Archive of Our Own

January, 2013: Australian Open

Shane fucking hated Ilya Rozanov. There was no good reason for Shane, miraculously on the round of 16 at the fucking Australian Open, to only be thinking of him, and not tennis, his fucking job.

“And from Canada, please welcome Shane Hollander!” Shane took a deep breath, trying to ignore Ilya Rozanov standing behind him in the entrance hallway with that stupid grin, and walked out onto the court. The crowd roared, way too excited for a new player right out of college coming into a slam for the first time.

“And please welcome Ilya Rozanov!” To Shane’s annoyance, the crowd clapped even louder. He was a new player to many of them, but old fucking news to Shane. Played against each other since freshman year in college, both moved up their respective teams to first singles, and the rest was history. Their head to head was tied, and Shane would be damned before he lost their first Grand Slam match.

Shane nodded to the umpire and dropped his racket bag on the bench, then arranged his Gatorades, logo out towards the service box, on the ground. He ran his hands over his rackets before selecting the one with the purple grip. His hands were trembling.

Five. Shake out his hands. The crowd was so loud. Four. Adjust the collar of his shirt. Rozanov was wearing that stupid black tank top that Nike had debuted last month. Three. Spin his racket, counter clockwise, two times. The tension in his strings was perfect. Two. Swipe his ears and neck for sweat. Rozanov’s cross necklace gleamed in the sun. One. Take two bunny hops. Shane twirled his racket in his hands and took a deep breath as the roar within him settled, tension instead thrumming in a low hum beneath his skin.

Rozanov walked past him, nodding to the umpire, and glanced at Shane’s racket. “No repeat of Stockholm?” he muttered, raising his eyebrows, then turned around and put his bag on his own bench.

This fucking guy Shane thought, and gripped his racket so hard his knuckles turned white, calm forgotten.

In Stockholm, Shane and Rozanov had played in the quarterfinals, and Shane had taken the racket with the black grip, the soft edition. He lost spectacularly to Rozanov, and then immediately fainted from dehydration on his walk out before Rozanov’s speech. He hadn’t used the black gripped racket since. How Rozanov had remembered which racket he used to religiously use was beyond him. And then afterwards…they had…

The crowd was chattering behind them as they got ready to play. Rozanov, in that fucking black Nike tank top, loose along the sides, showing his unfairly muscular chest. The shorts were indecently short, given the strength of his thighs, the moles peppering his golden skin…Shane shook his head.
He did a couple high knees to distract himself and walked over to the umpire at the center of the net.

Rozanov won the coin toss, and chose to serve. He winked.

“Your Nike fit is terrible,” he said, and Shane’s cheeks burned. Just because Shane picked the swirled short sleeved top option instead of that tank top abomination didn’t mean it was ugly.

Christ, did he ever take a second to stop being an asshole?

Shane took a deep breath. The crowd clapped and whooped. Their rivalry, despite only just breaking out into the professional scene, already followed them everywhere.

Hollander-and-Rozanov, college superstars from rival schools, evenly matched. Rozanov-and-Hollander, the new big two. Rozanov: aggressive lefty, killer forehand. Shane: the fastest serve on tour, defensive backhand righty. Their last match, after Stockholm, had ended in a super tie-breaker, and Shane had won on a winner.

He could see Rozanov’s grin from across the court, and it haunted him. Rozanov gestured, asking if Shane was ready for his serve, and Shane jolted. Rozanov moved, and the crowds’ roar faded until the only object in his sight was the green ball leaving Rozanov’s hand. A crack of the racket slamming into the ball, and Shane was gone.

At 6-5, on the changeover, Rozanov broke the cardinal rule of ignoring the opponent as they walked past each other. “1221,” he whispered, and Shane immediately broke out in cold sweat.

“Fuck off,” he muttered, and took a swig from his first bottle, then the second one. Then, hands itching, he bent over to adjust the labels again, and the spacing, several times until it was perfect. What the fuck. He thought they had agreed…

Rozanov shrugged, his infernal grin still wide, and toweled off his shoulders. Shane was ashamed to say that he watched a drop of sweat roll down Rozanov’s neck and get lost beneath his shirt. Then, the fog of the game quickly took over his mind again, so much that he was only seeing flashes and wisps of moments as he ran after the ball. And then–

Shane lost 5-7 5-7, Grand Slam run over in the round of 16. He knew as soon as his running background bounced off his racket that it would be wide, and apparently so did Rozanov, because he immediately fell to the ground and yelled in celebration.

Shit, Shane thought, as he watched Rozanov play the crowd. Shit. The fog in his head was cleared by the bitter drip of disappointment, just in time to see Rozanov hold his fist up in victory, veins prominent against his toned biceps and forearms.

Something burned in his stomach, a mix of jealousy and anger. Sensation suddenly assaulted him: the Australian sun, the roar of the crowd, his own heavy breathing, the screaming burn of his thighs.

Rozanov was already at the net, his golden hair glittering in the sunlight, and something searing, like hatred, hit Shane so hard he twisted.

“Next time,” Rozanov said when they clasped hands, and laughed at Shane’s death stare.

“Next time, I beat your ass,” Shane grumbled, and Rozanov snorted. “See you later,” he replied, and Shane’s stomach flipped.

He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. His parents were taking him out to dinner, Hayden wanted to meet up. He wouldn’t just follow Rozanov’s every whim. Even then, the thought sounded like a lie.

And yet, later, when the sky was dark and Shane’s hair was wet from showering in a hurry, he knocked on the hotel room’s door.

He was fucked. Fucked in the head, surely, because he had just lost to Rozanov. What was he doing here, letting Rozanov get some kind of prize? Was it consolation? Was it forgiveness? Shane hunched over in the hallway, convinced that his coach was peering at him through the vents, and waited. And waited, for what felt like hours. The heat in him burned, and burned, and burned.

Shane didn’t even bother turning away from the door. He already knew he wasn’t going to leave without getting what Rozanov wanted.

