Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There are hushed voices outside of the hospital room. Shane is used to hushed voices— his parents have adult conversations sometimes after dinner when he’s meant to be doing his homework. He’s not sure what they talk about, really, but he thinks it’s mostly about him. About hockey.

Shane likes hockey. He’s used to that too. He spends more time at the rink on skates than he does at home in his socks, but that’s the way he likes it to be. All his friends play hockey. All his idiot teammates too.

“Mom?” Shane calls, feeling suddenly like the little hospital room with painted lions on the wall might jump out and swallow him up. “Dad?”

For a moment, his calling doesn’t do anything. All the shapes on the other side of the blue checkered curtain stay very, very still.

And then it gets pulled back, and Shane has soft hands on his cheeks and a kiss on his hair.

“Are you okay honey?”

Shane squints up at her. He’s still not sure why they’re here. All that had happened was stupid Billy from the older team with his snotty-nose and sweaty hands had grabbed him. He hadn’t even punched him. And Shane hadn’t punched back, either. Billy had said something that made him feel angry. He wasn’t even sure what it had been, but it had made Shane’s belly feel hot and he’d screamed and pulled Billy’s hair and promptly thrown up on the ice.

Last time he threw up on the ice, he got chicken soup and a day at home. Why was this so different?

“I’m fine.” Shane mutters, “I want to go home. I didn’t mean to hurt Billy and I don’t feel sick anymore.”

For all Billy was jealous that Shane is a better hockey player, that Shane gets more attention, Shane knows he shouldn’t have pulled his hair.

“Oh that’s good sweetheart.” His mom coos, pressing another kiss to the side of his head. He doesn’t think he’s gotten this many kisses since he lost his first tooth on the ice. He’d gotten five and a double scoop of ice cream that night.

“Shane.” That’s his father, coming up on his other side and squeezing his arm gently. His father has always been a little softer than his Mom. Always lets her take the lead. Shane knows why, too. He’s known why for longer than he can ever remember not knowing. It just is. It’s why everyone is happy. It’s why everyone works.

“Shane, do you remember what Billy said to you before you got angry?”

Not this again. Shane rolls his eyes, “Dad.” He mutters, “No.”

His Dad nods, slowly, and then glances up over his head at his Mom. He always does that. Waits. Shane has never waited for anything in his life, or that’s what his coaches tell him. He’s always the first one ready in his gear, the first one on the ice, the first one to slice a puck into the net.

He always knew he was going to grow up to be like his Mom.

“It was an order, baby. Because Billy is a Dom.” His Mom says.

Shane must make a face, because she laughs at him. It’s quiet and tired-sounding. Shane’s only heard her laugh like that a few times before. At his grandad’s funeral, she’d laughed like that. When Shane broke his wrist last summer, she’d laughed like that. It means she’s sad.

“I don’t understand.” He says, “Why are you sad Billy is a Dom. I don’t care about Billy.”

Again, his Mom laughs. It’s even quieter this time, followed by a sniffle.

“We’re not sad about Billy, Shane.” His Dad cuts in again, Shane swinging his head back over, “You got angry at him because you’re a Sub. You reacted to his order.”

His Dad’s fingers are drawing little patterns into the skin of his arm. They are not as soft as his Mom’s usually are. His Dad used to play hockey too, he knows. He played as a little kid, and he played with his school, and then he’d stopped when he was fourteen. He’d stopped when he was fourteen for the same reason he is different to his Mom. Because his Dad is a Sub, too.

“I want to play hockey.” Shane mutters, feeling more like his Mom as tears well up in his eyes. He scrabbles at them roughly, pulling his arm away from his Dad’s grip, “I just want to play hockey, Mom.”

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

“But—“ But Shane’s Dad doesn’t play hockey anymore. Shane knows all the names of the Ottawa Centaurs players, and the Montreal Voyageurs players, and he knows none of them are Subs either.

Subs don’t play hockey. He is too young to know why, but he knows that they don’t, and that’s enough.

“No!” He yells, “No! I’m going to play hockey! Stupid Billy can’t stop me and neither can you!”

-

“Do you understand levels, Shane?”

They’ve been here before. Shane picks tiredly at a loose thread in the cushion he’d pulled into his lap, and knows he has to say something in the next forty-five minutes, or she’ll tell on him to his parents again.

He looks up at his therapist, and nods his head. That’s all he allows. One nod. Short, sharp, singular. The kind of nod he might give a teammate when their eyes meet, both of them eyeing the perfect play.

“Good.” She says, “I’d like to start there today, if that’s okay.”

It’s not really a question. She bulldozes on through it anyways, explaining the categories one through ten, explaining the little blood test they use to determine what you are by the invisible hormones whizzing around your body. Shane knows all this already. He’s known since he was ten years-old and Billy Branson had tried to order him around on the ice, and his assistant coach had watched him flip the fuck out.

