Chapter Text
The ballroom of the hotel attached to Scotiabank Arena looked too expensive for hockey players.
That was Shane Hollander’s first thought when he walked inside behind two defensemen from Detroit arguing loudly about golf, his hands automatically adjusting the cuffs of his dark suit jacket because that was what he always did when nervous, repetitive little movements to ground himself while cameras flashed somewhere near the entrance and the low gold lighting reflected against crystal glasses and polished marble floors.
Too bright. Too loud. Too many people.
The annual All-Star gala was always like this - executives, sponsors, retired legends, wives in glittering dresses, musicians on stage, reporters pretending not to eavesdrop - and Shane usually survived it by attaching himself quietly to the edges of conversations until he could politely escape.
Across the room, he spotted Ilya Rozanov immediately.
Of course he did.
Shane always noticed Ilya instantly, the same way people noticed fire alarms or thunderstorms or car crashes.
Ilya was standing near one of the catering stations already surrounded by people, broad shoulders filling out a charcoal suit like he had been carved specifically to ruin photographers’ careers, laughing too loudly at something a blonde waitress had just said while casually touching her wrist with easy confidence.
Typical.
Shane looked away quickly before anyone noticed him staring.
We’re meeting later anyway, he reminded himself.
That had been the arrangement.
Separate arrivals. Separate appearances. No suspicious interactions during the gala. Then later, sometime after midnight, one of them would slip quietly into the other’s hotel room like they had done dozens of times over the years.
Simple. Safe. Normal.
Well.
As normal as secretly sleeping with your greatest rival for several years could possibly become.
On stage, the musicians began another song.
Shane barely paid attention at first. Some indie rock band management had probably hired because they were popular enough to impress executives but obscure enough not to cost too much. He accepted a glass of ginger ale from a passing waiter and moved toward a quieter section near one of the pillars.
Then one of the guitarists looked directly at him.
And winked.
Shane froze.
The glass nearly slipped from his hand.
No. No fucking way.
The musician smiled wider beneath the stage lights, fingers still moving effortlessly over the guitar strings, dark curls falling around his forehead.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Warm brown skin. Sharp cheekbones.
And very, very familiar.
Damian Fierro.
Shane felt heat rush violently into his face.
Oh my God.
For a horrible second he forgot how breathing worked.
Mexico came back in fragments all at once - a humid night, white hotel sheets, Damian laughing softly in Spanish-accented English, tequila on his tongue, sunlight through curtains, rough hands against Shane’s waist, the terrifying dizzy freedom of being somewhere nobody knew him.
Shane had not expected to ever see him again.
Certainly not here.
Certainly not at an NHL event surrounded by teammates and cameras and reporters and…
“Shane!”
He startled hard enough that ginger ale splashed against his fingers.
A teammate laughed nearby.
“You good, Hollander?”
“Yes,” Shane answered too quickly. “Sorry. Just distracted.”
He risked another glance toward the stage.
Damian was still looking at him.
Not intensely. Not threateningly.
Honestly, more amused than anything else.
But it made Shane’s stomach twist into tight nervous knots anyway.
Across the room, Ilya noticed immediately.
Because of course he did.
Ilya had spent years memorizing every microscopic shift in Shane’s behaviour without ever admitting to himself how pathetic that probably was.
The blush creeping up Shane’s neck.
The way his shoulders pulled inward.
The fixed stare toward the stage.
Rozanov narrowed his eyes slightly while the waitress beside him kept talking.
“…and then my cousin said he could totally fight Chara…”
“Mhm.” Ilya answered automatically, not listening anymore.
Shane was flustered.
Not regular shy-flustered either.
This was different.
Interesting.
Ilya excused himself from the waitress with a grin and moved casually through the crowd, pretending to greet people while secretly watching Shane over the rim of his champagne glass.
Then he followed Shane’s line of sight toward the stage.
One musician immediately stood out.
Tall guy. Guitar. Very attractive.
Mexican, probably.
And every few seconds, Shane glanced at him again before immediately looking away like he’d touched a hot stove.
Ilya blinked once. Then twice.
Slow realization began unfolding in his head.
Mexico. Vacation.
The one Shane had mentioned months ago during some late-night conversation after sex, voice quiet and embarrassed while staring at the hotel ceiling.
I hooked up with somebody there once.
That was all Shane had said.
Normally Ilya did not care about these things.
Hell, he slept with other people constantly.
Models, actresses, random girls from clubs, occasionally men nobody ever knew about.
Their arrangement worked specifically because there were no rules.
No expectations. No ownership.
So why was his chest suddenly burning?
The song ended.
Applause rolled across the ballroom.
The musicians stepped away for a short intermission.
And then Ilya watched the guitarist jump off the stage and head directly toward Shane.
“Oh.” Ilya muttered under his breath.