And, maybe, Shane could admit to himself, in the dead of night alone in Rozanov’s hotel, something he wanted too.

The door swung open, a hand grabbing Shane’s shirt and hauling him inside.

“Long time no see, Hollander,” Rozanov’s deep voice mumbled, silky in his ear. Shane shivered. The burning in his chest twisted, gaping and yawning. It yearned, snapping its teeth like it was going to reach out of his chest and bite.

Rozanov raised an eyebrow, his blue eyes stark in the dimly lit room, searching. His hand came up to cup Shane’s face. He was beautiful in his arrogance but even more so in this small show of care.

The burning rushed through his limbs, and Shane snapped. He grabbed Rozanov’s hand and twisted them, pushing Rozanov against the door. Shane crowded up against him, close enough that he could see the sweat that still glistened on Rozanov’s face. The monster in him wanted to lick it, bite him, stick his face in Rozanov’s neck and breathe him in.

Fuck it.

Rozanov groaned when Shane licked at his neck, bucking against Shane’s hold on him against the door.

“Fuck,” he whispered, as Shane gave in and nosed against his cheek. He hated that he had let himself get so addicted to this. The way that Rozanov’s hard body felt against his, the way that he strained, the way he went wild for all of it.

Rozanov was heaving against him, clearly holding back from grabbing him. Shane wanted him to snap. He wanted him to celebrate, to hold Shane down and use him, like a prize. Fuck, his gut twisted at the thought. Use him, like Shane was the trophy he was now one step closer to winning.

He…he wanted him. Fuck, after last time, he had thought this was over. He thought he had gotten Rozanov out of his system.

“Hollander,” Rozanov groaned again, gripping at Shane’s ass when Shane bit his neck a little too hard. His hands squeezed, like he owned Shane, and he couldn’t help his moan.

Clearly, he hadn’t stood a chance.

A hand grabbed at Shane’s neck, caressing the side lightly, sending sparks down Shane’s spine. “Hollander,” Rozanov repeated again, “look at me.”

He looked up immediately. The hand reached up to cup at Shane’s chin, thumb resting against the side of his mouth. Rozanov’s eyebrows were furrowed, his eyes dark and burning. Shane couldn’t help but open his mouth slightly at the first brush of Rozanov’s thumb. His hold on Rozanov’s body against the door weakened, so now he was just pressing up against him, almost desperate.

Rozanov’s eyes darkened, blue nearly eclipsed with black. “Good,” he whispered, and Shane unsuccessfully tried to hide his answering noise. There was something heady about Rozanov’s focus on him, his eyes, the set of his jaw.

Rozanov released his jaw and pushed him, gripping onto Shane’s shoulders as he walked them backwards with purpose, then dropped him onto the bed. Shane bounced, arms spread out, and his breath hitched when Rozanov crowded onto him.

“What do you say?” Rozanov whispered. The pressure of his hands on Shane’s wrists set static crackling in Shane’s brain, falling into a soft, cloudy feeling. He wanted to let go, to give in, to let Rozanov—

“What do you say, Hollander?” Rozanov asked again. His breath ghosted against Shane’s lips, eyes dark, fingers flexing on Shane’s wrists. He couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything, except–

“Please” he gasped, and Rozanov’s answering grin set him ablaze. He strained upwards, ashamed that he wanted to taste, to bite, to have anything Rozanov gave him.

Rozanov hummed. “Is beautiful to have you under me,” he whispered in Shane’s ear, “especially as my prize.” Shane gasped, desperate.

The hold on Shane’s wrists deepened as Rozanov shifted so that his legs were bracketing Shane’s hips. His eyes were pools of black.

The static in Shane’s ears became louder at the weight on his chest. This was a well practiced routine by now, but it never failed to make him melt. Oh, to be wanted by Rozanov—

“Please,” Shane whispered, again, and then they were kissing, hungry, desperate. Rozanov bit his lip and Shane gasped, sinking into that soft place where he didn’t have to think at all.

After a particularly bruising kiss, Rozanov took Shane’s bottom lip between his lower teeth and pulled gently, then let him go with a pop. “What do you want?” he murmured, and slid his fingers into Shane’s hair. Shane melted even further into the bed, barely breathing.

Shane wanted this, forever. He wanted Rozanov fully, wholly, in a world where they weren’t rivals or only crossing each other’s paths on the court like two orbiting planets. He wanted to destroy him on court, and then come home to him after. Where he could be with him, rather than see him across a net. He wanted–

“You,” Shane gasped, as his scalp tingled from Rozanov’s pulling.

Rozanov tsked. “More specific, Hollander, you know the rules.”

He couldn’t. He wanted Rozanov to just take him, to own him, to be in him so fully that Shane couldn’t breathe without him. “I…please,” he whispered again.

Rozanov started drawing away, eyes hardening into something like concern, and Shane panicked. No, that wasn’t right. He wanted–

“Please let me suck you off,” he gasped quickly, all in one breath, desperate for Rozanov to come back into the little bubble of space between their bodies.

And Rozanov stopped, and whispered something in Russian under his breath. “Oh Hollander,” he said, “you’re so good to me.”

Oh. Shane moaned, and the static in his head drowned out all other sounds as he sunk deeper. He was good, and Rozanov wanted him.

He needed Rozanov in his mouth immediately. Or, earlier, maybe he should have stopped play on the changeover and just gotten to his knees on the court. That thought made heat spiral down into Shane’s gut.

Shane wiggled out from Rozanov’s grasp and sunk lower, pressing his mouth to Rozanov’s skin as he went. When he grabbed Rozanov’s cock through his briefs, Rozanov hissed, something like “ah, Sh–”, and Shane moaned against the fabric. Rozanov cursed in Russian.

Shane’s face was burning, and his mouth filled with saliva. He quickly pulled down Rozanov’s briefs and held his head in his hand, just for a moment, to see what Rozanov would do.

