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'I think we should do it right now, before you get changed. Make it more authentic, you know?' Rebecca, the social media something — Shane was not really paying attention when she explained her job title, as he was busy not thinking about the tickle of the make up brush on his cheek and the product on it that smelled like soap but not quite — has the annoying habit of giving orders in the form of questions, as if any negotiation was possible.
She doesn't bother explaining what exactly would be authentic about sitting under an array of artificial lights in the rink-side seats of an empty arena next to Ilya Rozanov, pretending they are friends. With fucking make up on.
But sure. Whatever he has to do make Rebecca happy and let the day end.
Shane could imagine what Rebecca wants to say, the authentic image she is going for. He too is transfixed by the image as it begins taking off his sweat-soaked jersey and the protective layers, barely a few feet away from him on the same fucking bench. The look that is sweaty curls, cheeks heated from exercise, an undershirt soaked and sticking tight to the expansion of chest underneath, the fabric stretched and released with every gulp of breath.
The image is bound to get some reaction and extra engagement on the social media. A little extra interest, Shane had to admit, than the clean and suited look of the official photographs.
He can sympathise with the internet as he stands frozen on his end of the bench, watching Rozanov brush his lips together in search for some residual moisture, his throat bobbing as it swallows on empty. He has to wonder if the social media team hid all the water bottles in the arena just to preserve the image and keep Rozanov heaving hungrily for the perpetually rolling cameras a little longer.
'Shane — is it okay if I call you Shane? It sounds more personal if you use first names, also with each other if you can?' James, Rebecca's assistant, talks so fast Shane needs a second for the words to load into his mind.
'You — you can't speak like that to him.' Shane is still catching his breath — from the skating they just did, decidedly not from the undressing after — when he absentmindedly replies, not really thinking about his words.
He makes a point of not looking at him in question at least as he speaks, knowing he already did just about the acceptable amount of looking. More looking would definitely cross over to staring.
'What do you mean?' James seems startled. He generally seems startled at anything that isn't a clean yes, like each extra word is a crime against Rebecca's schedule.
'Rozanov,' Shane clarifies. 'He, uh, English is not his first language you know? You can't speak fast like that with him.'
'What did I just say about the first names?' James doesn't seem to even register Shane's input.
'Yeah, sorry,' Shane replies automatically. Stupidly. What does he have to be sorry about?
'You do know his first name?'
'He knows my first name, he's not fucking stupid.' Rozanov skates behind him. He shoots James a look before grabbing Shane's elbow, nudging him towards the setting up crew.
'Doesn't the league have any other players?' Shane grumbles under his breath, in the safety of clinking equipment and mic checks, so that only Rozanov can hear.
'Not this pretty, no,' Rozanov replies, maintaining a hushed tone. The comment is teasing, funny maybe, but he shares it only with Shane. Out loud, it would sound like teasing. On whisper it’s more of a confession.
'We do not have to do this,' Rozanov whispers in the private little space carved behind the sound of their skates.
The comment sounds like an offer to Shane's ears and for a moment, he let’s the idea sweep him. If he turns now, if he aims for the tunnel instead of the seats waiting for them, start running and leave behind the cameras, the people pushing make up brushes onto his face and words into his mouth...
Would Rozanov follow?
Shane likes to think that he would. He can almost see them, both of them, fumbling with the laces of their skates as they step off the ice, running and discarding the rest of the equipment in the process. Hitting the parking lot only in their socks, running and not looking back even when their feet sink into puddles and the cold wet of the asphalt seeps through the fabric.
There is an old-school diner around the corner — maybe they'd run past it and he'd drag Rozanov inside to hide, getting them out of sight just in case anyone follows. They'd grab a newspaper from the counter and sit low in a booth somewhere in the back, hiding their faces behind the pages as they do in old movies, or maybe cartoons. And Rebecca and her crew would walk past and not spare them a second glance.
They'd have to sit close together, shoulder-to-shoulder, to fit behind the newspaper and they'd giggle, just loud enough for each other to hear when they get away with it. The smile would reach Rozanov's eyes, making the darker spots dance.
They'd celebrate with milkshakes afterwards. Maybe.
Except this is not an old movie. And Shane doesn’t drink milkshakes and Rozanov isn’t someone who giggles. He issomeone who looks at Shane as if he'd lost his mind. Which, maybe he had.
