Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hollanov - Character

Additional Tags:

Winner's Room, Team-issued but plug, Toys, Montreal Metro's are Toxic, Boston Bears less so, Shane is clueless, Ilya is also clueless, They Make It Work, Loss of Virginity, Anal, Smut, Porn with Feelings, Loverboy Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-15 Words: 5,023 Chapters: 1/1

Grin and Bear It

Summary

Shane can’t believe what he’s being handed. He’s 18 years old, starting center for the Montreal Metro’s, and they’ve just suffered their first loss of the season—no thanks to him; 2-3 against Boston, an overtime loss on home-ice. It’s embarrassing enough, and now he’s standing in the team locker room, his hair still drippy from the shower, and his captain, Chris Larson, is holding out a but plug. At least he has the sensitivity to look a little apologetic about it.

“Yeah, so, like I said. Rozanov has requested you.”

Or, Shane is chosen for the winner's room and is advised to 'warm up' beforehand using a team-issued but plug.

Notes

Shane can’t believe what he’s being handed. He’s 18 years old, starting center for the Montreal Metro’s, and they’ve just suffered their first loss of the season—no thanks to him; 2-3 against Boston, an overtime loss on home-ice. It’s embarrassing enough, and now he’s standing in the team locker room, his hair still drippy from the shower, and his captain, Chris Larson, is holding out a but plug. At least he has the sensitivity to look a little apologetic about it.

“Yeah, so, like I said. Rozanov has requested you.”

“Requested me for what?” Shane says, looking aghast, eyeing the thing.

“For the room. You know,” he clears his throat, “the ‘fourth period.’ He wants you as forfeit.” Please don’t make me explain this, Larson’s eyes seem to plead.

Around them, their teammates are going about their business as if nothing’s the matter. But Comeau, stood close by, toweling his crotch, can’t help but meddle. He barks with glee when he notices Shane’s growing consternation.

“Oh my God. He hasn’t got a clue. Hollzy did they teach you nothing in Juniors?” He claps Shane on the shoulder.

“That’s why the stakes are so high, eh boys? Original Six tradition. Makes you play harder if you know your ass is on the line.”

Shane can’t say he hasn’t heard of the Winner’s Room. He just didn’t think it was actually practiced. His former teammates sometimes brought it up jokingly, and so he assumed it was just a legend, or at most a stupid hazing ritual. But now that he thinks about it, maybe they were a lot better informed than he was. God knows he never stuck around for very long at mixers or parties where these kinds of rumors would have been discussed, and he didn’t billet like a lot of the other boys. There’s a whole world of hockey that he, intentionally, has kept at arm’s length.

“Christ Hollander, just take it,” Larson scowls, waving the plug in his reddening face. “Rookies always get chosen eventually.”

“Yeah, especially if they look sweet like you…” Comeau grabs his smooth chin and grins wolfishly. He’s wearing nothing but the towel.

Larson smacks away his hairy paw, grabbing Shane by the shoulder and pulling him into a two-man huddle, like he’s just giving him some pointers about his edgework.

“Listen rook, it’s best to be prepared. You don't want to give him the pleasure of seeing you, like—wince—or something. Gotta keep a stiff upper lip, as the Brits say, OK? Don’t let him enjoy it.” And then, when Shane is still too gobsmacked to speak, he continues, “Just think of it like warming up before a game. I swear it’s standard practice to use one if you get chosen.”

“Hey rook, if you want, we could help you warm up,” Comeau again, from across the room this time, where he’s recruited Drapeau as his accomplice. They’re leering at him grossly and Drapeau is airfucking his goalie-pads, cross-eyed, tongue lolling out of his mouth, putting on a bawdy performance that’s cracking up at least half the team.

How many of them have stood in his shoes? A few? All of them? Is that why they can grin along so blithely? Only Hayden is looking at him with something akin to pity in his eyes. Ugh that is perhaps even worse. Jesus Christ. He needs to shut them up. Shane yanks the plug from his captain’s hands and bee-lines for the bathroom stalls.

“Forgot something?”

Humiliatingly, he has to walk back two steps to snatch the bottle of lube Larson is holding out—to the cackling mirth of what is now absolutely the entire team.

“You know where that goes, do ya?” Comeau shouts, and someone wolf whistles.

