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Shane should be grateful, thankful even.
And he was.
But, also, kind of pissed.
“Do not make that face, Hollander.”
He looked at Rozanov sitting next to him in the driver’s seat of a ridiculous sports car.
(He must be exhausted. He’d definitely gotten right in this stupid bright-colored, slightly-less-flashy-than-his-other-darlings sports car and driven straight to Toronto.)
“I can make whatever face I want, Rozanov. I think I have the right to, given…”
Shane’s words, and thoughts, sputtered out.
He tried to ignore Rozanov studying him.
“Here, I open drink. You take pills.”
Shane had done a lot of reading between his campaign shoots, while waiting for his prescription to be approved and sent to a pharmacy local to his Toronto hotel. It was a three-pill combo for male carriers, unlike women who just had to take two in order to end an unwanted pregnancy. There were other positives for women over men, when it came to chemical abortions. Women usually didn’t have any major side effects aside from some nausea and period-like pain for the following day, then a return to normal.
Men usually needed a week for symptoms to go away, and they claimed the pain was worse, but some doctors said the pain male carriers reported sounded very similar to what most women experience every month with their periods.
So, Shane probably shouldn’t complain. After he takes the pills.
At least male carriers had a larger window for effective chemical abortions. There were some positives.
Rozanov lightly shook the bottle of ginger ale, lid now cracked.
Shane threw the three little pills, well, one little pill, one average pill and one huge pill, into his mouth.
He took the ginger ale from Rozanov, re-opened the bottle, and took a big gulp, washing down the pills. The big one still felt like it scraped the sides of this throat.
“Good, now, set appointment. Not through team doctor. Get the long time thing. I think they put in arm here. In Russia, usually leg.”
Shane looked over at Rozanov.
The guy was telling him to get a birth control implant. Why the fuck did Rozanov think he got to tell Shane what to do with his fucking body?
Maybe because he already knocked you up once and then drove through the night to pick up your pills so no one would see you walking into a pharmacy to pick up your prescription.
Shane studied the other man. He’d shoved his curls up into a stocking cap. He wasn’t wearing any logos, his team’s or any of his brand deals.
He’d tried, for Shane, to keep it quiet, to avoid being noticed, making any kind of scene.
Shane was still pissed about the whole implant thing. WHo the fuck was Ilya Rozanov to tell Shane how to manage his birth control?
“Why the fuck do you know about birth control implants? I don’t think those even work for-.”
Shane swallowed, looked away.
He hadn’t known he was a carrier until he’d started feeling like shit. It was honestly luck that he’d decided to get a blood work-up in Toronto when he was in town for some brand partnership photo shoot instead of in Montreal through the team doctor.
Then, he’d called Ilya. Why? He wasn't sure. Probably because Ilya was the only person who even knew Shane had the kind of sex that could, if he was a carrier, and it turns out he was, get him pregnant.
Now, Rozanov was rolling his eyes and, patting his thigh?
“They are stupid here. Even Russia tests all babies.”
“Really?”
“Yes, is dangerous, being gay, but they think this is sad biology, not fault of person. So every baby tested, then kept secret. Girls who-”
Rozanov made a disturbing hand gesture near his crotch.
“Create semen.”
“Yes, and boys who can get pregnant, put on long-term medication after, of age?”
“Puberty”
“Yes, so they can keep secret.”
Shane nodded slowly. He still didn’t know what that had to do with Rozanov.
He slapped his thigh again, twice.
Oh. Oh!
Rozanov's implant!
A wry half-smile formed on Rozanov’s face.
“I see you need better lessons on sex in Canada, I thought was just dumb-fuck Americans.”
Shane rolled his eyes and laughed.
“Fuck off.”
He looked back at Rozanov. Shane wasn’t sure how long they stared at each other smiling. It was nice to have something else in common with Rozanov, with Ilya.
He knew Ilya didn’t like, ah, like bottoming, but he understood this. He wasn’t scared about Shane’s newly discovered weird biology.
Only 12 percent of the global male population was a carrier, and here they were. At the top of the MLH, together.
“I’ll make an appointment.”
“Tell team you have flu, or bad food, must stay in Toronto, or go home to Ottawa. Take the week, Hollander.”
Shane licked his lips.
“You can’t go back to Boston tonight.”
“I can do anything.”
“Shut up, no, I mean, I’ve got a room. You should sleep before driving back. And we can, maybe not, um, you know, but...”
Rozanov looked pretty heated then. His eyes flitted over Shane, then he made eye contact again.
“We can find things to do.”
Shane nodded, positive his face was bright red.