Chapter Text
Shannon sits on the stairs leading up to her rental property, knee bouncing, hoodie string clenched between her teeth as she checks her messages for the tenth time in the past two minutes.
Rozanova is late. Ten minutes late at that, she should've been here ten minutes ago and maybe she isn't coming at all. Shannon knew it was a long shot to invite her over like this. The things they do together have been confined to hotel rooms, mostly. And other impersonal spaces that belong to neither of them. Shannon's investment property is sort of in-between the impersonality of a hotel room and the personality of a space she took care in designing and making her own but isn't 100% hers.
And Rozanova's late.
Every time they do this, Shannon spends the lead up knowing that this— the thing they have going on between them— is a mistake.
Then Shannon's phone pings and all the anxiety swirling in her mind drains right out of her.
Elijah: Here.
Shannon stands so quick her vision blurs. Snatching the door open reveals Rozanova on the other side, phone in hand, wearing, of all things, a maxi-length, mock-neck dress that absolutely clings to her svelte figure; she must've gotten stuck on the media circuit after the game. Whatever, Shannon doesn't care. Well, she does care. She cares about the way the fabric shows off Rozanova's sculpted biceps and glutes and she cares even more about the way her golden curls are held out of her face with a Shrike green, glittering claw clip that matches the polish on her fingernails.
"You will murder me," Rozanova says, slipping the phone into her dress. Of course her dress has pockets, why wouldn't it?
"Maybe, get in," Shannon barks, hating herself for all of two seconds before dragging Rozanova inside by the wrist. The moment the door slams shut and locks with a metallic hiss, Shannon's shoving Rozanova against the wall, hand pressed against her sternum so hard she can feel Rozanova's fluttering pulse behind her palm, "Why the fuck did you think it was okay to sext me before the game?"
Rozanova's pretty, lipsticked mouth curls into a fond smile, "You were wet, weren't you? For how long— whole game? Final period?"
Shannon rolls her eyes and scoffs leaving her alone in favor of making an attempt to get upstairs to the actual apartment "You're such a bitch."
"Oh," Rozanova coos, "But you missed me."
"I really didn't— and I still beat your ass, by the way, in case you forgot that." Shannon chances a glance over her shoulder. Rozanova's staring at her in that predatory way she's always looking at Shannon, eyes half-lidded, smirk pinching at the corner of her mouth as if she wants nothing more than to take a bite.
"Barely." The clomp of her heels echoes in the stairway as her pace quickens, arm shooting out in front of Shannon to gain on her. Shannon pushes Rozanova into the railing, the game already beginning. Shannon can't fight the smile off her face for anything. Not when she can smell the vanilla wafting from Rozanova's hair and hear her delighted giggle right by her ear.
They take their shoes off in the foyer, Rozanova's pumps joining Shannon's Reeboks in a pile on the floor. Shannon's heart thumps hard against her breastbone when she realizes the pattern on her sneakers is nearly the same green as Rozanova's heels— Shrike green, but not quite there yet. Butcherbirds, they call the Boston PWHL team, so called after the bird they're named after. They play like it too. Or, Rozanova does at least. She plays hockey like a shark being introduced to chum filled waters; Shannon loves playing against her.
But she loves having her after even more. Rozanova looks a little out of place, arms folded beneath her breasts as she takes in the rental property. Not for the first time does a bolt of anxiety weave through Shannon's being as she steps forward, never sure where to take things. The start has always been her least favorite part of their thing.
"Nice place," Rozanova says at last, letting her hair down. Her golden curls tumble down her shoulders like a mane. She sets the clip down on the coffee table, runs her fingers over a leather chair.
"Thanks. It's my second investment property," Shannon begins, not quite sure what to say but explaining anyway, "I rent the bottom floor out to a business and once the apartment is finished being renovated, I'll probably rent it out too. Or maybe keep it, I'm not really sure yet."
"Ah, so you are business woman now?"
"Shut up, you asked."
"Mm," Rozanova shakes her head, tucks a curl behind her ear, "I did not ask, Miss Landlord."
Shannon wets her bottom lip, shrugging weakly. She doesn't know what else to say or where to put her hands or anything really. She never does.
But she can rely on Rozanova to take the reins, to smile wolfishly at her and crowd into her space, hands grasping at Shannon's waist through her sweatshirt.
"So," Rozanova sighs. "Where do you want me? On kitchen counter, living room floor…"
"How about the bedroom?" Shannon suggests, letting herself spread her hands over Rozanova's collarbones, thumbs close enough to touch her breasts but never daring to cross that line. Not yet. Not through her modest dress, the only kinds she wears for interviews even though her Instagram tells a completely different story about her clothing preferences…
Rozanova's lips taste like her lipstick and cigarette smoke. Russian Red from MAC. Shannon still remembers how insanely jealous she felt when she played against Rozanova that first time in Reginia. She'd been hearing about the Russian player for months and months; she hadn't expected the Russian Fury to play every single hockey game in a full face of impeccable makeup, shoving her femininity right in everyone's faces. Shannon herself had never been good at makeup; she never knew how to make the slant of her eyes look appealing and every shade of foundation she ever tried looked both too yellow or too pink, or made her want to claw her face off.
