Chapter Text
The rink smells like shaved ice and sweat, with a hint of rubber. Shane likes it because it smells like work, and work is straightforward. Work is one of the few places he can count on himself to do exactly what he’s supposed to do.
Commercial shoots aren’t work. They pretend to be. There are skates and sticks and drills and enough hockey language tossed around by the crew to make it look similar, but really it’s standing on a patch of ice while people with clipboards tell him where to angle his shoulders and how much of his mouth to use when he smiles. It is makeup under his eyes. It is a woman with a powder brush saying hold still while he stares at the boards and tries not to feel ridiculous.
He’s already annoyed when Rozanov gets there.
Not because he’s late. He isn’t. Of course he isn’t. Ilya Rozanov arrives exactly when he’s meant to, all easy swagger and dark eyes and the kind of presence that seemed louder than everyone else’s even when he wasn’t speaking. He looked like the sort of man the world would take at face value: aggressive enough, confident enough, certain enough. An easy fit for every assumption people liked to make about hockey players.
Shane has met him before, in brief, forgettable ways that weren’t actually forgettable at all. World Juniors. The draft. Hallways full of suits and boys pretending they’re already men. Rozanov had been sharp then too, smiling like he knew something other people didn’t.
Now he steps onto the rink in full CCM gear, rolling his shoulders once as though the day has finally become interesting.
“Shane Hollander,” he says, stopping in front of him with a smile that feels too knowing for a room full of strangers. “Of course.”
Shane looks at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rozanov glances once toward the crew, the racks of gear, the sponsor banners, then back at Shane. “You are,” he waves his hand a bit, "CCM perfect," he says. “Have clean face. Safe hands. Everyone looks and thinks yes, him.”
Shane feels something in his spine go rigid. “You’re one to talk, Rozanov. They didn’t exactly bring you here as a role model.”
Rozanov laughs, low and pleased. “No,” he says. “Probably not.”
That should be fine. That should be manageable. Rivalry is easy. So is being underestimated. Shane’s spent most of his life turning other people’s assumptions into something useful.
The first setup is harmless enough. A few slow passes at center ice while cameras track them from the boards. Then a sequence of rushes, one-on-one, shoulder feints and quick cuts. Then faceoffs, close and physical for the lens, the director wanting intensity and conflict and electricity.
“Closer,” the director says after the third take, waving them back in. “I want the stare down to feel real. Like you hate each other. Don’t glance away so quickly.”
“I’m not glancing away,” Shane says.
The director’s eyes flick to him, amused. “You are a little.”
“I’m not.”
Rozanov makes a soft sound beside him that is definitely a laugh.
Shane ignores him. He lines up again over the dot, gloves on his stick, knees bent, every part of his body settling automatically into something familiar and controlled. This is better. The puck is dropped for the take, they clash, sticks and skates colliding, and then the director calls cut almost immediately.
“Good,” he says. “Again. Shane, keep your eyes up this time. Stay with him.”
Something hot prickles at the back of Shane’s neck.
He stays with him on the next take. Or he tries to. Rozanov’s face is too close, his gaze too direct, amused in a way that feels like being touched somewhere Shane didn’t agree to. Shane looks straight at him for maybe half a second before his focus jumps to Rozanov’s mouth, then the line of his jaw, then somewhere useless over his shoulder.
“Cut. Better,” the director says. “Again. Shane, that was almost it.”
Almost.
That shouldn’t matter. He knows it shouldn’t, but the phrase lands somewhere stupid and vulnerable inside him, somewhere he keeps locked down on purpose.
The next half hour gets more difficult to ignore.
The director starts giving him notes that are too specific. Not the vague encouragement adults throw at athletes when they want cooperation, but real adjustments followed by immediate approval when Shane gets them right.
“Good.”
“Yes, exactly that.”
“Hold there.”
“Perfect.”
“Shane, keep that.”
It lands. That’s the problem.
He likes getting it right. Likes the quick certainty of a correction and the instant click of approval after. By the fourth or fifth take, each note is catching a little too cleanly, satisfaction moving through him before he can flatten it out into something more normal.
Then he realizes Rozanov can probably see it, and the whole thing curdles into embarrassment.
They’re resetting between takes when the makeup woman skates back over to blot sweat off their foreheads and fix whatever the lights are doing to their skin. She dusts Shane’s cheekbones, before moving on to Rozanov. Ilya looks directly at Shane while she does it.
“You are blushing,” he says.
Shane laughs once, flat. “It’s just the make up.”
“Yes,” Rozanov says. “Is very beautiful. You should keep it.”
The makeup woman snorts and moves away. Shane wants to tell him to shut up, but the problem is that he is blushing now, heat pushing high across his face, which means Rozanov is going to think he was right.
He is not giving him that.
