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Shane's sneakers scuff against the pavement as he walks; hands bundled in the pocket of his hoodie. He keeps his head down with each step, unsure where he's going only knowing he couldn't be in the hotel right now.
It smarts being the second draft pick behind Rozanov, and Shane can't handle seeing his annoying chiselled and smoulderingly-attractive face right now. He huffs in exasperation at himself for even thinking of his stupid face like that. Rozanov is not that attractive.
Shane really needs a distraction and normally he'd go to the gym, but he's not in the working-out frame of mind right now. He doesn't really know what he needs if he's being honest. He's kinda hoping if he walks around for a bit longer then a thought might manifest itself or something.
The lack of ideas is kind of worrying. Usually he's an overthinker, so suddenly being an underthinker all because of Ilya Fucking Rozanov and his smirking Russian mouth is really messing with Shane's equilibrium.
"Woah, steady on there, Sweetheart."
Shane grunts as he accidentally knocks into someone; blinking rapidly as he fumbles to keep his balance. Always more confident and controlled on the ice than on solid ground; where he can be Shane Hollander rising star of NHL rather than just Shane Hollander who is always a little awkward and isn't great at kissing girls. Not that anyone knows the last part (other than the girls in question), but still. Hands come up to gently grab Shane's biceps; guiding them both to the side of the pavement out of the way of anyone else. Shane clocks a guy grinning at him - a really attractive guy (fuck are they everywhere here?) - and quickly averts his gaze.
"Uh, sorry," he coughs; fidgeting with the toggle of his hoodie. Shane's about five inches taller than the other guy, but the intensity of his gaze makes Shane feel small.
"Don't sweat it. What's a pretty boy like you doing wandering around L.A at night all on your own, anyway?"
Shane risks a glance at the man, and his cheeks heat, because he really is pretty. Green eyes, dark spiky hair, a nose that's obviously been busted at some point and a mouth that looks like it's begging to be kissed. Shane looks away again, not sure how to deal with noticing these sorts of things about a second guy within an hour of thinking similar things about his NHL approved and assigned personal rival; when he's never had these thoughts about anyone with a dick before.
Not that he wants to know what Rozanov's dick looks or feels like. Or this guy in front of him. Obviously.
"Couldn't sleep," he says; curling and uncurling his toes in his sneakers, keeping himself grounded. Dealing with new people outside of the world of hockey was always difficult for him when his parents weren't there to run interference. "Too keyed up, y'know."
"Fair enough," the guy says affably. He seems like a person that doesn't get bothered by much. He gently taps Shane on the cheek, and Shane is so shocked at the touch that he looks right into his green eyes, unable to look away again. He can't even bring himself to be annoyed at someone he doesn't know touching him, because it had been like the caress of a butterflies wing, it had been so gentle. Shane's not used to gentle. He's used to getting knocked into the boards or shoved around by guys that are over 6ft like him. "Wanna get a drink?"
The offer feels like it comes out of nowhere, that Shane can only blurt out, "I'm eighteen."
The other guy's nose crinkles as he smiles; looking up at Shane like he's a cute puppy or something. Something weird squirms in Shane's gut. "Oh, eighteen and a good boy too, by the sounds of it."
"Fuck off," Shane scoffs; the back of his neck heating with embarrassment. He knows he's not like other people and he's already got a reputation of being all hockey and no fun despite only being eighteen. Normally it doesn't get to him much, but being called out so easily by a guy he's said less than fifteen words too is on par with Rozanov needling his way under Shane's skin.
"I'm just teasing, Sweetheart." Another brush of knuckles against his cheek. Shane's lashes flutter and he wets his lips. "And you're cute when you blush."
Shane curls his shoulders in, a little defensively. Chirps are easier to deal with than...whatever this is.
"How old are you, anyway? Seeing as we're apparently sharing," Shane asks gruffly. Normally he would be coming up with some excuse to leave, and...he's not sure why he's not doing that now. Might be something to do with the guy in front of him's crooked teeth as he smiles at Shane like he's actually funny. He reminds Shane of a bunny. A really sexy bunny.
Shane mentally shakes his own thoughts away like an etch-a-sketch; clearing his throat.
"I'm twenty-four."
"Oh, a real Father Time, then." Shane drawls; rolling his eyes.
"I like you, kid," he winks; full on body-laughing.
"Shane." He bites his lip; feeling a grin curling at the corners of his mouth. It was harder to be annoyed at the guy than he would've thought. "If you're gonna tease me in the middle of the street, than at least call me by actual name."
"Shane. Suits you. I'm Pete." He holds out his hand, and Shane shakes it. Can't help but notice how much bigger his hands are compared to Pete's. "But you can call me Maverick."