So she just stopped trying. How Rozanova manages to play the way she does without sweating her face off is another mystery. Her makeup looks the exact same after a game as it does before down to her false eyelashes and lipsticked mouth.
Shannon drags her into the bedroom between kisses, searching for Rozanova's mouth with her own, their tongues tangling together.
Finally, they break for air, Rozanova chuckling and then humming, "Is enough pillows, you think?"
Rolling her eyes, Shannon pulls back enough while keeping her hands over Rozanova's shoulders, not ready to let go yet as she surveys the bed. Same bedding as always, same nine— ten pillows. Okay, but they look nice and the room looks cozy in it's mid-century modern fashion that's trending right now. "I hired an interior decorator."
"Madame Landlord—"
"Shut. Up, God."
"No, is fit for a princess," Rozanova declares, peeling away to shimmy out of her dress. Shannon copies her the best she can without taking her eyes off the other woman. She steps out of her joggers one foot at a time, folding the legs over once she's left in just her boyshorts and socks. Rozanova slips out of her long dress in one fluid, gorgeous movement, exposing the strong lines of her muscles, the pale flush of her skin, her matching, burgundy lingerie set, and her aforementioned incredible boobs.
Shannon's never really considered herself a boobs person, mostly because she's never considered herself the kind of person who looks at other women this way to begin with. It's just… Rozanova has a really cute mole on her left tit and she you know… actually has them.
"What are you doing?" Asks Rozanova, dress still clinging to her arms. "Get on the bed."
She doesn't need to be told twice. Tossing most of the pillows off the bed, Shannon settles herself in, shedding her t-shirt, folding it, and setting it off to the side on the end-table. Her entire body buzzes with want. They haven't seen each other in months and never with this much time on their hands. Three whole hours— Shannon bites her lip, smiles to herself.
Then Rozanova's on top of her and between her legs, all wild curls and perfume right in Shannon's face. One day, Shannon would like for Rozanova to stay the night. She wants to wake up with her and see what her face looks like when not covered in her favored shellac and glitter.
They kiss. They always start with kissing while Rozanova's exploring fingers slip beneath the hem of Shannon's sports bra to cup her breast.
"You still want?" Rozanova whispers, breath warm at Shannon's cheek.
"Yes." The little hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Rozanova's playing with her hair now, twirling her split ends around her finger over and over again like it's a joy just to do it, "I still want."
Rozanova grins like a kid on Christmas and slinks down, tugging Shannon's boyshorts down in a single pull. The edges of her manicured nails trace up the delicate skin of Shannon's inner-thighs until she's trembling.
"So wet for me, hm? Miss me?"
"Shut up," Shannon breathes, tossing an arm over her face to hide how warm her cheeks are growing. "Why is your bra still on?"
"Because I am going to eat you out," Rozanova states like it's a fact instead of a suggestion. She hikes Shannon's right knee up over her shoulder and presses in. A small, tight little moan whispers from between her lips. She loves when Rozanova manages her body like this, arranges her limbs in whatever order she needs them to be in, but she mostly just likes that Rozanova never treats her delicately. Shannon's had sex with a few guys before and they always treat her like glass— like she might shatter if they thrust in too hard.
Rozanova treats Shannon's body as if she expects her take everything offered, no exceptions.
It's wonderful.
It's dangerous.
As is the press of Rozanova's tongue against her clit. Shannon's toes curl in the air, a moan punching right out of her chest, "Rozy— bra. Off."
Rozanova growls but acquiesces, sitting up enough to pin both of Shannon's knees to her shoulders. Her body folds willingly and she manually pries her fingers away from where she's fisted her hands in the sheets. In one deft, clever movement, Rozanova's bra comes off. Her tits drop immediately. There's that little mole Shannon's obsessed with. She's grasping at her chest immediately, thumbs rolling over soft, pink nipples.
"Okay, quit groping me," she huffs, slinking back down between Shannon's thighs. "Ah— you were wet."
"Shut up—! Oh— Fuck."
They've done this before, eating each other out, but Shannon doesn't think she'll ever be able to mentally prepare herself for the hot lave of Rozanov's tongue against her clit. She throws her head back against the pillow, hand carding through her own hair as she fights not to cant her cunt against Rozanova's mouth.
They don't need words after that. This was the first language they ever shared together even back when Rozanova's English was poor and Shannon learned more about herself in a single night than she had in a whole lifetime.
Things about herself like this— that she likes being eaten out when Rozanova does it. That despite the endorphins flooding her body and pooling low in her belly, she can't wait until she gets to do it back. Shannon's never considered vaginas pretty before or anything, but she likes Rozanova's. She likes the darker thatch of blonde curls that grow darker when she's turned on, but she specially likes how pink and flushed her innerlips and clit get when she's horny and on the edge.
