Work Text:
It was beautifully, horrendously, atrociously hilarious.
Ilya watched as his left winger wound up from the top of the circle, the unmistakable crack of stick meeting puck echoing through the Bell Centre. The puck rocketed through a forest of skates and sticks, headed straight for Montreal's net.
Goal.
It had to be.
Already smirking, Ilya peeled away from the crease, eyes drifting shut for half a second as he waited for the goal horn.
It never came.
His eyes snapped open.
What?
The Voyageur’s goalie was still squared to the shot, glove raised where he'd tracked it, but he wasn't celebrating a save. He wasn't fishing the puck out of the net, either.
Instead, every player on the ice had stopped moving.
Shane Hollander stood in the low slot, one gloved hand pressed gingerly against his right shoulder. His brows knitted together as he looked from the goalie to the referee, then down at the ice around his skates with growing confusion.
The puck...was gone.
Not deflected.
Not covered.
Not in the net.
Gone.
Ilya blinked once.
Then twice.
His gaze swept the ice automatically, years of brutal coaching taking over before conscious thought could. No inch left unnoticed. No defenseman left unseen. Every inch of white between the hash marks. His father had made sure of that, physically made it true after his awful loss to Latvia.
Nothing.
There wasn't a single black speck anywhere.
"Shto?! (What?!)” Ilya cried out, scanning the auadience for a flayed puck, finding nothing but a sea of confused and angry fans staring back at him.
The whistle finally came, followed by the unmistakable voice of the announcer trying (and failing) to sound composed.
"Ladies and gentlemen, play is currently under review due to..." A pause. "...an unforeseen issue."
Another pause.
"...the puck appears to be missing."
Twenty-one thousand people collectively lost their minds.
Even the broadcast crew sounded baffled.
"I've been calling hockey for thirty years," the play-by-play announcer laughed in disbelief. "I've seen everything and then some - but I've never seen a puck disappear in the middle of play."
His co-announcer snorted.
"Unless David Copperfield signed with Boston, I've got nothing."
Stupid fucking American announcers and their stupid fucking jokes Ilya thought, fuming at the interruption to what was once a damn good game of hockey. Shane still held his shoulder, grimacing and rubbing it in circles. Ilya knew what those muscles felt like underneath his large hand.
As predictable as a clock, Montreal let gloves fly and sprang on Boston. A missing puck and a hurt captain? Of course they were going to be feral. After all, this was hockey, not soccer.
Ilya included himself, whether out of bravado or curiosity was unknown, but someone did something to elicit a missing puck. No one in their right mind would give a puck away when it was in play, nor did it fly over the nets. The refs would have seen it, or the lucky fan would be waving it with gusto. So, where the fuck did it go?
Ilya, hands attempting to dislodge teeth from a Montreal right winger after a nasty hit to his own cheekbone, was hoisted back. Thrown in the slammer. (It was the penalty box, but Ilya had taken to calling it the slammer after his American teammate cued him in on the funny slang they used. He found it charming in the same way that the way Shane said ‘pasta’ was charming. Paeh-sta. Weirdo.)
From across the ice, trainers had gathered around Shane.
Ilya sat up straighter.
"What now?"
The television cameras followed as one trainer gestured toward Shane's shoulder, then towards the rest of his gear, saying something to him that made his eyes flicker in anxiety. Ilya hated that look. He wanted to smack the trainer just to give Shane some space.
The trainer must have said something convincing, and Shane sighed.
Then, to everyone's surprise, reached for the strap beneath his chin.
"...He's taking his helmet off," the play-by-play announcer observed.
The arena applauded politely. Shane shook his sweat-slick hair like a dog, beautiful black streaks landing across his forehead, and Ilya felt like a bitch in heat. He nearly whined at the display of athleticism and straight-up jock that Shane Hollander encompassed.
Then Shane started pulling his jersey up, up, up-
The applause grew louder.
Ilya frowned.
"What is he doing?" He mumbled to himself, eyes tracking the stretch of Shane’s arms as he started lifting his jersey up and over his shoulder pads.
Apparently, whatever had happened to the missing puck had left a nasty welt beneath Shane's shoulder pads. The officials wanted to verify he hadn't been cut by a damaged piece of equipment before allowing play to continue. Definitely no other reason.