'I'm pretty sure we do,' Shane replies, realising he's left Rozanov waiting for a response while his mind ran away, leaving his body behind. He doesn’t look at Rozanov as he takes his seat in the lit section of the audience seats, his cheeks flushed.
'Actually, Shane, Ilya, could you please swap seats? I think it would look better if — oh, actually no, never mind, the first was better, thank you!'
Shane sighs, standing up and preparing to pass Rozanov in the narrow aisle between the seats for the second time. He feels like a fucking puppet. If Rebecca and her assistant could stick their hands up their asses and move their arms and mouths for them, Shane had no doubt they would.
Chest-to-chest with Rozanov, he sucks his stomach in, trying to keep out of his way and limit the contact to as little as possible, but their chests still brush in the tight space.
They are both still breathing too quickly, far longer than they should be after skating for the quick action shots, breathing too much of each other's used oxygen.
Shane holds his breath, at least until he's safely out of Rozanov's personal space. Just their presence, the chests touching, feels too intimate. Knowing whats Rozanov's sweat smells like would be inappropriate. Indecent.
'I can still say I am sick,' Rozanov whispers as he passes him, offering a wink when Shane's body shelters him from the view of the crew.
Shane believes him; he would do it. And while there is no doubt he wasn't enjoying it any more than Shane was — no sane person would be — something about the offer makes it feel like it is for Shane's benefit more than his own. Something about the wink says I will be the asshole that blows this off, I will let them be mad at me instead.
'Let's just get this over with.'
'Okay.'
The cost of the reply is a breath, an inhale that tells Shane what he should never have known. That Ilya smells of tobacco and sharp mint of the gum he tries to cover it with, that his sweaty skin gives away hits of rich saltiness, of something aged but cut with a sour, almost citrus-y twist, like a rare liquor garnished with fruit, swirled underneath his nose before it's snatched away.
Shane stumbles over his feet. Or maybe Rozanov's. Which is fucking embarrassing, stumbling over skates, even if it is in the stands, where his feet occupy the same space beneath the plastic seats as Ilya's. Even more so when Rozanov's hand shoots out automatically to steady him by his elbow.
'Fucking ridiculous,' Shane mutters instead of thanks. It feels marginally better. Blaming the situation, the crew, the insanely narrow aisles.
'Is almost over,' Rozanov's voice is almost soothing. 'I will need burger after. A bucket of fries. You want?'
Shane stares at him. He thinks about the diner around the corner. The fingers at his elbow.
'I can't eat any of that right before the season,' he says instead.
'Boring,' Rozanov chuckles. He doesn’t push but his fingers linger. Shane should pull his arm away. He doesn't.
'Maybe,' he amends and they take their seats again.
'So, we will be doing this thing called 'compliment battle', are you familiar with this?' the assistant catches their attention.
His name is James, Shane reminds himself. James, who isn't talking any slower than before. And Rozanov’s head is doing that thing, leaning slightly to one side, like a dog pretending it doesn’t understand the order it’s been given.
Except Rozanov is probably not pretending.
'No,' Shane replies, intentionally slowly. Maybe James will finally take a hint. 'What is that?'
Rozanov chuckles next to him. Like he knows Shane is lying and is delighted by it.
And maybe Shane is lying. Or maybe lying is a made up concept that Shane doesn’t understand anymore, not since he’s been sat in front of a PR coach and taught to think of his responses as correct rather than true.
Saying he doesn’t know comes easy, feels correct, and he doesn’t care to analyse it further.
He has his own agenda and he is almost proud of it. It feels correct. He knows everyone else in the room has one too. Or was it supposed to look like a coincidence that they ended up paired up for their interview, while all the other rookies were recorded solo?
'Too good for social media, Hollander?' Rozanov teases. The challenge is clear in the words, but his voice remains light and his smile warm. The words are for the camera. The tone is for him.
'Fuck off, Rozanov.' But he returns the smile.
'First. Names. Please.'
Their eye rolls are synchronised. It is one indulgence Shane allows himself before turning to James, listening what he wants them to do. He needs to be professional.
'So. We read compliments you give us. Try to make each other laugh,' Shane repeats after him. Because he would not fucking slow down and wouldn't stop with the unnecessarily complicated words.
'Try to have fun with it, be honest, make it believable,' he continues as if Shane said nothing.
