Chapter Text
The rigor of being a Montréal Métropolitan suited Shane Hollander quite well. It was a tidy life, a reliable one. There was tradition, rules, structure. Ten years of routine and excellence of an old school standard. It was still hockey, there was a fraternal chaos to the team like any other, but it was a tighter ship than most from what Hollander could glean.
The grooming rules set by their GM set the tone: tidy beards only from September to post-season and no hair to ever be kept longer than the chin. It had become ritual that the last day of training camp meant the final roster descended upon the barber shop nearest to Bell Centre for a single-razor shave and a clean cut each. It was a tradition from long before Shane’s time that had held.
He really loved it.
Player after player would cycle through the chairs in number order, their turn to share their summer’s highlights. They kicked off with story after story of near-arrests (#1 MIITKA, for unapologetic drunken behavior in EPCOT), threesomes with Brazilian models (#7 BERKES, possibly embellishing) and far-flung vacations (#11 SCHNEIDER, who’d fucked off to Bali straight from their loss in Philly).
#16 DAGENAIS hit the chair before #24 HOLLANDER and so conveniently swerved past the details of his wedding planning in June and break-up in July to favor painting a thorough picture of his many rebounds in August.
When it was his turn, Shane wanted to tell the whole truth. He’d wanted to for a few years now. He never did.
It was best if they were kept in the dark about who he shared a bed with from the moment he stepped off the ice until he had to step back onto it. He also didn’t mind seeming like a goody-two-shoes and leaned into it, chirping them all for wasting their time with travel and pussy when there was charity work to do.
Only #35 PIKE saw right through him. Hayden remembered Las Vegas all too well.
The wise stuck around to hear whatever the team mystery, #49 ANDROPOV, had gotten up to in his summer in the Balkans. In relieving brevity that felt like a good omen, the old guard leaned in only to hear #49’s cousin was literally getting up to goat-fucking so notorious in his home village that Ivan had to sell the animals out from under him in the dead of night to preserve the moral reputation of the family.
Hollander was home here, laughing with his men, readying for whatever Theriault would throw at them. They were part of his optimized life. The Metros machine.
Their pre-season began at home: blue sweaters and the local crowd fired up. In his rallying opener locker room speech—which was never all that good and always half-shared with JJ—Shane told them it was a matter of holding focus. No one wanted it more, no one worked harder than them. He spoke to his team like talking in a mirror. Puck in net. 100% effort 100% of the time. Their Assistant Captain peppered in the spirit, calling for hands as he reminded them they were elite for a reason and this was their fucking year.
A 4-1 victory in the opener was decisive enough to feel like a very good start. Magic was back on the ice with Dagenais returned to his line but Shane brushed off the invitation to celebrate. He was exhausted and fantasizing too hard about the treat he’d promised himself: a singular square of dark chocolate for his job well done and a call with his boyfriend.
He was pretty happy.
Even with Coach impatient that their win record could only advance as slow as the season. Even with the chirps that Shane had carved his body sharper ‘now that he had guys to impress.’ Even with the spot on the wall he stared at in the shower so no one felt uncomfortable—a cracked tile he knew every millimeter of by now.
Focus. Discipline. Emails from his agent about photo selects. Texts from Ilya complaining about the road. Hollander juggled it all.
Through the first road trip that brought them to St. Louis, and swinging back home to face Vegas. Ottawa home then away to Florida. Shane let the days slide in the blur. Always a run at the start. Always a call with Rozanov at the end.
“Do you not get tired of the same 4 things?” Ilya asked, in his ear in headphones while he grocery shopped, piggy-backing off an idle complaint that the firm tofu wasn’t well stocked.
“I guess I don’t think about it,” Shane lied, wandering the aisles. His boyfriend was spending his evening by a pool at his hotel, feet in the water. He could never resist it.
“Everything beans!” Ilya complained, mouth half-full of something. Possibly a Cuban sandwich with extra pickles. He’d been talking about the craving the day before. “Soy is so fucking boring,” he muttered through chewing bites. “So fucking sad.”
“I don't complain about it.”
“I am complaining! Last time you ate egg you cried.”
Almost. He’d almost cried. His vegan diet broken for one of his father’s omelettes that summer and worth it.
“Buy eggs for me. Please? We make together when I come.” He had plans for shakshuka. Or menemen. Something hearty for the autumn.
Four more days to their first crossover and Shane indulged him, doubling back to grab a half-dozen.
