Chapter Text
Shane stares at the sign outside the pub. He checks the message from this guy Hayden for the twentieth time.
Hayden:
hey shane im your buddy, hayden, to help you settle into the team. ill see you at the meet and greet tonight! this is me:
[image]
it's at a pub called the crease, wacky name i know but i promise it's not a strip club or gay bar haha. once you get off the train you should see it
we'll all be on the rooftop
Shane:
Thank you. I'll be there at ten past eight.
This is me.
[image]
no worries dude, get here whenever!
Shane feels the jolt in his gut again as he reads the casual mention of a gay bar. Luckily, the hockey men's teams he's been in so far have all been accepting of having a trans guy on the team. But that was the amateur leagues. The university ones are more intense, or so he's heard.
Shane considers texting to let Hayden know he's out front, so he doesn't wander around the bar like a lost idiot.
No, it's okay. Just go in and look, and see if you see the team. How hard can it be to find the rooftop?
He reaches for his earplugs and inserts them carefully, a god-send for loud, crowded spaces like this. He steps into the pub, and a waiter points him to a claustrophobic staircase. Breathing in time with his steps helps settle his nerves as he ascends.
There's a cute, helpful sign at the rooftop bar: Welcome New Mets!, and everyone certainly looks like they play hockey. All the guys are taller than Shane, and heavily built of course. He tugs on his shirt, self-conscious at the uninteresting grey colour and unflattering cut. But it was the only kind-of casual, kind-of formal shirt he owned, and Rose agreed that it was the best choice in his limited wardrobe for something like this. He spots about four other guys in similar shirts and tan chinos, which helps him feel better.
Shane heads to the bar while scanning the crowd for a guy who looks like Hayden's selfie. He grabs a ginger ale, thanking the bartender.
"Hey, you must be Shane!" A sandy-haired man sidles up to him at the bar, the red shirt matching his photo. "I'm Hayden, good to meet you, bro."
"Yeah, you too."
"So you're totally new, right, new to the uni? First year?"
"I am, yeah."
"Must be a lot! I'm a third year. Are you settling in okay?" He has a warm, easy smile that Shane tries to return.
"It is a bit, and yeah. When's our first practice again?"
"On Saturday. We always have an easy first one, to get to know the new guys joining."
"Okay, great. Not too easy though, right?"
Hayden slaps him on the shoulder with a grin. "Ah, we got a go-getter! What do you play?"
Shane's cheeks heat a little. "Center."
"Oh, fuck yeah. Definitely a go-getter, I can tell. The guys can get a bit rowdy and competitive, but we all back each other. Including, uh...all kinds of guys." Hayden looks a bit embarrassed, but determined. Shane curls up inside. The big attempt to show he's welcome as a trans guy is very nice. However, it does remind Shane that there's still a roundness to his cheeks, and his facial hair is faint enough, that people still sometimes say 'no problem, babe'. And it's obvious enough for Hayden to catch on that he's not...like every other guy on the team.
"Thanks, man. I really appreciate it," Shane says, trying to sounds like he means it.
"Come over here and meet some of them!" Hayden heads to a corner by the balcony with good views over the city. Shane follows, grateful to have a designated guide for this social event.
"Hey guys, this is Shane, he's our next star center." He waggles his eyebrows at him.
"Oh, big call, Pikey!" someone laughs. The players introduce themselves one by one, and Shane starts committing the names to memory.
"What shame that we already have star center," one drawls in a thick Russian accent. He leans against the railing, blowing cigarette smoke out over the city. He's wearing an almost garishly patterned shirt, unbuttoned to the bottom of his chest. Sharp eyes track over Shane intently.
"This is Ilya Rozanov," Hayden says. "You might have to hospitalise him if you want to play center anytime soon."
"Noted," Shane says, sipping his drink to avoid that intense gaze.
"You are Shane Hollander, yes? I have heard of you."
"Yeah?" Shane feels himself bristle. His acceptance into a men's league last year as a trans man did get some low-level coverage. He stands straighter, ready for some insult about -
"Mm, yes. My friend took me to see final of your league last year. You scored big hat-trick to win game." He takes a slow sip of his clear drink. "But backhand is a bit weak."
"Rozy! Let the guy say hello first," Hayden says sharply. The other guys mutter and roll their eyes, clearly used to this.
"Weak backhand?" Shane scoffs.
"Yes. Is okay, I will teach you. Maybe let you play center once or twice during season."
