Chapter Text
1. December 31, 2009 - Ottawa
This year, Shane thinks, he's going to work on getting out of his comfort zone.
He’s nursing his third beer of the night, and he’s still at a party after 1am, both of which are pretty unusual for him. The party is happening around him and he’s sort of observing more than really participating, but still. He’s here, being social. Letting loose, which his teammates like to remind him is something he fucking sucks at.
His tolerance is nowhere near that of some of the guys on the team, who have been doing rounds of shots all night and seem no worse for wear, so even the two and a half Keith’s in his system are enough to make him feel a little more adventurous than normal. Enough to let him talk casually to some of the guys and hang out and watch whatever shitty New Year’s Eve special is on TV without overthinking it. Enough to let his mind wander a little, maybe think about some of the question marks of the future without immediately finding it hard to breathe.
Enough, even, to make him think about the fact that Ilya Rozanov is in this hotel right now, without immediately shutting that thought back down.
A chorus of boos erupts loudly from the clump of guys nearby who are deep in a poker game, Giroux at the head of the table looking triumphant as he gathers an armful of chips to him.
“Sorry, boys,” he yells over them, “Had to show you how it’s done.”
“Fuck you, cocksucker,” MacDonald shouts back, shoving him playfully, then catches Shane’s eye watching them. “Hollander! Get the fuck in here, buddy!”
Shane’s immediate urge is to decline, to stay where he is or maybe even call it a night. He knows exactly how the guys would chirp him, and he’s used to it.
Instead, he gets up, grinning and looking down when they cheer and start drunkenly shoving each other to make room for him at the table. “One round.”
It’s not, but four rounds of poker and two shots of tequila later, Shane feels fucking great. Fucking normal, for once.
“Where the fuck did you learn to play poker like that, you asshole?” Giroux yells at him with a grin, throwing his last chip at Shane’s chest.
“I’d say your mom taught me, but honestly, I taught her,” he says, laughing, his cards flush on the table. He thought of that line ages ago and held onto it. There’s a chorus of ohhhhhs, all the fucking identical burly white MacDonald and McDougall and McDonough guys slapping him on the back.
“Suck my fat dick, Hollander,” Giroux says back, rolling his eyes, and Shane’s guard is down, and before he can stop it -
He thinks about it. Pictures it. Loud and clear, in gay technicolour.
Shane coughs and takes a gulp of the beer he does not need to be drinking anymore, and feels his ears get hot. Fuck. He’s never sucked a dick but the way his body is responding, apparently he’s not entirely opposed to the idea. Giroux’s no Rozanov, but -
Jesus fuck.
Everyone’s drunk and no one’s paying attention. The only person who knows what’s happening in his head is Shane, and he tries, he tries really fucking hard to refocus.
Stop thinking about goddamn Rozanov.
He plays for shit in the next round and folds early, then begs off, saying he doesn’t drink much and he’s tired. It’s not a lie.
“Fine, fine, pussy out, Hollander.” MacDonald grabs him and gives him a noogie, then takes his chips back. “Fuck outta here. Sleep tight, princess.”
“See you guys tomorrow.”
Shane pats his pockets, makes sure he has his phone and key card, then steps out into the sudden quiet of the hallway. Takes a breath.
“Fuck,” he whispers to himself, then shakes his head, intending to clear it. Trying to delete all the weird, confusing shit.
It doesn’t really work, because when he walks past the elevators on the way back to his own room, he thinks for a pretty long moment about going to find the gym.
It’s fucking stupid. He’d look like an idiot going to work out drunk at three in the morning on New Year’s, just to try and, what? Have another moment of ogling Ilya Rozanov’s sweaty jawline?
He shakes his head again and keeps walking. If only he hadn’t caught a glimpse of Rozanov and his teammates checking in earlier today when he went to grab a late lunch, he wouldn’t even be thinking about the guy.
That’s a fucking lie.
Well, he wouldn’t be thinking about himself and Rozanov in the gym. About Rozanov being in this hotel, somewhere, right now. Not in this much detail.
