Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Colin meets Ilya Rozanov, he is very, very intimidated by him.

And really, who wouldn’t be?

At 19, he’s already built like he’s been in the league for years, all lean muscle and sharp edges—the kind of body carved from endless hours in the weight room and even more time on the court. At 6’7” tall, he commands a room without trying.  His messy blond curls always fall just right, like he doesn’t even try. The smirk that’s permanently adorning his face is arrogant and charming at the same time. 

It’s the kind of smirk that makes girls weak in the knees, and guys hate him on principle. He’s cocky, confident, and carries himself like he knows exactly how good he is, and worse, like he knows no one can touch him.

Then there’s the Russian accent. It’s low, rough, and unfairly attractive, which Colin can admit because he’s bi. 

On the court, it’s even worse.

He’s the best player on Duke’s men’s basketball team, and that’s saying something because Duke is stacked. But every game, every quarter, every possession, the offense runs through him. 

The rumor is that Coach Wilson saw him play once, just once, and he was sold. People say he watched Rozanov drop 20 points in a single quarter when he was 16, playing for some Russian team, and didn’t even think before approaching him.

No one’s surprised.

Rozanov plays like he owns the game. Like the court was built for him.

Off the court, it’s not much different.

It’s obvious to everyone that he’s only here to play basketball.

He skips classes whenever he feels like it, doesn’t study, doesn’t even pretend to care, and still passes everything. Professors bend over backwards for him—giving him extensions, private tutoring, one-on-one sessions—anything to keep him eligible. Because if he can’t play, Duke loses.

No one wants to be the professor responsible for benching their number one player over a missed paper or a failed exam.

Because with him on the team, they win. It’s that simple.

They’ve been dominating ever since he stepped onto campus. Last season, they won almost every single game and the NCAA championship title, thanks to the then-18-year-old star. ESPN dubbed him the “king of March Madness” for his heroics in the tournament. He was the player that analysts, fans, and scouts couldn’t stop talking about. 

Now, Rozanov is returning to Duke for his sophomore year in hopes of back-to-back NCAA titles before declaring for the draft this summer.

Colin is… fine. Solid. Reliable. As a senior, he’s the kind of player coaches like for his maturity in the locker room, but scouts don’t care about. He knows he’s not going to the NBA. He’s made his peace with that.

But Rozanov?

Rozanov is a shooting guard averaging 22 points, 3 rebounds, and 5 assists per game. He’s a fucking beast. He has scouts watching his every move, and everyone is 100% sure he will be the #1 overall draft pick.

However, Colin doesn’t give a shit about that. 

He is not thinking about Rozanov because he’s in awe of his captain, because of-fucking-course he’s the captain even though he’s only a sophomore. The novelty of that wore off a while ago. They’re teammates, so they talk and joke sometimes. They’re fine.

Friendly, but not friends. Just teammates. 

No, Colin is thinking about Rozanov because his boyfriend of almost three years, Shane, is paired with him for a photography project.

And that sits wrong in his chest in a way he can’t quite shake.

It’s stupid, objectively.

Does Colin think Shane would cheat on him? No. Not even a little. 

Shane is too good for that. He’s too kind, too soft, too painfully sincere. He follows rules to the letter. He’s predictable, safe, and steady. Sometimes boring, if Colin’s being honest, but in a way that’s always felt comforting.

Trust him, he loves his boyfriend even if he thinks that about him.

But, does he think Rozanov will flirt with him and make him flustered? Absolutely. 

Rozanov—along with being a fucking menace on the court—is a fuckboy through and through. To be quite honest, Duke has not seen a manwhore like him in years. 

Since he arrived on campus last year, he’s run through every sorority and women’s sports team, before moving on to other girls and sometimes, guys. Because, of course, he’s also bi. 

But the most infuriating part of that is he’s not above sleeping with his teammates’ girlfriends. He’s slept with three different teammates’ girlfriends. 

Three. 

(Did Colin mention he’s only a sophomore?)

He doesn’t do it quietly, either. He goads them about it, pushes just enough to make it sting, then pulls back when it starts getting actually heated.

Every time it blows up, it ends the same way—Coach Wilson steps in, forcing an apology, and Rozanov delivers it with that same infuriating smirk.

If it had been any other player, Coach Wilson would’ve benched them, punished them, or even kicked them off the team after the second incident. 

But Rozanov isn’t anyone else. He’s the golden boy.

Colin remembers one of those apologies clearly, because he’d been standing right there when it happened. The locker room had gone quiet in that tense, suffocating way, everyone pretending not to watch while absolutely watching.

Rozanov had leaned back against the lockers, completely at ease, arms crossed, that smirk still playing at his mouth.

“Sorry for fucking your girl,” he’d said, casual as anything.

And the teammate—humiliated, furious, trapped—had no choice but to nod and accept it, because what else was he supposed to do?

Colin remembers thinking, even then, that Rozanov didn’t just get away with these things.

He enjoyed it.

Which is exactly why the idea of him anywhere near Shane makes something ugly twist in Colin’s chest, sharp and persistent, no matter how much he tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter.

______________

Shane offhandedly tells him about the project that makes Colin think too much about Rozanov on a random Tuesday in March. 

They’re sitting at their favorite café near the campus, the one with the chipped wooden tables and overpriced drinks that Shane insists taste better than anywhere else. 

Colin always orders the same thing. Shane never does because he likes trying new drinks. Today, it’s some overly complicated iced thing topped with whipped cream and caramel drizzle.

Colin loves Shane. He really does.

They’ve been together since early sophomore year. They’ve known each other since their freshman year. But then, they only knew of each other, had different friend groups, and different lives until they ran into each other again at a mutual friend’s birthday party during their second year at Duke. 

It had been easy from the start—too easy, maybe. They clicked instantly. 

Shane had smiled at him across a crowded room, and that had been it. 

He is everything he’d want in a stable partner. 

He shows up to every home game, even the ones Colin barely gets minutes in. He sits through them all the same, cheering just as loud, texting him after, telling him he did great even when he didn’t. He’s always there after losses, too, soft and patient in a way that makes it impossible for Colin to stay in a bad mood for long.

He’s also a double major in journalism and English—because of course he is—and he wants to be a journalist. Colin supports him. 

He does. Privately, though, he thinks the odds of Shane actually making it are… not great.

Fifteen percent, maybe. Twenty if he’s being generous.

It’s not that Shane isn’t talented. He is. 

He’s a genuinely good writer who has even won several awards and scholarships for his writing. Colin reads all his articles for the Duke student paper, even the long ones, even the ones he doesn’t fully understand. But the industry is brutal, and Colin knows that. He knows you need connections, timing, luck, and that extra something not everyone has.

Something Shane, who is introverted and sometimes a little too comfortable fading into the background, doesn’t quite have.

But it doesn’t really matter. Colin himself is a finance major, and he’s sure he can easily get a job on Wall Street, because who the hell wouldn’t want to hire a Duke graduate with a couple of internships under his belt? 

So, they’ll be fine. Colin is ready to support them, if necessary, to an extent. 

“Hey, do you have Rozanov’s phone number?”

Colin blinks. “What?” he asks, frowning like maybe he misheard him. “Why do you want his number?”

Shane doesn’t notice anything is off. He’s too busy absentmindedly dragging his finger through the whipped cream on his drink before licking it off. It’s such a normal, stupid little thing, and for some reason, it irritates Colin more than it should.

