Work Text:
The video was posted at 5:34 in the morning. By the time Shane got up at 6:15. it was everywhere.
Ilya Rozanov getting the life sucked out of him by some faceless man.
The camera – or probably camera phone – had been propped up in such a way that one had of clear view of Ilya’s head flung backwards on the hotel pillows. His partner took up residence between his spread thighs, and he was doing a decent job of getting a naked – and incredibly sexy – Rozanov off.
But Shane had seen Ilya blissed out before and this was not one of those times.
Unfortunately – or maybe fortunately – the person giving said blowjob had his back to the camera. He was fit. He was muscular. He had short black hair and probably freckles, though that last part Shane couldn’t confirm.
In any case, the resemblance was close enough that when one of the reporters asked what he thought about his rival’s indiscretions, Shane could reply, “I dunno. I thought we looked good in the video.”
Silence met his comment, followed by, “Did you just say ‘we’?”
“Yeah.” A forced, nonchalant shrug. “I mean, obviously, we didn’t want our relationship to be revealed like this, but that’s one of the risks playing hockey that this level, especially in Montreal.”
“So to confirm,” another reporter said slowly, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying the words, “you are the other person in the leaked Ilya Rozanov video?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re bisexual? Gay?”
He was prepared for this question, thanks to Hayden’s instructions from the NHLPA. “This is my workplace. That is inappropriate to ask, and I will not be answering.”
Shane waited for someone to ask him about the inappropriate nature of fucking a coworker, but that question didn’t come.
“Do you care to comment on the nature of your relationship?” a different reporter asked, and who knew the answer to that? Surely not Shane.
Ilya and he exchanged blowjobs the summer before their rookie season. They enjoyed each other’s bodies for years when their schedules allowed, and then life happened. Ilya went back to Russia to help with his ailing father the summer after Shane’s first Stanley Cup win. They texted and even called, but eventually, time, Russian laws, and more than 4,300 miles stopped them from being anything more than long-distance friends.
Two years passed, and then Ilya came roaring back to North America. He signed with the Ottawa Centaurs – Shane’s hometown team, located less than two hours away from Montreal – right after Shane got together with Rose Landry.
That was three months ago, and Shane hadn’t been sure what to do about anything at the time. Ilya was photographed with women in every MHL city – New York, Boston, hell – even Winnipeg. It was across all social media channels and even highlighted in Page Six.
“From Sea to Shining Sea – Rozanov’s Sexual Exploits Are Back & Better Than Ever.”
Long-ass title but whatever.
So Shane just felt stupid texting his one-time hookup, “Hey. Want to suck each other’s dicks again? I’ve only been with two other guys, and both sucked compared to you. Or maybe you just want to watch a movie and cuddle? I don’t care. Just want to see you off the ice.”
But he wasn’t going to say all that to the reporter.
Instead, he lied as Farah instructed him to do. “He’s my fiancé. We’ve been together on and off since our rookie season. I won’t be saying anything else about our relationship for now. Please respect our privacy – y’know, as best as you can.”
After all, there was a video out there showing the world just how hot Ilya Rozanov was.
He assumed a text at the very least. He thought maybe a call. What he didn’t expect was the person in question standing outside his penthouse door prior to their matchup later that day.
“We’re engaged, Hollander? How does your girlfriend feel about that?”
Shane sighed. Did Rozanov have to look so fucking hot in a black leather jacket, henley shirt, and jeans? His necklace glimmered just around the collar, stealing Shane’s gaze and showcasing that incredibly defined chest. His hat, unfortunately, captured most of his curls, but those peaking out of the bottom teased Shane’s fingers.
Shane held his house keys in his hand. “Not as bad as the roster of women who probably will need to form a support group now that they won’t have access to your dick.”
“Is that what you did?” Ilya fired back, a smile teasing the edge of his lips.
Shane snorted. “I ran the meetings. We drank cokes and sobbed for the full hour about how perfect your six-inch dick is.”
“It’s nine!”
“Liar told me that.”
Ilya didn’t have a retort, though he did give Shane one of his full-blown, full-sunshine smiles.
Shane wordlessly invited Ilya into his home and pointedly ignored all the times he tore off Ilya’s shirt and led him upstairs with his mouth.
Ilya took up residence at the breakfast bar, sans his toque and jacket, while Shane pulled out his secret weapon – the cokes he had been stockpiling. He put them on the counter and went to work on lunch.
“So what is your plan, Hollander?” Ilya all but accused. “We marry, and Rose Landry is okay with being side piece for you?”
Marriages were supposedly based on honesty. “I’m not with Rose.”
“Really?” Ilya sounded genuinely surprised. “You went to her movie premiere last week.”
Shane cocked a flirty smile over his shoulder. “You stalking me, Rozanov?”
“Only from behind.” Ilya stared directly at Shane’s ass, trapped in the criminally tight jeans he wore on purpose.
Shane stifled his laugh. “Rose didn’t want to find a new date and have all the paps go crazy over her new boyfriend so soon after she was with me.”
“Okay,” Ilya seemed to say to himself, more than to Shane. “So – what? We marry, and you make honest Canadian out of me?”
