Work Text:
Part One
Shane was getting used to being recognized. After years on the team and winning two Stanley Cups in a row, people in Montreal knew his face and his name. Most people were friendly about it, congratulated him, asked for a selfie, or just waved in an unsettlingly familiar way that left him confused as to whether he actually knew them from somewhere or if the recognition was entirely one-sided.
It made outings with the Pikes a bit of an ordeal, but he was trying to be a good sport about it as he followed Hayden, Ruby, and Jade into the Redpath Museum on the McGill campus. They were only stopped twice between the parking lot and the entrance. “Think there’s going to be another headline about your mystery baby?” Hayden teased as he took his tiny son back from Shane.
“Maybe,” Shane agreed. The girls each grabbed a hand and pulled him toward the giant dinosaur skeleton in the middle of the gallery. He read the label to them and held each of them up for a closer look.
“You’d be a good dad.”
“Maybe.” Shane shrugged. He wasn’t sure he was ready to think about having children. He felt too young. He managed to stop himself from saying so to the man who was one year older than him and already had three. “You’re a good dad.”
“I try.” Hayden smiled and handed Arthur to Shane again so he could crouch down to answer a question from Jade. Arthur reached up to tug at Shane’s chin, and Shane let himself briefly snuggle against Arthur’s tiny head. He still had that sweet, milky baby smell and was the quietest infant Shane had ever been around. His older sisters more than made up for it, making more noise than you would think possible from such small bodies. It was no wonder Jackie needed the occasional afternoon to recoup, especially since during the season, she was often effectively a single parent for weeks at a time. Sure, the Pikes had a housekeeper and part-time nanny so she wasn’t shouldering it all herself — professional hockey salaries did help, but Shane liked helping, too. The chaos definitely didn’t make him any more inclined to seriously think about starting a family of his own, though.
The twins soon decided that it was time to go see ‘the rocks named after them,’ and Hayden handed off the diaper bag to Shane so he and Arthur could continue enjoying the animal displays. Mostly, Arthur seemed to enjoy listening to Shane’s voice as he quietly read off facts about the evolution of vertebrates in the area. Occasionally, he lifted his head to pull on Shane’s ear or grab his nose, but mostly he just looked around, giant eyes taking everything in.
Shane wandered them over to a display related to toad populations in Ontario and what the changes in those populations meant about the changing environment. Science had never been Shane’s strongest subject, and his hockey-centric education hadn’t exactly encouraged him to dig deeper.
“Any questions I can answer for you?” asked a soft, sunny voice.
Shane looked up and found himself slightly flustered by the sparkling green eyes and open smile on the other man’s face. He had light brown skin and messy, dark curls that gave Shane a sudden urge to sweep them off his forehead. Wait, the guy had asked him a question. He should stop staring and say something. “Oh, um, I guess–- why toads, specifically?”
“Oh! Great question! Amphibians are good subjects for ecology and conservation biology because they breed in distinct sites such as ponds where they are easily sampled, and they tend to stay in the same area, so it makes long-range study easier.” When Shane blinked at him, trying to parse all that, the man put a hand over his heart. “Sorry, I’ve been studying toads for years, so I tend to geek out about it.” He held the hand out to Shane. “Dylan McNulty, PhD-seeking nerd in biosystematics and evolutionary biology.”
“Shane Hollander, C+ science student on my best days. Tell me more about your toads.”
He wasn’t sure why exactly he wanted Dylan to keep talking, but it was always cool to listen to people talk about things they were passionate about. Chatting about ponds turned into talking about fishing which turned into talking about seafood and their favorite places to get it around Montreal. Either Dylan had no idea who he was, or he was really good at covering it. It was refreshing and relaxing.
Eventually, Dylan had to excuse himself and answer some questions for another visitor about one of the other displays. He knew about a lot more things than just his own research, that was obvious. Shane was impressed, and he found himself glancing back at Dylan as he and Arthur wandered through the exhibits on the floor. Ruby and Jade came thundering back, loudly shouting mineral-related facts. Shane pointed out to them that fossils were rocks too, and Dylan joined them to expound more, this time about the Triceratops skull in the gallery. Jade announced loudly that dinosaurs were super cool, and Shane agreed.
“Thought you weren’t a big science guy,” Dylan teased.
“I mean, no. But I was a six-year-old boy once. Is there a kid who doesn’t go through a dinosaur phase?” Dylan laughed kindly and patted Shane on the shoulder. Shane felt himself blush as he glanced over at him.
“I’m hungry!” Ruby whined suddenly and loudly.
“Okay, I guess the kids are museumed out,” Hayden said. He turned to Dylan and grinned. “Thanks for keeping them entertained. I know they are a lot.”
“You have a beautiful family,” Dylan said.
“Thanks.” Hayden beamed at him and took Arthur back from Shane. “Okay, kiddos. Say bye-bye to Uncle Shane.” The girls hugged his legs and then raced each other to the doors, Hayden hastening after them. “Thanks, dude! You’re a lifesaver!” he called out to Shane as he chased his daughters.
“Oh,” Dylan breathed out, his face adjusting like he was putting something together. “You two aren’t….”
Shane laughed nervously, the way he always did when someone suggested he might be in any way involved with a man. “Me and Hayden? God, no! We work together and he’s like my best friend.”
“That’s great! I mean, that’s cool.” Dylan looked flustered suddenly. “Um, hey, speaking of hungry, there’s a new sushi place not far from here I’ve been meaning to check out. I mean, if you ever wanted to try somewhere new, see how it compares to your favorites.”
Dylan was probably a similar age to him, he figured, and he seemed really fun and cool, and besides, it would be nice to have a friend who wasn’t in hockey. He loved hockey; it was his favorite thing, but it was also really nice that he’d spent nearly an entire hour thinking and talking about something other than hockey. So he exchanged numbers with Dylan and told him he’d be down to get lunch. Dylan gave him that big, open smile again, and Shane tried not to notice that Dylan had great arms for someone who didn’t exercise for a living.
He drove himself to his apartment and pulled up the menu for the new sushi place to study. Shane didn’t like going somewhere without knowing the menu. His phone pinged with the notification that he’d been tagged in a post on Instagram — Hayden had posted one of the pictures of him, the kids, and Dylan talking about the Triceratops. Shane asked Hayden to send him the rest of the pictures, and he texted one to Dylan, thanking him again for an educational afternoon. Dylan replied with a winky face emoji, which Shane wasn’t quite sure how to interpret, but emojis were often mysterious for him.
He went for a run and lifted for a while, ate some salmon and bok choy over rice, read a few of the Wikipedia entries related to Cretaceous dinosaurs, and was about to go to sleep when he got a sudden impulse and decided to go with it.
He sent one of the pictures of them gathered around the Triceratops skull to Rozanov. Paid my respects to Scott Hunter’s childhood pet today. It was, like, 3 am in Moscow, so Rozanov was probably asleep. Unless he was up partying. Or up in some girl’s bed. His stomach clenched at that thought, but he pushed it away. It had been a good day, a fun outing with people he loved, and he’d made a new friend. Shane decided to concentrate on that, set his glasses to the side, and went to sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lily: And people say you’re not funny
Shane: Who says that?
Lily: Me
Shane: Asshole
Lily: Did not know you were daddy now
Shane: …
Shane: …
Shane: Those are Hayden’s kids
Lily: Seriously?
Lily: So many?
Shane: They’re great.
Shane: They take after their mother.
Lily: 🤣🤣
Shane reread the exchange for the fiftieth time. He hadn’t thought of anything to say after that, and the conversation had ended. He thought maybe Rozanov would say something else eventually, but it had been four days with no further messages.
That was fine, he told himself. Rozanov was home with his family and was probably out hitting the clubs and pulling girls and drinking way, way too much vodka. Meanwhile, Shane had driven out to his cottage, spent a few days enjoying the quiet and fresh air, and had come back into town to meet his new friend Dylan for dinner.
Dylan was about three minutes late, but Shane wasn’t bothered. Well, he told himself he wasn’t bothered. Dylan was apologetic; he’d gotten caught up in his work in the lab and lost track of time. Given his slightly disheveled state, Shane could believe it.
“So.” Dylan took a deep breath. “I’m glad you messaged me. But also, like, my friend Freddie is a huge Metros fan and he saw your friend’s post, and like, I had no idea you were, you know, famous.”
