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Regina, Saskatchewan, was not a kind place to be during the winter. Shane, having grown up in Ottawa, was no stranger to the below-freezing temperatures, nor the snow or the ice. He found that the cold here, though, had a way of sinking into his bones, chilling him to the very core.
The International Prospect Cup was yesterday, and after a tough loss against Russia, and more specifically, Ilya Rozanov, he was tired. He was disappointed in his team, but mostly in himself. He should have put up a better defense, should have been able to read Rozanov better. He couldn’t wait to get home and pick up training again. The next cup may be another year from now, but he needs to be quicker, stronger, better.
His stomach grumbling puts a hold on his train of thought. He swings his legs out of bed and heads to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He pulls on a sweatshirt and abandons his flannel pajama pants in favor of a pair of basketball shorts and exits his room to find the breakfast the hotel would hopefully be serving in the lobby.
He summons the elevator and presses the option for the ground floor. The hotel is quiet. He isn’t exactly sure what time it is, but the sun has risen at the very least. He steps out of the elevator once it arrives downstairs and follows the smell of syrup and bacon to the breakfast hall. He finds both of his parents sitting down at a table towards the back of the room, as well as the coaches from both teams, and some of the early-rising players mingling around the buffet. He hadn’t realized they were all staying in the same hotel, but he supposes it makes sense given its proximity to the rink and to the airport.
He shoots a smile at his parents and walks to the buffet to grab a plate. He spoons scrambled eggs and some of the fresh fruit options available onto his plate, and fills up a white ceramic mug with coffee before finding his parents once again and sitting down at their table.
“Good morning, honey.” His mom smiles at him, taking a sip from her own mug of black coffee. “How did you sleep?”
“Good morning.” He responds, taking a bite of his eggs. “Well enough. I’m still pretty tired after the game yesterday, though.”
His dad speaks up, “I can imagine, son. A very long game, and you gave it your all.”
He grimaces. He really doesn’t want to think about the game anymore, and he realizes quickly he shouldn’t have brought it up in front of them, but it was probably only a matter of time before his mom did anyway.
To his relief, his mom only sends him a quick, sad smile before changing the topic entirely. “Our flight back home for today is cancelled, there’s supposed to be a snowstorm coming through any minute now. They’re telling everyone to stay inside for the time being.”
He barely conceals a groan. “Really? We’re stuck here?”
“Yes, just for today. Flights are rescheduled for tomorrow morning. You should take the time to rest up before we go home, and you start training.”
“Yeah. Okay.” He finishes the rest of the food on his plate in silence, listening to his parents chatter about the shows they were going to catch up on while stuck here. He grabs his plate and cup and stands up, excusing himself. “I’m gonna head to the gym. I’ll just head back to my room after and watch some tapes.”
“Okay, honey. Make sure you get something to eat for lunch. We’ll meet up around 5:00 for dinner?” He nods his agreement towards his mom, deposits his dishes on the cart, and walks to the gym. He’d been there quite a few times over the last few days, either not wanting his training regime to change too much or working off excess energy before bed.
He opens the heavy glass doors to, upon first glance, find an empty gym. He didn’t bring anything with him but himself, so he takes off his sweatshirt, deposits it on one of the benches near the entrance, and makes his way towards the exercise bikes. He then notices the only other person there, sitting on the bike with his head wrapped in a hood, pointed down, the bike not even turned on. He must have just gotten done if the sheen of sweat on his thighs was anything to go by.
The other man must finally realize he’s there, because he looks up and their eyes lock, Shane now standing barely 2 feet away. The man smirks at him, and alarm bells ring out in Shane’s head.
“Shane Hollander,” Ilya Rozanov drawls out, a little breathlessly, still with that stupid smirk plastered on his face.
Fuck his life. Honestly. “Rozanov.”
He leaves no room for conversation and quickly mounts the bike next to Rozanov, paying him no mind. Or rather, trying not to. He hears Rozanov chuckle next to him as he, too, turns his bike back on and matches Shane’s speed.
