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“There were rumors that you and Scott Hunter became friends during the All Stars game. Does this fight mean he’s one of your rivals now?”
Ilya grits his teeth as he watches the post-game interview on youtube. He has lost count of how many times he’s replayed that part since the interview came out a few days ago, watching Hollander’s face as he heard the reporter's question.
Hollander was still flush with sweat when he’d given that interview, his wet hair clinging to his forehead. He clearly didn’t like the question, his jaw tightening as soon as he heard it.
“Losing your temper is part of the game,” Hollander said, always the poster boy of well-rehearsed responses. “But I respect Scott Hunter as a player, no matter what. Thanks, guys.”
Ilya goes back ten seconds on the video and watches it again. His grip on the phone is too tight, so he tries to loosen it.
Does this fight mean he’s one of your rivals now?
A knock on the door of Ilya’s hotel room draws him out of his trance. He quickly puts his phone away and walks toward the sound.
He already knows who it is, of course. He invited him here. And by now, he can tell by the anxious rhythm of his knocking.
He opens the door, and Hollander walks in as quickly as he always does, closing it behind him. He’s wearing a stupid tracksuit and an even more stupid cap on his head, probably trying to hide his face. His stupid, pretty, freckled face.
The face that is now staring back at Ilya’s, brown eyes shining in the low hotel lights.
“Hey,” Hollander says. So nice. So polite.
Ilya takes a slow step towards him, crowding him against the door.
“Took you very long,” he says.
Hollander leans back against the wall, and Ilya rests his hands around his hips.
“I couldn’t leave sooner,” Hollander says. “My team was celebrating.”
Ilya rolls his eyes. Right. Montreal won the game against Boston tonight. One more reason why Ilya was so angry at him.
But if he was being honest, it had been his fault. He hadn’t been in his right mind today. For some reason, he was focusing on Hollander more than usual, trying to throw insults at him every time they so much as crossed paths. The effort of thinking of what he would say next got him distracted, and Montreal took the win easily.
The smug look on Hollander’s face right now tells him he knows exactly why Ilya lost.
Ilya fucking hates that look, so he grabs Hollander’s chin and lifts his face a little, just so he can look at it better.
“Luck,” he says simply.
Hollander huffs out a laugh, eyes fixed on his lips. “You’re such a sore loser.”
“You’re such a big talker,” Ilya whispers, and finally leans in for a kiss.
Hollander’s lips open up for him beautifully, and his hands come up to slide inside Ilya’s hair. Ilya licks into his mouth and tries to forget about the loss, about the fight with Scott Hunter, about the stupid interview.
Does this fight mean he’s one of your rivals now?
He groans into the kiss, tightening his grip on Hollander’s jaw. When Ilya presses their bodies together, he finds that Hollander is already as hard as a rock.
Easy. Eager. Ilya sucks on his tongue, and wishes his head would just go empty. Empty and focused on Hollander, if only for just the few minutes that they’re together.
“Big week for you,” Ilya whispers on his lips.
“What?” Hollander asks, barely listening. His hands go down on Ilya’s chest and further, fingers unzipping his pants with practiced ease.
“Winning against us today,” Ilya tilts his head. “And your first big fight.”
At the mention of the fight, Hollander has the decency to look a little embarrassed. “It was the heat of the moment.”
Ilya reaches down and cups Hollander’s cock through his pants, making him moan. He gives it one light stroke, and leans in to whisper in his ear.
“Perfect Shane Hollander, getting into a fight,” Ilya says. He clicks his tongue. “Very bad.”
“Shut up,” Hollander grabs the hem of his pants and tries to tug it down, but Ilya doesn’t let him. He pulse his hips back slightly. “Come on. Are we here to talk or what?”
Ilya swallows his words with a kiss. They’re not here to talk, but he can’t help it. He feels something rising in his throat, stuck in the middle of his chest, and he can’t let it go.
He pulls back, and keeps stroking Hollander’s cock through his underwear. The man gasps a little, a high-pitched, breathless sound, that seems to be haunting Ilya’s dreams lately.
“What did you fight about?”
“What?” Hollander blinks his eyes open, confused.
“You and Scott,” Ilya says. “What was the fight about?”
Hollander frowns, his nose wrinkling in the angry-kitten way it does when Ilya annoys him too much.
“Nothing serious. Just… shit-talking.”
But Ilya has insulted Hollander on that ice in every way known to man. He has never gotten that under Hollander’s skin, not in the way he wanted to.