“Hollander,” Rozanov rasped, and Shane looked up to see his pupils blown, sweaty hair in disarray, mouth open like he was in awe. Rozanov’s hips kicked forward, and hissed slightly when the head of his cock moved through Shane’s fingers. Shane couldn’t look away from the weight of Rozanov’s stare.

“Fuck,” Rozanov gasped as he moved again, and then his hands were in Shane’s hair, pulling slightly and leaving pinpricks of heat and pressure that made Shane moan. “If you don’t suck me right now I will do it for you, Hollander,” he said, tightening his hands in Shane’s hair.

Shane, well. Heat swirled in his gut so fast he saw stars, his mind telling him to give in, do what they both wanted. But, said the defiant, competitive part of his brain, trying desperately to fight against the fog of being good for Rozanov. But, he had lost. So maybe, just maybe, Rozanov should have to work a little.

When Shane didn’t move, Rozanov’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, I see,” he muttered, and his smile turned wicked. His hand traveled from Shane’s scalp to cup his cheek, then swiped his thumb over Shane’s lips. Shane swallowed, and Rozanov’s eyes tracked the movement.

“Open,” he whispered, and Shane shook his head, fighting against the instinctive urge to give in, to be good. He was still holding the head of Rozanov’s cock, so he gave it a small stroke, and some wicked part of him relished in Rozanov’s curse. “Brat,” he said, and pushed his thumb against Shane’s lips, tightening his hold on his cheek. “Let me in, Hollander, you know I’ve already won.”

And oh, that stung. Rozanov had won, and Shane had come crawling to him anyways.

“No,” Shane said, and gave Rozanov’s cock another stroke, just to hear him hiss again.
“Hollander,” Rozanov whispered, dragging out the last syllable, and the heat rose in Shane’s face again. He moved his other hand back into Shane’s hair and gripped. The sting drew a gasp from Shane’s mouth, and Rozanov dipped his thumb into Shane’s mouth, dragging his chin down.

Fuck. He was weak at the knees, drowning in the black of Rozanov’s eyes, the press of his thumb on his tongue–

“Good, Hollander?” Rozanov whispered, and stroked against Shane’s tongue lightly. Shane tried desperately to swallow his whimper, but it didn’t work. Fuck, he wanted him so bad, he was going to start panting soon. Just that made the heat in his gut tighten, his thoughts slow like molasses. It was hard to imagine anything other than Rozanov above him, with him, in him.

“Nod if this is ok,” Rozanov asked, and tilted Shane’s head up again. Shane couldn’t nod fast enough, and Rozanov’s eyes crinkled. Fuck, he was beautiful, looking down at Shane like this.

And then Rozanov’s cock slid into Shane’s mouth, slow and steady, and Shane’s eyes closed. Rozanov swore, both hands in Shane’s hair. He was surrounded, against the wall and the heat of Rozanov, the weight on his tongue, the sting of his hair, the smell of him, and Shane gave in.

The night continued in flashes, small moments when Shane emerged from the slow syrup of his thoughts. Rozanov fucking his face, gasping above him. Shane, folded over on the bed, Rozanov touching him lightly until Shane screamed, begging for anything, anything at all. Rozanov telling him only winners get rewards, even though they both knew how this would end. Rozanov pounding into him, pressing him down, whispering that Shane was his favorite to win against. Shane tried protesting, tried saying that he would get him next time, but Rozanov captured his mouth in a kiss and adjusted the angle, and Shane fell down into the soft dizziness again with a gasp. Laying together on the bed, Rozanov drawing aimless patterns in Shane’s skin. Telling him to stay.

But, aching with a feeling he couldn’t explain, Shane left anyway. The dizziness stayed, and twisted into nausea.

——
Two years before, Ilya Rozanov watched Shane Hollander warm up on the court, fluid and agile like a dancer, and realized he would do anything to get him. Never mind the college rivalry.

Two years before, Ilya was racing against Hollander on a bike in a hotel gym, grinning against the pain in his legs. When Hollander looked at him on the floor after, chest heaving, hesitant with dark eyes, Ilya preened like a bird. Look he wanted to say, bending over to highlight his ass, and feeling Hollander’s gaze like sparks on his spine, look at how good this could be.

One year and six months before, Ilya lost to Hollander in Cincinnati. Despite losing, it was the greatest match Ilya had ever played, and his blood sang with it. He took one look at Hollander, muscular arms raised, hair wet with sweat, almost feral grin aimed at the sky with freckles on full display, and thought, well. Fuck. He asked Hollander about his hotel room and had received the prettiest blush he’d ever seen, followed by “fuck off”. But the blush on his cheeks said differently.

One year and six months before, Ilya pushed Hollander down onto the bed and sucked him down, and Hollander moaned like he was dying. “You’re so lovely,” Ilya had pulled off to say in Russian, and then soon after Hollander had groaned and cum in Ilya’s mouth, gasping.

One year before, Ilya started buying cans of ginger ale, making his bed with fuck-off thread count sheets, putting his socks away in the laundry hamper, buying rotisserie chicken and tuna. All so that Shane would stay. And then he did. And it was perfect.

And then, in Stockholm, Shane had been decidedly upset after his terrible loss to Ilya. Even Ilya, though part of him was ecstatic to win, was frustrated at the lack of the usual back and forth, the dance they both played. Shane had asked him to forget, and Ilya had delivered with pleasure, fucking him for the first time, making him beg until he sobbed, until he was delirious and writhing in the sheets.

Afterwards, Ilya made them tuna melts, stroked his back, and put on Shane’s favorite documentary. Afterwards, Ilya denied having planned it all. Afterwards, Ilya called Shane by his first name as he came a second time, and couldn’t ignore how it made Shane come immediately too, eyes molten and jaw slack with pleasure.

Afterwards, Shane had run away. In Ilya’s clothes, which brought him a sick sort of satisfaction.

And then, all Ilya heard about was Rose Landry. But he didn’t want to think about that part.

——-

March, 2013: Indian Wells

“Good job,” Rozanov muttered at the net, slapping his hand across Shane’s back. He turned to shake hands with the chair umpire, but Shane could barely see him through the haze in his vision, could barely hear over the roar in his ears.