Shane slips into his room and locks the deadbolt behind him. It’s dark and silent, the only light coming from the gap in the window shades where the moon and city lights pour in. He’s drunk.
He’s thinking about Rozanov and he’s hard.
“Fuck,” he whispers again, knowing he’s digging his own grave, and unbuckles his belt. Lets himself think about it. Because he does want to, is the thing. He wants to suck a dick. Preferably Rozanov’s.
Still by the door, leaning against the wall, he clumsily tugs his pants and boxer briefs down just far enough to get his cock out, hissing at how good it feels to get a hand on himself. He likes the quiet, the dark, the feeling of urgency. If Rozanov was there -
There’s a hot swooping feeling in his stomach as soon as he has the thought, and it feels warmer in the room. He’s so fucking hard. It’s not going to take long. If, if Rozanov was there, he’d - fuck, maybe he wouldn’t let Rozanov get that far into the room. Maybe he’d take what he wanted right here. His spits in his hand and speeds up, stroking his cock hard and fast. He’d get on his knees - oh, Jesus, he’s never thought about that before, never wanted it, never - but he wants it so fucking bad right now, wants to get on his knees in front of Ilya fucking Rozanov and let him guide his cock into Shane’s mouth. Let him hold Shane’s head in those big hands, maybe pull Shane’s hair and - he fucks his fist, his abs tightening and his thighs shaking - yeah, Rozanov would pull Shane’s hair and watch him and tell him, fuck, that he’s doing good, he’s good, he’s -
“Oh, shit - ” Shane bites his lip and comes, hard, panting into the quiet room. As the aftershocks fade he kind of crumples down to the carpet, his pants still mostly on, his hand and the bottom of his shirt sticky and damp. His ears are ringing.
He sits there for a few minutes, just staring off into space. Long enough that he’s getting kinda cold and his knees are stiff.
Eventually he manages to drag himself up again and stumble into the bathroom, wipe himself off and strip down and even brush his teeth. Fuck, he’s exhausted. The bed is huge and soft and he feels himself starting to pass out basically as soon as he hits the pillow, the room spinning a little.
The last thing he remembers thinking is: I can’t do that again.
2. December 31, 2012 - Moscow
Ilya stared out the window at the snow that had immediately been trampled into grey slush. He was in a foul mood.
It had descended on him when his plane landed in Moscow, and no matter what he tried, it probably wouldn’t ease till he left again. It was the lockout. It was having his hand forced to either play for Spartak Moskva during the lean months or disappoint his fucking family even more than usual. It was being here during the portion of the year he had come to think of as his life. Now, instead of living his own life in Boston, he was back where he’d started. Here, Ilya was his father’s son and his brother’s bank machine; a source of shame at worst, and begrudging, fleeting acknowledgement at best.
If Ilya was being honest with himself, the foul mood was also driven by the fact that in a normal season, by this point in the calendar year, Boston would have played Montreal at least three times. Instead, Ilya was eight time zones away from home and the possibility of fucking Shane Hollander.
Whatever the fuck he and Hollander were doing was perhaps the part of Ilya’s life that was most his. It was absolutely not what he was expected to do. It was risky and stupid. Ilya told himself the draw to Hollander was only that: the danger of getting away with something so daring under everyone’s noses. He told himself this until he almost believed it to be true. And then Hollander would show up on the ice or at a press conference or in a hotel room, and Ilya would be reminded of how intensely it was possible for him to want someone.
Ilya should know better by now.
He did know better. But that didn’t stop him.
Ilya shook his head, catching himself in the distraction of his thoughts. For once, he was actively resisting the shit mood instead of leaning into vodka and brooding over everything he didn’t have. He wasn’t often in Russia for any of the holiday season, and his niece was still young enough to love the presents and fireworks and spectacle of Novy God. He’d certainly spent enough of his KHL signing bonus on gifts for her, so he should at least enjoy her happiness before she became more entitled like his shit brother.