Reasonable.
Entirely reasonable.
“The trainers seem to think - get this, Jeff - the puck lodged itself into Shane’s gear! Tune in, ladies and gents, we’re about to have a show!”
Shane pulled his jersey over his head.
The Bell Centre exploded.
Ilya stopped breathing.
Beneath the jersey was a black compression shirt stretched tightly over every hard-earned line of muscle across Shane's torso. Ilya’s mouth went dry. This must be the craziest fucking foreplay of his life, or maybe he’s dreaming. He’s probably dreaming. This would be a very Ilya-centered dream.
Ilya was not dreaming.
Shane fucking Hollander was stripping in front of the fans. On the ice. Stealing a quick glance at Ilya, he thought he might actually spontaneously combust.
Thousands of phones appeared instantly.
The camera zoomed in, Shane’s gorgeous body blown to unimaginable sizes on the jumbotron, almost like an angel descending from heaven.
"Oh," one announcer (Jeff? Who gives a fuck) laughed. "This crowd doesn't seem to mind the delay anymore."
“You’re damn right about that, Rick” The announcer, who must be Jeff, then, if Ilya can sharpen his brain enough to use context clues, stated into the microphone. Spatterings of laughter bursted from the arena.
Ilya's eye twitched.
To Ilya’s dismay, he watched as his boyfriend lifted his shoulder pads up and over his beautiful head, collarbone protector getting stuck on his chin in the process. If that caused Shane to have to strain his biceps a little bit to get it off, no one noticed but Ilya.
The broadcast camera zoomed closer.
Much.
Much closer.
(So, maybe Ilya wasn’t the only one who noticed.)
The jumbotron displayed Shane's face.
Then his shoulders.
Then, for reasons Ilya considered deeply offensive, his arms.
"Stop looking," Ilya muttered.
Nobody listened.
Half the arena was cheering.
The other half was taking pictures.
The cameraman deserved prison.
The producer deserved worse.
"Would you look at—"
"I would not, RickJeff" Ilya hissed at the television camera as though it had personally insulted him.
Shane thanked the trainer with an embarrassed smile as he handed him his gear, blissfully unaware that approximately twenty-one thousand people had collectively decided he was the prettiest man in Canada.
Ilya knew that already.
That wasn't the problem.
The problem was that now everyone else knew it too. Everyone was looking at what was decidedly his. His fucking boyfriend, doing the world’s sexiest strip tease on accident, and Ilya can’t even touch him.
His jaw clenched.
The camera zoomed in again. Shane had pulled up his black compression shirt, expertly crafted abs on display, a drip of sweat cascading down. Ilya wanted to lick him.
So did everyone and their fucking mom, apparently.
Then, by forces Ilya deemed demonic and unfaithful, Shane pulled open his shorts for the trainer to investigate, exposing the dramatic V of his obliques. Ilya’s dick tweaked in interest just as the cheers of the crowd escalated once more. There was even a bra thrown onto the ice.
That, all things considered, was actually pretty funny. Shane would probably think that was gross and unsanitary, maybe even sacreligious to his precious rink.
The camera zoomed in, and if he were to just angle a bit differently, he would see entirely too much down his pants, the gorgeous curve of-
"Oh, for the love of—"
The words escaped before he could stop them.
"Stop fucking looking!"
-
The crowd surrounding Ilya went dead quiet.
Even the announcer’s booth stopped jeering, if only for a second.
"...Well," RickJeff finally broke the awkward silence, “That’s new. Ilya Rozanoz, demanding privacy?”
The other announcer wheezed.
"I don't... I don't think he was talking to the trainer."
The camera, naturally, cut straight to Ilya.
He was standing in the penalty box, gripping the ledge with both gloves, cheeks burning a color that would have made Scott Hunter’s ancient jersey jealous.
"Oh, nyet," he whispered to himself in Russian. (Oh no).
The microphones had picked him up.
Of course they had.
There were approximately six thousand microphones in every NHL arena nowadays, all strategically placed to capture the most humiliating possible audio.
Wonderful.
The ground might as well open up and swallow Ilya whole, at this rate.
Across the ice, Shane looked up.
Their eyes met.
Shane's expression drifted from confusion, to realization, to unmistakable amusement.
He smiled.
