Chapter Text
We didn’t even kiss.
Shane deletes the text before the cursor can even blink back at him more than once. He absolutely cannot send that.
He bangs his head a little too hard on the elevator wall. He feels ridiculous. What business does he have feeling hurt that he got fucked within an inch of his life without so much as a little peck on the lips?
He and Ilya—no, Rozanov—aren’t anything. The man made that clear enough by, well, saying those exact words to him in Sochi. But also with the six months of radio silence that followed right after.
And yet Shane still came crawling back to him, because of course he did.
What the fuck was he thinking? Falling back into bed with Rozanov like that with nary an apology. Or even a simple explanation, if an apology is too much to ask for considering what they are—or, well, aren’t.
The sex was still good, just as it always was with Rozanov. Sure. But Shane hates the way he feels in the immediate aftermath.
He feels dirty. Used. Discarded. In a way that he didn’t feel when they slept together right before the Olympics, or any other time that they hooked up before that.
Because Rozanov may not be a nice person per se, at least not outwardly. But their sexual encounters always used to make Shane feel safe and comfortable, on top of being desired. Rozanov was always really good at that somehow.
Before, during, and after sex, Rozanov always did and said the right things to make Shane feel at ease. Whether it was making a well-timed joke to diffuse any discomfort Shane might’ve been feeling, or earnestly checking in with him to make sure he’s still okay with what they’re doing.
They may have always been casual, but Shane would go so far as to say that he’s always felt cared for when they had sex.
But tonight was different.
When Shane thinks about the before—getting angry at Rozanov in the bathroom and then immediately folding—it makes him feel pathetic.
When he thinks about the during—well, at least that part was still good.
When he thinks about the after—getting kicked out immediately, Rozanov barely looking up to say goodbye, not even kissing him a single time—it makes him feel fucking worthless.
So what changed? What happened in Sochi that made Rozanov want to not return a single text message for six months, only to pick him back up and then discard him again once he got what he wanted?
Shane wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. He always does. Maybe Rozanov just has a lot going on, and the way he’s treated Shane these past six months has nothing to do with him. Maybe Shane shouldn’t take it so personally.
Not everything is about you, Hollander, Shane recalls Rozanov telling him once. The Olympic loss was probably rough. Russia is rough in general, he supposes—for people like them. Maybe his family is rough on him too.
Not that Shane knows any of this for sure, since he gets shut down immediately anytime he tries to bring any of it up. Which is fair enough. It’s not like Shane believes he is owed any of this information; he just thinks it might be nice to get to know the man who is consistently plowing him into the mattress.
So he’s been trying to piece together what little information he has on Rozanov—almost none of which came directly from him—and using it to give the man who has been breaking his heart some grace.
But grace can only go so far when Shane has nothing but his own assumptions to go off of. When Rozanov refuses to engage in genuine conversation, and Shane is left to fill in the blanks.
Because sure, maybe Shane really shouldn’t take any of this personally. Maybe Rozanov is just dealing with his own shit.
But even so, is any of that an excuse to treat Shane like this?
We all go through stuff. Does our individual suffering make it okay to then take it out on unsuspecting people who don’t deserve it? Shane doesn’t think so, but he’s still inclined to empathize with whatever the hell has Rozanov acting this way.
All that being said, Shane still can’t shake the feeling that maybe it’s actually all his fault.
He can’t help but wonder if he’s doing something wrong. If Rozanov thinks he’s too much with all his questions, and his boring texts, and his feeble attempts to get to know the guy.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe Shane is asking for way too much and that’s why Rozanov now feels the need to treat him like this. To remind him of his place. To make sure that he knows better than to expect anything more than a quick fuck.
Well, message received, Shane thinks.
A text back, kisses, apologies, explanations, not being thrown out of the room five minutes after getting fucked—these are not things Shane can ask for. He knows this now.
But that doesn’t mean he has to like it. And it definitely doesn’t mean he has to put up with it.
***
He thinks about going back to his room as the elevator goes down. But when the door opens to his floor, he doesn’t get out. He instead presses the button for the bar where the afterparty is probably still going on. He knows these things tend to go on all night.
He goes back to the room where all of his esteemed colleagues are—the room he left even earlier than usual just to do whatever the hell that was with Rozanov in his penthouse suite.
