Archive of Our Own

“You guys should totally do a kissing booth!”

They’re in the middle of the crowded Montreal High cafeteria with Hayden, JJ, and a few of their Metros teammates, when Rose shouts it, garnering them a few curious looks from nearby tables.

Every year, the Boston Bears host a week-long Spring Break intensive for high school hockey players from around North America to meet each other, run drills and scrimmages, and play mini-competitions. (And get really drunk in hotel rooms, though that is not sanctioned by the program). It started out as a great PR move and a fun getaway for kids who loved hockey, but as the years went on, scouts for dozens of different college and professional teams started to show up, too.

Shane had been looking forward to it since his Freshman year. Even though he’d been a Voyageurs fan since birth, the chance to play in front of real, professional hockey players — the guys Shane dreamed of becoming — was enough to make him forget the rivalry for a week. 

Despite being a star player from day one, Theriault wanted to keep it fair; the Metros only paid for the Seniors to go. Shane would have to wait. Besides, if he was this good as a Freshman, he’d be unstoppable by his Senior year, and the scouts would be all over him. Don’t waste your chance by being too eager, he had said.

But when he returned to school for his final year, after a summer of refreshing his already encyclopedic knowledge of the Bears in case he’d get a chance to talk to them, he was crushed: the school’s budget cuts were hitting them, and there was no room to pay for the the price of admittance, let alone for travel all the way to Boston. And it was too late to apply for any of the scholarships that the Bears offered.

The boys’ protests went unheard — the money simply wasn’t there. Theriault couldn’t do anything about it. Practices started back up in September, and the season in November, and by February, as they geared up for the playoffs, most of the guys had forgotten about it. But Shane hadn’t. In fact, he’d been obsessing over it in his mind for months, and the guys knew it. So it didn’t come as a surprise to them when he asked: “What if we raise the money ourselves?”

They got permission from Theriault, then from the school, to host a fundraiser, but they needed to figure out what to sell. Between school and hockey, they were far too busy to bake or craft anything — Shane didn’t think any of them were skilled enough for that, anyway. JJ suggested a charity match, but the deadline to sign up for the program was fast approaching, and between hockey practices, games, and schoolwork, none of them had a free night to schedule and host another game.

Shane’s hopes were quickly diminishing by the time they brought the idea up in front of Rose, who immediately lit up, eyes mischievous in a way that made Shane’s stomach twist. He loved her, truly, but she was far more outgoing than Shane and he’d experienced enough consequences of that fact to last him a lifetime.

“A kissing booth?” JJ repeats, intrigued.

“Yeah,” Rose smiles. “You know, you guys stand there and people come up to you. A dollar gets them a kiss on the cheek, and a few more gets them a kiss on the lips.”

Shane squirms in his seat. He has no interest in kissing random girls — or any girls, at all, but Rose is the only one here who knows that — even if they’re paying him for it.

“I don’t know. Would the school even let us do that?” He asks, shooting Rose a look that she pointedly ignores.

“Seems like a good idea to me,” Hayden shrugs. “And not a lot of work, either. We just put together a booth, and then stand there.”

There are a few murmurs of agreement from the other guys.

Shane looks at Hayden. “But you have a girlfriend.”

He smiles. “Yeah, Jackie’s cool. She’d get that it’s for a good cause.”

“Yeah,” JJ agrees. “Besides, we’re not, like, tonguing them. It’s just a kiss.”

Shane shivers. He never wants to hear one of his friends say tonguing ever again. He opens his mouth to argue — sure, maybe they’re not making out, but a kiss is still a kiss. Maybe he’s a prude, but Shane thinks it’s a big deal to kiss someone! And… well, he’s only done it a couple times before, and it felt wrong. Rose knows that, she was his first kiss. It took him a long time to accept that he wasn’t completely sexless, he was just kissing the wrong people. He finally knows who he is, and even though he isn’t planning on telling the team that he’s gay, kissing a girl would feel like lying to them over and over again. Or maybe they’d see how bad at kissing girls he is, and they’d figure it out themselves. A thousand nightmare-scenarios play like a film reel in Shane’s head.

But it seems that the matter is solved, because suddenly, mini-conversations about figuring out how much they need to raise, and making signs and flyers, are happening all around him. Rose grins at him, and Shane rolls his eyes. He looks down at his half-eaten salad, but he’s not hungry anymore.

—

By the next day, they’ve secured a folding table from the school’s storage closet, a tablecloth from Hayden’s mom, and Drapeau has made a big sign out of poster board that reads:

KISSING BOOTH
CHEEK – $2
LIPS – $5

“Five dollars?” Shane asks. “Who’s going to pay five dollars for one kiss?”

“Dude, girls love jocks.” Drapeau says.

“Yeah,” JJ agrees. “I get asked out all the time.”

“Then why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

“Too busy. Whatever. Shut up.”

Shane has the date circled on his calendar — they have a week to raise $5,000, or his dreams of playing in front of all those recruiters are officially dashed. Shane can tell the other boys are anxious for the plan to work, too. He’s never seen them rally together like this for something outside of a hockey game.

The team is busy setting up the booth in the rotunda, where hundreds of students will walk through in between classes and after school. They’re starting to get interested looks from passersby, and it makes Shane squirm. He likes attention on the ice. Likes when he can hear people cheering for him, when they call him the best in the game. But on the ice, he’s protected by his gear and his talent, both of which he doesn’t have right now. He feels naked with every stare, like they can all see past the star athlete persona to the anxious, inexperienced, closeted boy he is.

He can’t do this. He looks for Hayden, who’s handing out flyers nearby.

“Hey,” Hayden grins. “Pretty impressive for guys who barely turn in their homework on time, huh?”

“Yeah,” Shane swallows. “Look, I…”

A few girls pass by and Hayden gives them a flyer, winking as he does. They’re pretty, and Shane is pretty sure one of them is in his Chemistry class. She’s smart. In a better world, Shane would be with a girl like that. They smile and promise to be back, and Shane can hear them giggling as they walk away.

“What’s up?” Hayden prompts, bringing Shane’s attention back to him.

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to man the booth.”

Hayden’s brow furrows. “What? Why not?”

“It’s not really a big deal, is it? It’s not like anyone is lining up to kiss me.” He gives a half-hearted laugh.

“Uh, yeah, they are. You’re Shane Hollander. You could probably raise the money, and then some, by yourself.”

Shane has no idea what Hayden is talking about. Sure, girls are nice to him. And sure, after he and Rose broke up, more girls than usual would approach him at school or after games. But they would just chat about hockey. (Or, more accurately, listen to Shane talk about hockey.) They weren’t flirting.

“I have a lot of homework. And as Captain, I need to spend all my free time prepping for the playoffs.” Shane tries again. He thinks it’s a believable excuse, considering it’s mostly true.

“As Captain, you should be pitching in. Besides, the fundraiser was your idea, man.”

“Not the kissing part of it.”

Hayden narrows his eyes. “Why are you trying to get out of this?”

Shane’s cheeks heat up. He looks away, and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Oh my god!” Hayden says it like he’s having a revelation, a bit too loud for such a public place.

For a second, Shane’s heart stops. This can’t be happening. His best friend has realized that Shane has been keeping a secret from him, and he’s going to expose him in the middle of their busy school hallway, and that basically means his hockey career is over before it’s started —

“You asked me about Jackie, in the cafeteria,” Hayden starts, voice now hushed, which brings Shane great relief. “Whether it’s okay to kiss other girls if you have a girlfriend. You don’t want to kiss anybody because you have a secret girlfriend!”

