hayden needs to take a minute
as our beautiful wife (ao3) is away at war (down for maintenance) please accept this tiny wee ficlet of Hayden Finding Out that's been sitting in my drafts, taunting me, for far too long. A small comedic offering to soothe you in this trying time.
The Metros had beaten the Raiders easily and in the locker room the team was jubilant, pleased always with a victory over their biggest rival team but especially one that came so late in a season when they were very much in contention the Cup. Only Shane sat quietly and apart from the rest, his phone in his hand and a frown on his face. He was probably texting Lily, thought Hayden, observing him. He always texted her right after the game whenever they were in Boston, but tonight the look on his face as he did so was... weird. It was what Hayden referred to in his mind as his Captain Frown, the one Shane used whenever any of his team didn’t meet up to his expectations.
Why would he be using the Captain Frown on Boston Lily?
Almost without meaning to, Hayden angled his head to peer over Shane’s shoulder and see what he was typing.
I know when your ribs are hurting you, asshole, Shane texted furiously. You don’t ever wrap them right. How are they going to heal if you don’t treat them?
The reply appeared before Hayden had time to process that enough even to produce a simple, What the fuck?
My ribs are fine. Stop fussing.
Shane’s frown deepened and he typed again. They’re obviously not fine, you were favouring your left side the whole game. Meet me at the medical supply closet in ten and I’ll wrap them for you.
Be there or I’m not fucking you tonight.
Ha. You could never hold out against me.
Then tonight I will lie back on pillows like injured damsel and you will ride me, yes?
Wait. Damsel? The fuck have you been reading?
Shane’s frown had vanished by the time he tucked his phone into his pocket, replaced by a small, satisfied smile. His eyes looked soft and slightly dreamy. Hayden felt like his brain was in serious and imminent danger of implosion.
Words like what and who and how and fuck and what the fuck and who the fuck and how the fucking fuck all tumbled about and fought each other for purchase in his mind. None succeeded in gaining any. Hayden had no fucking idea what to make of what he’d seen.
He needed to see more. It wasn’t his business, he knew it wasn’t, but he also knew that if he asked Shane directly he’d never get a straight—wait. Gah. No. Oh my god, is that homophobic???—answer. The only avenue open to him was further eavesdropping.
Was it eavesdropping, if you read private texts over your buddy’s shoulder? he wondered, as he tailed Shane to the medical supply closet ten minutes later. Was there another word for that? And what if he opened the door just a crack and peered through it, was that eavesdropping too or did it cross the line into downright spying?
Hayden didn’t know and honestly didn’t care. The sight that met his eyes in that supply closet he honestly felt was punishment enough for all his sins, over-shoulder-reading and eavesdropping and downright spying and every other bad or wrong or even slightly naughty thing he’d ever done in his life. Surely seeing what he saw counted as penance for all of it. Surely?
What was it that he saw? Only this:
Ilya Rozanov, sat on a stack of boxes while Shane wound medical tape around his chest. His expression was exasperated but intensely fond; he gazed at Shane with his lips quirked up and his eyes full of what if Hayden didn’t know better he would call adoration.
On the other hand, after those texts? Maybe he fucking did know better.
He couldn’t see Shane’s face but could easily hear him grumbling, about stupid stubborn Russians who didn’t take enough care of themselves and were just risking worse injury for no good reason. Rozanov made no reply, just sat obediently and watched Shane silently with those adoring eyes.
“There,” Shane said finally, tucking in the end of the tape. “That should hold you through practice tomorrow. Let your trainer rewrap them for you before your next game, okay?”
“Of course,” said Rozanov.
Shane huffed in plain annoyance. “I’m serious, Ilya. Stop ignoring your injuries. You’re not nineteen anymore. Your body needs help to recover.”
“Recovery is not what my body wants now.” Rozanov’s voice was low and husky. Shane sighed again but with less annoyance, and when Rozanov’s arms came around him and pulled him in, he didn’t resist.