"That's not happening." Shane feels anger running under his skin, but relief as well, that the guy was just chirping his hockey skills. "Thanks for your generous offer, though."
"Very welcome, Hollander," he smirks.
"He's an asshole, Shane, don't mind him. Let's say hi to JJ. Did you really pull off a hat-trick to win your final?"
Shane drifts away behind Hayden. He shoots a glare back at the Russian, taking a drag from the cigarette. He's watching him go with a dark, curious look in his eyes.
What a dick. And there's no way I can avoid him for the rest of the year, if he's another forward. At least the rest of the guys seem cool.
Ilya slaps his helmet into place and skates out onto the ice, as the team gets ready for the first practice session together. A couple of his teammates chirp at him, and he fires back as always. He likes this team, much more than hockey in Russia. In the year he's been playing with them, he's gotten a reputation as the hot-headed one, always ready to take an insult a step too far. But it's all part of the game, and he's missed them over the break.
He watches Hayden chatting to Shane Hollander, giving him the run down on their standard drills. Ilya almost smiles at the focused look on the new player's face. He wouldn't be surprised if he pulled out a little notebook to take notes.
Hollander skates up to him slowly.
"Rozanov," he says, halfway between polite and defensive.
"Hollander," Ilya says, just a little mocking. "Your skate is unlaced."
"It - " He looks down in shock at his very secured laces. He glares at him. "Are you serious? That's so juvenile."
"What is this word?"
"Oh." Hollander's bluster evaporates. "Like, childlike."
"Mm. Like your backhand?"
"What is your problem?" Hollander snaps. "You don't even know me."
"Don't have problem," Ilya says. He's sincere, but Hollander doesn't have to know that. "Every team needs team asshole, to tell them how to improve. It is a responsibility I take very serious."
"Seriously," Hollander corrects him.
Ilya deliberately ignores it. "Yes, seriously."
"No, I - "
"And you, Hollander, are too serious." He taps his stick on the ice. "Come on. Let's see what you can do."
"You better be good if you're this arrogant." Hollander squares up to him with a fierce look on his face that almost makes Ilya smile.
Hollander then proceeds to wipe the floor with him that practice. Ilya is stronger than him, but he saw the center's speed at the game he watched last year, and testing himself against it was something else. He pushes himself to his limits, rusty after the break, but exhilarated.
Coach calls practice to a close. Hollander pants, eyes bright and clearly trying not to smile.
"Not bad." He holds out a fist to him.
Ilya punches his shoulder instead. "You are promising, Hollander. Next practice I might sabotage your skates so we are same speed." He knows he's in trouble when Hollander goes a beautiful shade of red under his helmet, and his first thought is, fuck that's hot.
He recovers fast. "Don't be too discouraged, Rozanov. I'm sure you're gonna be a great wing for the team."
"Ah, I think there is problem with your English. I am good center, you are good wing."
Hollander punches his shoulder. "Sure, buddy."
"Buddy," he grumbles as he follows him to the locker room.
The team chatters to themselves as they get changed, organising work-outs together over the next few days.
"You're so fucking good, Hollander! Not that I'm surprised, of course, but damn this is going to be a good season!"
Ilya watches Hollander from the corner of his eye as he mumbles something back to Hayden. He changes quickly, a fresh t-shirt pulled over his head to cover his binder, clearly planning to shower at home. No one else in the team pays it any attention.
JJ is leaning over the sink, inspecting a cut on his chin. "Every goddamn time," he mutters. "I'm so shit at shaving."
"Gotta wait until playoffs to grow it out, hey," Hayden says. "Who's growing their beards this year, boys?" There's a round of grunts around the room.
Ilya sees Hayden go a bit pink as he looks at Hollander, taking in the valiant few wisps of hair on his chin. Hollander looks like he wants to crawl out of his skin. Then he sucks in a breath.
"Look, I'll give it a go," he says, his voice carrying. "But I might need a few more months on testosterone before I can really get into the spirit."
There's a beat of silence. Then the guys are laughing, slapping him on the back in a way they haven't before. Ilya smiles to himself as he sees pure relief break out over Hollander's face.
Ilya holds back. Hollander finally seeks him out, eyes guarded.
He smirks. "Have you tried bread crusts? I hear is good for getting hairs on your chest. Or is it just my Russian genetics?"
The team laughs again. Hollander looks surprised, but something relaxes around his eyes.
"Fuck off, Rozanov."
"That's it! Get into the team spirit, Hollz," Hayden grins.