Before he can deny it, Hayden is flinging his arm around Shane. He looks around to see if any of the other guys have noticed, but they all seem busy with their own tasks. “That is so sweet, I can’t even be mad at you for keeping it from me.”

Shane huffs, but he relaxes under Hayden’s embrace. He sort of hates that Hayden is looking at him like he’s an innocent, virginal child and not a man on the cusp of adulthood, but if it lets him off the hook, then he’ll let the ruse go on for a week and tell Hayden he got dumped when they’ve made it to Boston.

Right. So, he’s got a secret girlfriend that only he and Hayden know about. Now, he needs to use it to get him out of this kissing booth nonsense.

“Who is it?” Hayden asks, leaning closer to Shane. “Come on, you have to tell me now that I’ve figured you out. Is it Rose? I always thought you two should get back together — unless it’s not her. Then, it was a good thing. So you could meet this new girl.”

“It’s not Rose.” Shane says. “But I can’t tell you. She’s… we’re trying to keep things private, for now. And I wouldn’t feel good about kissing other girls, even for a good cause, knowing she can’t kiss me in public.”

Hayden’s smile turns soft as he finally lets go of Shane. “Yeah, of course. The guys won’t be cool with you ditching us, but why don’t you just handle the money? And if anyone says anything, just let me know, and I’ll take care of it.”

Even though it’s based on a lie, Shane is grateful for Hayden’s help. And when the booth officially opens after school that day, with Hayden, Comeau, and Mitty as the first kissers, it seems like the plan is working. He was nervous that nobody would be interested — or worse, that they’d be the laughing stock of the school — but soon enough, customers start to trickle in. Jackie is first in line for Hayden, handing him a $20 bill and then pressing their lips together until the guys start teasing them. But other girls start approaching, too, and Shane counts their money, lets them pick their target, and makes sure they only take what they paid for. He runs a tight ship, and after an hour, they’ve already raised over $100.

Sure, they have a long way to go, but if they keep this up, they might actually do this. Shane might actually go to Boston.

For the first time since Rose suggested it, he’s actually feeling good about this whole thing.

That is, until Ilya Rozanov opens his big mouth.

Admittedly, Shane harbors no personal ill will toward the guy. They’re in a class together, but Shane likes to sit in the front and Rozanov usually shows up late and plops down in the back, so they don’t interact much. Other than when Rozanov holds the door for him on the way out. Regularly. It’s weird, but it sort of makes Shane feel important, a little pampered, so he lets it happen.

One time, Shane got to the locker room early for practice, and he found Rozanov smoking by the window. When he ordered him to get out, Rozanov offered him the cigarette (which he declined, obviously), winked, then sauntered out.

Shane had to wipe his sweaty hands on his jeans before the rest of the team burst in.

But his reputation precedes him. Rozanov is a dick. He shows up to class high more often than not, he has a new hook-up like every week, until he gets bored and drops her for a new conquest, and he can be a bully. Hayden hates him, for good reason, because Rozanov seems to be intent on personally tormenting him. He has a new story every week about Rozanov insulting him, or parking his obnoxious sports car in his parking spot, or even flirting with Jackie in front of him. So, by virtue of being a good friend, Shane hates him, too.

Rozanov strolls up to the table, flanked by his friend Marlow, who sports an impish smile. His accent is thick as he says, “Kissing booth? What is this?”

Shane can already see Hayden turning red, so he steps in. “It’s a fundraiser. People give us money, and we—well, they—kiss them.”

Rozanov raises an eyebrow, catching the slip-up, and Shane can feel his own ears turning red under his scrutiny. But he doesn’t point it out, instead smirking and saying, “Hockey players have to be sad charity case so girls will kiss them?”

Marlow laughs.

“That doesn’t even—they’re paying us! We don’t just put out for any girl that walks by.” Hayden snaps. “Go away, Rozanov. You’re blocking the line.”

Rozanov looks behind him. There is no line.

“Yes, I will let you get back to your very busy jobs.” He shrugs, then looks at Shane. “Maybe I will be back. When there are no whiny boys to annoy me.”

—

“So, now, Hayden thinks I have a secret girlfriend, and I have to be on the lookout for Ilya Rozanov all week. How did my life turn into this?” Shane groans, dramatically throwing his head back.

He and Rose are getting coffee before school — off-campus, because Shane does not want to be dragged back to the kissing booth before he absolutely has to — and he’s recounting the events of the day before. The only bright side to the story is that the money is still steadily trickling in, and Shane’s mom donated $100 herself (before pressing a mortifying kiss to Shane’s cheek while he made breakfast).

Rose is trying not to laugh, which Shane knows, because she is failing quite horrifically.

“Rose!” He pouts.

“Sorry! Sorry, just—” She giggles again.

“Aren’t you supposed to be an actress? At least pretend to care about my problems.” He grumbles.

She collects herself, and smiles. “Of course I care. Hayden will probably forget about it in a week. And if he doesn’t, you can tell him that you lied, and your secret girlfriend actually is me, but we broke up again. Problem solved.”

“I guess.”

“And Ilya isn’t so bad. You just need to know how to handle him.”

“Ilya? What, are you friends with him?” Shane scrunches his nose. Oh god — is Rose one of his latest conquests?

“I haven’t slept with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Sure.” Her eyes twinkle, like she knows something that Shane doesn’t. “We’re not close friends or anything, but he’s not so bad when you get to know him.”

Shane takes a long drink of his coffee. It’s not Shane that she needs to convince. Hayden quite literally called Rozanov the devil incarnate twice on the phone last night, when they were supposed to be talking strategy. But the guy does make Shane uneasy. His eyes are always intense when they’re on Shane — he feels like a specimen under a microscope, splayed out in the open with nowhere to run.

And the putrid smell of his cigarette lingered in the locker room for days after he found Rozanov smoking in there. It gave Shane a headache.

“You know,” Rose says, her voice going gentle like she’s softening the blow of bad news. “You don’t have to lie to Hayden.”

“I can’t tell him the truth.”

Rose raises her eyebrows, nodding her head forward, waiting for Shane to realize that’s exactly what she’s suggesting he do. And honestly, he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Shane had always assumed that he would come out to Hayden one day. Maybe after his fourth or fifth Stanley Cup, or on the brink of retirement. Whenever his sexuality is no longer a threat to his hockey career. But the thought of telling Hayden that he’s gay anytime soon is making him nauseous. It’s not that he thinks Hayden won’t accept him (although that possibility was always a present anxiety in the back of his mind), but if Hayden knows, this thing about him becomes more real. Something he might get the urge to explore.

And then more people might find out, and he won’t be Shane Hollander, Greatest Hockey Player In The World.

He’ll be Shane Hollander, Gay Hockey Player. Or, worse, just Shane Hollander, Gay. Relegated to coaching pee-wee hockey because he never got drafted.

“Woah, I can see you spiraling,” Rose says, reaching over the table to squeeze Shane’s hands. “You don’t have to make a decision right now, Shane. But he’s your best friend, and he loves you. And he’s a sweet guy, even if he’s a bit of a dumb jock.”

“I know. I just…” Shane looks for the right words to describe it. “I don’t want things to be different than they are now.”

“Everything has to change eventually.” She smiles. “You are going to be an incredible hockey player, but if you ignore this very big, very human, part of yourself for too long, what will you have when hockey is gone?”

