match point

— Shaibu! That guttural Russian shout slices through the rink. It’s, however, foreign to the crowd, but Shane knows it too well. Sharp yell scrapes at Shane’s temples, splitting his focus in two. In a split second he’s down, his body slamming the ice, a blunt ache burning through his side. — Fuck, rozanov, — he spits through clenched teeth, voice gravel-deep. All he gets back is a dumb smirk and clouds of white breath swirling from his rival’s lips. — Loh pedalny, Hollanderrr, — Rozanov drags out, dropping a classic Russian curse and scooping up the puck with the casual swipe of his stick. Ilya carves through the rink, throwing up wet snow — a wicked, silvery scar the Zamboni will lap up later, erasing any trace of chaos. Rozanov doesn’t so much as flinch. His team rockets forward, feasting on the confusion after that botched hit. Black-and-yellow jerseys scatter around the net, kinetic, frantic, pure Brownian motion. Goal. Shane pulls himself up, slow, leaning hard on his stick. For the crowd, it’s nothing. Just white noise, another episode in an endless hockey loop. But inside Shane’s chest, something’s searing. That irreplaceable Russian curse still stings at the back of his tongue, bitter, untranslatable. Rage simmers inside him, directed at himself, at Ilya, at the relentless, burning urge to prove he isn’t second-best. Sometimes he thinks about just walking off when it all gets too much, letting the whole thing go. Other times, he dreams of the opposite. An aspiration of colliding with Ilya, helmet to helmet, until all the noise finally breaks. Old loyalty, ruined and obsessive, stretched razor-thin. A pass cuts to the center. In the whirl of bodies, someone behind the glass calls Hollander washed up, another voice out there chanting Ilya’s name, lifting him onto tonight’s imaginary throne.

***

Three hours later, the anger hasn’t gone anywhere, simmering through his veins like magma. The rink is gone, swapped for someone’s house out in the Montreal burbs, pulsating, loud. Full-on aftershitshow, as Ilya would call it. Another bottle of ginger ale hits him cold. “One more, Scott,” he clinks, dropping his gaze, refusing to fish for pity in the half-cocked grin of his teammate. Hollander drowns in useless replays of defeat. Scott raises his voice over the bass vibrating from the speakers: — Shane, what’s his deal with you tonight, huh? Hollander just shrugs, eyelids heavy as if there’s a hot screw twisting behind his eye socket. His words glue to his throat, but never make it out. “Forget it.” “I don’t know.” “Does it matter?” Nothing is going to sound right, all of it drowned in the manic shrieks of the team celebrating next door. Strangers’ bodies, someone else’s win, his own curse, never quite belonging. — Don’t sweat it, Scott. He’ll get bored. Move on. He sidesteps Scott’s searching stare, folds into himself, nerves tugged tight. His fist aches to crush the bottle, longing to feel it splinter, to spill something else across his palm, anything besides this relentless exhaustion. Through the sticky tables, the spilled beer, all those overheated bodies, Ilya slips in, as casual, as out of place as ever. His palm lands on Shane’s shoulder, déjà vu. Like another bodycheck into the boards, only now there’s no real bruise, just echo. Rozanov’s grip tightens, electric. There’s a charge in his touch, it's sharp, alive, cutting through the masquerade mass of sleepy, glazed-out faces. Here, only those permitted to feel are fully real; Ilya first among them, raw and honest no matter how ugly things get. Tonight, gravity warps and everything orbits around him, jersey crests and victory, all of it fades. In this mad labyrinth — chasing pucks and fleeting glory — there’s nothing truer now than needing Ilya. Loving him, it’s self-destruction, sure. But it’s also the only way left to feel anything real. — Yo, Scott… Shane, — Rozanov stretches out a bored, teasing grin. His gaze loses itself in the crowd, like he’s looking for a new drink or a way out — but really, every tiny shift in Hollander is tracked. — Don’t take it hard you blew it tonight. Shit happens, man. Scott only offers a silent “cheers,” his pint raised in wordless camaraderie. — Mind if I steal your emo guy over here a sec? With him like this, your beer’s gonna go sour. Hunter cracks a crooked smile, shrugs like it doesn’t matter. — Take him. What do I care. Rozanov spins Shane away, no ceremony. The Canadian just stands, and in this party, every grudge evaporates within twenty minutes. The room packs tighter, syrup-sticky, elbows, collars, bodies moving in waves, sweat and spilled drinks in the air. Someone dumps their cup onto the linoleum, someone else slurs a pick-up line, it all matches the mindless rhythm of the party. Shane’s not even moving to that beat anymore. Rozanov