Hollander's eyes stay on Ilya, who's standing in a towel and nothing else. They drift for a moment down to his chest, to the moles, the scattered hair there.
To the almost-invisible scars under his nipples.
Hollander frowns, staring for a moment, until Ilya crosses his arms and stares back. Hollander turns to keep packing up his things, shooting him one more look, as Ilya heads to the showers.
He tosses his towel aside and ducks under the spray, glad to get the sweat off his skin.
"God, you better not be a grow-er, Rozy," Vaughn says beside him, giving his hefty cock a glance as he soaps up. "Those poor girls."
Ilya smiles as he washes around his crotch. He admires the tattoo work briefly around the head of his cock, artfully covering any scars from the casual eye. It's been years since anyone had noticed that Ilya's cock didn't quite look or work like everyone else's.
"Mm, yes, am pleased. I would choose show-er any day. If I could, of course. I am show-off, after all." He holds back a laugh, remembering the day someone taught him about the grow-ers and show-ers joke in English, and realising that he and his surgeon did, in fact, choose to show.
"That you fucking are, Rozy."
It feels like another lifetime, his childhood in Russia. Escaping as a teenager when he realised just how badly he did not fit the girl's life laid ahead of him. All the surgeries, the waiting, his body finally, finally becoming shaped into what it was meant to be.
He sees in Hollander the same fight he had, once, to be seen. When his voice was cracking instead of a deep rumble, and no one could see him.
He sends a quiet thought back to that girl, who fought for Ilya Rozanov.
One day, you will stand under a shitty weak shower in a smelly locker room with a bunch of boys saying stupid things. Saying stupid things, to you.
And you will be happy.
"Your teammates seem cool!" Rose calls out over the music. Shane nods, happy to be ensconced in their booth, not on the heaving club dance-floor. Most of the team are out there letting off steam after their first game of the season, Rose and a few others friends and family tagging along. "What a great first win. Strong team. And you played wing super well!"
"Yeah. I guess it's good to try out different forward positions." He tries not to sound too frustrated.
She rolls her eyes. "Which one is the annoying Russian again? So I can break his collarbone or something and give you a shot at center."
He smiles. "Over there. Blond, mole on the cheek. Crazy shirt." He nods to the dancing bodies. Rozanov is dancing hip-to-hip with a girl. He whispers something into her ear that makes her laugh. Shane tries not to stare at where those large, strong hands are wandering.
Rose gasps a little. "Oh, shit. Maybe I could sleep with him so he runs late for the next game instead?"
"Rose!"
"What?! Look at him!"
"He's the worst."
"You're sure he's not being an asshole because you're trans? Because I could always bite his dick off."
"No, he doesn't give a shit about that." Shane sips his drink. "It's...kind of nice, actually."
"It is?" Rose has been his best friend since forever. She was the first one he'd called, about two years ago, in the midst of a panic attack because he'd realised that he might be a man. "Well," she'd said, as kind and cheerful as always. "That explains our one-month-long relationship when we were twelve. I always wondered why I was straight except for you!"
"Yeah. Some of the others are a bit nervous, you know? They never check me or chirp, in case they look like an asshole. At least when we're playing another team, they just think I'm a guy."
"You are a guy!"
Shane holds back a sigh. He knows she means well. "I know."
"Sorry. Duh."
"Rozanov doesn't care about looking like an asshole."
"And a Greek god," she mutters into her drink.
"Rose! Jesus Christ."
She just laughs. "Well, don't you think so?"
"I don't know." Shane doesn't know. It had been a weird enough couple of years figuring out his gender, let alone sexuality. He didn't know who he liked. He just knows the cocky center gets under his skin.
She sighs, covering her hand in his. "Maybe you'll get lucky tonight?"
"Oh, hell yeah, Hollz," Hayden slides into the booth opposite them. "I used to meet girls here all the time. Now that I'm happily, deeply, committed, can I please, please, live vicariously through you?"
"You both suck," Shane says, rolling his eyes.
"Hi, I'm Rose!" she calls out.
"Hayden!"
"Good game!"
"Thanks! Shane's the goat, I'm looking forward to him single-handedly winning the cup for us!"
"Right?!"
Shane feels himself blush. "I need the bathroom."
"There's gender-neutral toilets here," Hayden says brightly.
"Thanks, dude." Shane's blush deepens. He's happy to know, and not many of his friends even think to check that kind of thing. But it still makes embarrassment spike in him, to be singled out. He shoots the men's bathroom a quick, mournful look as he walks past to the gender-neutral one. One day, he'll get to walk in there, and no one will spare a second thought.