—

For now, Shane is ignoring Rose’s question, despite the way it has lodged itself as a permanent echo in the back of his head. Because hockey isn’t over. In fact, it’s barely even started, and it won’t start if he doesn’t go to Boston. So, even though it makes him feel like he is living a weird little lie, Shane is back to manning the kissing booth with Hayden during their free period.

Between customers, a few parents’ donations, and a bunch of their non-hockey-playing friends who think it’s funny to pay a few dollars to make one of the guys kiss them on the cheek (while the other players jeer and gag, which makes Shane’s chest tighten), they’re nearing the $2,000 mark with six days left to go. The team’s morale is up, especially the seniors, who had believed less than a month ago that the trip was dead.

Shane doesn’t want to burst their bubble, but he is getting nervous that traffic will slow down. Most girls won’t want to pay for more than one or two kisses, and since they don’t have any girls on their side of the booth, they’re missing out on revenue from half of the student body.

He tells all of this to Hayden, but he just smiles and tells Shane not to worry. Sure, it’s a bit slow right now, but school is in session. Most people are in class.

A girl approaches, and hands Shane a $5 bill. Hayden looks at him like this is proving his point, so Shane puts the money in the bag and tries not to think too hard about it.

Twenty minutes later, Hayden stands up. “Can you hold down the fort for five minutes? I gotta piss.”

Shane’s breath catches in his throat. “What if someone comes up to me?”

Hayden shrugs. “Kiss her. I’m sure your secret girl will understand one kiss. Or just tell them I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Shane blinks at him.

“Dude, everyone is in class.” He gestures around the empty space. “Please. I’ve had to go for an hour.”

Shane rolls his eyes, sure that Hayden is exaggerating, but he relents. “Yeah, sure. But hurry, please. And if you’re sneaking off to see Jackie, I’ll make you do bag skates everyday for the next month. I’m serious.”

Hayden throws his hands up in surrender. “Two minutes. I swear!”

And then he rounds the corner, leaving Shane alone.

It’s quiet, which is a good thing, because it means nobody is going to approach him. He just needs to sit here, watch over the booth, and Hayden will be back in no time. He can refuse a kiss if he needs to, and the chances of anybody suspecting the reason for it are impossibly low. Everything is fine.

But the silence feels like the calm before the storm, and Shane’s body is buzzing with anticipation for something to go wrong. He can picture it: a girl approaches and he turns her away, and she promptly tells the entire student body that Shane Hollander refused to kiss her because he doesn’t like kissing girls at all. A small part of his brain knows that it’s irrational — she’d probably assume he was a prude over a homosexual, and she would have no way of spreading this information to thousands of students. Besides, who would believe what a random girl has to say about him?

Rumors spread, though, especially in high school. And it would probably feel good to see the throne that Shane has painstakingly built for himself crumble just before he can make it big.

It’s getting hard to breathe. Like his chest is holding onto the last of its air because it’s afraid he won’t be able to give it any more. He thinks he’s sweating, but his mouth is dry, too. And he can hear his heartbeat — no, footsteps.

Footsteps?

“Hollander.”

Shane’s eyes snap up, bringing Rozanov’s mess of curls and sharp blue eyes into focus. Rozanov. As in Ilya Rozanov is standing in front of him right now, because of course he was so anxious about a scenario he made up in his head that he forgot about the very person he should be anxious about.

Shane’s gaze flits around from Rozanov’s chiseled cheekbones to the chest hair poking out from his shirt. He’s wearing a tank top, showing off his toned biceps, like he just came from gym class. But it’s only halfway through the period, so he must have ditched at some point.

“Hey, relax. Breathe.” Rozanov’s voice is a lot softer than he remembers it. He watches the rise and fall of his chest, and matches his own breathing to it until the world around him isn’t so blurry anymore. “There you are.”

He can feel Rozanov still examining him, something warm and all-encompassing falling over his body. But now that he isn’t on the verge of throwing up or passing out, he has half a mind to remember that he is supposed to shoo Rozanov away. He frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“I saw you were alone.” He says simply, leaning against the table. Shane can see the veins in his arms. “Your friends leave you to do the kissing?”

“No,” Shane says. He glances up at the clock. Hayden must be on his way back by now. “Hayden went to the bathroom.”

“Ah.” For a moment, Rozanov’s expression sours. He glances around, like he’s expecting Hayden to pop out and burst their bubble. Not that they’re in a bubble. Not that they are a they. “I will keep you company until he is back.”

Shane’s heart quickens again, and he’s afraid that he’s going to have another episode in front of Rozanov, but nothing happens. “You don’t have to.”

“So,” Rozanov continues, like he didn’t even hear Shane. “What are you ‘raising funds’ for?”

“What?”

“You need money. Why?”

Shane tries to find the trick in the question, but Rozanov just looks at him, waiting, so he indulges. “Oh. Um, it’s a hockey thing. The Boston Bears host a retreat over Spring Break every year. There are a ton of recruiters. A few famous players were discovered there. The school used to pay for us to go, but there were budget cuts this year, so…”

Rozanov nods along as Shane talks. “Boston, huh? I have a friend there. Sveta. She loves the Bears.”

Shane smiles. “I hate them. Always have. I think my mom would disown me if I came home in a Boston jersey. But she knows what a big opportunity this is.”

It should be weird, talking so casually with Rozanov, but it isn't. In some ways, it’s nice talking to someone who isn’t in his orbit. Someone he doesn’t have to captain. Who can’t list every one of his stats. But this is Ilya Rozanov, and he should know that the other shoe will eventually drop.

Behind Rozanov, a girl starts approaching the booth, and Shane tenses. It’s fine, he tries to soothe himself. It’s good, actually, because now he has a reason to tell Rozanov to fuck off before Hayden gets back. But if he does that, he’ll be alone again, with a girl who will be expecting him to kiss her. He still hasn’t figured out what he’ll say. Maybe it won’t be so bad, just this once. Maybe she won’t notice how bad he is.

Rozanov must notice the change in his demeanor, because he looks at the girl, too. 

“Hi.” She says, taking another step closer. “Is there a line, or…?”

Shane tries to make his mouth work, but as he parts his lips, Rozanov scowls. “Booth is closed. Come back later.”

“Oh.” She raises her eyebrows, looking between Shane and Rozanov. Shane tries to shoot her an apologetic look, but she either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. “Sure. Sorry to interrupt.”

And then she’s gone. Rozanov turns back like nothing happened, ready to continue with their conversation. Shane glares. “Why did you do that?”

“You did not want to kiss her.” He says it like it’s a fact. It is a fact, but it is not one that Rozanov, of all people, is supposed to know.

“How do you— we need that money. You can’t tell people to leave. You aren’t even supposed to be here.”

“Fine.” He exhales dramatically. “Should I tell her to come back? Do not worry, Hollander, you can take the money and I will kiss her for you.”

“Yeah, you would like that, wouldn’t you.”

That seems to strike a nerve. Rozanov narrows his eyes. “You think I am a whore, Hollander? How original.”

Shane sputters, shaking his head. “That’s not—”

“I know what you all say about me, just because I like sex. But the people I fuck know that I do not want a relationship from them. I am very clear about what I want. You should try it.”

Shane flinches at the jab. “Rozanov. I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t think that you’re a…”

“Your friend does.”

