Chapter Text
June 2010, Los Angeles
New York. It was New York.
In his heart of hearts, he’d known it for months. He was too superstitious to say it out loud—always shutting down any conversation that had too much certainty in it, like tempting fate too closely would crack the ice open under his feet and he’d be yanked away from the possibility altogether.
Still, the logical part of his brain—which sounded a lot like his mom—did the math long ago, as long as when Scott Hunter had left for Boston, and more recently when the draft lottery had swept New York to the top spot. They desperately needed the strength at center, when their gamble with the Hunter deal and trying Novak in his position had failed spectacularly and they’d plummeted in the standings over the last two seasons.
(If he were Hunter, he would feel pretty fucking smug about that, especially with how quickly he’d turned Boston into contenders.
Actually, the whole sequence of events with Hunter had given him some pause about the team’s management, but his mom had reassured him that it was a lesson they’d learn from and not a mistake they’d make a second time with such a key piece of their roster. He’d tried not to worry about it more than that, since thinking too deeply about New York’s long-term teambuilding strategy was one of those fate-tempting thoughts that usually made him panic.)
So, here he was.
First, on stage, in Los Angeles, the words he’d been waiting his whole life to hear ringing in his ears: With the first overall selection of the 2010 NHL draft, the New York Admirals are proud to select Shane Hollander.
Then, smiling, even with the white hot lights searing down on him, making it impossible to see the crowd cheering in front of him.
Standing, first next to the podium, gripping the red, white, and blue jersey in his hands, the weight of hearty claps on his shoulders.
Later, backstage, then in the rooms beyond, still smiling, posing with one pointer finger in the air, squeezed between the second and third picks going to Edmonton and Florida, respectively, on either side of him.
In other rooms, all night, nodding along as people congratulated him. More hands on his back, more good-natured squeezes on his shoulder.
He was happy—of course he was happy. It was more than everything he had dreamed of, it was literally everything he had been working for since he was barely old enough to walk but already able to skate. It was the start of the life he had always wanted.
But maybe part of him thought that there would be more to it, just for tonight. That the culmination of all those years of work, all that stress, the long days, the tension in his muscles that never seemed to go away, the constant looping his brain did on the plays he needed to make, the passes he missed, the ways he had to improve next time—that all of it might finally go quiet. Just for a few minutes, just until training camp came, and the season began, and he’d start the next climb.
Instead, here he was in Los Angeles, well past midnight on the West Coast, staring at the ceiling and wondering if his brain would ever stop buzzing. Maybe it was just adrenaline.
But part of him worried that, fundamentally, he was just like this: that there would always be this thrum behind his eyes and between his ears. He’d tried for nineteen years, and had still never found the off switch. There were only ever temporary reprieves.
A temporary reprieve was probably the best he could hope for tonight, too.
He pulled himself out of bed, tucking the sheets in place so that when he eventually came back it would feel like he was slipping into his usual sleep routine. He changed quickly, shorts and a compression shirt, tying on sneakers. He hoped the gym would be empty this late at night—he assumed it would be. The hotel was crawling with hockey players and their families, but he figured that most of them were sleeping off their celebrations (at least for anyone that had gone in the first round).
The gym was small and uncomfortably cramped for a hotel this nice, but at least there was no one in it. Shane immediately made his way to a stationary bike, adjusting the seat to the correct position before sliding on and twisting the resistance knob until the pedals had the right balance under his feet. The room was quiet, and he hadn’t brought his iPod with him, but that seemed better. He didn’t really like listening to music while working out, anyway, and as the sound of his legs pushing the machine cut through the silence, he could feel the vibration in his head slowly calming down.
Shane had been in motion for barely three minutes when the door squealed open. He darted his eyes to the side, assuming at first that it must be another hockey player, looking to work off some extra emotion from the day.
It wasn’t.
Shane looked long enough to be certain he had never seen this guy before in his life, and then forced himself to look away.
Miraculously, he kept an even pace on his bike even as the guy sat down on the machine next to him. Which was objectively weird, in an empty hotel gym, at midnight, with literally every other piece of equipment open to him.