He politely nods to a few of them as he passes them by, but makes a beeline to the bar and takes a seat on the stool in front of the bartender.
“Your best vodka. Neat,” he says. He doesn’t even recognize his own voice.
This is all so… uncharacteristic of him. The usual Shane Hollander wouldn’t have even thought about going back to the party. He would’ve just taken a shower and crawled into bed, waking up early the next day to sneak a quick workout in at the hotel gym before leaving for his flight.
But he’s felt so disoriented since stepping out of that penthouse. So he just does whatever feels right in the moment, instead of worrying about what he’d usually do.
He takes a sip of the vodka and can’t help the face he makes. He’s never really liked vodka all that much, or alcohol in general for that matter.
But Rozanov kicked him out of the room before he could even finish the glass he was poured as his “reward”. Some reward that was. So he thinks he owes himself one, at least.
One glass turns into three. The bartender seems hesitant about giving Shane a fourth, and he’s probably right to be. So Shane nurses his final glass and sighs. What is he doing?
“What’s the Shane Hollander doing drinking alone at the bar at one in the morning?”
He hears the question in his head asked out loud—entirely too loud for the headache that’s been steadily building since glass # 2.
He doesn’t have the time or the wherewithal to think or even look up to see who asked the question before he says, “I don’t know man, what else do you do after getting so thoroughly rejected by the person you might like?”
He startles himself with his candor. He finally looks up from his glass and sees Cliff Marleau looking back at him with an intrigued expression.
“Sorry,” Shane says with an awkward chuckle. “Don’t know why I just told you that.”
“Hey, it’s cool, man. We’ve all been there,” Cliff says as he sits on the stool beside Shane’s and orders a drink of his own. “Although, I gotta say… Shane Hollander striking out? Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”
Shane snorts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t people say you’re, like, the most eligible bachelor in the league or some shit? I thought women probably throw themselves at you all the time,” Cliff says with an easy charm that even Shane would’ve probably thought was flirting, if Cliff didn’t strike him as the straightest guy in the league.
“Right,” Shane begrudgingly affirms. There have been countless articles calling him hockey’s most eligible bachelor, among other things. It’s not like he pays much attention to them, though. “Well, I didn’t even strike out. I mean, not really. We still… you know. I just got thrown out of the room right after.”
Why the fuck is Shane telling Cliff Marleau, of all people, this. Alcohol is stupid and dangerous and this is why you stay away from it, Shane mentally scolds himself. But it’s okay. He can be cool. Just don’t mention anything gay and Marleau will probably just think it’s normal bro talk, Shane thinks to steel himself.
“She threw you out right after?” Marleau says with a chuckle of disbelief. He whistles then adds, “You got yourself a feisty one, huh?”
Shane shakes his head but smiles. “Guess you could say that.”
“So what’s the deal with you and this girl? You guys dating, or…?”
“No, we’re just casual.” Shane still does not know why he’s telling Marleau any of this. “And it’s fine, really. It’s not like I can handle more than that right now. I just hate feeling so… used after, you know what I mean?”
Marleau tilts his head and gives Shane an inquisitive look, so he elaborates. God, why can’t he stop talking?
“Like… discarded.” Like he truly only likes me for my ass, Shane thinks. But thankfully, there’s just enough of his brain-to-mouth filter still working well enough to translate that to, “Like she truly only likes me for my dick.”
Shane blushes. He thinks now would be a good time to stop fucking talking.
But Marleau just chuckles as he puts his drink down and rests his chin on his hand, looking more amused than anything.
“Sorry. I really don’t know why I’m telling you any of this.”
“Hey, I asked, remember? So stop apologizing and just keep talking. You’ve intrigued me now,” Cliff quips.
Shane sighs. He’s really doing this, then. He’s really just talking to Rozanov’s teammate and friend about him. Not that he knows it’s about Rozanov, but still.
He’s never having vodka ever again. But for now, he’ll let it lower his inhibitions—if only to get all of this off his chest. Maybe then it’d stop fucking aching.
“It’s not like I’m asking to get tied down, man. I just… maybe wanna cuddle after or some shit. Is that a crime?” Well, that’s embarrassing to admit. But when he looks back at Cliff, he doesn’t look like he wants to make fun of Shane. He looks a little endeared, honestly.
