Chapter Text
### Summer 2011 – MONTREAL ###
Shane Hollander stares at the pregnancy test in his trembling hands. Two pink lines. Unmistakable.
He’s sitting on the cold bathroom floor of his Montreal apartment, back against the tub, still in his workout clothes. The test sits on the tile beside him like an accusation.
Fuck.
He should have known. The nausea he’d attributed to a stomach bug. The exhaustion that lingered even after a full night’s sleep. The way his body felt… different. Off.
But Shane never thought...he’d never considered that he could be pregnant.
The statistics run through his head automatically (his brain does that, catalogs information whether he wants it to or not): roughly twenty percent of men are born with the biological capability to carry a pregnancy. But most never find out. Why would they? If you’re straight, sleeping with women, it’s irrelevant. The information gets mentioned once in health class, maybe, then forgotten.
Shane had forgotten.
Or—more accurately—he’d never thought it applied to him. Because he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping with men. Wasn’t supposed to be attracted to men.
Wasn’t supposed to be in love with Ilya fucking Rozanov.
And now he’s twenty years old, Rookie of the Year, second overall draft pick, face of the Montreal Metros and pregnant.
-----
### FLASHBACK: Regina, Saskatchewan - December 2008 (World Juniors) ###
The first time Shane saw Ilya Rozanov, he was seventeen years old and thought he had the world figured out.
Shane had led Team Canada to the World Junior Championships with single-minded focus. Top prospect. Future NHL star. Everything planned, everything controlled. He’d been leading goal scorer, overall and playoff MVP for his junior league. The path was clear.
Then he watched Russia practice.
Number 81. Rozanov. The Russian phenom everyone was talking about.
Shane told himself he was scouting the competition. Analyzing weaknesses. Being strategic. That’s what he did—observed, cataloged, planned.
He told himself that right up until he found himself waiting outside the rink after practice, heart pounding, not entirely sure why he was there.
“Rozanov?”
The Russian turned, pulling out earbuds. Up close, he was—
Tall. Broader than Shane expected. Sharp cheekbones, pale blue eyes that seemed to look right through him. Blonde hair messy from his helmet.
When Rozanov smiled lazy and confident, like he knew exactly what effect he had, Shane’s carefully organized thoughts scattered.
“Da? You are… Hollander, yes?” His English was accented, careful. “Canada captain.”
“Yeah. I just...” Shane’s brain stalled. Why was he here? “...wanted to introduce myself. Before we…”
Before we what? Play each other? This is stupid. You’re being weird.
“Before I score on you?” Rozanov’s grin widened, teasing.
Shane’s face heated. “Before I beat you.”
It came out stiffer than intended. Shane was never good at this. At banter, flirting (was this flirting?) or quick comebacks.
But Rozanov just laughed. A real laugh, warm and surprised. “We see, Hollander. We see.”
-----
They did see. Canada won silver that year. Shane scored the tying goal in the final but they lost in overtime.
Second place.
To Russia. To Rozanov.
Shane hated losing. Hated it with an intensity that made his teammates uncomfortable sometimes.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about the way Rozanov had looked at him after the game. Not gloating. Almost… respectful? Interested?
Shane didn’t know what to do with that look. Filed it away with all the other things about Rozanov he didn’t know what to do with.
-----
### FLASHBACK: Los Angeles - June 2009 (NHL Draft) ###
First overall: Ilya Rozanov, Boston Raiders.
Shane watched from his seat as Rozanov walked to the stage. Watched him pull on the Raiders jersey, smile for cameras, shake hands.
Montreal’s rivals. Of course.
Second overall: Shane Hollander, Montreal Metros.
Shane smiled for the cameras too. Shook hands with the GM, who said something about being excited to have an Asian-Canadian player representing the Voyageurs. Shane nodded, said the right things.
But second stung. It always would.
Second to Rozanov. That stung more.
-----
That night, Shane’s brain wouldn’t shut off. It did this sometimes—spiraled through statistics, plays he could have made better, variables he should have controlled. Sleep felt impossible.
The hotel gym at 2 AM was empty.
Or should have been.
Rozanov was on the treadmill, running hard, headphones in. He looked up when Shane entered, did a double-take.
Then smiled. Not his media smile. Something smaller, more genuine.
Shane froze. Should he leave? Say something? This was awkward. He’d made it awkward by coming here.