“Remember that photojournalism class I’m taking?” Shane says. “He’s in it, and we got paired for a project.”

Colin’s stomach tightens, just slightly. “He’s only a sophomore, why is he in a class with you?”

“It’s mandatory for graduation, but didn’t fit into my schedule until this spring,” Shane said. “I guess he’s taking it as an elective? I’ve literally never seen him show up,” he continues, “so I need to text him or something, or I’m going to end up doing everything myself.”

Colin leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Why can’t you just do it on your own?”

Now Shane looks up, properly frowning. “Why would I do that?” he asks. “It’s a team project. I’m not doing double the work because he’s a shitty partner. And we only have, like, five weeks.”

Colin lets out a quiet grunt, looking away for a second, jaw tightening. He doesn’t want to give him the number. He knows that’s ridiculous. He knows it. But knowing it doesn’t make him feel any less annoyed.

Because it’s not about the project, it’s about Rozanov.

“Fine,” Colin says after a second, ripping his phone out of his jacket pocket. “I’ll give it to you. But you have to promise you’ll only talk to him about the project.”

Shane pauses. “What else would I talk to him about?” he asks, genuinely confused.

Colin doesn’t answer. He just looks at him pointedly.

It takes a second, and then Shane huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Babe,” he says, softer now, reaching across the table to nudge Colin’s hand. “Please have a little faith in me.”

Colin doesn’t move his hand, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“I’m not going to let him flirt with me,” Shane continues. “And besides, I’m definitely not his type.”

Colin raises an eyebrow at that, skeptical, but Shane just smiles, easy and sure of himself.

“Just help me,” he adds. “I’ll buy you dinner.”

He exhales through his nose, already giving in even though he doesn’t want to admit it. He would never turn down a free dinner. 

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters.

He scrolls for a second, finds Rozanov’s contact, hesitates for half a beat longer than necessary, and then sends it.

______________

Colin soon forgets about it because Shane never brings it up. 

He doesn’t offer any updates, complaints, or mentions of Rozanov blowing him off, meeting up, or anything in between. 

So Colin keeps moving—practice, classes, studying, part-time job. The project fades into the background, filed away as something small, something temporary, something that doesn’t actually matter.

Out of sight, out of mind.

It’s not until a few days after, when he’s in the gym working out, that he—Rozanov himself—brings it up.

The Russian approaches him near the water fountain. He’s damp with sweat, curls darker and clinging slightly to his forehead, his loose muscle tank sticking to his abs. He looks like he just walked off the court, and it’s unfair that he looks this good without trying.

“You give my number to your boyfriend?” he says, mildly annoyed, like it’s a small inconvenience instead of anything serious.

Colin almost chokes. He pulls back from the water fountain, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, blinking at him.

Is he mad?

“Uh- yeah, did he text you?” Colin asked.

Rozanov nods once, expression unimpressed.“He text me every day,” he says, accent thick, words clipped in that careless way of his. “He bothers me. Ask when we meet for stupid project.”

Colin frowns, straightening a little. “Well… yeah,” he says. “You’re his partner, right? Just meet up with him and work on it.”

Rozanov exhales through his nose, clearly annoyed, like the idea alone is exhausting. He shifts his weight, glancing away for a second before looking back at Colin, eyes sharp.

“Make him stop, yes?” he says. “You tell him.”

Colin huffs out a quiet, incredulous sound. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not telling him to stop trying to do his assignment.”

There’s a brief pause as Colin hesitates, something flickering across his face before he can quite stop it. He presses his lips together, then lets out a breath, like he’s about to say something he probably shouldn’t.

“Look,” he starts, lowering his voice slightly, like it matters. “Shane’s… particular about this stuff.”

Rozanov watches him, expression unreadable.

“He’s kind of a pushover,” Colin adds, shrugging lightly. “So if you just show up once—just once—and act like you care, he’ll do most of the work himself.”

He knows he shouldn’t say this about his boyfriend, but it’s true. Shane has always been someone people can walk all over; Colin has done it quite a bit himself. It’s just the way things are. 

Besides, saying this will make things easier for Shane.

Rozanov raises his eyebrows, slow and deliberate. “Wow,” he says. “You say this about your boyfriend?”

Colin shrugs again, a little sharper this time. “It’s the truth,” he says. “I’m helping you out.”

He shifts his grip on his water bottle, glancing away for half a second before continuing, tone more casual than he feels.

“If you want to get away with doing the bare minimum, just meet up with him. Be a decent partner for, like, an hour. Help with edits or something. He’ll take it from there.”

Rozanov doesn’t respond right away, but then he nods again.

“Okay,” he says simply.

Then, he turns and walks off, already pulling his phone out of his pocket.

________

It starts small, okay?

After that conversation with Rozanov, nothing changes at first. The first week passes the way it always does, and the familiar excitement of his last season and last year in college stretches out in front of him. He still sees Shane and falls into the same easy routines with him.

Then the second rolls in. 

It’s not obvious at first. There’s no single moment he can point to, no concrete shift that feels different enough to justify the faint, almost imperceptible twinge in his stomach, something small enough that he doesn’t consciously register it, a quiet dread building in his subconscious.

Shane is busy, and so is he. 

That part isn’t unusual. They’ve done this before—gone a couple of days without really talking when things get hectic, especially during March Madness last year. It’s never been a big deal. They always circle back to each other eventually, like it’s just understood.

Except, it’s not like Colin is drowning in it right now. He’s not getting much playing time lately. He’s still at practice, still showing up, still doing everything he’s supposed to do, but it’s not the same kind of consuming, exhausting busyness that justifies radio silence. 

So, on the third day of complete silence from his boyfriend, he sends a text.

Me: hey babe, are u okay?

The message sends. The little “delivered” pops up immediately.

Then, nothing.

Colin tosses his phone onto his bed, tries to distract himself, and flips through something on TV he’s not actually watching. He tells himself Shane’s probably in class or working on something. Or just forgot.

It’s fine. 

Two hours later, his phone buzzes.

Colin grabs it a little too quickly.

Shane <3: Hi! I’m fine. I’ve just been really busy with classes. I know we have to meet up soon. I miss you. 

Me: yeah, what about tn? At Izzy’s?

Shane <3: Yay! I love that place. I’ll pick you up at 6?

Me: perfect. can u pay? I don’t get paid until next friday

It takes Shane five minutes to respond.

Shane <3: sure :) 

Me: thanks! Love u

Read

The message shows as read almost immediately. Colin watches the screen for a second longer than he means to, waiting without fully admitting to himself that he’s waiting.

Nothing comes after.

No “love you too,” no follow-up, no anything. Just read, sitting there where a response should be.

Colin tells himself it doesn’t matter. It’s small. It’s nothing. But the feeling from earlier settles a little deeper in his chest, still small, but growing harder to ignore.

________

That night at Izzy’s, a nice little Italian place that he had taken Shane to on their first date, Colin notices something.

The restaurant looks exactly the same—dim lighting, warm tones, the quiet clink of silverware, and low hum of conversation—but something about it feels different anyway. Or maybe it’s just Colin.

Shane looks good. Really good.

He’s wearing this soft yellow sweater that makes him look warmer somehow, softer, paired with his usual little backpack slung over one shoulder like he just came from class. His hair is slightly messy, like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and when he smiles at Colin from across the entrance, it’s the same easy, familiar smile Colin has known for years.