is soaking up the victory. Feels like Charli XCX wrote “Party 4 U” for this exact night. Bass melting the walls, half the house chasing him, trying to peel off a little of his luck. Like you could pass champion heat through a handshake, and hang onto it for the night. Toward the back, it’s a daisy chain of laughter, hard bro hugs, bottles waved overhead. “Hey, Rozanov, congrats!” again and again. Shane trails them, every hand either glancing off or shoving right past him. Tonight, Hollander’s menu: a nod if he’s lucky, or just blank air. Wild how fast you turn into a shadow. Gooseflesh, jealousy, heavy, choking air. No sense denying it, envy floods in fast enough to drown every drop of blood. Even when the whole circus spits them out in a quiet corner, the instinct’s still there. Shane’s always hunting Ilya, half a step behind, and hating himself for it. — Hey, you know where, uh… what’s-his-name’s got his… — Ilya lifts a brow, drops his voice to a hush. — Fuck-pad? A jock across the bar freezes, chips halfway to his mouth, staring with awkward curiosity. Rozanov flinches, glances away, manners crashing back. — Bedroom. I mean, — flat, official, embarrassment sharp as a slap. — Guest rooms upstairs, — Hollander says. — Always crowded, but if you’re lucky… — I’m always lucky, haven’t you noticed? Rozanov rubs his palms together, so sly, predatory, like a fly circling sugar. Shane clocks the tell but keeps his game face, too tired for Rozanov’s provocations. — Well, lead the way, Hollander, — Ilya throws it out, loud and bright, like he could drown the tension in party noise. Moments ago, it would have sounded cocky; now, it’s balancing the scales. Shane chokes the next comeback, curses softly. Being with Ilya tonight is admitting he’s runner-up, just another lucky mascot. Tonight, Hollander gives in, just trailing, not even pretending indifference anymore. — Believe it or not, I actually planned for a chill night, — Shane’s voice halfway between sour and self-aware, breaking into a reluctant smile. — Your plans are always soft and fluffy… till the first “fuck, Rozanov, don’t stop,” — Rozanov grins, nailing the punchline. Hollander rolls his eyes, laughs, lets his knuckles land against Rozanov’s shoulder. — Christ, Ilya, enough already, — easy mockery. — What can I say, it’s my specialty. They shove up the tight stairs, wading through couples. Hockey gods and puck bunnies making out in dark corners. Girls with cartoon-laughs, draping themselves for nothing but a chance to be picked. Shane almost feels lucky he gets by with a tag of “heated rivalry.” That’s love, right? Upstairs, the air is denser, soaked in vodka and sweat. The carpet’s gone flat and gray, floorboards creak under every shifting weight. Behind closed doors, the party’s raw flesh. Laughter splintering, girls’ moans, husky shouts, all blurred by the bass grinding up from below. Shadows flit across the walls, perfume and smoke trailing everywhere. — Hollander, why so grim? — Ilya laughs, wrenching at a door handle. — Kinda sick of all the fanboys drooling over you, aren’t you? For Shane, this hallway is just a mirror for the distance yawning open between them. Irritation floats up, but beneath it, a longing he can’t even say out loud. He wants to be picked, wanted. Picked the way all those boys downstairs jostle for Rozanov’s handshake, fighting for scraps of eye contact. Up here, thankfully, no more circus. If Ilya picks him, just tonight, it’d be enough. Every last drop of attention wrung out. Ilya slows, tosses Shane that feigned-surprise smile: — Wanna swap? — he asks, careless. — I’ll tail you instead, for once. My social battery’s shot. — Pass, — Shane mutters, barely moving his lips. He tugs at the next door. Locked. Laughter bleeding through. — Gonna whine all night? Out with it, — Rozanov folds his arms, postures. — I’m sick of being second string. It’s not in my nature, Ilya, — Shane snaps. Rozanov just smirks. — Mister yesterday’s champ got his ego bruised, huh? Shane hesitates, hope prickling under his skin. Like if he gets this wrong — says the wrong word, hits the wrong note — they’ll both slide back into avoidance. Being real, being raw, aches in the bones. — Easier for you to just turn it into a joke, right? — Shane keeps his eyes on the handle, fingers twisting. — Real on-brand. Just laugh and pretend you don’t give a damn. — Screw the game, — Rozanov clicks a knuckle on the wood. — If I didn’t give a shit, I wouldn’t be standing here, hunting for a damn free guest room with you, — he rakes a hand through his hair. — You really think I’m that cold, Hollander? — Honestly? Sometimes I do, — Shane frowns, presses at his temples. — Superstition, — Rozanov yanks another handle. — Go wash that off. The door pops — jackpot. — That one’s free, — Rozanov motions him