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The lights are on. Fuck.
Shane makes it up the stairs, just. It’s getting hard to breathe. He’s gulping air. Did he drive home? His hair is wet. Is it raining? That specific brand of nausea that seems to be triggered by Rozanov’s proximity, those violent, relentless jitters, that’s expected. He’s getting used to it. But that’s nothing compared to what’s coursing through his body after what happened tonight. After what he did.
He fishes for his keys on autopilot before he realises the sheer stupidity of that, and kicks the door open instead.
The place feels off. Like it’s at an angle. Shane whips his head around. All his stuff looks normal, in its right place, the Montreal backdrop glittering among the reflections of the lamps dotted around the place. He can’t seem to focus on anything. Maybe Rozanov isn’t even here. Maybe he has a second to pull himself togeth–
Shane’s eyes lock onto Rozanov’s like a bolt slotting into place.
He’s reclined into the corner of the couch, arm slung over the side, knee falling open onto the seat. Tumbler in hand, something brown he must’ve found in a forgotten cupboard. Looking amused.
“Well done,” Shane says, and his voice only wobbles a fraction. It should come easy to him. It’s Shane’s brand. But tonight, with him, he’s having to force the words out.
Rozanov’s eyes crinkle. “Thanks,” he says. Shane doesn’t expect any congratulations, but the absence of the return hangs between them, possibly even louder.
Yeah. Tonight was a real low for him.
Which is why it’s crazy they’re here at all. Shane should’ve called it off, but the door code had been sent before the game. It never would’ve made it across, after. He shouldn’t be around people in this state.
He’s acutely aware of the fact he’s not really talking, or moving, or doing anything at all. There’s static in his brain where thoughts should go.
Shane zips out of his coat and drops it. It’s heavy. Maybe it is raining. Maybe his arms are jelly. Rozanov’s eyes follow it down to the floor, then back up.
Rozanov tilts his head.
Shane bristles. “I don’t need your pity.”
Rozanov’s eyebrows fly up.
“Sorry,” Shane says, reflexively, blinking. His heart’s thumping out of his throat. Like there’s danger, maybe.
“Ref was harsh,” Rozanov says instead.
“He was perfectly fair,” Shane spits back, “I fucking slew-footed him.” Connors had landed on his fucking neck. Shane blinks and blinks.
“On purpose? You?” Dripping with skepticism.
Shane can’t answer. He doesn’t think it was. Certainly didn’t mean for him to go flying–
“Connors walked it off,” Rozanov shrugs, then stands up, a sort of douchey reluctance in his limbs. Connors had walked it off, miraculously, but Shane hadn’t been there to see it. His mind replays the gasps of the crowd, the anger reverberating around the stadium as the ref had called it. Even louder as he’d walked out. As if Shane had been the one deserving of support.
The air is charged, but it’s the wrong kind, and Shane’s gut twists and clenches. His gaze tracks Rozanov’s frame, his nearly dry curls, black sweatshirt and joggers, his white socks, his eyes and lips and angles and endless confidence, until they all disappear into the kitchen.
Shane balls his fists. “He could’ve…” He could’ve died, is the point Shane is trying so desperately to make, but he can’t even say it.
The squeak of the fridge, a clink on the countertop.
There’s something thrumming underneath his skin. It’s been there all day, but since getting sent off it’s been relentless. Insistent. He’s going to either get it together, now, or blow the whole thing off. This is pointless.
Rozanov comes back into view and walks towards him, and he heats up, body pulsating with want, fingers twitching, aching to touch, but oh, Rozanov is holding a glass, water maybe, so his arm begins to reach instead. It gets placed on the edge of the table, halfway between them. Shane retracts his arm like it’s been burned.
The distance between them is only a second or so, after all these weeks, a few more soft pads of Rozanov’s feet on the floor. Rozanov leans his hands on the table instead, looking away.
Shane should be talking. Should be saying something, probably. This is awkward, this is going all wrong. He wishes he could just shake this off. Change the subject. Move on.
“I’m going to get suspended,” is all he manages to squeeze out of his swollen throat. Of course it’s not the main thing on his mind, of course not—that would be horribly selfish—but the consequences would impact so many people. People counting on him. He won’t hear until tomorrow. An agonising, nauseating wait.
Rozanov shakes his head, staring ahead. Always so fucking sure of himself.
“Yes, I am,” Shane says, louder now. He fucking should be. His voice trembles. Whatever. It’s not physically possible to conjure up any more shame in him. He’s full up.