Colin realizes he actually missed his boyfriend during the nearly three days they had little contact. He never really misses Shane, not because he doesn’t appreciate him or because he doesn’t love him, but because he makes himself available to Colin most of the time.

There’s never really been space to miss him.

Now that he thinks about it, most of the silences he’d brushed off before weren’t mutual. They were his. Times when he had been distant, he had been busy, he had taken a step back, and Shane had just… waited.

In the almost-three years they’ve been together, Shane has been the one putting in the effort in their relationship. 

Not that Colin doesn’t do his share, he does. He pays for dates when Shane can’t, and he’s pretty sure he’s there for Shane when he needs him. But most of the heavy lifting falls on his boyfriend, which now makes him feel slightly guilty.

He should try to be a better boyfriend. 

“So,” he starts, casually, like this hasn’t been sitting in the back of his mind all evening, “what have you been busy with? I haven’t heard much from you in three days, which is unlike you.” He throws in a grin to soften it, make it sound lighthearted.

Shane ducks his head a little, fingers brushing the edge of the menu even though he’s not really looking at it. He takes a second to answer.

“Just classes and the newspaper,” he says. “Senior year’s kind of riding me a little too hard.”

Colin nods because he understands. Senior year has been hard on him, too. Although he can’t quite grasp why Shane would be that busy. Journalism can’t be that hard, especially not compared to finance.

“I get it, I’ve been pretty busy too,” he said.

They order food, falling into a familiar rhythm. Shane tries something new, like he always does, asking a question or two about it like he’s following a lead, while Colin orders the same thing he always gets without even glancing at the menu. 

They talk easily after that: classes, professors, random campus drama, their families (whom they still haven’t introduced each other to for reasons neither of them really brings up), and other small stories that don’t matter but feel important in the moment.

It’s good. It feels normal. The twinge is no longer there. 

Eventually, the conversation shifts, as it always does, to basketball.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna get much playing time this season,” Colin says with a shrug, like it doesn’t bother him. “It’s fine.”

It mostly is. Basketball has always been his thing, but now that he’s a senior and it’s clear he’s not going any further with it, it’s easier to let go. He’s just playing because he loves it and wants to have stories to tell his colleagues at the water cooler.

“You think anyone from your team will make it to the NBA?” Shane asks, taking a bite of his tiramisu, eyes curious in that earnest way Colin’s always liked.

“Rozy,” Colin said immediately. “Guy’s a beast.”

“Who?” Shane frowns adorably.

“Rozanov,” Colin clarifies, reaching over to steal a bite of Shane’s dessert without asking. “He’s really good. You know that. Doesn’t the student newspaper talk about him all the time?”

“Oh, yeah, I know he’s good,” Shane says. “I just didn’t know his nickname. I heard from the sports writers that there’s buzz about him going to the NBA. How does that work?”

Colin smiles; he loves that Shane is so clueless about these things. He loves explaining it to him—it makes him feel a little smarter.

“It’s basically all about scouting and draft stock,” Colin says, leaning forward slightly, settling into the explanation. “NBA teams have scouts that watch college players all season, sometimes even before that, like in high school or international leagues. They’re looking at everything—stats, obviously, but also how consistent you are, how you play under pressure, your decision-making, your physical build, all that.”

He gestures vaguely with his hand, getting into it now.

“For someone like Rozanov, it’s kind of a done deal already. He’s putting up like twenty points a game, solid assists, decent rebounds, and he’s doing it against top teams. That matters. And he’s got the size, the athleticism, the whole package. Scouts love that.”

He pauses just long enough to take a sip of his drink before continuing.

“Then there’s the draft itself. Teams pick in order, usually based on how bad they did the previous season. Worst teams pick first. So if you’re projected as the number one pick, it means you’re basically considered the best player available in that class.”

He leans back slightly, shrugging.

“And right now, that’s him.”

“Wow,” he says quietly, almost to himself, eyes dropping back down to his dessert as he nudges his spoon through it. “That’s cool that he can be… that.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes Colin’s smile falter for half a second, something almost distant, like Shane is in awe of Rozanov, and not in a friendly way. 

“Yeah,” Colin says, brushing it off with a small shrug as he fully leans back in his seat. “I guess it’s exciting.”

Shane nods slowly, still looking down, like he’s turning the idea over in his head. Then he glances back up, curiosity slipping back into place, familiar and easy.

“Isn’t he Russian?” he asks. “Won’t he have to go back during the summer? Does the NBA give out work visas?”

Colin huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head a little, settling back into that same comfortable rhythm of explaining.

“Yeah, they do,” he says. “It’s actually pretty common. There are a lot of international players in the NBA. The teams handle most of it. If a guy gets drafted, the organization sponsors his visa, usually something like a P-1, which is for professional athletes.”

He gestures in the air with his fork, not really thinking about it, just talking.

“So he wouldn’t have to go back unless he wanted to. Once he’s drafted, he’s basically tied to that team, living wherever they’re based, playing full-time. They take care of all the logistics—housing, travel, paperwork. It’s a whole system.”

He pauses, then adds, almost as an afterthought, “Honestly, for someone like him, it’s not even a question. Teams will line everything up before he even officially signs. He’s too valuable not to.”

Shane nods again, slower this time, absorbing it. “That’s… kind of crazy,” he says, a little softer, like he’s impressed in a way he didn’t expect to be.

Colin watches him for a second, something flickering in his chest again—that same small twist he can’t quite name—before he looks away, picking at his food like it doesn’t matter.

“So, how’s your project with him going?” Colin asks, because listen—

Listen.

Listen. 

Listen.

Shane would never cheat on him. He just wouldn’t. Especially not with Rozanov, the sophomore NBA-bound manwhore who probably has 10 STDs. Colin knows that. He knows Shane—knows how he thinks, how he moves, how he is. He’s too good, too honest, too… Shane to do something like that.

But that stupid twinge in his heart and that look Shane is giving him make him question whether Rozanov is making moves on his boyfriend. 

“It’s fine,” he says easily, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “We met up last week, and he was nice enough. We've been texting about it.”

Colin nods slowly, forcing his expression to stay neutral, even as something tightens behind his ribs.

“Yeah?” he says, still clinging to his casual demeanor. “That’s good.”

Shane smiles a little, glancing down at his plate before continuing, completely unaware of the shift happening across the table from him.

“He’s actually more passionate than I thought he’d be,” he adds. “We’ve been meeting up quite a bit. He’s a good partner for this.”

And Colin’s blood runs fucking cold.

Because no.

No, that’s not right.

Ilya-fucking-Rozanov is not fucking passionate about photojournalism, or whatever made-up class this project is for. He is not meeting up “quite a bit” for a class project. He is not a “good partner” for anything that doesn’t involve a basketball and a scoreboard.

He is terrible. He doesn’t answer texts or calls. He doesn’t meet up with anyone or contribute anything. But he still gets his name slapped on it anyway because he’s Ilya Rozanov, and Duke owes their last basketball championship run to him. 

So what the fuck is Shane talking about?

Colin feels his grip tighten slightly around his fork, the metal pressing into his fingers as he stares at Shane for a second too long before catching himself.

“That’s… surprising,” he says finally, voice steady, controlled, even though his head is already spinning. “Didn’t think he’d care that much.”

Shane shrugs, still relaxed, still completely normal. “Yeah, I didn’t either,” he says. “But he’s been really engaged. He’s got a lot of ideas, actually.”

