Chapter Text
Feb 29, 2012 – the rest of the same night
The game was thrilling to watch for about eight minutes into the first period. Ilya forgets, when he’s down there on the ice, what it’s like to sit up in the stands watching it all happen. There’s a perspective to sitting in with the crowd, watching everything live, that’s lost even when reviewing tape after a game. Even when watching a broadcast with commentary and multiple angles.
On a screen, it’s a fast paced sport you’re comfortably removed from, where you’re trying to keep an eye on the five things happening at once, the same way your brain tries to process everything happening in a video game. You’re not really at risk, but your brain only sort of knows that for sure, so you get a taste of the adrenaline. There’s a little bit of ownership, of being able to say my team or my player did whatever just happened. But there’s distance too. Watching hockey on a screen is safe.
Playing hockey is like dodging traffic on a busy highway: you see everything whizzing past with speed and the certain knowledge that at least one of those trucks is actively driving toward you as you try to sprint across to the other side. It’s nowhere near safe, but at least you know that if you keep your eyes on the men around you – not the puck itself, but the movement around the puck – you’ll survive this. People watching might cheer your name. You might even get through the night feeling like you’re finally alive.
Watching hockey live is watching a gladiator match at the moment the men with swords realize the emperor has opened a heavy wooden gate to unleash a beast with teeth and claws. In that scenario, Shane Hollander isn’t another fighter. He’s the fucking lion.
Ilya spent the first eight minutes of the game wanting to scream Hollander’s name every second he was on the ice. He took the first shift instead of their captain, won the first face off against old man Hunter (even though, technically, Shane was their second line center, meaning he should come out after their first line had already played), and nailed a long drive into the left pocket of the net before the Admirals could stop him.
Admirals 0 – Montreal 1, two minutes into the game.
After a goal like that, your coach rotates you out. First line guys get replaced by second line, and after they play for a minute or two, third line guys take their place. Hockey is a fast-paced, brutal sport. Unless the puck is actively in play, the average shift time for an MHL player is less than a minute long. Your intensity starts to drop after 45 seconds. After two minutes, you need water and chance to rest your legs before you even think about going out again.
The Metros coach kept sending Shane back out. After eight minutes, Ilya realized his boyfriend had played through 4 shifts. He’d skated, at the same intensity Shane always had out there, for almost 6 minutes.
“Yeah, I see it,” Marly said next to him.
Ilya hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. He was watching Shane on the bench, head tilted back to drink from a water bottle, while one of the assistant coaches stood there with a clipboard and an opinion. “They will keep him off the rest of the period, I think,” Ilya said. “Stupid to burn him out too early.”
The Admirals scored while Shane was out, a goal from Hunter off a crossover assist from Vaughn that was sure to make the post-game recaps. Ten minutes into the period, Shane went back out again.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ilya yelled in Russian.
By the end of the first, Shane was on the ice for twelve of the twenty minutes. The Admirals had scored again, making the game 2-1. Shane had been shoved into the boards three separate times.
“It’ll be better next period,” Marly said hopefully.
The second period wasn’t better. Shane managed a sweeping goal off an assist from Pike, earning himself a break on the bench, but Wagner wrangled a turnover and got the Admirals their third goal a few minutes later. As soon as the puck hit the back of the net, Shane was on his feet again.
He played through three shifts in a row, sat for one, then went back out again. Shane was the last person off the ice at the end of the second period, moving slower than Ilya’s ever seen him move during a game.
“Is their whole strategy ‘get the puck to Hollander and hope he scores’?” Marly asked. “Cause it’s not working and it might kill him.”
Ilya shook his head. “I do not know,” he said quietly. He wanted to text Shane during the break but didn’t want to be a distraction. He wanted to storm their locker room and drag Shane out by the back of his jersey, force him into a hot shower and a soft bed, then stand guard against the door so no one from this awful team could steal him back.
At the start of the third, Montreal’s coach waved Shane back onto the ice.
“No!” Ilya said as he grabbed the armrests and leaned forward, the word slipping through his lips against his will.
Shane went without complaint but Pike hung back, disagreeing with Desjardins about the choice. He finally skated out just as Hunter said something to the ref closest to center ice. Rather than take his position though he skated over and paused at Shane’s side. Hunter leaned over to say something; Shane nodded once. The Admirals’ captain skated over to his coach, leaning across the boards to have a discussion that involved his coach shaking his head before he raised a hand and waved another ref over.
The ref’s whistle blew – 30 second time out.
Ilya breathed a sigh of relief as Hollander skated slowly back to his own bench with Pike right behind him. “Murdock is a good coach,” he said. He didn’t know the man well, just knew he used to be a great center, back in the day. He was also, Ilya knew, one of the only black coaches in the league.
“This is a fucking shitshow, man,” Marly growled. “What the fuck.” It wasn’t a question.
The Metros’ coach must have thought better of it, because he left Shane on the bench when play resumed. They managed to get through the rest of the period with Shane only playing three shifts, all the usual length, but it took Boiziau visibly getting into it with Desjardins to keep him from sending Shane out again right after his third turn on the ice ended without a goal.
“Does he really only have two guys willing to stand up for him?” Marly asked.
Ilya shrugged angrily. “I do not know!” He threw his hands in the air, then sighed, trying to settle himself down. “Promise me we never let our guys do this.”
“Never, man,” his friend agreed. “Hunter tried to do something about it though,” he added.
“Can be good guy and also ancient fuck who needs to get off the ice,” Ilya said, rolling in eyes. “Not uh… exclusive.”
“Your beef with him is so weird,” Marly replied.
“He knows what he did,” Ilya snapped back, only pouting a little bit.
The Admirals scored another goal, an incredible straight drive from Huff that went straight into the back of the net. They won, 4 to 2, with the crowd cheering so loud the sound of the final buzzer was completely drowned out by screaming voices and stomping feet.
