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One
“This is a disaster,” Shane whispers desperately into the speaker. “I know you said he’s a nice guy but seriously, Rose, he’s not stopped talking about himself and his ex-wife for the last ninety minutes and I don’t know how to get him to stop.”
There’s a long few seconds of silence that has Shane pulling back to look at the handheld receiver. Maybe it was broken? He’s not used a payphone in a couple of years, but had left his mobile back at the table in his hasty retreat to the bathroom.
There’s a low, amused chuckle and shit that’s not Rose.
Shane’d thought he’d known her number off by heart. He’d just wanted a minute of peace, sick of hearing his date ramble on about himself with barely a pause for breath. He’d wanted confirmation that he isn’t crazy, that this isn’t normal. The payphone had just been fortuitous in the corner on the way to the bathroom, as had the spare change in his pocket.
“You are encouraging him?” the voice asks and it’s deeply masculine, heavily accented with something slavic - Russian, maybe?
“I mean, I wouldn’t say encouraging but I’m asking questions, yeah. It’s the polite thing to do,” Shane replies automatically, and only after does he realise maybe he shouldn’t be sharing this with a stranger.
“Mm,” there’s distinct judgement in the one quiet hum, “You cannot be honest? Tell him ‘no, this is boring. You are boring me’.”
“I mean, it’s not boring,” Shane lies helplessly. It’s so dreadfully dull, but it’d be interesting to someone else, he’s sure. Maybe to his date’s ex-wife?
“You are terrible liar.” Amusement overwrites the previous judgement. “Can you not leave? You are not with him now, yes?”
“That’d be rude… and I left my phone at the table,” Shane admits quietly, and gets a low laugh in turn. “I don’t really want to lose it, not over this.”
“Mm, is tricky,” the stranger agrees. “You have finished meal?”
“Yeah?”
“Then you find waiter on way back to table, ask for bill. Say is urgent, if you can lie that much. Pay. Leave. Easy.”
“I-” Shane sighs, but leans so he can see the main set of tables. His date is still there, glancing around impatiently and he’d feel a little bad if he hadn’t felt so impatient himself for the last hour to be over so quickly. “Okay,” he agrees.
“Okay,” the man repeats. “Bye.”
“Wait-” the dial tone cuts him off and Shane pulls the receiver back to look at it again in disbelief.
He catches a waiter as they pass him on the way to the kitchen, asks for the cheque and hurries back to the table. He’s not been gone that long, and his date doesn’t seem to think anything is particularly suspicious as he sits again, as the waiter is mercifully quick in bringing over the cheque.
His date blinks at him expectantly and kills off any last lingering opportunity of anything further happening between them. Shane pays anyway, will do whatever he can to cut the rest of this as short as possible, wonders what the mystery voice would have said to that.
Not that it matters, he reminds himself. The chances of them ever speaking again are next to impossible.
Two
“Rose, seriously, there is mould growing on the soap in the bathroom. Mould,” Shane hisses into the landline as she answers the phone. “He’s rich enough to be able to pay for a cleaning service, right?”
“I hope this is not same date as before,” the low, amused hum has Shane squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment. “Very poor judgement, if so.”
“Fuck you,” he mutters automatically, “It’s not.”
“Mm, okay,” the voice doesn’t seem to believe him, but before Shane can argue his case he gets a, “so, you are at his house?”
“He said he had some historical memorabilia in his trophy room I should see,” Shane defends himself, “I thought it’d be good for the club.”
“I assume also something to talk about other than an ex-wife,” the voice drawls and Shane can’t stop a reluctant laugh. “But maybe he needs wife, to keep - what was it? - mould from soap.”
“I literally think I’ll be sick,” Shane groans, stomach churning. He never should’ve agreed to a first date at someone else’s house. But this guy had seemed better than his previous attempt, Rose promising he’d be a much better match, has more similar hobbies and no ex-wives.
The voice laughs softly, “You are on landline?”
“How-”
“How I know? You would have number for Rose on your phone, so must not be using it. If at his house, I assume hiding again, this time with his phone? But if is house phone he may have another, could be listening in, you should go quick.”