He had–
“Please congratulate your Indian Wells champion, Shane Hollander!”

The crowd roared in response, and Shane couldn’t help but raise his fist and smile, the edges of it almost splitting his face in half. He had done it, holy fuck. And against Rozanov, making their head to head equal again at 8-8.

In a daze, he headed back to his bench. He had beaten Rozanov in the finals. He had won. Fuck, the sex was going to be fucking fantastic.

That thought, in front of an entire stadium, made him flush furiously and look down. Jesus, he needed to keep it in his pants for two more fucking minutes, maybe until after the speeches. Until then, he just had to keep away from him.

The labels on his water bottles were uneven, in a way that made his brain itch, so he busied himself with adjusting them. No other reason.

“Well, next time I get him back, yes? It is the way it goes, with us,” Rozanov was saying into the mic, holding his second place dinner plate. The crowd chuckled.

“Next time, you cheer louder for me, ok?” He finished, and winked at the broadcast camera. The crowd, predictably, went wild. Shane scowled. Asshole. He refused to be jealous over Rozanov’s ability to connect with the crowd, the fans, the atmosphere, in a way that Shane never could. Instead, he tracked the beads of sweat rolling down Rozanov’s neck, gleaming in the sun.

“So, is it safe to say that we’ll be seeing a lot more of you guys?” The broadcaster asked.

Rozanov grinned, and looked directly at Shane, who startled from his seat at the bench.
“Yes, of course. I see him more than my family and friends now, yes? I cannot escape his terribly polite and boring Canadian clutches”. He winked at Shane. Asshole, Shane mouthed back at him, forgetting about the cameras, and Rozanov just smiled wider.

“I know it's a few months away, but how are you and your team getting ready for Roland-Garros this year? Is there anything you’ll be doing differently after this to prepare?”

“No. I do the same I always do: train hard, play hard, and beat old man Scott Hunter.” The broadcaster chuckled, pulling the mic away from Rozanov, but Rozanov leaned in again.
“I am kidding. Yes, I will look at this match to see what I can do better. Big part of Hollander’s game is serve and speed, and this is where he won today. We always play best against each other, no? Hollander, I will see you next time. And I will win with more than 15 aces.” He winked again, wiggling his fingers at Shane in a ridiculous wave.

“Ok then! Thank you Ilya—everybody, give it up for your Indian Wells finalist!” The broadcaster exclaimed, and yet again, the crowd went wild.

Fuck, that meant it was his turn.
“Now, from your winner!” The broadcaster continued, and the cheering turned to chanting. Shane stood, still giddy from winning, though it was quickly turning into trepidation. Quick and easy interview, and then go home. And then…well…

“First, Shane, how are you feeling? This was an incredible match tonight.”

Shane took a deep breath. Same old questions, same old formula. Fuck, he wanted to be in Rozanov’s bed already. “Yes, it was a tough match, Rozanov is always a challenge. Thank you all for being here and supporting us tonight.”

“Yes, what a rivalry you’re shaping up to have! And your serve was spectacular today, with 15 aces. Do you think it was a major contributor to your win?”

Ridiculous. Of course shortening points with aces would help him win. Shane fantasized about answering sarcastically, maybe like Rozanov would. Which immediately made him think of Rozanov, and glance over to where he was staring at Shane and smirking from the bench, like he knew what Shane was thinking. He definitely remembered Shane’s 2am rant about how stupid these interviews were, then. Somehow, that made Shane’s gut twist, some part of him unsettled by the prospect of being known. Of something real.

Shane averted his eyes to look back at…whatever his name was. Brian?
“Yeah, um, it was nice to have it come together like that. Rozanov was a tough opponent, but I’m really glad that I pulled through in the third set. Partially because of my serve, but it was nice to have more forehand consistency.”

The broadcaster nodded politely, and Shane wished desperately to collect his trophy and leave. He had won—still shocking to think, really—surely that would come with some privileges? Like not talking to fucking reporters.

“And what do you think of Rozanov wanting to get more aces, next time?”

Oh, a good one, finally. Shane couldn’t help an involuntary grin.
“Well,” he started, and looked over at Rozanov. He could be petty, just this once.

“Try to keep up, yeah? And then I’ll hit 20 next time,” He said, directly at Rozanov, and the crowd roared again. Rozanov shook his head at Shane from his bench, eyes dark. Fuck, Shane wanted him.

Already, he could feel the competitive fire in him igniting, even though he had just won. Rozanov tilted his head and winked. Shane was immediately dizzy with the need to shove him down and kiss him. And then slam the ball directly into his face.

“We’ll look forward to seeing it,” the broadcaster was saying, oblivious to whatever the fuck was going on in Shane’s head, “give it up one more time for your champion!”

And then, in a haze, Shane was standing on the podium and receiving his trophy. His trophy.

“I’m going to fuck you in front of it,” Ilya whispered, on their way back into the player locker rooms. “And then again in front of my Miami trophy too.” Of course he had to bring up Miami, where Shane had lost in the semis, leaving Rozanov with a practically free path to the win.

Shane almost tripped. “Asshole,” he muttered back.

“You love it.”

“I hate you.”

Rozanov grinned at him, and eyed him up and down. “No, you don’t.”

No, he didn’t.
And later, Rozanov made good on his promise. He fucked Shane slowly, deliberately, and whispered all the ways Shane winning had made Rozanov want to take him out and fuck him into the court.

Later, Rozanov made dinner, and they sat together on the couch making useless commentary on the nailbiting women’s final between Swiatek and Sabalenka.

Later, Rozanov fucked Shane into the couch, hard and fast and desperate. They fell asleep like that, tangled and soft.

They didn’t talk about it, but Rozanov’s grabby hands when Shane extracted himself the next morning haunted him.

——-
March, 2014: Australian Open

Shane was going to kill Rozanov. In front of the entire crowd. They’d probably fine him, right? He didn’t care.