Colin swallows back the sour taste creeping up the back of his throat and forces himself to nod like this is fine, like this is just a weird but harmless change in behavior.

But his mind is already running through it, fast and sharp and ugly.

Rozanov doesn’t do things without a reason.

And Shane—

Shane is exactly the kind of person that’s easy to fuck with. He’s earnest, kind, and completely oblivious when someone’s flirting with him.

Even though he wants to interrogate his boyfriend further, Colin lets it go for the night because maybe he’s overreacting. 

____________________

He was not overreacting.

It’s been three weeks since Shane started working with Rozanov. In those three weeks, something shifted for Colin. 

Shane had become a little distant. He wasn’t outright ignoring him or pushing him aside, or even doing anything obvious enough to point to, but that was exactly why it stood out. Shane had always been available to him, always present in a way that felt constant and reliable, so Colin noticed the subtle difference in the small things. 

He noticed when replies took longer than they used to, when Shane glanced down at his phone mid-conversation and typed something out instead of paying attention, when his responses felt absent-minded instead of thoughtful, like he was only half listening.

There was also a shift on the court. 

Rozanov is an asshole. That part is normal, and that part has always been true. He’s an asshole to everyone—sharp, aggressive, constantly on people’s asses, pushing, trash-talking, never letting anyone get comfortable. That’s just how he leads. That’s how he plays.

But what’s not normal is the way he’s been treating Colin. Now he’s being an asshole to Colin specifically.

It started in practice. During scrimmages, during drills, anytime Rozanov has even the smallest excuse to open his mouth. 

He calls out Colin’s mistakes faster and louder than anyone else’s, like he’s just waiting for him to fuck up. Every missed shot, every slow reaction, every slightly off pass, he’s on him immediately.

During a scrimmage one practice, he made the mistake of dribbling too slowly while eyeing the basket, allowing another player to steal the ball for an easy layup. It immediately— 

“What was that?” Rozanov barked, voice carrying across the court, sharp enough to cut through the sound of sneakers squeaking and balls bouncing. “You are open, you shoot. Is simple, no?”

Colin clenched his jaw, already turning to run back, choosing not to respond.

The next possession wasn’t any better. He hesitated for half a second too long before making a pass, second-guessing the angle, and it got tipped.

Rozanov was on him again before the ball had even fully changed possession.

“You think too slow,” he snapped, clapping his hands once in frustration. “By the time you decide, play already over. This is why your ass warms bench.”

A few of the guys laughed under their breath, not maliciously, not really, but enough.

That was how it always went. The team laughs, they always do, because that’s just how Rozanov is.

No one says anything or even notices, but Colin does because Rozanov’s never had a problem with him before.

They weren’t close, but they were fine. He wasn’t one of the guys Rozanov targeted for fun. He wasn’t one of the ones constantly getting dragged, pushed, and tested just to see how far he’d bend before he’d break. Most of the time, he barely registered on Rozanov’s radar at all.

That was Blake Ryan’s job.

Ryan has always had it out for Rozanov, ever since he arrived last year, when it became painfully clear who the better player was. He thought he deserved everything Rozanov got—the captaincy, the attention, the guaranteed future.

Rozanov barely tolerates and relentlessly makes fun of him. Ryan hates him. But they work together on the court, like teammates who don’t need to like each other to win.

That’s how it’s always been.

But now? Now it feels like Colin is Rozanov’s number one fucking enemy.

And, there’s only one thing that’s changed in the previous three weeks.

Shane.

Rozanov met him. He’s partnered with him on this stupid photography project. He talks to him regularly—if Colin is to believe the long, scrolling thread of messages he caught a glimpse of over Shane’s shoulder one night, blue and gray bubbles stretching far longer than any “just for a project” conversation should.

And if Colin is to trust his instincts, Rozanov has the hots for his boyfriend.

The thought makes something hot and sharp coil in his chest.

Because why the hell is he the one paying for this? Why is he the one dealing with the fallout of having a boyfriend that Rozanov suddenly has his eye on?

Colin is tired.

Tired of the constant jabs, the way Rozanov watches him now, the way everything feels just slightly off balance in a way he can’t fix by pretending it’s nothing. He’s not going to confront him—not yet, not directly.

But he’s not going to just sit there and take it either. So he does the next best thing— he tries to beat Rozanov at his own game.

They have a game against Connecticut that night in March Madness, and Colin makes sure Shane is there. Not just there, but visible: front and center in the stands, wearing Colin’s jersey like always.

Making it obvious that he belongs to Colin. 

Colin plays more than usual that night. Not a lot, but enough minutes to hear Shane cheering for him, his voice cutting through the noise in a way Colin can always pick out without trying.

They win, of course. 

Rozanov drops thirty fucking points like it’s nothing, like he always does, and the crowd is losing their minds for him, chanting his name, feeding into that same unstoppable presence he carries every game. 

The commentators go crazy for him as well.

“....Rozanov with the steal, he’s got numbers, goes coast-to-coast. This kid is unreal tonight.”

“Connecticut tries to double-team him, but it doesn’t matter. He threads a no-look pass through traffic and Duke extends the lead.”

“Twenty-eight points now for Rozanov, and counting. He is completely taking over this game.”

But Colin isn’t watching the crowd. He’s watching Rozanov, and he sees it plainly. The way Rozanov’s eyes drift, just slightly, just for a second too long, toward the section where Shane is sitting. Not once, but multiple times, as if he knows exactly where he is, and he’s looking for him.

After the game, everything moves quickly. 

The noise and adrenaline bleed together as people crowd the court, teammates clapping each other on the back, voices overlapping in celebration. It’s the kind of chaos Colin is used to, the kind he usually lets wash over him without thinking, but tonight, he doesn’t linger in it. 

He finds Shane when the game ends, determined to end this stupid hostility Rozanov has for him once and for all. He closes the distance between them in a few quick steps, reaches for him without thinking too hard about it, and kisses him. It’s not soft or easy or routine the way their kisses usually are. 

It’s sweaty, messy, and passionate.

Shane startles for a brief second, caught off guard, but melts into the kiss almost immediately, hands coming up instinctively, tugging on his jersey. Colin leans into that, carrying on for longer than necessary.

When he finally pulls back, hands still resting on Shane, breathing a little uneven, he doesn’t look at him.

He looks past him and straight at Rozanov.

The smirk that pulls at Colin’s mouth is subtle, but it’s there, and he knows that Rozanov saw it. That he didn’t miss a second of it. For a brief moment, it feels like a win, like Colin finally got something over him.

But then he actually looks at him.

And something about it feels… off.

Rozanov isn’t reacting the way Colin expected. To be fair, Colin isn’t even sure what he expected—he’s never been in a situation like this before—but whatever he imagined, it wasn’t this.

Rozanov is just standing there, completely still, his expression blank in a way that feels pained, like he’s actively holding something back rather than just not feeling anything at all. There’s no cocky smirk, no arrogance, none of that easy confidence he always carries. It’s not even the sharp, focused look he gets during games.

He expected Rozanov to roll his eyes or to show that he’s lost interest. To see Shane kissing him back just as passionately and realize that Shane is Colin’s and he is not someone he can fuck and dump. That he can’t ruin their relationship.

