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Chapter Text

The first time Shane Hollander had met Rozanov, they had both walked away with a bloody nose and the beginnings of a lifelong hatred.

It had been at a game, one of the first in Shane’s high school career, and he was, to put it mildly, on top of the fucking world. At fourteen, he had already been the topic of some whispers about future hopefuls, a rising new star in hockey, but high school was where those whispers became real, tangible conversations. Conversations between recruiters, sports journalists, and other higher-ups in the NHL and CHL. Important conversations that Shane was going to headline.

It had seemed that way, when he had skated onto the ice, with his teammates at his front and back, and cheers of a crowd surrounding them. It had seemed that way when the puck had dropped and they had won the face-off. And it had most definitely seemed that way when Shane scored the first goal of the game just minutes later.

He had been in the middle of giving a repeat of that performance when a thing had whizzed right past him. A blur of crimson red and white. A name on the back of the jersey that started with an R and ended with letters that the sweat in Shane’s eyes wouldn’t let him make out. Irritatingly fast.

In one moment, Shane had the puck, right within his grasp, and the next, it was gone—swept away by this whirlwind of a player. With a growl, Shane had gone faster until he could take it back. And he had kept it too, for about a fraction of a second, before the other snatched the puck into his grasp again, with one clean sweep of his stick.

They had gone on and on like this, a game of tug of war where neither could gain the upper hand long enough without the other taking it away just as fast. The sweat rolling down Shane’s forehead was coming down in buckets now, adrenaline the only thing keeping him from going completely blind, but he swore, out of the corner of his eye, he could see a smirk on the other player’s shadowed face, below the helmet.

The thought had infuriated him just enough to shove at the other man’s shoulder, hard. The other didn’t seem to take offense to it, just shoved him right back, and Shane’s shoulder vibrated with the impact, the sudden pain costing him a few precious seconds where he fell behind.

The other player didn’t look back as he raced for the goal—the ice spraying out behind him.

Shane grit his teeth and chased.

When the other switched to his backhand, Shane’s goalie moving just as fast to shut the goal down, Shane nearly bit his tongue clean off. Because in a split-second, as in blink-and-you’ll-miss-it split second, the player had somehow, impossibly faked the backhand, keeping the puck right at his stick as Shane’s goalie dove to catch something that was not yet there, and switched to a motherfucking forehand wrist shot. It was supernatural.

Shane had never seen anything like it.

The puck had flown into the goal, a pause as if everyone was holding their breath, and then the crowd roared.

The player had turned back to him, his sharp smirk much clearer when Shane wasn’t skating for his life, and something in Shane’s stomach had roiled at the sight.

“You are a lot slower than I thought you would be,” he had said, a surprising Russian accent thick on his tongue.

So, the Russian was unexpected, but Shane didn’t even have time to dwell on that before the words registered and red-hot irritation washed over him.

“Excuse me?”

“I mean,” the other boy had said, slowly. As if speaking to a particularly daft child. “If that is the fastest Shane Hollander can skate,” his grin had widened, almost cheshire-like in nature. “Then, I am a little disappointed.”

Shane had stared, struck utterly dumb. Just who the hell did this guy think he was?

“Yeah? Well, that shot was a fluke,” he had said tersely. The other had stilled, and Shane had gotten the distinct feeling that he had struck something inside him at those words. Good. A foreign, nasty smile of his own had crept onto his face. “Good luck doing that again, jerk.”

He thought then that maybe he should have used the word asshole, or something, there to pack more of a punch—because the other had just laughed. The sound was a harsh, grating thing, and Shane wanted to snarl at the sound of it.

“Good luck stopping me,” he had said easily. There was a mole on his cheek. “Not that you can, Hollander.”

And he had skated away, apparently satisfied with getting the last word. The last name on his jersey was as clear as day now. Rozanov.

“Dude,” one of Shane’s teammates had said, sidling up to him. “What the hell was that?”

“That’s the Russian, right?” another one had piped up. “Ronaya-something?”

“Rozanov,” Shane had muttered. What a stupid fucking name.

“Ilya Rozanov. Apparently, he moved here this year,” his teammates had whispered to one another. Ilya Rozanov. Shane had rolled his eyes, pretending not to seem interested. “But I heard he was a big fucking deal in Russia. Like future Olympic champion, big deal. Think he might be scouted for a team here?”

“With a shot like that? Recruiters are probably jizzing their pants right now.”

“That had to have been a fluke, right?”

Shane had barely kept from scowling right then and there.

The game devolved quickly into a mess of desperation and aggression. Everywhere Shane turned, Rozanov was also there, like some bad omen. It was only some comfort that Shane could do the same to the other, riding his ass at every instance he had the puck, that they were nearly conjoined throughout the game. And every time, Rozanov would flash Shane that condescending smile, and the need to throw an elbow into that offensive nose grew by the second.

The final straw had been when Ilya shoved him into the boards, with Shane unable to dodge. Perhaps he was within his limit to do so, and perhaps Shane was breathing down his neck, and perhaps he had not meant to press his body into Shane’s as he did so, the lines of his chest hard and skin much too hot, even through their jerseys and protective gear.

“Too slow,” Rozanov had whispered, his eyes dark and amused. The hair on the nape of Shane’s neck prickled. “Where is your luck now?”

Perhaps.

But it didn’t matter in the end.

And Shane—he hadn’t known what had come over him in that moment, he thought he might never know, but Shane, who had always prided himself in rough, but ultimately clean fights, who had never engaged in any unnecessary or excessive violence on the ice, had geared his fist back and punched the smirk right off that smug face.

“Ouch,” Shane had said. It had felt strange coming out of him, not particularly good. Still, he had said it. “Did that hurt, Rozanov?”

The helmet had protected him from most of the blow, but an explosion of blood had erupted from Rozanov’s nose. He had let out a groan of pain at that, and Shane had just a moment to relish in it before Rozanov was smiling down at him, crimson staining his teeth.

“So much,” he had said, sounding delighted and frankly, a little sadistic. And then, he slammed his helmet right into Shane’s.

The pain shooting through his nose at the impact had almost sent Shane reeling back. Instead, he had fisted a hand through Rozanov’s, the utter psychopath’s, jersey and made to slam him against the wall—a little taste of his own medicine. The refs, who had been circling like a pair of sharks, broke it up before then.

A five-minute penalty for each of them. It was a miracle that neither, especially him, was fully ejected from the game, but Shane couldn’t find it in himself to be thankful.

As Rozanov’s team scored more and more, and Shane’s chances of winning slipped by the second, the mess of emotions—anger, irritation, frustration, disappointment, and everything in between—had grown too. He bit his tongue and tasted blood. Or perhaps, it was the leftover blood from the fight.

They had lost in the end, his team.

Not the worst gap in the world, but the worst in Shane’s personal standards. He had gotten a penalty for fighting, something he had never done. His parents must be so disappointed.

He had swallowed down the cocktail of emotions and lined up for handshakes.

Rozanov’s hand in his had felt too big, his grip a little too lax. The blood from his broken nose had dried on his face, staining the top half of his lip. Not that he even seemed to notice. His gaze had been fixed on Shane’s—piercing, boring into Shane’s skin and burrowing deep into his blood vessels. Shane had let out a breath.

“Asshole,” he had muttered, his nose aching. Then, he squeezed Rozanov’s hand tight. He hoped that it would break a few bones.

“And you are most definitely a sore loser,” said Rozanov. “I am learning so much about you today, Hollander.”

“Good game,” said Shane, and tried his best not to sound like he was seething the words through clenched teeth. It’s the last you’ll ever have against me, Rozanov.

-

Seven years later.

There was little Ilya Rozanov hated more than his 7 pm philosophy class.

Everyone had warned him against the cardinal sin of taking 8 ams and especially taking night lectures, Svetlana had practically screamed it in his face at a pitch high and loud enough to shatter eardrums, but Ilya had, unfortunately, turned a deaf ear to it all. To his credit, it was the only course that would fulfill both his English and social sciences GE requirements in one fell swoop and also worked with his admittedly packed schedule as a hockey player.

And in his defense, it hadn’t seemed like the most difficult philosophy class in the world, judging from the title—the Philosophy of Sport. Well, Ilya was a fan-fucking-tastic player of one particular sport, knew it like the back of his hand, so surely, it could and would mean something in this cruel world of academia. Or so he thought, before the very first lecture, when the professor opened his 100-slide slideshow and started droning on and on.

The same slides, as Ilya found out rather nastily at the next lecture, during a surprise pop quiz, were not available online either. The class was a nightmare, certifiable. The class should have been dropped and Ilya should have just sucked it up and squeezed another two courses into his schedule.

Ignorance was what led him to the Philosophy of Sport. But his hubris—his damnable, detestable pride—was what kept him there past the drop date.

And now, staring down at the giant F scrawled in bright red on his latest essay, he was well and truly fucked.

The girl beside him, who somehow seemed to have caught a glimpse of Ilya’s paper, let out a shocked noise. He glances at her and pointedly slides the paper into his backpack.

“Do you think he will let me do a make-up paper?”

“Maybe,” she stammers, blushing a bright red, like she didn’t expect him to actually speak to her. He doesn’t know why—it’s not like she just let out the loudest gasp known to man in his vicinity, all due to his shitty grade. “Um, that grade isn’t so bad.”

Her previous horror had said otherwise.

When Ilya asks Professor Smith, very politely and charmingly, about a potential make-up paper, the old man takes one look at his face and laughs.

“Being an athlete is no excuse to not work hard, Mr. Rozanov.”

“I am studying hard,” Ilya says, pointedly. “I just need another chance. Please, I need to maintain my GPA to keep my spot on the team.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to boost your grade with other assignments in my class,” the old man squints, and Ilya tries not to scowl down at him. He opts for another charming smile instead–his teeth feel like they’re going to crack in half at this point—and Professor Smith hardly blinks. “If you apply yourself and really focus.”

“I—”

“I know that as a hockey superstar, you must think everything should be handed to you on a silver spoon—” Professor Smith’s lips twist, all pomp and tweed superiority. The old man was throwing thinly veiled insults at him in the form of English idioms. Great, Ilya really should have dropped out when he had the chance. “—but, in academia, you must work for what you want.”

“I always work for what I want, sir,” Ilya says. He pictures throttling Professor Smith around his wrinkled, liver-spotted neck and choking the English idioms out of him. It’s a pleasant thought. “I am just asking for a little grace, yes?”

“Frankly, Mr. Rozanov, other people in your…situation are doing just fine in this class, without extra grace. Perhaps you should look to them for some guidance on your next assignment.”

Ilya frowns. “My situation?” he asks, and the old man sighs, like he cannot believe that a student is asking him a question in a classroom, where students are, famously, known to ask questions. Ilya really needs to throttle this man.

“You are not the only hockey player taking this class,” is all Professor Smith says before he turns away to pack up his briefcase, effectively ending the conversation. But it’s all Ilya really needs.

Not the only hockey player to take this class.

There was really only one other person on the team, Ilya’s university team, to be stupid enough to take an evening lecture where the professor graded like he had thought the grading system started with the letter C, and was, perhaps, the only faculty in the entire school who did not give some grace to the star hockey team.

Only one other person was stubborn and insane enough, and, funnily enough, was also probably the one person who would rather light himself on fire while jumping into a pool of gasoline than help Ilya with anything.

And Ilya almost laughs, right then and there.

Before he can, something brushes against his arm, the brush of skin against skin causing goosebumps to rise against his flesh. A person hurrying past and accidentally knocking against him. Ilya steps to the side, casually, and glances up to see none other than Shane Hollander scurrying away.

Even with his back turned, it’s so obviously Hollander—all close-cropped dark hair and horribly bland gray T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, sculpted from brutal years of strength training and swinging a hockey stick across ice. It’s in the way he carries himself, tightly wound up, like his skin fits badly over his flesh and bones. It’s just Hollander, as Ilya has known him to be for years.

“What,” he finds himself calling out, and Hollander freezes at the sound of his voice. “You can’t even say ‘I am sorry?’ I thought Canadians were supposed to be nice.”

Very slowly, Hollander turns around. Ilya eyes those familiar freckles again—smattered across Hollander’s cheeks and the bridge of his strong nose. It always came as a surprise, those freckles.

What never was a surprise, though, was the thinly veiled irritation on Hollander’s face whenever Ilya opened his mouth.

“Rozanov, I barely touched you,” he says, in that blunt tone of his. “My arm, like, grazed your arm.”

“And how do you know I was not hurt by that graze, Hollander?” Ilya says, straight-faced. “Besides, is it not polite to apologize, even if you did not really harm the other person?”

Hollander blinks.

“Which one is it—did I mortally wound you or did I not at all?”

“Like, I said,” Ilya says and steps closer to the other man. Hollander’s shoulders square, as if preparing for a fight, and Ilya fights the urge to laugh in his face. “Does it matter which one it is?”

“Yes,” Hollander says. “Of course, it matters.” There’s a flush rising on his face, a salmon sort of color that Ilya has seen and categorized multiple times in his life. He’s been on the opposite end of this particular shade of red on this particular face, many times.

Shane Hollander’s flush of annoyance: Category 3. Not life-threatening just yet.

Ilya smiles.

“Then, would you be nicer to me if you hurt me very much?” he switches his backpack to his left shoulder, the one Hollander hadn’t brushed up against. “Recruiters all over the world are fighting to have this arm represent their teams, did you know? Gladiator pit fights in the NHL and CHL headquarters. Lots of blood.”

“In your dreams, Rozanov,” he switches his backpack to his right shoulder. “Actually, I think you’re suffering from a concussion. A twenty-year-long concussion. In your…brain.”

He winces at his comeback, and Ilya’s face hurts from how wide his smile has gone.

“So, would you be nicer to me if I was really hurt?” he asks again, and waves his arm in Hollander’s face. “Ouch,” he deadpans. He hopes Hollander cusses him out, like how he did when they first met—practically spitting with rage, dripping with fury.

“Piss off,” says Hollander, eloquently, and switches his backpack to his left shoulder. Not a swear, unfortunately, but the shade of red coloring his cheeks darkens into a brick red.

Rapidly approaching Category 4 of annoyed Shane Hollander, venturing towards straight-up pissed off. Ilya wants to push him to that edge, to see Hollander succumb to as much emotion as his uptight, neurotic brain will probably allow at this moment. He wants Hollander to snap.

It’s not a particularly new desire, but it still burns true—even after seven years.

Ilya tilts his head, endlessly amused, and Hollander’s eyes narrow.

“Good Boy Shane Hollander is not so good after all. What would the people think?”

“Fine, Christ,” the other man sighs. His ears might start steaming soon, Ilya thinks. The thought delights him. “I’m sorry. So sorry for harming, or maybe not harming, your arm, and so sorry I didn’t say it sooner, so this conversation wouldn’t have happened. Is that what you wanted to hear, Rozanov?”

“Well yes, that is what I have been saying for the past ten minutes,” Ilya nods, satisfied. “You have finally processed those admittedly simple words. Well done.”

Hollander scowls.

Ilya grins pleasantly. Pats Hollander on the shoulder with as much condescension as he can muster—and all Rozanovs were born with condescension in their bloodstream—and brushes past the other man, arm against arm. Tries not to laugh when he hears Hollander grumble to himself behind him, properly irate. Walks out and is immediately bombarded with people, teammates, pretty girls who all want his attention, his words, him.

His palm itches, and the goosebumps on his arm haven’t quite faded, despite the relative warmth of the evening.

“Roz,” someone calls to him, and Ilya doesn’t think about it.

-

Some small part of him has always wondered what Shane Hollander would be like as a captain.

Even when they were butting heads and slamming each other against the boards and antagonizing each other through hell and back, it was a thought that lingered. Captains came in all shapes and sizes, with some serving more as figureheads to the team, while others more like second coaches. But what sort of captain was Shane Hollander?

Hollander’s hand on his teammate’s shoulder after a particularly bad fight, pulling him away from the fray. Caring, probably more often than not.

Hollander’s teeth, stained with blood, baring down at one another as another teammate makes a bad call and tries to shoot a goal, when it’s clear to anyone with eyes that the puck will be stolen away from him in moments. Unforgiving, likely at times.

Hollander roaring in victory, head tilted back, stick high in the air, as they took home gold—his freckles stark against the lights of the hockey stadium, his pride a physical beacon. An absolute fanatic, most definitely.

Ilya didn’t have to wonder for long.

They were recruited by the same university, the best of the best, and soon, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov—the rivals who gave each other matching concussions in one game, matching black eyes in another, and matching broken legs at the championship finals—were now Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov—the teammates.

Nobody could believe it. One newscaster said that they were probably going to kill each other before the first game.

“Putting Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov on the same team and expecting them to get along,” she had scoffed. “We’ll be losing two of the top NHL prospects by the end of the first university semester. At the very least.”

Almost three years later, and Ilya hadn’t been murdered by Hollander yet, so there was a win.

What wasn’t exactly a win, was Hollander being chosen for captaincy this year, their third year. It was more of an outrage. When Coach Wiebe had announced it, a few people had banged their sticks on the ground in approval, though others were quiet. Some teammates patted Ilya’s back, but Ilya hadn’t looked at them.

