Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ilya Rozanov was an undisputed, uncontested, generational hockey player. It was a fact he would openly offer you himself, usually accompanied with one of his characteristic cocky grins that consistently riled up his opponents. Rozanov possessed the perfect storm of talent, skill, impact, and influence on their sport, the combo being so rare, statistically it happens just once in a lifetime. 

He wasn’t shy about his ego or his accolades, but he didn’t have to be, as his stats spoke for themself. During his 18-year tenure in the league, Ilya Rozanov had racked up four Stanley Cups, 9 Hart MVP trophies, 10 Art Ross trophies, and a multitude of other achievements etched into golden plaques so numbered that he couldn’t recall them all even if he tried. 

After all, you don't get called generational without earning a little hardware along the way. 

Which was why every year, when the inevitable hotshot rookie entered the league conversation, it was Ilya’s name that got dragged into the discussion against his will. Commentators and fans alike would all but salivate over his potential dethroning.

Would this be the year the league would get the next Ilya Rozanov? Surely his reign couldn’t endure for yet another season. There just had to be a newcomer with the perfect combination of lethality and energy to usurp his title! Good hands, fast on the ice, aggressive. Younger. 

Ilya supposed this should offend him, that fans and the hockey world at large seemed to be frothing at the mouth to see him humbled, but if anything, it only spurred him on in his utter domination in the sport. 

So as the seasons went by, Ilya watched himself get older, sure. Training plans shifted to include rest and recovery, injury prevention, and increased visits to the athletic trainer for post-game treatments, but Rozanov’s hockey IQ, play, and physical conditioning still increased with each passing year. 

All while the rookies all stayed the same. Same age, same naive confidence, same pathetic attempts at chirping when they finally got the opportunity to face off against their idol. The rookies all got high on their own supply, believing the hype that sports analysts and fans had deluded them with, thinking they had a chance to knock the Ilya Rozanov down a peg. 

They never could. 

Their misplaced bravery would be swiftly neutered as Rozanov won the puck face-off after face-off, taking special care to slam said rookie into the boards for good measure to put them in their place. 

When reporters would ask him after those games what it was like to play against so-and-so-insert-name-here, Ilya would have to stifle a shit eating grin before answering: “Who?” 

Which is why the case of Shane Hollander, the newest iteration in the neverending rolodex of rookies whose names orbited the same headlines and articles as his own, was so infuriating. 

Ilya had never paid much attention to the incoming draft prospects, only to the extent necessary to have a general awareness of the potential new faces he could see on the ice the following season. 

But Shane Hollander was different. His stats were amazing, no dispute there, but they were untested in the national league. But it wasn’t exactly his athletic promise that enthralled Ilya almost to the point of obsession. No, it was something else. Something that pricked under Ilya’s skin, a feeling that left Ilya wondering if Shane Hollander inspired jealousy or lit the fire of his curiosity.

Shane Hollander was gay. 

Before he was drafted, pictures were leaked of Hollander and his high school boyfriend. It was obviously not a relationship he was trying to hide but also was probably one he did not want on the front pages of every sports-interested gossip rag right before one of the biggest moments in his burgeoning hockey career. 

The photos themselves were benign, just a nameless boy placing a chaste kiss on Hollander’s lips, nothing lewd like Ilya’s own photos that plastered the tabloids after his frequent nights out. But that didn’t stop the various sports journals and podcasts from analyzing his sexuality ad-naseum, all before the boy was even officially drafted. 

But Hollander, who could have just ignored the controversy – or more safely, disputed it – confirmed via an Instagram post from his shanehollander2007 account with the caption “Proud”. The first photo in the carousel was of him sitting in a locker room clad in his Team Canada jersey wrapping his stick in rainbow tape. The next, a photo of him surrounded by what looked to be his team all together at that year’s pride parade (Pride Month was almost always the same month as the MHL draft), Hollander’s bright smile shining front and center. The last was a snapshot of him holding a trophy and being hoisted up by the same teammates from the previous photo. 

This confirmation only amplified the conversation around Hollander. Everyone with anything to say about the sport dissected how his being gay might affect morale in the locker room, questioning if teams might pass on him in the draft because of his sexuality, and how maybe hockey wasn’t ready for the political conversations that would arise from such a change. 

When yet another reporter asked Hollander a variation of one of these questions, mere minutes after he won the Junior Hockey League Tournament, he simply responded in an incredibly restrained PR-approved tone: “My game will speak for itself. My sexuality is an irrelevant factor, and I am really confused why I keep getting asked this question. Did you ask Michaels about his DUI when he was getting drafted last year? Or what about the sexual assault allegations that turned out to be true, but still got Smith a third round draft pick? Did you ask them if their conduct ‘impacts the vibes’ in the room? Or just me?” 

Ilya thought it was ridiculous to force a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old to defend himself against an embedded hockey culture that was only slightly more accepting in 2026 than it had been when Ilya started playing. But still, it was admirable what Hollander did, unabashedly and loudly. 

Ilya almost hated him for it.  

And Shane Hollander wouldn’t even be the first gay player in the league. Scott Hunter had come out while still actively playing, but he had already established himself as a powerhouse player (ESPN’s words, not Ilya’s) before coming out. A handful of other players had also come out after retirement. So while the league had dabbled in pushing the boundaries of acceptance, Hollander’s situation was entirely different from his predecessors. 

Because, Shane Hollander was the first rookie drafted to the major leagues who was unapologetically out. This immediately made the nature of his draft historical, breaking barriers upon his first decree as the most recent “rookie to watch.” Maybe the next Ilya Rozanov was proudly queer– and wouldn’t that just be ironic. 

These comparisons had never irked Ilya before; usually he would just have to wait out the first few games of the season before he once again reigned untouchable, solidifying his place back on top and back in the Hart Trophy conversations. 

But being compared to Shane Hollander was a different sensation. Not because there wasn’t a chance Hollander would hold a candle to Ilya’s play (there was, and Ilya looked very much forward to testing that theory), but because Ilya found it disingenuous to compare himself to the likes of a teenager who had more courage in his left pinky than Ilya did in his entire being. 

Shane Hollander wasn’t afraid to vocalize what he wanted, something Ilya had never been brave enough to do.

Ilya knew he was bisexual. It wasn’t something he was grappling with, or necessarily ashamed of. But he grew up in a different time than Hollander, one that wasn’t as open and forgiving. Especially in Russia, a place where being any variant other than straight had come with threat of violence. Ilya knew that all too well; being caught by his father kissing his coach’s son at thirteen had taught him very quickly that the threat of retribution for who he was wasn’t just a threat, but an inevitability when living on Russian soil. 

So he had moved to the United States, drafted in land less oppressive than his own, but not exactly massively welcoming either. Gay marriage wasn’t even legalized nationwide until 2015, when Ilya was 26. It was a monumental development that had him feeling less terrified, and maybe even more hopeful, than he had ever been. 

But the damage from hiding himself all those years was done, and Ilya figured he shouldn’t deviate from what kept him safe. Though his father was dead and Russia’s looming threat was neutered by Ilya’s recent acquisition of an American Green Card, the league’s shaky tolerance was not yet convincing enough to risk being a potential pariah amongst colleagues that literally got paid by his employer to beat the shit out of him. 

Ilya’s life, personal and professional, was heavily intertwined with a culture that praised a distilled and distorted version of masculinity. He was clapped on the back for throwing a punch the same way he was lauded for the women he would take home at the end of the night. 