Shane brought two plates over to the breakfast bar. To be closer to Ilya? To show him what he was making? Maybe both. “Something like that.”
“Shane.”
Shane’s hands shook; he kept his gaze on the Tupperware container he was opening. “You can’t go back to Russia now, and you definitely haven’t been here long enough to apply for permanent residency. That means you’re on a work visa. You know some assholes in the MHL will want to force you back into the closet or find some way to eject you from the league. If it’s the second option, then you may not be able to stay.”
“So you are willing to marry me.” A statement, dry and transactional. Good intentions.
Well, good intentions paved the pathway hell. Been there, done that.
“I lost you once.” To Russia. To an ailing father. To women and KHL hockey. “I don’t want to lose you again, so if I have to marry you to keep you here, then I’ll do it.”
Shane ventured a glance up and found Ilya’s narrowed eyes watching him, scrutinizing him.
“I can marry Svetlana,” Ilya finally said, eyes softening, hands cradling the coke can in front of him. “She would do it, and I could become American.”
Shane’s heart sank. Of course, Ilya wouldn’t want to marry him. Of course, he’d rather be with someone he’d known since childhood. Of course, he’d probably want children, and though adopting or surrogate would be something in Shane’s future, it didn’t necessarily need to be in Ilya’s.
“Do-Do you want to do that?” Shane managed to ask. Perhaps second chances didn’t happen in real life. “I’m sure Boston would love to have you back, and Marly is still – ”
“What are you making?” Ilya asked, his question so abrupt that Shane had to blink.
He glanced down at the twin sandwiches in front of him. They were blurry from the tears in his eyes. “They are, uh, tuna melts. I know you like them.”
Shane couldn’t find the bravery to meet Ilya’s gaze now. Years ago, before Ilya went back to Russia, they met at Ilya’s penthouse in Boston and later, at his home near the practice facility. One of their final hookups, Ilya made them tuna melts before they said each other’s names during a charged moment of release.
They had ended up kissing and cuddling on the couch for hours, and it felt like something evolved in their relationship. Like maybe, possibly, they could actually be something more than just stolen hours before and after games. Maybe they could have lazy summer mornings and dinners in restaurants and Instagram stories. Maybe they could be “Shane and Ilya” and not “Hollander and Rozanov.”
But then Ilya went back to Russia to help take care of his father and Shane endured two years of cold beds and empty releases.
The stool scraped along the ground as Ilya stood and came around the kitchen counter. A soft but determined hand gripped Shane’s chin and raised it until he was looking into Ilya’s eyes. They were glistening with unshed tears, too.
Ilya then seized Shane’s lips in a fiery, desperate embrace.
A fork clattered to the counter in the mostly silent kitchen as Shane’s hands reached up. His fingers finally indulged, dipping into Ilya’s curls and tugging him closer.
Ilya made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a whimper, and then his hand slipped from Shane’s chin. Both hands went down Shane’s backside, squeezing briefly, before finding purchase under his thighs. A quick heave lifted Shane up onto the counter, and they both ignored the clinking of plates and Tupperware as the tuna melts were pushed to the side.
Ilya fit between Shane’s open thighs, and Shane somehow had enough wherewithal to mutter against Ilya’s lips. “Do you want to stay here? With me?”
Ilya’s hand never stopped moving, sliding across Shane’s hips and under his shirt to touch warm skin. His eyes were serious, even if his words were soft confessions, “I don’t want fake marriage. I want rings. I want wedding. I want to meet your parents and go to Sunday dinners and see what your freckles look like in the summer.” Ilya’s knuckles caressed the curve of Shane’s cheek. “I want to leave our clothes in our guest bedroom and fight over who folds them. I want to make fun of your terrible proteins shakes in the morning and your quinoa at night, and I want to fall asleep next to you and do it all over again tomorrow.”
He pressed gentle kisses to Shane’s lips, his eyelids, his cheeks, his neck, his collarbone. “I want real marriage with you, Shane Hollander, or no marriage at all.”
Shane knew he should be on one knee for this, but he couldn’t wait one more second. He reached into his sweatshirt pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.
A ring box.
“I was thinking a July wedding. Or did you want it to do over the All-Star Break?”
The expression of absolute joy that enveloped Ilya’s face overwhelmed Shane, and he lunged forward to capture his would-be fiancé’s lips again. The kiss was wet with tears on their cheeks, and their lips didn’t quite connect as usual since they were both smiling. But it was one of the best kisses they ever shared.
Shane had been the one to initiate the embrace, so he pulled back. “Um…so…is that yes? Or do you need to think about it? Or should I do it with candles and – ”
Another kiss, shorter but more tender. Savoring. “I need nothing but you.” Ilya caressed his cheek again. “Yes, Shane Hollander, I will real-marry you – in July or over All-Star Break.”
Shane couldn’t stop the wide smile from splitting his lips.
“You know he’s going to come out and say he was with me,” Ilya said sometime later, lying in Shane’s bed, their clothes thrown about the room, the sheets tangled about them. “He’s going to say it wasn’t you.”
Shane shrugged, resting his head on Ilya’s shoulder. “So?”
“So reporters will ask you about it. Some will look at it and say you have different muscles or longer hair.”
