Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike & Jackie Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Hayden Pike

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Sex Work, Sex Worker Ilya Rozanov, Praise Kink, Kink Negotiation, Enthusiastic Consent, Smut, Service Top, Safe Sane and Consensual, Condoms, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Anxious Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Bottom Shane Hollander, Happy Ending, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Blowjobs, Masturbation, Vaginal Sex, Spanking, Shibari, Ilya Rozanov Pets Many Dogs, Consent King Ilya Rozanov, Financial Issues, Orgasm Edging, Orgasm Denial, Orgasm Control, Aftercare, Non-Famous Ilya Rozanov, Famous Shane Hollander, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, POV Alternating, Phone Sex, Sex Toys, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, First Time, Coming Untouched, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Plot With Porn, Cinephile Shane Hollander, Movie Script Elements, Rimming, slowburn, but they're fucking the entire time, Angst

Language:

English

Collections:

fanfics that i keep coming back to read, Queer Characters Collection, 30PlusFanfic Non-Event Fics, AnnaSong, Hollanov 🥰, Heated Rivalry ➻ Ilya Grigoryevich Rozanov / Shane Hollander, Brain Chem Changed, ✨ The Best of Hollanov✨🏒✨, Best Heated Rivalry AUs, pepperroxd’s library, reading isn’t enough i need it in my veins., Alidesidero's Hollanov Hall of Fame, Heated rivalry, 🫡 i hope you come back from the war, 🏒Hollanov🏒 W(rec)k It, god tier hollonov, Spade Z FaveZ, heated rivalry collection

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-05 Updated: 2026-04-27 Words: 180,137 Chapters: 14/?

Wolfbird

Summary

Shane Hollander is hockey’s closeted golden boy with everything to hide. Ilya Rozanov is a professional Dom with everything to lose and an expired visa.

Through their arrangement at a discreet Montreal kink bar, where NDAs protect secrets and sessions are charged per hour, they discover the most dangerous thing isn’t being caught—it’s wanting more than those hours allow.

Notes

Thank you to Aphantastical for beta'ing this work, and to slateskyblue for copyediting!

A PODFIC for Wolfbird is available here on AO3!

Obligatory Disclaimer: Wolfbird is a work of fiction. It is not a documentary, an academic study, a harm reduction resource, or a how-to guide for anything contained within. Characters do not always behave in ways that are realistic, professionally accurate, or strictly advisable. They do, however, behave in ways that serve the story... which is, after all, the whole point.

And last but not least… Thank YOU for reading, I’m so glad you’re here! Please note that this is a passion project I write for fun. I’m not seeking constructive criticism, I’m just here to tell a story I love and to enjoy myself!

• Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 【授权翻译】狼鸟Wolfbird by Stephen_Haivk_Strange
• Translation into Deutsch available: Wolfbird by OpalApparition (German Translation) by Anaeis
• Translation into Polski available: Wolfbird [PL] by sanczysun

Chapter 1: Vyp'yem Za Tebya

Chapter Notes

Shane nursed his second shitty beer and watched J.J. lean across the table to shout again.

“T’es ben cute, toi!” he butchered at the blonde in the next booth, and she answered in English with a thick Québécois accent. J.J.’s grin went wide and sloppy like he’d just scored a hat trick.

Everything in this bar, one of many Crescent-Street sports joints that clung to the glory days of the Habs like a religion, reeked of old, slightly sour, spilled liquor and poutine grease. Bass thumped through stacked speakers, and they were replaying last week’s game against Ottawa on the wall mounted TVs, commentators shouting in French from the TSN broadcast feed. His teammates had claimed the corner booth three hours ago, and now most of them were gone—scattered to dart boards or pool tables or out the door with phone numbers scrawled on napkins.

“You gonna finish that?” Ryan, one of the Voyager’s current defensemen, gestured at Shane’s barely-touched beer.

“Yeah.” Shane took a drink to prove it. The carbonation stung his throat.

Ryan shrugged and turned back to the brunette he’d been talking to for the past twenty minutes. She touched his forearm when she laughed. Ryan leaned closer.

Shane set his beer down and peeled at the label with his thumbnail absently. The paper came away in damp strips, leaving a mess of shredded material and glue behind. This was supposed to be fun. The guys had been on him all week—you need to relax, Hollander, you’ve got a stick up your ass, come out with us. So he had. He’d laughed at the right jokes, bought a round, made small talk with the objectively hot bartender. He knew how to do this. He’d been doing it since junior hockey.

J.J. came back to the table, flushed and grinning. “Boys, I think I’m in love.”

“You’re drunk,” Shane said.

“That too. But consider: isn’t it the same thing?”

“I met Jackie at a club, so…”

“That’s the spirit, Pike! And you,” J.J. clapped Shane on the shoulder. “You, definitely you Hollander, you should go talk to her friend. She keeps looking over here.”

Shane glanced toward the blonde’s booth. A redhead sat beside her, scrolling through her phone. She wasn’t looking at him.

“I’m good.”

“Come on, man. When’s the last time you went home with someone?”

Hayden, who was texting his wife, snorted. “Hollander doesn’t do hookups. Too busy being Major Mapleleaf. Gotta protect that squeaky-clean image.”

The nickname landed like it always did: poorly. Shane Hollander, the marketing and sponsorship sellout (spokesperson), NHL poster boy, proof that the league wasn’t just a white boys’ club anymore. He’d heard the same line in a dozen interviews: role model for young Asian athletes across North America…

As if his mother hadn’t already told him that every day of his life.

“I’m just saying.” J.J. squeezed Shane’s shoulder again. “You work too hard. Live a little.”

Shane forced a smile. “I’m clearly living. I’m here, aren’t I?”

J.J. studied him for a second, then shrugged. “Your loss. “ He headed back toward the blonde’s table, weaving slightly.

Shane’s phone buzzed. A text from his mother asking how his most recent sponsored event with Reebok went. No, he was not wearing Reeboks right now. Yes, it was in his contract with Reebok to be wearing them in public. He typed back a quick response and pocketed the phone.

The brunette laughed at something Ryan said, her hand still on his arm. Ryan shot Shane a look—see, this is how it’s done, you pussy, he could read in that cocky waggle of eyebrows—and Shane raised his beer in acknowledgment.

He should leave. He’d done his duty. Showed his face, proved he was one of the guys, laughed at the right jokes about tits and ass. No one could say he didn’t try. If he was lucky, most of them would be too drunk to remember how much effort it took lately for Shane to wear the mask of Rookie of the Year, Role Model, good Japanese-Canadian son who never screwed up, Totally-Straight-Shane who definitely wanted to go home with that redhead.

But the thought of going home… His ribs pressed inward like the boards closing in during a check. Panic pooled deep in his chest, under the ice. Back to the empty condo. A protein shake for dinner, if he was feeling wild since he’d already blown today’s macros with beer. There was game film he should review. There were the same four walls and the same thoughts circling his head waiting for him, like they always were, keeping him company until he couldn’t sleep.

At least here there were people. Noise. Proof that life happened, occasionally, outside his own skull.

“Ah, I should really be getting back to Jackie,” Hayden said, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “You need a ride, Hollander? I can get us a taxi.”

“Actually, I…”

J.J. disappeared out the front door with the blonde on his arm. Ryan stood, the brunette tucking herself against his side. “You two queers sticking around here?”

Ugh.

“Hayden’s on his way back home to his wife,” Shane said, quick to defend his friend from accusations of being the horrible homo and quicker to divert the attention away from himself. “I might… hang out for maybe one more.”

“Ah, looking to snatch some ass once all the competition’s left and no one can laugh at your game. Nice. I respect the hustle, Hollander.” Ryan grinned. “Don’t wait up.” They left, his flavor of the week’s laugh trailing behind them, and Hayden following shortly behind to catch a ride back to his real life.

Shane sat alone in the booth.

The couple at the next table kissed, hands tangled in each other’s hair. The bartender wiped down the counter in long strokes, rinsing the rag without looking up. Someone fed the jukebox and a country song started up, twangy guitar cutting through the bass.

He hated it here.

Shane picked up his beer. Put it down again. He’d felt less alone sitting in his kitchen this morning, swallowing down chalky whey protein shakes in the dark before dawn practice without but a person on a television screen to keep him company. Shane rolled his shoulders, and realized he’d been sitting with his spine rigid for the past hour. Maybe two. Maybe three. 

This was supposed to help, going out and being social and doing all of the things. Doing what normal people did on a Friday night.

Instead, he felt like he was watching someone else’s life through the boards around the rink, taking in moments through hazy, scuffed up panels of plexiglass.

He pulled out his phone and opened a ride-share app, feeling dumber by the moment that he hadn’t taken Hayden’s offer, but… he… really didn’t want to be near him, near his perfect life with his perfect wife and 2.5 children and the picket fence. He didn’t want to be near the queer and unwelcome shape J.J. flung out at him without knowing anything at all.

His thumb hovered over the “request ride” button.

Home meant protein shakes and four walls and the same script he’d been reading from since junior hockey: be grateful, work harder, don’t complain, don’t slip up, be your best, be the best. His mother’s voice in his head, his agent’s voice, every headline that called him a trailblazer like it was a compliment instead of a target on his back.

Being their Shane was exhausting.

Across the bar, the bartender laughed at someone’s joke, head thrown back, shoulders loose. The sound came easy, just like breathing. Light as air, like the flutter of pigeon wings before flight and then floating. Shane couldn’t remember the last time he’d really laughed like that, without checking first who was watching, who might post it online, who might wonder why Canada’s golden boy seemed so friendly with that particular teammate.

His phone screen dimmed. His reflection stared back: lips pursed tight, eyes flat, the same expression he wore in every team photo lately. Like someone had carved his face out of wax.

He closed the ride app.

He was tired. Sleep at home would only leave him even more spent.

So... he opened it again.

There was a new bar downtown. He’d heard about it last month when a teammate’s friend of a friend or whatever, drunk and loud, mentioning one of those places like gay was a punchline or an expletive, like it was a secret, like Shane might be interested. Everyone had been drunk, probably none of them even remembered that moment. But Shane did.

Bad idea.

His fingers moved before his brain caught up. He typed “Wolfbird” into the search bar.

One result. Club Privé. An address on Rue Sainte-Catherine. No website. No reviews. And… based on what he’d heard… no trail, considering there was something along the lines of NDAs at the door, unlike the more well known spots like Renard or Aigle Noir.

Really, it sounded too good to be true.

He should go home, back to the protein shakes and four walls, where it was safe.

You need to relax, Hollander, you’re so tense you’re making me tense, live a little you pussy.

His thumb pressed “request ride” before he could talk himself out of it.

The confirmation popped up. Five minutes away.

Shane stood and shoved his phone in his pocket. The cold bit through his jacket as he stepped outside. Somewhere down Rue Sainte-Catherine, there was a bar where no one knew his name, and maybe, just maybe, he could stop performing for one fucking night.

It was a short ride.

The cab pulled up to an adjacent address, because like fuck would he have told the driver where he was actually going, sidling up beside a building Shane had driven past a hundred times without noticing. A black door set into exposed red brick, flanked by two potted evergreens dusted with old snow. A single bulb burned above the frame, throwing weak yellow light across the sidewalk.

Shane paid the driver and stepped out into the cold. His breath fogged the air in a low cloud as he stood there like an idiot, somehow still deciding if he was actually going to go in. There was a chance they wouldn’t even let him in. What if there was a dress code? Shane glanced down at himself—dark jeans, charcoal sweater, the leather jacket he’d grabbed on his way out. Nothing flashy, but clean. Even when he dressed casually, with the help of a stylist Shane usually dressed well.

The building was nearly silent from outside apart from the faint suggestion of sound behind that heavy door, but even then it was nothing he could identify. Stepping towards the entrance and reaching for the knob, the door was heavier than it looked and… was that a loon carved into the wood?

He pulled it open and a welcome, cozy heat rolled over him, carrying the smell of leather and cedar and expensive cologne—the kind that cost more per bottle than his gym membership… which was saying something, to be honest, because Shane liked nice gyms.

A woman sat behind a sleek desk just inside, backlit by soft amber sconces. Dark hair pulled back in a neat twist, red lipstick, a silk blouse that probably cost more than the entire team’s impressive bar tab tonight. She looked up from her tablet and her face brightened when she saw him.

“Bonsoir, bienvenue à Wolfbird. Hello, welcome to Wolfbird,” She smiled, then switched to English, leaving it open to Shane to respond however he pleased. “Is this your first time here?” Her accent was French, but not Québécois. European, maybe. And she hadn’t even said a thing about his clothes.

“Is… is it that obvious?”

She smiled, inclining her head, and the neat little pearl earrings she wore sparkled with the motion. “I ask everyone.”

“Yeah.” Shane’s throat was dry. “I heard—someone mentioned this place.”

“ID, please.”

He handed over his driver’s license. She scanned it, her eyes flicking between the photo and his face. Her eyebrow lifted slightly, but she didn’t comment. Slid a tablet across the desk toward him.

“This is our standard NDA; discretion is our priority. Take your time to read it, and I can answer any questions you may have, but to go inside you’ll need to sign it. I can email you a copy.”

Shane took the tablet. The text swam in front of him—legalese about privacy, conduct, consent. He skimmed it. Initialed three places. Signed at the bottom.

She took it back and tapped her screen. “I’ll need your phone and smart watch if you’re wearing one. They’ll be safe in a locker, and I’ll give you a key with your own code.”

“My phone?”

“As part of our House rules, no one is able to bring recording devices of any kind inside, like phones or cameras or even smart watches, like I mentioned. This prevents anyone from taking videos or photos, and we have a zero tolerance policy. You’ll also need to step through a metal detector.” She gestured to a bank of small lockers built into the wall behind her, each with a numbered keypad. “We have lockable storage cubes for them here, and you set your own code for when you’re ready to leave.”

“... and… if I need my phone?”

She blinked at him. “Then, perhaps, sir, you don’t need to be here.”

Shane hesitated, then pulled out his phone. The screen lit up with notifications—more texts from his mother, this time asking about if he’d gotten the email from Rolex and then another asking why he was even up so late and then a third asking if she should make him the ube cake he liked, and then three texts from J.J. that were mostly incoherent gibberish at this point.

He powered it off and handed it over along with his watch.

She slid both into locker 23 and flashed him a smile. “Enjoy your evening, sir.”

“Thanks.”

He turned toward the second door, another dark wooden and heavy thing with a carved loon watching from the center, and pushed through.

All at once, noise rolled over him in lush waves. In the sports bar earlier, there was a torrent, a riptide of sound between whooping shouts for scores, loud, bad flirting, and rickety wooden stools scraping against filthy concrete, everyone trying to be louder than the person next to them.

But here… everything was plush, inviting even, laying muted conversations beneath a slow electronic beat that was more of an undercurrent than focal point. Laughter from somewhere to his left. The clink of expensive glassware. A man’s low murmur, followed by someone else’s breathy response.

Dim lighting kept him from seeing everything at once; track lights picked out tables and booths in pools of warm gold, leaving the spaces between shadowed. As his eyes adjusted, details emerged and there was velvet seating in deep burgundy and navy, exposed brick hung with abstract art that might have been bodies or might have been nothing. The bar stretched along the far wall, backlit bottles glowing in shades of amber and blue and green.

And the people.

Shane had been to clubs before. Straight clubs, and bars like tonight, the kind where women danced in tight dresses and men postured with overpriced vodka. Normal bars and clubs where everyone got louder and sloppier as the night wore on, hands grabbing, voices rising, almost orgiastically as the whole room has pseudo-sex without actually wanting each other.

This wasn’t that. Here, men leaned into each other without apology. It was quieter, and no one was performing (or doing backshots). A couple kissed in a corner booth, hands tangled in hair. There were normal couples, yes, but also two women sat at the bar, one’s hand resting on the other’s thigh. Across the room, a man in a tailored suit traced his finger down another man’s jaw, and the second man closed his eyes.

Shane stood frozen just inside the threshold.

A server passed carrying a tray of drinks without sparing him a glance. The couple in the booth broke apart just long enough to breathe, foreheads still touching, and Shane’s throat went tight watching them smile at each other like they were the only two people in the room.

… and… bizarrely, all Shane could think was: I have never kissed anyone like that before.

Maybe he never would.

There was the panic again, pressing, crushing, check after check, buried-in beneath a pile up and the puck was gone, so was he—

Shane stepped backward. He didn’t belong here. These people knew what they wanted. They’d walked through that door already at ease in their own skin, already certain.

Shane was neither.

He was fidgeting, and no longer had his phone to hide inside of. He could leave still; get his phone back and call another cab. He could be home in twenty minutes.

“You look lost. And you are letting all cold air in.”

Shane turned.

A man stood beside him. Tall, maybe Shane’s height, wait no, a bit taller, with light brown hair that curled at the edges and hazel eyes that caught the low light. They were… oh wow, lovely eyes, too bright for this dim room, that flashed like they’d hoarded every spare scrap of light just to show off. He wore dark jeans and a fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the material tastefully taut across muscular shoulders. And—Shane’s eyes drifted to his hands and saw long fingers, no rings, one hand tucked casual in his pocket while the other hung loose at his side.

He was, objectively, the most beautiful man Shane had ever seen.

“Sorry. Sorry, I’m—” Shane’s brain stuttered.

“Is okay. Just close door and step inside,” the man said, head tilted slightly to the side. “Unless you do not want to?”

“I’m… fine.”

His mouth, which was shapely and handsome, curved. Not quite a smile. “You look like you are about to run away into the night, like final girl in horror movie. I promise, no chainsaws here.”

Russian. The accent was thick, vowels rounded in a way that made every word feel slower than it was.

“I wasn’t going to run,” Shane lied.

“No?” The man tilted his head the other way, blatantly studying him. “Then maybe you are waiting for someone?”

“No. I mean—I came alone.”

“Ah.” He nodded, then gestured toward the bar. “And first time?”

“Do you ask everyone that?”

“No, Aimée at front door lies, liar told you this, and it is obvious,” The man stepped closer, not enough to crowd or add to the panic-stricken, dogpile sensation he felt, but enough that Shane caught the scent of his cologne, and that they could better look eye to eye, looking entirely opposite as one stood with a comfortable looseness and every angle of Shane was tense.

“...and so first drink is very important. You want something strong, or something that tastes good?”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“Strong helps with nerves. Good taste helps you remember why you came.” The man’s glittering eyes held his, patient. “Which one are you wanting tonight?”

Good question. Good question and he didn’t fucking know, what did he know? He was the idiot who had just spent the last three hours pretending he wasn’t under so much pressure he might implode, pretending to fit in, and pretending that he might’ve maybe sort of wanted to go home with the redhead J.J. pointed out before he’d made the insane choice to drive across town to sign an NDA (which, was that even enforceable? What would stop someone from saying things anyway?).

“I don’t know,” Shane said, feeling dumb.

Still, the almost-smile widened. “Okay. Come.”

He turned and walked toward the bar, not checking to see if Shane followed, weaving between tables like he knew the layout in his sleep.

“Wait, I didn’t catch your name—”

“Drink first,” he called back, still not looking, “Come, this way.”

Shane followed, skirting around a server carrying martinis. The man had already reached the bar and raised one hand to signal the bartender, who looked up as they approached—a woman with a cloud of auburn curls that caught the amber light, her forearms covered in intricate black line work. She broke into a grin when she saw them approach.

“Ilyusha,” she said, drawing out the name. “Haven’t seen you in a week. Thought maybe you’d finally gotten a real job.”

“Is a real job. I get paid.” He leaned against the bar, one elbow propped on the polished wood. Veins stood out along his forearm, and Shane was ashamed at how quickly he noticed (and stared), drawn to the strong lines beneath sun-touched skin, leading his eye up to the easy slope of his bicep…

“You have the Redbreast still, Sveta?”

“Always.” She pulled a bottle from the top shelf, curls bouncing as she moved, then glanced at Shane. “And for your friend?”

Shane opened his mouth, but the man spoke first.

“Two,” he said. “Neat.”

Shane watched, nearly transfixed, as she poured two fingers of amber liquid into each glass without measuring and slid them across the polished wood.

“Spasibo, moy kotik,” The man said, nodding his head to her before pushing one glass toward Shane and picking up the other. “Now you. Vyp’yem za tebya,” he said, reaching over to clink the glasses, then taking a sip.

“Um, cheers.” Shane lifted his glass. The whiskey smelled like honey and smoke. He drank. It burned going down, then spread warmth through his chest and stomach. Better than the shitty beer he’d been nursing all night.

“Good?” He asked.

“Yeah. It’s good.”

“See? I know things. Next one you can put on your tab.” He set his glass down and turned to face him properly, leaning sideways against the bar. “So. First time here, you come alone, you don’t know what you want. Why are you here?”

Shane’s grip tightened on his glass. “Just... wanted a drink somewhere new.”

“Mm.” Hazel eyes tracked over his face, unhurried. “You drove across city to sign NDA and give up phone for one drink?”

“I didn’t drive. I took a cab.”

“Even worse. Expensive and slow.”

Shane took another sip. Buying time. “Is that a problem?”

“No problem. I am just wondering.” The man tilted his head, curls falling across his forehead. “You look like man who does not do things without reason. Very... what is word. Organized. Put together.”

“I’m not that organized.”

“No?” He gestured at him, hand sweeping from head to toe. “Your clothes match. Your hair is—” he made a motion near his own head, “—very neat. Even way you stand is straight. Like you are at attention in the military and I am a general. It is almost flattering.”

Shane forced his shoulders to relax. They crept right back up.

The man’s mouth shaped to a smile slowly, and Shane thought those Cupid’s bow lips softened when they curved. Then the man laughed, low and warm. “See? You cannot even stop. Is okay. I am not making fun.”

“Feels like you are.”

“No, no. I am observing.” He picked up his glass again, swirled the whiskey. “Is my job.”

“Your job is observing people?”

“Sometimes. Depends on the person.” He took another drink, watching him over the rim. “You are very tense. How long have you been like this?”

“Like what?”

“Wound up. Tight.” The man made a twisting gesture with his free hand. “Like spring that is coiled too much and will break.”

“I’m fine,” Shane lied.

“If you were fine, you would not be here.” He set his glass down and turned to face the bar, mirroring Shane’s position now. Shoulder to shoulder, both of them looking at the bottles lining the wall instead of each other. “Is easier sometimes, yes? To talk when not looking at face.”

Shane stared at a bottle of gin. The label had a drawing of a juniper branch. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say anything.” The man’s shoulder bumped his, light contact that felt deliberate. “I am just talking. You can talk back, or you can drink whiskey and ignore me. Both are fine. I am hot and you are pretty and just standing here doing nothing is still good for the bar.”

The bartender moved past them to serve someone else, leaving them more alone and leaving Shane to unpack the nuclear warhead of you are pretty.

“How did you know I was tense?” Shane asked, unable to decide if he should cut the blue wire or the red.

“You hold your shoulders like this—” He demonstrated, pulling his own shoulders up toward his ears, “—and you keep checking room. Looking at exits. And when I came to talk to you, you almost ran away.”

“I wasn’t going to run.”

“You thought about it.” The man picked up Shane’s glass and handed it back to him. “Drink. You paid expensive cab fare for this.”

Shane drank. The warmth spread further, loosening the knot in his chest by a fraction. “What’s your name?”

“At work, I am just Rozanov.”

“I’m—”

“I know who you are.” Rozanov cut him off gently. “Shane Hollander. Number twenty four. Voyageurs. Very good player. Very handsome. Cosmopolitan says you are hottest man in NHL.”

“You read Cosmopolitan?”

“Client left one here last month. Was slow night.” Rozanov grinned at him. “Is true, though. You are very handsome. And you blush easily. Is cute.”

“I’m not—” Shane stopped. Took another drink. “You’re not supposed to know who I am. That’s the whole point of the NDA.”

“NDA is so you know I will not tell anyone you were here. I can still know things.” Rozanov’s knee bumped Shane’s under the bar. “Relax. Your secret is safe. I have many secrets. Comes with job.”

“What is your job, exactly?”

Rozanov studied him for a long moment. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. You work here?”

“Sometimes. When people need help relaxing,” Rozanov said. “Like you. You need help, I think.”

“You sound like a therapist. I don’t need help.”

“No? Then why are you here, Hollander?” Rozanov turned to face him again, leaning close enough that Shane could see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “You can lie to me if you want, I do not mind. Lies can be beautiful and fun, but I think you are tired of lying.”

Shane’s hands had gone numb around his glass. He set it down before he dropped it.

Rozanov waited.

“I wanted...” Shane started, then stopped. Swallowed. “It… it is very hard to be me.”

Beside him, Rozanov didn’t respond, still only holding his glass, keeping them shoulder to shoulder. The void of quiet made Shane want to fill it, and so he dumped more words out in the open:

“I mean it is very hard to perform and be ‘Shane Hollander,’ number twenty four for the Montreal Voyageurs, role model to kids, and whatever Cosmopolitan and everyone else says about me.”

“Surely not that hard with pretty face like that. The girls throw themselves at you.”

Shane paused and pursed his lips. The NDA, like Rozanov had said, didn’t stop people from knowing things but… if… he… couldn’t tell anyone…

It had to be the drink, and the drinks before, because Shane did something stupid:

“It’s hard when I don’t… want… girls throwing themselves at me.”

The admission slipped easily, rippleless and without the cataclysmic splash that Shane expected.

“Ah.” Rozanov nodded slowly. “Yes. This I understand.” He straightened, putting a few inches of space between them again. “And what do you want? To finish drink and leave? To stay and talk more? To sit somewhere more quiet?”