Shane laughed. “It actually makes a nice change, not being recognized.”
“So, Freddie was right. You’re the Shane Hollander?”
The waitress came by, interrupting their conversation. Dylan ordered a white wine and seemed a little bashful when Shane ordered a pot of tea. “It’s fine,” he reassured him. “I’m not a big drinker, but I don’t mind if other people drink.” They smiled at each other, both obviously feeling a bit awkward. They discussed what to eat; the chef’s special for Dylan and a thoroughly vetted combination plate for Shane, who ordered for both of them in French.
“I know this place is known for doing great specials, but I can’t deal with not knowing exactly what I’m going to be eating,” Shane explained.
“Well, I can’t read the menu at all,” Dylan confessed. “I grew up in Toronto, and my French is shockingly bad.”
“What made you decide to go to school in Montreal then?” Shane asked, and Dylan told him more about his education and how he’d ended up at McGill. Dylan asked him about how he’d gotten into hockey, and explained that he was a runner but had never played a team sport — classic nerd, he explained — but he did enjoy tennis.
“Is it…. Is it hard playing hockey and being… different?” Shane knew he must have made a face, because Dylan hastily added, “It’s just, my friend said that hockey isn’t known for being the most accepting.”
Shane shrugged. He wondered if Dylan might know something about what that was like. He didn’t really know what combination of ethnicities Dylan was, and he knew from long experience how awful it was to have someone ask what are you, so instead he said, “Yeah, I mean, people say stupid shit in the locker rooms. You learn to let it roll off, I guess.”
“That sounds terrible.”
“Well, it’s not great. What about you?”
“Academia is a lot more progressive. I mean, occasionally, someone will say something, but most people either don’t care or are openly supportive. So it’s not so bad.” They both paused while the server arranged their first course and explained what the chef had chosen for Dylan. Shane’s phone buzzed, but he didn’t want to be rude, so he ignored it. When it was just the two of them again, Dylan cleared his throat and added, “My mom’s parents weren’t great about it.”
“For me, it was my dad’s parents,” Shane replied. It would never make any sense to him that anyone would ever consider his mother in any way, shape, or form to be unacceptable.
“My dad’s parents are great. They’re the ones who got me into tennis.” The conversation turned to playing sports and watching sports, and Shane relaxed. Dylan was easy to talk to, warm and funny, and he even laughed at a few of Shane’s own wry little jokes.
The server brought their next round of plates, and Dylan apologetically took out his phone and said he just had to get a picture because it was all so beautiful. Shane smiled politely, in case his face ended up in the photo. “The food doesn’t look bad either,” Dylan joked as he put his phone away.
Shane wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, but was distracted by his own phone buzzing again, another call, and then the shorter vibration that indicated a text or a voicemail. He ignored it. Probably another midnight in Moscow missive from Rozanov. “Do you ever go to the Canadian Open? It’s next month, right?”
“Oh my god, yes! We usually go every year. Me and my friend Freddie, I mean. But this year he’s going to be back in Toronto that week. His cousin is getting married.”
“Well, if you still wanted to go, I could get us tickets. I like watching tennis, too. I used to play some. I mean, I was never serious about it, but my mom thought it could be good cross-conditioning or whatever, and both my parents love to watch tennis, so I grew up watching it.”
“Seriously? I would love to.”
The server cleared their plates as Shane at last pulled out his phone so he could double-check the times of the matches. That’s when he saw that he had multiple missed calls from Hayden and a text that said please call asap. “Shit,” he swore. “Excuse me.”
Dylan waited until he had hung up to ask, “What’s wrong?”
“Arthur, that’s my friend’s baby, the one at the museum. He’s got a super high fever. They all went to the ER, but they’ve got the other two kids with them, so he needs me to watch the girls.” Shane swore under his breath. “Sorry to cut this short.”
“Oh my god, do not be sorry! I hope the baby is okay.”
“Yeah. Me too. I’ll text you about the Open matches?”
“Of course!” Shane waved the server over so he could pay, ignoring Dylan’s protests that they should split it. He thought about whether he should hug his new friend or shake his hand, or something, but ended up just practically jogging to the parking lot. At the hospital, Jade and Ruby were both crying and reluctant to leave, so Shane promised them ice cream and pizza and to watch both Frozen and Tangled, which got them to agree to go with him without further protest. Hayden hugged him hard and promised to tell him what the doctors said about Arthur.
It wasn’t until well after he’d carried two sleeping girls to the guest bedroom that Hayden called. Arthur had something called RSV, and the doctors wanted to keep him overnight to give him IV fluids. Shane could hear the panic in Hayden’s voice. Of course he could keep the girls until Arthur was better. Sure, he didn’t have clothes or toothbrushes or much in the way of toys, but he would figure it out.
The girls were unimpressed with the yogurt he offered them the next morning, but they at least were willing to split a banana. In better news, Arthur was being released to go home, but was still super sick and RSV was apparently incredibly contagious, so Shane took the girls back to their house to pack up their bags for a multi-day sleepover at Uncle Shane’s place.
The first day with the girls was fine. The weather was good, so he could take them to the park and let them play, and he managed to get in a workout in his home gym while they took a nap after lunch. The next day was rainy and miserable though, and both girls quickly became bored with puzzles and Candyland.
Dylan texted to ask if he wanted to grab lunch, and Shane explained that he was still on babysitting duty and that everyone was going stir crazy. Which is how they ended up at the Science Museum. The girls seemed determined to test the durability of every interactive display.
“Are museums your answer to everything?” Shane joked, and Dylan just shrugged. “You didn’t have to come. This can’t be much fun for you.”
“You definitely owe me dinner,” Dylan agreed.
“UNCLE SHANE, RUBY FARTED!” Jade announced to the entire facility. Shane hid his face in his hands while Dylan patted his shoulder affectionately. The girls moved on to a play area where they could pretend to shop for groceries. Shane helped them with the French words for some of the vegetables, and he and Dylan both crouched down to help the girls put together an oversized puzzle. After a few hours, the twins were ready to go home.
“I literally exercise for a living, and they still wore me out,” Shane admitted as they walked the girls out. “Seriously, I owe you way more than dinner for this.”
“Oh, I plan to collect,” Dylan said with a wink before thanking the girls for a lovely day and heading to his own car.
He should have anticipated the photos. Of course, people had seen him at the museum. His phone notified him that he had been tagged in multiple posts. And then Rozanov messaged him as well.
Lily: You are spending your whole summer in museums now?
Shane: Why do you care?
Lily: I don’t care. Sounds boring.
Shane: Well that’s very on brand for me then, right?
Lily: Your friend from the museum, he works at this museum too?
Shane: My friend?
Lily: Same man from picture with Scott Hunter’s puppy head.
Shane: Dylan? No. He was just helping me with Hayden’s kids.
Lily: Why was Pike not helping you with little Pikes? He cannot take care of his own children?
Shane: The baby is sick
Lily: Oh. Sorry
Shane: No jokes about that?
Lily: No Hollander. No jokes about sick baby. Is baby okay?
Shane: Yes he’s better
Lily: Good.
Lily: So good day in boring museum
Shane: It’s a kid museum. So not boring enough actually
Shane: It was kind of loud and more of an indoor playground than a museum
Shane: The girls are having a nap now too. I might join them.
Lily: So we are both going to bed with two beautiful girls.
Shane: Fuck off.
He waited a few minutes for a response, but, presumably, Ilya was busy with his companions for the evening. Shane grimaced at how much the idea bothered him, even though it shouldn’t concern him at all. Hayden showed up then to collect his daughters, effectively distracting Shane. At least until he was alone again and thoughts of Rozanov flooded back in.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“No, like he’s so hot, and I think he’s into me, but I honestly can’t tell,” Dylan lamented.
Freddie refilled their glasses of rosé and kicked his friend’s ankle. “I haven’t seen you like this over a guy in ages.” Dylan lifted an eyebrow at him. “Then again, you are not usually crushing on a superstar millionaire who consistently gets voted one of the top ten hottest guys in sports.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Dylan moaned. “We went to dinner. I helped him babysit. He’s taking me to the Open next month. Are these dates? Are they not dates?” He waved his hands around like he was trying to grasp an answer from the ether.
“Do you think maybe you are being too analytical about this?” Freddie suggested.
