcohol he's had.
He can’t stop himself from thinking of Ilya. Which is completely fucking stupid. They are not anything.
If not for Ilya, though, he’d be in bed right now. If not for that fucking picture of Ilya surrounded by a group of girls at a club, Shane might not even have thought of him tonight. He surely wouldn’t have spent all day ruminating and he probably wouldn’t have slammed a rookie into the boards, either. He’d have seen the Boston highlights while flipping through channels later, or maybe he wouldn’t hear about the game at all.
(Boston won. He checked the score when he went to the bathroom.)
It made something start churning in him when he saw the picture this morning and he was in rare form all day because of it.
He didn’t mean to look again, but he pulled out his phone before he could stop himself and it was the last thing he had pulled up on Twitter. Twitter, that he had open in a browser on his phone, because he deleted the app to stop him from using it. There was Ilya, glistening with sweat through his half buttoned white shirt, in a booth at a dimly lit club with a few other teammates and a group of girls. Maybe they were just fans, but they were girls, about their age, and they were gorgeous. And they were so, so close to Ilya that it made Shane’s jaw tight. It made his body run hot.
Shane knew that fans sometimes made pictures look like more than they were. He also knew Ilya, and knew that was exactly the type of girl he’d take home. He knew that it was extremely possible that Ilya had taken one of them home.
He didn’t even know when this picture was taken. It popped up on his feed when he searched Ilya’s name on Twitter. Which, unfortunately, was a habit for him as of late. It looked like it could be from a few months ago, based on the length of Ilya’s hair–
He shook his head. It was all so deeply negative. He shouldn’t know what Ilya's hair looked like a few months ago and he shouldn’t care and he had no reason to be doing this except to torture himself. No matter how many times he told himself he was looking for Ilya’s stats or updates from a game that has never been the case.
The worst part was that, either way, he had no right to be upset about any of it. It’s been weeks since they’ve even spoken.
He grits his teeth and locks his phone. Puts it in his pocket. Takes it out of his pocket. Types in the passcode.
Then he stops, leaning his head back on the wall, gently banging it against the brick a few times.
He turns his phone off.
Across the street, there are voices carrying through the alley. Drunk and loud and everything he wants less of in that moment. Then, unfortunately, “Holy shit, that’s Shane Hollander!”
He cracks an eye—he’d only realizes they’re closed when he is forced to do so—and holds up his hand to wave. It’s weak. He hopes they are too drunk to notice. He’s kind of a sight to be seen right now.
He wants desperately to be out of his head. To be sober enough to know better than to think of Ilya, to tuck him away for later, for when Ilya is even speaking to him, for when he has a reason to actually think about him.
All he wants is for Ilya to turn his brain off. For Ilya to be thinking for him. But he's here, drunk, alone. They haven’t spoken in weeks. They didn’t need to. Their next game wouldn’t be for another month.
His heart feels so heavy in his chest, weighing him down and making everything slow. The tension in his jaw has yet to pass.
Instead of doing anything he probably should do, anything sober Shane would do, he pushes himself off the wall and wanders back to Hayden, who only looks mildly concerned. He orders another round of shots for the team and lets J.J. hand him another beer.
—-
The cab was waiting for him by the time he said his goodbyes. He’s unintentionally beaming as he exits, feeling proud of himself for staying out late and not doing anything stupid or sloppy and just having fun.
He crawls in clumsily and greets the driver. The anonymity of being in another city soothes him. It always has. It’s not impossible to be recognized, clearly, but his celebrity only goes so far outside of hockey circles. In the dark backseat, he isn’t anyone. It doesn’t matter where he’s been or what he’s doing.
The ride doesn’t treat him kindly. Every time the car halts to a stop and the red glare of brake lights illuminate the backseat, Shane has to hold his breath for a second to steady himself.
In a way, it’s a conscious decision when he picks up his phone and opens Twitter. He needs a distraction.
It’s just that in the past few months he’d done a little more than just searching up Ilya’s name. He made an even worse habit of checking a certain Twitter account.
Boston Raiders Updates @BostonRaidersUpdates
For a second, and rightfully so, he feels extremely pathetic. As the driver lurches forward, he scrolls on his screen four times–it was so much worse that he memorized exactly how far down it was–and then slowly a little further until he finds the post he was looking for. He’s convinced himself this is better than screenshotting the post.
Boston Raiders Updates @BostonRaidersUpdates
Throwback -> Ilya Rozanov after his first Stanley Cup win in 2014.
The photo attached was of Ilya dripping wet, maybe with sweat or from a shower but also from the champagne being sprayed just out of frame. His curls are loose and clinging to his skin. He has only a towel wrapped low around his waist and Shane holds his breath as his eyes follow the hair trailing down his abdomen. He’s holding the cup over his head, pressing a kiss to it, just how he’d done on the ice earlier that day.