All three were safe options, and all three were presented to him so easily.

So… why… wasn’t this easy?

“I don’t know what I want,” Shane said.

“Then we start with what you do not want.” Rozanov picked up his empty glass and tilted it toward the bartender for a refill. “You do not want to go home yet, or you would not be here. You do not want to perform, you said this already. So. Do you want to stand at bar with music and Svetlana and people watching? Or do you want to go somewhere we can talk? Sit, even, if feeling brave?”

Shane glanced around. A few people at nearby tables had clocked him. He could feel their eyes, the way you always could when someone recognized you. His shoulders crept up back towards his ears again, and Rozanov tsked at the sight.

“Somewhere quieter,” Shane said, dropping them.

“Good,” Rozanov said, and Shane had to wonder if he was being praised for making a basic decision, then gestured toward the back of the room where a few more plush leather booths lined the wall with neat little wooden tables, half-hidden in shadow. “We go there. Bring your drink.”

They walked nearly side by side across the room towards a booth, which sat tucked into the corner. Rozanov slid into one side and Shane took the other, setting his glass down on the polished wood on a coaster. The music was quieter back here, the bass less insistent. He could hear Rozanov’s breathing. His own. More importantly… he couldn’t see anyone’s faces staring at him.

“Better?” Rozanov asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Rozanov settled back against the leather with one arm stretched along the top of the booth, looking like he had all the time in the world. “So. Tell me about this performing you are so tired of.”

“I don’t—” Shane stopped. Started again. “I’m not good at talking about myself.”

“Really? I love talking about self, is an easy subject as I am expert. Though… if hard for you, then I will ask questions and you can answer. Or not answer. Is up to you.” Rozanov took a sip of his whiskey. “Do you like playing hockey?”

The question caught Shane off guard. “Yes. I love it.”

“But?”

“But what?”

“There is always ’but’ with love like that. I hear it on your tongue, still in your mouth behind your teeth when you say it. You love hockey, but...” Rozanov waited.

Shane turned his glass in slow circles on the table. The whiskey caught the low light, and then pushed through the crystal like a prism to make a little, shy, tabletop rainbow. “... But I’m tired of being ‘Shane Hollander,’ Hockey Player. Capital H, capital P. Like that’s all I am.”

“What else are you?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

Rozanov hummed, a low sound in his throat. “This is problem, yes. When you are one thing for so long, you forget other parts.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So we find out. What do you do when you are not playing hockey?”

“I train, or workout. I… watch films from games or mealprep. Sleep.”

“This is still hockey.”

“I know.”

“What did you do before hockey took over your life?”

Shane had to think about it. High school felt like another lifetime. “I... read, I guess. Played video games. Normal stuff, I was a kid. This has been my life forever at this point.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m supposed to be a role model, do interviews… lift up a generation of kids, diversify the league. Things like showing up at charity events and smiling for photos and not... not...” He trailed off.

“Not be painfully flawed human that sometime makes mistakes?” Rozanov offered.

“Yeah.”

“Impossible tasks. Everyone makes mistakes. The good thing is that it is normal. The bad thing… is… for you, trying to be perfect has become normal.” Rozanov sat back again, studying him. “Is very lonely, I think. To be perfect all the time.”

Shane took a drink to wash away the bile in the back of his throat. “I’m not perfect.”

“Of course not, as I say, no one is perfect. But people want you to be, yes? Want you to be their idea of good Canadian boy. Good player who makes league look diverse and progressive. Good role model who never makes mistake.” Rozanov’s mouth twisted. “Is fucking bullshit.”

The casual vulgarity startled a laugh out of Shane.

“What?”

Rozanov grinned. “Ah, there. I knew it was just hiding. So you can smile. See? Is not so hard.”

“You don’t know me well enough to—”

“To what? To see you are exhausted? To see you are pretending?” Rozanov shook his head. “I see many people like you. People who come here because is only place they can stop pretending. I am very good at seeing.”

“And what else do you see?”

Rozanov’s gaze traveled over his face, lingering. “I… see very handsome man who is afraid someone will notice he is handsome, which will be futile for every person who has eyes and can see that you are handsome, clear as they can see sun in morning.”

“Rozanov…”

“Shh. I am not done. You will wait. I see someone who wants to be wanted but is terrified of wanting back. I see—” he paused, tilted his head. “I see someone who came here hoping for something but does not know what.”

Shane’s fingers had gone numb around his glass. “You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” Shane admitted.

“Then is not assumption. Is observation.” Rozanov finished his whiskey and set the empty glass aside. “Can I tell you something?”

“Okay.”

“I think you are very attractive. Not because you are famous hockey player or because Cosmopolitan says so. Because you have very nice face and very nice body, and I cannot stop staring at the—these—” Rozanov gestured at his own face, skimming fingers across the bridge of his nose, “Vesnushki in Russian. The constellations in your skin.”

Shane had never heard them described that way, or so endearingly. “Freckles?”

“Yes. Those. And now that you have smiled, I want to see it again.” Rozanov leaned forward again. “And I think maybe you find me attractive too, but you are not letting yourself think about it because you are too busy being afraid.”

Heat crawled up Shane’s neck. “I’m not—”

“You looked at my mouth three times since we sat down. Is okay. I have nice mouth, and a nice rest of me. I know I am hot, Hollander.” Rozanov’s grin was shameless. “And you can look. Is allowed, and from me, encouraged. No one here will tell anyone else.”

Shane’s face burned. “You’re very... direct.”

“Yes. Even outside of language, I think is easier than dancing around and pretending. Life is too short for pretending.” Rozanov’s leg brushed Shane’s under the table. Might have been an accident. Might not have been. “So. Do you think I am attractive Shane Hollander?”

“That’s—you can’t just ask that.”

“Why not? Is simple question. Yes or no.”

Shane looked at him properly. The curls falling across Rozanov’s forehead. The sharp line of his jaw and the gold hue of his skin. The way his hazel eyes caught the amber light. The lopsided curve of his mouth.

“Yes,” Shane said quietly.

“See? Was not so hard.” Rozanov’s smile softened. “And now you know I think you are attractive, and I know you think I am attractive, and we can both stop pretending we are just having normal conversation about hockey and weather.”

“Um. What are we having instead?”

“Honest conversation. Is much better.” Rozanov’s foot hooked around Shane’s ankle under the table. Gentle pressure. “You are very tense still. Even your legs are tense. Do you ever relax?”

“Not really.”

“When was last time?”

Shane couldn’t remember. “I don’t know.”

“This is problem.” Rozanov’s thumb traced the rim of his empty glass. “You need to learn how to let go. How to stop controlling everything.”

“I don’t control everything.”

“You are controlling this conversation. Controlling how you sit. Controlling your face so you do not show too much and so you do not smile despite the fact that I am charming and wonderful and quite funny.” Rozanov’s eyes were warm, not judging. “Even now, you are thinking about what you should say instead of what you want to say.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I watch people for living. Is my job to notice, as I have said.” Rozanov paused. “You want to know what my job is, yes? You have been wondering since we met.”

“Yeah.”

“I help people relax. Help them stop thinking so much. Stop being in charge.” Rozanov’s foot pressed against Shane’s ankle again. “Some people need to talk. Some people need to be told what to do for little while. Some people just need permission to want what they want without feeling guilty. Is different for everyone, but I am skilled enough to see the difference.”

Shane’s brain caught on something. Help people relax. “Are you—” Shane stopped. Was there even a nice way to phrase this? “Do you work here as... do people pay you?”

Rozanov didn’t flinch. “Yes, to both. I am professional. This is job, not hobby, and you are in need of my services.”

An escort. Shane was sitting across from an escort. Or—no, not exactly. Something more specific than that, based on what Rozanov had said. Someone who helped people “let go.” Someone who got paid to—

“You look like you are doing math problem in your head,” Rozanov said, amused. “Is okay. You can ask.”

“I… don’t want to be rude.”

“Why not? Being rude is enjoyable on occasion. Besides, you cannot be rude by asking honest question. Is much more worse to make assumption and be wrong.” Rozanov leaned back. “So. Ask.”

Shane’s fingers found the edge of his glass. “What exactly do you do? Like... specifically.”

“I am Dom. Professional Dom. You know this word?”

“I’ve heard it.”

“Good. Then you know is not same as escort, though sometimes people confuse. I do not have sex for money—or, well, I can, but is not required and is not primary service. What I do is help people give up control in safe way. Sane way. Sometimes this is sexual. Sometimes is not. Depends on what client needs and what we negotiate.” Rozanov’s fingers drummed once against the table. “For you, I think would be very sexual, because you have not been touched in long time and your body is screaming for it. Yes, this is also obvious. But… we start with talking. Always talking first.”

“And you’d charge me.”

“Yes. This is how I pay rent. Montreal is expensive city.” Rozanov tilted his head. “Is this problem?”

Was it? Shane had money. More money than he knew what to do with, honestly, between his contract and endorsements. He’d probably spent more on a single suit than whatever Rozanov would charge for a night.

But paying someone to touch him felt... transactional. Clinical. Like admitting he couldn’t get this any other way.

“I can see you thinking again, Hollander,” Rozanov said. “Let me help. You are worried that paying makes it not real, yes? That if you pay, then I am only nice because you give me money, and so whatever happens is not genuine.”

“Kind of.”

“This is reasonable worry, but is wrong worry.” Rozanov leaned forward. “I am professional, yes, but I choose my clients. I can say no. Wolfbird pays me salary, I do not need every person who walks through door. I am picky. So if I offer to take you to private room, is because I want to. Because I think you need help and I think I can help, and also—” his mouth curved, “—because you are very attractive and I want to touch you. I would very much like to make those tense shoulders go loose, and give that pretty, pouting mouth something else to do. Money means you get my skill and my full attention. Money means I take care of you properly and we do this right. But money does not make me want you less.”

Shane absorbed this slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay you understand, or okay you still want to go?”

“Okay I understand and… wait, I have another question, I’m sorry.”

“Is very good to have question, and very Canadian to apologize.”

“You said that different people need all the different kinds of… um, loss of control. Talking, telling people what to do… giving permission. And which of those kinds am I?”

“You are all three kinds.” Rozanov held his gaze. “But mostly you need permission. You need someone to tell you is okay to want this. Okay to be here. It is okay to be ‘Shane Hollander,’ regular guy, and not number twenty four, and is okay to think I am hot. Is okay to say ‘I don’t know,’ like you have, and let someone else take care of it, and decisions, for one night so you do not have to.”

“What… kind of decisions?”

“Small ones. What you drink, like that whiskey, Hollander. Where you sit, like this nice booth. When you speak, like we are talking now, honestly at last.” Rozanov’s mouth curved. “Bigger ones, if you want. But we start small. We start with you saying yes or no to simple question.”

“What question?”

“Do you want to stay here and talk, or… do you want more than talk?” Rozanov’s expression was open, easy. No pressure. “You can say no. We can stay here and I can talk all evening. That is okay too.”

“I thought you said you were good at making decisions for people.”

“Ah. Not this one. Always consent first. You can take time to think on it. I am enjoying waiting.”

Shane looked at him. At the patient way Rozanov waited. At the lack of judgment in his eyes.

“If I say yes,” Shane said slowly, “what happens?”

“We go to private room. We talk more, and I ask you more questions about what you like, and what you do not like. You tell me. Then, if you still want, I help you relax, make you feel good. Help you stop thinking for little while.” Rozanov’s foot slid away from Shane’s ankle, removing even that small contact. Leaving the choice entirely to Shane. “But only if this is something you do want.”

Shane’s hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against his thighs under the table.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay you want to think about it, or okay yes?”

Shane swallowed. “Okay yes.”

Rozanov’s smile was warm. “Good. Finish your drink, then we go.”

Chapter End Notes

My Hollanov fics on AO3

Hey! I wanted to write more of a nuanced kink piece/multichapter fic from Shane's and Ilya's alternating POVs. Here's that. I hope you enjoyed chapter one, and thanks for reading! If you liked it, I’d love to yap in the comments about what you think might happen next.

This work is entirely unbetad, so I apologize for typos that missed my spellcheck.—Well would you look at that! Thanks to the kind offer of a reader, this chapter has now been checked/beta'd. My Thank you to Aphantastical for beta'ing this work!

*Vyp'yem za tebya (Выпьем за тебя), which Ilya says at the bar, means “Let's drink to you”.

Not sure what to say? Comment anxiety? How about...

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”
- 🌌 “this wasn't my favorite”
- 🦆 “stupid Canadian wolf bird”
- 🏒 “dumb hockey boys make me happy”
- 🗡️ “this usually isnt my thing... and yet”
- 💀 “how dare you (affectionate)”

Chapter 2: Mysli

Chapter Notes

This fic uses a work skin to simulate text messages. You may turn it off by clicking 'Hide Creator's Style', but it will affect the formatting slightly!

“Having second thoughts?”

Shane followed Rozanov down a hallway lined with numbered doors, each one identical: dark wood, brass fixtures, small plaques bearing only numbers. The carpet beneath his feet absorbed sound, leaving only the ambient throb of music from the main room and the whisper of his own breathing.

And yes, he was having second thoughts.

“No. I’m—” Shane watched Rozanov stop at door seven, and produce a key from his pocket, opening it with a smooth turn of his wrist. “I’m fine.”

“You are also bad liar.” Rozanov fixed him with a look then stepped aside, gesturing Shane in first. “Luckily for you, I like bad liars. They try harder. Is okay be nervous, I am excellent at dealing with men who have no idea what they want. Please, come in.”

Beyond the door, instead of a dungeon there was… oh, that was it? He was a curious person by nature. He had seen porn online and knew about that armory in San Francisco, the one teammates always mentioned like a joke whenever they were in California to play the Sharks. He sort of already knew what Wolfbird was even before he’d stepped inside, and built something specific in his head over how this was supposed to look. It was supposed to be dark with leather restraints and dog collars bolted to the walls, and there were definitely supposed to be muffled sounds of someone in the next room being whipped and called terrible names until they cried or came. Or both, he wondered, wasn’t that the point?

There was nothing like that here.

Shane deflated slightly, taking in the mundane scene: a leather couch stretched along one wall, deep enough to swallow a person whole and a small bathroom door stood ajar to the left. There weren’t any chains dangled from hooks or a pillory or iron maidens or gimp masks hung on display on the walls. The walls weren’t even craggy stone, instead they were a soft off white sort of shade with a few tasteful abstract paintings in muted colors—blues bleeding into greys, pops of gold. Pretty. A side table held bottles of water, a small basket with wrapped condoms and packets of lube, a box of tissues. Everything clean. Everything... normal.

Shane, once again, lingered in the threshold.

“I am thinking this is not what you expected?” Rozanov said from behind him, amused.

Shane turned. Rozanov had closed the door and now leaned against it, arms crossed loosely, hazel eyes catching the light as he watched Shane take in the room.

“A little. But… I don’t know what I expected.”

“Mm. Chains? Leather? Maybe big scary chair with straps and—what are they calling this online—‘romantasy’ book sized dildo? And very dramatic pink-red lighting, yes? You think we are filming Netflix series in here?” Rozanov’s mouth quirked, and he pushed off the door and moved deeper into the room. “We do have these things, but I think not for you tonight. And yes, I see the question in your face again, I hear you thinking how do you know what I need? The answer is I know because, while my English is not always so good, I read very good, Hollander. And you are written in big blocky text even child could read: you are tense. Scary vibrator or shibari rig with ropes would only make you more tense.” Rozanov winked, and gestured at the couch. “Sit. Please. Is more comfortable than standing, I promise.”

Bewildered, Shane sat. The leather exhaled beneath his weight, soft and broken in. He kept his spine straight, hands on his knees like he was waiting in a principal’s office, or in his coach’s office.

Rozanov pulled a chair from the corner—a simple thing, wood and black cushioning—and positioned it across from the couch with a bit of distance between them, slipping into it to sit like he was in detention, and did not care. He reached for a tablet waiting on a small side table, tapping it awake with his thumb.

“So. Before anything else, we talk.” He looked up, hazel eyes catching the amber light. “Is boring part, yes, but is most important. We figure out what you want, what you do not want, what is absolutely ’Rozanov if you try this I will kick you in the balls.’”

Despite himself, Shane huffed a laugh.

“Ah, there. See? You can smile.” Rozanov grinned at him, then pulled up something on the tablet. “Is good sign. Now. I start with easy things. Have you done this before? Any of this? With man, with woman, with anyone?”

“I’ve—” How could he ask things like this so casually?! “I’ve done sex things before.”

“’Sex things.’ This is very specific term.” Rozanov’s mouth twitched. “And by this you are meaning...”

“ In high school, junior hockey. I…” Shane’s face felt like it was on fire, this was well beyond blushing territory. “I’ve, ah, dated… girls… and… once we, ah, I mean I—she let me finger her. Ah, there was… I’ve.. gotten head. Sort of. But that was where we stopped.”

“And so not farther, and not this, not giving up control.”

“No.”

“And not with man before?”

“No.”

Rozanov made a note. “Okay. Is good to know. Means we start very simple, very slow, and we check in often. Yes?”

“... Okay.”

“Now, slightly harder questions, but I think you are smart man, Hollander. You will do fine.” Rozanov met his eyes. “We discuss hard limits first. Things you will not do, no matter what. I ask questions, you say yes or no. Much easier than trying to think of everything yourself.”

The knot in Shane’s chest loosened slightly. “Okay.”

“Pain. Do you want this? Spanking, hitting, things that hurt?”

“No.” The answer came fast, certain.

“Good. I also do not enjoy hurting people, so we agree.” Rozanov made a note. “Being called names? Told you are worthless, ugly, degraded?”

Shane’s stomach clenched. “No. God, no.”

“Also good, because I think you are very attractive and would be lying if I said otherwise.” Rozanov’s thumb moved across the screen. “Other people watching? Public scenes?”

“No.”

“Bondage? Rope, restraints, being tied so you cannot move?”

Shane hesitated. His fingers curled against his jeans. “I... maybe? I don’t know.”

“Then is soft limit. We save for later, if you decide you want to try.” Rozanov glanced up. “You are doing well. Keep going.”

They continued through the list. Rozanov’s questions were direct but never cold—he added small comments between each one, little observations that made the whole thing feel less like an interrogation and more like a conversation. Did Shane want to be penetrated? Eventually, maybe. Fisting? Absolutely not, no thank you, was that a real question or a joke? Did he want to use toys? Maybe. Blindfolds? Maybe. Gags? No.

“And then this is most important thing,” Rozanov said, setting the tablet aside temporarily, “At any point, you want to stop, you say stop. I will stop. Even if we are in middle of something, even if I am—” he waved a hand vaguely and waggled his eyebrows, “—very invested in what we are doing. You say stop, everything stops. Understand?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Good.” Rozanov picked up the tablet again and pulled up a document, turned the screen toward Shane, “Now… here, you sit and review everything in tablet. Is okay if we make changes now. Then, if you are comfortable and feeling safe, you can sign, and we can begin.”

Shane took the tablet. His hands shook slightly.

On the screen, there was an auto populated contract with notes that Rozanov had taken, and the language itself was straightforward—consent, boundaries, discretion. He skimmed it twice, then signed at the bottom. His signature looked like shit.

Rozanov took the tablet back, glanced at the signature, and didn’t comment on it. Instead he pulled a small card reader from his pocket. “I will email you copy for records. And... this part: payment now, before we start. Gets awkward business out of way so we can both forget about it. You saw fee, yes?”

$400 an hour. Yes, he’d seen it, and yes, he could more than afford it. The cost wasn’t the sting, it was that he was paying at all, like some kind of loser that would only ever be able to find solace (maybe) when he paid someone to pretend to care.

Still, Shane pulled out his wallet and handed over his credit card. The reader beeped. Rozanov processed the transaction without looking at the amount, then handed the card back. The transaction took maybe ten seconds.

“There. Business is done.” Rozanov set everything aside—tablet, reader, card—on the side table. When he looked at Shane again, something had shifted. The professional distance remained, but underneath it lived something warmer.

“Is it wrong that I can’t be more specific about what I want?” Shane asked.

“Hm? No. Is your first time like you said, yes? Unless you are a lying liar?”

“W-what? No, I wasn’t lying.”

“Then how could you know? Is why most people come to me, anyway. It is my job to know things. Is easier, sometimes, to let someone else be in charge.” Rozanov leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You spend all day being responsible, being perfect, being what everyone needs. Here, you can stop. Here…” He spread his hands, “you can let go and I will catch you. This is what I am good at.”

“I thought—” Shane’s hands twisted together. “I thought this would be more about pain. Punishment. The stuff you see in movies.”

“So many thoughts, Hollander. How do you have room for self in all those worries? Sometimes, for some people, yes. But this is not what you need.” Rozanov’s fingers stilled on the screen. He looked at Shane directly. “You need something… soft.”

“Soft?”

“Da. Yes.”

“And why do you think that’s what I need?”

Rozanov’s head tipped to the side, and he was smiling again. “Because you are exhausted from deciding and hiding, being Mr. Perfect, and so you will give the decision to me. I take the choice from you, and with it, stress. Is like handing off heavy object to someone else. You take a break.” His accent thickened slightly, “… and… since choice is now mine, I will do what I like with it. I savour these things. And I like being soft, Hollander. Will you let me be soft with you?”

Not can I, but will you let me.

“... yes.”

Rozanov’s smile widened. “Good. Then we start.” He shifted on the couch, angling his body toward Shane. “I want to touch you. Nothing under clothes yet, just—” he reached out slowly, telegraphing the movement, “—I want to feel where you hold all this tension you carry around. May I?”

Shane nodded.

“Words, please.”

“Yes. You can—yes.”

Rozanov’s hand settled on Shane’s shoulder, thumb finding the knot of muscle there immediately. He pressed in, and Shane’s breath stuttered. Okay so… a massage? A Professional Dom wanted to give him a massage? This was probably just him being slow, realizing that Shane was nervous and out of his depth, and in a moment, things would switch up. They’d agreed no pain, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t get bossed around. That’s what Doms did, right? Rozanov would tell him to kneel, probably. Or strip. Something to prove he could follow directions the way he followed his coach's plays or calls or how a photographer might tell him to turn this way or that to smile for cameras, or the way he never fucked up in front of sponsors. There had to be a test. A way to show he was doing this right.

“Bozhe moy, Hollander. You are like stone here.” Rozanov’s other hand joined the first, both working into Shane’s shoulders through the fabric of his sweater. “When was last time someone touched you? Really touched you?”

Shane opened his mouth but nothing came—the answer buried somewhere too deep to reach, or maybe there wasn’t one at all. He certainly couldn’t remember or even fake a response and it must’ve shown on his stupid face.

“Mm. Too long.” Rozanov’s fingers moved in slow, firm circles. “Turn. Face forward, let me get behind you.”

Shane shifted, and Rozanov moved behind him on the couch with thighs bracketing Shane’s hips without quite touching. Rozanov’s legs were long, elegant even, Shane noticed. They were also muscular, meaty thighs like his own, the kind built on years of brutal skating drills in cold rinks from Burnaby to Brossard. Ones that were used to hard work and endurance. Shane wondered what a man like Rozanov, who wasn’t paid to murder himself at practice or in professional sports, did to maintain that physique, what he—

The thoughts fluttered away as Rozanov’s hands settled on Shane’s shoulders properly, and when they pressed in with intention, working the tense flesh beneath in earnest, and Shane… Shane was still scrambling to find the moment when the shoe would drop and Rozanov would really tell him to do something beyond how to sit—now you do this for me, now you earn it—but Rozanov just kept working down his spine, fingers pressing into every locked joint. He asked about Shane's tension, about the weather, about the knots under his skin. His hands stayed focused on Shane's body, learning it, loosening it.

This was it. This was the whole thing.

“Breathe,” Rozanov said, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted against Shane’s ear. “In through nose, out through mouth. Slow.”

Shane tried. His shoulders wanted to creep back up toward his ears. Was this how things were supposed to work? People always needed things from him. The league needed a role model. Sponsors needed a clean image. Even that girl after prom had needed him to wear a specific cologne that she liked and buy a specific kind of flower for her corsage. Everyone always needed something from him.

Rozanov apparently just needed Shane to sit still and breathe.

“No, no. Drop shoulders now with exhale. Like this.” Rozanov pressed down gently, coaxing. “I know you think you must hold everything up, must be strong always, but not here. Let shoulders fall, let me hold weight instead—I am strong enough to handle. Try again.”

Shane breathed in. Let it out. His shoulders dropped maybe half an inch.

“Better. This is better.” Rozanov worked the knots systematically, patient and thorough. His thumbs dug into the meat of Shane’s shoulders, found every place Shane had been clenching without realizing. “You play hockey, yes? You take many hits?”

“Yeah.”

“I can tell. Your body hoarding them all right here.” Rozanov’s hands moved up to Shane’s neck, fingers pressing into the base of his skull. “But we teach it to let go. Is possible, even for you.”

“... Rozanov?”

“Yes?”

“What… does a back and neck massage have to do with you being a Dom?”

“Everything. You are my plaything, Hollander, and my game is currently to help you feel very good. So sit. Behave. Tilt head forward.”

Shane’s head tipped forward. He couldn’t help it. The pressure of Rozanov’s fingers against his scalp sent something loose and warm spreading down his spine.

“Good,” Rozanov murmured. “Stay just like this.”

His fingers worked into Shane’s hair, massaging slow circles. Shane’s eyes closed. A sound escaped him—something between a sigh and a groan—and he would’ve been embarrassed except Rozanov made an approving hum.