“I’m a scientist, Freddie. Being analytical is sort of my whole deal.” Freddie laughed. “I’ve tried flirting with him, and he blushes. I mean, he actually blushes, and it’s so fucking adorable that I can hardly stand it, but does that mean he likes it or just doesn’t know how to respond or…. Ugh!”
“Okay, wait, Dilly, every time you’ve seen him, it’s been in public, yes? Do you not get how homophobic men’s hockey is? He’s not going to take you in his arms and kiss you longingly anywhere there could be a camera. You get that, right?”
“Yes, Freddie! I’m not an idiot. He talked about how shitty people could be in the locker room about it.”
Freddie’s eyebrows went up. “Wow. I’m actually shocked that anyone on his team knows, and it hasn’t gotten out. Men’s hockey is notoriously awful, like the commissioner didn’t even want them using pride tape or doing rainbow jerseys for Pride night, even though that’s just a way to sell more merch. Like, he’s so homophobic it made him allergic to money.”
“You keep saying men’s hockey,” Dylan pointed out.
“Well, yeah. Women’s hockey is something like seventy percent queer.”
“Of course,” Dylan sighed. “Why do I have to fall for the complicated ones?”
“Look, just invite him over to Netflix and chill. Behind closed doors, maybe he’ll drop the pretense and be all over you.”
“Maybe,” Dylan sighed. “But what if I’m wrong?”
“Okay. You said he plays tennis too. Invite him to come play. You, me, Tanner, and Shane fucking Hollander. Doubles at the club. I can observe and let you know if it’s one-sided.”
Dylan frowned at his friend. “You just want to meet a famous hockey guy.”
“This is a good idea, Dylan. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Literally dozens of times. But yeah, I think this isn’t the worst idea.”
It definitely wasn’t the worst idea. Because no matter what else happened between him and Shane, in his life as a whole, nothing could take away the experience of watching Shane Hollander, intense and sweating, glutes moving beneath a criminally tiny pair of white shorts, thighs tensed as he waited for the next volley. They took a break for water, and he heard Tanner gasp when Shane lifted the hem of his polo to his chin to wipe away sweat, exposing his stomach. Dylan thought he maybe caught Freddie taking a picture. Tanner’s girlfriend definitely took a picture when Shane gave him a congratulatory half-hug after a particularly vicious return scored them a match-winning point. He was absolutely going to get copies of that later.
“That was fun,” Shane told him, clapping him on the back. “I’m really rusty, though.”
“We’ve got the court for another hour. Want to go again?”
Shane’s phone buzzed and he frowned at it before rapidly typing something in. Dylan could see over his shoulder the phrase Sorry, can’t talk now, in the middle of a foursome, before Shane turned and said, “Absolutely. Let’s do it.” He dropped his phone back on the bench, and Dylan watched as messages from a Lily started flooding in.
Hollander?
What does that mean, Hollander?
Hollander
Hollander
Hollander
Jesus, Dylan mused, Lily was intense. So was Shane. He frowned adorably when he biffed a return or missed a swing. He did a cute little fist pump when Tanner and Freddie let one through. Shane was a lot more competitive than any of the three of them, but he wasn’t gross about it. And, of course, he insisted on buying the drinks at the club bar after. Dylan thought he caught Shane checking him out a couple of times, but he still couldn’t be sure. Emily, Tanner’s girl, took tons of pictures of them, and Dylan knew he would be staring at them later, analyzing every glance and posture to see if there was any indication of interest captured in pixels.
When Shane asked her to send him one of the pictures of the four of them, rackets in hand, leaning against each other, and checked that they were all okay with him posting it, Dylan thought that might be a clue. Learning that Shane had actually sought out his account and was now following him also seemed like a sign. He excused himself to the restroom mostly as an excuse to see what Shane had posted — some meaningless but pleasant caption about enjoying his summer, staying active, and meeting new friends.
Some person with the handle @hpike35 had already commented dude do you ever take a day off. Shane had tagged him, despite Dylan’s own account being spangled with rainbows and glitter, so apparently he didn’t mind people knowing he was acquainted with a gay man, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was up for anything more than that. Did he even want to get involved with someone who was in the closet? In the past, he’d always told himself he didn’t, but in the past, Shane Hollander wasn’t an option.
Shane had a fresh beer waiting for him when he got back, his own face soft and maybe a little tipsy. He recalled Shane saying he wasn’t a big drinker. When Shane rested a hand on his back and grinned at him, was that… anything? Shane’s feed was full of pictures of him with his arms around his teammates, maybe this wasn’t any different from that for Shane. When they parted, with promises to get dinner again soon, Dylan still wasn’t certain whether there was anything there. Tanner and Freddie, however, were united in their assessment that he was absolutely checking Dylan out, and Emily had captured a loop of Shane’s eyes roaming over Dylan’s right arm that he watched approximately 4000 times. They agreed that the next step was to get Shane Hollander somewhere out of the public eye and see where things went.
In an attempt to seem like he was at least moderately cool and not totally desperate, he waited a full 24 hours to text Shane and ask when would be a good night for that dinner. Shane didn’t reply right away, but when he did, the message was a little surprising.
Totally want to do dinner soon. And I got us tickets for the Open. In Boston for a few days. I’ll text you when I get back into town. Your friends are great. It was a really fun time.
Had Shane mentioned going to Boston? Then again, it’s not like they’d exchanged that much information about their summer plans. Still, he wanted to get dinner, and he’d bought event tickets — that seemed positive. Dylan smiled to himself and started working on a list of excuses to invite Shane back to his place after dinner.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part Two
Shane’s shoulders were sore when he woke up, the kind of pleasurable ache that comes from overexertion. He cleaned up, made a smoothie, and got ready for his morning run while thinking about how much fun he’d had. It was nice to have a friendship that wasn’t based in hockey, and Dylan’s friends were cool too. He loved JJ and Hayden and all of Hayden’s kids, but it might be nice to have people to hang out with when he had a day off between games and photoshoots.
When he checked his phone after his shower, he had a cascade of messages from Rozanov.
Lily: Boston has museums too
Lily: Better than boring Montreal museums
Lily: I am back in Boston. Come to Boston I will take you to museum.
Lily: Bought you ticket for 10:15 flight out of Montreal.
Lily: Check in for your flight to Boston https://gofly.united.com/qdr87ru Your confirmation code is GQQ37A
Lily: Hollander?
Shane blinked at the phone a few times. He clicked on the link, not entirely sure it wouldn’t lead him to a porn site or video of a chimpanzee playing the ukulele. But it did appear to be a legitimate first-class ticket from Montreal to Boston, leaving in about three hours, which didn’t give him much time to prepare.
Shane: You want me to come to Boston?
Lily: Hollander. You cannot read?
Shane: If you’re going to be like that about it then fuck you.
Lily: Hollander
Lily: Come to Boston
Lily: Please
Shane: Okay
Lily: I will send you address
Shane plugged his phone in so it would be fully charged for the plane, and then spent ten minutes overthinking what to pack as he gathered his toiletries. He threw a couple of pairs of khaki shorts and a few linen shirts in with some of his usual athletic wear. Book, glasses, and charger went in his travel backpack. He took his trash out as he went down to meet the taxi, not wanting to return to a rank apartment. How long was he going to be gone? Was there a return ticket? Did he need to book a hotel, or was he just going to be staying with Rozanov? Not having a plan was making him feel a bit unmoored. He’d forgotten his headphones in his rush, and had to buy an overpriced pair at a kiosk near the gate. This was nuts, he told himself over a dozen times as he half-watched some action movie on the flight.
He was still telling himself that when Rozanov opened the door to his house, half-dressed and looking rumpled, like maybe he’d been napping. At that point, logical thoughts were more of a struggle. “You made it,” Rozanov observed.
“This house is amazing,” Shane observed. “Do you know when it was built, or like, who designed it?”
“Mister Real Estate,” Ilya teased, taking Shane’s bags and setting them by the door. He followed Shane to the kitchen and then crowded him against the island before lifting him onto the counter.
“I thought you wanted to take me to a museum,” Shane pointed out between kisses.
“Mmm. Tomorrow,” Ilya murmured.
“Why fly me in today then?”
Rozanov’s laughter tickled across his lips. “Why do you think?” he asked, squeezing Shane’s chest. Shane failed to suppress a whine, and then he let himself be dragged into Ilya Rozanov’s bedroom.