“Come on, Hollander, you can be louder than that! Give them a show!” Rozanov called, and hit a forehand back to Hayden with an exaggerated groan. Right into the mic on his neck, and the 15,000 people sitting at Rod Laver.

Never mind, Shane was going to kill whoever thought this match was a good idea.

Hayden and Cliff were clearly fighting laughter, and Hayden almost fell over on his way to lob Rozanov’s ball back over.
“Shane, do you want me to kill him for you?” Hayden said. For all Hayden and Rozanov were supposed to hate each other, he was doing a really good job at putting that aside to make fun of Shane.

The ball was coming towards him, so Shane set up his shot and exhaled lightly through his nose, away from the mic strapped on him. Because he had decorum, thank you very much. “Just smash it directly to his face,” Shane replied, against Rozanov’s protest.

“Hollander! The people want to hear you, come on! Stop being a coward!” He hit another shot from Cliff and straight up fucking moaned into the mic, pornographic and echoing against the walls. It was too hot in this stadium. He was going to pass out, or get hard in front of everybody, and it was going to be Ilya fucking Rozanov’s fault.

Another moan, slightly breathier this time as Rozanov had to run to hit a corner shot. He kept panting lightly into the mic. Shane was going to fucking die.

They were playing an exhibition match, Rozanov and Hollander versus Pike and Marlow. It was the tour’s most well-attended exhibition to date, so someone naturally had the bright idea of micing them up. It was something about the people wanting interactions between the two biggest stars of tennis, especially since they had never played together.

Rozanov was serving, so Shane crouched down at the net, because he absolutely did not trust Rozanov to not hit it directly at him on purpose.

“Wow, I have such great view,” Rozanov said. Shane’s face burned. It took every bit of willpower he had to not flip him off. There was another groan from behind him, echoing yet again, and Shane was going to fucking jump into the abyss at this point. It was the only solution.

“I am going to fu–please stop,” Shane said to the mic, refusing to look back at Rozanov. He was going to get hard, and it was going to ruin his career.
He stared at Hayden from across the net, but Hayden was clearly fighting a smile. Traitor.

“I will if you actually play with us,” Rozanov said. Ok, enough.

“I am playing! I’m playing right now!” Shane said, turning around to look at a smirking Rozanov. Wait a minute, where was the ball–

“Are you? Because I just served. And Hayden shot it right past you. You let Pike hit a winner on you?” Shane barely heard Hayden’s protest, though it sounded like he was giggling.

Fuck. Maybe he was more distracted than he thought. He scowled at Rozanov.

Hayden was fully laughing now, bent over at the waist, and the crowd followed, sounding like a pack of hyenas.

“Fine,” Shane said, teeth gritted. He walked over to Rozanov and poked him in the arm with his racket. He wanted to do much more than that. Maybe smack him. Maybe pull him down and take his stupid tank top off with his teeth. Maybe tell him to moan into Shane’s ear, instead of letting the entire audience hear what should have been his alone. Fuck, was he jealous?

They lost the next two games from their pointless bickering between points, and maybe a little because Shane refused to make any noise when hitting the ball, mentally holding himself back too much.

“Alright, Rozanov, you’ve done it now,” Shane said after they lost a point because he and Rozanov had been arguing about the best string tension, and who was going to get the towels, of all things. The poor ball kids looked terrified.

Shane slapped Rozanov’s arm, and Rozanov screeched like a child and ran away, to the delight of the crowd.

“Medic!” Rozanov called, pretending to nurse his arm, but he walked up to his position at the net anyway soon enough, so Shane swatted at him and grabbed the balls, testing them in his grip. He waved away the ball kid with the towels, who was shivering like he was going to pass away in fear.

Shane breathed in, bouncing the ball with his racket. He was way too competitive to lose a match he knew he should win, even an exhibition against his best friend. Similarly, he knew Rozanov would rather eat his shoe than let Hayden win anything. Maybe it was time to focus.

So, he let the chatter of the crowd fade away, finally, in a way that he hadn’t been able to since the match started. His vision tunneled to the rhythmic bouncing of the ball on the ground, the soft grip of his racket. Breathe in, breathe out.

He threw the ball, arched his back, jumped, and smacked the ball with an exhaled grunt, falling gracefully back into the court.
The ball flew past Hayden, who looked back at it in shock.

Shane smiled, satisfied. Ace. Ha.

“How’s that, Rozanov?” He called, and then stopped. Because Rozanov was staring at him at the net, mouth slightly open, eyes dark. He looked…

He shook his head like a dog, and then easily plastered a smile on his face. “Good job,” he said cheerfully, “this is what we want to hear!” But his eyes were still trained on Shane’s mouth, flicking up and back to his thighs.

Oh. Shane felt a grin spread involuntarily on his face. He could work with this.

The next time he was in position at the net, he wiggled his ass and bent further on purpose, right as Rozanov was about to serve.

Rozanov’s racket clattered onto the court. “Sorry!” he said, “bug in my face.”

When Hayden hit a shot down the line right to Shane’s forehand, Shane slammed it back and moaned, a little breathy. His face burned, but the crowd screamed, both at the winner and the sound, and Rozanov stumbled next to him. Definitely worth it, even if he felt like crawling into a hole and letting the court swallow him up.

Shane turned back to Rozanov, ready to poke him with his racket, but stopped when Rozanov leaned in and covered the mic with his hand.

“If you want to win, you have to stop distracting me,” he whispered.

Shane’s nose wrinkled. Of course he wanted to win, now that he was actually invested. He covered his own mic. “So you can but I can’t?” he said, aware he sounded a little whiny but not caring.

“That’s different.”

“It’s really not.”

“Listen, we both want to destroy Pike, yes? I’ll deal with you later,” Rozanov whispered again, and grinned.

“Deal with me? Fuck off.”

Rozanov laughed. “We both know that is what you want,” he whispered again. Well. Maybe he was right. Shane was jittery and hot, bouncing a little bit on his heels. Rozanov tracked his movement with a heavy stare, then nodded. “We will win,” he said, with certainty. Like he couldn’t imagine another outcome.

