Chapter Text
The first time Shane and Rose try to fuck, Shane feels like such a failure that he can’t sleep after. He blames it on stress, hopes this is a reasonable excuse for not being able to stay hard with his movie-star girlfriend, and is relieved when she doesn’t push it.
She does seem disappointed, though, after. She’s quieter than before, subdued. It feeds Shane’s terrible shame, and the pit of anxiety in his stomach swells. With her next to him in bed, even once she’s asleep, his nervous system seems to perceive every twitch and shift as an attack. His failures amplified in her sleep habits, preventing his own rest. Hence, unable to sleep. After two hours of this, he thinks that if he stays in bed any longer, he might actually have a panic attack, which would wake her up, and then that would make him have a super-powered panic attack. That’s a thing, probably.
He slips out of bed, pads down to the guest bedroom, and opens the spare dresser where he keeps some of his extra clothes. Tucked deep in the back, he finds the black sweatshirt. He shouldn’t. He can’t. Shane stares at the sweatshirt. He thinks about smelling it, but even entertaining the idea fills him with profound guilt. What is wrong with him? His girlfriend is sleeping peacefully just down the hall, and here Shane is, holding a Boston Raiders sweatshirt and thinking about someone else. And that someone else is a man. It’s like Shane’s not even trying. That’s the whole point, right? He has to try, because he can’t have Ilya.
Rozanov. He can’t be with Rozanov, and Rozanov doesn’t even want him anyway. Not like that. Not in a way that could ever be real.
Shane needs a glass of water. And a cold shower. And a new brain. Fuck. He tucks the sweatshirt back into its secure hiding place. Tomorrow he would get rid of it, he tells himself. Not like he hasn’t told himself that before. Always tomorrow, and tomorrow never comes.
In the kitchen, he pours filtered water into a glass, chugs it, refills it, and downs a second glass. He doesn’t feel any better, just more bloated, nauseatingly full of liquid.
So he tries a cold shower. He uses the bathroom attached to the guest room because he doesn’t want to wake Rose. But it must not work, because when he emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist, Rose is sitting on the guest bedroom bed. She’s cross-legged, looking up from her phone at Shane.
“Oh,” is all he can say. He hopes he doesn’t look as horrified as he feels at finding her there, how embarrassed and exposed he feels just in his towel, hair wet and sticking to his forehead. But it’s written all over Rose: she clocks his discomfort. She sees everything.
“Hey,” she smiles at him, her eyes kind. “Shane, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, of course,” says Shane quickly. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know, maybe because you’re showering at 3:30 in the morning.”
“Sorry,” he says, avoiding eye contact. He grips the towel tightly just in case it spontaneously falls off. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I couldn’t sleep, I think I’m–”
“Stressed,” she finishes his sentence with a pointed look. Shane blinks hard, panic starting to swell.
“Hey, hey,” she says, putting out an arm as if to say slow down. “Shane, take a breath, it’s okay. I’m okay, you’re okay. Get dressed, okay? Maybe let’s talk downstairs? Unless you want to go to sleep.”
Shane doesn’t want to do either of those things, but the idea of climbing back into bed with Rose makes him feel gross and guilty and wrong. Fuck, he is an awful boyfriend. World’s worst boyfriend, probably, and she’s literally Rose fucking Landry. She could be with anyone. “I’ll meet you downstairs, okay?” Rose rises from the bed, cutting off Shane’s internal monologue.
“Sorry, yeah, okay,” Shane mutters. Rose gives him a soft smile and nods, leaving him to change.
Alone again, Shane pulls a pair of sweats and a Metros t-shirt from the guest bedroom dresser and puts them on. He glances at the sweatshirt in the drawer. He doesn’t put it on, obviously. But the person it reminds him of stays at the front of his mind. Fuck.
Downstairs, Rose has poured herself a glass of sparkling water from the fridge and perched herself on one of the kitchen barstools. As he approaches, she pulls out the chair next to her and indicates for him to sit.