Because Billy Branson was a low-level. Shane doesn’t know what, he’d never bothered to ask, but he was low, he had to be. Billy Branson was low because Shane hadn’t bent to his command, and Shane was high.

He’d always been good at hockey. Better than good. A natural, a generational talent, even. Overachiever.

Good at hockey, good at school, and too fucking good at being a Sub, apparently.

“—and it’s hard to tell, when you’re still growing up and going through puberty exactly what score you’ll settle on—“ Her voice floats in and out of Shane’s awareness. He really doesn’t need this talk again. He knows what to do: every three months he comes in, ignores whatever lecture he’s given, lets them test his blood, and then goes back to class with tears in his eyes.

“—but your score has been the same the past two tests, so a third test at that score would have me pretty certain you’re set.”

A beat. She searches his face, catches his eye.

“Do you know what your last scores were, Shane?”

Of course Shane knows. Shane knows, and his Mom knows, and his Dad knows, and this stupid therapist knows, but that’s it. A lot of the other kids— Doms— brag about their levels. They come back from their tests with puffed up egos and sevens on their papers.

He wishes he was a seven. Or even a six. If he could wake up tomorrow and be a Dom, he wouldn’t even need to be a high enough number to brag about. He would take anything.

Instead, he takes a deep breath, nearly swallowing his tongue as he remembers how to open his jaw and speak.

“Ten.”

-

“Hi. My name is Shane. Hollander. Uh, I wanted to come and introduce myself.”

Rozanov looks at him like he has some kind of disease, but he’s been looking at everyone like that all week so Shane tries not to take it personally.

He is tall up close, still ridiculously broad-chested even without his pads on. His blonde hair softens him a bit, haloing his head where it peeks out from beneath his beanie. It’s curly, which is surprising. It just feels too soft and boyish for an angry Russian Dom known for beating players he doesn’t like into the boards.

Maybe it’s why Shane had felt like he could approach him. Not that he says much in return. He is quiet in his assessment of Shane, eyes flickering up and down his body without hurry.

It doesn’t feel invasive. It feels assessing. Perceptive. Like he has some x-ray superpower and can see under the layers of skin and bone that make up Shane’s body to what he is really made of. What gets his blood pumping, his adrenaline flying, his mind whizzing.

The answer is predictable, considering where they are. It’s hockey, of course.

Another part of his brain worries the same way he does with any new person: worries that Rozanov can tell he’s a Sub. But he can’t. Nobody can. As far as anyone is concerned, Shane is neutral. Boring. Completely ordinary, with no inclination to be one way or the other.

He is not rash enough to pass as a Dom. He cannot form a command from deep in his chest no matter how hard he had tried in the mirror every night after Billy fucking Branson.

Equally, he finds it not in his nature to submit. No matter how many times they tell him, doctors, nurses, therapists… the tests might say it is, but the tests are just numbers on a screen. There has never been a command Shane has itched to follow. He has never gone weak in the knees or trembled. Commands are a dime a dozen in hockey. Jokingly, seriously, maliciously. It’s against the rules, technically, but lots of things that happen in locker rooms and during brawls are against the rules.

So he is boring instead. He keeps his head down and he doesn’t breathe a word about his scores and he plays hockey, because that’s all he ever really wanted.

When he shakes Rozanov’s hand and laughs breathlessly at his cockiness, that doesn’t change. The world doesn’t slip away beneath his feet. Nothing happens at all. They just talk about hockey, and Shane walks away on steady feet.

-

Shane hadn’t been involved in the conversation. He's a rookie still proving himself on the ice, so nobody really bothers with him unless he’s done something to speak about. And he is very careful never to do anything that needs speaking about.

Practice starts in ten minutes, and rather than pulling on his pads or taping his sticks, Drapeau is wandering around shirtless and laughing. He does it a lot. It’s almost like he takes pleasure in spreading himself through the room, possessing it with a puffed chest and his abs out. It’s ridiculous, they all have abs. Even Shane who is, according to Sub pamphlets, hormonally predisposed to slower muscle growth, whatever the fuck that’s meant to mean.

Shane knows he’s not the only one it annoys. In his periphery he can see Pike rolling his eyes and turning away, blocking out the conversation as best he can. On his other side, J.J. Boiziau doesn’t look up from his skates, but there’s a wrinkled frown on his face.

But nobody speaks up, because why would they? There’s no Subs here, are there? It’s easier to let it go, to not fuck up the team dynamic. Shane learnt that one very early on in hockey, but only after he’d earned himself a black eye.

The peacocking continues for a few minutes, slapping his buddies on the backs until he reaches Miitka, who is having a low conversation with Comeau. 

“Oh yeah, Mitty? Going to take her out and tell her to kneel?”

The command jerks Shane, tugging sharply at his gut, making him want to gag. Drapeau’s command feels brittle, kind of nasally like he’s all stuffed up after having a cold. The reaction it pulls out of Shane is not to follow, but to fight. The muscles down his neck burn, zipping off down his arms and legs.