Shane knew he was right.

“Hey, what are you guys whispering about over there?” Marlow said into the mic, “you can’t have secrets now!”

“We are talking about beating you,” Rozanov said evenly, “should be easy now.”

“Hey!” Hayden said, and then it immediately devolved.

From there, Shane and Rozanov moved like one, reading each other’s minds like seasoned partners. When Shane ran across the court and hit a deep forehand, Rozanov was already at the net to receive Hayden’s weaker return, and slammed it away from Marlow’s grasp. When Rozanov yelled “switch!”, Shane had already gone, and easily slapped Hayden’s defensive lob out of the air and into the corner. They moved in tandem, orbiting planets, easily reading each other’s games. It was a different kind of joy, to be known so wholly, and to be matched so equally on and against each other on the court.

When they won, 6-4 6-1, Shane couldn’t stop smiling as they removed their mics. His body thrummed, lit up by the joy and ease of playing with Rozanov.

“Let’s go!” Shane yelled, and hugged Rozanov tightly. Rozanov froze for a second, then relaxed into Shane’s hold.

“You moan like that only for me, ok?” Rozanov whispered.

“What?” Shane asked, and released Rozanov, who leaned in further into his ear.

“Nobody gets to hear you make that noise but me,” he whispered again, hot against Shane’s face. Shane shuddered.

“Asshole,” Shane muttered, but his body betrayed him by nodding. Rozanov’s face lit up like Shane had just given him a puppy instead.

“Good,” he said, and skipped towards the broadcaster to shit talk Hayden.

——-
March, 2014: Roland-Garros

“It’s just Scott Hunter, you can totally take him,” Yuna said, pointing at the presentation on her iPad. “He has a 2-5 record on matches over 3 hours, so try wearing him out early. The data also shows that his weakest return–”

“--is his backhand down the tee, yes, I know,” Shane said, and went back to stretching out his hamstrings. He was trying desperately to distract himself, because his pre-game routine was already fucked. Yesterday he had run out of his special grip tape, and the side of the grip on his starter racket was fraying. It wasn’t a big deal, objectively. Definitely not something that Shane should be freaking out over. And certainly not big enough to complain about to his mom.

“Do you have your bottles? Dates? Pretzels?”

“Yes, mom, thank you,” Shane replied. Maybe he could get scissors and cut off the fraying edge. Or start with his second racket, but his fingers twitched at the thought. Playing them out of order, with the string tensions set as they were, would be catastrophic.

Yuna sighed. “Yes, but you need to defend these points–”

“Yuna,” David cut in, “let’s not think about that right now, ok?”

Shane appreciated the interruption. His mind was stuck on the racket grip, but even that wasn’t enough to fully stop thinking about the fact that if he won this, he could be…he could–

“Hello Hollanders,” said a deep, accented voice behind him. Shane whipped around from his spot on the floor.

“Rozanov?” he said incredulously. Yuna and David looked similarly flabbergasted. It was generally frowned upon to approach other players right before their matches when they had headphones on and their team surrounding them.

To his credit, Rozanov did look a little sheepish. Nevertheless, he strengthened, holding something out in his hand. “I saw Hollander was playing worse the other day in semis against Barrett,” he started, and Shane scowled. Of course, he came here to gloat. “And then I saw his grip, so I thought–” he stopped, and motioned with his open hand, which contained a small package of grip tape. Ultra soft, special edition, and pristine.

Oh.

There was a pause.

“Right ok, I go,” Rozanov said, and started backing away.

“Wait!” Shane exclaimed, slightly too loud for the gym. “Thank you,” he said, and rose from the ground to grab the grip tape from Rozanov’s hand. “Except fuck you for saying I played worse.”

Rozanov smiled. “Well, you did.”

He was right, but still.

“Is this what’s been bothering you, Shane?” Yuna asked, clearly still flabbergasted.

“He has special grip,” Rozanov said, shrugging, “was not hard to see why he sucked.”

“Fuck off,” Shane said, automatic, but he immediately grabbed his racket and started removing the fraying grip. He glanced up at Rozanov and smiled at him, inexplicably grateful and stunned that Rozanov had even noticed.

Rozanov shrugged again. “You must win against Hunter, yes? So you can catch up to me,” he said, and turned towards where Hunter was warming up on the other side of the gym. “Prehistoric Scott Hunter!” he yelled, a cheap shot. Hunter gave him the finger in response.

Despite himself, Shane laughed, with a bubbly feeling in his chest. “Thank you,” he said again, and he struggled to keep it from being too earnest. He failed.

“No problem, Sh-Hollander” Ilya said, awkwardly. He was definitely blushing, and Shane struggled yet again to not find it adorable. In between one moment and the next, he was gone, and left David and Yuna staring at Shane in confusion.

“I don’t know,” Shane said preemptively.

“Well that was nice of him,” Yuna said, tentatively. She scrolled through her iPad again, apparently ready to get back to business.

“Yeah, it really was,” Shane replied. He tested the new grip in his hands. It was perfect.

—-

Actually, it was terrible. Shane was down a break, 6-2, 4-6, 6-3, 4-6, 5-6 Hunter, on Shane’s serve. Already the stats ran through his head: Hunter only won 30% of matches in the 5th set, but that had never happened at Rolland Garros. The last time he won in 5 was against Rozanov in the quarters at the US Open.

Frustration at his missed forehands burned in his gut, mixing with the heavy exhaustion in his legs. God, if only he could hit the fucking ball in.

He served, irritation loud in his mind, and missed. Fuck.

His second serve went in, and he bounced in place, ready for Hunter’s—
He hit a scathing forehand down the line, ripping past Shane, who was a second too late to react. He lunged, but his racket clipped the ball.

0-40

Fuck. The frustration boiled over into genuine anger, buzzing in his arms. He twirled the racket in his hands angrily, and decided he couldn’t smash it because that would be rude. And disruptive. But god, did he want to.