“No need to look like you’re facing the firing squad,” she teases.
Shane feels his cheeks heat with shame. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”
“It’s fine, I’m kidding,” Rose says, frowning. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Really, Shane, it’s okay. I just want to talk.”
She really does seem genuine, which helps a little. She’s so nice, it makes this kind of harder. The fact that he can’t fuck her right or sleep next to her or be normal, it feels somehow worse because she’s so cool and funny and kind, and he should like her. He does like her. And yet he is failing spectacularly in every possibly way to be a good boyfriend.
“Shane, you know I like you.”
“I like you too,” he chews his lip anxiously.
She tilts her head, frowns, but not unkindly. “Why did you get up to shower?”
“I mean, I guess I just…” Shane struggles to find his words.
“Sorry, no, you don’t have to answer that,” Rose tells him gentley, shaking her head. “Sorry, I don’t think I’m handling this well.”
“What do you mean?” Shane asks. His knee is bobbing rapidly, completely unconsciously. Rose looks down at his leg; Shane uses all his might to force it to still. Rose’s eyes move to his.
“You are a really great guy,” she says. “I like you, I like spending time with you. And it seems like you like spending time with me, too.”
“I do,” he says, the words coming out defensively. Rose gives him a tight smile, her eyes sympathetic.
“I know. But when we tried to have sex, it seemed like that wasn’t the case. I know you said the season is stressing you out. I get that. I just think… I wonder if maybe you like me, but not… not in that way.”
“What way?”
“Sexually,” her voice is gentle. Shane is blinking rapidly, trying to figure out how he can fix this. He can salvage it. He can be a better boyfriend; he can make sure she enjoys it, the sex, even if he can’t.
“Hey, it’s okay,” she’s reaching out, taking his hand.
“It’s not,” he’s biting back the tears welling up in his eyes. Fuck. He cannot cry about this right now.
“It really is,” she continues softly. “I just don’t think I can…I… I don’t think we can be together if you don’t want it.”
“I do. I do want to be with you.”
“Shane,” she gives a disbelieving look, something sharp. “Were you just lying awake in bed after that?”
Reluctantly, he nods. Avoids eye contact. She nods in understanding, squeezes his hand. “Listen, it’s none of my business. But have you dated other girls? Has this happened before?”
Shane doesn’t know how to answer that. The last girl he dated was Jessica, back in high school, but they were teenagers. They only shared a couple of chaste kisses, barely any tongue, even. After that, he’d hooked up with a couple of girls before his first MLH season, because he felt like he had to; and sure, the girls seemed to be decently pleased, but it wasn’t all the way, and they hadn’t seemed to notice that he wasn’t very enthusiastic. Anyway, that was years and years ago. Before Ilya. Or, well, not before he’d met Ilya. But before they’d done anything together.
Rozanov, he corrects himself. He realizes Rose has asked him about girls, and he’s here thinking about Rozanov.
“I know the sex stuff is a problem,” Shane starts, intending to say more, to explain himself somehow, but Rose cuts him off.
“It’s not a problem,” she asserts. “A problem is something you can fix.”
“I can fix it,” Shane promises, his voice almost a whine. Rose shakes her head. “Shane, you don’t have to do this to yourself. It’s okay. I like you, you like me, but it doesn’t mean we have to be together, not like that. We can be friends.”
Fighting to keep the tears welling in his eyes from spilling out onto his cheeks, Shane rubs his temple. Rose squeezes his hand, releases it, and reaches over to take a sip of her water.
Turning back to him, she starts, “Can I ask you– and you don’t have to tell me, but… have you ever been with someone that’s not a girl?”
Shane closes his eyes because he cannot possibly look at Rose right now. He can’t even look at himself, at his own internal thoughts. Because, fuck, the answer to Rose’s question is yes. Yes, he’s been with Ilya.
In his mind, all he sees is Ilya. Ilya, in the showers after the CCM shoot, eyeing Shane.