The next setup is a shooting sequence. They take turns ripping pucks past a stand-in goalie while the camera catches the flex of sticks and spray of ice. Shane has done this exact motion so many times in his life that his body should be able to do it asleep. Instead, he can feel every part of himself. His gloves. His mouth. The damp fabric at the base of his spine. The exact spot on his face where the powder brush touched him fifteen minutes ago.
He buries three clean shots in a row anyway.
“That’s it,” the director says sharply. “That’s the look. Shane, you’re a natural when you stop overthinking it.”
A natural.
The praise lands fast and clean. Shane feels it like a jolt of heat under his skin, sharp satisfaction followed almost immediately by the urge to do it again, just as well, if not better.
He hits the next shot cleanly too, a hard crack of the stick and perfect aim for the top corner. The puck snaps into the net. For one brief, stupid second, he feels good. Loose. Pleased with himself in a way that ought to be harmless.
Then he turns back.
Rozanov is watching him with an expression Shane doesn’t like at all. Too interested. Too knowing.
The good feeling goes sour so quickly it almost makes him dizzy.
By the time they wrap, Shane feels wrong in his own skin.
The crew is pleased. The director claps him once on the shoulder on the way off the ice and tells him he did great. Shane says thanks like a normal person and hates how easily the word comes, hates that some part of him is still reaching toward the approval even as he walks away from it. He heads straight for the locker room before anyone can say anything else.
He tells himself he just needs the usual fix. Cold water. Ten counted breaths. No thinking until his thoughts line up.
That’s all.
The locker room is mostly empty, production people giving them privacy while equipment gets sorted outside. Shane sits on the bench in front of his stall and leans forward, elbows on his knees, trying to get ahead of the feeling before it gets any worse. His pulse is still too high. His thoughts are moving too fast. It feels a little like after a game, but wrong somehow. Games leave him sharpened. This leaves him crowded.
He starts counting anyway.
One breath in.
Hold.
Out.
Again.
By six, he knows it isn’t working well enough.
He stands, grabs his towel, and heads for the communal showers. He steps under one spray and turns the handle hard toward cold.
The water hits him sharp as a slap.
Shane braces one hand against the tile and breathes through it. That’s the point. Shock first, then control. He counts again, water needling across the back of his neck and shoulders.
One.
Two.
Three.
Footsteps slap against the tile behind him.
“Jesus Christ,” Rozanov says, somewhere to his left. “Idiot.”
Shane doesn’t turn. “Go away.”
There’s the sound of another shower turning on. A second later Rozanov swears under his breath.
“Fuck is wrong?”
Shane opens his mouth to tell him to mind his own business, but before he can, a hand reaches through the spray and catches his shower handle.
Then the water turns hot.
It’s not gradual, but it’s also not too hot. The initial shock makes Shane suck in a breath and jolt where he stands.
“There,” Rozanov says, like this is obvious.
Shane turns, finally, water running off his face. Rozanov is in the next stall, close enough that Shane could reach out and shove him if he wanted. His hair is plastered damp to his forehead.
“Don’t touch my stuff.”
“Do not act insane.”
Shane should turn it cold again. He means to. He really does.
Instead he stands there under the altered spray and feels the heat sink into his shoulders, the back of his neck, the tight line of his spine. His body gives before his pride does. Muscles unclench one by one. His breathing deepens. The noise in his head drops several notches all at once.
It is immediate. Humiliatingly immediate.
Rozanov notices.
Of course he notices.
His expression shifts, amusement thinning into something sharper. Not mockery. Attention.
“Oh,” he says.
Shane’s face goes hot, which is ridiculous considering the water already is. “Shut up.”
Rozanov leans one shoulder against the tile between their stalls, careless and solid and far too comfortable. “You do this?” he asks. “Hurt yourself?”
“I said shut up.”
Shane reaches for the handle then, more because he needs to do something than because he actually wants the cold back. Rozanov catches his wrist before he gets there.
It’s not dramatic. Just a quick grip, firm and thoughtless, stopping him for a second.
“Leave it,” Rozanov says.
The words shouldn’t do anything. The hand on his wrist shouldn’t do anything.
But Shane goes still.
The heat. The pressure of Rozanov’s fingers. The flat certainty in his voice, as if Shane’s resistance is both expected and irrelevant. Something low in Shane’s body pulls tight and then drops open.
Rozanov lets go almost immediately.
Too late.
Shane can feel the reaction already, hot and unmistakable, and for one awful second he can’t tell which part is worse: that his body responded, or that it responded to Ilya Rozanov.
Ilya’s gaze flicks down and back up. His mouth curves, but only a little.
“Ah,” he says softly.
Shane hates the way his whole body seems to rush with heat.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Rozanov laughs, low and pleased. “Maybe later.”
