Work Text:
January, 2009
It was one month after the World Junior Hockey Championships, and Shane couldn’t stop thinking about the game. Or, more specifically, the five minutes before the game, when he’d ducked outside and introduced himself to Ilya Rozanov.
The Russian teenager had been infuriatingly calm before one of the biggest moments of their lives. Shane had thought he would be loud, brash, proud of himself. And Rozanov was proud of himself, but in the way confidence exuded from his every move. Even the stupid way his hands flicked the lighter into submission over the whipping wind. His hands, calloused, with handsome long fingers and palms big enough to comfortably grip a hockey stick, to wrap all the way around and dominate on the ice.
Shane flushed. How could he still be thinking about Rozanov’s hands? Fuckin’ hormones. It was over a month ago. Must be his dumb brain just fixating on the moment. It was always something.
His brain had last fixated on his pre-practice routines, and several hours of YouTube rabbit holes on meal prep later, had begged Yuna to try this new salmon recipe that had the perfect ratio of healthy fats to protein. He’d gone through a growth spurt – again – and had been devouring his dad’s classic spaghetti seemingly endlessly as a pre-practice snack. David and Yuna alternated feeding Shane duties for pre- and post-practices. Yuna always served post-practice food, usually something with protein and low glycemic index foods with a Japanese twist. She had recently marinated salmon in a soy garlic glaze with bok choy and brown rice, and Shane inhaled that, too.
It was hormones, he told himself, and probably the emotions stomping over his rational thoughts at the moment. Yesterday, he broke up with Jessica. She was sweet, and didn’t deserve whatever lukewarm feelings he had toward her. She had asked him out, and he said yes, because that was what you were supposed to do when a pretty girl wanted to spend time with you.
Yuna and David gushed over Jessica. She charmed them with her manners and her extensive hockey knowledge, and Yuna had beamed when Jessica took her hand and laid it on top of his at the dinner table, softly supporting him. They had spent the hours together that hockey didn’t claim, and Yuna and David had encouraged it, wanted him to be a normal teenager while he could. Movie dates. Going to the mall and just walking around, looking at expensive clothes, and jewelry, and other things Shane didn’t really care about, but he liked just roaming around with Jessica. Chatting about school, about her annoying younger brother – Shane listened with interest at that, always having wondered what it would have been like to have a sibling.
“I don’t get how you’re not lonely,” she said. “Jacob gets on my nerves, but I love him. He’s my best friend.”
“I have my parents,” Shane said. “They’re great.”
“I know they are,” she said. “But is that really enough for you?”
For years, it had been. Shane kept to himself, but he was happy. Hockey filled every spare moment of his time. It was never a burden – hockey had him in a chokehold that he liked. He knew all the stats, the pro moves, and was well on his way to developing a signature style that showcased his hockey IQ. The local newspaper featured him, and Yuna was starting to field scouts with a deft finesse. She didn’t just want him to be drafted – she wanted to see all of his options, because she believed he was the best. That he was going to be a generational talent, the way she could see it in all the rookies she had studied before. Shane thought some of her praise was biased, of course, but Yuna had a good track record of predicting success in the league. He knew the stats so well that he was beginning to think she was right.
All the more reason to break it off with Jessica. Yuna and David had insisted they didn’t mind her being a distraction from his game. He didn't even have to ask for them to support him, or even ask their opinions at all, because he would have their unfiltered and unwavering support, always. They thought he deserved to have it all, and that included relationships, that they would be proud no matter what hockey he played. That it was okay, to be human, to be a teenager, to be distracted sometimes. But he thought distraction was not the problem here.
It was that Jessica wasn’t distracting enough. Shane rarely thought of her when they weren’t hanging out, wasn’t dying to text her between classes or after practice. He laughed a lot when they were together, and she knew hockey almost as well as he did. She was whipsmart, kicked his ass debating in English lit, and played tennis on the junior circuit. On their second date, she brought over Mad Libs, and Shane laughed so hard filling them out that the next day his abs were sore.
Kissing Jessica was…fine. At least, he didn't think it was a total disaster. God, he hoped she didn't think he was a disaster. Shane tried to copy what he saw in movies. He dimmed the lights. Put music on that was a little sultry, smooth, easy to listen to and easier to make out to. He would lean in, not too pushy, match her rhythm. She seemed into it – really into it, fed him tongue, making little noises that Shane never felt the urge to reciprocate. At least, he didn’t think he could reciprocate, because she didn’t stoke the quiet urge deep in him the way he, apparently, did for her. He wanted to be honest with her. She deserved honesty, even if it would hurt her, and Shane didn't want to hurt her more than he had to. He also couldn't see stretching this out longer. The fundraisers for prom were going to start soon, and he couldn't break up with someone during prom season. He wasn't an idiot. She deserved to go with someone who actually liked her. Well, he had liked her. But it wasn't enough.