But it’s not like he was a victim entirely. He felt mostly satiated the nights after fucking women, relishing in his own notoriety to the point of debatable narcissism, and not to mention his massive contract that almost made swallowing the pill of conformity less bitter. 

It was the safer way to live, but a part of Ilya always mourned the half of himself he had never had the opportunity, no, bravery, to explore. His friends had always ribbed him for his enduring status as “the most eligible of bachelors,” assuming he was such a manwhore that he couldn’t ever settle down with just one woman. When in reality, Ilya subconsciously knew he was keeping the door open for one very specific reason. That maybe one day, after he retired from hockey, he could finally have the one thing his fame and money couldn’t afford him.   

Enter Shane Hollander, tearing down his excuses that hockey was the thing responsible for flipping his want squarely on its head. Staring directly into the camera and declaring that he was gay, with the conviction and confidence of someone much older than his current age of nineteen.  

But the worst part of this whole thing was: not only was Ilya tortured by the idea that his potential “successor” was gay and confident in his sexuality, or that he was a great fucking hockey player. 

No, the worst part was that Shane Hollander was fucking gorgeous. 

Even though he didn’t have experience with men, it’s not like Ilya didn’t notice them. He had found many guys attractive in all his years, but never in his life had he felt this level of infatuation, or one would argue obsession, towards anyone before, man or woman. Ilya had never been so thoroughly intoxicated by someone like he was with Shane Hollander, his desire growing each time he was lucky enough to lay eyes on the rookie. It was fucking sick, and he knew it, but that realization wasn’t enough to curb Ilya’s desires.    

His obsession was what made Ilya reach for the remote on the rare nights at home he wasn’t out clubbing or didn’t have company over to distract him from the thing inside him that was growing ever more impossible to ignore. He would categorically click through the limited YouTube footage of the young phenom, filtering by date to ensure he was only watching recent videos, anything after Hollander had turned 18. He tried to lie to himself, that his investigation was for professional purposes only, simply sizing up the competition, or less likely, his future teammate, as any good captain would do. But really, Ilya knew every time he clicked open the YouTube app on his TV it was because he was an addict coming back for another hit of Shane Hollander.

Ilya was painfully aware that he was being a fucking pervert. In all his years (thirty-seven of them to be exact), he’d never felt this sort of infatuation before with someone notably younger than him. Most of the women he dated were around his age, and Sasha, the only boy he’d ever been with, was his same juvenile age when they shared that kiss at the beginning of their adolescence. 

But Shane Hollander was freshly nineteen years old, and irrefutably so. His eyes crinkled only when his boyish smile pushed his cheeks up, unlike the permanent crow’s feet that adorned Ilya’s, his hair black and glossy and years away from the stray greys Ilya was finding more and more often at his temples. Hollander’s teeth were still uniform in color, not yet knocked loose and replaced with the kind of fake ones that dotted Ilya’s smile after years of taking punches he definitely deserved.   

But knowing it was wrong wasn’t enough to make Ilya stop anything, in fact the notion that he really shouldn’t be doing that only egged him on. There he was, night after night, studying with more intent than any game footage review, shitty quality uploads of Shane Hollander goal compilations. Ilya’s eyes would bore into the pixels as though his focus could sharpen the image that much more, so that Ilya could see his face flushed red with rivulets of sweat dripping down his cheeks.      

One night during one of his YouTube rabbithole sessions, Ilya stumbled across a semi-professionally produced interview where Hollander, almost out of breath from exertion, described in great, droning detail the weightlighting regimen he and his team adhered to during the off-season. It had been uploaded by his junior team one week prior, making it the most recent evidence of Hollander’s existence to be blasted into the quiet of his Boston living room.

And, Jesus, what were they feeding these boys in Canada? 

Hollander was front and center, rattling off various numbers and names of movements that Ilya could give less of a shit about. What Ilya did pay particular attention to, was the fact that throughout the entire segment, Hollander was shirtless. His body was built for hockey, that much was evident, his broad shoulders and chest filling the screen as he excitedly gestured. Maybe Ilya was being dramatic, but he found himself thinking Hollander’s body looked like it was carved from marble. He had to gnaw on the inside of his cheeks to suppress the urge to run his tongue along the sharp outline of Hollander’s abs, or bite into the swell of his biceps. As Hollander turned to walk towards where a yoga mat lay, Ilya couldn’t help but fixate on how his ass perfectly filled out his slutty little shorts. 

Ilya held his breath as in-frame Hollander got down on his knees and then into a plank position on the yoga mat. It was towards the end of the workout video, so Hollander was already shaking and dripping with sweat from previous exertion, still attempting to talk through the exercise even as his voice grew more and more strained. Ilya’s cock, which was usually half hard almost any time Hollander was on screen, was now so erect it almost hurt. 

With the visual aid, it wasn't hard for Ilya to imagine a planking Shane Hollander dropping to his knees, bracing himself with his ass in the air and presenting himself so nicely for Ilya. Though he had never done it himself in real life, Ilya imagined working the boy open on his fingers, slow and agonizing, making Hollander cry into the mat as he pushed back on his hands, desperate for more. Ilya would give him exactly what he needed, would take such good care of him. 

And Hollander would want it rough, that much Ilya was certain. Even though he was built like a brick house, Ilya couldn’t help but imagine throwing Hollander around, maybe even pressing his face into the mattress while he plowed into him. And Hollander would love it, crying out Ilya’s name as he came on his cock.

Ilya was breathing hard now, and had no choice but to remove himself from his pants, and stroke himself to completion while listening to the grunts and moans that slipped from Shane Hollander’s lips as he trembled in his plank position. After he came on his stomach, Ilya said a silent prayer that Hollander wouldn’t be drafted by Boston. There was no way he could survive seeing the rookie like that every day in the weight room without thinking of what he had just done. 

Luckily, Hollander was drafted by Montreal, but Ilya was not off the hook just yet. Montreal was Ilya’s rival team, and fate would have it that the rookie’s hype would be extrapolated by this fact: Not only was Hollander poised for greatness, but he would fight for it opposite Ilya as his foil for as long as Ilya’s body would let him remain on the ice. 

Even at thirty-seven, Ilya was still in amazing condition. His body had changed, thicker with muscle and a small layer of fat in his older years compared to the cut, more lithe frame he sported in the beginning of his career. He had been playing and working out long enough that he knew exactly what worked for him, but as each class of rookies cycled through, it could only serve to remind him that he probably had more seasons behind him than in front of him. And imagining his inevitable face-off against Hollander, who was so clearly young in juxtaposition to Ilya’s, well, veteran status...the differences between them would be undeniable. And it scared Ilya how fucking hot that idea was to him. 

Ilya Rozanov was not a man who got nervous. He was Russian, and his baseline emotion was controlled stoicism. He only got riled up when it served him, only let himself be swayed from his stasis if he was still in possession of his faculties. Ilya almost never found himself out of his depth, but for the first time in recent memory, seeing Shane Hollander at their home opener, bent over and looking up at him with deep, brown eyes, was enough to unmoor him completely.   

It felt almost invasive to have Hollander this close to him, like Ilya was encroaching on the rookie’s privacy. Ilya felt white-hot shame pool in his stomach. He had fantasized about the boy countless nights while lying in his bed, but at the time, it was just that – a fantasy. 