Ilya watched Shane skate back to the bench with his shoulders bowed. It wouldn’t matter that he’d spent more than half the game on the ice, far more than any other player on either team. It wouldn’t matter that he’d scored the only two goals the Metros got tonight. The ache in Ilya’s chest knew Shane would blame himself anyway. As the crowd started to bleed out of the stands, he and Marly were escorted to the tunnel outside the home team’s locker room to wait for Hunter and Vaughn to shower. They waved off a few reporters looking for a quote, but signed autographs for arena staff who happen to walk by. In between Ilya tried to reply to a text conversation with Shane without anyone noticing.
Jane: what club?
Lily: you need sleep
Jane: need to see you
Lily: pls rest
Jane: miss me?
Lily: always but love you too
Jane: don’t make me beg
Jane: just wanna be with you
And Ilya, who loved to hear Shane beg for his cock, for his tongue, for his hands on Shane’s skin, would never make him beg for time together, even if it meant they’d both have to sit in a crowded room pretending they weren’t dying at being five feet apart. He sent the address for the club.
It took a couple of cabs to get to the place Hunter picked out; Vaughn, Marly, and Ilya in the backseat of one, Hunter and two of other Admirals in the other. Their teammates went in right away, skipping the line, but Hunter and Vaughn waited outside for Shane, who showed up a few minutes later with his own liney Pike and their d-man Boiziau.
He wasn’t thrilled to see them but Ilya would put aside his Metros hate for the night for the only two players on Shane’s team who seemed to give a fuck if he was getting killed on the ice. Shane gave a tired half-smile when he saw who was waiting for him, but his friends stopped short and tried to pull him back.
“No way, man,” Boiziau said, one hand on Shane’s arm. He was – along with Marly – one of the tallest of the guys in their group, and dark skinned like Vaughn though they had different faces; Vaughn, Shane, and Ilya were all about the same height. Ilya could admit that Hunter was a little taller than them (shorter than Marly though) but Hayden Pike was much shorter than anyone else and that pleased Ilya in a way he probably shouldn’t mention to Shane.
He was still not convinced Hayden never looked at Shane the way Ilya did, no matter how often his boyfriend insisted his “best friend on the team” was completely straight.
“Can we not tonight, J.J.?” Shane was saying. “We’re all friends here.”
Boiziau said something in French, and Shane responded in the same language, clearly annoyed. No, not Boiziau, J.J. Ilya was going to make an effort tonight.
“We just don’t want him making anything worse for you,” Hayden said, putting himself between Shane and the rest of the guys.
“Can we take this inside?” Vaughn called out. “Cold out here.” Next to him, Hunter rubbed his hands together as if he was trying to warm up, but didn’t speak.
“Thanks for the invite guys but we didn’t sign up to deal with this asshole all night,” J.J. said, pointing at Ilya.
“Would you shut the fuck up?” Shane said softly. “Rozanov isn’t gonna do shit to me. Let’s get a drink, okay?”
“You know Rozy’s his boy!” Vaughn said with a wide grin. “Holly’s got nothing to worry about.”
“Yes, yes, I am very nice man,” Ilya said. “I buy round, okay? Good?” He waved his hand toward the door, hoping to speed things along. The other Metros grumbled while Shane rolled his eyes, but followed him into the club. Ilya saw Hunter shake hands with the bouncer; he assumed money changed hands because no one asked for the ID he knew would show that he and Shane were legally too young to be admitted.
Coats were checked at the little room near the door, then Vaughn led them upstairs to a mezzanine level with big tables that overlooked the dance floor. The important things got pointed out: bathrooms down the hall, a bar up on this level – smaller than the one downstairs, but still big enough – and the other Admirals who were visible down in the crowd of dancers. Ilya bought drinks; Shane followed him to help carry everything back.
“You okay?” Shane asked as soon as they got to the bar. “I know it’s weird being out like -” he paused, looking around to be sure they were alone. “Like this. Here. But you can talk to me.”
Ilya’s smile was small and tight. “Head is very loud today,” he said softly. “More worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” Shane said. Then Hayden showed up, throwing an arm around Shane’s shoulder, so Ilya flagged down their bartender instead of saying anything more.
Fine was still the worst word in the English language.
Back at the table, the other guys made small talk while Ilya ignored the sharp little comments Shane’s friends threw in his direction. He was being good tonight. He could smile and charm and win these fuckers over. But then the talk turned to women and Hayden Pike was being so damn smug about his new wife and the baby they had on the way. You will never have this, the voice in his head said. Ilya tried to ignore the jealousy writhing in his belly at how easy it was for Pike to have a life of words said out loud. Kissing in public. A wedding, surrounded by family and friends.
He turned his face away to stare at the dance floor below them instead.
“Shane, you gotta let me set you up again,” Pike was saying when Ilya realized the conversation hadn’t stopped. “We could raise our kids together.”
“Thanks, Hayd, but I’m not getting a random girl pregnant just so your kid doesn’t get lonely.” Shane was laughing about it.
His Shane, laughing about getting a girl pregnant. A girl he could take home to his team and his family. Ilya’s heart beat faster. “Hollander has too many years of good hockey left,” he said before he could stop himself. “Maybe is okay for you, hockey is just a hobby, yes?”
“Please, you’re just jealous I found the love of my life at 21 and already locked her down.” Pike was grinning like a child who thinks he’s won a game.
I met mine at 17, Ilya wanted to say. He didn’t. What he chose instead might have been worse. “If I had pretty spouse, they wouldn’t be sitting on another man’s lap,” Ilya said, “and I wouldn’t post a fucking picture about it online if they were.”
“I explained,” Shane started to say, but Pike interrupted him.
“What, are you stalking my Twitter page?”
Ilya snorted. “You post like old man,” he said. “No tags, all emojis. Probably have old man hands. Why you could not catch beautiful lady Pike when she falls.” He knew as soon as he said it, this was not his best chirp.