Shane slams the door behind him. He is livid. Fucking assholes. If they had played better, had stepped the fuck up, he wouldn’t be in this situation now would he? 2 of their goals were his, and he gave the 3rd assist.

In the bathroom stall, Shane cools down and waits for it to go quiet outside. Once he hears the door to the dressing room fall closed for what he thinks is the last time, he opens his clenched fist. The plug is burning a hole in his hand. He inspects it. It’s dark blue, about as long as his palm, and at its widest part it’s about as thick as two of his fingers. Maybe three. Christ, there’s the Montreal Metro’s logo on the bottom. It’s a team-issued plug. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling, wishing in moments like these that he had a god to turn to, for blame or succor. Instead he thinks about all the things he was and is still willing to sacrifice for this, a career in the NHL, on the most storied teams in the entire conference. He thinks about the things his parents have had to sacrifice to get him here. Fucking hell. He knows that there is no way he can ever back down.

Gingerly, he steps out of the bathroom stall and moves to lock the door to the dressing room. Then he quickly surveys it for the best spot to, well… stick it in. Their cubbies are all individual seats, so Shane chooses instead to throw some towels on the floor and lie down, like he’s preparing to do a set of crunches.

He closes his eyes and breathes out through his mouth, while he hoists up his legs and feels around his hole. It’s not even like he’s never touched himself down there. Once or twice, when he’s jerked off, he’s played with his ass, and with a lubed up finger it had felt nice. Made him come really hard too when he stuck the finger in. So it’s not that hard to get the tip past his rim. It’s the girthier part of the plug that presents a challenge.

He sucks in little sips of air, like through a straw, and closes his eyes against the harsh fluorescent lights. Calm down. Relax.

He thinks of Ilya Rozanov. Fuck, if it has to be anybody, then Shane is at least happy that it’s him. Not ‘happy’ happy of course. But it’s not entirely reprehensible to him if it’s Rozanov. He—Rozanov—is the best in the league. Even though his stats don’t quite say that yet (it’s still very early in the season), it’s obvious from the way he dominates the ice. It was obvious from the way he played tonight. Like a devil. Fast as hell, with impeccable placement, and with a lethal slapshot that made Drapeau look like he was moving through water. Truth is, Shane considers Rozanov his equal. The only one.

The plug slips in, it’s base settles securely against his rim. It feels comfortable there, kind of nice between his cheeks, which are slippery with lube.

Now what? Larson said something about a car waiting for him, and then a hotel. So he gets dressed in his game day suit and fixes his hair in the mirror. He lifts his chin, and stares back at himself with as much attitude as he can muster. Stiff upper lip. Don’t let him enjoy it. Keep a straight face. Ha.

He wonders if it'll be Rozanov's first time in the room as well—but that's easy to figure out. He knows Boston’s schedule. Let's see. They played Detroit a week and a half ago. Rozanov tidied that up neatly with a maneuver sports pundits are already naming after him. Ok, so it won't be his first time in the room. Another thing he's beaten Shane at…

He knows it’s probably not noticeable from the way he walks, but he’s blushing when he slides into the sleek black vehicle that’s waiting for him at the staff exit. So much for his little exercise mugging confidence in the mirror. He wonders how much the driver knows. Turns out it’s not nothing. For the better part of the drive, 15 minutes or so, his chauffeur says very little. He compliments him on a good game, and they commiserate half-heartedly about the loss. But then as they pull up to the hotel, the driver locks eyes with him through the rear-view mirror.

“You know they often just don’t show up right. You might have the room to yourself!” He says it in a kind of artificially bright way, trying to cheer him up. It’s another condescending show of compassion that Shane just can’t tolerate right now. He’d rather be jeered than treated like a fragile little princess. He might be a rookie but he’s also a star in the Metro’s roster, the new face of the franchise. And that means means he can take a dick up his ass for the sake of the team. He’ll survive. He’s not made of glass. He’s not going to shatter.

In the lobby, he gets handed a key without having to register his name. They know him in this city. It’s a fancy suite on the seventh floor. Great views, though Shane draws the curtains immediately. He fidgets with the light for a minute, decides to dim it, and turns on the TV for some noise.

Lying back on the bed, while he waits, his hand drifts automatically, over his taught muscled stomach, down his solid hips, to his groin where his dick has been half-hard since the moment he left the elevator.

