Chapter Text
This was it.
The one moment in his childhood/teenagerhood where he had gone for what he wanted without hesitation, without a second thought about how it looked, what it meant, how it reflected on him or on his family.
Everything he did, people were watching.
Waiting.
Waiting for the moment Shane Hollander—the first Asian teen from Canada to make it to the Junior Olympics, the first teen to ever achieve an accuracy score of over 86%, the quite kid from a small town—failed.
Failed in hockey.
Failed in his team.
Failed in his social life.
Everything was a choice, as his mother always said to him.
‘He made the choice to be there,’ his mother had said when a Black teen, predicted to be an up-and-coming football player, was arrested for underage drinking at a house party, only for it to later come out that he hadn’t touched a sip.
It didn’t matter by then.
The news and the public had already made up their minds about him, and that was that as far as the top teams were concerned.
‘Perspective matters’ was also a common phrase from his mother.
Perspective was everything.
It was the first, and sometimes only, thing people saw.
So it was important to always be polite, always be respectful, to always present himself as neutral as possible, to never let people be able to twist his words or actions.
So he didn’t drink.
Didn’t go to the few house parties he was invited to.
Didn’t even dare think about smoking weed, never mind any of the harder drugs he had heard about.
He didn’t have an opinion on religion, politics, LGBTQ+ or feminism.
Didn’t have an opinion, experience or story about racism apart from the singular talking point about representation he was allowed.
He didn’t shout or raise his voice.
Never let anger or frustration enter his tone.
Tried to keep it as flat as possible, apart from the occasional moments when he was allowed to sound happy or excited.
It was the same for his facial expressions.
Because what if someone saw?
What if someone spread rumours or, God forbid, had a camera? Then what would they say, Shane?
That he was an angry player? That he was confrontational or aggressive? You have to think about these things, Shane. What would they say?
What would they say, Shane? He thought to himself as Ilya Rozanov, his sworn rival, came back out of the bathroom with a smirk, steam blowing behind him.
It didn’t fit.
It didn’t fit into the reputation and image his mother had slaved away at for years, the second she had come to the realisation that her son had it in him to make the NHL.
She had worked so hard.
Harder than she should have had to.
Spent years setting up meetings and deals with brands and businesses that barely anyone knew, yet acted like they were the height of fame when it came to Shane.
His first brand deal hadn’t been a sponsorship like most of the teens on his teams.
It had been a transaction in which his parents had actually paid ‘Danny’s Dogs’, a gas-station hot-dog supplier, for Shane to be in his first commercial.
It only ever played on the static screens of two different gas companies, neither of which existed outside of the state, and Shane then also had to deal with his classmates seeing them and coming to him with their opinions on them.
It had eventually become too much.
He had gone to his locker to find it plastered with pictures of himself holding a hot dog next to a hockey stick, an awkward smile on his face, rotting, overly processed meat falling out of it when he opened the door.
He didn’t even like hot dogs.
Hated them, in fact.
Especially after the ridicule the advertisement had caused.
He begged his mum to take it down, to call the company and end the contract prematurely.
“It’s about perspective, Shane,” she had huffed, trying to hide the fact that she was rolling her eyes. “Exposure matters, and it’s the only thing that’s getting your name out there right now. So what if your friends are teasing you slightly? They’re just jealous. You should rise above it, like I’ve taught you.”
“Hockey is getting my name out there. Being good at hockey is what’s going to get me known.”
“Hockey is not enough.”
Her back was slightly turned, not fully able to see his face from her angle, and that was why Shane didn’t react when she carried on despite his tears falling on the tiled floor.
“Hockey might be enough for every single rich white boy that you meet, but it will never be enough for you. You need to be better.”
He needs to be better.
Better.
Better at skating, at edge control, at scoring. His backhand, his slap shot, his passes—they all needed to be perfect every single time, because you never knew who was watching, Shane. Who was waiting.
Better at making friends, at being captured on camera talking to others, at ‘bonding with the team’.
Better in his social life, so that no one could point at him and call him ‘quiet’, ‘antisocial’ or a ‘homebody’. These labels led to rumours, and rumours led to gossip, and gossip always made its way to the ears of the people on top.