His balance was off when he stepped up to serve again, his normal breathing exercises not working, but the anger made him slam the ball harder, right into the back corner of the box. Hunter lunged and missed.

15-40

Shane made eye contact with his coach and pumped his arm, trying to hype himself up. The last time this happened, he had been playing against Marlow, down a break and almost hopeless in the first set. Shane had won on a frankly miraculous comeback.

Rozanov, who had given him the grip, and the day before had laughed with Shane over something stupid the umpire had said. Rozanov, who had scratched at Shane’s hair and called him boring, but made him his diet-approved food anyways. Rozanov, who had done Shane’s breathing exercises with him last night, even though he couldn’t stand staying still.

Shane’s stomach lurched. He wanted to be there, to be held by him. Wouldn’t it be a waste if he had given Shane this grip, and then Shane went and lost anyways?

Shane grimaced, because that was a pathetic thought. He didn’t want to win because of fucking Rozanov’s smile and twinkling eyes when he was proud of Shane.

No, he wanted to win because he wanted to be world number fucking one. Dethrone Hunter at this French Open, and never give it back. And, of course, rub it in Rozanov’s face. Now that would be satisfying.

He took a deep breath, with new strength rushing through him. He was going to do it.

His next serve went right at Hunter’s chest, and he returned with a clumsy lob towards Shane’s forehand. They danced around each other for a couple more shots, slowly dragging each other out further and further towards the edges of the court. But, Hunter’s next backhand was softer than the others, perhaps from fatigue, and Shane’s body moved even before his brain did, running around it to slap an inside out forehand on the edge of the line. It raced past Hunter, who stopped running and just nodded in acknowledgement, stoic.

Fuck, Shane thought, and breathed out. The buzzing in his legs was getting stronger, pure adrenaline making his heart race.

30-40

I will make you come once for every winner you hit, Ilya had texted him yesterday. Shane had said it was impossible to come that many times. ah, so you plan on hitting more than 3?

asshole

Shane was at 10. 11 now, he thought, as he watched his drop shot off land beautifully at the net. He just had to keep Hunter running at the net.

40-40

He hit a slicing volley on Hunter’s next return.

Ad-40

The buzzing in his limbs was overwhelming now. Some of the yelling of the crowd permeated through the quiet of his headspace, and Shane’s stomach threatened to eject his lunch. He looked over at his box as he walked over to his spot at the baseline. Yuna had her head in her hands, but his dad just gave him two thumbs up. Despite himself, Shane smiled.

The vibration of the ball bouncing on his racket was familiar, grounding. He adjusted his shock absorber, a bristling black cat that Rose had said was “so you Shane, shut up” right after she had broken up with him for being gay.

Fuck, his hands were shaking.

He breathed, and was grateful that the umpire didn’t give him a time warning. Fuck.

He served, and the rest was a haze. Shot after shot after shot, dancing against the chanting in his head. His shot to Hunter’s backhand was returned aggressively, and Shane stumbled, his mind a blur of panic as he lunged, and Hunter went up to net. Shane lunged for his next shot, which went way too close to Hunter, and he easily hit it to the back corner of the court.

Fuck, Shane thought, and sprinted, full speed, lungs burning. He jumped for it, sliding against the clay, lined up, and the entire stadium held its breath as Hunter turned to anticipate it—

Shane slammed the ball past Hunter, just clipping the singles line.

Holy fucking shit

Shane collapsed. On his knees in the middle of the court, he screamed in ecstasy. Shock raced through his veins, fizzy and hot.

“Let’s fucking go!” He yelled, and then buried his face in his hands because the stadium lights were suddenly overwhelmingly bright.

He raced up the stands, two at a time, and collapsed into his mom and dad and Rose. They jumped up and down and screamed with him, wordless and right in his ear.

“Go!” Rose yelled, “go down there and do your speech!”

“Oh shit!” Shane yelled back, through a wild grin, “I won!”

“You won!” Rose smiled, “you fucking won!”

He should probably go shake Hunter’s hand, that would certainly be polite. Running down the stands with fans’ hands grabbing at him and a camera following him was truly treacherous.

“Good job,” Hunter said, at the net, “you earned it.”

“Thanks,” Shane said, trying for diplomatic but his grin ruined it.

“Don’t look at me like that kid,” Hunter said as he clapped him on the back, “you look exactly like him.”

Shane stopped. “What?” He said, thinking he had surely misheard.

“You heard me, Hollander”, Hunter said, and he was smiling a little more now.

“I—“

“Congratulations to our new Rolland Garros champion, Shane Hollander!” The announcer yelled, and Shane was immediately distracted again by the fact that he fucking won.

The rest was a blur, nothing but the fact that he won on repeat in his head. He was the youngest world number one ever, and the youngest male player to win a slam. It was ludicrous, pure insanity.

Shane couldn’t stop himself from thinking this was a dream or a freak occurrence. But the fizzling feeling in his chest was real, the tightness of his face from smiling so much, the grounding hug from Rose and the fierce yelling from his parents. That was all real. And—

“I want to fucking eat you,” Ilya gasped in his mouth, dragging Shane’s lower lip with him. Shane dropped down on him and took him in one thrust, groaning.

This was real too.
“Fuck,” Shane moaned, dragging it out, the stretch burning just right in contrast to his aching muscles.

This was real, Shane reminded himself. He looked into Rozanov’s eyes, which were blown and dark, looking at where they were connected with feverish intensity. There was lust, sure, but there was something awed too, something like relief.

I can have this too, Shane thought, looking at Rozanov. Why couldn’t he, after winning a slam? He thought of belonging, of winning, of letting himself be grounded and present and real. He had always felt the most alive with Rozanov.

Rozanov, who had looked devastated after Shane had left him without a word for Rose. Rozanov, who had noticed him and showed he cared in little ways and had wormed his way into being his friend anyways.

“Rozanov,” Shane said, before his mind could catch up with him. “I’m sorry for leaving you before.” He didn’t clarify, and he didn’t have to.