Miitka looks only vaguely uncomfortable, shrugging off the command like a real Dom should, “Fuck off Drapeau. Unlike you I have class, and I don’t issue orders on a first date.”

“Yeah yeah shut up.” He laughs, turning on heel and finally, finally making his way back over to his stall. It is far away from Shane’s, and that can only be a good thing.

At his back Miitka yells “Not shutting up!” To prove he’s not following the command, and everyone else around them laughs too, tension broken.

Shane can’t listen to it anymore. They have eight minutes to go now, and he sticks his earphones in. He'd rather listen to anything but this.

The first video he pulls up on YouTube is a hockey news piece, unsurprisingly. Also unsurprisingly the topic is Ilya Rozanov getting traded, again. Shane has seen plenty of other pieces on the other rookie over the year-and-a-half they’ve been playing in the league, and most of them had been covering his quick trade from Boston to Colorado after their first season finished. A lot of people had been asking the obvious— why?

This new report is more gossipy than the ones last year. As it plays they talk about locker room disputes and not gelling with teammates. Of course they attribute this to him being too high a Dom, because what else could it be?

While it plays on, Shane thinks about the boy he’d met in Saskatchewan. He didn’t seem like that at all. Not anything like Drapeau or Comeau or even Miitka.

The reporter is just wrapping up when Coach Theriault crashes into the room, already yelling about bag skates for their poor performance in the previous game, so the last thing Shane hears as he hurries to tear his earphones out is: “So where is Ilya Rozanov going? Well, we have it on good authority he’s in serious talks to become the new star centre and captain of the Ottawa Centaurs.”

-

The party is kind of insane. Their locker room is going to smell like champagne for the next year, at least. The Cup is kind of insane, too. Bigger in person, heavier. Shane’s arms had been so sore and so tired when he’d lifted it over his head, he had been sure he was going to topple.

Everyone had thought the game would be cut and dry— San Francisco were at the top of their game, chomping at the bit to earn their next title while Montreal had just lost their captain to a knee injury and Shane, with only two years of experience on the ice, had to rally the team together with just an AC painted on his shoulder.

Somebody ends up buying out a bar, probably because why the fuck not. It’s way too big for the lot of them, but probably doesn’t have enough alcohol if they all keep drinking like they have been the last few hours.

Comeau comes up to him first, Miitka lurching along with an arm slung around his best friend, “All it took to get you out with us was a fucking cup, eh?”

Mitty cheers and then slides off Comeau’s shoulder and flops into the booth, legs tangled and arms loose. He’s absolutely fucking wasted.

Shane, at least, still has more of his wits about him than Mitty. He’s allowed himself a beer or two, because, yeah, he’d fucking done that. He’d won the Cup at the head of his team, bulldozing them to victory with a backhand shot even he thought he wouldn’t make.

“Well, at least you know what you need to do for me to join you guys again.”

Mitty laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard in his life, and by some miracle known only to him and God he manages to stand and peel off to harass J.J. for another shot. He’s been in charge of the good vodka for the last two hours, doling it out as he sees fit.

Before he knows what’s happening the two of them are back, squeezing into the booth beside Comeau, and Shane has a shot as well. It burns its way down into his stomach.

“Fuck yeah!” Comeau laughs, shaking his head and smacking his lips like the alcohol was riling him up, the burn bringing back his fighting spirit to celebrate a little bit more, “Come on, Boizy, hit me.”

J.J. laughs in his face, tucking the bottle into his side with one arm. From where Shane is sitting, J.J. would also be cut off by any reasonable bartender, but he’s certainly more sober than Comeau and Mitty.

“Man, you’re so cut off. Your wife is going to kill us.”

Comeau shakes his head again, lifting his glass, “She ain’t going to say shit, Boizy, pour.”

The command is sloppy. It comes out kind of half-formed, like he didn’t have enough power left in his chest to make it through the entire syllable. Shane looks down and bites the inside of his cheek.

“Keep that shit to yourself.” J.J scowls, drunk enough that he can’t hide his disapproval, “I ain’t following your orders.”

Comeau slaps his hand against the table, melting over it, probably barely able to tell that J.J. is angry.

“Ahh don’t do that! It’s just a little fun, we all like letting our dicks swing a little, don’t we?”

“I'm neutral, jackass.” J.J. rolls his eyes as he speaks, but despite that he pours a very small shot into Comeau’s glass. Shane thinks that might be the end of it, but Comeau downs it immediately and keeps his mouth moving. How can he even form so many thoughts this drunk?

“Not my fucking fault.” Is what he mutters, “Freaks, the lot of you. How can’t you just…” He shrugs, making a gesture up his torso.

J.J. raises an eyebrow. He clearly means make a command, but if he’s going to belittle his designation J.J. is going to make him work for it, at least. Shane likes that about him, he doesn’t just go along with whatever the Doms on the team decide. He has his own opinions, even if sometimes his desire to fit in takes over.