What an asshole. He was even trying to beat Shane at exercising when they were completely alone, with nothing on the line, and in the middle of a snowstorm! Even with this in mind, Shane still ups the speed on his bike, watching Rozanov do the same seconds after him.
This cycle keeps repeating itself for what could have been an hour before Shane eventually gets tired and doesn’t feel like overexerting himself just to prove something to his rival. He pulls the emergency stop and nearly limps off to slide down the wall across from him. He sees Rozanov do the same, watches his pink cheeks puff out as he slides down across from him, notices the sweat-stained collar of his sweatshirt before he pulls it off, and the way he grips his bottle before squeezing it hard until the water releases into his mouth.
The only noise in the gym now is the sound of their heavy breathing, chests still heaving. Shane regrets not going back to his hotel to grab his own water, and he glances longingly at Rozanov’s. Rozanov must notice, because he offers up his own before Shane even has the chance to look away. They have a wordless conversation, Shane shakes his head no, and Rozanov nudges his calf with his foot and shakes the bottle until he eventually reaches out to take it. Their fingers brush as he pulls back, and he blames the jolt he feels on the static that must be in the room.
He squeezes the bottle, similarly to how Rozanov had only seconds prior, and takes a long gulp. He’s still thirsty when he attempts to give the bottle back, but Rozanov shakes his head in protest and mouths “more,” and Shane feels he has no other choice but to pull the bottle back up towards his lips.
When he does give it back, Rozanov wraps his heart-shaped lips around the bottle and sucks before giving Shane a wink. He wants to scoff, or do something to show he doesn’t appreciate the gesture, but he feels frozen in place, watching Ronzanov’s eyes squeeze shut and his Adam’s apple bob.
The second he feels like he’s not going to make an embarrassing noise, he clears his throat. He pushes his back off the wall and stands up. He begins to walk backwards from where Rozanov is sitting, but he doesn’t like the way Rozanov is looking up at him from the floor, so he steps closer and offers him a hand. He takes it, stands, and claps his other hand on Shane’s shoulder before Shane backs away, dropping both points of contact.
He can tell Rozanov is fighting off a smile, and he isn’t quite sure what his own face is doing.
“Nice workout. Very relaxing.”
“Fuck off. I know you’re tired.”
“Not at all, Hollander. You should be more like me.”
Shane really does scoff this time. Like he would ever want to be more like Ilya Rozanov. Well, maybe this morning he did want to be more like Ilya Rozanov. Only because he beat him. One time.
“Yeah, right. When was the last time you even worked out?” Shane didn’t really even think about his comeback before he said it, and he immediately felt himself flush. Obviously, he worked out. His still sweaty shirt was clinging to the very proof of him working out. Frequently.
Rozanov doesn’t even respond to that one, just raises one of his eyebrows. Shane turns around and heads for the door at this. This whole thing should have ended a long time ago. It should never have even started in the first place.
“Any plans today, Hollander?”
“In case you didn’t notice, we’re snowed in. So, probably not, no.”
“So you will be watching tape, yes?”
“Yeah. So?”
“I will be doing the same thing.”
“Good for you?” Shane really didn’t understand where this was going. He assumed Rozanov might spend the day lazing around with his team, or maybe trying to sneak out of the hotel for a smoke break when everyone was occupied.
“You should come to my room. We watch tape together.” He smirks, “I can even give you tips on gameplay.”
Shane is extremely confused. Doesn’t Rozanov hate him? He barely even wanted to speak to Shane a few days ago when he introduced himself. Doesn't he hate Rozanov? He narrows his eyes. “Why would I do that?” He huffs out his question, “And why would I listen to your tips?”
“You lost, yes?”
“Yeah. Fucking obviously.”
“I won. I will show you what you did wrong, so it will be fair fight next year.”
He should really just leave. He shouldn’t entertain whatever this is any further. He should go back to his room and watch tapes alone until it’s time for lunch, then go back to his room to watch more tapes, then meet his parents for dinner. A perfectly acceptable day where he can’t go outside. Where he wouldn’t be fraternizing with the enemy.