And then where would he be?
After all, no one wanted a freak on their team.
A freak, such as a man who slept with other men.
Who would want that?
He could feel the panic in his stomach, in his throat, slowly crawling upwards until it threatened to consume his whole body.
What if someone found out?
What if a maid saw his rival coming into his room at nine and heard suspicious sounds? It would spread, from the gossip rags to the owners of the teams, and then no one would want a freak on the team.
No one would want Shane on the team.
Rozanov flopped onto the bed, causing it to bounce, his fluffy blond hair brushing against the bare skin of Shane’s arm and, for a second—only a second—he let himself believe Ilya wanted him.
It helped. Stopped the high-pitched ringing in his ears and soothed his heartrate to a rhyme that wouldn’t cause it to explode, his skin no longer feeling like it was about to buzz of his bones.
“You took a shower,” Shane said slowly, not sure how to start a conversation with someone who knew what he sounded like when he was coming, or who knew what he tasted like.
“Yes? Problem?” Ilya turned to look at him, not moving away but arching an eyebrow judgementally. “You pay water bill now? Hotel makes you work in boiler room?”
“No, not a problem,” Shane said quickly, not able to stop himself from reaching out to reassure him with one hand on his shoulder, but losing his courage halfway through and leaving Shane’s hand in the middle of the bed that separated them awkwardly. “It just… you looked like you were going to leave? Then changed your mind?”
“My father is here with me,” Rozanov said, his accent thickening slightly. “My room is next to his. I don’t want the pipes to, uh, make him not asleep.”
“Awaken him,” Shane automatically corrected before internally wincing, remembering what it was like whenever his Japanese grandparents came over and criticised him on his pronunciation. “Sorry.”
“No, no. Is fine.” Rozanov patted him on his bare leg. “My English is not good. Father says no one wants to hire a man who sounds like a brute. It needs to be corrected.”
“Your English is fine. And you don’t sound like a brute,” Shane said hesitantly, unable to stop himself from leaning in closer. “Everyone knows you only started learning English a year ago.”
“Everyone?” Rozanov questioned, leaning back further to make confused eye contact with him. “How does everyone know this?”
“I, uh—you did an interview. Half a year ago? In the Red Square rink, I think?” Shane said dumbly.
Rozanov’s eyes widened, starting to smile and almost looking delighted. “My first Junior Olympic team interview in Moscow? The one that is completely in Russian?”
“Uhm—”
“You speak Russian now?” He teased, now sounding absolutely delighted. “You are learning Russian for poor, dumb Russian rookie?”
“Shut up,” Shane hissed, feeling the heat spread across his cheeks. “Subtitles and translations are things that exist, asshole. And you’re not dumb.”
“You watch all my interviews and clips?” Rozanov continued to tease, ignoring that last bit apart from his lips pursing slightly at the edge. “My, my, Hollander. If I had known you had such a big crush on me—”
“Oh my God, fuck off.”
“I don’t think you want this.” Rozanov purred, slowly turning over to crawl across Shane’s body. “I think you want me to stay. I think you want me to whisper how I watched all of your interviews and clips while I make you come.”
Shane couldn’t stop the sharp inhale, watching Rozanov’s toned and tanned body slowly settle over his, still slightly bruised from where Shane had slammed him into the boards with slightly too much enthusiasm. The director had immediately yelled cut, and his mother had given him a look which he knew by now meant a scolding was in his future.
But Rozanov had only grinned.
“I think you want me to tell you I noticed you too,” Rozanov hummed, starting to kiss down his neck, Shane unable to stop himself from arching his neck, allowing more space for him to move.
“Did – uhm, I mean - did you?”
The question came out before he could stop it.
The second it did, he wanted to take it back.
He refused to look at him, staring somewhere over Rozanov’s shoulder instead, because if he looked at him now, he would see everything. The embarrassment. The hope. The horrible, humiliating possibility that Shane had imagined the whole thing.
Maybe there hadn’t been anything there.
Maybe the atmosphere in the room had only felt different because Shane had wanted it to.