Sex with Rozanov was always intense, urgent. He pushed the other man onto his back and rode him, enjoying the way Rozanov looked up at him with open admiration. He found himself making some joke about how Rozanov was obviously tired and should let him drive. He took that as a challenge, of course, and flipped them over, fucking Shane hard. Which, he reluctantly admitted to himself, might have been why he’d said something in the first place.
He wasn’t wrong, though, about Rozanov being tired. He cleaned Shane up and then basically collapsed onto his shoulder, and Shane didn’t hate it. “You should rest. That was a long flight,” he told him, pulling him slightly closer, immediately relaxing his grip when it hit him how dangerously affectionate the gesture was. He expected Rozanov to argue with him, but instead, he just whispered okay in that preposterously cute way of his before almost immediately falling asleep.
Shane didn’t want to disturb him, so he let him rest there, and yeah, it was maybe not the worst view. And he was able to reach his phone where he’d laid it on the bedside table with his clothes, so he was able to type a one-handed reply to Dylan’s message before setting the phone aside and letting himself rest his head against Rozanov’s and close his eyes.
Shane blinked into wakefulness, feeling warm and rested. Ilya’s arms were around him, which was unexpected. He turned his head slightly, and Ilya opened his eyes, as though he had just woken up as well. But he looked too awake for that to be the case. Had he laid there waiting for Shane to wake up, not wanting to disturb him? That was… oddly considerate. Shane felt a shy smile lift the corners of his mouth. “Feel better after a nap?”
“Mmm, yes. Ten-hour flight overnight, then the train from New York. Very long day.” He kissed Shane’s shoulder. “I’m hungry.”
“For what?” Shane teased.
“For food, pervert.” He patted Shane’s face and rolled away. “I used train ride from New York to order groceries. I can make us something.” Rozanov opened a drawer, pulled on some pants, and tossed another pair at Shane. “You eat fish, yes? Do you want a tuna melt?”
“You… want to make me a tuna melt?” Shane felt that same smile pulling at his mouth again.
Rozanov shrugged. “I am hungry. I’m going to make me one. Just as easy to make two.”
Shane got slightly distracted watching him dress and rushed to pull his own pants on when Rozanov raised an eyebrow at him. “Thank you,” he said as he watched the other man take things out of his refrigerator. “But can you not put cheese on mine?”
“You don’t eat cheese. No pizza for Hollander?”
“I mean, I can eat it sometimes, but… you know, I’m half Japanese, so….”
“You are… dairy is bad….” Rozanov tugged at his own ear.
“Lactose intolerant. Yeah, not as bad as some people. There’s a tablet I can take, but I didn’t pack any.”
“Okay. No cheese. Ginger ale?” He held out a chilled can of Canada Dry, which Shane took with a little nod of his head. Shane popped the tab and watched as Rozanov methodically mixed together fish, mayonnaise, dijon mustard, chopped celery, diced pickle, and a squeeze of lemon juice, checking to make sure that each ingredient was okay before he added it. It reminded him, oddly, of his consistent check-ins the first time they had sex. He put the open-faced sandwiches into the oven and suggested that he and Shane put on a movie while they ate.
“So, uh, did you really bring me here to go to a museum?”
“Harvard Museum of Natural History has something I think you will like very much.” Rozanov gestured at the television. “You like James Bond?”
“What, like, From Russia With Love?” Shane asked, grinning at him.
Rozanov rolled his eyes. “No. New One. Spectre. Daniel Craig is hot for old man.”
Shane laughed. “Okay, sure,” he agreed.
Rozanov queued up the movie before heading back to the kitchen. He returned with two plates and handed one to Shane. They settled in to watch and eat quietly for a bit. “This is good,” Shane told him. “The food, I mean. The movie too, I guess.”
“So you agree?” His tone was teasing. “You also think he is hot?”
“A little old for me,” he replied wryly. “You’re the one who has a thing for older men.”
“You are pretending to not have crush on Scott Hunter.”
“I don’t. I get that you do, but no, I just admire him.”
“Admire him. You are still a very bad liar, Hollander.” Shane rolled his eyes and pointedly turned his attention back to the movie. “What about her? The girl?”
Shane kept his eyes firmly on the screen and tried not to visibly react. He knew what the right answer was, the expected one anyway, and sure, she was attractive, he supposed. He hazarded a glance at Rozanov, whose expression told him his lack of a reply was its own answer. “Sure, she’s pretty or whatever, I guess.”
Rozanov looked him up and down. “I think… maybe you do not like girls.” Shane just rolled his eyes. “I like girls.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard,” he scoffed.
“But I also like you, Shane.” Shane felt himself freeze. Rozanov never called him Shane. “We are friends, yes?”
“Are we?”
“You think I fly you out here and make you dinner, but we are not friends?”
Shane was not sure what they were, but friends seemed like a relatively safe, if inaccurate, word for it. “You do that for all your friends?”
“Hmm, no.” He leaned forward and stroked his thumb over Shane’s cheek. “Just the ones with beautiful freckles.”
He fought hard against the urge to duck his head, or even worse, lean into Ilya’s touch. Wait, was he Ilya now? He supposed that made sense, if they were friends. “So that’s what we’ll tell people, I mean, if they recognize us tomorrow — that we’re friends?”
“I think so, probably, yes.” Ilya was still stroking his cheek. “We are not hot story anymore. Rookies for Detroit and Chicago are big new rivalry. We are old news.”
“Old news? We’re the leading point scorers in the league!”
“Yes, I know this, Shane. But this means it will not be such a big deal if we are friends now.”
“Okay, Ilya. Friends.”
Ilya grinned at him and swooped down to kiss him. Shane felt himself melt into it and let himself be pushed back into the cushions. Maybe they really could be friends, him and Ilya. This was the first time they’d really hung out, spent more than a few rushed hours together, and it was nice. They could have this, he decided as Ilya began stroking his cock; sex and friendship.
It was early when he woke up in Ilya’s bed again, early morning light breaking in through a gap in the curtains. The bedroom was quiet, and he was alone. He found his way to the bathroom and then the kitchen, which was also quiet. Through the glass door into the backyard, he could see Ilya pacing up and down the patio, gesturing with a cigarette in hand as he argued with someone in Russian. Shane caught the word ‘papa’ a few times, and decided not to interrupt.
He started a pot of coffee instead. Rozanov had the same fancy coffee maker he did — a promotional item they’d received from some league sponsor. While it brewed, he poked around the refrigerator and freezer; there were fruit smoothie packets, sweeter than what he would have liked, but probably okay, especially if Ilya had some whey powder or something. The coffee maker beeped, and Shane glanced out to the door to see Ilya had set his phone aside and was staring off into the distance. He would bring him a cup of coffee except…. He’d been sleeping with this man for years, and he didn’t know he took his coffee.
“You made coffee?” Ilya was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, looking exhausted.
“Yeah. Is that okay?”
“Is real coffee? Not made from mushrooms or some shit?”
Shane rolled his eyes. “It’s your coffee, Rozanov.”
Ilya pushed off the doorframe and stalked across the space to kiss Shane on the forehead, and there was something so fond about it that Shane immediately felt a sense of danger. He and Ilya were not sweet to each other. And he liked it way, way too much. The way Ilya smiled as he pulled back, wide and open, made the jumbled up sense of contentment and anxiety even worse.
“Everything okay? I heard you on the phone earlier.”
Ilya’s entire demeanor changed, his smile slipping off abruptly. “Just my brother,” he muttered as he got down two mugs.
“Is your father okay?”
Ilya swung around and gaped at him. “Oh, you speak Russian now?”
Shane gave him a small smile and shrugged. “I mean, it doesn’t take a linguistic genius to figure out papa.”
Ilya took a sip of his coffee and sighed. “My father is… sick.”
“Sick like cancer?”
Ilya shook his head. “Sick like… dementia. My brother is angry that I hired a nurse for him.”
“Does he not…. I mean, doesn’t he need one?”
“Yes. But my brother prefers he hires nurse, so he can call me and say ‘Ilya, send money for nurse,’ and then call me next week and say ‘oops! I spent money for nurse on cocaine, so you must send more.’ Because I… do it directly myself, he cannot….”
“So he’s angry that he can’t bilk you for more money? That’s fucking ridiculous.”
“Bilk.” Ilya rolled the word around in his mouth. “I like this. Sounds… dirty.”
“Kinda, yeah.”
