Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Shane returned to Boston to go against the Bears for what felt like the hundredth time since his career started, he had an actual goal beyond kicking the Bears' asses.

He wanted to hook up. Not just scroll through Grindr hoping for something but an honest to God hookup where he initiated and got laid instead of entertaining conversations that ultimately didn't land him anywhere except with his hands up his ass and a slew of shameful daydreams to keep him busy.

Rose agreed that Shane needed some action. He was shocked at how well she took him pseudo coming out to her, but it helped that she didn't feel a type of way about him being gay. You've seen me in bed Hollander, this was clearly your performance problem, not mine. And Shane's been grateful, seriously grateful, everyday that Rose Landry was determined to remain friends with him. Because he doesn't know who else he would talk to about this kind of thing, and she's a determined wing-woman.

Except his plans go awry when after making plans to meet with Kevin, 26 who doesn't give a singular fuck about hockey and likely won't even know who Shane is.

Hayden grabs him by the bicep before Shane can flee the locker room to meet Kevin, 26 at a bar in South End. An actual gay bar because no one would ever expect Shane Hollander to be at a gay bar, nevertheless with the intention to be bent over by Kevin, 26, who has gorgeous red hair and a quite frankly, fantastic looking cock.

"Hey man, Jackie managed to snag those late night tickets to the last Nutcracker showing. She wants you to come with."

"What?" Shane's everything comes to a screeching halt, "It's the middle of January—"

"Exactly, and apparently one of her twitter friends is in the ballet. The girls have been talking about it nonstop. Please, man. I could really use the extra set of hands. Newborns and theater do not mix."

Shane takes a breath, looking away from Hayden and his pleading doe eyes.

"Who does Jackie even know in Boston?"

"Apparently this ballet chick is into hockey, I dunno. Please come with me. I don't want to ask JJ, you know how he is."

Shane knows what Hayden means by that, which is why he reluctantly agrees. He sends Kevin a quick message, already knowing what the response will probably be. Thanks for wasting my time, asshole. or Are you even gay?

Except when Shane sends: Hey, I'm really sorry for doing this but something came up and I need to watch my friend's kids. Could we try this again another time?

Kevin just sends back: Dude, dw. Next time for sure and Shane mentally curses himself for how fast his heart beats at Kevin, 26's kindness. Shane really doesn't deserve it.

"I'm not really big on ballet," Shane admits in the uber over, helping Jackie wipe Ruby's face free of snot. January in Boston is pretty miserable and this is probably the latest the twins have ever been awake. Thankfully Amber is just knocked out in her car seat, "I mean, I don't know anything about it."

"You don't have to," Jackie waves his comment away, "Just watch and maybe you'll understand the story."

Shane won't. His mom has tried several times. When he was a little kid, she used to stick him in ballet classes in the hopes that it would help him with his coordination on the ice— which took him longer to learn than most kids to begin with— but Shane mostly just got bored of it all. The music, the instructions, all of the girls in class and especially all of the older girls who fawned over him as he was both the only boy in the small studio and also the youngest. It'd been so weird— but he guesses he knows why now.

The aesthetics even just aren't for him. Sure looking at the men in tights is like cool or whatever but Shane knows all of the bullshit that goes on in the ballet world. Hardcore diets and exercise, image issues, and everything else. He didn't understand, really, why anyone would want to do ballet at all. To him, ballet just looked like torture.

But as he sat in that dark theater flanked by Ruby and Jade to keep the twins separated, he sort of.

Gets a little lost in it all. He had never actually sat through a performance before. At first, Shane mostly paid attention to the backdrops and set design, a little awed at how everything looked as if it'd been ripped straight from a storybook and made reality. And then the orchestra was just awesome. Don't get him wrong, he certainly eyed up some of the male dancers but he couldn't for long, not when Hayden's kids are right beside him.

Especially not when Ruby grasps his forearm, nails biting into his skin, "Sugarplum is next, watch, Uncle Shane. Watch."

Hayden shoots him an apologetic look over Jackie's shoulder. Shane rolls his eyes and stars at the stage.

And then his mouth goes dry when she walks out onto the stage. In a pink costume and crown yes, but there's… everything about her. The blonde hair swept into a bun with curls framing her face, the glittering crown catching in the light, the sinewy length of her arms and biceps— the strength— so obvious despite the tutu. Shane cannot tear his gaze away from her, not for a single second as she begins moving over the stage with the perfection of a twirling dancer in a music box.

The second thing he notices is her smile. Even when her partner (Cavalier, he thinks, if he remembers the program correctly) joins her. The music is almost sorrowful in it's tone, but her smile… it radiates her joy to the point that even Shane can feel her emotion from this far in the theater with a child crushing his left arm in a vice grip.

Surely he doesn't… Not when he told Rose Landry he likes being the hole rather than the peg.

Yet his chest tightens with every turn she makes as her back muscles glimmer under the stage lights. Shane tries to will himself to look at the Cavalier's ass, because it's a fantastic ass, and staring at another man's ass would make so much more sense.

But he can't look away from the Sugar Plum fairy. Shane tries to tell himself that he's impressed by her athleticism and her flexibility— even her insane balance as he joins the crowd with a yell as she stands in front of the Cavalier, perfectly balanced on her right leg while holding her left one out at a complete right angle without so much as a wobble of the ankle.

Just because he knows this woman is attractive doesn't mean he's attracted right? That's not how… that's not how being gay works?

What the hell does Shane know about being gay? He thought was straight until he realized he couldn't get it up for one of the hottest actresses in the industry right now.

Shane swallows the dry lump in his throat and checks the program again.

Sugar Plum Fairy: Liliya Rozanova

From Russia. Trained at Bolshoi before making her American debut at the Boston Ballet at the age of 18. This is her third principal role.

He closes the program, rolls it up like a newspaper in his lap.

"Isn't she amazing?" Ruby whispers.

"She is."

"I'm going to be her when I grow up."

"Shut up," Jade hisses, "The variation is coming up."

The girls glare at each other over Shane's lap until he elbows both of them. Not hard enough to hurt but enough to remind them that he quite likes his personal space.

Besides, he wants to see the variation too.

By the time the ballet ends, Jackie shoos Hayden off to go buy some flowers and proceeds to shepherd her girls and Shane towards some weird back area of the theater.

"She'll only be a minute," Jackie promises the twins while rocking Amber in her arms. Amber, for whatever it's worth, didn't cry once during the entire performance.

Hayden returns, red faced and out of breath to hand Ruby and Jade each a single red rose. Shane shoves his hands in his back pockets in lieu of anything to hold on to while Jackie and the girls chat about the ballet. They fill in some of the details about the story but Shane barely listens.

Especially when Lilya Rozanova bursts out of a side door, still clad in her pink and gold tutu, "Is that Jackie I am hearing?"

"Liliya," Jackie laughs, "It's so good to finally meet you in person. I'd hug you but… baby."

"Put your husband to work." Liliya says, her accent rough around the edges. Shane's mouth once again goes dry. Up close she really is strong. Every single line of her muscles seems to have been made only more obvious by her dancing. But she barely spares him a glance anyway because Ruby steps up, bearing her rose like an offering to a goddess. "Is this for me?"

"Y-Yes," Ruby stammers out, flushing red from her cheeks to the tips of her ears as Lilya Rozanova kneels in front of her, the tips of her toe shoes poking out from the bump of her tutu.

"You're too kind. Ruby, yes? And this is your sister…?"

"I'm Jade!" Jade thrusts her rose forward a bit more clumsily.

"Such kind girls," Liliya coos, running her fingers through both of their hair before taking both roses in hand. "So generous, and so beautiful. Just like your mama, hm?" She pets both of their faces in a kind, almost maternal way, her first knuckle tilting their chins up toward the light, "Like princesses."

Ruby and Jade squeal together and for some stupid, terrible reason, Shane blurts, "Can I buy you a drink?"

Jackie begins punching Hayden hard, over and over again, everywhere she can reach.

Liliya looks up as if she never saw Shane standing there in the first place. Her eyes— he couldn't see them from the stage at all— but they're hazel. As if every shade of green and gold has been compressed into her irises.

Then she laughs at him, "Sure. I'll have to change first. You can either wait in alley behind the theater or meet me at the bar. Your choice." She pulls herself back onto her feet and steps closer to Jackie, going back to ignoring Shane as if she didn't just agree to have a drink with him. "This is Amber, your new baby, yes? Are you girls such good big sisters?"

"Yes, Liliya! We are, we are! Hey— Stop copying me! Get your own line!"

Shane can feel the heat rising in his cheeks and of course Liliya chooses that moment to shoot him a wink over Jackie's shoulder.

Jesus. Fuck. He really, really thought he was gay. Like undeniably, 100% gay.

Hayden grabs him by the shoulders and whispers, "Fucking finally."

Hayden and Jackie leave to get the girls to bed, but Hayden tells Shane under more than strict terms that he'll need to hear about how everything goes between he and Liliya.

Shane doesn't know how tonight will go. He sort of asked her out on a whim with nothing but the selfish desire to know her throbbing through his veins. It wasn't a thing like how he felt with Rose, not in the slightest. When Rose winked at him like that, he mostly felt embarrassed, but when Liliya did it he felt pinned by her eyes— as if he was an insect she was taking a scientific interest in.

What will she even wear? A couple of the guys on the team have Slavic wives, so Shane knows the usual fur coats and expensive shoes and way too tight dresses. That's never been his thing, but he also isn't the type of guy to police what a woman wears. On the contrary, Rose used him like her personal dress-up doll. A toy.

God, how is he ever going to explain this to her? Yeah, I guess an actress doesn't do it for me but a random Russian Ballerina does. Help?

The back door pops open and Liliya steps out in a pair of baggy cargo pants, sneakers, and an open fur coat that reveals a black sports bra. No shirt.

"Jesus, it's cold. You should've gone to the bar," she laughs, buries her hands in her coat pockets, "Thank you for waiting, Shane Hollander."

"It's really no problem, Liliya Rozanova."

She shakes her head, "Roz."

"Sorry?" Shane stutters, already nervous just trying to talk to her.

"Roz, everyone who knows me calls me Roz. Liliya is mouthful."

"Do you prefer Roz or do you prefer Liliya?" He asks, a little shocked to see the way she cocks her head to the side as if nobody has thought to ask her this question before. She purses her lips together, considering. Shane notices that the stage makeup was replaced with new makeup. Natural foundation, but touched up eyeliner and mascara and what seems like a couple swipes of berry colored lip gloss.

Is it bad that he sort of hoped she would've taken her makeup off?

Probably. It's also probably not good that his heart is racing like a rabbit in his ears with nerves either.

Except Liliya laughs and Shane finds himself smiling at her until his face muscles ache. "Nobody has, no. But I like Roz enough."

"Okay. Roz it is. Can I buy Roz a drink?"

"Shane Hollander can buy Roz a drink if he stops talking in third person. Shane Hollander should know," she starts cackling and Shane's stomach flips as he offers her his arm how he used to offer Rose his arm. Liliya— Roz. She prefers Roz— Loops their arms together. The goosegg of her bicep presses against Shane's tricep. She's so. Strong. "Roz prefers good vodka, expensive shit."

"Well, then it's a good thing I like cheap beer."

"Maybe. What else do you like?"

That's how they end up talking on the walk to the little dive bar Roz takes them too. Shane tells her that he likes yoga and early morning runs, and hockey. Roz tells him that she likes loud music, dancing, and hockey. They don't actually have that much in common except for hockey. Talking to her is a lot like talking to Rose except different because Shane cannot tear his gaze away from Roz even when he tries to. Even when he knows he should.

She tilts her cocktail glass half full of vodka back. She shed her fur coat at the door and even in the dim glow of the bar lights, Shane's eyes keep lingering on her arms and chest.

"Want to feel?"

"Uhm—"

Roz flexes her arm and Shane scoots closer on his stool to cop a feel. Her arm is warm under his tough, and as strong as he thought.

"I workout," she says with a wink.

"I can tell."

"Come on, let me feel yours."

Shane laughs, ignoring the heat that once again rushes to his face as he flexes for Roz's benefit, flinching when her cool fingers press up against his skin. She touches and feels— really feels, crowding into his space like she's always belonged there with her knee between his thighs.

"Hm, very nice, but not as nice as mine."

"Fuck off, oh my God."

"Is true," she sighs, "Mine are better."

Shane can't deny that. So, he busies himself with taking a sip of beer. Roz laughs at him, tucks a few golden curls behind her ears, still very in his space.

"So," she begins matter of factly, "Are we going to screw or what?"

He chokes on his drink, "What!?"

"You've been making fuck me eyes at me all night, Hollander. And I am feeling very generous."

"You're so full of it!"

"I am full of nothing but lust," she groans theatrically, "For you."

Shane pushes her away without thinking, except she catches his arm at the last second and pushes back. He has to set his glass back down to fight her off genuienly, but he doesn't mean it. How can he when she's smiling at him like that and his heart is hammering in his chest like an alarm begging to be shut off?

