Chapter Text
It was all Rose’s fault, really. Or maybe it was Fabian Salah’s. Or maybe it was Ilya’s, because it always came back to Ilya with Shane.
Shane was used to the way Ilya teased him, calling him boring or slow. There was no malice in it and deep down Shane knew the words were a lie. Someone as vibrant as Ilya could never be with someone truly dull, and he was just as fast as Ilya on a good day. Maybe faster.
It was just that there was a new teasing refrain that Ilya had been whipping out lately, that Shane was “bad at being gay.” It came when Shane had to ask who Kylie Minogue was and why the gay club JJ had taken him to in a bid to be supportive seemed to be selling leather cleaner behind the counter. It stung a little to think could be bad at something he had struggled to come to terms with for so long. Though maybe that why he was bad at it? He had spent so long hiding his gayness, even from himself, that he never got to really feel gay, whatever that meant. It didn’t matter, he reminded himself. Ilya loved him anyway and Shane had a foolproof comeback whenever his boyfriend brought it up.
“I suck your dick pretty well for someone who is bad at being gay.” That usually had Ilya eating his words, and then Shane.
It had gotten worse, though, after meeting Fabian. Ryan Price’s gorgeous effeminate boyfriend made Shane feel itchy in his very skin. At first he feared that this was a manifestation of his internalised homophobia – a term he’d learnt from Scott Hunter’s TEDx talk – becoming externalised at this very openly gay man. That idea had made Shane feel so sick and ashamed that he almost bailed on his concert entirely. He’d felt unworthy of going to a gay club. It was only Ilya’s enthusiasm, combined with Shane’s feeling that they really did owe Ryan for keeping their secret, that got Shane out the door. He bundled away his fears that he was a gay homophobic asshole hockey player into a box to be unpacked later, likely on a transcontinental flight while feigning sleep so his teammates would leave him alone.
Watching Fabian on stage had been pure torture for Shane. It wasn’t just that he was dying to touch Ilya and knew Ilya was dying to touch him in return. That had been Shane’s most pressing concern at the time, but once he and Ilya were home and drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms, the realisation hit Shane like a bucket of ice cold water to the face.
He didn’t hate Fabian. He was jealous him. Not of his voice or his enormous rugged boyfriend – Shane knew where his own talent lay and would only ever have eyes for Ilya – but of his blatant queerness. Their double date with Ryan and Fabian had made Shane feel truly inadequate in his own sexual identity for the first time ever. It had felt much more significant than mixing up Patti LuPone and Barbra Streisand. Shane had spent years trying to be less gay, to repress his desire to be pounded into a mattress by his Russian rival. Why was he suddenly worried that he wasn’t gay enough?
Shane envied how Fabian could stand there on stage and own his sexuality and gender identity, and basically be everything two decades of hockey had taught Shane that he shouldn’t be. That he couldn’t be. Shane didn’t think he wanted to wear makeup or rhinestone jewellery. He was pretty sure he didn’t, at least, but what if deep down he did but stupid hockey and its culture of compulsory masculinity – another term he learnt from Hunter – had broken his brain forever? It was all so messy and complicated and Shane could feel his brain begin to overheat as he lay next to Ilya’s sleeping form. Fuck Fabian for making it look so easy.
It was an ugly feeling, to resent a man Shane barely knew and who had been nothing but polite towards him. It certainly wasn’t something he could confess to anyone, not even Ilya. He didn’t think Ilya would understand and he didn’t want him to know that his sweet Canadian boyfriend was harbouring such vicious emotions towards an innocent gay bystander. So Shane did what he always did. He compacted his spiralling fears into a box and shoved it into the attic of his mine.
It all came to a head near the end of that summer when he was with Rose in New York. Shane hated being apart from Ilya always, but especially in the summer. That was their time, away from mandatory trainings and road trips that never seemed to sync up the way they wished. However, his mom and Farah had both insisted he make this trip. He had a meeting with Speedo about a new campaign and a lunch with Rolex and his fellow brand ambassadors lined up for the same day. When he realised that Rose would be in town at the same time shooting exteriors for her latest film, he decided to make a weekend out of it. Ilya was supportive of the trip and Shane wouldn’t even be missing that much cottage time with him as Ilya was heading back to Ottawa to pay a visit to the children’s hospital.
“Ottawa summer is so short as it is, so to spend precious weeks in a hospital bed, it is sad. Maybe beating an NHL star at Mario Kart will cheer them up?” he had reasoned when telling Shane about the visit. “Have fun with your ex-girlfriend in Manhattan, da?”
