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6 months.
It’s been 6 months since Ilya Rozanov last responded to a message. The last time they spoke before that wasn’t fantastic either.
“We are not anything, Hollander.”
Those stupid words shouldn’t have stung as much as they did. He knows they aren’t anything. It doesn’t stop his stupid fucking heart from stuttering every time he thinks of Rozanov. He knows this is for the best, Rozanov ending things…before his own feelings become even more undeniable.
Yet here he stands, pacing in the hallway like an idiot while waiting for Rozanov. He doesn’t want to see him, but of course the league has different plans. He has to present the award for sportsmanship with Rozanov because some fucking tool thought it would be hysterical.
Shane wasn’t laughing.
Especially not when he sees him for the first time in 6 months. His eyes are piercing as they rake over Shane’s whole body. He already feels like a raw, exposed nerve just from Rozanov looking at him. His stupid goddamn curls and crooked grin make Shane feel weak in the knees.
I missed him.
Something calls in the back of his head, but he ignores that too in favor of pretending everything is fine. Everything is fine.
And it was, until they were on-stage and Shane felt Rozanov’s hand trailing down his back. Suddenly, everything was very, very not fine. Shane needed to get away from Rozanov as fast as possible.
He was ready to accept that this…thing… with Rozanov was over. But feeling his hands on his back, trailing so gently…it somehow made it worse. It was so much worse for Rozanov to still want him after ghosting him for 6 months.
When they left the stage, Shane ran. He found the nearest bathroom and swooped in as fast as possible. He checked under the stall doors for anyone else’s unwanted company, and let himself heave in a deep breath when he found no one.
He braced his hands on the porcelain sink in front of him, letting his head hang as he tried to catch his rapidly increasing breath.
Get your shit together. You cannot have a panic attack here. You cannot have a panic attack over Ilya Rozanov.
He focused on the cool porcelain under his hot palms, slowly helping to bring him back into his body. He would just avoid Rozanov for the rest of the night. No one would question why he wasn’t talking to his supposed rival. Then, Shane wouldn’t have to deal with Rozanov off the ice until the next award season.
Except the thought of him not being in your life makes you feel like your insides have been scooped out.
Why the fuck had he let this go on for so long? He knew he was feeling things he shouldn’t be, that it had far surpassed lust when it came to emotions. He likes Rozanov. He likes him more than he wants to admit to himself, but maybe in order to let Rozanov go he needs to.
Of course, with always impeccable timing, the bathroom door swings open and in walks Ilya Rozanov. He shuts the door and clicks the lock behind him, sauntering toward the bathroom counter. He leans against it with his hip and leans against the paper towel dispenser with his elbow. His stupid, charming, lopsided grin is ever present. The way Shane’s heart flips makes him want to punch something. Or someone.
It’s silent for a long few moments, Shane refusing to look away from the sink in front of him. When he finally gets the courage to turn and face Rozanov, he finds him already looking. Rozanov chuckles.
“Well…?”
Shane can already feel himself losing control of the situation.
“What? What the fuck do you want, Rozanov? You haven’t answered a text from me in like… 6 months,” he hesitates like he doesn’t know exactly how long it’s been, down to the day. “You won’t even acknowledge I exist unless there’s a fucking camera pointed at us and then it’s for some fucking clown show!” He takes a deep breath in, trying to reel in the anger and confusion and hurt he’s feeling. “So yeah. What the fuck do you actually want from me? Well?!”
Rozanov seems to ponder for a minute. His eyes drag lazily over Shane’s face and land on his lips. He shuffles against the counter before looking directly in Shane’s eyes.
“I want you to suck my dick.”
It’s then that Shane sees red. He truly realizes how little Rozanov ever cared about him. How he was an equivalent to any random piece of ass that Rozanov found in any city. How Rozanov really didn’t feel the same as Shane did, how he felt like a part of him was missing without even just texting Rozanov.
He doesn’t realize what’s happened until he feels the sting on his hand. He’s suddenly forced back into his body and sees Ilya’s head turned with a giant red mark on his cheek. Shane looks down at his hand and clicks why it’s stinging.