Speaking of his friend, Hayden chooses that exact moment to reappear, half out of breath. “Sorry, they were cleaning the one over here, so I had to go all the way—”

He stops, finally clocking Rozanov’s presence. His face turns angry. “You again?”

“It’s fine, Hayden,” Shane says, because he doesn’t think he can handle the two of them going at it.

“No. Go away. You’re scaring off paying customers.” Shane almost laughs — Hayden has no idea how true that statement is.

“What if I am the paying customer, Pike?”

Shane looks up, startled, and finds Rozanov’s eyes boring into him. The intensity of it is too much, he needs to look anywhere else, so naturally, he chooses Rozanov’s lips. They’re full, pink, a bit chapped, and Shane wonders what that would feel like against his own lips. Or his tongue.

No. He can not be thinking these things. Especially not about Rozanov. He looks down, fiddling with the zipper of the money bag.

“In fact,” Rozanov says, and Shane can hear the smirk in his voice. “I will pay the rest of the money you need. How many kisses does that get me?”

“I am not kissing you.” Hayden retorts.

“Yes, obviously I do not mean you, Pike.” Shane fights the flush on his cheeks, but he is sure that Rozanov sees it. Maybe Hayden does, too. Maybe Shane won’t even need to come out, he’s so obviously affected by Rozanov’s attention.

Hayden wrinkles his nose. “Gross. Shane is definitely not kissing you, either.”

Shane freezes, eyes darting between them. He should agree with Hayden, should be revolted by the offer, because it’s Rozanov. They hate Rozanov. But what if that isn’t the thing that Hayden is disgusted by? If a different, nicer boy wanted to kiss Shane, would Hayden say the same thing?

Hayden never got into the locker room talk the way that the other guys on the team did. He never said slurs, or even called anything gay when he meant stupid. He laughed, sometimes, when the other guys did, but Shane rationalized that he just didn’t realize that it was offensive. Or didn’t want to rock the boat. And when he started dating Jackie, whose best friend is openly gay, Shane thought that was a pretty good sign that Hayden was accepting. But maybe he just tolerated it so he could be with Jackie. Or maybe the problem lies specifically with Shane — he’s an athlete, a guy’s guy. He isn’t feminine or boisterous, not like the gay guys on TV. Maybe Hayden wouldn’t respect him as a captain anymore if he found out that Shane sometimes fantasizes about being pinned underneath a hard body, kissed within an inch of his life, and touched by rough, calloused hands like nobody has ever touched him before.

Not that he needs to know all of that, but it’s implied.

Irritation surges through Shane’s body, to his fingertips, as he balls his hand into a fist. How is that fair? Hayden is his best friend, he’s supposed to love him and respect him no matter what. Shane is gay, and he is the best hockey player in the city. Both things are true. And even though Hayden doesn’t know that Shane is gay, he should say something when the other guys are being immature assholes.

“Shane.” Hayden and Rozanov are both watching him. There’s a second where he wants to snap at Hayden, but he can’t. He’s afraid. The anger in his chest deflates.

He laughs half-heartedly, and looks at Rozanov. “Yeah. Go find someone else to bother, Rozanov.”

Rozanov grimaces, like he can read the shame that Shane is desperately keeping inside, and it hurts him. Shane’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t want Rozanov’s pity.

“Fine,” he finally says. “Offer is still on the table. When you need it.”

“We won’t,” Hayden says.

Rozanov shrugs, then turns and strides away, his thighs flexing against his gym shorts with each step — not that Shane is looking. He wants to say something, to thank Rozanov for telling that girl to leave, even if he was a bit of a dick about it, but Hayden is right there and the words get stuck in his throat.

—

Shane is still thinking about it the next day, as Hayden tosses him a Playstation controller and they flop down onto his couch. They’ve passed the halfway point, but the money is starting to slow and the deadline is nearing. He thinks about reaching out to Rozanov privately and taking him up on his offer, because it is, frankly, embarrassing to keep standing at a kissing booth that has fewer and fewer customers by the day.

(JJ tries to convince Shane to participate, arguing that girls will come back if they can kiss the Shane Hollander. Hayden, to his credit, defends Shane and JJ backs off.)

But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t know if he can trust Rozanov not to gloat to his team and reveal his secret.

He and Hayden haven’t gotten much time to just hang out lately, between hockey playoffs, the fundraiser, and their impending graduation. Hayden is making a last-ditch effort to raise his GPA, which Shane assumes was Jackie’s idea, so he spends most of his free time doing homework. Shane doesn’t mind, because less time with Hayden means more time with Rose, and that means less time that Shane has to perform as a different version of himself, his secret identity pounding at the walls of his chest and making him nauseous.

Still, he misses his best friend. Around Hayden, Shane’s awkward humor earns him hearty laughs, and his nerdy hockey tangents are actually appreciated. Rose tries her best, but Shane can tell that her attention drifts as he gives play-by-plays of whichever game he watched the night before. Hayden, even though he probably watched it, too, nods along like he’s hearing it for the first time and throws in his own commentary.

They play Mario Kart for a little while, the conversation mostly just trash talk until they’re both overtaken by the computer-player and they decide that’s enough of that. Hayden leaves for a minute to grab a snack, and Shane checks his phone to see a few notifications from the team groupchat — Mitty updating them that the booth made $50 more dollars this afternoon, and they’re packing up now. Shane’s chest tightens. That’s not enough.

Hayden returns, a half-eaten Kit Kat in hand, and tosses a granola bar into Shane’s lap.

“Hey, would it be cool with you if Jackie comes to Boston with us?” Hayden asks. “She can pay her own way, obviously, but you’d have to find a different roommate.”

Selfishly, Shane wants to shut the idea down. He likes Jackie, he’d love to hang out with her and Hayden in Boston, but he does not like the idea of rooming with anyone else at all. Hayden knows all of his habits, his preference for the bed closest to the window and how he wants the thermostat set, and he doesn’t have the energy to try to explain it to someone else.

“I don’t know… I mean, we’ll just be playing hockey the whole time. Won’t she be bored?”

“Jackie? Nah, man, it’s Boston. She’d find lots of stuff to do during the day.” Then, Hayden’s lip quirks up in a half-smile, like he sees through Shane’s question. “I’m sure you could convince Thierault to get you your own room. You’re Captain, and he’d give you whatever you want if you tell him it’ll help you play better.”

Normally, it would be a good point. But their fundraising goal has been assuming that all of the players would share a room. Shane isn’t sure there’s space in the budget for his own room.

“I guess so.”

“Or you could invite your girl.” Hayden smiles.

Shane’s face twists in confusion. “What?”

“Invite your girlfriend,” he insists. “I know you don’t want to go public, but nobody else knows you in Boston. And the guys can keep your secret. You don’t have to hide for a week. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Shane almost laughs at the absurdity of it, the naive smile on Hayden’s face as he offers Shane what he thinks is freedom, but is just another façade. It’s funny at first, and then it’s just… depressing.

His shoulders slump. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Come on, man. Aren’t you sick of hiding?”

Shane’s jaw tightens. He wishes Hayden would just drop it. “Yes, actually.”

“And, you know, if word got back about you guys at school, it could be a good thing. Maybe it would get Rozanov off your back, at least.”

Shane’s pulse picks up. “What does that mean?”

“Well, he was obviously picking on you today because he thinks you’re…”

“Thinks I’m what?” He narrows his eyes.