The guy stopped close to Shane, smiling warmly.
Shane looked like he wanted the floor to open beneath him.
Then, after a quick nervous glance around the ballroom, Shane quietly guided the man toward one of the side corridors away from the crowd.
Away from everyone else. Away from Ilya.
Something ugly twisted low in Ilya’s stomach.
Jealousy. Real jealousy.
Not the playful kind he joked about in interviews.
Something sharper. Meaner. Possessive.
The feeling shocked him so much he actually stopped walking.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Shane had every right to talk to somebody he used to sleep with.
Ilya himself had flirted with a waitress ten minutes ago.
This was hypocrisy at Olympic levels.
And still…
Still he could not stop staring toward the hallway where Shane had disappeared.
The corridor outside the ballroom was blessedly quiet.
Muted music echoed faintly through the walls while hotel staff hurried past carrying trays and boxes, mostly ignoring them.
Shane shoved his hands into his pockets immediately because they were shaking.
Damian leaned casually against the wall beside a framed painting, smiling.
“You look terrified to see me.”
“I’m not terrified.”
“You are Canadian terrified,” Damian corrected. “Very polite terrified.”
Despite everything, Shane let out a startled laugh.
That seemed to relax something between them instantly.
Damian looked almost exactly the same.
Maybe slightly older.
Still unfairly handsome.
Still carrying himself with the loose confidence of somebody comfortable everywhere.
“I genuinely didn’t know you were famous,” Damian admitted. “I found out like two days later. One of my cousins saw your picture online.”
Shane rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Right.”
“You thought I was going to expose you or something?”
“No.” Shane lied immediately.
Damian raised an eyebrow.
“Shane.”
“I maybe worried a little.”
“A little?”
“Okay. A lot.”
Damian laughed softly.
The sound dragged another embarrassing memory from Shane’s brain - hearing that laugh against his throat while tangled in hotel sheets.
He looked away immediately.
Do not think about that now. Jesus Christ.
“You were very memorable, you know.” Damian said.
Shane nearly choked on air.
“That’s not… you can’t just say things like that here.”
“Why?”
“Because there are hockey players everywhere.”
“So?”
“So they’re insane.”
That earned another laugh.
Damian tilted his head slightly, studying him.
“You’re even cuter when nervous.”
Shane groaned quietly into his hands.
“This is a nightmare.”
“No, cariño, this is funny.”
“Please don’t call me cariño in public.”
“Okay. Sorry.” Damian grinned. “Shane, then.”
The hallway suddenly felt too warm.
Shane hated how easily Damian spoke about everything.
How unashamed he seemed.
How normal he made it sound.
Back in Mexico it had felt temporary and unreal enough that Shane could pretend consequences did not exist, but here - in Toronto, at an NHL event, surrounded by teammates - every word felt dangerous.
“You look good,” Damian said more gently. “Happier than before.”
Shane blinked.
That surprised him.
“Happier?”
“When we met, you looked…” Damian searched for the word carefully. “Lonely.”
Shane’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because the worst part was that Damian had probably been right.
That trip to Mexico had happened during one of the rougher stretches of Shane’s life, when the pressure of captaincy and secrecy and constant self-monitoring had begun exhausting him so badly he barely slept anymore.
Then Damian had appeared in a hotel bar wearing a ridiculous floral shirt and smiling like Shane was somebody worth noticing.
It had only lasted a night, but Shane still remembered it vividly.
“I’m okay now.” Shane said quietly.
Damian studied him for another moment.
Then he smiled knowingly.
“Ah.”
“What?”
“There is somebody.”
Shane’s stomach dropped.
“What? No.”
“You are blushing again.”
“I blush all the time.”
“Yes. But this is different.”
Shane opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Because denying it too aggressively would look suspicious, but agreeing would be catastrophic.
Damian mercifully let him off the hook.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Your secret hockey romance is safe with me.”
Shane stared at him in horror.
“My what?”
Damian burst out laughing.
“I am joking!”
“You can’t joke like that!”
“You should see your face right now.”
Shane pressed both palms against his burning cheeks.
“Oh my God.”
“You are adorable, seriously.”
Before Shane could answer, music drifted back into the hallway signalling the end of intermission.
Damian straightened slightly.
“I have to go back.”
“Right.”
For one strange moment they simply looked at each other.
Not romantically exactly.
More like two people remembering a version of each other nobody else knew existed.
Then Damian stepped closer just briefly enough to squeeze Shane’s shoulder.
“It was nice seeing you again.”
“You too.”
“And for the record,” Damian added with a teasing smile, “if your mysterious hockey boyfriend ever breaks your heart, call me.”
“I don’t have a hockey boyfriend.”
“Mhm.”
“I don’t.”
“Sure.”