“You like this?”

“Yeah.”

“Then tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

Shane’s face felt like it was on fire. “It feels good. Your hands. When you—when you touch there.”

“Where? Here?” Rozanov’s fingers pressed into a spot behind Shane’s ear.

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Very good, Hollander. Being very good for me.”

Shane shivered, the rumbling ‘r’ on the tip of Rozanov’s tongue settling horribly, wonderfully, against his skin. Feeling the frisson of his voice, Shane felt himself exhale as something tight and deep in his chest unlatched. He hadn’t even noticed the knot was there at all.

Rozanov noticed everything, it seemed. His hands stilled for a moment. “Ah. You like that too? When I tell you that you are doing well.” His fingers resumed their work, moving from Shane’s scalp down to his neck again, his shoulders. “This is useful thing to know. I like giving praise, and you are starving for it. Is good match.”

He was starving, dying, for it, even Shane knew this about himself when he barely could identify any of his own feelings. Shane worked himself into the ground every practice, every game, and the best he usually got was a nod from his coach or his mother saying good, but you can do better!

“You are doing so well right now, Hollander.” Rozanov’s thumbs worked down Shane’s spine, pressing through the fabric.

Shane’s breath came shorter. His whole body had gone loose and heavy under Rozanov’s hands, muscles giving up their tension piece by piece.

“Turn around,” Rozanov said softly. “Come here. Look at me.”

Shane turned. Rozanov had shifted back to give him room, was watching him with those goddamn eyes, patient and warm. He reached up and cupped Shane’s chin.

“I want to kiss you,” Rozanov said. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes. Please.”

Rozanov smiled and leaned in.

The kiss was nothing like Shane expected. Gentle. Exploring. Rozanov’s mouth moved against his like he had all the time in the world, like he was savoring something rare. His hand stayed on Shane’s chin, thumb stroking Shane’s cheekbone, while his other hand settled on Shane’s hip.

Shane kissed back and tried not to think about technique, about whether he was doing it right, but Rozanov made a soft approving sound and deepened the kiss slightly, and Shane stopped thinking at all.

When they broke apart, Shane was breathing hard.

“More?” Rozanov asked.

Shane nodded, then remembered. “Yes. More.”

“Good.” Rozanov kissed him again, deeper this time. His hand slid from Shane’s chin into his hair, fingers curling, angling Shane’s head exactly where he wanted it. The control was subtle but absolute. Shane followed the pressure, let Rozanov guide him, and felt something in his chest crack open.

They kissed until Shane forgot about the time, the room, everything except Rozanov’s mouth and the warm pressure of his hands. When Rozanov finally pulled back, Shane made an involuntary sound of protest.

Rozanov’s mouth curved. “Easy. We take our time, yes?” His gaze dropped to Shane’s lap, then back up. “You are enjoying this.”

Shane followed his gaze and flushed. He was hard, straining against his jeans, obvious and undeniable.

“No, don’t hide.” Rozanov’s hand returned to Shane’s face, turned it back toward him. “This is good. This is what I want to see.” His thumb traced Shane’s bottom lip. “And I like what I am seeing, Hollander. Do you want more than kissing?”

Shane’s mind had gone hazy, slow. “I—yes.”

Rozanov’s fingers found the hem of Shane’s sweater. “Then this is in my way. Can you remove for me?” His hand dropped away, giving Shane space. “Is okay say no, as reminder.”

Reminder or not, Shane sucked in a breath, nodding anyway. He pulled his charcoal sweater up and over his head, reaching back behind him to tug at the expensive fabric, and let it fall carelessly beside him. As soon as it thumped to the floor, Rozanov’s hands were back on him, hot and skimming down Shane’s sides, feeling the cotton shirt beneath as he leaned in to kiss him again, indulging in the soft press of their lips.

Shane’s head was spinning. “I—this off too.”

Rozanov hummed and kissed at his jugular, slowing things down to an agonizing stall.

“You are smart man, Hollander. You can do better than that.”

“I want… shit, I want you to take this off too, please.”

“Kak khochesh’. And for record, I agree, this here is still too many layers.” He kissed Shane again, deeper this time, while his fingers worked at Shane’s shirt buttons. One. Two. Three. Each one opened while Rozanov’s tongue explored Shane’s mouth, dividing Shane’s attention until he couldn’t track which sensation to focus on.

Rozanov pulled back just long enough to push the shirt open, baring Shane’s chest. His palm settled over Shane’s heart. “I can feel how fast this is beating.”

Shane couldn’t form words yet.

“Come here. Closer,” Rozanov said softly. “Let me see you.”

Shane shifted closer. Rozanov’s hand went to the back of his neck again, pulling him into another kiss, and this time when Shane gasped Rozanov swallowed the sound. His other hand traced down Shane’s bare ribs, his hip, his thigh, mapping him with touches that made Shane’s skin burn.

“Is okay for you to touch me, Hollander. I am not fragile.”

Shane realized, distantly, that his hands were still in his lap, near his knees, the way they’d been at the booth and before. He hadn’t even noticed until Rozanov pointed it out, far too busy cataloging every place Rozanov touched him, mapping the heat of those palms through his skin.

“...right, sorry.”

“Why apologize? No need. I am telling you is okay.”

Swallowing, somehow still unsure, Shane’s fingers lifted, hesitated in the air between them. Rozanov waited, eyes tracking the movement until Shane’s palm settled against Rozanov’s shoulder. The muscle beneath the black shirt was solid, warm through the fabric. He felt like a fucking tree trunk, solid and immovable and strength coiled in on itself. He traced along the curve, feeling the muscles there, then slid his hand across Rozanov’s collarbone to the other shoulder.

Rozanov’s eyes closed. A low, pleased hum floated past his lips.

“Da, like that,” he murmured. His hand covered Shane’s, pressed it firmer against him. “See? I like this too.”

Emboldened, Shane’s other hand joined the first. He explored the breadth of Rozanov’s shoulders, the slope of his chest, the lean lines of his waist. Rozanov’s breathing deepened. When Shane’s thumb accidentally grazed his nipple through the shirt, it was a breathy moan that tumbled out of Rozanov.

“You are learning fast, Hollander, I like that.” Rozanov’s mouth found his again, kissing him deeply while Shane’s hands continued their exploration. “Do you want my mouth on you?” Rozanov asked against Shane’s lips. “In other places?”

Shane whited out for a second. What?

“Hollander.” Rozanov pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “I need you to answer.”

“I—yeah. Yeah.”

“I am thinking I dislike this ‘yeah’ from you, Hollander.”

Shane’s eyes snapped to Rozanov’s wide with a split second of panic, which was rubbed away by one of his thumbs rubbing a small circle against the back of his neck. “I mean yes.”

“Yes what?” Rozanov’s hand settled on Shane’s thigh, high enough that his thumb could brush the crease where leg met hip through the fabric. “I want to hear you say it. Can you do that for me?”

Shane stared at him. At the patient expectation in Rozanov’s face, the lack of judgment or mockery. Just waiting.

“Will you—” Shane’s voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. “Please.”

“No, not quite Hollander. I need you to ask me nicely to put my mouth on you.”

“W-will you… put your mouth on me?”

When Rozanov didn’t immediately praise him, Shane realized his mistake:

“Rozanov, will you put your mouth on me please.”

Rozanov’s smile was slow and devastating. “Yes, khorosho, good boy. I will.”

Before Shane could ask what that word in Russian meant or process that good boy, Rozanov was pulling him forward and up, hauling Shane’s weight like it was nothing, like Shane didn’t clock in at two hundred pounds of muscle and bone. Shane’s knees hit the couch on either side of Rozanov’s thighs, and suddenly he was straddling him, perched in his lap with nowhere to look except directly at those bright hazel eyes.

“How did you—” Shane’s hands had automatically gone to Rozanov’s shoulders for balance. “I’m not exactly light.”

“You think I cannot handle you?” Rozanov’s palms settled on Shane’s lower back, steadying him. “I am very strong, Hollander. And you...” His gaze dragged down Shane’s body, then back up. “You are exactly right where I want you.”

Rozanov kissed him again, deeper now, one hand sliding up to cup the back of Shane’s skull. His mouth moved from Shane’s lips to his jawline, down the column of his neck. Shane’s head tilted back automatically, giving him access, and felt Rozanov’s teeth graze his skin.

His hips rocked forward—an unconscious movement, seeking friction. The moment he realized what he’d done, embarrassment overflowed, spreading pink to his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“No.” Rozanov’s hands tightened on his hips, holding him in place. “Do not apologize for wanting. You apologize for this again, I start charging you extra per ‘sorry.’ I will be rich by end of night. This is good, Hollander.” He guided Shane’s hips forward again, letting him feel the hard line of Rozanov’s own arousal through their jeans. “See? You are not alone in this.”

Shane’s breath hitched.

“Is allowed,” Rozanov said against his skin, kissing along his collarbone. It was hard to think, and Rozanov continued to lavish affection along his jugular. “Is encouraged. I want to feel how much you need this.”

And… so he moved.

Shane’s hips moved again, tentative this time, testing. The friction sent sparks up his spine and he did it again, rolling forward against Rozanov’s lap. Awkward at first—his rhythm uncertain, not sure how much was too much—but Rozanov’s hands tightened on his hips, encouraging, helping to drag him forward or back and always closer closer closer.

“Da, like that.” Rozanov’s head tipped back slightly, eyes half-lidded. “You feel how hard you make me?”

He did. The thick line of Rozanov’s cock pressed against his own through layers of denim, and every roll of Shane’s hips dragged them together. He found a rhythm that made his breath catch, made his fingers dig into Rozanov’s shoulders for leverage.

“Good, Hollander. Taking what you need.” Rozanov’s mouth found his neck again, teeth grazing. “Do not stop.”

Rozanov’s mouth moved down Shane’s skin, drfiting across his collarbone, devouring him as Shane rode his lap. “Does that feel good? Could you come like this, Hollander?”

“I don’t—ah—know.”

“Mm. I think you could. I know you could. We can do that.” The Russian’s hand traced down Shane’s ribs, his stomach, stopped at the waistband of his jeans, fingers tracing the edge above his belt loops before hooking one with his thumb and tugging gently. “Is very nice just kissing you, Hollander, having you like this for me. Or I can help you with these too,” he tugged the beltloop again, “And touch you properly.”

Shane’s response was a breathy thing along the lines of yes, I want that, I want you to touch me properly, but everything in his ears was white water noise now. Thankfully Rozanov seemed to be understanding.

“Then help me. Undo them.”

It was awkward while straddling his lap. Shane’s fingers fumbled with the button in the front, popped it open, and no sooner had he done so, Rozanov’s hand had covered his, helping to coax down the zipper. It was loud, when had clothing ever been so loud? Together they pushed the denim down Shane’s thighs, shimmying to accommodate since he was spread out and over Rozanov’s own legs. His palm dragged up Shane’s thigh afterward, traced the edge of his boxers, then pressed against the hard outline beneath the fabric.

Shane’s head fell back. The pressure was perfect and not enough all at once.

“So responsive,” Rozanov murmured. He kissed Shane’s sternum, his ribs, working his way down while his hand continued its slow, torturous friction. “And so hard for me already. More?”

“Yes, more, please Rozanov—”

Rozanov pulled the fabric of his boxers lower, just enough to get them out of the way, and the cool air hit Shane’s overheated skin as his cock sprang forward.

“Look at you,” Rozanov said, taking him in hand with little fanfare, the callouses of his palms on sensitive skin already enough to drive Shane mad. His other hand slid lower, cupping Shane’s balls, rolling them gently. It was unfair how good it all felt just to be touched.

“Bozhe. My my. Goodness, Hollander, you are dying for it.”

Shane’s face burned. Suddenly he felt very, very, naked even though some of his clothes were still on, alarmed by the flush of his own blushing cock, the needy bead of clear pre-cum welling out of the little slit which Rozanov was quick to press against with his thumb.

“I—”

“Is not insult. Is wonderful. I am very flattered.” Rozanov said, “You have been needing this for so long.”

Shane couldn’t argue because Rozanov was right. His whole body felt like it was on a live wire, desperate, aching for touch in a way that went beyond tonight. Tomorrow, he’d be horrifically embarrassed by the whine that tumbled out of him.

“Sensitive here?” Rozanov’s thumb rubbed across the tight skin, then his fingers pressed behind his sac, ghosting just past that most vulnerable part, finding a spot that made Shane’s thighs twitch. “Mm. Yes, very sensitive. I will remember this.”

Rozanov reached for something on the side table. Shane heard a cap snap open, then Rozanov’s hand returned, warm and slick with lube as he worked it over his palm. Cool air hit Shane’s overheated skin for a moment before Rozanov’s hand wrapped around his cock.

Shane’s hips rocked forward into Rozanov’s fist automatically, chasing the friction, and Rozanov let him, hand moving in steady strokes that had Shane gasping. The lube made everything wet and lush and smooth, and Rozanov’s callused palm dragged against sensitive skin in a way that made Shane’s thighs shake.

“That’s it. Show me how much you want this.” Rozanov’s free hand gripped Shane’s hip, guiding his rhythm. “You can take what you need. I have you.”

Shane’s breath came in short gasps. He was close already—embarrassingly close—wound too tight for too long and now everything was unraveling under Rozanov’s hands.

“Close?” Rozanov asked, his hand slowing to a torturous rhythm.

“Yeah—yes, I’m—”

Rozanov’s hand stilled completely. Shane made a sound of protest, opened his eyes to find Rozanov watching him intensely.

“You are very beautiful, Hollander.”

Shane’s brain short-circuited.

“I want to taste you,” Rozanov said. “Will you let me? My mouth instead?”

“You—what?”

“My mouth, Hollander. Here.” Rozanov stroked his cock achingly slowly, squeezing for emphasis. “Would you like that?”

“I—yes. Yes.”

“Good.” Rozanov’s palm pressed against Shane’s chest, guiding him backward until Shane’s shoulders hit the couch cushions. “Lay back. Get comfortable.”

Shane sank into the leather, boneless already. Rozanov shifted between his knees, one hand sliding up Shane’s thigh while the other worked Shane’s jeans and boxers lower still, giving himself more room. He glanced up once more, checking.

“Still yes?”

“Rozanov I swear if—” Shane nodded, then caught himself. “Yes. Please—”

“You can close your eyes if you want,” Rozanov answered by kissing the skin above Shane’s knee, giving him permission and more importantly options. He pressed another kiss to the inside of Shane’s thigh, then another higher up, teasing every area as he went. Shane’s breath caught. Another kiss, this one to his hip bone, and then Rozanov’s hand wrapped around the base of Shane’s cock, steadying it for his singular attention. “Or you can watch. Is up to you.”

You can look. Don’t look. Both are okay. Rozanov had already decided it was fine, and so it was. And wasn’t that fine, wasn’t that—oh fuck—wasn’t that magic, a revelation, how another secret lock just clunked open beaneath the cage of Shane’s ribs?

Then Rozanov’s mouth was on him and Shane’s head fell back against the couch.

Wet. Tight. Perfect. Shane bit back a swear, blinking sightlessly. Rozanov’s tongue worked along the underside of his shaft, traced the ridge of the head, and Shane’s hands fisted in the leather beneath him. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Rozanov!”

He’d had this before, technically. Not really. Almost. Awkward fumbling in the back of someone’s car after prom, a girl who’d tried for maybe thirty seconds before giving up and he was too much of a coward to ask why and even more of a coward since he didn’t want to examine why even those thirty seconds had done nothing for him. But this was nothing like that. Rozanov took him deeper, hollowed his cheeks, set a rhythm that had Shane gasping, chest heaving, stars behind his eyes. Shane risked a glance down, catching those fucking devil eyes peering back at him, drinking in every gasp, every shudder—and adjusting accordingly.

“Fuck,” Shane breathed. His hips jerked forward before he could stop them, driving deeper, and he was trapped, transfixed, helpless to do nothing but watch the wet plunge of his cock sliding past rosy lips, shining for a moment, covered in spit, before vanishing once more. This was another man kneeling between his legs, looking up at him with those damnable devil eyes, plush lips stretched around his cock to savour and… and how was he taking him so deep? Sucking him down like it was nothing, like it was easy, like he needed too.

Rozanov’s hands pressed his hips back down to the couch, firm but not rough, holding him in place. The control of it—being held still while Rozanov did exactly what he wanted—sent sparks up Shane’s spine. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but take it, feel Rozanov’s mouth sliding up and down his length, tongue pressing and swirling.

Rozanov pulled off for a moment, hand replacing his mouth, stroking. “You taste good, Hollander.” Then he took Shane back in, deeper this time, and Shane felt the back of Rozanov’s throat.

“Rozanov, I’m—” Shane’s voice broke off. “I’m gonna—”

Rozanov didn’t pull away. His hands tightened on Shane’s hips, a clear message: I’ve got you. Let go. His mouth worked faster, tongue pressing against the sensitive spot just under the head, and Shane shattered.

He came with a choked-off sound, hips straining against Rozanov’s hold. The release shuddered through him in waves that left him gasping and shaking and completely undone. Rozanov swallowed, pulled off slowly, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He looked up at Shane with eyes that were too satisfied, too knowing.

“Good,” he said, his voice rougher than before. “That was perfect, Hollander. You were perfect.”

Shane couldn’t form words yet. His whole body felt like it had been taken apart and put back together differently—loose and heavy and emptied out in a way that didn’t hurt.

Rozanov stood, pressed a kiss to Shane’s temple. “Stay. I will be right back.”

He disappeared into the bathroom. Shane heard water running. He sat there trying to remember how his lungs worked, how his hands worked, how any part of him worked. His legs felt like water.

Rozanov returned with a damp cloth and crouched in front of Shane. The cloth was warm against Shane’s skin as Rozanov wiped him clean—stomach first, then thighs, thorough without rushing. His free hand rested on Shane’s knee, thumb rubbing small circles there.

“You okay?” Rozanov asked, glancing up.

Shane nodded, then remembered. “Yeah. I’m—” He stopped himself before he could say fine again. “Yes, I’m good. Really good.”

“Good.” Rozanov’s hands went to Shane’s shirt, still hanging open. “Arms back through for me.”

Shane tried to shrug the shirt back onto his shoulders properly, but his hands were shaking too much to manage the buttons. He fumbled with the first one twice before making a frustrated sound.

“Here.” Rozanov took over, working from bottom to top. When he reached the collar he smoothed it down, let his hands rest on Shane’s shoulders for a moment.

“There. Better.”

“Thanks.” Shane’s voice came out rough. “I, uh—” He tried for humor and landed somewhere in the vicinity of awkward. “So is this where you give me a punch card? Ten sessions, get one free?”

Rozanov’s hands stilled. He looked up, bright eyes meeting Shane’s directly.

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make this less than it was. Turn it into joke.” Rozanov picked up Shane’s jeans, shook them out, handed them over. “I am not shitty coffee shop loyalty card. You do not get tenth orgasm free. Is allowed for you to feel things, Hollander. You do not need to make yourself small with humor.”

Shane looked at the floor, took the jeans, pulled them on while Rozanov waited. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Rozanov said quietly. “Trusting me with this.”

“I should be thanking you, I think.”

“Boring, but fine: we both say thank you and leave it there.” Rozanov stood, offered his hand. Shane took it and let himself be pulled to his feet. Rozanov handed him a bottle of water from the side table. “Drink, and all of it.”

“I think I’d rather have more of the whiskey.”

“No, no more whiskey tonight for you Hollander,” Rozanov said, “You will have that water, and you will finish it, and I will be checking. Then we sit until your cab arrives.”

“I’m fine, I can call a cab.”

“Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice was firm but not unkind. “I will call cab for you. You will drink water and sit with me until it arrives, and I will walk you out and see you sit in it before driver whisks you away back home to confirmed address. This is not negotiable.”

Something in Shane eased at being told what to do. At not having to make even that small choice.

“Okay.”

They settled back on the couch together, Rozanov angled sideways so he could see Shane’s face. He asked easy questions—nothing that required real thought. How long had Shane been in Montreal? Did he like the city? What was his favorite thing about playing hockey?

Shane answered in fragments, still too loose and floaty to manage full sentences. Rozanov didn’t seem to mind. He kept up the conversation with the occasional observation or story about Montreal, his accent thickening slightly as he relaxed.

“You have color back in your face now,” Rozanov said after a few minutes. “Is good sign. You were very pale before.”

“Was I?”

“Da. I was worried maybe I broke you.” Rozanov grinned. “But no, you are still in one piece. Very relaxed one piece.”

“I don’t remember the last time I felt like this.”

“Like what?”

Shane struggled for the word. “Quiet. In my head. Everything’s usually so loud.”

Rozanov’s face softened. “Easier to be when not so many thoughts, isn’t it?”

He glanced at his phone when it buzzed. “Ah. Cab is nearly outside; two minutes away.” He stood and offered Shane his hand. “Come. We get your things.”

Shane let himself be pulled to his feet. His legs felt steadier now, but Rozanov kept a hand at his elbow as they walked down the short hallway to the front desk anyway.

Aimée looked up and smiled. “Did you have a good evening, Mr. Hollander?”

“Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”

“Wonderful.” She tapped at her screen. “Can I have your pin code?”

Shane rattled off the numbers. She retrieved his phone, watch, and coat from locker twenty-three, setting them on the polished desk between them. His phone lit up immediately—three missed texts from J.J. and two more from his mother. He shoved it in his pocket without reading them, reaching for the watch next.

Rozanov took the coat before Shane could. He held it open, waiting. “Arms.”

Shane turned and slipped his arms through the sleeves. Rozanov tugged the leather up onto his shoulders, then moved around to face him. His fingers found the zipper, drew it up slowly, and Shane fought the need to shiver. When he reached the top, Rozanov straightened the collar, his knuckles brushing Shane’s skin.

“There. Wrapped back up nice and cozy.”

“The cab’s just arrived, have a safe trip home Mr. Hollander,” Aimée said from the desk, still smiling.

“I will, thank you.” Shane turned to Rozanov. They stood in the entryway with cold air leaking in from outside. Shane didn’t know what to say. Thank you felt insufficient. See you later felt presumptuous. That was incredible felt like too much.

“You will text me when you get home safe,” Rozanov said, saving him from having to find words.

“I don’t have your…”

“Yes, you do.” Rozanov reached into his pocket and pulled out a card—matte black with silver lettering. Just a phone number, nothing else. He pressed it into Shane’s palm, folded Shane’s fingers around it.

“And so you will text me when you get home safe,” Rozanov said. “Yes?”

“I—yeah.”

“Hollander…”

“Yes. I will.”

“Good.” Rozanov pushed open the heavy door, and the cold rushed in to meet them. The cab sat idling at the curb, exhaust pluming white in the frigid air. Rozanov walked Shane to it, one hand at the small of his back, and opened the rear door.

Shane hesitated at the threshold, turning back. “Rozanov, I—”

“No long goodbyes in the cold, kotyonok. Russians do not do this.” Rozanov’s hand pressed gently between Shane’s shoulder blades, guiding him into the warmth of the cab. “Do not forget to text me.”

Shane ducked into the backseat. Rozanov leaned down, one hand on the door frame, and smiled at him through the open door; that same lopsided curve that had undone Shane all night.

“Now go, before you freeze out here like lost puppy. Goodnight, Hollander.”

The door closed with a solid thunk. Through the window, Shane watched Rozanov step back onto the curb, hands shoved in his pockets, breath fogging the air. He stood there until the cab pulled away, watching.

The cab driver didn’t try to make conversation, which Shane appreciated because he wasn’t sure he could manage it. Over the radio a voice murmured low in French, and despite being fluent the words washed over him rather than sank into sense. He stared out the window at the passing streetlights, at Saint-Catherine sliding past, and felt the phantom pressure of Rozanov’s hands on him still. His shoulders. His chin. His hips.

He’d expected to feel embarrassed once he left. Ashamed, maybe. The weight of what he’d done—paid someone to touch him, to make him feel good—settling in.

Instead he felt settled. Quiet in a way he hadn’t been in months. Something that had been vibrating wrong inside his chest had finally clicked into the right frequency.

The driver pulled up to Shane’s building, an old high-rise with the river little more than a dark strip beyond, pulling up near the sidewalk beside snowbanks streaked grey with slush. Shane tapped his card on the reader, muttered a merci, bonne nuit, and stepped out into the cold, took the elevator up to his floor where his unit was… then remembered that this entire floor was his unit, unlocked the door, and went straight to the bathroom. He stood under the shower spray for a long time, hot enough to turn his speckled skin pink. His muscles felt like they had skated a full sixty minutes at the Bell Centre and then done bag skates.

And… he stood there, trying to process what had happened.

He’d gone to a sex club. Signed a waiver. Paid someone to—

No. That wasn’t right. Wasn’t it? Was it?

Thinking felt like walking through 3 ft of snow. It was easier to stay in this softer, floatier feeling. He didn’t want to think, anyway.

Too many thoughts.

When the water started to cool, Shane got out. Dried off. Crawled into bed still damp and picked up his phone.

One text from Hayden asking if he’d gotten home okay. Thankfully there weren’t any more texts from J.J or his mother and... oh right, he needed to text Rozanov. Right.

His thumbs were clunky as he typed out the message. Then another. And a third.

Shit.

Shane set his phone on the nightstand with a sigh. He expected to lie awake for an hour like he usually did, brain spinning through tomorrow’s practice schedule and whether he’d answered his mother’s texts correctly and if he should’ve said something different to Rozanov at the door.