Suddenly he realizes how that might be a problem. Shit, he has to get this plug out of his ass before Rozanov shows up. It’s making him feel… fucking… sensual, for lack of a better word. And he can’t very well be waiting for his biggest rival in the league with a semi. That would be the opposite of what Larson meant. He has to be indifferent. Give him nothing!

He unbuckles his belt, turns onto his stomach and slides down his pants. Reaching behind him, he grabs for the base of the plug, which is still slippery, and tough to get a hold of. Tough but not impossible. The plug was probably vetted for safety by the Montreal Metro’s equipment manager himself. Can't have any of this winner's room shit breaking containment when a player ends up in the ER with Metro's merch in his colon.

Just as Shane has got his fingers on the toy and is preparing to slowly pull it out, he is startled by the sound of the key card lock, once, then twice. Then some grumbling and cursing in Russian on the other side. As if stuck by a cattle prod Shane launches himself off the bed and yanks up his pants. He only just gets them over his hips when a third beep of the mechanism sounds successful. The door opens to none other than Ilya Rozanov. In sweats and a hoody. No game day suit for the Bostonians.

“Wow,” Rozanov mutters. “You got started without me?” He points at Shane's unbuckled belt and undone shirt. “Rude.”

Shane begins to object but Rozanov doesn't bother giving him a second glance, sauntering instead to the mini fridge to inspect its contents. He looks a bit gaunt in the white light of the fridge door.

“You want anything from here? Glass of milk? Juice box?”

For himself he grabs a little bottle of vodka, sucks it down, and immediately opens another to sip on. Only then does he turn to regard Shane, while he leans back against the dresser. He looks effortlessly hot, like he always does, but also moody, not exactly his gloating self. Shane too sulks. He should have thought to raid the mini bar. Even though he really doesn’t like to drink during the season, today he would have gladly made an exception. Unfortunately, it’s too late. He doesn’t want to drink in front of Rozanov. That would feel too vulnerable.

Rozanov has no such qualms. He takes another swig and pulls a face.

“This vodka tastes like petroleum.”

“Nobody’s making you drink it.”

“But I think I’ve earned a drink. Don't you?” When Shane stays sullenly quiet, Rozanov continues: “Did I not score the winning goal tonight?”

This time he holds Shane’s gaze.

“That means I’m entitled to something.”

Shane exhales audibly through his nose.

“I know that,” he snaps back, and lowers himself to sit on the bed, becoming once again keenly aware of the plug between his cheeks. It's making him blush under Rozanov’s scrutiny. Unfortunately, his dick is still hard.

“Why did you choose me?”

Rozanov pouts his beautiful lips like a petulant little God king and exhales. “Because,” he waves a hand in Shane's general direction, “You are the best.” He pauses for a second. “And you look like you have a good mouth.”

Shane almost chokes on his own spit. He lifts his eyes to the ceiling in pure exasperation, doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Jesus Christ, there’s no way to respond to such manichean flattery.

“What about Detroit’s forfeit.” Shane stammers instead.

“What about him?”

“Did he have a good mouth?” Fuck he sounds pathetic, like he’s honestly wondering, even though he meant to taunt the man.

Rozanov shrugs. “I wouldn't know. I didn't go.”

“What?”

“I didn't go to the room. OK? Happens all the time. Coach says only losers have to come. Me, I can choose.”

“And you chose to show up for me?”

The ghost of a smile on Rozanov’s face. “Yes Hollander. Is that so hard to believe? Always shaking my hand, telling me you like to watch, saying you hope to see me later…”’ He waves his hand as if there is more that he could add to the list. “You make me curious.”

Shane gasps, breathless with indignation. Screw him for having manners.

“I was being polite. And I never said half those things.”

With Shane getting pissed off Rozanov is starting to look like his smug old self again. He takes another sip of his drink, puts down the miniature bottle, and suddenly takes off his hoody, in one clean motion. His body is out of this world. Shane knows what a muscled chest looks like, but Rozanov looks so fucking chiseled and his pecs are enormous. He’s got the physique of a Greek god—and it looks like he knows it. There’s a small smirk on his lips when he realizes that Shane is staring at him, mouth agape.

Like it’s nothing he walks up to the foot of the bed and starts undoing Shane’s tie. There’s a part of him that wants to push him away and sneer that he can undress himself, but Rozanov’s abs are so close now, Shane could rest his face on them if he wanted to. If.