He lasted through dinner and the endless speeches on TV and fireworks and his niece getting overtired and sent to bed by eleven o’clock. As usual, Ilya was nothing if not a skilled performer. He kept it up till the very last moment, waving pleasantly to his stepmother until the cab door closed and he could drop the facade.
He gave the driver the address of a club owned by some retired KHL players, and closed his eyes, leaning against the cold window. The club was fine, a predictable place that had good vodka and women who were interested in fucking him. Ilya knew that the things he could rely on most to move the needle on a shit mood were scoring goals, sex, and getting drunk. Tonight he could at least do two of the three, and everyone inside looked happy to see him as he walked in. None of it was real, he knew - he paid for rounds, and had the sexy cachet of living in the West and signing to a league people outside of Russia had heard of - but it felt a little nice all the same. Ilya was used to taking what he could get.
The crowd lining the bar parted for him as he approached, and the bartender held up a hand to interrupt another patron mid-conversation.
“Mr. Rozanov. What can I get you?”
Ilya looked around. To his left were several men who looked like they were equal parts afraid and jealous. Boring. To his right, however…
“Vodka. For myself and my friend here.”
The pretty woman with dark hair seated to his right turned to look at him then, smirking. “Oh, are we friends now?”
He leaned into her, pulling a face of mock sympathy as he slid one of the glasses in front of her. “You are alone. Look like you could use a friend.”
She had dark eyes, too. Long eyelashes. No freckles, all smooth skin with a subtle fake tan to cancel out the pallor of a long winter. She looked him up and down, and smirked. “I have enough friends. Anything else you can offer?”
“Plenty,” he told her, and gently clinked his class against hers. “Vashe zdorov'ye.” She nodded and drank, her eyes locked with his, and licked a drop of vodka from the corner of her mouth.
And there it was, the familiar sense of certainty that he’d just settled the rest of his night.
Ilya liked bold women. Less work, less dancing around what they both wanted. And less than two hours after they’d met, Yulia was in his bed. She was beautiful, her breasts bouncing attractively and her sweet-smelling hair brushing his face as she rode his cock with enthusiasm. Ilya would make sure she came at least once before they were through. Nothing particularly interesting, but it was what he needed and certainly better than spending the night alone.
His mind wandered while his body enjoyed fucking her. Thinking about the next day, the next week. What time he’d go to the gym and when the lockout negotiations would restart after the holiday. Maybe by the end of January he could leave Russia. The last round of talks had been slightly more promising, and the league couldn’t afford to keep hemorrhaging money forever.
“Hello?”
Ilya realized Yulia had stilled on top of him, looking down at him expectantly.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, running his hands up her thighs and gripping her waist. She was so thin and light, not at all muscular like -
“You are distracted?” she asked, starting to grind her hips again, and he tilted his head back with a groan.
Then he flipped her over, making her squeal and giggle, landing on top of her.
“Absolutely not.”
He did not let himself think after that.
3. December 31, 2014 - Cancún, Mexico
“Tequila shots, please!” Hayden yelled across the bar, turning to his left and right to count the guys they’d come with as well as the several hot women they’d somehow managed to collect along the way. “For, uh…six! No, seven!”
Shane couldn’t imagine how the bartender could hear anything over the pounding music in the resort club. Or, for that matter, how he could stand to spend an entire shift being blinded by strobe lights while being yelled at by drunk people. He seemed cool and collected, though, pouring drinks one-handed while grabbing lime slices with the other.
“Thank you,” Shane yelled when the bartender placed a glass in front of him, and flushed when the man winked in response.
“Happy new year, fuckers!” Hayden shouted, spilling a bit of his shot as he held it up to toast the group.
“Happy new year,” Shane echoed quietly, and tipped the liquor back with a grimace.
“This really isn’t your scene, huh?”
Shane looked up from where he was sitting, nursing a beer and scrolling through the ESPN headlines on his phone. “Um, what?”
The bartender smiled at him, starting to line up glasses on a tray. “This place. Doesn’t look like it’s really your kind of vibe.”