Because Rozanov is an asshole, and he fucks his teammates’ girlfriends, but even he has rules. He doesn’t fuck anyone who doesn’t want him. He won’t waste his energy chasing anyone. That’s just not how he operates.

But if the look on his face means anything, it’s that this time it might be different.

For a very brief moment, a ridiculous thought passes through Colin.

Does Rozanov have feelings for Shane?

________________

It’s the beginning of April, and Duke is dominating March Madness. 

They’re closing in on back-to-back Championship wins, and honestly, no one is surprised. Not with Rozanov playing the way he is. Not with the way the team revolves around him like the sun.

That’s all fine and great. 

What he actually feels relief about—real, genuine relief—is that the five weeks of hell are finally over.

Shane’s project with Rozanov is done.

Colin had been counting down to this moment since he first gave Rozanov’s number to his boyfriend. He had told himself, over and over, that whatever this was—this weird tension, this shift in behavior, this feeling in his chest—would end with the project.

That once they didn’t have a reason to see each other anymore, things would go back to normal.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. Rozanov isn’t blatantly bullying him during practices anymore.

No, that would be easier to deal with. Now he is psychologically torturing him.

It started a week ago, at the end of March, before the end of the project. 

He walks into practice and sees it sitting there, casually placed on the bench—an iced caramel macchiato from that café he and Shane always go to. It’s not that weird. The place is popular. Plenty of people go there.

Colin barely thinks twice about it. Until Rozanov picks it up and drinks it. That’s when it stops being nothing.

Because Rozanov doesn’t drink iced coffee. He doesn’t drink sweet coffee at all. Colin knows this for a fact because he’s heard him bitch about it more than once.

“Russians do not drink this.” That’s what he always says.

Yet here he is, taking slow, deliberate sips like he’s savoring it, like it actually tastes good, all while staring straight at Colin.

He tries to ignore it. He really does. He looks away, focuses on his shoes, his bag, the floor. Literally anything else.

But of course, Rozanov opens his mouth.

“Your boyfriend like coffee, yes?”

Colin frowns, caught off guard by how direct that is. “What?”

Rozanov shrugs like it means nothing, already turning away. “Nothing.”

It’s not “nothing.”

That’s only the beginning. Now, every practice, he says or does something that makes Colin feel like he’s an unwitting participant in the Stanford prison experiment. 

He comes to practice with more iced coffees, and it’s from the same cafe every time. Then Rozanov, out of nowhere, tells someone—loud enough for Colin to hear—that he’s been listening to Sabrina Carpenter lately, that someone made him a playlist, and now he “kind of like it.” He even hums one of the songs under his breath during warmups.

Shane loves Sabrina Carpenter. His favorite is “Manchild,” and he sings it to himself a lot.

It has to be a coincidence, right? …What a coincidence.

Because why would his boyfriend be making a playlist for Ilya Rozanov?

Then, he shows up to practice with a take-out bag from Izzy’s. Which doesn’t even make sense, because they’re not supposed to bring food into the locker room.

Colin doesn’t react to his antics outwardly.

But inside, it feels like he’s being picked apart piece by piece, like Rozanov is pulling treasured details from Shane and holding them up just enough for Colin to see.

Like he’s saying, without saying—

I know him too. I want him just as much as you do. I will get him. 

It all comes to a head when they’re in the locker room after practice.Rozanov walks past him, toweling off his hair, not even looking at him when he speaks.

“He say you are always late,” he mutters.

Colin stiffens. “Who?”

Rozanov glances at him then, just briefly, blue-green eyes bright with mischief.

“Relax,” he says, like it’s a joke. “Is joke.”

Except it’s not a fucking joke, and he’s not fucking laughing like something’s fucking funny because he was late for a date with Shane recently.

Was Shane talking to Rozanov about their problems? Did they have problems? Why is Rozanov saying it like that? How much do they talk?

“Rozanov,” Colin calls out, sharper now, his control slipping.

Rozanov turns around and raises an eyebrow.

“He’s mine,” he says, voice tight with thinly veiled anger. “So back the fuck off.”

His signature smirk spreads across his face. That annoying, cocky smirk Colin now wants to punch from his face. 

“Not for long,” he said casually before walking away.

___________

That night, Colin goes over to Shane’s small on-campus apartment, and the second the door opens, he’s already inside, already moving, already too wound up to think about how he looks.

He doesn’t kiss him. He doesn’t even try.

“Are you okay?” Shane asks immediately, brows pulling together as he closes the door behind him, already sensing something’s wrong. 

“No,” Colin snaps, pacing a few steps into the room before turning back toward him. “I’m not fucking okay.”

Shane blinks at that, caught off guard by the sharpness of it, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he steps closer, concern written all over his face. That’s just the kind of boyfriend he is, and Colin loves him for that. 

But right now, he is too pissed.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, softer this time, like he’s trying not to make it worse.

Colin lets out a short, humorless laugh, dragging a hand through his hair.

“What’s wrong?” he repeats. “What’s wrong is whatever the fuck is going on between you and Rozanov!”

Shane freezes for a second, like the question didn’t land right, like he wasn’t expecting that. 

“What do you mean?” he says quickly. “Nothing is going on.”

Colin just stares at him.

Shane exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, already starting to backtrack, trying to explain. “We’re… friends, I guess,” he adds. “But not close or anything.”

Colin lets out another laugh, sharper this time, disbelief bleeding in genuine anger.

“Oh, really?” he says. “You’re not meeting up with him at cafés? At Izzy’s? You’re not texting him all the time? You’re not telling him about our shit?”

Shane’s expression shifts, confusion flickering into something more defensive.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, voice rising slightly. “He’s a friend, okay? Am I not allowed to have friends now?”

“I never said that,” Colin shoots back immediately, stepping closer now, frustration building in his chest. “I don’t care when you hang out with Rose or Hayden. I’ve never complained about them. You know why?”

Shane doesn’t answer and Colin doesn’t wait for a response. 

“Because they don’t want to fuck you,” Colin spits, the words coming out harsher than he even intends.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Ilya does not want to fuck me,” Shane says, incredulous, like the idea is genuinely ridiculous. “You’re being paranoid.”

Colin scoffs, shaking his head, already ready to argue back, but Shane steps in before he can, his voice softening, familiar, steady calm shifting into his expression. 

“Hey,” Shane says, quieter now. “He’s not someone you need to worry about, okay?”

Colin’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“I would never do anything with him,” Shane continues, holding his gaze. “He’s not even my type.” He reaches for Colin’s hand, tentative but sure. “You are,” he adds. “I love you. He’s just a friend, and he’s nice to me.”

Colin looks at his boyfriend, and he sees the sincerity in his eyes. He knows he is telling the truth because, considering everything, Shane hasn’t changed much.

He is still the same Shane—kind, caring, loving, and kind of boring. He still calls him every night to check on him if they haven’t seen each other all day. He still cooks dinner for them once a week. He’s still actively doing his part in the relationship.

So, Colin chooses to trust Shane because Shane would never cheat on him, even if it is with Rozanov.

So, he nods. “Okay, I love you too,” he says. “It’s just— he’s just fucking with me, I guess. I don’t know why.”

“Then just ignore him,” he says after a second, easy, practical like always. “It’s April. We’re graduating in, what, five weeks? You won’t even have to deal with him after that.”

“I can talk to him, too,” Shane adds, like it’s the most natural solution in the world. “But I don’t know if that would actually do anything.”