“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he complained.
“Mmm…pain is not the word you normally use,” Ilya noted.
Hollander grinned. He was sickeningly in love. “Anything else I can get for your stay, your majesty? Sugar-bomb sugar-inos with bursting centers or whatever?”
“Bursting Centers would be good name for porn about us,” Ilya joked. “No. I can bring other food.”
“I’m offering.”
“I do not know what I want to eat in a week. I am not psychic.”
They saw the world very differently.
“This is the beauty of a scheduled menu.”
“You eat like a weirdo.”
“I don’t like thinking about the decision. It’s easier,” Shane consulted his shopping list and moved on for his produce. Always frozen outside of the summer, because he was always on the road.
“This is not a good reason to never change,” Ilya dropped, instantly realizing it was too broad a stroke for the distance and Hollander in public. “Except me. You chose me, you stick with me. I can be your easy decision.”
Shane smiled, reassured always and so happy, turning down the next aisle only to spot a fellow Metro, Stedlund, at the end of the row. He was pushing a cart behind his wife looking bored and annoyed as she examined something in a freezer case.
“Shit,” Hollander muttered and quickly tried to turn away inconspicuously.
“What?”
“One of the guys is here.”
“…Hollzy?” Stedlund spotted him. “Hey, dude!”
“I gotta go,” Shane hung up on his boyfriend quickly and fudged through the fleeting conversation with his teammate. It was difficult to shake feeling like they’d just been spotted being cute in the store even if Rozanov was only beamed into the Montreal grocers in his earbuds.
Shane called back from the car after checking out and Ilya bounced it or missed it or was punishing him and the rest of the night was his own. He prepped his road bag and ran a load of laundry and found himself bored just looking at his book with its seal of approval from the Harvard Business School on the cover.
Who the fuck did he think he was? He’d been really looking forward to phone sex.
There was no shortage of memories to play in if he felt like masturbating, he supposed. Nothing was stopping him from divorcing Ilya’s presence from a little touch like he used to. He summoned an imaginary Rozanov to his side, taking his directive to focus on his left hand, to play with his own balls a little, and to make sure he didn’t neglect his nipples.
It was never as satisfying alone but it was often far more efficient. Done in seven minutes, his mind returned to calm. Ilya would have teased him for his speed: too fast or two slow depending on his whim of the day.
More time for game tape.
More time for sleep.
His alarm at dawn. A flight to catch at noon.
A run and a shower between.
Hayden plopped beside him at the gate with an air of stress.
“Never have twins,” Pike advised before launching into a tirade on what happens when one of a matching item goes missing between them: chaos, in short. And a pissed partner holding the pieces when the schedule bared down to force him to leave mid-meltdowns.
“I don’t know, Hayd. Twins can be fun,” JJ chimed in waggling his eyebrows.
“Don’t talk about sex when I’m talking about my fucking daughters, you absolute sicko.”
“Give it, what, ten years?” Miitka butted in from the next row over. “Be grateful it’ll be awhile before JJ’s talking about fucking your—”
“—Do you wanna die today, Mitty?” Pike turned to face him, not joking, instantly enraged. The crack was so over the line none of the team would come to their Goalie’s defense if Hayden went for it. Family was off limits, it was a sacred rule of the sport.
“Save it for the Admirals,” Theriault approached to keep the peace, arms crossed, gum buried in his molars and chewed hard to keep him from grinding them.
“Yes, Coach,” Hayden tucked his tail between his legs and settled back.
“New York crowd’s gonna be rowdy with Hunter’s news. Extra security at the Garden too. Buncha gay bullshit,” Theriault snapped the gum. “No offense, Hollander,” he added, far too late and aside to mean it.
Their Coach was not a warm man. Shane didn’t expect anything different.
“I want you all focused. Tune it out. Fucking stallions at the gate.”
Shane was glad he was not the only one in the dark; Roy lifted his head from the end of the row and voiced the question on his mind.
“What’s up with Hunter?” Roy asked.
“Word is he just got engaged to that dude from The Kiss,” JJ explained and pursed his lips and mimed a few patronizing smooches. “Might be distracted.”
“Mr. and Mr. Hunter, eh?” Mitty guessed.
Eyes turned to Shane to confirm that’s how it all worked. Shane gave a half-hearted shrug. He wasn’t an authority on homosexuality and they couldn’t actually give a shit about Hunter’s personal life sliced any way.
“We’ll be ready, Coach.”