Hayden flushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… Pathetic, I guess. Single. He’s, like, a fuckboy, and he thinks he’s better than you.”

Shane swallows hard. Had Rozanov just been teasing him for his own amusement? Making him blush and stutter because he was bored, and he thought Shane would be easy? And Shane, because he really is the pathetic boy that Rozanov sees him as, had gone weak for it.

But Rozanov’s words rang through his head. I know what you all say about me. You think I am a whore, Hollander? He’d seemed genuinely hurt, and here Hayden was, implying exactly that even though he’d never even had a conversation with Rozanov beyond hurling insults.

“He can be an asshole all he wants, but threatening to kiss you was out of line.” Hayden goes on. “I think I threw up in my mouth a little.”

And before Shane can stop himself, he blurts, “Is it really so disgusting to you?”

Hayden pauses, suddenly looking at Shane like he’s a hurt animal who might skitter off if he gets too close. “Um. You mean, kissing…?”

“A guy. Me kissing a guy. You think that’s…” Shane’s voice breaks off as the realization of what he’s said sets in. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. For a second, he hopes that Hayden won’t understand, and Shane can play it off as a joke, but Hayden isn’t completely clueless. What Shane is implying is obvious.

Tears prickle at the corner of Shane’s eyes. He forces them back — even if he’s just ruined his closest friendship, and possibly his future career, he is not going to cry about it.

“Oh.” Hayden says, sitting down next to Shane’s tense body on the couch. “No, that’s not— I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. I don’t think that kissing a guy is disgusting, if it’s something you would like.”

A pause, then, “Are you saying… Is it something you would like?”

Shane nods slowly.

“Okay.” Another pause. “But what about your girlfriend?”

Shane shoots Hayden an exasperated look, unable to hold back a bark of laughter. “I don’t have a secret girlfriend. I just let you believe that so I wouldn’t have to kiss any girls.”

Hayden blinks. “Am I gullible, or you a really good liar?”

“About this, I am.”

“So… no girls at all?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Shane shakes his head. “I sort of tried it with one of the best girls out there, and I crashed and burned.”

Hayden laughs. “Fair enough.”

There’s another pause, and Shane feels his heartbeat start to slow back down. He had played this moment over in his head hundreds of times, writing himself a script for every possibility, but he’d never expected it to feel this simple. This uneventful.

Hayden’s hands fidget where they lay in his lap. They do that when he’s nervous — a complete contrast of the way Shane freezes up. They’ll have to set some ground rules about this, probably, which he's already drafting in his head. Things like when and where they can mention it. To whom. Shane doesn’t suddenly want to talk about boys, which he’s sure Hayden will appreciate. And, importantly, if there’s a homophobic comment in the locker room, they should stay quiet to avoid unnecessary attention.

There’s more to discuss, but that sounds exhausting right now, and he’d rather go back to beating Hayden at whatever video game they choose to play next.

Shane thinks Hayden is on the same page, until he says, “Wait, this doesn’t mean you’d actually kiss Rozanov, right? Because, for the record, you can do way better than that dickhead.”

Unhelpfully, the memory of Rozanov’s lips flash in Shane’s mind. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing the image to break into a kaleidoscope of lights behind his eyelids.

Shane had accepted his sexuality as more of an abstract concept. In pieces — one guy’s arms, another’s thighs, or abs, or eyes. Sometimes he saw a hot guy at school, or sitting in the bleachers, or at the grocery store and he let his gaze linger, but he never had any intention of speaking to them. Sometimes he imagined someone pinning him to the wall under hot shower spray after a tough game and rewarding him for making the game-winning goal. But never a specific person. A specific boy.

The way his pulse quickened when Rozanov looked at him was a product of Shane’s anxiety, not his desire. And the way he felt weirdly cared for when Rozanov sent that girl away… well, he could look beyond that. Besides, expecting to be taken care of by Ilya Rozanov was completely ridiculous. Shane may want to see what Rozanov looks like without that gym shirt on, maybe a little sweatier, but his curiosity needs to stop there or he’ll get hurt.

He should wholeheartedly agree with Hayden, because Rozanov is a dick. He’s a loudmouth, a playboy, an asshole. Shane shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought of kissing him.

He’s insufferable, except for when he’s not.

Like that time back in September when Shane was out sick for a week with the flu, and stressed to no end because his grade was already slipping in Pre-Calc. When he showed back up, still sniffly and red-eyed, Rozanov quietly slipped him a week’s worth of notes, all the important equations underlined and highlighted. (Shane had glimpsed Rozanov’s notes before. His handwriting was practically illegible and he often got distracted halfway through class and started scribbling in the margins. These were careful and organized the way Shane liked.)

Or when Shane’s car wouldn’t start after a long practice, and Rozanov happened to be making out with a girl in the backseat of his car. Shane was slack-jawed as Rozanov emerged, asked if he needed help, and pulled jumper cables out of his trunk while his hook-up stood awkwardly off to the side and watched.

Or when he protected Shane when he was alone at the kissing booth. And then, for some reason, offering to pay the remainder of the funds.

Honestly, Shane could’ve kissed him for every one of those things. But if Hayden wasn’t upset with him for being gay, he sure as hell would be if he was gay for Ilya Rozanov. Plus, Shane isn’t interested in a relationship. He’s interested in hockey. In going to Boston. Someday down the road, he can find a nice, uncomplicated guy who his friends and family will like, and who is actually gay. Which Rozanov is not.

So he laughs, shakes his head, and says, “God, no. I wouldn’t kiss him if he paid me double.”

Hayden grins, and they both turn their attention back to the TV.

—

The relief that Shane felt at coming out to Hayden is swiftly diminished by the mounting pressure to raise the money by their deadline. Not to mention, Shane still has to keep his grades up as the team prepares for their next match, and — as if he could sense that his presence has been plaguing Shane’s thoughts — Rozanov has been loitering near the booth at every chance he gets.

Sometimes, he just passes by with a quip about “loser hockey players,” (usually when Hayden is working) but other times, always when Shane is there, he leans against the wall across from them and stares, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Shane usually sneaks away before too long, weaving through the crowd to the nearest bathroom so he can splash cold water on his face.

The days pass by in a blur, including a weekend where Shane makes calls to local businesses asking for donations in between writing an essay on The Great Gatsby and filling out a lab report that was due last week.

Twenty-four hours and $1,000 short of their deadline, they have a match against their rivals, the Westmount High Raiders, and Shane is laser-focused on beating them. He skips out on a kissing booth shift, using the Team Captain excuse, much to his friends’ annoyance. He really does intend on talking strategy with Thierault, but he also desperately needs some time alone to get out of his head, so he decides on a short pre-game workout.

They have a gym next to the rink that all of the athletes share, and Shane is delighted to find it empty when he enters. He warms up with a quick two-mile run, then heads over to the weights. He’s in the middle of a set of leg presses when he hears the door swinging open. Annoyed, Shane looks over his shoulder to see —

Rozanov, in a tank top and shorts that barely reach halfway to his knees. He catches Shane watching, and the corner of his lip quirks up.

Shane whips his head away. He sighs, flexes his hands around the cool metal of the weight, and continues with his workout. The gym is public, he’s worked out with other people in here before and he has gotten good at zoning them out. There’s no reason he can’t do the same with Rozanov.

When he glances over a few minutes later, Rozanov is on the treadmill, beads of sweat forming at the crevices of his muscles. He doesn’t return the look. Shane huffs, and takes a swig from his water bottle.