“Oh. Uh, no, not really.” Shane shook his head, then hastened to add, “You’re doing a great job. It’s just, uh, a little crowded. And loud.”
The bartender - who Shane could see now had the name Mateo embroidered on his shirt - leaned over the bar so he could speak at a more normal volume.
“I know. It’s a lot. If I didn’t have to abide by an absolutely iron-clad NDA to work at this place, I could tell you about all the famous people who have been bored out of their minds at my bar.” He shrugged, grinning. “Unfortunately, that’s classified information. But you’re not alone.”
That honestly kind of made Shane feel better about not having fun. He tried, he really did. He knew that his teammates liked him and respected him, and he was grateful to be included, but he also knew he didn’t have the same kind of energy and excitement they did about going out to places like this.
“Um, thanks,” he said. “So…you get a lot of big names here, I guess?”
“Yeah. The bigger the name, the more people tend to value privacy, I guess. And this resort has a good reputation for not, you know, telling the paparazzi who’s here. Which seems like a pretty low bar to me, but what do I know?”
“Yeah, that’s really nice, honestly. The attention is kind of crazy.” Shane picked at the label on his beer bottle, peeling it carefully.
Mateo wasn’t even pretending to wipe the counter or lay out glasses anymore. He was just standing there, talking to Shane like they were two normal people. He leaned in a little closer, and Shane could see the thin silver chain around his neck, dipping into the open collar of his shirt where his chest hair was just visible. Shane bit his lip, leaning in a little closer too.
“For what it’s worth, I’m very excited to be serving the official #1 sexiest man in the NHL tonight.”
Shane felt his face get hot, and he looked down, laughing. “Oh, man, I don’t - um, thank you.”
“Even if it wasn’t official, you’re definitely #1 in my ranking,” Mateo continued. Then he looked around, and pitched his voice slightly lower. “Look, feel free to completely shut me down, but I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t give this a shot. You’re really fucking cute. If you want, I’d love to meet you someplace quieter after my shift ends.”
Holy shit.
Shane kind of couldn’t breathe. A guy was hitting on him. A really fucking hot guy. Offering to meet him someplace quiet…presumably for sex.
It had been too long since they played Boston, and he wanted -
Shane wanted. He suddenly felt desperate for it, the way he tended not to notice how badly he was craving sex until Rozanov texted him, and then the need would flare to life again in a moment.
He swallowed and nodded, meeting Mateo’s eyes.
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
Mateo smiled, looking excited, then grabbed a napkin and a pen from behind the bar. “Here. I’m off at 12:30. Text me.” He scribbled his number down and Shane did his best to pocket the note very smoothly and casually.
“Hollander!” yelled Hayden from seemingly right behind him, and Shane almost jumped out of his chair. Hayden reeked of tequila and threw his arms around Shane, smacking a loud kiss on his cheek. “Fucking come on, buddy! Live a little!”
Mateo had somehow vanished to the other side of the bar entirely and was serving patrons like the whole exchange had never happened. Shane’s heart was still pounding.
“Okay, okay,” he said, sliding off the bar stool, and Hayden whooped.
You have no idea.
At 12:15, Shane told the guys he was going to bed. At 12:25, he bit the bullet and texted the number on the napkin.
He was anxious, pacing the room and picking at the skin around his thumbnails. Was there something about him that signaled to Mateo that he was open to hooking up with a guy? Could people tell? Was this a completely insane thing to do?
No, he reminded himself. He has an NDA. He works at a place that caters to famous people trying to be low profile. (Shane made a mental note to thank Hayden for choosing this place in particular.) People do this all the time. Regular people do this, and so do most of the guys in the league. It’s fine.
It’s fine.
He took a deep breath in, let it out, then another, and another. His phone buzzed.
Shane wiped his hands on his pants and stood up to get the door. It was weird how nervous he felt, considering that by most standards he had pretty much all the power in this scenario. And sex wasn’t really new to him anymore, not like it had been when he first met Rozanov.
