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Shane opened his hotel room door and Ilya fucking Rozanov was standing there staring at him.
"Shane Hollander," Ilya fucking Rozanov said. "This is a surprise."
Ilya fucking Rozanov, two-time cup winner with the San Francisco Missions, whose Grindr profile read, I will fuck you until you scream (eggplant emoji), was standing in his hallway. Shane stood back to let him into the room.
They had been meant to be in the same draft class, Shane thought a little hysterically. He remembered introducing himself to Rozanov at a Prospects Cup seven, maybe eight years ago, thinking this was his rival for the number one pick. Then Rozanov had got a sprain just before the combine and delayed his draft for a year, and had then been drafted to the Western Conference, and now he was on Grindr catfishing Shane with his torso-only pics and his eggplants.
"Hello, Shane Hollander," Rozanov said. In place of surprise was a knowing smugness Shane wished he didn't find attractive. He knew Rozanov, of course, the way they all knew each other, but they'd never had what you'd call a conversation outside face off chirps and the occasional awkward awards ceremony. Playing against Rozanov was always exhilarating - they rose to each other's level, much as Shane might not want to admit it - but he was mostly glad it was only twice a year, and never so far in the Cup Finals.
Shane didn't know what to do with his hands. He was the one who'd set up the Grindr profile, palms sweating and mouth dry like Scott Hunter hadn't kissed a man on national TV six months ago and changed the world. He was the one who'd seen Rozanov's headless pic and thought, yes, at a body just like the ones he spent every day deliberately not looking at. He was the one who'd messaged, Hi, I like your pictures, knowing as he did so he was embarrassing himself.
you have good taste, hunglikehorse81 had messaged back. want to see more?
Now, faced with Rozanov himself, mortification flushed hot and cold through Shane's entire body. How could he have been so stupid? How dare he think this was something he could have?
"Hey," Rozanov said, softer than Shane was expecting. "It's ok, Hollander. I won't tell anyone. Whatever we do or do not do, it is between us." Had Rozanov's eyes always been an arresting mix of blue and gray? It seemed like something Shane should have known along with his plus-minus and his face off percentage.
Rozanov's mouth quirked into a different kind of smile, less smug and more conspiratorial. "Mutually assured destruction, as Grandpa Scott Hunter calls it."
Wait. Rozanov and Hunter had-?
Rozanov laughed. "No, is not what you're thinking." He didn't seem offended. "Hunter is five million years old and very in love with his much younger twink. We talk sometimes. He is -" Rozanov made a face as if inviting Shane in on the joke. "- not completely boring for old man."
Shane laughed kind of weakly. What the fuck was happening here?
"And you, Shane Hollander," Rozanov said, his voice dropping into something that ran straight up and down Shane's spine. "Are you completely boring?"
"Not completely," Shane said, somehow keeping his voice from cracking on the second word.
He took a breath. Straightened his posture the way his mom always taught him. This might be Ilya fucking Rozanov, but he was Shane fucking Hollander. He'd led the Boston Raiders to back-to-back Cup wins. He had four seasons as the MLH's leading goal scorer, more than anyone else had managed since the eighties.
"You made some promises in your profile," Shane said, raising his chin. "You going to keep them?"
Rozanov looked him up and down. Smiled. "What do I get if I make you scream?"
Shane swallowed. This was flirting. Ilya Rozanov was flirting with him in an anonymous hotel room in San Francisco, and if Shane played this right, he might even do more than flirt. "Uh," he said.
"The satisfaction of a job well done?" Rozanov suggested. "I think it could be very satisfying to ruin you."
Shane's knees threatened to buckle under him. "If you can make me scream, I'll wear your jersey in public." He tried not to look too shocked at his own daring. He'd done it before with other jerseys - it was Marleau's favourite forfeit when Shane refused to do something gross and stupid like down five shots in a minute or eat one of every dessert on the room service menu. He had a whole stack of them in his spare closet - Vaughn from the Admirals, Pike from the Voyageurs, Price from the Guardians - that he'd bought after losing a bet or dare, kept neatly for the next time he bet wrong on how many chicks would approach St-Simon by the end of the night.
