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December 2016 - Boston
Ilya couldn’t shake the feeling that had been left in the pit of his stomach following Hollander’s dramatic exit from his house in Boston over a month ago. If anything, it had taken root and had started growing branches. At this rate, Ilya was sure it would flower and start developing fruit any day now. Not even the beautiful woman he had hooked up with the night before (or even the one before that) had helped erase the feeling.
He hadn’t heard from the league’s second best hockey player since that day, but that didn’t stop the Russian from thinking about him. About the adorable smattering of freckles that ran across his nose. About the glassy, faraway, look he had given him as he writhed in his lap. About the way he had panted Ilya’s name so sweetly into his mouth. About the moment he saw the walls go up behind those deep chestnut eyes and about how seeing the Canadian leave, damn near broke his heart.
Ilya should have known better; he should have known that Shane wouldn’t be ready for that. That he wasn’t nearly as far gone as Ilya seemed to be. When he thinks now about how naive he’d been, buying a whole case of ginger ale and stocking up the fridge, daydreaming about asking Shane to stay, he cringes. Of course Hollander wouldn’t want to stay with him. Nobody important ever did. It was probably for the best.
That feeling in the pit of his stomach had followed him to work that day in December 2016, pulsating inside of him as he opened the door of Boston’s team gym. Needing an escape, Ilya had planned to just shove his headphones on and pound out his feelings on the exercise bike. Maybe afterwards, he would call up another one of his regular girls and pound out his feelings with her; maybe the third time really would be the charm. But, as luck would have it, he was rudely interrupted by his teammates calling out to him from across the room.
“Roz! Roz, you gotta see this” Marleau called out to him, gesturing with his hand at his captain. “You’re gonna shit, man!”
His alternative captain leaned towards another one of Ilya’s teammates, Connors, peering at something on the latter’s phone. Ilya sighed and made his way over to them pulling his earbud out as he went. The Russian would have bet a month’s wages that they were about to show him some dumb meme, he’d politely laugh, probably chirp one of them, and then get back to his workout. Never in a million years, not even after last week’s fumble, would Ilya have expected what they were about to show him.
“No.” His heart plummeted.
“I know, right?” Connors chuckled. “She’s like a huge fucking movie star.”
Ilya swallowed looking down at the small screen in his hand as he reread the headline: ‘Is Rose Landry Dating MLH Star Shane Hollander?’
This couldn’t be real. Hollander didn’t date. At least, not publicly. Ilya was sure that the Canadian had probably slept with other people over the years that they had been hooking up, but he’d never had to confront the idea of him dating before. Not like this. He’d never once stopped to consider that one day he’d be staring at an image of his Shane holding hands with a blushing Rose Landry. Fuck.
“How the fuck did he even meet her during the season?” He heard Marleau say distantly.
Ilya was barely listening to his teammates anymore. All Boston’s star centre could do was frantically scan the lines of the article as that pit in his stomach took over his entire body, slowly drowning him in dread. Around him, his teammates continued their conversation, delightedly discussing this new piece of juicy gossip, but Ilya couldn’t hear them.
“‘I’ve never seen Rose so happy, the source goes on to say.’” Connors quoted, his gleeful voice breaking through the fog. “I’d be fucking happy if I was banging Rose fucking Landry.”
And Hollander certainly looked like he agreed with Ilya’s teammate if the rest of the images attached to the article were anything to go by.
Ilya continued to scroll through picture after picture of the perfect fucking couple holding hands on their perfect fucking date. Hollywood’s It Girl and the MLH’s Golden Boy looked relaxed and happy, nothing like Hollander had looked when he had practically sprinted away from Ilya in October.
Shit.
—
December 2016 - Montreal
Shane jumped slightly as the shrill noise of his phone’s ring tone interrupted the beginnings of what he was sure was about to have been an anxiety spiral. He was attributing this to the fact that he’d gotten home later than usual after his date with Rose the night before, and was feeling a little bit out of sorts following the disruption to his usual routine. Not at all to do with the fact that they’d had clumsy awkward sex for the first time last night, and Shane had had to picture Ilya Rosanov going down on him in order to finish. He was pointedly trying not to think about that whole ordeal at all.
Shane was sure his anxiety had more to do with the fact that they had been caught out and about by the paparazzi last night. Despite being a star hockey player, and MLH Cup winner, Shane wasn’t used to dealing with the paparazzi. Not the way Rose was: that had been intense.