Rozanov stilled. “Can this wait until later?”

“Fuck you,” Shane said, and wiggled. Rozanov hissed.

“Fine, yes. I’m sorry too.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“What, you need this to be competition too? Want to win the apology games?” He moved his hip upwards, and Shane jolted.

He was so hard it hurt, but the thoughts and regrets had latched onto him and wouldn’t let go.
“I’m gay,” he blurted, and then slapped a hand over his mouth.

There was silence.

“…really?”

“Fuck! Off!” Shane slapped Rozanov on the face lightly, and Rozanov finally broke, cackling.

“You’re gay? Oh my god, what happened to no homo?” Rozanov continued, gesturing at their joined bodies.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Shane threatened, but his lips were twitching.

Rozanov slid a hand down Shane’s chest, and Shane shuddered. “Yes, kill me later.”

Shane fought the urge to give in for all of two seconds before he gave up. He dove back down for Rozanov’s mouth, and raised his hips. “Asshole,” he muttered, and slammed back down. Rozanov gasped, and it was music to Shane’s ears.

He rode Rozanov like he would die without it. The burning in his legs and hips mixed with the pleasure pain of Rozanov being deep in him was ecstasy.

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Rozanov was chanting, over and over. It was a dull murmur in Shane’s ears, background against a rushing sound of adrenaline. The burning in his gut tightened, and he clenched down on Rozanov.

“That’s it,” Rozanov muttered, and held Shane’s hips in place as he fucked up into him. Shane’s mouth opened as he gasped silently, the pleasure mounting, gut tightening, heat rushing through him.

Ilya spit into his hand, lightly grasped Shane’s cock, and kissed him, deep and all encompassing, and Shane was gone. Heat and pressure raced through him, tightening and releasing in pulses, static rushing through him.

“Fucking hell,” Ilya muttered, and Shane moaned like he was dying.

“Ilya,” he said, the name said like a prayer, like he could save Shane from the rush of feelings crowding in his chest.

Ilya gasped, shuddered, and spilled inside Shane with a low groan. “Shane,” he gasped, panting, “Shane, please.”

Tears pricked in Shane’s eyes. This was real, right?
“Kiss me?” He asked. It came out almost frantic.

Ilya cupped his cheeks and kissed him slowly, sweetly. They separated slowly, both giddy and smiling recklessly.

“You feel this too, right?” Shane asked.

“Shane—“

“Ilya.”

Ilya took a deep breath. “Yes, Shane.”

Hope rose in Shane’s chest. He felt light, weightless and floaty.

“Be with me,” he asked in a rush, “Please be my boyfriend.”

Ilya laughed and laughed, then pet down Shane’s side. “Aren’t we moving fast? You just realized you are gay.”

“Fuck off, Ilya.”

“Ok, Shane. Yes.”

Real, Shane thought, this could be real too.

——
September 2015, US Open

“Alright, here we go. 3..2…1…”

Shane took a deep breath. “Do we just try it?” He asked. To his left, Ilya was stretching. Shane tried hard not to look at the long lines of his neck, and failed.

“So, Rozanov, do you know what you’re getting me for Christmas?” He asked, looking over. Ilya turned and smirked.

“You know, I’m-gonnagotoCanadaandplayanexhibition,” he said, all in a rush, clearly focusing on the words. Shane’s mouth twitched, Ilya turned away, and Shane broke, laughing loudly.

“Fuck you!” Ilya said, “it’s hard!”

Shane wiped at his eyes, bending over.

“Guys, please!” Said the director.

Shane tried again, and turned to Ilya.

“So, Rozanov—“ Ilya winked, and Shane was gone, gasping for air again.

“Please!” The director said.

“It’s not my fault! He started it!” Shane cried, and Ilya protested “lies and slander!”

Ilya knocked against Shane’s leg underneath the table.

They tried again, and again, and again.

“So, Rozanov, do you know what you’re getting me for Christmas?” Shane said, and mentally applauded himself for not breaking. He turned to look at Rozanov.

Ilya looked deep in his eyes, and said, monotone, “You know what, I’m going to—“

Ilya broke, and laughed so hard he fell over. “I can’t! He is so serious and boring!”

“Fuck you!”

“I hate English, so fuck you!”

“Asshole, this is hard to me too!”

“Not as hard as—“

“Rozanov!”

“Guys!” The director said, clearly done with them. Shane would feel bad, except Ilya’s foot was caressing Shane’s leg in apology. “Just don’t look at each other anymore!”

“He can’t be trusted!” Shane protested, and Ilya scoffed.

“Let’s go again,” the director said, like he was dealing with children.

It took them probably another fifty tries, but finally:

“So, Rozanov, do you know what you’re going to get me for Christmas?” Shane said, and looked somewhere above Ilya’s head to avoid breaking.

“You know what, I’m going to come to Canada to play an exhibition match for our foundation,” he replied, also not really looking at Shane.

Despite himself, and even though it was scripted, Shane was charmed. They had built this together, and he was fucking proud of it.

“That’s very nice,” he replied.

“And what will you get me, huh?” Ilya continued, and smirked, just like the script said. He winked.
Now, for Shane’s least favorite part. “Ah, for you? How about I give you the first set.”

Ilya snorted. “Really? That’s too nice.”

“Yes, because I’ll win anyways.”

“You wish,” Ilya said, and then turned to the camera. “Come see me win against Hollander, for the Irina foundation!”

“See you there!” Shane finished, and then the director yelled cut, the crew cheering.

“Yes!” Ilya cried out, like he had just won a match instead of shooting a twenty second commercial, “we fucking did it!”

Shane looked at Ilya, overcome with happiness, and pride, and something he couldn’t quite yet name. “Yeah,” he said, “we did.”

Ilya unfortunately won, on the last of three tiebreaks. But it didn’t matter, because Ilya kissed him in front of everyone anyway. And Shane thought I love you, in front of everybody, and Ilya’s eyes were soft like he could hear it and was mentally saying it back too.