From the outside, this would just look like one of those. Another bet lost, another new jersey to wear on his way to practice. But Shane would know. Shane would get to show off to the whole world that he'd bagged Rozanov, if just for a night, and only he and Rozanov would know that was what it meant.
Rozanov's eyebrows shot up. "I like this. You will look good in blue. Bring out your freckles."
It took all Shane's willpower not to scrub self-consciously at his cheeks. Where did Rozanov get off on- Shit. No. This was still flirting. There was no cruelty behind it, no snide implication - just Rozanov standing opposite him in an anonymous hotel room telling Shane that he was down to fuck.
"You should come here and show me what you can do," Shane said.
"I should?"
"You should."
"And if I said you should-"
Shane stepped forward, grabbed Rozanov by his stupid cut-off t-shirt, and pulled him into a kiss.
It was awkward at first, Rozanov's mouth still half open from the not-quite-chirp and Shane never sure what to do with his tongue, but Shane didn't care. Just the electric press of their mouths together was enough to send blood rushing to his dick, heat building as clutched Rozanov's disgustingly muscled upper arms and clung to him like he was the only real thing left in the world.
A breath. Another breath. And then Rozanov took control of the kiss and Shane let him. God, it was so easy to let him. Shane was caught in the undertow of it, blood spinning from just a kiss, a series of kisses, a blurry kiss marathon. When Rozanov took Shane's chin in hand and pulled back, Shane just knew his mouth was slack and stupid, but the way Rozanov was looking at him left no room for him to be embarrassed.
Rozanov gave his face a brief, friendly tap. "Get on the bed," he suggested. There were two, because Shane could fly across the country for games and awards and red carpets as a plus one and anything else that his life demanded, but he still brought himself with him on every trip. And the Shane Hollander he was all the time could not abide a wet spot, and there was no better use of MLH money than avoiding one.
Shane got onto the bed nearer to the bathroom, backing away from Rozanov until the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress and then fell back.
Shane lifted his arm to grab his shirt behind his neck, but Rozanov had followed him, and reached out to stop him before he could take his shirt off. "I will do this," he said, voice rich and amused.
Shane's heart clanged erratically in his chest. "Okay," he said. He was hard and he could feel the heat coming off of his cheeks. Rozanov looked too composed, Shane thought. He tilted his head back. "What are you waiting for?"
Rozanov grinned. It was devastating. Shane was lucky to already be seated. "I am looking at you. I will be done soon."
Shane narrowed his eyes. "I may start without you."
"Oh no. Gorgeous man, most points in the Eastern conference, is going to start a sexy show for only Russian eyes. I must not let that happen." Rozanov deadpanned, rolling his eyes, but then he did finally come in close and curl his fingers around the hem of Shane's shirt. The move brought his knuckles against Shane's abdomen, and he felt his cock throb as Rozanov dragged his shirt off. Rozanov put his shirt on the bed next to them and dipped down immediately to place a sucking kiss near Shane's hipbone.
Shane's back arched. "Rozanov," he groaned. His fingers itched to wind into his hair, but he didn't want to be too — forward? It was ridiculous, but so was the moment.
Rozanov lifted his mouth from Shane's body and his mouth was wet. Shane threw his wrist over his eyes and muttered.
Rozanov's finger's curled into Shane's waistband and Shane drew in a ragged breath, and then, nothing happened. "Hollander," Rozanov finally said. "Look at me."
Shane opened his eyes. "I'm looking, asshole."
Rozanov's mouth was quirked up in the corners, and looking at him immediately confirmed for Shane what he'd already known. Rozanov was lethally hot, and Shane was right to hide. It was like looking at the sun, if looking directly at the sun had the common side effect of causing premature ejaculation.
"Good," Rozanov said. "May I?"
"By all means," Shane muttered, lifting his hips to be helpful while Rozanov pulled his bottoms off, pulling the waistband of his pants and his boxer briefs off together. Shane's dick was already hard, and the sudden air around it made him shiver. It wasn't exposed long — Rozanov leaned down almost immediately to touch his mouth to it, pulling the head into his mouth smoothly.