Rozanov looks back, then. Turns to him, takes a step, then another. “You will be fine,” he says gently, then continues to walk, passing him altogether. A puff of air the shape of Rozanov hits him, that’s how close he was. Shane realises belatedly that his shoulders are all the way up in his ears.
Shane turns on his heel and watches as Rozanov picks up his coat, shakes it out, then hangs it on the hook by the door. There’s a small puddle on the floorboards.
“That will stain,” Rozanov tuts, looking down at it.
“Are you fucking with me?” Shane asks, eyes narrow, and sniffs. He’s not crying, not technically, but who is he kidding. He’s going insane.
“Hollander,” Rozanov sighs, standing by the door, and Shane gets the distinct feeling he’s annoying him.
Looking at Rozanov, still looking at him with soft eyes, with fucking pity on his face, Shane gets a creeping sense of loneliness. Rozanov was only being sweet, really. Brought him a drink, even hung up his coat for him. Rozanov, who he thought– who was getting to know him. The real him.
Rozanov, who doesn’t know him at all. A stranger standing before him.
“Maybe I should go,” the stranger says, and looks away. “You’re upset. I’m intruding.” He bends down to put his shoes on.
Shane blinks, and this time a tear does fall. It tracks slowly down towards his upper lip and sits there, waiting.
“You’re not– I’m sorry. I’m being– I’m sorry,” he says, and means it. He’s fucking sorry about everything. Can’t stop aching for Rozanov. The thought of him leaving hurts worse. He presses his lips together, and salt hits his tongue.
“What do you want, Hollander?” Neutral.
It’s an impossible one to answer. What does he want? Why would anyone ask that right now? It’s about what he deserves. And he stupidly, so stupidly, thought that maybe… Rozanov could help.
Rozanov is looking at him, now. Seems to be holding out for a real answer.
And maybe, his brain supplies, maybe this whole situation here is all he deserves. This awkward dance, this back-and-forth that seems to be cutting away at any connection they’d forged over the years. Maybe him losing the one thing that’s his and his alone, that would be the real punishment.
“Okay,” Rozanov sighs, and turns towards the door.
Panic surges up in Shane. He can’t. He can’t let this be how it ends.
The door opens. Rozanov steps out.
Shane’s knees hit the floor.
“Please,” he warbles.
Shane keeps his eyes firmly on the floor, wiping at his face with his hands. The door falls shut.
Rozanov’s trainers come into view, closer and closer, until all he sees is Rozanov’s groin, inches from his face. Shane wants to reach out, wants to wrap his arms around his waist and push his face in it. The more he wants, the more he stiffens. His whole body is stuck in an invisible straitjacket.
A hand in his hair. Fingertips brushing through it, roughly, pushing his head this and that way. Shane’s eyes fall shut. Relief melts his muscles one by one, top to bottom. He sways with it.
The next moment, his head snaps back, scalp burning.
There he is, Shane thinks, and very nearly smiles.
“I’m sorry, you want something?” Rozanov rumbles softly, and there’s a mean, amused streak through it that forces Shane’s eyes open. Rozanov is looking down his nose at him, head tilted, eyebrows raised. It’s a good look on him. The kind that gets his pulse racing. The kind that reminds Shane he’s dealing with someone maybe a little dangerous.
Shane feels horribly exposed, but it’s better this way. For a minute there, he thought he’d lost him.
Rozanov tugs harder, and Shane lets out a soft ah. His cock stirs. He starts to speak, but it’s just air. Clears his throat.
“I want…” Again, what does he want? It’s more about what he doesn’t want.
“I want to– to not think for a while. Ab– about tonight.”
“You want to not think. About what?” Rozanov pouts. “About how we won? In front of your fans? You want to forget how angry they were, how sad they were? How you gave them hope, and we got to take it away?”
It’s necessary, Shane thinks as he closes his eyes. The taunting. He deserves it. Can’t stop the heat rising into his cheeks, though.
Rozanov’s tone turns ice cold. “Or about how you gave the game away, getting sent off? You don’t want us to win fair, is that it? You want us to say ‘thank you, Shane Hollander, for letting us win’?”
Shane’s breath quickens. He tries to shake his head, but the fingers wrapped around his roots squeeze harder. Rozanov’s other hand comes to rest lightly on his cheek.
“And now everyone knows that Hollander plays dirty.”
“I didn’t– anh.” Fingers tighten around his jaw, forcing it open.