“Fuck,” Shane hadn’t even thought of that. “I don’t-”
“Is okay,” the voice soothes gently, and Shane feels it pulse through him gently like a wave, eases the tension tightening his shoulders. “He is friend of your Rose, no? Cannot be that bad, if you also are trusting her to find you another date with this one. Well, hygiene aside. You have eaten?”
“I- no. We were gonna do takeout.”
“Mm, saves risking kitchen cleanliness,” the voice sounds approving, “Just get through food then go.”
“But… the memorabilia…” William’s promised him he’s got a few old jerseys and posters that are nigh on impossible to find nowadays, and Shane wants to see if he can get them for the office, or at least some kind of hall in the arena.
“Is really that important? Then ask to see before food. Order now, see while wait, eat, go.”
“I- fuck. Okay.”
“Okay.” There’s a loud voice muffled in the background. The voice sounds again but also muffled, as if he’s put a hand over the speaker, before it returns briefly, “I must go. Bye.”
The dial tone rings once more and Shane places the handset as quietly as he can back in the receiver.
Fuck. What are the chances?
Three
The third time is on purpose, as Shane ducks into the private restroom and lifts his phone to his ear a week later.
He’s figured out what he’d done - transposed the last two figures of Rose’s phone number, so what should have been an 18 he’d put in as 81.
Fuck, maybe he shouldn’t be calling at all. But the voice had talked him down nicely the last two awful dates, and Rose is on a late-night shoot and he can’t disturb her.
“Rozanov,” the man answers in a drawl and something in Shane immediately settles with the familiar voice in his ear.
“I- he wants me to fuck him,” Shane launches into his issue without so much as a hello, realises he should’ve said that and flushes.
Before he can correct himself though he’s getting a low considering hum, “You do not want to? ‘No’ is complete sentence.”
“I- it’s not that I don’t want to at all. I just… topping isn’t my thing,” Shane admits quietly, plucking at his trousers.
“Ah,” the voice is loaded with understanding. “And he is not a switch?”
“I think he might be even more of a bottom than me,” Shane admits. His date is stunning, almost ethereal in his beauty, but he’s clearly happy fulfilling a few stereotypes when it comes to being a slight, effeminate gay guy. And there’s nothing wrong with that at all, but that’s not what Shane wants in the bedroom.
A low laugh bleeds into another hum. “So blow him. Or use your hand. Many other ways to get off without penetration.”
“I know that,” Shane huffs. “I just- it’s only our first date. Isn’t it a little soon?”
“Not if you both want it,” the voice - Rozanov - sounds entirely reasonable. “Lots of people fuck without even going on date.”
“I mean, yeah, I know that too. But isn’t it kind of… I don’t know. I just- I’d rather know who I’m going to bed with, you know?”
“Mm, is not my style,” Rozanov responds, “But this is your third date in three weeks, so I assume you are looking for someone you can eventually sleep with. Why not test tyres early, make sure you are sexually… ah, what is word? Comparable? No.”
“Compatible.”
“Yes. Compatible.”
“I don’t know,” Shane hesitates. “Maybe.”
“You can say no at any point,” Rozanov reminds him. “Can always change your mind. Any good partner will stop.”
“... Yeah,” Shane thinks it through, realises he’s right. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Mm, you are welcome. This is your number? Text me later, let me know how it goes. If you need emergency saving, I am just a call away.”
“Thanks,” Shane feels a little lighter, knowing there is support so close even from a random stranger on the phone. “Um, Rozanov, was it?”
“You can call me Ilya.” Ilya sounds softly amused. “What is your name? Cannot keep calling you gay date crisis man in my head.”
“Fuck you, I’m not that bad,” Shane retorts. “I’m Shane.”
“Okay, Shane. Bye.”
The phone beeps with the call ended notification before Shane can return the goodbye, and he shakes his head with a weird swell of fondness.
Before he goes back into the restaurant, though, he saves the number in his phone.