He slapped the shit out of Ilya Rozanov.
He had also failed to realize that he had frustrated tears coming from his eyes. He quickly wiped them away and moved for the bathroom door. He needed to get out before this got any worse.
Rozanov hadn’t moved since the slap landed. Shane’s hands were shaking so violently he was struggling to get the door unlocked. He felt something tight wrap around his wrist and he was suddenly spun and pinned with his back to the wall.
Rozanov was standing in front of him, cheek red with a now obvious handprint. He had Shane boxed against the wall, and he felt like a trapped animal. Was Rozanov gonna hit him back? The man was much larger than him and could definitely do some damage.
What Shane didn’t expect, however, was for Rozanov to lean down and kiss him ferociously. It wasn’t a sweet kiss, it was brutal and all encompassing. His tongue was lapping at Shane’s and he was pulling and sucking on his bottom lip.
What the fuck am I doing?
He suddenly pushed Rozanov off, chest heaving. Rozanov looked shocked, like he couldn’t believe Shane would ever pull away. He takes a few steps away, no longer pinning Shane to the wall.
“Fuck you, Rozanov. Fuck you.”
“Hollander.”
“No. No, you don’t get to fucking… you don’t get to do that. You fucked me, kissed me like it meant something on the staircase that night. Then you treat me like fucking shit in Sochi. Then you ignore every text I’ve sent you, even just to check in. So no, you don’t get to come in here and tell me to suck your dick and kiss me like I matter, because you’ve made it very, very apparent that I don’t. So don’t fucking text me, don’t talk to me outside of the ice. Just…just fucking leave me alone.” He knows how pathetic he sounds, and he knows he has tears in his eyes. He can’t bring himself to care anymore.
He turns without looking at Ilya again, finally unlocking the bathroom door and hauling it open.
“Hollander…”
He hears it faintly and ignores it. His heart is fucking breaking and he can’t let it shatter completely.
“Shane!”
Rozanov has never used his first name. It almost stops him, but he powers through. Hearing Ilya call out his name, his first name, is somehow what breaks the dam. He feels the tears, hot and angry, rushing down his cheeks. He needs to get the fuck out of here.
He shoots his mom a message, telling her he doesn’t feel well and needs to go to his room. It doesn’t matter, he won’t win MVP anyway. It’ll be Ilya’s win, especially after winning the cup.
He doesn’t bother checking her response, he just gets on the closest elevator and presses 4.
He’s just tired and nauseous and overwhelmed, and he needs to be alone.
~~~~~
He fucked up. He knows he fucked up when Shane’s face goes blank and his hand strikes him across the face. It stings, but it’s nothing he’s not used to.
He knows he fucked up, but all he can think about is how fucking hot that was. How turned on he is at Shane getting angry enough to actually hit him. Normally, he adores watching Shane get angry and flustered. He looks cute like that. But right now? Right now with his cheeks flushed and frustrated tears rolling over his freckles, he looks hot.
When he realizes Shane is trying to leave, something dark takes over him. He needs Shane to stay. So, he does what he’s best at. He pins him to the wall and kisses him relentlessly. It’s a messy, dirty kiss, but he hopes it gets what he’s trying to say across.
I’m sorry. Please don’t leave. You’re the only good thing in my life.
It doesn’t work, because then Shane is pushing him away. When he looks at Shane, he looks hurt and betrayed.
And now here he is, standing alone in a dirty bathroom thinking of every way he’s fucked up. He can’t stop replaying the words Shane had said before leaving.
“You fucked me, kissed me like I meant something on the staircase that night.”
Jesus Christ he was an asshole, wasn’t he? He really was Shane’s first in every intimate way…and treated him like he was nothing after. Treated him like he wasn’t everything.
He quickly turned on the cold tap water from the sink and splashed himself in the face a few times. He couldn’t pull his attention away from the cheek Shane had hit. Shane isn’t violent, not even on the ice. He’s never taken someone down before and had to send a card apologizing the next day. But he’d hit Ilya.