He guesses Rozanov knows his weakness already. “Fine. What room are you in?” He would absolutely not risk inviting Rozanov to his room when his parents are right next door.
Rozanov smirks once again. “222. Be there in an hour.”
Shane nods his head and reaches behind him to find the door handle. He swings it open and backs out without waiting for Rozanov, and speed walks towards the stairs so he wouldn’t have to share the elevator with him either.
He knocks on the door of room 222 approximately 58 minutes later. He’s freshly showered, donned in an Ottawa Centaurs sweatshirt and dark wash jeans, with his laptop tucked under his arm and a reusable water bottle in his other hand. Rozanov opens the door a few seconds later, also clearly having just showered, wearing a sweatshirt with embroidered Cyrillic wording and black skinny jeans. He sees Rozanov look him up and down, before stepping to the side and letting him enter the room. They both stand there for a moment, with Shane looking anywhere but at his stupid face.
“Um. Hi.” He says, very eloquently. Why is he acting like this? He’s here to review tape and listen to Rozanov tell him the mistakes he’s already familiarized himself with three times over by now. Why the fuck was he here, anyway?
“Hello, Hollander. Sit.”
This should have been a simple request, except that the farther he walks into the room, the fewer chairs he sees. Meaning there are absolutely no chairs. The desk sits in the corner, with no chair attached or anywhere to be found. He looks at Rozanov, who’s already looking his way, and then glances over to the singular bed in the middle of the room. Rozanov shakes his head with a laugh and gets into bed.
“Hollander. It is just a bed. Where we need to sit to watch your laptop together.”
Jesus fuck. Fine. It’s really not that big of a deal. He does this all the time with teammates on the road, crowding into beds in shared rooms to watch a movie on someone's phone or to review something the coaches sent to one of their laptops. He crosses the room and sits down on the bed before thinking about it any further. He swings his legs up far too fast and tries to push himself against the headboard at the same time in an effort to be nonchalant, but he ends up just bumping his shoulder against Rozanov’s. He moves away and opens his laptop quickly to avoid any further embarrassment.
He opens the email from the coach, where the recordings from yesterday were sent to all of the players. He clicks on the first segment he sees and begins watching intently. Rozanov seems to do the same, as when he looks over towards the other man, his hands are crossed on his lap, and he’s staring at the screen.
“Hollander, can you come closer? Puck is too small from here.”
He barely contains a sigh, but he complies and starts to move nonetheless. Rozanov grabs the laptop off his own legs and sets it in between them, one side of the laptop balancing on each of their thighs. They are touching from the shoulder to the ankles. He takes a deep breath, and he can smell Rozanov’s woody cologne.
They continue on in relative silence. Every once in a while, Rozanov will press the space bar to pause the video and comment on a play that was made. He makes digs towards Shane’s teammates often, and even sometimes his own, but he doesn’t say anything to make fun of Shane’s plays, as he assumed he would. He does point out a few mistakes when it comes to Shane’s defense or his stickhandling at certain points. Shane does the same back for him, and neither of them gets offended. They either nod their heads in agreement or add on to what the other said.
He knew objectively that he and Rozanov were the best in their age range and in their league; he never really knew until right now. While he hates to admit it, he doesn’t think he could be doing this with any other player; he’s usually so far out of their league. He often thinks no one understands hockey like he does. He thinks Rozanov might.
After they watch the tapes up until the end of the second period, over two hours have passed, and neither of them has moved an inch. Shane realizes he needs to pee, but that thought comes second to the realization that he’s enjoying himself. He’s watching himself and Team Canada lose against Russia’s team, with their captain sitting in bed next to him, pressed against him, and he’s enjoying himself.
Rozanov moves to the side a little so his arms aren’t touching Shane’s, and he stretches upwards, yawning as he does so. The bottom of his sweatshirt rides up, and Shane catches himself looking at the small patch of skin it reveals.