Not a big smile.
Not one the cameras would notice.
Just the tiny curl at the corner of his mouth that was meant only for Ilya. The one reserved for quiet, internal teasing. The one on his lips when he muttered ‘no, you come here’ and ‘this room isn’t available to the guests’.
It somehow made everything worse. Once again, everyone was seeing something that was supposed to be just for Ilya.
Ilya stared, rolled his eyes in an attempt to look nonchalant even though he was actively combusting inside. He met Shane’s eyes again, hoping he could put every ounce of I’mgoingtofuckyousohardlaterit’snotevenfunny into his stare.
Shane shrugged one shoulder.
Not the bruised one.
The healthy one.
As if to say, What did I do?
Existed. It’s not fair, Ilya answered silently.
Finally, Ilya let out a long breath as the small black puck dropped out of Shane’s shorts. As quickly as attention was on Ilya, it was pulled off of him and back onto Shane. Shane, who seemingly just shit out a hockey puck.
“Well, folks, there you have it,” said RickJeff, “the missing puck has been found. Inside Hollander’s shorts, no less.”
The arena chuckled, Ilya squeezed his hands together until his knuckles turned white to avoid doing something stupid, like punch RickJeff in his stupid face.
Shane pulled his shoulder pad back into place before tugging his jersey back up and over his head.
A disappointed chorus echoed through the arena.
"Boo!"
"Put it back!"
"One more time!"
“Holl-an-der! Holl-a-der!”
Shane laughed despite himself.
Ilya considered requesting a trade.
Canada’s golden boy, my fucking ass.
Marleau took the opportunity to skate up to Ilya, tapping the glass of his enclosure like a toddler at a zoo.
"You good there, Rozy?"
"Fine."
"...Need anything?"
"A new country, maybe."
"Can't help you."
"I know."
Marleau shook his head, chuckling softly as he skated back towards his linemen, gearing up for Montreal’s awaiting power play.
Ilya remained imprisoned, glaring daggers at anyone whose eyes lingered on Shane for more than a socially acceptable amount of time.
A woman in the front row adjusted her phone for a better picture.
Absolutely not.
A teenage boy pointed excitedly toward Montreal's bench.
Unacceptable.
A beautiful blonde blinked too many times when Shane had the puck.
Suspicious.
Ilya narrowed his eyes.
Were they all in love with him?
Had they always been?
It was a bit poetic, when he thought about it. He was, too, once deeply in love with Shane without noticing it.
His internal spiral was interrupted by Connors skating over while the refs discussed which face-off circle to start the play with, coasting towards the penalty box wearing the expression of a man who had smelled blood in the water.
"So."
"No."
"I didn't even say anything."
"You were going to."
"I absolutely was."
Connors leaned against the glass, cocky smirk plastered on his cocky face.
"You yelled at twenty thousand Voyageur’s fans because they looked at their captain."
"They were disrespectful."
"They were watching hockey."
"They were watching Hollander."
"...Who is playing hockey."
"They were doing it incorrectly."
Connors barked out a laugh loud enough that the linesman glanced over.
“Whatever you say, big guy.”
Within the next minute, Ilya’s door swung open, and he rushed onto the ice like a bat out of hell.
–
He had barely let Shane get through the doorway before he was kicking it shut and pushing him up against the wall, kissing feverishly.
Shane barely let out a grunt before taking charge, swinging the pair around, roughing Ilya into the wall and shoving a thigh between his legs.
Shane never took control of the situation, not like this.
Ilya could die right now and be happy.
“Did you forget just what you do to me, Rozanov?” Shane murmurs, sultry and filthy in Ilya’s ear, grabbing Ilya by the wrist and pushing his hand against his own hard dick. Ilya wanted to pounce, but remained dutifully pinned against the wall, against his beautiful boyfriend.
He has no response, just a deep loathing groan. He’s so hard he might combust, right here, right now, watching Shane unpack him.
“All those people,” Shane sucked a small bruise into Ilya’s neck, the feeling making him creen and scrabble for purchase in Shane’s hair, “watching me like that. I know you hated it.” Ilya huffed, and Shane breathed out a small laugh.
“I like you jealous,” Shane breathed, punctuating his words with a sharp bite to the soft junction of Ilya’s neck and his shoulder.