Maybe Rozanov hadn’t been looking at him the way Shane thought he had.
Maybe none of it had meant anything.
His stomach twisted.
God, what had he been thinking?
This was exactly the sort of thing his mother had spent his entire childhood warning him about. Acting without thinking. Letting emotion show. Giving people something they could use against him.
And now he had practically handed Rozanov the whole thing.
I want this.
I want you.
All without actually saying any of it.
Shane swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.
If Rozanov laughed, he didn’t know what he would do.
If he looked disgruntled or annoyed, Shane thought he might actually stop breathing.
And if he told him that he had been wrong—that he had completely misread the situation—then Shane would have to get up, walk out of this room and somehow pretend none of it had happened.
Which would probably be for the best.
He could already hear his mother’s voice.
Perspective, Shane.
Think about how this looks.
Think about what people would say if they found out.
Rozanov paused, mouth still open against his skin, before slowly pushing himself up on his arms, an indescribable expression on his face.
Shane finally risked looking at him.
It was a mistake.
His eyes darted all over Shane’s face, starting at his cheeks, dusted with freckles, moving to his lips and then his eyes, trying to make eye contact that Shane could not handle at this moment.
He looked away almost immediately, focusing on the dirty-looking light on the ceiling.
Eye contact.
His mother had always talked about eye contact.
It built trust. It showed confidence. It made people believe you were honest and confident in yourself, they were less likely to fuck you over that way.
But Shane didn’t feel confident.
He felt like his entire body had been peeled open and left sitting under a spotlight.
His heart was beating so hard he was convinced Rozanov could hear it.
“Never mind, ignore me—I’m not making sense—it’s stupid—” Shane stumbled out the second the silence started becoming too heavy for him to bear, words tripping over each other as his heart rate climbed higher. “Forget I said anything—”
“Shh, Hollander, stop.”
Rozanov’s voice cut through the panic, low and steady.
He lowered himself to lean on his forearms, one hand coming up to trace a finger slowly down Shane’s cheekbone.
“Calm down. You are like bunny.”
“Bunny?” Shane questioned incredulously, starting to frown, offended despite everything.
“Da. So quick to panic and run away.”
“I’m not running away,” Shane said mulishly.
“No, but you want to,” he replied, raising a knowing eyebrow before leaning down to rub his nose against Shane’s face. “And yes. I noticed you,” he finished quietly.
The panic didn’t disappear all at once.
It loosened.
Just enough.
Shane bit down on his lip, trying to hide his smile, feeling his cheeks heat up in a betraying blush.
He had noticed.
Rozanov had noticed.
And somehow, impossibly, that was enough to make the world feel a little less terrifying.
“Noticed boring little Hollander. So quick on his feet, with cute little freckles—”
“You like my freckles?”
“—and cute bangs, with a terrible backhand—”
“Oh, fuck off. My backhand is not terrible.”
“Uh, yes it is. I don’t know why people compare you to me when you are such a horrible hockey player—”
Shane couldn’t stop the laugh, trying to push Rozanov off with pretend strength, something that could be described as a giggle coming out of him when Rozanov took that opportunity to flop down on him. Unable to stop himself from sighing out in pleasure as Rozanov’s firm, solid, warm weight pressed down on him, the pressure doing something just right to help him relax.
“So terrible I beat you in the Olympics?” Shane hesitantly teased.
“Was mistake. A fluke. Will not happen again,” Rozanov waved off, a small grin on his face. “I can’t lose to boring Canadian again. Would shame Mother Russia and I would not be allowed back.”
“I am not boring,” Shane rolled his eyes, yet didn’t feel anything close to the irritation that happened when other people used that word to describe him.
“Uh, yes you are,” he said confidently. “I see your interviews and clips on the ice, but nothing off you. What you like, what you do for fun, pictures of you sneaking out of hotels or house parties.”
Shane felt his mood sour, trying to squirm in his grasp, but the Russian stopped him.
“I don’t do that… stuff.”
“Stuff?” Rozanov questioned incredulously.
“Stuff,” Shane shrugged. “You know. Parties, secret hangouts, alcohol or drugs.”