Rozanov pulled out one earbud. “Cannot sleep either?”
“No.”
“Thinking too much about being second?” The teasing tone was back.
“Thinking about how I should have gone first,” Shane said, more honest than he intended.
“Ah. But second to me? Is not so bad.” Rozanov gestured to the treadmill next to him. “Come. Run with me. Work out the—” he made a gesture around his head, “—loud thoughts.”
Shane understood that. The loud thoughts.
He got on the treadmill. Started running.
Rozanov sped up. Shane matched him.
It was stupid. Childish. But Shane couldn’t make himself slow down because Rozanov was still going and losing twice in one day felt unbearable.
His lungs burned. Legs screamed.
Rozanov laughed, actually laughed, and hit the stop button. Nearly stumbled off. “You are crazy, Hollander.”
Shane stopped too, gasping. “You… started it.”
“Did I?” Rozanov was breathing hard, face flushed. “I think you started this. In Regina. With your…” he gestured vaguely, “…hard staring.”
Shane’s face went hot. “I wasn’t! That was scouting.”
“Was staring.” Rozanov’s grin was infuriating.
They ended up on the floor, backs against the wall. Rozanov offered his water bottle. Shane had forgotten his (of course he had, too busy overthinking to remember basics).
“Thank you,” Shane said, taking it.
“You are very serious, you know,” Rozanov observed. “Very… boring.”
“I’m not boring.” It came out defensive and Shane winced internally.
“Little bit boring.” Rozanov’s shoulder pressed against Shane’s. Warm. Solid. “But is okay. I like boring sometimes.”
Shane turned to argue and found Rozanov already looking at him.
Too close. Eyes too pale, too intense.
Shane’s gaze dropped to Rozanov’s mouth without permission.
Panic.
He scrambled up. “I should go. Yes. I’m tired. Goodnight.”
Practically ran to his room to lay in bed with his heart pounding.
That was weird. You made it weird. He probably thinks you’re weird.
But his body was responding to the memory of Rozanov’s shoulder against his, that look, the way he’d said “I like boring sometimes” and Shane’s hand slipped into his boxers almost without thought.
This was not OK. He really shouldn’t.
But he was already thinking about Rozanov’s laugh, those eyes, the water bottle against Shane’s lips where Rozanov’s lips had been.
Shane came with a strangled gasp, Rozanov’s name caught in his throat and then lay there in the dark, mortified.
You’re not...you don’...this doesn’t mean anything.
Except it did.
-----
### FLASHBACK: Toronto - September 2010 (CCM Campaign) ###
The text came from his agent: CCM wants you for an ad campaign. Big deal. You and Rozanov together. Playing up the rivalry angle.
Shane stared at his phone for a full minute, brain cataloging implications.
A full day. With Rozanov. In Toronto.
His rookie season hadn’t started yet. He hadn’t seen Rozanov since the draft. Hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him, which was a problem Shane didn’t know how to solve.
Professional, he told himself. This is professional. You can be normal.
-----
The shoot was fine. Scripted banter for the cameras.
“So Rozanov, how does it feel knowing you’ll be watching Hollander’s back all season?”
“I think you mean Hollander will watch MY back,” Rozanov said smoothly. “In my shadow.”
“In your shadow?” Shane tried for a comeback. “Pretty sure the view from first place isn’t a shadow.”
It sounded awkward even to his own ears. The crew laughed politely anyway.
Rozanov caught his eye afterward, grinning. “So boring, Hollander. Need to work on trash talk.”
“Fuck off,” Shane muttered.
“There! Better already.”
-----
It was in the shower afterward, more precise the gym shower, post-workout for a “authentic sweat” shot, when everything changed.
Shane was rinsing off, trying not to think about the fact that Rozanov was somewhere in this same shower room, when he felt eyes on him.
He turned.
Rozanov was three shower heads down, water streaming over his shoulders, not even pretending not to stare.
Their eyes met.
Shane should look away. This was inappropriate. He should—
Rozanov’s gaze dropped. Slowly. Deliberately. Down Shane’s body, then back up.
Eyebrow raised. A question.
Shane’s brain short-circuited.
He stared back.
Rozanov’s smile was devastating. “So boring,” he said softly. “Come to my room. 2304. One hour.”
Then he turned off his shower and left.
Shane stood there, water going cold, heart hammering.
This was a bad idea. A terrible idea.