When he showed up at her doorstep, an hour after practice, freshly showered, Shane felt his fingernails were raw from picking at them. He sat in his car, in front of her house, breathed deeply in and out, and visualized that it was all going to be okay.
Jessica cried and slammed the door in his face. He thought he deserved that.
Shane paced his room. Should he feel sad? He didn’t. Should he feel angry? He thought maybe he should. He could feel himself unwind slightly, the tension he always carried in his shoulders lessening. He did, for the hundredth time that week, wonder what was wrong with him. He sat on his bed and yanked his laptop over from the desk, popping the top open.
His fingers flew across the keys. Search engine. Sex shops near me.
He hit enter.
He had dressed up in a suit first because it was a Very Important Task but – what are you doing, dude – changed into a linen button up, and then changed again into dark jeans and a gray hoodie. He tucked his hair under a green knit hat, and he put his glasses on, even though he really only ever used them for reading. He thought, sheepishly, that if it worked for Clark Kent even a little bit, that he should emulate him. Every bit of anonymity helped. And the way the cap snuggly pressed around his ears made him feel a little less exposed.
The drive over was mercifully brief. The shop was nestled in between a cafe and a health clinic. He parked his car a respectable three blocks away and pulled his hat low over his forehead before shoving his hands in his hoodie pocket and shuffled over.
He hunched a little, he realized. He still did it sometimes, when he was trying to feel smaller, when he was hoping no one would notice him. He tried to stifle the urge. He had a right to be here, same as everyone else. He was a paying customer.
The bell chimed overhead.
Shane’s gaze panned over the shop. Boxes of merchandise, mostly with labels shimmering in black or gold, lined the shelves. There were some models out on display, perched on soft velvet, each on its tiered shelf, grouped by type. External. Penetrative. Waterproof. Dual use.
The sleek wood countertop had an old-school cash register and a small bell that said 'ring for counter service.' No one was in sight, so he touched it lightly. The chime felt too loud.
A petite woman sidled from the back. She was dressed in a laced halter top, blue, and a leopard miniskirt. Her short red hair was tucked behind her ears. She brushed a strand back as she looked him over.
“What can I help you with?” the shopkeeper said.
Shane straightened up and marched to the desk. The woman speaking was shorter than him, but not massively so. She was lithe and muscular, and now that he was closer, he could see her eyeshadow glittered purple above light brown eyes. She had a gold nameplace necklace on, chunky, with a diamond at the center. Rachel.
“I, um, I’d like to purchase a…” he trailed off. “A thing.”
“I am quite good at my job, but you’re going to have to use your words.”
She leaned forward slightly, inviting him in. "We have many things."
Shane cleared his throat. “I’d like to buy a dildo. A vibrating one. Please. Thank you.”
Rachel reached over the counter and clasped one of her hands in his, enveloping them. “There, that’s not so difficult. That, I can help you with. One of many ‘things’ we offer here.”
She left the counter and selected a few boxes off the shelves. She stacked them gently against her torso, wrapped both arms around them, and deposited them on the velvet counter next to the register, which was just a tablet with a card scanner. One package was matte black, one in crisp white, and one in a deep burgundy. There were no photos on the fronts. He let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. The boxes looked normal. No neon verbiage of "SEX!" or even any tacky photos. He could walk out with one of these in his arms and it would look like a laptop.
Rachel drummed her fingers on top. “These are compatible with external and internal stimulation. There are three different settings. Easy to use.”
Shane flinched. “Do I look like a beginner?”
“Don’t give me that look,” she said. “You don’t need to make sex complicated. I don’t want to be hitting a bunch of buttons while I’m in the middle of it with my partner. I just want to get it done. There’s nothing embarrassing about easy-to-use toys.”
“Okay,” he said. Out of habit, he raised a hand to his face to rub his eyes, forgot he was wearing his glasses, and ended up adjusting them instead. He gestured at the first box. “I’ll take that one.”
Rachel grinned at him. “You don’t even know what that one does.”
“I’m sure it works fine, at whatever it does. I’ll take it.”
In the end, the first one, she informed him, was not waterproof, and he would want a waterproof one.
“Trust me. Waterproof is better. Leave your options open.”
He paid in cash and raced back to his car with the box stuffed under the hoodie. He didn’t take a receipt. Even if it was broken, he would not be returning.