He’d had a great time last night, he’d enjoyed Rose’s company and there was really no harm in people knowing that they were dating, but Shane couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that being caught together like that had caused him. There was a niggling feeling of wrongness settling in his chest. One he didn’t quite have the words for.
Glancing at his phone, he saw the word ‘Mom’ lighting up the screen.
“Hey mom.” He said, answering the call.
“Good morning honey, did you have a nice time on your date last night? I saw photos of you guys all over Hot Take this morning. How are you feeling about that?” Yuna hit him with a barrage of questions.
“-uh yeah it was great. She’s great, Rose is great.” Shane winced, rubbing his chest.
“Well, I’m happy to hear that sweetie. Your dad and I can’t wait to meet her…”
“Uh, right. Well, she’s very busy and it’s early days. I’m not sure when-“ he winced again, the wrongness seemed to hum beneath his ribcage.
“Oh, of course honey. Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll get together soon. Listen, Shane, that’s not the only reason I called. We need to get the ball rolling on this new Oura sponsorship, especially now you’ll be getting more press. They should have sent you their latest model? Have you had your mail yet today?” His mom got right down to business.
Shane glanced at the small pile of mail his concierge had brought up just half an hour ago, “-I think so? I’ve not opened it yet. What does an Oura Ring do exactly?”
He moved to grab the package off the kitchen counter, settling down at the island to open it as his mother explained the new tech to him on the other end of the call.
“It’s a health tracker, a bit like that new Apple Watch really. It can track your activity, sleep, stress levels. All sorts!” Yuna explained brightly.
Now that piqued Shane’s interest.
“You just need to be seen wearing it out and about, and before and after games - of course you can’t wear it on the ice - but you should put it on before you do post game interviews. Maybe we should organise some social media posts too what do you think-“ she continued.
“Sure mom” Shane agreed, now fascinated by the tiny technology he’d managed to fish out of the package. The feeling of calm that came when he was in control was seeping back into his bones as he turned the object over in his hands. That earlier feeling of wrongness forgotten as Shane considered what the new tech could do for his fitness regime.
—
Early January 2017 - Boston
This month had by no means been the worst month of Ilya’s life.
‘But it was up there,’ the Russian thought to himself as he was yet again confronted with images of the happy couple on his newsfeed. For weeks it had been Shane Hollander this, Rose Landry that. Ilya was sick of hearing about it.
The feeling of frustration, anger and despair he’d spiralled into had been impossible for Ilya to shift and by the time he was sat in Boston Logan International Airport waiting to board his plane to fucking Montreal, he had long since stopped trying to forget Shane by sleeping with other people. How was that supposed to work anyway, when every time he looked at his phone or turned on the TV he was forced to witness the man who consumed his every waking thought replace him with Rose fucking Landry?
This relationship that didn’t even involve him had taken over his life. He’d even stubbed his toe at the gym earlier this week, embarrassing himself in front of his teammates, because he’d been so upset by seeing their stupid beautiful faces on the TV screen.
Still, he kept looking. Searching for signs of what? He wasn’t sure. Signs that this was fake? A PR relationship, maybe? Signs that Shane was going to text Ilya after the game that night and ask him to come round, despite the fact that he hadn’t heard from Hollander since he stormed out of his place almost three months ago? That Ilya would turn up fashionably late, to keep the Canadian on his toes, and Shane would reveal that Rose had agreed to be his beard and they could keep meeting up in secret? Not that Ilya really liked that option much more than his current reality either.
This particular form of psychosis is what lead the Russian to be sat in an airport refreshing his Twitter feed looking for updates, when he spotted it. Landry had posted a new picture of her and Shane with some kind of cake on her Instagram page, and fans were going crazy on Twitter, gushing over how cute the couple were and speculating about how adorable their babies would be. Clearly a glutton for punishment, Ilya had clicked on the image planning to scrutinise the look in Shane’s eyes, but became distracted by a flash of silver on the Metros star’s right hand. What. The. Fuck?
Ilya bolted upright in his seat, jostling Marleau who was sat next him. This was the moment that all rational thought left the Russian’s head entirely.
“Roz, what the hell?” Marleau said, startled. “You ok, man?”