“Don’t you need to go pick out tonight’s hookup and leave us alone? I’m surprised you’re still sitting here.” Pike crossed his arms as if that made him more imposing. “At least I have someone who loves me.”
“C’mon man,” Marly said. “Too far.”
Ilya smirked then, because that’s what he always did right before someone hit the floor. But Shane got there first.
“What the fuck, Hayden?” Shane’s jaw was tight; the hand he’d had on his ginger ale was now clenched into a fist, though he kept it pressed against the table. Ilya suddenly realized his boyfriend wasn’t just tired from the game but too tired to hold himself back. Tired, angry Shane said things he regretted later. Ilya could fix that if they were alone. Angry Shane in public wasn’t going to make the same choices that Canada’s Golden Boy would. That thought cooled the hurt in Ilya’s chest into something protective instead.
Pike looked surprised. “Everyone knows he’s a whore, Shane, what do you care?”
“Is okay, Hollander,” Ilya tried to say but Shane wasn’t looking at him.
“No, it’s fucking not okay,” Shane said, still staring at his friend. “You judge him because he did normal 19 year old shit that most of the guys in the league are constantly doing, only when he did it, it ended up online. Have you even seen anything about him hooking up since last year?”
“Hollander,” Ilya tried again, making his voice low and warning. He wanted to reach out, touch Shane’s arm, but other people would see.
“Holly has a point,” Vaughn said before raising his beer to his lips.
“You know he’s still screwing anything that moves,” Pike tried to say, but Shane shook his head.
“I know for a fact he’s not, but even if he was, that doesn’t make him worse than guys on our own fucking team.” Shane sighed, obviously trying to lower the temperature of the conversation. “You know the shit they talk about in our locker room.” He looked at Cliff then. “Does Rozanov talk about cheating on his wife in your room? Does he let your guys talk about their Asian fetish? Or which players must be cocksuckers?”
Hunter leaned back in his chair a little, watching.
Marly shook his head immediately. “Roz wouldn’t stand for that shit.”
“Right,” Shane said, looking back at Pike. “So be pissed at Rozanov for what he says on the ice or the fact that he’s the best player out there right now, but I’m real fucking tired of you guys harping about my friend because his dick works.”
Ilya bit his lip and tried very hard not to ask Shane to marry him right here at this table.
“Nice one, rook,” Hunter said.
The table was quiet for a moment. Then Boiziau asked, “How do you know it’s a fact?”
Shane’s eyes went wide. “What?” he asked, the word coming out shaky.
“How do you know,” Boiziau repeated, “for a fact, that Rozanov isn’t fucking around?”
The tips of Shane’s ears went pink.
“I complain about it,” Marly said easily. “It’s annoying.” As if it were old news, instead of a lie he was inventing in real time.
“You complain about it?” Boiziau asked, looking at the other Raider now.
“Yep,” Marly said. He clapped a hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “This guy used to be the best wing man, but he got tired of the scene and now I have to fend for myself. Fucking tragedy.”
“Ah yes, I am sorry Marly, I am boring now,” but Ilya was grinning when he said it. “I go home early to read books about hockey history.” Someone, probably Shane, kicked him under the table.
“And Marleau complains to you about this?” Boiziau asked Shane.
Shane nodded quickly. “Uh huh. Yeah.” He pressed his lips together. “We, uh, text.”
“You text more than one Boston Raider?” Boiziau said. He said something in French then that did not sound happy.
Ilya rolled his eyes. “We all talk to each other,” he said. “Watch.” He opened his phone, chose a contact from the list, and hit the green talk button.
Pike’s phone started to ring. He picked it up, his eyes turning into saucers when he realized everyone else could see Ilya’s name on the screen. “I can explain this,” he said, declining the call.
“You too?” Boiziau threw his hands in the air as the other guys laughed, breaking the tension of the moment.
Shane had a small smile on his face, but he looked at Ilya with a curiosity that hadn’t been there the moment before. Ilya shook his head just a little. Will tell you later, he thought, hoping Shane could somehow hear it.
“Okay but he’s not the best player,” Boiziau tried. “You are the best, Hollander. You will be capitaine next year if you decide to stay.”
“Hunter is better than him too,” Pike said, nudging Shane gently. “Right?”
“Please don’t make me go over the stats with you again,” Shane sighed.
“No, is true,” Ilya said, “Hunter is very good player for his age. Probably number one in senior citizen division.”
“Fuck you too, kid,” Hunter growled as he stood and left the table, but there was no heat in it. Ilya watched him head toward the bar.
Ilya’s phone started to buzz, then kept going, over and over. He saw the notifications were all from his brother so he put it away without reading them. His moment of feeling better after Marly stepped in to lighten the mood disappeared under the swirl of all the things he didn’t want to think about, not here. His family, Shane’s impending trade that loomed over everything, the way his boyfriend had defended him as naturally as breathing but had very nearly accidentally outed them at the same time, the feeling of being madly in love but nowhere near good enough at the same time, these idiot Metros with their stupid wives and girlfriends they could take out in public, dance with at a club, press up against a brick wall in an alleyway and kiss senseless in a way he would never be able to do with Shane.
It’s too much. Everything at once. It needs to stop.
He had to stop this terrible fucking fantasy of marrying Shane Hollander. It was never going to happen and every time he imagined it he was breaking his own heart.
Fuck I can’t breathe.
He pressed his hand to his chest as he tried to slow his lungs while he still could.
Something needs to stop.
The others were looking at him. Ilya moved his hand to his thigh. “Brother,” he announced, forcing himself to act casual. “Is nothing.”
“Your brother’s here or in Russia?” Vaughn asked.
Always so fucking polite, he could almost be Canadian. “There. We are not close.” Ilya downed the rest of his beer, looking for an excuse to not say anything more. “I only see him when I go back.” And the minute I can stop, I will.
“When do you go back to Russia?” Pike asked. Before Ilya could reply he added, “Any chance it can be now?”