He never felt this way about Rose, not at all. Not this excited or thrilled.

What the hell is wrong with him?

"Are you being serious?" He asks, loosening his grip.

"Why not? Is not every day hot hockey player asks me for drink and actually follows through."

"You're not… you're not doing it because Jackie told you…"

"Jackie? No." Roz shakes her head, knocks back the rest of her vodka. "Jackie has nothing to do with this. We know each other from Twitter is all, I promised to get extra tickets so her girls could see last performance of the season. Favor between friends, she is getting me tickets to see Voyageurs if you make it to the Stanley Cup."

"We will make it to the Stanley Cup," Shane promises, finishing off his beer while making eye contact. Roz wets her bottom lip with her tongue, pushes into his space again. She smells like sweat and liquor. Shane really, really likes her. Like, he unnaturally likes her. He's heard lots of stories of people meeting their special someone like this. Sparks, fireworks, an instant connection. Looking at someone and just knowing, deep in their souls. I'm going to marry this person.

He's feeling that feeling now but for Liliya Rozanova after he already thought he figured out that he's gay. Shane never makes decisions without thinking every possibly outcome out beforehand, yet here, with Roz's hand squeezing his thigh and her breath warm and tickling his cheek while she teases him about hockey, he thinks, idly, in the back of his mind where only he can hear: I'm going to marry her.

His feelings about Roz are only proven when he brings her back to his hotel room. Shane hits the bathroom first to get himself a little more together. This has always been where he fell apart with Rose. Everything would be going great and then all of the sudden he'd just… freak out or wouldn't be able to get it up at all.

Roz is different but she's not that different, not in the way Shane will need her to be if…

He can do this. There's always mouth stuff if he can't…

Shane takes a breath, dries his hands on the little hand towel and steps back into the bedroom.

His heart drops down to his ass.

Roz lays strewn out across his bed in just the sports bra and a pair of black boxer briefs, tossing his dildo up and down in the air.

"Is this yours, Hollander?"

Shane thinks he might die, like, actually die. That was for… that was for preparing for Kevin, 26, not Liliya Rozanova.

"Uhm—"

She snaps the dildo from the air, pointing it at him like a weapon, "Do you use it on yourself?"

He knows the heat in his face is betraying him, but he can't make his lips move around the excuses he wants to make. Not when Roz traces her finger down the plastic vein with a curious, lustful glint in her eye.

"Y-Yes," Shane whispers, "Sometimes."

She hums, "Can I use it on you?"

"W-What?"

"I want to fuck you with your dildo, Hollander. Is not that complicated. You have lube, yes?"

Shane glances at the nightstand. Roz leans over to retrieve the bottle of water based lube and the box of condoms he left there. His original plan was to bring both the condoms and lube to the bar with him in case things with Kevin actually went where he wanted them to go.

Roz pats the space on the bed beside her, "Come here, big boy."

Swallowing, Shane obeys, coming over to sit down right beside her. Immediately her hands are on him, sweeping over his shoulders, trailing down his arms.

"Take your clothes off," she whispers against the shell of his ear.

Shane strips slowly, methodically, not yet ready to admit that he prepped quite a bit before tonight's game. After folding his clothes and setting them to the side, he listens to her breathing.

"Look at me, Hollander."

Shame burns through the whole of his body, but his dick doesn't get the message at all. His cock bobs between his legs as he carefully shifts his body to face her head on. He can't bear to actually meet her eyes. His gaze remains locked on his knees— tan, and her knees, pale. He didn't realize they were both kneeling on the bed. That's so awkward.

"God," a soft sigh shudders out of Roz, "You're so pretty."

A sharp exhale of breath punches out of Shane's chest, "Listen, Roz, we don't have to—"

"Let me fuck you, Hollander," Roz whispers quickly, frantically, as if it'll somehow kill her if she can't get her hands on Shane quick enough. "Please. No more talking, all fucking. I will take such good care of you."

That's not how this is meant to go. Shane knows how sex with women should be— he should lay Roz down on her back, hike her legs over his shoulders and try to get it up and stay up long enough to get her to cum.

She keeps whispering, "Let me take care of you." Over and over again like a prayer and after a breath of a moment, Shane finally concedes. What's the harm? When will he ever truthfully see her again? Not for four weeks at least, that's when the Voyageurs are playing the Bears next.

He lays down on the bed, scooting into the middle when Roz crawls to the end. Propping himself up with a couple of pillows, he finally chances a glance at her. She's still kneeling there, dildo in hand, her eyes trailing hungrily over the length of Shane's body like she's…

Like she's trying to devour him with her eyes.

"Touch yourself," she orders.

What is happening? Shane should take control. He should tell her to lay back and enjoy herself. So why does he obey her? Why does he start stroking himself slowly, lazily, while making more eye contact with her than he's made with anyone over the past month? Roz doesn't look away from his cock. She catches her bottom lip in her teeth, then her eyes light up with mischief.

"You fucked yourself earlier, didn't you?"

"S-Shut up." He stops stroking in favor of running his fingers down between his balls until he brushes against his perineum. "I didn't plan for this to happen, not with you, not with—"

"A woman?"

He nods, embarrassed. She probably thinks he's a sad, worthless f—

"Well, lucky you," she says, crawling toward him on her hands and knees like a predator, "I am better than any man you could've possibly laid with. Never forget that, Hollander."

I'm going to ruin you doesn't have to be said.

Roz squirts lube over the dildo, smearing some onto Shane's hole with a practiced hand.

"Y-You've done this before," Shane squeaks out, back arching off the mattress at her touch. "With a man?"

"Men, women," she shrugs. "People. God, you're pretty," she leans forward, kissing down between Shane's chest down to his belly button, "So pretty…"

"R-Roz—" He cants his hips up again, "Please?"

"Please… what?"

"Roz—"

"You're a big boy, Hollander. Use your words. Tell me what you want me to do and I will do it."

Embarrassment and incredible horniness play side by side in Shane's body. His cock stands at rock hard attention.

"Please fuck me."

"Good boy."

Oh.

Oh.

Oh God.

Things happen quickly. Roz is between his legs, tossing his knees up over her strong shoulders, staring down at him as if she's been waiting for this moment all night. A curl slips out of her bun, flopping over her forehead adorably. Shane reaches up to hold her, big hands cradling her cheeks.

"Fuck me, Roz. I need it."

What is he saying?

"I will give you everything you need."

Shane believes her. Oh God, he believes her. The head of the dildo pushes against his entrance and Shane all but cries out as Roz begins fucking him with it— his own sex toy— like it's actually her cock. Even though she has to fist it inside him with her hands, it's— when she was playing with it earlier— catching it— she was warming it up.

"Roz," Shane babbles nonsensically, "Please, fuck— fuck."

He fucks himself down onto the toy, meeting each one of her thrusts. His thigh muscles twitch and spasm and Shane has to toss his arms over his face when she starts hitting his prostate at a brutal pace.

"You take me so well," she whispers, "You were made for my cock, weren't you?"

"Yes," Shane keens, "Yes."

He's never felt so sure of anything. Laying here, taking Roz's cock, peering up at her through his lashes and the gap in his arms as she bends over him, sucking hickies against his pecs like it's her job, switching hands when her wrist gets tired. She's fucking— she's fucking folding Shane in half.

"Roz," he pleads, starting to beg, "Roz, I'm going to— I'm going to."

"Yeah?" She pants, appearing an inch from his face, her pupils completely blown out with pleasure. "Come for me, Hollander."

She wraps her free hand around his dick and starts pumping in time with her thrusts. Shane goes half crazy with pleasure. It's as if every nerve ending in his entire fucking body has been lit on fire.

"Roz— oh God, Roz— Roz—"

"Yes, yes," she moans against his hip, "Come for me, baby," then trails off into what Shane's sure are a litany of Russian expletives.

He comes so hard his vision actually whites out. Shane doesn't know if he screams or just yells. He just knows that when he finally opens his eyes, Roz is leering above him, her cheeks stained cherry pink, her wild mane of curls free from her bun.

She clears her throat, "Was that okay?"

Shane laughs, "Kiss me."

And she does. Hard and wantonly, as if she's afraid Shane might run away from her. Shane wraps both arms around her, crushing her against his body. She tastes like vodka and her berry lip gloss. Their teeth click together awkwardly, but Shane can't care about that. Not when his own dildo is still in his ass, not when Roz keeps kissing him as she gingerly tugs it free and lets it hit the floor with a clatter.

"Let me—" Shane whispers. He wants to repay the favor, he wants to get her off too— more than anything.

"I did," she laughs against his lips, guiding his hand into her briefs. Shane's fingers slide over her soaking folds, "Fuck, Shane. That was so…"

"Hot?"

She bobs her head in a nod before flopping over to lay by his side, propping herself up on her elbow, "Wasn't too much for you?"

"No, it was," he takes a breath, turning over carefully to face her. This was always his least favorite part after trying to have sex with Rose— the awkwardness that came with it. But he doesn't feel awkward at all just… satisfied. Satisfied in a way he was certain he could never feel with a woman. "It was great. You're great."

"Yes… well…"

Shane cups her cheek in his hand, running his thumb over the plush of her bottom lip. She looks at him through her fawnish lashes. He roves his eyes over her body. Her shoulders and biceps, her abs… She's so strong, so…

Incredible.

"I've never done that before," he admits, "Not with.. with a woman, at least."

"Right, well," she rolls her eyes, "Would probably be better with a real man, yes?"

He shakes his head, "No. It wouldn't have been the same at all."

"Haha, yes it would…"

"Not at all. It wouldn't have been the same because it wouldn't have been with you."

"Yes, well. Maybe we get strap for next time?"

Next time.

"You're not… put off by the fact that I…"

She raises a brow at him, "You are a bottom?"

"Well—"

"No. I like it, you're very…" Roz sighs, purses her lips in thought, "Sweet, Hollander. I liked you on the ice and I like you even more in bed. You are… boring, but…" She reaches out to hold his face right back. Shane and Rose never did this. Sure they touched but it was always awkward and almost childish. The way Roz holds him, and the way Shane holds her. It feels like so much more than the touches he shared with Rose. God, he really shouldn't compare the two of them, but he can't help it. Less than eight hours ago, he was certain he was gay.

Now he doesn't know what he is, he just knows that he really, really likes Roz.

She takes his hand in hers, threading their fingers together, "I really like you."

"We've known each other less than twelve hours."

"Makes no difference to me."

"Me either," Shane decides, that feeling coming back. I'm going to marry you someday. Maybe not tomorrow or next week or even next year, but he knows deep in his soul, somehow, that he's face to face with his soulmate in some irrevocable way. "Can I get your number?"

Roz laughs, her nose crinkling adorably, "You just let me fuck you with plastic dick and you want my number?"

"I do. I want to… I want to keep getting to know you. If you'll let me."

"You are ridiculous."

"I know."

I'm going to marry you someday. Shane can't even picture what marrying Liliya Rozanov might look like. His mind doesn't fill with the image of a wedding dress or bouquets, he just sees her the way she is right now with her chest glistening with sweat and a loose curl trailing over her face. How can he possibly explain that he wants to see this every single day if he could? Just Roz. Roz, Roz, Roz.

She tilts her head into his hand, sighing, "Fine, you big sap. I will give you my number. But I'm no Rose Landry, I will not be at your games and I will not wear your jersey."

Shane snorts, "That's fine."

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

Roz sniffs, "I have my own career, it is important to me."

"I know. You're a talent. Anyone with eyes can see that. But I do get it, I'm… I'm the same way about hockey."

"I live for ballet," she whispers. "It is everything."

Shane smiles at her, "Hockey is everything to me too."

"And you want to talk to me?"

"Yes," he tucks that loose curl behind her ear, "I want to know everything about you, eventually."

She laughs into the sheets, "You won't, I promise."

"I do, and I will," Shane promises, closing the distance between them to kiss her forehead and drape his leg over her hips. She lets him and even scooches closer. "I will."

Roz nuzzles his shoulder, letting the moment sit for only a few seconds before she whispers, "We should clean up."

Shane nods and accepts her help out of bed. She leads him by the wrist into the bathroom, all but pushing him into the shower. Then, she turns her back to him as she strips out of her bra and briefs. Shane decides to look at the tile instead of her as she steps into the stall right behind him.

Her strong arms loop around his waist, "Thank you," she murmurs into his bare skin, "For letting me fuck you tonight." As if Shane was the one doing her some big favor by being a big wuss and hanging onto every single word that fell from her pretty lips. It doesn't feel… wrong, not like how trying and failing to have sex with Rose felt. He only feels…

He only wishes he could've done more for Roz, gotten her off somehow.

Roz kisses his shoulder and turns the water on.

Shane decides not to say anything else about it.

Chapter Text

They talk a lot more than Shane expected. It starts by Shane sending a stupid gym selfie along with: So what's your gym routine?