'You have nice shirt, Hollander,' Rozanov tries it out. Shane knows it is stupid, probably just his way of showing he understands without actually having to agree with someone or say something helpful. They are wearing the same damn shirt too, part of the photo shoot.
Still, the words make Shane look at his feet to hide his smile.
'Will be hard to make believable if you don't believe me, Hollander.'
Shane rolls his eyes because that is certainly not a problem he is having.
The assistant reminds them to use the first names again.
'We're wearing the same damn shirt, Ilya,' Shane replies, stressing out the first name he was asked to use. Where Rozanovfeels sharp on his tongue, all edges and teeth, his first name melts on Shane’s tongue, leaving behind softness like swallowing a spoonful of condensed milk.
'Ilya,' Rozanov repeats softly for him, sounding out the letters. Shane tries to mimic the sounds and the sweetness spreads.
'That's better, Shane,' Rozanov compliments him.
'Finally!' James introduces himself back into the conversation and Shane can't help looking for Rozanov as he rolls his eyes. For the last time. Time to be professional. Starting now.
The moment lingers anyway, ending with James snapping his fingers at them. 'We're almost done with cameras over here, so be ready to get started in two minutes.’
Shane settles himself, sneaking a smile at Rozanov before locking eyes with the camera. However fucking stupid the idea is, maybe he is grateful he’s not doing it alone.
The interviewer starts them easy. The compliments are stupid, but at least they are hockey related. Shane almost sighs with relief.
Of course he’d managed to cram as many compliment videos into the break between the photos and the interview as he could, and he would find it less mortifying to run out of the arena naked than to say half of the things in them.
But the ones in front of them were just stupid. Which he could do.
‘Rozanov’s winning goal in the 2007 world juniors was a work of art,’ Shane reads the first note with no trouble keeping his tone flat. Rozanov doesn’t move a muscle. Easy. Boring.
Awaiting his turn to be complimented, Shane turns to the camera and is met with a disapproving look from both Rebecca and James.
‘That’s what it says on the card!’
He read the fucking card again before showing it as close to the camera lens as he can reach, because what the fuck? If they wanted him to say Ilya, they should have written Ilya.
To his surprise, he is dragged back by a sound of a toy buzzer.
‘I didn’t laugh,’ he stares at Rozanov. Who is very much smirking himself.
‘Is not for you,’ he shakes his shoulders.
‘Well then I should have been the one to ring it! That is the rules, right?’ he looks back at James, unsure if he is missing some additional rules to the game that would make it Rozanov’s job to hit the buzzer in that scenario.
‘You were distracted,’ Rozanov only shrugs.
‘I fucking wasn’t. It’s just, the instructions aren’t really clear. I read the fucking card — sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to say that — I mean I read the card, okay? Your turn.’
Fuck. He just swore on the video. And he is definitely turning red. And the compression shirt is a little too tight, the expanding of his chest meeting the resistance of the firm fabric like a wall, keeping his breaths just one gulp of air shallower than his lungs need.
‘Breathe, Hollander,’ Rozanov’s voice is calming. Steady. ‘We didn't get to the fun messages yet, keep some panic for later, okay?’
Shane nods, meeting Rozanov’s eyes before turning back to James and Rebecca, who are staring daggers at Rozanov now for a change. Mouthing first names. It helps not having the attention on him.
‘Okay, my turn. Shane,’ Rozanov puts far too much stress on his name, ‘your shooting accuracy makes me want to kiss you and slap you at the same time, the —’
Rozanov stops abruptly, scrunching his brows at the note.
‘I cannot read this, this is wrong,’ he exclaims. Shane can practically hear Rebecca’s eyes turning in their sockets.
‘Just read the note, you don’t have to agree with the compliment,’ she reminds him, the sweet voice that would be her only presence on the recording not matching the killing expression on her face.
‘This is not about agree. This is wrong. Wrong number. It says Shane scored 47 goals for his juniors team last year. Was 48.’
Shane lets out a laugh before he could stop himself. The breath had barely escaped his mouth, just a quiet sound and a quirk of the lips but Rozanov notices and is already hitting the buzzer again.
Neither comments on the number — which Rozanov is right about — before moving on to the next questions.
Which, Shane notices embarrassingly late, after he reads one and draws a chuckle out of Rozanov, start including phrases like stick handling and the word hard in somehow dubious contexts.