“Hayd, Jesus,” Shane snapped. “You can’t just say shit like that.”
“Tell me you seriously don’t think about a cup run without this asshole blocking us?” J.J. asked.
Vaughn leaned forward, all smiles. “If you can’t win without taking Rozy out, you’re not beating us either.”
“At least you’re not a dick when you win, man,” J.J. said with a sigh. “This fucker never shuts up.”
“Nothing is worth sending him back there,” Shane said firmly, ignoring the conversation with Vaughn entirely. “It’s so fucked up. You don’t know what -”
“Hollander,” Ilya interrupted, his voice firm this time. “Maybe we leave Russia to people who have been there, yes?” He set his empty beer bottle on the table with a loud thunk.
Shane closed his mouth as his ears turned pink again. He looked down at the table.
Ilya sighed. “I need drink,” he said as he stood up. He knew what it must look like, could practically feel Shane’s embarrassment radiating off of his skin, but he need an excuse to get away so he could pull out his phone with his back turned to the group.
Lily: cannot say things only boyfriend would know
Lily: jj already watching you pls forgive me
He hoped his message would be enough. He ordered another beer, half afraid he’d ruined any chance of getting Shane into his room tonight. He’d been planning to ask when the time was right, but Shane’s friends weren’t making that easy. Ilya was trying to flag the bartender down when his phone vibrated in his hand.
Jane: room #? going to put my tongue in your perfect ass tonight
At some point Ilya realized he’d been staring at the screen long enough to have missed that the bartender had come then gone again. He must have lost the ability to think when all of the blood rushed out of his brain and into his now-hard cock. Somewhere the words Shane Hollander wants to eat me out were playing a loop inside of his skull, and okay, sorry not sorry, but nothing else was getting his attention for a while.
Had Shane ever said he wanted to do that before? Ilya couldn’t remember. He’d done it to Shane several times, each eagerly appreciated. Fun for them both. Five stars, no notes. But Shane hadn’t seemed interested in reciprocating. He’d also never mentioned the time he’d finger-fucked Ilya into oblivion, last summer when Ilya was still recovering from his last trip back to Moscow. Ilya had assumed it was a one-time experiment that Shane would rather forget, so he didn’t mention it either.
Ilya’s ass was perfect. (So was Shane’s; Ilya told him this all the time.) Ilya knew, objectively, just how hot he was. Plenty of people mentioned it. He’d had more one than proposition that involved being told exactly what the other person wanted to do to his ass specifically, but he’d turned them all down.
Except the one time, back in Russia. But the thought of that still brought bile up in Ilya’s throat, so that was a not a memory he wanted in his head tonight.
And yes, it was maybe for the best that Shane didn’t want to do to Ilya all the things he very much loved doing to Shane, over and over and over again. Him and Shane were muscular, performance driven jocks excelling in probably the most homophobic sport in the world, if you counted the fact that there had never been a single out MHL player. The way hockey players talked in locker rooms, Ilya was sure no one else built to play they way did was willing to be as vulnerable and open during sex as taking cock forced you to be. Ilya knew he couldn’t do it as a regular thing: not the frequent prep, not the loss of control, not the way Shane set aside his fear and anxiousness to just take whatever Ilya gave him. Getting to have Shane that way was an incredible gift he didn’t ever want to take for granted. Being able to put Shane on his knees, push his stress right out of his head for a little while, made Ilya feel the way he did when he scored a really beautiful goal.
Shane Hollander was a fucking king. The fact he came apart under Ilya’s body was the electric current running under every one of his days since that room in Toronto after the CCM shoot. So the preferences they’d established in the bedroom (kitchen, couch, floor, wherever) worked for them, and worked very well. But the idea that Shane wanted to try it the other way around was new information. Ilya didn’t know what to do with it yet.
Deep breaths. He willed his dick to behave. After a few minutes thinking about paying bills and paint colors, he stumbled back to the rest of the guys to find Shane and his friends had already gone.
“You didn’t get anything?” Vaughn asked.
Fuck, I left my beer at the bar. Ilya shrugged. “Drank it there. Think I am heading back to hotel. You good, Marly?”
His friend nodded. “Yeah, man, no worries. Hollander and Pike took off, but their buddy went to the dance floor, so I’m gonna hang with Vaugny here. I’ll text you when I’m up in the morning?”
“Yes, good plan. Will probably sleep in so no need to wake early, okay?” Ilya stared a few seconds too long, hoping Marly would get the hint. I will be up late fucking good Canadian boy Hollander didn’t seem like the sort of thing he could say in front of Vaughn just yet. Maybe some day.
Marly laughed. Vaughn saluted him, then scooted over to a chair closer to Ilya’s friend. Hell, maybe they were all friends now.
On his way out he caught a glimpse of Hunter walking toward the bathrooms, with another man right behind him. He could see the man’s hand resting on Hunter’s back. Reckless, Ilya thought. You’re supposed to wait long enough that you don’t disappear together. That’s what Shane and I do.
He wondered what Vaughn and Marly would talk about, just the two of them. Maybe the fact their best friends are queer hockey players doing a mediocre job of hiding? It could be good for them to have to someone else who understood the position they were in. They could make a group chat about it. As long as they didn’t let Pike join.
Enough. You have only one hockey player to think about for the rest of tonight.
Back at the hotel, Ilya texted Shane his room number, put his phone on the charger, and dropped his clothes onto the floor. He lingered under the hot spray of the shower for a few minutes first, letting the water warm up his injured shoulder. Tomorrow, he’d need to wear his sling unless he was driving. Maybe, if it kept hurting the way it was now, he’d figure out how to drive with it on. Or give in and let Cliff get them home, but he’d have to be in a lot more pain for that to happen.