“Absolutely not, Hollander. You should get all the cuddles you want after a good fuck.” Cliff raises his glass and winks for good measure when Shane raises his own to clink with it.
“Right? Or, I don’t know. I wanna not get told to fuck off if I so much as ask about her day or whatever.” Shane thinks he’s exhibiting astonishing levels of control here honestly, still using the right—or, well, wrong—pronoun, even in his state of inebriation.
“I get that, man. I mean, just ‘cause your relationship revolves around sex doesn’t mean you have to be mean to each other, you know?” Marleau is surprisingly a softy, Shane concludes.
“Yeah?”
He remembers all the little pockets of warmth he experienced with Rozanov before he decided to be such a raging asshole. Cliff’s right, it’s definitely possible. But maybe Shane’s fucked it up enough that this is all he gets now.
“For sure, man. I have a few friends back home that I hook up with sometimes. They definitely don’t kick me out right after sex. Get this—I’m even allowed to sleep over. And I’m a loud ass snorer, Hollander!”
They laugh, and Shane rolls the thought over in his head. Friends, huh? Yeah, it sounds like a nice idea. Except Rozanov definitely doesn’t want to be his friend. As Shane has concluded tonight, the man only wants him for his ass.
Marleau takes another sip of his drink and Shane starts laughing to himself. He’s definitely drunker than he’s been in a long time. He should probably head to bed soon and sleep this embarrassing night off.
“What’s so funny?” Marleau asks as he starts giggling with Shane too, before he even answers.
“I just can’t believe I’m talking to you about my sex life. I’ve never even talked to you before, I don’t think…”
“Hey, what can I say? You came to the right guy. Just my area of expertise,” Marleau says, wiggling his eyebrows.
“You know, you’re not so bad, Marleau. I know our cities hate each other and all, but you’re alright,” Shane admits.
“You too, Hollander,” Cliff says with a smile that looks quite sincere to Shane. “Hey, you know what? Give me your number. Maybe I can take you out to a bar the next time we play each other. I’m a really good wingman! You can ask Roz.”
Shane’s face sours, letting Cliff know immediately that that wasn’t the right thing to say. Only, he doesn’t know that it’s actually because the man just ripped Shane’s heart out in the penthouse suite upstairs.
“Sorry, I forgot about the whole rivalry thing you two got going on,” Marleau says.
Yeah, right. The rivalry. Always such a good excuse, Shane thinks.
“You probably don’t want to hang out with your archnemesis, then. Or the team, for that matter,” Marleau says almost sheepishly.
Shane feels bad, and is about to say something when Cliff continues. “Maybe just us then, huh? Just two bros hanging out. We’ll find you a woman who won’t just throw you out after sex. Hell, we’ll even find you a real good cuddler.”
Shane was already surprised at the initial invitation. But to hear Cliff say he wants to hang out even if it’s just the two of them is even more surprising.
“Boston women are special, man. Let me show you,” he adds with another fucking wink. Straightest man alive, Shane has to remind himself.
He’s still drunk, so his judgement is perhaps a little impaired. But he thinks, what’s the harm?
So he agrees after Marleau promises that he’s not just luring him into enemy territory to murder the star center of their rival team.
“Look, we’ll even go to a different bar than the rest of my team. And yours. That way, no one can hassle you about it,” he adds for good measure. Shane probably looks hesitant, hence the extra reassurance.
“You’re being suspiciously nice to me,” Shane asserts, making Cliff chuckle.
“You seem like a good guy, Hollander. And way less uptight than I thought, no offense, if you’re willing to talk about your girl with me like this. But she ain't treating you right, from what you’ve told me. So let me show you what you’re missing.”
Again, if Shane didn’t think Marleau was painfully straight, he would’ve thought he was hitting on him. Let me show you what you’re missing? Come on. And Shane’s usually quite oblivious to these things. But Marleau is so effortlessly charming that even he doesn’t miss it.
But alas, Shane does think Marleau’s straight. He probably doesn’t have the best gaydar out there, but the point stands. So he rests easy knowing that it’s not flirting. It’s probably all just regular bro speak, the exact same kind he’s had to grow accustomed to hearing in the locker room.
And you know what? Maybe a night out with his new bro is just what he needs to get over Ilya fucking Rozanov.
Shane doubts that anything will come from it, considering he’s not exactly the type to pick up women at bars and go home with them.