And Roz texted him back with a similar photo of herself doing hip thrusts. End of season, light day for recovery :P. The bar balanced over a little pad resting over her lap and her quads looked insane through the thin fabric of her leggings. Shane shook his head a little and replied:

What do those even do for you?

My ass, duh. You should give them a try.

Shane did give them a try along with every other exercise Roz suggested. They text the most when they're both at the gym and then don't text at all when they're both practicing. Roz apparently has six hour days at the studio five days a week, which is insane to Shane.

She also texts him a lot during hockey games, not that Shane sees her messages until afterwards. Her feedback is as swift and twice as brutal as his own coach's and she doesn't just leave her opinions for Shane. Each player gets appropriately reamed out, and she even manages to catch onto the way injuries are impacting his teammates' play styles. It's honestly a little bit insane of her, and Shane really…

Loves it? Maybe. Maybe he loves her. Which is still a whole thing he hasn't told anyone about, really. Especially not Rose, who keeps texting him asking him how his Grindr hookup went. He hopes that if he ignores her for a little while longer, maybe she'll forget about it.

He and Roz also call on the weekends, something he never actually did with Rose. They'll just be on the phone for hours doing nothing or everything. Usually, Roz talks Shane through her meal prep and her plans for the evening. Apparently, it's her mission to try out every single nightclub in Boston before her contract ends. Shane's usually going through the sponsorships his mom sends him, and he always asks for Roz's feedback. She's got good taste and a keen eye for what will sell, what makes sense for his career, and what an absolute no should be. He thinks his mom would really, really like her. They're both sort of insane in a similar but very different way.

"Gymshark is terrible, Hollander," Roz scolds. He can hear her walking around her apartment, picking things up, cursing herself out a little bit, "If anything, go for Lulu sponsorship. Their clothes are superior and you also get female hockey enjoyers interested in you all over again. Plus, is good for masculinity if you do it."

Shane chuckles, "What does Lululemon have to do with masculinity?"

"Hollander, all of my sports bras are Lulu and my warm up jackets. They're good brand! Look at men's section sometime and tell me Lulu does not scream Shane Hollander yoga advertisement."

"You saw that!?" Shane chokes. Roz cackles at him.

"Needed help sleeping…"

"Screw you, Roz. Oh my God. I can't just do a sponsorship with Lululemon, okay? They haven't reached out and there's no way my mom is going to understand why I'd want one with them."

"I will send you package, then. Of Lulu things that suit you."

"No— no, you don't have to do that. I can go to the store." He took a look at what dancers make at the Boston Theater and cringed at the number. Shane can make her entire yearly salary in one month if sponsorships line up the right way and he's sure she knows that. "I actually wanted to ask if I could send something to you?"

"What? Like present?"

"Sort of, it's just, well," Shane takes a breath. "I was shopping with a friend the other day and the next game against the Bears falls on the weekend of Valentine's day, so…"

She sighs into the receiver, "It's a dress, isn't it?"

Shane might be imagining it, but he swears he hears disappointment in her voice. He wets his bottom lip, a little unsure on whether or not he should ask about that. Instead, he says, "No, it's uh… it's actually a leather jacket. Way too cool for me but it seems kind of your style. I was hoping we could get dinner and you could uh… maybe wear it. To dinner. Maybe."

Roz coos, "You want to take me out for romance holiday, Hollander?"

"Shut up, oh my God. Yes, Roz, I want to take you out."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I will let you take me out and I will wear leather jacket. I'll text you my address, yes?"

Shane sits up a little straighter, ignoring his mom's incessant emails, "Please and I was thinking maybe Omakase? Does that sound good?"

"Mhm, yes."

"Okay, so, Valentine's day? I can pick you up from—"

"I'll meet you at restaurant."

A beat passes between them, then Roz says, so quietly Shane nearly doesn't hear her, "I want to fuck you again, Hollander. It's all I can fucking think about."

"Yeah?" Shane's throat goes a little dry and his tongue goes quite stupid, "How would you?"

"I have a strap."

Fuck.

She continues, "And several dicks, you could choose which one you like best. I just wanted— I wanted you to know that."

"I want you to fuck me too."

"I'm glad we are on same page."

Shane is too, desperately, desperately glad. Dinner is one thing, dinner can 100% just be dinner and if Roz said that's all she wanted, Shane would be happy to have just spent the time with her. But now he has something else to look forward to; Roz fucking him again. With a strap, no less.

"I'll prep," he tells her. "So we don't have to waste anytime."

"And if I wanted to stretch you open on my fingers, what then?"

His dick twitches in his pants. Shane leans back against the couch, "How… How would you do that?"

He can hear the mischief and pleasure in Roz's voice as she gets started, "Slowly, one finger at a time, lots of lube. I'll find your prostate but won't touch it except for a few gentle brushes to remind you what we're doing this all for. When I can finally fit in three fingers, I'll finger fuck you until you're at your breaking point—"

Shane unzips his pants, stroking himself lazily in his fist. Roz's breath shudders on the other side of the line and he wonders, and kind of hopes that she's touching herself too. They've had phone sex before. Over Facetime, actually. That had been thrilling— being told what to do by Roz while she was hundreds of miles away, her eyes never leaving the screen while Shane postured and preened for her.

"Tell me you're touching yourself, Hollander."

"I am."

She laughs, "Good, yes. Keep going. I want to hear you when you come."

This, Shane thinks to himself as he starts getting off to the idea of Roz fingering him, is why they work. Roz will throw him a fantasy and Shane latches onto that fantasy and shapes it with her before throwing the thing back. If she could be here in Canada with him and not in Boston, he knows he'd be in trouble. The deep, drowning kind of trouble that he didn't actually want to escape from.

He thinks of the way her curls framed her face when she was fucking him, the way her face went from mischievous and almost jeering to being consumed with nothing but lust and want. How good it felt to have his legs over her shoulders, how she folded him into the mattress as if she was actually fucking him with her own dick.

With a strap, that could happen. Shane closes his eyes with a whimper, "Roz—"

Maybe this is some sort of kink thing or a fetish. Maybe Shane just likes being dominated and he knows Rose does too, so that could be why they didn't work but he and Roz do.

Her smile fills his head, not the one she'd grinned at him while they were fucking but that intense, unmistakable joy when she was dancing.

Can Shane make her smile like that too? He wants to, he wants to make her smile like that just as much as he wants her to grin down between his knees and call him pretty.

His own orgasm catches him completely off guard. His hips cant up into his fist and he's gasping Roz's name sharply into the air.

"I can't wait," Roz hums, "To see you do that again in person. Don't prep, please. I want to do it."

Shane nods even though she can't see him, "O-Okay."

"And go take a hot shower, relax, and consider Lulu brand deal. I want Shane Hollander themed leggings."

He can't help but laugh, "They'd be Voyageurs themed for sure."

"Mm, no. Hollander is not red and blue and white. Pick colors that are better, please. I will call you tomorrow, I have to go pick up costume from the dry cleaner. Muah, bye-bye."

Shane's face warms at her muah, "Bye, Rozzie."

At first, he didn't intend on telling his parents about Roz. They only found out about Rose because the papparrazi photos dropped before he got the chance to tell them. But as Valentine's day draws closer and closer and the Voyageurs prepare endlessly to crush the Bears, he finds himself at a loss.

He doesn't know what to get someone like Roz for Valentine's day and the leather jacket he shipped off to her absolutely doesn't count.

Poking around his sad bowl of brown rice and baked salmon, Shane just comes out with it, "So, I've been seeing this girl in Boston since the last game against the Bears and we're having dinner this weekend, but I don't know what to get her for the holiday and I was wondering if you two could give me some suggestions, please?"

His parents exchange a weighted look. "Sorry," Yuna says, "You've been talking to a girl since— okay. Well, that's good to hear. What's she—"

"What's she like?" David finishes, taking a sip of wine.

"She's amazing, honestly. She's the one who suggested I do a collab with Lululemon although trust me, her intention with that is completely one-sided. She likes hockey a lot too."

"Like Rose?"

Shane shakes his head, "Nothing like Rose. She's uhm— she's a ballerina at the Boston Theater but she also takes kickboxing classes and stuff like that." He hopes the point gets across. Roz is more dominant more… more like Yuna, honestly than Shane's quite ready to admit. Forceful in her own way but also so funny and so, so beautiful.

And dominant.

He scrolls through their messages until he finds the absolute wall of text Roz sent after Montreal's last game against Buffalo and passes it over the table. Yuna and David crane their heads to read.

"Oh," laughs Yuna, "She really likes hockey."

"Yeah, if you keep going, she sent a selfie…"

Yuna slides her finger up and for a second neither of his parents say a word. Shane already knows what the picture is— Roz in the leather jacket he bought. The leather jacket that is actually in his size and goes all the way past Roz's hips. In the photo, she'd worn a racerback sports bra and distressed jeans that sat just low enough to expose the band of a pair of Calvin Klein boxers— the ones from Shane's ad, no less. She thought it was too funny not to buy them now that they're so… close.

"She's a smokeshow—"

"Dad!"

"Well she is. You said she's a ballerina?"

Shane sputters, "Yes, but you can't just call her that—"

"She is really hot— not that Rose wasn't, but this girl has… bad girl vibes, it's different."

He's never regretted sharing something with his parents so much in his entire life.

And then, very stupidly, he tells them, "I think I'm going to marry her."

They both go so quiet a pin could drop and Shane knows he would hear it. He clears his throat, "Not like some shotgun wedding or something, but… yeah. She's…"

"You've been dating for a month. Long distance," Yuna says, turning his phone off and passing it across the table. "What makes you think that you're going to marry her?"

Shane pockets his phone, "We're both the same way about our careers for one thing, and we're the same in the gym and we're… It's hard to explain, but we just clicked. I asked her out for a drink and we spent the whole night together and nothing about it felt awkward o-or forced or anything like that. She was everything." Shane remembers the way her hands felt on him when they play wrestled at the bar. He couldn't help but smile to himself, "It was the first time I ever felt that comfortable around anyone and I've tried, you know? To do the whole… dating thing, but Roz is different. She's just… you'd really like her if you could meet her."

"Shane, we believe you, it's just… you used to be the kid that wouldn't jump in a pool until we covered your whole body in sunscreen, and now you're telling us you want to marry a girl you've known for a month."

"Long distance," Yuna adds. "A girl you spent one night with. Is everything okay, honey? Did something happen?"

"Nothing happened!" Shane snaps, "Trust me I know how insane this sounds, especially coming from me and I'm not telling you guys I'm marrying her this weekend or even a year from now. I'm just telling you it's serious, like really, really, terrifyingly serious."

Like so serious that Shane can't stop thinking about her, ever. He'll be skating around at practice, planning what moves he'll use at the game and what Roz will say about them. He spends game days looking forward to her paragraphs of text and loud voice messages. Shane even looks forward to the random photos she sends him throughout the day. A photo of someone's shoes on the train, her bloody toepads, her cobbled together lunches and many, many photographs of the Boston Skyline.

He just wants to be talking to her all the time. When he was with Rose, he didn't feel like this at all. Yes, talking to her was great and incredible and they're definitely good friends but Shane never found himself this level of obsessed with her. Roz lit a fire under him that simmered it's way through his bones and pulsed through his veins.

Shane puts his head in his hands for a second, digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, "I know how crazy it sounds, okay? I know."

His mother's hand wraps around his forearm. Shane doesn't open his eyes yet, too afraid of what expression might be on her face. Disappointment, perhaps? Or shock.

"I want you to meet her, eventually," Shane says a hair too quickly, desperate for his parents to understand how serious he feels about Roz. "I'm going to invite her to my cottage this summer. I know that's her off season and I can install a barre in the gym so she can keep practicing and I'll bring her over to dinner and—"

"Shane—"

"We'll spend time by the lake and everything. It'll be," he breathes, "Good."

His mom pulses her grip on his forearm and he finally manages to look at her. Her face, much to his disbelief, is soft and warm, her eyes shining with an almost teary wetness.

"How about instead of waiting until July for you to introduce us to your girlfriend, you bring her to one of the Montreal games? We could stay at your place, go to dinner, get to know her."

Girlfriend hits Shane like a brick to the face in it's wrongness. Like yes, he guesses that is the most socially acceptable term to describe what Roz means to him but it's also…

Wrong, just. Wrong. Rose was his girlfriend, Roz is… So much more than that, but he can't find the right word. Soulmate is too much, too fantastic, but maybe that's the closest thing Shane has. Really, she's just, like…

She just gets him in a way no one has before. Their career goals are basically the same but for their respective fields, they're both hungry for success in every way possible, and they both like hockey.

"I'll ask," Shane nods a little. Yes, that makes way more sense and will be so much less stressful over the summer.

David clears his throat, "Although, I'd consider doing some inward reflection on why you keep going for girls called Rose, son…."

"Oh my God!" Shane's voice breaks at the end, "Her name is Liliya, she just prefers going by Roz."

"That's still a flower."

Montreal beats Boston this time and instead of hanging around to celebrate, Shane gets the hell out of dodge as quick as he's physically able.