He wanted to be the person Hollander got angry at. They were supposed to be the rivals. The two of them. Now tabloids were asking him about his rivalry with fucking Scott Hunter of all people.
“It was serious,” Ilya says, reaching into his underwear to touch skin. Hollander grabs his biceps, his fingers digging into him through his shirt. “You punched him.”
“Ah, fuck–” Hollander squirms under his touch. “Just… shut up, will you?”
“No,” Ilya smirks. Inside, his brain is a mess of thoughts. “Tell me.”
“It was nothing!” Hollander says. His face is getting flushed now, all red and pretty. But the answer isn’t good enough.
Ilya presses his jaw. Why won’t he just tell him? Does he not want to give Ilya ammunition to use against him in the next game? Was the fight that serious?
He can’t believe Scott Hunter knows Hollander better than he does. Knows how to annoy him, to anger him, to make him lose the control he’s always desperately trying to cling to.
Hollander huffs out a frustrated breath, clearly out of patience. He shoves Ilya back from him and starts to kneel down, already reaching for his pants again.
Ilya stops him, pulling him back to his feet.
“Not now,” he leans in and bites Hollander’s lips. “Get on the bed. Clothes off.”
That seems to work. Hollander meets his eyes, and his face does that thing where he pretends to be annoyed at him before doing exactly what he says.
Ilya has been testing that, lately. His obedience. The way he’s always willing to do what Ilya tells him to, even if he tries to act like he isn’t.
Hollander folds his clothes carefully before getting on the bed, keeping his socks on. Ilya hates how stupidly endearing that is. He grits his teeth together, and watches closely as Hollander lies down on his back. Miles and miles of smooth skin and rippling muscle taunt Ilya from his hotel bed.
“So?” Hollander asks, impatient.
Ilya takes off his own shirt and pants, but keeps his underwear on for now. He walks slowly to the bed, enjoying Hollander’s hungry eyes on him. The same eyes that were so earnest in that locker room shower. The same eyes that tell Ilya exactly what Hollander wants, even if he doesn’t say it.
How can Scott Hunter know this man better than he does? Does he know him like this, flushed and slack-jawed, waiting for release? Does he know that Hollander’s freckles look darker when he’s blushing, that he trembles when he comes?
Anger rises high on Ilya’s chest, and he lays down on top of Hollander’s body without bothering to hide it.
He kisses down his skin without saying a word. If Hollander notices the bites he’s giving him, a little stronger than usual, he doesn’t mention anything. He just moans, and opens his legs wide as Ilya fits himself between them.
“Fuck,” Hollander’s voice goes high again when Ilya swallows his cock down. “Ah! Like that–”
Ilya doesn’t bother going slowly. He allows his throat to open for him, and takes as much of Hollander as he can. Hands come up to his hair, tugging hard on it, but he doesn’t stop. Hollander’s precome tastes salty and bitter and fucking good, and for a second, Ilya forgets everything in life that isn’t the man shaking underneath him.
God, he missed this.
“Rozanov, fuck,” Hollander thrusts up into his mouth. “I’m gonna– I’m so close.”
Does this fight mean he’s one of your rivals now?
The thought hits him like a train, and Ilya’s instinct is to pull back so fast his mouth pops around Hollander’s cock.
“Fuck!” Hollander’s entire body trembles, his orgasm not quite reaching him. He lets Ilya’s head go and lifts his head to him. “What happened? Why did you stop?”
Ilya’s face is burning with something he doesn’t quite recognize. Shame. Fury. Not even the cute look of confusion on Hollander’s face is enough to drown his thoughts out this time.
“What did Scott Hunter say to you?” he asks.
Hollander frowns at him, real anger starting to show on his face. “What the fuck? Why do you even want to know?”
Ilya swallows, trying to think clearly for a single second. There’s no way Hollander’s gonna tell him like this. He needs to try to convince him some other way.
He needs to make it sexy, somehow.
Heart racing, Ilya leans down on him again, and kisses Hollander’s lips. He allows his body weight to cover him as he explores his mouth with his tongue, and soon enough, Hollander has turned into honey underneath his arms, grievances forgotten.
Hollander wraps his legs around his hips and pushes up, making Ilya’s cock scream for attention. He tries to push Ilya back, to lay him down on the bed so he can have his way with him, but Ilya keeps him firmly in place, holding his arms down. Hollander moans into his lips, and Ilya swears he could come from just this. Just kissing, and rubbing their bodies together.
