Bellismo
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Summary
On the poster, Ilya’s own face looked back at him through a Snapchat dog filter, the image clearly taken to show off his flexed torso. Ilya didn’t recognize the selfie. He could’ve sent it to any number of girls. Someone had put jail bars over the image and below it, in bold letters, was simple text:
ILYA ROZANOV:
THIS MAN IS A DOG!
TEXT IRIS TO JOIN THE SUPPORT GROUP~ or ~
Following the tuna melt diaster, Ilya goes out to a bar in Boston and sees a poster for an Ilya Rozanov support group. Posing as Lily, he joins a group chat of his past consquests and discovers that he's not nearly as hard to figure out as he thinks he is.
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Even before he played his first NHL game, Ilya expected his career would involve bearing the brunt of some dislike. Hockey was entertainment, a spectacle; somebody had to play the heel. He didn’t mind that. He didn’t expect people to dislike Hollander.
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“...oh,” his mom says. “Oh, honey, you were seeing someone? You never said anything.”
“It’s-it’s complicated.” He catches the present tense too fucking late to do anything about it, and he barely resists the urge to either groan or slip forward to start beating his head against the coffee table.
Fuck his fucking life.
“You’re still…seeing this person?” His mom asks, and the amount of control he can hear her exerting is almost painful. “Who is-”
“Yuna,” his dad cuts in, voice quiet, “maybe give him a second, yeah?”
Yeah, Shane agrees in his head. Give him a second.
Maybe give him a decade while they’re at it.
(when shane's old fake id falls out of his wallet around his parents, he has to explain that it was to book hotel rooms before he was 21)
(...and then he has to explain why he needed to book those hotel rooms in the first place)
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“No vodka?” Rozanov asks, tsking in disapproval but looking amused. “What then? What does the great Shane Hollander want when he does a good job? What is your vice, Hollander?”
“Hmmmm, mangoes,” Shane sighs out wistfully. It’s not a dangerous allergy for him, but it does mean being itchy and sometimes a little queasy for a couple of days after. Really he knows that he should probably avoid them altogether, but with every other restriction he has and with how controlled he is with his life even outside of that, it’s his one little indulgence, a pressure-relief valve of one bad choice to let some steam off at the end of a season, when he carves out time in his cottage when he can make his annual bad choice and enjoy a few days of wild mango madness before he makes himself buckle back into the restraints he usually keeps his life in.
He looks up when he hears Rozanov snort.
“Mangoes?” Rozanov repeats, tugging his shirt over his head. “Really?”
“They’re good,” Shane defends. “Better than vodka,” he adds, pointedly.
(shane has food allergies but makes an exception for mangoes) (5 times ilya didn't find out about this allergy and 1 time he did)
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“Go?” Rozanov repeats, and Shane thinks he manages to nod, thinks he manages to spin some kind of excuse that he knows Rozanov doesn’t really buy, but he needs to go. He needs to get out of here. He needs to find somewhere quiet and calm where he can ride out this panic and painful tightness until he can catch his breath again. He needs-
He needs to go.
“I’m sorry,” he says, turning heel and resisting the urge to just book it right for the front door only because he’d rather not have to explain to Hayden why he returned from a hookup with Boston Lily in men’s clothes that he certainly didn’t leave in.
It’s not until he makes it halfway up the stairs to Rozanov’s bedroom that it occurs to him in a cold rush that it isn’t just anxiety that makes it this hard to breathe.
“No,” he tells himself firmly, white knuckling the bannister and trying to take a deep breath just to prove that he can.
It wheezes.
(how the tuna meltdown is averted through the power of food allergies and anaphylaxis)