Instead, he was asleep in minutes.

Ilya walked back through the hallway, up the steps, through the door, and emerged back into the main room. Wolfbird had, after all his time, almost started to feel like a second home, a pocket of warm light under downtown Montreal that kept the winter of Moscow, ever reaching for him still, from ever touching. He knew every corner and shadow and secretive alcove here. The people here, both staff and patrons, almost knew him. He was almost himself (usually) and as always… Ilya excelled at giving and he never had to pretend to be less.

The club had filled up while he’d been occupied—bodies pressed close at the bar, bass thrumming through the floor, conversations rising and falling in overlapping waves. It would be a busy night, which was good for business. Voices buzzed in French all around him. Fast. Casual. Effortless. He could follow half the words if he chased them, but the rest slipped past him like fish. Frustrating, but he was accustomed to it now. Startlingly few people spoke Russian here, and he was still learning English, much less French on top of it.

In Russian, he had poetry.

In English, he had whatever scraps survived crossing the ocean.

The hard part was that, in English, Ilya always sounded like he’d run his mouth through gravel first. Canada had welcomed him the way a casino welcomes a man with good luck. They took his money, his body, his accent, and let him stay. This was what counted as a future and while he was grateful for it, this escape, in this city he was always arriving half a sentence late, and he saw assumptions descend. Stupid. Immigrant who doesn’t know how things work. Even worse: criminal.

Though… They weren’t entirely wrong about the last part.

Yes, there had been a time when he had been desperate enough, lonely enough, to make choices no one would be proud of.

But that was fine. Most people were not like this. Most people, he was foolish enough to still believe, were good. The rotten ones could think what they wanted, and Ilya knew he was not the over-worn ‘Russian criminal’ from old movies. And here if he kept his mouth, and the mouths of others, busy in other ways, the damnation never came.

Svetlana spotted him immediately. She set down the glass she’d been polishing.

“How’d it go?” She asked him in Russian.

“Fine,” he answered back, slipping into the comfortable familiarity of his mother tongue. That was the truth, but Ilya was still a good liar. ‘Fine’ did not encompass the whole of him, all the colors in his head.

“Mm-hmm.” Svetlana pulled a tumbler from beneath the bar, poured two fingers of whiskey without asking, slid it across to him. “You look tired, sweetheart. Here.”

Ilya took it but didn’t drink yet. He wasn’t actually tired, not really. Or he was, but not in the usual way. The work never tired his body, only his mind, the way wanting so much and never quite getting, even when surrounded by excess, did.

No price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.

Owning yourself was supposed to be freedom, Ilya recalled Nietzsche’s empty promises. He forgot to mention it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff with no one holding the railing.

There were thoughts. And just as he told his clients, too many of them made it hard to just be. Ilya, lately, was made of many thoughts, but his work provided a lucrative, if not selfishly enjoyable, escape for a time. Most sessions left him satisfied in a professional sense: problem identified, solution provided, client happy. Clean. Efficient. Done. They also left him satisfied in a sexual sense: Ilya loved being touched, any kind of connection. There would never be enough love, enough touch, enough to fill him whole, and so he sought it out. He had long accepted that desire was the only currency he would ever be rich in.

Besides, Ilya was good at it. Sex. Fucking. He felt good. There was a simple symmetry in that, and most nights, even before he’d started this professionally, had been spent chasing lovers just like this, but… none had been like this.

Shane Hollander—the Shane Hollander, number twenty-four, Cosmopolitan’s hottest man in the NHL, Canada’s golden boy with the stars in his skin and weight of galaxies on his shoulders—had walked into Wolfbird drawn so thin, under so much tension, Ilya thought he might snap. And when he’d finally let go...

Ilya had seen people cry during sessions. Had seen them laugh, shake, go boneless with relief. But Shane had looked at him like Ilya had just handed him something he’d been dying for without knowing he needed it. Like he’d been drowning and Ilya had pulled him up for air.

That look was still lodged in Ilya’s chest, knocking against his bones. And it had felt good, very good, even in his own experienced standards. Hollander had needed to stop there, and Ilya had no qualms with ending a session without being pleased himself if it was the right thing to do but…

It was… a tantalizing prospect to let his mind wander down corridors where he could allow himself to be selfish. Hollander’s lips had been very soft.

“More people came in while you were back there,” Svetlana said, nodding toward the room. They usually spoke Russian with one another like this as they made their schemes and plans. “There’s a cute couple in the corner booth. Guy at the bar keeps glancing this way. You want me to ask if they’re interested?”

Ilya opened his mouth to say yes. He always said yes. He’d just made $800 in two hours and could easily double, if not triple, that before closing. More money always meant fewer problems, and so Ilya always said yes, he always would take another client. He always wanted to feel more, to be wanted more, to need and be needed in those moments, more.

But…

“I will take a break tonight,” Ilya heard himself say. The fucking Shane Hollander would be a difficult act to follow for anyone, and he was distracted enough that it might be noticeable to other clients. If Svetlana noticed something, others might too. It was unacceptable to be anything but focused with clients. “Dimitri can see them if they want.”

Svetlana blinked. “You’re turning down clients? Are you feeling alright?”

“I am fine. Just—” Ilya shrugged, took a sip of the whiskey. “As you said, it was a long session. I need food and a cigarette and maybe to sit down for bit before next one.”

“You want me to grab you something from the kitchen? Or I can swing by your place later with leftovers. I made too much pelmeni again.”

“No, no. It’s fine.” Ilya set the glass down. “I will just go home early tonight. Dimitri needs more practice anyway.”

Ilya pulled out his phone to check the time and saw a message on the screen:

Cute. And very Canadian. Hollander was sweet, and it made him want to bite at his neck as much as it made him want to never see him again. Still… Ilya paused, staring at the screen a moment. Most clients said thanks the way you thank a waiter. He knew, reasonably, that this had meant more to Shane.

He saved the number to his contacts (initals only, always), and typed back a response:

Svetlana had a similar message for him:

“Go home and rest Ilyusha,” she said, squeezing his arm and drawing him back to the present. “I’ll tell Aimée you’re done for the night.”

“Thank you.” Ilya drained the rest of the whiskey and headed for the door.

Outside, the wet Montreal cold sank through wool and leather, biting through his jacket. He walked toward the nearest STM entrance, hands in his pockets, breath fogging the air above the shoveled-out snowbanks with Shane’s text still glowing behind his eyes, and then… there was the rest of him. He hadn’t been joking or lying in the session: it’d felt good for him too. It was Ilya’s job to make his clients feel amazing, and it was a nice perk that he also got to enjoy himself but… it would be a lie to say that Ilya hadn’t been mesmerized by the way those freckled hands hesitated to move, to touch, and then their slow exploration of skin, soft and excited. Hollander had been worried about him not enjoying himself which wasn’t necessary, but… certainly appreciated.

Hollander’s face in the dim room, softly illuminated by the lamp glow, brushed with gold and shadow. That sculpted body. Freckles dusted his cheeks like stardust. And his mouth, swollen from Ilya’s kisses. He was beautiful.

He was… perhaps… never coming back again. That happened sometimes.

That was fine, Ilya reminded himself. Hollander was another client who would either come back or he wouldn’t.

Winter always took what it wanted.

But as he descended into the nearest metro station, Ilya had thoughts. So many thoughts. He looked to his left, to his right, and finding no one pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket to smoke.

Too many thoughts.

Chapter End Notes

My Hollanov fics on AO3

HELLYEAH, chapter 2 I hope you like it. Obligatory statement that this fic is not a guide to safe sex or safe BDSM and no one should read this and think this is the 'right' way of doing things. I skipped several important things like health testing, condoms, etc etc. This is fiction, and I am waving a few things a way in favor of spice.

My eternal thanks to u/eatpreymantis for betaing.

*Mysli (Мысли), the chapter title, means 'thoughts'.

Not sure what to say? Comment anxiety? How about...

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”
- 🌌 “this wasn't my favorite”
- 💰 “hello yes I would like to book a $400/hr session”
- 🏒 “dumb hockey boys make me happy”
- 🗡️ “this usually isnt my thing... and yet”
- 💀 “how dare you (affectionate)”

Chapter 3: Bez Stsenariya

Chapter Summary

Bez Stsenariya

AKA, an Unscripted Day in the Life of Shane Hollander

Chapter Notes

This fic uses a work skin to simulate text messages. You may turn it off by clicking 'Hide Creator's Style', but it will affect the formatting slightly!

TITLE CARD: “A Day in the Life of Shane Hollander”

FADE IN: An expensive imitation sunlight lamp flicks on at 5:00 AM, slowly filling the dark bedroom with manufactured dawn. The light creeps across expensive sheets, climbs white walls, finds the shape of a man sleeping on his back with one arm thrown over his face. The digital bedside clock ticks to 5:30. SFX: ALARM SHRIEK shatters the artificial peace.

CUT TO: SHANE HOLLANDER (5’10”, dark eyes, black hair, freckles, athlete’s build) snaps awake. This is the Shane Hollander, number twenty-four for the Montreal Voyageurs. Hockey’s golden boy. The body is in motion before the mind is—his feet hit cold hardwood, muscles engage, spine straightens and he’s walking across the room even before his brain’s come online. Autopilot engaged.

CUT TO: WIDE SHOT - BATHROOM. Steam fills the frame. Shane’s body is a silhouette behind frosted glass, standing under spray hot enough to fog the mirror. He is bathing as much as he is dissociating. SFX: TEETH BRUSHING—rhythmic SHH SHHH SHHH as he brushes his teeth in the shower to save ninety seconds.

CUT TO: WIDE SHOT - KITCHEN. Shane already dressed—charcoal workout gear from a drawer that contains nothing but charcoal workout gear—and his hair is still damp. SFX: WHIRR of the massive blender on his counter is deafening, almost violent in the otherwise silence, as he makes a morning protein shake: two scoops vanilla whey, one cup almond milk, half a banana, ice. He drinks it standing at the counter, checking his phone.

CUT TO: POV SHOT - PHONE SCREEN. Team messages. His mother. His agent. Using his thumb, he taps out replies and adds things to his already stuffed calendar. He is a busy man with enough plans to rival any socialite.

PULL BACK TO REVEAL: The empty kitchen, sterile counters, everything in its place.

MONTAGE: Gym by 6:15. Conditioning. Weights. Team practice at 2:00pm.

SHANE (V.O.): Every morning. Same sequence. My life was a film on repeat, Groundhog Day, and the predictability of always knowing what the next shot was supposed to be, and what my line was, was nice. Until…

SMASH CUT TO / SHANE (V.O.): This morning.

Shane stood at his kitchen sink eating scrambled eggs straight from the pan with a fork. The eggs had no salt, no pepper, no cheese… mostly because he didn’t even own any cheese or dairy products at all. His mother would’ve added mirin, maybe, and served them over rice with pickled vegetables. But it’d been an adventure even finding the bottle of non-stick cooking spray he’d used to keep them from sticking since the last time he’d actually cooked a breakfast was… um.

Maybe never?

The eggs tasted like he’d dusted them with crack cocaine, bland but rich and the best thing he’d eaten in ages. Shane groaned and swallowed, trying to remember how he’d gotten here—standing barefoot on cold tile at 10 AM in his underwear, eating from the pan like a college freshman. He remembered feeling ravenous at waking and then repulsed by the very smell of whey. He remembered cracking the eggs into the pan, the hiss of creamy yolks (yolks! Fucking yellow, buttery, yolks!), golden and fatty and obscene, hitting hot metal while the carton of the eggwhites sat forlorn and scandalized in the fridge.

But the minutes between cracking those eggs and now? Gone. Vanished into the same fog that had followed him home last night and apparently decided to stay for breakfast. His fork scraped the pan as he shoveled another greedy bite.

His phone sat on the counter three feet away. He’d turned the ringer off.

Outside, dawn bled grey and pink across the river. Saturday morning. It was 10:00am and he’d missed his morning workout by miles, leaving only practice at 2:00—an optional skate that Shane always attended because optional meant mandatory for the team Captain if you wanted to prove you cared. He had hours to kill before then.

Normally he’d fill them. He would, and still could, watch film from Thursday’s game, and then break down the power play where they’d gotten hemmed in their own zone for ninety seconds. Or meal prep for the week—weigh out miso salmon filets and brown rice into identical containers, the way his nutritionist had shown him. His freezer was already full of them. He could respond to the thirty-seven unread emails in his inbox: sponsorship opportunities, charity events, interview requests from TSN and Sportsnet and three different podcasts. His agent handled most of it, but Shane still had to sign off, still had to show up and smile and represent the brand.

Instead he stood at his sink eating cold eggs and trying not to think about warm hands on his shoulders, working into muscle until something inside him had finally, finally, gone slack.

He set the pan down. His fingers were shaking.

Shane pressed his palms flat against the counter’s cold granite. Breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth.

Last night had happened. He’d gone to that bar, and—

Shane’s brain stuttered over the memory. Rozanov’s mouth. That stupid leather couch. Rozanov’s mouth. That leather couch. The weight of those hands on his hips, holding him steady while he came apart. His whole body had felt like a puzzle box someone had finally figured out how to open—every piece sliding loose and clicking back into place differently and better, not forced to fit but sliding gently to make, maybe for the very first time, an actual picture.

And after, when Rozanov had buttoned his shirt with those careful fingers, he’d looked at Shane like— like—

Shane’s face burned. He turned on the faucet, and shoved the pan under the spray.

What was he supposed to do with this? File it away like a dentist appointment? Went to a sex club, got off, home by eleven, very productive Friday. Except it hadn’t felt like just getting off.

The knot between his shoulder blades—the one that lived there permanently, the one he’d stopped noticing because it was just part of him now—was gone. Rozanov had beaten it into submission with his hands, breaking apart the chunks of tight stress and tension until they dissolved. And this morning… they were still gone.

When was the last time he’d taken a full breath without his ribs feeling too small? Last night. On that leather couch. With a man’s callused palms pressed against his spine and that lush, lilting voice in his ear.

It had felt like Rozanov had reached into his chest and unknotted something that had been tangled there for months. Years, maybe.

And now Shane didn’t know how to tie it back up again.

This was a one-time thing. A moment of temporary insanity brought on by stress and loneliness and three shitty beers at a sports bar. It was a mistake and he was learning from it, even better, he’d gotten it out of his system! Yeah! He’d worked through whatever two-decade-long-horny-and-lonely-apocalypse had been building up inside him. Now he could go back to his actual life.

Right? Right?

Belatedly, Shane noticed he was still scrubbing furiously despite the pan being clean. He dried his hands on a towel and finally looked at his phone, finding all his missed messages.

He typed quick responses—a lol for the group chat for some meme, a yes, yes, that’s great man—and pocketed the phone before he could see if there were more. His mother texted like she was being paid by the message. His teammates texted like they’d forget how to spell if they stopped practicing.

Neither group knew where he’d been last night.

Neither group could ever know.

Shane grabbed his keys and wallet. He should eat more—the eggs weren’t enough—but his stomach felt strange. Not sick, exactly. Just... occupied. Like there wasn’t room for food when he was still trying to process everything else.

He took the elevator down to the parking garage. His Chevy sat in its assigned spot, black and polished and boring as hell. Hayden gave him shit about it constantly. You make seven million a year and you drive something that makes you look like you’re a middle-aged accountant.

Maybe, but how many accountants drove an SS? The sleeper’s 6.2L LS3 V8 engine purred to life as he turned the key, rumbling pleasantly through his spine. Shane sat there for a moment, hands on the wheel, staring at the concrete wall in front of him.

He had a perfectly good home gym upstairs in the converted second bedroom, and it cost more than most people’s cars. He had free weights. A rowing machine. A Peloton that was a particular favorite for destroying himself with. He could go back up there right now, work chest and arms, and then run through some extra conditioning on the stationary bike while staring at the same four walls he’d been staring at for months.

That’d be back on script.

Or… he could go to the actual gym. He did have a membership to one to use if he was ever traveling and it… might be nice to be around other people, even if he didn’t want to talk to them. Working out alone sometimes felt like how Shane thought Chris Hadfield must’ve felt working out on the ISS. The King of Space doing his lonely cardio 254 miles away from Earth, and the King of Hockey Shane Hollander working out in his tomb of a condo.

It might be nice to hear the clang of plates being racked, the hum of treadmills, someone grunting through their last rep. Proof that the world kept turning, that other people existed, that he wasn’t just... alone with his thoughts in an expensive box thirty floors above the city. Maybe someone might even ask him to spot them. Or something.

Shane reversed out of the spot and headed for the exit. The parkade’s fluorescent lights made everything look sickly. His tires squeaked on the polished concrete. He emerged onto the street and winter air hit him through the vents—cold enough to sting despite the heater already running.

He drove toward the gym on autopilot. Left on Saint-Jacques, right on Peel, past the dépanneur with its sun-bleached Lotto-Québec posters, past the café that always smelled like burnt espresso. Past a mural with a Habs fleur-de-lis and a badly rendered Carey Price mask. Montreal graffiti was always half hockey, half heartbreak.

Straight through three lights. Traffic was light for a Saturday morning; this city didn’t wake up so much as thaw, slowly and reluctantly. A faint dusting of last night’s snow clung to the bike lanes, already rutted by early-morning STM buses. Most of Montreal was still sleeping off Friday night, hoping to snatch a few more hours before the hangover.

Shane had slept better than he had in months. He felt light and alive if not a bit… foggy.

That thought made him grip the wheel tighter. He’d crashed hard after texting Rozanov, sinking into sleep without the usual hour of staring at his ceiling, cataloging everything he’d done wrong that week. He’d woken up once around 3 AM, momentarily disoriented as he chugged down a glass of freezing cold water from the fridge, and then remembered: the bar, the couch, Rozanov’s hands steadying his hips while—

A horn blared. Shane jerked the wheel right. He’d drifted into the next lane without signaling. The car beside him—a minivan with a ski rack—swerved and the driver threw up his hands. Shane waved an apology, sorry sorry, and merged back properly.

Focus. Pay attention, goddammit Shane.

But focusing meant thinking about where he was going, and thinking about the gym meant thinking about his body, and thinking about his body meant remembering: Rozanov’s hands tracing down his ribs. Taking their time, stealing time, indulging even… Shane realized just how much of his time, and his body, belonged to everyone else. His calendar was proof of just how much and how often he needed to exist in some liminal space for the profit of… something? A contract? A marketing opportunity? Then there were the obligations of Captain and work and interviews and photoshoots, and, even worse, planned photo ops.

At Wolfbird, with Rozanov, there’d been an abundance of time and it was his to waste. Shane wasn’t a photo op that needed to be over in thirty seconds, or a body that existed to absorb hits and score goals. It felt, bizarrely, like there’d been all the time in the world just relearn the shape of himself through touch.

Outside of his parents, no one hugged Shane. They didn’t know him well enough to assume that kind of closeness, and then there were his teammates who only touched him in the context of celebration or violence in the rink. And Rozanov had—

The horn blared again. Shane jerked the wheel right, and inadvertently took the turn instead of continuing straight.

This was not toward the gym. Fuck. Okay. He didn’t know where he was going now, or to what end. Just… out? Away from the condo? Where did people go anymore, Shane wondered, where do people without hockey even go?

He ended up on Rue Sainte-Catherine.

Not intentionally. Or maybe it was. He wasn’t sure anymore. The street looked different in daylight—shops closed, sidewalks empty except for someone walking a dog and a guy in a Canadiens toque shoveling the entrance to his building. Normal. Boring. Nothing that suggested what hid behind locked doors and NDAs.

Shane drove past slowly. And then… there! The red brick building with the potted evergreens. The black door with its subtle logo and loon looking back out at him.

His father, at the lake, had always loved loons. Their call means I’m here, he’d explained when Shane was small and the wail was a strange new mournful magic, it means I’m here, where are you?

In daylight it looked like any other door on any other building, unremarkable.

I’m here, Shane thought, staring at the door one more time.

His phone buzzed. He glanced down.

Shane typed back with one hand as he pulled away from Wolfbird and the wrong turns and the where are you, where are you.

But it was only—Shane glanced at the display in his center console—10:41am. He had hours. And there was the gym, behind him now, and… what… to do to spend the time? He drove without direction for a few blocks trying to decide and failing, the city sliding past in pale hues of grey white blue black. Rue Sainte-Catherine drifted behind him. His hands stayed loose on the wheel.

What did you do before hockey took over your life?

He tried to shake the thought of Rozanov, again, from filling up his skull. This wasn’t about him, or the fact that Shane still didn’t have a good answer. When had he ever done anything else?

But yes. Okay. People did normal things on Saturdays. He should just… maybe try one? He could find an answer.

A café sat on the corner near Bishop, its windows fogged from the heaters running full blast. He parked, stepped inside, and the warmth hit him immediately—coffee beans and steamed milk and the low hum of Saturday morning conversations in French and English. And, predictably, he was caught in seconds. Shane had barely taken three steps when he saw a few heads turning, and then a father nudging his kid, hopeful and apologetic at once. Here we go.

The kid couldn’t have been more than eight, wearing a Habs jersey two sizes too big. “Papa, c’est Hollander!” His father whispered something, pushed him forward gently.

“Hi,” the kid said in careful English, clutching a napkin. “Pouvez-you… ah, non, can you... um...”

Cute.

“Bien sûr; of course.” Shane smiled—the public smile, automatic and warm. He signed the napkin with a flourish, asked the kid’s name, complimented his jersey. When the father asked for a photo, Shane crouched down to the kid’s height and grinned at the phone camera. The kid beamed. The father thanked him profusely in rapid French. The barista waved and put her number on his paper cup skim cappuccino, and Shane sat by the window. Steam rose from the cup, cooled, and disappeared, and he, partially hidden behind the glare of the window, watched the world finish its thaw.

Around him, life continued: students arguing over a tablet, laughing too loud about something on the screen. A man in a yellow toque scowling at the sports page, lips tight at the headline. A woman carried two bagels wrapped in butcher paper and didn’t look up once.

Everyone seemed to know where they were going.

The kid with the napkin kept glancing over, whispering to his father. Shane caught fragments: “...vraiment lui...capitaine...” The father shushed him gently, but they both kept stealing looks.

This was on script again, sort of. Smile, sign, pose. He knew the lines for this part, at least, and it was nice to just sit, ambiently, and waste time watching people and kids and the little leaf in his cappuccino’s foam melt into the dregs.

Once his coffee was finished and there were a handful more people furtively trying to not get caught snapping photos of him, Shane left. Back on the street, he headed toward a bookstore he vaguely recognized from a friend of a friend of a friend’s Instagram story. Stacks of paperbacks created small alcoves where people could browse without being observed. Shane wandered the aisles, pulling books at random, reading first lines that swam together meaninglessly.

“Call me Ishmael.”

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

“I’d never given much thought to how I would die—though I’d had reason enough in the last few months—but even if I had, I would not have imagined it like this.”

How did people choose? How did they know which story they wanted to disappear into? Shane had been living the same story his entire life: boy discovers talent, boy works hard, boy succeeds, boy becomes symbol. The end. Roll credits.

It was quieter in here, and (perhaps most importantly) no one would be looking for him here. Distantly, Shane wondered when he’d started hiding from hockey and not just hiding himself.

Warm lights glowed through the glass. Inside, he moved through the aisles with a kind of drifting… aimless… momentum. Reading was nice, but when did he ever sit down to do it? He picked up a paperback, opened it, read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word.

How did people even know what they wanted to read in the first place? Just grab one? Hope for the best? What if the ending sucked?

He picked up a thriller with a hockey player on the cover: Black Ice. Some power fantasy about a retired sports star solving murders. The back copy made him sound like a superhero: “tough on the field, tougher on crime.” Shane flipped through the pages, skimming dialogue that sounded like it had been written by someone who’d never been in a locker room.

In real life, professional athletes weren’t superheroes. They were guys who’d gotten good at one very specific thing and built their entire identities around it. And what happened when that thing was taken away? What happened when the story ended and you’d never learned how to be anything else?

A woman browsed the adjacent shelf, humming softly to herself as she compared two different novels. She looked maybe thirty, completely absorbed in reading back cover copy of something with fairies on the front, occasionally making small sounds of consideration. When she finally chose one, she clutched it against her chest with obvious satisfaction.

Shane envied her. That certainty. That simple pleasure in wanting something and choosing it.

But… okay, whatever. Reading had never been his ‘thing’. It didn’t need to be now.

Outside again. Wind cut through his jacket, sharp from the nearby river, and, with hours left to waste and no destination in mind, he followed it. Shane walked… and… walking felt good. Walking felt like the only honest thing he’d done all morning, which, fair, made some sense because he loved to be in motion if only to avoid the creeping horror of stagnation. He didn’t even have to walk any particular way or at any pace. Forward was enough, just his feet on pavement, his breath fogging the air, the city unfolding around him without asking for anything in return.

This was nice.

So he kept going, past the banks, past the crowds thinning near Place d’Armes—forty minutes, an hour?—until the streets opened toward the Old Port.

Ice clung to the edges of the walkway and the Jacques Cartier Bridge rose in the distance. His breath hung in front of him in plumes, like low floating clouds. He passed couples walking arm in arm, their bodies curved toward each other against the cold. A group of friends laughed over shared earbuds, passing the wires back and forth like a secret. This felt like a secret, this walk here with just himself because he could with no real purpose at all. And then near the quay—

—Shane heard it before he saw it: the extremely familiar percussion of sticks against puck, blades scraping ice. Shane rounded the corner and found them, maybe six kids, ages eight to twelve, playing shinny on a scraped-down patch of natural ice. There weren’t any boards of course, no referees, or anything besides the simple, stupid, back and forth aimless act of doing. The smallest kid, who couldn’t be more than eight, tore after a loose puck with a shit-eating grin with a missing front tooth, cackling all the while. His skates kicked up white dust as he cornered hard, stick handling around an older boy twice his size. He lost the puck, got it back, lost it again, and never stopped grinning.