Shane sneaked a look at him out of the corner of his eye, and saw only the side of a grin, and a glimpse of bare, golden bicep and forearm. Hockey player or not, the guy apparently worked out.
Shane ducked his head down again. He thought he heard a soft laugh, or maybe a cough, but refused to look up to confirm. A wave of mortification flowed over him. Had he been caught staring? Was his face doing something weird?
But as he braced his arms against the handlebars, he pushed back on the feeling. Fuck that: Shane wasn’t the one who had sat down right next to an occupied bike. If he had given the guy a weird look, it was because the guy had done something weird, not Shane.
He let the righteousness of this settle over his shoulders as the cadence of their pedals thrummed through the air, and—wait, was this guy trying to fucking race him?
Shane picked up his head to look over his shoulder and found flinty eyes staring back. The man smirked at him—fucking smirked.
Shane almost had to look away again when that expression seemed to pierce something deep within him. Instead, he turned the knob between his knees to increase the resistance as he picked up the pace. Shane did turn away then, setting his shoulders and pushing focus into his quads and glutes.
It was hard to say who won, probably because they were on fucking stationary bikes. But Shane was first to back off. He’d been riding longer, though, he rationalized to himself as he straightened up, hands on his hips. So really, he had probably won on distance.
They heaved off the bikes at the same time. Shane wobbled for a moment when coming back to solid ground. His legs felt like jelly. That had been the point of coming down here, but if he was honest with himself, he had probably pushed himself past the point of simply expelling some extra energy.
He stumbled to the mat at the corner of the gym, ostensibly to stretch, but mostly to get off his shaking legs. He flopped down more gracelessly than he would have liked.
But when he looked up, the guy was right there. He had followed Shane over to the mat, sitting opposite, legs stretched out in front of him. Shane’s leg would have touched him if he sat the same way, so naturally he bent his knee, pulling his foot in towards himself instead.
Sitting across from each other now, there was nowhere else for Shane to look except directly at him. So for one, split second, Shane allowed himself just to look.
That was all he needed for the thought to form in his head, too clearly for Shane to shove it away into a box, unexamined: this was simply the hottest man he had ever seen.
“Woo!” He said, grinning at Shane, sweat curling the hair at his temple. “What a fucking city, huh?”
The smooth timbre of his voice, and the rough edges of his accent, didn’t help slow down the rush of blood that Shane was pretty sure was visible all over his skin. Shane refused to follow the track of sweat down towards the man’s neck, towards the collar of his black tank top.
Instead he lifted his eyes, pointedly looking around the cramped gym they were currently occupying inside of a business hotel. Of all the sights and scenes Los Angeles was known for, this was not one of them.
If the man understood Shane’s silent response, he ignored it. He nodded at him instead, tilting his head down towards him. “You are here for… what, some kind of sport event?”
That pulled Shane’s attention back, and not to the sweat dotting across his face. He had to be messing with him.
It wasn’t that he expected everyone to know about the draft, or to even care about hockey at all. But there was something in the specific tone of voice, the near-mocking choice of words, that he snagged on. If Shane had to pick a person who would know about the draft, someone like this guy—Russian, probably, built like he was made for board checks, with well-shaped quads that could have come from long hours of skating and probably glutes to match (shut the fuck up, Shane)—would have been it. But Shane still didn’t think he was here for the draft. He had a fairly strong sense that he would have noticed him if he’d ever seen him before, between the face and the whole fucking body.
“Uh, yeah,” he said cautiously, keeping his expression even. “They put us up here for the NHL draft.”
“Ah, so you are hockey player,” the guy responded, leaning forward, an arm draped casually over his knee. Shane didn’t think he was imagining the shrewd look, and the slightly narrowed blue eyes. He definitely wasn’t imagining the smirk. “Are you good?”
Shane had almost expected the question, or something like it, from the moment he caught the sly edge in the guy’s tone. He couldn’t help the way his lips twisted, though. He was still catching his breath from the bike, which seemed as good a reason as any to simply nod in response.