“Go on J.J.” Mitty heckles, laughing loosely, others turning their heads, “Give ‘s a go!” He slaps his chest, as if to mime where the command is supposed to echo from, “Real deep!”

J.J. takes his time pouring another shot before clearing his throat.

“Drink!” He barks at Drapeau, who has slithered over and settled into an empty chair, watching the spectacle. He spreads his legs and hooks his elbows over the back of the booth as if he can’t help but take up enough space for two. He just looks like a bit of an idiot, really. Perhaps even more of an idiot than J.J. looks, waiting for someone to bend to his not-command.

Drapeau doesn’t even blink at it. In fact he snorts, “It’s not fucking yelling, Jay, it’s ordering.” He snarks, reaching over and snatching the big bottle of vodka for himself.

“Oi!”

Drapeau just stares back at him, his face almost creepily blank, “Order me to give it back, then.”

“Fuck you. Give me the bottle.”

It’s not a bad try. He must do something right, because while Shane doesn’t feel the telltale burn of it in his body, he does feel a little roll of his stomach, like it understands what the words were meant for.

Drapeau has no reaction but an irritating amount of smug amusement, and finishes the bottle into his glass.

“Oi, Cappy, your turn.” Comeau cuts in, snatching the glass right out of Drapeau’s fingers. He lifts it but doesn’t drink. Shane is clearly meant to order it from him. He feels his face flush with heat, like it always does when he’s the centre of attention— and everyone at the table is looking.

“Oh hell no.” He shakes his head, “I’m not going to embarrass myself.”

“Come on, Shane, don’t leave me hanging!” J.J. protests.

Shane leans back in his chair. He can’t. He already knows he can’t, because unlike J.J. who was normal and satisfied with that, Shane had once been sixteen and desperate. But no matter how many times he’d practiced it in the mirror…

Drapeau smacks his lips, clearly unamused, “Don’t be a pussy about it, Hollander, order me.”

Shane fights to keep his eyes level with Drapeau’s, to not tense up too much and give himself away. He’s not sure if he succeeds, because he tastes blood in his mouth. Don’t push he wants to beg. Somebody else make a scene and distract them.

“I can’t.” Shane says, slowly, pronouncing every syllable clearly like he’s some kind of phonics teacher.

“Too fucking right. Try!” Comeau slaps him on the back and Shane’s body jerks with the motion. He hadn’t expected that, and all the rest of his strength was being put into resisting Drapeau.

“Go on! Order him! Speak! Order!” The two commands quickly one after the other slam into him past the haze of beer and vodka. Somewhere behind J.J. he thinks he sees Hayden approaching, abandoning his drink on the bar and trying to see what’s going on. Anyone who is Dom or Sub in this room could feel it now, the orders stacking up on one another, starting to stifle the air with it.

“I can’t.” Shane feels like a broken record.

“Boo!” That's J.J.

Shane thought he was better than this, but maybe only when he’s sober.

“Shut up!” That's Drapeau again, who has set the shot down and is staring at Shane very, very intently. It is suddenly clear that he is not nearly as drunk as the rest of the team. “Order me, because you’re not a fucking sub, Hollander. Right?”

Shane swallows, lifts his chin. For a moment, he thinks he might get away with it. Hayden has stopped a few steps away from the table, and his jaw is hanging open. He knows Shane better than Drapeau or Comeau or any of them. He doesn’t need Shane’s answer to know that his face is betraying.

A few more seconds and Drapeau’s face hardens, the same realisation ticking away behind his eyes, “A fucking Sub! A fucking Sub playing fucking hockey—“

He remembers promising his Mom that he would be careful. He remembers the look of worry on her face when he said he’d signed back up for hockey again six months after Billy Benson. He remembers the absolute disaster it had been telling her he was going to let everyone assume he was neutral when he joined Team Canada, and then the NHL. Because there aren’t any rules against Subs in hockey, but there’s a reason they don’t play. This kind of reception and worse.

But for two years, it had worked. Fuck, it had worked. Shane just won the best trophy he can possibly win. He won it with two goals, an assist, and a terrifyingly fresh captaincy on his shoulders. It was an absolute breakout fucking performance, and there it all goes, in one shitty moment.

Next season is going to fucking suck.

-

Shane stumbles into the locker room, memory guiding him more than his eyes. His vision is a blurry mess, because of course. He’s weak. That’s what they’ve all been saying since last season, isn’t it? He’s weak and soft and not suited for a game like hockey.

His helmet hits the floor hardest. His stick clatters, his gloves flop, but his helmet thwacks without remorse, rolling off to the side. He pulls at his jersey and pads, tugging with shaky hands. He is too hot. He needs to get out.

“Fuck.” He breathes, because it’s pretty much the only word his lips are capable of making now. He doesn’t even remember the last thing he’d said before all this.