Because Hollander, who had been staring at the coach and probably processing the news, had suddenly smiled a self-satisfied smile that only seemed to come out after an unexpected victory—a wide and fierce thing. His eyes had shifted to Ilya’s then, and Ilya had to look away.

“Fucking rigged, man,” Dallas Kent had muttered in his ear.

The loss of capitancy had stung, sure, but Ilya was never one for wallowing. Never for hockey.

“Hollander once headbutted me on the ice so hard, I lost a tooth, and then he kicked that tooth very far away from me,” he had said, good-naturedly, as he had skated past Coach Wiebe a few practices later. Hollander was nearby, studying Coach’s notes. Both of them had looked up, and Ilya had wiggled his fingers at Hollander’s scowl. “I had to crawl to get it back. Just wanted to let you know. I know how important good sportsmanship is for all captains.”

“You slammed my head into the boards and made me blackout for five minutes, during a game,” said Hollander. “The hell do you know about good sportsmanship, Rozanov?”

Ilya had tilted his head. “I do not remember it being five minutes. Maybe seven. Very long nap, seemed like you needed it.”

“Oh, you were keeping count, were you?” Hollander had snorted. “Sadists aren’t good captains either, just so you know.”

“But Sleeping Beauty is?”

Hollander’s scoff had been music to Ilya’s ears.

“Rozanov, Hollander,” Coach Wiebe had muttered, running a hand over his eyes, now squeezed tightly shut. He always did look a little exhausted when Ilya opened his mouth, but correlation didn’t equal causation, so Ilya didn’t think too much about it. “Shut the hell up.”

They had shut the hell up, but Ilya had waved his fingers at Hollander again, before skating off to the rest of their teammates, and Hollander had given him The Finger in retaliation. All good fun.

Still, Hollander wasn’t an awful captain.

Caring? Yes, even to Ilya at times, though it was mostly for the good of the game. Unforgiving? Absolutely, and particularly of simple mistakes, as the perfectionist that he was. A fanatic? Most certainly, but Ilya couldn’t befall a man in his house of worship—even if that man was Shane Hollander. So it wasn’t all bad.

Even when they lost, he wasn’t terrible.

The locker room was always quiet after a loss, but never silent. The other team’s cheers filtered through the walls every time, even if they were miles away, and it seeped through the metallic lockers, down the showers, and into their ears.

It’s no different now.

“Motherfucker,” Troy Barrett grumbles, quietly to himself. Ilya nudges his shoulder with his and the first year slumps on the bench. “That was—”

“Fucking awful,” Kent says, obnoxiously and obviously. He kicks at a locker.

“We should get cleaned up,” Hollander’s voice, sturdy and unwavering, even in the face of their horrible loss.

He stands tall, unbroken even as the rest of them slouch, and something turns in Ilya’s stomach at the sight. Maybe with annoyance at Hollander’s refusal to visibly wallow like anyone else would. Maybe with sympathy at how his lip quivers, just barely, under the low light. Or maybe something else entirely, that Ilya really doesn’t have time for right now—like, at all.

“Fuck off,” Coleman mutters, and Ilya frowns.

Some of the team had always had issues with Hollander; mostly, from what Ilya had gathered, due to prodigious skill and the fact that he was, statistically speaking, the second most talented player in all of U Sports. After Ilya, of course. It was an open secret that NHL and CHL recruiters were already knocking at Hollander’s door every day, that actual brands wanted to do paid sponsorships with him, and that he had already asked to join the Olympic team once—it was that serious.

Jealousy in a sport as famed and elite as hockey was expected. Ilya wasn’t exempt from the green-eyed stares, either. But this year, there had been an underlying, serious resentment simmering from the moment Hollander got captaincy. Nothing too upfront or obvious, but it was growing by the day.

A festering wound.

Ilya fingers the crucifix on his neck, watching.

“You just cost us the game,” Kent snaps. “And you want to open your fucking mouth, Hollander?”

Hollander stares, unflinching. Unimpressed, but clearly taking account of Kent’s words. A bead of water runs from his damp hair down the length of his throat. “How did I do that?”

Kent rants and raves, a madman throwing darts every which way and hoping one of them would land. Says something about Hollander hogging the puck, particularly when Kent was near, like Hollander is legally obligated to pass him the puck at every point in time. Ridiculous.

“This isn’t the Shane Hollander show,” he hisses.

“I never said it was,” Hollander says, blunt. Always so blunt, Hollander. Ilya digs his thumb into the cross. “I’ve passed to you every period, Kent.” And you’ve missed every time, goes unsaid, but they hear it–everyone does. Kent goes red.

“Bullshit.”

“Review the tape,” is all Hollander offers before turning away. “Coach wants us to head out in ten.”

He leaves like that.

Ilya’s thumb digs into the golden edges of the cross, harder and harder. He might be able to prick himself on the thing soon, and draw blood, if he keeps pressing.

“Fucking—” Kent says under his breath, probably on his way to call Hollander a few choice words. Ilya rolls his eyes and stands. He has little patience for Kent on a good day. It was not a good day.

The man looks up at him, a little surprised, and Ilya thinks that the stigma and punishment and bad reputation that one gets after punching a teammate is too unfair. Not all of them had a teammate like Dallas Kent, after all. Ilya moves forward, looming over the other player, and something like trepidation flashes over the other’s eyes.

Punching would be very lovely.

“Stop whining,” he says, instead, voice frosty even in his own ears. He relaxes his hand—when had he made a fist?—and the muscles in his hand ache in response. “We lost and now, we move on. Get drunk.”

The mood lightens at that.

“Red’s?” Singh, the first year, asks, softly. The infamous college bar that served alcohol to any student who could slur out that they were twenty-one and had conveniently lost their ID. A perfect place to nurse wounded egos.

“Red’s,” Ilya nods. “So, go,” he tells the underclassmen, and they scurry out of the locker room in under five minutes. The upperclassmen follow suit, though more slowly.

“If you ask me, you should’ve been our captain, man,” Kent whines to him, as he pulls a shirt over his head. “Not that—”

Ilya shuts his locker, turns.

“But nobody did ask you, yes?” he says, bored of Kent and his complaints and his boring fucking life, and leaves.

-

The bar is a crowded, noisy place—just as it always has been and always will be. The floor is sticky under Ilya’s designer sneakers, his vodka cold and cheap. It’s perfect.

“Man,” Troy says, “you are, like, so fucked.”

He waves Ilya’s paper around and nearly smacks an unsuspecting girl ordering a round of shots. She glares at him. Troy doesn’t seem to notice.

“Like, so extremely fucked.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I have gathered that.”

“No, I don’t think you have,” Troy says, frowning. “This was the first big assignment, right?”

“Yes,” Ilya says. The girl at the bar catches his eye, and she smiles at him, sparkly gold eyelids lowered. He smiles back, blithely, as the dread from before makes itself known again. “Four papers total and one final. Those are the only assignments.”

“If you get one more grade like this,” Troye says. “Even just one, there’s no way you’ll be able to get the grade needed to stay on the team.”

The girl tilts her head toward a table in the corner of the bar, where her horde of pretty, tipsy friends wait. They wave and wolf-whistle when Ilya glances their way, beckoning him closer. The girl smirks at him, sealing the invitation, and she really is pretty, and Ilya is tempted.

“All my other grades are passing,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. The dread sinks from his throat down to the pit of his stomach, heavy. “Excellent, even.”

Even so, he knows what Troy is going to say even before the other opens his mouth. The dread expands and deepens.

“You know the rules,” the other shakes his head. “One fail and you’re benched.”

Ilya swallows and looks away from the horror in Troy’s face, not unlike the expression on Ilya’s classmate. Something about it grates. He meets eyes with the girl again, and she stares at him, a little confused, probably as to why Ilya is still rooted in his seat and not going towards her.

Ilya wants to go to her. To forget this conversation ever happened in the first place. To drown this growing, monstrous dread in vodka and lovely women.

Instead, he smiles again at her, a little apologetically, and turns back to Troy.

“I think you should get a tutor,” Troy says.

“Already looked. No philosophy tutors who teach this topic. Very niche. Very stupid of me.”

“What about your classmates?”

His brain, stupidly, flashes to Hollander in their class, earlier that day—the annoyed red flush on his face, his dark, furrowed brows, and the way his mouth twisted as he swallowed back a curse. In your dreams, Rozanov. Ilya smiles a wry smile.

“Not a chance,” he says.

Troy groans, like he’s the one who’s on the precipice of flunking out.

“I should have dropped out when I could. I really hate that professor.”

“No make-up attempts?” Troy asks, and Ilya shakes his head, tracing the rim of his cold glass. Troy lets out another long groan. “Man, you can’t get benched. You just can’t, not this year–not when we’re so close to actually winning. We need you out there.”

Ilya clutches his hand to his heart. “Is this a love confession?” he asks. “I am flattered, but you are not my type.”

Troy turns red.

“Of all the guys on the team, you would be the absolute last one I would f-fuck, Roz.”

Being rated lower in terms of fuckability than Dallas fucking Kent stung, even if Troy was joking. Ilya rolls his eyes. “Please, you do not mean that. I am very good.”

“Well, I don’t doubt it,” Troy mutters. “The number of girls who’ve sung your praises could fill a small concert venue.”

“Few guys have sung my praises, too,” Ilya says. “Very loudly and enthusiastically.”

Troy blinks.

“Oh,” he says, then blinks harder, in rapid succession. “Wait, oh, so, you’re—”

“Yes,” Ilya says.

“But you…Women—”

“Very much yes,” Ilya says again, drumming his fingers on the bar. “Most of the time, even.”

“But?” Troy is still blinking very fast. Ilya thinks he may have lost an eyelash or two. “You’re also gay.”

“Bisexual,” Ilya corrects. “Half gay. Whatever you want to call it. Do not really care.”

“Half gay,” Troy’s voice rises in pitch. He is gripping his water very tightly.

“More like thirty percent, if we are being technical,” Ilya hands him a napkin. “You are spilling.”

“I’m,” Troy stammers. He doesn’t take the napkin, and Ilya just pats the water droplets on the bar instead. “Why did you not tell me before? How–how did I not know?”

“I did not know if you would be a good person to know. Is not something I go around advertising anyway.”

“Right,” Troy says. “Hockey is very…” his face darkens. “Yeah.”

“Hockey and other things,” Ilya says, eyeing Troy. The other man was shifting in his seat, not uncomfortable but antsy. Like he wanted to blurt something out, and it was killing him not to. A laugh bubbles up in Ilya’s throat; he swallows it back down. “You can say it.”

Troy bites his lip. “Say what?”

“I do not know,” Ilya takes a sip of vodka. “You look like you want to say something.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t have anything I want to say. Ever.”

“Okay,” Ilya says. He drinks his vodka and eyes the rest of the bar. All of their teammates made it out tonight, drinking their sorrows away. All except one.

He frowns. Hollander wasn’t usually one to miss team get-togethers, he took his role on the team seriously, which was both admirable and laughable, so Ilya could usually count on seeing a flash of dark hair, a smattering of freckles nearby.

Hollander never liked when he approached him at these parties, but it never stopped Ilya anyway.

“Where is Hollander?” Ilya asks.

“I think he decided to go to that frat party, phi delta something,” Troy says, distantly. Ilya raises a brow.

Shane Hollander, at a frat party? Now that was something one didn’t see every day.

“Why?” he asks, and Troy gives him a weird look.

“Dunno,” he says. “Why does anyone want to go to a frat house? Probably to get hammered?”

He could get hammered with us, Ilya does not say.

“He does not drink,” is what comes out instead. Troy shrugs.

“I don’t know, Roz. What the hell, I barely know him,” Troy frowns. “Though, some of the guys have been talking and they’re saying he’s a little—”

“A little what?” Ilya asks, a touch too sharp.

“A little…off this year,” Troy shrugs. “Seems like something’s bothering him, I guess.”

“Or these guys are bothered by him,” Ilya says. “And making a shit excuse for it.”

Troy shrugs again, staring down at the ground. “They’re assholes,” is all he says, before falling into a pensive silence. Ilya tries to take a drink of his vodka, but he barely tastes it as it goes down. The girl has left to go back to her friends, and while there is the occasional glance thrown his way, they do not invite him back.

Why does anyone want to go to a frat house?

Troy’s words ring in his head. Hollander was in a dirty, sticky frat house, just a few blocks away from the rest of his team. From Ilya. From the comfort of other people tied to his one and only god—hockey. And for what?

Maybe he was dancing, awkwardly bobbing his head along to the trap music and 2010 throwbacks. Maybe he was inhaling the secondhand smoke, not indulging but allowing himself to be a bystander, eyes shut in guilty pleasure.

Ilya taps his glass against the table.

Maybe he was fucking.

Ilya stands. His skin itches, and something hot crawls over his skin, a suffocating blanket. “Let’s leave,” he says.

“What?”

“Everyone is drunk enough, yes?” Ilya pulls his cigarettes out from where they’ve been stuffed in his back pocket. “I want to dance.”

“Um, okay?” Troy says, slowly. He gestures for the rest of the team, who down drinks nearby. “Where to next?”

“Wherever,” Ilya says, and strides out. The nicotine is a balm against this strange itch, this heat, though it’s not quite enough to wash it all away. He smokes the cigarette down to the filter anyway.

Troy is quiet beside him, lost in his thoughts; their team is rowdy and completely drunken behind them.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Troy’s voice is nearly a whisper. “I promise.”

Ilya tilts his head back and blows smoke into the night sky. The clouds of gray nearly shroud the moon completely.

“Okay. And I will not tell anyone that you would rather fuck Kent than me. My secret is a thousand times less embarrassing than yours, but I will be kind enough to keep it.”

“Fuck off, Roz, genuinely.”

-

Hollander is nowhere to be found in this frat house.

There are, however, other distractions.

“Sucks you lost the game,” a girl shouts in his ear, over the thumping bass of the music. Someone shoves into her, making her step closer to Ilya. His hand goes to her waist. “I saw your shot, at the end.”

Ilya grins. “You were watching me? I was very nice to watch, I am sure.” He leans down, lips brushing her ear ever so slightly.

“Sure. Even when you’re losing,” the girl says and kisses him.

Frat houses were not entirely pleasant, even when drunk, but they did seem to have a certain charm to them when there was a tongue stuck down your throat. He kisses her back, holding her close, and she hums in approval.

“Do you wanna?” she breathes out against his ear. The itching in his skin is back at full force, and Ilya thinks he might do anything that would scratch it. He grabs her waist tight.

“Always.”

She pushes him into a random frat guy’s room, left unlocked. A rookie move on the guy’s end, but Ilya feels little sympathy, as the girl shoves him against the wall and kisses Ilya silent. He pulls her close, lets his hand drift to her ass, then up her miniskirt, and smiles at her moan of approval.

He toys with the edges of her panties, hooking a finger against the fabric and—

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, ripping away.

“What?” Ilya asks. “Are you okay?”

“I have to go,” she splutters. “My boyfriend’s waiting for me.”

Ilya blinks. “Boyfriend?”

“Yeah, he promised he would pick me up and I lost my phone,” she rambles, patting her skirt down. “So sorry, raincheck?”

“Well,” Ilya says, slowly. “If your boyfriend doesn’t mind.”

“Nah,” she grins. “He prefers it.” Okay, then.

As the girl—Roxanne, she introduced herself as, before kissing Ilya’s cheek and flouncing away to where her equally odd boyfriend was probably waiting—leaves, slamming the door behind her, Ilya sighs. As petulant as it was, he was hoping to get laid tonight, and Roxanne was gorgeous.

Well, he saves her number on his phone. There was always next time. Maybe she would bring her boyfriend along too.

Trudging to the connected bathroom, Ilya scrolls through his contacts. It takes him a moment, but he finds what he’s looking for—Hollander’s phone number. He taps to open a new text thread between them, the very first text thread.

Other than the team group chat, they’ve never texted, just the two of them. It was a little odd—knowing someone for years, understanding what the different shades of red they blushed meant, recognizing their scoffs, but never sharing a simple text. Ilya shakes his head. He was buzzed, alright.

What party are you at?

He finds himself typing out. His finger hovers over the send button.

Would Hollander respond if Ilya privately messages him? Or leave him on read? If he was in a bad enough mood, would he block Ilya entirely?

Ilya didn’t know. But some howling, hungry part of him wanted to find out.

The sound of a door opening interrupts his thoughts.

The mumble of voices—people entering the bedroom, a couple? Ilya distantly makes out the rumble of a man’s voice and the higher pitch of a woman’s. Definitely a couple, probably drunken and eager to have found an empty room to fuck in.

Ilya turns his phone off and makes his way to the door. It would be awkward, randomly popping up from the bathroom as a couple gets hot and heavy with each other, but the only thing worse about an awkward exit was missing the opportunity to one. He was no vouyer and the thought of being trapped on the toilet, trying very hard not to listen to grunting and moaning, was not a pleasant one.

Then, fingers inches away from the doorknob, he hears it.

“Shane,” the girl says. “Hold on.”

Shane.

Ilya freezes.

The name wasn’t particularly a rare one, anyone could be named Shane, but—

“Oh, I’m sorry. Um, are you okay? Should we stop?”

But not everyone sounded like Shane Hollander. Even muffled through the door, it was definitely him.