He turns back into his own spray like he’s giving Shane privacy, which is almost worse than if he’d stayed looking.
Shane stands there another second, furious, hard, and steadier than he’s been since the shoot ended.
He got overstimulated. He got hard because Rozanov is hot and right there and an asshole about it. Then Rozanov touched him unexpectedly and he calmed down because physical contact can interrupt a stress spiral. That’s all. There is nothing else there.
Everyone tells him he’s wound too tight. He shouldn’t be surprised that his body is disobeying him.
He repeats that story until he almost believes it.
By the time he leaves the rink, he has it polished into something solid enough to stand on.
*****
The next night, he scenes with Melissa.
He doesn’t think of her as an ex, exactly. They’ve never dated. She’s someone he knows from the edges of a social world he doesn’t fully belong to but has learned how to move through when necessary. She’s discreet, attractive, and likes things uncomplicated. More importantly, she already knows the kind of scene Shane has always believed suits him best: low-intensity and controlled.
It feels, in theory, like exactly what he needs to settle his mind.
Melissa’s room is dim, everything softened by lamps and heavy curtains. Melissa kneels easily when he tells her to, settling between his knees with her hands folded in her lap and her face tipped up toward his. She looks beautifully serene like this. Composed and completely at ease.
“You look good,” she says.
Shane rests a hand on her head because that’s what he’s supposed to do. “Quiet.”
She smiles a little and lowers her gaze.
It feels fine. Familiar, at least.
This is the part Shane understands best. A quiet room with a willing sub. Melissa goes soft under his hand within minutes, her breathing evening out, her shoulders loosening one small inch at a time until most of her weight is resting against his knee. He strokes his thumb once along her hairline because that usually helps. She makes a faint, pleased sound.
There. That’s better.
This is what works for him. No complications. No guesswork. No one crowding him with too much need.
He sits with one hand on her head and waits for the feeling of rightness to catch up.
It doesn’t.
The room is very quiet. Too quiet, maybe. Shane glances once toward the curtained window, then toward the digital clock on the bedside table, then away again before he can look long enough to be obvious about it.
Melissa is deep enough under that she doesn’t notice. Her face has gone loose and peaceful, the way subs’ faces do when they’re settled properly. She looks good like this. Safe. Pleased.
He smooths his hand through her hair again.
“You’re doing well,” he says, because he should say something.
She hums, soft and content.
Then there is nothing to do but keep sitting there.
Shane has never understood why this part seems to come so naturally to some people. He can do it. He’s not a restless person, he knows how long to leave a hand in place, when to speak, when not to, how to keep a room calm. But after the first few minutes, it all starts to flatten out. The stillness stops feeling charged and starts feeling long.
He adjusts his posture slightly. Melissa doesn’t stir.
He looks at the clock again.
Not because he’s bored, exactly. Just because he likes to know how long things are taking.
He strokes a hand down the back of her head and says, “Good,” because that is the kind of thing she likes, and because the silence has stretched enough now that it needs breaking.
She breathes out in a little rush, sinking even more heavily into him.
He keeps the scene going longer than he needs to, because ending it too quickly would be noticeable, and because he is not bad at this. He isn’t. Melissa is under, comfortable, responsive, clearly getting what she came for. The whole point of these arrangements is that they work.
Eventually he says her name and guides her up slowly. She blinks, reorienting, then stretches her neck with a small smile.
“That was nice,” she says softly.
Shane nods once. “Good.”
She stays close, still on the carpet between his feet. “You want to move this to the bed?” Her hands have moved to his thighs, a light question of their own.
The offer is familiar. They’ve done that before.
For one second, Shane considers it because it would be easy to say yes. Easier, maybe, than sitting here trying to account for the fact that he feels both restless and dulled-out at once.
But easy isn’t the same as wanted.
“No,” he says. “Not tonight.”
Melissa studies him for a beat, then shrugs with easy grace. “Okay.”
One of the reasons Shane likes her is that she almost never makes anything awkward.
He gets her water. Sits beside her on the edge of the bed while she drinks it. Strokes a hand once down her spine because aftercare is easier when he sticks to the steps he learned in health class.
It’s fine.
More than fine, probably. Easy. Familiar. Melissa is happy, and Shane has never understood why people insist on making more of scenes like this than they need to. Not everything has to hit like a truck to count. Sometimes it’s enough to keep things simple, give someone what they came for, and leave it there.
He’s never been someone who needs much from it.
Later, Melissa lies on her side on top of the bed, shoes off now, hair mussed from his hand, and says, “You’re good at this.”
The words land before he can brace for them.
A small pulse of warmth goes through him, quick and clean. For one brief second, it is the best he has felt all night, knowing he did this well for her.
Then the warmth twists.
Because that’s his job. He hasn’t praised her enough tonight.