Once he was warm and his muscles had loosened up, Ilya grabbed the fancy hotel body wash and got to work. He allowed himself time to properly wash everywhere, from his neck to his feet, until almost every part of his skin smelled like white tea and honey. He missed Shane’s products that smelled like seaweed and once again tried to make a mental note to find out the brand name so he could keep it at home. But the hotel line was nice enough he thought Shane wouldn’t mind kissing him all over.
They’d licked sweat off each other so many times, fingered and fucked each other. Ilya had kept Shane’s come on his tongue to his boyfriend could kiss it out of his mouth. Ilya’s tongue had been in Shane’s ass, then cleaned by moving across Shane’s skin, then back into Shane’s mouth... Why was tonight making him nervous?
Because you actually want what he’s offering, his brain helpfully supplied. You want more than what he’s asked for. Ilya really wasn’t sure if that was true. He also wasn’t sure it was wrong.
He squeezed extra soap into his right hand before carefully washing his cock. He might have stroked a few more times than strictly necessary before cleaning the sensitive head, now thick and pink… Then Ilya rinsed everything before finding the soap again. He put his left hand against the wall of the shower and leaned forward slightly, tilting his hips back so he could reach around to get at what he needed to clean the most.
Warm water flowed down his back. He closed his eyes.
One soapy finger found its way inside, and his breath caught the way it always did when he tried this in the shower, usually when he had his other hand wrapped around his dick and Shane’s name on his lips. A second finger joined the first, the stretch burning a little but the rest of it was good enough to matter more. His usual shower fantasy was Shane on his knees, brown eyes looking up at him. In his head, it was Shane’s fingers filling Ilya up while Ilya’s hands were in Shane’s hair, holding him still as he fucked his boyfriends warm, wet mouth.
His own fingers kept moving.
Shane on his knees became Ilya on his back in their bed in Boston, or maybe it was Montreal, or maybe it was a hotel room with dark blue sheets. Shane’s fingers inside of Ilya, his mouth on Ilya’s thigh, his hip, his ribs, moving up his body until Shane’s hips were between Ilya’s legs, and Shane’s heavy cock was -
Ilya couldn’t breathe.
He washed both hands under the water before making sure he was completely rinsed off. He was barely out of the shower, a big hotel towel wrapped around his hips, when he heard a knock. He crossed the room quickly, yanking the door open as fast as he could.
Shane stepped inside with a shy smile on his face but stopped once the door was shut behind him. He wore sweatpants instead of the slacks he’d worn to the club, with a plain white ballcap pulled over his head.
“Sorry,” Ilya said. He cleared his throat. “Did not mean to make you wait.”
“You didn’t.” Shane rocked back on his heels, his hands in his pockets. “This room is nice.”
Ilya looked around. It was an okay room. Nothing fancy, not what they’d had in Vegas for the awards last year, but it had a single king bed instead of the two queens they usually got on the road, in game-day hotels. “Sure,” he agreed.
“You look nice too,” Shane said quietly. He took a step forward, reaching out to gently brush his fingers along Ilya’s bruised shoulder. “How is this?”
“Good,” Ilya said, because admitting it hurt might interfere with whatever Shane had planned for tonight.
You already know what he has planned.
“Can we talk for a minute?” Shane asked.
“Are we okay?”
“Yeah, of course. I just… I was thinking about what you said, about your head being loud, and you’re so good at getting me out of my head when I need it.” Shane shrugged shyly, a tiny movement Ilya had seen a hundred times now. “I want to do that for you tonight.”
“We do not need anything different,” Ilya said. “I am fine.”
“You’re not.” Shane leaned his head on Ilya’s shoulder, kissing him gently at that spot where his jaw ended just below his ear. “Please,” he whispered against the side of Ilya’s neck. “Will you let me take care of you?”
He looked so fucking earnest, Ilya might die if they didn’t have sex in the next minute. “Okay, sweetheart,” Ilya said with a small nod, putting his hands on Shane’s shoulders. “Okay.”
“Good.” Shane smiled then, sweet and happy. “I was thinking I could tell you what to do, like you do with me sometimes? And then, you can do those things, so you don’t have to make decisions.” He licked his lips. “You could just enjoy it.”
“I always enjoy you, Shane.”
“So, will you do it? I mean, will you let me tell you what to do?”
“Yes,” Ilya said.
“What if it’s something you don’t like?”
Ilya’s cock jumped at that. “Is always yes, Shane.” He pushed down his nervousness and squared his shoulders. “Where do you want me?”
“I was thinking you could take off your towel and get on the bed.” Shane watched as Ilya let the towel drop to the floor. “Um, like, kneel on the bed, facing me, okay?”
Ilya got into position. “Like this?”
Shane bit his lip, tilting his head a little while he considered. “Can you move forward, so your knees are almost at the edge of the bed?”
Ilya did it. His boyfriend was too cute, trying to be in charge in a way that still craved Ilya’s permission. He bit his lip to keep from smiling.
“Perfect.” Shane said. “Now put your hands behind your back.”
“You thought about this.” Ilya moved his arms. Shane stepped to his side, took one of Ilya’s hands, placing it so Ilya was grasping his other wrist, his hands settling on the top of his ass.
“Yeah, I did some research.” Shane’s cheeks were pink under his freckles.
My sweet boy. “Clothes off now,” Ilya said.
Shane stepped back, turning the cap so it faced the other way, but left it on. “Not yet. First, close your eyes.” Part of Shane’s bangs stuck out through the opening at the back of the hat.
Ilya closed his eyes. He was exposed, naked and on his knees, his already hard cock jutting out from his hips, but he wasn’t ashamed. Just… nervous about where this was all going. It was the right word for the way it felt as if his nerves were closer to his skin than usual. As if he was getting ready to run but hadn’t yet figured out which direction to run in.
“God, Ilya, you’re so beautiful,” he heard.
Right, Shane. Ilya took a deep breath. Shane was always the direction to go.