After blotting the water off his face with a paper towel and checking to make sure the slap wasn’t super noticeable, he exited the bathroom. He wanted nothing more than to chase after Shane, but he knew he was a shoo-in for MVP.
He didn’t even know what he would say.
I’m sorry I treated you like shit? No, that was so impersonal… not nearly what he deserves. I thought about you the whole time? That would probably make things worse because then he would have to explain why he didn’t answer.
As he made his way back to his seat, all he could do was try and think of some way to make it right.
When he quietly sits back down, he looks to Shane’s assigned seat across the room. It’s empty. Shane didn’t come back to the ceremony even though he’s also nominated for the MVP award. Did he leave already? If so, Ilya would have no chance to make it up to him. He needed to talk to him. So he opened his phone and scrolled until he saw it.
Jane: Having a good time?
Jane: I’m sorry for pissing you off today
Jane: hope you’re doing okay.
Jane: how’s Russia?
Jane: if you don’t want to talk that’s fine, but a heads up would be nice.
He felt like crying looking at these messages now. How could he be so cruel to ignore him? To be such a prick and still think he has a right to message him? He shook his head before starting to type.
Ilya: Im sorry. Can we talk?
Ilya: I never meant to hurt you
Ilya: it kills me that
Fuck. What was he even supposed to say? He’s never been one to apologize, to beg for anything. But the idea of never speaking to Shane again off the ice…of never getting to kiss him or fuck him or watch him break apart as he comes by Ilya’s hand…that was enough to make Ilya Rozanov beg.
Ilya: can we talk? Please?
There. That was simple and gets the message across. He even said please. He sets his phone facedown in front of him, deciding to wait to check for a response so he doesn’t feel tempted to jump up and leave.
He does, predictably, win the MVP award. He does his speech, thanks his coaches and teammates, and leaves the stage. When he weasels his phone from his pocket, his heart drops to his ass.
Ilya: can we talk? Please
❗️Message not delivered❗️
What did this mean? Shane wouldn’t… no… it was a mistake obviously. He pressed on the text to try and get it to resend, but that wasn’t an option. It wasn’t a dropped text. Shane had blocked his number.
~~~~~
Shane knew it was pathetic. He was pathetic. Why did he let Rozanov get under his skin? Why did it hurt so bad to confirm what he’d already known? He knew the answer, of course. Because he’d been a fucking moron and caught feelings for the biggest playboy in the NHL.
When he’d returned to his room, the first thing he did was block Ilya’s number. He’s self aware enough to know that if Ilya texted, he’d respond. He’s a glutton for pain, after all.
Afterwards, he decided he needed a shower. And now, on awards night in Las Vegas, he was sitting on the floor of the hotel shower, letting water that had run cold cascade down his back. It was grounding, in a weird way. The icy water drumming against his skull and down his back. He’d scrubbed his face more times than was surely healthy.
He wanted to get the feeling of Ilya Rozanov off of him.
He knew he would never be able to scrub away the feeling of his warm hands sliding down his back to hold his hips. Or the way his lips felt against his neck and collarbone. Or how fucking cherished he’d felt when Ilya praised him. Even after sitting in the cold shower for an hour, he can still feel Ilya’s hands in his hair.
So maybe the shower wasn’t working to get rid of all things Ilya, but the vibration of his body under the cold stream was enough to focus on for now.
When he’d finally had enough of shivering pathetically in the shower, he turned the water off and grabbed a towel. He hated the way it felt against his skin, scratchy and wrong, but it was all he had to dry himself with. So he made quick work of it, getting just dry enough that it didn’t make him want to crawl out of his skin. He pulled on the joggers he’d grabbed from his suitcase randomly. He didn’t bother with a shirt.
The awards were surely over now, Ilya probably had his stupid fucking trophy. He was probably at the after party, drinking vodka he’d say was “shitty American vodka” and searching for his nightly fuck.
But Shane wasn’t thinking about any of that. Of course he wasn’t.
He responded to his mom’s concerned texts asking if he was okay, informing her he just had a stomachache and needed to lie down. He hated lying to her, but it was much easier than explaining he’d had his heart shattered by Ilya Rozanov.