He was still about 35% freaking out.
When he opened the door, Mateo slipped in and closed it behind him, leaning against it and smiling. “All clear.”
God, Mateo was fucking hot. He was a few inches taller than Shane, broad-shouldered and muscular. He looked like he went to the gym a lot.
He looked like he could pick Shane up and fuck him against the wall, if he wanted.
Shane kissed him, then, pulling him into the room and then down onto the bed. Mateo sprawled on top of him with a grin, sitting up just long enough to pull off his shirt before leaning back in, pressing Shane down into the bed and kissing his neck.
They made out for a few long minutes, and it felt good. It felt…different.
“What do you want?” Mateo murmured, pushing up his shirt.
“Um,” Shane started, and closed his eyes, embarrassed.
Mateo kissed his stomach, then his hip. “You’re adorable. Tell me.”
Shane looked down at him then, this sexy, eager man who had chosen Shane tonight, and decided that he was tired of being embarrassed about this.
“I want you to fuck me,” he said, and unbuckled his belt.
Mateo’s eyes widened. “Fuck,” he whispered, then quickly started undressing as well, both of them tossing their remaining clothes to the side. Shane spared a brief moment to think about the wrinkles in his shirt before he was distracted by Mateo’s body again, his cock thick and erect against his belly.
“Like what you see?” Mateo asked, wrapping a hand around himself and stroking. “You want this in you?”
Shane swallowed, nodding, and turned to the bedside table, suddenly very grateful that he’d thought to pack some condoms and lube, just in case. He hadn’t really expected to use any of it, except maybe the lube on his own, but now Mateo was leaning over him, taking a condom from the drawer and tearing it open with his teeth.
He liked sex, of course for the obvious reasons, but also because it often made him feel calm. Not typically when he had it with women, which he didn’t really want to think about just then, but when he was getting fucked like this it was like his brain completely shut the hell up for once. He liked that, a lot.
He liked the thought that he was being kind of slutty right now. Picking up a total stranger and inviting him in to fuck. Letting him suck Shane’s cock like he couldn’t imagine anything better. Probably some of it was just the draw of celebrity, but Shane felt sexy, which was still a feeling he was getting used to having.
Mainly that happened when he was with Rozanov.
Shane banished the thought from his mind as Mateo pushed at his shoulder, encouraging him to turn over. Mateo fucked him with his tongue and then fingers and finally his cock, and it was good, it was so fucking good Shane could hardly believe it.
It was weird how he kept thinking about Rozanov. About how this felt kind of the same as it did with Rozanov, but also some parts felt different. Probably it was just the fact that Shane had only had sex with one guy before, so that was what he’d gotten used to, and now he was naturally comparing and contrasting the experiences. It was probably really good and healthy, actually, to get more experience. More variety.
Mateo breathed hard and let out a soft little moan, and Shane thought about how Rozanov’s voice got deep and a little gravelly, how he’d ask Shane in that accent if it felt good, how he’d almost growl in Shane’s ear when he was close to coming.
“Fuck,” Shane moaned, “Jesus Christ.” Mateo gripped the back of his neck hard and fucked him, the slapping sound of his body against Shane’s filling the room.
“That’s it,” Mateo said firmly, right next to his ear, “Give it to me,” and Shane came, trying not to yell, his face muffled in the bedspread. He was distantly aware of Mateo thrusting a few more times, then gasping and stilling. He pulled out and rolled to the side, breathing hard. Shane turned his head on the pillow and they looked at each other, their breathing gradually slowing.
It was good, it was just different than he was used to. That’s all.
Fifteen minutes later, Mateo grinned and waved from the door.
“I had fun.”
“Thanks. Um, me too,” Shane said, sitting up in bed. His glasses lay next to the lamp, and he suddenly wanted very badly to be left alone to read and go to sleep.
“Night.”
“Goodnight.” Then Mateo was gone, and Shane was alone again.
4. December 31, 2015 - Boston
“You are so punctual,” Ilya says as he opens the door, and Hollander rolls his eyes, pushing past him into the penthouse.
