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July 2010 – Toronto
He’s being crazy, he decides when Rozanov’s shower shuts off. He can feel Rozanov’s eyes on him as he pads through the entryway to his locker across from the other bench. He’s being insane, he needs to get out of here. He tugs his shoe on, forgetting to untie the laces first, the tongue catches, his face heats.
The locker opens, he chances a glance. Rozanov catches his eyes immediately and Shane’s gaze sinks to the floor. He stands, he can’t stomach saying this without the height advantage. “Look, we can…we can pretend that never happened, okay?”
“Okay?” Rozanov asks. Shane swallows. He doesn’t want to meet Rozanov’s eyes, but he can’t bear looking at his wet skin, the curve of his shoulders.
“Yeah, man. Of course.” He resents how fucked up his voice sounds. He hopes it’s just the pounding in his head, that Rozanov doesn’t notice.
Rozanov, towel still on, thankfully, crosses the space between them. A wet curl wraps around his ear, dripping water onto his shoulder. The locker is cold on Shane's back, he digs a nail into the seam on the strap of his bag. “Is this what you want,” Rozanov’s mouth twitches, “man?”
“For sure,” he says, voice weak, embarrassing.
Rozanov looks like he’s about to laugh, then, “I have to go. Airport. Back to Boston.” His crucifix catches the harsh fluorescence nicely. The clasp has slipped around his neck, resting against his collarbone.
“Okay.”
“Can I have your number?”
Shane’s head snaps up. “What?”
“Your number,” he says again, bringing his hand to the side of his head, the universal symbol for phone. “I want it.”
Shane gapes. Rozanov’s eyes dip to his open mouth. He shuts it again, then, “What do you want my number for?”
Rozanov shrugs, “Practice my English.”
“They speak English in Boston.”
He hums, “Not really. I think I need uh, one on one. Interviews, rookie of the year, you know?”
“Who’s gonna want to interview you after I beat you?” Shane retorts. He takes his first full breath since Rozanov walked into the showers.
He hates that it makes Rozanov smile.
“We’ll see. So, can I have?” Rozanov looks at him expectantly, like he already knows what Shane will say, and he’s probably right. Annoying.
“Okay,” Shane says. Rozanov’s expression shifts to something pleased. It looks good on him, a realization that makes Shane’s stomach swoop. Shane fumbles into his bag. Rozanov’s skin is covered in goosebumps and beads of water. Fingers brush when the phone makes its way to Rozanov’s waiting palm. The snarling bear on his chest looks even worse up close.
Shane watches his fingers move over the keyboard. He sends a text. The bag on the bench across the room buzzes once. They’re in a public locker room, for fuck’s sake. His phone is pressed back into his hand.
Shane wants to ask about the name, Lily. “What would we even talk about?” He asks instead, like an idiot.
“I think we will think of something,” Rozanov says, voice laced with something Shane doesn’t want to think about. Shane agrees.
Later, after making a not-that-quick escape from the locker room. After meeting his parents for lunch and making light conversation about how was working with Rozanov, his palms sweating while he didn’t think about the heat that radiated off Rozanov’s naked body. After staring at the dummy text Rozanov had sent to himself for way too fucking long, Hey lily, see you in 2 weeks 😉 xo jane, another message comes in and the phone nearly slips from his hand.
YUL👎
Have a safe flight :) Shane replies, only because he doesn’t want the bad karma.
The response comes quick, ;). Shane clicks off his phone, and he definitely doesn't smile.