“Oh, you didn’t? So you lied, earlier? When you said you tried to injure my player?” There’s venom in it.
Jesus Christ. Shane is about to hyperventilate. There’s no right answer, for any of it. He shouldn’t be looking for excuses. But this feels like its own trap.
Rozanov sighs. He lets go of Shane’s hair, then bends down to sit on his haunches. Shane’s jaw moves down with him, starting to ache. Shane’s heart is pounding out of his chest. He watches Rozanov’s lashes flick up. Eye contact has never been a problem for him. Probably loves to watch Shane squirm under it.
“I think,” Rozanov starts, sing-songing, pulling Shane’s face side to side, “that there is something else you want. And if you don’t tell me, I am going to leave.” Looks behind him towards the front door, then back at Shane, eyebrow raised.
Rozanov lets go of his jaw, and Shane’s head drops heavy between his shoulders. He’s going to have to get this out somehow. The alternative would be agony. He’s already on his knees, hunched over, practically crying. There’s no lower for him to go.
“I think, maybe,” he starts, voice unsteady. God, his knees are sore.
“You think? Or you know?”
“Fuck you,” Shane breathes. Steels himself. “I th… I need to be punished.”
Rozanov huffs. “Ask nicely.”
Shane bites his lip. Turns out there is lower for him to go. He swallows.
“Please punish me."
Rozanov lets the words hang in the air for an agonisingly long time before standing up. Shane can hear clapping and whistling, but keeps his eyes on the ground.
“Shane Hollander, everyone.”
Shane buries his face in his hands.
“Was that so hard?”
“You knew.”
“Anyone can see, Hollander. Now strip.” Rozanov snaps his fingers. “Clothes off. You’ve wasted enough time.”
Shane gets up a little stiffly, propelled by clear instruction. He can almost feel his brain settling in comfortably for a nap. He steps out of his joggers and pulls his hoodie and t-shirt over his head in one go, hanging them over the dining chair. Only then does he dare to sneak a glance at Rozanov, who is watching with arms crossed.
“Socks.”
Shane pulls his socks off. Leaves his boxers on, sending Rozanov a questioning glance.
Rozanov has his gaze on Shane’s dick, not yet fully hard. He comes closer, steps all the way into Shane’s circle, lips hovering over his, and whispers, “don’t touch me.”
Shane nods. Rozanov’s face lingers, so so closely, breath ghosting over Shane’s lips, but instead of closing the distance, he dips down to Shane’s neck. Soft curls brush Shane’s ear, and he shudders. The promise of Rozanov’s lips there, hot breath over his pulse, not quite getting it, is enough to fill up his cock the rest of the way. Rozanov notices, huffs a quiet laugh and pulls back.
“Pathetic. Up the stairs,” he barks.
God. It is pathetic, how much Shane needs it. But Rozanov has to stick his nose in it.
Shane makes it halfway up one step when a hand lands heavy on his neck.
Lips by his ear. “Hands and knees.”
Shane swallows. Rozanov is going to make sure he feels this at every stage. Any other night, Shane would be pushing back. Tonight he feels so, so small, raw all over, ready for anything.
He sinks down to his hands and knees—his poor, sore knees—under the weight of Rozanov’s hand and begins the climb, awkward and clumsy, flushed all over.
About halfway up, Rozanov kicks his knee out from under him, and Shane stumbles down two steps, getting a ninety degree angle right under his kneecap that produces a burst of static.
“Fuck,” Shane gasps. That fucking hurt.
“Careful,” Rozanov murmurs behind him, amused.
Shane’s cock responds instantly, soaking his boxers. His neck is damp. This is so fucking embarrassing. He’s so turned on he’s maybe a little dizzy. The landing is in view now, so he grits his teeth and gets through it.
Rozanov makes him crawl all the way onto the bed. The linens feel incredible on his knees, soft and soothing, and he moans a little at the transition. Rozanov pushes at him until he rolls onto his side, presses a firm hand on his sternum so he’s on his back, then straddles his chest so Shane’s arms are trapped by his side. He looks on as Rozanov strips out of his sweatshirt and tank top, towering over him. Shane’s mouth waters at the sight of his pecs.
Rozanov has other plans. He wastes no time getting his cock out, and Shane’s only warning is a wet, salty smear across his lips before Rozanov pushes in as far as he can go.