“No, no,” Colin says quickly, shaking his head as he steps forward and pulls Shane into a hug, grounding himself. “It’s fine.”

Shane melts into it immediately, arms wrapping around him without hesitation.

“I can ride it out,” Colin continues, voice muffled slightly against his shoulder. “Basketball’s almost over anyway, and I’m not trying to look like a fucking baby. Like I’m running to my boyfriend because I can’t handle my captain.”

There’s a small pause, and then Shane lets out a quiet laugh against him.

“He wouldn’t think that,” Shane says, amused, like the idea is ridiculous.

Colin pulls back and looks at him before leaning in to kiss him softly, and Shane responds eagerly. He kisses him back.

That night, Colin makes sweet love to Shane.

And all feels right again.

He feels so right, so good that he completely forgets that Rozanov—the most charming piece of shit Duke’s ever seen—told him blatantly that it wouldn’t be long until Shane is his.

_______

“I think we should break up.”

The words hit him like a fucking bomb. No, not just a fucking bomb. A fucking nuclear bomb.

Colin’s head just blanks out for a second because there’s no way he heard that right.

It hasn’t even been a week since that night at Shane’s. Not even a week since everything was supposedly fine, since they said I love you like it meant something solid. And now Shane is sitting across from him at Izzy’s, calm as ever, saying they should break up like he’s talking about the weather.

Colin just stares at him.

“What?” he says finally, the word coming out slower than it should. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Shane doesn’t flinch. Not even a little. Like he expected this. 

“I want to break up with you,” he says, steady, like he’s already made peace with it. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and we’re just not right for each other.”

What the fuck is he talking about right now?

Colin lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head like if he reacts the right way, this will stop being real.

“What the fuck—all of a sudden?” he says, heat already creeping into his voice.

Shane’s expression tightens slightly, not angry, just… disappointed.

“If you think this is sudden, then that’s all the more reason to break up,” he says. “Things haven’t been okay for a while. You should’ve picked up on that.”

Colin’s jaw clenches. “Things have been exactly the same since the beginning,” he snaps, leaning forward slightly. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Exactly,” Shane says, and there’s something sharper in his voice now. “That’s the problem.”

Colin blinks at him, thrown by that more than anything else.

“We’re about to graduate in a few weeks,” Shane continues, gesturing slightly with his hand. “Then what? What happens after that?”

Colin frowns, like that’s obvious.

“I thought we agreed we were moving to New York together,” he says. “You know I already have a job lined up there.”

Shane shakes his head immediately. “No, you agreed,” he says. “I didn’t.”

That lands harder than it should.

“I don’t want to be in New York,” Shane continues, more firmly now. “I don’t have a job there. I don’t have anything there. It would just be you, and I just—then what, Colin? What about me? How am I supposed to survive there?”

Colin leans back slightly, frustration building. “You’d have me,” he says, like that should be enough, like that’s the answer. “Isn’t that enough?”

Shane looks at him for a long second, and there’s something almost sad in it. “No,” he says quietly. “It’s not.”

Colin’s chest tightens. 

“You want me to depend on you?” Shane adds, shaking his head. “I’m not doing that. I won’t do that to myself.”

There’s a pause, heavy and uncomfortable.

“This is for the best,” Shane continues, softer now but no less certain. “For both of us. It’s been nice. It’s been fun. But it’s just not going to work in the long term.”

Colin doesn’t even think before he speaks next.

“Is there someone else?”

It comes out harsher than he intends, but he doesn’t take it back.

Shane exhales, like he expected that. “No,” he says. “There’s no one else, okay? Absolutely no one.”

Colin watches him, searching his face, looking for something that doesn’t line up.

“You’re just not the right one for me,” Shane finishes. “We want different things. And you’re… You haven’t been a good boyfriend or partner to me.”

Shane gets up, drops a ten-dollar bill, and walks out like he’s bored. Like this doesn’t affect him.

What the fuck?
________________

The next three weeks, Colin does his best to survive. 

At first, he’s broken. His friends rally around him, telling him he could do so much better, that Shane’s boring ass was holding him back anyway, that it’s probably for the best. And yeah, maybe they’re right. 

Colin knows he could do better. But he still misses Shane. They were close to their third anniversary, and then they’d just ended like that.

It doesn’t feel right. He feels wronged because he hadn’t seen it coming at all. That’s the part that irks him the most by week two.

He’s just mad that Shane was the one who broke up with him, that he hadn’t picked up on clues that were supposedly there. It’s kind of embarrassing to be broken up with by him.

So, he goes out with his friends and picks up some girls and some cute guys. He drinks. He lives. He’s doing everything he wasn’t able to do because he had been in a relationship for the better part of his college years.

He’s getting over the breakup.

Classes are coming to an end, finals are over, graduation is in a week, and Duke wins the championship—thanks to Rozanov. In August, he will head down to New York City for a fresh start. 

He’s happy, and he doesn’t need Shane. 

It’s good, actually. 

He’s great.

Until that photo drops.

It’s like any other day, he’s hanging out with his friends at their apartment, playing NBA 2K, and drinking beers. He’s having fun, relishing in the last moments of being a college student, when one of his friends, Andy, lets out a small gasp.

“What the fuck?” He says, looking at Colin.

Colin glances over, not really concerned. “What?” he asks, taking another sip.

“Look,” he says finally, turning his phone around.

Colin leans forward slightly, already reaching for it—

And then he freezes.

The beer bottle nearly slips out of his hand.

Because on his screen is Rozanov’s Instagram, and the picture is of his arms around Shane, his EX of barely THREE weeks. His head is tilted just slightly, lips pressed to Shane’s temple, casual but intimate in a way that makes Colin’s stomach drop out of his ass.

Shane is leaning into him, smiling. He looks happy, like he belongs there.

Colin doesn’t even realize he’s stopped breathing.

Then his eyes drop to the caption.

finally mine <3

“What the fuck?” Colin says, but it comes out wrong, tight and strangled like something’s caught in his throat. “No—no, fucking way. It hasn’t even been a month.”

He’s already reaching for the phone before he’s finished speaking, snatching it out of Andy’s hand like if he looks at it closer, it’ll somehow change. 

It doesn’t. If anything, it gets worse.

He zooms in on the photo, eyes scanning every detail like he’s trying to find something—anything—that looks off.  There’s none.

Colin’s grip tightens around the phone without him realizing it.

His other friend, Tyler, lets out a low whistle. “Rozy got your man,” he says, like this is some kind of joke, like it’s not a fucking disaster. “Is that why he broke up with you?”

Colin snaps his head up, glaring at him, something sharp and ugly flashing in his eyes.

“What do you think?” he shoots back, voice rising before he can stop it. “Fuck—fuck.”

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing a step away and then back again like he can’t stay still.

“I should’ve fucking known,” he mutters, more to himself now. “He was getting close to him, yeah, but I didn’t think—” He lets out a harsh breath. “I didn’t think he’d actually break up with me just to be another one of his fucking conquests.”

Because that’s what this is, right? That’s what Rozanov does.

Andy shifts on the couch, trying to salvage the situation, his tone softer now. “Hey, it’s not gonna last,” he says quickly. “You know how he is. I give it, like, a week. Two, max.”

Colin lets out a hollow laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

Because that means Shane blew up a nearly three-year relationship for this. For something temporary. For someone who’s probably going to get bored and move on like he always does. For a 19-year-old kid. 

