I started cooking at this idea, please tell me if I have something. Might be a slightly different take but I do what I want
“So what’s he like?” Yuna asked as they walked back to the car.
Shane bit his cheek to stop the smile that threatened and stuffed his hand in his pocket.
He spotted Rozanov outside the arena, took a deep breath and walked over.
“Ilya Rozanov? I’m Shane Hollander.” He offered his hand like you were supposed to. Rozanov regarded him suspiciously, as if they both hadn’t been watching each other skate all week. He took his hand, and Shane held it a second too long. His hand was warm and rough, calloused from a lifetime of stick handling. The heat from his hand seemed to fill Shane even after he dropped his hand.
“You’re a great player,” Shane said, trying to get this one sided conversation back on track.
“Yes,” Rozanov said, still eyeing him. Shane felt like he was being examined closely, like Rozanov was looking at every stray hair, every freckle. Then he surprised Shane by continuing. “You are as well.”
“Thanks,” Shane replied, scuffling one foot on the pavement. He took another look at Rozanov. He had beautiful eyes, green and gold. A cigarette was perched between his full, pink lips. Smoking was gross, but something about it made Shane lick his own lips.
“Um, I should go,” Shane said, suddenly feeling a little flustered. Automatically, he held out a hand for another shake, which Rozanov took, a funny little smile stretching his lips. He twisted Shane’s hand as he pulled a pen from his pocket, scrawling a series of numbers on his hand. Shane looked at him quizzically.
“My number,” Rozanov said and offered the pen to Shane.
“Oh!” he said and returned the favour, scrawling his own on Rozanov’s hand with a little happy face at the end. He wasn’t sure why he did that.
“I’ll, um, I’ll see you later,” Shane said.
“See you at the finals,” Rozanov called with that funny smile still on his beautiful lips.
“He’s cool, I guess. Kinda quiet,” Shane told Yuna. She hummed in response, unlocking the car. She was already on to the next thing, he needed to get another workout in with the team and Matthews needs to work on his left side (‘it’s weak, you can tell him I said that’) but Shane was busy entering Rozanov’s number into his phone.
Later, he was channel surfing in his hotel room. His parents were in the other bedroom of their suite, and he could get up and talk to them about practice or their game against the Americans tomorrow, but instead he was thinking about Rozanov. He also felt weirdly keyed up, like he needed a run, but he ran 10k an hour ago. Maybe he needed to jerk off.
His phone buzzed next to him.
Rozanov: I give you my number and you don’t text me?
Rozanov: I thought Canadians were polite
Shane grinned in his empty room, his thumbs typing out a message.
Hollander: wow, sorry, it’s only been 6 hours
Hollander: what are you doing tonight?
Hollander: me too, watching tv
Hollander: who are you playing tomorrow?
Hollander: have fun winning 😂
Hollander: I’m going to try and get some sleep, I have to be up early
Later that week, when Team Canada slumped back to their dressing room, silver medals around their necks, the first thing Shane heard was his phone buzzing in his stall.
Rozanov: you and your team all played very well, it was an honour to beat you
Shane snorted and replied.
Hollander: yeah, you too. That second goal you scored was unreal
Hollander: I’m not even mad, it was that good
He stood watching his phonescreen for a minute, waiting to see if he would reply, until someone threw a wet towel at him and told him to quit texting his girlfriend. He tossed his phone into his bag and began to strip down for a shower.
The next several months went on as usual. Rozanov went back to Moscow, Shane went back to Kingston and the OHL. They texted regularly, nothing heavy, mostly just funny stuff that happened at practice and pictures of cute dogs. He liked Rozanov. He might be scary on the ice, but when Shane was curled up in bed late at night, texting about his teammate who puked up ice cream all over the team bus, he was funny. And when his team lost to Windsor for the Memorial Cup, Rozanov sent him a message letting him know he’d played well. It occurred to Shane that that meant Rozanov had managed to watch the game somehow, but the thought was gone as soon as his mom started complaining about the officiating.
And suddenly, it was the draft. He watched Rozanov climb the stairs to the stage, grinning as he was named the number one draft pick. He was disappointed of course, the hockey press had been sure it would be Shane, but he also knew just how hard Rozanov had worked for this. Then Shane’s name was being read, and he was on stage, shaking the commissioner’s hand and pulling on the Metros jersey.
He stood with Rozanov to the side and they grinned at each other. In that moment, he understood down to his bones that in so many ways they were the same, even if no else saw it. People were already trying to build up a supposed rivalry, but it wasn’t like that. He liked going up against Rozanov, he liked the challenge but in the end, this man was his friend, and he felt so lucky for it.
At the reception after, Shane scanned the room as his mother talked to the Metros GM. He spotted Rozanov on the other side of the room, next to a severe looking older man. He barely recognized Rozanov. Gone was the man who had grinned at him as they held up their jerseys for the cameras, this one somehow stood at attention with stiff posture, but also trying to disappear. When he glanced at Shane, he smiled at Rozanov. Fleetingly, his lips quirked up then back to the blank expression. His eyes darted back to the conversation around him, and Shane looked away as well.
By 10 pm, Shane could tell he wasn’t going to be getting to sleep anytime soon. He grabbed his phone and workout clothes.
Hollander: I’m headed down to the gym, wanna join?
kaledo-art
dededos
origamiaround
annaxmalina
vaporwave
kianamaiart
discoholicmusic