A few minutes after that, Shane is settling into the chest press machine when he feels the air shift around him. He startles when, suddenly, Rozanov is there, leaning over him, upside down from Shane’s perspective. He wraps his hands next to Shane’s around the barbell.

Shane lets out a displeased grunt. “What are you doing?”

“You need spotter.”

“I’m fine.”

He starts to lift the weight, but Rozanov pushes against him. He’s surprisingly strong, and Shane is forced to set it back down.

“What will your team do if you are hurt? They will lose. They are losers.”

Shane scoffs, sitting up to face Rozanov. He’s dead wrong, but Shane is more offended that Rozanov thinks he’s stupid enough to accept that explanation. “Oh, is that why you’ve been following me?”

Rozanov raises his eyebrows, and Shane can’t tell if he really is surprised by the accusation or just mocking him. “I work out. This is a public gym.”

“And staring at me while I’m at the kissing booth — what’s your excuse for that?”

Rozanov shrugs, a smirk flickering on his lips. “In case you want to accept my very generous donation.”

“Fuck off. It’s not a donation if you want something in return.”

“What if it is something we both want?” Rozanov asks, bending forward into Shane’s space.

Shane’s jaw goes slack as he wills himself to keep it together. He inhales, sweat and smoke that should be disgusting, but might just be intoxicating enough to make him do something dangerous, invades his senses. It’s not, he wants to say, but his vocal chords have apparently gone useless.

“Okay,” Rozanov hums, low in his chest like it’s a secret only for Shane to hear despite the rest of the room being empty.

Shane’s phone dings. He blinks, then scrambles to find it on the floor, underneath his towel. It’s from Thierault, who’s in his office and wants to meet before the game.

Grateful for the excuse to leave, he stands from the bench and gathers his things. When he straightens up, he catches Rozanov looking. Not at him, really. At his body. His face seems more open than usual, less in control, less menacing.

Shane shifts under the scrutiny. “You have a staring problem.”

Rozanov’s eyes snap back up to Shane’s. “Yes.”

He squints, like Rozanov is a puzzle he needs to put together. But the pieces remain strewn about. Shane turns on his heel toward the door. “Stop following me.”

“Good luck tonight, Hollander.”

Shane purses his lips, fighting a smile even though Rozanov can’t see his face anymore. It’s the principle of the thing.

—

“You boys have put up a valiant effort,” Thierault says as he leans back in his desk chair, clasping his hands over his belly. Shane sits in a plastic chair across from him, leg bouncing as he prepares for the bad news. He’s known it for a few days now, but he didn’t want to quash the other guys’ hopes. “But you’re still a thousand short, and I don’t see how you’re going to raise that by tomorrow afternoon.”

“I know.” Shane sighs. “I was thinking we could use the money for new equipment.”

“That’s a good idea. But… there is enough money to send you to Boston. You’d make us proud, Hollander.”

Shane perks up, leaning forward so his arms are against the front of the desk. He’s been in this cycle for so long — dreaming of Boston until his hopes are dashed, only for a new door to open. He thought the torture had finally come to an end, that the situation was finally completely out of his control, but Thierault was handing him a new, shiny key.

Thierault raised his eyebrows, awaiting Shane’s reaction. Clearly, he was expecting Shane to instantly say yes, to jump at the opportunity with no regard for the boys he would be leaving behind. Maybe a few weeks ago, he would’ve done it. He would’ve convinced himself that Hayden and the others would understand; Shane was really fucking good, actually had a chance to play professionally, and he’d be stupid to let this opportunity slip through his fingers.

He can imagine their half-smiles and pats on the back, pretending to be happy for Shane when he tells them their hard work only paid off for him. It makes him sort of queasy.

Being Captain of the Metros isn’t just about being the fastest skater or the best shooter. It’s not just about making the boys do bag skates until they throw up, memorizing every one of their stats and making personalized training programs to focus on their weaknesses. It’s about creating a team that trusts him. And celebrating their wins together, no matter who scored and who didn’t.

Shane might have had the idea to do a fundraiser, but it was the rest of the team who put in all the work. He’d be betraying them by going to Boston without them.

Besides, being alone in a Boston hotel, surrounded by rowdy, drunk athletes that he doesn’t know is like a scene out of Shane’s nightmares.

“Thank you, Coach. But…” He shifts in his seat. His decision is made, but he hates disappointing Thierault. “It wouldn’t be right. Everyone worked hard to raise the money. Either all of us go, or none of us do.”

Thierault accepts Shane’s answer with a curt nod — their spare pads and skates haven’t been updated in a decade, anyway, he says — and they move on to strategy for tonight’s game.

The game is a fucking nail-biter, everything a raucuous crowd could want from rival schools facing off. The Raiders take an early lead. Shane can tell that his boys are distracted, probably grieving their plans for Boston, but he needs them to get it together. Boston doesn’t want them anyway, not if they aren’t winners. Shane manages to even the score before the first intermission, but only after a Raider is sent to the penalty box for a particularly brutal check on JJ, who goes down hard. Shane is not enthused to enter the rest of the game without one of his best defensemen.

It goes on like that. The Raiders score. The Metros tie it up again. And again. Shane is responsible for two points now, on his way to a hat trick. The cheering of the crowd is a constant din in the background. The clock glows on the wall, taunting Shane as each second disappears.

He’s preparing for a face-off when he glances into the stands, which he immediately regrets as a flash of golden curls catches his eye. Rozanov is looking right at him, pink lips parted, tongue peeking out ever so slightly, in focus. He’s alone — no sign of his friends, no girl on his arm. Sparks zip through Shane’s body, like the bang snaps his dad used to set off in the driveway while Shane covered his hands over his ears and flinched every time they popped. But this felt good, left a fire surging through Shane’s blood.

The puck drops, he takes control easily, and the next thing he knows, he’s slamming it passed the goalie and into the net. The crowd erupts and he looks back into it as he pumps his fist, searching for a specific person.

Rozanov is beaming, the smile taking over his features, smoothing over the sharp edges that make him look mean. Pride blooms in Shane’s chest, but it turns sour as the game comes to a close and the Metros win.

Shane just knocked their rivals out of the playoffs, practically on his own. He’s the best player in the city, could be the best player in the fucking world someday, and he doesn’t even get to show it off to the people that matter. He made the noble choice with Thierault before, because Rose had been right, hockey couldn’t be everything, but in this moment, doing the right thing feels akin to stabbing himself in the chest over and over again.

The guys are celebratory in the locker room — apparently one win was all they needed to lift their spirits — but Shane is prickly and short with them. He waits to shower until the rest of them are finished, and then shouts at them when the water sprays out lukewarm.

When he emerges, only Hayden is left. He smiles, his voice careful as he asks, “Some of us are going for milkshakes. Wanna join?”

Shane scrunches his nose. “I can’t have that much sugar.”

“Okay. But I’ll see you at the booth tomorrow?”

“What’s the point?” Shane asks. What is a few more wads of cash going to do for them now?

Hayden sighs and throws his bag over his shoulder. He starts toward the door, then crooks his head toward Shane one more time before he leaves. “JJ’s fine, by the way.”

Shane deflates, guilty for not thinking to ask about his teammate. His friend. All alone now, he shoves his locker shut, the metal echoing loudly in the empty room. Despite just having played, energy thrums in his veins, pent up and desperately searching for a way out. He throws his t-shirt on and switches into running shoes.