But this version of Hollander was real. Wide-eyed and probably nervous himself to face-off with the most talked about  household name in all of hockey. That the young man before him was none the wiser to the fact that he was the object of Ilya’s sickest and most intimate proclivities, almost made him unable to meet the rookie's eye. 

He had gotten himself off imagining Hollander looking almost exactly as he did now, his gaze lifted to Ilya, almost like he was waiting for direction. It was so fucking tempting to take Hollander’s cheek in his palm and guide his head down to his cock, like he had imagined countless times before.  

But the proximity, as dangerous as it was, allowed Ilya to study the boy up close, the results of which were devastating. Of course Hollander was even more gorgeous in person. The shitty cameras that documented his pre-professional career omitted the degree of just how imposing his stature was. He was basically Ilya’s height and barely less muscled. The slope of his nose and cheekbones were sharper, maybe more mature than Ilya remembered, or perhaps the footage he had seen was older than the upload dates let on. 

But the one thing the cameras did not capture in the slightest, the thing that really sent Ilya over the edge. His freckles. They softened his face in a way Ilya refused to fixate on. Not if he wanted to survive looking him in the eye.  

Ilya was already struggling, battling against the hot shame that washed over him. To have thought about this boy in such a lewd way, all while he remained completely oblivious to the number of times Ilya brought himself to completion at the thought of him, it was a disgusting secret only Ilya was privy to.

For Hollander, probably, it was just his first day of work, about to face-off against a veteran player he studied through watching clips of his career highs in a parallel (though definitely not exact) manner to Ilya’s own video watching habits. 

For Ilya, he was atoning for his darkest, most depraved fantasy. 

Hollander let his clear mouthguard dangle from the corner of his plush lips, eyes flitting up to Ilya’s as he spoke first. “Nice of you to show up tonight, didn’t think you’d be here. Bingo night with Scott Hunter at the old folks home cancelled?”

Low blow. Hunter was thirty-nine! Ilya was…not that old.

Hollander continued, “Don’t worry, you might still be able to make it after we beat your ass tonight. Or maybe you can do that full time when you finally retire after Montreal wins the Cup this year?” 

Well, wasn’t Hollander a cocky little shit? Ilya found himself a bit surprised at how different the rookie was in person from his monotone and manicured interviews. And a whole lot more turned on.

“Nice try, Hollander, will have to do more than call me old to shake me. And maybe you’re too young to know this, but is bad luck to talk about the Cup during the first fucking game.” 

Behind his visor Hollander rolled his eyes. Such a brat. “I don’t have to call you old, you are old. What year were you drafted?

“I’m sure you know, Hollander, or did they lie about your hockey IQ?”

“Just wanted to double check. It was 2007, but I wouldn’t remember it happening, obviously,” Hollander peeled his lips back in a sneer, “That’s the year I was born.” 

Ilya hated the way his cock twitched in his cup, arousal hitting him sharp and fast to the point of disorientation. He lost the face-off, and subsequently the opening home game for the first time since he started playing professional hockey. 

–

After the game, Ilya felt that same strange, unwelcome nervous energy coursing through his veins again. He felt as though he had to say something to Hollander, and not just congratulate him on a game well-played. And Hollander had played well, too well. Ilya might have to legitimately address a rookie’s play for the first time in his career. 

He skated up to Hollander, who had since removed his helmet to shake the sweat out of his hair like a puppy. 

Ilya realized he should have maybe thought of something more on brand with his asshole persona, but what came out of his mouth was much more earnest than he intended. “I, uh, hope my team did not give you any trouble tonight. I told them we were going to be respectful, clean chirps only.”

Shane smiled, not sweetly like he did all in all his promotional photos and videos Ilya watched obsessively. He smiled like he had finally cornered his prey he’d been hunting all night. “No trouble, Rozanov. But I can’t say I pegged you as a guy who cared about shit like that.” 

“I am – I mean, I do.” Fuck. Ilya was he getting all tongue tied around a fucking rookie. 

“Well, thanks for being an ally, I guess.” Hollander's eyes raked over his face like he was looking for something, no doubt noticing the blush that had spread across Ilya’s cheeks. Hollander’s gaze sharpened, further scrutinizing Ilya’s undoubtedly tomato red face, and raised a knowing eyebrow. 

Fuck. Was Ilya that obvious?

“Roz!” llya felt the breath he was holding punch out of him as Cliff Marlow slapped a hand on his back. “You coming for consolation drinks?”

Fucking Marlow. “Yes, whatever, Marly. I will be done here soon.” Ilya tried to wave the man off so he could talk to Hollander for even just one more second, but the rookie was already being whisked away by an on-ice reporter to no doubt recount his victory against “the Great Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya started to make his way off the ice, feeling unsettled by the discovery that Hollander had the power to reduce him to a pathetic, stuttering mess in his presence. It was one thing to harbor a secret yearning for the rookie, but another to let his perversion bleed into tangible interactions in his life. This was getting out of hand. He would decidedly pack up his shameful desire into a box and sequester it to the back of his mind, so that the next time he was inevitably in Hollander’s path, he would be able to talk to the boy without being Pavlov’d into imagining Hollander with his lips wrapped around his cock. 

His course of action was decided, but Ilya – always so greedy – looked over his shoulder one last time, hoping to catch a final glimpse of the boy. What he was met with was Shane Hollander’s stare already fixed onto his, winking at him quickly before turning his attention back to the reporter. 

That damned wink haunted Ilya for weeks to come, cementing the fact that he was irrevocably, irreversibly, fucked. 

–

Usually the hype around the rookies juxtaposed against Ilya Rozanov would have mostly worn off by midseason. There were enough games to smooth over whatever successful anomalies they had during their games, averaging the assessment of their play to good, or at best, pretty good. But Shane Hollander was not the average rookie. By midseason, he was putting up numbers that rivaled Ilya’s rookie year, not yet surpassing his stats, but it was fucking close. 

This meant Shane Hollander presented a major marketing opportunity for the league. But having both Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov at their disposal? Well, it looked like this year the higher ups had struck gold. 

So it wasn’t much of a surprise that Ilya was flown out to some rink in Ottawa where he was booked and busy for a joint photo shoot with none other than Hollander himself. 

“Think of it as an ‘old guard, new guard’ vibe,” his agent had said, not making him feel any better about the generational divide that spanned between him and the boy he pumped his cock to on more occasions than he’d like to admit. “You’re still Ilya fucking Rozanov. Doing photo shoots and this type of promotional thing with Hollander shows you’re not threatened. Maybe you can even position yourself as something of a mentor to Hollander, would be good for PR.” 

Ilya didn’t really think taking Hollander under his wing as a mentor would do anything to make the dynamic between them less fucked up, but he couldn’t exactly explain that to his agent. 

And Ilya did feel threatened. Severely. Being in the same room with Hollander with no distractions sounded like a very bad, but increasingly tantalizing idea. Ilya had of course seen Hollander the handful of times they were scheduled to play against one another during the season, but it was easier to adopt an air of professionalism on the ice. And while no real conversation was had outside of the occasional chirp, or good game after one had beaten the other, Hollander always offered him a knowing smirk that had Ilya flustered without the boy having to utter a single word. 

Ilya had to wonder if this was just a way for Hollander to fuck with him. He had overheard the rookie midgame telling his opponents to ‘suck his dick’ on more than one occasion, only to watch even the mouthiest of Ilya’s teammates be stunned into silence, not knowing how to respond lest it be viewed as homophobic. But the way Hollander would chirp Ilya felt different, like instead of trying to bait him into tossing off his gloves, he was trying to bait him into something else. Ilya obviously wasn’t unpracticed in the whole song-and-dance of it all (although he hadn’t fucked anyone in months for reasons he refused to dwell on) to realize Hollander's actions could be interpreted as flirting, but what he would do with that information was undecided. 

