Work Text:
That was reckless.
Hollander could have punched me in the face or gone straight from the locker room to the CCM executives outside. If he wanted to, he could still tell the media that Ilya Rozanov jerked off at him in the showers, ending my career before it even begins. But I don’t think he’ll do any of those things.
The signs were there last summer at the draft — lingering looks across the gym floor, eyes gravitating to my lips… and my dick. And I haven’t forgotten the way he obediently swallowed from my water bottle when I said more.
I wanted to be sure. Now I am.
My heart has not stopped thundering since Hollander gave me his room number. I close the door to my hotel room and collapse on the bed grinning like an idiot. He said, ‘not here.’ He did not say ‘no.’
I can’t believe what I’ve been reduced to. There is no good reason for me to obsessing over my archrival. I do not get crushes. I do not yearn. I do not go out of my way to see somebody again. But I have not been able to stop thinking about him since he introduced himself in that terrible Canadian city that rhymes with vagina. If Hollander was trying to get in my head, it worked.
Sure, he is an incredible player — quick, graceful and smart on the ice. He’s the only one who can keep up with me, and I respect that about him (even though I would never admit that to his face). It’s the same for Hollander, I think. And maybe it broke my brain that he was genuinely kind. He should not like me very much, but he complimented me, shook my hand twice and then would not go away. He’s so awkward it’s endearing.
This disgusting infatuation is becoming a real problem. So, in a few hours I might knock on the door of room 1410 and Hollander, hopefully, will open. We’ll blow each other, maybe fuck, and then I will stop thinking about this pretty Canadian with his boring rules and beautiful freckles. When the season starts, I’ll be able to stand across from him at centre-ice and not get hard.
There are complimentary tickets to the Hockey Hall of Fame tossed on the nightstand with all the other pamphlets the front desk gave me, and it’s not far from here. Might as well kill some time. Beats staring at the ceiling or thinking about what Hollander’s mouth will look like around my cock later.
_____
Of course, Hollander is here too. He’s standing in front of a display about evolution of hockey gear, absentmindedly chewing the drawstrings of his hoodie while he reads the tiny signs in English and in French,
I should not go over there.
I cross the room anyways because I am a moth drawn to flames made of sex, hockey and bad ideas, and this person who is impossibly all three.
“Found you.”
Hollander looks up at me, wide-eyed for a millisecond before relaxing his shoulders and giving me a small smile. Wickedly, I hope I make him nervous, but before I can gloat his eyes are firmly back on the exhibit. The loss of attention leaves a hollow ache in my chest.
Now I’m the one who is flustered, rubbing my earlobe between my thumb and forefinger, trying to think of something clever to say with my functional English.
"Russians do not wear as much." I gesture at the goalie equipment in front us and wink, willing him to imagine me in just a towel from earlier.
Hollander scoffs. “Can confirm.”
I look at him — his brown eyes sparkling, amused by his own chirp — and a helpless smile spreads across my own face.
We walk around the museum in silence, close enough that our hands brush a few times but far enough apart to pretend otherwise. I resist the urge to do something dumb like loop my pinky finger around his, just so I can touch him.
Hollander veers into a dark room that feels more like a place of worship than a tourist hockey shine, and, unspoken, I follow him in. There, in the middle of the Lord Stanley Vault sits the Stanley Cup, polished and untouchable behind glass.
Hollander turns to face me, narrowing his eyes in mock suspicion. “Are you following me, Rozanov?”
It’s quieter than the rest of museum; filled with the low thrum of voices, footsteps passing and fading, and our breathing. I throw a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure we’re alone.
I lean forward — close enough that Hollander’s gaze flickers to my mouth for a brief moment — and lower my voice. “Does it turn you on?”
“What?” Hollander answers. His voice is tinged with a mix of annoyance and embarrassment, like he can’t believe I alluded to sex in his hockey church.
“The Cup,” I say, popping the ‘p.’
“Why would the—" He shakes his head.
He turns back to the Cup, probably in an effort to hide the faint pink blush warming his face.
For a few minutes, neither of us says anything, silently absorbing the gravity of the cathedral. I run my finger along the glass, reading the engraved names of players that came before me.
The history in the room doesn’t feel distant — it feels like destiny.
I sneak a glance at Hollander. His lips are slightly parted, and his head is tilted to the side, causing a few rogue strands of black hair to fall across his forehead. Gorgeous. I watch as his awe-struck eyes trace the silver plains of the Cup with an intensity I’ve only ever witnessed from him on the ice.
“Are you already planning where your name will go?”
Hollander rolls his eyes. “I’m going to hold it before you do.”
I arch my an eyebrow. “You’re very sure for second draft pick who hasn’t even played a game yet.”
“Asshole.”
“Is not fair” I say, exhaling dramatically.
“What isn’t fair?”
“That the Cup spends so much time in Toronto when they haven’t won it since before prehistoric times, before Scott Hunter existed.
Hollander’s lips curl up in a smile that’s contagious. We’re both grinning at each other.
“Toronto is going to hate both of us.”
“Not more than Boston hates Montreal.”
“Likewise.”