“You’re the only one that’s ever done this to me. Does that make you feel special?” Ilya nodded helplessly, something close to a whimper escaping his lips as he stared down.
“It should.” Shane finishes his filthy words with a squeeze of Ilya’s cock. Ilya shudders, knuckles turning white with exasperation against Shane’s hips.
“Shane-“ Ilya tries, only to be met with a finger to his mouth.
“Shh.”
Shane holds his finger there before circling Ilya's beautiful cupid’s bow, ducking inside the wet heat of his mouth and returning, reaching that finger low. Ilya watches, entranced by his beautiful boyfriend, seducing him like a schoolgirl.
–
Later, after Ilya had promptly been ridden into another dimension, Shane’s filthy words branded into his cerebellum, Ilya lay sprawled on Shane's bed, staring dramatically at the ceiling.
"I am dead."
Shane, who was pulling on a black Raider’s t-shirt from the ground, glanced over with the practiced patience of someone who had heard this exact declaration at least three times a week.
"You've said that before."
Ilya’s mouth quirked up, "This time I mean it."
"Mhm."
"I have expired."
"You look remarkably alive."
"I am speaking to you as ghost."
Shane snorted, climbing back onto the mattress, falling softly onto Ilya’s chest, leg swung over his hip and in the junction of his legs. Ilya lets go a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
"The ghost is being awfully dramatic."
"I am Russian. I was born dramatic.” Ilya punctuated this with a flick to the side of Shane’s head.
"You were."
"And now..." Ilya sighed deeply, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Now everyone has seen your beauty.”
Shane blinked.
"...We're back to this?"
"They clapped."
"They clapped because I wasn't injured. And they found the puck"
"They applauded because you are offensively attractive. And puck fell out of your butt. Your beautiful bouncy butt that is only for me," Ilya pinched Shane’s side, earning him a giggle.
"Ilya." Shane soothed a hand down Ilya’s front.
"They took pictures."
"They were probably taking pictures of the game."
"They were zooming. On you. Your bouncy butt."
Shane laughed so hard he had to hide his face in Ilya’s armpit. Ilya held him closer.
"You are impossible."
"I know."
"You know what's going to happen, don't you?"
"What?"
"The clip of you yelling at my stadium of fans?"
Ilya groaned so loudly the dog next door barked.
"It has already escaped."
"It has."
"I can feel it."
"My phone hasn't stopped vibrating."
"I refuse to look."
Shane reached for his phone anyway.
"Oh, this one's my favorite."
"I do not consent. I am protecting your virginity, Shane Hollander."
This gets Ilya a look of indifference, and Shane quietly glances down at their limp dicks, two orgasms milked from each. He doesn’t dignify it with a response.
"’Boston center Ilya Rozanoz protects Canada’s Shane Hollander from crazed-'"
"Delete internet."
"'Possessive? Maybe. Entertaining? Absolutely.'" Shane continues to read headlines, snuggling closer under Ilya’s arm, giggling to himself.
"I hate Canadians."
"I am Canadian."
"...I hate other Canadians."
Shane dissolved into laughter again.
Watching him laugh always ruined Ilya's resolve.
He tried very hard to stay offended. (He lasted approximately four seconds).
Then he started laughing too.
Shane reached over and threaded their fingers together.
"For the record..."
"Hm?"
"I liked that you were jealous."
Ilya knew this, of course. Shane said it earlier before unwinding Ilya like a toy. Still, it felt good to hear.
"You did?"
"It was ridiculous."
"I was protecting you."
"From people... looking?"
"They were looking too much. You are virgin, Hollander. I must protect, ah, how you say dig-itty?"
Shane leaned over just enough to press a quick kiss against the corner of Ilya's mouth.
"Dignity. I know."
Ilya huffed, trying (failing) to look dignified.
"You are still only allowed to be beautiful in moderation."
"I'll do my best."
“Impossible"
"Impossible” Shane whispered, fond.
Somewhere on Shane's nightstand, his phone buzzed for what had to be the hundredth time that evening.
Neither of them reached for it.
Tomorrow, the internet could have its jokes.
Tonight, they had each other.
And, as Ilya would insist until the end of time, approximately twenty-one thousand people who still needed to learn to mind their own fucking business.