Once the tie comes off, Rozanov continues with the buttons of his shirt. He undoes about half of them and then says quietly but insistently: “Off.” So Shane shrugs off his jackets and reaches for the shirt collar in his neck so that he can pull it off over his head. He worries that he smells like sweat. His skin is a little damp, but it feels good to have it exposed to the air.

“Lose the pants.” Rozanov says next, and with a gulp, Shane obeys. They come off easily; his shoes are already by the door and the belt is unbuckled. Hopefully his dark briefs won’t give too much away about the throbbing desperation he’s trying to hide beneath.

Rozanov rakes the clothes that are now strewn across the bed to the floor, without regard for the way it is going to cause them to crease. Shane is going to look a crumpled mess when he walks out of here tonight. He has half a mind to make a comment about it, but the way Rozanov is looming over him is making him shut up and scoot back a little.

Rozanov puts a hand on his chest and pushes him into the mattress. He says something in Russian that Shane doesn’t care to know the meaning of. It’s probably something derogatory—like ‘spread you legs gayboy.’ He was going to do that anyway. He was going to shut his eyes and get it over with, grin and bear it.

But then he feels the weight of Rozanov’s heavenly body drape over his own, hands come up to hold his face, stroke his hair, and most confusingly of all—Rozanov’s lips on his own. He makes a surprised sound that is swallowed immediately when the kiss deepens and the hands start to wander.

“Mmmmwgn we don’t have to kiss,” Shane exclaims with a hoarse, breathy voice as soon as Rozanov lets up to look down between them, where he’s cupping Shane’s tit.

“Shut up Hollander. Is my room, I do what I want.” As if to underscore it he pinches Shane’s nipple between thumb and forefinger and grins when Shane winces, only to resume kissing him, slow, deep, and wet.

This is really not what Shane had imagined the winner’s room to be like. He had expected Rozanov to be a little more focused on punishing or humiliating him, not this …heavy petting, which if anything is making him squirm and his dick leak with arousal. Christ there’s no way that’s going unnoticed. Their legs are basically entwined.

Gradually Rozanov’s kisses wander south, and before Shane is fully aware of what’s happening Rozanov has pulled down his briefs and is licking a wet stripe up his fat, swollen cock. Then he gets to work.

“Hhnng f-fuck.” Shane has had blowjobs before (three, to be exact), but none of them have felt quite like this, maybe its the size of Rozanov’s hand, now clasped around his shaft, or the pressure of his tongue under the head of his dick, or maybe it’s just that it’s Rozanov down there, and not (sorry!) Jessica, who was nice enough, but who Shane was never really as crazy about as he thought he should have been.

“Please,” he pants when Rozanov takes him all the way into his mouth, sucking him down hard “You don’t have to do that.”

In response, Rozanov unlatches and leans back to look Shane in the eye. He wipes his mouth with his arm, but keeps his other hand on Shane’s dick, rubbing his thumb leisurely over the tip.

“Hollander. I’m doing it to you, so you can take note and do it to me later. OK? So lock the fuck in because this will be on the exam. I did not wipe the ice with you for lacklustre blowjob.”

“Lacklustre?” Shane’s breath hitches when Rozanov gulps down his dick again. “Where do you pick up this vocabulary?”

Rozanov, tonguing Shane’s slit, pauses for a second to explain: “Word of the day calendar.”

It’s going to be a short lesson, because no more than a minute flies by before Shane is shaking with effort to keep from coming. Determined to see him over the finish line, Rozanov shifts his weight a little and lifts Shane's leg up over his shoulder. His hand is firmly under his thigh, where it meets his ass, Ilya’s big thumb brushing against his skin and …

“What the fuck?”

Rozanov's has let go of his dick so that he can shoulder his way between Shane’s legs to get a better look. Shane, remembering that he would rather die than let anybody see what's going on down there, snaps his thighs together. There's a moment where Rozanov has to wrestle for his life against the sideways pressure threatening to crush his skull. But he gets an elbow in there and leverages Shane's legs open.

“What the fuck Hollander, do you have a plug in your ass?” His voice has climbed a full octave in disbelief.

Instead of continuing to crush him, Shane plants his feet on Rozanov's shoulders and kicks him back so that he almost tumbles off the bed. Then he scoots up, and sinks his head between his knees.