“Alcohol or drugs?” Rozanov snorted. “What are you? Twelve? You going to give me an anti-drug lecture on the dangers of drugs like you’re still in middle school?”
“How do you know the words ‘lecture’ or ‘middle school’ when you don’t even know the word for waking up?” Shane scowled, not knowing how to respond.
Rozanov rolled his eyes but seemed to relax slightly. “They don’t give presentations on sleeping in the Olympic community. But they do give a lot on drugs.”
“Oh, that makes sense,” Shane said quietly.
“So what? You’ve never smoked? Never drank a beer with your friends or hooked up with a girl?”
“I, uh—I don’t have a lot of friends,” Shane stuttered, more honestly than he wanted to. But something about this moment, about this room where he had already crossed every boundary he had set for himself years ago, urged him to open himself up further, like a sacrifice for what felt like a once-in-a-lifetime experience. “I don’t really… gel with them.”
Rozanov’s lips pursed at that, his eyes darting all over Shane’s face again before leaning down and kissing him.
Shane relaxed into it with a soft moan, feeling Rozanov’s tongue tracing over his bottom lip, unable to stop himself from allowing the Russian closer.
After five seconds or five minutes, Rozanov leaned back, his lips still shiny with spit.
“I will be your friend,” he said slowly, his accent getting heavier as his tone deepened. “Okay? I will be your friend. You will, uh, gel with me, da?”
“Really?”
Shane hated himself in that moment, hated how the excitement and eagerness, the naivety, slipped into his voice.
“Da, yes, really.” Rozanov grinned now, something like pain clearing from his eyes. “We start now. So tell me.”
“Tell you? Tell you what?”
He shrugged. “Things you tell your friends. What you want to do, what you want to drink and eat, where you want to travel. What you’re going to spend your big rookie cheque on.”
“Uhm, I guess I want to go skydiving one day?” Shane hesitantly started. “My mom told me to wait until I was older. Said it’d be better to build my career first before I potentially destroyed it by throwing myself out a plane.”
Rozanov let out an irritated huff but didn’t speak.
“And I really want to try fugu—uhm, that’s puffer fish—but it can poison you if not done correctly, and my mother pointed out that’s too big of a risk.”
Rozanov leaned back on his arms but didn’t say anything, silently urging him to continue.
“I really want to go to Thailand,” Shane admitted. “I’ve seen some of the pictures of Khao Sok National Park and it looks so cool. They have these little houses that float on the water and these sheer cliffs. I’d really like to go there someday.”
“So go.”
“Wha—what? No, don’t be stupid. I can’t,” Shane said quickly, feeling his heart speed up just from the idea of slipping away on a plane during arguably the most important time period of his life.
“Why not?” Rozanov raised an eyebrow. “You on no-fly list? Have no money?”
“Don’t be stupid, Rozanov,” Shane huffed. “Training camp starts in less than two months, and I have a bunch of brand meetings and stuff that my mom set up that I can’t miss—”
“Hollander,” Rozanov cut in. “There is a pattern here.”
“A pattern?” Shane, who loved patterns, asked. “What pattern?”
“You are a mama’s boy,” Rozanov said gravely. “She tells you what to do and you say, ‘Yes, Mommy. Of course, Mommy. Whatever you want, Mommy.’”
“Shut up! I do not!”
“Hollander,” he said dryly, “you have never drunk beer before. You are nineteen. That is a crime.”
“I’ve had wine,” Shane pouted.
He smiled knowingly. “A glass? Or a sip?”
“Shut up, asshole,” Shane scowled, trying to push him away.
Rozanov cackled, pressing his full body weight down and ignoring the slaps against his side.
“Mean mama’s boy,” he cooed, ending each taunt with a kiss to a random part of Shane’s face. “Mama’s boy, mama’s boy, mama’s boy.”
“Rozanov! Cut it out!”
“No. Not until you admit that you let your life be controlled by your mommy.”
Shane felt his blush deepen, something like embarrassment and humiliation welling up, but nowhere near the level that anyone else saying these things would cause.