But Marleau doesn’t need to know that. He can just show up and let Marleau think he’s helping by being a good wingman, then respectfully bow out and go home once Marleau finds someone to go home with himself.
People are always telling him to come out of his shell more anyway. Maybe this will make him less boring.
And tonight wasn’t so bad—at least the Cliff Marleau of it all wasn’t. So hanging out with him again could be fun, right? What could go wrong?
***
They text over the summer.
Nothing crazy, just workout tips here and random tidbits there. They talk about hockey too of course, since Shane can’t turn off his hockey brain even in the off season.
It’s just some light chatter every couple days, and yet Shane realizes that it might already be more than Rozanov has ever texted him.
God, Shane needs to stop thinking about him.
Rozanov has sent him a few texts here and there. Mostly chirps, some sexts. Sometimes, a little bit of both.
But Shane has surprisingly held his ground. Every time he starts typing back a response, his brain reminds him of that night in Vegas and his last ounce of self-respect screams at him to put the fucking phone down.
When he feels especially tempted to respond to Rozanov, he texts Cliff instead. Says his girl is sexting him and he needs help staying strong. And Cliff is surprisingly good at discouraging him from doing it, if a little bro-ey. Shane is more grateful for it than he can even say.
Me
She just asked me to meet up again in a few weeks.
Help me.
Cliff
Don’t do it!!! You’re better than this, Hollander
Stay strong 💪
Otherwise the cup is ours next season because you’ll be too heartbroken to play well and I’ll only have your girl to thank
Me
Nah, fuck that. I want the cup.
Maybe I’ll block her actually
Cliff
Attaboy!!! That’s the spirit
Cup’s still ours though. You’ll just have a better chance at it now
Me
Fuck you.
But also thank you. Saved my ass
Phrasing, Shane chides and snorts to himself.
Cliff
Anytime, man.
Only a few more weeks till Boston
I’m telling you. You’ll forget all about her when I’m done with you
Shane doesn’t know if Cliff knows what he’s saying when he says these things. It amuses Shane, more than anything. It honestly would’ve probably freaked him out by now if he thought even for a second that Marleau wasn’t straight.
But he doesn’t. So to Shane, Marleau is only saying these things in the same way that straight guys in the locker room chirp about fucking their rival up the ass. It’s the type of painfully straight but somehow homoerotic, bro-ey banter that Shane hasn’t ever felt all that attuned to.
It feels nice, actually. It feels like they’re becoming very quick, very unlikely friends—like those animals in the Youtube rabbit hole he once found himself falling into.
And thanks to his newfound friend, he’s managed to not respond to a single text Rozanov has sent him the entire summer.
He almost breaks that streak when Rozanov texts him just as he’s leaving his cottage to go back to Montreal.
Lily
Did you drop your phone in the toilet, Hollander?
That’s rich, coming from you, Shane wants to respond. But he can’t. It makes him sound like he’s still mad about Vegas and the Olympics—which he kind of is, but he can’t let Rozanov know that.
He’s made it clear what Shane is to him multiple times now. Which is nothing. So he can’t know just how much Vegas actually hurt Shane. It would make it seem like Shane’s asking for too much again.
And it’s not like he stopped responding to Rozanov out of spite, or to get back at him for his own ghosting. He just stopped responding to Rozanov because he doesn’t want to feel the way that he did in Vegas and the six months that preceded it again. He’s doing this to protect himself.
Rozanov probably isn’t even actually upset that he’s not responding. Why would he care? He’s probably busy fucking every woman in Russia, and only texting Shane on nights when he’s not.
And if he is upset, it’s probably only because they have a game against each other very early on in the season, only a few weeks away. And Shane not responding means they’re not hooking up, so he’ll have to find someone else for that night, instead of having the convenience of their regular fuck.
And that’s probably all it is to him—an inconvenience. It’s probably nothing like the bone-deep worry that Shane felt for the entire six months that Rozanov didn’t talk to him. And it’s definitely nothing like the pit in Shane’s stomach that formed when they were in Vegas.
Because Rozanov doesn’t want him in the same way that he’s realized he wants Rozanov.
That’s what Shane tells himself, at least. It’s the only explanation he can come up with when he tries to make sense of all the facts.
And he’s fine with it. At least, he will be as long as he stands his ground and steps away from whatever the fuck he has with Rozanov. For good.