Shane made a little choked out ah as Rozanov slid down a few inches. Rozanov's eyes shot up to Shane's face as soon as he heard it, and very deliberately winked at him. "Oh my god," Shane muttered, and finally gave in and buried both hands in Rozanov's curls. Rozanov paused briefly, as if waiting to see if Shane was going to try to direct him, but honestly, he had a feeling Rozanov was pretty competent in this arena, Shane was just happy to be here. When he didn't tug or push or pull or try to dictate speed, Rozanov let his eyes fall from alert to content as he moved back on Shane's dick before sliding down again in a warm slide.
"You're so hot," Shane told him. He'd done this before, a few times. He wasn't an expert — it usually felt too risky to try to hook up with men, and he'd bypassed more opportunities than he'd pursued — but he'd given a few blow jobs in his time. His favorite recipient had kept a running dialogue. Shane wasn't a chatty guy in general, but he did remember that guy now and how nice it had felt. He also wanted to be a fondly-remembered blowjob recipient. "That feels so good."
Rozanov's right hand circled Shane's dick at the base, holding it steady and at the right angle, and his left hand was curled around the back of his thigh, close to the curve of his ass but not quite touching it. Rozanov also seemed content to linger, languidly moving up and down the length of Shane's cock. Shane dragged his finger's through Rozanov's hair, touching his scalp and the shell of his ear and the back of his neck. The latter made Rozanov make a little contented sound around Shane's cock.
"Rozanov," he warned, after long, steady minutes of Ilya Rozanov putting in the work for a well-earned orgasm. "You might want to stop."
Rozanov looked right at him, and Shane was stabbed with the heat of his gaze again.
It was a several second delay between Shane telling him that, and him gently pulling off of Shane's dick. The man looked unbothered and a little wistful. Wistful. At leaving Shane's dick. Fuck. It was going to kill him. He was going to die in this hotel room, and the cause of death would be deeply embarrassing, but what a way to go.
Once again, Rozanov had a wet mouth and Shane wanted to kiss it. Shane curled his hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in. Shane grappled with him, and somehow ended half-in Rozanov's lap, right on the hotel comforter. It was satisfying and exhilarating, and Shane kissed him deep and filthy, active and sucking. Shane moved away from his lips and mouthed at his jaw, finding the stubble there felt electric against the sensitive skin of his lips.
Shane snaked his hand up the hem of Rozanov's tank top, which was soft and clingy, and Shane had forgotten he was wearing one. Shane's fingers explored, feeling a sly thrill at the expanse of skin. being allowed to touch it, Rozanov panting beside him, arching into his touch. Shane palmed his pec, thumbing a nipple while he grazed down Rozanov's neck with his lips.
"Hollander," he rumbled. The sound of it went straight to Shane's dick. Which, now that he thought about it, he was naked and Rozanov still had far too many layers. Shane's hands moved with purpose now, pulling away long enough to get his shirt off and over his head.
"Fuck," Shane muttered: "You're so fucking hot."
"This is why Boston never mics you," Rozanov said. "You sound like the locker room."
Shane grinned. "That's one of the reasons."
"And here I was, thought you were a boring, polite Canadian."
Shane shrugged, before leaning down to nip lightly on the skin above Rozanov's right nipple. Not hard, but enough to make him make a little punched out noise.
"I see I was not correct."
Shane got his track bottoms off with roving hands. When his cock was free of both layers, it hit his stomach with a noisy slap. Shane raised an eyebrow. "Wow. You weren't kidding. That's uh…"
Rozanov laughed, adjusting himself. "Not smart to fib on the phone, Hollander. When you show up, people will know."
"Do you meet up with everyone you chat with?"
Rozanov shrugged. "Mostly. Am better in the room."
Shane pondered the logistics of sexting in your second language. Rozanov had lived in America for at least six years, and he seemed to love being on mic — he chirped and joked with the best of them. He was so charismatic in English, and the media loved him. It hadn't occurred to him that he might feel self conscious about it or that it might be like treading water when he just wanted to get off. Then again: "You could just send pictures of your horse cock. Seems like it would be effective."
Rozanov shrugged. "Sure, sometimes." He was smiling though. And then he asked: "Do you?"