Ilya’s hand closes around the doorknob, but he doesn’t open it, quite yet. Shane Hollander with a girl. Hollander had his girlfriends, sure, like all hockey players did, but it had been a while. Not that Ilya had really noticed, of course.

He wonders who this one is. If she looks like the others.

“I feel like I should be asking you this,” the girl says, and Ilya’s attention is jerked back to reality. “Should we stop?”

“I,” Hollander says, and there’s a tinge to his voice. Conflicted. “I don’t know?”

“I think you do,” she says, and Ilya frowns. “What happened to what you told me before?”

“I just don’t know. I mean, I, maybe, thought I did. But, like, how do I know for sure?”

“Oh, Shane.”

Ilya is officially lost. He thinks it might be a language barrier thing; English was still hard for him sometimes, despite all his years in Canada. But one didn’t have to be an expert in the English language to understand the sheer conflict in Hollander’s voice.

Whatever was going on was personal, and as much as Ilya loved to see Hollander succumb to his emotions, the thought of snooping into whatever this was made him grimace. He goes to turn the doorknob, preparing to be met with confused stares and uncomfortable pauses.

“Really, how does anyone know that they’re gay?” Hollander asks. “Isn’t that something you figure out at birth?”

Ilya nearly falls over.

Gripping the doorknob to keep his balance, he stares at the door. How does anyone know that they’re gay? How does anyone know? Hollander was, maybe, at least thinking—

“I’m not sure that’s how it always works,” the girl says, gently. “Latent sexuality crises are a thing.”

“Yes, but, every gay person has always just known. It’s been who they’ve been since they were kids. But not me. I’ve had girlfriends,” Hollander seems like he’s pacing right now. “I liked them. I like women.”

The girl laughs.

Ilya blinks, eyeballs stinging. He doesn’t think he’s blinked in a while. And God, he needs to get out of here.

“Hey,” Hollander says.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” she snorts.

“I like you. I’ve liked you more than I’ve ever liked any other girl before.”

“And I’m flattered,” she says, sweetly. “But, if our relationship was indicative of the most you’ve liked a girl, I gotta say, Shane—I’m not totally sold on your straightness. No offense.”

Get out, get out. Ilya searches the bathroom for…anything—a vent to squeeze out of, a secret hidden door that would teleport him away from this conversation that wasn’t his to be listening to. Briefly, he considers flushing himself down the toilet.

“Offense taken,” Hollander says, though it sounds like he might be grinning, a little. Then: “I just…I don’t want to call myself something I’m not sure of. It’s not something you can take back easily. Especially in hockey.”

Ilya considers the toilet again. Wonders what the logistics are of crawling through the sewage pipes. 

“Okay,” the girl says. “Okay. But you also shouldn’t force yourself to make out with people you don’t want to, just to prove a point. It’s not really that fun for the other parties either, you know.”

“Am I that bad of a kisser?” Hollander asks. He jokes. Ilya can’t remember the last time he heard Hollander tell a joke. This whole night feels like a big cosmic joke. He turns away from the toilet, reluctantly.

“No,” the girl laughs. “But I’m here for you, if you ever need to talk. Just, y’know, not to kiss. Do you want to head out, maybe? Grab some food?”

“I’m okay. I think I’ll just go home. Tired.”

“Yeah, that game was pretty shitty. You held your own, though,” something like amusement filters into the girl’s voice. “Rozanov played well, too, other than that last shot.”

Ilya blinks at the sound of his name. He finds himself drifting back to the door, bracing against the doorknob. His ears strain, listening for Hollander’s response.

“I wouldn’t know,” Hollander says, bluntly. “I wasn’t paying attention to him.”

And bullshit. Ilya remembers the second goal he had made, thanks to an assist from Young, remembers the booes of the crowds, and absolutely soaking in it. The distaste, the hatred, and all the vicious admiration and the weight of hundreds of eyes on him. That’s right, look at me.

And he distinctly remembers Hollander clacking his stick against his, albeit also a little reluctantly. He remembers looking into Hollander’s dark eyes, the wry twist of his mouth, and baring his teeth right back.

Hollander had been fucking paying attention.

“Lucky shot,” he had said.

“Good luck doing that again, jerk.”

A younger, more cherubic version of Hollander glaring up at him, baby fat still clinging to his cheeks, and his temper fraying dangerously at the edge. Fourteen-year-old Hollander had surely found Ilya abhorrent, a stain on his squeaky-clean, perfect record.

And in turn, fourteen-year-old Ilya had found him fascinating.

“Luck? I’m sorry, I am not familiar with what that is,” said Ilya, twenty and still a little fascinated with Shane Hollander. “Must be a Canadian thing, yes?”

“You’re Canadian too, dick.”

Ilya had winked. “Only on paper.”

“Good luck stopping me, not that you can, Hollander.”

“Sure,” the girl says now, and she is most definitely smiling. “I’m heading out, okay? Call me.”

Ilya hears when she leaves. The room stays silent, but Hollander doesn’t seem particularly inclined to leave either. He groans, and Ilya feels it in his soul. If he could, he really would choose the sewage pipes over this.

But, he couldn’t, and one of them had to make the first move. He swallows down rare apprehension and opens the door.

“What the fuck,” Hollander shouts.

“Hello,” Ilya says.

“Wh–Rozanov? What the hell were you doing in there?” Hollander’s eyes dart over to the bathroom. “Were…were you in there the whole time?”

“I was,” Ilya says. “Trust me, I wish I was not. I was there before you came.”

Hollander’s face pales. His freckles disappear as his apparent horror grows.

“And you heard...everything?”

“I did,” Ilya winces.

“Were you spying on me?” Hollander snaps, his eyebrows cinching tight together. His arms cross over his chest, his bland white shirt pulling at the carved muscle of his biceps. “Rozanov, what the actual hell—”

“Whoa,” Ilya raises his hands. “I was not spying on you. I was in the bathroom. We were separated by a wall. A thin one.”

“Then, you should have left!”

“Where? Through the plumbing system?” Ilya asks, incredulous. “Trust me, I did consider it. I was thinking very hard about how to flush myself down the toilet. The logistics.”

“Through the door!” Hollander shouts at him. “You should have left through the door.”

“When?” Ilya asks again, suddenly a little irritated himself. “When in this conversation should have I opened this door, walked into this bedroom, and left, Hollander?”

“Don’t,” Hollander growls.

“When you were kissing this girl? When you and her started talking? When you—” Ilya stops himself, and Hollander seems to pale even further.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. Okay.”

“Okay.”

Hollander huffs out a sharp breath. “I should go,” he says.

“Me too,” Ilya says. He pauses, waiting for Hollander to say something else, but when nothing comes, he turns to the door.

“Did you really hear everything?”

Ilya stops. Turns back. Hollander stands before him, hair slightly mussed, a rigidity to him that Ilya is now starting to understand why there is. He gnaws on his lip as he waits for Ilya’s response.

“Yes,” Ilya says, because he won’t lie. “I did.”

Hollander both somehow tenses and droops at the same time, and he looks so unlike himself that Ilya can’t help but keep talking.

“But I am a good secret keeper. I have already learned a pretty big secret today, and I have sworn to take it to the grave.”

“Really,” Hollander says, sounding very incredulous. It’s a bit insulting.

“Yes,” Ilya nods. “Barrett thinks that Kent would be a better lay than me, which is both ridiculous and very humiliating for him. A terrible secret. Much worse than yours.”

Hollander stares for a long beat, like he’s trying to decipher if Ilya is fucking with him.

“You’re a horrible secret keeper. And Barrett has shit secrets too,” he says, eventually.

“Maybe,” Ilya says. “But to be completely serious, I will keep your secret. I will not tell anyone.”

“Yeah?” Hollander says, sounding unconvinced. He squares his shoulders, readying for a fight that, for once, Ilya will not give him. “How do I know that you won’t go blabbing to the rest of the guys? They already have enough to say about me, and you would probably benefit most from talking. So, how do I know that you’ll absolutely keep your mouth shut, Rozanov?”

“You do not. You will just have to trust me.”

The scowl on Hollander’s face is familiar. The slight fear in it is not. It turns Ilya’s stomach, just for a second, so he sighs.

“Besides,” he says. “It will be very hypocritical of me to tell them anything, yes?”

Coming out twice in one night. Let it be known that Ilya was very proud of his identity. Or something.

Hollander stares. Ilya waits for him to figure it out.

“What?” he says, a little stupidly. Then, his eyes widen into saucers—utterly shocked. “What.”

“Yes, I get that reaction a lot,” Ilya says. “Not just to this revelation, but to everything else I do. Sometimes, even from walking into a room.”

Hollander doesn’t even comment on his cockiness; he’s that baffled. Ilya really scrambled his brains. It was quite satisfying to see Hollander stupefied by him and him alone. It had been a while since he had really shocked Hollander to the core like this.

Seven years ago, to be exact, when Ilya had stolen his puck away from him. Shane Hollander’s wide-eyed surprise had been a welcome introduction to Ilya’s new life in Canada. It was a welcome experience now, too.

“You?” Hollander splutters.

“Me,” Ilya says.

Hollander stammers some question about girls and Ilya’s reputation as a ladies' man, just like Troy had. Ilya smiles, wry.

“Often,” he admits. “But not always.”

“Not always,” Hollander whispers to himself. He stares at Ilya, throat bobbing, and for some reason, Ilya’s skin prickles. Not in irritation, per se. Maybe anticipation.

“How long have you known?” Hollander asks, a little desperately.

“For sure? Sixteen. But I did have thoughts before then. Desires.”

“Desires,” Hollander chokes out. “And, um, how did you figure that out?”

“My turn,” Ilya says and studies Hollander. He squirms a little under Ilya’s gaze, but doesn’t look away. Classic Hollander. “How about you?”

“I don’t know,” Hollander says, and Ilya fixes him with an unimpressed look. He looks away this time, breaking the staring game. “I don’t know, okay! I don’t know for sure, but—”

“But?”

“I think maybe,” Hollander’s voice dies. He swallows. A party rages on around them, people drunk and screaming to some bad throwback song, but in this room, Ilya doesn’t think of them. His eyes are on Hollander. He waits, and Hollander swallows again.

“Maybe I’m gay,” he says. And his words are cataclysmic.

He blinks, stumbling backwards a little, like the words have physically knocked the wind out of his lungs, just a bit.

Ilya, for his part, tries not to act like the floor is collapsing underneath him. He leans on the doorway, casual. “Okay.”

“I never,” Hollander says, starting to pace the length of the room again. “I never thought I was, before? It never really crossed my mind. I mean,” his eyes dart to Ilya for half a second, before his cheeks turn a light pink. Ilya watches the color bloom and fade in a split second. “You said it right? Thoughts a-and desires? Sometimes, they were there, but they weren’t that important. I could ignore them.”

Hollander stops.

“And I had girlfriends! A few of them.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I remember them.”

“And they were…nice. Fine. The sex was—” Hollander’s face flames red. Fire engine red, a color Ilya is familiar with on the other’s face, but never in a context like this—no rage or determination. Just a raw sort of openness. “Fine.”

“Not a word people use to talk about sex very often,” Ilya offers, and Hollander shoots him a withering glare.

“Some parts of it were good,” his mouth twists. “And others were okay. I was fine with it too, and then, I—”

He flushes harder, cherry red, and looks pointedly away from Ilya’s face. “I started thinking more this summer. And it was harder to ignore this time.”

“This summer?” Ilya asks, frowning. “During training camp?”

“Er. After that,” Hollander squeaks out. “I, um, started dating Rose around that time too.”

“Wait…Not Rose Landry?” Ilya gawks. He nearly falls for the second time that day. “You were dating Rose fucking Landry? Why did I not hear about this?”

“Yes? She was in here just now. I thought you were listening to everything.”

“I had no idea I was listening to Rose Landry,” Ilya rubs his eyes. “Hollander, proof of your gayness, I think we have just found it.”

“Shut up,” Hollander snaps at him. “Anyways, like I said, I seriously don’t want to label myself as 100%...gay until I’m sure that I am.”

Ilya gives him another look, and Hollander scowls back at him.

“I could still like women. Maybe this is a—”

“Please,” Ilya grumbles “If the next word you say is ‘phase,’ I will give you a bloody nose.”

“I mean, how can I know for sure? I’m not going to call myself something and re-label who I am as a person just based on a few dreams and thoughts. And what does this mean for hockey, for signing onto a team, for playing? You might think it’s easy, Rozanov, but it’s not.”

Ilya blinks.

“Of course it’s not,” he says, quietly.

Hollander frowns.

“So how did you know for sure?”

Ilya blinks again and pushes past the shard of unexpected hurt lodged in his throat. Hollander was just lashing out, faced with the daunting reality of every person going through something like this. Ilya had been there, done that. Besides, when had he or Ilya ever spoken considerately of each other? Their conversations were always composed of teasing jabs and grumbles of annoyance, since the moment they met as rivals, and even now.

Hollander wasn’t even his friend.

So, he lets the hurt go.

“How did you know, Rozanov?” Hollander repeats, impatient. Ilya considers him, then shrugs.

“I fucked my coach’s son,” he says, casually.

The other man’s jaw drops.

“You what.”

“Yes,” Ilya smiles. “It was fun and very hot and I realized that I would very much like to do it again. Not just with him, but with other people. So, then, I figured it out.”

“So that’s how you…” Hollander trails off. Ilya nods. “Huh.” He goes silent for a beat, then two, and Ilya can’t help but ask, wanting insight into Hollander’s neurotic, strange brain.

“What are you thinking about?”

He doesn't really expect the other to give him a coherent response. Maybe the middle finger, if he was finding Ilya particularly annoying. So what actually comes tumbling out of Hollander’s mouth causes Ilya to still.

“I’ve never done…anything with a guy before,” Hollander mumbles. It’s both a surprise and not at the same time. The revelation still unmoors some part of Ilya. He clears his throat.

“I am assuming you have done many things with other men, Hollander,” he says, just to be an ass. “Eat with them, breathe near them, talk to them—”

“I’ve never had sex with a guy before,” Hollander cuts in. “There.”

“Hm,” Ilya says. “Do you think that would help?”

His face flames red. “It couldn’t hurt, right?” Ilya doesn’t have a name for this particular shade of red; it’s entirely new, and the unfamiliar makes his palms sweat a little. His heart thuds.

“I do not know,” he murmurs. “It might hurt a little at first. But not for long, if he does it right.”

Hollander splutters.

“So, you do not think you can label yourself until you experiment?” Ilya asks. “Is that what you mean?”

He nods. “Scientific method, right? That’s how the best theories are proven.”

“Hypotheses,” Ilya corrects. He watches Hollander crinkle his nose, and his stomach flops again at the sight. Something close to want taking root.

“Same thing.”

Not really, Ilya wants to say, but instead, he tilts his head and asks, carefully:

“Have you even kissed a man before, Hollander?”

“I told you,” Hollander says. “I haven’t done anything with a guy before.”

So he hadn’t.

Ilya grins, pleased.

“Would you like to?”

“I guess. Sure. I mean, sex and kissing, they go hand in hand, right?” Hollander babbles. Ilya pushes himself off the doorway and stalks closer to the other. Hollander watches him, wary, but doesn’t stop talking. He also doesn’t move away. “It would be a little weird to be okay with sex but not kissing, right?”

“Mhm,” Ilya hums, not listening. He eyes the graceful arch of Hollander’s neck, the smooth, unblemished skin there. He steps closer.

“Kissing can be more intimate than sex, from what I’ve heard,” Hollander’s eyes dart over Ilya’s face, lingering on his lips. Ilya grins and the other man makes a small noise at the back of his throat. “I-It doesn’t seem that different to me.”

“Right,” Ilya nods, still not listening. He’s a breath away from the other man, the tips of their shoes brushing.

From this close, every freckle on Hollander’s face is visible, and Ilya thinks of pressing a thumb against the constellation. He wonders, if he pressed hard enough, those freckles would smear right off, along with whatever it was that jumped in Ilya’s ribcage every time he saw those freckles. If only.

Hollander stares back at him, chest heaving. Ilya cocks a brow at him and tries for a smirk. It comes out a little wobbly, even that he can admit to himself. They stand like that—just watching each other—until Hollander, now all sorts of shades of red and pink, each more unfamiliar than the last, breaks it.

Ilya hadn’t really expected anything less.

“Kissing isn’t really all that, if you really think about it,” says Hollander.

“Yes,” says Ilya. Their noses brush, and he can hear Hollander’s breath hitch. “Can I kiss you?”

"Oh," Hollander stares at him, shocked, despite every sign leading up to this moment pointing to Ilya kissing him. It takes a moment for him to nod, almost shyly.

Ilya, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate.

He kisses Shane Hollander.

At first, Hollander remains stiff, his lips like two pieces of marble beneath Ilya’s lips. Ilya wants to laugh. It comes out a little like an inpatient growl instead.

“Hollander,” he murmurs, against the other’s closed mouth. “Open your mouth.”

“Um,” Hollander blinks at him. He looks a little dizzy. “I–”

“Yes, just like that,” Ilya kisses him harder and runs his tongue against Hollander’s upper lip. Hollander lets out a muffled squeak against his mouth, but, then, finally, he kisses back.

And oh.