His interactions with Hollander always happened too fast for him to respond in any sort of grounded manner, but their moments on the ice were charged enough that Ilya knew something had to be there. The checks into the boards lingered a touch longer than necessary, the grappling against one another for the puck more aggressive than it had to be– it all felt like a fucked up version of foreplay. Ilya attempted to ignore it, the burgeoning tension that was leaking outside the planes of their professional rivalry. 

But Ilya was doing a pitiful job trying to convince himself this was simply the rookie’s way of fucking with his head, biased by the sliver of hope that maybe Hollander felt the electricity that pulsed between them too. So the more games they played against one another, the fleeting moments they were actually in each other’s presence, the less room there was for Ilya to pretend Hollander wasn’t looking at him differently than his teammates. 

As if Hollander wanted to devour him. 

It was this thing that drove Ilya straight home after the games, abandoning plans to go out with the team giving some lame excuse about being tired, just to relive the moments their bodies made contact on the ice. 

He would think of the moments before their face-offs while fisting his cock, his mind’s eye filled with the vision of Hollander’s face mere inches from his as the noise of the arena’s screams faded to nothing. On the ice, he had to fight the urge to lunge at his lips, but in the darkened fortress of his penthouse apartment, he could take all the liberties he wanted and envision shoving Hollander onto his back to kiss him feverishly on center ice. 

Ilya wanted desperately to pretend these short moments would be enough to hold himself over for the next couple weeks until he saw Hollander again, but that was never the case. If anything, it made him hungrier. Insatiable even.  

It also didn’t help that Hollander wasn’t exactly shy about his activities after the games Montreal and Boston played against each other. In a very similar fashion to how Ilya used to conduct himself on nights out, Hollander would frequently be photographed with various men leaving random bars and clubs in Boston and all over North America. Ilya had noticed however, Hollander never missed a night out after playing against one another, making a point to almost advertise himself as available the nights after he spent terrorizing Ilya on the ice. 

Ilya told himself the jealousy that seeped into his bones was illogical, that Hollander was young and only following the Rozanov textbook on how to be a hotshot rookie. But Ilya found himself dissecting the nameless men, looking for any pattern in the over-exposed flash photography that painted front pages of the gossip sites. 

They were often big and muscular, like Ilya. Their arms would wrap around Hollander’s waist so casually, like they had known each other for years and not just for the night with a rapidly approaching expiration date. Sometimes they were taller than Hollander, but never shorter, giving Ilya the sense that Hollander liked to be handled in a way a smaller man would not be capable of. And the men were always handsome. Never as handsome as Hollander himself, but then again, who could be? 

And worst of all, they were always around Hollander’s age, early twenties at most. Besides the raging jealousy he felt that they got to have him, their age was that aspect that irked Ilya the most, since it made it harder to suspend disbelief in order to imagine himself slotting into their place.  

On his most self-destructive nights, the ones where Google Alerts would send yet another photo of Hollander and a man directly to his inbox, Ilya imagined a play-by-play of what would happen after the picture was snapped. Would they go back to the mystery man’s house? Or would Hollander fuck them in his hotel room? Would Hollander let them kiss him slow, or would he want it fast, dirty, and transactional? Would they go their separate ways, or would they spend the night together, their arms and legs intertwined as they drifted off to sleep? 

Ilya always jacked off to the photos anyways, but afterwards, wading through his post orgasmic haze, found himself wondering if there could ever be a time where instead of watching from his phone screen, he could be on Hollander’s arm in real life. He desperately wanted to find out. 

–

Ilya had been in countless locker rooms throughout his career. They were all mostly the same, drenched in the familiar scent of antibacterial cleaning products that not-so-successfully tried to cover the ever present undertone of mildew, rowdy teammates banging on the metal doors as they geared up to hit the ice, the raging cacophony of pre-game music and chants that always flipped a switch in Ilya’s head that it was showtime. 

But this locker room was different. Not in looks or in smell, but in that very shortly, the uncharacteristic silence of the room would soon be broken, and Ilya would be alone with Hollander for the first time.

He tried to appear busy getting himself ready for the shoot, turning his back to the door so he didn’t look overeager like he was fucking waiting for the boy. He was, but he couldn’t let Hollander see his desperation. Ilya had a reputation to maintain.

He heard the door kick open, heavy steps drawing closer and closer before Ilya finally deemed enough time had passed to casually look over his shoulder.

“Hollander,” he acknowledged.

“Rozanov,” Hollander smirked. That cocky smile had been flashed to Ilya enough times that the image was already burned into his brain. Because of that smile, there had been too many times that Ilya imagined putting the boy in his place, fucking the brat until that arrogant look was wiped clean from his face and replaced by whatever pleasure Ilya deigned to give him.  

They settled into a charged silence, like they were daring the other to make the next move. Ilya, being Russian, usually won these battles of will.

Hollander broke first. “So you’re okay sharing a locker room shower with me?” 

Ilya froze for a moment as pulled his thermal layer over his head. It wasn’t the first question he expected from Hollander after he had strolled through the locker room doors. Because obviously he was okay with it, at least in the way Hollander was asking. But for an entirely different reason, sharing the locker room was also something Ilya had spent the last week leading up to the photo shoot stressing about.

It was why he had arrived 35 minutes early, attempting to be out on the ice before Hollander could undress in front of him as a matter of self-preservation. In hindsight, Hollander did seem like the type to arrive early to professional commitments. He should have just changed in the car.

“Of course.” Ilya saw Hollander’s impossibly broad shoulders relax, just slightly, spurring something sour in his stomach at the fact the rookie felt he had to ask. “Is this a problem for you sometimes? With your team?”

“Eh, the guys are mostly fine about it now,” Hollander responded, dumping his large CCM branded duffle bag on the bench. “It was a bit weird at first with a couple of them. But they stopped with the comments and looks when I finally had enough and told them they weren’t hot enough for me to fuck, and it hasn’t been an issue since.”

Ilya had to stop himself from asking if he would make the cut on Hollander’s roster of men he deemed hot enough to fuck. “Good for you. Good to stand up for yourself in the room.”  

“Mmm.” Hollander moved to start undressing, and Ilya felt his eyes flit away. He wanted more than anything to watch him peel his athleisure wear from his body, unwrap himself for Ilya and Ilya alone. But Ilya didn’t want to look like a fucking creep. He was more than aware of how that would look. Veteran player in his upper thirties salivating over a teenager. So he would be good, keep his gaze down and focus on lacing his skates as tight as they would go, like the laces themselves could hold his composure together. 

The shoot, which Ilya had been somewhat dreading as another installment in the constant exploitation of his image on behalf of the league, was actually turning out to be immensely enjoyable. All due to Hollander of course, who seemed strangely excited to run drills and race around the rink for the cameras. Maybe because he could finally show off all the skills that cemented his place in Ilya’s league. 

The rookie was hot on his skates any time Ilya tried to outmaneuver him. It should have pissed him off, to be so evenly matched with a rookie, but it lit a fire within him he hadn’t felt in years. Ilya was surprised to find himself overjoyed at the development. Finally, someone who could keep up with him and maybe be his equal on the ice.