Strong fingers touched his cheek. “I love your face, Ilya.” Shane’s legs touched the front of Ilya’s knees, where they extended just over the edge of the bed. “I love your cheekbones, and the sharp angle of your jaw.” Fingers traced the bones in Ilya’s face. He turned his head up, chasing Shane’s hand.
“I love your mouth, Ilya,” Shane said as he dragged two fingers along Ilya’s lips. Ilya caught them, sucking them into his mouth as Shane gasped. He sucked harder, until he had those two fingers deeper in his mouth, his tongue moving around them in circles, Shane’s palm resting against his face.
“I love your arms,” Shane said, leaving his fingers in Ilya’s mouth. He ran his other hand along Ilya’s bicep. Goosebumps came up in his skin wherever Shane touched him. “I love your chest,” Shane said, sliding his hand across Ilya’s shoulder, down to one hard nipple. Ilya felt Shane’s fingers pinch it and he moaned against the fingers still in his mouth.
He could feel his cock leaking already. He wasn’t going to last long, and he wasn’t even touching Shane yet.
“I love your stomach,” Shane whispered as his hand moved lower. Shane had to lean down slightly to reach the tight muscles in Ilya’s abs, so his voice was coming close to Ilya’s ear. He could feel Shane’s warm breath on him now.
Shane pulled his fingers away from Ilya’s greedy mouth, and Ilya whined at the loss of them.
“I love your legs, your fucking thighs, Ilya, oh my god,” Shane said as he reached down with both hands to grab Ilya’s thighs and squeeze. Ilya’s hips came up off his ankles as he tried to get his dick closer to Shane’s hands.
“Touch me,” he said. “Fuck, Shane, touch me.”
“Keep your eyes closed and I will,” Shane said as his hands found Ilya’s back, slid down, then cupped Ilya’s ass. “You’re going to come for me as fast as you can,” he went on. “Then I’m going to clean you up, and I’m going to put my tongue in your ass until you get hard again so you can fuck me, okay?”
Ilya moaned as Shane squeezed his ass. “God, yes,” he swore in Russian.
“Good, that’s so good Rozanov,” Shane said as one hand moved up to find the middle of Ilya’s back, holding him in place while the other hand finally curled around his heavy, desperate dick. Shane’s fingers moved along the length of it, down to the base, back up to catch the wet pre-come dripping from his slit and slide it around the head of it, then back down again. He found a rhythm that made Ilya shiver in the cool hotel air.
Then, on an upstroke, he found the spot just under the head of Ilya’s cock that always made him jump, and Shane squeezed.
“Yes, there, please,” Ilya begged. “Don’t stop.” He was panting, breathless, shaking, but his hands were still clasped tightly behind his back.
“Come for me, baby,” Shane said and baby lit up Ilya’s brain in a whole new way.
His head fell against Shane’s chest as he came hard into the other man’s hand.
“You did so good, Ilya,” Shane whispered as he stroked him through it, until Ilya stopped shuddering. “Keep your eyes closed for me, okay?”
A hand pushed Ilya back until he was sitting on his ankles. A moment later, he could feel the slightly-damp towel wiping him clean.
“Can you stand?”
Ilya nodded. Shane’s hands pulled him up so he could get his feet under him. He stood then, waiting for his next instruction.
Shane’s hands disappeared. There was a noise, something heavy moving against the hotel carpet. Then Shane’s hands again, moving him a step forward. “This is the chair,” Shane said. He helped Ilya find it, leaning him forward slightly. “Keep your legs straight, okay?”
Ilya’s head was gently pushed down until it was resting on his bent arms, on top of the chair’s back. The bed creaked behind him. Shane’s hands found Ilya’s back, drifted down his sides, settling on his hips.
“Is this still okay?”
“Yes,” Ilya said. “Is okay, sweetheart.”
He felt warm breath first, then feathery touches of skin against his as Shane’s lips came to rest against his lower back, where his spine disappeared between curves. A kiss, on the vertebrae Shane could reach, one for each bone, moving down. The hands at his hips squeezing hard enough to bruise, the way they did when Shane was on his knees in front of him instead of seated at the edge of a bed behind him. Ilya loved those small bruises on the days after Shane was gone. He pressed them often, unthinking and remembering.
There were nights where he held one of his own hands to his hip, gripping tightly, with his other hand elsewhere, finding his release in not just the stroke but the other hand and the memory of Shane on his skin.
Shane’s lips kissed down one ass cheek. There were teeth in it now, tiny nips between kisses that made Ilya’s breath come out wrong.
Shane moved to the other side, repeating the kisses. The small ways his teeth found Ilya’s skin.
“How do you have this ass?” Shane whispered. “It’s so fucking much.” His hands moved to grab handfuls before Ilya could answer, the gasp slipping out of his mouth before words could, Shane squeezing hard enough to hurt someone who wasn’t a 200 pound hockey player with a complex glute routine. Instead the pain kept Ilya from floating away.
The tongue found him next. Shane’s tongue licked the skin between each finger as he kneaded the muscles of Ilya’s backside with those strong hands.
Shane’s tongue was warm and wet.
His hands gently pushed Ilya’s cheeks apart, fully revealing the pink hole between them.
“Wow,” he said softly, his breath on Ilya’s skin. “Can I?”
Ilya nodded against his arms, realized he hadn’t said anything. He tried again. “Please,” he croaked out. This was the part that worried him: the part where Shane Hollander, fussy and precise, had committed to something some would see as dirty before he realized what he was asking for. “Is okay if you don’t like it,” he added.
“Shut up,” Shane mumbled. Then his tongue pressed against Ilya’s rim and Ilya’s heart stuttered.
Shane licked slowly. Carefully. He pressed a tiny kiss to that spot, then licked a circle around it. Between licks he must be putting his tongue back into his mouth because every stroke was wet. Ilya breathed faster, half anticipation and half desperate need. Shane’s hands were still holding him apart. Shane’s nose pressed against Ilya’s skin, just where the bone stopped. His breath was still warm.