Kissing Shane Hollander is not something Ilya’s really pictured before, at least not consciously, but, God, is it good. He’s responsive—inexperienced, yes, and a little irritated about it, judging from how hard he bites Ilya’s lip, as if needing to prove something—but responsive, nonetheless. In his eagerness, Hollander’s teeth even end up sinking into his own bottom lip, and Ilya licks into his mouth, soothing the sting, and he moans.

Christ.

His hand finds Hollander’s hip, the other going to his jaw—moving his face where Ilya wants it. He half expects the other to fight it. He doesn’t, though he doesn’t quite sink into it either—Ilya’s touch. His own hands remain curled by his hide.

There’s a stiffness to Hollander, a rigidity, an awkwardness that always comes with venturing into foreign territory. At least, always for guys like Hollander, who were probably used to being the best of the best. Ilya laughs against his mouth.

Hollander stiffens even more. “What?” he breathes out, as Ilya nips at his lip.

“Touch me,” he says. He drags his mouth along Hollander’s cheek, toward his jaw. Hollander shivers underneath his ministrations.

“I am touching you,” he rasps.

“No, you are not,” Ilya sinks his teeth into the corner of Hollander’s lethal jaw. “You have your hands down there. I am up here.”

“I-I,” Hollander pants. He’s arching up into Ilya, his face craned to the side to give Ilya more access, more skin, his chest pressing flush against Ilya’s. Their hearts race in unison, a matching thudthudthud that would have Ilya mildly worried for the state of their blood flow, if he wasn’t a little preoccupied with the fact that Shane Hollander was practically begging for his touch. “Right there—Don’t leave a hickey.”

“Mm,” Ilya hums. He kisses the place right below Hollander’s ear. “Touch me, and I will not leave one.”

“I said, I am touching you, dick.”

“No,” Ilya says and grazes his teeth over the skin of Hollander’s throat. “You are not.”

“Rozanov,” Hollander stammers. He sounds drunk with it. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Ilya asks, mildly, and presses his teeth, just a little harder. He moves as if to bite down and—

—Hollander squeaks and throws his arms around his neck.

“You always make everything much harder than it should be,” Ilya says and kisses Hollander for it. Hollander sinks his fingers into his hair, tugging. Ilya hisses at the sensation, arousal skating down his spine.

“And you’re always way more annoying than you should be,” Hollander mumbles against his lips. “We all have our faults.”

Ilya wraps an arm around Hollander’s waist, feeling the muscle there, and pulls him close. “My fault can also be a talent.”

“In what world?” Hollander scoffs, and Ilya kisses the scowl right off his face.

Hollander’s arousal manifests in a few interesting ways, and Ilya drinks each one up. It’s in the way he whines against Ilya’s mouth, his voice pitching upwards in a way Ilya’s never heard before. The way his arms go tight around Ilya’s neck, the way he shifts onto his tiptoes for closer access. The way his mouth goes a little slack against Ilya’s, losing some of that aggressiveness and raw fight.

“Rozanov,” Hollander stammers.

“Hollander,” Ilya murmurs, drunk off of him. He shifts closer, and—

Hm.

He grins, head spinning with need. Hollander flushes harder.

“You are hard,” Ilya comments, unnecessarily. But Hollander is—straining against the fabric of his jeans. Much harder than Ilya has ever seen anyone get from only kissing. So responsive, Shane Hollander.

Ilya licks his bottom lip.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Hollander says.

“It is Captain Rozanov, not Captain Obvious,” Ilya says and, with his arm around Hollander’s waist, drags their hips together. Their crotches brush, and the pressure nearly makes Ilya’s cock, stiffening more by the second, weep with joy. “Please do not refer to another man while we are dry humping, Hollander. It hurts my feelings.”

“Captain, my ass,” Hollander’s eyebrows knit together. “And who the hell says dry humping?”

Ilya wiggles his own eyebrows and grinds forward, manhandling Hollander’s own hips back to meet him halfway. Their cocks drag against each other, more roughly this time, and Ilya gnaws his lip at the bite of Hollander’s zipper against his thigh. A whimper spills from Hollander’s mouth.

“Are you going to cum?” Ilya murmurs into the other man’s ear. Hollander shudders against him, hips rocking forward clumsily. Ilya laughs, and holds his waist tight, forcing Hollander still.

“Are you gonna cum?” Hollander shoots back, breathlessly. Even restricted, he’s still trying to grind against Ilya’s thigh, his hips moving in tiny, mindless circles—seeking friction, seeking Ilya’s cock—and Ilya could groan from it. From Shane Hollander, moving his hips like a needy slut.

“No,” Ilya nips his ear and grinds their hips together, in one harsh, sudden move.

Hollander shouts, throwing his head back.

Ilya can feel Hollander’s cock spasming against his own. He’s probably leaking through his boxers right now. God, Ilya can picture it right now, Shane Hollander’s poor cock, aching and dripping messily all over his thighs, soiling his perfectly white underwear—underwear Hollander had probably carefully picked out today, not knowing Ilya would be ruining them.

He smiles so hard, he can taste blood in his mouth. He feels a little insane.

“You can cum now, you know, if you want. I will not laugh at you. Much.”

“Fat chance,” Hollander spits out. “N-not if you don’t.”

“But I would rather cum in you,” Ilya says, and Hollander gapes at him, eyes wide, cheeks flushed.” And I do not think you can handle that.”

He bares his teeth. “You might cry.”

Hollander’s cheeks darken into a ruddy red. He swallows.

“I could,” he says, after a beat, very bravely. “Handle it.”

Desire crashes through Ilya in a wave. He shoves his hips into Hollander’s, in a motion that feels more like he’s fucking into the other, rather than grinding. He hears Hollander choke on his spit.

“You think so?” he manages through bared teeth, so overcome with want-heat-desire he can barely see straight. He repeats the motion again and again, taking, and Hollander holds him closer, taking it all. “Okay. Then, I will teach you—how to handle me. All of me.”

He crushes Hollander’s lips into a brutal kiss, all teeth and tongue, and Hollander kisses him right back. Just as furiously.

“Though you might still cry,” he says, in between kisses.

“Or you might,” Hollander gasps out, and then he trembles. “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, Rozanov—”

“Cum,” Ilya murmurs.

Hollander fights it. It’s probably his body’s natural response to Ilya telling him to do something, resistant and utterly stubborn. But even he, with all his prodigious strength, can’t fight off the inevitable.

Shane Hollander cums in fits and bounds: His dark eyes roll back first, brows furrowing. Tiny whines are swallowed back, silenced even before they’re let free from his slack mouth. A shame. Then, he fists Ilya’s hair and holds him close, but not gripping so tight that Ilya can’t continue rocking their hips together shallowly—coaxing Hollander through the aftershocks.

It’s extremely fucking sexy.

Ilya kisses Hollander, his own cock aching. He refuses to cum in his jeans—he hates the feeling—but everything about this is erotic enough that he thinks about saying fuck it. Or maybe, he should shove Hollander to his knees and cum all over that pretty, fucked out face.

His dick pulses in approval.

Hollander slumps, apparently all done cumming his brains out. Ilya catches him and, shockingly, Hollander lets himself be held, in a moment of strange softness. He smells like pine and something herbal.

The docility lasts for only a minute before Hollander seems to come to.

He leaps back. Ilya watches him go and carefully places his hands into his pockets.

“Um,” Hollander says, very eloquently. He fixes his shirt, smoothing at nonexistent wrinkles, and studies the air just above Ilya’s ear. Very flustered, judging from the leftover blush on his cheeks and the way he refuses to make eye contact. Ilya’s neglected dick twitches. “So.”

“So,” Ilya says back.

Hollander swallows, throat working, and Ilya thinks about letting him flounder for a bit. He decides not to be that much of an ass.

“So, are you sure about your gayness yet, Hollander?”

Hollander blinks.

“More than before, I guess,” he admits, and Ilya smirks. “But not yet, obviously. It was just one kiss.”

“Yes, and you ‘just’ came in your pants after ‘just’ dry humping me,” Ilya says, pleasantly. Hollander scowls and the familiar expression of irritation is almost enough to make the tension in the air lessen.

“That sounds really unsexy.”

“Obviously, it was sexy enough, because you ‘just’ orgasmed.”

The growl that slips from Hollander’s lips is almost inhuman. He looks like he might pounce on Ilya again—though, whether it was to fight or something else entirely—Ilya did not know. Full of anticipation, he rocks back on the balls of his feet and shoots another smirk in the face of danger.

Hollander eyes his mouth for a second before shuttering whatever hunger was on his face.

“Whatever, Rozanov. I need to go.”

Disappointment kills the anticipation, effective immediately. What a shame. Ilya rolls his eyes. “Well, then,” he says. “Goodbye.”

“Okay,” Hollander says, but lingers. He looks at Ilya for a long beat, as if psyching him up to say something. Ilya waits, because while he’s not really a patient man, the look on Hollander’s face says that waiting might be worth it.

To hear whatever interesting thought Hollander’s neurotic little brain was cooking and getting ready to verbalize.

“Did you mean what you said earlier? When we were…” he bites his lip. Ilya stands at attention. “Kissing.”

“Dry humping,” Ilya corrects, distracted. He steps a little closer to Hollander now, and Hollander fidgets. Though, like before, he doesn’t back away.

“I’m not calling it that,” Hollander says. “Did you mean what you said? That you would teach me?”

Teach me to take your cock, he doesn’t say, but anyone with working eyes and a working dick could read that between the lines. Teach me how to get fucked.

Ilya, personally, is suddenly so hard, he thinks all the blood may have rushed from his brain to said cock. He clears his throat.

“Do you want to learn?”

“Maybe,” Hollander says. He blushes awkwardly. Ilya grins.

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Not you specifically,” Hollander grumbles, folding his arms. “Like I said, I just want to try. If I’m gay, I’ll like it, right? Probably? Maybe?”

“Not exactly how it works,” Ilya says. “So do you want to have sex with someone else—to experiment?”

“Probably?” A rush of strange irritation floods Ilya at that…But what did he care that Hollander wanted to try fucking other men? In all honesty, questioning guys, the experimental ones who didn’t know what they were, were always the exhausting ones. The ones to handle with kiddie gloves. The ones who were very fragile.

And Ilya never tolerated those kinds of hookups. Therefore, theoretically, he shouldn’t tolerate Shane Hollander.

And yet.

“But you want me to fuck you first,” He says, anyway, because he can’t help himself. Hollander nods.

“And do other things.”

And do other things, he said. And do other things. Ilya blinks, both horny and a little out of his depth.

“Why me?”

“Because allegedly you can keep a secret,” Hollander shifts on his feet.

“And I made you cum your brains out just now,” Ilya says. Hollander grimaces at him, but he doesn’t deny it, which is a win. And also, if he did deny it, he would be an outright liar. “So you want me to be your sex Yoda, basically.”

“That thing probably doesn’t know what sex is. His species reproduces asexually, if anything,” Hollander sighs. “But, I guess, that’s a way to describe it.”

“Of course, I am very good at sex,” Ilya says, seriously, and Hollander groans. “So I understand why you asked me.”

“Well, I’m already regretting asking you. Is that a yes?”

“A yes to being Canada’s golden boy’s sex tutor,” Ilya muses. Hollander’s face is rapidly turning a burgundy shade. This one is achingly familiar. Shane Hollander’s flush of annoyance: Category 7.

Approaching serious danger.

“Why not?” he smiles. Hollander’s shoulders slump, and some of the red drains from his face. Crisis averted.

“You’re not tutoring me in anything, Rozanov,” Hollander says. “It’s not like I’m bad at gay sex.”

“If you say so,” Ilya says, and pauses. Tutoring.

A lightbulb clicks in his head.

“Why don’t we make it a trade?”

Hollander frowns.

“I need to trade something for you to teach me about sex?” he asks, incredulous.

“Well, you are getting something from me. Two things actually: Life-changing sex skills and an opportunity to fuck me—”

“—Oh, give me a break—”

“—But,” Ilya says. “What am I getting out of this?”

“The opportunity to f-fuck me,” Hollander snaps, and yeah, Ilya eyes the bridge of his strong nose, the cut of his cheekbones, a pretty fair point. He smiles, anyway.

“I am helping you, and I do not even like you very much, Hollander,” he says. “The least you can do is help me in return, yes? Make it worth both of our time.”

Hollander’s eyes narrow.

“In what way?”

“You tutor me,” Ilya gestures to himself. “Philosophy of Sport. I am shit at the class. Total and complete shit.”

Hollander scowls. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Rozanov. You aren’t even studying philosophy, what are you doing in that class? It’s an upper-level course.”

“Oh, like you are studying the subject?”

“I’m a philosophy minor, man.”

Ilya had not known that. He shrugs and plows on.

“Anyways, I am doing poorly, and I can’t fail a class—you know the rules. One strike and you are out: A very, very stupid fucking rule. But it is the rule.”

“So,” realization dawns on Hollander’s face. “You need me to help you study and pass the class.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “You tutor me, I teach you. A fair exchange.” He holds out a hand. “Sounds good?”

“This is such a bad idea,” Hollander says, as he eyes Ilya’s hand. Then, after a minute of contemplation, he takes it in his own—callused palm against callused palm.

Ilya squeezes his hand tight, and Hollander squeezes him back, just a little harder.

“It is a deal.”

“Like, such a bad idea.”

“I don’t know what you’re doing right now,” a drunken voice comes from behind them. They drop their hands, whirling around to see a frat boy standing in the now-wide-open doorway. “But can you guys, like, get the fuck out of my room?”

Chapter Text

At fourteen.

“I know I called you an asshole today,” a voice had cut through Ilya’s brooding. He had looked up, crouched and slumped against a wall outside the rink, a cigarette in between his teeth. “But I didn’t know you were one off the ice, too.”

Shane Hollander stood before him, in all his glory, post-game. He was different off the ice compared to on it. Less frantic and raw, powerful energy thrumming through him, and more human.

There was a clean sort of look to him that went beyond him having showered the sweat and blood off. Put together, Ilya finds the right description, as he eyes the ironed clothes and the smooth skin of Hollander’s cheeks. Polished. His close-cropped dark hair is in perfect place under a beanie and the furrow of his brows as he stares down at Ilya is akin to how one might look at a particularly naughty child.

Or a worm.

Ilya had blown out smoke, pointedly. “Huh?”

“This is a no-smoking zone,” Hollander had said, jabbing a thumb towards the no-smoking sign that Ilya had been crouched under. Then, he points somewhere far away, which Ilya does not care to follow. “You’re supposed to smoke there.”

Ilya had felt his lips twitch. He had thought about not responding to Hollander at all, just to see him squirm. The other boy had already started squirming a bit.

After a long minute, during which Hollander had started to look increasingly more uncomfortable, Ilya finally decided to throw him a bone.

“I am sorry, I had thought that this meant that it was a smoking zone,” he had knocked his head with his free hand, gazing up at Hollander very apologetically. “Language barriers, you see.”

Hollander had blinked, then looked like he might stamp his foot in annoyance. “Cut the shit, Rozanov.”

Ilya had no response to that. He had taken a drag of his cigarette, the warmth of the nicotine lighting up his chest, neck, and face.

“Also, you’re an athlete and fourteen. Why are you smoking? That’s so unhealthy, y’know, studies show—”

At that point in his life, Ilya did not smoke often. In fact, it was the first cigarette he had in his life. He had coughed like a dying grandma when he had first managed to light it, with shaking hands and a lighter he had nicked off Andrei, but after the first few puffs, the hacking had ceased. And he could actually breathe.

Hollander had not needed to know that, though.

Ilya had blown out a cloud of smoke very pointedly. It had burned pleasantly.

“Let me guess,” he had said, his voice sounding scratchy in his ears. “I will die fast if I keep smoking?”

“Heavy smokers die ten years earlier than the average age of non-smokers.”

“If I finish this pack, I will die before you finish this speech?” asked Ilya and flashed a grin when the other boy had stared back, affronted. “I am kidding, of course. I would like to live long enough to beat you at championships.”

“Yeah, right,” Hollander had snapped. “That is never ever going to happen, so keep smoking away, actually.”

“Ouch. Is not very good boy Hollander of you.”

Hollander had turned bright red.

No, not just bright red, Ilya had thought, studying his face. Bright red, like the color of ripe strawberries during summertime. His favorite fruit. As a child, Ilya’s mother had always tucked napkins in the collar of his shirt when he ate them. It hadn’t stopped the juice sliding from his lips, down his neck—staining his skin crimson for the entire day.

He wonders if someone sank their teeth into Hollander, if he would bleed the same strawberry juice red.

“Nobody calls me that,” Hollander had been griping, probably annoyed. The color had not yet faded from his cheeks.

“They do,” Ilya had said. “Because you are good.”

“I gave you a broken nose.”

Ilya had touched the bridge of his nose lazily, and the dull pain had throbbed from where his fingers made contact. He fought back a smile. “Yes, and I gave you one too.”

“So, are you saying you’re good, Rozanov?” Hollander’s question had been both accusatory and triumphant, like he had caught Ilya in an elaborate lie. He had tossed his head back triumphantly, and the pom-pom on his beanie had swayed. It was surprisingly cute.

“You are saying that I am not good, Hollander?” Ilya had shot back, still stifling a grin.

“I didn't say that.”

“Okay,” Ilya had said and stood suddenly, causing Hollander to startle. They were closer than Ilya had expected, and from this close, he could see the other much better, than from when he had been on the floor.