Yuna and David were out of town, but he locked his door, anyway. He opened the wrappings directly over the garbage and slid a fingernail under the cardboard’s seal. The dildo was purple – dark purple, nearly black unless he held it directly under the light. He washed it thoroughly under the sink, followed the instructions, and impatiently waited for it to air dry. Pacing the bathroom made him feel claustrophobic, so unlocked the door and periodically returned to the bathroom to check its drying status.
He tidied up the kitchen, which was mostly spotless, deciding to hand-wash some dishes that were certainly dishwasher-safe, desperate for something to do with his hands. He dusted everything in the living room, including his junior trophies, Yuna’s vases, and David’s knicknacks. He lifted each item, one by one, swiped around and behind, and placed it back down.
One framed photo, taken after he graduated primary school, was a photo of the three of them, on a trip to Kyushu to visit his obaachan. Her garden featured blooming cherry blossom trees. Another framed photo showed him, even younger, next to David and his grandfather, also on skates. The three Hollander boys brandished hockey sticks and lopsided, goofy grins. Shane was missing his front teeth.
He returned to his bedroom, bypassing Yuna and David’s room. That was too weird, to be in there, even if he was presumably cleaning. Some things were better left private. Once he had been old enough to entrust with being tidy, Yuna and David had left the care of his room to himself, and respected his privacy, for the most part.
He wiped down his bookshelf first. He carefully picked up each title, gently wiped it down, and swiped across the shelf. Alphabetical. Neat. Some books about the hockey greats, a couple of novels he had read in school and actually liked, rather than tolerated (1984 was dog-eared), a book of Mad Libs that Jessica had given him as a gag gift, but he never actually opened, and a book on pottery basics from a class that he and Yuna had taken together. Three shelves, not substantial, but enough for him to have a comfort read in bed when he felt too wired to sleep and needed to stop dicking around on his laptop.
Shane moved on to the shelf above his bed. A snowglobe containing Mt. Fuji from one of their spring break trips to Japan was nestled next to a flat, perfect skipping stone from last summer’s trip to the cottage. Next to that, a cactus, because that was the only thing he could manage to keep alive, that is, by essentially neglecting it, because he nearly always forgot he had one to begin with. Yuna was a big proponent of greenery in every room. Shane was responsible only for the cactus.
He returned to the bathroom, where the toy was finally dry, and locked his door again. He jimmied the door three times to make sure the door wasn't just stuck. The ottoman got parked in front for peace of mind.
He rolled down his duvet and placed the toy on top of his freshly washed sheets. He felt flushed just looking at it, imagining it inside him, and turned away to take off his clothes. Hoodie first, then hat. No wonder why he felt like he was sweating copiously. Then his tee, and jeans, which he folded on top of each other and stacked on the ottoman. He left his socks on.
He pulled the duvet down farther and clambered into his bed, the sheets silky smooth against his thighs. He yanked open his bedside table for some lube and a mini packet of tissues, tossing both under the covers with him.
He closed his eyes, breathing in for four seconds, hold for four, out for six, over and over until he could feel his heartbeat slow. Better.
Shane ran one hand over the nape of his neck, gently gripping and releasing, taking care to note and let go of the tension there. His fingers fluttered down to his nipples as he glided over his pecs. He pinched his right one, and the gooseflesh trembled on his skin. His arousal dialed up slowly. His hand dove deeper under the covers, and he cupped his balls. He ran his fingers over them and muttered under his breath, didn't even know what he was muttering, only that pure instinct had him wanting to break the silence with his need.
He lubed up his hand and stroked his shaft. He was already so hard he felt the ache spread through his torso. He hadn't even been thinking of anything. Of anyone. Had he?
His mind flashed to a head of dirty blond curls, blown backward by the biting Sasketchewan wind. The harder he tried not to think of Rozanov, the clearer the image became. His pointed gaze at Shane, analyzing but not criticizing. The curve of his lips dangling the cigarette. The jaw jutted in his direction, but not fully straight on, as Rozanov looked at him like one would a skittish horse. With distance, carefully. Shane had tried to close the distance with a handshake, and their fingers met briefly before dropping to their sides. He shivered. Rozanov's hands had been calloused like his, matching his size, his grasp firm but not overpowering. God, those hands would feel amazing on his…
No. No way. He couldn't think of Rozanov like that. It was not normal to think of your rival like that. It was just the intensity, the way they were always bundled up together, that had him thinking of Rozanov. It was all the stress lately, even when he thought he was doing the right thing by taking care of his own needs, that his mind kept going back to Rozanov.
