Chapter Text
Later, Shane briefly and privately thought that Rozanov could do with a few more tilts on the ice. For crowd engagement purposes, of course.
Shane’s body had turned to static when Ilya was flattened against the boards behind the net, the Metros home crowd roaring. But Ilya had turned, laughing, and shrugged off a glove. The hit he threw subsequently cut Comeau's visor into the bridge of his nose. He had skated past Shane on the way to the penalty box, grin haphazard and bright red.
Ilya ducked into Shane’s foyer later that night still shower-damp. Shane had been mulling over it guiltily; Ilya, wild and bloody, the way his own stomach knotted deliciously, like a freak. Shane fisted a hand into Rozanov’s curls hard and pecked him on the mouth, incongruent and sweet.
“Sore?” Shane asked, pulling back to scrutinize Rozanov’s expression.
“Yes, from losing to a bad team,” Rozanov replied flatly. “Comfort me.”
“You’re a dick,” Shane breathed warmly, leaning forward to crowd him gently against the door. Rozanov’s lips were parted slightly. He angled his head for leverage, licking into Rozanov’s mouth. He tasted like Listerine and lingering metal. Shane felt himself want, then, with lightheaded ferocity.