Predictably the laps, which had been a casual attempt at getting some B-roll, devolved into a full on competition between the two players. Ilya won the first lap, which made Hollander’s face scrunch into a defiant, pouting expression as he demanded a rematch. They traded off wins, holding the camera crew hostage as they both refused to concede to the other skater. 

Eventually, when the score reached 7-7, the director of the shoot clapped her hands loudly and announced they were moving on to take some solo shots. Ilya hoped he would be able to sneak away and shower before Hollander finished his photos, but of course the director wanted to end the day with some shots of them both skating up to one another, crouched in a face-off position. 

“Okay boys, let’s up the intensity for the final shot. Pretend it’s a real game,” the director instructed, “Not too real, actually. We’ll be here all night if we start that up.”

“Aww, look she’s trying to spare your ego,” Hollander goaded, “One-v-one, we both know who’d end up winning.” 

“Who has more goals this season, Hollander, remind me?” Ilya was grateful to fall back into the familiar territory of ribbing one another. 

“I’m just letting you get a bit of a head start. Want to make the scoring race more interesting for the fans, you know?”

“Interesting? Says the most boring player I’ve ever seen. So controlled, never getting into fights. What, you don’t want to mess up that pretty face?” What the fuck? Why did Ilya just say that? 

“So you think I’m pretty?” Hollander looked immensely pleased with himself as Ilya’s embarrassment forced to drop his gaze back down. “I’m just going to assume that’s old-man-speak for telling me I’m hot.” 

“You wish, Hollander.” It was a weak chirp, but Ilya had to stop talking before he could let anything else incriminating slip from his stupid mouth.

In an attempt to refocus, Ilya tapped his stick on the ice, like he was actually getting ready to watch a puck drop. Hollander did the same, following the instinct like muscle memory, which both caused them to break out into laughter. 

God, this was worse than he thought. Not only was Hollander the hottest man he’d ever laid eyes on, he was also funny, charming, and disgustingly excellent at hockey – pretty much manufactured in a lab to ruin Ilya’s life.

The director eventually grew exasperated at their unsuppressable grins as they continued to giggle like schoolgirls from the manufactured intensity of it all. Finally, they got the shot, or at least wore the director down enough to give up, and were released back to the locker room. 

Fuck. Ilya had been so worried about what to say to Hollander, that he hadn't really thought they might have to shower next to one another. There was no way Ilya could do that and stop his wandering eye. At the end of the day, he was but a man, and there was only so much self-restraint he could exercise, and Hollander wet and naked mere feet away would be the ultimate test of self-control. Sure, Ilya had showered with men a million times. But none of those men had ever been Shane Hollander. 

He could just Uber back to his hotel, sweaty and disgusting, and clean off there. But he refused to make the rookie feel as though there was a bigoted reason he couldn’t shower with him, especially given what he had said about his team. He couldn’t stomach hurting the boy like that.

So Ilya hurriedly made his way to the showers, letting the hot water scald him as a last-ditch attempt to distract him from what was to come. 

Hollander. Wet. Naked.

Ilya couldn’t help but wash his body in a methodical fashion, smearing the soap over his muscles as he lathered up his toned figure. If Hollander walked in at that exact moment, it might look as though Ilya was preening, showing himself off. And if Hollander wanted to take it as an invitation, Ilya wouldn’t correct him. 

Ilya wasn’t blind to what he looked like. Even at his age, he was consistently voted hottest player in the MHL. But he was also thirty-seven, old enough to be Hollander’s father if he had somehow contributed to an untimely teenage pregnancy. More than likely Hollander wouldn’t be into something so, well, taboo. Maybe he relished in flirting a bit with his rival, but that didn’t actually mean he would fuck someone twice his age. Hollander could stick to getting fucked by men in his own age demographic, and Ilya would just have to admire the boy from a distance. 

That insecurity dissolved the moment Hollander joined him in the shower. Hollander’s eyes dragged from his face to his torso, his gaze carefully moving slow enough so Ilya could see where his eyes were heading. The steam from the showerhead started to clog Ilya’s throat, and he grew lightheaded with each passing second. 

Hollander’s own showerhead began to spray all over his body, the water cascading down his chest and stomach in mesmerizing streams as Ilya tried not to forget to breathe. 

Because Hollander was rock fucking hard. 

As if it had been waiting for permission, Ilya’s own cock began to chub up. A seconds, or minutes passed, time all but standing still as Hollander’s hungry gaze froze Ilya where he stood, helpless under the weight of his rapt attention. Wordlessly, Hollander nodded at Ilya’s dick, which was now standing at full attention and desperate for touch. But Ilya wasn’t going to move, not before Hollander decided what was going to happen.

“I knew you’d be big,” Hollander said on an exhale, moving to palm his own sizable length. Ilya allowed himself to drink in the sight of Hollander’s large hands grasping the base of his perfect cock as if to show it off, and felt his own mouth water. 

“Ah. You’ve been thinking about my dick then, yes?” Ilya hoped to come off as confident, but he felt like he barely managed to squeak the words out. He was still enraptured by the sight of Shane Hollander, hard for him.  

“Every time I’ve seen you.” Hollander was stroking himself now, facing Ilya, just an arms’ reach away. “I always wondered if you thought about me too.” He gestured at Ilya’s angry red, neglected cock again. “I guess I have my answer now.”

An embarrassing moan escaped Ilya’s throat. He needed to touch himself, to get some form of relief from how hard his cock was throbbing. He grabbed his own dick and began pumping in tandem with Hollander’s pace, still too slow to completely relieve him from the deep ache that had rooted low in his stomach. 

Ilya’s ears honed in on the ragged breaths coming from Hollander, echoing off the tiled bathroom walls. On each pass of his fist, there was an obscene squelching sound as Hollander tightened his grip over the head of his cock.  

The boy looked positively wrecked. Hollander’s reddened lips had fallen open as he gasped on each upstroke, his body jolting as he squeezed around the most sensitive part of his dick. His hair had been pushed back under the spray of the shower, exposing entirely how just flushed his face was. He stared back at Ilya with hooded eyes, his gaze not faltering like he didn’t want to miss a single second of what was happening in front of him.

For Ilya, watching the rookie work himself over was hotter than anything he had ever experienced in his life, but also knowing Hollander was similarly affected was fucking mindblowing. 

“I’ve never– never see you with men.” Hollander stuttered as he sensually dragged his thumb over his slit, pressing in every so slightly. “Only women.”

A jolt of arousal ran through Ilya’s body. Hollander had been keeping tabs on him as well. 

He grabbed at the base of his dick, staving off the orgasm that was already impending at an embarrassing speed. “Yes,” he grunted out, “I don’t really do this…with men.” 

Hollander actually licked his fucking lips. “Ah. So you’ve never fucked a man before.” Ilya’s fist tightened at the confirmation that Hollander was the one who wanted to be fucked. All his fantasies about the rookie were coming to life. He could barely believe it. 

But before responding, Ilya mulled over if maybe he should lie instead of answering earnestly. That revealing himself as woefully inexperienced to the boy would all but strip him of the allure that had led him to fall into the beds of hundreds of women who had all heard about his famed sexual prowess and also wanted a shared taste of Ilya Rozanov. 

Ilya knew why people fucked him. He was famous, undeniably sexy, and if Twitter posts from various women could be believed, very good in bed. But it felt wrong to lie to Hollander, to the boy that was currently laying himself bare to Ilya, trusting him with his body in a way that made Ilya’s heart stutter. The whole thing felt dirty enough without him being anything less than completely honest.