Fifty-three minutes later, Shane knocked on room 2304.
-----
The door opened. Rozanov stood there in joggers and nothing else, hair still damp.
“Hollander.” His smile was slow, satisfied. “Thought maybe you were too chicken to come.”
“I’m not a chicken.” Shane stated while Rozanov pulled him inside and pushed him against the door.
“We cannot tell anyone,” Rozanov said, suddenly serious. Close enough that Shane could feel his breath. “You understand? No one.”
“Obviously. It’s just one time. Curiosity. To get it out of our system, right?”
Rozanov kissed him.
It wasn’t one time.
-----
### FLASHBACK: The Season (2010-11) ###
They were so fucking careful.
Contact info saved as “Jane” (Shane) and “Lily” (Rozanov), so if anyone saw their phones, they’d think they were texting girls.
Hotel rooms only. Never at home. Never where teammates might see. Quick and desperate hookups when their teams played each other. Sometimes just kissing or hand jobs in bathroom stalls, Rozanov’s hand over Shane’s mouth to keep him quiet.
“You are so loud, Hollander,” Rozanov would tease. “So boring on ice, so loud in bed. Is funny.”
“Shut up,” Shane would gasp, but there was no heat in it.
“Make me.”
And Shane would kiss him, hard, just to stop the smirk.
-----
It was supposed to be just sex. That’s what Rozanov said. What Shane agreed to because he didn’t know how to ask for more, didn’t have the words.
“Is fun, Hollander. We have fun, da? Don’t make it… complicated.”
“I’m not making it complicated.”
“Good. Because we are not…Lovers. I mean, we cannot...”
Rozanov never finished that sentence. And Shane never pushed because pushing meant talking about feelings and Shane had never been good at that.
But sometimes, when they were catching their breath, Rozanov would touch Shane’s face and freckles so gently, it made Shane’s chest ache. Would kiss him slow and sweet like it meant something before seeming to remember himself and pulling away.
“You think too loud,” Rozanov would say, poking Shane’s forehead. “I can see. Always thinking.”
“Can’t help it.”
“Try. Be less boring. Live in moment.”
And Shane would think: I’m in so much trouble.
Because it wasn’t just sex for him anymore. Maybe it never had been.
-----
The media ate up their rivalry. Every game between the Metros and Raiders became an event.
“Hollander vs. Rozanov: Battle for Rookie Supremacy”
“Canada’s Golden Boy Takes On Russia’s Rising Star”
They played into it on camera. Trash talked in interviews. Kept their faces neutral when asked about each other.
Off camera, in hotel rooms, Rozanov would laugh. “Did you see? They think we hate each other.”
“Don’t we?” Shane deadpanned.
“Oh yes. I hate you so much.” Rozanov kissed his neck. “Terrible. Cannot stand you.”
“Asshole.”
“Boring.”
It became their thing. Shane couldn’t banter with anyone else to save his life, but with Rozanov it was easy. Natural.
Even if the “asshole” was said with an affection Shane couldn’t quite hide.
-----
### FLASHBACK: Las Vegas - June 2011 (NHL Awards) ###
Shane won Rookie of the Year.
He gave his speech and thanked his family (his parents in the audience, beaming with pride), his team, his coaches. Kept it short because long speeches made him anxious, made him overthink every word.
Felt Rozanov’s eyes on him from across the room the entire time.
That night, Shane’s phone buzzed.
Lily: Congratulations for boring speech. you deserve it.
Jane: Thanks. You coming in second probably helped my case.
Lily: come to my room. i have champagne.
Jane: I don’t drink.
Lily: i know. come anyway.
-----
“Rookie of the Year,” Rozanov said when Shane arrived, pulling him inside. “So impressive. So serious in your speech.”
“It was fine.”
“Was very boring.” But Rozanov was smiling, soft. “Very you.”
He kissed Shane before Shane could argue.
That night felt different.
Slower. Rozanov took his time, touched Shane like he was memorizing him. Whispered things in Russian Shane didn’t understand, but the tone—
The tone sounded like feelings.
Dangerous.
After, Shane lay in Rozanov’s arms (they never did this, never cuddled, but tonight they did) and thought about saying it. Three words that sat heavy on his tongue.
I love you.
But Shane had never been good at talking about feelings. Never knew the right words or the right time. His brain would catalog all the ways it could go wrong, all the variables he couldn’t control.