Shane, for some reason, worries that he’s boring Rozanov, after the man yawns for the second time.“Are you bored?”
“No. Just did not sleep well. I am very hungry, though.”
“Oh. Okay. Want me to go?”
“Not unless you want. I can go down and get us some food.”
He’s briefly taken aback. Rozanov wants him to stay? Instead of sleeping, he wants him to stay in his room, alone, while he gets food for both of them. He decides not to question him because he honestly doesn’t want to leave either. He wants to eat with him in this room, and he wants to finish watching the tapes. He can almost picture the jokes Rozanov will make when he sees the mistake one of his teammates made in the third period.
What is wrong with him?
“Okay. Sure. Just get me whatever and a ginger ale, please.” He doesn’t really feel like explaining what he can and can’t have right now, and plus, Rozanov is going out of his way to grab him something when he didn’t have to in the first place.
Rozanov nods and tugs on his shoes before opening the door and slipping out. Shane felt kind of ridiculous, now that he was really thinking about it. He was sitting in his rival’s hotel room, in his bed no less, while waiting for said rival to come back with food for both of them, after they had been practically cuddling for the last two hours and change. Rozanov is so much different than what he expected. He’s funny and quick, which Shane can’t imagine how hard that is with English being his barely spoken second language. He’s smart, and he really understands hockey. He may not have the hockey IQ that Shane does, but he can read the ice extremely well, he has a strong shot, and he’s a great captain. His team rallies behind him, which is something Shane struggles with obtaining in his own teams. Rozanov is absolutely an asshole, but he isn’t mean.
Shane gets up from the bed to stretch out his legs. He locates the bathroom and enters, finding it to be still a little bit damp despite it being over 2 hours since Rozanov showered. He feels like he’s intruding. Rozanov’s still-wet towels are hanging behind the door, and his razor and aftershave are still on the counter from where he must have used them this morning or last night. His toothbrush and toothpaste are in the little cup on the sink, sitting next to the handsoap. He exits and makes his way back to the bed, noticing a few of Rozanov’s things as he moves. There are a couple of sweatshirts sitting on the desk with no chair. On the TV stand, there’s a deck of cards, a couple of pens, and pushed behind the TV is a roll of three condoms. He flushes and gets back to bed quickly.
Rozanov returns about five minutes later, balancing two plates on one hand and two cans of pop in his other hand. He moves to get up and help him, or to sit on the floor at least, so he didn’t make a mess of the bed, but Rozanov shakes his head and urges him to stay where he is. He drops the cans onto the bed, neither of them open yet, and hands Shane his plate.
It’s the exact same thing Shane got for lunch yesterday and the day before.
“How did you know what I usually get for lunch?”
Rozanov’s eyes dart around before he answers. “I just saw you get food yesterday in the dining hall. No big deal. Eat so we can finish tapes.”
Shane moves to grab one of the two forks off of Rozanov’s plate at the same time Rozanov does. Their hands brush once again, and they both move back quickly, Shane almost forgetting his fork in his haste to keep his hands to himself.
They eat in silence, both of them even hungrier than they had realized. Shane is careful not to get anything on the bed and moves both his Ginger Ale and Rozanov’s Coke to the bedside table.
Ilya breaks the silence. “Where do you think you will be drafted to?”
Shane clears his throat. “I don’t know. Hopefully anywhere.” He tries to play off his nervousness with a grin.
“Do not be stupid, Hollander. Where?”
“Hopefully, somewhere in Canada, I’d like to stay close to my parents if I can.”
Rozanov blows a raspberry. “Boring.”
He huffs out a laugh despite himself. “What about you?”
“Mmm. I like Boston, maybe.”
“Oh yeah? They’re favored to be first pick for our year.”
Rozanov grins widely at this. “Oh yes, I know.”
Shane rolls his eyes. Both of them have finished with their food now, and they are facing each other, criss-crossed on top of the covers. Shane grabs Rozanov’s plate and stacks it atop his own, depositing both on the nightstand and grabbing their drinks instead. Rozanov pops the tab and takes a gulp before looking back at Shane.