The cab was too hot all of a sudden. He felt hot all over. He felt that same feeling from earlier creeping up, and it threatened to blossom into something more, something he could name.
He taps on the photo every time his screen dims. He grips his phone tightly because the driver was continuously slamming the breaks. His eyes always drift to the same spot, the one where Shane could tell that Ilya was smiling as he was kissing the Cup. His chest, too, and his arms and his stupid fucking abs, but always back to his lips.
He wanted to be there. He wanted that to be him. It was such a normal feeling. Every player in the league wants the Cup.
That isn’t it, though, and Shane was having more and more trouble pretending it was. If only it was that simple. On the ice, it would never be the case, but–
He wanted to be there, celebrating with Ilya. He wanted to be behind the camera, taking the photo, or popping the champagne next to him.
The more dangerous truth was that he wanted to be there to kiss him. To not only celebrate with Ilya, but to celebrate Ilya. To be the person beside Ilya, to be proud of him so openly. He wanted to go home with him at the end of the night, to be the person that got to be with him after all of that.
The rare moments he let himself imagine how Ilya would look at him after–how he’d flirt with him, how he’d tease him, how he’d fuck him–made Shane feel something beyond the desperation he’d gotten a little too used to.
Shane is insanely, neurotically independent and has everything in his life to show for it and he has never been distracted by anyone. In another life, though. In a life just a little different from his own, where he could have this one thing. The only thing he can’t truly have now. He hoped that he had Ilya. He hoped that he was Ilya’s plus one to all the stupid award ceremonies that they ended up at together anyway.
He hoped that he was the one kissing Ilya after every win, and on the ice with him after he won the Cup.
But those rare moments that he let himself daydream were all that he would ever get of Ilya. So who could blame him for hating anyone who could have him so easily?
—-
At the hotel, he crawls out of the cab just as clumsily as he entered it, paying the driver and tucking his phone in his back pocket. He has about ten feet for the frigid air to sober him up before he enters the lobby and every step is a conscious effort.
When he finally, finally get into the elevator, he slumps against the mirrored wall and pulls out his phone. It was unlocked in his pocket, the browser zoomed slightly and on another tweet now, something he doesn’t even recognize. He quickly closes the tab and clears his history.
—-
His alarm goes off at eight in the morning. With very little coordination, he presses buttons until it stops ringing. It takes a few tries before the room is silent again.
He groans at the sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains. The blackout curtains remain untouched, neatly tucked to each side. Why hadn’t he shut them?
It doesn’t occur to him until he sees his clothes strewn across the floor just outside the bathroom.
Oh, right. That would be why.
He picks them up and folds them neatly in his suitcase despite the pounding in his head. It’s dull and unfamiliar and it makes him shower and crawl back into bed immediately.
He stares at the ceiling and reluctantly retraces his steps. Arriving at the hotel isn’t his clearest memory, but there’s nothing after that at least. He doesn’t remember going to bed, but he can’t imagine what else he would have done. He thinks back to the ride home, the endless traffic and–
Oh my God, he was so drunk he was fantasizing about being a WAG.
He covers his face with his hands, and, albeit melodramatically, wills away any more thoughts from the previous night.
When he picks up his phone, he has two notifications.
Hayden
1:42 a.m.
You make it back to the hotel?
And–
Lily
4:34 a.m.
[Photo attachment]
If you wanted to see, all you had to do was ask.
It’s a steamy mirror photo, Ilya standing shirtless with a towel so low around his waist that Shane can see his hair trailing down, getting thicker until it disappears under the towel. Ilya’s face is mostly covered, but Shane can see the fucking curve of his lips. He can imagine the smug face Ilya is making.
Shane takes a few deep breaths. Maybe he’s still got a little alcohol in his system, because before he can be confused or even a little pissed that this photo was surely meant for someone else and sent to him by mistake–before all of that, he feels his fucking mouth start watering.
He sets his phone down, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and rubs his hands over both of his thighs.
“Get a fucking grip,” he says aloud to himself, not at all helping his case. He picks up his phone again, clicking off of the picture quickly.
Jane
8:14 a.m.
I think you might have the wrong person.
Lily
8:14 a.m.
What, you do not want to see?
Did not seem that way last night.
Shane’s blood runs cold. Frantically, he checks his call log. He could not have been that drunk. He’s never done that before. He runs through all the horrible possibilities, pictures himself Ilya that he misses him or, God forbid, telling him about the photos. Now that he’s sober up, none of that would ever see the light of day.
But there’s nothing, no calls, no texts. A momentary relief.
Jane
8:16 a.m.
What?
Lily
8:16 a.m.
[View shared tweet]
It turns out to be so, so much worse than a drunk phone call.
Boston Raiders Updates @BostonRaidersUpdates
Woke up to a very unexpected like this morning!
In the photo, the first thing Shane sees is his name.
Shane Hollander liked your tweet.