Ilya stepped closer to him again and pressed him against the wall. The hand that cupped his face was warm from the coffee mug. “Enough about my stupid brother. Is boring.”
“Okay, but we’re friends, right? So you can talk to me. If you want.”
“Okay,” Ilya agreed, and then he kissed him.
Shane could feel himself melting into it and reluctantly pulled away. “I saw you have stuff for smoothies in your freezer. I could make us a couple, and we could go for a run or something? Sometimes that helps me when I’m frustrated.”
Ilya grinned. “Yes, I remember. Draft night.” Shane pushed him away, but he couldn’t help smiling.
They bickered with each other while making the smoothies — Ilya had whey powder to add, but no kale — and they harassed each other gently all through getting dressed and ready to go out, with Shane insisting Ilya put on sunscreen. “You’re already getting lung cancer. You don’t need melanoma, too.”
“Such a good friend, to worry about my health like this.”
Shane rolled his eyes and pointedly rubbed sunscreen into his arms.
The run was fun, too fun, and Shane was fairly sure they’d been recognized and probably photographed, but so what. They’d started out at an easy pace, but then Ilya had sped up, and then he had, and before long they were racing each other down the path, and Ilya rammed into him, shoving him into the grass, so Shane squirted him with a stream of water from his bottle, and before long they were both laughing so hard that they had to ease back into a jog. Ilya prolonged their cooldown lap by pausing to coo over dogs in the park, and Shane leaned into being exasperated, all folded arms and rolling eyes, even though he actually thought it was cute.
Back at Ilya’s place, they took a long shower together and then tumbled onto Ilya’s bed, kissing until they were both hard again. Could they manage anything like this during the season, Shane wondered as he recovered from his second orgasm of the day. He rolled to look at Ilya, who was still catching his breath, one arm draped over his face. He must have sensed Shane looking at him, because he turned toward him and tipped Shane’s face so he could kiss him again.
“Okay, lunch, then museum,” Ilya suggested. If Shane had thought a few people might have noticed them on their run, it was obvious they were recognized in the place Ilya took them for lunch, where he was clearly a regular. Ilya, of course, roasted him for ordering a sandwich and salad instead of something like the massive double burger he was eating. Shane had put his phone on silent after their run, and when he glanced at it while Rozanov was in the bathroom, he saw that he had dozens of unanswered texts and alerts from Twitter and Instagram. He shoved his phone back in his pocket; he would deal with it later.
He hadn’t known what to expect at the Harvard Museum of Natural History, but Ilya rushed him through the entrance, past the gift shop, and into a room full of flowers. “They are glass,” he said quietly.
“Glass?” Shane realized he was pressing his face almost as close as he could to the case with a profusion of yellow blossoms. They looked so real. “How?”
“Some professors wanted realistic models, and these glassmakers in Germany, they make them.”
“They’re beautiful,” he sighed. It was clear they’d been made by real craftsmen. Some of the plants looked fuzzy, and a nearby plaque explained that cotton fibers were blown onto the glass to achieve the effect. He moved slowly from display to display, occasionally glancing at Ilya and finding the man smiling at him indulgently.
“You like them, yes?”
“Yeah, wow, I mean, these are really amazing, Ilya.”
“Look, lilies,” Ilya teased, bumping his shoulder into Shane’s. He couldn’t help laughing, and he gave in to Ilya’s suggestion that they take a selfie in front of them. “They don’t have these in Montreal,” he teased.
Shane bumped Ilya’s shoulder back. “No, no they don’t,” he replied quietly. They moved slowly through the exhibit, occasionally talking about other things as they examined the glass flowers. “You know Eric Bennett, New York’s goalie, he went to school here. Did you ever think about going to university or anything?”
“No, not really. Was always hockey.”
“Yeah, same. If you hadn’t had hockey though?”
Ilya shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe I would have been police like my father and my brother.”
Shane winced. “I cannot imagine you as a cop.”
“Would have been very corrupt police, feet on desk, eating donuts all day, taking bribes. Too lazy to investigate anything.”
“Lazy?” Shane scoffed. “You’re, like, one of the least lazy people I know.”
Ilya bumped his shoulder again, and they smiled at each other. “What about you, big brain Shane Hollander?”
“I’m really not that smart. I wasn’t great at math or anything, which, believe me, was very confusing for my classmates since, you know, Asians are supposed to all be good at that sort of stuff.”
“I don’t believe this, Hollander. You are so…. You look at ice and see all the angles. This is math.”
“Maybe.” Shane shrugged. “Not the kind of math that gets you into Harvard.”
“No, just the kind of math that gets you paid millions of dollars to play a game.”
“Yeah, we have it rough.” Shane grinned at Ilya, and they knocked into each other’s shoulders again. He lost track of time as they wove through the displays.
Shane felt a weird sense of sadness when they came to the end of the exhibit, but then Ilya asked if he wanted to see the mammoths, and fuck yeah, he wanted to see the mammoths. In the gift shop, Ilya asked if they had any models of the glass flowers for sale, and the clerk explained that they didn’t sell those, but there were some artisans that did replicas on commission and gave Ilya some website to look at.
Shane rolled his eyes, but Ilya insisted that he would commission one to make him a vase full of some very Canadian flowers, and in the meanwhile insisted on buying Shane a book about the flowers and several postcards and magnets, and also wouldn’t let Shane pay for the flower-themed 1000-piece puzzle he thought his dad might like. After the gift shop, Ilya drove them across the river for dinner at Eastern Standard and persuaded Shane to try a martini, which was awful, and a tray of oysters, which were oddly great. The place had an amazing salmon dish, which Shane enjoyed while Ilya sliced into a rare steak.
“Will make you something better than sad martini at home,” Ilya promised, and after blowing him enthusiastically on the couch, Ilya made good on mixing him something he called a Moscow mule and a waste of good vodka, but which Shane really liked. Ilya pulled up the same James Bond movie they hadn’t made it through the day before, and Shane let himself be pulled into what he wouldn’t quite call a cuddle, but only because something about cuddling with Ilya Rozanov didn’t quite compute, even if the other man had an arm around him and was keeping him tucked into him, occasionally dropping little kisses onto the top of his head.
It was all really nice, maybe even cozy, which felt like a really weird word to apply to his relationship with Ilya Rozanov, and was relationship even the right word? Could they ever do things like this during the season, meet up to hang out, get lunch, go to a museum? Was that… weird? He’d had too much vodka to really think about it, he decided, and when the movie was over, he herded Ilya back to the bedroom, because at least that part of whatever they were together seemed to always just make sense to him.
He woke before Ilya the next morning, his face pressed to the other man’s chest, one arm warm around his shoulders. It felt nice, natural — and it hit him suddenly how wrong that was. Whatever he and Ilya had been doing all these years, it wasn’t… this. This was different, and he didn’t know what to call it or where to put it.
The internet didn’t know what to call it either. He scrolled through Twitter as he waited for the coffee to brew. ESPN had gathered up some of the photos and videos taken of them on their run through the park and at the museum and posed the question Rivals or Friends? Montreal and Boston hockey captains seen palling around, sparking rumors of trades, retirement announcements, or ‘bromance’. The comments ran the gamut, from people saying things like did you see the way they were racing each other in the park. They are still rivals to edits of the pictures with fluttering hearts and rainbows. One of the top comments was from the handle @hollanov2481, inviting everyone to read the story they’d written about the moments that weren’t captured on camera. For the sake of his own sanity, he did not click the link.
Another popular comment declared that this was the gayest shit I’ve ever seen, and Shane felt his stomach clench. Ilya’s voice was in his ear again. I think maybe you do not like girls. Of course, he liked girls! He’d dated girls, he’d had sex with girls, he’d…. He’d never enjoyed it the way he enjoyed sex with Ilya Rozanov. Even his anxious bathroom handjob with a cater-waiter in Los Angeles had been hotter than anything he’d ever done with Jessica or Rachel or any of the other women he’d briefly dated.
Fuck.
“You are my personal barista now?” Shane’s head shot up to find Ilya leaning against the wall, no shirt, one hand idly scratching at his stomach, a fond smile on his face until he clocked Shane’s expression. “What is wrong, Hollander?”
“Nothing,” he insisted. “Yeah, there’s coffee. Do you have anything for toast? I, uh, my flight leaves at 11.”
“You are leaving?”
“I’ve got plans, Rozanov.”