People walk by them, but Shane pays them no attention. Usually he's only this focused on the ice, the puck drops against Rozanov. This change in routine makes him squirm, the fabric of his hoodie brushing uncomfortably against his skin. "Is, uh, Maverick a nickname or something?"
"Callsign. I'm in the Navy. A fighter pilot."
"Oh." Shane doesn't know what to say to that. The US military isn't really his area of expertise. His life has been hockey, and uh...hockey. "That's nice, I guess. Congrats...?"
Maverick laughs again. "And let me guess. A big, solid Canadian in LA near the rink...I'm assuming you're a hockey player."
"Just been drafted to the Montreal Voyageurs actually," he forces himself to maintain eye contact, because he's proud of being drafted to Montreal. He's made his mom and dad proud, and he's going to do his best to continue to do so. If he stops having these inconvenient thoughts about other men anyway.
"That's awesome, well done! You're gonna be a force, I can tell."
"Uh, thanks."
"Seeing as getting a drink is out of the question, how would you feel about going back to my hotel that's about two blocks away and watching some TV together?"
Shane's brow furrows and he blinks in confusion. "You .... want to watch TV with me?" He can't work out if Maverick is making some kind of euphemism or not. Maverick just nods. Shane can't come up with an excuse, or he can, but he feels a little more reluctant to use one right now, so he just says, "okay."
"Good boy," Maverick says; clapping Shane on the shoulder and leading them in the direction of his hotel. Shane feels a whine bubble in his throat, and he quickly swallows it down. Maverick smirks at him out the corner of his eye. "And don't worry, I don't bite." He leans in and playfully snaps his teeth at Shane. "Unless you ask nicely, Sweetheart."
As Shane troops down the street with Maverick next to him, he realises that Maverick is an annoying, charming asshole like Rozanov is, and that he might have a type.
A type that might not be women.
Fuck.
+
As soon as the hotel door closes; Shane watches as Maverick kicks off his shoes, jumps on the bed and grabs the remote. Maverick channel hops for a few moments deciding on a film with Ben Affleck and Matt Damon in, though Shane isn't sure of the title, before setting the remote on the side.
"You joining me?" Maverick pats the bed next to where he's stretched out and folds his arms over his chest.
"Uh...you actually do want to watch TV together." Shane awkwardly toes off his sneakers, one after the other, and slowly pads towards the bed. He perches on the edge of the mattress; fingers toying with the comforter. "I thought, maybe..."
"What did you think, Shane, hmm?"
"I—" Shane swallows repeatedly; wetting his lips nervously. "I wasn't sure if watching TV was like an euphemism for something else."
Maverick taps him on the shoulder and Shane turns. Maverick nudges him until he's sitting with his back against the headboard. Even though Shane is panicking a little, he's not scared. He might not really know Maverick, but he can't deny the man makes him feel calmer than most other people do. And he might tease Shane, but there's no malice to it. There's no disgust or homophobic insults. Shane feels more comfortable alone in this hotel room with Maverick than he does in a locker room. (Not counting being alone with Rozanov, because he's not thinking about Rozanov right now).
He leans closer, until Shane can see the hints of blue and yellow in his green eyes. "Did you think we were going to make out, Shane?"
"W-What? No. That would be—"
"Something you like?"
Shane flushes. "I..."
"Oh! Something you want to try maybe?"
He rolls his bottom lip against the blunt edge of his teeth. "I don't know. Maybe?" Rozanov flits through his mind, and Shane wonders what his lips would feel like with the hint of sweat from working out still clinging to his skin. "Yes," he says, changing his mind, because he's not here with Rozanov, and nothing can ever happen with his fucking rival. That's just madness. If Maverick is in the Navy then he's not going to be hanging around. There's safety in his lack of permanency. He's going to be seeing Rozanov up close multiple times a season for years to come, and hockey is all Shane knows. He can't risk that with fooling around with another guy, his rival.
Maverick skims the tips of his fingers along the line of Shane's jaw and then cups his cheek. "Don't worry, Sweetheart. I can handle a big boy like you with the gentleness you need. And I don't tell. Have a career that depends on it, actually. Something I think we have in common, right?"
Shane jerks out a nod; swallowing thickly. His heart pounds in his chest, but he doesn't push Maverick away. He does want to experience...whatever this is... without the fear of ending his career before it's truly begun. And he doesn't really know his new teammates yet, so there's no way he's trusting any of them with his internal gay panic.
"You want me to stop," Maverick says quietly but firmly; straddling Shane's thighs, "then just tell me. Or push me off. I only like kissing pretty boys who want to be kissed, okay?"
"Okay."