Ilya waved him off, eyes never leaving his phone. Surely, this couldn’t be what Ilya thought it was? There was no way they could be- what? Engaged? Married? It hadn’t even been two months. Hollander wouldn’t move that quickly, would he? That would be too ridiculously out of character for the careful Canadian, right?
But then, Hollander never wore jewellery either. He didn’t even wear his fancy Rolex watch outside of adverts and sponsored content. So why a ring? Why now? If Hollander was wearing a ring it must mean something, and it was on the correct hand too. Ilya’s mother had worn her wedding ring on the ring finger of her right hand, just as Shane did in this picture. Oh god, what if Rose was pregnant and they’d gotten married so that they could do right by the baby. That’s something Hollander absolutely would do.
Ilya felt sick.
—
Early January 2017 - Montreal
Aside from what Shane was calling ‘The Incident’ he’d tried to best to make sure his thoughts about Rose Landry didn’t really collide with his thoughts about Ilya Rozanov. He was doing a great job of this (mostly because he had been avoiding having sex with Rose again) until the morning of the Montreal vs Boston game, when he was forced to face the upcoming reality of seeing the Russian again. Sure, he’d thought about Rozanov more times in the weeks since he last saw him than he would ever admit to out loud, but he had been so wrapped up in the relief that maybe he was capable of liking girls (since he liked spending time with Rose so much) that he’d managed to distract himself from his feelings about the Boston centre. It wasn’t until he woke up that morning with the realisation that he would see Ilya today that it occurred to him.
Had Rozanov heard about him and Rose? What did he think about them being together? Had he even given it much thought at all? Was he jealous?
The wrongness started to buzz under his skin again. Shane rubbed at his chest before taking a deep breath and sitting up in bed. It wasn’t until after he had gotten dressed from the shower, slid his Oura ring on, and padded into the kitchen to mix up his usual morning smoothie, that Shane had begun to claw back even a semblance of the control that could quieten the thrumming in his chest. Even then, the familiar routine only really managed to take a slight edge off.
He wondered if he’d hear off Rozanov after the game today. Would the Russian would be expecting him to get in touch? Shane knew that it wouldn’t be right for him to entertain the thought of hooking up with Rozanov tonight. He had a girlfriend now and besides, his thing with Ilya had only ever been about the sex. It wasn’t like it could have ever been anything serious. And besides, Shane wouldn’t ever even want that. Right?
With that in mind the Canadian decided the best course of action would be to avoid the Russian at all costs tonight, least he might end up doing something he’d regret later.
However, despite this foolproof plan Hollander couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting towards his former lover as he worked through the rest of his game-day routine.
—
For once in his entire hockey career, Ilya didn’t care that they’d lost the game 1-0 to Montreal. He was just glad it was over.
Usually playing against Shane was like pure, unfiltered, magic. Even on opposing teams, it felt like they were perfectly in sync; they were able to push each other harder than any other player in the league could even dare to imagine. He’d never admit it out loud but it really had been the honour of his lifetime to play against Shane Hollander. But not today. Today’s game had felt like skating through toffee. Every move he made felt sluggish and heavy, and his performance on the ice had showed it.
The fire that usually burned inside of him on game day had barely been a meagre spark when he took to the ice for the first face off. Getting into position, Ilya had braced himself to come face to face with Hollander for the first time since he’d whispered his name and ruined everything. He had barely slept the night before, worried about having to look Shane in the eye knowing that he wore Rose Landry’s ring.
Ilya needn’t have bothered. Shane didn’t look at him once the whole game. Not even when, Ilya desperate for even a slither of the Canadian’s attention, checked him into the boards with unnecessary force.
‘So,’ the Russian thought, ‘two can play at that game.’ And he decided to follow Hollander’s lead. He diligently ignored Montreal’s star centre just as much as he seemed to be ignoring Ilya, sitting on the bench between shifts blatantly refusing to look over at the other team’s bench on the other side of the plexiglass. It was almost as painful to avoid looking at him as it would have been to turn his head to the left a catch a glimpse of Hollander’s stupid, beautiful, freckles. By the end of the game, Ilya had been exhausted but it certainly wasn’t from playing.
Now shuffling into his hotel room, Ilya couldn’t remember how he had made it there, could scarcely recall making it through post-game press and what must have been a very gloomy visitors dressing room. Connors had already made it up to their room by the time Ilya arrived and was sprawled on one of the beds watching highlights of the game on the TV.
“Urgh, turn this shit off.” Ilya grunted.