Shane nods in response to her question, his head unbelievably heavy.
“A guy?” Rose asks. Shane forces his head to nod again.
“Have you ever told anyone that before?”
Shane shakes his head.
“Was it different, with a guy?”
He thinks of his first time with Ilya, how Ilya leaned down to kiss him in the stairwell before he left. “Of course.”
“Was it better?” Rose asks, and Shane’s thinking of kissing Ilya, of pulling on his face, how hungry he is for Ilya whenever they’re close.
“Yeah. Uh, it was better.”
Rose smiles at him in a way that makes Shane genuinely smile back. He actually can’t believe this is happening. He doesn’t know how he feels about it. He should feel scared, right? Panicked? But really, he thinks he just feels… relief.
Rose lets him sit in the moment; gives him time to process the revelation before she speaks again.
“Should we go to bed? And sleep, and not anything more than that, ever again? Just actual friends. Best friends, really. I do really like you.”
“Yeah,” Shane laughs a little. “Yeah, I’m fucking tired. And yes. Friends. I–” he takes a deep breath and takes her hand. “Thanks, Rose. And you… You won’t tell anyone?”
Squeezing his hand lightly, Rose smiles. “I won’t tell a soul, Shane. Promise.”
“Okay,” Shane smiles back at her. The anxiety he had earlier feels miles away now; the reality of it being almost four in the morning is settling into his body, calling him to sleep.
“Bed?” Rose prompts.
“Bed,” Shane agrees easily, his eyelids already drooping.
Right before he falls asleep, Shane thinks of Ilya again. Ilya’s curls, Ilya’s laugh, the moles on Ilya’s face, Ilya’s sweatshirt in the drawer in the guest room, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya. He thinks of Ilya, Ilya asking him to stay over, making him a tuna melt, giving him a ginger ale, saying Shane, and how Shane felt when he said Ilya, and Shane thinks of how he left; the hurt on Ilya’s face as he fled. That is something Shane can fix. He will fix it.
—
Jane: Hey. Can we talk?
Ilya stares at the words on his phone screen. He’s sitting in the airport, waiting to board the team flight to Montreal for their game tonight – the first game he’ll be playing against Hollander since he ran away from Ilya’s Boston penthouse in November. It’s been two months since then, during which Hollander’s started dating the gorgeous, stunning (and famous) Rose Landry. Because, of course, Hollander leaves Ilya and runs straight into the arms of the perfect woman.
And now Hollander is texting him before the game. They usually text before games each other, to plan their hook-ups. But they aren’t going to fuck this time; Hollander made that clear when he balked at how Ilya said Shane. Now, he’s messaging and asking to “talk.” Ilya doesn’t want to talk; he doesn’t want to hear Hollander gush about how great his girlfriend is. What else is there to say? Maybe in a very nice, Canadian fashion, Hollander wants to try to be friends or some shit. Ilya cannot just be friends with Shane Hollander, that much he knows for sure.
Obviously, Ilya really fucking wants to see Hollander; he’s wanted to since November. Ilya has missed Hollander in a way that he refuses to admit to himself, but in a very real way where that sits right in the front of his chest and pinches whenever he finds a photo of Hollander online, smiling and happy and totally unaware of how he makes Ilya feel just by existing. It fucking sucks because Hollander doesn’t want anything to do with him.
Frustrated, Ilya scowls at their text chain. Next to him, Marlow bumps his shoulder.
“Hey man, you good?”
“Mm, yes. Fine.” Ilya clicks his phone off, his own reflection in the darkened screen replacing the strange message from Hollander.