“I think I am tired of watching tape.”
Shane hates to admit that he feels a little sad that Rozanov is kicking him out. This was supposed to be nothing more than two players, two good hockey players, reviewing tape and giving each other constructive criticism. He convinces himself he shouldn’t feel that way before he voices his response.
“Okay, cool. I’ll head back to my room and finish watching.” He tries to hide the disappointment in his voice.
“Hollander. If I want you to go, I will say so. Want to play cards?”
He lifts his head up in surprise and nods, trying to fight back a smile.
Rozanov grabs the deck of cards off the TV stand, clearly noticing the roll of condoms he had poorly hidden earlier and pushing them further back behind the TV. Shane has to stifle a laugh into his hand.
They play a few rounds of sevens, Shane not knowing how to play anything else besides that and solitaire, and Rozanov not wanting to spend a bunch of time teaching him “boring” rules. Shane ends up winning, with a score of 81 to 100. Shane smirks at Rozanov and looks to where his jersey is hanging at the corner when he sees the final numbers being added. Rozanov growls and picks up the cards, depositing them back where he left them and throwing their score paper in the trash.
“Hey. Want to play 21 questions? I mean, we don’t have to do that many, we can just find a few or whatever.” Shane blurts out, still not wanting their time to end but having nothing else to suggest. Rozanov would think it’s ridiculous that Shane wants to get to know him.
Rozanov furrows his brows. “What is 21 questions?”
Shane should have figured that Rozanov wouldn’t be familiar with popular Western games. Now he has to explain that he wants to get to know him before actually asking the questions to get to know him. Fuck his life.
“Oh. It’s like an ice-breaker game. You know, to get to know someone a little better with fun questions.”
“Ah, you want to get to know me, Hollander?” Just as Shane predicted. “Is this a date or something?”
Shane can feel his ears burning. He knows that if he were to lift up his sweatshirt, there would be a flush blooming down his neck and chest.
“Fuck off. I’m just gonna leave.”
“No, no, Hollander. Let us play this game.”
They stare at each other for a moment before resuming their previous position from when they were reviewing tape. Shane searches the web for some inspiration before asking his first question.
“Um. If you don’t want to answer anything, you don’t have to. Just tell me to skip it, and I will. Also, we can just go back in fourth instead of answering all the questions at once.”
Rozanov’s lips turn up slightly at this. “Okay, Hollander. Same for you.”
He nods and asks his first question. “Who in your life are you closest to?”
Rozanov clearly didn’t expect there to be any deep questions, at least not so soon, and his eyes flicker up in alarm before he answers. “Probably my best friend, Svetlana. I have known her since we were very little.”
“Cool. Is she back in Russia?”
Rozanov shakes his head. “No, she lives in Boston.”
Besides being first pick in the draft, Rozanov gunning for the Riaders made a little bit more sense now.
“My turn. What is your biggest fear?”
Shane doesn’t really even have to think about his response. “Probably not getting drafted. Or getting a career-ending injury.”
“Makes sense for you.”
“Okay? Anyway, where’s your favorite place that you’ve ever been?”
“I have not really been anywhere outside of Russia. Maybe Lake Baikal. It is in Siberia, my mother thought it was very pretty.”
“What’s it like?”
“It is the deepest lake in the world. There are places to walk up the mountain, and the sunsets are very pretty. There are also seals.”
“That sounds nice. I love the lake.”
“Mmm yes, it was. I want to ask you the same thing.”
“Probably my parents' cottage in Ottawa. We spend the summers there, and it’s also on the lake. So many of my favorite memories are from there. One day, I want to build my own cottage. There’s a clearing, about ten minutes from ours now, and I hope I can build it there.”
“Sounds nice. You are close with your family?”
“Yeah, very. It’s pretty much just me and my parents. What about you?”
Shane sees something dark pass over Rozanov’s eyes before he answers his question. He clears his throat. “No.”