“Nope.” 

To Ilya’s surprise, Hollander's eyes darkened, like the revelation turned him on even more. “Do you want me to be your first?”

Ilya was so overcome by the boy’s confidence that he couldn’t even form the words. He moaned again, his dick pulsing in his grasp from how fucking hard he was. That was all the confirmation Hollander needed.  

“Don’t cum yet.” Hollander’s words immediately stilled Ilya’s hand, hanging on the boy’s every word. “Wanna make sure you can get it up later.”  

“Fuck,” Ilya rasped. He watched Hollander speed up his own hand, his freckled face contorting exactly the way Ilya imagined it would right before cumming. “What about you?” 

Hollander’s perfect abs spasmed as he bucked into his own fist. “I’m nineteen, Rozanov, I can cum as many times as I fucking want. Or is that too long ago for you to remember?”  

It shouldn’t have turned him on to hear Hollander bring up their age gap while bringing himself to completion, but the forbidden nature of it only served to heat his core. His jaw dropped as he watched Hollander’s cock spurt rope after rope of cum onto the shower floor, moaning while wringing his hand over his sensitive cockhead. Ilya wanted to taste him so fucking bad. If Hollander asked, he would drop to his knees and lick the fucking tiles. 

Ilya was too stunned to move, unbelieving in what he had just witnessed. He manually closed his agape mouth, and watched Hollander rinse himself off, the water washing away all evidence of his orgasm. 

“1410.” 

 “What?” Ilya shook himself from his trance. 

“My room number. Come at 9 o’clock. Don’t be late.” 

Bossy little shit. 

With that, Hollander shut off the flow of water and turned on his heel, leaving Ilya alone in the showers harder and hornier than he’d ever been in his life. 

–

He arrived to 1410 exactly on time, unwilling to test the bounds of Hollander’s patience. He seemed like he ran a strict program, something Ilya was excited to eventually maybe push the boundaries of, but not tonight. Tonight, he wanted to be good for Hollander.  

After three perfunctory knocks, the door opened just a crack, and Ilya slipped into the room, heart pounding out of his chest as his eyes met Hollander's. He was wearing simple black jogger sweatpants, perfectly crisp white tube socks, a bright blue Metros branded T-shirt drawn tight enough across the chest that it could have been painted on. In comparison, Ilya felt embarrassingly overdressed with his painstakingly ironed button-up shirt cuffed at his forearms and dark tailored jeans. He said nothing, waiting for Hollander to once again make the first move.

“Don’t tell me I make you nervous, Rozanov." His tone was teasing, like he could see exactly how much of a born-again virgin Ilya currently felt like at his grown age. 

Terrified, actually, Ilya thought. Instead of saying that out loud, or worse yet, striding over and crowding Hollander into the wall–which is what he really wanted to do–he continued to stand silently until Hollander graciously decided to put him out of his misery by coming to him. 

“This is a bad idea.” Ilya had enough sense to verbalize what they both knew to be true. It was fucking depraved to want Hollander this much, but he was too powerless to try and put a stop to it.

“Probably.”

Hollander tested the waters by kissing lightly down Ilya’s jaw, careful not to touch him anywhere else on his body besides where his lips landed. It was torture to not grab hold of the boy right then and there and smash their bodies together, but Ilya suspected his patience would be rewarded. He could feel the heat from Hollander’s body radiating into his, like it held a certain kinetic energy, hovering just barely above his waist, millimeters away from taking what they both wanted.

When Hollander finally reached Ilya’s mouth, he paused before kissing him. Ilya felt a hand graze at his crotch, accompanied by a pleased sound from Hollander’s throat.

“You’ve been hard for how long now? Since the showers?” 

“Yes.” Ilya found it useless to lie. They both knew exactly what type of effect Hollander had on him, and the rookie seemed to relish in it. 

“I wondered about you, ever since our first face-off,” Hollander continued, his fingers still dancing over his clothed dick with an agonizing lack of pressure. “I wasn’t sure if I was reading you right, if you actually wanted it. But the boys I usually fuck don’t get this hard for me unless it’s something they really, really want.” 

Boys Ilya was not. Ilya was a man, almost 18 years the rookie’s senior but feeling years less experienced than Hollander in this moment. But something at the word burned hot, scalding him from the inside. That Ilya could be one of his boys.  

“I want,” Ilya choked out, his accent growing thicker as he continued to fight all his instincts to press his hips up into Hollander’s palm. 

“God, you’re so fucking hot.” Hollander took the opportunity to finally let his hands explore Ilya’s body, rubbing up and down the lengths of his arms before palming his chest. He grew impatient in no time, making quick work of Ilya’s buttons before discarding his freshly ironed shirt into a crumbled heap on the floor. 

“I never thought this would happen, not in my wildest fucking dreams.” Hollander was stealing the words right out of Ilya’s mouth.“I used to watch your games with my family in the living room with a fucking pillow over my lap. Watching you knock players down, drop your gloves, and fight them. Fuck, I would get so fucking hard. I wanted it to be me you were slamming into the boards, so I practiced even harder, studied even more so that one day I’d maybe have the chance to live out my fantasy.”

“Your fantasy?”

“Yeah, playing hockey against you.” Shane laughed before biting at his chin. “This was definitely one of my other fantasies though.”

“Me too,” Ilya confessed. 

Hollander bit at Ilya’s bottom lip, his canines sinking into the plump flesh hard enough Ilya wondered if he had drawn blood. “Oh yeah? You were fantasizing about a teenager? You fucking pervert.” Suddenly, Hollander shoved Ilya against the door, pinning their bodies together at last. His weight was heavy on Ilya’s chest, but he would happily sacrifice all the air in his lungs if it meant Hollander would stay plastered against him until he passed out.

“Tell me what you thought about,” he demanded, “Tell me how the great Ilya Rozanov got off to the thought of corrupting a fucking rookie.”  

Both of them were breathing heavily, and Ilya could barely focus past the sensation of Hollander’s hardness pressing through the fabric of his sweatpants against his own erection. 

“I thought about,” Ilya huffed out, “You on your knees for me.” With that Hollander immediately dropped to his knees, holding Ilya’s thighs with his massive hands to steady himself. He looked up at him, eyes glassy and pupils blown completely wide. 

“Then what?” Hollander’s voice was laced with need, like he would die if Ilya didn’t continue. It was exactly what Ilya needed to take back some semblance of control.

Emboldened by how affected Hollander sounded, Ilya finally let himself take what he wanted, gripping Hollander’s chin and swiping around the wetness that gathered on his lips. “You would open your mouth for me.” Hollander followed his direction, parting his lips just so. He was a fucking vision like this, better than Ilya could have ever imagined all those lonely nights back in Boston. 

Ilya moved to unzip his jeans, but Hollander’s hands shoved his own out of the way. 

“Let me do it,” he rasped, almost desperately tugging at the fabric. Ilya was struck by how boyish and eager Hollander looked, his fingers fumbling over the button and shoving into his waistband to pull out his straining cock. Hollander looked more clearly his age than he’d ever looked before, biting his lip and looking up at Ilya with desperate, shining eyes. Ilya was really about to put his cock in a nineteen-year-old’s mouth. 

“God, you’re young, aren’t you?” Ilya hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but Hollander just moaned softly and nuzzled into his crotch before finally dragging his waistband down so Ilya was completely exposed.