“So I’ll tell them the truth.”
Two Days Later
“Shane, an Instagram user Joshua Tremblay said he was the one in the leaked video with Ilya Rozanov, not you. Do you have any comment?”
Standing in his locker, dressed in a post-workout shirt and pants, Shane shrugged at the reporter’s question. “I’m not sure why anyone would want to take credit for that sex video. It wasn’t the best. Ilya doesn’t appear to be enjoying it as much as usual.” He sighed. “I dunno. Weird flex.”
A collective chuckle sounded across reporters. Another perked up. “How do your parents feel about this?”
“Oh, so proud,” Shane replied, dry. “My dad showed it to everyone at the Treasury Board.”
Another chuckle.
“That’s new.” A reporter pointed to the ring now hanging from a chain around Shane’s neck. “You weren’t wearing it the other day.”
Shane shrugged. “Your point?”
“I think Ilya Rozanov was caught with his pants down – literally – and won’t be able to return to Russia. The guy in the video looks enough like you that it can act as proof of your and Rozanov’s relationship with the IRCC, so you’re taking credit. And now you’re going to marry Rozanov to help him stay here.”
The reporter’s expression was smug, like he’d figured everything out before his coworkers. Now, he just wanted Shane to admit he and Ilya weren’t together when the video dropped.
Like Shane would just admit that in front of a handful of reporters and their cameras.
“You think I’d be willing to marry a guy who eats McGriddles for breakfast and smokes before bed and always makes my smoothies wrong – just to help him stay here, so he can do all that for the next fifty years or so? I’m not that good of a friend. Ask Hayden.” He allowed the chuckles to die down again before asking, “Any other questions?”
Perhaps they were too stunned to ask, so the director of communications ended the interview. Unfortunately, Theriault called him into his office just as he was heading out.
Some of the guys weren’t happy with Shane’s choice of fiancé. Human resources gave him a quasi-lecture about privacy and how best to prevent another hack in the future. Even Jeff, the president of the hockey operations, put out a press release supporting Shane and Ilya since “hockey is for everyone,” but privately took Shane aside and told him he could “do better.” In fact, his nephew was around Shane’s age, and he was gay, too.
Actually, Jeff’s nephew was pansexual, he clarified, but he didn’t see the difference. (Shane fought the urge to roll his eyes then.)
But throughout it all, Coach Theriault had remained quiet.
He was a “good ol’ boy,” a member of the old school, so Shane was ready for him to ream him out for falling in love with a rival, maybe even a man, if Theriault really was homophobic.
Shane took a deep, cleansing breath as his coach watched him with narrowed, judgmental eyes. “I’ve watched you throughout your entire MHL career, Hollander,” Theriault began, “so I know you’re more built than whoever was in that video with Rozanov.”
Shane wasn’t sure if he should have been horrified that Theriault watched the video or flattered that he could tell it wasn’t Shane.
“I won’t ask if Rozanov cheated on you. That’s not my place, and HR would probably have my hide.”
Shane wasn’t sure what to say, so he remained silent and waited to hear what Theriault needed to get off his chest.
“I will say that if my fiancé was in a sex video with someone other than me, he fucking wouldn’t be fiancé anymore, and you don’t look like me, Hollander. I’m sure you can find some nice man in Montreal who fits your type.”
Was Theriault telling him to stand up for himself and dump Ilya?
“But if on the off chance my fiancé and I were maybe taking a break and I forgave him…” Theriault hesitated now, clearly uncomfortable. He resituated his collar. “I would want to play with him. On a winning team. I definitely wouldn’t want to go to a losing team like Ottawa, so maybe I would talk to the GM. See if maybe he would be willing to trade for my fiancé.
“Maybe.”
Shane blinked. “Sir, are you…asking if Ilya would be willing to come here?”
“Absolutely not. I would never undermine our GM.” Theriault cleared his throat. “I’m just saying Rozanov is a good player. We’re in need of a second-line center, and it would be a real shame if you signed in the offseason with Ottawa. They’re doing well, but we are the reigning Stanley Cup champions. Don’t you think Rozanov would rather come here than you go there?”
Shane hadn’t thought staying in Montreal had been a realistic option, not if he wanted to be with Ilya, and Ottawa seemed like kismet to Shane. His fiancé signed with Shane’s hometown team, and he lived less than two miles from Shane’s parents. The team was rebuilding, sure, but Ilya loved his new teammates, even the one-time asshole Troy Barret.
But to stay in Montreal, with the team Shane helped build, with Hayden and J.J. and the fans who loved him…
“I, uh, talk it over with Ilya, sir.”
“You do that. Oh, and Hollander?”
Shane stopped at the door and glanced back at his coach.
“Jeff’s right. You could do better.”
And that was it. Montreal was once more off the table.
“He’s it for me, sir,” Shane replied, maybe sharper than he should have been. “If you really think differently, then you don’t know me at all.”
Theriault swore. “You’re going to fucking Ottawa.”
It wasn’t a question, so Shane didn’t answer. But he was excited to move back to Ottawa. He got a second chance at love, and he wasn’t going to let anything ruin it.
Fin