Behind him the door swings open again, creaking and groaning on its hinges. The noise is familiar, this is his home locker room after all, but it still makes him jump, armour going back up. Whoever is chasing him cannot see him like this, he won’t allow it. He is Shane Hollander, hockey player. Not Shane Hollander, the weak little Sub who folds like a stack of cards.

But it’s not any of his teammates that are behind him, no sneers or jeers or snapped commands meant to tear him down, sink him further into the pit of his Submission; the jersey that follows him inside is not blue and white. It is red and black, shouldered over a large body, crowding into the room without asking for permission.

Ilya Rozanov had likely never asked permission for anything before in his life. He is Center, he is Captain, he is the epitome of all things Dominant.

Fucking fantastic. Shane can already feel the last of his control slipping, just wants to find something soft for his itchy skin and then probably the soothing voice of his mother for the ache behind his eyes.

She was watching the game, he knows it. She watches every game, barely takes her eyes off the screen if what his father says is correct. She’ll be terrified for him, waiting for his call. The crowd doesn’t know what they’ve seen, but she will. She will know he didn’t leave the ice in a fit of rage. She will know he dropped.

To get to her he needs to change. He needs to take off his skates and his pads and get his phone and keys from his stall. Which is behind him, by the door. Which is also behind the six-foot-three wall of fucking curly-haired hazel-eyed Russian.

“What the fuck do you want, Rozanov!”

He’s not sure where it comes from, all that rage, but it sizzles and crackles in the bottom of his stomach as he whips around, using his shaking hands to keep himself up as he tilts to the side, one side of his body collapsing under the mounting pressure. He swears again, probably, but he can hardly hear anything over the ringing in his ears.

Maybe it’s okay if he lets go now. He’d tried, hadn’t he? He’d tried so fucking hard. To play better, to train harder, to eat cleaner… he’d tried so hard to prove himself after they all found out.

Nothing seemed to matter to them. The comments had never stopped. The pushes in the gym, the elbows in the locker room. The comments whispered below visors when nobody was watching. The commands muttered in empty hallways. Nothing had been enough. Not even the memory of a winning goal for the Stanley Cup.

There’s a hand on his elbow and a deep voice pulling him back to the room.

His mother’s voice has always been a tether for him, a safe place to find Submission, like he’s still ten and freshly presented rather than twenty-three and a professional athlete. This voice is no different. It is soft despite the fact that it is deep and rumbled. Maybe if Shane leant forwards and found the source, he could feel where it vibrates out from, could lose himself in the frequency.

When he leans, it is more of a dangerous tilt. He can’t hold himself up, so he has to be held. Two hands splay wide, resting over his ribs and under his armpits. Shane is floating, held up by hands that are not even vaguely familiar.

Fuck.

Shane tugs to get away, the syrupy slowness in his head finally catching up to him: those hands that are warm and big and encasing his ribcage belong to Ilya Rozanov. This is the man he had lost to tonight, the man who had bashed him into the boards more often than he could count, the man who would probably prefer to crush Shane’s ribs so that he cannot play against them again.

When the hands fall away, so does Shane. His back hits the lockers with a clang and he winces. The pain gives him half a moment of clarity, does more for him than a muffled voice could ever. It should make him sick. It surely makes his teammates sick. When Shane is bashed into the boards, he doesn’t falter. He flies. The pain sharpens something in his mind, uses his Submission for a different purpose. It’s like doing a math problem and using the wrong method but getting the right answer.

“Go away.” He manages to grind out, chest heaving. Rozanov is not touching him now but his hands still hover, waiting.

The man is sweaty. It makes sense, they’ve just played a long, aggressive game into overtime. Fat drops of it run down the front of his curls, sticking them to his forehead, darkening them.

“You are not okay.” The man’s accent is thicker than Shane remembers, not that he’s had the pleasure of listening to it a lot.

Shane doesn’t bend, still feeling the sting of the metal digging into his shoulder blade, “Fuck off.”

“Your team hurt you—“ Rozanov tries again, but the mention doesn’t help. It just frays Shane’s control further, slips him deeper away from where they are standing.

He remembers the goal Rozanov had scored, Shane all but breathing down his neck as he tried to intercept. But it had been useless, and the puck had gone in just before the buzzer sounded. 2-1 to Ottawa.

Hayden had been on the bench, J.J. on the other side of the ice, no one in Drapeau’s path to stop him as he spit on the ice next to Shane’s skate.

Would you play better if we fucking praised you? He’d demanded, twisting his fist all up in Shane’s jersey, Put you to your fucking knees where you belong?

Comeau had come up the other lane, and Shane remembers… he remembers Rozanov turning away from the net, eyes tracing Gilbert’s movements as if he’s waiting for him to take a swing at Drapeau for being so vulgar.