Shane’s eyes grow big as he chokes immediately, so far from ready, and Rozanov relents for maybe one second before going again, deeper this time. Shane wishes he could unhinge his jaw, wishes he could be better, but he gags again, until Rozanov leans over, takes his head and angles it right, like Shane’s throat is just a toy to fuck. It goes all the way down this time, and Shane’s eyes roll up into his head from the slow, hot slide of Rozanov’s dick, eased with copious amounts of saliva, out and back in, deeper than he ever thought possible.
“Oh, that’s so good, Hollander, mmh, such a perfect mouth.”
After the night he’s had, after the game, the shit Rozanov put him through downstairs, the praise hits like nothing he’s ever had. He’s floating. High as a kite. He feels completely full, head empty, useful for once, and as soon as the initial self-preservation twitches have died down, he lets his body deflate, lies back and takes it. He’ll breathe when he’ll breathe.
That’s the moment when Rozanov loses it.
“Fuck, Hollander, fuck, ah, you fucking–”
He pulls out, slowly, carefully, panting loudly, chest heaving with it. Still rock hard, but fingers around the base of his cock. He takes a second to get his breath back.
“You can’t just– drop off like that. Not right now. I’ll come so fucking hard I’ll have nothing left.”
Which is doing nothing to bring Shane down from his cloud. He’s never had such an immediate, devastating effect on Rozanov.
“Fuck,” Rozanov says again, and scoots back to straddle his hips, brushing against Shane’s neglected cock, making him jolt. Rozanov doesn’t acknowledge it, instead dipping down to lick Shane’s mouth open. Shane moans and tilts his head, allows him in, feels how much he’s missed this all the way down into his toes. But the wait has made it that much sweeter, he has to give Rozanov credit for that, even though it almost seems like Rozanov had caved a little sooner than he meant to.
Shane is so grateful for it, the hot wet slide of tongue, the insistent rhythm Rozanov builds, pushy and demanding, that he doesn’t at all expect—shit—a hand to wrap around his cock, taking him from a six all the way up to a ten in less than a second, and he’s bucking his hips, whining for it, his own hands coming up to Rozanov’s thighs to hold onto something on his way to–
Rozanov abruptly lets go and sits back.
Shane’s throat produces a horrible, broken sob from the sudden painful lack of contact, lack of stimulation. His cock spurts and twitches, but his body isn’t following. He reaches down blindly, confused, not thinking, but Rozanov bats his hands away. He’s hovering, watching Shane intently as he slowly comes back down, a sweaty, miserable mess.
“Thank me.”
Shane’s mouth drops open. “Fuck you.” He’s stuck in one big full-body cringe.
“I’m not asking.”
Shane squeezes his eyes shut. Jesus Christ. The only way to win is to lose, repeatedly.
He finally resigns himself to it. Opens himself up to the awfulness, welcomes it in. This is what he needed. All he deserved. It feels like something is lifting. His head is somewhat starting to clear up. “Thank you.”
Rozanov smiles and slaps him lightly on the cheek. “You’re welcome. Now prep yourself,” he says, and climbs off of Shane.
Shane flushes. He hadn’t wanted to be too optimistic, but it sounds like something will be going inside him tonight. He twists onto his front to open the drawer to his nightstand and pulls out the lube, but it gets snatched out of his hand before he can open it.
Rozanov gets off the bed entirely and sits down in the chair in the corner. He puts the bottle down on the floor next to him, gesturing for Shane to proceed.
Shane blanks.
“We don’t have all night, Hollander.” Sinks his hips down and puts his ankle over his knee.
Is he serious?
Rozanov’s got his tongue in his cheek, eyes challenging, and Shane knows better than to argue. He sighs, cheeks burning, and props himself up with a pillow.
They’ve been here before. Vegas, last year. Equally charged, but at least tonight Shane’s gotten a tongue in his mouth already.
He pulls his knees up and spits in his hand, then again, then once more for good measure. He’ll need lots of it. It drips onto his balls and slides down to where it’s meant to go. Steeling himself, he begins to rub the rim.
Rozanov watches with an unreadable expression as Shane pushes a finger in. The drag of it is awful. This is impossible. Shane spits in his other hand and lets it drip onto his fingers before trying again. Better. He does the whole thing one more time and begins to massage his hole, getting ready for another finger.
Rozanov has to know how long this is going to take. But maybe he’s banked on Shane being the impatient one. This can’t keep going on forever. Two fingers, barely, and Shane winces at the burn.
“Careful with my stuff,” Rozanov says, and Shane has to close his eyes against another rush of arousal. His dick is starting to leak more precum in response. Shane is grateful for it, gathers up the beads and smears them around his opening before burying two fingers deep in, starting a rhythm.