“Not too young to do this.” 

The first contact of Hollander’s grasp on his bare dick drew a guttural groan from Ilya’s throat, Hollander’s fingers flexing and tightening erratically as he tried to comfortably grasp him all the way around to get a good hold. 

“Fuck, you’re big, Rozanov.” 

“Think you can take it?” Ilya threaded his fingers into Hollander’s silky black hair, cupping the back of his head to drag him forward. To Ilya’s delight, Hollander moaned as he pulled just a bit tighter on the strands.

“Fuck yeah.” Hollander began by mouthing up and down his shaft, placing featherlight kisses everywhere but his aching cockhead. It was obvious this wasn’t Hollander’s first time sucking a dick, all his chaste touches and teasing and specifically designed to drive someone fucking crazy. That thought made his cock jump, that Hollander, as young as he was, had enough practice sucking dick that Ilya was already primed to cum without even getting his mouth around him. 

Finally, Hollander wrapped his lips around him, the rookie’s tongue curling over the head of his dick as he started sucking. Ilya had his dicked sucked more times in the past than he could count, yet nothing had affected him as much as watching Hollander bob his head up and down his length while his own eyes fluttered shut. The way his own hips were starting to reflexively hump the air, Hollander looked like he could get off simply from having Ilya shoved down his throat. 

“Look at me,” Ilya commanded. He needed to see how much Hollander also wanted this. 

His eyes flashed open, but subsequently rolled back in his head as he took Ilya down to the hilt, his dick ramming towards the back of Hollander’s throat. 

The sight was too much. Ilya ripped the boy from his cock, hauling him up so he could crash his lips into his. He was done waiting to kiss him, having waited most of his life to feel this with a man.

It was entirely different from kissing a woman, in a way that had Ilya moaning into Hollander’s mouth. The kiss was so discernably male, the scrape of Hollander’s stubble against Ilya’s cheek, how his spanning arms wrapped all around his shoulders, the feeling of large calloused hands groping at his sides. Ilya figured it would have been intoxicating to kiss any man in general, but this one? Ilya had no clue how he had survived pretty much his whole life depriving himself of this. And now that he’d had a taste of Shane Hollander, there was no way he was going to let him slip away. 

Ilya kissed him deeper, wrenching Hollander’s head back so he could properly explore his mouth with his tongue. The boy made a high pitched noise at the rough pull, which only encouraged Ilya to continue ravaging him. 

Between kisses, Ilya’s eyes caught on a full length mirror mounted on the wall. He realized he needed to see Hollander, to watch him react to his touch without peeling his body away from him.

He hoisted Hollander under his thighs, relishing in how much muscle there was for him to grip his fingers into, and carried him over to position in front of the mirror. 

He slotted himself behind him, pressing his cock deliciously into the swell of Hollander’s ass. He decided it was his turn to let his hands explore the boy’s clothed body, as he rucked up his shirt to feel his hot skin under his palms. Ilya watched himself in the mirror as his hands began to roam up and down Hollander’s smooth torso, his shirt pulling up to expose his lower stomach, a tantalizing sight every time Ilya’s hands travelled up to his chest. 

Hollander looked undeniably young, the stark difference of their age unflinchingly apparent with Ilya’s juxtaposed next to him. But Hollander looked perfect there, wrapped tight in Ilya’s massive arms as he plastered himself harder against the boy’s body. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Ilya sucked hard into Hollander’s neck to watch him squirm. He hoped it would leave a mark, one that Hollander would have to explain away to anyone else who asked so they could keep it as their own little secret.

“You said pretty earlier.” Hollander’s voice was breathy. 

“That too.” Ilya caressed his touch over his shoulders, biceps, forearms. His hands were greedy, mapping out every inch of Hollander’s figure. He dragged his fingertips up to his pecs, thumbing at Hollander’s hardened nipples over his shirt, savoring the soft gasp his featherlight touch elicited from the boy. 

Ilya pinched them both for good measure, Hollander whining and pressing his ass back into his erection in response. 

“I want to fuck you,” Ilya whispered into his ear, like if he said it quietly enough Hollander could pretend he didn’t hear him. Even through his haze of lust, Ilya was well aware of the optics of the situation they were currently in. 

It wasn’t illegal to fuck a nineteen year old, but to fuck a nineteen year old who was your coworker at thirty-seven? Yeah, not a great look. Ilya could barely begin to go down the thought spiral of how big of a scandal this would be if it ever got out. But god, it did something to Ilya, and obviously to Hollander too. That the rookie could successfully seduce a man almost twice his age, and that Ilya would gladly beg at his feet if he asked. 

Fuck it, they were really going to do this. 

It was Hollander who broke the kiss first. “Get on the fucking bed.” 

Ilya was not used to being bossed around like this, but because it was Hollander ordering him around, he had never heard anything hotter. He quickly shed the rest of his clothing and obediently sat at the foot of the bed. 

He watched as Hollander stalked closer, slowly pulling his shirt over his head and taking the time to fold it perfectly like he was working at a fucking laundry service. It was the most polite strip tease he had ever witnessed, but fuck it was driving Ilya crazy. By the time Hollander had taken off his sweats, which were also folded neatly at a devastatingly slow rate, Ilya was ready to jump out of his skin. Hollander smiled knowingly and pointedly stared at Ilya’s cock twitching under his watchful eye.

“You’re sure you want this?” Ilya had to check before letting himself submit to the most fucked up choice of his life. 

Hollander smirked. “Did you not hear the part where I said I wanted you ever since I started watching hockey?”

“Yeah, but when you started watching me I was a bit closer to the age you are now.”

Hollander let his eyes linger all over Ilya’s body, his gaze so hot Ilya swore he could feel where they traced. “I started watching you when you were younger, yeah.” He bent over to take off his boxers, his cock finally springing free for Ilya to feast his gaze on. “But you want to know a secret?”

Ilya nodded, trying not to swallow audibly as he itched to pull the boy onto his lap. 

“You’re definitely hotter now.”   

Ilya let out what he was sure was a whine.

“And you’re sure you want to do this?”

“Me?” Ilya didn’t understand. Didn’t Hollander see how fucking hard he was for him? He was literally fucking leaking, something his dick hadn’t really done since his mid-twenties.

“I mean, it’s your first time with a guy,” Hollander started, an earnest expression painting his face, like he really thought he had the upper hand in the situation. Like it was him, not Ilya taking immense liberties. It was so endearing. “And I mean, I obviously want to fuck my childhood idol, but not if you feel like I’m pressuring you.”

“You think you’re taking advantage of me?” Ilya couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Your idol has literally been playing hockey since you were in diapers. I was bisexual then too. This is nothing I haven’t figured out before, I just haven’t wanted to act on it.” Not technically a lie, but Ilya didn’t want to get into all that right now. Not when he had Shane Hollander completely naked (minus his socks) standing right in front of him.

“Until me,” Hollander supplied.

“Until you.” 

“Fuck.” Hollander finally closed the distance between them, placing his hands on his shoulders.

Ilya looked up at the boy looming over him, mesmerized by how beautiful he was. He couldn’t believe he was about to have this. 

But as Ilya often did, he found himself ruminating on a thought he couldn’t bury quick enough. Which was why the sinking feeling that hit him out of nowhere led him to blurt out, “You do this with all your idols?”

“What, fuck them?” 