It was with that blessing that Shane slid into a discrete booth at the back of a trendy Asian-fusion restaurant in the West Village.
“How was the filming?” he asked, pressing a kiss to Rose’s cheek.
“Boring and we got rained on. How was your day being the NHL’s most marketable star?” Rose teased, having already ordered a drink for herself and Shane.
“It was fine. Speedo want to shoot a campaign with me by the end of the year, but it won’t come out until spring because that’s when people buy swimwear, and the Rolex lunch was pretty dull. I could have got away with skipping it but Mom thinks it’s a good idea to keep all the sponsors on side right now.”
“Because…?” Rose prompted over her menu.
“Just in case shit hits the fan, y’know,” Shane mumbled, gesturing abstractly with his hand. It wasn’t like there were clauses in his contracts that would nullify them if he was outed. Hell, the marketing teams had probably heard the rumours by now that Shane liked men. He just didn’t want to give any of them an excuse to drop him, something to hide behind like that he was shirking his commitments to the brand, so he had to give it 110%. Always.
The food was delicious and mostly seafood, which meant Shane could actually eat it so long as he didn’t think too hard about the rich sauces his fish sat in. It was easy to not think so much when he was with Rose and had a cocktail in his hand. He didn’t usually drink during the season but it was the summer and he was in New York. Rose kept ordering more drinks and Shane was enjoying her company too much to say no.
“So I’m thinking of getting a tattoo,” Rose announced after the server cleared their final course. They spent the meal gossiping about their respective industries, Rose’s disaster of a dating life and Shane’s miracle of a relationship, but this had Rose leaning forward with an air of excitement the other topics had not.
“Okay,” Shane responded politely, unsure whether his opinion was being sought or not. He had seen plenty of tattoos in locker rooms over the years but didn’t really have strong views on them. Well, except for Ilya’s.
“This might sound a little crazy but I want to do something to my body that’s just for me,” Rose continued. “My hair cut and colour, how I dress, how my body moves – all of it is in service to characters I play and the creatives behind the movies. Don’t get me wrong, I know that’s part of acting and I signed up for this career, but it would be nice to have something on my body that’s mine.”
Shane nodded earnestly. He understood what Rose meant. It was a little different, maybe, but Shane’s body was a machine for hockey first and foremost. It had been honed and shaped by coaches and trainers to become a vessel for hockey greatness from before he’d even hit puberty and it had only got more intense from there. Shane would never regret that. He loved that his body let him play the sport he loved and bring pride to legions of Montreal fans. It was a tool in service of his game. What he loved less was the use of that hockey-toned body for promotion and endorsement deals. He knew that he should be thankful to have so many opportunities to make additional money and he agreed to many of them, mindful that there would come a day when his body could no longer keep going. It was smart to cash in and invest wisely while he could. That didn’t stop it from feeling a bit gross when they rubbed him down with oil and made him pose like he was a commodity, no more human than the objects he was supposed to be selling.
Perversely, the only times Shane’s body truly felt like his own was when he was sharing it with Ilya, and those times were nowhere near frequent enough, especially during the season. He thought back to the night before he’d had to leave the cottage and how Ilya’s hands had been on his jaw, his nipples, his hips…
Rose was staring at him like she was waiting for a response. Fuck.
“Sorry, what was that?” Shane was embarrassed. Daydreaming about Ilya was no excuse to be rude to Rose. He finished his cocktail in an attempt to cover his blush.
“I asked if you’d want to come with me so I can get my tattoo,” she said, smirking like she knew just what had distracted him.
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, the artist is dating of one of the hairstylists on set. We’ve been emailing about the design for a week or so. She is keeping the studio open late for me. C’mon, it’ll be fun and I need my big strong gay NHL ex-boyfriend to hold my hand during baby’s first tattoo.”
It was hard to say no to Rose and her big eyes at the best of times, but after throwing back more drinks in one night than he’d had in the entire year up to this point, he was putty in her hands. He had no commitments the following day, aside from vague plans to run along the High Line.
“Let’s get the check then,” he grinned.
The tattoo studio was intimidatingly cool, with exposed brick and edgy black-and-white prints of all sorts of body modifications adorning the walls. It was the type of place that made Shane feel more like a square than ever, which was saying something as he often felt like that even in the rigidly conformist world of professional hockey. One of the photos caught his eye. It was a close up of a nipple – a male nipple, Shane thought – pierced through with a barbell. A silver chain linked the balls on each side of the nipple, dangling just below the nub in a way that looked unreasonably delicate. Shane felt his mouth go dry. There were images of other piercings and tattoos and even something that looked like a ritualistic scar, all of which were arguably more transgressive than the simple nipple piercing, but Shane found himself unable to stop glancing back at it as he followed Rose down a corridor to a private room.