Ilya nodded. “More babysitting little Pikes?”
Shane rolled his eyes at the teasing tone, but the ribbing actually relaxed him. “Yeah, that and there’s this tennis match I’m taking a friend to, plus I’m trying to get out to my cottage for a while before training camp.”
“Montreal Museum Man, he is friend you take to tennis?” Ilya had busied himself with pouring his coffee, his back to Shane as he asked the question, but Shane could see the stiffness in his shoulders, hear the carefully casual tone in his voice.
It made him bristle a bit. “Yeah. Dylan’s a good guy.” Ilya snorted. “What? He is!”
“You know he wants to fuck you.”
“Oh, fuck off!” Shane slammed his mug down on the counter. “I’m not fucking Dylan, not that it is any of your business.”
Ilya was on him immediately, pinning him against the counter. “You are right, none of my business,” he said before he kissed him. It was brusque and breathless, and within seconds Shane was wrapping his arms and thighs around Rozanov, his spine tingling at the soft, hungry noise Ilya always made when he kissed him. Being carried, the idea that Ilya was strong enough to heave him around, strong enough to hold him down and press him into the mattress, strong enough to pound into him until he was practically weeping…. Yeah, he wasn’t going to get any of that with a girl. The cool metal of Ilya’s cross tickled across his shoulder as Ilya kissed the side of his face, and Shane knew he needed to get the fuck out of there.
Shane took the first shower and packed his things while Ilya took his. “I called a cab,” he announced when Ilya emerged with a towel wrapped around his waist. He absolutely refused to dwell on the wave of deja vu he felt, standing there fumbling his shoes on while Ilya smirked at him, clad in terrycloth.
“See you next season, Hollander,” Ilya quipped, smirking at him.
“Fuck you,” he said, but it came out as a laugh.
Ilya strode over and touched his cheek gently. “Thank you for coming to Boston.”
Shane shrugged. “Thanks for inviting me.” Could he invite Ilya to join him at the cottage? Jesus, where had that idea come from? He couldn’t stop staring at Ilya’s mouth, and their parting kiss was far too gentle. He really, really needed to go. Maybe putting 500km between them would give him enough distance to get some clarity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part Three
Freddie came over to help him decide what to wear for his dinner with Shane, but he was starting to regret having asked for his friend’s help.
“No, seriously, Dilly. He texted you that he was back in town, asked if you wanted to grab dinner, and you were like ‘when and where, Mr. Hollander’? Girl, stand up!”
“Fuck you, Freddie. I waited a full day to answer. He got back yesterday, and he texted me basically right away, so that means something, right?” Dylan was not sure it meant something. He held up his twelfth potential outfit and dropped both pieces to the bed with a groan as Freddie gave a thumbs down. “Forget it, I’m wearing the khaki shorts and my polo from last year’s Open.”
“Bravo. That is exactly the right level of ‘I don’t give a fuck, but check out my arms in this shirt.’” Dylan threw a pillow at his friend. “Seriously though, you’ve got to ask him what was up with his Boston playdate with Ilya Rozanov.”
Dylan frowned. It had been absolutely impossible, at least if you were someone internet stalking Shane Hollander, to miss all the posts about him hanging around with another hockey player in Boston. “Can I ask you why it’s such a big deal? I saw some of the pictures, and they just look like they are having fun.”
“Okay, so the thing is, they are the captains of rival teams, and the league has been framing them as these fierce rivals for years. Like seriously, the press was pitting them against each other before they even got drafted, so hockey fans are kinda spinning out at the idea of them being bros.” Freddie shrugged. “Have you seen that fan edit where someone stitched a bunch of the videos and pictures of them in the park to that ‘People Let Me Tell You ‘Bout My Best Friend’ song?”
Dylan had seen it — several times, in fact. He had watched Shane’s determined face as the two raced each other, watched it break into laughter as they hip-checked each other off the path, his exaggerated irritation when Ilya Rozanov ruffled his hair, his glee as he sprayed water in his face. “Do you think the two of them are….”
Freddie burst into laughter. “Babe, what? Rozanov is an infamous pussy hound.”
“Gross.”
“Don’t be that kind of gay, Dilly.”
“No, I’m not saying vaginas are gross. I’m saying you are gross for using that phrase.”
Freddie threw a discarded shirt at him. “Look, your boy definitely plays for both teams, but Ilya Rozanov? No way. I mean, look at this picture he posted.” Freddie showed him Rozanov’s Instagram profile, which did indeed consist of a whole lot of gym mirror selfies, dogs, and Skittle-colored cars. But the most recent picture was of him with Shane Hollander in front of a wall of flowers. Rozanov had his arm around Shane’s shoulders and the most ridiculous duckface smile on, while Shane appeared to have been captured mid-eyeroll. Took my favorite nerd to see the flowers @harvardmuseum #rozamongthorns. The comments ranged from confused to unhinged. “That is a man who is very secure in his heterosexuality. Now, please, can you ask what the hell is going on with Shane Hollander and his beautiful new friendship? Everyone in the lab is talking about it.”
It turned out, Dylan didn’t have to ask. Because Shane’s friends did. “Sorry,” Shane whispered as he greeted him with a one-armed hug. “I said I had dinner plans, and they sort of invited themselves along.”
He recognized Hayden from the museum and was pleasantly surprised that he remembered him as well. Shane introduced JJ, explaining that they were all teammates, which illuminated why they all looked fit as fuck. Hayden waved his beer at Dylan and explained to JJ, “This is Shane’s new friend from the museum. They trauma bonded over trying to keep my kids from climbing the walls.”
“Making all sorts of new friends, eh, capitaine?” JJ teased.
Shane rolled his eyes. “Can we not?”
“Shane, come on. Rozanov? What the hell, man?” Hayden looked at his friend with genuine bafflement on his face.
“Can we not bore Dylan with this?” Shane whined.
“He knew what he was getting into when he came along.”
“No, you two invited yourselves along to crash our evening, not the other way around,” Shane pointed out.
Dylan felt JJ eyeing them both curiously, and then he let out a quiet, “oh,” and cleared his throat. “Hayden, maybe we talk about something else?”
“But it’s Ilya Rozanov? We’re supposed to just ignore this?”
Dylan couldn’t help himself. “Why is this such a big deal? My friend tried to explain it, but I still don’t get it.”
Hayden looked gleeful at the opening. “Okay, so, Rozanov is the captain of the Boston Raiders, who are, like, historically our team's rivals. He and Shane were drafted the same year, and they’ve been enemies ever since. Rozanov is always talking shit to everyone and being this big, cocky asshole just showboating all over the place. They’ve hated each other from day one and—”
“We never hated each other, Hayden. Jesus Christ.” Shane looked ill. “We just play a sport against each other. Being rivals isn’t the same thing as being enemies. Yeah, I love beating him because he’s the best, not because I’ve got a personal vendetta against him. I’ve known him longer than I’ve known either of you, and I’ve never said I hated him.” Shane sat back and stared down at his knees.
“Shit,” Hayden hissed.
“Can we talk about something else, please?”
“Did you see Lily while you were in Boston?”
Dylan watched as Shane’s eyes went wide with panic.
“Lily’s this girl Shane’s had a thing with forever,” Hayden helpfully explained. “Like, years.”
“I don’t,” Shane protested. “But yeah, I saw Lily.”
JJ laughed and reached past Hayden to lightly punch Shane on the shoulder. Then he asked Dylan about whether he spoke French and when he moved to Montreal, and then made the mistake of asking Dylan about his research. He tried to stop himself from going on for too long, but then Shane asked a few questions too, questions that hinted at him having done some reading of his own after their chats, and that made his brain melt a little. He was, if anything, more confused than he’d been before about what Shane’s deal was, and he knew with certainty that it was not the night to ask Shane if he wanted to come back to his. And also, who the heck was Lily?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shane was relieved that Dylan had gotten along with Hayden and JJ, even if dinner had been a bit awkward. Hanging out with him at the Open, just the two of them, was definitely a lot more fun.
Dylan had clearly been impressed with Shane’s courtside seats, and the matches had been fun to watch. Dylan was always really fun to talk to. He got the feeling when he dropped Dylan back at his apartment afterward that the other man was going to ask him something, but then he just said he was looking forward to the next match, and Shane had said goodnight and confirmed he’d pick him up at the same time tomorrow.