But right now, he couldn't think of Rozanov as the hockey tour de force, as his rival, like the newspapers were starting to say. He just saw Rozanov, the very real person, his own height as they sized each other up before the game. Shane's skin flushed with heat. It had been the two of them hidden from view outside the rink. Just two people talking, having a normal conversation. It was normal, wasn't it, to think of someone that everyone had started to associate with his career? It shouldn't matter that he couldn't stop thinking about it. Hollander and Rozanov, the match up of the year. Two centers, two stars making waves in the world.
Rozanov. Fuck. The idea of those hands on him persisted.
Shane groaned, but his left hand adjusted to rest on his thigh. His right was still palm down, fingers splayed, deep in the burgundy duvet he had purchased, on a whim, because it felt like the same red of the Metros. He had wanted to manifest everything in his life for the upcoming draft pick that would determine the course of his career. It felt like his childhood growing up at the rink, screaming at players, and now like a part of his future. As long as he didn't screw it all up. He could not lose again to Rozanov. To Russia, he meant.
Fuck this. He needed to stop thinking, to just feel. He uncapped the lube and coated his fingers, running around the rim of his asshole.
He bit his lip as he worked a finger in. Breathed in, out, slow, and his mind obeyed and quieted. His other hand returned to his cock. He squeezed gently in the middle and rocked his hips up. He stifled a moan. He didn't like hearing himself, how loud he felt in the quiet.
The second finger had him gasping with pleasure. He closed his eyes.
Shane grabbed the dildo and pressed it in slowly. He hissed. He stopped halfway, panting. Breathe in. Breathe out. Think of something sexy.
Those hands.
He didn't want to think about those hands, but he needed to relax, damn it. He needed whatever it took to get this dildo in, so he could finally climax and release all this damn stress and get back to feeling normal already. Rozanov was a means to an end. And it was harmless, thinking of him like this, because it wasn't real. This was mind-Rozanov, who didn't exist, and who therefore was perfectly safe in his fantasy.
Breathe in. Breathe out. He shoved the dildo in all the way. His body trembled with pleasure as he worked it partly out and back in again. It was habit, that had him using the rhythm of his breath to work himself to climax, just like he used his breath to get through a difficult run without collapsing. He would use his breath to stay composed, until he broke apart, and that would free him.
He let himself imagine.
Those hands tweaked his nipples hard, the way he wanted but the way he was too afraid to do himself. They hauled him onto his belly, splaying him flat against the mattress, with his head inches from the headboard. Where if he wasn't careful, thrusting forward would leave him with more hedache than pleasure.
Those hands would add a third finger, and then a fourth, reaching for the white hot heat of his prostate. They would stroke so slowly, coaxing him right up to the edge.
Those hands would clench around his cock and have him thrust into it, one thumb still pressing up against his prostate, until he climaxed, vision whiting out.
"Fuck, Rozanov—"
Shane's hands went rigid at his sides, but it was no use pretending that as he came he had been thinking about anyone else. It was always Rozanov. Had been every night since the International Prospect Cup.
This problem was not going to go away.
***
July, 2010
Ilya paced in his hotel room. The floorboads squeaked underneath the dingy carpet. It was the day before the commercial shoot for CCM. He had spent months planning for this. Tomorrow, he would be face to face with Shane Hollander.
The CCM public relations manager had sent him a 'yeah, right' response to his original email pitching his 'face off' style shoot featuring himself and Shane Hollander. He had told his agent, who had scoffed at Ilya being featured in the same sentence as Hollander, but said he could do whatever he wanted. The leash was there, but he had a decent amount of slack right now. The better he played, the longer the leash, and he was coming off a few wins with the Raiders. He could afford to let the leash run taut, run up right until it would snap him back into the boundaries where he had to behave.
He had to be careful. He always had to be careful. In Russia, the stakes were high with Sasha, of course, but they were just kids. Sasha had always flirted with Ilya, in a way that even Ilya thought was dangerous. Someone was always watching, but they were young enough and Sasha was gregarious enough with everything in his life that no one ever took his flirting seriously.
Except Ilya had taken Sasha up on his offer, taken him seriously, and they had each other every summer. Sasha taught him some things, and Ilya taught him others. They learned each other's bodies together. And when Ilya had left for Boston, it was understood that they had graduated from each other.
Ilya continued his education with other partners. He was 19, in Boston, in the best shape of his life. He could wear his sheer v-neck tops, just slutty enough for a tease, and let his muscles do the talking for him. He preferred that to flirting, because his English was only serviceable without his hockey vocabulary.