22:44 | To: Ilya Rozanov
No
22:46 | From: Ilya Rozanov
his loss
When is next date? Need to keep evening free for more crisis calls
22:48 | To: Ilya Rozanov
fuck you
No more blind dates for me for a while I think
22:52 | From: Ilya Rozanov
shame
will be here if that changes
Four
His phone buzzes with a call in his hand and Shane lifts it in apologetic explanation to Rose, Miles and the guy who’s been flirting with him as he ducks out of the VIP area of the club, down the stairs and into the quiet alley at the back.
“Another crisis?” Ilya asks him as he answers. There’s a loud thumping in the background, quickly muffled.
“No. I’m- we’re out at a club,” Shane replies, tucking one hand in his pockets. It’s cold outside in comparison. “There’s this guy.”
“You are interested?”
“I mean, yeah,” Shane admits. “He’s been hitting on me all night and I don’t know. I’m lonely. I just… none of the dates have worked out, and I’ve been thinking about what you said, about testing whether you’re sexually compatible earlier on. It makes sense, really.”
“It can,” Ilya agrees. “But do not feel like you have to. I have been thinking about what you have said too. I do not date. I fuck, and enjoy myself, but I am lonely too. Maybe I should find a date. Who does not have ex-wife he is still obsessed with,” he adds dryly and a laugh is pulled from Shane’s chest.
“I mean, I’m not sure I can exactly recommend dating with my recent history,” Shane offers dryly, and gets a laugh back. “But maybe the men are better where you are. Where are you, by the way?”
“Montreal,” Ilya replies and a mix of excitement and nerves runs through Shane.
“Small world,” he murmurs, “Me too.”
“Ah, so I will have little luck with dating, then,” Ilya sounds mock-mournful. “Glad I have you to warn me.”
Shane laughs, “Asshole. Maybe you can try dating, though, and I’ll try a one-night stand, or something.”
“Mm, sounds like a challenge,” Ilya sounds almost excited. “What do I get if I win?”
“I mean, a nice date?” Shane replies, but he can feel the grin on his face. “It’s not exactly a competition.”
“Boo, so boring,” Ilya teases softly, but Shane can hear him smiling down the phone anyway. “But okay. I will see if I can find someone who cares about how clean I keep my house, and you can see if you can find someone you want to top you without a terrible date first.”
“Okay. It’s a deal,” Shane agrees. “I should go, then, I guess.”
“Okay. Bye, Shane.”
“Bye, Ilya.”
Shane hangs up, and realises it’s the first time he’s not been cut off and has actually been able to say goodbye. He tucks his phone into his pocket and heads back into the club, smiling.
00:03 | To: Ilya Rozanov
He’d left by the time I got back
00:10 | From: Ilya Rozanov
I’m sorry
He did not deserve you
Maybe next time
Five
“That was terrible,” Ilya complains down the phone and Shane laughs from where he’s lazing on his sofa, hockey game on in the background. “Why did you make me do this?”
“I didn’t make you do anything!” Shane disagrees indignantly. “You’re the one that set out the parameters of the challenge.”
“Fuck you,” Ilya groans. “Ugh, men are so terrible. Maybe I should try dating a woman, next.”
“Oh,” Shane blinks, brain tripping over itself. “I, um, I didn’t realise.”
“I like both,” Ilya says, but there’s something distinctly wary in his tone now. “I am bisexual.”
“Right,” Shane nods, “Sorry. I, um, that’s nice?”
He gets a snort and flushes at his own awkwardness. “It can be,” Ilya agrees, and Shane’s relieved as he skates over Shane’s inability to not put his foot in his mouth.
“I’m, um, fully gay.”
Another snort, and a dry, “I assumed.”
“You’re such a dick,” Shane knows he sounds too fond. “What was so terrible, anyway, about your date?”
“He was so rude,” Ilya complains, “Snapped his fingers at the waitress like some sort of dog. I would not even treat my Anya that way. He kept asking me to repeat myself, as if he could not understand my accent, and corrected my grammar. I know is not perfect, but English is a stupid fucking language anyway. He could not even speak a second language, who is he to judge?”
“I’m sorry. He sounds fucking awful,” Shane murmurs softly. “English is a stupid language. It’s my first, but I speak French, too, so I know how hard it can be. He’s a dick.”