When’s the last time I played for fun?

Shane blinked, startled by his own line of thinking, and felt a tug—fuck, another thing in his chest?—a memory, an echo of long nonsense skates with his father and his mother, barely even hockey at all. Cheap blades on backyard ice, his father shouting encouragement through a scarf, his mother pretending not to slip as she chased the puck.

The puck skittered wild and the smallest kid gave chase, stick extended, completely committed to the pursuit. For a moment, watching him, Shane let himself drift. That looks fun, he thought. I want that, he thought. To chase it without calculating the odds or worrying about who was watching or whether failing would disappoint an entire nation of hockey-obsessed kids who looked up to him.

By the time he turned back toward where he’d parked, his fingertips had gone numb and his face felt a little windburned. The walk back was long considering how far he’d wandered, lost in thoughts that felt too big for his skull. When he finally reached the Chevy and slid back inside, the heater blasting against his frozen cheeks, the clock read 1:30.

Shit. Okay. It was a twenty minute drive to practice, he could still make it.

The rink and ice was home. Shane wasn’t drifting in liminal spaces or wandering anymore. Today’s anthropological experiment in being an actual ‘normal’ person was over, and he was fine. Time to go back to himself, this was him. Hockey was him. Shane Hollander, number twenty four. Shane pushed through the arena doors and the cold hit him first—that particular bite of refrigerated air that lived nowhere else. Then came the smell: rubber and ice shavings and the sharp tang of fresh Zamboni cuts. Here, everything had rules and boundaries and a clear objective.

Put the puck in the fucking net. Don’t let them put it in yours. Simple.

This is who he was, the one that came to every optional practice and skate, stayed late for extra drills, volunteered for bag skates that made younger players vomit. The locker room opened up ahead, yet more familiar territory, his stall in the corner where it’d been since he joined the team. He could see Hayden already there, lacing up his skates. Ryan stood by his locker in just compression shorts, dick swinging free as he dug through his bag for something. Nobody cared. This was the locker room, dick happened. Bodies were just bodies here, tools for the job.Shane could get back to himself here. Everything was fine.

Or at least they were until J.J. cornered him before Shane even got his skates laced.

CUT TO / SHANE (V.O.): Godammit, J.J.

“Hollander!” J.J. slung an arm around his shoulders before Shane could sit. “How’d the rest of your Friday night go, huh? Get lucky with that hottie that’d been checking you out?”

The lie formed automatically. “Ah, no. I finished my beer and caught a ride home, I wasn’t really feeling it.”

“Bullshit.” J.J. dropped onto the bench beside him, close enough that Shane could smell coffee and too much cologne. “You snuck out to meet someone, why else hang back? Come on, who was she? The blonde by the bar? Or—wait—that redhead in the other booth? Nice, man.”

“There wasn’t a girl, J.J.”

Which was true. There hadn’t been a woman.

“Uh-huh. Sure.” J.J. grinned, “That’s why you look like you actually slept for once. That post nut sleep is elite, man.”

“Whatever, man. There was no girl.” He focused on threading his skate laces through the eyelets—right over left, pull tight, through the next set of holes. His fingers knew the pattern. They’d done this thousands of times. He didn’t have to think about it.

Which meant he was thinking about everything else now, the no girl, instead.

You were perfect, Hollander. You were perfect.

“Seriously though,” J.J. poked him in the ribs, making Shane jerk away. “Whatever you did Friday, do it again. You look less like you’re about to spontaneously combust.”

Ryan walked past, towel around his waist, and flicked Shane’s ear hard enough to sting. “What? Hollander got laid? Fuck, you’re right J.J. Look at that face. That’s definitely a ‘I got my dick wet’ face.”

“I didn’t—” Shane started, but Ryan was already moving on, grabbing gear from his stall.

“Relax, man. It’s a compliment.” Ryan pulled on his jock, completely unselfconscious. “About time you loosened up. You’ve been wound tighter than my girl’s purse strings lately with the girls’ birthdays coming up.”

The worst part was that they were right. He had been uptight—so tight he’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe all the way down. And now that the tension had finally released, now that someone had put their hands on him and taken it apart piece by piece, everyone could tell.

They just thought it was because he’d fucked some girl.

J.J. leaned in, lowering his voice to a stage whisper that half the locker room could still hear. “So who’s the lucky lady? Dying to meet whoever managed to snag a hardass like you. Unless they’re a Bears fan. Then all bets are off, and you have terrible taste.”

“There’s no one.” Shane tied off his left skate with a yank, the lace biting into his fingers. “Can we drop it?”

“Fine, fine. Keep your secrets.” J.J. stood, stretched, cracked his neck with a sound like breaking ice. “But for real, whatever zen bullshit you did this weekend, bottle it and sell it. Use it before games. I’ll buy twelve.”

“My game is fine.”

“Your game is always fine. You’re Shane fuckin’ Hollander.” J.J. grabbed his stick from his stall. “You could play with one arm tied behind your back and still make the highlight reel. I’m just saying you seem... I don’t know. Less like you’re going to explode. It’s nice. Don’t lose it.”

He walked off toward the ice, and Shane was left alone on the bench with his skates half-laced and his chest getting tight again.

Don’t lose it.

God dammit. Fuck fuck fuck. Shane could feel lit again, even as he finished his laces and stood. His legs knew what to do but he was drifting again anyway. Walk to the tunnel. Step onto the ice. Take a lap to warm up. The ice stretched out in front of him, pristine and white. This was his home. This was where everything made sense. He pushed off and started his warm-up lap, and his edges bit clean, his stride opened up, and for about thirty seconds everything felt normal again.

Then Coach Theriault blew his whistle.

“Alright ladies, let’s go! Passing drill, two lines!”

Shane fell into line behind Hayden. This drill was basic: one guy at center ice, another at the blue line, pass back and forth while skating. They’d done it a thousand times. Muscle memory. Hayden sent the puck. Shane’s stick met it and redirected it forward... two feet wide of the tape.

“Shit.” He retrieved it, sent it back. This time it sailed high, bouncing off Hayden’s shin pad.

“You good?” Hayden called.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.”

They reset. Shane focused harder this time, dark eyes on the puck, stick blade angled right, weight shifted forward. He sent the pass and watched it wobble wide again, spinning into the corner.

Coach Theriault’s whistle shrieked across the ice.

“Hollander! Wake up out there!”

Every head turned. Shane felt their eyes like spotlights, hot and focused and searching. Twenty guys watching him fuck up a drill they’d learned in Peewee.

“Yes, Coach!” He skated to retrieve the puck, face burning under his helmet.

This was his nightmare. Messing up in front of everyone. Being the weak link. The guy who couldn’t execute basic fundamentals. Shane Hollander didn’t miss passes. Shane Hollander was the guy who made the impossible ones—cross-ice, through traffic, tape to tape every fucking time.

And for what? Because he was thinking rather than being again. How’d they know he’d seen someone? What was so different about him? What if they were just joking and his defensive reaction had been what tipped them off? Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Shane felt cotton in his head, and his hands felt like—okay, shit, he was too aware of his hands. Hold the stick, just like this, don’t move, do it this way this is what they’re for.

He kept thinking about how they’d gripped Rozanov’s shoulders, how his fingers had traced muscle and bone and warm skin.

You’re learning fast, Hollander. I like that.

Fuck!

The next drill was worse. Then the one after that. By the time Coach called for a water break, Shane’s chest was heaving and his legs felt like concrete. He bent over his knees at the bench, sucking air, and tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

Nothing was wrong. He was fine. Everyone had off days.

Except this didn’t feel like an off day. This felt like his body had forgotten how to be his body. He felt like a deer stranded out on the ice.

In the locker room after, Shane stripped out of his gear in silence. Around him, his teammates joked and complained about the drills, replaying their best moves. Someone’s phone was playing music, shitty trap beats that made the air vibrate. Ryan was showing Hayden something on his phone, both of them laughing.

“Piece of garbage won’t—” Hayden yanked at his equipment bag’s zipper, which had caught on fabric.

“Don’t be such a queer about it,” Ryan called, grinning.

Shane nearly flinched.

His hands stilled on his gear bag. The laughter around him continued, easy and thoughtless, because it was always thoughtless. Just locker room talk. Shane had heard it a million times—don’t be a pussy, don’t be a bitch, don’t be a fag. The vocabulary of men trying to prove they weren’t weak, weren’t soft, weren’t other.

Last week it would’ve passed through him like water. Just noise. Background radiation.

Today it lodged between his ribs and wouldn’t move.

Because yesterday, less than twenty-four hours ago, Shane had been laid out in some backroom with a man between his thighs kissing soft pale skin and calling him beautiful and perfect, and it was, really, it was and why did everyone hate it so much, was it really the worst thing about him? High-five, guys, Hollander got laid but Holy shit, you freak if it was a man instead of a woman?

Shane’s fingers curled around the strap of his bag. He wanted to say something, maybe to tell Ryan to shut the fuck up, that he didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, that some people actually were that thing he was using as a punchline and they were sitting right fucking here—

But his throat had closed up. His tongue felt thick. And everyone was still laughing, still moving through their post-practice routine like nothing had happened, because for them nothing had happened.

Shane stood and grabbed his towel, walking toward the showers before anyone could draw him into the usual post-practice roasting.

The water was scalding. He stood under the spray until his skin turned pink, until the locker room emptied out, until he was sure everyone was gone. Then he stood there a little longer, forehead pressed against the tile, trying to remember how to be the person he’d been a week ago.

It hurt. He was angry.

His phone was in his locker. The card was in his wallet. He could text Rozanov right now. Could say... what? Thanks for ruining my life? Thanks for making me notice all the shit I’ve been ignoring for twenty-six years? Thanks. Fuck you.

Shane turned off the water and stood dripping on the tile.

No… he… wasn’t angry with Rozanov. Of course not. He wasn’t even really angry at Ryan or the guys or anyone, this amorphous and hateful bitter bile rising within him like the tide because it simply was just as Shane just was.

And he was lost again.

He wasn’t going to text. He was going home. He was going to meal prep and watch game film and do all the normal things that normal Shane did. And eventually this feeling would fade. Eventually he’d fit back into his life again because that was what had to happen, and because the alternative, that Friday night had changed something fundamental, that he couldn’t unknow what he’d learned about himself, that going back was impossible now—

Shane was a rich man, but even he couldn’t afford to think about that.

The next day, Shane was on his Peloton trying to outrun his own skull.

The red resistance knob turned under his palm easily; sixty percent, seventy, eighty. The fuckin’ flywheel felt like it was going to launch him into the stratosphere. His quads burned. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the handlebars, pooling in the hollow where his thumbs gripped. A swag-wearing and attractive instructor on the screen shouted encouragement he couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears. His heart hammered against his sternum like it wanted out, like he was in Alien and his chest was about to burst.

CUT TO: COMMERCIAL VESSEL NOSTROMO - MESS HALL. Within, SHANE HOLLANDER’s face screws into a mask of agony. A red stain blossoms on his chest, the fabric of his shirt is ripped apart, a mass the size of a fist pushes out, spattering blood in its wake until it lands with a wet SFX: FLOP and his stupid heart wriggles away into the dark.

Shane shook his head. No, no more movies or scripts. Faster, Shane, come on. Push harder. Don’t think.

Only thinking was all he could do anymore. His legs churned and his lungs screamed and behind his eyes there was only: Rozanov Rozanov Rozanov, the wet glide of his lips and soft hands and the rolling ‘r’ in Hollander and being seen seen seen, he’d been himself for that weak moment and felt what he was never supposed to have or feel and now he couldn’t claw back out from the pit.

Shane’s foot slipped, the clips in his shoe wriggling free, and the pedal cracked against his shin hard enough to make him shout and sweat. That fucking 45 pound flywheel! Groaning and hissing in actual agony now, Shane caught himself on the handlebars, chest heaving, and stared at the distance readout blinking on the screen: 23.7 miles. An hour and twelve minutes.

His legs felt like they’d been filleted.

And—and why not—why was that not enough?

He climbed off. His hamstrings cramped immediately. He bent over, hands on his knees, waiting for the black spots to clear from his vision, or to vomit, whichever came first.

This is fine. You’re fine. Just tired.

In the shower he scrubbed until his skin felt raw. Dried off. Pulled on sweatpants. The condo stretched around him in its usual sterile hush, all pretty walls and nice furniture, with tasteful odds and ends that he didn’t actually pick for himself. Normally the order soothed him. Today it felt like standing in a museum display: Habitat of the Professional Athlete, circa 2017

You taste good, Hollander.

“God fucking dammit.”

Shane started with the kitchen. He wiped down counters that were already clean, then reorganized the spice rack he never used. He emptied the dishwasher, then reloaded it with the two dishes from this morning. Eggs again because fuck the protein shake. His obsession moved to the living room as he straightened couch cushions, dusted shelves, realigned the coffee table books his interior designer had selected. If he could get everything right again, in place, he could do the same with himself.

Right?

Wrong.

The clock on the nightstand read 2:47 am, and Shane was almost—sort of—back to routine. He was sleepless again, suffocating from the same four walls, his legs still aching. The sheets felt too hot and stuck to his shoulders. He kicked them off and the air conditioning raised goosebumps along his arms. Groaning, he pulled them back up to his waist and stared at the ceiling fan making its slow rotations overhead.

Restless energy pooled low in his gut despite how thoroughly he’d wrecked himself earlier, and he was tired, but the exhaustion in his legs hadn’t touched whatever tension lived in his chest, coiled and waiting. Shane shifted against the pillow, then shifted again when that didn’t help either.

His hand drifted down his stomach.

Maybe if he just… maybe taking the edge off would let him actually rest.

It certainly wouldn’t hurt.

Shane pushed his boxers down and wrapped his fingers around himself where he was already half-hard, embarrassingly hard. Rozanov Rozanov Rozanov. This was his fault, this fixation. He was a nightmare, a wraith, clinging to almost sleep and almost dream, and all Shane could do was lay there trying not to think about Friday night and failing spectacularly.

Don’t. Don’t think about it. Don’t remember.

Rozanov conjured himself in his mind and appeared behind Shane’s closed eyelids easily, materializing for fantasy in an instant, smirking at him playfully while those hazel eyes glittered. He was beautiful as much in daydream as he was in life: those messy brown curls, strong jawline, the cleft to his chin… And that smile: lopsided and lazy, made up of soft, so soft, lips and that talented tongue… Shane exhaled, a mixture of relief and humiliation sweeping through him as the fantasy ran wild, moving at a breakneck pace.

Rozanov’s hands working into Shane’s shoulders until the knots dissolved, then—fuck yes—pushing him down, muscular broad shoulders holding his legs splay so he could better fit between like he belonged there, all golden skin and wet open mouthed kisses…

Stifling a moan in his pillow, Shane’s hips lifted. His free hand twisted in the sheets beside him, anchoring himself to the mattress because his body wanted to arch up into the touch that wasn’t there, but oh, he wished, he wished—

Rozanov’s hands on his hips, holding him steady while Shane had rocked forward seeking friction. That devil’s tongue and mouth, licking and sucking and… and… maybe… fingers. Shane’s breath came faster now. His hand moved in long strokes but it felt like a pale echo of what he actually wanted in the form of heat, the pressure of someone else’s, Rozanov’s bulky weight, pinning him down, making him take it the way Rozanov had, palm flat against his sternum and thumb brushing his collarbone.

Da, like that.

He bit down on his lower lip. Behind his closed eyelids Rozanov knelt between his thighs again, mouth wet and those devil eyes looking up at him through the amber light. Shane could almost feel it—the slick heat, the suction, the way Rozanov’s lips had worked around him—

You were perfect.

His spine arched off the mattress, hand moving faster, and in his mind it was his, calloused and wonderful and sliding just right. He imagined the cut of his hips, the muscular thighs, the hard outline of his cock through trousers. What did it look like? Feel like? A pang of desperate disappointment rocketed through Shane for not knowing the answer and he didn’t know what to do without knowing.

Rozanov would know what to do with him. Would position him however he wanted—on his back, on his knees, bent over the arm of that leather couch—and Shane would let him because the only thing better than Rozanov touching him was Rozanov telling him exactly how to be touched.

Good boy. Taking what you need.

His rhythm turned desperate, chasing something that stayed just out of reach no matter how fast his hand moved. He imagined Rozanov’s weight settling over him, hips pressing his thighs wider, that rough voice murmuring Russian against his neck while Shane fell apart beneath him.

Come for me, Hollander.

Shane wailed, he was, and he did. He came with a cry, orgasm hitting hard enough that his thighs tensed and his free hand tore at the sheets, even as he caught his own spend in a fist. He bit down on the sound trying to escape, teeth sinking into his lower lip until it hurt, until it stopped hurting, until that blissed-out feeling pulsed through him in waves that left his chest heaving and his legs shaking and absolutely nothing settled in his head.

Shane lay there afterward, come cooling on his stomach and his hand, staring at the ceiling fan’s rotations. He cleaned himself. He tried to roll onto his side and closed his eyes.

Sleep didn’t come for another two hours.

Shane sat at his kitchen island with his laptop open and a cup of coffee beside him, the cursor blinking in an empty search bar while his fingers hovered over keys he couldn’t quite bring himself to press.

Monday night. Practice was over and he was alone again and the condo was spotless—he’d spent yesterday afternoon reorganizing all his closets, scrubbing grout in the bathroom between tile, and folding and refolding towels until the edges lined up perfectly. His hands had needed something to do and his brain had needed to shut up, but neither objective had been accomplished by any of it.

And… because of course he was… he was thinking about Rozanov. Again.

Not that he’d ever really stopped thinking about him. Every time Shane closed his eyes, he felt phantom pressure—Rozanov’s thumbs working into the knots at his shoulders, callused palms steadying his hips… He’d felt light.

Shane hadn’t even known he was heavy until someone showed him what it felt like to put the weight down.

Now he couldn’t stop wondering if that feeling had a name, if it was something real or if Rozanov had just been that good at his job. If Shane had imagined the whole thing mattering more than it did. He needed to know if this was... if he was...

His fingers dropped to the keyboard before his brain caught up.

professional dom

Shane steeled himself with a hot sip, and stared at the words for thirty seconds, then deleted them from the search bar and set his hands back on the counter where they couldn’t cause problems. This was pathetic. He was researching sex work like it was a book report, trying to understand something he should probably just forget about.

If only he could forget.

His phone sat face-down three feet away and the card was in his wallet tucked behind his credit cards where he couldn’t see it unless he went looking, which he absolutely had not done twice yesterday just to trace his thumb over the embossed numbers and feel the matte black cardstock between his fingers. He had definitely not looked at the messages he’d sent to Rozanov and cringed.

This is Shane. Obviously it was Shane, and then: Sorry I should have said that first. Fucking idiot. Rozanov must think he was an absolute disaster, the most uptight person on the planet.

Which—fair.

Rozanov’s response had been brief—Go to sleep, Hollander—and Shane had spent twenty minutes analyzing those four words. Was it dismissive? Annoyed? Or just practical advice from someone who’d noticed Shane’s tendency to spiral?

He considered, not for the first time, deleting the entire conversion from his phone and pretending none of this had happened at all. No one would ever know. One or two taps and all the evidence would be gone.

Instead, with a sigh, he typed on the laptop keyboard again, only to hesitate. Again.

He hit Enter because this was research, this was educational, this was exactly like watching game film where you reviewed the plays and analyzed what worked and figured out the strategy for next time.

Or something like that.

Wikipedia loaded first and he clicked it because that felt safest and most clinical, skimming past the technical definitions and the history section until he found what he was looking for buried three paragraphs down: Aftercare refers to the time after a scene when partners provide emotional and physical comfort to each other, helping to process the experience and return to baseline.

Baseline. Like returning to sea level after altitude training. Shane’s hand ghosted up to his collar, thumbing absently with the collar of his shirt there. This was a t-shirt, but… that night Rozanov’s knuckles had brushed his skin there, quick and warm, helping with his buttons. And then they’d sat together, thighs touching, and just… talked? Rozanov force-fed him water and asked him, often, how he was doing, and helped with his coat and made him feel safe and… and then that accented voice saying text me when you get home safe like it mattered whether Shane made it back to his empty condo in one piece.

Aftercare had a name and he’d experienced it without knowing what to call it. It was protocol, something so common it had its own Wikipedia entry.

… which meant Shane wasn’t the only person who’d needed it, and wasn’t the only one who’d fallen apart and needed someone to put him back together afterward.

A wave of relief flowed through him, enough to help still his shaking hands.

And then he typed Rozanov Montreal into the search bar.

The results were sparse enough to be almost insulting—a few social media profiles that could’ve belonged to anyone with that name and all without profile photos, an Instagram account with exactly three posts from 2016 that were all photographs of food, a Facebook page that hadn’t been updated in years. Nothing that felt like him, like the man who’d looked at him with those bright hazel eyes and said you need permission like he was handing over the keys to a door Shane hadn’t known existed.

He tried different combinations, adding and subtracting words, getting progressively more desperate and feeling progressively more pathetic about it: Rozanov Wolfbird, Rozanov professional, each search returning the same unhelpful nothing.

Which made sense when he thought about it for more than five seconds: the NDAs, the locked phones, the whole elaborate infrastructure of discretion that Wolfbird had built around itself meant that whatever Rozanov’s real online presence was, assuming he even had one, it wouldn’t be linked to his work in any searchable way.

Shane should have been relieved because the anonymity was the whole appeal, the reason he’d been able to walk through that door in the first place, but instead he felt… frustrated.

Then the frustration curdled into guilt because what right did he have to go digging for information that Rozanov had deliberately kept private, and wasn’t this exactly the kind of boundary-crossing bullshit that would make him the worst kind of creep?

Okay… so… maybe a different sort of search. He could start small.

Shane went back to the search bar and typed in a new query: BDSM.

The results loaded: articles, forums, wikis, educational sites with URLs that somehow looked both legitimate and deeply embarrassing to have in his browser history even though he was in incognito mode. He clicked the first link—a website with a clean, almost medical aesthetic. White background, sans-serif font… it looked classy, like the site suggested we’re here to educate, not titillate.

BDSM stands for Bondage/Discipline, Dominance/Submission, Sadism/Masochism. It encompasses a wide range of practices...

Shane skimmed. Most of it read like a textbook, dry and procedural, nothing that connected to the actual experience. The article listed safe words and negotiation and aftercare—there was that word again—and they, Shane realized, were familiar from the contract he’d signed too. Rozanov had said a few of these things and he’d been too stupid, or nervous, to really learn or remember.

He opened a new tab. Tried what is a Dom, and got pages of definitions that ranged from clinical to pornographic, none of them capturing the specific thing Rozanov had done.

Another tab: professional dominatrix. The results skewed heavily toward women in leather, studio photos with props that looked more theatrical than functional. Shane stared at a photo of a woman in thigh-high boots holding a riding crop, her expression bored and sultry at once, and tried to map it onto Rozanov’s hands on his shoulders, Rozanov’s patient you’re doing well.

It didn’t fit.

One blog post caught his eye: The Difference Between Fantasy and Fetish.

He clicked.

Many people think professional domination is about pain or humiliation, but for a significant portion of clients, it’s about relief. About having someone else be in charge for an hour or two. About permission to want things you’re not supposed to want. The kink isn’t always in what we do—sometimes it’s in being allowed to stop controlling everything for a while.

Shane read it three times.

Being allowed to stop controlling everything.

And here he was with his macros and his schedule and his two tablespoons of almond milk because: control. He was always scrabbling for it, clinging for it. He had money, more than he knew what to do with really, and his signing bonus alone could buy three of these condos. But paying someone to want him felt different than paying for a haircut or a steak dinner.

Was that pathetic? That he couldn’t just find this on his own? Go to a bar, meet someone, do what normal people did? Except he’d tried that, and every time he’d ended up performing again: playing the on screen role of a straight guy who definitely wanted to take this girl home. The transaction had always been there, just dressed up in drinks and small talk. At least with Rozanov the terms were honest. Or whatever.

Shane kept reading, the article breaking down different approaches: people who came for pain, people who came for humiliation, people who came for any number of reasons including just being overwhelmed or stressed.

That one sounded familiar, and… yeah, he could see the appeal. Friday night, Rozanov hadn’t just touched him, he’d taken every decision out of Shane’s hands. Where to sit. What to drink. When to speak. And instead of feeling trapped or helpless, Shane had felt... free. For the first time in years, maybe ever, he hadn’t been responsible for managing everyone else’s comfort or expectations or disappointment. He’d just been Shane, and he was desirable and enough and… ugh. This was going to be a problem.

He opened another tab, then another, each search building on the last: dom/sub relationship, power exchange, service top. The language felt alien: tops and bottoms and switches he knew from being a miserable closeted fool but… Rope Bunny? Primal play? There was an entire vocabulary he’d never learned. He’d thought he knew what gay sex was, mechanically at least, but this was something else entirely. A landscape he’d stumbled into without a map.

He clicked back to the search bar: how often do people see professional Doms.

The answers ranged wildly. Some people went weekly, some monthly, some only once as an experiment. One commenter mentioned going twice a week for a year before they felt steady enough to stop. Another said they’d gone once, five years ago, and still thought about it.