There is one quote that rubs Shane particularly wrong as he hears Rozanov read it; delivering a back-handed compliment to Rozanov first about being an old school kind of player before moving on to praise Shane and his hockey IQ — a phrase Shane hates with burning passion at that point — comparing the two in a way that clearly thinks one of the two is superior.
Shane is certainly in no danger of laughing at that one. What he is is pissed. At the smart-ass behind the keyboard talking about shit he doesn't fucking understand. At whoever saw that stupid comment and decided it would be fun to have Rozanov read it out loud for camera.
Shane couldn’t even process that decision, what were they hoping to accomplish, get them to fight about it?
But mostly, he is pissed at every single person behind the whole fucking concept, for being part of the thing that put that expression on Rozanov’s face.
Because there is no fucking way they are not seeing it, the glint of his eyes, the too-slow blinks, like he was spacing them out knowingly into an appropriate pattern.
‘What kind of bullshit is that? How is that a compliment…’ He hears his voice before he registers the impulse to speak. He can see Rebecca taking a breath to steady herself and, presumably, say something. He does not let the silence hang long enough for that.
‘If Ilya can correct the wrong statistic, I can certainly correct this. Ilya Rozanov is the most disgustingly cunning player I have faced, probably in my life — except for a kid named Jordan in peewee that tried to bite my leg once, I did not see that coming — and the fact that you don’t see it for what it is is just a proof at how fucking good he is at it.’
Shane huffs out a breath. He should not have said any of that. Definitely not the f-word at the end. But it would look worse if he backtracked now.
‘That is a compliment. You should take notes.’ He does look at Rebecca when he says it. Counts two seconds of eye contact before sneaking a look at Rozanov’s expression. It can only be described as stunned.
He hopes it isn’t too much, although — with the exception of the bit about the biter in his peewee team — every word of it was true.
‘You had a kid bite you in peewee?’ Rozanov asks, sounding delighted at the bit of trivia. The corners of his mouth move up, prompting Shane to hit the buzzer before revealing the truth.
‘No.’
Because Jordan was only a note on a list from a PR coach, who felt Shane needed a list of little anecdotes he could use to change a topic or lighten a mood if needed. And this felt like one of those situations.
‘Well I definitely bit a kid once,’ Rozanov shrugs.
They are handed a new set of cards. Maybe the interviewer also doesn’t like the direction this has taken.
‘It is redacted criminal to hide body such as Rozanov’s under all that bulky hockey gear. Fire emoji. Fire emoji. Gun emoji. Emoji with it’s tongue out, like, at least ten of those.’ Shane reads next. Rozanov chuckles. Shane presses the buzzer. Four to one.
‘What does redacted criminal mean?’ Rozanov teases Shane.
Shane rolls his eyes — it is written on the paper he was handed like that — before realising maybe the word redacted really is new to Rozanov, he just doesn’t want to ask with the internet watching.
‘I’m assuming there was a different word in the original message? They just censored it so I wouldn’t say fucking criminal on camera or something…’ Shane cuts himself, wondering if censoring is better than redacted or if he just replaced once foreign word for another for Rozanov.
‘As long as you don’t say fucking criminal on camera then,’ Rozanov nods seriously.
He then picks up another card to read. ‘I want to trace Shane Hollander’s freckles with my —’
Shane lets out an uncomfortable chuckle. It is definitely not amusement so it should not count as laughter, but Rozanov is already reaching for the buzzer and he only barely manages to snatch it from his grasp.
‘You laughed!’
‘I fucking didn’t! I was uncomfortable, that is not laughing!’
‘You made ha sound, that is laughing. Give big button!’
Shane outstretches his arm out of Rozanov’s reach before the interviewer intervenes.
‘You did chuckle, Shane. It counts.’
‘Fucking unbelievable,’ he mumbles under his breath but puts the buzzer back onto the empty seat between them. Rozanov slaps it with so much energy it jumps a little when he raises his hand back up.
‘Also can we cool it on the swearwords please? Thank you!’
Shane sighs. He looks at the next paper in his hand and back at Rebecca, still staring daggers at him since his last f-bomb.
So, he is not allowed to swear — which, he himself is not thrilled has managed to slip out, it shouldn't, even if he’s this flustered — but he is expected to read to the camera and depths of the internet a rather detailed compliment of Rozanov’s abs?