Ilya sighs, “He was. Thank you.”
Shane’s distracted as the Metros score on TV, a tidy little slapshot from their centre and he can’t stop a quiet cheer.
“What are you watching?” Ilya’s voice pulls him back to their phone call.
“Oh, the hockey,” he admits. “Montreal against New York.”
“You are hockey fan?”
“Yeah,” Shane remembers that Ilya doesn’t know who he is, and so can’t know that he’s the owner of the Montreal Metros. “Yeah, Metros for life. Are you?”
“Mm, yes. But my best friend is engaged to a Boston player,” Ilya sounds almost apologetic, “so they are my team. Much better than the Metros anyway.”
“Fuck off!” Shane laughs, “Boston barely made it to the playoffs this year. The Metros are a legacy team, we’ve got one of the highest win records in the entire league.”
“Mm, they have been doing well the last couple of seasons,” Ilya concedes, and Shane gets a little thrill at the compliment, even if Ilya doesn’t know that’s what he’s doing.
Shane had bought out ownership of the club three years or so ago, and has been making strides in improving the organisation as a whole. He’s introduced sweeping reforms, made it much more inclusive, from the executive team down to the janitors and the players. He’s insisted on trades where old legacy players fuelling the shitty toxic masculinity of the sport have gone, introducing new, fresh blood who fit better, and although they’d had a rough start they’ve been steadily improving since.
“They have,” Shane agrees. “Better than Boston anyway.”
Ilya laughs again and Shane closes his eyes, savours the sound.
“Well, I am home,” Ilya murmurs, as the sound of him thanking the car driver follows the noise of a car door shutting. “I will leave you to your evening.”
“I am sorry your date didn’t work out. Goodnight, Ilya.”
“Goodnight, Shane.”
Six
21:12 | To: Ilya Rozanov
Fuck men. Fuck all of this.
“Shane? What is wrong?”
Shane sighs, frustration bubbling up in him. He can’t quite speak yet, else he’ll just scream.
“Shane? Please. Where are you? Do you need help?”
“No. No. Sorry, Ilya. I’m fine. I promise. I just…” Shane sighs, presses a hand to his eyes, takes a deep breath. “Bad date.”
“Ah, I’m sorry,” Ilya’s voice is soft, soothing, conciliatory. “You want to talk?”
“I just… I’ve worked so fucking hard to get where I am. Do you know how many guys like me get to my position? Literally just me, right now. And I know that some of that is due to luck, that I’ve been insanely lucky to have my parents and everything support me the way they have.
“But this fucking- the guy suggested that I was some kind of DEI hire, like I’m not where I am off my own merit. Do you know how shit that feels?”
“A little,” Ilya replies softly, and Shane stops in his tracks, sits on his sofa with a deflated sigh. “Have often had similar comments, when people hear my accent and realise I am foreign. I worked very hard to build my business, but had many people say similar stupid things on way.”
“I’m sorry, Ilya,” Shane murmurs. “You didn’t deserve that.”
“Neither do you,” Ilya replies simply. “But we will show them. We will continue to be best, until they cannot deny it is us, our effort and intelligence that has made success, no matter what they think.”
“Yeah,” Shane agrees, a little buoyed by the reassurance. “Thanks.”
“Of course. You are okay, for now? I was in meeting, need to get back.”
“Shit, sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. I- you didn’t have to answer-”
“I did,” Ilya cuts him off softly, and Shane’s heart pounds. There’s a voice in the background, and Ilya offers a quick, “bye” before the call ends.
Seven
Shane sighs as he tugs at his bow tie. He hates these things, hates the pomp and ceremony and false compliments tossed around. Even if it is for a good cause, tonight’s gala supporting several of the regional mental health charities, Shane often wishes he could just make a donation and have that be the end of it.
The dinner at least had been decent, the food good and the speeches all mercifully short and concise. Shane figures he’s maybe only got to show his face for another twenty minutes or so, greet two or three more people he’s recognised but hasn’t had the chance to speak to, and then he can make his escape.
The person waiting at the bar in front of him collects her drinks and he makes way for her with a brief smile before stepping into the gap. He orders a ginger ale, smiles blandly back at the flirtatious one the bartender offers.