But he hadn’t. Shane had known he wouldn’t. Shane had heard his blades and his laugh and known what was coming next. Or he thought he had. He thought he was ready for whatever comment was going to be made. Not—

No, he likes pain, don’t you, Hollander? Lets everyone walk all over him to get off. I’m fucking right, too, aren’t I?

Shane had looked him in the eye. Had snapped his mouth shut when Drapeau pushed off his chest and Comeau had floated in close. Still no Hayden, no J.J, just two Doms circling him like sharks.

Yeah? No? Fucking speak.

The command had sliced through him like a knife, and Shane had very nearly opened his mouth. It didn’t just paralyse his jaw, his entire body locked up, shock rippling through him. For a moment, just half a second, Drapeau looks like he’s shocked as well.

No matter how many comments were made, neither of them had ever been so evil as to order him so directly. Not since—

But then Ilya Rozanov had tackled both of them to the ground, flinging his entire body weight at them, skates flying into the air.

And then there had been too much happening, too many people dogging onto the pile. Rozanov’s goalie had leapt in without an ounce of hesitation, pounding into Drapeau before he could get a good enough swing back. Then two other Centaurs. Then three other Voyageurs. Then Hayden had been pulling him away, but even his friend’s careful hands had been too much too soon.

Shane’s sob cuts through the locker room. He bites back on it, but it tears out of his chest regardless. His hands are shaking again, more violently, and he really doesn’t know what to do. His shoulder is screaming at him to let up from the sharp metal, but if he does he’s not sure what will happen. He will drop, that much is obvious, but he cannot drop in a room where Drapeau and Comeau can get to him. He won’t.

“Please.” Shane isn’t sure what he’s even asking for, but he finds it in the damp warmth of the jersey he pitches forwards into, screws his hands into like Drapeau had to his, “They can’t— I can’t be here—“

“Okay.” Rozanov’s arms have come around him again, but Shane isn’t in his body anymore. He’s a spectator, given to some faraway land where there’s nothing but the buzz of white noise and the beat of his heart.

There’s hands on his back, so he lets them mold him into place. There’s someone asking him to walk, so he walks. There’s a question about his locker combination, so Shane gives it under his breath. There’s many other things, and Shane just lets them happen to him. This wasn’t a decision he made for himself, not by far, but somewhere his brain tells him that Rozanov is an enemy of the Voyageurs, so Drapeau and Comeau won’t be there. It’s enough.

-

There’s a purring. Gentle, soft, surprisingly rhythmic. There’s warm air around him, circulating not like a breeze but like an artificial environment. Inside, Shane thinks. Then he realises he is not panicking, and he must be one foot over the line still, caught in a place where he might be able to move his limbs and open his eyes, but he’s not entirely in control.

The thought should scare him. He has never dropped so fast or so suddenly as today. He has never lost time. Instead, worry floats around his head and fades away.

When he opens his eyes, he realises he’s sat in a car with the engine idling gently below his feet. They still have thick skating socks on them. And no shoes. He stretches his toes in the footwell, feeling the skin scratch against the fabric, then bump against the grey interior of the car. It feels… quiet. His head feels strangely quiet. He’d played a game earlier and that usually had him awake for hours into the night, thinking, stressing, planning his next practice.

Instead, his head is quiet. The night is quiet. Why is everything so q—

The driver-side door opens, and the same overlarge figure from earlier slides in. Rozanov. He’s not in his jersey anymore, stripped down to his compression shirt and leggings. He at least has shoes on, though.

He smells like the cold and cigarette smoke, and Shane leans a little further away from the rush of chilly air coming through the open door.

“Ah.” The man sighs, “Hollander. Took you long time to wake up.”

Shane feels himself frown. It can’t have been that long. It’s still dark out. And it’s definitely not the next evening, because he hasn’t got shoes on. He can’t have been anywhere without shoes, can he? That doesn’t seem like him.

“Where are my shoes?”

Rozanov stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “What?”

Shane looks back at his feet, away from the intense eyes of the angry Russian. Why did he have to make him angry? Why is Shane so bad at this? Maybe it’s not just his teammates. Maybe he just makes every Dom angry.

“Hollander.”

Shane’s eyes snap up to Rozanov’s again, something he can’t help, doesn’t want to help.

“Fuck. You are still down, yes?”

Shane just blinks at him, trying to frown as well. He had frowned earlier, but only a little. He wants to match Rozanov’s glare. He wants to show that he can disapprove as well.

“I’m…” Shane trails off, but as soon as he lifts his head, he just has to let it drop back against the headrest, “‘S too heavy.” He says before he can realise he’d not wanted to say that aloud.

Rozanov laughs, and that makes him feel a little better, makes him feel like maybe he could lift his head if he absolutely needed to, “Yes, still down I think. You are sweet down, hm?”

Nobody’s ever called Shane sweet before. Uptight, high strung, needy, even frigid. Nice, kind, polite, sometimes bland. But never sweet, he would’ve remembered that. Sweet was something reserved for people’s loved ones. Their partners, even their closest friends: the people they chose to keep around them.