Yes, he’s a 19-year-old who is going to be an NBA star, but still only 19!

Colin is left looking like an idiot who didn’t see it coming.

His chest feels tight, too tight, like he can’t get a full breath in, and underneath it all is something burning hot and ugly.

_______________

That burning feeling in his chest doesn’t fade. If anything, it builds, growing hotter the longer he thinks about it, until it’s all he can focus on.

Before Colin can even properly think it through, he’s already on his way to Shane’s apartment, keys in hand, moving on pure impulse. By the time he gets there, his head is buzzing, more than a few beers deep. 

He doesn’t stop to reconsider.

He bangs on the door, hard and impatient, the sound echoing down the hallway. He doesn’t care who hears, doesn’t care about the neighbors, the time, or the fact that this is probably a terrible idea. All he cares about is seeing Shane.

Now.

The door swings open almost immediately.

It’s not Shane. It’s Rozanov.

The sophomore is half-naked, hair still damp like he just got out of the shower, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He looks entirely too comfortable standing there, like he’s been at Shane’s apartment many times.

Colin goes still for half a second, the image registering in the worst possible way.

“Oh,” Rozanov says, his tone casual, almost amused. “Is you.” His gaze lazily drifts over Colin, taking in the tension, the anger, the vein about to explode out of his forehead. “You forget something?”

Colin’s jaw tightens. “Where’s Shane?” he asks sharply.

Rozanov doesn’t move out of the doorway. “Shower,” he says easily, and then his mouth curls into that familiar, infuriating smirk. “We were busy, you know?”

Something in Colin snaps at that.

“Fuck you,” he spits, stepping closer without even thinking about it. “You’re fucking shameless. How do you even sleep at night?”

Rozanov tilts his head slightly, like he’s actually considering the question, like it’s something worth answering.

“Like baby,” he says after a second. “In my boyfriend’s arms.”

Colin lets out a harsh laugh, running a hand through his hair as he tries to process this and keep his anger from boiling over completely.

“You’ll dump him,” he says. “You’ll realize he’s boring, that he’s too much.”

Something shifts in Rozanov’s expression, fast and unmistakable, and his smirk disappears completely.

“Shut up,” he says, his voice low and sharp, cutting through Colin’s words before he can continue.

Colin doesn’t stop. “He’s predictable,” Colin pushes, almost taunting now. “Safe. You won’t want that when you’re—”

Rozanov steps forward, fast enough that Colin actually has to stop talking.

“Do not talk about him like this,” Rozanov says, his voice quieter now. There’s no teasing in it, no amusement, none of that lazy arrogance he usually carries.

Colin stares at him, thrown off for half a second by the shift, but it doesn’t last. “Why?” he scoffs. “Because it’s true?”

Rozanov’s jaw tightens. “You do not know him,” he says.

Colin lets out a disbelieving laugh. “I’ve been with him for almost three years. I was in his life before you even came to Duke. I think I know him better than you.”

“No, you still do not know him,” Rozanov shoots back immediately. “He is not boring,” he continues, quieter now, but just as firm. “He is kind. He is patient. He is easy to love.”

“I told you,” Rozanov continues, like this is just a continuation of a conversation they’ve already had. “I say I will make him mine.”

He shrugs, like it should have been obvious from the start. “Is not my fault you do not listen.”

Colin steps even closer now, his voice dropping, anger sharpened by the bitterness rising out of his chest.

“Does he know?” he asks. “Does he know you’re just playing with him? That this is just another fucking fling for you?”

Rozanov’s expression shifts. The smirk fades into something more serious.

“I am not,” he says.

Colin scoffs immediately. “Bullshit. This is what you do. You fuck people, and you dump them.”

“Yes. That is what I do with other people, but not with Shane. He is mine now,” Rozanov continues, his tone even. “And I want him for long time.”

He pauses briefly, like he’s deciding whether to say more, and then he does. With a fucking smirk. “Maybe since last year when I see him at our game. I remember it. First game of the season, sitting there, looking so pretty. I think, ‘hm, boy is too pretty for American like you. Should be with hot Russian like me.'”

Colin doesn’t have time to act on the rage bubbling inside him before Rozanov continues.

“I—” He pauses again, then lets out a quiet breath, almost amused with himself. “What people say on TikTok.”

He snaps his fingers lightly, like he’s found the right phrasing. “Oh. Right.” His eyes lock onto Colin’s, steady and unwavering. “I plot on him,” he says.

“You are too stupid to know what you have,” he adds, his voice lowering just slightly. “So I take my time. I wait. I plan.”

He steps a little closer, just enough to make the space between them feel intentional.

“You make mistake,” he says. “And I see my chance.”

Another step. 

“And then I take him.”

He smirks.

“Is just like basketball.”

Then he winks. 

“I shoot my shot, and I make it.” 

And, really, what the fuck was he supposed to say to that?

________

The next time Colin sees Ilya Rozanov, it’s on TV.

It’s NBA Draft night.

He’s back in his hometown of Detroit for the summer, for what feels like the last stretch of childhood and teenagehood before adulthood. 

He’s graduated from Duke, has plans to go on vacation with his college friends for a celebration, then it’s New York and the job he’s been telling himself he’s ready for.

He’s sitting on a couch in his friend’s apartment, a half-empty beer in his hand and the TV volume turned up just a little too loud. The room smells like cheap takeout and alcohol, the coffee table cluttered with empty cans, crumpled napkins, and open containers that no one has bothered to clean up. It’s messy in that careless, familiar way, the kind of space that feels lived-in because no one cares enough to make it look presentable.

There are five of them crowded into the room, all watching intently.

They’re all passionate about basketball. Always have been. They all played together during high school, dreamed of making it into the NBA, and this is the kind of night they watch together.

“Rozanov’s probably going number one, right?” Ethan asks from the other end of the couch, not even looking away from the screen.

“Probably,” Colin says, taking a sip of his beer, his tone neutral in a way that sounds more detached than he intends.

It’s been a little over a month since that night at Shane’s apartment. 

Somehow—unbelievably—Rozanov is still with him.

Colin knows this because Rozanov won’t stop posting him on Instagram.

It’s constant and relentless.

An onslaught that Colin tells himself he shouldn’t be keeping up with, but does anyway. He checks more often than he means to, scrolling through posts he knows he’s not going to like, looking for something. 

Maybe proof that it’s temporary. Maybe some proof of unhappiness. Maybe some proof that not everything is perfect, as his posts make it seem.

When the first photo dump goes up after that initial post—the one that sent Colin straight to Shane’s apartment—he almost regrets opening the app at all.

It goes up on May 10, Shane’s birthday.

There’s a black-and-white photo strip from a photobooth. In the first frame, they’re smiling at the camera, cheek to cheek.

In the second frame, Shane kisses his cheek.

In the third frame, Rozanov kisses Shane’s cheek.

In the last frame, they’re kissing each other on the lips, smiling into it.

The next slide is Shane again, looking straight at the camera, making a kissy face, playful in a way Colin has seen before but never quite like this.

Lastly, there’s a slightly blurry picture of Shane in Rozanov’s jersey, oversized on him because Ilya is 6’7 and Shane is 5’10, holding a caramel macchiato and smiling.

The caption confirms everything to the world, much louder than the first one had been:

happy 22nd, baby. i love u. call me when ur up, yes? 