"No," Shane said. He didn't have to think about it. "I've messaged a lot. This is the first time I've actually… you know."
Rozanov's eyebrows shot up. "What," he said, voice flat.
"I mean. I've been thinking about it for a long time, obviously. But I didn't try it until after Scott Hunter came out, and I've been … working up to it." She was embarrassed, suddenly. He was kicking himself. Things had been going so well and here he was, ruining the moment.
"Is this your first time with a man?" Rozanov asked, and Shane shoved uselessly against the bulky heat of him.
"No! Fuck you," Shane said, feeling flustered and offended. It was maybe a slight overreaction for the amount of experience he actually had with men, like a twenty-two year old rookie getting pissy when he gets carded.
"Is fine, Hollander," Rozanov said.
Shane's dick was flagging, and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against his shoulder, just to recalibrate for a moment without Rozanov looking at him, and vice versa. He took a long breath in. "I'm pretty sure I'm gay. I've done things with men."
He felt more than heard Rozanov suppress a laugh beneath him, and Shane gave him another nip at the shoulder. "You're such a dick."
"Canadian stereotype is as wrong as possible," Rozanov said, and then moved beneath Shane. Somehow, he got Shane on his back. Shane fell back with a bounce. "So you're probably gay. You play a game in the gayest city, and met up with a stranger for the first time while here, and it is me."
"That about sums it up."
Rozanov gave a brisk nod, as if now they were both up to speed. "Okay. Time to ruin you for other men. If you're ready?"
"Yes," Shane said, the word tripping over his tongue to get out. "Please."
"Oh good, manners are not lost art," Rozanov said, and skimmed his finger's down Shane's stomach, skirting his cock, and thumbing across the border of groin and thigh. "Do you have—?"
Shane did have, and grappled beside him for his lube. It was a six ounce bottle, because flying on the team jet did have perks, and most of them were about not having to abide by liquid limits. Rozanov took it from him and leaned in to kiss him, just shallow and brief, but it was reassuring nonetheless. "Okay, Hollander. Get on your stomach."
Shane did, and Rozanov wasted no time. Shane heard the cap of his bottle — water-based because he mostly used it with his dildo — and then the sound of it pooling in Rozanov's hand. He felt the bottle hit the bed when Rozanov tossed it back down, but then there were a few moments where he waited for a touch. When it came, it was still cool but not shockingly so, and Rozanov touched him with a slick hand teasingly, circling and wandering until Shane shifted on the bed to take some pressure off of his erection.
Rozanov touched him with a sure touch. Shane's face was so hot. "Roz—" he said, hips stuttering and voice cracking when he finally put a finger inside of him. Rozanov leaned forward and pressed a kiss between Shane's shoulder blades. "Okay?" he asked.
"So okay," Shane said, pressing his face to his own forearm. "God, fuck me."
"I am getting there," Rozanov said, playing with him and brushing past his prostate except for the strokes where he pressed against it, every two or three. Shane's cock was leaking into the hotel comforter, which he would ordinarily care about, but right now it was like the traffic laws of a foreign country — far away from his thoughts and just unspeakably irrelevant.
By the time Rozanov used the powerful muscle of his own forearm to position Shane's chest where he wanted him, the steel band of it supporting Shane and holding him in place while he sank into him in a controlled roll of his hips, Shane was lost, adrift, making noises he didn't seem to be in control of.
Fully seated, Rozanov checked in again. "Is this good?" he asked, and Shane almost gave himself whiplash nodding.
"Yes, Rozanov, you're so —" and then the rest of what he was going to say was cut off by Rozanov rocking into him, huge inside of him and around him and draped over his back and supporting him beneath his chest. Shane's vision did something that would have scared him if it wasn't that everything was happening in counterpoint, so much all at once.
Rozanov didn't struggle to find a rhythm. He just evenly sped up, from zero to the right pace in a smooth clip. It was like when you started a treadmill at the speed you liked and it gave you about ten seconds to get there. accelerating neatly. A sex treadmill, Shane thought a little hysterically, losing himself in Rozanov's teeth in his shoulder and his cock inside of him.