The realization comes in sharp and quiet. He’s kept the scene moving. He’s done everything he was supposed to do. But he let too much of it sit in silence. Too much in routine.
Here she is, warm and open and generous enough to tell him he did well, and his first instinct is relief at hearing it.
Wrong.
Shane touches her shoulder because it seems like the correct response. “You did great.”
Melissa studies him for a moment, not suspicious exactly, just observant. Then she sits up, kisses his jaw once, and lets the subject drop.
When he leaves, Melissa is happy.
She kisses his cheek at the door, thanks him for coming over, and tells him to text her next week if he wants. Shane says sure, pulls his jacket on, and heads out into the cold.
The drive home is quiet. He keeps the radio off.
The scene was fine.
Good, even. Easy. Melissa had been pleased, and Shane had done exactly what he was supposed to do. Not every scene had to be a whole production. He’d never understood people who acted like simplicity meant something was missing. Sometimes simple was better. Easier to get right.
He stops at a light and taps his thumb once against the steering wheel.
Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe the commercial shoot took more out of him than he realized. Maybe hockey is ramping up and his body’s a little fried. It doesn’t have to mean anything. He likes things calm. He’s never needed much.
The light changes. He drives on.
He’s almost home when the thought comes back.
Not the faceoff. Not the stupid pretty comment. Not even the embarrassment of the locker room.
Just Rozanov’s hand on his wrist.
Shane tightens his grip on the wheel.
He takes the next turn a little too sharply.
Shane swallows hard, stares at the road, and rolls his shoulders once like he can shake the whole thing loose.
By the time he parks, he has it under control again.
He kills the engine, sits there for a moment in the dark, and decides not to think about it anymore.
*****
A stack of forms sits in front of him in a conference room off the Voyageurs’ practice facility, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
The paperwork is mostly the usual waste of time.
Emergency contact. Injury history. Travel accommodations. Media policy. Shane gets through most of it quickly.
He signs where he’s supposed to sign. Initials where he’s supposed to initial.
The dynamic section is near the back. It apparently needs its own packet.
Shane flips to it with a faint sense of annoyance. The heading is dry and official, some league-approved language about player wellness, performance stability, and ongoing compliance with club standards. He skims most of it.
Then he gets to the first actual question.
Dynamic designation:
🔲 Dominant
🔲 Submissive
🔲 Switch
Shane checks Dominant immediately.
He pauses for half a second after, staring at the other boxes.
It’s a stupid question.
Not because dynamics are stupid. Obviously not. The league wouldn’t build whole protocols around them if they were. But the options are ridiculous. There’s never been a sub in the NHL. Shane doesn’t know why they bother printing the other boxes at all. Liability, maybe. Some legal department wanting to pretend all possibilities get equal consideration.
He turns the page.
The next section is less straightforward.
Date of most recent completed scene: ___________________________
Shane thinks back to two months ago, when he met up with Melissa. He tries to calculate the date, estimates. Close enough.
Average scene frequency over previous six months:
🔲 Multiple times per Week
🔲 Weekly
🔲 Twice monthly
🔲 Monthly
🔲 Less than monthly
He stares at that one a little longer.
The truthful answer is inconsistent, which is not one of the options provided. The neat little checkboxes are grouped into clean categories that assume a person prioritizes scening and has fit it into a rotating calendar. He considers that he might need to do that once the season starts.
He checks Less than monthly, then frowns at it.
That makes it sound like a problem.
It isn’t a problem. He just doesn’t need as much as some people seem to. He’s never understood the guys who act like a week without a scene is some kind of medical crisis. He has hockey. He has training. He has better things to do with his energy than build his whole life around something that, for him, works perfectly well when it stays simple.
The next question is worse.
Do you currently have a regular or local scene partner?
🔲 Yes
🔲 No
Shane checks No.
That one bothers him more than it should.
Not because he wants one. He doesn’t. Regular anything tends to get complicated fast, and complicated is exactly what he avoids. But the blankness of the answer sits there on the page looking a little too much like evidence of something. He taps his pen once against the margin, then moves on.
Are you willing and able to comply with the league minimum wellness requirement of one scene per month during the season?
🔲 Yes
🔲 No
Shane leans back in his chair and reads that one again.
Once a month. Minimum.
It feels faintly excessive, if he’s being honest. Not impossible. Just unnecessary. Still, the question isn’t whether he thinks the policy is excessive. The question is whether he can comply.
Of course he can comply.
He checks Yes.
Below that is a final line.
Would you like team support in identifying a vetted local scene partner?
🔲 Yes
🔲 No
Shane almost laughs.
He checks No hard enough to leave an imprint on the page beneath it.
Then he flips to the next form and keeps going, because there’s nothing here worth dwelling on. He’s a dom. He doesn’t need much. And if the league wants one scene a month, then one scene a month is what they’ll get.