He should be on his hands and knees for this, maybe. Without pulling his fingers out, Shane rolls over and gets his knees under him. God, so much better. Rozanov’s gaze behind him, cock hanging between his legs, unbothered by friction, forehead pressed into the sheets. He spits onto his fingers again, twisting his arm to try from behind. He arches his back, spreads his knees wider. Come on. Gets a third finger in there, too quickly. It doesn’t work.
Shane realises with a start that he’s being set up to fail. He was never meant to complete the task, no matter how much he pushes through the pain and discomfort, no matter how desperate he is to succeed at just one thing today. If Shane thinks about it too much, how much Rozanov is in his head, how he just knows, he’ll get dizzy.
More spit, more precum. He can’t relax. Still nothing from Rozanov. Shane turns his head to rest on his other cheek so he can look down the bed, a blurry image sharpening slowly: Rozanov stroking himself.
“Please,” he moans, surprising himself. “Please.”
Rozanov doesn’t move an inch.
“Rozanov,” he pants, “need you, please, God, I can’t, I’m sorry– please–” Tired, aching, hard, sweaty, no blood left in his brain to string the password together, the thing that’ll get Rozanov off his chair to come fuck him, finally, except, huh, maybe, “please fuck me, please, please come fuck me, I’ll do anything, just put it in–”
Finally, finally there’s movement. Shane doesn’t want to look.
The bed dips behind him, a hand wrapping around his wrist, pulling his fingers out, and then his entire arm gets pulled back further, his torso with it until his chest lifts entirely off the bed, and in the same fluid movement he feels Rozanov sink into him, the blunt, slick slide of him such a glorious contrast to the aching burn he’s given himself. The impact of the first thrust smashes his face into the bed, muffling what would have been a truly embarrassing noise as Rozanov bottoms out with a filthy grunt, grabs his hips and starts pounding into him. It hurts, but not nearly as badly as it should. That and the wet slaps reverberating around the room confirm what Shane assumed: Rozanov had lubed up generously.
“Such a slut for me, Hollander,” he groans, slamming into him, apparently determined to keep Shane off balance. The force of it makes the whole bed shake. Whatever he’s ready to give, Shane will take. Rozanov knows what he needs better than he does, gives it to him not without a fight, but always so fucking good in the end, so worth it. Shane goes cross-eyed as Rozanov speeds up, gets louder, and for one naive second Shane thinks that this is it, he can let go, but then Rozanov slows all the way down as a beefy arm hooks around his throat and pulls him up, bowing his back, crushing his windpipe until he’s vertical enough for his knees to take over the weight of him. It shouldn’t be possible, Rozanov is barely bigger than him, but he stops thinking as soon as Rozanov starts grinding, a nasty roll of his hips, bucking up into Shane over and over, so slowly, so fucking deep Shane thinks he can feel it in his guts.
“You beg so pretty,” Rozanov’s voice pours into his ear like syrup. “No one knows but me. Isn’t that sad?”
Shane has exactly zero words left in him, just hums. He can’t swallow like this, his mouth filling up with saliva.
“Your team doesn’t even know. They see you all the time, see all of this body, and they don’t even know what sounds it can make,” Rozanov says, his free hand starting to roam Shane’s chest, cupping his pecs. “Don’t they deserve to know? They give you everything they have. And what do you give them? Nothing. You get sent off. You leave them there, outnumbered, to lose the game.” Shane’s stomach drops as Rozanov laughs, hot air lighting up the sweat on Shane’s neck. This fucking asshole. “I think maybe they would like to try, yes?” he continues, and slides a hand down to his balls, cupping them. Shane’s hips buck. He’s getting hard again. “Would you let them? Right there in the locker room, on a bench. For team morale, of course.”
Fuck. He can’t not think about it now. He’s seen… videos, he knows what it looks like. Some of them had looked like punishment. Some had looked… But his own team—several steps too far. That’s his family. So why is his cock twitching at the thought?
Shane’s vision swims. It’s too much, all of it. The relentless edging, hands everywhere, his own exhausted body pushed to the limit, Rozanov bringing up the game again, the images his brain is supplying against his will. He can’t keep this up.
Rozanov pulls out. He lets Shane fall forward into the sheets, gasping for air. Shane is grateful to have a mattress under him again, soft and yielding, holding his body up for him. He’s vaguely aware of Rozanov rolling him over, pushing his thighs back. The slide back in is easy, but still pushes a moan out of him. Shane’s arms come up over his head, limp and weak. He finds Rozanov taking him in, predatory eyes roving across his body with a heat he hadn’t expected.