“Fuck off,” Hollander says, of course, and then kisses him, hands in Ilya’s hair. They end up making out in the front hallway for several long minutes, Ilya silently saying hello to Hollander’s stupid freckles and the so soft skin of his earlobe in Ilya’s mouth. Hollander makes these little sounds under his breath, pressing Ilya to the wall like he’s trying to find a way closer before their clothes are even off.
“Come,” Ilya says eventually, pushing gently at Hollander’s chest. “I have plans that do not involve standing around all night.”
“Who’s standing around? I’m busy.” Hollander dips his head closer to kiss Ilya again once, twice, then backs away, toes his shoes off. He’s wearing a dumb practical vest and a hoodie with the hood up that makes him look cuter than usual, which is incredibly irritating.
Ilya tilts his head toward the bedroom and Hollander follows, racing him the last few steps and shoving Ilya down onto the bed. Some of Ilya’s favourite nights are after Montreal has lost and Hollander is all pouty and mad, and he takes it out on Ilya. This isn’t him angry, though, just…mischievous? Demanding? Sometimes Hollander is very soft and obedient and sometimes he is a brat. All of these varieties are unfortunately very sexy. It is a problem.
Hollander kisses him again, puts his tongue in Ilya’s mouth and hands back in Ilya’s hair where they belong, grinds his cock against Ilya’s thigh.
“I want,” he says at length, and then swallows, not quite looking at Ilya. “I want to suck your cock, and then I need you to fuck me.”
It is a little stupid but also very charming that Hollander is so bashful about saying these things out loud, and then he will immediately turn around and spend the night moaning and riding Ilya’s cock like a massive slut. Anyway, he should probably give Hollander some positive reinforcement for the direct communication. Use good coaching technique.
“No. I have plan,” he says instead, and Hollander groans, his face flushed.
“Fine, what?”
Ilya takes Hollander’s jaw in his hand and turns his face so they’re looking at one another. “You will suck me off and then I fuck you.”
“Why are you like this?” Hollander says, getting up and unzipping his very sensible vest. “You’re so annoying.”
Ilya sits up to take off his own shirt and then lifts his hips to pull off the track pants he had on, with nothing underneath. Lies back down and starts to jerk himself off slowly. Hollander’s eyes land on the movement of his hand and they don’t move.
“Is better plan. Because I made it.”
“Whatever,” Hollander says softly, watching him, then blinks a few times and finishes taking off his clothes. Everything is neatly folded on the dresser in a small pile. Hollander is so neat and tidy and good, which makes it even more enjoyable to mess him up.
Ilya doesn’t need to tell him the plan again. He gets on the bed on his hands and knees, crawling into the V of Ilya’s legs and settling there. Hollander pushes Ilya’s hand away and replaces it with his tongue, licking slowly from base to tip. His eyes flick up, then, staring Ilya down as he takes it all, swallowing around Ilya’s cock and moaning in the back of his throat.
“Fuck,” Ilya whispers, his hands going to the back of Hollander’s head to feel him moving, but Hollander shakes his head slightly, grabbing Ilya’s wrists and pinning them to the bed. Then he closes his eyes and starts bobbing his head in earnest, all beautiful suction and his tongue hot and wet on the underside of Ilya’s cock. “Your mouth, Hollander,” Ilya says, reverent. Then, teasing: “You love this.”
Hollander pulls off for a moment. “So?”
“So, I am glad our interests align. Very convenient for me.”
“Oh my God, shut the fuck up,” Hollander says, half annoyed and half laughing, then grips Ilya’s wrists harder and gets back to work.
Later, after Hollander has driven him to distraction with that mouth and demanded that Ilya fuck him before he dies of old age and boredom in that very bed, Ilya pushes the head of his cock just inside.
“More,” Hollander says. He moans and tries to wiggle backward to get Ilya deeper, but Ilya holds his hips still.