"Going somewhere, Hollander?" JJ asks.

"Yeah, dinner. Don't you have a date of your own, man?"

Wrong thing to say. The entire locker room fucking erupts as Shane ties his dress shoes on. His face feels like it's been set on fire.

Hayden leans half his bodyweight over Shane's shoulder, "This dinner wouldn't happen to be with Liliya, would it?"

"Fuck off."

"Holy shit, it is."

He hates how shocked Hayden genuinely sounds. He hates that his entire team finds the possibility of Shane going on a date sooo fucking hilarious. Like sure, he didn't fuck around like everyone else and he's never been the kind of guy who can just waltz into a city, get laid, and go about his life happy as a damn clam, but still.

"Enjoy your date, Hollander!"

Shane has to ignore them, because he's afraid if he doesn't, and he reacts he's going to explode or something. Why is him going on a date so surprising? Why did Hayden have to look at him as if he's five years old and not the same exact age he is? Shane can admit there's some things in life he's always been slower on the uptake to take on, but he's never seen that as a bad thing. He'd rather be single and miserable than in Hayden's position— 25 years old with three kids that he's constantly stressed about.

Shane burns the whole walk to the restaurant, burying his hands deep into the pockets of his parka as he makes the miserable journey over. Boston is still covered in slush and he has to mind where he's walking so as to not ruin his shoes and slacks.

"Hollander."

Fuck, if the sound of Roz's voice doesn't cut through the bullshit in his head like a heated blade. She's standing right next to a decorative plant, a cigarette burning between her fingers. Despite the chill biting through the air, she's not only wearing the leather jacket Shane sent her but a dress too— small and velvet with the skirt ending at her midthigh, and wine colored tights that show off the contours of leg muscles that end in a pair of sleek but edgy black heels. Somehow, she looks smaller than she did the last time they saw each other.

She dressed up for him. Like, a lot. Makeup done to perfection, red lipstick leaving a mark on the butt of her cigarette. Is it bad that Shane almost wishes she didn't? Is it awful that he misses her sports bra and baggy joggers? He should be glad, like, a lot of the married guys talk about missing when their partners dressed up for them. Shane should be giddy. He thinks she might've lost weight-- she looks smaller, somehow.

Roz cut her hair.

Instead of falling around her shoulders in a wild mane, her curls are cropped closer to her ears and she has a little bit of a fringe now, it's so…

It's so her.

"Hi," Shane says stupidly.

Roz smiles at him, "Hello. Let me finish this and we can go inside."

"I didn't know you smoked." He's about to ask if she knows how bad smoking is for her— she's a professional dancer for God's sake.

She brings the cigarette back to her mouth and shrugs, speaking around it when she says, "Not often anymore. One time thing, promise."

Shane reaches for one of the curls closer to the back of her neck, twisting the soft lock around his finger a few times, "This is nice."

"Is it too short?"

He shakes his head at her, "No, it really— you look very you." Brave words considering he's only known her for about a month and a handful of change. Still, she smiles at him in that dangerous, lopsided way of hers that makes his stomach do a flip, so he's glad he said it. Really, really glad he did.

She stubs her cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe and tosses the butt into a nearby trashcan. Shane makes a mental note: Rozanova throws away her cigarette butts instead of leaving them on the ground to rot.

"Ready?"

Shane wraps his arm around her waist, sticking his hand into the pocket of her jacket. She smells like vetiver and nutmeg, like—

"Are you wearing Tom Ford?"

Her eyebrows lift in surprise, "How in the fuck do you know what brand I'm wearing?"

"I have a good nose?" Shane laughs, "Kidding, I just uh… I own the same one; I wear it in the summer."

She mocks his voice and accent, "I wear it in the summer. Fuck off, Hollander. Get your hand out of my pocket and take my coat. You are ridiculous."

"Aw, but you like it?"

Roz rolls her eyes at him, "If I did not, we would not be doing Omakase on Valentine's day."

Shane can't help but smile. Roz doesn't do what Rose used too— the whole You're cute Shane, you're just so adorable. Shane didn't realize until now how much that made him almost feel like a pet instead of a boyfriend until another girl acted differently around him. He takes the coat off her shoulders and hangs it up as instructed by the host.

They're lead into a dark but private corner of the restaurant at Shane's request. Part of the experience is ruined, of course, by the fact that they won't be able to watch the chef but he also didn't want a fan to spot him or something and for photos of he and Roz to end up plastered all over the internet. A smarter person probably would've ordered something in and booked a high-end hotel room with a balcony and a fireplace.

Roz folds her hands over the table, "You look like you are dying to speak, you know."

Shane's eyes drop down to the gold necklace around her throat— two of them this time, the crucifix, and a beautiful gold chain with a medallion pendant.

Note to self, Roz wears gold jewelry. If there's anything Shane learned from Rose, it's that women can get very picky about what metals they wear and when. Not that he's so brazen as to buy Roz any jewelry at this point in time.

"We have our next home game in Montreal in April, and I wanted to ask if you would like to come up to see it. I can get you tickets, and you can stay with me, obviously, but uh…" Shit, he can't even look at her. This is going to sound too crazy, he knows it is, but he has to spit it out. "I kind of talked to my parents about you a bit and they want to meet you and well, the home game is kind of the perfect opportunity to do so, especially with summer being so far away. A-And I didn't want to bog you down when you're at my cottage with the stress of meeting my parents."

"Oh."

Shane takes a breath and finally looks at her, but she's not looking at him. Her gaze is focused somewhere past Shane, her first two fingers, perfectly manicured in a lacquer of polish that matches her tights, rest against the crucifix. He can't read her expression at all and that terrifies him.

"I know it's very soon," Shane says a little too fast, "And if you don't want to, you can absolutely say no, but I just thought—"

She shakes her head, "No, no. That is fine, I would like to. I sort of, oh, this is so embarrassing," a soft sigh escapes her lips, "I just forgot, is all."

"Forgot?"

"Parents, meeting them, is part of getting to know someone, yes?"

"It… can be, but—"

"I will go to Montreal. Will we all be staying in your house?"

"It's a big house!" Shane splutters, hating himself a little bit, hating how quickly he becomes flustered around her. "There's plenty of guest rooms and my parents will take the downstairs one and you can be in the upstairs one."

"Oh?" She cocks her head to the side, "Upstairs guestroom? Not upstairs in your room?"

"Shut up," he laughs, and that little bubble of hatred pops entirely and is replaced with just… Joy. Excitement to see her and talk to her in person again, to relish in the scent of her Tom Ford fragrance and the way her curls gleam under the warm glow of the restaurant lights.

She smiles at him, warm yet so full of mischief, "I will go to Montreal for April game, and meet your parents."

Shane's heart actually skips a beat, "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Should be done with Rite of Spring by then for a week or two before preparing for Sleeping Beauty."

"That's your last show before summer break?"

"Unfortunately, yes, I was hoping for Giselle this year but no such luck."

She taps her toe against Shane's, and Shane taps back, feeling way, way too fucking giddy for a 25-year old.

"Do you want me to come to any of those? I've never really…"

Roz just gives another shake of her head, "Only if you want, I know you are busy with hockey things. Rite of Spring can be difficult to understand sometimes and Sleeping Beauty is so boring. I'm praying I do not get Aurora, I do not like Rose Adagio a bit."

"What role do you want, then?" And maybe Shane will come to see Sleeping Beauty, because that would mean seeing Roz do what puts that smile on her face.

"Carabosse. I want to be evil. I've been sweet princess for sooo long, so boring. So much fucking pink and white and it's old. I should not complain so much. I know I am very, very lucky."

"You want to be evil?"

"Yes! Do you not want to be evil sometimes?"

"Well—"

They're interrupted by their first course. The conversation naturally falling away as they both busy themselves with the dish and sake.

Shane remembers, belatedly, that he did get something for Roz beyond being way too willing to cover her trip to Montreal. He fully plans on booking her a first class ticket. Sure, the flight isn't really that long but well.. He can do it, and wants to do it, so why not?

He takes the small box out of his pocket and eases it across the table.

"Hollander, what is this?"

"A gift?"

"For?"

"V…Valentine's day?"

Roz sits back, a little stunned. Maybe Shane is way overstepping here. Oh God, what if he's lovebombing her and being a total creep about it? Fuck. He should've just left it at the April Montreal trip, "It's small," he promises. "Just…"

Wasting absolutely no time or asking permission, Roz pulls the red velvet ribbon from the box and tugs the top off. The second she lays eyes on it, her entire face lights up, "You got me your hockey tape!"

"Yes, you mentioned it on the phone—"

She tugs a piece off, testing the stick between her fingers, "I am using this on my toes. I will send pictures."

"I don't want your feet pics."

"You're getting them anyway, sucker," she waves the tape at him, delight brightening her eyes, "Thank you. This is… this is awesome, but I didn't get you anything."

Shane waves his hand, "Just being here is enough for me." And being fucked later, but he's not so willing to say that bit out loud.

She gets him anyway. A small, pleased smile curls at the corners of her mouth, "One day, we should play hockey together."

"Do you know how?"

"Mhm, I played a little bit before I found ballet. Not much but," she sighs softly, takes another sip of sake, "Was fun, for a while."

"When you're in Montreal," Shane hates how fast his heart is beating at the mental image of skating with Roz, of picturing her smile hidden behind a mouth guard. "Sometimes before the game, we do, like, family games with the team. It could be fun." The last time Jackie participated, she bodied Hayden into the wall and managed to score a goal less than five seconds later. Everyone was impressed, but maybe Shane most of all because he knew she was pregnant with Amber at the time and that didn't stop her.

He wonders if Roz wants kids. She's so good with them, but when he looks at her… he doesn't know. He can't really imagine her pregnant at all, but he's not sure why. Is that a normal thing to think about any woman or is he being really, really weird again?

The dinner goes well. Everything is remarkably good and it's still dark and miserably cold out by the time they end up leaving. He and Roz walk side by side, her hand having slid into his front pocket at some point, his hand in the pocket of her coat.

"Can we go back to your hotel?" She asks, her breath fogging out before her in a thick cloud.

"My hotel?"

Roz nods, tucking some of her hair behind her ears, "I have roommate— Sveta, I will introduce you someday, she's my best friend. If I bring you home to fuck you, she will not let you live it down."

Shane's face lights on fire again. He's sure he's turned beet red at least ten times tonight, and he knows he's probably beet read right now, but Roz makes no comment on the flush of his cheeks or the fact that he can't look at her because he's thinking about being heard.

"You mentioned a strap—"

Roz whips her purse open. Shane cranes his head to look inside before zipping her bag back up, ignoring the glint of metal and many different colors of silicone within, "Jesus."

"I prepared!" She chirps, "Been looking forward to this for weeks, I miss you."

"I miss you too." Way too much, he misses her a scary fucking amount. Her hands on his body, her voice in his ear, just her. "I want to suck you off tonight."

Where.

The. Fuck.

Did that come from!? Why did he say that! Shane claps his hand over his mouth stupidly and turns his head away from her. The right term is eating out, he knows that. He knows that's the word because Rose told him that's the word— what the fuck is wrong with him!?

"Oh?" Roz purrs, leaning up so she can whisper in his ear in a way that leaves every hair on his body standing on end, "Only good boys get to suck my dick, Hollander. Will you be good?"

His breath shudders in his chest, "I'll be good."

How is she so good at this? At breaking down every single one of Shane's walls only to reconstruct them again brick by fucking brick. Shane's always certain he's said the wrong thing and that she'll look at him in that pitying way Rose used to whenever he slipped up a little bit— got too submissive too quickly or wasn't as dominate as he should've been, but it's like every time Shane slips up there Roz is grabbing the reins and steering him right back to her.

She drags the tips of her fingers against his rapidly swelling cock and Shane has to fight not to whimper and buck against her hand, "Careful, wouldn't want you to come in your pants before we're back at hotel."

"Fuck. Off."

"You love it."

Shane looks the other way, resisting the urge to bite his knuckles. He loves it and he loves Roz too fucking much. This is dangerous; he feels like he's spinning out of control.

But Roz takes the reins, and she guides him right back to her, "Let all of your teammates see us, Hollander," she's still petting his fucking dick. "Rub it in their faces in morning."

He would honestly love nothing more than to do exactly that. Surprise, Shane Hollander isn't the wet blanket, late to the party, firmly in his box player the league loves to characterize him as. He's also this, whatever he is when he's with Roz. Hungry, desperate. Adored wholly and deeply for everything he is and everything he's stuffed deep inside himself under the impression he'd never be able to have it.

Roz gives it to him without question, without asking why Shane likes what he likes. Because she likes it— she likes him.

Shane didn't think anyone could do that.

Chapter Text

Ilya knew he was born sort of wrong since he was a child. There was nothing specific about this feeling, it just lingered in the back of his mind constantly that something about himself was slightly off compared to Alyosha. The way Ilya behaved was different, the way he looked and acted and thought. At first he thought this was simply how all girls felt; discombombulated and out of place.