The air is cool on his skin as he steps into the parking lot, dusk settling into the sky as the streetlights flicker on around him. Only a few cars, including his own, are left, but he seems to be alone. Shane throws his bag in his trunk, then sets off on a loop around the parking lot.

A light jog turns into a run, into a sprint. The more his muscles ache, the quieter his mind gets. The sting of his joints as his feet slam into the pavement distracts from thoughts of going back to Thierault, telling him he’s changed his mind, that he wants to go to Boston. That he longs to screw over his best friends, that he resents them for their role in making him keep his sexuality a secret, and that he deserves to start his career without them.

He’s a terrible person.

Lap after lap, it continues. His thoughts spiral, sometimes anger toward the guys, sometimes toward himself. Sometimes Rozanov’s smirk, the sultry resonance of his voice, sneaks in. And then he runs harder, faster, makes it all go quiet until his pace and the pain isn’t enough anymore and it starts all over again.

Shane is panting, sucking in cold air by the gulp when a small flicker of light catches his eye. He slows, his vision clearing to make out a silhouette leaning against the side of the building, guiding a lighter to a cigarette. The flame illuminates the figure’s face — Shane can make out the shadows dancing across Rozanov’s cheekbones, the twitch of his jaw as he takes a drag, blue eyes gazing sharply back at him.

Shane tenses. He’s been caught.

Rozanov jerks his head, beckoning Shane over. Before he can tell himself to walk the other way, his feet are moving, leading him closer. He coughs as he enters Rozanov’s space, the smoke invading his senses and making his eyes water.

“You shouldn’t smoke here.” Shane says. You shouldn’t be here, he wants to say. I can’t keep running from you.

Rozanov hums. “Canadians, you have boring rules. You were not so boring on the ice, Hollander.”

“You watched me play.”

“I like hockey.” He says, like it’s no big deal, like Shane hadn’t surged to a hat trick just from knowing Rozanov’s eyes were on him. “You are good player. Best player, maybe.”

“Maybe?” Shane repeats, half-offended.

“Weak backhand.” Rozanov smirks, and Shane huffs out a surprised laugh, because they both know it’s not true, and if Rozanov knows how strong Shane’s backhand really is, then he’s seen Shane play before. Maybe more than once.

“You’re starting to sound like a fan.” Shane jokes.

“I am.” Rozanov doesn’t sound like he’s joking.

Shane swallows. “I don’t think you should, uh… I mean, if the guys saw you… they sort of think you’re messing with me. They don’t like you.”

“What do you think?” Rozanov asks. He brings the cigarette to his lips again, his chest rising as he holds his inhale, the contours of his pecs visible against his t-shirt. Shane’s tongue swipes his bottom lip, then his eyes dart away.

Rozanov blows the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. He seems content to wait for Shane’s response, but Shane can’t find the words. Everything he wants to say is too honest, the kind of thing he’s been scolded for by every adult in his life. He’d grown up learning that honesty is a virtue, but apparently, one could be too honest, which he had learned only after several too many awkward, charged silences (and, one time, his mother’s friend telling her that she was raising quite a rude boy).

But Rozanov was the blunt kind, too. People thought he was rude. Maybe Shane was in good company.

Still, he knows that deciding to be honest — admitting that he wanted Rozanov’s eyes on him while he played, and maybe even off the ice, too — was a bad idea. He’d get the attention in the short term, and then end up abandoned like a puppy on the side of the road when Rozanov found someone else more interesting. Less boring, and uptight, and egotistical.

“You have too much in there,” Rozanov says, reaching out and tapping the side of Shane’s head with his callused finger.

He flinches away from the touch. Rozanov backs off, hands up in a surrender. He raises his eyebrows. “Don’t worry, Hollander. I can take a hint.”

Hint? Shane furrows his eyebrows. What hint? Shane had been explicitly trying not to give him any hints.

“You do not have enough money, yes? Deadline is soon? My offer is still on the table.”

Oh no. That’s what Rozanov meant. He saw the way Shane’s eyes caught on the curl of Rozanov’s lips around his cigarette, saw the flush in his cheeks when he leaned over him in the gym. He knows the honesty that floats around in Shane’s head — if you ask to kiss me again, I don’t think I can say no.

“I can’t—”

“No. Listen,” Rozanov interrupts. “No trade. I will give you the rest of the money, so you can go to Boston.”

Shane wonders if he’s having a dream. He pinches his thigh, but the world around him looks the same. Rozanov has a backpack, Shane realizes, and he starts digging through it. “We’re, like, a thousand dollars short. You can’t possibly give me that much money.”

Rozanov pulls a wad of cash (bundled together already, like he’d been planning this) and extends it to him. “Yes, I can. I have rich father, he sends me money. There is extra hundred dollars… buy a nice dinner. Only for you, other boys have to pay.”

Rozanov gestures, trying to get Shane to take it. He eyes it, suspiciously. “You’re not going to hold this over my head later?”

That elicits an annoyed grunt from Rozanov. “You are greatest player in Canada. Probably in America, too. So I think you should go to Boston and make recruiters drool over you. Okay?”

Finally, Shane takes the money. He flicks through it, not thorough enough to count, but it’s clearly enough money to make their goal. He clears his throat, trying to fight the lump forming in it. The pendulum has swung again — Shane is going to Boston. But it’s like he’s been conditioned now to expect something bad to happen, to make it all go away again. To see Rozanov burst out laughing and tell him it’s all fake. Or find out Rozanov wants Shane to do his homework for the rest of the school year in exchange.

“What do you get in return?” Shane asks.

Rozanov shrugs, rocking back and forth on his feet in a motion that Shane recognizes from his friends. Nerves. “Maybe you do not hate me so much now. That is all.”

Shane bristles. “I don’t—” But he stops himself, because he has been a bit of an asshole. Implying that Rozanov slept around, laughing while his friends insulted the guy. Adjusting his schedule over the past week to avoid him. The memory of Rozanov handing him his notes in math class flashes in his mind — did he ever say ‘thank you?’ He hasn’t even thanked him for the money. Shane softens his voice. “I don’t hate you.”

He thinks he sees Rozanov smile, but his hand with the cigarette is covering it before he can take another look. And that’s fucking annoying, because Shane was enjoying himself, looking at Rozanov’s smile. His lips.

The same burst of exasperated energy as before runs through his body, takes hold of him as he charges toward Rozanov. He stops just before they are pressed together, and steals the cigarette from Rozanov’s fingers, tossing it to the ground. A voice in his head scolds him for littering, but he doesn’t have time to find an ash tray. He stomps it out. “Hollander, what—”

Rozanov doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Shane grabs the back of his neck and smashes their mouths together. He’s more aggressive than he meant to be, the collision of their teeth stinging, but they find their rhythm as Rozanov sucks his top lip into his mouth. Fuck, he kisses like someone who knows what he’s doing, which makes Shane hyper aware that he has no idea what he’s doing.

He’s kissed girls before. He’s looked up videos of boys kissing late at night in his room, door locked and incognito browser pulled up on his laptop. But the real thing is… better. A little more complicated than he thought. He has to keep his feet steady on the uneven concrete, has to focus on breathing out of his nose or when their mouths are apart for half a second at a time.