On the plane, Ilya finds that the only thing he can think about is Shane Hollander’s text message. He cycles through emotions; confusion (why is he texting Ilya?), frustration (why the fuck is he texting Ilya before the game?), fear (does Hollander want to tell him how happy he is with Rose Landry now? How they’re going to get married and have beautiful freckled children and never think about Ilya again?), hurt (Hollander doesn’t even know how this affects Ilya, he doesn’t care and Ilya has to process all of this by himself and it’s not fair), and lastly, very strangely, hope (Ilya has an opportunity to see Hollander again, in private. He might never have that opportunity again). The hope turns to sadness quickly, something in his chest deflating. He can’t have any of this, and he shouldn’t have even asked Hollander to stay in the first place; it’s Ilya’s mistake for saying Shane, and Hollander has actually done both of them a favor by running away and finding a girlfriend and leaving Ilya to get over his weird fucking obsession with Hollander. He needs to get over it, and talking with Hollander is not going to help. It will make it harder for Ilya to be okay. It will make him feel weak and sad and scared, and he might say something embarrassing that he can’t take back.
Ilya sighs and closes his eyes. Fucking Shane Hollander.
During the pre-game warm-ups, Ilya notices Hollander in his periphery, trying to catch Ilya’s eye. Ilya ignores it, pretends like Hollander doesn’t exist. He can’t deal with that right now, especially not before the game.
At the first face-off, Hollander tries again to get Ilya to look at him. Ilya is all business, his focus almost aggressively on the game itself, the puck, the plays, like he’s trying to prove a point by being completely unbothered by Hollander. But, of course, Ilya’s fucking bothered. He’s bothered by how unfairly pretty Hollander looks, doe-eyed and desperate for Ilya’s attention, and yet still so sharp on the ice, snapping the puck and tearing down the rink because he’s made for hockey, made for this. Ilya’s bothered that one of the rookies murmurs something to him while they’re on the bench, about how he doesn’t understand how a guy as weird as Shane Hollander pulls a chick like Rose Landry. Ilya has to bite back a defense, covering up his bitterness with a cold, empty laugh and a deflection. And Ilya’s bothered that, as much as he wants to tell Hollander, yes, let’s talk, he can’t do it. He cannot face Hollander, knowing that he will only be rejected once again. He’s a coward, he thinks, and he can’t even give Hollander the decency of closure.
The Metros win, 3-2, and by the end, Ilya is tired as fuck.
The locker room is somewhat somber; no one likes to lose, especially not with such a close game against their biggest rivals. As captain, Ilya should do something to lift the mood, especially encourage the rookies. But he feels callous and raw, and he can’t make himself do it today, so he settles for acting neutral, which is an impressive compromise given the reality of his emotions.
Luckily, Marlow seems to sense the need for leadership, and as Ilya’s alternate captain, he makes some constructive remarks to the team, which Ilya cosigns with supportive nods and tight-lipped smiles.
Ilya walks back to the bus with his head down, body language staving off social interaction, but Marlow runs up beside him anyways. “Hey, Rozy, you good man? Still bothered about your Montreal girl?”
Ilya gives him a death glare, which Marlow promptly ignores. “I don’t know what’s going on with you and Jane, but if you're not going to see her, maybe we should go out, man. Get your mind off of it.”
It’s actually a really good idea, and Ilya is grateful for his friend. “Yes, okay,” he agrees, trying not to give away anything. Marlow just smiles and nods.
“I’ll tell Connors. Maybe just us tonight, huh?”
Ilya nods gratefully. “Yes, good.”
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
Jane: Please.
Please. It cuts through Ilya like a knife. He doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling, but it’s a lot. Hollander is pleading now to talk to Ilya. It softens Ilya’s heart a little, because fuck, Hollander wants to see him so badly that he’s willing to reduce himself to begging.
But alongside this gooey feeling comes sharp hurt. Of course, Ilya wants to see Shane. Obviously, he wants nothing more. But it will hurt so much, it will be so bad. And Ilya is a coward. And, again, he’s angry. He’s angry that Hollander left how he did and immediately got a gorgeous girlfriend, and Ilya has had to see all the news articles and photos of them being beautiful and happy, and fuck that. Fuck that.