Every time Rozanov rocked deep inside of him, Shane's body thrilled. The drag was perfect, the weight of his was perfect, and the pattern of Rozanov's little breathy sounds went straight to his cock. He was exactly where Shane needed him to be, Shane's fingers gripping as the bedding as Rozanov put in a spectacular effort.
When Rozanov finally stiffened, body nearing climax, the only warning he gave was a near-bruising grip on Shane's hips. Rozanov came in bursts, twitching inside of him, and nuzzling into his back. Shane was not far behind him. It was like they were handcuffed together - the moment Rozanov's started freefall, Shane could do nothing but follow.
"Fuck, Rozanov," Shane said, off balance and on the brink of spilling right behind him. For the first time, he went to reach for his own cock, but Rozanov had recovered enough already to bat him away, pulling in long strokes, his grip so tight, and a noise unwound from Shane's lungs. It was ungainly, uncomposed, not a media trained sound, but Shane was too far gone to care. He came all over Rozanov's fist, his own stomach, and a little, tiny bit, on his own chin. There was nothing left inside of Shane: not a drop of jizz or a single thought.
Rozanov pulled out, carefully, and Shane grimaced a little. Rozanov held the base of his dick as he did, giving Shane a heart stopping moment of relief to see he was wearing a condom. God, he hadn't even fucking thought to make sure. Thank fuck Rozanov hasn't lost his damn mind at the possibility of a fuck. One of them had to make sure neither of them went home with someone else's germs.
Shane was- He was totally spent, a face-down puddle.
"Holy shit," he said, on a laugh. He rolled onto his side to look at Rozanov, sweaty and delicious, carefully dealing with the condom and his slowly softening cock. It was still… a sight.
"Was good for you?" Rozanov asked, and Shane almost laughed again, but Rozanov looked unsure. Which was insane. Shane was literally never going to jerk off thinking of anything but this singular event in his sex life, possibly ever again.
"Rozanov," Shane said. "It has never been like that for me."
Rozanov's brow wrinkled. "You didn't lie when you told me it wasn't first time, did you?"
"No," Shane said, and he didn't want to say it but it would be a lie not to. Rozanov had just changed the game for him. There would be no more running plays while he drew the alphabet with his tongue ever again, which wasn't a decision he'd come to after the pretty good mutual blowjobs with a friend of a friend of Rose Landry's, or the ill-advised fuck with the guy he'd met at Marleau's bachelor party, or… "But that's… the best it's ever been."
"Ah," Rozanov said, brightening. "Good. It was excellent for me, also."
Shane smiled helplessly at him. "Okay. Good." Then he tried to get up and winced. The sex was definitely worth it, but this part might take some getting used to. He didn't use this much lube when it was only him and his dildo.
Then again, his dates with his dildo usually occurred in the shower to minimize sticky time.
"You will look good in my shirt," Rozanov said, watching him stand with open appreciation.
"Fuck you," Shane said automatically. "I didn't scream."
Rozanov just looked at him, lazily amused.
"That wasn't a scream," Shane insisted, ignoring his burning cheeks, not thinking about how good it had felt to let go so completely in Rozanov's hands.
"I did not think the great Shane Hollander would try to weasel out of a bet on a technicality," Rozanov said, enunciating the word as if it had personally offended him. "This is not the sportsmanship I hear so much about."
Shane felt the corner of his mouth twitch. "I didn't think the great Ilya Rozanov would need a pity win."
That won a bark of laughter from Rozanov, but he rallied back with a smirk and, "Was that a pity orgasm, too?"
Shane wrinkled his nose. It almost took some effort to be bitchy, he realized, having been railed in a way that lit up his limbic system, cleared out any doubts about his preferences, and come hard enough to get his own chin in the come-crossfire. "Alright," he grumbled.
"Give me address. I will send. I am helpful guy."
Shane raised an eyebrow at Rozanov.
"Never mind. Give me phone and I will get address later." Rozanov made a grabby hand at Shane, and Shane complied, unlocking his phone and putting it in Rozanov's hands.
Maybe Rozanov was an iPhone guy, because it took him longer than Shane thought it should have to put in a contact. By the time he set it down on the bed, Shane had already put his shirt and boxer briefs back on, which was a polite fiction, because as soon as Rozanov was gone, Shane was getting in the shower.