His eyes travel down the bartop as he waits for his drink, and his breath catches as his eyes land on the most beautiful man he thinks he’s ever seen, standing on the other side of the bar as it curves around the edge of the room.
The man is leaning against the bartop, gaze casually scanning the crowd in the room. He looks calm, undisturbed; graceful fingers wrapped around a crystal glass of some clear spirit over ice. Golden curls are neatly slicked back from strong cheekbones and a sharp jawline, a crooked nose adding interest to his profile.
He looks like he’s perusing the crowd for the best vintage, as though he’s looking for someone but won’t just settle for anyone. Shane thinks he wouldn’t want to be just anyone, but to have someone like this choose him? There’s something in the idea that sets arousal blooming from his gut.
Hazel eyes turn to the bar, scan down, meet Shane’s gaze. Heat floods through him as interest spreads obviously across the man’s face, as thick lips press into the glass as he takes a sip of his drink, a seductive smirk curling up one edge of his mouth as Shane watches.
Shane’s line of sight is broken as the bartender sets down his ginger ale and he thanks him absently. Disappointment fills him as the edge of the bar is now empty, the space where the man had been quickly filled by someone else, and he wonders if he’d just imagined the look.
His phone buzzes in his pocket and he digs it out, answers immediately as he sees Ilya on the caller ID.
“Hey, Ilya.” Even as he answers Shane turns, scans the crowd, but the blond curls have disappeared. The crowd is thick enough that Shane hopes he’ll reappear soon.
“How do you ask someone on a date?” Ilya demands.
“I, uh, I don’t know,” Shane replies, bewildered. He squeezes through a couple behind him, mouthing apologies, and finds a quiet spot by the wall. “I mean, you’ve done it before, right? With the rude guy?”
“He was not nearly as pretty as this man,” Ilya dismisses. “Fuck, Shane. I think you would understand if you saw him. Is like a whole other… game?”
“Ball game,” Shane amends gently. “I don’t know. What’s he doing now? Is he alone?”
“I do not know.”
“Ilya. Are you hiding?” Shane asks incredulously, trying not to laugh at the role reversal of Ilya calling from a bathroom or similar for once.
“I am not hiding,” Ilya mutters petulantly. “Just… gathering my thoughts.”
Shane huffs a soft little laugh. “Look, I don’t know whether he’ll say yes or not, but the easiest thing would probably be to just go up to him and ask?”
“That is so boring,” Ilya groans. “But fine. Fine. I will try. Fuck.”
“If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one who’s attempting the challenge tonight,” Shane adds, though it seems less and less likely as the gold curls still fail to reappear.
“Shane, you do not have to,” Ilya says seriously. “I know it was a fun challenge, but you deserve everything you want.”
“So do you, Ilya. And trust me, I’ve seen someone I want.”
A low, almost startled laugh echoes down the line and Shane grins. “I’ll let you know how it goes in the morning.”
“Okay,” Ilya agrees.
“Good luck,” Shane murmurs softly.
He gets a hum and the call ends without a goodbye. Shane rolls his eyes, but tucks it back in his pocket and sips his ginger ale as he scans the room again.
He blinks as golden curls reappear out of nowhere, hazel eyes catching his and not letting go as the man approaches; long, lean limbs tailored to perfection in an inky black suit. His bow tie is open and dangling down, top couple of shirt buttons open to show a gold chain hanging around his neck.
God but he’s stunning, and Shane’s relieved as he approaches, straightens a little, tries to offer a seductive smile in welcome.
“Will you date me?” the man asks brusquely, almost sullenly, as he enters Shane’s space, gaze almost defiant.
Shane blinks, the blunt question throwing him for a loop, and it takes him a second to recognise the voice, somehow even more deep and warm in real life.
His brain ticks over, stutters, reboots, and he can’t stop a quiet laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
“Fuck,” Ilya mutters, starts to turn away, frown furrowing his brows.
“Ilya, no,” Shane reaches out to catch his jacket sleeve, laughter coming freely now.
Ilya freezes, turns back to Shane with widening eyes.