So he stayed quiet.
Rozanov’s phone buzzed. He checked it, his face going carefully neutral.
“Is my flight. Tomorrow, early. Going home to Russia for summer.”
“Oh. Yeah. Me too. Back to Ottawa.” Shane tried to keep his voice even. This was normal. Expected. “Training camp starts in September.”
“Da. Was good season.”
“Yeah.” Shane’s throat felt tight. “Really good.”
“We see each other then. In September.” Rozanov’s fingers traced patterns on Shane’s shoulder. Idle. Gentle. “Will be strange not to… not to see you.”
Shane’s heart jumped. “Yeah. Strange.”
Ask him. Ask him what this is. If it’s more than just fun.
But the words stuck.
Rozanov kissed him then gentle and almost sad. “Don’t forget me over summer, Hollander.”
Shane tried for their usual banter. “Hard to forget the guy who went first overall.”
“Your first overall.” Rozanov was smiling. Then, quieter: “You are not so boring, you know. Sometimes.”
“High praise.”
“Is truth.” Rozanov’s thumb brushed Shane’s cheekbone. “Text me? While we are apart?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Shane left at 3 AM, before it could hurt more than it already did.
Before he could do something stupid like stay.
-----
### PRESENT DAY - Bathroom Floor (Summer 2011) ###
Now it’s August. Shane hasn’t seen Rozanov since Vegas.
They’ve texted—casual, careful messages through “Jane” and “Lily.”
Lily: russia is boring. weather is shit. missing vegas.
Jane: Ottawa is fine. Visiting family.
Lily: tell them hello from me. oh wait. you cannot. ;)
Jane: Asshole.
Lily: your favorite asshole
Shane had stared at that message for a long time. Wanted to say yes, my favorite, the only one I want.
Said instead: Unfortunately.
The last message, two days ago:
Lily: miss u
Shane hadn’t answered. Had been feeling too sick, too exhausted, too strange in his own body.
Now he knows why.
He looks at the test again.
Pregnant.
With Ilya Rozanov’s baby.
Rozanov, who said “is just fun.” Who said “don’t make it complicated.” Who goes back to Russia every summer and probably hooks up with other people (Shane’s brain helpfully catalogs all the ways Rozanov is too attractive, too charming, too everything to be faithful to something that isn’t even a real relationship).
Shane’s career. His family. The media. The team.
Everything he’s worked for since he was five years old.
Gone.
Being pregnant would mean being outed. He could never work in anything related to Hockey anymore.
Unless... no one knows.
The thought is terrible. Impossible.
But Shane’s brain is already working through it, organizing variables, calculating probabilities:
- Fake an injury. Career-ending. Happens all the time in hockey.
- Disappear for the pregnancy. His parents would help. They’d be disappointed but supportive.
- Have the baby. Figure out single parenthood.
- The team would move on. The media would forget him eventually.
- And Rozanov…
Rozanov would never have to know. Never have to choose between Shane and his career. Never have to deal with the complications Shane promised not to create.
Never have to know that Shane broke the rules. That it wasn’t just fun for Shane. That Shane fell in love with him and fucked everything up.
Shane pulls out his phone. Opens messages.
Lily: miss u
His thumb hovers over the keyboard.
He could tell him. Right now. I’m pregnant. It’s yours. I need you.
But Shane can already imagine Rozanov’s response. The panic. The anger. We were careful, how did this happen, this cannot be happening.
Or worse: obligation. Rozanov trying to do the right thing, giving up his career by outing himself, resenting Shane forever.
Shane can’t do that to him.
He closes the message thread. Stares at it.
Then, carefully, he deletes it.
Opens his contacts. Scrolls to his agent.
I need to talk to you about a medical situation. It’s serious. Can we meet tomorrow?
The response comes quickly: Of course. Everything okay?
Shane types: Training injury. Going to need surgery. Might be career-ending.
He’s lying. He’s never been good at lying. His face always gives him away, his brain struggles to keep track of false information.
But through text, no one can see his face.
I’m so sorry, Shane. Let’s talk tomorrow and figure this out.
Shane sets his phone down.
Looks at the pregnancy test.
Twenty percent of men can get pregnant. He’d known that, academically. Never thought it applied to him because he wasn’t supposed to be sleeping with men.
Wasn’t supposed to fall in love with Ilya Rozanov.
But he did both those things.
And now he has to disappear.