God, Ilya really, really wants to fuck him. But Hollander wants to wait for that, and Ilya has something to find out, now.
“Don’t move,” he whispers, and Hollander looks up at him, his eyes already hazy with pleasure again. “Okay?”
“Why?” he asks.
“I want to see if you can,” Ilya licks the shell of his ear, then murmurs into it. “Just take it.”
Hollander allows his arms to fall back on the mattress, and Ilya wraps his hand around his cock. He doesn’t even need any lube, his saliva and Hollander’s precome already making him slippery enough.
“Nngh,” Hollander whines, thrusting his hips up into his touch. “Rozanov, I need–”
“Shhh,” Ilya kisses him again, and strokes him a little bit faster. “Stay still.”
And Hollander does. He stops moving his hips, his chest heaving with fast, shallow breaths. He squeezes his eyes closed, and takes it all as Ilya jerks him off the way he knows Hollander likes it.
“Fuck, that’s good,” Hollander moans, and the way his voice sounds sends jolts of electricity down Ilya’s body. “I’m gonna come. Fuck, I’m close. Ah–”
Ilya lets his cock go, and holds Hollander’s hips down on the mattress.
“Fuck, Rozanov–” Hollander’s entire body shakes, and he tries to thrust up into Ilya’s body, searching for release. “What the fuck?”
Ilya holds him down and still, keeping him from getting it. He kisses Hollander’s face all the way through it, his neck, his cheek, his jaw. The annoying freckles on his face.
What does Scott Hunter know about Shane Hollander’s freckles? What does he know about the look of hate on his face, the way his body radiates heat when he’s angry, just like this?
“Shhhh,” Ilya soothes him. “Not yet, Hollander.”
“What the hell are you doing?” Hollander asks, breathless. He tries to shove Ilya away, but it’s only half-hearted, and Ilya stays right where he is.
“A game,” he says.
Hollander turns to look at him, his brown eyes full of suspicion.
“A game?”
“Yes,” Ilya leans in to suck on his earlobe. “Do you want to come?”
Hollander shivers underneath him. “Yeah. Obviously.”
Ilya smiles into his skin. “Then tell me why you fought Scott Hunter.”
“What?” He can feel how confused Hollander is in his voice. “Are you obsessed with him or something?”
Not him, Ilya thinks. He brushes the thought away quickly, before he can truly process it.
Hollander tries to turn his face, to look him right in the eye, but Iya doesn’t want to meet his eyes right now. He licks a stripe right up Hollander’s neck, and goes back to stroking his cock.
“Come on. Tell me,” Ilya says, trying to make his voice sound sultry and sexy, the way he knows makes Hollander’s neck hairs rise. “You looked so angry at him. Why are you keeping secret?”
“I… ah, I don’t know,” Hollander says, leaning his head back so Ilya has a better access to his neck. “He was just. Being an asshole…”
An asshole. The words echo loudly in Ilya's ear. For a moment, he can swear he sees red.
He bites down on Hollander’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt. Hollander whimpers underneath him, his cock leaking impossibly more.
“Fuck, that– that feels good…” he moans. His arms come up to hug Ilya closer to his body, and this time, Ilya doesn’t stop him. He ignores the desire in his own body, the way he’s screaming for any kind of friction, and focuses on what he needs to know.
“What did he say?” Ilya asks, and his voice doesn’t even sound sexy anymore. This is no game.
“Fuck…” Shane thrusts into his hand. Ilya keeps the rhythm of his hand, slow and steady, twirling it at the tip. “I’m so close. I’m–”
Ilya stops again, and Hollander growls, burying his head in his neck. He doesn’t try to complain this time, just accepting the frustrating edge, his cock twitching into thin air.
“I need to come,” Hollander murmurs, muffled into Ilya’s shoulder. “Please. Please.”
Ilya caresses his hips with his thumbs, nuzzling into Hollander’s skin. His own cock is nearly bursting in his underwear, but he refuses to end this without knowing what happened in that game.
Hollander has never called anyone else an asshole before.
Or maybe he has, and Ilya just doesn’t know about it. It doesn’t fucking matter, now.
“Hold it in,” Ilya orders, his voice low and hoarse. He starts stroking Hollander’s cock again, and feels him immediately start to tremble.
“I can’t,” Hollander says. “I can’t. Rozanov, I need to come. Please.”