The vantage point leads to a terrible revelation.

Freckles. Hollander had freckles.

Ilya had never noticed on the ice today, and all the other times he’s seen the Shane Hollander play, had been from on tape—shot a comfortable distance away from his face. Nothing had ever suggested freckles. Nobody had ever prepared him for freckles.

A smattering of light brown freckles across skin. They were subtle, almost imperceptible if you weren’t looking, but once you were, they were impossible to ignore. Like that frequency illusion Ilya had once read about, the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon. When a person learns about something for the first time—whether it was a word, concept, or the fact that freckles dotted the length of Shane Hollander's nose and cheeks—and then suddenly notices it constantly and everywhere.

Or something like that.

Hollander had blushed harder, still a strawberry red—now even more so, with the addition of those freckles, like the berry’s seeds—but perhaps an overly ripe one. Ilya had licked his lips, his mouth suddenly very dry.

“What—what are you looking at?” Hollander had squared his shoulders as if to prepare for a fight.

You, Ilya had not said, even though it was true.

“I am wondering if you would smoke this,” he had said instead, waving the cigarette in front of Hollander’s face. “Or if you are too much of a good boy.”

Hollander’s face had contorted in disgust. “The day I ever smoke a cancer stick would be the day pigs fly, Rozanov.” The ‘like you’ went unsaid, but Ilya heard it.

He had figured as much and shrugged. “Your loss.”

“No,” Hollander’s stare had been much too earnest, a prickly sensation that held a strange weight to it. It had rooted Ilya in place, as he could do little but look back. His palms itched. “Your loss. If you continue.”

A long beat, then two, with the two of them caught in a sticky sort of tension that Ilya didn’t know manifested until it was there, holding him in place. Keeping him next to Hollander. Hollander had watched him right back, not moving away, the freckles a constellation against his skin.

“Perhaps,” Ilya had managed. “But I did not lose today.”

Hollander had scowled, and the moment was shattered.

“Whatever,” he had said. “It’s not going to happen again, so enjoy it.” Then he had frowned harder, that strawberry red never leaving his face. “Ugh, I didn’t come here to tell you…all of that.”

“Then, why did you come here?”

“I wanted to,” Hollander had winced, suddenly looking like he swallowed something very sour. Definitely not a strawberry. “I wanted to introduce myself properly.”

Ilya had stared, then had, very loudly, barked out a laugh. The pain in his broken nose, the broken nose that Hollander had given him, had stung at that. Just who was this boy?

“Okay,” he had said, smiling. “Introduce yourself to me, Shane Hollander.”

“Never mind.”

“Nice to meet you, Shane Hollander,” Ilya had waved. “I am Ilya Rozanov.”

“And I’m leaving,” Hollander had said, pointedly. But he had not left, pausing slightly to study Ilya, carefully. Searching for…something. And Ilya gazed at him right back. Whatever Hollander was looking for, Ilya was sure he would not find it.

But his freckles were still interesting to look at.

“Good luck,” Hollander had said, after a long moment. Only the pinch of his dark eyebrows seemed to indicate his disappointment at failing to find what he was searching for on Ilya’s face. Other than that, the flushed irritation was the main expression on his face. “On your other games, I mean.”

He had lifted his hand for a handshake, and Ilya had to take a drag to keep himself from howling in laughter.

“So friendly, good boy Hollander,” he had said, through the smoke spilling from his nostrils. He had taken Hollander’s hand. It was callused, and his grip was a touch too strong. “You will not be so friendly when we beat you at championships.”

“That’s not happening,” Hollander squeezed his hand tighter, before dropping Ilya’s hand. “Like I said, today was a fluke, and you’re still kind of an asshole.”

“Sore loser,” Ilya had reiterated, properly delighted, and Hollander had given him The Finger. “You are sure you do not want one?” he had waved the cigarette again, a little more teasingly.

“Goodbye, Rozanov,” Hollander had rolled his eyes. “Don’t die before I beat you at championships.”

He had left, the swaying pom pom in his beanie underscoring what Ilya is sure is a very badass and cool moment for Hollander getting in the last word. His ears had been a little heated, too, the color bleaching from strawberry red to light pink.

Salmon pink, Ilya had decided, watching the other go. When Hollander had ducked into his team’s bus and driven away, he had stubbed the cigarette out on the ground, like he had seen his brother do. It had left a black, ashy mark, so he had rubbed his shoe on it until it had faded.

Andrei had never done anything like that.

-

There were many things Shane Hollander would rather be doing with his time than sitting around, waiting for Ilya Rozanov to come knocking on his door.

As he sits on his bed, studying his alarm clock and watching the red numbers tick up, he makes a mental list in his head of the exact things he would rather be doing. Playing hockey, watching the game with the New York Islanders versus the New Jersey Devils, listening to that strength-training podcast that Hayden sent him. Eating. Running. Taking a long drive.

There are about a billion things that he could be doing, would love to be doing, so why was he here—waiting for his annoying, aggravating teammate to knock on his door?

The weight of lips on his. The scrape of a stubble against Shane’s skin. An infuriating smirk stretching wide, the curve of it pressed hard against Shane’s mouth.

“I would rather cum in you,” a low drawl, tinged in a Russian accent and raw self-assuredness, and Shane’s ears burn hot remembering it. “And I do not think you can handle it.”

He had kissed Shane then, with enough force to steal the breath from his lungs, and Shane had realized, distantly, why those bodice rippers that his mom guiltily read from time to time always used the term “ravish” to describe acts like this. To seize and carry off by force.

Ilya’s hips had met his, and Shane could drown from it all—the waves that crashed over him, threatening to pull him under.

“I could,” he had gasped out, his head submerged with that sticky-sweet pleasure that he had never felt before. It was rendering him useless, sounds spilling out of him that had no business spilling out, flailing about in unknown waters. It had turned him stupid. “I could handle it.”

Now, as he sits on his bed, thinking about what he said, what those words all but got at—you want me to fuck you, Hollander, you want me to fuck you, you want—he can feel himself burning hot all over.

Shane didn’t consider himself a stupid man, not very often, but he thinks that night might have been the greatest culmination of the stupidest things he’s ever done: Going to a frat party in the first place for one, approaching Rose again, after the disaster that was their breakup, second.

Letting Ilya Rozanov, his greatest rival and quite frankly the biggest pain in his ass, kiss the living daylights out of him and make him cum in his jeans, like a prepubescent teenager. Moaning and trembling, as if Shane was trapped in a stranger’s body and not his own, as he did so, as Rozanov had his way with him.

And most damning of all: Striking a deal with the devil himself.

“You tutor me,” Rozanov’s bright blue eyes had bored into Shane’s as he spoke, with his uncanny ability to make it seem like he was staring right through a person—parsing through every desire, weakness, and thought that composed who they were as a person. As he always had. “I teach you.”

“What is wrong with me,” Shane mutters to himself, now, staring down at his hand. “Seriously.”

Figuring out that he may or may not be gay (or bisexual? Or pansexual? Or something that wasn’t straight-sexual?) had been a whirlwind of a rollercoaster already. Why did it have to include another obstacle, who grinned like a heathen and kissed like one too? Why did it have to be—

A knock.

Shane sits bolt upright, alarm causing his heart to race in his chest. “Who is it?” he calls out. His voice comes out alright. Not too shaky.

A pause, before an all-too-familiar voice that sets Shane’s teeth on edge, floats through the door. “Mark Carney,” says the voice, in an annoying, exaggerated American accent, borderline Southern in the pronunciation of the vowels.

Fucking Rozanov.

Shane stands up, stalking toward the door. “And what, can I ask, is the prime minister of Canada doing at my apartment?” he asks, dryly. “Sounding like a reject cowboy, too?”

“Well, I am here to tell Canada’s golden boy, Shane Hollander, that he will be stripped of his title and banished from the country, because there is a better, hotter hockey player living on this land. This should have been done sooner, seven years ago actually, but there was so much paperwork and things to sort out—”

“Alright, man,” Shane grabs the doorknob.

“—but it can not be helped. Ilya Rozanov is Canada’s only real hope. He has a much bigger dick as well—”

Shane wrenches the door open. Rozanov stands before him, hands in his pockets, a smirk on that irritating face.

“Oh, hello there,” he says.

“Get in here,” Shane says.

“But I have not finished my elevator pitch,” Rozanov tilts his head, and a golden brown curl falls into his eye. “Or, my cock is incentive enough for you, Hollander?”

Shane growls and reaches out, grabbing a fistful of the other’s shirt—probably some designer thing flown in from France, Italy, or wherever Rozanov bought his bougie closet from—and tugs him inside, none too gently. Rozanov, despite being a tiny (emphasis on tiny) bit stronger than him, doesn’t even try to fight it. The door slams shut behind them.

“You are excited,” Shane hears the other say, as he locks the door firmly. The click of the lock rings throughout the apartment, a little too loud. “Stop, you are flattering me.”

Shane whirls around.

“You’re too loud,” he grumbles. “Why were you shouting about your…” Don’t look down, the part of his brain he’s trained to be no-nonsense and rational, even while the rest of his mind was screaming for reprieve during grueling workouts or drills, demanded. Whatever you do, Shane Hollander, don’t look down at his crotch. “...dick, when you’re right outside my door?”

“Evangelism,” Rozanov says, while smoothing out his shirt. “To spread the good word.” He sounds amused, always so loftily amused, like the entire world was putting on a private show for him and him alone, and Shane was just one of the many dancing circus monkeys performing for him. Shane huffs.

“Not everyone wants your cock, Rozanov, believe it or not.”

“Maybe so,” he shockingly agrees, before his eyes lock on Shane’s. Shane stills, hands clenched tight at his sides, a buzz in the air that’s suddenly making it a little hard to stay sharp. Alert. “But there is someone here who needs it, yes?’

Heat rises to his cheeks. “Need is a very strong word.”

“And that is why I used it.”

Rozanov closes the gap between them, slowly, like some sort of prowling beast. Or maybe, like Shane was the wild, snarling animal, and he was the prey approaching. Every bone in Shane’s body tenses as the other inches closer and closer. Anticipation and dread grapple with one another, neither gaining the advantage, with each step Rozanov takes.

Some part of him wants Rozanov to close in and engulf him under the currents of red-hot desire and control again, until Shane is left shaking and gasping for air. For Rozanov to teach him all he knows. Everything he’s learned with however many men he’s fucked, right under Shane’s oblivious nose.

Something twinges in Shane’s chest.

Don’t let him get closer, that rational part of his brain shouts, more firmly this time. This is dangerous.

Because, in the silence of Shane’s apartment, this does seem like a particularly dangerous idea. Ilya Rozanov is a dangerous idea—with his golden hair, troublemaker smile, and all those moles. At the frat house, under the influence of second-hand smoke and the general drunken stupidity of their peers, he hadn’t seemed real. Like a daydream.

But now?

Under the low light of Shane’s kitchen, shirt still slightly wrinkled from where Shane had grabbed him, his 5 o'clock shadow stark on his face, Rozanov was less a daydream and more a reality. A reality that was fast approaching, with intent and purpose in his gaze, the clench of his jaw sharp. He takes another step.

A drop of sweat slides down Shane’s neck.

You can’t let yourself get swept away, that voice again, insistent. Not by him. He won’t let you resurface.

Shane puts a hand up, his pride not letting him actually take a step back, and Rozanov stills—an uncomfortable, but manageable distance away from him. If Rozanov were to take about three steps forward, they would be touching. Shane grimaces at that very minimal comfort.

“What, Hollander?”

“I want to talk,” Shane says, and the other just stares at him.

“Talk,” he repeats, the word dripping with incredulity in pure Rozanov fashion.

“Yes, talk,” Shane grumbles. “Like people do.”

“I know I have a wonderful personality, but I did not think you were inviting me here to do that,” The other raises his eyebrows meaningfully, and heat rises to Shane’s face. “Talking was not part of our deal, yes?”

“No, but I think rules should be established,” Shane says, and before Rozanov can open his mouth to unleash what is sure to be a smartass comment, Shane turns in the direction of his bedroom. “Stay right there. Don’t touch anything and don’t move.”

“Where would I go?” asks Rozanov.

He bats his eyelashes when Shane squints at him, a picture of innocence that not even the blind would fall for. Still, he gestures for Shane to hurry along, and Shane, while irritation rises at the other telling him what to do, decides to capitalize on this moment when he can. He hurries off to his bedroom, resisting the urge to glance back and make sure the other was right where he said he would be.

After all, it wasn’t often that Rozanov’s full attention was on something other than hockey, partying, sports cars, and women, without falling into that bored amusement that grated on Shane’s nerves immensely.

And even those things only seemed to hold his attention for so long—the women, especially.

How many times had Shane heard whispers of yet another broken heart left in Ilya Rozanov’s wake? How many times had he seen it firsthand? At Red’s, a mixer, or some house party that Hayden had dragged him to, back in high school, Rozanov with a girl in his lap, her lips by his ear. He always left with them, but never had he returned with the same girl.

“Maybe he’s killing them,” Hayden had said once, as they stood together near the bannister in the house of some girl Hayden had a crush on. Said girl was pressed tight against Rozanov on the couch, giggling into his shoulder.

They had been sixteen.

Shane had felt sixteen immensely: All the sweaty nervousness that followed the feeling that everyone was watching and judging his every little move—even off the ice, the irritating random boners at the worst moments, and a growth spurt that felt less like a spurt and more like a crawl. His teammates and classmates were equally afflicted as well, judging from the acne and the increased rumors of who fucked whom. Shane had privately thought that there truly was no curse like being sixteen.

Rozanov, on the other hand, seemed to wear this curse like a pair of expensive, designer shoes.

There had been no awkwardness, not even a hint of insecurity on his face, as he had sprawled on the couch at this party. He held a cup of alcohol lazily in one hand, and the other he had thrown over the back of the seat, near the girl’s head. There was an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear, and the chain around his neck glinted a muted gold under the lights.

In the sea of braces and limbs, Ilya Rozanov had looked like a certified rockstar.

The nape of Shane’s neck had prickled, watching him at this party. The other’s smile had been wolfish, as he leaned in to listen to whatever the girl was saying.

“Shane, did you hear me?”

“Huh?” Shane had whipped his head back around, back to where his best friend scowled. “Sorry.”

“He’s kidnapping them and trapping them in his basement,” Hayden had said emphatically. “And when he’s done, he kills them.”

“What?” Shane had blinked. “Who?”

“Rozanov,” Hayden had winced at the name, like it physically burned, getting them out of his mouth. “All the girls we’ve seen him with at parties,” he had said. “Why haven’t we seen any of them with him since? Because Ilya Rozanov is an insane serial killer, and Lucy is his next perfect victim.”

Shane had stared. “He is not a serial killer.”

“And how would you know? He probably had to flee Russia because of his murder-ish tendencies."

“Isn’t his dad, like, some big military guy?”

“Who covered up Rozanov’s crimes and moved the family away from Russia, to keep his son from being locked up. I haven’t seen Abigail P. in a long time, y’know, and everyone knows she and Rozanov hooked up last summer.”

Shane had tried his best not to laugh. “Abigail P. is my lab partner, man. I think I would have noticed her being missing and murdered.”

“Oh,” Hayden had sighed and taken a miserable swig of his beer. “Right.”

“If Rozanov killed all the girls he hooked up with, a good chunk of our year would be gone,” Shane had fiddled with his own beer, not taking a sip, but just watching the frothy liquid swish dangerously close to the rim of the cup. “The girls probably regained their brains after, and don’t want to be associated with him anymore. I don’t blame them.”

“Don’t some serial killers have crazy persuasive abilities, though? Like charm?” Hayden had asked, eyeing Lucy, who had been in the process of dragging her nails down Rozanov’s chest, in a teasing move. “He has Lucy under his spell, right?”

“I think,” Shane had said, trying hard not to look at how Rozanov had watched Lucy, lips ticked up in lazy delight. “You’re thinking about vampires, not serial killers.”

“Maybe Rozanov’s a vampire with mind control?” Hayden had said, hopefully, just as a loud giggle pierced the air.

They had both turned to see Rozanov wrapping Lucy’s long ponytail around his hand, before yanking her head back. It had been a playful sort of tug, but there was power to it—just hints of the brutal strength that Shane knew so intrinsically on the ice.

It was in Rozanov’s hand, gripping Shane’s helmet cage, throwing him into the boards, cracking the glass at the sheer force of his hurl. A particularly hard shoulder check nearly sent Shane to his knees. The swing of Rozanov’s stick—a perfect arc—sending the puck flying so fast, it was nothing but a blur.

Here was a well-known fact: Ilya Rozanov was horribly strong. Strong enough that he most likely had to control that strength when doing things like gripping girls’ ponytails and pulling their heads back. Strong enough that when he hit Shane, Shane felt it.

Shane had held his beer tight. The condensation was probably why his grip had been so slick.

At the same time, Rozanov had murmured something into Lucy’s ear, his grip still tight, and she had blushed prettily. Shane’s blood had boiled hot in his veins at the sight—irritation at Rozanov being so…unlike on-ice Rozanov, and instead like off-ice Rozanov. A rich boy who had nothing better to do than indulge in the pleasures of life.

Like he was oh so bored.

Annoying. Aggravating. Awful.