The only time Shane has ever been chosen is for hockey, and even then it had been a lie. A carefully crafted, neutral lie.

He doesn’t mean to tear up but maybe they’re leftovers from earlier, when everything had seemed so loud and busy.

Rozanov seems to understand. He shushes him gently, with quiet words in a language Shane doesn’t understand. His hand rests on the edge of the leather seat, close enough to Shane’s shoulder that he is there, but far away enough that they do not touch.

For a long drawn-out second he thinks that Rozanov might ask him if it’s okay to touch, to soothe him in that way as well, but he doesn’t. It’s for the best. If he has to ask for it, for his touch, Shane might die of embarrassment. Something inside of him might shrivel up and finally fucking die, and Shane might be cured of being a Submissive. That’s what he’s always wanted, isn’t it? To just wake up one day and be normal.

Pressing his shoulder into Rozanov’s thumb doesn’t make him feel like that. It makes him feel good, without any other strings attached. His reason is elsewhere, but he can’t hold onto why. Right now it is just him and Rozanov and the soft lull of the engine beneath them.

The thumb jerks into action, swiping along the swell of Shane’s shoulder, kneading into the muscle. Suddenly, the touch that felt like it was his single, fraying tether to earth is no longer enough to keep him there.

He doesn’t want to float away, it is dark and cold outside. Shane pushes closer, at last managing to lift his head from the seat. It is still too heavy, but instead of tipping back towards the buttery leather headrest, Shane tips forwards.

He goes slowly, unsure if Rozanov’s grip on his shoulder will turn tight and push him back.

It doesn’t. It stays.

The centre console digs into Shane’s ribs, and the pinpricks of pain shoot tiny bolts of lightning up and down his insides, making him feel warm and cold at the same time. For a second he wonders if he might be sick from it, it is so unexpected. Then his nose is against Rozanov’s thigh, and he knows it is just the right side of intense. He can weather any pain if he is this close to his anchor.

His chin notches against the muscle of Rozanov’s leg, head turning slightly to the left to find air to breathe, because he’s not quite far gone enough to smother himself.

There’s a hand on the back of his head then, and it is trembling. Shane leans into it, lets his eyes close as thick fingers sink into his short hair.

And he breathes.

Curled over the console, cheek on another man’s thigh, he breathes easier than he ever has in any hockey locker room, maybe since he was ten years old.

He can hear Rozanov’s breathing too, jerky and uneven just like the grip in his hair.

“I—“ Shane inhales, shifting his arm beneath him, trying to move and look upwards. Instead, his elbow hits something and it bumps him forwards, and suddenly his face is not resting tentatively on Rozanov’s thigh. No, his face is pressed firmly into the man’s crotch, lips resting over the hardness he finds there.

Rozanov’s hips jerk up automatically at the same moment his hand tightens in Shane’s hair to pull him away, but Shane fights it. He pulls back on the grip, keeping his face where it is.

For a second they both just breathe again, that tentative peace reclaimed.

Then—

“Fuck, Hollander.” And a thump of Rozanov’s head against his headrest.

It is whispered, but Shane hears it. It floats in one ear and then clogs up his brain, rattling around and around until it’s the only thing he can think of.

He sneaks another glance up, but all he can see is black nylon. All he can smell is sweat and tobacco. All he can feel is heat and the pulse of blood in Rozanov’s cock.

Shane shifts again, more carefully, and presses closer. The leggings are very thin, and he can feel how Rozanov’s cock hardens with every little movement. It is big. Not just regular Dom big, but… bigger than average. Another shift, and maybe he parts his lips a little. Maybe he tastes the salty sweat of the game against his tongue. Maybe he twists his neck, opens a little wider, feels the tip right between his lips. Maybe he gets bold, licks a stripe up the fabric and starts moving his lips in a careful, slow rhythm, all the while the hand in his hair twitches and tightens but never, ever pulls him away.

Somewhere, Shane thinks he wants to be pulled away. He wants to be dragged back up off the painful edge of the console, and he wants to be asked what the fuck he is doing, because that should be his reaction to this situation.

But it’s not.

And before that thought can win out, there’s something else dampening Rozanov’s crotch. And a loud moan, followed by another string of curses that ends in Shane’s name.

Shane blinks at it. He can’t see much, just shiny black fabric darkened by saliva and— cum? His brain catches up, managing to wade through the treacle in his mind just enough to realise Rozanov just came in his pants. Shane made him come in his pants. All of a sudden, the console cutting into his ribs isn’t pleasant and aching, it is sore and uncomfortable. The warm air against his skin feels humid and sticky.

He can’t help the way he jerks up, inhaling air sharply like he hasn’t taken a real breath since he lay down. Maybe he hadn’t, because his lungs protest the breath, making him cough and splutter. He gets his hands beneath him, one either side of Rozanov’s leg, and he scrabbles to get away.