“So you have been drafted? What number?” The guy’s eyes didn’t leave his face.
The questions were so pointed, the stare so direct, that Shane wondered exactly how he was being fucked with–if this guy somehow knew everything about hockey, if he was someone’s brother or a GM’s son or a KHL player that Shane had somehow missed.
But the question was impossible to avoid. “Yeah, I got drafted today.”
He left it at that, holding himself back from answering the second question. Even if he knew it headlined hockey news tonight, it still felt too boastful to say outloud, especially when there was a chance that this man already knew and was trying to pull his chain.
A beat of silence passed between them, and the guy shook his head slightly, raising his eyebrows, a clear way of telling Shane to spit it out.
Shane breathed in slowly, letting his head rest lightly against the equipment behind him. He spoke carefully. “I was drafted first.”
A grin split the already handsome face across from him, and Shane was suddenly aware of the full meaning of the word “luminous.” He had literally never seen anything so beautiful. Which was a perfectly normal thought to have about a sweaty, strange man in a gym at midnight. Fuck.
“Ah, so you are trying to be shy,” the man laughed. “I am not so shy, I am going to tell every hockey player I see tomorrow that I beat the shit out of number one draft pick in bike race.”
Shane felt a rush of heat rise to his face and a scoff popped out of his mouth before he had even fully processed it. “You didn’t beat me and we weren’t racing.”
It came out fast and defensive, but Shane was used to being the most competitive person in any room. This was something new.
The man in front of him scoffed back, derisive. He said nothing, though, simply lifting his water bottle to his lips for a long, slow drink. Shane watched the motion for a beat too long, then quickly tried not to. But the look away was too slow, unsuccessful. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, unwilling to check the man’s expression to see his reaction. He felt more than saw the man shift positions, pulling both legs in slightly, dropping his knees out to either side. Shane didn’t look at what was in the middle of them.
“What team will number one best hockey player play for?”
Shane couldn’t help it. He looked at what was in the middle. “Uh, the New York Admirals.”
“Ah, New York! New York is nice, yes?” The guy’s tone shifted again, suddenly sounding more genuinely pleased instead of the vaguely devious edge it had been treading on since they began speaking about hockey.
“Uh, yeah, I guess. I haven’t really spent much time there. Yet, I guess.”
In truth, it was the part that worried him most. He was almost debilitatingly intimidated when he thought of the city, and was certain that the summer would not be enough time to mentally prepare for the abrupt change from Ottawa.
“I am also moving to New York.”
“Oh.” Shane looked at him quickly. Well, at his face. “What… I mean, what are you going to be doing there?”
The question seemed lame, but he didn’t know what else to ask. The statement had pulled in his full attention, though. The guy had clearly opened the conversation for a reason, though Shane didn’t understand the motivation for it.
“Model.” He looked proud when he said it. And fuck, if that didn’t make all the sense in the world. “I am in LA for job. I have been to New York many times, but only moving September.”
“That’s awesome.” Shane tried to keep his tone even, processing the fact that the apparently professionally good-looking man in front of him was, for some reason, vaguely giving him shit about hockey and talking about moving to New York. He was also trying to keep his eyes on the guy’s face, not on his neck, or on his lap, still drawing Shane’s attention like a magnet between his splayed legs. “I mean, yeah. You probably know more about New York than me, then.”
“Mm, no. Have much still left to see.” His eyes were directly on Shane.
There was an undercurrent to his tone again, but it was different from before. This time it sounded more like a hum. Something about it made Shane feel undone, like he was being pinned to a board. Not like in hockey, but like an insect, behind glass. He took in a slow breath, his throat suddenly feeling bone dry.
The guy, apparently, also noticed Shane’s harsh, unsteady swallow. He lifted the water bottle in his hand, shaking it in Shane’s direction. He shook his head in response, but was met with a more insistent shake. Shane hesitated one more moment, but refusal felt beyond him at this point. He reached forward.