“Fuck. Shane?”
“Yeah,” Shane’s glad for the wall holding him upright as the laughter continues. “Fuck. Ilya. What kind of question was that?”
“You said to just ask!” Ilya retorts petulantly.
Shane can’t help himself, he adjusts his grip to press a hand to Ilya’s arm, warm and solid and real.
“Yeah, but maybe don’t look like you’re being held at gunpoint while you do so,” he suggests, grin still pulling at his cheeks so hard they almost hurt. He shakes his head fondly. “I thought you were good at speaking to people.”
“I am!” Ilya protests hotly. “But not all of them are as pretty as you,” he adds with a sly curl to his lips, and Shane blushes as the heat enters his eyes again. It feels like it almost pins him in place as his chest goes a little tight. “Made me stupid.”
Shane shakes his head, sips his drink again to wet his suddenly dry mouth.
“Ah, but I am interrupting,” Ilya suddenly looks stricken, looks around the room beyond the two of them. “You had your eye on someone, yes? I am in the way.”
“No, Ilya,” Shane’s hand clamps down on his forearm, doesn’t want to let him go now he’s here.
“But-” Ilya pauses, and his eyes widen again. “Me?”
“You,” Shane agrees, heart pounding in his chest.
A wicked grin blooms across Ilya’s face as he takes half-a-step forward, eyes darkening as if he’d pin Shane against the wall and fuck him right there. The want roars up in Shane with a vengeance, not sure what his own face is doing as he watches Ilya watch him.
“Then I will fulfill your challenge, if you fulfill mine?” he offers lowly, and Shane’s nodding before consciously telling his brain to.
They attempt to make their escape, are thwarted by the hostess of the gala who catches Shane as they cut their way across the room.
He’s dragged into conversation for a good ten minutes, but it’s not all bad. He gets to learn that Ilya’s a local distillery owner, who focuses on making local vodka and has an excellent apprenticeship training programme, particularly for anyone with neurodivergence or disabilities, which is how he’d had the invitation for tonight.
He gets to see the way Ilya blinks in surprise when Shane’s outed as the owner of the Metros, the soft laugh and shake of his head as if he’d been disappointed in himself for not working it out beforehand.
It’s not much longer until they can make their escape, and Shane happily follows Ilya as he hails a cab and by silent agreement head back to Ilya’s apartment, solely because it’s closer than Shane’s.
Eight
“Mm, yes?” Sleep clings to Ilya’s voice as he answers the phone.
“So I think I won our challenge,” Shane says smugly, standing in the doorframe of Ilya’s bedroom. He's just come back from the bathroom, thankfully no mould on the soaps here - just an appropriately clean home.
Ilya rolls over from where he’s been splayed on the mattress, dark pink lines scored down his spine. His chest is just as bad, blooming bruises across his chest and a sharp bite mark on one shoulder. It's possibly the most beautiful thing Shane's ever seen, even as his cheeks heat from the memories of exactly how Ilya had fucked him so well he hadn't been able to hold back.
“You want a prize?” Ilya snarks back, eyes dark as he takes in Shane, voice husky as his body stirs.
“Maybe. What are you offering?”
“A date,” Ilya grins, strokes a hand down his chest as if in invitation, props himself up on his elbow as Shane steps over to the bed.
“Hmm, tempting," Shane teases. "Nothing more than that?” Shane asks as he ends the call and props one knee on the bed, blood rushing to his dick.
“Well,” Ilya throws his own phone to one side, reaches forward to pull Shane over him, rolls them both over until he’s pinned under all that muscle on the bed. “I could fuck you again,” he whispers and Shane groans, presses his hips up for friction as blood rushes to his dick. “Or use my mouth,” Ilya continues, presses hot kisses down his neck, “You liked that a lot last night, I think.”
“Fuck, Ilya,” Shane groans, parts his legs to give Ilya better access. “I want it all.”
“Then you’ll have it,” Ilya says simply. “Whatever you want from me, Shane, I will give.”
“Same here,” Shane murmurs back softly, and gets a grin and a hot kiss in return, wiping all thoughts but Ilya from his head and, he’s pretty sure, his heart.