What the fuck is he doing? Going soft for Ilya Rozanov, of all people? He’s never done that before. He’s not that person. He’s not a Sub. Not like that. He—

Belatedly, Shane realises Rozanov still has a hand in his hair. He only realises when that hand tightens. The tug snaps his focus back to Rozanov, and Shane’s stomach sinks. This is worse than he’d imagined. It’s bad enough Rozanov could lead him into his headspace, but even now that he was up Shane’s body moves with him, magnetised.

When Rozanov kisses him, his mind goes carefully blank. They meet halfway over the console, so there’s no more pain. Rozanov’s hand is firm, but not yanking. The kiss itself is… well, Shane doesn’t remember the last time he was kissed like this. Rozanov certainly doesn’t hold back. His tongue is insistent and searching, his teeth are careful not to clash against Shane’s, and when he pulls back, he seals the deal with a little peck, then another. It is— Shane swallows sharply, feeling strangely chastised, even though not a single word was spoken.

He doesn’t know when his hands had found Rozanov’s body, but they are on the Dom’s shoulders, squeezing. He lets Rozanov slowly, slowly lower him back into the seat before snatching them back to his side of the car, pulling his knees up to his chest and folding his hands in his lap. Without shoes, he doesn’t feel bad having his feet on the expensive interior.

Rozanov exhales, hard, and looks out at the parking lot before them, hands now gripping the wheel.

“I got your bag.” He says, still staring forwards.

Shane blinks, casting his head over his shoulder into the back seat. Sure enough, his duffel bag proudly pronouncing the number 24 sits on the seat, right next to another that is black and red, the Centaurs’ colours.

“I will drive you home.”

Shane can’t speak. Can’t bring himself to offer to call an Uber. So he nods instead.

Rozanov keeps staring out the windshield for a moment, until he finally turns to look at Shane, “Address, Hollander.”

Shit. Shane doesn’t hold his eye for long, moving his gaze down to his knees. He gives the address, no orders needed. He’s not about to make this harder on himself than it already is.

They pull out onto the road and Rozanov reaches into the main cubby of the console, blindly rattling around until he pulls out Shane’s phone.

“Rang many times. Had to turn off, was making you cry.”

He doesn’t remember that. Or maybe he does? Everything from the last hour is blurry in his mind. Had Rozanov snuck him down the service corridor? It seemed likely. Had he damn near sobbed himself to sleep? Fucking hell he hopes not, so maybe it’s for the best he doesn’t remember that part.

According to his phone the game finished two hours ago, and his Mom, Dad and Hayden had called. J.J. had texted. The assistant coach had also texted, unsurprisingly. Probably about the fine for skipping his media duties.

“Do you, um, mind?” Shane asks, lifting the phone. His voice is steadier than he thought it might be.

Rozanov’s eyes do not leave the road, but Shane can see how his lips curl up in a smirk, “No. I do not care about boring phone call. Carry on.”

Shane fights the urge to roll his eyes. That would be too normal, too… regular. Like they were facing each other down at centre ice still, not whatever the fuck they had actually done.

Hayden picks up on the first ring.

“Fuck! Shane where the fuck are you I’m coming to get you—“

“I’m fine. I’m fine, Hayd, please—“

“Holy shit I think I’m having a panic attack. What do you mean you’re fine? You disappeared! I came back to the locker room and you were gone!”

“Hayden.” Shane doesn’t mean to snap, but his patience is limited right now. Hayden can rant all this out to Jackie, not him.

Hayden breathes so heavily on the other end of the phone that the speaker picks it up, crackling. He speaks slower now, “I was so worried about you. Please just tell me where you are and I’ll come over with Jackie right away.”

“I’m— I’m at my place. Or I will be. It’s… please don’t come over.” He’s not sure he’s ever said that to Hayden before. Hayden and Jackie take care of him a lot when he wobbles. Shane spends more weekends at their house than his own, so he’s not surprised when Hayden sounds genuinely confused on the other end.

“Shane?”

“I just… Can you tell J.J. I’m fine? And coach that I’ll sort the fine out? And— uh, you know, my mom?”

“Fucking hell she’s going to kill me twice over when she finds out I lost you.”

“It would mean a lot.”

“Yeah. Of course. Look— nevermind. Just get some rest, okay?”

Shane hangs up, staring down at his dark phone screen. Then he sighs and drops it into his lap. He looks at Rozanov but the Dom doesn’t comment. He isn’t even smirking anymore, watching the road. He didn’t care, just like he’d promised.

It’s strange, seeing him with no chirp waiting on the tip of his tongue. Is that what Shane wants?

Fuck.

No.

He doesn’t know what he’d want him to say, so it’s probably for the best he just looks out the window and ignores him for the rest of the drive.

Half his body is hockey-bruised, and the ache behind his eyes is starting to return. He’s so fucking tired, he’s just going to sleep.