Connors made a half assed attempt to reach for the remote but not before Shane Hollander’s post-game interview started playing on the screen.
“Wait, leave it.” Connors only response was to grumble in annoyance at his captain’s indecision.
On the screen Hollander was answering a boring question about the game that Ilya couldn’t care less about, instead taking his time to appreciate the Canadian’s post game flush and slightly disheveled hair. He’d gone so long today being unable to look at him that he was practically drinking up this opportunity to ogle Shane from the safety of his hotel room. The Metro’s centre looked so beautiful on the screen in front of him that Ilya could almost forget why it hurt to look at him.
This bout of temporary amnesia didn’t last long however, as a faint cough could be heard off camera drawing Shane’s gaze away from the reporter. On screen, Hollander gave a barely there nod and reached up with his right hand to scratch at his cheek as he turned to listen to another question.
Ilya’s heart sunk. There, as clear as day, on the Canadian’s ring finger, was the ring. Was it really so important to Shane that he had to rush to put it back on after the game before he did press? He hadn’t even showered and changed out of his compression gear yet. The stupid ugly thing was goading the Russian through the screen, taunting him.
“Fuck.” Ilya stormed into the bathroom slamming the door behind him and scaring poor Connors out of his post-game daze.
—
As he made his way back to the Montreal’s locker room, Shane made a mental note to ask their security team how Yuna Hollander had managed to sweet talk her way into post-game press.
Shaking his head, he took a moment to brace himself before pushing open the locker room door and stepping inside. The chaos of the locker room had always been one of Shane’s least favourite things about hockey. He’d never taken naturally to fitting in with his peers, constantly overthinking what to say and where to look, but one solace he had found was in the routine of getting ready, or unready in this case.
Today’s game hadn’t been an easy win, the team had felt lacklustre on the ice, Shane had felt lacklustre on the ice, but the atmosphere in the locker room was buzzing nonetheless. His teammates were managing to celebrate with the same energy as any other win, slapping each other on the back, hooting and hollering. Someone was even playing tinny music from their phone speaker. It made Shane wince.
Hollander kept his head down as he moved through his post-game routine but couldn’t stave off the feeling of dread still building in the pit of his stomach. As he went through the motions of getting undressed and neatly folding his compression shirt, Shane found that he couldn’t quite place what the cause of that feeling was. He absentmindedly twirled the Oura ring on his right hand as he tried to get to the bottom of how he was feeling.
His plan had been a success and, for the most part, he’d managed to avoid Rozanov with little incident. He had even made arrangements to meet up with Rose tonight, which would be nice. Even if it was at a night club.
He stopped twirling the ring. That must be it! Shane had never really liked night clubs for similar reasons he’d never really liked locker rooms. They were loud, both too bright and too dark at the same time and he’d be forced to socialise. What made even worse is that you couldn’t even hear yourself think at a night club, let alone have other people hear what you have carefully crafted in your head and taken ages to build up the courage to say. You always ended up having to repeat yourself. Shane hated having to repeat himself. It made him feel inadequate.
Satisfied that he’d gotten to the bottom of his looming anxiety, Shane carried on getting undressed and moved through his post-game routine. As he did, he planned out his entrance to the club later and what he’d say to Rose and her friend Miles when he got there. He absolutely did not think about the way Rosanov’s body had felt against his when he’d slammed into the boards earlier. Not once.
—
It was a testament to how much Instagram stalking Ilya had done that he recognised Rose Landry’s friend as soon as he caught sight of him at the bar. If he was here, that meant she probably was too. At a night club. In Montreal. And if Rose Landry was in a night club, in Montreal, then there was a high possibility that so was Shane Hollander.
‘No, no, no, no.” Ilya thought to himself as he turned to scan the club, ‘ah fuck.’
The music blaring from the speakers seemed to be mocking Ilya as he caught sight of Shane from across the dance floor. Even completely out of his comfort zone, the Canadian looked gorgeous: white t-shirt and slightly tousled hair. And yep, Rose fucking Landry had her hands up Shane’s shirt. Great.
Ilya gritted his teeth at the sight of the couple but he couldn’t quite drag his eyes away. They looked good together, really fucking good. In that moment Ilya hated them both. Especially when the strobe lights caught a silver glint on Shane’s right hand where it was resting on Rose Landry’s waist. That fucking ring was haunting him.