Even now, still, he sometimes has this moment that is a mix of worry and awe, wanting to make sure he is not hurting Hollander, and feeling overwhelmed that he is trusted with this despite Hollander informing him that he is the most annoying shit on the planet. There is no real reason it should be Ilya here in this bed, other than sheer luck.
“Come on.”
The moment passes. Hollander is clearly more than fine, and he proves it by moaning loudly and swearing as Ilya starts fucking him for real, snapping his hips against Hollander’s very hot ass. Hollander likes it like this, on his hands and knees for Ilya with a white-knuckle grip on the sheets. Ilya likes it, too.
Ilya likes it pretty much every way, with Hollander.
He especially likes fucking Hollander so well that he’ll make that high-pitched little warning sound and come all over himself. He likes to feel that happen and let it pull him over the edge too, losing his rhythm and gasping against the skin of Hollander’s back, kissing his spine.
“Jesus Christ, Rozanov,” Hollander sighs, half muffled by the bed, and doesn’t move a muscle in response to Ilya getting up to toss the condom. He gets all limp and boneless after he comes if it’s been a while. Ilya doesn’t understand him at all in this way - for Ilya, going more than a day between orgasms is a dry spell - but he likes having the power to make Hollander feel like this. He’d never say Hollander is relaxed, but Ilya can get him to about 50% less uptight and boring. Which is a massive improvement.
After, Hollander dozes and Ilya taps a cigarette out of the pack. He is an extremely polite and thoughtful guy, so he will annoy Hollander with its presence between his lips but will not light it until he has left.
“Smoking is bad for you,” Hollander says, rolling over, and Ilya smiles.
5. January 1, 2017 - Boston
Ilya wakes up with a splitting headache and regrets opening his eyes almost instantly. Instead, he closes them again and burrows deeper into the blankets, determined to go back to sleep.
Unfortunately, his body hasn’t gotten the message, and he’s now wide awake with his headache and a feeling that will probably become nausea if he attempts to sit upright.
He lies there and breathes for a while, piecing together the memories of the night. There aren’t many. Eventually, there’s a shuffling outside the door and movement in the corner of his eye.
“You look like shit,” Svetlana says kindly, placing a glass of water and several of what look like maybe Tylenol or ibuprofen on the bedside table.
“Thank you,” he says, slowly turning in the bed and propping himself up to pick up the pills and swallow them with gulps of water. He looks at his phone to check the time and is helpfully reminded of the stupid fucking clickbait article he’d had open last night, titled Power Couple Ringing in 2017! Exclusive Snaps of Shane Hollander and Rose Landry!
Ilya turns off the phone entirely and flops back down, groaning. He remembers trying to fuck Svetlana last night before passing out, and both of them realizing there was no success to be had.
“Sorry about…” he gestures vaguely with his hand, eyes closed. “I can get you off now, if you want.”
Svetlana snorts, walking around to get back under the covers on the other side of the bed. “Wow. Such a tempting offer.” She leans closer and sniffs delicately, then pulls back. “You smell like vodka mixed with fart and cigarette butts. No thank you.”
They’re quiet for a moment. Svetlana sips her coffee and looks at her phone.
“Poor start to new year,” Ilya says.
Svetlana shrugs, looking over at him with a mix of pity and kindness that makes Ilya feel even more pathetic than he already does.
“This is why you do not drink with broken heart.”
He blinks and looks away. “Fuck broken heart. This has never happened.”
“Of course not.”
Ilya’s eyes are suddenly stinging and he closes them again, curling up in a ball with his head next to Svetlana’s on the pillow. She puts a hand on his head and scratches gently at his scalp with her long nails, soothing and slow.
“You smell, but I still love you,” she tells him, and drinks her coffee while he rests.
January 1, 2017 - Montreal
The less said about New Year’s, the better. Shane wakes up at six in the morning with a godawful headache and the acrid taste of puke in his mouth. He’s alone in the bed. Rose is somewhere, probably? He might still be drunk.
He passes out again.