"Good." Maverick smiles at him and then cupping Shane's face, he slots their mouths together. Immediately it's different to the few girls he's kissed; sharper, more decisive. Maverick's lips are a little chapped, but soft. His tongue flicks against the seam of Shane's lips, begging for entry. Shane opens up and lets him in. Maverick licks into the wet heat of his mouth; sliding his tongue against Shane's own.
Shane moans; hands coming up to rest on the dip of Maverick's waist. His thumbs tease the hem of Maverick's sweater, feeling warm skin underneath. Maverick grins against his mouth and kisses him with even more enthusiasm. Shane can't help but smile back.
"You enjoy that, Sweetheart?" Maverick husks; kissing the corner of Shane's mouth, pushing a strand of hair away from Shane's forehead.
"I....yes."
"Mmm. I can tell." Shane frowns in confusion, but then Maverick rolls his hips, and Shane realises he's hard. They both are.
"Oh. Sorry."
"Shane, Sweetheart," Maverick says gently. "We were just making out. I'd be a little insulted if you weren't at least half-hard from having my mouth on you." Maverick's grin turns wicked and Shane's dick twitches in his jeans at the thought of a hot mouth in between his legs. But still—
"I, uh, don't think I'm ready for blow jobs," he whispers.
"That's okay, Shane. Whenever you are ready, and whoever makes you feel ready, is going to be a special guy. But," Maverick brushes his hand down over Shane's chest and belly, teasing the waistband of his jeans. "I can still make you feel good, Sweetheart. If you want that."
"W-What do you mean?"
"I mean, I can jerk you off right here and have you coming all over my hand, if that's something you might be interested in."
Shane bites his lip, thinking for a moment, and then says, "okay."
Maverick smiles at him sweetly; swiping his thumb over the ridge of Shane's cheek. "Cute freckles, by the way. Kinda making me hungry for cinnamon toast."
"Sorry?" Shane huffs out a laugh.
"Eh, it's fine. I'll get some for breakfast. I promised you a hand job, and I aim to deliver." Maverick tears open Shane's jeans then and reaches into the pouch of his boxer briefs; wrapping his fingers around Shane's cock, pulling it free. Shane hisses through his teeth at the feeling; Maverick's fingers calloused and feeling nice on the aching length of his dick. Shane clutches at the bedsheets as Maverick strokes his hand up and down; swiping his thumb over the spongy tip, smearing the beads of precum that dribble from his slit and twisting his wrist on the upstroke. Shane bucks his hips, chasing the tight grip of Maverick's fist.
It's only about a minute or two before he feels his balls throb in warning.
"Ah, shit, I think I'm gonna come—"
"Come on, Sweetheart. Show me how pretty you look when you come, Shane."
Shane gasps as he tips over the edge; cock pulsing in Maverick's fist, spurting in thick bursts over Maverick's fingers. A few drops hit Shane's stomach, and Maverick is quick to wipe them away.
"Beautiful," Maverick murmurs; pulling his now-sticky hand free without getting any semen on Shane's clothes. Shane's not sure how Maverick's guessed that he's not a fan of bodily fluids and messes, but Shane appreciates it. Shane flumps back against the pillows and tucks his dick away, as Maverick grabs a couple of tissues from the box on the side and wipes himself clean.
It had felt different having Maverick touch him, than when he usually jerks off. Nice. Good.
Like something he might want to happen again. With someone else.
Someone with a Russian accent and a smirk Shane fluctuates from wanting to punch or kiss off his face.
"Should I return the favour?" Shane asks; glancing at where Maverick's erection is straining against his zipper.
Maverick just shakes his head and makes himself comfy on the bed again; snuggling up against Shane's side. "I'm good. Hearing your sweet moans, and watching you come was enough. S'gonna keep me going when I'm on a carrier in two days time for a four month stint. And also, I know what it's like to feel like you might not be like everyone else, in the different-but-same type of world that doesn't like to admit that people like us exist. Getting to help you figure out what you might want? That's as good as having my dick touched, kid."
"You're only six years older than me," Shane grumbles, and Maverick just snickers; fluttering his lashes at him like he's completely innocent. "But, uh, thank you, Pete."
"Don't mention it. It's our secret, yeah? But, Shane?"
"Yeah?"
"Whoever had you walking around L.A at night, unable to sleep, I've no doubt you've got him all tangled up the same way."
Shane chuffs and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. Maverick uses it as an opportunity to cuddle closer. "Yeah, maybe." The thought of Rozanov wanting him the same kind of way seems ridiculous, but also makes butterflies swirl around like crazy in his belly.
They sit in companionable silence while the TV carries on playing, until Shane feels ready to leave, and even if he never sees Maverick again, Shane's not going to forget this night in a long, long time.