“The…the fucking…Metro's…they told me to do it.”

“Why?” Rozanov asks, sincerely surprised.

“Jesus, why do you think? To stretch me out. So I don’t cry on your dick while you fuck me, and embarrass them.” He exhales angrily between his knees. “I was going to take it out before you got here, but then…” He still can’t make eye contact. There’s a pause.

“I thought winner's room is just blowjobs.” Rozanov mutters, edging closer, tentatively reaching out with his hand to rub Shane’s foot. He kept his socks on. It’s kind of sweet.

At this, Shane looks up. “It's not,” he exclaims very seriously. “Anything’s fair game as long as it's not dangerous or leaves a mark. I don’t know who told you it’s just blowies, cause it’s not, and we’re still rookies, so you should really prepare for the worst because rookies always get chosen.”

Rozanoz sends him a pained smile. “Prepare for the worst, huh, like you did? Well you don’t have to worry because I was not planning to fuck you.”

He shifts closer again, caressing Shane’s legs and laying down gently beside him, facing him. They settle into a brooding silence. Ilya sighs and readjust his dick in his boxers. They were having such a good time and now Shane is upset. His arms are clasped over his knees and he is staring out in front of him with those warm brown, almond-shaped eyes of his, that are always watching, calculating; his thinking is very, very loud.

“But can you do it anyway? Just…fuck me?” He’s looking straight ahead. His voice sounds pinched.

“Please, I don't want anybody else,” a pause, a shaky breath. “I want it to be you. Before, like, when I get chosen again. I don’t want, just anybody—to do it.” His words don’t come out right. But the sentiment is clear to Ilya. First time is important. He knows.

“Or you could just never lose another game,” he jokes, his hand carefully exploring Shane’s hip, his belly, where his dick has softened. If anybody could do it, it would be Shane Hollander.

There’s the slightest bit of a chuckle, a huff of air, really. Shane wipes his face and this time he turns to look at Ilya.

“You’ve had anal sex before right? Like with a girl.”
Ilya nods. ‘And with a boy,’ he wants to say. But that’s not what he’s strictly being asked.

“So I can trust you not to, like, destroy my asshole.”

“Not unless you want me to.” Ilya croons, sitting up, head resting in his hand, his other one exploring more courageously now, stroking Shane’s thighs, and moving closer and closer to the topic of their discussion.

“I don’t. Keep it intact.” There’s that smile again, that boyish, amused look he gets when Ilya chirps his teammates within earshot, that smile that Ilya lives for.

His hand finds the plug. He taps it. Knock knock. They share a conspiratorial look and Shane reaches over to the bedside table, where he has stashed the lube.

What happens next is that Rozanov tells him to turn around, which is a mercy. Shane feels like he probably won't want anybody looking too closely at his face for this.

Rozanov kneels behind him, sitting back. His hands keep caressing and squeezing his but and that does help him relax some. The way he pulls his cheeks apart is also actually kind of hot because it make Shane feel the base of the plug against his rim.

“Let’s get this thing out first.”

But instead of pulling on it, Ilya thumbs the plug, pushing it firmly, which solicits a barely stifled moan from Shane. The pressure feels so nice. Ilya hums appreciatively and continues to play with the toy while Shane cock stiffens. After a bit of pulling and pushing on it, the plug pops out easily and Shane feels his hole clench around nothing. The second time it does that, Ilya has stuffed two fingers in there to catch the squeeze. He groans with undisguised arousal.

“What are you doing,” Shane pants anxiously. Why does he need fingers in his ass, isn't that what the plug was for?

“This thing is teeny tiny, like micropeen” he lobs the toy onto the floor. “Need to stretch you a little more for my cock Hollander.”

Fuck. Shane hasn't even seen Ilya's dick beyond a shadowy outline in his boxers. What if he's massive? He makes a worried sound that hopefully is muffled by the sheets. But Ilya is bending over him, petting his hair, whispering,

“Don't worry, it will fit. All 9 inches.”

“What the fuck, Rozanov!?” Shane makes to get up off his elbows.

“Relax Hollander,” Ilya grabs his hips to keep him put. “I am joking. Respectable 6,5 inches. Don't worry, you are still going to feel it.”