Maybe Rozanov can feel his inexperience, because he flips them around, pushing Shane gently into the wall and takes over. The brick rubs uncomfortably against his back. He winces, but then Rozanov gives him a hint of tongue and he loses sensation everywhere but his mouth. Distantly, he can feel his own hands wrapped around Rozanov’s neck; he’s too scared to move them, but he thinks it would be nice, sometime, to run his fingertips along Rozanov’s body, tracing his tight muscles. Or through his hair, tugging on it when he wants more.

He wants more.

But Rozanov has decided that he’s had enough. It’s probably for the best — Shane is panting when Rozanov pulls away, like he’s done another few laps around the parking lot. And then the reality hits him.

He just kissed Ilya Rozanov.

Fear pulses through his veins, building up like bile in his throat. What if Rozanov got what he wanted? What if Shane arrives at school tomorrow, only to see Rozanov with someone else? He feels ashamed at the silent accusation, but he has no idea what to think. Rozanov had told him that he is clear about what he wants from people, but he hadn’t told Shane. What if someone saw them? One of his teammates who hadn’t left yet. A security camera.

“You are doing that thing again. Freaking out.” Shane’s eyes refocus. Rozanov is still in front of him, a few inches from his face, smiling softly. He presses a light kiss to the corner of Shane’s mouth, and Shane’s brain hurries to catch up and kiss him back. “Stop freaking out.”

Easy for him to say. He can pick any girl (or guy, apparently) that he wants, and they will inevitably want him back. Shane wants to ask what this means, but would that be too honest?

Instead, he says, “A thousand dollars.”

“Yes.”

“That buys you a lot of kisses.”

There’s a slight twitch of Rozanov’s brow. Carefully, he agrees, “Okay.”

“But I can’t give you so many all at once. You would run out.”

The corner of Rozanov’s mouth quirks into a half-smile. “We would not want that.”

Shane shakes his head. “No. And kissing makes me hungry. So you would have to make me dinner, too.”

Rozanov is fully smiling now, slight crinkles forming at the corner of his eyes. It makes him look so soft, so boyish. Dusk has given way to darkness, and the stars now twinkling in the night sky dance in his eyes. Shane could get used to this smile. “Whatever you say.”

Shane’s chest puffs out a bit as he gains confidence. “And there’s another rule. But if you don’t want it, we can…” He swallows. “I can go.”

Rozanov nods once, encouraging him.

“I don’t think you should kiss anyone else. You might get confused, forget how many kisses I owe you. So it should only be me. For now.”

Shane holds his breath, waiting for Rozanov to tell him it’s a dealbreaker. That he’s not giving up girls just for a few measly kisses from him. That he has people far more experienced begging at his feet.

But he just nods, and says, “Anything you want, Captain.”

He might have used the honorific sarcastically, but Shane can’t ignore the electricity that zips down his spine. Still, it’s laced with a tinge of anxiety. “Are you sure? Because you said—”

“I said that I do not want a relationship with other people. Is not the same for you.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want to follow your rules. Okay?”

Shane nods. He’s giddy with it, laughing softly until Rozanov shuts him up with a couple more kisses. Embarrassingly, Shane whines when he pulls away, but Rozanov just winks and whispers, “I want to save them for later.”

They leave it at that, Rozanov leaning back against the wall as he pulls another cigarette out of his pocket and lights it. They make plans for the next evening that Shane is free — apparently, Rozanov’s father is usually in Russia, and his brother is in college, so he gets the house to himself most of the time. Very convenient for Shane’s fantasies — and chat a little more about hockey and plans for after graduation. He feels a little guilty when he makes Rozanov wait for him to get in his car and pull out of the lot before he is allowed to leave, but he seems to understand.

In fact, he seems to be excited by their secret fling. Rozanov makes it a point to tease Shane whenever he sees him, his words more charged than they were before. Shane can feel the gaze on the back on his head when they sit in math class, and he rewards it by letting their hands brush when Rozanov holds the door open for him. One time, Rozanov even walks in wearing a Hollander jersey, to which Hayden complains loudly about Rozanov’s so-called ‘audacity’ while Shane nearly chokes on his lunch.

The guys ask how he got the money, and he tells them that an anonymous donor reached out and sent it. They seem to accept it, their excitement overriding their curiosity, and Thierault gets on the phone with Boston’s program managers while the boys make roommate arrangements (he apologizes to Hayden, who forigves him, but informs him that he will be rooming with Jackie, so Shane negotiates a private room using the extra money that Rozanov gave him) and Googling nightclubs that they have no shot of actually getting into.

—

Shane is buzzing with excitement and nerves as Spring Break approaches. Logically, he knows he is great, and he will easily impress any recruiter who sees him play. He’s already received letters from many of them. But what if he gets there, and he isn’t the best anymore? What if he’s the tenth best? Or the hundredth? His parents, and his friends, have noticed that he’s been on edge, but nothing they say can help.

The night before the trip, Ilya (not Rozanov — he’s going to have to get used to that) asks him to come over, so he excuses himself from the dinner table, half of his meal still uneaten, with the excuse that he’s going to Hayden’s. He’s barely halfway through the door before Rozanov is all over him. The evening is languid, comforting, his nerves float away as they play video games, then kiss again, then chat, and then kiss some more.

They start on the couch, and at some point, their shirts come off. Shane is straddling Ilya’s lap when, in what Shane can only describe as one of the sexiest things Ilya has ever done, he picks him up in one smooth motion, hands under Shane’s thighs, and walks them toward his bedroom. Shane is not a small guy, but Ilya lifts him like it’s nothing, his toned arms showing off his strength.

Shane bounces as he’s deposited on the bed, followed by Ilya, who peppers light, feathery kisses along his jaw, his neck, his bare chest. He giggles, grabbing Ilya’s shoulders for purchase. “Someone’s needy…”

Ilya groans, pulling away to look at Shane. His lips are in an exaggerated pout. “What am I supposed to do? My boyfriend goes to Boston, leaving me all alone to suffer without him. It is torture. How will I survive?”

Shane blinks up at Ilya, his heart stuttering in his chest. “Boyfriend?”

Ilya cocks an eyebrow, gently brushing Shane’s hair out of his face. “I kiss you. I cook bird food dinner for you. I am about to suck your dick…?”

Shane flushes, red from the tips of his ears down to his chest. He knows that they’ve taken things slower than Ilya is used to, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t jerked off on his own about this very moment. He nods, showing Ilya he wants it, and earns a smile in response.

“So, yes. Boyfriend. I think so.”

“Boyfriend.” Shane whispers back, the taste of the word on his tongue a memory and a revelation at the same time.

Ilya smiles, like he hears how beautiful it is, too. He kisses Shane’s lips twice, then moves down his body, slowly, methodically, both of them savoring every hot swipe of his tongue.

He has a boyfriend. A very hot boyfriend who is strong, and funny, and a little mean, the way Shane likes. Who is about to give him a fucking blowjob. And starting tomorrow, he’s going to go get himself a professional hockey career.

Shane never thought he could have both at once. Always one or the other, and his career came first. He had been prepared to suppress his desire — for companionship, for sex, for men — until retirement. Maybe until he died. He will still have to hide, to keep Ilya a secret from his family and his friends, and the world. He’s spent more than enough time worrying that it will eventually be too hard on them. But Shane is better off, now that he’s shared a piece of himself with his best friend, now that he’s learning what it feels like to fall in love.

He peers down at Ilya, who discards Shane’s jeans and underwear on the floor, then kisses his bare hip. He looks like pure sunshine as he meets Shane’s glassy eyes.

“You with me, baby?”