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The best way to success was to practice. Shane Hollander knew that well. He was having an incredible season. The Monteral Metros were legendary, and they were well on their way to having a triumphant record in the league. He was blazingly fast on the ice, whipped through their opponent's defense, and with Hayden Pike at his side, the duo had scored more goals than any other pair in their first season together.
Shane unpacked his suitcase efficiently. Suit hung on the closet door in the garment bag. Linen top hanging in the closet. His sweater and hoodie unfolded, steamed, and re-folded in the top drawer of the dresser.
The utilitarian toiletry bag he'd had since hockey summer camps, for camping trips with his dad, still served as his landing space for his toothpaste, electric toothbrush, floss, comb and hair products. He stood in front of the mirror, brushed his teeth and flossed — he wanted to feel more put together, but didn't have time for a full shower— and glided the comb through his hair.
When he was in high school, he had swooped his long hair over his eyes. He thought he was being cool. It felt very Fall Out Boy to him.
Now that he was actually cool, he could do what he wanted with his hair. He set the trends now. At first, he had felt the pressure of representing Asian youth on the ice. Yuna constantly reminded him that he had a lot of younger kids looking up to him. The Ottawa community was relatively diverse, but hockey was majority white men.
As a young kid, he dealt with more bullying. Once he was old enough to skate circles around his bullies, most of them shut up. Their insults held less weight when he kicked their asses every single time on the ice. Their words were whispers, now, and he could easily tune them out.
"They're small-timers," Yuna said. "You are a once in a generation kind of player. You are more than enough."
He walked in both worlds. He used to not feel Canadian enough, or Japanese enough. He looked too different from either to fit neatly in a box. The reminders were everywhere, right down to the medical form he filled out at the office of the team physician. Under 'ethnicity,' marking 'other,' and writing in Japanese next to 'other.'
Yes, he was other. But it didn't matter on the ice. Geared up, he looked like everyone else. Broad shoulders covered in pads. Helmet on, masking his hair. He looked uniform with his team. But he was better than all of them.
His hair parted on the right side. It was a classic look, easy, routine. It was the way his dad had taught him when he was younger, even though in David's McGill photos, his hair was curly, unruly and didn't seem to hold a part. Shane had inherited Yuna's soft, silky hair that generally kept shape when he molded it.
He re-dressed with the linen shirt, put on worn-in black jeans, and slipped on his Reeboks. The shoes pinched his toes, but he'd promised Yuna that he would wear them as much as possible. He could tolerate wearing them for dinner.
Team dinner was at a family-owned Italian restaurant that Theirault had picked because it had seating for 20, and he knew the owner. They ate here frequently, and Shane knew what to expect.
They ate family-style as usual. Shane filled his plate with penne, grilled chicken, and caesar salad. Hayden plonked his plate next to Shane's and stuffed a garlic knot in his mouth.
"Dude, Jackie's so excited that we're going to have a stretch of home games soon," he said. "You should come over for a beer, unwind a little. We just got this awesome projector for the yard. I'm going to stream Speed on it next weekend. It'll be fun."
"Maybe," Shane said.
"Buddy, come on, you haven't been over in ages," Hayden said. "You need to blow off some steam."
"Will anyone else be there?" Shane said. "Besides Jackie, I mean."
He shrugged. "I was going to make it an open invite, but if you'd rather be third-wheeling with me and her, we can do that. I just miss you."
"I see you practically every day."
"You know what I mean. I see you, but we don't actually, hang out. You're like a monk during the season. Good habits, and all of that."
"Habits are how I stay sharp," Shane said. "But I do things. Plenty of things."
"Uh-huh," Hayden said. "Sure you do. Anyway, next Friday. Be there or be square."
"No one says that, Hayd."
"I just did."
At the knock, Ilya answered the door.
"Is someone chasing you?"
"I'm standing in the hallway like an idiot," Shane said. "Scott Hunter is right next door."
Shane stepped forward, and they collided in a kiss. The way Shane grabbed his neck, curled his fingers in his hair, sent a shiver down Ilya's spine. He reached out for Shane's back, pulled him closer, thrust his tongue between teeth and curled into his mouth. Shane kissed him deeper in response, and his hand mussed the top of Ilya's hair. God, it was so good. Even better than he had pictured when he was alone in the shower, building up this moment.