Clearly, Lucy had not shared Shane’s distaste. Instead, she had giggled harder as Rozanov tilted her head back and let his mouth hover over the line of her jaw.

“How did people kill vampires again?” Hayden had grumbled before chugging his drink.

Shane had opened his mouth to respond, but not before Rozanov had, suddenly, looked up and caught his eye. The weight of his gaze was an edged thing, a shard of silver and ice to the chest, and the breath had been knocked out of Shane’s lungs.

“A stake,” he had managed, unable to look away. “Through the heart, I think.”

Rozanov had studied him—not cocky, not angry—just watching. And, without warning, he sank his teeth into Lucy’s throat.

“Not so hard!” She had squealed from somewhere very far away, batting at Rozanov's shoulders. Rozanov had licked at the spot apologetically, and Shane’s face had flamed so hot, he thought he might melt into a gooey puddle right on the floor.

And here was another, lesser-known fact: Rozanov hadn’t torn his eyes away from Shane, not even as he purpled a girl’s neck all over.

Though Shane had torn his eyes away, gulping down his lukewarm beer and managing to cajole a drunken Hayden onto the dance floor, he had felt it. Even as the night dragged on and Rozanov had disappeared into one of the bedrooms upstairs, Lucy in tow, the phantom weight of eyes on his skin lingered. Even as he went home, buzzed and tired, he had felt Rozanov’s stare.

It had been hard to scrub off.

Lucy hadn’t been around at any of the other parties Rozanov seemed to be at, at least not any of the ones Shane was present for. She started dating the president of the Dungeons and Dragons club a few weeks later, while Rozanov had yet another girl on his arm. Shane hadn’t thought about it too much—tried very hard not to think about it.

Shane blinks now, memories of the teenage years and Rozanov’s stare melting away, as he reaches his bedroom. Focus, he tells himself, wrenching the door open. Don’t drown just yet, Hollander.

-

“Okay,” Shane pulls up his notebook on the countertop. “Here are some rules that I came up with.”

“I thought you were joking about the rules,” Rozanov groans, from across from him. He lounges on one of Shane’s swivel barstools. Shane is standing. Sitting on them always made him feel a little stupid—they were too high and tilted at an odd angle, all courtesy of a sketchy seller on Facebook marketplace. Hayden had fallen off one of them the last time he visited.

Rozanov, irritatingly, doesn’t look stupid in the chair. He even has the audacity to look kind of cool—in a sort of effortless, just-rolled-out-of-bed way. At twenty, he somehow looks even more like a rockstar than he did at sixteen.

Shane grits his teeth against a wave of envy, roiling around in his stomach.

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you, apparently, have a terrible sense of humor,” Rozanov says, tapping his fingers on Shane’s countertop. Shane scribbles in his notebook. “Did you just come up with a new rule, Hollander?”

“I’m writing a reminder to myself to sanitize the counter when you leave,” Shane lies through his teeth. He can see Rozanov smirking out of the corner of his eye.

“Do not worry, Hollander. Hockey skills and irresistible charm are not contagious. I know you wish for it, but some things, you must be born with.”

“I hear a lot of talking from someone who couldn’t even score three goals last game,” Shane says.

“No, I think you are hearing the voice of someone who has scored over fifty goals last season,” Rozanov says. “Time to get your ears checked, yes?”

“You—” Shane starts, then swallows back his insult. If given the chance, he thinks Rozanov could sit there all day, hurling taunts at Shane left and right with that smug smile of his. Lord knows how many of their opponents despised him for his smart mouth. If being annoying were a crime, Rozanov would surely be on death row multiple times by now.

“I have a system for my end of the bargain—”

“—I am so very shocked—”

“Anyways. It’s all in here,” Shane flips open the notebook to reveal a perfectly organized planner. Color-coded and everything. His brain purrs in approval at the sight, an itch scratched at the neat lines and words. “Your study schedule.”

Rozanov lets out a low whistle.

“Wow,” he says. Shane stiffens, ready for Rozanov’s familiar mockery. There is a hint of that, sure, but mostly his voice sounds…impressed, if Shane had to put a name to an unfamiliar sound. He blinks. “You made this?”

“Yeah,” Shane points to a box. “I’m going to start you on Olympism and how it relates to the main branches of philosophy first. The basics.”

“Huh,” Rozanov says, shifting a little closer. Miraculously, he still manages to stay in the chair. “Okay.”

“I’ll also take you through the color system,” Shane flips to the front of the planner. “I want you to use it, so I know what to work on, okay? So, highlighting things in green means you completely 100% understand the material—you probably won’t need your green highlighter for a while—yellow means you think you get it but you’re not sure, red means you don’t understand anything about it—”

“Professor Hollander,” Rozanov interrupts. “I think I do not need a crash course on the traffic light system.”

Shane widens his eyes, innocently. “Are you sure?”

With a derisive snort, Rozanov reaches out and swipes the notebook from Shane’s grasp. “So this is mine now, yes?” he flips through the pages lazily. His fingers dance over the paper, touch delicate, and Shane finds himself watching them for a minute. “Looks new. Did you buy it just for me? You are a good tutor—I have chosen well.”

His voice is still light and lacking any real taunting.

“Be real,” Shane says. His face feels warm. “It was a spare planner I had lying around.”

Rozanov smiles, a slow twist of the lips. Shane swallows.

“The pages stop after December. Did your highlighters run out of ink?”

He folds his arms and gives the other a look. “No,” Shane says, slowly. “Finals are in December, ergo, you’ll be done with this class by then. You won’t need it anymore.”

“Right,” Rozanov says, after a long pause that sends Shane’s neck prickling. “Right, of course.”

“Of course.”

Rozanov shuts the planner. His attention returns to Shane, and whatever had dampened his usual cocky smartass-ery has obviously disappeared, judging from the smirk on his face.

“So, this is your rule, Hollander? I have to use a coloring system?”

And there was the mockery again. Shane rolls his eyes.

“Only you would think that using different highlighters is the same as coloring a picture book, Rozanov. And no, that’s not one of my rules.” At least not an explicit one.

“Okay,” Rozanov leans back in his seat, still not falling. Shane prays for his stool to collapse, like it did with Hayden. If gravity could be cruel to his best friend, it could also be cruel to Ilya Rozanov too, right? The stool doesn’t even wobble. “So let us hear it. Your rules.”

“Actually,” Shane says. “I wrote them down for you at the back of the planner, if you want to look.”

Rozanov watches him, his gaze not once drifting down to the notebook beside him. His eyes are shards of ice, and they practically dig into Shane’s skin. Shane resists the urge to, irrationally, hide any open skin.

“Um,” he says. “Well, fine. Just don’t say you ‘forgot’ them. They’re right there.”

“Like I cannot rip out a sheet of paper and throw it away,” Rozanov says, mildly. Shane opens his mouth, and he waves a dismissive hand. “I will not, pinky promise. Just tell me these rules.”

Shane scowls. He hates when Rozanov tells him what to do—the mere thought of it sends hives breaking down the length of his skin. But, time was fast running out, and Rozanov’s mind was probably already fast drifting towards boozepartywomenwomenwomen, so Shane continues.

“Number one: Tutoring sessions will always be right after lectures on Thursday. 9:30 pm, sharp. For an hour and a half—no more, no less.”

“Ha, funny joke,” Rozanov scoffs. Shane stares at him. His face drops. “You are joking, yes?”

“No,” Shane says. “The best time to study something is right after you’ve learned it. There's been lots of research studies on this.”

“You and your studies,” Rozanov says, mild horror in his face. “And when am I to sleep, Hollander?”

“Please, like you sleep before 12 am?”

Rozanov doesn’t negate the accusation, but he still looks less than thrilled. “Fine, yes, okay. But if I collapse from exhaustion, please at least have the kindness to spread my ashes somewhere nice.”

“You won’t die—”

“I think I’ve read a few of your beloved research studies about students dying from exhaustion. Very sad stories. To think they only wanted to pass a very hard class, and ended up suffering for education. It makes you want to shed a tear—”

“Christ, fine, Rozanov, I’ll personally fly to Russia and spread your ashes somewhere,” Shane grumbles. “Happy?”

“I would rather you spread my ashes on my Aston Martin,” Rozanov says. “Or in a bottle of Beluga—Russian vodka. Or on my jersey. Or in a bottle of Beluga wrapped in my jersey placed in my Aston Martin.”

“Dead beggars can’t be choosers,” Shane says. “Rule Number Two: You need to do everything I say.”

“Oh, you really are a comedian, Hollander.”

“I meant for tutoring, though you doing everything I say all the time is a nice thought, Rozanov,” Shane gestures to the planner. “Do the homework I assign you and everything else I say. Don’t skip or skim over anything. Highlight.”

Rozanov draws an X over his heart. “Aye, aye.”

“Rule Number Three: You’re allowed to miss three sessions. Three. I don’t need to know why, but you better be, like, in the hospital on the verge of death if you miss just one more.”

“You are so bossy,” Rozanov muses, his lips curling up and up, like he’s the Cheshire Cat himself. “Have you ever thought about a career in coaching?”

“Yeah, right,” Shane says. “You can coach a bunch of snot-nosed children, while I win the Stanley Cup. Sounds good?”

“Aw, your fantasies for the future include me?” Rozanov’s teeth are very sharp, and Shane’s nerves are very on edge. He shifts on his feet. “So very cute.”

“Anyways,” Shane clears his throat. Cute. His ears are burning with irritation. “Rule Number Four: Keep the assholery to a minimum. Contrary to popular opinion, I would rather win nationals, and unfortunately, you are a member of my team, so I would rather not bash your head in with a philosophy textbook before then.”

“Does it have to be a philosophy? I would prefer any other subject.”

“I’m serious, Rozanov.”

“I am too,” he says, raising his hands up. “It is why I am here, allowing myself to maybe be bashed in the head with a philosophy book. So, fine, I will tone my wit and charm down. Just do not blame me if all of Canada becomes a very sad, pathetic place for these next months.”

“I think I’ll take my chances.”

“Do not worry,” says Rozanov. “When my team wins nationals and I pass this class, I will return stronger than ever. All will be well again.”

“Oh, joy,” says Shane.

Rozanov spins in the chair, a little. Even so, he still doesn’t look stupid—how was that even possible? What witchcraft had he put on Shane’s barstool to make it look like an artfully placed prop in the photoshoot that was Rozanov’s life? Would Shane have to sanitize both his counter and his chair after the other left?

Fall, fall, fall, he wills, silently.

Rozanov doesn’t.

“Is that all, Professor Hollander?”

Shane drops his arms down to his sides and folds them again, feeling a little vulnerable. The next rule, the last one, was a little stupid. But he had written it down in the stupid planner, and he couldn’t backtrack now—with Rozanov watching him, expectantly, tapping his fingers on the countertop.

“Rule Number Five: Try your best.”

Rozanov stills.

Shane rushes to explain. “It sounds really fucking cheesy, I know, I can hear myself, but, like, I don’t want you to take this as a joke, man. I’m investing time and effort into tutoring you, and not to mention, our entire team is counting on you to make it to nationals. This isn’t some game, Rozanov,” he says, all in one breath. “So, yeah.”

Rozanov’s stare is unreadable, the tense lines of his shoulders under his shirt seem to stretch for miles. His throat bobs. After a long beat, he opens his mouth.

“I know this is not a game,” he says. “I was serious when I asked you, and I am serious now.”

There’s something oddly emphatic about the way he speaks now, a boyish honesty in the draw of his eyebrows and the tilt of his strong chin. It’s so different from who Rozanov is as a person—with all his cockiness and detached interest. And despite everything, Shane wants to believe him.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. If you break these rules, I’m going to stop tutoring you. And you’re on your own.”

Rozanov nods.

“Great,” Shane drops his arms again, feeling fifty pounds lighter—a weight lifted off his chest. “Do you have anything to add on your end?”

The other man gets a look in his eye, like he might start ribbing Shane again. The weight is suddenly thrust back onto Shane’s shoulders—from one look alone—and he can feel them square in anticipation. For the fight.

Then, Rozanov’s gaze falls back to the planner. After a beat, he shakes his head. “No.”

Shane fights the urge to gawk at his easy white flag. Rozanov was showing many different sides to him today, some familiar, and others not so much. It was a little surreal.

“Okay,” Shane says. “So, now onto the other part of the deal,” he flushes. “Um, the…sex. With you and me. Like, with each other, I mean.”

The air turns strange—sticky and hot and stretched thin, like a particularly brutal summer heat. Realistically, not something anyone should be feeling in the middle of August. Shane shivers, despite it.

“Ah,” Rozanov smiles. It’s not a particularly kind smile. It’s the same smile he had given Shane the other night, as he took the breath straight from his lungs. Ravished. The sight of it sends every part of Shane’s brain, both rational and idiotic, screaming at him to run. “That.”

“Yeah. Do you—do you have any rules?” Shane blurts out. “For that?”

The few minutes where Rozanov considers this feel like hours. Shane shifts on his feet and waits. And waits.

Then, the other stands, and Shane is, for some odd reason, so startled, he nearly takes a step back. Run, run, run. With some effort, he cements his feet to the linoleum floor of his kitchen. Because, like hell, he was going to run from Rozanov, of all people.

Rozanov rounds the corner of the counter, his gaze trained on Shane’s.

“Rules,” he muses, and he’s a couple of steps away. Shane could back away. He should. Another step, and the front of their socked toes brush. “Rules for fucking Shane Hollander. I have not thought about that.”

“Then, maybe you should think of some. Rules, that is,” Shane breathes out. Rozanov reaches out, and he tenses. However, instead of touching him, the other simply puts his arms around Shane’s body, resting his hands on the counter at Shane’s back. Boxing him in.

Nowhere to bolt, nowhere to hide.

He wonders, distantly, who’s the predator and who’s the prey now. His heart pounds.

“Maybe,” Rozanov hums, his voice deep and Russian and the bane of Shane’s entire fucking life. His nose nudges against Shane’s. The scent of smoke and whiskey poured neat—annoying, aggravating, awful.

“But I will probably break them all, anyway.”

And Ilya Rozanov kisses him, and Shane is swept up into the current.

-

There are many irritating things about Rozanov, Shane could probably write a book on every insufferable trait the other man has—multiple books. A whole anthology. But perhaps the most annoying thing about Rozanov was how well he kissed.

Shane had told Rozanov the other day, but kissing had always been…okay. When his peers had begun falling over each other about things like making out, Shane had always crinkled his nose. What was so good about kissing, anyway? Playing hockey sounded much more fun.

A girl had kissed him behind the school when he turned twelve. Her chapstick was sweet. Shane had blinked as she giggled and ran away.

“So?” Hayden had asked, because apparently the traitor had known what she was planning to do and hadn’t thought to warn Shane. “How was it?”

“Okay,” Shane had said. “We’re going to be late for practice.”

Even as he grew older and got girlfriends, kissing was always just…there. A duty to fulfill—certainly no chore and not at all unpleasant—but a duty, nonetheless. Like holding the door open for your girlfriend or posting a photo on Instagram with her. Not something to think twice about.

Not something to fall over yourself for.

“Careful,” Rozanov rumbles against his mouth, as Shane stumbles against the other.

“You didn’t see that,” Shane says, mortified. He thinks that his body, a traitorous thing, might have been subconsciously moving closer to Rozanov, to his touch. Horror and humiliation of equal measures suddenly rush through him, twin flames creeping up his veins. A noise rises in the back of his throat.

“See what?”

Rozanov kisses him.

Some of the embarrassment fades, instead replaced by the sticky, viscous liquid heat that Shane was beginning to associate with Rozanov and his kisses. Somehow, it burns hotter than the flames of horror and humiliation and the cacophony of thoughts flickering in and out of Shane’s brain. And, horrifyingly, Shane melts.

Everything quiets then—his brain, his breathing, even the ticking of the clock—and narrows down to this moment alone.

Rozanov’s teeth drag against the sensitive skin of his lower lip, sending another trickle of that heat down Shane’s spine. A sound escapes Shane’s mouth, and he leans forward to chase after the sting. His feet stumble again.

“I told you to be careful, Hollander,” Rozanov rasps, his voice deep.

Shane risks a glance at him and almost immediately has to zero in on the mole on the side of the other’s cheek. Rozanov’s eyes are too blue this close, the desire clouding them making Shane’s breath catch in his chest.

The mole was a little safer.

“You never listen to me.”

“I’ll listen when you have something important to say, Rozanov,” The mole shifts as Rozanov smirks. If someone were to press the pad of their thumb to it, like a button, would that cause that smile to slip off Rozanov’s face? Shane’s fingers twitch by his sides.

“But how will you know I have something important to say, if you are not listening?” Rozanov sidles closer, and Shane really has nowhere to go, with the counter digging into his back and a cocky Russian asshole at his front, his arms still like a cage around Shane’s body.

A rock and a hard place.

Their bodies press against each other, chest to chest. The thin fabric of Rozanov’s shirt does little to hide the pressure of his crucifix on Shane’s skipping heart. Shane swallows, thickly, and keeps his eyes trained on that mole.

“I’ll know, man.”

“Do I have to ask you to touch me every time we do this?” Rozanov asks. “It was cute the first time, but it is getting a little tired.”

Shane’s neck prickles. “You’re trapping my arms.”