in. It’s cool, dim, smells of clean sheets and a hint of vanilla diffusion. Someone definitely prepped for good company. A thin spill of streetlamp slides off the wall. Hollander clicks on the corner lamp, casting everything in a soft, gold wash; velvet pillows aligned military-perfect, every surface shining. — Place is a damn soccer mom’s lair… — Swear, never seen a room this clean, not even after a deep scrub. Hollander starfishes out on the bed. The mattress barely creaks, just hums with his weight. Rozanov plucks a silk robe from the chair, unfolds it over his shoulders in a single, theatrical sweep. — Hollander, suits me? — Ilya bites his lip, clowning for the imaginary mirror. — You’re an idiot, Rozanov, — Shane laughs, hand over his mouth, no chance of biting it back. Anything’s possible here, anything at all. With Rozanov, nothing’s absurd. Even a pillow feels like a love letter. Shane snags one, wings it. It whistles through the air, connects with a soft, expertly timed slap. Rozanov freezes, eyes gone wide, then recovers, tossing his robe, snatching up another pillow, firing back. “Shit, shit, shit” hangs in the air, both of them locked, smiling wide. Rozanov pounces — elbows on silk, pillows flying. He lands one to Shane’s chest, laughter getting feral. The world outside fades. From down the hall, pounding — someone, somewhere, desperate for a little quiet. The two freeze, choking back laughter. — They’re gonna throw us out, — Shane says, pulling a pillow to his chest. — Team-building exercise, — Ilya whispers back. When Rozanov pins him down, the whole rumbled bed turns into a ring. Not for punches, but for breaking rules. His grip is fierce on Shane’s wrists. — Think the soccer mom left guest rules, m? — Shane deadpans, eyes on the ceiling. — Rule one: make the bed and leave the sheets only “moderately” dirty, — Ilya matches his tone, but can’t keep the smile in check. His mouth twitches, he’s not nearly as cool as he pretends. He leans in, casting Shane’s face into shadow. Predator, hypnotic, dangerous look. Shane’s breath shudders. He’s seen that look. He knows what’s coming. Ilya’s hand traces his jaw, up, lingering at his cheekbone. — We’re not gonna — Shane tries to crack a joke, but it’s breathless, vulnerable. — Too late, — Ilya silences him, kisses him — hungry, full-blooded, slick tongue marking territory, salt and adrenaline smeared everywhere. A claim that’s going to hum between their skins for hours. Shane pulls him closer, nails biting into those battle-hardened shoulders, answering want for want. Rozanov damn near crushes him into the mattress, pinning his wrists against silk, bloody lips grazing Shane’s throat. A sleeve slips, skin prickling under cold hands, legs tangling. For one second, Ilya’s hands are gentle. After that, it’s all bruises, pants off, his own dropped just as fast, all cocky confidence. — Champ, ready to take the L? — Not here, — Shane hisses, elbow cocked, knuckles white at Ilya’s waist. Losing now would be almost a win. A hot palm molds over his ass, cock lines up urgent. Every move, a challenge. It's athletic and wild, the same game as always, only the scorekeeper’s gone. Ilya’s fingers slide down Shane’s thigh, slow. His laugh at Shane’s trembling is low, satisfied, one hand spreading him open, sliding a finger in, testing. — You good? — Fucking do it already, — Shane grits out, voice barely holding. Cold lube, then hot rough hands. Ilya works him open, slow, faster, Shane arching, eyes screwed shut — pain and want inseparable, but want always wins. — Relax, — Ilya whispers against his shoulder, tongue and heat in equal measure. When Rozanov finally pushes in, fire ribboning up Shane’s spine, pain hits then blurs into a need bigger than the whole night. Sweat, hips colliding, scratch marks raked across his back. They move harder and rougher, curses and moans threading up through the floorboards, voices falling into rhythm, crashing as one. Rozanov finds the angle, Shane’s world unspools; no more control, only the perfect, cracked relief of giving in, the endgame. Rhythm peaks, bodies stuttering, breath burned down to nothing. Shane comes, moaning in his hand, Ilya holding him closer, a couple more thrusts, then stillness. Laughter, hacking coughs, tangled cusswords after. Just muscle-weakness, and the fear that this, too, will vanish come morning. Shane wraps a palm around blond curls, holding Ilya to him. — Promise you won’t bolt right away. — You’re an idiot, Hollander, — Ilya murmurs, warm, forehead pressed close. — Not this time. Shane collapses on the sheets, Ilya curls up next to him, giggling under his breath, fingers ghosting along his jaw. — Told you, — Rozanov whispers into his ear — I really do win beautiful. And there’s nothing in his voice but truth, no regret, not even the shadow.