“I like that you are so concerned for me, moya lyubov,” Rozanov murmured.
“Is that why you don’t take care of yourself?” Shane’s fingers sifted through Rozanov’s hair. “So I’ll be your nurse?”
“You would look sexy in nurse’s uniform.” Rozanov nuzzled at Shane’s neck. “Little white skirt—”
“Nurses wear scrubs these days.”
“Shhh, I am having fantasy. Don’t interrupt.”
“A fantasy about me and I can’t interrupt?”
“Is only sort of about you. Mostly is about fucking sexy nurses in little skirts.”
Shane laughed and took hold of Rozanov’s head, cradled it in his hands as they kissed.
As. Shane. Kissed. Ilya. Fucking. Rozanov. Kissed him easily and softly and with an unmistakable familiarity. Kissed him like they’d been kissing each other for fucking years. Kissed him the way Hayden kissed Jackie, his wife of a goddamn decade.
Rozanov’s hands slipped beneath Shane’s shirt as Shane’s arms tightened around his neck. The kiss shifted from warmth to heat and Hayden was gripped by the frantic and frankly horrifying notion that he was going to have to stand fucking guard outside this here medical supply closet, while within it his best friend fucked their longtime rival, fighting off anyone who came near, to ensure that he was the only person who would ever be privy to the hideous knowledge he now had and wished he could expunge entirely from his mind.
Fortunately for Hayden’s continued mental health and physical safety, Shane ended the kiss.
“We should get out of here before someone catches us,” he murmured. “I’ll see you at home.”
Home???? Hayden thought. Whatever fucking next????
They kissed again, just briefly this time, then Shane slipped out of Rozanov’s arms and seconds later from the room itself. Hayden ducked behind the door as he opened it, to avoid being seen. A minute later, Rozanov, now with a shirt on over his taped ribs, left too. Hayden leaned back against the wall and released a heavy breath.
With a tremendous act of will he barely remembered, he managed to make his feet carry him back to the locker room, where he caught Shane just as he was leaving.
“Hey,” he said, with what he considered a pretty impressively casual air, given the goddamn freaking circumstances. “Want to go out for a drink tonight? It’s been a while.”
“Oh, um. I can’t tonight,” Shane said, with the same cagey I’m off to fuck Boston Lily actually look his face had been wearing on a regular basis for… pretty much as long as Hayden had known him. “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Sure.” Hayden tried not to say anything more, he really did. He did not succeed. “You meeting Boston Lily?” he heard himself ask.
Shane attempted and entirely failed to produce a casual shrug. “Yeah.”
“Like always. Hey, how long has it been for you guys? Years, right?”
“Um, yeah.” The shrug was even worse the second time.
“Yeah, I remember you texting her even in your rookie year,” Hayden said. “Long time, huh.”
“Still not serious, though?”
He watched as Shane scrambled to produce a lie and failed utterly. “It’s serious,” he admitted after several seconds’ uncomfortable squirming. “Just private.”
“Buddy, I know you like your privacy,” Hayden said, with a deep and bitter irony he was certain Shane didn’t pick up on at even a little bit. “But Jackie and I would love to meet her. When you’re ready.”
Shane swallowed hard and a new look crossed his face. One that was rueful and almost… sad? “I really hope we will be,” he said. “Someday.”
“Hey, man,” said Hayden. “The offer’s open. Any time.”
“Thanks, Hayd,” said Shane, now with an actual smile, then he tossed a bag over his shoulder and headed off.
Hayden watched his best friend in the world, the one he’d just today learned he knew far less well than he’d thought he did, leave the locker room with that spring in his step he only had when he was going to see Boston Lily. Boston Ilya. Ilya fucking Rozanov, who Shane would be fucking that night. Riding, apparently, to spare Rozanov’s injured ribs. Yeah.
Hayden was going to need to sit with that thought for a loooong damn minute.
dededos
germansingergirl
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