Rozanov stepped back into his underwear and his jeans, himself, and then leaned down to catch Shane's face in the vee of his thumb and index finger. He reeled him in for a few lingering kisses. Shane tamped down on the urge to dig his fingers in, greedy, pull him back in and roll around with him.
It was not even that late and they didn't have wheels up until ten the next morning, so Shane was tempted, but after a few more short but sucking kisses, Shane patted Rozanov's collar, and let him extricate himself.
After Rozanov was gone, Shane took a long, hot shower, washing his hair and doing his skincare — again, thank you flying private for his full sized product dob kit — and pressing his fingers into the spots on his hip that weren't bruised, but where he could definitely feel the ghost of Rozanov's grip when he put pressure there.
Then, in clean underwear and sweats and a hoodie, he got back into his clean, warm, second bed. He thumbed open his phone where there were two new texts. One was from Marleau, warning him that he was about to start some shenanigans in the group chat and an exact script he wanted Shane to use to back him up. Scripting, Shane thought, was the most important quality for a best friend to have. Marleau got a thumbs up in the text chain and eternal gratitude in Shane's heart.
Then he opened up the new message thread. His stomach swooped just seeing the name. Rozanov had put himself in Shane's phone as "ILYA (eggplant)" which could not possibly stay that way, but it punched a laugh out of Shane anyway. He'd also sent himself a message.
Thank you for fucking my lights out, Shane's side of the messages read. Please please do it again soon.
And then, Rozanov's response, about half an hour after he left Shane's hotel room: Since you asked so nicely! Am always happy to help out a fan.
Shane put his hoodie strings in his mouth, munching on them while he read, and then replied: There's something wrong with you.
Ilya (eggplant): I liked you better when you were thanking me for fucking you.
Shane: THAT WAS YOU. also, delete these messages, what the fuck!
Ilya (eggplant): I can delete from my phone but you cannot delete from my memories.
Shane: I would do it again, though.
Shane chomped again, filled with a flood of adrenaline and anxiety that miraculously disappeared when three dots and then a message came back immediately. I would like this also. There was an emoji. A little set of kissy lips. It was stupid; Shane's stomach swooped again. He fell asleep not long after, comfortable and warm and clean and amused. It was nice, and he woke up well rested. It wasn't until he swiped to the page of his apps he needed to log the run he'd taken before taking a cab to the airport that he realized that one was missing.
"What an asshole," Shane muttered under his breath, opening a text chain with a perfectly respectable Rozanov (Missions). He started to type: I can't believe you deleted —
Cliff, sat next to him in the airport lounge nursing a mild hangover, nudged him with his foot. "What's got you looking so thrilled this morning?"
Shane flinched, hit the button to shut down his screen and then deftly slid his phone into his hoodie pocket. Smooth, Hollander. "Oh. Uh, good news from my mom. Just business stuff."
"Yeah right," Cliff said, rolling his eyes. "There is no business stuff that has ever made you look more than mildly pleased."
Shane rolled his eyes right back. "Well. This is the year I really lock in. With business."
When Marleau wandered off to get both of them a coffee, still looking at Shane dubiously, Shane opened his phone back up. He'd accidentally sent the text he'd started. Shane felt himself turn red, and Rozanov had already text him back.
Rozanov (Missions): deleted what?
Shane: You know what.
Rozanov (Missions): I know nothing
Rozanov (Missions) : next time you are thinking of doing things you do in app you do not do that
Rozanov (Missions) : open right here I have lots of app things for you
Somehow, the strings of Shane's hoodie had ended up back in his mouth. He worried the aglet with his teeth, frowning. He was definitely going to have to change his contact again.
He heart reacted all three of the messages.
He should chuck his phone into the Pacific Ocean at 30,000 feet. He should at the very least delete the whole chain. And reinstall Grindr - it was objectively gross what Rozanov had done, and if Shane tried hard enough he could probably convince himself of that. Instead, he lingered, looking at the insane things Rozanov had said to him, all the way back to the one he'd sent as Shane, and casting him in the role of sex crazed pervert/fan, staring at them until it was time to put his phone on airplane mode.