Somehow Shane doesn’t doubt that. For the next couple of minutes Ilya fingers him until he is soft and pliable like putty. His ass is covered in lovemarks from where he has been sucked and gnawed on. Ilya punctuates the work with a good-natured slap on the meat of his cheek.

“Ready for the real deal?”

“Yeah, do it.” Shane can barely articulate a lucid thought. But he remembers to be polite. “Please.”

He can hear the crinkle of foil as Ilya tears into a condom, and then the blunt, hot pressure of him lined up against his asshole. And then. Oh God. He's pressing in. Shane shuts his eyes tightly, like he said he would, but instead of having to grin and bear it, he finds himself moaning with pleasure.

Ilya starts slowly, rocking into him with control, reading his body, watching and listening for any sounds of distress or discomfort. Finding none, he picks up his pace, shoving Shane's knees further apart, and reaching out to put a hand between his shoulderblades, pressing him down. There's a cute little arch in his back now.

“Fuck, Hollander,” he groans. It's heaven being buried into him like this, up to the hilt, pulling him onto his cock by his hips. What a prize. Nothing will make him play harder—skate faster, than getting to beat and then fuck Shane Hollander. Enjoying his hard, tight body. It's not even been that long and he's already on the verge of blowing his load.

Underneath him, Shane is panting hard, it sounds like ‘uhn, uhn, uhn’ in time to the rhythm of his thrusts. He has turned his face out to the side to breathe, showing how flushed his cheeks are. His hands are fisting the sheets. Then, while Ilya watches him, his frown deepens and his mouth opens, forming a silent ‘oh’ while he starts to clench really hard. Only at the end of his breath does the sound find a way out of his throat, a moan that's almost like a sob. Ilya realizes too late that he must have orgasmed, which is not something that has ever happened to any of his previous lovers during anal, not without some stimulation.

The idea of Shane cumming handsfree sends him over the edge and he jackrabbits until he's seeing stars, never mind that he promised to be gentle, and never mind how Shane is bowing his back and whining at the sensitivity of it.

“Fuck,” he rolls off him, chest heaving, and throws the condom on the floor. Turns his head to look at Shane.

Shane has collapsed onto his stomach, head buried in his arms. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking or feeling. His back is slick with sweat, shining beautifully in the dimmed light.

“Hey,” Ilya nudges him with an elbow. “You good? Shane?”

For a second Ilya thinks Shane is crying. But then he just sniffles, shifts onto his side, facing away from Ilya, and sighs deeply.

“Bed’s all dirty.” Shane sounds muted. He leaves a pause.

Ilya snorts and shoves him a little.

“Because I…I came. I wrecked the sheets.”

Chuckling, Ilya moves up to spoon him, kissing him on the nape of his neck and the shell of his ear.

“I know, you were squeezing me like a vice.”

Another deep sigh, and a sniffle. Oh shit.

“Hollander, what is wrong?”

Ilya pulls Shane's shoulder until he's lying on his back, arms over his forehead, pits on display. But it's not to show them off or anything, it's because he's cradling his head looking distressed. His eyes are wet

“I can't believe I came, in the fucking winner's room, as forfeit. It's embarrassing,” he rubs his whole face with his hands. “Please don't tell anyone.”

Ilya pets his hair. He can't tease Hollander about this. Not with how much his voice is cracking. He looks genuinely distraught.

“I won’t tell.” And then after a beat. “You can always say I didn't show up.”

“What if it happens again? With someone else.”

“It won't.” Ilya rolls on top of him and bullies Shane's arms down. “You will see. Nobody compares to me. I am the best.”

Rozanov leans down and kisses him again. Shane chases his lips. He feels warm in his body. Sated. A little sticky and gross, yes, but also—now that his immediate concern about being exposed has ebbed—grounded and relaxed. He's enjoying Rozanov's weight on top of him.

So on the one hand he wants to roll his eyes and scoff, call Rozanov a conceited asshole, but on the other hand, he has nothing to compare his performance to. And it was phenomenal. He's the best hockey player in the league, would it be so surprising that he is also best in the sack? Shane wants to believe it.

“Next time can you wear a Boston one please?”

Hollander looks confused. “A Boston what?”

Ilya grins, looking up at him through his eyelashes while he kisses down Shane's chest, circling to ambush a nipple.

“A Boston but plug. Would need to be bigger as well, of course. Give me your number. I will tell you which one to buy.”