‘This one is pretty, ugh, observant,’ he murmurs as he feels his cheeks redden. ‘So, apparently—’ he stalls. He also makes sure it is clear it is not his observation. Even if he does not disagree with it. He takes a steadying breath.
‘Someone on the internet thinks that one lick of Rozanov’s abs would cure their depression. They say —’
‘Is true.’ Rozanov shrugs. He definitely flexes his chest and stomach, sitting a little straighter as his shoulders come back down.
‘And no you can’t try, Hollander,’ he says so quietly Shane wonders if he heard right. But he hears something and proceeds to choke on his own empty throat.
‘Uh-oh, someone needs lick of magic abs.’
‘F— shut up, Rozanov,’ Shane stumbles through the wheezing.
‘You want to run away, Hollander? Before we get to the really fun ones?’ Rozanov asks, dragging out the really.
Shane does not want to think what Rozanov, or the social media team, consider fun in this context. He does not want to hang on how the offer sounds almost sincere either.
‘Run away?’ he asks instead, shaking his head slightly. He can do this. ‘Scared what other body parts will get dragged into this, Rozanov?’
‘Me? Scared? I was never scared in my life! Bring my body parts, show me!’ Rozanov proclaims boastfully. He seems delighted.
Shane shakes his head. ‘Your turn, Ilya,’ he replies. Rebecca’s shaking her head on the periphery of his vision reminding him to behave. And use the first names.
Not that they were particularly good in following instructions so far — something so strangely out of Shane’s character he doesn’t want to dwell on it too much. Something that only happens in Rozanov’s presence.
‘Shane,’ Rozanov replies seriously. ‘You are the second hottest player…’
‘It does not say that,’ Shane interrupts him, Rozanov’s smirk giving him out.
‘We were allowed to fact-check before,’ Rozanov shrugs and starts again, ‘Shane, you are the second hottest player. Second best shooter. With the sec— no, actually this one I think is correct — with the prettiest eyes. How does it feel to be God’s favourite?’
Shane has to roll his eyes. He also has to ask. ‘You think I have pretty eyes, Ilya? Not fact-checking that one?’
He regrets saying it the moment it leaves his lips. Fuck. Stupid. Too much. Too flirty. He should not have said that. He should not. Fuck. Dangerous territory. Speaking about eyes. About pretty. What if someone though he was flirting? Fuck. Was he? He didn’t mean to. Not knowingly at least. What if unknowingly he did?
‘I want them talking about my abs. Not eyes. Boring. Not sexy.’ Ilya interrupts the loudness in his mind, drawing the attention to himself once again.
‘I don’t think we get to pick.’
‘Da. I do,’ Ilya looks straight at the camera, threatening the viewers. ‘Talk about my abs, not eyes, or I will find you.’
Shane reads another uncomfortable message — this one moving from Ilya’s abs to his tights and Shane is very careful not to follow with his eyes what the text is describing.
Then it’s Ilya’s turn and he makes a point to replace the word abs with eyes on his next card. It is not subtle. Especially when Shane’s eyes start getting hard and sweaty in the message.
The reading is so ridiculous it only hits Shane after it’s done that someone wrote and posted on the internet a whole fucking paragraph about his abs. He did not understand the delight Ilya seemed to feel when such messages applied to him - Shane’s body only knew how to summon dread.
‘Does it mean there are shirtless pictures of Shane Hollander on the internet?’ Ilya asks, smirking.
‘Why, are you planning to go look for them?’ Shane teases, distracted by the comment.
‘So there are such pictures!’ Ilya takes it as a confirmation — which it wasn’t — his lips curling from delight. ‘I am impressed, Hollander!’
Shane hits the buzzer again.
One last compliment and the interview wraps up after that. Thanking them for taking the time. Hoping they had fun.
They dutifully nod that they did. And maybe they did, Shane admits to himself, realising he is smiling. It was mortifying, but somehow, it actually was a little bit fun. At some points.
‘And great idea suggesting you do this one together, Ilya, fans are going to love it!’ Rebecca smiles stiffly, like it’s something she needs rather than wants to say before she can call it a day.
Shane takes a second to process the new information. He is glad he did not have to go through it alone.
When James comes over to collect the microphones pinned to their shirts and asks about their plans for the rest of the day to break the silence, Shane doesn’t let himself think before saying,
‘Probably getting burgers with a friend?’
Ilya’s smile doesn’t disappear for the whole meal.