Ilya nodded, dreading what Shane would say next. He had no right to be jealous if Hollander was fucking other players in the league, just the same as he had no claim to the boy when he angrily jerked off to paparazzi photos of Hollander and other men who weren’t him. But the idea of Hollander fucking other hockey players made him feel something primal. Claiming. 

Ilya found himself thinking, player or not, that he should be the only one to get the privilege of seeing Hollander like this. 

Shane smirked, pushing at Ilya’s chest until his back hit the mattress. He climbed over Ilya’s body, straddling him tight with his massive thighs. “You think anyone else in the league is worthy of fucking me?”

Ilya knew what he wanted the answer to be. He had always been selfish, but never in his life had he experienced such burning desire to own. “No.”

“That’s right, baby,” Hollander cooed, stroking his knuckles down Ilya’s cheek, “Only you.”  

This boy had no idea what he was doing to Ilya. He crashed his mouth to his, laying claim against all the other men that got to have Hollander like this. Ilya was determined beyond belief to make his mark on the boy, to make him just as obsessed with him as Ilya found himself to be. 

“How do you want it,” Hollander gasped out between kisses, “However you want it, I can take it.” 

It was almost too much of a choice for Ilya to make, his brain short-circuiting as he imagined Hollander in a million different scenarios, all begging him to be fucked. He couldn’t make up his mind. Ilya was greedy, he wanted Hollander in every which way his body was capable of being taken. All he knew was his cock ached so bad he could think of nothing else than cumming for Hollander by any means necessary. 

“Aww, too much to think about, huh?” Hollander’s voice settled over his body like a blanket, sending Ilya deeper into himself. “C’mon big boy, tell me what you want.”

“I want…” He couldn’t form the words, not when Hollander was grinding his ass down on his dick. He was really about to fuck a man for the first time. 

“You’ve fucked before, right?” Hollander continued. Ilya managed to nod in confirmation, still transfixed by the way Hollander’s ass was dragging across his lap. “Then this should be easy, just fuck me like you fucked all those puck bunnies over the last two decades. I can imagine you've gotten some practice with them.”

Ilya whined again, reduced to a pathetic mess dangerously close to cumming from dry humping alone.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby.” Hollander patted his cheek condescendingly. That fucking pet name again. Ilya couldn’t believe how much it turned him on. “I know, I know. It’s your first time. I’ll take care of you tonight.” 

Hollander reached over to his bedside table for a condom, tore open the wrapping and slid it down Ilya’s shaft. Then he rose up to position Ilya’s cock right at his entrance. “I prepped before this. Didn’t want to wait.”

God, the idea that Hollander had gotten himself ready to take Ilya’s cock inside him as soon as he almost sent Ilya reeling. Next time, Ilya would take care of him, stretch him if only to watch him squirm on his fingers. 

But he couldn’t object now, as Hollander finally sank down on his cock, crying out as he took him in entirety. Ilya gripped his hips hard enough to bruise, fighting the urge to fill the condom within seconds of being inside him. But Hollander was impossibly tight, so fucking warm, so perfectly made for milking his cock.

“Fuck, Hollander,” he growled as the rookie gave an experimental roll of his hips. Hollander continued at a tortuous pace, like he was baiting Ilya to snap and start fucking him like he needed. Ilya’s hands made the move for him, grabbing hold of his ass to grind Hollander’s hips down hard and thrusting back up into him. 

“Oh, you fucking like this, don’t you?” Hollander taunted, slamming himself back down. “Tell me, do any of your girls fuck you like this?” 

“Never.” Many girls had ridden him over the years, but nothing could come close to comparing to the way Hollander was fucking himself on his cock. It was as if he was performing for Ilya while also taking exactly what he needed at any cost, fucking himself hard on his dick while Ilya was helpless to do anything but assist Hollander in taking all the pleasure he deserved. 

“Harder, please.” Hollander’s begging was music to Ilya’s ears. He started fucking up into him at a relentless pace, using his arms on his ass to anchor him down onto his cock.

On one of Ilya’s thrusts, Hollander threw his head back and moaned, and Ilya knew he had found the perfect angle. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Hollander was speeding up now, setting a relentless pace as he chased his orgasm. 

His dick started painting Ilya’s stomach, the cum hot and heavy as it settled into the hair on his lower belly and chest. The sight was enough to send Ilya over the edge, emptying himself with a cry into the condom.  

He blissfully let himself float in the aftermath of the best orgasm of his life, gathering Hollander to lay on top of him as he stroked his back. His softening cock was still buried deep inside him, and Hollander’s intermittent squeaks if Ilya moved slightly made it evident he could still feel him everywhere. 

“That was so fucking hot.” Hollander’s head was tucked into the nook of Ilya’s shoulder, his breath grazing the sensitive skin of his neck.

“Worth the wait?” Ilya kissed his forehead, perhaps too sweetly for having just gotten the shit fucked out of him by his teenage rival.

“The wait?”

“Your whole conscious life, apparently,” Ilya teased, “Little Hollander waiting for the day he could finally fuck his idol, Ilya Rozanov.” 

“Fuck off!” But there was no bite in Hollander’s retort.  

“So yes?”

“Yes,” Hollander conceded. “I could ask you the same question.” Because it was true. Ilya had also waited his whole life for this, to be with a man. And only around a year for Shane Hollander, but it had also felt like a lifetime. And now that he had had him, there was no way he could go even half that long without having him again. 

If he was smart, this would be a one-time thing. He could write off the entire encounter as a moment of weakness or poor judgment. He could even blame his dick for highjacking the logical part of his brain that knew fucking a teenager/coworker you were destined to see for the next couple of years was a bad idea.

But Ilya Rozanov was changed. There was no going back to a time before Shane Hollander. “When do you play Boston next?” 

The reply was automatic. “Four weeks.”

“Well, since we already waited all this time, you think you can wait another month?” Ilya held his breath, praying Hollander wanted this again as badly as he did. 

Hollander kissed him in response, humming into his mouth as he started to peel his body from Ilya’s. “Absolutely. But next time, I want to take my time with you.”

They laid together for a bit longer, stealing the minutes they knew were borrowed time. “You should go,” Hollander finally said, his expression uncharacteristically unsteady for what Ilya had come to know of the boy. “Not that I don’t want you to stay. But it’s maybe not the best idea to get caught sneaking out of my room tomorrow morning?”

Ilya knew he was right, but it was still hard to ignore the pang in his chest as they both cleaned themselves off and started dressing back in their clothes. It was ridiculous. He’d only fucked him once, but he felt himself needing to keep the boy wrapped up in his arms. 

“Besides,” Hollander continued, “I don’t know what time you usually go to sleep at the old folk’s home, but I know for a fact it’s way past your bedtime.” 

“Like you didn’t stay up past your own curfew. So bad, sneaking around when you’re supposed to be tucked into bed.” Ilya tousled the boy's hair. Hollander batted his hand away pretending to be annoyed, but was betrayed by his inability to suppress a shy smile. “But don’t worry,” Ilya continued, “I’ll go. I don’t want to get you in trouble, rookie.” 

Hollander lowered his voice, “You already did.”

Jesus. “Fuck you.” It was the only thing Ilya could say to stop himself from lunging for Hollander’s bratty mouth with his own to shut him up. The boy had no idea what he was doing to Ilya. 

“You will, soon,” Hollander answered, “Four weeks.”

Ilya slipped out of Hollander's hotel door, planting one more kiss to the boy’s eager lips as a parting gift, and started the countdown until he got to have him again.