He went out drinking with his team after wins and took home women. He went out drinking with them after losses and took home more women. When he went out by himself, with a toque covering his curls, he could take home whoever he liked, and he usually took home men.
Ilya tried not to make a habit of it. He wanted to keep a low profile as much as he could. He wasn't delusional enough to think he was nationally famous or anything, but Boston was a sports town through and through. He kept it to only in the off-season, figuring that his face on TV was not what he wanted people attracted to in the club.
He found himself taking a lot of men home with freckles. Thinking about another man with freckles the whole time.
Ilya was stealing glances at Hollander every game. He enjoyed the way Hollander's face flushed when he chirped at him on the ice. The way his brown eyes met his gaze at the face off. He excelled under the pressure. And the way the crowd screamed both of their names was electrifying.
They were too noteworthy to chat on the ice. Ilya had to manufacture a reason for them to meet with fewer fans looking at what they were doing.
Enter the CCM shoot.
It was simple. They would each skate around the ice, shoot some goals, and pose for the camera. Easy money.
The hard part would be getting Hollander to loosen up.
Hell, he felt like he couldn't loosen up right now. He needed to relax. He tossed his suitcase on the dresser and rifled through it. Change of clothes, toothbrush. Condoms. Nothing else.
He took out his phone. Search engine. Sex shop near me.
The shop had no one in sight, with a small bell on the counter with a handwritten note that said, 'ring for counter service,' so he did.
The woman who arrived from the back room had shoulder-length red hair and a name plate necklace. Rachel.
"I'd like to buy a dildo," he said.
She laughed. "You'll have to be a little more specific. What kind?"
"Easy. Waterproof. Vibrating."
"I can definitely find a good one for you," she said. "Would you like to narrow it down by color?"
"What color?" he said. "Does not matter."
He left with a white matte box and a navy dildo that was both waterproof and vibrating. Maybe he could finally relax after this.
Ilya tossed the packaging in the trash but left the box half-open on the bed. He uncapped the lube and stood over the bed, slicking up his cock. He had been thinking about Hollander all week, and he let himself just imagine how tomorrow could go.
Hollander would arrive, dressed in athleisure but acting too buttoned up until they both got on the ice. He would shake his hand, and maybe that faint blush would rise to Hollander's freckles when Ilya smiled at him. Or Hollander might be feeling shy. He should have a joke prepared, to make him comfortable. Once they were on the ice, Hollander would open up.
Ilya stroked himself harder, picturing Hollander ahead of him on the ice. No helmets, since it was a shoot, and his hair was soft and mussed and sweaty from racing him across the rink. Trickles of sweat dripped from Hollander's forehead down his cheek, careessing his freckles like Ilya wanted to caress him.
Ilya dropped his hand from his cock and fumbled for the box. Stupid of him not to have it ready. He carefully went to the sink, his cock aching and angry, bobbing up against him, rinsed the dildo and immediately lubed it.
He didn't always use a dildo, but he was feeling wrung out and like he needed to be wrecked, or he would never sleep. He needed to make a good impression on Hollander tomorrow. He needed his beauty sleep. Hollander would look pretty. He would look…okay.
Ilya thrust a finger into himself and rubbed against his prostate. The dildo followed after. He switched it to vibrating and returned to his begging cock.
Tonight was not about the buildup. Tonight was about the payoff. Months of planning and now Hollander would be his, if only for a few hours.
He closed his eyes. Pictured the last face off, with Hollander forced to look directly at him, shaking off his chirps and winning the face off in a flash. Ilya had raced behind him, admiring his ass, and the thick musculature of his calves, obvious even under the pads.
He made a mental note to take the opportunity to use the rink showers after the shoot. He could show Hollander what he was missing.
Ilya pictured Hollander in one of his post-game interviews. He would have worn his skintight compression clothes, only stopping to strip his jersey and pads before talking to the press. He would still be sweaty and breathless from skating hard to get a goal right before the buzzer. He would be infuriatingly humble. In French, because he could, and English, better than Ilya ever could.
Ilya wanted to yell at Hollander. He wanted to yell at him, look at how good you are! Fucking own it.
Hollander would hold the mic tentatively. Would he hold Ilya's dick tentatively?
Ilya shifted his grip around his cock to a gentle encircling. The drop in pressure had him seeking stimulation in his ass instead. He slammed himself back against the headboard until the dildo was deeper, and then grabbed his cock again.
"Fuck, Hollander, hold me," he grunted.
He came without thinking of anything else but Shane looking at him, his mouth guard dangling from his lips.
Tomorrow would be fun.