“Then tell me,” Ilya slides his thumb over the slit, squeezing the head of his cock. “What did he say?”
“Nothing!” Hollander holds him tighter. “Nothing. It was just. Stupid.”
“Not stupid,” Ilya lifts himself up a little to stare at him, even as he keeps jerking him off. “Why did you fight?”
Hollander’s face scrunches up in pleasure, barely contained, and Ilya knows he won’t be able to hold off much longer.
But Ilya will stop as many times as he needs to, or as many as it takes for Hollander to lose his patience with him and shove him back against the bed for real. He wants to see Hollander losing it, letting go of the grip he has on his self-control. He wants to be the one who does it, the one who makes him angry like that, the only one who makes him react. Not fucking Scott Hunter.
Him.
“Ahh… Don’t stop–” Hollander thrusts into his hand, but Ilya loosens his grip a little. Hollander lets out a frustrated groan. “Fuck!”
“I’ll let you come,” Ilya says, stroking him so slowly it’s barely a touch. “If you tell me what happened.”
“God, fuck you–” Hollander throws his head back, and slides an arm over his eyes. “He just. He said I was starting to sound like you, alright? There. Fuck, just let me come.”
Ilya goes completely still. “What? Like me?”
Hollander doesn’t respond for the longest time. He keeps his eyes hidden, his hands closed into tight fists.
“I said something silly to him,” he says. “Like, I hope you show up next time we play, or something. And he said I was starting to sound like you. So I punched him.”
Ilya stares at Hollander’s swollen lips, blinking slowly.
Like him.
Hollander is starting to sound like him.
All of a sudden, the anger vanishes from inside him, giving room for a senseless kind of triumph he has never felt before.
This means he has an influence on Hollander, right? Outside of their games against each other, outside of their rivalry, outside of their hook ups… Ilya still has an influence on him. Strong enough that other people have started to notice. Have started to call him out on it.
Ilya bites down on the smile threatening to split his lips, and tries to imagine why that would be so concerning for Hollander.
“Does he know?” he asks.
Finally, Hollander lets his arm fall back down, and meets his eyes. He still looks embarrassed, but he’s jutting his chin forward bravely. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think he was just trying to get under my skin.”
Ilya’s lips curve up a little. He quickly tries to hide it away, but it’s too late.
“You fucking asshole!” Hollander shoves his shoulders back. “You like this, don’t you?”
Ilya shakes his head no, but he’s unable to hide the truth.
Shane Hollander fought Scott Hunter because he mentioned Ilya to him. Knowing that was priceless, and it lifted every single worry Ilya had been having for the last few days. It all seemed silly now that he knew the truth.
Of course the mention of his name was still what made Hollander freak out. Of course Ilya was still the only one that could make him react like this.
“Stop laughing,” Hollander lightly punches his shoulder. “God, you’re the worst.”
Ilya leans down and starts pressing open-mouthed kisses into his neck.
“Ah, Shane Hollander, getting into fights because of me…” he jokes.
“Don’t you ever shut up?” he says. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Hollander pushes his hips up, sliding his still-hard cock on Ilya’s thigh, and all of a sudden, Ilya can’t wait a second longer to see the little furrow in Hollander’s eyebrows when he comes.
He gives Hollander’s mouth a deep, heavy kiss, bearing down on his body. Hollander’s arms wrap around his neck, hands sliding into his hair easily, automatically. Ilya can’t believe he thought another hockey annoyed Hollander into a fight.
There’s no one who gets this deeply into his skin. No one.
Only him.
He lifts up from Hollander’s body and sits back on the bed. In one swift movement, Ilya takes his underwear off, and frees his aching cock.
Hollander’s eyes are pulled down to it like magnets, his mouth falling slightly open. Ilya misses that tongue around him, but right now, he has other plans.
He reaches into the bedside table and takes the lube he had stored there, just in case.
Hollander’s eyes go wide. “I’m–”
“Relax, Hollander,” Ilya says, coating his cock with a thick layer of lube. “You will like this, hm?”
Then he takes both of Hollander’s thighs and lifts them up, resting them on one of his shoulders.
“Keep your legs closed,” Ilya says, leaning down on him. Then again, “Legs closed, okay?”
Hollander seems to finally understand what’s happening. His fingers curl on the mattress, and he presses his thighs together, nodding at him.
“Okay,” he breathes out.
So brave. So pretty. Ilya wants to fucking destroy him.