Damian winked one last time before heading back toward the ballroom.
Shane remained frozen in the corridor for several seconds after he disappeared.
Jesus Christ.
His pulse was still racing.
Not because Damian had threatened him, actually the opposite. The encounter had gone far better than Shane feared.
But now another problem existed.
Ilya.
Because Shane knew Ilya must have noticed something.
And explaining it would be…
“Your Mexican guitarist is hot.”
Shane physically jumped and his heart immediately started hammering again for entirely different reasons.
Ilya’s voice sounded light. Too light. Dangerously light.
“You disappear with handsome musician,” Ilya continued casually, “and now you look like somebody plugged you into electrical outlet, yes.”
“It’s not what you think.”
Ilya’s eyebrow lifted.
“I literally think he is guy from Mexico.”
Silence.
Shane looked down at the carpet.
“…oh.”
“So I am right.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
Something sharp flickered briefly across Ilya’s face.
Not anger exactly. Worse. Hurt.
Which made absolutely no sense.
“Not big deal.” Ilya repeated slowly.
“He just came to say hi.”
“Mhm.”
Shane frowned.
“What’s your problem?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s a lie.”
Ilya laughed once without humor.
“You fucked guitarist.”
Shane nearly died on the spot.
“Could you maybe say that quieter?”
“Why? Is true.”
A hotel employee walked past them.
Shane waited until they disappeared around the corner before hissing, “You’re being weird.”
“I am being weird?”
“Yes.”
Ilya pushed away from the wall abruptly.
“For years you tell me every girl I hook up with is annoying or stupid or too loud or fake blonde…”
“I never said fake blonde.”
“You implied fake blonde.”
“Ilya…”
“And now suddenly there is beautiful guitarist who makes you blush like Disney princess.”
Shane stared at him, then blinked.
“Are you jealous?”
The question escaped before he could stop it.
Ilya immediately opened his mouth to deny it. Then stopped.
Because he did not actually know.
That realization seemed to unsettle him more than the accusation itself.
“I don’t know.” he admitted finally, quieter now.
Shane’s irritation faded instantly.
Ilya looked genuinely confused.
Almost disturbed by his own emotions.
And suddenly Shane understood.
Ilya Rozanov - loud arrogant charming Rozanov who flirted with everyone and treated sex like breathing - had probably never experienced jealousy before in his entire life.
The thought was so absurdly endearing Shane nearly smiled.
“I didn’t even kiss him.” Shane said softly.
Ilya looked at him carefully.
“You wanted to?”
“No.”
That part was true.
Damian was attractive, kind, easy to talk to.
But Shane had felt no ache toward him in that hallway.
No pull. No desperate magnetic tension.
Nothing like… like this.
Standing too close to Ilya in an empty corridor while the music from the ballroom echoed faintly behind them.
Ilya exhaled slowly.
“You still looked very happy to see him.”
“I was panicking.”
“You were blushing.”
“I blush when the weather changes.”
That finally made Ilya grin a little.
“There is my shy Canadian.”
Relief loosened something inside Shane’s chest.
Then Ilya stepped closer. Too close for a public hallway.
“Did he touch you?”
Shane swallowed.
“Yes.”
Ilya’s eyes darkened slightly.
“Where?”
“It was my shoulder, you psychopath.”
Ilya laughed loudly enough that Shane immediately shushed him in panic.
“Relax,” Ilya said. “Nobody here pays attention.”
“That’s objectively false.”
But Ilya looked calmer now.
Still strange. Still thoughtful.
Yet calmer.
He glanced once toward the ballroom entrance where applause erupted again as the band resumed playing.
Then back toward Shane.
“You still coming to my room later?”
Shane’s pulse skipped.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
For a second neither of them moved.
And Shane had the bizarre overwhelming urge to touch him.
Just briefly.
Fix his tie maybe.
Brush imaginary lint from his jacket. Anything.
Instead he shoved both hands deeper into his pockets.
“We should go back.” he said quietly.
“Probably.”
Neither moved again.
Ilya watched him with that infuriatingly warm expression he only ever used in private, the one that made Shane feel exposed in ways nudity never accomplished.
Then Rozanov smirked suddenly.
“But if guitarist writes song about you,” he added, “I am fighting him immediately, yes.”
Shane laughed despite himself.
“You’re insane.”
“Correct.”
“And dramatic.”
“Also correct.”
They finally started walking back toward the ballroom together before splitting apart near the entrance carefully, instinctively, years of secrecy sliding back into place.
Separate again. Safe again.
Shane returned to his seat.
Across the room, Damian played guitar beneath the stage lights, catching Shane’s eye only once before smiling faintly and looking away.
And several tables over, Ilya Rozanov flirted shamelessly with the waitress again.
But now every few minutes his gaze drifted back toward Shane anyway.