"Oh God," Shannon cries out, back arching off the bed, "Fuck— Rozzie—"
The orgasm hits her out of nowhere at a quite frankly record speed. Her thighs tremble around Rozanova's head and Shannon has to take several long, deep breaths before propping herself up on her elbows, chest still heaving and damp with sweat.
Rozanova lifts her head up, cheek resting against the sensitive skin of Shannon's inner-thigh. Her lipstick's smudged all around her mouth, her chin damp with Shannon's fluids. A hot wave of embarrasment warms the back of Shannon's neck.
"You finally grew out your bush, good girl," coos Rozanova as she presses a kiss to Shannon's thigh, canine teeth grazing over the skin in such a way that Shannon actually whimpers. "So pretty for me."
"Are you sure?"
Rozanova rubs her chin and jawline, "No burn this time, is very nice."
"Jesus—"
"Round two?" She suggests before Shannon can rant about the fact that growing out her bush actually sucked and made her want to crawl out of her skin until the hair was long enough not to prickle. Why the hell she decided to grow her bush back out after years of Brazilian waxes for her quarterly hookup is anybody's question.
But deep down, Shannon knows why. She can't look into Rozanova's blown out pupils, the hazel ring of her iris barely visible, and pretend she didn't do it solely because she asked her to.
That'd be insane.
But it's the truth.
Shannon lays back down, tossing her forearms over her face as if she can hide from how much she wants, "Fuck. Yeah. Round two."
Between helmets and cages, getting a good look at another player was difficult. Shannon, who did her best to avoid being checked whenever possible, never made getting that close to someone very possible. Instead, she kept her eyes on the ice and on the puck, scored goals, and played the game.
However, when she found out that Canada was going against Russia at the U18 Women's Worlds, she did her research.
Not much could be found online about Yulia Rozanova. No videos or photographs, only articles stating her as the most talented woman in hockey, a prospect the whole world had their eyes on alongside…
Alongside Shannon herself.
So, the moment Shannon caught a whisper of blonde hair slipping out of an open arena door, she followed. Reginia was bitter cold, the wind sharp enough to chafe her cheeks and tangle her hair. She drew her beanie further down her head in attempt to stop the chill from biting at the tips of her ears, squint to see past the tears gathering in her eyes from the miserable wind beating against her face.
There was Yulia Rozanova, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette between her manicured fingernails. She wore a beanie too although instead of having her hair in a plait, like Shannon did, her hair was down. Her blonde curls ruffled in the wind, cascading down Yulia's strong shoulders in a golden wave that reminded Shannon of a 90's romcom lead.
She was… gorgeous. Aggravatingly so, Shannon decided. Who wore a full face of makeup to a hockey game? Why did the pale blue shadow look so good on Rozanova's eyes but made Shannon look like a clown every time she tried to experiment before a shower?
"Yulia Rozanova?" Shannon greeted before her nerves could get the best of her, hand already sticking out between them, the tips of her fingers going numb in the cold. "Shannon Hollander. I-I wanted to introduce myself?"
Rozanova eyed Shannon's hand, twisted her cigarette to the corner of her mouth (God, her cupid's bow was so deep. Shannon had never known a single person who looked even remotely like Yulia Rozanova with her golden curls, hazel eyes, and full lips). Then, she clapped her hand in Shannon's without a word.
Okay, okay. Cool. Shannon could walk away now, return to her teammates who were surely looking for her.
But… she couldn't help but notice the glaring No Smoking sign mere inches away from Rozanova's head. Maybe No Smoking signs look different in Russia or something.
Shannon cleared her throat, "I'm not sure you're supposed to smoke here?"
"Okay," Said Rozanova, blowing smoke from her nostrils.
"Well," she had to wet her bottom lip, "You're an awesome player to watch."
Rozanova's smile tightened a little, her eyes dancing over Shannon's face like she was trying to piece together what she just said. Maybe… Maybe her English wasn't so good, that could be it. "Yes."
Shannon scuffed the toe of her sneaker— Reebok's because her mom's been trying to get her that sponsorship since Canada was announced to make the U18 finals— on the pavement, leaving a deep black mark on the supportive rubber.
"Hey I've uh, I've got to go. They're waiting for me but…" She lifts her shoulders in a shrug, jacket kissing her earlobes, "But good luck at the tournament, yeah?"
Rozanova's smile deepened, crinkling the skin around her eyes in a way that left Shannon's heart beating hard against her sternum, "You will not be so nice when we beat you."
Shannon laughed, finally turning around to head back inside, burying her hands in her pockets, "That's not happening."
The moment she caught the door, Rozonova said, in a melodic, sing-song voice that preluded the kind of talent made for karaoke bars and drunk nights out, "See you in final, Hollander."
Shannon just shook her head, unable to think of another reply. She looked back at Rozanova once, twice, then ducked back inside.
Russia won.