“She does not control my life,” Shane lied, pursing his lips in determination to argue.
“Then prove it.” Rozanov simply shrugged. “You said two months to training camp—”
“Almost two months—”
“You can cancel on your sponsors and meetings. They will reschedule, or others will reach out. And I know you currently have a very big, very shiny cheque in your bank for your first rookie paycheque, so money is not a problem.”
Shane blinked, his mouth opening and closing, not quite knowing how to argue.
“More than enough time to spend a week or two in a relaxing, sunny place. Will make you smile on camera for once.”
He stopped then, leaning down to kiss him again, and Shane hated the way he felt his body relax.
“You deserve it. Rookie season is going to be hard and long. You should relax before you spend the rest of your life chasing the puck.”
Shane didn’t know what to say, or how to say no to the idea that Rozanov was dangling in front of him.
He was making sense, as much as Shane hated it.
He was pointing out the stone-cold truth that Shane had been trying to ignore for the past two years, ever since it had become a done deal that he was going to be drafted.
Rozanov could see his weakening demeanour and went for the kill.
“You deserve to do something for yourself for once, Hollander,” he said quietly, back to nuzzling against the side of his face, speaking directly into his ear. “You deserve to make your own choice. To be young and dumb while you can.”
And wasn’t that it?
The crux of the matter.
When was the last time Shane had done something without thinking of the consequences?
What people would think.
How would they see it?
What would they say?
“Its—I can’t—” Shane stuttered, not knowing how to argue against the truth. “I don’t want to do it alone. There’s no one I can take with me,” he eventually said, the only defence he had.
“So take me.”
“What?”
There was a pause, both Shane and Rozanov looking at each other, just as surprised.
The Russian seemed to pale, his eyes going distant as his body, still pressed against Shane’s, tensed.
He looked like he couldn’t believe the words that had just come out of his mouth—the offer of going on holiday with a man he had met only two years ago and maybe talked to for a combined fifteen minutes over that time, until they had fallen into bed together.
This was a hook-up.
A fling.
A moment to indulge in, then pretend never happened.
It was something that was meant to last, at most, an hour. A moment that scratched an itch, that was then put away and forgotten about.
It was not something that was meant to turn into a potentially week-long holiday.
“You have to stay at least two weeks in Thailand because of the weather,” he said instead of, Are you fucking crazy?
“Then we stay two weeks. We have time, and I also have very big paycheque.” He winked, far too relaxed for Shane’s liking.
“People might see us together, and that would destroy the rivalry the league is trying to build.”
“Who the fuck watches hockey in Thailand? I thought it was all deserts and beaches and sun there,” Rozanov questioned with a judging eyebrow.
Shane’s mouth dropped open and closed, speechless at the idea in front of him but unable to come up with any other protests.
“It’s stupid,” he said instead.
Rozanov nodded. “Yes, it is.”
“Like, seriously. The most idiotic thing either of us has ever done.”
“Eh, maybe you. Definitely not me.”
“It could destroy our careers if we’re caught.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged again.
“Okay,” Shane said simply, his head leaning back into the pillow, trying to get over the shock filling his body. Trying to ignore the urge that wanted to latch onto the invisible hand Rozanov was holding out.
Trying to ignore the way he was right.
That Shane hadn’t controlled his own life in a very long time.
That he couldn’t remember the last time he had done something, apart from hockey, that he wanted to do with no restrictions. With no voice in his head telling him to be careful, to think of others, to always be perfect.
“Okay?” Rozanov questioned, something like a disbelieving grin starting to appear.
“Okay.” Shane nervously swallowed, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth. “Okay, let’s do it.”
“Really?” Rozanov repeated, his hand moving up to cup the side of his face.
Shane snorted, feeling himself starting to smile.
“Really. I want—I want to be stupid for once.” He licked his lips. “I want to be young and dumb while I’m still technically a teenager.”
“Fuck yes.”
Rozanov leaned forward and basically slammed a kiss against Shane.
“Let’s fucking do it.”
Shane smiled and let out a giggle, something manic and wild entering his blood the second the Russian kissed him.
“Let’s fucking do it.”