“You can break out,” Rozanov reminds him, and it is true. He’s not even really trapping Shane—his arms are braced loosely around his body, hands flat on the counter behind him. Shane could push himself free from the hold, without even breaking a sweat.

So, why didn’t you? That voice in his brain shouts, suddenly vocal again. Shane considers this, a lump in his throat. Why don’t you leave?

Rozanov, apparently tired of Shane’s consideration, slips his thigh in between Shane’s legs and right against his rapidly stiffening cock. Heat washes over Shane then, a tugging at the base of his belly, pulling him down into dangerous depths. Another noise escapes his mouth, and this one comes out awfully wanton.

“Does it feel good?”

Rozanov nudges his thigh harder against Shane, and Shane jolts at the feeling of something hard and terrifyingly big against his own cock. He had felt it before, the other night, but it was still something of a revelation. The feeling of Ilya Rozanov’s erection next to his own.

He was also bigger than Shane. It was only the second time Rozanov had rutted against Shane, like a dog in heat, but no amount of denim could hide it. Here was a fact that many women and a few men(?) probably lived by, and a fact that Shane could have lived his entire life without knowing: Ilya Rozanov had a big fucking cock.

Envy floods Shane’s entire face hot.

It wasn’t enough that Rozanov was a little (emphasis on little) stronger than Shane and had an effortless charm that gained him both love and hatred from simply breathing when Shane had to sweat for every goodwill earned. It wasn’t even enough that Rozanov had an insane, signature trick-shot—that faux backhand-forehand; ‘the Rozanov,’ that cocky jerk had dubbed the move—that not even the most seasoned of NHL stars could emulate. He just had to beat Shane at this, too.

Asshole.

Even so, he can’t help but rock his hips forward, grinding his dick against Rozanov’s. The pressure is just as it was before, at that frat house. Mind-numbingly good.

Rozanov lets out a slow hiss of unmistakable pleasure, and out of the corner of his eye, Shane can see the curl of the other’s smirk slipping. “Hollander,” he rasps.

Shane wrenches his gaze towards where their bodies are touching, eyeing the bulge straining against Rozanov’s jeans. Liquid heat submerges his body at the sight, rising rapidly with each second Rozanov stays pressed against him. Oh.

This was a bad idea, a very bad idea.

“Does it?” Rozanov asks him, again, lips now by the shell of Shane’s ear. His cologne—smoke and whiskey and Rozanov—fills Shane’s nose, from this close, and that impact of it stuns that rational, disciplined voice that rules his brain back into a temporary silence. “Feel good?”

His cock leaks in his boxers.

“I don’t know,” Shane stammers. Did being set alight feel good?

“I think you do,” Rozanov murmurs. “Judging from how hard you are.”

Shane burns and burns. “I’m only half-hard. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, are you?” Rozanov reaches down, and Shane’s eyes widen, because, because—Rozanov’s hand is on his cock, albeit over the barrier of his jeans and boxers. But the heat of his palm is unmistakable, and the weight of it is almost enough to buckle Shane’s knees.

“You are a liar,” Rozanov muses. Shane shivers, staring down at where Rozanov's hand is splayed over his crotch. Almost possessively. He blinks away that thought just as fast. “But, you are also big.”

“Thank you?”

“Not as big as me though,” He grins, and his teeth are still as sharp as ever—enough to pierce through skin, probably. How did people kill vampires again? Hayden’s voice rings through Shane’s ears. “Still, second place is not so bad, Hollander. For some people.”

“You’re, like, really annoying,” Shane grumbles and goes to shove the other man. Rozanov chooses that time to squeeze down on Shane’s cock. His grip is light, but unforgiving. Shane jolts, and his traitor of a dick weeps, dripping into his boxers and down his thighs. “Fuck, Rozanov—!”

“Yes, I plan to,” Rozanov says. “Fuck you, that is.”

He grinds the heel of his palm against Shane’s erection and, with a cry, Shane grabs at his wrist with both hands. Heat fills his nose and clouds his eyes, suffocating him alive, threatening to drown him completely. He’s going to cum.

His eyes fly up to Rozanov, and their gazes clash for the first time in what seems like ages.

It’s a mistake.

Rozanov stares back at him, his gaze starved. A golden-brown curl falls into his eye, and the cut of his cheekbones is knives slicing straight into Shane’s pupils and straight into his optic nerves. A bead of sweat runs down his temple. And perhaps worst of all, he’s not unamused, doesn’t even look a little bit bored, and he’s a bad idea.

Shane is boiling alive.

“If you want something,” Rozanov says, and it sounds like a threat. Shane’s dick pulses. “Say it.”

Shane bites his lip, eyes darting from Rozanov’s hand, then back to his face. Don’t tell me what to do. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t—

Rozanov’s fingers tighten around Shane’s cock in warning, and Shane spasms at the rush of pain and overwhelming pleasure. Sweat rolls down his face. His toes curl.

“Rozanov,” he warns, through gritted teeth. His hands tighten from where they’re curled tight around the other’s wrist, like a vice, probably hard enough to hurt. He distantly hopes he bruises Rozanov’s stupid wrist after this. Not enough to affect his playing, but just enough that it’ll hurt and Rozanov will look at the purple splotch in the shape of Shane’s fingers and be reminded of this very moment.

But Shane doesn’t yank him away.

Why don’t you leave?

To Rozanov’s credit, the other doesn’t even flinch. And he doesn’t pull away, either.

“You are not a caveman, Hollander,” Rozanov says. Shane’s dick is probably going to explode soon, from Rozanov’s raw strength, his words vibrating in Shane’s flushed ears. His teeth scrape against a particular sensitive part of Shane’s earlobe. “Speak.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck—!

“I don’t wanna cum in my jeans again,” Shane blurts out. “A-and, you didn’t cum last time.”

“Are you sure? It seemed like you enjoyed it last time,” Rozanov mocks. Shane glares as best he can, and Rozanov smiles. “But, if you insist.”

Shane relaxes, his muscles slumping. Another big mistake.

Because, then, Rozanov squeezes his cock, much harder than before, and the shock of it sends Shane howling. His vision blurs for a second, that sticky, all-consuming heat washing over his entire body for the next second. He’s hurtling towards the edge, he can feel it, is drowning in it—

Rozanov lets go, and all of a sudden, it all just…stops.

“No,” Shane whines, feverish. There’s no breath of fresh air or relief. Only the distinct feeling of being cheated out of something. His head spins. “Wait.” He heads towards Rozanov, but his knees have become like jelly, and he stumbles.

A pair of heavy hands on his waist keeps him upright, and the weight of them both grounds Shane and sends him sinking down. Grasping for anything to stay afloat, he reaches out and blindly grabs a fistful of a shirt. Rozanov’s shirt.

“Thought you did not want to cum in your pants.”

“Rozanov,” Shane gasps out, delirious, pulling him closer. Their noses bump into each other. “You’re s-such an asshole.”

“Hollander,” Rozanov rasps out, and kisses him. “You are such a bad loser.” Shane kisses back, just as deliriously. They kiss and kiss, until Shane’s mouth is numb and his face is scraped raw from Rozanov’s stubble. It stings, everything stings—and perhaps this is what it’s like kissing a weapon.

It feels good.

He slumps against Rozanov, legs trembling, and the other makes a decisive noise. Before Shane can ask, he can no longer feel the ground at his feet, and he’s suddenly looking down at Rozanov’s gaze.

He’s being lifted into the air. And, oh.

Oh.

His head spins. A high, soft sound pierces the air. It takes a moment to realize that it’s coming from him. It’s hard to care.

Rozanov holds him there for a moment, and Shane, delirious and utterly dizzy with want, wraps his legs around the other man’s waist. Rozanov lets out a low sound of approval; the back of Shane’s neck prickles.

“More,” he rumbles, his accent thick. “Touch me more.”

So, Shane lets his fingers trail over the other’s biceps. The muscle there strains, like Shane is a challenge, but never quivers for a moment, like Rozanov can handle him. All of him.

“Um,” Shane mumbles, his face hot. He thinks of Rozanov, with his fingers wrapped tight around a girl's ponytail, pulling her head back. He thinks of Rozanov slamming his head into the boards, with nothing but his hold on Shane's helmet cage. Then, he thinks that he might burst into flames. “This is interesting.”

“I think I will fuck you like this, one day,” says Rozanov.

“What?” says Shane.

Instead of answering, Rozanov deposits him on top of the counter. Disappointment floods Shane for a minute before Rozanov is bullying his legs apart, slotting right between them, and kisses him hard.

Their noses smash together, and Shane groans into the other man’s mouth. Rozanov hums. Shane’s fingers drift from his shoulders to where that sound most reverberates.

He presses his fingers to Rozanov’s chest, feeling the cross resting there. A stake through the heart, he remembers telling Hayden, all those years ago. That’s how you kill a vampire. He pushes a little harder against the crucifix, feeling the sharp edges of it. Rozanov stiffens, almost imperceptibly.

But Shane feels it.

He pulls away, slowly.

Rozanov lets him go, his hands on Shane’s thighs. He’s shorter than Shane like this, and it’s a little surreal. For years, it had seemed like Ilya Rozanov would always tower over him, constantly shadowing over him like a bad omen. Eventually, thankfully, Shane had played catch-up and their heights weren’t all that different now.

Still, somehow, Rozanov looms.

“Still no rules?” Shane asks. His voice is raspy. He clears his throat. “For your end of the bargain.”

Rozanov frowns up at him, considering. His gaze makes Shane want to squirm, a little. “Do you have any rules?”

Shane should have some. He really should. But his head is spinning too much, and Rozanov’s hands on his thighs are too distracting. He swallows hard and wills his brain back. It stays quiet.

“I guess not,” he says. “Other than that, we need to keep this a secret. From everyone.”

“Obviously,” Rozanov agrees. “Nothing else, though, Professor Hollander?”

“Would you quit using that nickname?” Shane grumbles, and Rozanov’s laugh is almost soft. Shane’s cheeks flush, something fluttering in his chest.

“But you are my professor for these next few months, yes? I should call it what it is.”

“I’m tutoring you,” Shane corrects. “I’m not teaching you something you don’t already know.”

“Hm,” Rozanov taps a rhythm on Shane’s thighs, his graceful fingers warm even through the denim. He considers Shane, expression unreadable. “I think we should make a list.”

Shane blinks—at Rozanov’s suggestion, yes, but also the sound of “we” spilling out of the other man’s mouth, and the word referring to him and Rozanov. The both of them, without their team attached. Just them two.

His neck prickles with discomfort.

“A list?”

“Yes, of everything you like doing with me. A man. We can cross off kissing and dry humping, for sure—”

“Who says I liked doing any of that with you?”

“You cumming untouched says so, Hollander.”

Shane fights the urge to groan. “I was just…pent up the other night, Rozanov. And it wasn’t like it happened again, just now.”

“That is because I ruined your orgasm, just now,” Rozanov says, pleasantly, and Shane grumbles to himself. His cock still aches a little, the phantom cage of Rozanov’s hand wrapped tight around him lingering, but not enough to bring any relief. His nerves are a little rubbed raw.

“Well, I didn’t like that,” he says, shifting. It feels like a lie, even though it definitely is not. Nobody sane liked blue balls.

Rozanov studies him again, before continuing.

“Okay, but there is still a lot more. Like, handjobs, blowjobs, fingering, anal, toys—” Shane feels his face burning into crisp and Rozanov laughs, that same soft sound. “—and other things. It may help you come to a conclusion on your sexuality faster.”

“Sounds like a pros and cons list,” Shane says, then shrugs. “Not really a bad idea, I guess.” He would just have to keep behind a password-protected note on his notes app or something.

“To me,” Rozanov says. “Everything about gay sex is a pro.”

“Alright, man,” Shane snorts, but even he can’t stop the small smile from spreading across his face. Rozanov studies his face for a beat, but before Shane can begin to feel self-conscious, he smiles, also a tiny thing, but there’s a hint of that boyish honesty in the twist of it.

The air lightens from that oppressive, dizzying heat to something almost…nice. Aimable.

It’s almost comfortable, and that in and of itself is enough to make Shane’s chest lurch with discomfort. Because Ilya Rozanov may incite many feelings inside of him—anger, annoyance, the urge to murder, and yes, also reluctant desire—but never comfort.

“Do you not feel like it’s a little weird?” He blurts out, just to say something and test this strange peace. To see if it would break.

“Everything about this is weird, Hollander.”

“Yeah, but I meant about the sex end of our deal, specifically,” Shane says. “Like, are you okay with it? Me using you.”

“I will be using you for your study skills, however strange they are,” Rozanov says. Shane’s nose crinkles. “So, you will use me for my dick. It makes sense to me.”

“You make it sound so transactional.”

“It is just sex,” Rozanov says. He says ‘just sex,’ like someone might say ‘just the weather.’ Matter-of-fact. And, well, yeah. Shane is no prude, and Rozanov has probably fucked his way through a third of the school already, and it really was just sex between them.

Something about it bothers Shane, though he can’t put his finger on it.

He taps the cross on Rozanov’s chest, absentmindedly, trying to pinpoint why, and, suddenly, the other man steps back, hands falling away from Shane. Shane blinks and looks back at him.

Rozanov smirks up at him. “Oh, I have thought of one—a rule for this part of our bargain.”

“Oh,” Shane says. “Okay. What is it?”

“No falling in love with me. I know I am very irresistible and the best lay you will ever have, man or woman, but I do not do relationships.”

Shane gawks.

“You think I would ever fall in love with you?” he points to himself, eyes bulging out of his sockets. He wonders if he’s losing his mind, or at the very least, his hearing. “Me? You?”

Rozanov slides his hands into his pockets, all casual confidence. “It will be very embarrassing. Not for you, everyone would understand you, but for me. Having to let Canada’s golden boy Shane Hollander down…I would rather not do it.”

“Oh my God,” Shane laughs and doubles over. Tears prick at his eyes, he’s laughing so hard. He, also, irrationally feels hints of anger creep up. “You’ve said a lot of bat-shit insane things, Rozanov, but I think this is the worst.”

“Would I get kicked out of Canada for breaking your heart?” Rozanov muses to himself. He actually looks contemplative, what an asshole. Shane laughs harder.

“Rozanov, you would fall for me before I ever fell for you,” he says, and Rozanov stills. “Pigs would fly before I fell in love with you. The cows would come home. Hell would freeze over.” Shane pauses. “I don’t know any other idioms, but just know: It’s impossible.”

“I fucking hate English idioms,” Rozanov says. “But, in this case, I would fall in love with you, Hollander, when the crawfish whistles on the mountain.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It’s a Russian idiom,” Rozanov bares his teeth at him, his smirk blooming into a full-on mocking grin. The anger cools and hardens like hot magma in Shane’s chest at the sight. Awful, aggravating, annoying Rozanov. “But it means, it’s never ever going to happen.”

Shane hops off the counter, and the other eyes him as he rights himself. Whatever gentleness existed between them is long gone, replaced with that age-old animosity—Rozanov hurling shit and Shane not being a big enough man to not retaliate. It’s familiar and reliable, and Shane can finally stop feeling a little unmoored and focus on feeling irritated.

No falling in love with me.

Just who did Ilya Rozanov think he was?

“Y’know, you have such a big fucking head,” he says. He’s prickling all over, like a porcupine. Nothing is very funny anymore. “Like, seriously. Just because I might be gay doesn’t mean I’ll fall in love with the first guy who shows me interest or sucks my dick. Especially if it’s you.”

“And I was fucking joking,” Rozanov says. It’s infuriating, this breezy attitude he has. “Do you know what a joke is, Hollander?”

It’s just a joke, Hollywood.

Shane stiffens.

“I should’ve known you wouldn’t take this seriously,” he hears himself say. It’s admittedly a low blow, jabbing at the rare earnestness Rozanov had shown him before. I know this is not a game. I was serious when I asked you, and I am serious now. Even so, Shane can’t help but take it.

Fighting dirty was all he knew how to do with Rozanov.

Rozanov raises an eyebrow. There’s a layer of frost over his eyes. “And I should have known that you would freak out over this.”

Asshole.

“I’m not freaking out.”

You wouldn’t get it, Shane wants to shout. You, Ilya Rozanov, of all people, wouldn’t understand. The knowing stares, the not-so-subtle slights, all the whispers that dug into every inch of exposed skin. Could anyone get it?

Shane glares at the ceiling, unwilling to meet the other’s gaze, and he can feel Rozanov’s stare embedding into the side of his face. Looking for, what, Shane didn’t know. His skin burns.

A beat passes, then two.

“Well, this was fun,” Rozanov says, eventually. Boredom seeps into his voice, and when Shane peeks back at him, his gaze is already far away. Irritation sparks in Shane at the sight. Off-ice Rozanov, back again at full force. “But I have to go.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Shane says, shortly. Rozanov’s jaw clenches. Shane waits for him to say something. He doesn’t.

As he listens to Rozanov step out of his apartment—back to his life of partying and booze and his Aston Martin and all the women and men drooling for his big stupid fucking cock, and Rozanov being so distantly amused at it all—Shane bites his lip. The urge to kick his barstool, the one that once housed the other’s annoying ass, fills him. He takes a long shower instead.

It’s late into the night, when he’s cooking a late dinner of rice and salmon, that he notices it. His planner, the one he made for Rozanov, was right on the counter. Forgotten.

