Chapter Text
“Jesus Hollander” Bood said over the locker room noise “you got your ass beat, literally!”
Shane smirked over his shoulder, looking down at his own bruised backside “Oh that?” He said nonchalantly, pulling up his briefs and compression pants “Yeah I fell”
“Uh huh” Hayes said, “fell into Rozanov’s hand, it’s a whole fucking print, dude! Fingers and all!”
“Yeah” Dykstra added “I’d recognize that giant fuckin’ paw anywhere”
Ilya turned away from his stall as he pulled his compression shirt over his head, grinning shamelessly “yes” he confirmed “I was there when he fell getting out of shower, I caught him” Shane glared daggers at him, as his absolutely shameless husband shrugged, trying to look innocent, which they all most certainly knew he was not.
“Yeah you caught him alright, Cap” Chouinard added with a snicker, sitting down on the bench to pull on a sock.
“I would not do anything he doesn’t like” the cheeky Russian said, patting his partner’s back fondly as he leaned in to kiss his cheek “isn’t that right moya lyubov?” And Shane shoved him playfully, trying not to smirk.
“Nobody said he didn’t like it, man” Troy said, shaking his head and chuckling as he adjusted his shoulder pads
“All of you shut the fuck up” Shane barked “forget about my ass” he raised his voice then so that the whole locker room could hear him as he added “Think about crushing Toronto! Let’s fucking go boys!”
There was cheer of agreement, everyone get hyped up as they finished getting ready for the game they were about to play against the Toronto Guardians.
“I will never forget about your ass” Ilya whispered in his ear and Shane shot him a warning look, that cracked into a grin before he could stop it.
It was a good game, neck in neck during the second period, but they had ended up beating Toronto by a landslide, and every one was in high spirits as they showered and changed, breaking off into their next destinations for the night. Out to celebrate for those who still had it in them, and home to bed for those who did not.
“I have to ask coach a question” Ilya said to Shane as he slung his back over his shoulder “meet you at the car yes?”
His husband nodded and the curly haired man pecked his cheek before turning and walking out of the locker room.
Shane took his time getting his things together. He was one of the last to leave, bag slung over his own shoulder as he passed security, headed for the large multi-level lobby that led out of the parking lot. Just beyond the check point, he passed a large pillar, and leaning against the back of it, was none other than Dallas Kent. Shane kept walking, ignoring him and avoiding eye contact even as he grinned eerily. “Hey Hollander” he said “heard about your bruises”
Shane stopped dead and turned back to glare at him, trying to hide his shock, but Kent seemed to notice that he’d struck a nerve, going on “Rozanov’s backhand is pussy shit compared to what I’d give you” he took a step forward and Shane took an instinctive step back, his hand balling into a fist as Kent spat “where I come from, people like me kill people like you”
“Go fuck yourself, Kent” he snarled back, turning on his heel and hurrying toward for the double doors in front of him.
As he approached the car, Ilya was already standing there, leaning against it. He grinned when his lover came into view, but as Shane came closer, he could see the alarm bells in his eyes immediately “Hi moya lyubov” he said “are you ok?” And Shane nodded, pressing the keys into his palm.
“Let’s get out of here” he said, tossing both of their bags in the backseat and going for the passenger side, another indicator that something was wrong. Shane rarely let Ilya drive, preferring to be the one in control, and always complaining that he was too fast and reckless. Ilya would chirp back that his driving was boring “Like cherepakha, Hollander, very slow” this was their usual fond argument, but apparently not tonight.
They were quiet as Ilya started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, headed for the highway. He kept stealing glances at Shane, who said nothing as he leaned against the window, eyes far away. Ilya put a hand on his thigh, giving it a reassuring squeeze. It was meant to be comforting, but he saw the shift happen in Shane, as it occurred to him that he could distract himself, or maybe both of them, with sex. The body to body contact would ground him and make everything else feel far away, even if it was just for a little while.
Ilya was fine with that, for now. He was no stranger to the “talk after” method as it often helped him too when he was struggling with expressing himself. He would gladly give Shane whatever he needed before expecting an answer. This had always been their easiest form of communication anyway, natural as breathing.
Shane put his hand over Ilya’s on his thigh and slid them both up over his crotch, and his husband squeezed him there too, applying just enough pressure to draw a moan out of him. “You want me?” He asked, trying his best to keep his eyes on the road as he drove, and Shane nodded “need you, Papa” he said, bringing Ilya’s hand up to his mouth.
He kissed his knuckles, swiping his tongue along them before he began to suck on his thumb, and the Russian man bit his lip and swallowed heavily, turning his hand just slightly so that Shane could keep sucking the thumb while he cupped the rest of the digits around his chin and purred “we’re almost home, Malysh, five minutes”