Fabian Salah had a nipple piercing, of course. Shane had spotted it beneath his casual attire during the double date, and then again much more clearly as it glinted beneath his stage lights, on display through his sheer performance outfit. There was something that had been so blatant about it. So queer. Shane hadn’t been able to stop glancing at it.
“This is my emotional support ex,” Rose chimed, pulling Shane into the room behind her. Two heavily tattooed and pierced women looked up at him with general disinterest before turning their attention fully to Rose. Shane stood awkwardly to the side while the women discussed placement and size, his mind drifting back to the photo of the nipple piercing. It was stupid, Shane castigated himself. Nipple piercings on men weren’t inherently gay. Plenty of straight men had them. He was certain he had watched a film where the surfer dude male lead had one, and that guy had not been lacking for women. If he got one it would be very gay though, Shane supposed and then shook his head as if that could physically detach the uninvited thought from his mind. If he, Shane Hollander, got a nipple piercing? Where had that come from?
Rose proudly displayed the blue stencil on the back of her arm. It was meant to be stylised eastern white pine, the state tree of Michigan. Shane privately thought it looked indistinguishable from the trees around his cottage and most of the rest of North America, but figured that would be unhelpful to mention.
“It looks great,” he said, because that was what supportive gay NHL ex-boyfriends were supposed to say.
“It’ll mean more time in the makeup chair but what the fuck, let’s do it!” Rose smiled and took her position on the bed. One of the women pulled around a stool so Shane could sit by her.
“I’m Tash, by the way,” she said. “Vic’s girlfriend.” She nodded at the taller women who was currently preparing what Shane knew had to be a tattoo gun to start working on Rose.
“The hairstylist, right?” Shane confirmed. His stomach was doing the weird thing it did on those rare occasions he was around a gay couple. Thankfully he’d spent enough time on photoshoot sets to make passable small talk with Tash about call times and craft services while his insides roiled. Rose was a good distraction too, wincing and hissing as the needle worked her skin and gripping at Shane’s fingers so hard he thought they might bruise.
A man entered the space and passed out bottles of fancy mineral water. He was less tattooed than the women but made up for it with more ear piercings than Shane would have thought possible .
“I’m CJ. I work with Vic,” he said, shaking Shane’s hand that was not being crushed by Rose and handing him a bottle
“Shane. Nice to meet you. It is good of you guys to stay open.”
“Anything for friends of friends,” Vic chimed in, blowing Tash a kiss as she worked.
“And VIPs,” CJ winked at Shane. “Will you be getting any ink tonight?”
“Uh, no. Tattoos aren’t really for me,” he began, and then remembered with a panic that he was the only un-inked person in the room. “Super cool on other people though.” He was relieved when everyone laughed at his quick save instead of being offended.
“No worries, honey,” Vic smirked. “We’ll be here if you ever change your mind.”
“You do piercings too, right?” Shane asked before he could really think it through. He didn’t know what made him say it – the alcohol in his bloodstream, Rose’s urge to reclaim her own body, or that fucking photo out in the corridor. He could feel himself beginning to blush and he tried to summon the words to clarify that he was only making conversation, but Rose cut him off.
“Yes, Shane. Get a piercing. Be in pain with me!” she squealed from the bed.
“Of course,” CJ answered. “I can sort you out while Vic finishes with Rose. What do you want done? Lobe?”
“Uh, no. I was thinking, um. Nipple?” It sounded like a question coming out of his mouth but as soon as it was in the air it felt real. True. Right. Fuck, he wanted it.
“Good choice,” Tash said and Shane though she almost sounded impressed. “It makes them extra sensitive too.”
“You know who will love that.” Rose’s eyes were wide again as she let go of Shane’s hand and clumsily pushed his stool towards CJ.
“Let’s get you all set then, Shane.”
There was a form, a tray of jewellery options and then suddenly Shane was shirtless in a different room. It was just as sterile and professional as the one Rose was getting tattooed in, which should have been a relief to Shane’s germophobic tendencies but only brought home the reality that he was about to have a sharp metal needle stabbed into his body. The idea was as thrilling as it was terrifying.