Shane wondered which category he’d fall into.

Wait, why was he wondering at all? He’d already decided this was a one-time thing! It was done! He was done, he was…

Shane groaned, rubbing at his eyes. He was researching whatever scraps he could chasing a feeling through forums because he was being too much of a fucking coward to actually go back.

Seventeen tabs open now, each one a breadcrumb trail leading further from the lie he’d been telling himself. He… he wasn’t ashamed of Friday night. That was the thing that kept circling back, landing like a puck he couldn’t clear from his zone. He’d spent two days waiting for the regret to hit: the mortification, the self-loathing, all the things he’d been taught to feel about wanting another man or for paying for it.

But instead of those things there was just that phantom feeling of lightness and goodness, the memory of his own hips rocking forward, chasing friction, without apology. The way his whole body had gone loose and heavy afterward, wrung out in a way that felt like finally exhaling after holding his breath for years, and now he couldn’t unknow it or unlearn what it was like to exist in his own skin without the constant white-knuckle grip of control.

He wanted to go back.

That was what he’d been dancing around for three days now, distracting himself with cleaning his condo or destroying himself on the spin bike. All of it avoidance, circling the actual truth: he wanted Rozanov’s hands on him again, and he wanted to hear that accented rumble saying good and perfect and you’re doing so well. He wanted to stop being Shane Hollander, and just be Shane even if only for an hour.

That was worth more than $400 an hour.

His phone sat three feet away.

And he hadn’t deleted that text, either, so… he could… reach out again. Shane picked up his phone and unlocked the screen, fumbling around with it awkwardly until he opened the texting app only to close it again and then open it fucking again.

This is stupid. You’re being stupid. Just text him.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Hey, remember me? The disaster? Want to do that thing again? Or maybe: Hi. This is Shane. I’ve been thinking about you. Can I see you again?

Too forward. Too needy.

He deleted it. Typed: Hey. How are you?

Shane groaned and deleted that too; they weren’t friends and this wasn’t a casual check-in.

Are you available this week?

That was better but… too transactional. It sound like he was booking a therapy appointment.

I had a good time Friday. Would you be open to another session?

That one sat in the text box for a full minute before Shane deleted it with a frustrated sound. It all felt like he was writing a fucking Yelp review. This felt filthy. He was ashamed. Yes, shame, that’s what it was; the shame was there, but underneath it was a slithering, snake-like, coil of anger.

Why was wanting this shameful? Why was needing help considered weakness? He’d been grinding himself down to nothing for years, giving everything to hockey and sponsors and fans and his family, and the one time he’d done something just for himself, just to feel good, his first instinct was to feel guilty about it.

Fuck… that. Fuck all of that.

He wanted to go back. That was it. That was the truth underneath all the spiraling.

By now, Shane’s coffee had gone cold, so he got up, dumped it in the sink, and paced the length of his kitchen three times before ending up back at the island with his phone in hand, still figuring out what he needed to type.

Even now, you are thinking about what you should say instead of what you want to say.

Rozanov, even then, had caught the spiral and helped to coax him out of it, pointing out the vicious cycle of not saying what should you say, but what do you want to say. The difference felt enormous.

Shane wanted to say: I haven’t felt this lost in years but also I haven’t felt this found either, and I don’t know what to do with that. I want to see you again, is it okay if I see you again? Am I a failure if I want to see you again?

But he couldn’t text that to someone he’d met once. He couldn’t lay himself bare like that to a professional whose job was to make him feel exactly this vulnerable.

Could he?

Shane’s thumbs moved before he could second-guess himself anymore:

He hit send before he could chicken out. The message disappeared into the void with a soft whoosh and Shane immediately wanted to hurl his phone across the room. And he nearly did, probably would have, if not for the appearance of three little dots at the bottom of the screen.

Shane’s heart kicked against his ribs. Rozanov was typing. He was responding. Shane watched those three dots pulse (typing, pausing, typing again) and felt like he might vibrate out of his skin, and it was agony, agony waiting.

The message came through:

Shane stared at the screen. That was it? No judgment, no surprise, just when are you free? Like this was normal. Like Shane reaching out again was expected, maybe even wanted.

His hands shook as he typed back:

The three dots reappeared immediately.

Good, okay, yes, and no one had died, the world hadn’t imploded. Shane didn’t feel like the biggest loser on the planet. He was anxious, but really when wasn’t he, but there was a new feeling bubbling up like champagne bubbles. Excited. He was… excited. Shane exhaled, willing himself to at least try and relax, to be chill, about this. Getting through the week would be an adventure but… okay. He could handle Tuesday to Friday night. And now he even knew where he was going, just like ladies with bread bags and students at the café or couples by the river.

Something outside of hockey. That he liked.

This was good.

Shane got ready for bed, brushing his teeth and staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His freckles stood out in the harsh light, scattered across his nose and cheekbones, the same ones he’d always sorta… hated.

Constellations in your skin.

Shane leaned closer to the mirror. He’d spent twenty-six years trying to minimize them with foundation for photoshoots, turned his face away from cameras at just the right angle to make them less noticeable. Now he traced one finger across his cheekbone, following the pattern like Rozanov’s thumb had, and tried to see what Rozanov saw.

Stars, not flaws. Was it even possible? Maybe, Shane thought, I’ve already done the impossible thing of texting him today.

He slipped out of his clothes and stripped to his underwear, falling into bed with more of a boneless flop than usual, and there, in the dark like a secret, he picked up his phone again, just to reread Rozanov’s messages one more time—Missing me?—and felt his mouth curve before he could stop it.

Yeah. He was.

FADE OUT.

Chapter End Notes

My Hollanov fics on AO3

I know this one was LONG! Ilya POV chapter next, hang in there folks!

Big thank you to my friend Christeeenith for answering all my Canada questions, and to Dayntee for my script questions. Thank you to Aphantastical for beta'ing this work!

Misc. Reference:

1. That mournful wail of a loon — “I’m here, where are you?” punctuating the arrival of night.
2. The Alien Script
3. Bez Stsenariya (Без сценария) transaltes to 'Unscripted'

And last but not least... thanks for reading! If you liked it, I’d love to yap in the comments.

Not sure what to say? Comment anxiety? How about...

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”
- 🌌 “this wasn't my favorite”
- 🚲 “why is Shane riding that Peloton when Ilya is RIGHT THERE”
- 🏒 “dumb hockey boys make me happy”
- 🗡️ “this usually isnt my thing... and yet”
- 💀 “how dare you (affectionate)”

Chapter 4: Solnyshko

Chapter Notes

Ilya woke slowly, and to the almost-afternoon sun clawing its way through his blinds. He hadn’t bought blackout curtains yet, and so each day began the same way, whenever it happened to begin at all: strips of light slipping between the warped white slats, catching on dust he never quite managed to clean and coloring the air with a slow constellation of dust motes turned into tiny sputnik.

In English, it was ‘satellite’—a technical word, something NASA launched into orbit and forgot about. Useful. Mechanical. Wrong in the way English was often wrong, flattening meaning until only function remained. But sputnik? Sputnik meant companion. Fellow traveler. When paired with zhizni, it became life partner; two bodies orbiting each other by choice, not physics. The Americans had stolen the word for their space race and never understood they’d taken poetry and made it soulless machinery.

English was so flat. English was colorless.

And Russian felt so very far away.

Sputnik, not the word but the machine, might’ve felt this way in its short lived sojourn. It was the first, it was alone. And then it fell.

Ilya lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. Weightless. Drifting. A body in orbit with no planet to pull him down; a lonely mass in the greater expanse of stars. Ilya wondered if he was also soulless machinery now, the way that he used and was used.

He’d been asleep for nine hours, maybe ten—and it didn’t matter that he didn’t know which. Time blurred when there was nothing waiting on the other side of waking, and it’d been easy to lose track of time, even before his head hit the pillow. Last night’s session with Hollander—the Shane Hollander—ended around eleven, then there was the walk to the metro, the ride home, and then the climb up three flights of stairs to his apartment because the building’s elevator had been broken for two months and the landlord kept promising “next week, next week.”

Ilya stretched his arms overhead until his joints popped, then sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. Ah, tension there. He’d need to work that out before the next client. Yawning, his feet found the cold floor, and not for the first time, wished he’d bought that stupid fucking rug he’d seen at a yard sale. $70. It was ugly, yes, but that hardly mattered.

Several things in his apartment were astoundingly ugly: his pre-owned couch, the fake plant in the corner with dust on the leaves, and all-white kitchen appliances with their yellowing handles and fixtures. And then, right next to those things, were the beautiful ones. Ilya’s expensive leather jacket hung on a plastic hanger looped over the closet door. Tom Ford cologne on a bathroom shelf installed crooked by the previous tenant. A dresser from IKEA that Ilya had assembled himself, with infuriating illustrated pictures rather than words. Had language failed cabinetry too? Cursing all the while, he’d puzzled through it, even though some of the screws had gone in backwards and were still visible on the wrong side of the door. The apartment was clean, though. He kept it clean. Clutter made the space feel smaller than it already was, and six hundred square feet shrank quickly.

Ilya did not rise quickly. He took his time, splaying out his legs to stretch them too, then leaning back on his palms to stare at the ceiling. Outside of work, the day was a blank canvas, much like the blank flat-white ceiling above him. What to do with it? When Ilya eventually did stand, his lower back pulled tightly against the motion so he stretched that out too, hands braced against the wall, pushing until the muscles released. His body was equipment. It required maintenance the same way his clothes did, his hair, his teeth. Ilya couldn’t afford to let anything slip. A strained muscle meant cancelled sessions, and there was no safety net of sick time, PTO… nothing.

Cancelled sessions meant the math of existence stopped working.

Yawning, Ilya pulled on sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a t-shirt with a hole near the hem, before padding barefoot to the kitchen, which was sparsely appointed. Rather than stainless, the fixtures were white, but they worked, and the aesthetics didn’t matter as much as the ability to feed himself. The fridge buzzed when he opened it. Inside: a carton of eggs with three left, half a container of plain Greek yogurt, a mostly-empty bottle of hot sauce, and a lemon that had seen better days. He’d meant to go shopping for groceries yesterday, but then Svetlana had texted asking if he could take an extra session at eight, and he’d said yes because he always said yes, and grocery shopping became tomorrow’s problem.

Tomorrow was now today. He closed the fridge.

Okay fine. Perhaps coffee first, and he could figure out what to do. A little coffee maker sat on the laminate counter, one of those cheap single-serve ones that took the little pods.

The coffee pods—$8.99 for eighteen—worked out to forty-five cents per cup. Pod number four, which meant two weeks until he’d need to buy another box. The protein powder from Costco: $62, six weeks’ worth, $1.48 per day. His mother would’ve been disgusted by the waste. She’d made real coffee in a turka, the grounds thick enough to read fortunes in. Kofeynyye gadaniye. But she’d also believed that if you gave someone an empty wallet as a gift, they’d always be poor. And here he was, counting cents while brewing chemical-tasting manufactured garbage.

Maybe she’d been right about more than the wallet.

Still counting, Ilya slotted one in, filled the reservoir with tap water from the sink, and pressed the button to let it brew, watching the machine gurgle and spit. Ilya leaned against the counter tracking the liquid as it dripped into his mug.

While the coffee brewed, he opened the cabinet above the sink for the protein powder. He scooped some into a bowl, then returned to the fridge, mixing it with the yogurt to make a whey-yogurt-vanilla-flavored amalgamation.

There. Breakfast.

With a cigarette, it’d be a feast.

And now time for business. Ilya turned his attention to his phone, where several notifications waited: a text from Svetlana, a payment confirmation from Wolfbird’s billing system, an email from his immigration lawyer with the subject line “Re: Status Update,” and a message from his brother that Ilya didn’t open because he already knew what it would say.

Starting with the easiest, he opened the text from Svetlana first.

He typed back: I will take it

Four more hours of work meant another few hundred dollars, give or take. A few hundred that would vanish into the same black hole everything else did, but a few hundred he couldn’t afford to turn down. More money never hurt, anyway. People assumed that he, handsome and skilled and in demand, must’ve made a killing in his ‘career’. And yes, it was good money in theory… until all the costs of existence intruded.

And speaking of money… Ilya turned his attention to payment notification next. Eight hundred dollars from S. Hollander, session ID #4729, duration 2.0 hours. Wolfbird would process it Monday, take their forty-five percent, then deposit the rest to him Tuesday. Four hundred and forty dollars to him after the house cut. Ilya did the math automatically now, the calculations running in the background of his thoughts like a program he couldn’t shut off.

Funny, as a child he’d always been so bad at math. Lately it felt like it was all he did.

Rent for his apartment was eighteen hundred, and it was due in nine days. He had eleven hundred in the account right now. Tonight’s session would bring it to fifteen hundred. One more good week and he’d make rent with enough left over for the lawyer payment, the insurance payment, the grocery run, the money order to Russia.

The money order to Russia.

Ilya opened his brother’s message, already knowing what it would be:

Papa’s medication went up again. Need extra 200 this month

Of course it was about money. Andrei never wasted words on kak dela or kak ty—how are you, how are things. Russians could spend an hour discussing their suffering as foreplay to actual conversation, but his brother had learned economy. Demand, deflect, disappear. Give me money and don’t ask questions. Ilya sent money, Andrei took it, and the cycle continued. Eight hundred dollars a month, sometimes more when their father’s care home raised rates or the medication changed or Andrei decided he needed “extra” for something he never quite explained. Ilya suspected half of it went to Andrei’s own expenses, a new phone, or nights at bars, or maybe the girlfriend he’d mentioned once and never again, but he couldn’t prove it.

Their father had been like that too, before the Alzheimer’s. Ilya and Andrei had learned math from the same teacher: a man who calculated the cost of everything and the value of nothing. Papa had counted kopeks while Mama counted pills. And now? Papa couldn’t count to ten, Andrei counted Ilya’s guilt, and Ilya counted the days until he could afford to stop sending money to a man who’d kicked him out at seventeen for being—

But what could he do?

Stop sending money? Let Papa sit in his own filth because the care home wouldn’t bathe him without payment?

Papa rarely even remember Ilya’s name anymore. Last time they’d video-called, Papa had looked at the screen with watery eyes and asked who this young man was. Andrei had laughed, that bitter laugh he’d perfected after Mama died. “It’s Ilya, Papa. Your other son. The one that left you.”

Days later, sometimes Papa would ask Ilya to pick up bread on the way home.

Ilya set the phone down and picked up his coffee, taking long drags from it and leaning into the scald. Pain on the inside, pain on the outside: the symmetry of suffering made sense.

Ca-THUNK! A noise from across the apartment pulled Ilya from his ruminations before he could sink deeper into them. His small radiator beneath the window clanked and hissed, putting out barely enough heat to keep the apartment above freezing, and by the sounds of things, it was in its death throes. Ilya had duct-taped the seams where cold air leaked in and texted his landlord only to get the same predictable response:

Next week, next week.

Why was it always like that? Next week it would be fixed. Tomorrow he would get groceries. The future sounded wonderful, with money and heat and elevators and fresh fruit and blini for breakfast. But every morning Ilya woke up in the same place: here. The present. The next day was always just so ever out of reach, never to come, always to be tomorrow, tomorrow.

Perhaps the future did not even exist.

Ilya sighed, and glanced at his window, the one above the dying radiator. Outside, Montreal was bright and frozen. Saturday afternoon, people walking dogs and carrying grocery bags, their breath fogging in the cold. A couple across the street stood at the corner waiting for the light to change, the man’s arm around the woman’s waist, her head tipped toward his shoulder. Normal people. People with SIN numbers and tax returns and work permits that hadn’t expired because some junior hockey team’s overwhelmed administrator had filed the paperwork three days too late. People who could walk into a Tim Hortons and apply for a job and actually get hired instead of being told we’ll call you and never hearing back because their papers didn’t exist.

Ilya had been nineteen when it happened. Played two seasons for a team in Trois-Rivières, nothing glamorous, barely enough fans to fill the stands, but it was hockey and he’d been good at it. Good enough that the scouts had started to notice. Good enough that he’d let himself believe the dream might actually happen. Hockey was the dream, hockey was tomorrow.

Then his knee. Then the paperwork. Then the team folding because their funding dried up and everyone scattering to other cities, other teams, other lives.

Then… nothing.

Of course, Ilya had tried to fix it. He hired a lawyer, paid what he could, started the process of applying for asylum on the grounds that returning to Russia would be dangerous for him. He was bisexual, and… really, he had suspected since he was fourteen, and then was sure with his Coach’s son at sixteen, had hidden it from everyone, and Russia’s laws had gotten worse every year. Going back meant hiding forever or risking arrest, violence, worse. The lawyer said he had a case.

The lawyer also said it would take years, maybe five or more, and cost fifteen thousand dollars minimum.

Ilya had two thousand saved when he started. That had been three years ago.

His phone buzzed again. Svetlana.

He smiled despite himself. Svetlana had a way of saying the truth plainly, without decoration or trying to sugarcoat a bitter pill, and it made the truth easier to swallow just the same. She’d been at Wolfbird longer than anyone and had seen a hundred Doms and Dominatrixes, Subs, all imaginable kink service providers, come and go, had probably watched half of them burn out or disappear. She treated Ilya like a younger brother most days, which meant she worried at him and fed him when he forgot to eat and told him when he was being an idiot.

She’d probably tell him he was being an idiot about Hollander if he mentioned that he was still thinking about him.

Not that there was anything to be an idiot about. The session had gone well, the client had responded well and was escorted to a trusted driver and whisked back home to the address on file. Textbook work. Hollander was another client who might come back or might not, and the odds were usually “might not” after a first session. First-timers spooked easily. They went home, woke up the next morning, felt embarrassed or guilty or whatever it was closeted men felt when they let another man touch them, and they never called again.

That was fine. Ilya had done his job. Hollander had paid. The money would clear. End of transaction.

Except.

Ilya took another sip of coffee and watched the woman with the stroller finally give up on the sidewalk and push into the street instead, navigating around parked cars. Except Hollander had been different. Most clients came in knowing what they wanted, or at least they thought they knew. They’d read articles online, or at minimum watched porn, having built up fantasies in their heads that Ilya either fulfilled or gently redirected into things that would actually work. Yes, he could fuck them. No, he could not suspend them from the ceiling and use a Sybian to—

Well, okay, he could probably do that too, if they paid for an extra hour to allow for rope time and set up. Why not. People paid for wish fulfillment, and Ilya was happy to do wicked things for their cash.

But wicked whims and wishes aside, Hollander had come in not knowing anything. He’d been carrying himself like a man braced for impact—every muscle pre-loaded, shoulders up near his ears, spine locked like he was waiting for someone to check him into the boards, and for a moment Ilya thought he might snap, and most of their session hadn’t even been sexual at all, instead trying to bring him back down from whatever anxiety driven high-flying kosmicheskiy chelnok—rocket—he’d been on, floating into the void, untethered from the very idea that this experience could even be good. Or, Ilya wondered, if Hollander even thought he deserved to feel good.

Hollander had been looking at him like he expected to be hurt.

Ilya took another long drag of his coffee, considered. That wasn’t entirely uncommon, he supposed. Kink had a stigma to it, people had the whole ‘chains and whips’ aesthetic in the forefront of their minds. He’d always enjoyed subverting that when he could, and Hollander was no exception, especially since when Ilya touched him—really touched him, got his hands into those shoulders—Hollander had melted. Melted. Like he’d been holding himself together through sheer will and the moment someone gave him permission to stop, he collapsed into it, all at once handing over his trust and the metaphorical leash for control.

That didn’t happen often. Most clients wanted the fantasy: the control, the dominance, the theatre of submission. Hollander had wanted relief.

More surprising, it had been a relief for Ilya to give it to him. Those hazy dark eyes. Those freckles, and explored Ilya's body with his fingers like Ilya was a person and not a sex toy prop. Sputnik. Rakety i kosmicheskiye korabli. Perhaps Hollander was another far flung and lonely celestial body.

He always enjoyed his sessions, truly. But… Ilya did not always carry a secret hope that someone might return.

But alas, tomorrow, tomorrow.

Ilya drained the last of his coffee and set the mug on the windowsill to clean later. He needed to shower. The yogurt had been good, but he still needed to eat the last three eggs and buy more. Then… sure, he also needed to go to the laundromat because he was down to his last clean pair of work trousers and the good shirt was starting to smell like cologne and sweat no matter how many times he aired it out. He needed to figure out how to tell Andrei that two hundred extra meant he wouldn’t eat properly this week but yes, yes, of course, he’d send it because what else could he do?

He also needed to stop thinking about a client who probably wouldn’t return.

His phone buzzed again. He glanced down.

Ilya’s stomach cramped at the thought of real food, something hot and filling that he didn’t have to make himself. Darling Svetlana. He wanted to kiss her.

He’d make it work. Laundromat first, then Svetlana’s apartment in Verdun, then the metro back to Wolfbird for seven. Long day, but the meal would be worth it, and Svetlana’s company would be worth more. She never asked him to explain himself. She never looked at him like she was calculating what he was worth, and she understood his spirals. With Svetlana, he could just be Ilya for a few hours—not the body, not the income, not the son sending money he didn’t have to a father who wouldn’t remember receiving it.

Ilya pushed off the windowsill and headed for the shower, already making the mental list: laundry detergent, check if he had enough metro tickets to last the week, text Andrei back before he started sending the guilt-laden follow-ups. The list never ended. There was always something to calculate, something to budget, something to maintain.

But the water would be hot, at least for a few minutes before the building’s ancient heater gave up, and he’d stand under it and let it work the knots from his shoulders. Small luxury. Free luxury. He’d take it.

Behind him on the counter, his phone screen went dark. The payment notification still glowing in the app: $800.00 from S. Hollander.

Probably wouldn’t return.

But the rent would get paid either way. The lawyer would get paid. Andrei would get his extra two hundred. Papa would get his medication that he wouldn’t remember taking.

And Ilya would go to Wolfbird tonight and do it all again, because this was the only path left to him now, this spinning orbit. The hockey dream had died in a Trois-Rivières arena with bad lighting and worse ice. This was what remained: his body, his skill at reading people, his ability to make them feel wanted for an hour or two.

It was work. Honest work, even if he could never tell Andrei what kind. Even if Mama would’ve cried to know.

Even if some nights, alone in this apartment with its empty fridge and expensive jacket, Ilya wondered if he was slowly disappearing into the performance until there’d be nothing left of the boy who’d come here believing in something better.

He turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat.

Wolfbird at seven PM on Saturday felt different than Friday nights. Ilya changed into his work clothes in the back—freshly laundered (the luxury!) black jeans that fit just right, the shirt with sleeves he could roll to his elbows—and checked his hair in the mirror bolted to the wall. Good enough. He emerged from the back hallway into the main room where the warm-hued lights made everything look cozier than it was.

The bar was half-empty. A few couples occupied the corner booths, leaning into each other’s space. Three men sat at the bar nursing drinks. At the far end, the other professional working this evening while Ilya covered for Dimitri: a woman who went by Mistress Vex, her leather corset cinched tight, red lipstick sharp as a knife, who held court with two clients already. They flanked her like obedient little dogs, at heel, laughing at whatever she said.

Svetlana caught Ilya’s eye from behind the bar and tipped her head toward Vex. The message was clear: she’s got them.

Ilya nodded and took his usual spot at the bar’s opposite end, far enough from Vex’s space to not interfere. He ordered a whiskey, because for him too, the first drink of the night was important.

“Slow tonight,” she said in Russian, keeping her hands busy with a rag and clean glasses.

“Saturday is always strange.” Ilya watched Vex laugh, head thrown back, the two men watching her like she’d hung the moon. “Either packed or dead. Does Dimitri not have regulars yet?”

“Dead,” Svetlana agreed. “And no, not yet. The couples will stay in their booths all night. Those three—” she gestured toward the men at the bar, “—they’re waiting for her.”

“I can see that.”

Vex, or really any female Dominatrix, could easily make double if not triple what Ilya made in an evening. This wasn’t news. Female Doms commanded higher rates, pulled more clients, and had more regulars that requested them by name. The economics were brutal and straightforward: demand and supply. Men were not uncomfortable paying for sex the way many women were, and the vast majority of men that came here looking for sex were also looking to have it with a woman, eager to pay for the fantasy of submission. Women were stingier with their funds, perhaps predisposed to think that they shouldn’t need to pay for sex at all, and made up a smaller population of clients. Regardless, the truth remained the same: Ilya made less money. The math never worked in his favor.

But math was math. He couldn’t change it.

“I’ll stay anyway,” he said. “It would be bad for our reputation if there was only one available flavor here at any given time. You and I standing here, hot and mysterious, will at least attract some little fish to buy cocktails and throw you tips. They love to think that they are stealing you away from me.”

Svetlana’s mouth twitched. “Very generous of you to pretend to be stolen from.”

Ilya shrugged. “I am a giver.”

The first hour crawled. Vex took her clients back, one at a time, returning thirty minutes or an hour later with both of them trailing her like puppies. They paid. They left. She collected another who’d been waiting, disappeared again. The couples in the booths ordered more drinks. The music thrummed through the floor, familiar bassline from a track Ilya had heard a hundred times before.

He waited.

At nine, a woman came in alone; tall, maybe forty, dressed expensively. She scanned the room and her gaze landed on Vex, who was just returning from her third session. The woman approached. Vex smiled. They talked briefly and then walked toward the back together.

A female client, and still stolen!