Ilya needed to get laid, immediately. Either that, or he was going to cry.
—
Later that evening, Shane Hollander was locked in the en-suite bathroom of his Montreal apartment checking his stats on the Oura app, when he should have been in bed cuddling with a movie star. They’d had lacklustre sex again and Shane was having an existential crisis over the fact that he’d had to think of Rosanov to avoid going soft. Again. Shit.
He already felt pathetic enough that he couldn’t perform the way he should be able to. That he couldn’t satisfy his own beautiful girlfriend without thinking about the Boston centre in order to get the job done. It didn’t help that he’d spotted the Russian getting cozy with some girl at the club, and it especially didn’t help that his most prominent thought in that moment was that it should have been him. He’s the one that should have been in Rosanov’s arms. Not some girl.
Closing the app and placing his phone on the counter, Shane sank into a crouched position: head in his arms, eye closed.
“Come on Hollander, deep breath in… and out,” he muttered to himself puffing out a shaky breath.
Montreal’s star centre was beyond frustrated with himself. Why couldn’t he just be normal? He loved spending time with Rose, so why couldn’t he also enjoy spending time inside of Rose?
‘Ew,’ he was even grossing himself out with this train of thought. He stood up.
“This isn’t going to work. Fuck,” he sniffed refusing to look at himself in the mirror.
Despite the beautiful woman in his bed, Shane couldn’t keep his thoughts from drifting back to how Rosanov had looked at the club tonight. He’d looked hot, of course he did, but more than that he looked distant. Out of reach. Too far away, and unaffected by Shane’s presence. The Russian had been too busy practically gnawing that girl’s ear off to notice that Shane’s entire soul felt like it was being ripped out.
Guilt racked through Shane’s body as this thought hit him. He had no right to be heartbroken over Rosanov picking up a girl at a night club when he had a whole entire girlfriend in the next room. He owed it to Rose to be present, to go all in on their relationship. She was perfect, and lovely, and patient, and kind, and Shane physically couldn’t do better: she was a movie star for crying out loud! She deserved to have a boyfriend that loved and cherished her and Shane was determined to be that for her. It was the least he could do.
If he could just avoid having sex with her, he was sure he could be the perfect boyfriend for her.
—
Late January 2017 - Tampa (All-Stars weekend)
If anyone asked, Ilya wasn’t panicking. Absolutely not. He didn’t for one second care that he was minutes away from coming face to face with Hollander for the first time since they locked eyes in that night club in Montreal. Since Ilya had gone back to his hotel room and had pathetically jerked off to the image of Shane Hollander’s big hands clutching at Rose Landry’s tiny waist (he was bisexual after all). And since he’d spent weeks spiralling about the lack of coverage of their relationship online.
No news, in Ilya’s mind, did not mean good news. It meant that Rose Landry and Shane Hollander were definitely married. They would probably make an announcement any day now. They’d probably had a quick court house wedding when they found out about the baby and were planning to have a big ceremony later this year. Shane was probably waiting until the summer which wasn’t very considerate of him because Landry would be very pregnant at that point, but it’s not like Hollander was known for his care and consideration of others. He hadn’t done much considering of Ilya that night at the club with his arms around Rose, ring mocking him from across the dance floor.
Ilya took a big gulp of his beer. It went down painfully.
A small commotion near the entrance to the bar drew Ilya’s attention as the man himself walked in. Hollander stopped a few times on his way inside to greet people, giving Ilya the opportunity to check him out. Fuck, he looked good.
Shane was wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off his forearms. Had they always looked that good? Because they were doing things to Ilya. He wasn’t sure his heart could take finding Hollander attractive right now. Not when he was angry at him for marrying a movie star. Oh fuck, he was coming over.
‘Shit,’ Ilya thought. ‘Is he coming over here to tell me he’s married? Will he want me to congratulate them? What if he brought her with him this weekend?'
“Okay,” Ilya exhaled, bracing himself as Hollander took a seat next to him at the bar.
They exchanged pleasantries and Hollander ordered a drink. He was wearing the ring. Ilya couldn’t take much more of this.
“Did you… bring anyone with you?” Ilya asked, trying to appear nonchalant. His eyes never leaving the ring on Shane’s finger. ‘Your wife maybe?’
“No. I mean, my parents thought about coming…” Shane gave a boring answer, not the one Ilya needed, so he tuned it out. The ring was still glaring at him from where Hollander’s hand rested on top of the bar.