The touch of his fingers against Shane’s almost felt like being stung. He tried not to yank his hand back, instead counting slowly in his head as he lifted the bottle to his lips. He felt insane as he took a drink, wondering why they were still making eye contact, trying desperately not to think about the other man’s lips around the same part of the bottle mere seconds earlier, of his saliva in Shane’s mouth. He pulled the bottle away as soon as the cool liquid trickled down his throat, but the man across from him shook his head.
“More,” he said. It came out as a puff of air more than a word spoken aloud.
Shane put the bottle to his lips again.
“What is your name?”
Shane took in a breath both because he needed one after rehydrating, and to steel himself for the brush of fingers as he passed the water bottle back. “Shane. Hollander.”
“I am Ilya Rozanov.” The name rolled off his tongue like a purr and Shane was certain he wouldn’t forget it.
He was certain, actually, that he would find himself in front of a computer screen before long, searching for pictures from the jobs Ilya Rozanov had booked. He kicked himself immediately for the thought, but now that it was in his head, he knew it would stay there, like a scuff mark—a curiosity that wiggled its way into his brain, into a corner where it might never leave.
“It’s, um, nice to meet you,” he said.
“Do you know anyone in New York?” Ilya Rozanov sounded cool and casual, but his eyes were roving over Shane in a way that made his fingers itch, remembering the momentary contact between them. He swallowed again, and hoped it didn’t look like a gulp.
“Uh… I guess my teammates. I don’t know any of them well so far. But there will probably be some new guys on the team, too. But outside of that, not really.” His mouth felt like it was completely disconnected from his brain at this point. He tried to stop himself from rambling, and ended with an inexplicable shrug.
The other man seemed to fully ignore this display of incoherence. “Is hard to make friends in a new city.”
Shane wasn’t sure what to say to this. He also wasn’t sure he should speak again for a little while.
But Ilya Rozanov kept looking at him, this time, it seemed, with some sense of expectation. “So we will be friends.”
Shane blinked. He wasn’t sure what he thought Rozanov was going to say, but that was about the last thing he would have expected. He still had no idea how to react. He had never been in a situation like this before: after midnight, in a gym with a stranger, (half hard) (shut the fuck up, Shane) talking about New York, apparently making friends.
But Rozanov, apparently, would not be deterred. “You have phone number?”
Shane watched as he shifted on the ground, reaching underneath his hip to pull out his cell phone. Shane couldn’t see from where he was sitting, but when Rozanov handed it back a second later, the screen was open to a new contact - first name “S,” last name “H” – waiting for a phone number.
“Too much to type whole name,” Rozanov shrugged.
Shane snorted, but looked down at the phone again. Gripping onto a physical object seemed to have brought him back into his body a little bit, enough to hesitate before continuing. It seemed like a blindingly stupid thing to do: giving his phone number to a stranger in a gym. Who could be, really, anybody.
But there was a small voice in his head speaking to him again—one that he thought had always been there, but that had been more vocal lately, particularly approving while watching Friday Night Lights and maybe less approving when fumbling with Jessica in her bed. Tonight, the voice was succinct: hot model.
Just this one time, Shane listened to the voice. He typed in the number.
Rozanov looked nearly as smug as he had after coming off the bike when he took the phone back. He texted immediately.
The chime and corresponding buzz in Shane’s pocket made him jump, which was stupid, because he could see the other man typing. He pulled his phone out quickly, opening it to see the text from an unknown number. It read, simply, “ilya.”
Shane hesitated again. He had a specific naming convention for his phone contacts (full first name and last name, always, because he was a normal human being).
But there was something appealing about the way he had put Shane into his phone, something he liked about the idea of matching him. And more than that, he wasn’t sure what he thought about having Ilya Rozanov’s full name in his phone, though he wasn’t sure he could articulate the reason behind his discomfort.
So he saved the contact: “IR.”
Rozanov was watching him, head tilted to the side with his cheek nearly pressed against his shoulder. His eyes were half-lidded. Shane was having trouble looking directly at him.
“You have had big day, Shane Hollander. You should sleep now, no?”