At ten, two more people arrived: a man and a woman, clearly together. They spoke with Aimée at the desk, signed papers, locked their phones. When they passed Ilya on their way to the room selection, neither of them looked at him.

Svetlana refilled his water. “Go home, solnyshko. It’s not happening tonight.”

“Thirty more minutes.”

“Stubborn.”

“I have expenses.”

She didn’t argue with that. At ten forty-five, when Vex emerged with her latest client and started wrapping up for the night, Ilya finally stood. His lower back protested, he’d been sitting too long. He stretched, felt the joints pop, and caught Svetlana watching him with something like pity in her eyes.

“Don’t,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“Maybe.” She reached under the bar and produced a small wad of cash. “These are some of the tips, take them.”

Ilya accepted it because refusing would hurt her feelings, and because his fridge was empty, and because tomorrow he’d do this again and maybe tomorrow would be better.

“Spasibo, Sveta,” he said.

“Spokoynoy nochi, Ilyusha.”

He walked back through the hallway, changed into his street clothes, and stepped out into the cold. Another shift done. Zero dollars earned. The metro would take him home. The apartment would be dark and the radiator would rattle and he’d eat yogurt standing at the counter.

Not all days were bad.

Ilya stood in the apartment building’s basement. It was dark and damp and a little bit gross down here. It was also the resident gym that his rent covered, and even though it smelled a little bit like mold, Ilya smiled at the mismatched dumbbells scattered across the cracked rubber mats. Okay, sure, it wasn’t ‘luxury’, but he didn’t care. No one else was here. No one was ever here on Sundays since they went to real gyms with memberships and lap pools, which meant he had the whole space to himself.

Perfect.

Ilya pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the bench. The basement air bit at his skin—landlord didn’t heat down here either—but Ilya welcomed the cold. In many ways it was part of him in a way he suspected it was for many Russians. Besides, it would make him move faster, work harder. General Frost, his cold, his Rasputitsa, was as good a personal trainer as it was an enemy for would-be invaders just as it was during WWII.

His breath fogged faintly as he rolled his shoulders back, testing yesterday’s tightness, feeling it release.

The weights were mostly from different sets accumulated over the years and left behind by previous tenants. Eight kilos in one hand, nine in the other. Close enough so long as he switched them throughout the reps. Ilya lay back on the bench and pressed them overhead, feeling his pectorals engage, his triceps fire up. His body responded immediately—awake, eager, ready to work.

Odin, dva, tri. Math again, counting, but the sort he liked. The burn started at dvenadtsat’. Twelve. He grinned and pushed through to fifteen, then racked the weights with a satisfying clang that echoed through the empty space.

This was good. This was his.

At work, his body belonged to clients; their desires, their needs, their fantasies. Here, in this shitty basement gym with its flickering lights and mismatched equipment, his body was just… his body. Muscle and bone and the simple pleasure of making them do what he asked.

Ilya sat up and reached for the heavier dumbbells—twelve kilos each. His shoulders woke up as he raised them for lateral raises, that beautiful ache spreading through his deltoids. By the eighth rep his muscles were shouting. Yes! Yes, like that! He finished ten anyway, then dropped the weights and shook out his arms with a huff of blatant, nearly sexual, satisfaction.

He moved through his routine: chest presses, rows using the ancient cable machine that squeaked with every pull, squats with the heaviest dumbbells held at his shoulders. Sweat slicked his chest and back. His muscles burned in that perfect way that meant they were working, tearing themselves apart to rebuild. He felt strong. He felt capable. The reflection in the mirror looked like it did before everything went to shit, when he was starry eyed and working out with a team.

Forty minutes later, he was breathing hard and his skin gleamed under the fluorescent lights. He grabbed his shirt and wiped his face with it, then checked his phone.

2:47 PM.

Still hours of daylight left. Still hours that belonged to him… and… no plans. What to do?

Ilya took the stairs back up (three flights, because the elevator was still broken and would be until the mythical “next week” finally arrived), but his legs felt loose and powerful after the workout, and he took the steps two at a time just because he could.

Because fuck the elevator.

Back in his apartment, he showered quickly, and redressed in layers: thermal shirt, hoodie, his cheaper jacket that he didn’t mind getting dirty. Jeans. The boots with good tread. Maybe he’d go for a walk. Maybe he’d go bother Sveta. Maybe he’d go to the library and practice his English a little more. Maybe—

His phone buzzed as he was lacing up his boots.

Today truly was a good day. Fate was taking pity for once, and Ilya’s fingers were already moving before he finished reading, and he was already halfway out the door, the walking route in his head:

Refuge du Nord sat on the eastern edge of Rosemont, a low brick building with a fenced yard behind it and a hand-painted sign out front showing a cartoon dog and cat. Ilya pushed through the front door and was immediately hit with the smell of kibble and disinfectant and wet fur and the nonstop sound of barking echoing from the back kennels.

Home. Vozmozhno, eto ray.

“Ilya!” An older woman looked up from the front desk, her grey hair escaping from its bun, reading glasses perched on her nose. “Thank god. We’ve got three dogs that need walks and the kennels in the back are a disaster. We had someone no-call no show for their shift today and… well, you know how it goes.”

“This is quite serious Marianne,” Ilya said, shaking his head with mock disdain, “What fiend has left beautiful woman like you here alone to manage these beasts? Bad and wrong. They should go to jail. But khorosho, I can help with this.”

“Sweet talker, you’re a sweet boy and a flirt,” she laughed, and especially so when Ilya winked. “But I was hoping you’d say that.”

He was already heading for the supply closet where they kept the leashes and waste bags. “Which ones need walking?”

“Biscuit, obviously. That dog has more energy than sense.” Marianne shuffled through papers on her desk. “And the new arrivals: Luna and Max. They’re a bonded pair that came in yesterday, strays from Villeray. Very nervous. We haven’t seen them eat yet.”

Nervous dogs. Shy ones. His specialty, apparently.

“Hm. We shall see about that after I try.”

Ilya grabbed three leashes and headed toward the kennels. The barking got louder as he approached: a dozen dogs in various states of excitement, boredom, or despair. Biscuit, a terrier mix with a blocky head, wiry fur, and a massive underbite, was already throwing himself at the kennel door, his whole body wagging back and forth. At this rate, he would take flight.

“Da, da, ya tebya vizhu.” Ilya said, grinning. Dogs did not care if he spoke Russian and barely spoke English. “You are not subtle, sobaka.”

Biscuit’s barking intensified, and so did the propeller tail. Ilya moved past him to the kennels at the back, where two dogs huddled in the corners of their separate spaces.

Luna was small, maybe twenty pounds, with black fur and white paws. She pressed herself against the back wall, ears flat, tail tucked. Her dark eyes tracked Ilya’s movement but she didn’t move. Max was bigger. Maybe a shepherd mix? Ah, and a limp in his back leg. Bednyazhka. Poor thing. He limped back to the far corner, lay on the concrete floor, head on his paws, and didn’t even look up when Ilya approached.

“Privyet,” Ilya said softly, crouching outside Luna’s kennel. He didn’t reach for the door yet. His babushka had taught him this: how to approach frightened animals. You make yourself small. You wait. You let them come to you when they’re ready, not when you decide they should be ready. ‘Terpyeniye,’ she’d say. Patience.

“Ty khoroshaya devochka,” he continued, voice low and even. “You are a good girl, yes? Just scared. I understand.”

Luna’s ears twitched. One of them lifted slightly, listening.

“Oh, you are English speaking woman then? This is good. Vy by nachali vorchat’, yesli by uslyshali, kak ya govoryu po-frantsuzski.”

Honestly, most people grumbled when they heard his attempts at French.

After a minute of chatting through the chain link and watching the dog’s haunches drop, Ilya unlatched the kennel door slowly, telegraphing every movement. Luna flinched but didn’t bolt. Her eyes were huge. He stayed crouched at the entrance, making himself small, and extended one hand palm-down for her to sniff, being mindful to keep it below her own head’s height so it didn’t appear like he was going to hit her.

“No pressure,” he murmured in English, then switched back to Russian because it felt better. “Ya ne prichinyu tebe vreda.”

I will not hurt you.

Luna’s nose twitched. She watched him for a long moment, weighing her options. Then, inch by inch, she crept forward until her nose touched his knuckles. Despite his heart bursting, the outright sublime, out of body joy Ilya felt whenever a dog decided to trust him, he did not move. He let her sniff and investigate. He let her take her time… the way men should allow all women to do. Her tail was still tucked but it wasn’t pressed quite so tightly against her belly anymore.

“Molodets,” he praised quietly. “Good girl. Very brave.”

He clipped the leash to her collar with slow, gentle movements, then sat back on his heels. “You want go outside? See the sun? Smell things? I can find expensive home with expensive bush for peeing in, too.”

Luna looked at him. She looked at the kennel door behind him. She looked at the leash.

Then she took one tentative step forward.

“Da, that is good. Come. Wonderful girl, good girl.” Ilya stood slowly and Luna followed, her body low to the ground but following. They made it three steps before she spooked at something, another dog barking, or a sound from the front office, and tried to bolt back to her kennel.

Ilya held the leash steady but didn’t pull. He just stopped walking and waited for her to realize she was safe.

“Is okay,” he said. “You do not have to be brave all at once. Small bravery is enough. Perhaps we save expensive bush for next time.”

Luna’s sides heaved. Her eyes were white-rimmed. But after a moment, she stopped pulling toward the kennel and looked at him instead.

Ilya crouched again, making himself her size. “We try again? Or we stay here?”

Luna took a shaking breath. Then another step toward him.

They made it outside eventually, though it took ten minutes to walk thirty feet. But once they were in the fenced yard behind the shelter, with grass under her paws and cold air in her nose, Luna’s tail uncurled slightly. She sniffed at a patch of dead weeds. She watched a bird hop across the fence. She was still scared. But she was less scared than she’d been five minutes ago.

Ilya sat on the cold ground and let her wander the length of the leash, exploring at her own pace. His ass was going numb from the frozen earth but he didn’t care. Luna needed this. Needed time to remember that the world had good things in it, not just cages and fear.

After fifteen minutes, she came back to him and sat beside his knee. Not touching. But close.

“Khoroshaya devochka,” Ilya said quietly. “You are doing so well.”

It was a phrase he said hundreds of, thousands of, times in dimly lit rooms, in dirty bathroom stalls, in clients’ personal homes when they paid extra. He never meant it as much as he did here, ass to grass, with a dog.

Well… except.. for that time with Hollander. Hollander with his baleful, terrified eyes. Afraid to touch. Afraid to be touched. All he’d needed was someone to hold the leash, gently, and lead him outside to see the sun. Ilya huffed out a laugh, and Luna quirked her head to side, looking at him.

“Ah, sorry,” he said, “You see, there is, I think, another puppy I saw recently.”

Luna’s head tilted the other way.

“You mind I tell you about it? You look like you can keep a secret,” Ilya smiled, and wished not for the first time that he could pet her properly, that she might melt the way Hollander had and fall into his lap and beg for praise he would freely, eagerly, lavish. Ilya sighed, and tilted his head back, looking up at the wisps of clouds in the sky. “My English not so great, so I tell you in Russian, but… vidite li, ya rabotayu v klube pod nazvaniyem «Wolfbird»…”

Luna proved to be a very good listener, even if she wasn’t ready to melt yet.

He could’ve stayed there all afternoon doing nothing, talking to her. Would have, honestly. The fact that they let him come here to do this was still somewhat unfathomable, and felt slightly illegal since Ilya wished he could pay them for the privilege. But Biscuit was still inside losing his mind, and Max hadn’t even gotten up yet. Marianne would need help with the kennels. There was always more work. He would stay here a while more, dump an inordinate amount of wet food on top of the shelter’s kibble and try to hand feed Luna a meal, then repeat the process with Max. Maybe two walks with Biscuit.

By the time Ilya left the shelter at seven-thirty, his jeans were covered in dog hair and his hands smelled like drool and dog despite washing them twice. Biscuit had dragged him around the block at a dead sprint, which they both reveled in. Max had taken thirty minutes just to stand up and refused to go outside, but he’d eaten half a bowl of food while Ilya sat with him, hand feeding a few little pieces at a time. Luna had let him touch her head before he left.

Marianne had pressed a twenty-dollar bill into his hand at the door. “For the metro,” she’d said.

Ilya had tried to refuse—he was a volunteer, this was a privilege—but she’d closed his fingers around it. “Take it. Buy yourself dinner, sweetheart. You’re a sweet boy and I worry.”

“You are too good to me, Marianne. Marry me?”

He was joking, but then again it’d help him become a Canadian citizen faster. Plus Marianne had all these dogs, so win-win.

She laughed again, patting his arm with her left hand, just to show off her wedding ring. “A sweet boy and a terminal flirt. Now do me a favor and get yourself something nice.”

Now he stood on the metro platform, waiting for the orange line, and felt the bill folded in his pocket. Twenty dollars. Enough for a real meal instead of yogurt and protein powder. Maybe even something hot from the Vietnamese place near his apartment? Thai? Red curry and, oh fuck, coconut rice and—

Shit. He was going to nut out here on the street if he didn’t reign himself in.

The train arrived in a rush of warm air and squealing brakes. Ilya stepped on and found a seat by the window, watching Montreal slide past through scratched plexiglass. The sun was setting early—winter always stole the light too soon—but the city looked beautiful anyway, all grey stone and glowing windows and the mountain rising in the distance.

His phone buzzed.

Sveta

Sveta: How was your day off, solnyshko?

Ilya: Good. Worked out, walked dogs, got paid 20 dollars

Sveta: Living the dream

Ilya: Obviously

“Pathetic.”

Ilya’s fist tightened in Renée’s blonde hair—expensive highlights, he could tell from the way they caught the light, probably $400 at a Westmount salon—and yanked her head back until her throat stretched taut. She gasped, the sound climbing into a high, pained keen from the back of her gullert that meant she was exactly where she needed to be: flying on endorphins, gone to that place where pain became pleasure because the brain couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

He knew the neurochemistry. Endorphins, dopamine, oxytocin flooding her system. The same chemicals people got from running marathons or skydiving or falling in love. Her pupils were blown wide enough to swallow her irises—mydriasis, the medical term. He’d looked it up. He could not say hamburger without a fast food clerk cringing, but he could also tell them what a handful of $10 words meant.

But that was neither here nor there.

The woman’s cheeks, her tits, her ass, were all rose red from slaps and smacks from Ilya’s stinging palm. Ilya could hardly make out the lovely blue of her eyes anymore now that her pupils were blown so wide. Brain chemicals in sex, especially during scenes, did funny things to the body, the senses, and she was flying atop them now, slick cunt dripping with want while he treated her like a two dollar whore.

This was, after all, her usual request: hurt me

And of course she’d paid in advance after scheduling via text. The e-transfer cleared before he’d even confirmed the address. $500 an hour and no house fee for private visits to client’s homes was worth it, usually. So long as nothing dangerous happened, because then he’d be alone…

“Really, this the best you can do? Whining at me like washed up slut? Come now, Renée, I am starting to feel badly for you. You think you deserve my cock?” He shoved her face down against the mattress, expensive sheets wrinkling under her cheek. This was not the time to be doing math. “Beg better.”

She did. She whimpered his name—Rozanov—offered up every degradation he’d taught her to want over six months of private sessions. Please, I need it, I’ll do anything. Hurt me, harder, please, use my cunt, my holes, fuck my throat till I cry!

Ilya always gave her what she paid for.

He lined himself up. Her cunt was slick, ready, clenching around nothing. Muscle memory. Pavlovian response. He’d trained her body to get wet from his voice alone, from the promise of degradation, which came in excess: ‘Shlyukha. Blyad’. Tvoyu mat’.’ Whore. Fuck. Motherfucker. Ilya switched to Russian because the sounds were harsher, more guttural. He liked to think that he sounded more like himself in Russian, but worried that he sounded more like every movie and book trope criminal Russian mafia tyrant instead.

So long as she paid, he would not begrudge her the fantasy.

Ilya heard sounds come from his own lips—grunts, Russian curses—but felt like he was operating his body remotely. Piloting it from somewhere outside his skull. His body performed like a finely tuned machine. He was fit and glorious in bed. His cock was thick and long and stayed hard. His calloused hands knew where to grip, how much pressure before bruising became actual damage. He watched her back arch beneath him, heard her keen into the pillow, and felt nothing.

It wasn’t that it was bad. Ilya loved sex. He reveled in touch and being touched. But here, in this moment, it was harder to find that feeling the more and more he was playing a role like an actor. He was aroused, but not amorous. He was not disgusted, but was not delirious with his own pleasure. He felt the same flat distance he felt watching the Zamboni circle the ice in the before days.

She came twice. He didn’t at all, but faked doing so anyway into a condom with a grunt and a shudder she’d never question, then pulled out and disposed of the evidence in her en-suite bathroom. Washed his hands. Checked his watch.

Fifty-six minutes.

When he returned, she was already sitting up, pulling her silk robe closed. Reveling in her aftershocks but already putting herself back together. “How are you feeling, can I get you water? A towel?”

She blinked at him, mascara still streaking down her face in tear lines. “Oh, Rozanov, you know you don’t need to do that with me. I like you beautiful and mean. Don’t go ruining it for me now. So… same time next month?” she asked, reaching for her phone to arrange the transfer.

“Da.”

It always felt wrong not to give aftercare, but Ilya did want her continued business… so he agreed easily. She walked him to the door, slipped him an extra $100 in cash, and bid him goodnight, the door to her house snicking shut behind.

Outside, Westmount stretched around him in its smug wealth: pristine sidewalks, cars worth more than his annual income, trees pruned into submission. Ilya walked toward the metro counting silently. Five hundred for the hour, plus the tip. Minus nothing, since she’d hired him privately. Minus the twenty for the roundtrip metro. Tonight the math was easy, and it was good. Five hundred eighty dollars.

Enough for the lawyer payment this month and enough to send Andrei his extra two hundred.

He wondered, descending into Vendôme station, how many sessions like that he’d done now. Fifty? A hundred? How many times had he wrapped his hand around someone’s throat to steal their breath and felt his own disappear?

He didn’t know.

The metro car was nearly empty at this hour apart from a woman dozing against the window and a teenager with headphones so loud Ilya could hear the tinny percussion from three seats away. He watched the station names slide past on the LED display. Vendôme. Villa-Maria. Snowdon. Each stop carried him further from Westmount’s manicured hedges and closer to the cracked sidewalks of his own neighborhood. By the time he climbed the stairs at his station, the cold had crept back into his bones, and his apartment building rose ahead like a reproach—dark windows, broken buzzer, that fucking elevator still out of order. Three flights. His thighs burned by the second landing, and then at last:

He was alone. Keys thrown on a small table, jacket flung over a door. He was going to have sleep for dinner.

He lay in bed, still half-dressed, his good jeans unbuttoned but not removed. He was too tired to strip properly. Too wired to sleep. He would need to go to the laundromat again tomorrow, and the session replayed behind his eyes: her face pressed into expensive sheets, her tears, the sound of skin of skin, his hand in her hair. It was good sex, really. Renée was sensational in bed. It was a shame she was such a pain slut, because she was beautiful and her body was incredible and Ilya never got to appreciate it, which made it hard to finish.

And he was still hard.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his boxers.

Here at home, the act was over and he was himself again so… what harm was there in indulging? None. His body was his, here. He was serving himself.

Pleasing himself was, in many ways, much more difficult than pleasing a client. With others, he could read their breathing, track the flutter of their heartbeat, adjust his rhythm to what their bodies demanded. Alone, he had to excavate his own desires from beneath layers of performance and routine. He could not autopilot this part of himself.

What did he actually want, stripped of transaction?

He took his time. Let his palm drag slow across his stomach, feeling the muscles twitch beneath his fingertips. Closed his eyes and waited for an image to surface—not the blonde hair and red marks from tonight, not any of the familiar scripts. He wanted to feel hungry, not dutiful.

Hollander’s face surfaced through the fog of amorphous perfect bodies and faces. Those puppy dog eyes. Those freckles scattered across his cheekbones. Ilya groaned, biting down on his lower lip as his eyes rolled back. He’d looked so good there, sprawled out on his couch, strong athletic hips trying to buck up into his mouth and that little whine when Ilya held them down anyway. Left with no choice but to take what he was given, he’d broken apart under Ilya’s tongue as he gave and gave and gave, savoring the smooth skin, the taste of him, hands squeezing over muscular shapely legs and that taut abdomen.

Hollander was a fucking vision.

A closeted, stressed, virginal vision that had never let any man touch him like that before. Ilya’s breath came faster, thoughts spinning. The idea that no one else, no one in the entire world, knew what the Shane Hollander looked like when he slipped under, when he let go and cried to come, was enough to make him dizzy with desire.

In his mind now, this moved. Hollander knelt between his thighs, sweet and supplicant and… naked, of course. Would he have freckles everywhere? Ilya cursed as he stroked himself faster, squeezing. He’d been so busy with work that there hadn’t been enough time to look. Were there stars on his back? Venushkii on the slope of his spine? He wanted to taste them, and in his vision, Hollander was begging to taste him, pink tongue licking out tentatively when asked but… waiting. Those dark eyes looking up at him, wanting permission. Please, Rozanov. Hollander’s hands on his hips, steadying himself, maybe rutting against his shin like a good little dog, humping his own straining erection for a scrap of friction. That perfect mouth opening—

Ilya’s hips lifted off the mattress, bucking into his fist.

He imagined Hollander’s inexperience, the tentative first touch of tongue against skin. Kittenish, unsure licks. How he’d need guidance, need to be taught. Like this, yes, deeper. How those shoulders would tense under Ilya’s hands before relaxing into the rhythm. How Hollander would make small sounds—needy, grateful—like every sensation was new.

Would he enjoy it? Could Hollander come like that?

Ilya’s hand moved faster. He bit down on his lower lip again to muffle the sound building in his chest. In his fantasy, Hollander took him deeper, gagged slightly, pulled back to catch his breath before trying again. Good boy, you’re doing so well. And Hollander would believe it, he would shatter for it, lean into it and fall, letting Ilya catch him and use him, worship him, the way he wanted to.

“Fuck, Hol—!” Ilya came with a half-shout, catching Hollander’s name at the last second behind his teeth, thighs shaking, then lay there breathing hard in the dark.

The mirror in Wolfbird’s back room had seen a thousand versions of Ilya—tonight’s version, Tuesday’s version, checked his collar, ran fingers through hair that had learned to fall at the right angle, and studied the forearms exposed by rolled sleeves to make sure that enough skin was on display to tease without giving away too much for free. This was the product clients purchased: the sharp lines of his face, the hazel cats eyes, the body he maintained that looked like it could snap a person in half.

“You look like you’re preparing for battle,” Svetlana said from the doorway, her Russian cutting through the English and French that dominated the rest of Wolfbird.

Ilya turned from his reflection. “Same thing, isn’t it?”

She poured herself coffee from the back room’s pathetic machine, and it sputtered and hissed with resentment as it brewed. “I do have good news, there is a decent crowd tonight. Two requested you specifically.”

“Good. Who are they?”

“Both are repeats for you, so no surprises. The first is in room three for you, and while I know you’ll talk details, I think this is the one that likes his mouth used. The second outright told me that they want ropework, and is okay to wait all night for the chance.”

Ilya’s shoulders rolled back, “Okay. Easy.”

“Did you eat today?” Svetlana asked, still eyeing him, and there was that maternal edge she got when she worried.

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

“Liar.” But her hand squeezed his shoulder as she passed, warm and brief. “Go make your money, solnyshko. I’ll be at the bar if you need me.”

Room three was dimly lit the way most clients preferred, and just as Svetlana promised, there was a man inside. He was seated on the leather couch with his hands folded in his lap. Mid-forties, wedding ring tucked into his pocket—Ilya had watched him take it off and slip it there on previous visits, all the while pretending not to notice.

Ilya locked the door behind him, and before it even latched, he was in character: “So, Mr. Thompson, are you ready to be good hole for me?”

Of course, he was very eager to do just that. And having their agreements already signed previously, the session unfolded according to script. The man wanted his mouth used, wanted to be called worthless and emasculated while Ilya fucked his face, and wanted to feel small and overpowered and grateful for the abuse. Ilya gave him exactly that—one hand fisted in his hair to control the angle, the other braced against the wall behind him while he worked his cock past the man’s lips and into the tight heat beyond. Tears streamed down the man’s face when Ilya went deep enough to make him gag. His hands clutched at Ilya’s thighs, not pushing away but holding on.

“Pathetic,” Ilya murmured, and watched the man’s eyes roll back. He moved his foot to step on Thompson’s crotch to press his erection there. “Why do you even have a cock, Thompson? Tiny thing. No, no you’re worthless with it. Truly, I think you’re worthless for this—” Ilya said as he rolled his hips deeper, forcing his shaft deeper into that wet, spasming hole, “—too, but you pay me good money yes? Mm.”

The mechanics of it were simple. Ilya’s body responded the way it was trained to: arousal building from friction and power dynamics, from the visual of a man on his knees taking what was given. That was a fantasy he liked, typically. But somewhere behind the performance, Ilya’s mind tracked time. Fifteen minutes in. Twenty. The man was close, his breathing ragged, his whole body trembling with the effort of staying still.

When he came untouched, shaking apart with a muffled sound around Ilya’s cock, Ilya pulled out and reached for the water bottle on the side table, and then handed it over. He waited while Thompson caught his breath and wiped his face, putting himself back together.

“Thank you,” the man said, hoarse.