Then he started ballet at his mother's suggestion, at the delight of her pride, and he quickly realized that no, not every girl felt the same way he did. But he swallowed it down and thought maybe his confusion within himself was simply ambition.

Yes, ambition. Ilya had ambition in spades. Ambition to make his mother smile whenever he could even if it met sitting on his knees on the bathroom floor for hours while his mother braided and rebraided and tried every single hairstyle under the sun on his hair. He swallows his father's occasionally kind hand at his cheek, Моя милая принцесса. Always daddy's little princess. Or angel, and eventually bitch.

His mother's death changed him. The moment her casket was buried into the ground, Ilya made a promise to her and himself that he would do anything it took to get out of Russia.

And he did, much to the dismay of his father and the rest of his family. How dissapointing it must have been for them to watch Ilya move from the Bolshoi to Boston, not even New York or London but plain, simple, sad Boston. Boston, the city who gave him a chance, Boston, who welcomed Ilya with open arms. The city, the theater, the people, Ilya had never experienced so much kindness ever.

He would've sold his body to escape Russia— and his father, but mostly Russia. In a way, he supposes he really did sell himself away. Ballet will only last him so long, he's always known that. If there's anything his mother taught him, it's that beauty is a sad, fleeting thing. Here one minute and gone the next. She cared so much about her looks and because she cared so much, Ilya learned to care too. By the time he was twelve, he knew how to apply a flawless face of makeup, how to curl and straighten his hair, and how to put it in a bun so perfect all his classmates were jealous, but he didn't know how to put in a tampon or how to cut the string so as to not be noticed at all when wearing a leotard.

Had it not been for his ballet teachers, he may have never learned. His father never cared for "women's business" the second Ilya hit puberty, and grew boobs, and eventually became a woman, Grigori Rozanov turned all of his attention to his eldest son. Ilya would later hear whispers, sick ones disguised under a fog of cigarette smoke and the stench of vodka that the reason was simply that Ilya was just like Irina. Same face, same eyes, same hair. Ilya looked in his mirror and saw his dead mother's face staring back every single day for six or sometimes even twelve hours a day.

Disgust didn't begin to describe the feeling. Ilya mistook that emotion too for a desire to be better. To perfect technique and shapes, to become not just okay and not just talented but the best.

That's all Ilya can think about during his father's funeral. That his father stopped speaking to him because he looks too much like his poor, sad, wonderful mother; That he somehow disgraced the family by moving abroad instead of remaining in Russia.

"Lilochka," Alyosha breathes her name into his ear, "I need to speak with you."

Ilya's phone buzzes in his back pocket— probably Hollander again, wondering why Ilya won't speak to him right now. He wanted to tell him when it happened, but there wasn't time. His father died and she had to go to Russia immediately, there wasn't any time to talk about anything.

He follows her brother into a back room, where he proceeds to stand there, agitated and annoyed.

"There's a man I want you to talk to."

"Me?"

"Yes, it's been," he sighs, "People are gossiping, Lilochka. You're five years older than Mama was when she had you and you aren't even married."

Fuck, they're doing this again. Ilya rolls his eyes, crosses his arms over his chest as if he can hide himself, "I already told you, I will get married and have eighteen fucking children when I retire," Ilya doesn't even want that many children. Two or maybe three would do. God knows he would've loved a little sibling to distract him from the agony that was being Alexei Rozanov's little sister. "Why are we talking about this now? Papa just died, Alyosha. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What the fuck is wrong with me— What the fuck is wrong with you!? Papa wanted to see you married before you died and you're busy whoring yourself out across America."

Ilya closed his mouth, hating the building lump in his throat. It wasn't untrue. He had slept around, a lot.

With Noah, his dance partner in the first production of Swan Lake Ilya ever danced with Boston. He'd been the perfect Siegfried. So pretty and refined. Ilya loved being held by him and thought, stupidly, maybe he was a bit in love. Noah married masculinity and femininity in a way Ilya simply couldn't— not with his body type.

The first time they had sex, Ilya found out why. Transgender Noah had said. Ilya had literally never heard the word before, but he didn't wait for Noah to explain either. Ilya'd had sex with many women at that point and knew what he was doing with pussy, Noah just had a bigger clit, which suited Ilya fine.

What didn't suit Ilya fine was the way his stomach clenched everytime he saw or had to dance with Noah afterward. Jealouy made Ilya very, very ugly. It wasn't fair that Noah could just exist as he is and Ilya can't.

Or maybe couldn't.

His father was the last thing tying him to Russia. Ilya had been… experimenting a little bit since he finally put the pieces of his identity together. Not a confused, dominate woman but rather a still dominate, albeit transgender man.

The self-relevation made him feel sick because he knew in his bones that he could never be like Noah. An American transgender dancer was fine— sometimes, except for the ever present bigots, but a Russian one? God, Ilya would never be able to step foot in Russia ever again. Not if he did what Noah did—hormones and top surgery.

He's been trying to bury it for years and find happiness as a woman, but he hasn't been able to.

Ilya wants to be a man so badly it's killing him inside, and he has nobody to tell. Only in his own head does he consider himself a man. He's given himself the name Ilya because it sounds right and is close enough to Liliya that sometimes, when people say his name too fast, he can pretend it's Ilya coming out of their mouths.

"I'm going to go back to Boston," Ilya whispers, voice trembling. Fuck, he hates Alyosha, he hates him and he hates Russia and he hates everyone sitting at that table besides Sveta, "And I'm not coming back. Ever."

He should've expected the slap, all things considered.

When he gets back to Boston, he goes to a clinic to ask about hormone therapy options. The doctor is very good, and very kind, and explains things so Ilya can make sense of them. After a blood test, he walks out of the clinic with a 5mg daily dose of testosterone in the form of little gel packets that he rubs into his shoulders every morning.

The doctor told him, that in three months, if he's ready, he could go on injections. Ilya had to smile very tightly at that.

Unless he wants to quit ballet, which he doesn't, there's no way he can fully go for this. But he can start small and work small until he figures out what else he's going to do with his life that isn't so many classes and working out and performing and looking as pretty as physically possible.

The Montreal trip sneaks up on him. When Hollander finally sends him the tickets, Ilya has to call him to cuss him out for booking a first-class seat.

Shane is far too pleased with himself, "Fuck you and enjoy your champagne, I'm picking you up from the airport in the morning. Bye."

Ilya really, really likes Shane. He likes the way he smells and the way he acts— so awkward and always a little slow to the uptake. And he's mean, but also sweet. And so, so unbelievably fucking boring unless Ilya has him in a bedroom. Then, he's the most exciting thing in the universe.

It scares him, sometimes, how much he likes Shane. Ilya's never been treated the way Shane treats him and he hopes Shane keeps treating him as he does now. Sometimes… Sometimes Shane slips up a little bit, starts acting way too manly about everything. Ilya hates when he does that— when he starts bending over backwards to treat him like a woman. It takes a good five minutes to wear him down and wait for the exact moment he treats Ilya like a man. Ilya always latches onto that moment and clings as tight as he possibly can.

Navigating the Montreal airport is easy enough. For the first time since he started talking to Shane, he dons a face free of makeup and hair free of any product act all. The idea of getting up and putting his whole face on was just too much.

He wants to tell Shane in some way about the fact that he's started HRT— or find some way to hint that he's not exactly a woman at all despite the way he looks on the outside. Ilya just doesn't know how; he barely knows how to explain his identity in Russian and he sure as hell can't do it in English either. Besides, Shane is a hockey player. Ilya's sure a big part of his attraction to him has to do with the fact that Ilya is beautiful.

That's been the hardest thing to let go of as well, the currency being a beautiful woman has afforded him. Will Shane even want Ilya when he finds out the truth? Or will he be disgusted?

After going through customs, Ilya takes the escalator steps two at a time, not paying much attention at all to anything but picking up his bag at the carousel. It's not that busy yet— Shane booked the first flight in the morning because he's an overeager puppy dog— but Ilya's glad to have the extra time with him. Being with Shane is one of the few times Ilya truly feels like himself, it's as if all the molecules that make up his being finally snap into alignment and being alive— alive with Shane feels like the best thing ever.

"Roz!"

Ilya's heart actually skips a beat at the sound of Shane's voice. Shane stands below the arrivals sign wearing the ugliest ballcap ever and a pair of Raybans to conceal his identity.

To anyone who knows what Shane looks like, he's done a terrible job. Still, the second Ilya's close enough, he throws himself at him. Shane laughs, really laughs and spins Ilya around in a stupid circle.

Then he stops, still holding Ilya about the waist, "You lost weight again."

Again? He noticed over Valentine's day? Ilya blinks dumbly, retreats into himself a little bit, "Yes. Was difficult month."

Shane frowns. He's doing that thing where he treats Ilya like a woman. The bending over backwards, posturing, look at me I'm a man! behavior that Ilya knows will fall away in a couple of minutes but hurts so much right now that he wants to punch him in the dick, "Difficult how?"

"My father died."

His mouth opens into a stunned little o shape, "Roz, I'm so sorry—"

"Is okay, he was very old, and very sick," Ilya rests his hands at Shane's chest, coping a feel of his pecs through his sweatshirt. Always athleisure with Shane— or suits, but Ilya prefers Shane's joggers and hoodies to anything else. "Just a lot. I'll be okay."

"Was he sick?"

Always with the questions. Shane is so curious, and so, so earnest that Ilya's heart actually squeezes behind the confines of his ribcage.

"Yes."

"With cancer, or…"

"Dementia."

"Oh."

Shane hugs him again, hard, absolutely crushing Ilya's face into his shoulder. Ilya squeezes his eyes shut and selfishly breathes in the scent of his clothes— Vetiver and nutmeg. Tom Ford. When Shane's fingers stroke through the curls at the back of Ilya's head, he allows himself the innate pleasure of soaking in this comfort. After Ilya tells him the truth, he's not certain if Shane will ever want to do so much as breathe the same air as him again.

"Let's go get your bag, okay?" Shane whispers, sliding his hands up to cup Ilya's face, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones, "We'll drive to my house, have breakfast with my parents—"

Ilya's stomach drops, "With your parents?"

"Yes."

Fuck, why didn't he get himself together properly? Ilya curses himself out and pries himself from Shane's arms to jog up to Carousel number three, marveling for a moment at the fact that everything is written in English and French. "Hollander, you dick. I didn't get ready this morning!"

"And you look great, please, it really doesn't matter."

"They're your parents!" And Ilya knows what he will look like to them— either a sad Russian girl from a pitiful, backwater country, or a Slavic hooker after their son for his wallet.

"But you look—" Shane hesistates for a moment, going ahead and yanking Ilya's luggage free when Ilya sticks his hand out to grab the handle, the dick, "Roz, you look gorgeous without makeup you look… you look like you."

"Oh, because I looked so bad before?"

"No! I didn't mean it like that are you— stop. Roz, look at me."

Ilya looks, hating himself for putting that sad puppy dog look on Shane Hollander's face.

"I like you when you look like this. My parents will too, they don't expect you to walk off a plane looking like a supermodel, okay?"

Ilya's parents would. Papa and Mama. After Ilya turned 15, he never left the house without looking his absolute best. There's eyes everywhere, Lilochka. So no, he cannot meet Shane's parents in his warm up joggers and turtleneck sweater.

"I need to change my pants, then." That would be the compromise. Less makeup, but better trousers. Yes. That would have to do. North American chic or something.

Shane's shoulders slump a little, "Okay."

Ilya goes through his bag until he finds his nice pair of linen trousers. After zipping his suitcase back up and kissing Shane on the cheek to thank him, he moves toward the bathrooms to change.

But Shane's hand wraps around his forearm. Ilya stops, looking at him over his shoulder, "Yes?"

Shane kisses him. Softly at first, their lips barely brushing together, but that small first contact is all Ilya needs. Relief washes over him, warm and comfortable. In his head, he prays that Shane will still kiss him like this when Ilya finds the bravery to come out to him.

The drive to Shane's house isn't very long, but Ilya manages to throw on a layer of brown mascara, pluck a few stray eyebrow hairs, and slap on some tinted lipbalm on his lips and cheeks.

"You really don't have to do that," Shane says again, hand resting atop Ilya's knee, thumb tracing circles around his kneecap.

Ilya wants to elbow him, so he does, although not before throwing his lipbalm into his makeup bag and weaving their fingers together before Shane can pull away from him the rest of the way. Shane's Jeep is predictably boring, and terrible. It's such a terrible car, Ilya's seen videos of them flipping in the wind but when he brought those videos up, Shane scoffed and said: It's not a Wrangler, Roz. I'm not that crazy.

He continues, "My mom's making eggs benedict for breakfast, and yogurt bowls."

"Okay."

"Are you hungry?"

Ilya shakes his head. He has always taken out the most of his self-hatred on his own body, but he knows this time it's different. Losing his father hurt, yes, but it was not the end of the world. His father did not love him the way a man should love his daughter. There's a reason why Ilya didn't wait until he was more secure at the Bolshoi before leaving for America the first chance he got.