He laid in his hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t turn anything on the tv. He didn’t get under the covers. He just stared at the stippled white paint above his head and tried to convince himself he wasn’t thinking about Ilya Rozanov.
He was jolted from his thoughts by a noise.
Someone knocked on the door.
~~~~~
Fuck.
What the hell does he do now? He can’t beg Shane for his room number via text. He can’t call him to try and show how deeply sorry he is. He can’t go around asking what room his supposed rival is in.
He feels like he’s losing his mind.
He needed to talk to Shane, but how the fuck was he going to do that? He had a few options…none of them great per se.
Option one: he knocks on every door of the 10 story hotel. Definitely not his favorite option, but could be done.
Option two: ask his parents, who are surely here. But what kinda excuse would be able to explain why he needs his rival’s room number. He could say Shane lost something? But then they would offer to return it for him. It wouldn’t work.
Option three: Hayden Pike. He figured that maybe, possibly, if Pike was drunk enough he could get the information out of him.
As much as he loathed the idea of asking Hayden Pike for anything, he hated the other two options more. So, he set on his hunt to find the Montreal Voyagers.
It was not difficult to find them, mostly Boiziau's big mouth more than anything. Huddling a table away from the bar was a random enforcer from the Montreal team talking with Boiziau and Pike.
He approached the bar first, ordering a shot of straight vodka. It was shit vodka, but if he was going to approach Shane’s annoying friends he would need some liquid courage. Sue him.
With the liquor burning his throat, he began his approach. He had no plan of what to say once he approached, and this became even more apparent as he got closer. The banter at the table had stopped and the attention was wholly focused on him. Here goes nothing.
“Ah! Voyagers! Where is the Golden Boy? Bad sportsmanship to leave before making an appearance.” He clicked his tongue and stood next to the table. All three of the men looked at him like he’d grown a second head. It felt like time was frozen before Pike shook his head and glared at him.
“Why the fuck do you care where Shane is?”
Well I would like to get on my knees and beg for forgiveness…or for other reasons if he asked.
“No no, you confuse my asking for concern. I am trying to find him to run MVP in his face. Is he here? In hotel?”
Boiziau made a comment in French, and by the tone it wasn’t kind.
“Just fuck off Rozanov. He left early, so go torment someone else for a change, yeah?”
The table snickered as Pike took a sip of his beer. His cheeks are flushed red, obviously not his first drink of the night. At least he’d confirmed Shane left early. Instead of leaving, he pulled a chair out from the table and sat down.
“Oh fuck off, don’t sit down! Get out of here.”
“Mm no. You told me torment someone else, why not you?” He knew it was petty and would piss off all three men at the table. He still wasn’t sure what angle he was using to get Shane’s room number, but he would figure it out eventually right?
Boiziau and the enforcer stood from the table.
“Well, Hayd, have fun. He wants to torment you…not us.”
“JJ! What kinda shit friend are you?” Pike called after the two, grumbling and taking another sip of his beer when they ignored him.
Ilya smirked at him, glad to finally have cornered the only one he really need at the table.
“I’ll make you a deal, Pike. I’ll leave you alone for tonight if you tell me where Hollander is. If not, I follow you the rest of tonight and make sure to check you extra hard into the boards next time we play. Sound like a good trade?”
The smaller man scoffed at him and crossed his arms over his chest. He shook his head.
“I’m not telling you shit. He wasn’t feeling well, so he went to the room. That’s all you're getting. So can you fuck off now? I’m trying to enjoy my night.”
The room? Were Pike and him bunking together? He knew they stayed together oftentimes on the road, but that wouldn’t make sense for now. Either way, it was a good opening to finding out what he needed.
“The room? Are you sharing? Can’t afford your own room, Pike? Need to leech off star-player best friend?”
Pike’s face turned red at the implication.
“Fuck you! I’m staying in a penthouse, thank you very much. Shane is too reserved with his cash for a literal millionaire. He took a regular one bed on the fourth floor. No view or anything, straight to the side of a building. Dude acts like he couldn’t splurge a little—“ Pike cuts himself off, realizing he revealed too much. He glared at Ilya with something that was probably meant to be intimidating, but was laughable at best.