We leave the vault and wander out of the Esso Great Hall; this time it's Hollander trailing me.
In front of us there is a display celebrating the Original Six. It’s filled with artefacts and stories about legendary players and the franchise dynasties they built.
The first-ever Montreal and Boston jersey designs are hanging side by side and our reflections stare back at us through the glass, also side by side, me in front of Boston and Hollander in front of Montreal. Two rivals, one history, forever linked. We are the next chapter of that story.
“My parents met at McGill. It’s a really good school in Montreal,” Hollander explains. “We lived in Ottawa, but I grew up cheering for the Voyageurs. I’m happy that’s where I’m going… even if I was second pick.” He says the word second like it stings.
Then, with the sincerity of someone whose parents celebrate his wins and have never berated him after a loss, he says: “Your parents must be proud.”
I do not know how, in English or in Russian, to tell him that I haven't heard those words since losing my mother; that I’ve known since I was twelve years old that I'd never again experience the unconditional love of a parent. I used to believe that, someday, I could win my father’s approval. But if being the first overall draft pick wasn’t enough to impress him, then nothing will ever be enough.
It would be easy to lie or deflect with a joke, but Hollander is looking at me with an almost tender admiration, so I offer him a half-truth instead. “Eh yes. Though my father would be prouder if I stay in Russia to play for KHL team.”
“He should be proud,” Hollander replies almost defiantly, his eyes locking with mine. “I meant what I said. You’re a great player to watch.”
I don’t know what I did to deserve his misplaced faith in me; he just gives it freely. It lands on my chest uncomfortably, leaving a gentle crack in my walls, disarming me with his earnestness.
“You watch me, Hollander?” I say, flashing a forced, lazy smile. Keep it light, we are nothing.
He shrugs. “Sure. I, uh, started watching your tape after the International Prospect Cup. It’s important to keep an eye on all the great players, learn about their weaknesses.”
“You jerked off to it.”
“Fuck off, Rozanov,” he says, playfully pushing me. Every fuck off is starting to sound a lot like fuck me please.
To stop myself from stumbling backward, I grab Hollander’s hands, pulling him closer so we’re mere inches apart, and trap them there against my chest. He flattens his palms over my heart, and a treacherous part of me thinks I would let him hold it if he wanted to.
“Ah. You are not a nice Canadian.”
“That’s a stereotype.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
Hollander laughs. “Another stereotype.”
“In Russia, we are not nice to the competition. They would not search for me behind a rink to lecture me on laws and order me to stop smoking because it's bad for my health. They would want me to smoke more, slow me down, make me easier to beat.”
“I don’t need you to die of lung cancer to win, Rozanov,” he teases.
After a brief pause, Hollander takes a breath and forces himself to look straight at me. “Inviting me to join your CCM commercial was pretty nice of you. I still don’t know why you did that. And—” He steps closer to tap his foot against mine. “You’re being nice to me right now.”
“This is very bad for my reputation, Hollander. You cannot tell anyone this.” My foot finds his and I tap back.
“Is propositioning people in the shower customary in Russia?”
My eyes widen in shock, and I let out a sharp laugh. “No. Is not safe. And besides,” I say, my finger hovering just above his freckled cheek before reverently tracing the outline of his jaw, never touching. The sensation of the air moving over skin tingles. “Most players in Russia aren’t so pretty.”
They aren't as pretty as Hollander anywhere. Hollander, with his long lashes, sharp jaw, smooth skin, pink lips, thick ass… he is more than pretty. He makes me feral.
Hollander pretends to be insulted by the word pretty, but I can tell by the way his brown eyes soften that he likes being praised almost as much as he likes being provoked. “Is that why you chose the NHL? Prettier hockey players?’
“No. I want to play against the best." It’s a truth I can afford to give without receiving pity in return. I’d rather die than admit how desperate I am to leave behind Russia and with it a cruel father, brother who hates me, and a ghost that haunts me. Perfect Hollander doesn’t need to know that because he will be out of my system by morning.
“Are you saying I'm the best?”
“Uh who was first pick?” I say incredulously, pointing to my chest. “Me.”
***
“I should go,” Shane says, returning from the gift shop with a small bag.
“Hot date?”
“Something like that."
“I should go, too.”
“Hot date?”
“Mhmm,” I hum.
We walk outside and the air changes.
This is the part where I’d kiss him, if he were a she and we weren’t us. Hollander is also a little like a baby deer that can’t decide if it should stand still or run away.
The city is humid and the sidewalks around the Hockey Hall of fame are slick with rain. Traffic is moving slowly as taxis pick up travellers in front of Union Station and pedestrians cross the streets like they have a personal vendetta against anyone who decided to drive downtown.
We race the whole way back to the hotel, childishly fighting for position.
***
When I knock on the door of 1410 at 9 p.m., Hollander answers. When I leave, he hands me a little Stanley Cup magnet he’d bought earlier. I give him a kiss that’s too sweet for what this is supposed to be. There is a disgusting feeling in my stomach, like insects fluttering around.
I am so fucked. We are going to destroy our careers or each other. Both, probably.