But it's everything else, he thinks. This visit, meeting Shane's parents, the clinic appointments and him secretly transitioning where nobody else can see.

"I will eat though," he says. It would be rude not to, not when Shane and his parents are showing him so much hospitality. "Okay?"

"I'm not trying to be a dick about it, I'm just… worried about you, I think."

Ilya laughs, "Why?"

"You've been sad for a while."

His smile drops, "I have not."

Shane glances at him from the corner of his eye, "Roz, I'm not going to make you talk about it if you don't want to, I'm only saying that I see you, that I care— way too much probably—"

"Yes, probably—"

"But you seem to be going through a lot lately. It's okay to not be okay, you know? You're safe. With me."

Shane has no idea how true those words are. He lifts the bridge of Shane's knuckles to his lips so he can kiss them. Shane has nice hands, strong hands. Ilya can't help but wonder if his will look the same someday.

Meeting Shane's parents is easily one of the top three most horrifiyng ordeals Ilya's ever gone through. Having his hand shaken by David, fine, but drawn into a crushing hug by Yuna? Terrifying.

"It's so good to finally meet you. Shane just doesn't stop talking about you, you know?"

Shane's home is so beautiful, and large. Five bedrooms, three bathrooms, two seperate living areas, a massive, open concept kitchen— the kind of thing Ilya's seen while scrolling through Instagram. Compared to the apartment he shares with Sveta, Shane's home is a fucking mansion.

And Shane is so proud of it. After gingerly prying him out of his mother's grip, Shane leads Ilya all over the house explaining everything about his home. The floors are custom and heated during the winter time, he knocked down the wall between the dining room and kitchen to open it up more. He even got the stairs redone to look less "Tuscany", whatever that means. Everything in his home is in shades of white, ash wood, black, and navy blue with the occasional splash of color from a tasteful art piece he already has the story for.

Ilya thinks to himself, in a whisper in his own head, that this is something he'll lose too when he comes out. The kindness of Shane— and his parents. Everything.

"—Roz?"

"Hm?"

Shane has his arm around his shoulders, holding him close, "I lost you for a second. If I'm talking too much just let me know. I've been told I get a little too excited about this stuff."

"Mm. It is very…" Ilya doesn't have the words. Shane's home is very Shane. He can see the other man in every design choice, every color, every expensive fucking window, "Nice, I'm just tired."

He nods and takes Ilya upstairs to presumably his bedroom— not that Ilya can tell considering each bedroom has looked as pristine as the last.

"We have ten minutes before my parents finish breakfast. We can take a second."

Ilya needs a hell of a lot more than a second, but he settles for sitting at the edge of Shane's bed— navy blue bedspread and all, and takes his shoes off to stretch his feet. Yesterday's practice had been long and even though the flight to Montreal was short, Ilya's legs and toes are still killing him.

Shane wets his bottom lip.

"What, you want to rub my feet or something?"

"A little, yeah."

As a rule, Ilya never let the people he fucked so much as touch his feet. People could get very, very weird about the whole "I'm fucking a ballerina thing", but so far, he's found that he likes Shane's brand of weird. Maybe that's why he drops his right foot onto Shane's lap when Shane sits down beside him.

"You have nice feet," Shane says.

Ilya snorts because he doesn't. He has terrible corns that he has to get cut out of his feet regularly, blisters that never heal, and depending on the time of year— no toenails at all. A terrible stereotype indeed. Still, Shane digs his thumbs into the ball of Ilya's foot and it takes everything in Ilya's power not to moan because it feels so good. "Strong, I think."

"Mm, yes. Talk dirty about my toes some more, Hollander."

Shane laughs, "Shut up…"

His hand drags up Ilya's calf, his eyebrows lifting for a moment in surprise, but he doesn't stop. Ilya hasn't shaved since he got back from Russia and to be fair, his body hair has always been blonde and barely visible unless looked at right against the light, but the hair is still there. He wonders what Shane thinks of it. Each time they met up, Ilya was sure to wax and shave everything but his pussy to hairless perfection. That was what he knew how to do, pretty himself up, make himself undeniably gorgeous— not that Shane ever seemed to notice beyond whatever makeup Ilya put down or what clothes he wore that were swift to come off once a bedroom door shut.

Ilya lets himself fall back across the bed, head knocking off the edge. The view of Shane's room from upside down isn't so bad—

Shane kisses his foot, the very top of his arch. A thrill dances up the length of Ilya's spine, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

"Are you a foot guy, Hollander?"

"I'm a you guy."

Oh. Oh, Ilya's heart actually swells at that. Shane won't be his guy for much longer, not after Ilya comes out.

Ilya closes his eyes and weighs his options. If he lived this life as a woman with Shane, everything would be so much easier. It would kill Ilya every day, of course, but it would be easier. Marriage, probably. Kids, eventually. Ilya's always wanted a big family, but his desire for a family was never trumped by his desire to not become his mother— amazing, and beautiful, and funny, but so sad that she would leave him behind with his father and brother. Having Shane's babies wouldn't be so bad, he thinks. But Shane hasn't mentioned anything beyond whatever they're planning to do together next, so Ilya has no clue if children or even marriage is sometihng he wants.

Life as a man, with Shane… Ilya can't really imagine that at all, not without getting over the hurdle of having to tell Shane the truth about himself that he tried for years to bury.

He could say it now. I'm not a woman, but you already knew that, didn't you? Please tell me you knew.

Shane kisses his cheek, and then his jaw. When Ilya opens his eyes, he finds Shane looming over him with his trademark, squareish smile on his face, "Hi."

"Hello," Ilya whispers, pursing his lips for a kiss. Shane's smile brightens even more and Ilya's stomach tightens. Would Shane smile at him like that if he knew? Probably not. There's a chance he really might be disgusted by Ilya or worse. Maybe— maybe when he decides to come out to him, he should bring a knife just in case. Shane is still bigger than he is and even though Ilya knows how to fight, he can't bear the idea of putting his hands on Shane like that, not ever. "I missed you."

Shifting them both so Ilya is more on the bed, Shane hums before plastering himself atop of him. Ilya sighs against the pressure, patting Shane on the ribs like he's petting a large dog. "I missed you too," hums Shane, "So fucking much. I feel crazy."

"Crazy?"

"I think about you all the time."

Fucking Shane Hollander and his earnestness. Ilya closes his eyes again, not quite ready to have another Moment with him so early in the day.

Thankfully, they don't have to have a Moment. David appears in the doorway looking far, far too fond, "Cozy?"

Shane doesn't even have the shame to peel himself off of Ilya; he stays right where he is crushing Ilya into the mattress, "Yeah."

"He's like Sheepdog," Ilya says, patting Shane's ribcage, "Big, talented, and very neurotic."

David guffaws, "Sheepdog?"

"Yeah," Shane echoes, "Sheepdog?"

Ilya laughs, really laughs, and Shane grins down at him wildly.

Breakfast goes about as well as it can. Ilya has no appetite to speak of and hasn't really had once since his father's funeral, but he tries his best to honor Yuna's hospitality.

Everyone's talking about hockey. Yuna more than anyone while twisting a glass of orange juice in her hand. Ilya glances up at her periodically throughout the meal, not missing that passionate gleam in her eyes.

Shane gets his looks from his mother and apparently, the hockey-obsessive personality too.

Clearing his throat, Ilya says, "Three of Boston's defense took bad hits at their last game, you could use that to your advantage; hit them where it hurts."

"Really?" Shane wrinkles his nose, "They can't be that injured."

"Ribs," Ilya takes a bite of yogurt, which is quite good but he's always preferred sweet things, "Hard to move the way you need to if you're babying them. Have someone target them against the boards and victory will be easy."

"Thank you, Roz," Yuna exacperates, "See, she knows what she's talking about."

She.

Right, right, of course. Ilya takes a sip of coffee, carrying the mug with him as he rises from his chair, "I have something for you—"

"Roz—" Shane grips the hem of his shirt. Ilya bats him away.

Ilya finishes his coffee on his way back to Shane's bedroom, digging around his suitcase until he finds the boxes of bonbons he packed for this express purpose. There's no way Ilya was just going to show up to Shane's home empty handed. Not ever. Manners have been drilled into him from a young age and he still can't let them go.

"Plane travel made things difficult, but these are from Bulgarian chocolatier," Ilya taps the front of the boxes with his nails, setting each one before Yuna, David, and Shane, who he knows doesn't actually eat such things because Shane has regaled him over and over again with his ridiculous performance diet. Even Ilya, a ballet dancer, eats more than he does. Ilya hasn't decided if that's more shameful for himself or for Shane. Still, Ilya quietly delights in the fact that every time they've been together, Shane has actually eaten a bit outside his rigorous diet. Perhaps it's Ilya's most Russian trait that he likes to feed the people he loves.

His fingers find his mother's crucifix beneath his shirt at the same moment his phone buzzes to life in his back pocket. Ilya swears a little bit under his breath, opening up his messages.

Sveta: cast list.

Fuck.

Ilya sits back down, "Sorry, the cast list for Sleeping Beauty dropped—"

"Carabosse?" Shane asks.

All three Hollanders lean closer as if Ilya just said he was up for the NHL draft or something.

Ilya zooms in on the photo Sveta sent and groans, "No, fucking Aurora, again!"

"No being evil?"

"None!" Ilya puts his head in his hands with a sigh.

Sveta: it's bcuz ur so blonde and fair you know

Sveta: dye your hair, dummy.

Sveta: or better yet, shave it all off.

Sveta: go the extra mile <3

"I always get cast," Ilya tells the Hollanders, "Like this. It's exhausting." Both in the amount of effort he has to put in between rehearsals and the actual performance and everything else. The hair, the makeup, the tutus; performing femininity to be consumed by the masses when he himself rarely ever feels it. "I should not complain so much, I know I am lucky for the opportunity it is just… a lot." Constant pressure to live and be a certain way. Liliya Rozanova, prima ballerina. Even that is a role he dons, layers of performance on top of even more layers of performance.

How can he be anyone else?

He can't come out, not yet. Not during this trip. Ilya slips his mask of femininity back over his eyes, smiles at Shane's parents.

"Did you know my first role at the Bolshoi was Giselle? Giselle was also the first ballet I ever saw with my mother."

Yuna's eyes soften, "Really? What was that like."

"It was magic."

The story begins during a turbulent Autumn in Moscow, the maple leaves having just turned completely yellow and littering every walkway in the city. A girl walks hand in hand with her mother. When Ilya recalls this memory, it's always as if he's witnessing it from someone else's eyes. The girl and her mother look exactly alike, of course. Same blonde curls, same strange smile, same laughter. Mother and daughter in every sense of the word. Mother brings daughter all the way to the Bolshoi theater. We're going to see Giselle, okay? The daughter, being all of three years old doesn't know what Giselle even is, but the name brings a smile to the mother's face, and really, what three-year old has a choice on where their parents bring them?

Ilya peppers in the details of the Bolshoi from his more recent memory. The grand chandelier, the red curtains and gold fixtures, a true picture of Russian opulence alongside his own delight at having performed in a theater that was opened on Tsar Alexander II's birthday— how even at the impressive age of three, sitting in the Bolshoi theater made Ilya feel apart of something so much larger than himself. Mother rested her hand on her daughter's knee, Be quiet, Lilochka, watch. Oh, Ilya did more than watch, he absorbed, and he dreamed. At the tender age of three, he brushed against grief for the very first time in the form of a ballet he could barely understand.

What did you think? Mother asked daughter, it was dark when they left, the night dark and full of dangers that the mother was only too aware of, squeezing her daughter's hand just tight enough to hurt.

Am I Giselle? Asked daughter.

The ballet lessons began shortly thereafter. Fate would have it that after training she would find herself performing the titular role— her very first professional one at that. How thrilling that had been to be seventeen and chosen to dance something so intense. Ilya even includes Sergei Petrov, his Albrecht. Ten years Ilya's senior and so outrageously gay. How safe Ilya felt around him, how meaningful every compliment from Sergei was to Ilya. Beautiful arms, good lines. Yes, yes yes.

There was magic that first night of the ballet. Lots of it. Ilya disappeared into the role of Giselle, neither himself or Liliya but simply Giselle. He felt all of her feelings; love and anguish, despair. Giselle is a demanding ballet, everyone told him so. Everyone questioned his stamina and skill but he proved himself over and over again. Giselle was the only ballet his father ever attended while Ilya was at the Bolshoi. For the first time in Ilya's whole life, Grigori Rozanov's eyes looked upon his daughter with complete and total pride. The first time, and the last time.

"And your mother, what did she think? It must've been incredible I mean— I'll never forget Shane's first NHL game."

Ilya sinks back into reality, staring down into the empty well of his coffee cup, a melancholic smile twitching onto his face, "She died when I was twelve."

