Chapter Text
Shane Hollander was eight years old the first time he learned what having a soulmate meant. He had woken up with a black eye and a split lip that cracked even farther as a smile spread across his face. The smile lasted all of five seconds before his heart lurched in his chest, someone had done this to his soulmate. Sure he’d noticed bruises that weren’t his before, the odd cut and scrape that came with being a kid, but nothing this severe. No this was something else, something worse; this meant that wherever his soulmate was she was in trouble. He cried to his parents at the breakfast table and found himself wishing that wherever she was, she was safe.
By the time he was twelve, Shane was sure that his soulmate, whoever she was, didn’t live in Canada. The injuries always seemed to appear when he woke up, sometimes even causing him to wake up. That was another thing he noticed; the injuries started becoming more and more common, and a lot more worrying than before. Tiny circular burns on his arms and legs, more black eyes, and hand shaped bruises on his wrists. He had talked to his parents about it and with pity in their eyes they explained how some people hurt others on purpose. From that day forward he vowed to try and get hurt as little as possible, for the sake of his soulmate. It wasn’t easy, hockey was inherently a physical sport, but Shane never started fights on the ice and tried his best to avoid getting slammed into the boards. He hoped that it would be enough.
Shane was seventeen when he met Ilya Rozanov. The game passed by in a blur. The Russian team played dirty, slamming Shane into the boards every chance they could get. His team played hard but to no avail. As he peeled off his undershirt after the game he briefly thought of his soulmate as the bruises started to show on his skin. He wondered if they resented him. They already had to deal with whatever was going on at home, the added bruises from Shane’s hockey career definitely didn't help. He let his mind drift towards hockey, thinking about his soulmate too long left him feeling sad in a way he couldn’t explain. Next year was his last shot to prove himself before the MHL draft. He was determined not to let his team down again.
By eighteen things were looking up, his soulmate had less and less injuries, his team won the juniors and he was the top contender for first draft pick. But of course it went to Russia’s golden boy instead. He found himself, once again thinking of Ilya Rozanov. He played hard, almost as good as Shane, and with him signing with Boston they would be playing each other frequently. If Shane wasn’t so disappointed about the draft he would be almost excited to finally have a proper challenger on the ice. The feeling went away as fast as it came when Rozanov showed up in the hotel gym. Their small competition ending with Rozanov winning against Shane again. As they sat on the floor of the gym his thoughts drifted to his soulmate, he tried to picture what they might look like but all he could see was the face sitting in front of him. He was warm, too warm, and the conversation with Rozanov barely registered in his mind as he watched a bead of sweat drip down the other man's neck. Later in the shower as he got himself off he tried again to picture his soulmate but all he could see was that bead of sweat; if he climaxed to picturing it going further down that was between him and god.
The summer passed by fast, training camp was coming up and his rookie season would be starting soon. He hadn't thought about his soulmate in months, instead driving his focus towards hockey. And Ilya Rozanov. Shane was aware that this level of obsession with Rozanov wasn't exactly the healthiest, but he was determined to win. He was still bitter about being the second overall draft pick, so when he was told that the photoshoot for CCM was no longer a single shoot and instead a dual shoot of him and Rozanov he was more than a little pissed off. He tried to hold onto his anger at the shoot, but little by little his anger faded away into something he couldn't place. They quickly devolved into laughter and were dismissed shortly after. Shane hurried to the showers eager to finish and get out before the other man could join, but like all his plans as of late that went sideways rather fast. A rushed shower and proposition later he found himself in the locker room giving out his room number before his brain could catch up. He was well and truly fucked.
The knock snapped him out of his spiral, he had a plan; he would politely decline, explain that it wasn’t like that and they would never speak of it again. The plan worked all of 5 seconds and then his mouth was on Rozanov’s and his hands were in blonde curls. The heat pooling in his gut only got worse as he sank to his knees on the hotel carpet, the texture uncomfortable beneath him but not enough to sway him from his task. He’d never given a blowjob before but he had been on the receiving end so he tried to replicate what had been done to him. However bad it was Rozanov wasn’t complaining so Shane continued on, until he was pulled off and hauled to his feet. His protests died on his tongue as Rozanov’s made its way into his mouth. They made their way over to bed, separating only long enough to get clothes off. His mood faltered when Rosanov made to leave after he came, only for it to surge back seconds later as he felt his soul get sucked out through his dick. After assurances that “nobody will know Hollander” Rozanov left and Shane suddenly crashed back into the world. What the hell was he thinking? Hooking up with Ilya Rozanov, his rival, was a mistake. Hell he had a soulmate waiting for him somewhere. Shane gripped his thighs and tried to even out his breathing. By the time he had calmed down small bruises had started to form where he had pressed too hard. He hoped distantly his soulmate wouldn't be too upset with him.