“Ah, fourth floor. No view. Sounds boring, perfect for Hollander.”
“Don’t even think about it, Rozanov.”
“Well I guess I will have to knock on every door on the fourth floor if you will not tell me his room. Shame to annoy everyone when I could just annoy one person.” His smirk grew, knowing he’d pinned Hayden. Canadians are too polite, and he would not allow Ilya to bother everyone.
They held a stare for a long moment before Pike finally exhaled and shook his head.
“Shane’s gonna kill me…” he dragged a hand down his face and looked back at Ilya. “Room 414. Just…don’t bother him. He looked like shit earlier.” Ilya’s gut twisted, knowing he was the reason for Shane’s…unfortunate appearance.
“Ah, good friend Pike. Just want to rub my trophy in his face, is all.” He was already standing when he reached over to pat Pike on the cheek. The other man quickly pushed his hand away and snarled at him.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Oh no. Hopefully I’ll be fucking your best friend.
With that, Ilya exited toward the elevators. Groveling to Hayden Pike was not the best feeling, but it was just going to get worse when he was looking at Shane again. He hadn’t thought it all the way through when he was suddenly standing in front of room 414. All that was left to do was knock.
~~~~~
Shane sat for a minute after the knock sounded through the silent room. He didn’t really want to see anyone, but the only people it could be were his mom or Hayden. He didn’t particularly want to worry either of them, so he stood up and padded over to the door.
What he absolutely was not expecting was Ilya Rozanov. He felt his chest speed up at the sight of him. No matter how hurt he was, the sight of Rozanov made his mouth water. He quickly shook the thought from his head.
“Nope.” He said, more to himself than Rozanov, as he went to shut the door.
“Shane, please.” Ilya placed his foot in the door, jamming it open.
“What the fuck do you want, Rozanov?! To torture me some more?! Jesus Christ.” He didn’t mean to snap, but he was so fucking angry at the audacity of Rozanov. Against his better judgement, he opened the door wider. He wasn’t going to have a screaming match with the hotel door open where anyone could see.
Rozanov stepped inside, rubbing his palms against his black dress pants. Shane shut the door but refused to turn to look at the other man just yet. He felt like his heart was going to implode.
“Shane…”
“Don’t. Please, Rozanov. Please stop trying to act like you care.”
“I’m trying to tell you I do care… I’m sorry.”
Shane spun around, anger propelling him forward until he had a finger stabbing Rozanov in the chest.
“You don’t fucking care! Do you know how fucked up is to pretend you do when I’ve made it pretty fucking obvious all I want is to matter to you? To matter more than a quick fuck?! You got what you wanted, you were done with me until you had to fucking deal with me again.” He could feel the tears welling in his eyes again, but he really didn’t want to give Rozanov the satisfaction of crying twice in one night. “I don’t know what your fucking game here is, but it’s fucked up. It’s…it’s fucked up.” His voice finally broke and he looked away as the tears finally fell over. He wiped at his eyes, still avoiding looking at Rozanov.
The taller man was stunned, frozen in place like a deer in headlights. Shane knew he looked pitiful, sobbing his eyes out because he was an idiot for feeling more than what they promised. He wouldn’t have been so upset if Rozanov hadn’t ghosted him. If he hadn’t shown him how good sex could be and made him feel cared about. If he hadn’t tainted the memory of what had been an amazing first experience, and now made Shane feel fucking sick.
“Shane, I’m sorry for everything. I…I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never hurt you on purpose,” he raised a hand, trying to place it on Shane’s shoulder. He flinched away and Rozanov retracted his hand. “You said…I kissed you like you matter. I did, because you do matter to me. It scares the shit out of me how much you matter to me, actually. I have never been good at… feelings? Emotions? Do not handle them well.” His voice was shaking, and Shane risked a glance at him. Rozanov was staring at the floor with his eyes squeezed shut.
“Why didn’t you respond to me?”
“What?”