The table goes quiet. Beneath the table, Shane squeezes his knee, but Ilya's too afraid to look him in the face to see what expression may be there. And well, if there's anything Ilya is certain about it's Shane Hollander. Shane, who sees Ilya for who he is instead of the pretty veneer he presents the rest of the world. Ilya feels the most like himself when he's around Shane. No demuring himself or feigning submissiveness. When he's with Shane, he's almost his full self.

Almost.

Can almost be enough? It's not like Ilya fully hates being a woman the way some other trans people seem to. When he thinks of his gender like a performance, he can nearly get by, it's just that with Shane…

With Shane he feels like a man, and ever since making that realization, Ilya wants more. He's always been greedy like that. He doesn't want to love Shane the way a woman loves a man, he already loves Shane as a man loves another man. It's different. But there's still womanly things Ilya wants like having a family, getting married, that sort of thing. Ilya's always been a touch traditional like that.

Ilya wets his bottom lip, deciding to share this much since he cannot share the thing that cleaves him open in the middle of the night when he can't sleep. "She was beautiful, and smart, and funny, but…" He sighs, "Like most people in that way, very sad too. In older versions of Giselle, she kills herself on Albrecht's sword instead of dying of heartbreak. That was the version I danced at the Bolshoi."

Shane's voice goes tight and strange, "So you're an orphan now?"

Ilya turns to look at him, surprised, "No. My father—"

Is dead.

Right. He closes his eyes and takes a breath, holding Shane's hand beneath the table, "That is word for children, yes? I'm a big girl." Why are his eyes so wet? "Is really okay. My father was sick for a long time, we knew it was coming. I should not have— I didn't mean to seem tragic."

"No, Roz, we don't think that at all," Yuna says quickly, "Thank you for sharing that with us that must— that must've been hard."

"I just wanted you to know little more about me is all. I know that Shane and I," he squeezes his hand again beneath the table, "We move quite fast but it is… serious. I've been with lots of men before, but none of them are Shane. I've never felt…" Ilya trails off, tongue thick and hesitant in his mouth. Another truth to offer, a warm one that brings a real smile to his lips. "As complete as I do with him."

"Oh," the air punches out of David Hollander's lungs. "I see."

"Yes," Ilya laughs, rolling his eyes playfully, deciding to pat Shane on the shoulder now, "Not to worry, I am not after him for just his money."

The bubble of tension pops, everyone laughs, and Ilya allows himself the comfort of tucking himself into Shane's side for the rest of the meal.

The hockey game is incredible. Shane's seats are right next to the rink, behind the glass.

Ilya hasn't sat down for the whole game, screaming at the Bears and the Voyageurs in Russian.

"Roz," Yuna laughs, "What's happening?"

"He's fucking," Ilya takes a breath, gestures to the Voyageurs side of the rink, "Didn't listen to my words! Their defense is weak, all of them are except Marlow. Fuck that guy."

Ilya trails Shane the whole time. Watching him play is… just. Wow. He's fast, and skilled. He's skating circles around literally everyone else. There's an energy too not just from the Bears but the Voyageurs too; thick and familiar; jealousy. Of course everyone would be jealous. There isn't a doubt in Ilya's mind that Shane is a once in a generation player.

Shane scores a goal, and a scream tears itself from Ilya's throat, "Yes!" He pounds on the glass, "That's how you do it, Hollander!"

Immediately, Shane turns around and begins skating right over to Ilya, this dumb, brighter than the sun, pleased, puppyish look on his face. Did I do good? Tell me I did good! That's what the face says. As if he even needs to be told. He's been the top player in the NHL for years, indisputably.

Finally at the glass, Shane purses his lips.

"I'm not kissing this glass, Hollander. Germs." How many hands have slapped this glass? How many children have snotted on it? Ilya shudders at the thought.

"Blow me a kiss then."

"Fuck off. You blow me one, Mister Charming."

Shane grins that squareish, sweet grin of his, flashes Ilya a wink, and blows him the most overdramatic kiss of all time.

The audience goes insane with screaming, so loud all Ilya can hear is his heart throbbing in his ears.

Ilya kisses his first two fingers and presses them to the glass in return, and the audience starts screaming for a second time when Shane Hollander, in all of his foolishness, kisses the glass. Ilya's heart pounds against his breastbone like it wants to escape, and when Shane pulls away, he's still smiling that big dumb grin.

God, Ilya loves him so much it actually hurts. He may not be a Rose Landry standing by the suites wearing a Hollander jersey, but he is Ilya Rozanov, and Shane just kissed him through the glass in front of everyone.

Ilya sits back down between Yuna and David, putting his face in his hands to siphon some of the heat from his cheeks. Why did he do that? In front of everyone? The world. The hockey world. Fuck.

Yuna's hand rubs up and down his back, "Hey, don't worry about it too much you're— FUCKING COME ON!"

They're both up at that, screaming at the glass as Boston takes conrol of the puck.

Ilya thinks he might be able to do this for a little while longer. Perhaps he'll construct himself a new mask to wear, something in the middle of how he feels in his head and how the rest of the world sees him. Happy medium, isn't that the phrase? Being medium happy would be a sincere upgrade compared to the rest of Ilya's life.

Chapter Text

Rose: so

Rose: are we going to talk about this or?

Shane: I told you I was seeing someone.

Rose: yeah, someone, not a girl!

Rose: You said you were gay!

Shane: I didn't say that! I said I prefer being the hole rather than the peg, that's completely different.

Rose: she PEGS YOU!?!

This is how Shane ends up having dinner with Rose Landry at a lowkey, gourmet burger restaurant in Buffalo. Shane barely touches the salad he's ordered.

Only a few pictures went semi-viral of him kissing Roz's fingers through the glass, but every single shot completely obscured her face thanks to his mom and dad being right beside her when it happened. But it's big news, Shane was never so bold with Rose, then again—

"It's just different with her, I don't know."

"Shane," Rose kicks him beneath the table, "Less than six months ago you basically told me you're only into dudes."

"I am— mostly. Roz is just…" Rose's brows lift to her hairline and an embarrassed heat rushes to Shane's face. Jesus, he did not want to be having this conversation with her right now, or anyone. It's been difficult rationalizing his love for Roz in his own head, but trying to rationalize it out loud? Impossible, and really, what difference does a label make?

A lot of difference. His brain uselessly supplies.

"She's not like you."

"Not like me?"

"I didn't mean it like that, I just mean— God," he puts his face in his hands, massages his temples. "She's just… Roz."

And so, Shane begins explaining everything from the begining. That miraculous night at the ballet; being folded in half and fucked with his own dildo, the texting and gym selfies, the sexting and ellicit phone calls, being dominated on Valentine's day, and then the Montreal trip. Shane leaves out the part about Roz revealing her dad died, that feels… too personal for him to share without her knowing.

Rose chews on the edge of a salty french fry thoughtfully. Shane spears some lettuce onto his fork despite his lack of appetite.

The thing is, whenever he's with Roz, Roz doesn't really feel like a girl to him— not the way Rose does or the way anyone else Shane has ever attempted to date has. She has this energy about her that just works for him for some reason.

Maybe he's just a bottom. If he knew straps existed before…

"So, she's an egg," Rose says at last, "I guess that makes sense."

"Sorry, a what?"

"Nevermind." She pushes her bowl of fries closer to him, "Looking at your salad's making me feel bad for you."

Shane takes a fry, taking his time with it while he thinks and inevitably ends up running his mouth. "She's performing in Boston's Sleeping Beauty in June and I think I'm going to fly down to surprise her."

"Would she like that?"

"I don't know, but…" I'm a big girl. Has anyone besides her father seen her perform before? Shane knows she has Sveta but even he knows there's a massive difference between the support of a friend and the support of your parents. Shane knows it won't at all be the same thing, and he knows Roz has gone literal years dancing with nobody truly knowing her in the audience.

He wants to be there for her, desperately. He wants to see her dance again. She looked so happy when she was dancing the night they met and he's never seen her smile like that ever since.

"You really love Roz, don't you?"

Shane flinches at the question, "Uh."

Rose smiles at him, "You had this look on your face. You were thinking of her, weren't you? Just now?"

"Yeah."

"Have you ever considered that maybe you like her so much because she acts kind of masculine?"

"Well, obviously." But it's also more than just the way she acts, he thinks. It's the way she looks at him, the way she touches him, and the way they interact with one another. Sure there is occasionally a similarity between her and Rose like both of them liking to go out to eat and attempting to dump off things onto Shane's plate even though Shane eats a strict diet during the season (Roz less so than Rose although Roz has proudly stated that she "has a second stomach for ice cream, always.")

Shane's never actually been with a man, but he sort of feels as if he's with one whenever he's with Roz. It's the little things, he supposes. The fact that she holds the door open for him, the way she looks at him. It's not the same way any girl has ever looked at him, not at all.

And he doesn't actually feel the same way about Roz as he did with Rose. He likes talking to Rose, and he likes hanging out with her, but he was perfectly fine when they didn't talk as much or when their schedules didn't work out. In fact, he was almost sort of glad which okay, yeah— if he's gay than that makes sense.

But with Roz, it's like… he wants to talk to her all the time, and be around her even when they're doing absolutely nothing together. Shane will be by himself or in the gym on his own and he'll think to himself: I bet if Roz were here, she'd say ____ or do ___ and he'd inevitably end up texting her to see what she's up to. It's the kind of obsession that leaves him looking up property in Boston when he can't sleep, which, like, Jesus Christ the market in Boston is godawful.

He just wants to be with her all the time, even when it's inconvenient.

"Okay," Rose says with a small smile, taking a sip of her drink. "I'll have to meet her of course."

"Oh my God—"

"What! It's not like your parents are going to give her the shovel talk, I'm the perfect person to do it."

"Kill me," Shane says into his hands, "Now."

Roz starts sending him pictures from the studio and Shane's brain short circuits upon seeing them. Shane tells himself it's the tights and the leotards and not the line of her muscles through those tights, or the bulge of her biceps and triceps whenever she's doing something with her arms. She's pretty, really, really pretty.

But there's something sad in her eyes. Even in the pictures where she's smiling, her eyes are completely devoid of any and all joy. Shane's seen a similar look in his teammates' eyes before. That sort of dead-eyed, let's get this over with so I can stop being here as soon as possible sort of look that Shane himself has never experienced, but as Captain has learned to pull his teammates aside to ask the right questions and suggest the right things… Neither of which he's actually good at suggesting.

Roz had that same look in her eyes when she visited him in Montreal, but Shane really thought that was from the fact that her dad had just passed away. Grief is a tricky thing, he knows that, but he can't help but wonder if that's all there is to it.

He and Roz don't talk about feelings, they've never really done that, especially over text. Shane chews on his bottom lip, flicking through the pictures a few times over, cataloging every minute, little detail about her. She wears her tights over her leotard; she wears red and black halter neck leotards; Freeds pointe shoes, painter's tape (and Shane's hockey tape) on her toes along with a toe pad he's 95% sure isn't there for anything more than emotional support.

And she looks so, so fucking sad.

For the very first time, Shane visits Boston for something other than a hockey game: to see his girlfriend perform in Sleeping Beauty. He stops off at a florists for a bouquet of• Anemone, Eucalyptus, Solomio, Garden Roses, and Ranunculus; Something less romantic than roses but still just as celebratory. He doesn't want this to just be boyfriend seeing girlfriend, he wants this to be person seeing person; and ambition.

Shane purchased a ticket in Box R, wanting to be careful about being seen. His pulse throbs up into his throat as his eyes find the curtained stage. Roz has given away very little details about the ballet, not even sending him a picture of her in her final costume. Only practice pictures, and gym pictures, occasional meals and sweet treats.

Could she be falling out of love with ballet? Shane wants to swat the question away, because every single time Roz has spoken about ballet it was with a fervent intensity in her eyes. Even her story from childhood was told with that same, passionate gleam and a dreamy smile.

He knows she wanted Carabosse though. Big role or not, getting something you didn't quite want still feels like a backhand. Shane's felt that backhand every time he's won MVP of the year award, he felt it when he won his first Stanley cup. Yes, something he so desperately wanted but at the cost of being so other from even his own teammates. Perfect but at what cost? There were only so many awards to win, so many games to play well. Winning everything is boring.

God, how egotistical.

The orchestra starts and Shane feels himself unconsciously straightening up to get a better view of the stage. A few people take their seats around him but thankfully, the lights go out and he can't seen them nor can they see him.

Like Nutcracker, Roz isn't on the stage immediately. Shane doesn't really get that about ballet, honestly. For all of the training she does, nearly twelve hours of work a day…

Then again, ballet is nearly two hours of straight performance, this show doesn't even have an intermission, Shane checked on the off chance he could run the flowers to Roz, but no dice.

But God, he really can see why she likes this so much. The costumes, the set, the music, it's as if a fairytale has sprung up to life, a children's dream taking place right before his eyes. It's so easy to get lost in it all, to forget about the reality that's waiting for him the second he steps out of this theater. Everything is bright and colorful and so, so romantic.