“Look at you,” Rozanov breathes. He seems pretty far gone, too. His hair is a mess, his face red, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Fucking look at you.” He grabs at Shane’s face, manhandles it, pushes his cheek into the sheets. Like he’s inspecting goods. “I should bring you back to my team. Whore you out as a prize. They did so well today. I want them to know what I do to you. I want them to see you like this. They deserve you.” He catches his breath, then grins, a sick, vicious thing. “They would fucking destroy you.”
Fuck. Shane squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He needs Rozanov to stop talking. This is revving him up beyond what his body can take.
“Shut up,” he mumbles weakly.
“Rookie can go first. He is not very big. Probably would come in ten seconds. Easy start,” Rozanov says casually, showing no signs of stopping.
Shane shakes his head. “Please don’t–”
“Hammy will grab your tits, pretend you are a girl.” Rozanov laughs and does just that. Not the run-down of the team. Not individual players. How Shane still has any capacity for blushing is beyond him. Rozanov is picking up speed now, pushing Shane up the bed with every mean thrust. He’s sore, where Rozanov is fucking into him.
“Sebby will want you all to himself,” Rozanov hisses. “I’ll have to pull him off to keep the queue moving.” The queue– fuck. He might be overheating.
“Shut the fuck up, Rozanov,” he gasps, louder, so close now.
“Marley will have to go last, once you’re fucked all the way open. He is big,” Rozanov says, grimacing. “Once you have everyone else’s cum in you, he can slide right in.”
Shane just moans, wound up like a fucking spring, about to pop. He imagines it, really imagines it now, the Boston Raiders lining up to fuck him, all orchestrated by Rozanov, choosing who’s next, watching over him like he’s his to loan out.
Like Shane is his.
How embarrassing, how deeply shameful, to know that after all of tonight, this is the thing that finally sends Shane careening over the edge, his whole body racked with shockwaves of pleasure.
He comes to, eyes wet, covered in his own cum, glowing, tingling. Rozanov looms over him, mouth open, the faintest smile in the corner of it, but his eyes are softer now. Shane can’t look at them directly, his stomach’s doing flips over it.
Rozanov dips down, folding Shane in two, and there’s lips on his neck, his jaw, his cheek, and then a tongue finding his. Shane’s arms come down from over his head to grab at Rozanov’s curls as they kiss, a filthy wet, uncoordinated mess.
He stayed, Shane thinks. He stayed and gave Shane exactly what he needed, somehow. They’ve gone deeper than ever before, testing the boundaries of this fragile thing, and come out the other side.
Rozanov pulls back and picks up his rhythm again, and Shane’s gratitude turns into a solemn sense of duty. He grabs Rozanov’s hand where it’s pushing his knee to his chest, sticks two fingers in his mouth and begins to suck. Pulls them all the way out just to swallow them again, and again.
Rozanov’s eyes go wide, then squeeze shut. Something Russian comes out of his mouth, something deep and guttural, and his hips stutter.
“Pull out,” Shane says, not sure if Rozanov will even hear, but he does, because his eyes fly open. “Pull out, come on me,” and Shane sticks his tongue out.
“What the fuck–” is all Rozanov manages before he quickly pulls out, rips the condom off and shoots all over Shane in a few rough groans. It hits his chest, his neck, his cheek, and some of it does manage to land on his tongue.
Rozanov stills for an agonising few seconds, looking as Shane licks his lips, and then an incredulous grin spreads across his face. He gives Shane’s legs a playful push and lets himself drop down on the mattress next to Shane, still laughing.
Shane is smiling, too, can’t not. He feels crisp and airy, just for a moment.
“Feel better?” Rozanov asks the ceiling, still a little out of breath and with a truly disgusting amount of smugness. It’s Shane’s turn to swat at him.
The reality of what happened at the game seeps back into his consciousness, but there’s a distance to it, now. He’ll reach out to Connors and apologise, make sure he’s really doing okay. Suspension is the worst case scenario. He’s got his track record on his side. And most importantly, he’ll learn from it. Won’t let it go to waste. He will be safer about it, next time.
“So, what,” Rozanov starts, and rolls over onto his side, arm bracketing his cheek, “national treasure Shane Hollander watches gangbang porn now?”
He forgets that Shane has an entire arsenal of pillows at his disposal to respond to that.