"Get on your knees."
Shane dropped.
"Wow," Ilya whispered. He glanced at the bed. It would be big enough for two, tonight, if Shane wanted to.
Shane's mouth was hot and wet and warm around him. Ilya just wanted to have every part of him touching Shane. He moved his hand from the top of Shane's head to his own body, peeling off his shirt and chucking it to the ground. It landed next to Shane, who looked up at him, mouth still full of his cock.
Fuck.
Shane reached up with one hand and kneaded his pecs. Ilya held it there, reached down with his other hand and ran his fingers through the top of Shane's silky hair. He would mess up his part. He would make Shane look wrecked. And he would actually wreck him, Ilya decided, he would make him come again and again. He had been thinking about how he would do this for months.
He yanked Shane up from the ground, his cock popping out with a wet noise, and Shane grunted and pushed himself closer in response, chest to chest, wrapping one arm around Ilya's entire head in a lock, like he wanted to absorb him.
That wouldn't do. Ilya wanted to absorb him first.
Ilya wrapped his arms under Shane's ass and lifted him in one smooth motion around his own hips, strutted toward the waiting bed. Five seconds, shorter than his maximum deadlifts, and Shane pressed his palm against Ilya's back. They were so close, and he wanted to be closer still.
He deposited Shane on top of the duvet. Ilya straddled his hips, tested his weight as he gently rolled forward. Shane made an indiscernable noise and frantically pulled off his hoodie and shirt, wrapped in on themselves, in one motion. Ilya unzipped his pants, hand shaking, snagging halfway down the zipper, and then they were at the bottom, yanking his pants off by the cuffs.
Shane's cock strained against his black briefs, and when Ilya touched him through them, he felt he was already dripping with arousal. He rolled down his briefs and his pants, whipped them over his socks, and worked his way back up Shane's body. He kissed his abdomen, just below his pecs, then firmly on his nipple, back down to his groin, and took Shane in his mouth.
Shane threw both his hands up and groaned.
Ilya enjoyed that sound. He swallowed and bobbed aggressively. He wanted this. He wanted to hear Shane moan for him. Shane was his, thinking only of him, and he was softly moaning about it. He would destroy him, and it would be incredibly hot to watch him unravel.
Ilya gripped one thigh to hold him like this. He wanted to control the depth, and he felt Hollander's muscles twitch with every lick. Shane relaxed his hips into the grip, and Ilya felt sure enough that he would not move that he trailed his other hand up Shane's belly, back to his chest, where he wrapped a hand around one pec and rolled the nipple along his thumb.
"Oh my fucking god. Fuck, Rozanov."
"Mmmm," he said, moving up to kiss Shane's groin, his abdomen, in succession. "Get on your stomach." Ilya slapped his thigh three times.
"On your stomach." Shane turned, torso first, hips and cock following. The break in touch from his cock, from Ilya's lips, had his thoughts roaring back like a freight train. Rozanov's cross flicked against his shoulder, the metal warmed but the edges pressing on his skin, grounding him.
"Have you ever…?" Ilya wrapped himself around Shane, his own hard cock pressing flat against Shane's ass. He carefully positioned himself against his glutes. Not against his asshole. Just close enough. He needed to know what Shane's limits were first.
Shane shook his head.
"Do you want to?" Ilya pressed himself into Shane, not his full body weight, but enough to cover him gently with pressure. He had one hand around Shane's pec again, squeezing lightly, running a finger around its border. Shane's eyelashes fluttered, and he turned away, just a miniscule turn, to face his hands again instead of pressing into Ilya. He gripped the edge of the mattress. His thoughts swarmed him again. Holy shit, and not in a good way, holy shit. What was he doing?
"You are scared."
"I'm not scared!"
Ilya remained pressed against him. Still hard against him. His touch on Shane's chest switched from aggressive, kneading, to soft, caressing.
"No, is okay."
"I'm not scared."
Ilya kissed Shane's shoulder and pulled back. With his weight off him, Shane felt unanchored, wrong.