And then finally, Roz. Shane's entire world narrows to just her, coming onto the stage in a glorious, ornamental pink tutu adorned with little rosettes, a crown in her hair, a brilliant smile on her face.

Shane's breath steals from his lungs just watching her, blown away once again by not only her athleticism but her artistry. The fine lines of her body, the exact, delicate placement of her fingers— her balance. Everything. Then he's gazing once again at her face, the face that in every single picture and selfie she's sent over the past couple of months has looked so desperately sad.

A feeling not unlike a rock hitting still water rushes through his body, leaving his stomach clenching around nothing as his brain clicks a few pieces together.

Roz had this same look on her face the weekend Shane brought her to Montreal she was… performing.

For what? For him? For his family? All Shane wanted was for her to be herself— all he wants is for her to be herself, period.

He bites the inside of his cheeks and just watches her. The lines of her legs as she lifts one into the air, her smile, the soundless way she moves across the stage, making everything look as easy as breathing.

Including the Adage, which Shane heard her complain about over and over again. The attitude derrière that she bemoaned over and over again, the same attitude derrière that she executes to perfection. She doesn't wobble even a little. Once again, Shane is reminded of a dancer in a music box; ever perfect; ever consistent.

As the ballet goes on, his mind drifts back to the meager ballet lessons he had as a child and his renewed desire to perhaps start taking them again. It'd be fun to be able to dance with Roz at something close to her level. Shane isn't foolish enough to believe he'll ever get to the point she is, but he'll try. Maybe she'll even teach him; guide his body into the right position with her hands.

Shane crosses his legs at the idea of Roz bending his leg back at the exact angle she's holding hers right now. He's flexible enough, sure, but not flexible enough with the kind of balance to move like that on his tip-toes.

God, he could watch her forever.

When the ballet ends, Shane rushes out of the theater before he can be spotted, immediately heading towards the alley where Roz met him last time. Holding the flowers close to his chest, Shane rounds the corner— immediately stopping in his tracks.

Roz stands there, still in her impressive, gorgeous costume that makes the green of her eyes even more verdant now that he's close enough to see her eyes. She's smoking a cigarette, her entire body twitching with what Shane knows to be adrenaline. He gets similar shakes after a particularly difficult hockey game. A twitching of the thighs that doesn't stop unless he sits down; a slight tremor in his fingers. Seeing the same thing happening to her makes his heart ache.

Seeing her smoke, even moreso. He knows she smokes but the only time he's ever seen her do it was right before their Valentine's day dinner.

"Roz," he breathes.

She flinches and looks up, staring at him with this deer caught in the headlights expression that he never wants to see on her face again, "Shane."

Shane smiles despite himself because he always wants to smile when he's in her presence. Roz exhales smoke through her nostrils like a dragon, her eyes jumping from Shane's face to the bouquet in his arms.

"You brought me flowers?" She asks.

"Oh, uh, yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Maybe a whole bouquet was a bad idea, he could've gotten her a single lily or something but that didn't feel good enough either. No, he doesn't regret getting Roz a bouquet at all, he decides. Flowers are the least he can do and surely the most appropriate thing to bring to a ballet. He holds them out to her, watching her flick ash onto the grimy pavement beneath them. She's still in her pointe shoes.

Roz approaches him with the grace of a ballerina, standing there in what Shane knows to be fourth position.

"For me?"

"Yes. For you." Who else?

She stubs her cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe and tucks the butt behind her ear like a pencil. Shane reaches out quickly, plucking it from her hair to place in his own back pocket. His gaze roves all over her face. Her eyebrows, her rouged cheeks, her lips, her chin, then down to the elegant line of her neck and shoulders, the front of her costume.

He would've missed the way her breath hitched into a sob had he not been looking at her ribs at this very second.

"Sorry," she whispers immediately, hiding her eyes behind her left hand, "Fuck, sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, it's… it's okay."

Shane has never been great at this— watching people cry, offering support. He hovers awkwardly for a moment, not sure what to do at all, then he closes the space between them. Holding the bouquet out to the side so as to not be crushed as he tugs Roz to his chest.

Both of her arms wrap around him, holding him fiercely, clawing at the back of his shirt. Shane's heart cracks in half. His own eyes start to burn a little bit.

"Hey," he whispers, "It's okay. I've got you."

"I'm sorry," she sobs against his neck, tears soaking his collar. Shane can't even care. All he cares about is Roz. Her breath hitches again. Shane rests his cheek against the side of her head and shushes her gently, letting his eyes fall shut while they hold each other. "Nobody's ever brought me flowers before," she laughs wetly, sniffling, "They're nice."

And now Shane's heart has crumbled the rest of the way apart. He pulls back so he can look at her. Mascara runs down her cheeks, the tip of her nose is red and her bottom lip quivers incessantly and still, he just loves her so much.

"Let me take you home," he says quietly, cupping her cheek in his hand so he can wipe her tears away, "Please."

"Okay," she nods, "Okay—" Then she snorts, "Fuck, Hollander, I ruined your shirt."

Shane frowns and looks down, a surprised laugh bursting from his throat as he stares at the foundation, eyeliner, and lipstick staining his collar and shoulder in what's nearly a perfect mask of Roz's face, tears and snot and all. He thinks he'll get this one framed. A memento.

She kisses Shane's fingers, "I'll be right back. Wait for me?"

"I will."

The walk back to Roz's apartment is balmy thanks to the early summer heatwave plaguing Boston, but that doesn't stop them from walking hand in sweaty hand. Roz is still twitchy, and she smokes a second cigarette while they walk, but neither of them say anything. Instead, they soak in the quiet comfort of each other.

Roz cradles the bouquet in her arms, and Shane quietly delights in the baggy t-shirt and jogger bottoms she's wearing. She looks more her than she's looked in ages, tacky Balenciaga tee and and all.

She lives in a pretty nice building close to the harbor, one with a keypad and a doorman, which makes Shane feel a little bit better for some reason even though there's no elevator. He fights not to ask to carry her up the stairs because he knows that would be a step too far, but watching her quads shake make his own legs ache in sympathy.

"Hold these again," she commands, thrusting the bouquet back at Shane's chest, "We should have vase somewhere."

Shane holds them gladly, grateful to once again have something to do when Roz shoulders into her apartment and they're immediately greeted by a friendly woman with red braids and only a t-shirt on. Shane stares at the floor at the first sight of nipple showing through the fabric.

"Ilyushka—" The woman begins in Russian, then stops, grasping Roz suddenly by the shoulders, speaking so quickly, still in Russian, with a few English words being thrown into the mix, primarily Hollander and Voyageurs and Fuck.

Roz takes the bouquet from him again, "I will put these down and shower, will have to ice my feet after. Make yourself comfortable, Hollander."

Comfortable, sure. Shane definitely knows how to do that. Without anything to hold onto or a task to do, he winds up folding his arms behind his back, pointedly looking anywhere but at the woman still standing in her own living room in nothing but an oversized tee-shirt.

"He really likes you, you know," she says at last. At first, Shane thinks he misheard her, because he definitely came out of her mouth instead of she, but he knows it'd be an asshole move to correct someone with an accent— when he was little, people did that to his Obaachan all the time, it always made him uncomfortable and his mother increasingly defensive.

Not for the first time since meeting Roz does Shane find himself wishing his mother put him in Japanese lessons instead of French Immersion. Usually, he doesn't mind so much, he's always identified more with being Canadian than he has with being Japanese, much like his mom, but every once in a while something like this will happen and his heart yearns for something he's never even had.

"I really like him too," Shane replies, rolling with it. He likes the way him feels in his mouth.

"I'm Svetlana," the woman says, holding her hand out, "Ilyushka's best friend, roommate, ecetera. It's nice to meet you, Shane Hollander. Big fan of your work."

Ilyushka must be a nickname, it's cute, and once again, really suits Roz. He wonders if he'll ever be allowed to use it.

Shane shakes her hand, still not quite looking at her, "Thanks."

"Come sit down. Can I get you drink? Beer, vodka, water? We have tea, too. Ilyushka will usually have a cup once she's done stretching for the night. Sorry you have to watch icing routine."

"It's fine," Shane really doesn't mind. Half of his fantasies include doing after workout stretches with his girlfriend, actually getting to see her do them will only add another layer when he's alone in the shower once they're apart again. He follows Svetlana over to the couch, peering into the kitchen to watch Roz arrange the flowers into what looks to be an old pasta sauce jar. "How long have you two lived together?"

Svetlana plops right down beside him, still smiling, "Since he moved here, eighteen, I guess. I was here for university."

"Oh, uh… What do you do now?"

"I sell cars."

"Nice."

"Talk about hockey," Roz says as she passes them by, "This is so fucking boring to listen to."

Svetlana giggles behind her hand, blowing Roz a kiss as Roz vanishes down the hallway.

The apartment is nicer than Shane expected. Sleek, and very modern, and very clean. Nice, acrylic coffee table, a few tasteful plants, an impressive television and an even more impressive photo collection on the walls. Lots of pictures of Svetlana and her family and then pictures of Svetlana and Roz, some from when they were little girls, others of Roz in various ornate ballet costumes.

They do talk about hockey while the pipes hiss in the walls. Svetlana is an encyclopedia of historic and recent hockey knowledge and matches Shane beat for beat, fact for fact, and even play for play. The only other person he's been able to do this with is Roz and even her expertise isn't as fine-tuned as Svetlana's is. Svetlana also delivers each fact and statement as if she's recalling something told her once instead of the absolute truth, it makes the whole conversation even more fun than talking about hockey usually is for Shane.

Then, she drops the hockey talk altogether, "I have loved Ilyushka since we were in diapers, if you hurt her, I will hurt you back, understand?"

Shane's heart crawled into his throat, "What?"

"Ilyushka has never been this serious about anyone— except for me, of course— hurt her, Shane Hollander, and I will hurt you three times as much. Her heart is so fucking big and she's been fucked by every single man in her life enough as is." There's an impossible weight to Svetlana's words, the threat hiding within every single one as her eyes, brown and doe-like, search Shane's face. "I am all he has, so someone has to tell you to behave yourself. Are you a good boy, Shane Hollander? A good man?"

For the first time all night, Shane makes eye contact with Svetlana and maintains it for as long as he can stand to, so that when he says, "She's my fucking world.", Svetlana understands that he means every single word.

"No," her eyes crease with a smile, "She is your sun, and you will orbit around her. Understood?"

For as often as he thinks about Roz, his sun is probably the better comparison considering she's the most present thing occupying his mind. There's hockey and then there's Roz right next to hockey, not below or even lagging behind but right fucking there. Shane never stops thinking of her. He'll be at the grocery store and see the brand of tea she prefers and want to buy it for her, or spot a pair of jeans in a store that he knows are way more her style than his and imagines her wearing them. Sometimes

The pipes stop hissing and Svetlana stands as if she wasn't just actively threatening him, "I make ice bucket now. Tea?"

A shuddering sigh escapes his lips, "Please."

Somehow, Shane ends up wedged between Svetlana and Roz while they watch the New York Admirals win the Stanley Cup against Los Angeles, each of them sipping tea from mix-matched mugs in various conditions. Svetlana whoops with joy, high fiving Roz over Shane's head. Shane's gaze remains locked on the screen, watching Scott Hunter and his long earned win as he lifts the cup into the air… and then.

And then something happens, sort of. Scott skates around, searching the crowd for somebody, making gestures. The cameras, of course, remain on Scott and his team trying to celebrate.

No. Shane thinks desperately at the exact moment Roz's hand locks onto his knee, her nails biting through the fabric of his dress slacks.

Shane rests his hand atop hers, feeling every single tendon.

A man steps onto the ice— fit, and hot. He walks over to Scott and Scott holds him by the forearms.

"Holy shit," Svetlana whispers.

Shane's grip on Roz's hand tightens but she doesn't' even squeak because her nails equally dig even harder into his kneecap as if she might pry it off. The pain barely registers over the roar of his heartbeat in his ears. Holy shit.

Scott Hunter kisses this man. On live television, at a fucking hockey game no less. Shane scarcely even breathes, every organ twisting with want.

But he's happy, right? Roz is…

He glances over at her. Again, she has that desolate, agonized look in her eyes. Immediately, the image of her pricking her finger from the ballet fills his mind, it's as if someone has truly struck her dead; it's as if she's waking up not to being awoken by true loves kiss but the brutal knowledge that the world continued turning while she did not.

Her jaw clenches so hard the muscle actually jumps, "Fuck. That's beautiful."

"It's risky," Shane admits, "Really… really fucking risky." Even in his own locker room, guys still throw around faggot at the same rate they throw around asshole. Sometimes both in the same sentence, in Shane's case. He'll never forget how terrified he was the first time someone on his own team called him faggot. Hayden was right there, of course, but it still stung in a way he wouldn't put together for years; it stung because he's gay. What a revelation that had been to finally discover why he was so uncomfortable by what everyone else considered to be basic locker room talk.

He's gay.

But he fucking loves Roz.

So what does that make him?