It kills Colin. He hadn’t ever posted Shane like that because he didn’t feel the need to. Their relationship wasn’t a secret, but it was private, and it was theirs.

Now Rozanov, of all people, is doing it. 

He didn’t know Shane even wanted to be posted. Was that something he always wanted and had never asked of Colin? Or did Colin not hear him when he asked?

It doesn’t matter now, of course. But sometimes, he wonders.

Then, it’s the graduation day photos. 

A picture with Shane, Rozanov has an arm around his waist as Shane shyly smiles. 

Then another one with Shane’s parents and Shane.

That one sits wrong. Colin had been with him for nearly three years and had never met them. Not once. It had never quite lined up, or Shane had said it wasn’t the right time, or it had just… never happened.

Rozanov meets them in a few weeks.

The caption is simple:

meeting the hollanders. congrats, my sunshine. 

Then the Ottawa pictures drop a week later. It’s Shane’s hometown, and it’s much worse than anything Colin’s ever seen.

It’s not just one picture, it’s a dump. It’s a stream of personal and domestic moments, all in one post for Colin to digest and dissect. It’s a way Colin isn’t used to seeing from Rozanov.

A campfire, the glow of it soft against both of their faces.

A walk along a quiet path lined with trees, with two hands linked together. 

A sunset stretched out over water, Shane standing just slightly ahead of him, like he doesn’t know he’s being photographed.

A candid photo of the two of them swimming in a lake.

Cooking in a kitchen, Shane’s parents are in the background of one shot, blurry but present.

And then, the one that hits hardest. A bathroom mirror selfie.

Rozanov’s phone held up casually, Shane tucked against him as he wrapped his arms around his waist, and their eyes met with clear love in their eyes. 

The caption reads:

best week in ottawa #mybaby 

Colin had stared at that one longer than he should have.

Long enough to feel something tight and uncomfortable take root in his chest before he forced himself to close the app. But of course, Rozanov doesn’t stop there.

There’s a picture of him with Shane, and Colin has no idea where they are. But there’s a cake in front of Rozanov with candles that say “20” and Shane’s kissing his cheek with a smile on his face. 

The caption:

hello, 20s! bye 10s. 

(No doubt Shane baked that cake because he always did that for Colin when they were together. Colin misses that kind of care in his life.)

The next series of posts is another photo dump.

Two suitcases. 

Another bathroom mirror selfie of just Rozanov in a hoodie. 

A blurry selfie of Rozanov with Shane half-asleep beside him, his head tipped against his shoulder, eyes barely open. 

Boarding passes with NYC printed clearly across them.

Then a picture of Shane again, sitting by the window, looking out at the NYC view with awe.

The caption:

ready for draft night in nyc. 

All the posts, since the very first one, send the media in a fucking frenzy, because Rozanov is the most-anticipated NBA draft pick, and he’s flaunting his relationship with another man like it’s nothing. There are article after article “investigating” it, and people talk about it on social media. 

They find out Shane’s name, what he majored in, all the articles he wrote, and even where he was from. 

People either call Rozanov “brave” or “an icon”. Predictably, there are some who are homophobic. But from what Colin can tell, it’s mostly supportive messages. 

Colin exhales slowly, staring at the TV without really seeing it.

He knows what’s coming next.

There will be more posts tonight. There’s no way there won’t be. A picture at the table, maybe. Somewhere in it, Shane will be there too, sitting beside him as his boyfriend, because Colin knows Rozanov doesn’t have much family.

From what he heard, his family situation was rough, to say the least, and the fact that he’s proudly displaying his relationship with a man didn’t help.

He knows he shouldn’t care, but he does. He cares that his ex-boyfriend is dating a future NBA star. He cares that his ex-boyfriend is somehow good enough for Ilya Rozanov.

Don’t get him wrong. When they were together, he was in love with Shane, or at least he thought he was.

It had been easy and comfortable. It was predictable in a way that felt safe. Shane had fit into his life without complication, without ever asking for more than Colin was willing to give. He had been steady, always there when Colin needed him, and never demanding when he didn’t.

They had made sense.

Rozanov and Shane didn't.

Rozanov was Rozanov. At Duke, he was a party animal, a fuckboy, always doing the typical crazy college boy stuff. 

Shane was the total opposite. He had to be dragged to parties; he was quiet, he was studious, and he had been in a stable relationship for nearly three years.

He doesn’t understand what Rozanov sees in Shane. Especially with that comment Rozanov made about wanting him for a long time.

Colin sighs as his attention goes back to the TV.

“Quiet down, they’re about to start,” Simon, another one of his friends, demanded.

The room quiets just enough as Colin leans forward without really thinking about it, elbows resting on his knees, the beer forgotten as his focus narrows in on the screen.

The logo for the New York Knicks flashes briefly, bright and unmistakable. 

“With the first pick in the 2025 NBA Draft,” the commissioner begins, “the New York Knicks select Ilya Rozanov, Duke University.”

The reaction is immediate. The arena on screen erupts into noise, the kind that swallows everything else whole—cheering, flashes of cameras, people rising to their feet as Rozanov stands from his table like this was never in doubt, like this moment had been waiting for him all along. 

Around Colin, his friends react just as quickly, voices rising as they talk over each other, even though this was a prediction that had never really been a risk to make.

“Called it,” Ethan says, clapping once, already grinning. “Easiest number one pick ever.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Someone else adds. “Knicks got handed that.”

Colin doesn’t say anything. He’s too busy watching.

Rozanov moves easily, confidently, shaking hands with the people around him, pulling a few of them into quick, controlled hugs that feel more like habit than emotion.  It’s all smooth, efficient, and expected. Then, he turns, and Rozanov reaches for Shane. His hand settles at the back of Shane’s neck and pulls him in for a very quick kiss. 

Rozanov had never been one to be shy about his bisexuality, and now, he wasn’t shy about his relationship, kissing Shane on national TV for the whole world to see. 

The crowd reacts, louder if anything, feeding off the moment, and the commentators pick it up almost instantly, their voices layered with excitement as they turn it into part of the narrative.

“Looks like Rozanov brought someone special with him tonight—”

“And he’s not shy about it either, that’s confidence right there—”

Colin barely hears them. His attention is locked on Rozanov and Shane.

Rozanov pulls back after a second, whispering something to him with a huge smile on his face before turning and heading toward the stage.

The cameras follow him the entire way, capturing every step, every angle, every expression as he shakes hands with the commissioner, pulls on the Knicks hat, and poses for the photos like he was made for this. Like this was always the trajectory, always the outcome, something inevitable rather than earned.

Around Colin, the conversation picks back up, louder now, everyone talking at once about what this means, about how good he’s going to be, about how New York just changed its entire future in one pick.

“Man,” Ethan says, shaking his head as he watches. “He’s going to run the league.”

Colin leans back slowly, finally bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a sip, even though the beer tastes flat now because it’s been sitting too long.

Well, this is his life, he guesses.

One day, he’ll tell his kids that NBA star Ilya Rozanov stole his boyfriend of nearly three years from right under his nose.

It’ll be a funny story, then. But right now, it makes him feel like shit.

___________________

A few weeks later, Rozanov posts another picture of Shane.

He is looking up at a brownstone in NYC, with boxes next to him. 

The caption says:
new home with my darling. thank u, nyc. i can not wait to win for u :) 

Well. NYC is huge. He won't run into his ex-boyfriend and his Knicks superstar boyfriend...

Right?