Chapter Text
Everything’s going perfectly.
Shane has never felt so comfortable in a relationship with a woman. Rose is intelligent, passionate, driven, and kind. She’s energetic in a way that isn’t draining. She’s sunshine and easy to orbit, fun and simple to understand, like she knows he struggles to keep up in most social situations.
The sex wasn’t great at first, but Shane is nothing if not determined and competitive. He learns how to make her feel good, how to get it up and keep it up (what to think about), how to make her cum enough times she forgets the early, bad sex. He thinks he might even be into it, now, like he’s starting to Pavlov himself into liking sex with women, or at least one of them. And if his moans of, “Fuck Rose”, sometimes sound like ‘Roz’, maybe he can blame it on his strained voice in the moment.
They’re in his Montreal apartment. Rose has a break from her promotional interviews for her most recent project, and Shane is splurging on a chicken parmesan recipe that was a little beyond his usual diet for the occasion.
She moves around his kitchen like she belongs there, fuzzy socks on tile, giggling and sliding while gossiping about a director who pronounced her last name as ‘Laundry’ for six straight weeks. Her stray flailing arm knocks into the grated parmesan on the counter, and Shane steadies the plate without looking.
He stands at the stove, browning the chicken, and she grins at the side of his face.
“You’re always so graceful,” she says, poking teasingly at his ribs.
“You’re joking, right?” Shane huffs. “I’m just about the least graceful person I can think of.”
“Absolutely not. Maybe verbally. But physically? No way.” She comes up behind him, wraps her arms around his waist, warm and casual, squeezing the same place she poked earlier. He concedes silently, relaxing into her.
He can do this, he thinks. He couldn’t pretend with Rozanov. He couldn’t act like he didn’t care, didn’t have feelings for him, didn’t want to be around him all the time, didn’t want to be with him. But this? With Rose? It’s barely even pretending. He cares for her, genuinely.
She tilts her head against his back. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m cooking.”
“You’re thinking.”
“Yeah. I can do both at once.” He turns his head towards her, hands still fiddling with the pan. “I’m good at multitasking,” he whispers, kissing the top of her head.
She hums, unwinding her arms and stepping back to lean against the center island. He arranges the chicken in a baking dish, prepping it for the oven as his phone buzzes on the counter behind him.
Rose glances at it first. “Hey, your phones ringing.”
“That’s ok, it’s probably my mom.”
She picks it up, smiling. “Actually it’s someone named Lily-”
“Wait no-” But she’s already answered.
“Why don’t you love me?” The voice on the other end is whiny, slurred, and masculine with a distinct accent: Russian. Rose’s smile is frozen, mind racing to make sense of it.
Shane stares back at her, eyes shocked and scared, pleading. They’re both silent as the voice continues.
“I know it would be easier,” He huffs, “if one of us was girl. But they say you can’t control who you love, so that should not matter.” He pauses, then reasons, “Which means it is me… You don’t love me.” Rose’s expression morphs into something else, less confused and a little haunted.
Shane shuffles forward, too close to Rose for the intended motion, gently prying the phone from her hands. His fingers hover over the screen, as if debating whether to switch it from speaker or to end the call entirely. She stares at his face as he watches the seconds of the call tick up, swallowing.
“Ilya.” Because his mouth can’t possibly say ‘Rozanov’ right now, and Rose already knows.
“I know it is hard to love me.” Ilya slurs out, rushed. “I could be different for you. How do you want me to be?” He sounds like he’s crying now, begging.
“Ilya.”
“Shane.”
Shane steps back from his girlfriend, floating in the space between her and the stove. His eyes slide up to the ceiling as he rubs his neck, holding the phone closer and quieting. “You’re drunk.”
It’s almost impressive how drunk he must be, considering the time. They had a game last night; he must’ve landed in Boston from Montreal this afternoon and immediately started on the vodka.
“Yes. I drink for you.” Ilya softens his voice too, turning bitter. “Because of you. And Rose Landry.”
Shane’s eyes fall closed, pained, as Ilya rants, “Everywhere I look is Shane Hollander and Rose Landry. Magazines at vendors, in grocery store. Online, so many posts. My teammates love gossip posts, they send in group chat – show me in person. It is everywhere. You and perfect, straight, public girlfriend.” He chokes on half of the words, accent thickening, and spits out ‘girlfriend’ like a curse.
Shane’s breathing heavily. He’s overwhelmed and has tears streaming steadily down his face from the pain in Ilya’s voice, but he doesn’t make a sound until the next sentence.
“Is she everything I’m not?”
Shane chokes out a sob, and he thinks he hears Rose gasp. He had almost forgotten she was there, observing the horrible trainwreck happening in front of her, and perhaps seeing the true, ugly Shane Hollander for the first time.
He needs to put an end to this phone call, but he chances a glance towards Rose, dreading the hatred he knows he’ll see; She’s crying, too. It’s not unreasonable, but she doesn’t look hateful.
She looks devastated and pitying. Her hands cover her mouth to smother her sobs, and her eyes flicker from Shane to the phone in his hands when Rozanov starts talking again.
“She is, isn’t she? Da. Uncomplicated. Not scandal. It is not… wrong to love her. I am sorry. Please, I-” He croaks, “I know I pushed too far, last time, I did this. I can be better for you.”
“Where are you?” Shane asks, because there’s no way Ilya isn’t blacking out right now. Ilya Rozanov doesn’t beg. He doesn’t sound like this, ever.
“Doesn’t matter.”
And how can he possibly think that? As if Shane shouldn’t be worried about him while he’s pouring his heart out and drowning in vodka? He stares distantly, but his voice is emphatic. “It does matter. Is Svetlana nearby? God, Ilya, who’s gonna stop you from choking on your own vomit?”
“Would not be so bad, would it?”
Shane gasps, “Ilya!” He can’t quite catch his breath, and he doesn’t want to think about how easily the statement rolled off Ilya’s tongue.
“блядь! I am at fuck condo. It is well stocked.” Shane can hear liquid sloshing in glass, can practically see him shaking one of the bottles of vodka Shane left there when he was unsure which kind Rozanov preferred and ended up getting far too many. “What? You’re still in Montreal?”
“Told team: date with Jane. They believe me. I have code, remember? Misterrrrr Landlord…” Ilya’s slurring is back with a vengeance, and his English sentences are worse than they have been in a long time.
“Ok, ok. Stay right there. Stay on the line.” Shane finally looks back at Rose. “I- I’m sorry. I’ll explain, I have to…”
“Go,” Rose says, and her voice wobbles. She drops her hands from her mouth and wipes at her cheeks quickly, like she’s embarrassed to be crying at all. “It’s ok. Go.”
On the phone, Ilya breathes unevenly. “Shane?”
“I’m here,” Shane responds immediately.
Rose watches the easy shift, the care. The way his voice softens unknowingly. He grabs his keys out of a bowl. His wallet. He looks around frantically for the next step. She hands him two bottles of Gatorade from the fridge, and their fingers brush.
“Thank you,” he says, heart cracking a bit.
Ilya murmurs something in Russian over the line.
Shane steps closer to her again. He wants to apologize, wants to make it all make sense. Instead, he presses a quick kiss to the top of her head.
“I’ll explain,” he whispers again.
“I know.”
The chicken sits in the baking dish, uncooked, oven done preheating.
Shane rushes out the door, refusing to look back in fear of Rose’s expression changing as he flees.