Shane decides not to push him, and he moves on to his next question. They trade questions back and forth, often asking each other follow-ups. Neither of them skips anything; Shane tries to stay away from any topics where Rozanov would have to talk about his family. They talk and talk for what feels like hours, neither of them moving, legs practically on top of each other, just sitting against the headboard, their many Google searches requesting more questions open on the laptop in front of them. They definitely go past the 21-question limit, and by the time Shane finally looks at the time, it’s 4:55.
“Shit, Rozanov. I’m supposed to meet my parents for dinner in 5 minutes.”
He chuckles, closing Shane’s laptop and swinging his legs off the bed. “Go meet them. You have been here since 8 am. I need to get rid of you somehow, yes?” He says, with a teasing smirk.
Shane knows he’s joking this time, but the reminder of all this time they’ve spent together makes him flush. He puts on his shoes to distract himself, and when he looks back up, Rozanov is looking down where he’s crouched, with both of their phones in his hand and Shane’s laptop under his arm. He hands both items off to Shane when he stands up and ushers him towards the door.
“Do you want to exchange numbers or something? You know, in case you want to give me any more tips on my game.” Shane’s remaining flush from earlier deepens. Why on earth would he ask this man for his phone number? They are supposed to hate each other.
Before he can overthink too much or run for the elevator back to his room, Rozanov sighs and grabs his phone back out of his hand. He types his number and his contact name, and texts his own phone all in rapid succession, and hands the phone back. “Lily” stares back at him from the screen.
“Okay, you are late. Goodbye, Hollander.”
“Bye, Rozanov.” He slips out the door quickly and takes the elevator up to his room to deposit his things. He realizes then that he forgot his water bottle with Rozanov. He thinks Rozanov mentioned something about Team Russia leaving tonight since the storm was over. Fuck he is never getting it back. It was his favorite one, too.
He runs down the stairs that are next to his room instead of waiting for the elevator, and by the time he makes it to where his parents are sitting, it's already 15 minutes past five.
“Hi. Sorry, I’m late.”
“It’s fine, Shane. We don’t mind. Did you get some rest at least?” His mom asks him, her eyes a little wide with concern.
“Yeah, a little. I spent most of the day reviewing tape from yesterday. Learned a lot.” After he says this, he has to hold in a secret smile. He learned more about Russia’s captain than he did about any of his own plays.
Before his mom can respond, he sees her glare at something over his shoulder. He furrows his eyebrows and turns his head, and sees Rozanov walking towards them. With his water bottle in hand. Shane prays that Rozanov just drops the bottle at the table and leaves. He prays that Rozanov says nothing about the almost 9 hours they spent together. He had complained to his mother just two days prior, in depth, about how much of an asshole Rozanov was. And he had just lost to him.
He makes it to their table, and his mother clears her throat. “Hello.” She says, brusquely.
“Hello, Mrs. Hollander.” He shoots her one of his famous smiles and puts his hand on Shane’s shoulder. His touch feels scorching, even through the layers of his clothes.
He sees his mom glance disapprovingly at this, but Rozanov doesn’t seem to notice, and he lifts up his water bottle from his other hand and places it on the table. “Hollander. You forgot this in… gym. Earlier.”
Thank fuck. “Oh. Okay. Thanks for returning it, Rozanov.”
He nods. “Sure.” He gives Shane’s shoulder a squeeze before removing his hand entirely. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Hollander. Enjoy dinner.”
With that, he walks away. He really was such an asshole. Shane almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous that situation was, but that would make his parents ask questions, and he has to pretend he still hates the man. Which he does, he still definitely hates him.
He glances away from his parents, who still look extremely confused at the whole interaction. He finds Rozanov at the buffet, getting ready to serve himself dinner. They lock eyes, and Rozanov winks at him from across the room. Shane sends an almost shy smile back, and then occupies himself with his plate before his parents ask who he’s making eyes with across the room.
Well, maybe Regina wasn’t so cold after all.