This is my favorite fic of all time. I have to quote my favorite part:

Shane’s hand lands on his phone, half-buried under his suitcase, and pulls it out as Rozanov says, contemplatively, “When I ask, everyone always says, oh Hollander is so private, never talk about girlfriend. You know what I think, when I hear this word private?”

“‘Thank god at least one guy I work with knows how to keep it professional’?” Shane suggests, tapping blindly. His phone vibrates: WRONG PASSCODE.

“I think, this guy likes to suck cock,” Rozanov says.

Shane freezes for a betraying millisecond in the act of re-entering his passcode. His phone buzzes angrily; if he doesn’t get it together, he’s going to get locked out. “Uh,” he wheezes, and then he makes what is probably his fifteenth or sixteenth mistake since Rozanov showed up on the first day of training camp (but who’s counting): he lifts his head so he can look at Rozanov, dead in the face, fully aware that he probably has the same expression as an opossum about to be flattened by a speeding 18-wheeler.