Around noon, he snaps awake again, this time to Rose shaking his shoulder. She’s dressed in jeans and a sweater, her coat and boots already on.
“I’m pretty sure you have shit to do today, Shane,” she says, her voice cool. “I have to go.”
He sits up, still disoriented. “Um, okay. Did, uh, did I…” He’s not even sure what question to ask.
Rose looks at him, still cool but also a little pitying. “Probably. You had a big night.” She squeezes his hand. “There’s coffee and Tylenol on the kitchen counter. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Alright,” Shane says, and then she clomps down the stairs in her snow boots and he hears the front door open and close.
Shane slowly, carefully sits up, taking stock of all the ways his body feels fucked up. He’s dizzy and his stomach hurts, and he’s oddly sweaty but cold at the same time. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s been hung over like this in his entire life, despite his teammates’ best efforts. What the fuck?
Over the course of what feels like an hour, he manages to put on sweats and a t-shirt, drink a full glass of water, and brush the stale acid taste out of his mouth. Then he makes his way downstairs, taking in the detritus of the previous night. He had Rose and a bunch of her friends over. There are several empty wine bottles on the counter, a dozen glasses stained with red residue, crumpled napkins and crumbs on the counter. His shirt is just…on the floor for some reason, and he picks it up and folds it, tossing it on the couch to put away later.
There’s a pillow and blanket on the couch. It looks like someone slept there. Rose? Why would -
Oh, fuck.
Shane can’t remember everything from last night, but he suddenly has a crystal-clear memory of finishing a very overfull glass of red wine and then trying to make out with Rose. He remembers she kissed him back, led him to bed, and then - oh, God - she got her hand in his pants and felt that he was completely soft, and then he’d started fucking crying.
“Oh no, oh my God,” Shane mumbles, leaning over the counter with his face buried in his arms. No wonder she slept on the couch and was fucking upset this morning. He tried to fuck his hot, famous girlfriend, couldn’t get it up, and cried about it while kissing her. And then threw up and passed out.
He drops into a squat and leans his forehead against the fridge, trying to catch his breath. It’s coming in these shallow bursts and his whole body feels like one giant cringe. “No, no, no.” He knocks his head against the cool surface of the fridge door and tries to focus on the temperature on his skin.
It takes a while to calm down. He racks his brain to think of anything else humiliating he might have done last night, but if there was anything, it’s fully lost to the wine. That’s a small blessing. And, okay, he definitely doesn’t remember anyone else being there by the time he started things with Rose. He couldn’t possibly have done anything worse than that earlier in the night, when other people were around to witness it.
Shane’s body tenses again with anxiety. My phone, he thinks. Did he fucking drunk text anyone? To be fair, it’s hard to think of anyone he would drunk text.
He takes the stairs two at a time back up to hunt for his phone, eventually finding it in the pocket of the pants he was wearing last night and that are tossed haphazardly across the top of the laundry hamper. He opens the messages and scrolls down.
Under Lily, there's a typed but unsent message. All it says is hey.
Shane lets out a long breath, his shoulders sagging with relief. The worst possible addition to last night would be him involving Rozanov somehow.
He deletes the unsent message, backs out of the conversation and opens his messages with Rose instead, and then stares at the screen for a long, long time before figuring out what the hell to say.
He re-reads the texts again and sighs. Good enough.
A few minutes later, the screen lights up with a notification from her, and the knot in his stomach tightens. Some part of him is anticipating that she must be disgusted with him. After all, he certainly is.
He walks back to the kitchen blearily, and spots the plastic bottle next to the espresso machine, which has a mug already set up ready for him. There’s a sticky note on it that reads, Take care of yourself, Shane. xo R
Suddenly, inexplicably, his vision blurs and he’s starting to cry again. It’s the hangover making him vulnerable and fucked up, but it’s also just Shane feeling pathetic and guilty. He really, really does not deserve Rose being so kind to him.
“I’ll do better,” he says, both to himself and to her, and turns on the coffee machine. He’ll try harder.
He’ll start by cleaning up the kitchen.