“Which side, Shane?” CJ asked, approach him armed with a marker. Shane blanked. Fuck, this was stupid. He should know the answer to this before he got in the white reclining chair. He shouldn’t be doing this at all, really, but it was too late to back out now.
“Uh, both,” he responded, because that was easier than choosing. Besides, he always liked things symmetrical. It was neater that way.
Shane hadn’t really considered the pain of getting pierced until just before it happened. He was used to pain as a professional athlete, just as he was used to others touching and manipulating his body. The first piercing didn’t hurt, at least not at first. It was just pressure. It reminded him of how some of the worst hits he had taken on the ice barely stung. It was only when he got back to the bench that he could really feel them. A sports psychologist who had come to speak to his Montreal team had explained this was something to do with the adrenaline flooding the body. Shane couldn’t quite remember, nor could he concentrate on the instructions CJs was giving him as his black gloved-hands worked quickly.
The second piercing hurt like a motherfucker. So much for that adrenaline, Shane thought. Suddenly his whole chest was pressure and heat. The burn was intense, but somehow satisfying. It was proof he had done something real and permanent to his body. The thought made him want to grin like an idiot, but he fought it. There were seriously cool and lowkey people in this building and Shane didn’t want to seem like an overeager neophyte.
Rose had no such qualms. After returning to her side, armed with a piercing aftercare booklet and spray bottle of saline, Shane resumed holding her hand while the finishing touches of her tattoo were needled into her skin. Rose hadn’t been happy to see Shane come back into the room with his shirt resolutely back on, saying she needed the distraction from the pain. He offered his hand back to her instead.
“I just can’t believe it. Canada’s golden boy, Mister Sponsor-Friendly himself, has nipple piercings! This is the best day of my life,” Rose crowed into the bed, quick to forgive.
“I’m sorry your bar is so low, Ms Landry,” Shane deadpanned. He was avoiding looking down at the shapes his new additions made under his button-down. The heat and dull throbbing coming from the fresh piercings made them impossible to ignore entirely, but Shane could be patient. He’d turned down CJ’s offer of a mirror. He wanted to wait until he was alone, safe in his own hotel room, to take a proper look.
At last, Rose’s tattoo was finished and they paid up, each adding on a hefty tip for the after-hours service. Shane had to half-carry Rose to her waiting town car, although he suspected she was drunk off the buzz of her new body art as much as from the cocktails they’d had over dinner. Shane certainly felt the heady effects of both as he blew Rose a kiss through the darkened window and waited for his own car.
He shared the elevator ride in at his upscale Midtown hotel with an older couple clutching playbills. Shane wondered if they could tell they were riding in an elevator with a man who had pierced nipples, and then immediately rebuked himself for his stupidity. This was a big deal to precisely no one except him. Well, and Ilya. Oh God, he had to tell Ilya. That was a matter for tomorrow’s Shane.
It took several tries to get the keycard to work before Shane stumbled into his room. He stripped off at once, leaving an uncharacteristic trail of clothing from the door to the walk-in wardrobe where he knew there was a full length mirror. Standing in front of its reflective surface, he let himself truly look for the first time.
There they were. The simple silver barbells decorated each of his tight dark nipples. His body had the same familiar contours as ever, tanned skin stretched over strong muscle, but the effect of the piercings was instantaneous. Shane’s eyes no longer saw a machine build for winning faceoffs and scoring goals. Instead he saw something more hedonistic, a body crafted for pleasure and exploration. He trailed his hands up his torso, marvelling at how such a small change could make him feel so transformed. Remembering CJ’s guidance, he stopped short of touching his nipples. Shane could see they looked raw and a little swollen already, but they also looked fucking good. He looked fucking good. Sexy was never a word he thought he would use to describe himself, no matter how many times Ilya bestowed it upon him. But now… Hell, he looked like a man who knew how to take his boyfriend’s thick cock like a champ and love every second of it. When he looked in the mirror, in nothing but his tight black sponsor-gifted briefs and very much not-sponsor-approved nipple bars, he felt he looked queer for the first time.
It was wonderful. Empowering. Freeing. Terrifying? Where had that come from? He looked gay. Very gay. And he played a sport that involved tight compression shirts. Had he just outed himself via piercing? Oh god, his team would give him so much shit for this. The panic rose up from the depths of his guts and seemed to catch in his throat. It was that or the alcohol or both which had him sprinting to the ensuite to empty his dinner into the toilet. Fuck.
As he lay on the marble tiles, waiting for the world to stop spinning, he reached blindly for his cell phone.
Jane: i thjnk i jus didd somtin stupid