His wet tongue pressed inside.
“Fuck!” Ilya swore in Russian. His hips bucked back, wanting more, before he could stop himself. His soft cock, which only a few minutes ago had erupted in Shane’s fist, started to swell again. “Yes,” he moaned.
Shane’s tongue withdrew, and Ilya whined, a high lonely sound.
The tongue came back, licking another circle before gently pushing back inside. The hands moved back to Ilya’s hips, holding him in place. He hadn’t realized until then that he was curving his back to press his ass against Shane’s face.
The tongue was warm and it was wet and it fucked into him like Shane meant everything he was doing in that moment. Over and over now, licking and pushing into Ilya’s body and pulling back out to gather more spit from Shane’s mouth before pushing into Ilya again.
He groaned and writhed under the attention. If Shane had been any weaker Ilya could have easily broken free but his hips were locked there, his cock brushing against the chair in front of him as he got harder with every press of Shane’s tongue.
Why hadn’t Ilya thought to put Shane in this position before? They were definitely doing that in the future.
“So good,” Ilya panted, and Shane – his beautiful praise-loving boy – leaned against Ilya’s legs as his tongue moved faster.
The zipper on Shane’s jacket scraped lightly against the back of Ilya’s leg. He could feel the faint edge of the hat pressing against him. Shane’s tongue darted in and out, loosening the tight ring of muscle there until it was soft, wet, and pliant.
Still, that tongue pressed inside.
Ilya’s knees lost their ability to hold him upright. He wanted more, suddenly. He wanted Shane’s long fingers opening him further. Finding that spot that would make him see stars. He pictured Shane bent over his back, the hot length of something else pushing into Ilya’s body, the way he would would moan and plead and take every gorgeous inch.
Ilya struggled, gasping, to stay on his feet. “Sweetheart, stop,” he begged. “Stop.”
Shane pulled away instantly. “Are you okay?”
“Too good, Shane, you’re going to make me come.” He hadn’t opened his eyes yet. He wasn’t sure he could just yet.
Shane’s hand moved between his legs then, coming up to fondle Ilya’s hard-again cock. Ilya felt teeth nip at one ass cheek, as fingers found a drop of pre-come and smeared it over the tip.
Ilya moaned. Loud.
“Are you ready to fuck me now?” Shane asked, his voice thick.
Ilya answered by twisting around to pull Shane up off the bed, stripping his clothes off of him as fast as he could. Shane laughed as he tried to help but had his hands slapped away by Ilya’s own. “Mine,” Ilya growled, planting wet kisses to the side of Shane’s neck. The white cap came off while Shane’s shirt went over his head, then back on, backwards so the brim wouldn’t be in the way. (White socks stayed on too, but Ilya knew about Shane's issues with hotel carpets, so he didn’t mention it.)
He grabbed Shane’s jaw with one hand, keeping him in place while they kissed. “How do you want me?” Ilya asked.
“I’m yours,” Shane replied, already breathless. “Just take me.”
And oh, that Ilya could do.
He pulled Shane onto his lap, their strong arms wrapped around each other, cocks and chests pressed together. Now that he was allowed to touch him again, Ilya couldn’t stop touching him. His hands moved everywhere: sliding along Shane’s arms, around his back, up his thick, muscular thighs. “I love you,” Ilya whispered in Russian, between kisses, knowing Shane understood.
“I don’t want you to go back there,” Shane said. “I know you will anyway,” he added as Ilya went still. He kissed Ilya’s forehead. “I know. It’s okay.”
Ilya squeezed him tight. “Only as long as I have to,” he said, looking up into Shane’s eyes. They were the same height usually, unless Shane was in his lap. “Maybe four weeks. There and back.” He didn’t mention the talks with his agent and the immigration lawyer he’d hired. They'd already had one fight about the process, his visa and the work he was doing to become an American. Shane knew. Now wasn't the time to bring it up again.
Ilya didn’t mention this might be the last time he went back to Russia. He would once he was sure, but not yet.
Shane didn’t budge when Ilya leaned over to grab the bottle he’d set out on the night table, keeping his strong arms wrapped around Ilya’s neck. He lifted his ass enough to let Ilya get his lube-drenched fingers where they needed to be, moaning as Ilya got a finger inside. “Hurry, hurry,” he whispered.
He got two fingers into that hot place between Shane’s legs before his boyfriend was gasping enough, do it now so he drizzled more lube onto his cock before grabbing Shane’s hips with both hands. He let Shane do this part, controlling the speed of his descent as he opened up and swallowed Ilya into his ass.
“So big,” Shane whined as he got seated, “fuck, Ilya!”
“Too much?” He worried, every time they went too fast, that the stretch might hurt Shane, but the other man shook his head.
“So good,” and then, after a moment, “please move.”
Ilya kept his feet flat on the floor to help him push his hips up into Shane’s; Shane answered him by using his thighs to lift up just enough to crash back down.
Over and over.
The noises they made together were a combination of slick skin and breathless little moans, and the sounds got louder the longer they fucked each other on the edge of the hotel bed in the middle of Manhattan. Maybe they were so quiet that no one else could hear them but each other. Maybe they were so loud the desk clerk was getting complaints from their neighbors. Ilya didn’t care. It didn’t matter which. Shane was here, in this place, surrounding him with heat and want. Smothering the Russian voice in his head.
They were both sweating now. Shane’s skin caught the light, moist and flushed.
“More,” Shane said, permission and a prayer at the same time.
Ilya knew because he had so often said it exactly the same way.
He squeezed tight, careful not to let Shane go as he fell backward to lay them both down onto the mattress, then flipped them so Shane was lying with Ilya still between his legs. The hat came off as they hit the bed. Ilya got his shoulders under Shane’s knees, a position that pushed Shane’s hips up to an angle he knew Shane loved.