Besides an hour on his language-learning app and an hour on visualization, Shane agonized on the flight over what to say to Scott. He settled on a text when they landed. Basic, not too enthused, but warm enough.
Shane: Hey dude, just heard the news. Congratulations on the engagement!
Hunter wrote back shortly after, his messages arriving on the bus ride moving Montreal’s team at a snail’s pace through start-and-stop gridlock towards Manhattan.
Hunter: Thanks, Hollander. I’m a lucky man.
Shane: Romantically. We’ll see how the hockey goes.
Hunter: Keeping the cup from me would be homophobic.
Shane: I could say the same thing.
Hunter: Yeah but I said it first, rook.
Shane: Yeah but I won it first, old man. Twice.
“Since when do you do cute gay banter with Scott Hunter?” Hayden asked. He had not learned his lessons and had peered over at Shane’s phone screen.
“Are you jealous?”
Hayden clearly was, scrunching his face, sinking into his seat further. “You wanna come over this weekend?”
“Can’t.”
Hayden looked confused for half a second before his face relaxed. “Oh. Is that still going on?” He joked.
“Fuck you,” Shane chuckled.
Hayden just grinned. He loved being a little shit with Shane fucking Hollander.
“What’s a good engagement gift for Hunter?” Shane asked, contemplating it. He had the man’s address. Nothing was stopping him from sending something.
“Those things with the leather,” Hayden gestured the shape of the object he couldn’t remember the name of to jog his memory. “Ass chops, or whatever."
“You know gay guys are just mostly normal, right? I was thinking like a tofu press or a blender or something.”
“Hunter definitely already owns a blender, dude.”
“Yeah well maybe he already has ass-less chaps too.”
“I don’t know! I got married at 20. I was an idiot. I was just stoked to get matching knives in one of those block things,” Hayden glanced his way for a better gauge on Hollander’s mood. “What would you want?”
Shane had everything. By the time he was engaged, retired in his forties, he definitely wouldn’t need anything. He’d be so relieved to be out with Ilya safe he wasn’t sure they’d bother with much of an engagement at all. Rozanov would definitely insist on the parties, but they didn’t need pomp.
Shane shrugged, “I don’t know. Donations to the charity, I guess.”
“Doesn’t he have one too? Hunter?”
“There’s some hockey scholarship thing he promotes, yeah.”
“Then donate to that. Perfect,” Hayden nodded, staring past his best friend to the view off the bridge as they inched closer to the city. “But do it after the game. Give a little less if we lose.”
“We’re not gonna lose.”
“Damn straight,” Hayden held out his fist. Shane bumped it.
The traffic meant a clipped afternoon with barely an hour’s free time at the hotel before they had to head to the ice for practice. Hollander spent it watching Ottawa battle it out with Detroit even if he should have been reading emails or something. His eyes couldn’t help tracking for #81, watching closely to see streaks of him tearing down the ice fast and strong in a home red and black jersey. Ilya shoved out of checks with grimacing frustration, his face in that snarling frown that meant all of him was engaged.
It was still pre-season but Rozanov was playing like a demon.
It was so fucking hot.
His figure on the ice sent Shane's heart racing to root for shots to connect, sharing frustrations when Dillon let them down by reliably losing possession in the neutral zone like it was his specialty.
With seconds left in the second period, Rozanov sprinted down the ice broken away with the puck, swerving past defenders to leave them nearly colliding as he set up his shot. The same from last year, with Miitka, a fake-out backhand: The Rozanov. His kiss-off to the haters, turning him into a blur and the Goalie into a chump. Again.
The shot only he could do. For now.
Fucker.
It was so good and he looked so glorious doing it that Shane realized his dick had tipped from interested to half-hard watching the slow motion replay. He glanced at the time to see he had just enough and didn’t question it, getting his pants down quickly to wrap a hand around himself.
Not everyone was lucky enough to see the person they loved so flawlessly talented on demand. No one else was lucky enough to bed Ilya fucking Rozanov anymore. His cocky crooked smile, his sparkling hazel eyes, his secret tenderness. All of it was Shane’s now. Promised and kept.
In three days, or two and a half, Ilya would speed the Autoroute just to get to him. He’d joke and pretend disinterest and would desperately come undone when their bodies met. Maybe Shane would change the door code just to listen to his boyfriend howl to get in. Maybe if he wore the jock strap Ilya would snap.