He zooms in on the tweet in question and sees Ilya, shirtless, kissing the Stanley Cup.
Fuck.
“Oh my god. Shit. I am so fucked,” he says in panicked disbelief.
He runs his fingers through his hair, folding over and cradling his head in his hands, inhaling deep and long and holding his breath before he exhales. When that isn’t enough, he stands up, paces back and forth by the bed. He’s panicked, but his body only reacts so much. His mind is reeling, but slowly.
No one would really care. No one important would see that. It wasn’t like ESPN was going to broadcast that Shane Hollander liked a shirtless picture of his arch-rival kissing the Stanley Cup. This isn’t news.
He realizes, almost in slow motion, that the tweet will also show up in the likes tab on his profile. The profile that he’d only used for brand deals and hockey promo. He’s not sure if he’s ever even liked a tweet before.
“Fuck.” He all but dives for his phone. He tries to type in the login, but his fingers shake and he has to retype it three times. It doesn’t work.
Password incorrect.
He changed his fucking password.
He thinks as hard as he can, thinks of his childhood stuffed animals and every hockey team he’s ever played on, anything simple that drunk Shane would have been dumb enough to use. He checks his notes app, the hotel branded notepad on the nightstand. Nothing.
Nothing works, because he’s still neurotic when he’s drunk and he probably made it a string of letters he would never remember. He has to reset the password and his fingers shake as he waits for the email to come through.
In the meantime,
Jane
8:27 a.m.
I was drunk.
He realizes a second too late that it’s an incredibly stupid thing to say. Now Ilya has that to hold over his head, and somehow that’s worse than any of this.
He feels his cheeks warm and buries his face in the comforter until he feels his phone buzz again. He groans, long and drawn out, until it makes his head hurt too much to continue.
It’s not an email, but a reply from Ilya.
Lily
8:27 a.m.
So you are looking at shirtless pictures of me on Boston fan account while you are drunk?
Was posted four months ago.
Does not seem like accident.
Shane finally, finally resets his password. He scrolls to the liked posts tab and unlikes it. He notices that the replies have gone up significantly and he consciously avoids checking. It’s all so unbelievably humiliating.
Jane
8:30 a.m.
Fuck off.
Lily
8:31 a.m.
You were looking for it?
Jane
8:31 a.m.
I wasn’t. Don’t be an asshole. I’m hungover.
His phone rings and he doesn't have to check who it is.
“Hello.” It comes out hoarse, clearly unamused. He lays flat on the bed.
“Good morning, Hollander,” Ilya says. His voice is deep, not exactly sleepy but clear that he has not been awake for long. Shane can hear his fucking grin. “You sound terrible. Big night out?”
“Fuck you. My head hurts so fucking bad,” Shane groans.
Immediately,
“So you are looking at pictures of me when you are drunk?”
“No,” he says weakly.
“You will start rumors.” Ilya’s amusement is so irritating. Shane wishes he could shove him, kiss him to shut him up.
“I was hacked.”
“Sure you were. Is okay, if you do not want to see again–”
“I didn’t say that,” Shane interrupts hoarsely.
“Mm, I see. So next time you are drunk and you are thinking ‘maybe I should scroll on Boston fan account–”
“It’s not a fucking fan account.”
“It is account for fans, Hollander, what would you call it?”
Shane is silent. The tips of his ears are warm.
“So, next time you are doing this,” Ilya says, voice deep in a way that is driving Shane crazy but still teasing, “next time you are thinking ‘I want to see super sexy picture of number one hockey player–’”
“You are so fucking annoying, Rozanov,” Shane groans. He doesn’t even bother denying it.
“You do not have to look so hard, you can just ask for it.” There’s a pause, Shane stays quiet. Ilya adds, “Maybe I will make you beg, but you are used to that.”
“I’m not going to beg.” Shane grits out, shaking his head and smiling up at the ceiling.
“Fine, have fun on Twitter. Offer is still on the table. That picture is old and I am much hotter now. Can show you much more than they are allowed to post on there.” Ilya’s tone is light and he is completely unbelievable. Shane scoffs.
“Are you done?”
“Mmm,” Ilya hums thoughtfully. Shane tamps down the anticipation, like he isn’t hanging onto every word. “Do not like any porn. Would be very bad for you.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Now I am done,” Ilya decides.
“I’m hanging up.”
“Goodbye, Hollander.”
“Bye.”
Shane lets his phone fall on the bed.
—-
After he packs his bags, he gets a text.
It’s a picture of Ilya in what Shane assumes is the Raiders’ gym. He’s in black sweatpants and a loose grey tank top, but he’s pushing it up to show his torso and abs in a way that Shane could only describe as slutty. His face is covered, like he’s still committed to maintaining anonymity despite his entire body and the Raiders’ logo in the background. Shane can see the corner of his lips quirked into a smile.
Lily
10:24 a.m.
Figured you may want to see.