He leans in closer to his body, folding him, and folding, until he’s bent in half. Ilya’s cock jerks at how flexible Hollander is, but he has no time to marvel at it. He’s almost exploding now, and he needs release.
Hollander’s lips fall open when Ilya slides his cock in between his thighs. Ilya holds his legs together, thrusting all the way in.
“Fuck, Hollander,” he says, biting down on his leg. “Like that. Hold it.”
“Oh my god,” Hollander’s hand flies down to his own cock, and he starts stroking it fast. “Fuck, why does that feel so good?”
Ilya fucks into his thigh, his cock rubbing against Hollander’s balls, right against the underside of his already sensitive cock. He goes a little faster, trying to keep up with Hollander’s hand. Ilya is already embarrassingly close, but it’s okay. So is Hollander.
“You’re gonna come for me?” Ilya asks, half lost in the pleasure of it. He can feel his orgasm starting to build fast.
“Yeah,” Hollander whines, his voice coming out ragged. “Yeah, I’m gonna come. Don’t stop.”
“Ask for it,” Ilya says, and Hollander’s groan is all he needs to hear to know that he’s saying the right thing. “Ask me to come.”
“Please,” Hollander’s hand doesn’t stop moving on his own cock. “Please, fuck–”
His cock is furiously red now, leaking madly into his belly. Ilya can’t believe he’s actually managing to hold back.
It clicks in his mind, half a second of clarity, that this is better. Better than having Hollander losing control and pushing him back, better than seeing him angry and frustrated. That was fun, yes, but this – Hollander giving in to him, Hollander giving up the control he so tightly held on to for him… This was better.
No one else should see him like this.
“Ask nicer,” Ilya whispers, his own release building up quickly. He fucks Hollander’s thigh a little harder, his hips slapping against his ass, and Hollander throws his head back to moan.
“Please! Please, I wanna come,” he whimpers, his legs trembling on Ilya’s shoulder. “Please let me come, I–”
“Now,” Ilya groans, and tips over the edge right as he sees Hollander’s cock start to twitch.
His entire body spasms, and Ilya holds him through it, trying to keep his eyes on his face as they both come. He doesn’t ever get to see how Hollander looks when he releases. Now, he feels like the image is seared into his brain.
Ilya falls on top of him, his head buried into Hollander’s shoulder. It suddenly hits him that this is all so incredibly silly. He must’ve been really pent up, if seeing Hollander fighting someone else has taken over so much space in his mind.
“Why are you laughing?” Hollander asks. “Get away. Do you get off on torturing me or something?”
Ilya keeps laughing, but he does lean back on the mattress to give Hollander space.
“Yes,” he says, without bothering to hide it. “But you like it too.”
Hollander meets his eyes, only for a second. Then he throws his head back and looks up at the ceiling.
“Why was that so hot?” he asks, almost to himself.
“Hotter than fighting Scott Hunter?”
Ilya gets a pillow thrown at his face. He laughs even more, and as he puts the pillow down, he sees Hollander is laughing a little, too.
“Ugh, now I have to clean up this mess,” Hollander looks down at himself.
Ilya’s laughter dies down in his throat, and he swallows dry. Hollander has his own come all over his belly, as well as Ilya’s come drying on both of his inner thighs. It’s one of the hottest things he has ever seen in his life.
All too soon, it’s gone. Hollander gets up and walks to the bathroom, leaving him alone.
Ilya tries to ignore the strange feeling of dread that always rises within him after their quick hookups. He gets up from the bed and walks to the window, immediately lighting up a cigarette. Rules be damned.
He doesn’t think about how he acted tonight. Doesn’t think about the turmoil of feelings in his chest, and doesn’t think about how this weird obsession he has over Hollander is starting to get out of hand. He takes a drag of his cigarette, and aggressively pretends to have nothing in his mind at all.
Hollander doesn’t come closer again once he’s out of the shower. Maybe it’s the cigarette smoke, or maybe it’s just him, setting the distance between them that they need to have. He puts his clothes on, and slowly walks to the door.
“I’m gonna go,” he says.
Ilya swallows, and nods. “Bye, Hollander. Try not to get into any fights.”
Hollander huffs out a laugh.
“Asshole,” he mutters, before walking out the door and closing it quietly behind him.
Ilya takes one second to feel glad that he’s the one being called an asshole again. Then he puts out his cigarette, goes to bed, and doesn’t think about Hollander at all. He doesn’t.
At the very least, he tries very hard not to.