Hollander fell away to Shane, to the soul beneath the sweater and the hand tugging moved quick, getting off on the thoughts. That night he’d have it too: Ilya would sit in frame on his phone screen and give him whatever he wanted if he could just find the words to ask.
Shane wanted him mean, as mean as he was on the ice: snarled and shouting at Detroit’s Enforcer, arguing with a ref over the world’s most obvious hooking but stopping just shy of a penalty for Unsportsmanlike Conduct.
Shane wanted to be there in Ottawa in the man’s bed, ass up and ready to receive the frustration of the loss with a hand between his shoulder blades to pin him and take.
He wanted.
He wanted so much.
The whole bar of chocolate this time.
To withhold and be embarrassingly available.
Scrambled eggs and a husband.
Scott Hunter congratulating him on his win in a few hours and a third cup in a few months.
Soft curls between his fingers and the smell of Ilya everywhere.
He missed him; a word that fell so short of the feeling of being cleaved, the pain of incompletion that reared its head every few days. Usually he could keep it behind him, running further and faster away from its pull but when he stopped…
He came silently, managing to catch his load in his hand, splayed over his fingers with one stray drop landing on his boxers. It was enough that they felt soiled. He forgave himself the indignity of a bottom-stripped walk to the bathroom to clean up and change. That’s when he noticed the single tear, bubbling out of the corner of his eye in the strain and the emotion.
Sharks keep swimming. They keep swimming or they die.
He washed his hands and wiped the tear, sparing no extra time lest he catch his own gaze in the mirror.
He could not look himself in the eye right now. Nope. That guy was not ready to go on the ice and so he’d have to stay in the periphery under glass, ideally still in the hotel room entirely. His boyfriend would have to remain where he was too: on the screen and far away slogging it out in a third period.
#24 HOLLANDER had to change and focus and get on the ice to do what he was born to do.
100% effort 100% of the time…or, like, 97% of the time.
At the line of handshakes the next day, sweating hard, Shane wore his biggest grin as clammy Admirals hands slid through his palm in succession until Scott’s finally met his. New York had to be worried. Their once-formidable Goaltender, Eric Bennett, was losing his touch and the Metros had taken full advantage of it. Jalo and Hunter had fought valiantly but fallen short.
“Good game, Hollander,” Scott bowed his head, his handshake real.
“Good game,” Shane bent to bring his face a little closer, “and just so we’re clear…a wedding ring’s gonna be the only one you get this season.”
“I’m sure the Commissioner would love that,” Hunter offered with sarcasm and a quick roll to his eyes but Shane wasn’t clear why. Because Hunter would be losing? Because Shane would be winning?
Why would Crowell give a shit?
“I guess we’ll see,” Scott offered and skated off giving a few last waves to the home crowd.
That night after a fairly thorough wrecking of his own body for Ilya’s eyes via video call, Shane relayed the news and the chirp with pride only for his boyfriend to laugh at him and call him a ‘tiny puppy’ again. As much as it made him blush, Rozanov liked tiny puppies. He loved them, even, like all dogs. It was not exactly an insult.
“I will have to congratulate him when I am in New York,” Ilya sighed, laying back in the frame, slightly sweated and glistening against his satin sheets. “Finally he locks down his cute boyfriend.”
“Well don’t get him a gift. I donated enough to the scholarship thing for the both of us,” Shane let him know.
And that was strange. Intimate. Giving a gift on behalf of them both to one of the rare someones who would know why. Like a wife—fuck, no. Ilya mentally kicked himself for the thought. A husband. A partner.
“You did not have to do that, Shane.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” Shane rolled a little, cutely facing his phone a little straighter on just to make eye contact through the connection. “My thumb slipped,” he lied, “I added a zero by mistake.”
Rozanov sighed but relaxed without complaint, just watching his boyfriend settle. “I will send wedding gift then. From both of us,” Ilya offered.
“Okay.”
Shane would be back in Canada in two short days. And in four thousand, or whatever, they could be the ones getting married. They could get a dog and a cat, and follow through on all the other promises he and Ilya were making.
After several minutes of peaceful staring, Hollander couldn’t help himself.
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he joked flat.
“You’re just alright,” Ilya offered back, just as comedically dry. Cum was still glistening as it dried on his chest, just catching the light. Rozanov felt his heart was full of love so intense that learning to live with it was becoming its greatest burden.
As long as Shane had this in its tidy box at the end of the day, #24 HOLLANDER could have the world.
As long as Ilya had him, he could endure any of the pain.