“Ah.” Ilya nodded. 'No wife then.'
“Nice shirt.” Hollander grinned. Ilya had worn a button up with palm trees on it, he thought it had been funny. Now he felt stupid.
“Thanks. I like to get into the spirit.” Ilya feigned confidence, tugging at the shirt slightly.
Shane gave him a flirty look. Interesting.
“You’re pulling it off.”
Ilya was thankful that in that moment they were interrupted by New York right winger, Carter Vaughn. He’s not sure what he would have done with the look Shane had been giving him.
“You’re looking very pretty today.” Ilya had muttered after Vaughn had left. “Did someone take you shopping?”
‘Like your wife?’ He didn’t say.
Hollander smiled, nervously, “if I er… tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone? Or laugh at me?”
‘Here we go.’ Ilya was more likely to cry than laugh. Stupid fucking ring.
“Sure.”
“I uh-“ Ilya waited, the ring smirking at him now. What was he going to say: I’m married. I don’t need you anymore. Rose Landry is having my baby. “I hired a personal stylist.”
Ilya blinked, finally looking up from the ugly fucking ring, letting out a gasping laugh.
“Fuck you.” Shane rolled his eyes. “I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No, no. I love it. You got, what, tired of looking like shit?” Ilya couldn’t help chirping at him.
Shane spluttered indignantly, going on to defend his usual attire of sweatpants and gym wear. “Some of the guys in the league are so fashionable and I just thought… I could use some help.”
As delighted as the Russian was by this revelation, he needed answers. Shane wasn’t going to give him what he needed unless he asked him directly.
“So, this has nothing to do with Rose Landry?”
“No. I mean yeah, her friends were all really well dressed. I just wanted to stop looking like I was going to the gym.” Hollander shrugged.
That gave him nothing. He’d have to face his nemesis (the ring) head on.
“Your stylist pick out that ring too?” Ilya nodded at the smug bastard, “not like you to wear jewellery.”
“Oh, this?” Hollander held up his right hand in delight. Fucker. “No actually this is an Oura ring. They’re a new sponsor my mom set up for me. It’s really cool actually, it tracks your-“
Ilya stopped listening. A sponsorship? All this time, Hollander had been wearing the ring as part of a sponsorship deal? Ilya’s heart was beating ten to the dozen.
“Wait… wait. Hollander, stop please I don’t care. Is boring,” Ilya waved him away frowning. “If you are wearing the ring as part of a sponsorship why one earth do you wear it on your right ring finger?”
“Well I can’t wear it on my left ring finger Ilya, the press would have a field day thinking I’d gotten married or something.” There was a ringing in Rosanov’s ears.
“What are you saying? Wedding ring goes on the right hand, no?” Ilya frowned.
“What- no! You wear a wedding ring on your left hand. Is wearing it on the right hand like a Russian thing or something?” Hollander laughed.
‘A Russian thing?’ Ilya stared at the Canadian in disbelief. ‘Hollander wasn’t married?’
“Must be,” he said, still in shock. “So, uh- are you and Rose Landry…”
“Ah, no. She’s great, but we- we’re just not compatible.” Shane grimaced.
Relief hit Ilya like a wave as he glanced back down at the ring. ‘Ha,’ he thought. ‘I win.’
Looking back up, he couldn’t help staring at Hollander’s lips. He had never wanted to kiss him more than he did in that moment.
“I should circulate I guess.” Shane mumbled getting up.
Ilya nodded, putting a hand over his mouth to mask his ridiculous grin.
—
Later that weekend
“Ilya, have you seen my Oura ring?” Shane called out half heartedly to the Russian who was finishing up in the bathroom. Hollander was getting ready to leave to go back to his own hotel room and couldn’t find his ring. It wasn’t on top of his carefully folded stack of clothes where he had left it.
He cared less about not being able to find it than he thought he would. He was too busy grinning about what they’d just done, about what they had talked about beforehand and daydreaming a little at the prospect of maybe inviting Rosanov to his cottage this summer.
“Nope!” Ilya replied gleefully, opening the bathroom door. Shane could hear the toilet flush as the Russian came up behind him and wrapped his arms around him.
“It is lost? Such a shame. I will buy new one.” Ilya kissed his shoulder.
“Fuck,” Shane shivered leaning back into him. “My mom is going to kill me.”