He got his feet under him, on the floor next to the bed – awkward but it gave him leverage while keeping Shane's back on the bed. The pressure was on Ilya’s toes, lifting him off the ground as he found his rhythm again. Shane’s socked feet rubbed against Ilya’s back.
“Please,” Shane begged, his voice soft and broken with every thrust. “Fuck me like you won’t let me go.”
“Never letting go,” Ilya promised as he pushed into Shane, harder and harder. “You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine.”
A drop of sweat made its way down the side of Ilya’s nose, curving along one of his sharp cheekbones, then dropped onto Shane’s cheek. Ilya thrust harder, once, burying himself as deep as he could go, pulling a loud gasp out of his boyfriend. He stilled then, hips pushed up against Shane’s ass, grinding against him as he gently leaned down to lick his own sweat off of Shane’s freckles.
Shane moaned.
Ilya pulled almost all the way back out, until the head of his cock caught the tight ring of muscle, then pushed all the way back in to hear the loud grunt of pleasure the other man made in return. He repeated the same movement, a little faster this time, delighted by the sounds he could force from Shane’s throat. Ilya thrust into him, over and over, desperate to keep the pace that had Shane making that face – soft and vulnerable, hungry at the same time. His mother’s cross bounced against Shane’s chin the way it so often did. Below him, Shane panted, mouth open, as his head bent back against the pillow. Ilya always loved the way he caught little glints of gold against the warm tan of his boyfriend’s skin.
His toes curled involuntarily. “Open your eyes for me, sweetheart,” Ilya groaned, still thrusting. “So close, need to see you.”
Those beautiful eyes looked at him then, but the brown was nearly swallowed up by the black of Shane’s pupils, a sure sign he was close to his orgasm. Then Shane’s lips opened, revealing his white teeth. Ilya’s cross knocked against Shane’s face again and again, in time with the movement of Ilya’s hips, that perfect rhythm they’d found worked for them both. Ilya could feel it coming: heat pooling in his hips, the goosebumps crawling across his skin, the way his balls tightened up and his thighs shook.
Staring into Ilya’s eyes like he was issuing a challenge, Shane caught Ilya’s cross between his teeth and didn’t let go.
“Fuck, I love you, I love you,” Ilya said in Russian, “need you baby, need it so much.” His thrusts became wild and erratic as he chased his orgasm faster and faster. The chain between them was like a short leash and it was breaking him in the best way. He kept mumbling in Russian, nonsense and pleading sounds mixed with real words: yes take it take all of me, keep me, make me yours...
Shane came first, his back arching off the bed. He moaned, a high and painful sound, as thick white spurts coated the skin between them, but the cross remained locked between his teeth. The sight of it pushed Ilya over the edge.
“Oh god, Shane!” he cried out as he found his own release, his cock jerking inside the slick heat of Shane’s body.
“Still no’ fair,” Shane mumbled a few minutes later. “Don’ know Russian.”
Ilya laughed. “I keep telling you, two weeks, no accent.” He kissed his boyfriend’s face before getting up to find a clean towel.
“So…” Ilya began, once they were wiped off and Ilya had gotten them both under the covers. He brushed a strand of hair from Shane’s perfect face. “Baby?”
“Shut up,” Shane said, covering his face with one arm. “You liked it,” he mumbled.
Ilya made a soft noise, admitting nothing, but he pushed Shane’s arm out of the way and kissed him.
“Was it good, what I did?” Shane asked. He was coming back to himself more, the way he always did just before he had to leave.
“You’re perfect,” Ilya said, kissing his nose. “You’re so good for me, Shane. You did very good.” He wrapped Shane in his arms. They settled against each other, warm and boneless. Ilya breathed in the scent of Shane’s sweat and body wash, trying to remember it for the long stretch of days they’d have to be apart.
It was about to be the best time of the year for hockey, and the worst time of the year for this. For them.
Later, dressed again, the white cap back on his head, Shane lingered at the door to the hotel room. The sun would be coming up in a few hours; he really need to get going. Ilya hated how rarely he got to see Shane with sunlight on his face. But that was not a thing you said when your anxious boyfriend had already broken curfew to fuck you one more time while he still could. “Bye, sweetheart,” Ilya whispered instead.
“Bye,” Shane said, then left, taking all the warmth from the room with him.
Ilya went straight to the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth, saving a shower for the morning. His phone buzzed before he made it back to the bed.
Jane: after Russia come home to me
Jane: swear you’ll come back safe
Shane must have sent it before he even left the hotel.
Ilya thought about what he’d said to Marly that afternoon, and the part he could not say out loud. At the same time, Ilya knew Shane could do better. Could find better than him. Was better than him. And maybe he’d been thinking for a while now – not a real thought, just a faint idea that simmered in the back of his skull, on the days he didn’t want to get out of bed – that this was the summer he should break things off, give them both a few months to get over it before next season started. How maybe, probably, that would be the better thing to do. The less selfish thing, letting Shane go before Ilya did something neither of them could take back.
He could do it now. Ilya’s thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could end things right now, let Shane go, put the man he loved ahead of himself, when they were both still young enough to recover. When Shane could still find someone good and unbroken to love him the way he deserved. Someone worthy of the way Shane loved with his whole self.
You are too selfish and greedy, his father’s voice said. For once in your life do the right thing.
Because the other option was opening his mouth and trapping Shane forever.
But Shane said come home to me and for the life of him, Ilya could not remember anything that felt as much like home as having Shane in his arms.
After all these months, this wasn’t really a decision at all. He’d already made the same promises earlier tonight.
What changed was the realization that if he wasn’t going to let him go, Ilya would have to be someone Shane wouldn’t regret. Someone he could stand next to in public without being embarrassed. Someone Shane could take home to his terrifying parents. Ilya could practice at this the way he practiced everything on the ice. It would be the hardest thing he had ever done, but he could get up every day to keep working at being a man worth Shane Hollander’s love.
He just needed to figure out how.
Ilya typed out his response with shaking fingers.
Lily: I swear