“For those 6 months. I texted you, and you never said a god damn word. Why?”
Shane didn’t want to hear him out, but again…he’s a glutton for punishment.
Ilya was silent for a long moment before sighing and running a hand through his gorgeous golden curls.
“Can…can we sit?”
Shane crossed his arms and shook his head before uncrossing and motioning toward the bed. Ilya nodded back, a silent ‘thank you’ for allowing them to get more comfortable, and crossed to sit on the edge of the bed. Shane slowly followed after, legs feeling like jelly. He felt physically and mentally exhausted, pushed to an absolute breaking point.
He could feel Ilya’s eyes staring into his soul before he sighed and looked toward a wall.
“When… When I am in Russia I have to be someone that is not me. When I am with my team I feel a little better but… Still is a front… Still is not fully me. But when I’m with you, Shane, it’s the only time I feel fully myself. And that fucking terrifies me, so I was cowardly. I hid behind Russia and hockey and parties and alcohol because I didn’t want you to know how deeply you matter to me. I did not wish to fuck this up with stupid fucking emotions.” Ilya turned his body slightly, angling away from his view. “I know I am a coward now too, unable to look you in the eye but…I am so sorry for ever making you think you weren’t the greatest thing in my life. For making you think I only wanted you for your body.” Ilya inhaled deeply and brought a hand to his face.
Is he crying?
Before he could think better of it, Shane reached out and cupped Ilya’s turned cheek with his palm. He gently stroked under his eye, wiping away the stray tears. Ilya suddenly turned and looked him right in the eyes.
“I— I’m sorry for falling so in love with you. For loving the way you fold your clothes every time we sleep together. For loving that your favorite topic of conversation is hockey and stupid healthy food. For loving that you cannot lie, no matter how hard you try. For loving how awful your chirps are on the ice. For the way you make me feel sane and seen for the first time probably ever.”
Shane was frozen. Had Ilya Rozanov really just confessed he was…in love with him?
“Holy shit.”
Ilya’s face crumpled even further, laughing humorlessly. He nodded and smiled at the smaller man, wiping his palms down his face.
“I don’t expect anything, Shane. I just needed you to know how sorry I am for hurting you. I never—“
“I love you too, Ilya. I do. That’s why it hurt so fucking bad. I’m so horrendously in love with you.” Shane didn’t know when the tears had begun to fall down his face again, but he felt the wetness roll down his cheek and fall against his sweatpants. Ilya was staring at him, mouth hanging ever so slightly open, before falling forward against Shane’s shoulder.
“Oh thank God.” Ilya sobbed against his shoulder, and Shane shuffled to pull him closer to his chest. He held Ilya by the nape of his neck with one hand and stroked his arm with the other. Shane placed a kiss against the curly hair of Ilya’s head. When Ilya sat up again, he brought both hands to cup Shane’s jaw. He leaned forward and kissed both of his cheeks, punctuated each time by him mumbling “ya tebya lyublyu.” Shane just closed his eyes and accepted the love he so craved.
Ilya pulled away a bit, and Shane’s eyes shot open to look at him.
“Can I kiss you?”
Shane laughed and nodded his head, “Please.”
Their lips connected for the second time that night, but this kiss was so much different than the one shared earlier. This kiss was filled with passion and love. Shane tasted both of their tears mixing together to create a thin layer of salty wetness, and he was sure he’d never loved crying more in his life. Ilya held his jaw and moved to push him further back onto the bed. Shane let himself fall, trusting that this time Ilya would be there to catch him.
Ilya broke the kiss, moving toward Shane’s neck and pressing gentle kisses everywhere. Shane hummed happily, letting the bigger man attack his neck.
“If you ever do anything like that again, I will kill you. Do you hear me?” Shane whispered into Ilya’s ear. Ilya nipped right below his ear and soothed it with another kiss.
“I would never dream of doing such a thing to you again, Moya Lyubov.”
Shane gently grabbed Ilya’s chin and steered him back toward his lips, pressing another simple kiss there. He wrapped his arms around Ilya’s neck, pressing another kiss against Ilya’s red and spit-slick lips.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”