Ilya shifted to sidelying, his hip pressed against Shane's ass again. Shane felt immediate relief at the pressure, and then embarrassment that it felt good. Without Ilya kissing him, his tongue thrusting in him, shoving his thoughts out of the way, his brain was back on its bullshit. Ilya's hand gently slid along Shane's glutes and then slowly slid to the middle.
The light touch of Ilya's finger swiping along Shane's crack made him shudder. His calloused thumb circled Shane's asshole.
"Do you ever touch yourself here?"
"Jesus Christ."
The finger swooped down his taint, flicked at his balls, and slid back up again, tracing the edge of his asshole. The newness of the sensation overwhelmed Shane. His cock twitched in response against the mattress.
Ilya grunted, his lips curling involuntarily. Fuck, Shane was hot like this, on his stomach for him. He had simply told him to turn, and Shane did.
"What? Does touching your ass make you gay?" His fingers squeezed one glute, then the other, and returned to circling Shane's asshole.
"Rozanov," Shane said. He turned back to face him, but not all the way. Ilya had his leg wrapped over one of Shane's hips, so he was locked in place. Shane didn't think he could bear full eye contact, not splayed out like this, dripping into the mattress. It was too humiliating.
"Because you know what else makes you gay, is sucking my dick." Rozanov leaned forward, his torso leaning against Shane's, and tilted his head forward so he could suck noisily at Shane's back. Not strong enough to leave a hickey, but almost. He could feel Shane shiver underneath him. God, he was so responsive.
Shane's head turned the maximum angle he could make it go. "Shut up," Shane whispered. "Shut up! Fuck. I'm trying to say I have a thing. Okay?"
"A thing?" Ilya's lips curled in disbelief. He pulled back a little.
"A dildo."
Ilya glanced at the dresser. Where he kept his own…dildo. His gaze traveled down Shane's back, down to his asshole again where his thumb rested.
"What color?" His cock twitched with anticipation. He had held his own, many times, picturing this moment. Had Shane done the same, picturing him?
"Fuck you."
"Is big?"
"I'm leaving," Shane said. He pushed off on his elbows and made to move toward the nightstand.
Ilya pressed his full weight on him again, wrapped his arm around Shane's chest.
"No," Ilya whined. "No, Hollander, I want to fuck you." He kissed against Shane's back again, tried to wrangle him back in bed, back on his belly, just because Ilya asked.
Shane flipped around, stopped trying to get away. Ilya kissed him deeply.
Shane stared up at him and rested his hand on Ilya's arm. Ilya's necklace swung against his chest. His nipples were erect.
"Not here," Shane said. "Not with…fuckin' Scott Hunter right next door."
"Okay," Ilya said. "So we practice. Not actual fuck."
"You've gotta be kidding me."
Ilya lowered himself slightly and kissed Shane's neck. He brushed his lips against Shane's earlobe, sucking it in briefly. "I do not kid about this."
"What the fuck does that even mean?"
Ilya pushed up, still hovering above Shane. He pressed his forehead against his and nodded at the dresser. "I have my own dildo. So, we practice. Next time, you are ready. Not scared."
"I'm not scared," Shane said. "Just…Scott Hunter."
"If you mention that dinosaur again while you are like this, I will punish you."
Fuck, was Shane turning pink?
"Promise?"
Ilya rolled off Shane and bear-crawled to the dresser. He popped the cap off the lube and rolled a condom onto the dildo. He slicked it up quickly and clambered back to Shane. He pinned him with his thighs, brought his lips down again to Shane's ear, and nibbled at his earlobe.
"What, you want me to smack your ass for that? For using too many words, when you should be using that pretty mouth to suck me off?"
"Rude," Shane whispered. He reached for the lube and slathered a generous amount on Ilya's cock.
Ilya bit back a groan. He was already fucking close, and they had barely touched.
"I want to make you feel good." He hauled Shane onto his stomach rather than wait for him to respond. He trailed his clean hand down Shane's back in one smooth motion, lifted his hand abruptly, and smacked Shane's ass.
Shane whimpered.
"We are going to practice," Ilya said. "If you need me to stop, you say stop. I stop. No questions. Okay?"