Or maybe just plain disregarded.

Rage once again fills Shane at the sight, an emotion that he so rarely felt off the ice. Only at Rozanov did this swelling, intense anger ever arise. It was a curse.

And here was a fact that only Shane Hollander seemed to know and hold true: Ilya Rozanov is and always has been a very bad idea.

-

It’s easy to love hockey.

From the moment Shane’s parents slipped on a pair of skates on his feet and pushed a hockey stick into his hands, he had been head over heels for it all. The thrill of the game, the chase, the danger, and scrape of the ice underneath his blades. The rink is a closed space, and not all that large compared to, say, a soccer or football field, but in it, some part of Shane feels infinite.

Like he could chase after the puck forever and ever, and not a thing could stop him.

It’s easy to love hockey and, for Shane Hollander, it’s just as easy for hockey to fall back in love with him. He’s a future NHL hopeful. He’s been asked to represent Canada in the Olympics.

What’s not as easy is getting a team to tolerate him. More specifically, this team.

The first and second years are starry-eyed babies, more interested in which NHL and CHL teams are knocking on his door than in inter-team politics. The real problem is the upperclassmen, led by Dallas Kent.

Shane grunts as an elbow shoves into his waist, and Kent sneers back at him, skating away.

“Quit daydreaming, Hollander,” he shouts. Shane had stopped to breathe for just a second, and the other man was acting like it was a crime against humanity. They were doing free skate, for Christ’s sake, what did it matter to him that Shane took a breather?

“Dick,” J.J. says at Shane’s right. At least not every upperclassman was against him. He gives the other a weak smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a hint of golden brown, the letters R-O-Z-A-N-O-V on the back of a jersey glaring back at him. He tries not to look more closely.

Even so, it’s hard to block out Rozanov.

Confidence and raw cockiness pour off him in waves, and the effect is devastating enough to have everyone’s eyes dragged towards him, whether of their own volition or not. A horde of people skate near him, as if standing close to him would let them soak up just a fraction of it: The power. That stardom.

Shane would rather die than admit it, but something about Rozanov on the ice compels.

“He’s just mad he didn’t score last game,” J.J. is saying. “The man wouldn’t shut up about it at the team outing.”

“He had the chance. A lot of chances,” Shane says. “He froze every time.” And he’s blaming me for it, he thinks. Like always.

“The burden of being captain,” J.J. laughs. “You’re doing fine, Hollander.”

“Your left,” Someone shouts, and Shane shifts to the right, waiting for his teammate to whizz past him. Coleman, Kent’s buddy, does just that, but at the last minute, he pivots slightly, so that his shoulder rams into Shane’s, despite the ample amount of space he’s left him.

Dull pain explodes at his clavicle, but Shane can only grit his teeth and watch Coleman skate past, without even a wave back.

“Ignore it,” J.J. says. “They’ve been like this since the sponsorship you got.”

“That was a small sponsorship,” Shane rubs at his shoulder. “And it was, like, three months ago. How are they still pissed?”

“Because they have no lives?”

Shane snorts, but it’s cut short by the sight of Coleman sidling beside Rozanov. Kent is on his other side, their other friends nearby. It was probably a given that evil attracted evil, but it’s an unpleasant reminder every time. Seeing who in the team aligns with Rozanov over him.

From the moment Shane got captaincy this year, their team had fractured—subtle at first, but cracks were downright cavernous lately. There were people on Shane’s side, but infuriatingly, the overwhelming majority seemed to drift to Rozanov. Even the underclassmen, who were as neutral as can be, seemed to attach to Rozanov, like baby ducks to a mama goose, more often than not.

The fourth years, the ones completely disregarded for capitancy, were the worst. Dallas Kent was the worst of the worst. They sneered at Shane, slighted him at every chance they got, but in the same breath attached themselves to Rozanov like his personal posse. As if Rozanov wasn’t a runner-up for captain himself, leagues above the rest of them.

It’s just a joke, Hollywood. Shane’s eyes sting with sweat.

It’s infuriating. It’s downright fucking frustrating—the politics of team sports. It was like the fourth year's thought that loving Rozanov was the greatest insult to their current captain. And some part of Shane hated that it was just that. A blow to his pride.

“Ignore them,” J.J. tells him again, as cool as ever, but Shane just can’t. He had bled, sweated, and cried for this team. He would continue to do so, all the way through nationals, until the trophy was in their hands. Couldn’t they see that Rozanov wouldn’t do the same?

So, it was easy to love hockey, even easier for hockey—the fans, the recruiters, the conversations—to love him back. His team was the exception.

“Paint Scoring,” Coach Wiebe shouts, and the team disperses, most of them groaning. Paint Scoring consisted of Coach Wiebe launching three pucks, timing how quickly a player could get all three into the goal using different types of shots. It was a drill solely meant to shape shot accuracy and reaction time. It was, also, downright humiliating—having your slowness spotlighted in front of your entire team.

A grin stretches over Shane’s face.

Despite that public shame, something about it was still terribly fun.

He goes first. Kent mutters something to him as he passes, but as Coach Wiebe nods to him and positions the pucks, it all melts into the background, and Shane’s world tunnels to this: The game and the stick in his hand.

His heart thumps loudly.

A backhand for the first puck, flying toward him. One. The next puck. He tilts his weight from his back leg to his front, and the next shot, a slapshot, follows the first straight into the goal. Two. Getting the last shot is the toughest, but Shane manages—his wrist shot sending the puck soaring cleanly through the air and into the goal, a few seconds later. Three.

He whirls around, pulse dancing, and glances at the coach.

“Time,” Coach Wiebe shouts, and studies his timer. “Five point three seconds, Hollander. The new record. Nice work.”

“Damn,” someone breathes out. Shane can feel the weight of eyes on his, the admiration, even if some is reluctantly given, is a welcome balm against his skin. J.J. gives him a thumbs-up. The fourth years are silent.

He’s not meaning to, he really isn’t, but his eyes find Rozanov. Rozanov leans on his stick, head tilted, and it’s with a jolt that Shane realizes that he’s watching Shane right back. Has been watching him the whole time.

And even when Kent leans in to whisper in his ear, Rozanov doesn’t look away. His eyes are very blue, and they make Shane itch all over.

The moment is shattered when Coach Wiebe shouts for the next person to step up, and Shane skates back.

Luca, one of the first years and perhaps the most eager out of all of them, steps up. His time is not bad, not the worst Shane’s ever seen, but he misses all three pucks. It’s enough to send a few of the upperclassmen roaring with laughter.

“Attaboy,” Kent says, sneering, and Luca turns a bright red. Shane glares. He wants to throw a fit and, effectively, throw Kent off of this damn team.

Calm down, that rational voice in his brain warns. Nothing really productive comes out of that, Hollander. He swallows it down.

Instead, he pats the dejected first year on the back, as the other skates back. “Shut the hell up,” he grumbles at Coleman, who’s downright hollering.

“Lighten up, Hollywood,” Kent sneers, and bile rises in his throat at that nickname. Hollywood. He grips his stick tight, a thousand and one comebacks on his tongue. Calm down. Ignore it.

Shane takes a deep breath. Fixes his eyes on the boards.

Not deterred, Kent shoots a particularly nasty grin in Shane’s direction; the poison of it is palpable even when Shane isn’t looking at him. Coleman and a couple of others scoff, inching closer. Shane studies the glass, trying not to tense.

Ignore it.

“Got something to say, Hollywood?” Kent asks. “Looks like it.”

“Kent, Hollander,” Coach Wiebe warns, as Young skates away from the goal, apparently done with his drills.

“Yes, Coach,” Shane says, then glances at Kent, coldly. “There’s no need to be an ass to a frosh, man.”

“You can if he’s a fucking pussy,” Kent’s breath is hot against Shane’s face, even through the helmet. Coach Wiebe is skating closer to them, probably furious, and Shane already has a headache. Shane glances back, and Kent’s practically within spitting distance. “What, you got something else to say? Then say it, f—”

A sudden sound, like a crack of thunder, silences him.

Shane’s gaze jerks away from Kent to—

—Rozanov stands by the goal, holding his stick. Had he just slammed it down on the ice? Shane is staring at him, Kent is staring at him—hell, the entire team watches him, the rink silent and anticipating…something. One never really knew when it came to Ilya Rozanov.

However, Rozanov’s eyes are only on Coach Wiebe, who’s also stopped at the sound, glancing back.

“Come on, Coach,” Rozanov grins, and his teeth are so very sharp. “You are leaving your best player waiting.”

“Patience, Rozanov, have you ever heard of it?” Coach Wiebe says, tiredly. He always seems to age ten years when he speaks to Rozanov, and Shane can’t blame him. He knows the feeling well.

“Patience is for losers,” Rozanov says. “Why wait when I can take what is mine right now?”

Coach Wiebe sighs and looks back at Shane and Kent.

“Coach, do you want your team to be a bunch of losers?” Rozanov asks again. “If so, you chose the wrong job, I think. Have you thought about maybe switching to the baseball team?”

Laughter bubbles out at his words. Coach Wiebe sighs again, before casting a wayward look at Shane.

“Is there a problem here?” he asks. Kent seethes beside him, but stays quiet.

Yes, Shane wants to say. But what would be the point? Hockey was all violence and cruelty, and it would be idiotic to think that that behavior did not occasionally seep from opponents to teammates. It was a language, a culture. And it was not so easily changed.

Nothing really productive comes out of that, Hollander. Ignore it, that rational voice insists again, his mantra. Calm down.

“No,” Shane says, and Coach Wiebe looks at him. Shane keeps his gaze, fighting the urge to rub at the back of his neck and cower. He manages.

“I think I am becoming an old man,” Rozanov calls out. “Singh, check if I have grey hairs.”

“Jesus, Rozanov,” Coach Wiebe says and skates back to him.

“Oh, never mind. The real old man has returned. I feel my youth coming back to me, how wonderful.”

“If you don’t shut your mouth, you’re doing bag skates after this.”

“Age has made you cruel, Coach,” Rozanov grins, and everyone laughs again. Even Coach Wiebe’s lips twitch minutely. Then, without warning, he lines up the shots and launches them at Rozanov.

Rozanov doesn’t hesitate. He’s soaring across the ice, and it doesn’t even look like he’s chasing after the puck. On the contrary, the puck seems to be flying into his hold, right where he wants it. A second later, and it’s in the goal.

Rozanov glides towards the other puck, and his backhand is just as fast. Just as flawless.

The final shot is the slapshot—the most difficult shot, and the angle at which Coach Wiebe sends the final puck is purposely torturous—but even so, Rozanov doesn’t even flinch. With a near-impossible flick of the wrist, the puck is a blur of black in the air, and he makes the goal.

He slides to a stop, chest rising and falling. The rink is very quiet, and Shane’s skin suddenly feels very tight, pulling taut over his muscle and bone. His breath stutters.

“Time,” Coach Wiebe says. “Five seconds.”

Both the upperclassmen and underclassmen shout, the cacophony exploding and echoing around the rink.

“Roz!”

“My man!”

“Holy shit!”

As people crowd Rozanov, multiple hands slapping against those broad shoulders, affectionate clacks of their sticks against his, Shane shifts on his skates. Just what was it about Rozanov that drew easy passion to him, like moths to a flame? Envy roils in his stomach.

Because, because, Ilya Rozanov was, admittedly, talented. But he was…also so dismissive. Always floating above everyone, with a detached amusement, even as they sunk down into the depths of the ocean below. And yet, they all sought after Rozanov, whether to love or to hate. They all wanted him.

Like he was a deity.

“No falling in love with me,” A memory of Rozanov’s lazy smirk of the night before penetrates Shane’s brain, right then and there. His face turns hot. “I know I am very irresistible and the best lay you will ever have, man or woman, but I do not do relationships.”

So, maybe some people would always worship gods. But Shane had and always would be a devout atheist.

“He’s so fucking cool,” Luca breathes out beside Shane. Then, immediately, winces. “Please don’t tell him I said that.”

Shane glances at the first year. “Why not?”

“I accidentally told Singh that Roz was, like, my idol in high school. And because Singh has a big fat fucking mouth, he let it slip to him. Roz hasn’t shut up about it for weeks.”

Shane hadn’t known that. He also has to, carefully, fight back a scowl. Future hockey players idolizing Ilya Rozanov…the future of the sport was looking very bleak indeed.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, mildly.

“I mean, you have to admit that trick shot of his is insane,” Luca says. “And, well, look at him.”

Shane does look at him—at Rozanov. Their eyes meet, and the other winks at him. Shane’s cheeks instantly ignite.

“New record,” Rozanov mouths at him. His lips curl up in a self-satisfied grin, and Shane pictures gnawing a bloody hole right through the skin there. His fists curl by his sides.

“Fuck off,” he mouths right back. He doesn’t try to watch the way Rozanov laughs at that, head tossing back in glee, and confusing the fourth years hanging off his shoulders. He doesn’t try to hear that bark of amusement. It lingers, anyway.

“I think you could pick better idols,” he says to Luca.

“Probably,” Luca agrees, and pats Shane on the shoulder. “Cap.”

Then, he skates away to join Singh and the other first years, from where they surround Rozanov, probably bombarding him with eager questions. The upperclassmen, for once, aren’t poking fun at them; instead, they are also orbiting around Rozanov, though a little more subtly.

Rozanov knocks his knuckles against Luca’s helmet and says something to him—obviously something quite idiotic and annoying, in true Rozanov fashion—judging from how Luca seems to splutter. Still, the way the first year looks back at him...

It’s all admiration.

Shane watches until his eyes burn and he can no longer look. He tears his gaze away to study the cracks in the ice by Rozanov's feet, instead.

-

Shane finds Rozanov outside.

Surprisingly, he’s alone, his usual parade of groupies and friends, and lovers nowhere to be found. Unsurprisingly, he’s smoking, back against the wall, cigarette between those lips. Clouds of smoke shroud his face.

“You aren’t supposed to smoke here,” Shane says. Deja vu washes over him, of another time, all those years ago, when he had found a younger Rozanov had crouched right under a no-smoking sign, cigarette between his lips. His stomach lurches at the memory, at how Rozanov had stared up at him.

It had been the first time Shane had felt the weight of those icy blue eyes on his.

At that time, he had come to tell Rozanov that he was an amazing player. Despite his antagonism on the ice and the ache of his fractured nose, it had felt like the polite thing to do. It wasn’t like it was entirely wrong, either.

Then, Rozanov had looked at him, and all of the niceties had flown out the window.

Rozanov glances at him now. He’s out of his gear and freshly showered, and away from the blinding lights of the rink, in the shadows of the night, he’s little different. None of those cocky remarks and jokes that dig under Shane’s skin.

He’s quieter. Brooding.

Rozanov doesn’t say anything back, but his gaze trains on Shane’s. The weight of it makes every hair on the back of Shane’s neck rise slightly. The quiet stretches between them for a second, then two, before Shane’s had just about enough.

He jabs a thumb to the far corner of the parking lot, the designated smoking area. “You’re supposed to smoke over there.”

“Feeling nostalgic, Hollander?” Rozanov asks, after a long minute. “Because I have beaten you once again, yes?”

Shane rolls his eyes. “By three seconds.”

“Yes, but I beat you, nonetheless.”

Shane sighs and leans against the wall, next to the other man. They don’t touch, but he can feel the heat of Rozanov’s shoulder practically seeping into his, and the acrid scent of smoke fills his nostrils from this close. Shane’s face burns.

“You were such a dick back then. Well, you still are now.”

“Yeah,” Rozanov says, and blows out a cloud of smoke into the air. “And you are still too serious. Nothing has changed.”

Nothing ever will, Shane thinks, suddenly. Not between you and me.

He knows this—like he knows the back of his hand, the exact shade of icy blue of Rozanov’s annoying eyes, and as well as he knows the scrape of ice beneath his skates. And therein lies not just a fact, but a universal truth: Shane Hollander can’t stand Ilya Rozanov, and Rozanov can’t stand him right back.

There were very few constants in life, but this was one. And the thought gives him the burst of strength needed to keep talking.

“I don’t like you,” Shane says, suddenly. The other laughs, a short, sharp thing, but Shane powers forward before he can bite back. “And I know you don’t like me. But,” he swallows. “I want our deal to still work.”

Rozanov stills, before flicking his cigarette down onto the floor. He scuffs it out with the toe of his shoe and keeps rubbing until the ashy black stain has faded. Only then does he turn to look at Shane.

“Why?” is all Rozanov asks. Shane studies him, the glint of his chain and the sweep of golden-brown hair. The mole on the side of his face.

“Because,” he says. “I want to win.”

“Win nationals, you mean,” Rozanov fills in for him.

I want to win everything, Shane wants to correct him. I want to win nationals, I want to win the team’s respect. I want to win at sex and understand who I am. I want to defeat you—to resurface from this current you’ve been drowning me under for seven long years—and laugh in your fucking face, Ilya Rozanov.

Instead of saying all that, he hands Rozanov the planner.

Rozanov takes it, studying the cover, before looking back at Shane, smoke pouring from his nostrils. Shane’s heart races in his chest at the sight, inexplicably. They watch each other for a moment longer, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, Rozanov gets it.

“See you after class,” Shane says, eventually, and leaves.