It’s so many feelings, and he’s cycling through them again, and it’s so fucking exhausting. This time, his irritation remains high because he’s additionally frustrated by the fact that this rollercoaster of emotions keeps happening every time Hollander texts him. Why the fuck does Hollander keep texting him?
Lily: Leave me alone, or I will block you.
Scowling at the screen, Ilya turns his phone off. That should shut Hollander up.
—
It’s DEFCON 1 for Shane. He’s sitting in his stall, having just sent his needy, last-ditch effort text, which apparently was very much the wrong thing to say, because now Ilya has threatened to block him. Fuck, this is all so messed up, and it’s Shane’s fault, and he is so scared of doing the wrong thing and losing Ilya altogether. He needs to explain everything, but he’s afraid to put it all in a text, since it's easily screenshotted, or someone might read it over Ilya’s shoulder, or he could get hacked or anything. He could call Ilya – it’s actually not a bad option, but he’s worried Ilya won’t pick up, or worse, he’ll see the call and immediately block Shane. Besides, he can’t call Ilya now; Ilya’s probably still with his team. Shane can feel anxiety bubbling and building in his body; the lack of a solution heightens it. The panic starts to take hold of his throat, one of those indicators that he’s about to tip into a level of stress that will be impossible to hide, especially in the Metros locker room, surrounded by his teammates.
He’s ready to leave, having only stayed this long to send the text to Ilya, so he grabs his bag and makes for the door, ignoring his teammates altogether. It’s fine, really, he’d said some nice captain-ly things earlier, before they all showered off.
Weaving his way to the exit seems to ward off a full-blown panic attack, but all the anxiety is still there, right under the surface of his skin.
When he’s almost to his car, Shane’s phone starts buzzing, spiking his already sky-high heart rate.
Incoming call: Rose Landry
Shane blinks through the insane squeeze he feels in his chest, takes a deep breath. Not Ilya. Rose. He clicks accept. “Shaaaane,” Rose’s voice calls through the phone. “I’m in the car, and you’re on speaker. Miles and Jiya are here.”
“Hi Shane,” comes Miles’s voice, rich and syrupy.
“Hi,” is all Shane can muster. He is making a very valiant attempt to breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. He probably could talk to Rose, but with her co-stars as witnesses? It’s a real challenge given how close he’s teetering to a meltdown.
“Are you going to come out with us tonight? Please say yes, I won’t make you dance, I promise.”
“I–” Shane’s voice gets caught in his throat. Fuck, he’s so overwhelmed. He fumbles to unlock his car, gets in quickly, and locks himself in.
“Shane? Are you there?”
Shane swallows, trying to wash the lump out of his throat. It doesn’t work. “I’m here,” he croaks, his voice very wrong.
“Hang on,” Rose says, and hears the audio change, and when Rose speaks again, her voice is clearer, closer. “Okay, you’re not on speaker anymore. What’s going on? Are you okay, Shane?”
“Mm,” Shane leans his head against the headrest, closing his eyes. Breathe in, breathe out.
“Keep breathing like that, that’s good,” Rose’s voice is softer, soothing. “I’ll do it with you.” He hears her intake of breath, a steady release. In. Out.
Shane starts to even out, his chest relaxing a bit. “You’re doing great,” Rose encourages. “Okay?”
“Better,” Shane manages. “Thank you. Sorry.” He opens his eyes again, blinking the world back into focus. It’s fucking cold, he realizes, and clicks his key into the ignition so he can turn the heat on.
“It’s fine, Shane, don’t apologize,” Rose says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not right now,” Shane says, because he thinks if he does, he will actually have a panic attack. “I just need to rest, I think. Game was tough. I’ll let you go.”
“Listen,” Rose keeps talking. “Go home and take care of yourself, Shane. Let me know if you need anything. My ringer is always on. I will literally drop everything, okay?”
Shane huffs a laugh. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” Rose laughs. “But that’s what friends are for. Call me. Text me. Whatever you need.”
“I will,” Shane promises. “Thank you, Rose.”
“Of course. I’ll talk to you later.”