Shane nodded.
Ilya cupped his hand around his chin. "Is a lot, I know. But I need to make sure you understand. Say it?"
"I say stop, you stop."
Shane let his weight drop completely on the bed. Ilya trailed kisses down his spine again. He traced Shane's asshole with his tongue.
"Rozanov—"
"You want me to stop?"
"N-no."
"Hollander, relax. I will make it good for you."
With that, Ilya covered him with his mouth, and sucked hard. Shane gasped. His toes pressed into the bed. He wanted to yell, but he should not, and his fist flew toward his mouth as he made a move to muffle himself.
"Mmmf," Ilya said. His tongue pressed flat against Shane's hole, put pressure on and released, and he suctioned around him again.
Shane was too overcome to do much more than whimper. He went boneless.
Ilya started softly, gently lapping around and then tentatively inside him. The heat and wetness of his tongue was so overwhelming. It shut Shane's brain right off, threw his thoughts out the motherfucking window. Shane felt like he was melting, like one of those cartoons, right into the floor. He was a puddle.
Ilya squirted more lube on his hands and wiggled a finger inside Shane. Shane's hips writhed back in response. His cock burned with arousal.
"Fuck," Ilya said. "You're so good for me. Do you think you can handle another?" He bent down again to lick around his finger, down Shane's crack and back up again.
"Rozanov," he said. "This is…a lot."
"Yes or no? Is okay, if is no."
"Yes," Shane said. "More."
Ilya added another finger slowly, watching Shane's face for any sign to stop. When he remained pliant on the bed, Ilya moved to plant a kiss again on his ass and gnawed at his buttcheek gently.
"Good boy." He reached for the dildo and traced Shane's asshole with it, to let him know it was coming.
He moved his fingers out and Shane whined involuntarily. He would laugh at himself, if he wasn't so desperate to be filled again.
Ilya put nearly his full weight on Shane again. He kept some weight on his knees as he straddled Shane. He wanted his hands free. He snaked one hand underneath Shane's hips to his waiting cock. Shane gasped at the touch. As he stroked upward, Shane went to rock his own hips forward for more friction. Ilya pinned him with his leg.
"Stay," he said. "We practice, remember?"
He slid the dildo into Shane. Ilya stopped every few seconds, clocked Shane's face, still relaxed, still loopy with pleasure. When it was nearly all the way in, he reached with his full grip around Shane's cock and held it as if he held his own. Needy, strong, wrapping up and down with speed.
He worked the dildo in and out. His own hips rolled, his dick sliding with pre-come along Shane's ass. He didn't think he had ever leaked like this when he was with a partner. He barely touched himself. Just rubbing up on Shane was intoxicating.
Ilya paused and left the dildo all the way in, leaned fully on top of Shane, anchoring his hips around him, and pressed his cock against his asshole this time, on top of the dildo.
Shane let out a muffled sound into the pillow.
Ilya gripped his cock gently but firmly. "I will make you feel good. I promise."
He ran his thumb over the head and rubbed it, gripped his whole shaft and slid his hand gently back down before tightening up, hard, in one smooth motion, and repeated it.
He felt Shane twitch. "Fuck, I can't—"
Shane exploded over his hand. Ilya stroked him through it. Shane shook into the mattress, going slack, and Ilya's hand was crushed. He did not care.
He flipped Shane over quickly and threw himself into the crook of his arm. He looked up at him, at Shane staring down at him, pupils blown, and finally, finally reached down to jerk himself off. Now he had earned it.
Ten seconds was all it took. Ilya climaxed, spurting over himself, and onto Shane's thighs. The wave of pleasure had his chest heaving. He felt the adrenaline crash over him. He moved to touch Shane again, but felt so spent that he just nudged his head against Shane's chest, and ended up with his face against Shane's armpit. He kissed it.
"Come on," Ilya said. He tweaked Shane's nipple. "Let's clean you up."
Shane rolled toward him on the bed, his weight now pressing against Ilya. He let out a breathless laugh.
"Fuck, Rozanov, I feel so good."
"Good," Ilya said. "We have whole night. What is saying? Practice makes perfect."