“Uh, yeah.” There was something like relief at the idea of escaping from this gym, from the claustrophobia of such close proximity to this strange man, but there was also something else. Disappointment. “Thanks.”
Shane stayed on the ground for another moment, searching for the right thing to say to end the interaction. “Nice to meet you,” he said, finally. “Uh… good luck with the job.”
“I do not need luck, is just standing and looking pretty. Easy for me.” Ilya Rozanov looked him dead in the eye, and winked.
Shane stared at him, suddenly seized with the simultaneous urge to roll his eyes and to reach forward to touch the strip of skin just visible under the hem of his shorts. It was an intensely jarring combination. And it clearly meant it was time for Shane to get the fuck out of here.
“Okay, well. Nice to meet you.” And now he had said that twice. Excellent. “Good night.”
He scrambled up from the floor, looking anywhere except at Rozanov as he dusted his seat off and turned towards the exit. He had barely even stretched.
“Good night.” Shane heard, rather than saw, the smile in Rozanov’s voice. And he could feel, even without seeing, the other man’s eyes on him as he left the gym.
Fifteen minutes later, he was thinking about those eyes, the precise shade of blue, as he came in the shower.
____
In the light of the next day, the whole thing might have seemed like a bizarrely provocative fever dream. But then the elevator happened.
Shane was on his way down to meet his parents, who were already waiting in the lobby. He wasn’t late, exactly, but he’d found himself moving more slowly than usual through his morning routines. It was probably the late night, he thought. He’d slept well, but hadn’t actually gotten to sleep until nearly 1:30am.
He was trying not to think about the night’s sequence of events more deeply than that when the elevator stopped on the sixth floor. He almost dropped the water bottle in his hands when Ilya Rozanov stepped in.
The first thought that entered him was that Rozanov was somehow even more good looking in the daylight. Which made sense, since again, he was an actual model.
The second thought, which took a moment to process and seemed profoundly confusing, was that Rozanov seemed as thrown off to see Shane as Shane felt seeing him. But the expression changed after only a moment, and there, again, was the grin. It had already been brilliant under bad fluorescent lighting. Here, Shane wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to look away.
“Shane Hollander. Leaving LA?” He nodded down at the suitcase next to him.
“Hey. Good morning. Uh… yeah. Got to get back, and everything,” Shane responded, all of his best casual conversation skills on display.
Rozanov chuckled, but still seemed to somehow nod very seriously. “Yes. You must do important hockey things now. As number one best player.”
The ribbing helped tamp down Shane’s nerves–he could handle chirps, especially stupid ones. “Yeah, so important,” he replied dryly, pausing as he tried—and failed—to think of a wittier response. “Fuck off.”
“Hey, is no way to talk to new friend,” Rozanov scolded him, the smirk on his lips at odds with the stern look he tried to fix on Shane.
It was unfair—he didn’t look like he’d gone to bed as late as he must have, considering Shane had left him in the gym. Shane wondered if it was possible for him to ever look anything less than perfect.
“Who said we were friends already?” Shane asked, forcing himself to find his bearings, which apparently meant saying the first words that found his mouth. “We aren’t in New York yet.”
Rozanov was still watching him intently, which did very little to help Shane keep his bearings now that he had possibly found them.
The elevator slowed as it reached the ground floor, and Shane prayed that his parents weren’t waiting right outside. Not that there was anything to see. Shane just wasn’t sure he wanted them to know about this—this interaction. He didn’t know how to describe the encounter in the gym, this follow-up in the elevator, and he didn’t really want to be forced to try.
“You are interesting, Shane. Hollander.” He spoke after a long moment. Shane didn’t know what to say to that, but he could feel his cheeks growing warm and probably red. From the amused look on Rozanov’s face and the way his eyes swept over Shane, he could see it, too.
The elevator doors opened. Rozanov moved first, glancing over his shoulder casually. “Text me in New York.”
The brush of fingers against Shane’s hand was barely anything, but like the night before, he felt a sharp jolt from the contact. The aftershock stayed with him for hours.