Shane: I’m going to replace the lawn at my cottage with wild bergamot
Lily: Hollander what the fuck is this? You are growing weed now?
Shane: Wildflowers. They’re good for sustainability or whatever.
Shane: I think we saw something similar at the museum
Lily: Pretty. Weird. Star Trek alien flower. I like it
Shane: Butterflies like them I guess
Shane: So do I
Lily: Sustainability. You are spending time with museum man again
Shane: Yes. We’re going to a tennis tournament and we had dinner last night
Shane: JJ and Hayden showed up though and he seemed disappointed.
Shane: I think he was bored by all the hockey talk
Lily: This is not why he was disappointed
Lily: He wanted Hollandaise for dessert
Shane: That doesn’t even make sense. Hollandaise is savory
Lily: ….
Lily: ….
Lily: Hollander. Is magnificent wordplay by non native speaker.
Lily: Am saying he wanted to suck your cock
Shane: He’s a friend, Ilya
Lily: I am also a friend
Lily: A friend who sucks your cock
Shane: Goodnight, Rozanov
Lily: Nooooo
Lily: Facetime
Lily: I want to talk about sustainability
Shane: Really?
Lily: No, Shane. Not really. How did you find someone even more boring than you?
Shane: I’m not giving you his number
Lily:...
Lily:..
Lily: I forget that you are funny
Incoming FaceTime call from Lily
The second night of tennis was going well, too. Dylan seemed a little more relaxed, less starstruck. He joked with Shane, and Shane couldn’t help but notice that he also did little things like let his knee rest against Shane’s thigh, his arm pressed against his, his fingers drifted against Shane’s when he handed him a bottle of Molson.
Shane pulled away gently. “We should play again sometime. I mean, I know I’m not very good.”
“Shane, you were great, but if you’re nervous, I can go easy on you next time.”
“No! I mean, no, I wouldn’t want you to feel like you need to… sorry. Don’t do that.” The idea of someone letting him win at something was…. He remembered his father sitting down to play chess with him when he was nine. Shane had been hopeless at it at first, but the more David beat him, the more he wanted to learn, and when he’d finally won a game, he’d been beside himself with happiness. He’d earned it. What good was a win you didn’t earn?
“Fine. I will happily kick your ass,” Dylan assured him, patting his arm. He left his hand there when he was done. His hand felt nice and warm on his arm. He didn’t move it again until it was time for them to leave.
“Same time tomorrow?” Shane asked, putting the car in park.
“Sounds great,” Dylan said. He put his hand on Shane’s arm again and leaned in. Shane’s brain seized up as Dylan pressed in to kiss him.
It was startling, but also really nice. Sweet. Tingly. Shane cupped Dylan’s cheek and returned the kiss before it hit him that he was kissing a man in his car on a public street. His windows were tinted and it was night, but….
Dylan pulled away before he could finish the thought. “Okay. See you tomorrow,” he said with a huge smile before slipping out of Shane’s grip and out of the car.
Fuck.
He drove home in a daze, idly pressing his fingers to his lips as he drove. Someone honked at him; he hadn’t noticed that the light had changed. He needed to get his act together and get home without causing a wreck. It was just a kiss, for fuck’s sake. The kiss had been… nice. And Dylan was nice. And maybe it would be nice to have something that wasn’t just a rushed hookup every few months.
On the other hand, would he have to stop seeing Ilya? Why would he? Ilya hooked up with other people all the time. Ilya hadn’t even crossed his mind when he had briefly dated Jackie’s friend Morgan last summer — okay, that wasn’t entirely true, but Ilya was in Moscow, and anyway, it wasn’t any of Ilya’s business who he slept with, and at least he had the decency not to end up in TMZ’s feed once a week.
But Dylan might not be cool with that, so he would probably have to end… whatever he was doing with Ilya. Also, would Dylan be able to keep things secret? Shane wasn’t sure what he was, exactly, but Dylan was out, openly queer; would he be willing to keep things under wraps? What about his friends? Would they stay quiet about it?
He grabbed a can of ginger ale from his refrigerator and collapsed onto the sofa. This was dangerous. This wasn’t a random hookup on vacation or a quickie in a bathroom. This was…. There were pictures of the two of them online together already. If they were seen out on a regular basis, would people think ‘oh, Shane Hollander is just a great ally with a gay friend’ or would people make assumptions? Would just the rumor be enough to….
Fuck it, he needed something stronger than Canada Dry. There was a bottle of Russian Standard in his freezer, the result of a complicated bet with Ilya over the 2013 Calder winner. Shane poured some into his can of ginger ale, wincing a bit at the burn in his chest when he swallowed a mouthful of the mixture. He sat down with a notepad and pencil and considered making a pro/con list. He wished he had someone to call, someone who could talk him through it all.
He could… call his parents. Tell them he was gay and maybe seeing someone. His mother would probably come up with a fifteen-step plan on how to cover him with the league and how to handle his endorsements and who he should do interviews with…. Did he want to do all that? And for someone he’d hung out with a handful of times? What if things between them didn't work out?
Oh god, if things didn’t work out, could he still expect Dylan to keep the secret? Or what if they did work out? That might be nice. Why was it so fucking hard for him? Why couldn’t he just be normal?
He added more vodka to the can.
He stared at his phone, finally giving into the impulse to scan back through his recent messages with Ilya. The screenshot of Ilya’s confirmation of the commission with Atelier Blaschka for glass sculptures of a dozen wild bergamot, to be ready in four to six months. In time for Christmas, Shane mused. There was something about it, about the assumption that he would want to give him a gift in four to six months, that just…. God, no, he couldn’t deal with that right now, not on top of the whole Dylan thing. It felt like his brain was overheating.
He tried to distract himself with a movie. He stared at his blank pro/con list. He jerked off. He mixed another vodka and ginger ale cocktail. He fell asleep. He woke up around 9 with a headache and a sore hip from sleeping on the couch. Grabbing his phone, he saw that he must have woken up in the middle of the night and sent Ilya a text: You were right about Dylan, but he had no memory of doing that. Probably because he’d consumed a cup of vodka the previous night. Shane took a shower, drank a cup of coffee, made a smoothie, and asked Dylan if he could come by before the Open.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dylan had done it! He had kissed Shane Hollander! And it had gone great! Like, it was a great kiss, and Shane had kissed him back and held his face. It was glorious, and he really wanted to tell Freddie all about it, but he was in Toronto and busy with his family. Tanner just wasn’t the same. Straight men!
He wanted to squeeze a pillow and kick his feet and giggle about it over mimosas with someone, but instead he had to do data analysis and meet with his advisor. And to wonder if it was desperate to text Shane when he was already going to be seeing him in a matter of hours.
In the end, Shane messaged him, asking if he could swing by his place before they went to the Open. It was impossible not to get his hopes up after that, but he remembered his previous conversations with Freddie about how not to seem overeager and managed to hold out an entire 22 minutes before replying that he would love to and would see Shane around 5. Not that there was any hope of him getting much accomplished now that he knew he was going to be seeing Shane again, and hopefully kissing, or maybe more than kissing…..
Shane Hollander’s building was nice, which wasn’t exactly a surprise. It had fancy stonework and absolutely no signage to indicate what was inside, which seemed fitting for the home of a famous sports guy. The Persian restaurant across the street smelled great; maybe they could get dinner there.
Shane buzzed him in, and he basically floated up the stairs to the second floor. He raised his hand to knock, but heard a voice. Shane was clearly on the phone, and Dylan began to worry that maybe this wasn’t going to go the way he’d hoped.
“What the fuck do you mean you’re here? In Montreal? What the fuck! No, I am home, I’m just at my real apartment. I…. Fuck it, fine, I’ll text you the address, but what are you — you know what, just, I will talk to you later.”
Shane looked thunderous when he opened the door, and Dylan took a hasty step back. Shane shook his head and dragged a hand down his face. “Sorry, sorry, I, um, come in, please?” His demeanor changed completely, and he looked like the sweet, charming person Dylan usually saw.
“Is this a bad time?” he asked, even though Shane was the one who invited him.
“No, no. I…. Look, Dylan….”
Oh. It was going to be bad. He was suddenly glad that he hadn’t said a word to Freddie or Tanner.