When he emerges, he heads to the water station on the bar, just to make sure his one beer doesn't cause a hangover tomorrow. As he's pouring, a golden hand reaches past him for a cup. Spicy musk fills his nose. Shane sucks in a breath, involuntarily seeking more.
Rozanov is leaning against the bar, with maybe an inch between them.
"Having good night, Hollander?" His skin glistens with sweat under the lights.
"Yeah. Nice to let loose with the team."
"You are letting loose, are you? With one drink?"
Shane glares at him. Why does this guy always have something clever to say?
"How did you know it was one drink?"
He shrugs. "Guess. And you just confirmed." He passes Shane his empty cup, fingers brushing. It sends an odd thrill through him. "Thanks."
Shane rolls his eyes. But for some reason, he fills it with water after he finishes his own.
"Your girlfriend is quite pretty." Rozanov's eyes change from blue to pink to blue with the lights, always fixed on Shane. As he passes back the cup, their fingertips brush again. Was that deliberate?
"She's just a friend."
"Oh, good. Is she available?"
"I though you already had a...friend."
"So you noticed her and I dancing? " His eyes get a wicked look in them, and he leans closer. "Did you watch?"
"No!" Shane snaps. He doesn't think about those lips, so close to his right now, on anyone's neck. Nope.
"Did you like?"
"Absolutely not!"
"I believe you," the Russian purrs. He blows Shane a kiss, then disappears into the crowd without another word.
Shane downs his water in one. What the fuck was that? He's sure Rozanov is straight; he'd done his research about LGBTQ+ inclusion for the league, and knew all of the depressingly small number of out players.
He might not be out? Then why the fuck was he saying things like that in the middle of a club with his team around?
He might be a chaser, he thinks sourly. But he didn't seem like it. He just seemed like...
...a hot, shit-stirring asshole. He sighs. Fuck it. He goes to the bar for another beer, trying not to think of how smug that Greek god face would be if Rozanov catches sight of it. Thankfully, he doesn't see him for the rest of the night.
Probably following his wandering hands.
Hands that he can't stop thinking about.
The following week, the team skates in circles during practice, cooling down. Ilya digs his skates into the ice. Stupid Hollander winning shot contest. Stupid smug look that he covers up to be humble because he is such good, good boy. He loved playing center, but Hollander's talent was undeniable.
"In!" yells Coach, and they collect into a huddle. "Now, positions for the next game. Let's go with center for Ro - "
"Hollander," Ilya cuts in, before his pride catches up with him. The team stares at him.
"What?" says Coach.
"What? He's not bad." Ilya enjoys the way Hollander's eyes widen at him, before he recovers.
"Damn right, Rozanov," he says gruffly.
"You have learned much from me in short time, very impressive," he says. Hollander glares, but before he can retaliate, Coach raises a hand.
"Rozy, if you're sure, I think it's a good call. Happy with right wing?"
"Yes," he sighs. Not really. But Hollander keeps outshining him in a way that he should be finding much more annoying than it is.
As the team breaks up to head to the lockers, Hollander skates up to him, knocking him with more than a little force.
"You know, I don't need your help," he hisses.
"I know this."
"Then I don't want goddamn handouts, just because I'm..."
"What? Very good player?"
"You know."
"A little shorter than other men?"
Hollander's glare could melt ice. "Trans, Rozanov. I don't need you to hand me opportunities, I'm going to earn them, alright?"
"You have," he murmured. "Earned it. If I gave you center in first game that would be handout, no?"
Hollander stops still, frowning.
"Your backhand is stronger than even few weeks ago. You read plays like very few players can. And you're slightly fast. Only slightly." Ilya hates saying the words, but they're true. And he knows the player needs to hear them. "You do have one big flaw, however. The good news is, this we can work on."
"What?" he asks reluctantly.
"You have bad fashion taste. And still play too seriously."
Hollander snorts, then starts to laugh. Ilya watches with a warmth in his chest that he tries to ignore.
"Why are you such an asshole even when you're being nice?"
"I am not nice. Liar told you that."
"Right. You are slow, though."
"Ah- no!" Ilya starts to smile.
"You said it yourself!"
"Then I am liar."
"You're the worst." They head towards the locker room, trailing behind the team.
"Thank you," Ilya says, meeting Hollander's glare with his characteristic smirk.
And part of him looks forward to the next game, and getting to play at his wing.