Chapter Text
Shane
At the start of every season, Shane committed their games against Boston to memory. But the usual thrum of anticipation he felt before seeing Rozanov on and off the ice had morphed into the powerful current of anxiety that was rolling off him now.
He opened and closed his chat with ‘Lily.’ It was foolish to think Rozanov would text him at all, let alone before a game. Not after—
Maybe if he stared long enough, three dots and a message from Rozanov would appear. He didn’t care if it was shit talk, sex talk or a threat, he desperately needed something after weeks of silence.
“Hey man,” Hayden said, glancing at the phone in Shane’s hand. “Have you, uh, spoken to Lily since Boston?” Shane knew what his friend was getting at but was too polite to say out loud: “remember that time you came home from Lily’s and cried in the shower.”
“Um, no. I don’t think she wants to hear from me.” That was probably true. “And it wouldn’t be appropriate. Now that I’m with Rose.”
“I’m not saying you should. Just with the media circus, it can’t be easy. Even it was mutual or whatever,” Hayden said with a mix of concern and discomfort for bringing up the subject.
“We were never anything… serious,” Shane replied weakly. They both knew that was bullshit but Hayden squeezed his shoulder anyway and began to putting on his gear on.
The last time Shane and Rozanov had been together was different. When Rozanov asked him to stay, bought him ginger ale, and breathed his name like he’d been starved for air, it really felt like they were something. And when Shane replayed it in his mind each night, he could Rozanov gasping for him. In his dreams he watched his body jump up, his mouth make bad excuses, and his deafening panic silence his heart.
***
The game was a blur for Shane. The arena lights were too bright, and the roar of the crowd felt far away. The announcers asked where Shane Hollander had been out there. He didn’t know either.
Rozanov had slammed him into the boards like six times. There were no playful smiles, winks or digs to get under Shane’s skin — just hockey. That bothered him far more than he thought it would, far more than he tho
By the time he dragged his sore body to the shower after a tedious press conference, his team was gone. He closed his eyes and let the water roll down his face, thinking about Rozanov and the first time they showered together the summer before rookie season. It had been Rozanov’s idea to include Shane in the CCM shoot. Shane, feeling guilty, shook his head to dislodge the memory of Rozanov stroking himself.
He redirected his thoughts to Rose and how nice it was to have someone other than his mom and dad there to cheer for him.
As the face of the Montreal Voyageurs, Canadian hockey, the NHL and as many brands as his mom could muster, Shane had experience answering questions and smiling for the cameras. Sure, sometimes people stopped him on the street for a picture or autograph, but Rose was much more famous than him. He could handle his career being dissected, but after so many years guarding secrets, it was strange to be so public about his personal life.
Ilya
He’d been dreading this game ever since Hollander ran away, leaving him stunned on the couch, arm outstretched, covered in their cum.
Hooking up with Hollander was irresponsible and dangerous. That was part of the allure in the beginning. He’d brought up relationships women because they both knew that would be easier for careers and the Russia of it all.
The reason he kept it going was his unreasonable feelings for Shane. He’d wanted to know if he was worth the risk to Shane but had been too afraid of the answer to come out and ask the question. Instead, he’d asked Hollander about his relationship with women. Always so stubborn and competitive, Mr. Private said bet.
It was bad enough that Hollander and unknown very bad actress Rose Landry were splashed on every magazine cover. Now Ilya was forced to watch her twirl around in her #24 Voyageurs jersey and blow kisses at the crowd while he played hockey.
He sat in the penalty box, pouting and picturing Rose Landry in Mr. Real Estate’s real home, the one where he hung photos and ate dinner with his family, not a secret sex condo. Hollander wasn’t terrified of loving her privately or being with her publicly, and it made Ilya bitter.
In the second period, Ilya took out his feelings about the Tuna Meltdown™ and Hollandry — yes, he was acutely aware of their ship name — by slamming Hollander into the boards, holding him there for half a second longer than necessary. It was the next best thing to pinning him to a bed. This is where they excelled, playing hard against each other on the ice.
Hollander, on the other hand, never met Ilya’s eyes, and not a single asshole was uttered. The game ended 2-1 for Boston but it felt hollow.
He couldn’t escape Rose Landry in the locker room after the game either. Unbeknownst to him, this rivalry with Hollander had spilled from the into the dating arena.
“Wasn’t she named sexist woman alive, or something like that,” Marlow asked.
“Maybe poor Rose Landry should also be given charity award for dating most boring man alive,” Ilya sneered. This was his locker room.
“Roz, jealous you’re not hockey’s biggest ladies’ man anymore?” Carmichael uselessly chimed in. “Hollander bagged himself a beaut.”
Truth be told, he wasn’t jealous of Hollander, he was jealous of his girlfriend. As much as it pained Ilya say something that could be construed as complimentary of Rose fucking Landry, he had a reputation to uphold.
“Score more goals and maybe you’ll get laid one day too,” Ilya snapped.
“Roz has his Montreal girl,” Marlow teased, wiggling his eyebrows and bumping Ilya’s shoulder. Marlow wasn’t the most observant man, but he knew the drill. It was the same whenever they played in Montreal — texts filthy enough to make the Russian blush and Ilya rushing for the exit.
Ilya glared at Marlow ferociously, which was all the alternate captain needed to rally the team.
***
Half a dozen Boston Bears were crammed in Ilya’s hotel room, drinking beer and making bets. They didn’t go for drinks in enemy territory often but tonight was both a celebration and a not so subtle but well meaning “Operation get Rozanov laid.” Beautiful women used to cheer Ilya up. For a while now, he’d been more smitten with a freckled hockey player than the bodies around him.
He and Hollander had been interested in each other before they’d even met. For nearly a decade, they’d been linked; names appearing together, always inviting competition.
Ilya couldn’t remember exactly when or how the urge to be something more than rivals began. He supposed the seed was planted in Regina or during one of their early encounters in Las Vegas, Ottawa or Toronto, and taken root somewhere between Boston and Montreal. Now it consumed him. He often wondered what it would be like to be Ilya and Shane, lovers, and not Rozanov and Hollander, arch-rivals.
In the privacy of his hotel bathroom, Ilya read what people were saying about them today. No one was talking about his perfect goals or how he petulantly skated circles around slow poke Pike. Nope. Everyone was raving, or raging, about Rose fucking Landry wearing Hollander’s number.
Ilya spent more time than he cared to admit cyber stalking Rose Landry. For a movie star, she shared a lot. It was easy to figure out her favourite club, a fancy place called Ciel that was tucked away on a cobblestone street in Old Montreal.
He toggled to his burner account to post (another) bitchy comment on one of Rose Landry’s photos. This one was taken after the game. Rose is kissing Hollander’s cheek; he’s still in his gear, freckles glistening with sweat.
BostonLily81: Even #2 player can do better than Rose Landry
“Rozanov!” Marlow bellowed, already a little drunk by the sound of it. “I’m sure you look pretty. Let’s gooo!”
He gave himself one last look in the mirror. He was all angles, no softness. His cheekbones were sharp, his eyes cold and his mouth in a tight line. One more sip of vodka.
He had to see for himself if Hollander, Shane, really was in love with somebody else.