Shane Hollander stuck his hands in his pockets and took a deep breath. “I'm sorry. I think I led you on, because I think maybe you thought we were a thing, but I thought we were just friends. And I can't be out as anything, not that I am anything, not that there is anything to be out about, but if even if there was something to be out about, I can't be, and it wouldn't be fair to you as an out person, like... no one should make you have to be a secret, and I understand if you don't want to hang out anymore.”
Dylan blinked at him, unable to form a sentence for several minutes. That was so much. This man, who had talked with him about his team’s casual homophobia, and who was clearly into him according to his friends — even the straight ones — and who had kissed him quite enthusiastically less than 24 hours prior, was standing there telling him ‘there was nothing to be out about’?
He was disappointed, deeply, crushingly disappointed in a way that was probably going to require a massive sundae from Ripples to soothe. But holy fuck, he felt bad for Shane Hollander.
“Yeah, I’m not sure I’m great with hanging out just now,” he said evenly.
“Of course, I get that. I—”
He flung his arms around Shane’s shoulders and pulled him into a hug before he could say more, carefully angling it so their lower bodies didn’t touch. He felt the initial resistance before Shane relaxed into him and gently placed his palms on his back. “Give me a few weeks, okay. And then maybe we can get coffee? And if you ever want to talk about, you know, that anything that you aren’t, just don’t lose my number, Shane.”
Shane let out a strangled fuck before sinking slightly into their embrace. After another minute, he slowly pulled away. “You’re really great, Dylan.”
“Yeah, I kinda am.” He grinned because he was going to be able to walk away with his dignity at least. No one should make you have to be a secret. Well, Shane wasn’t wrong about that. Would he even have considered it? Maybe, for a chance to be with Shane Hollander.
“You should take Tanner or someone to the rest of the Open. I’ll email you the tickets. Oh, and if you ever want to see one of my games, you know, you can text me or whatever.”
Dylan placed a hand on Shane’s cheek and pressed a light, close-mouthed kiss against his lips. “I’ll do that, Shane. Thank you.”
They smiled at each other. Shane nodded, and then Dylan turned and walked at a completely normal pace to the door, making sure it was firmly shut behind him before he let his face crumple. There was a coffee shop next to the Persian restaurant across the street. He ordered an iced latte with caramel and as much whip as they’d put in because he needed the sugar immediately. The absolute tornado of emotions he’d been through over the last day had left him feeling faint. He sat in the sun on the little patio and tried to process, watching the rush hour traffic slowly grind by.
This view meant he was well placed to notice the bright yellow car that stopped in front of Shane’s building. A tall, broad man emerged, looking around furtively, but failing to notice Dylan watching him from across the street. He was as hard to miss as his car, and he looked….familiar.
Ilya Rozanov. Shane’s friend from Boston. The one from the pictures in front of the glass lilies at Harvard. He played hockey too; that’s what Freddie and Shane’s friends had said, on a rival team. That’s why they were so surprised that the two of them had hung out. And Shane had defended him so fiercely, and —
Oh god.
Oh wow.
Lilies, Ilya, Boston –
Ilya Rozanov was Boston Lily.
Who, according to his friends, had been in the picture for a long time. Years. Dylan stirred the ice in his drink, watching through the massive glass doors as Ilya Rozanov leapt up the stairs three steps at a time. Freddie would be distraught to learn that his gaydar had failed. At least two tragic closet cases in the NHL. At least they had each other? What a mess. He’d been feeling sorry for himself, but he had the strangest feeling now that maybe, just maybe, he had dodged a bullet. He tossed the dregs of his coffee in the bin and grabbed his phone. If they hurried, he and Tanner could still make it to Jarry Park before the first serve.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Ilya, what are you doing here?”
Shane was well aware that he should have asked that earlier, probably as soon as he let Ilya in the door. But somehow he had just ended up saying, “Get in here!” with the belated hope that Ilya would hear it as Shane being nervous about Ilya being seen at his door instead of the overwhelming, crushing need to touch him when he saw him there.
“You know why I am here,” Ilya replied, not stopping his hypnotic stroking of Shane’s hair, which was still damp from the shower. Shane leaned into it for a moment before pulling back and staring down pointedly at Ilya. “Why did you text me about Dylan in the middle of the night?” Ilya asked instead of elaborating.
He could lie. He could downplay it. Say he was drunk and confused, and also they were supposed to be friends now, and it seemed like the kind of development you might tell a friend about, but instead, he told the truth. “The flowers.”
“You liked them that much?” Shane could tell that Ilya wanted the question to sound sarcastic, but the tone was too soft. There was something else under it, surprise maybe.
“I don’t know, Ilya. They won’t be ready for four to six months. And you ordered them anyway. Maybe it’s stupid, but that felt like something, I don’t know, long term, I guess.”
Ilya stopped stroking his hair. “It is six years, Shane.”
“I fucking know that, Ilya! But, we’ve never actually defined anything or said we were going to keep doing anything, you know, beyond saying stupid shit like ‘see you next season’ or texting each other two weeks before our next game to make sure, so, yeah, I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid, but it just felt like —- and maybe I’m wrong and I’m going to feel so stupid if I am—- but it felt like you were saying you knew you would still want this in four to six months.”
“I will.” Ilya rubbed his nose and looked up at the ceiling. Shane was starting to notice that Ilya did little things like this; tugged his ear or rubbed at his face or neck when he wasn’t feeling confident.
“So will I,” Shane agreed. He didn’t force Ilya to look at him, and the two of them rested against the pillows for a few minutes. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes. We will get poutine.” Ilya laughed at Shane’s grimace. “What? It is best idea Canada ever had. Fries and cheese and gravy. Amazing! Take your dairy tablet.”
Shane rolled his eyes at him. “I actually know a great place. Poutine for you. Something less horrifying for me. Do you want a Coke? Or, I have vodka,” he announced as he pushed himself up to standing.
“You? You have vodka?”
“The bottle I won off you, remember?”
“I bought you this years ago!” Ilya leaned against the kitchen counter, looking appalled.
Shane ignored him, sent an order off to the Haitian Creole place requesting poutine for Ilya and chickpea curry over rice for himself, and took the Russian Standard out of the freezer. They settled on the sofa, Ilya with two fingers of vodka, Shane with a can of ginger ale. Shane was shocked that Ilya had never seen Ocean’s 11, and they settled in to watch it while they waited for the food. Shane enjoyed watching Ilya’s reactions even more than the movie itself. Ilya raved over the poutine, though he also stole bites of Shane’s plantains.
“This is good vodka,” Ilya commented as the final credits rolled.
“I mean, you picked it, so I would hope so. Not to mention, I think that’s your fourth drink, so clearly you don’t hate it.”
“Some Russian vodkas you cannot get here.”
“Will you go back to Moscow before training camp?”
Ilya shook his head. “No. Maybe I should, but no.”
“But your dad?”
“He does not know me. Or, sometimes he does. Maybe then it is worse.”
“Worse how?”
Ilya shook his head. “I am not drunk enough for this conversation.”
“Is that why you came home early?”
He snorted. “Shane. You know it is not. You know why I came.”
Shane hadn’t had any vodka, but he felt a little like he must have absorbed some by osmosis to have the guts to say, “Because you saw the pictures with Dylan.” Ilya shrugged instead of answering. “You know, I see pictures of you with girls all the time.”
“I know. But you don’t care.”
“What! Says who?”
“Do you?”
“Shutup,” he snapped; it came out as one word. “Fine. Yes. I mind, you asshole.” He grabbed Ilya’s half-empty glass and swallowed down the rest.
Ilya huffed a laugh. “I like you.”
“I like you too. Maybe a little too much.”
“More than your nice man from Montreal?”
Shane smiled despite himself. He wasn’t going to say it aloud, but he was beginning to think nice wasn’t really what he was looking for. “I’m going to my place in Ottawa in a couple of days. If you’re not going back to Moscow, you could come, I mean, if you want.”
“You want me to come to your cottage? What would we do?”
“I don’t know? Relax, play pool, kayak, ride jetskis?”
“Hmm, the jetskis sound tempting. But you must convince me.”
“Oh, and how should I do that?” Shane asked, settling himself into Ilya’s lap. Ilya grinned up at him, and Shane was fairly certain he’d figured out exactly what sort of persuading Ilya needed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thank you for reading. I would love to know what you think.
Thank you to my wonderful betas, CadburyOreo, BluestJM, ProperRugbyNerd, and The Great Owl.
Extra special thanks to Blue for museum outing ideas and other insider Boston info :)