“Of course,” Ilya said, grateful that this client allowed him to actually go through the follow up needed after a scene. “Take a moment and drink. Does anything hurt?”

Thompson waggled his eyebrows. “Not in a way I didn’t want.”

Ilya huffed out a laugh. “Very funny, Thompson. Mr. Humor. But I am not joking now: drink that, rest a moment, and then tell me if feeling pain. Then I will escort you back out to enjoy rest of evening.”

Thompson nodded, eyes half lidded and hazy, and sipped the water as he was bid. Twenty minutes later, Ilya made good on his promise to escort him back out into Wolfbird proper to have more drinks or whatever else he thought he needed, with his wedding ring already back on his finger.

Back in the room, Ilya straightened the couch cushions and adjusted the lighting for the next session, and he was back to math once more. Ropes took calculating. How much length? How long? Suspension changed things. Better use room 5, since that one had the hooks on the walls…

The second client was younger, nervous, and wanted to be bound and used while Ilya did whatever he liked. This too was a familiar script, and in some ways it was nice to always know what a repeat client wanted. Ilya’s hands moved through the ropework the way a musician’s fingers find familiar chords: wrists together behind the back, ankles bound to thigh, chest harness cinched to restrict breathing just enough to sharpen every sensation. The client’s eyes were wide, pupils blown, breath coming fast.

Ilya fucked him like that, bent over the couch’s arm, unable to move or touch or do anything but take it. The client begged beautifully, words spilling out in a stream that Ilya had heard variations of a thousand times. Please, harder, don’t stop, thank you…

When it was over, Ilya untied the rope with the same efficiency he’d tied it. He checked for circulation issues, handed over water, helped the client back into his clothes. The man’s hands shook while buttoning his shirt. Ilya pretended not to notice, the way he pretended not to notice most things clients didn’t want seen.

“Same time in two weeks?” the client asked.

“For you? Of course.”

Ilya walked him out after checking him one last time, and returned to the empty room. The leather couch still held the impression of a body. The rope lay coiled on the side table where he’d left it. And so Ilya did what he always did: he reset the space. He straightened cushions and rewound the rope. He used special wipes to sanitize and washed his hands. His body moved through the routine automatically, muscle memory taking over while his mind drifted.

Tonight was easy. It would be good money, even with the house cut. Maybe for once there would be a surplus to put to savings.

Or… to begin savings.

Back at the bar, the main room had emptied out. Couples had filtered back to their booths or left entirely, the music had dropped to a lower background volume, and the night was winding down toward last call.

“How’d it go?” she asked, sliding a glass of water across the polished wood without waiting for him to order.

“Fine.” Ilya drained half the glass in one go. Once more both English and Russian were failing him; ‘fine’ was such a nothing word. His mouth was dry from talking, from the sounds he’d made that clients wanted to hear. “Everyone left happy, no one came on the carpet, no teeth. The little things that matter.”

“Good.” Svetlana went back to her polishing. “You look tired.”

Ilya turned from his reflection. “I sleep fine, you, Russian sleep. One eye open, one hand on your wallet, dreaming of potatoes or whatever it is that these people say about us.” He adjusted his collar. “But you are not wrong, it’s the same as battle prep, really. Put on armor, check weapons, and try not to think about mortality.’

“Drama queen.”

“Drama tsar,” he corrected in English, then switched back. “I’m royal about my suffering, kotik. You know this. Being this desirable is hard work, and I am suffering.”

His phone buzzed against the bar’s surface, screen lighting up with a notification. Ilya glanced down automatically, expecting Andrei or the lawyer or maybe another booking request through the system, but instead:

S. H.

His hand froze halfway to picking up the water glass.

The preview text showed just enough: Hi. This is...

Ilya unlocked his phone and read the full message.

His ribs loosened., and all the air whoosed out of Ilya in an instant. It felt like, well, not relief, not quite—and then oh. He hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for this message until it arrived. Hollander. The man with constellations scattered across his cheeks who’d looked at Ilya like he was offering salvation instead of a transaction. Who’d needed to be taught how to ask for things, how to take up space, how to exist in his own body without apology.

Repeat clients were the backbone of this work. They kept the math functioning, kept the money coming in at predictable intervals instead of the feast-or-famine chaos of one-time sessions. That alone made this good news.

Except his heartbeat had gone uneven, skipping like a scratched record, and that… did not happen to Ilya, not when clients texted him, not ever.

“Who is it?” Svetlana leaned across the bar, one eyebrow raised. She’d been watching him check his phone all night—she knew the difference between his face when Andrei texted versus when a booking came through. This was neither. “You’re blushing, Ilyusha. That’s new. A favorite client?”

“I don’t have favorites,” Ilya said, but his thumbs were already moving over the screen. Missing me? 😉

He paused, stared at the winking emoji. Too much? Did Hollander understand when he was being teased? The man had been so earnest, so desperate to do things correctly, that humor might sail right past him. He didn’t want to spook him before he could clip the leash back on.

Svetlana was still watching him, that knowing look settling into the corners of her mouth. “Also, Sveta, you know you’re my favorite person,” Ilya said without looking up.

“Mm-hmm.” Her voice was warm with affection and skepticism in equal measure. “You’re terrible at lying when you’re happy.”

“I’m not—” But the protest died when his phone buzzed with Hollander’s reply.

The eagerness in that response—whenever, flexible—closed around him like a fist. How long had it been since someone wanted to see him badly enough to rearrange their schedule? Most clients treated sessions like trips to the spa. Little treats and pick me ups as a reward for slogging through life; a necessary and earned indulgence.

Hollander sounded like he’d been waiting for an excuse to reach out.

He set the phone down on the bar and reached for his water, but his hand wasn’t quite steady. Four days until Friday. Four days of other sessions, other clients performing their own versions of need and desire. But Friday was Hollander, and Hollander was—

What? Different? Special? Those were dangerous words for someone who made his living from manufactured intimacy. Every client thought they were different. Every client thought the connection they felt was real. Ilya had learned years ago to keep those boundaries clear, to give clients what they needed while protecting the parts of himself that weren’t for sale.

“So,” Svetlana said, drawing out the word. “When do I meet this one?”

“You won’t.” Ilya picked up his water glass, ice cubes clinking. “He’s just—it’s just another session.”

“Of course.” She picked up another glass to polish even though it didn’t need it. “That’s why you’re smiling like that.”

Ilya didn’t have a response for that, so he drained the rest of his water and let her have the last word. His phone sat dark on the bar now, the conversation finished until Friday.

Four days felt both impossibly far away and too close. Space stretched out in every direction, billions of kilometers of nothing between burning stars, distances so vast that connection should be impossible. Two bodies spinning through the void might pass within a few million kilometers of each other and never know. The universe was built on loneliness, on masses traveling parallel paths that would never intersect.

And yet somehow Hollander had walked through Wolfbird’s door on the exact night Ilya was working. Had sat across from him in that booth. Had let Ilya take him apart and put him back together. Had texted to ask if he could do it again.

What were the odds?

He caught Svetlana’s eye as he headed toward the back to change. She was smiling at him knowingly.

“Be careful, solnyshko,” she called after him in Russian.

“I always am,” he lied.

He disappeared down the hallway before she could call him on it, before she could see that his hands were shaking slightly, that he’d saved Shane’s message to read again later, that four days felt like both forever and not enough time to figure out what the fuck he was doing.

The universe was built on impossible distances. But sometimes—rarely, so rarely it qualified as a miracle—two trajectories aligned.

Four days until Friday.

He would be counting.

Chapter End Notes

My Hollanov fics on AO3

This chapter is brought to you by the 32 hours I spent trapped at SFO and LAX airport this week. Every kudo and comment is additional kiss from Ilya directly onto Biscuit, Luna, and Max's heads.

Reference
1. Titan A.E. — “Every day I wake up it’s still the present - the same grimy, boring present. I don’t think the future exists.”

2. Wicked Whims was my favorite mod for the Sims 4.

3. “Rasputitsa” is the Russian “season of bad roads” that turns the land into an impenetrable place.

And last but not least... thanks for reading! If you liked it, I’d love to yap in the comments.<

My eternal thanks to Aphantastical for beta'ing this work!

Not sure what to say? Comment anxiety? How about...

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”
- 🌌 “this wasn't my favorite”
- 🐺 “when is it my turn to be put on Ilya’s leash”
- 💸 “send that poor man some MONEY!”
- 🗡️ “this usually isnt my thing... and yet”
- 💀 “how dare you (affectionate)”

Chapter 5: Vot tak

Chapter Notes

“What am I doing?”

A charcoal suit landed in a heap on Shane’s bed alongside a rejected sweater, a too-casual henley, aesthetically distressed jeans that made him look like he was trying to pretend he wasn’t trying, and a sweater his mother had bought him because “it brings out your eyes, Shane.”

… whatever that meant.

Shane stood in his boxer briefs at 6:00 PM, two hours before he needed to leave, in the epicenter of carnage from his closet, which had vomited half its contents across his duvet. This was worse than pre-game jitters. Worse than facing Boston in the playoffs. At least then he knew what uniform to wear. This looked like a wardrobe department mid-panic, rejected costumes piled after too many bad takes, and there were only one hundred and twenty minutes until he needed to leave to Wolfbird, and he still hadn’t figured out what the fuck a person wore to see a man that’d had Shane’s dick in his mouth a week ago and would probably, hopefully—god, please—do it again.

And maybe more.

Shane had spent the entire week wondering what “more” might even mean. Rozanov’s fingers inside him? His cock? Shane had jerked off to both scenarios and still couldn’t decide which one made him harder. Even if it wasn’t more, that was fine, that was perfect too.

His dick twitched at the memory of last time. Rozanov between his knees, those hazel eyes looking up at him, that mouth—

Shane adjusted himself through his briefs and tried to focus.

Okay. Right. Back to the task at hand: that suit from his rookie year’s award ceremony, obviously, was a mistake. He’d known it the second he’d buttoned the vest—three pieces of wool armor that screamed I’m going to a shareholder meeting or possibly please take me seriously, I’m very important. I’m also very nervous and stupid, please do not perceive me. He’d looked like he was attending his own funeral. Worse: he’d looked like he was performing again, and failing the act.

Shane grabbed the suit jacket off the bed and hung it back in the closet with a stressed huff, and the hanger clattered against the rod.

His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. Shane had checked it six times in the last hour—the same way he’d recheck his stick tape even when it was perfect, even when his hands knew it was fine. Checking things. Confirming things. Making sure nothing had changed in the three minutes since he last looked. No new messages. Rozanov hadn’t cancelled, or that he hadn’t changed his mind, or that he hadn’t realized that Shane was a neurotic disaster who’d spent forty-five minutes agonizing over pants.

Then… oh, maybe that might work? One of his leather jackets caught his eye. He pulled it off its hanger, weighing it in his hands. This one was brown, and the leather was supple, expensive… so… too much? Not enough? It felt like he was trying to be someone he wasn’t—someone cool, someone who went to bars like Wolfbird all the time and knew what to order and didn’t spend the entire week replaying a single session in his head until the memory wore grooves into his brain.

But he’d already rejected everything else, so…

He pulled on the dark jeans—not the ones that looked painted on, those stayed buried in his drawer where teammates would never find them. These fit well enough. The charcoal shirt next. His hands smoothed the fabric twice before he caught himself and stopped.

The mirror bolted to his closet door showed him what everyone else saw: a man in his late twenties, built like an athlete because he was one. Freckles scattered across his nose and cheekbones like—

Constellations in your skin.

Shane looked away.

The rest of the week had dragged following his risky text. Shane went through the motions: Practice Tuesday and Thursday. He’d run his drills, shown up on time. But he’d missed three passes that should’ve been automatic. The puck sailed wide of the tape, and he couldn’t figure out why his hands felt wrong.

Sponsorship event Wednesday—cameras, jerseys, kids with stars in their eyes, hours of smiling on command while fans thrust jerseys at him or took photos. He’d signed autographs until his hand cramped, answered the same questions he always answered (What’s your pregame ritual? Who’s your hockey hero?), performed the role of Shane Hollander: Good Canadian Boy™. And… he’d slept like shit all week. Shane kept waking up at three AM hard and aching, hand already sliding down his stomach before his brain caught up.

He’d replayed the session a hundred times: Rozanov’s hands working the knots from his shoulders, Rozanov’s mouth hot and wet around him, Rozanov’s voice low in his ear—you are doing so well—and every time Shane thought about it his whole body went tight with wanting.

And now it was Friday, and it was 6:07 PM. Two hours until he could leave without looking desperate. Well, technically an hour and a half because he’d need to call a car at 7:30 to drive over, which would have him arriving early enough to (hopefully) not look desperate, and late enough that he wouldn’t be standing outside Wolfbird looking like an idiot. That gave him one hour and twenty-three minutes to finish getting dressed and not think about the fact that he was taking a cab instead of driving so he wouldn’t have to worry about getting home afterward if he drank alcohol, if he was spacy, if it got really late or if Rozanov wanted to—

—which was planning, Shane realized, and that meant he’d done nothing but thought about this. And he thought to get a cab instead of drive his dependable SUV, which meant he’d already decided how the night would end before it started.

Or, Shane thought, chewing on his bottom lip, how he hoped how the night might end.

His stomach twisted and complained. When had he last eaten? Lunch? Breakfast? He couldn’t remember. The thought of food made him vaguely nauseous anyway, which was stupid because he’d skipped his usual pre-game routine—protein shake, banana, handful of almonds—and his body was probably running on fumes and anxiety. Shane walked to the bathroom and braced his hands on the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror above it. His pupils were blown wide, dark eyes glassy. He looked wired, like he’d shotgunned three espressos and was vibrating out of his skin.

He ran his fingers through his hair one more time—still damp from the shower he’d taken forty minutes ago, which meant it was drying weird, sticking up at the crown. Shane wet his hand under the bathroom tap and tried to coax it flat. It didn’t work. He gave up, grabbed his wallet and keys from the counter, and checked his reflection one last time.

Good enough. It’d have to be.

Checking twice that he locked the door behind him, Shane took the elevator down thirty floors, glass walls giving way to the city sprawling below: the St. Lawrence dark beyond lit windows, Montreal spreading out in sodium-orange grids. His building was new construction, all polished concrete and floor-to-ceiling windows. Here, people paid premium for the view but mostly for privacy.. In the lobby, a smartly dressed concierge looked up from his desk, and offered a polite nod. Shane nodded back and pushed through the glass doors into the cold.

The rideshare was already waiting at the curb, exhaust pluming white in the frozen air. Shane slid into the backseat and gave the driver an address two blocks from Wolfbird—close enough to walk, far enough that the destination wouldn’t show up in his ride history if anyone ever looked.

The drive took twenty minutes. Shane sat in the backseat watching Montreal slide past.

POV SHOT: INT. CAR – MOVING – NIGHT.

City lights slid past the passenger-side window, blurred by motion and glass, but he could still make out the open restaurants, the shops shuttered for the evening. Lights from the streetlights pooled on the pavement, broken up by groups of people hurrying down the sidewalk or jaywalking through an intersection. Up in front, the driver had the radio on low… on revient après la pause, mais d’abord un mot sur la circulation: ça ralentit encore sur le pont Jacques-Cartier, surtout direction sud… but rather than listening, Shane let it wash over him, and through him, without letting it stick. The view out the window flattened into a moving frame, reflections ghosting over the glass in double exposure.

Shane’s leg bounced against the seat. It was the same tic that surfaced during penalty kills when the clock hit two minutes and his lungs burned but he couldn’t sub out. He pressed his palm down on his thigh to stop it, but that only transferred the energy elsewhere: his fingers drummed the door handle, his teeth worried his bottom lip. It was a bad habit, he knew, and his mother had pointed it out at least half a million times. You can’t do that when you’re doing brand appearances! You need to be confident!

And in many ways Shane knew he was, he knew what he contributed to his team, to his family, and to all the little star-eyed kids that looked up to him. He worked hard. He worked hard and it paid off. Shane Hollander was a national brand at this point, a name that earned trust and a face that sold watches and shirts and shoes and whatever else. And that, too, had taken work to get to; Shane had spent years figuring out how to sit still during post game interviews, during team meetings, during the endless sponsor obligations where moving wrong could cost actual thousands or hundreds of thousands.

But here, alone in the back of a stranger’s car, his body refused the performance. Because he wasn’t going somewhere he had to be someone. He was going somewhere he could stop being anyone at all.

It was terrifying, really. Shane Hollander, who’d built his entire adult life on control and discipline, willingly driving toward a man who specialized in taking both away.

His phone sat heavily in his pocket. Double digit unread texts, probably. His mother asking about next week’s game schedule. His agent confirming that appearance at the children’s hospital. J.J. or Hayden sending another meme about their last practice. The entire architecture of his public life, compressed into a device he’d power down the second he walked through Wolfbird’s door.

And he couldn’t fucking wait.

When the car pulled to the curb two blocks from Wolfbird, Shane paid and stepped out into the cold. His breath fogged white in front of him. He walked the remaining distance with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, and the black door came into view; those potted evergreens, the weak bulb overhead, the carved loon in the wood.

I’m here, where are you?

Shane pulled the door open and stepped into warmth.

Aimée looked up from her desk. Her face brightened. “Oh, welcome back sir.”

“Hi.” He crossed to her desk, already pulling out his ID.

She took it, scanned it. “You’re all set. Phone and watch?”

Shane handed them over and watched her lock them in locker twenty-three. Last week this moment had felt like severing a lifeline. Tonight his fingers didn’t hesitate when he powered down his phone.

“Enjoy your evening, Mr. Hollander.”

The second door was heavy beneath Shane’s palm. He pushed through and—

The main room opened up in front of him, amber-lit and busy. More people than last Friday, more voices layering over the low electronic beat. Couples occupied most of the booths, bodies angled toward each other. A group stood near the back wall, laughing over drinks. Two women sat at the bar, one’s hand resting on the other’s knee.

Shane’s eyes tracked across the space automatically, scanning for broad shoulders, those messy curls… but nothing. The booths were full of strangers. The bar held unfamiliar faces. Rozanov wasn’t—

Right. Shane was early. Twenty-five minutes early because apparently he’d lost all ability to plan like a normal person.

… and… he also wasn’t sure how to be here, at the bar, alone, like a normal person.

Shane crossed toward the bar before he could stand near the entrance like a lost dog. He recognized the bartender, the same woman from last time as she poured cocktails into a glass for a suited man, dark curls bouncing as she moved. Tattoos sleeved both her forearms in black ink, the designs shifting as her muscles flexed. She finished with the customer and her bright eyes lifted to Shane, cataloging him in one sweep.

She finished with the suited man, took his payment, then moved down the bar to where Shane had claimed a stool at the far end. Away from the clusters of people. Away from anyone who might recognize him.

“Water?” she asked. Her accent was subtle—Russian also?

Shane blinked. “I—actually, could I get something stronger?” His leg jumped with latent energy beneath the bar, expelling the growing jitters. And then, more hopefully: “Whiskey?”

Whiskey, any drink really, might help with the knot of nerves in his gut.

She smiled, knowing. “You were here last week. Friday night, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re here to see Rozanov again?”

“I… yes…”

“Then no, no whiskey, unless you’re looking to misbehave on purpose,” She pulled a glass from beneath the bar and filled it with tap water, set it on a napkin in front of him. Condensation beaded immediately on the outside. “He prefers to choose the drinks himself for clients. Says it’s part of the...” she gestured vaguely, searching for the word, “...the experience. Control and whatnot, and the first drink being the important one. So. Water?”

Shane fought the urge to fidget in his seat. Oh. That was all the point too, wasn’t it? Rozanov would want to pick, enjoying the decision of what his clients had, and when, and how much.

Men were supposed to know what they wanted. Order confidently. Whiskey, neat. Beer, specific brand. Shane could do that, and had done it a thousand times. In general, he didn’t drink during the season outside of sugar free ginger ale, but for the rare treat or confidence boost, he liked bourbon over rye, IPAs over lagers, and the occasional pina colada when he just wanted to be stupid and have something sweet. It was such a little thing, an easy thing, to order.

So… why… was he blushing at the idea of giving that little choice away?

What kind of man wanted this? Someone else to pick a thing as simple as a drink? His teammates would mock him for it—Jesus, Hollander, you can’t even order for yourself?—except it wasn’t about can’t.

It was about want.

And… he wanted to see what someone like Rozanov would pick for him.

“Right,” he said after a beat, still wheeling around the idea of it all. “Okay, yes, water is fine.”

“Remember you don’t have to do anything while you’re here. It’s all for fun. You’re too handsome to look so nervous, so… yeah? Breathe? And have a sip instead of just holding it.” She tapped the bar beside his glass. “He’ll be out soon. And trust me, he has good taste for drinks, I taught him well.” Her smile turned warmer. “My name’s Svetlana.”

“Thanks.” Shane wrapped both hands around the glass. “I’m—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Hollander. The Voyageurs are having a good season. That game against Boston last week—” She shook her head, still grinning. “Beautiful. But here, names are optional if you prefer. Let me know if you’d like another water, or a real drink if you do want to misbehave.” She moved down the bar to serve another customer, leaving Shane alone with his water, his nerves, and the knowledge that even the bartender watched hockey.

Shane took another sip of water just to keep his hands busy. Around him Wolfbird was alive: bass thrumming through the floor, ice clinking in glasses. That couple in the corner booth were still kissing, and he looked away before anyone caught him staring. His face felt warm, but it wasn’t from embarrassment—well, maybe a little—and rather anticipation. He felt the same tightness in his gut he got before a big game, except this wasn’t about winning or losing or proving anything to anyone.

This was just... wanting.

Shane’s hands knew how to tape a stick in 47 seconds flat—muscle memory from a thousand pre-game rituals. But standing in his closet trying to pick clothes to see a man who’d had his dick in his mouth? His fingers fumbled the shirt hanger three times. Which was new. And slightly terrifying. And also—his dick gave an interested twitch against his jeans—very inconvenient timing.

Shane shifted on the stool, adjusted himself as subtly as possible, and tried to think about literally anything else. His meal prep schedule for next week. The Bears’ power play formation. His mother’s reminders about events. Taxes. Bag skates. Zambonis.

None of it worked.

Because in twelve minutes, eleven now, Rozanov would walk out here and then they’d go to one of those back rooms and Rozanov would touch him again and Shane would fall apart again and—

His leg was bouncing again, a rhythmic tap-tap-tap that probably annoyed everyone within earshot. He couldn’t stop it.

He pressed his palm flat against his thigh, willing it still. Breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. This was fine. He was fine. Totally normal to show up twenty-five minutes early because sitting in his condo made him want to crawl out of his skin. Totally normal to have shredded a napkin to pulp while waiting. Very cool, very casual, absolutely not vibrating out of his skin with anticipation.

Shane checked the time again.

7:49.

God, he had it bad.

Waiting was hard. Watching the minutes crawl made it worse. He was early because he’d been too wired to sit in his condo, and now he was paying for it by white-knuckling through the wait. At least Rozanov would probably find it funny. Or flattering. Hopefully flattering. Shane rolled his shoulders, wondering if he looked as out of place as he felt. Everyone else seemed to know how to be here: how to occupy space without second-guessing every movement or how to wait without their whole body vibrating like a struck tuning fork.

The glass in his hand felt lighter. Shane glanced down and found it half-empty, condensation pooling on the bar beneath. He’d been drinking without tracking it, the same autopilot that had him taping his stick before games even when the tape was fine. Nerves made his hands need something to do.

Shane’s thumb pressed against the rim of his glass, testing the smoothness. Would Rozanov actually be glad to see him? Or was this just work, another client, another transaction that meant something to Shane and nothing to—

Fingers closed around his shoulder.

Shane’s spine snapped to straight, stool scraping backward as he twisted, water sloshing against the rim of his glass, and his heart was already hammering against his sternum before his brain caught up: broad shoulders, messy curls, those fucking hazel eyes.

Rozanov. He was wearing black jeans tailored close enough to suggest rather than advertise. Dark shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms on display—the same ones Shane had been thinking about all week when he shouldn’t have been. Hair messier than last Friday, curls falling across his forehead like he’d just dragged his fingers through them. That lopsided smile already curving his mouth, lazy and knowing.

“Hollander.” The rolling R made Shane’s name sound like something expensive. Rozanov’s gaze dropped—tracked down Shane’s leather jacket, the fitted shirt beneath, lingered for a breath at his waist before sliding back up. “You dress up for me? I am flattered.”

“I—” He swallowed, then found his voice. “Hi.”

“Hi to you also.” Rozanov’s hand stayed on Shane’s shoulder, thumb pressing into the muscle there like he was testing for tension. He found it immediately. His mouth quirked. “And you are early. Very early. Eager, or just could not sit still at home?”

“Traffic was lighter than I thought it would be.”

“Ah, yes. Traffic.” Rozanov’s thumb made one slow circle against Shane’s shoulder before his hand dropped away. He leaned against the bar, angling his body so his knee pressed against Shane’s thigh, effectively pressing the stop button on that nervous bounce. “And what have you been doing while waiting? Watching clock? Shredding napkin into confetti?”

Shane glanced down. The napkin beneath his water glass had been systematically destroyed, white fragments scattered across the polished wood.

“I wasn’t… um.”

Rozanov’s finger traced one of the torn pieces. “Nervous hands. I remember these.” His eyes lifted, pinning Shane in place. “Last week you did same thing with your shirt cuff. Little tells, Hollander. I am learning them.”

“I…” Shane trailed off, unable to form a response—what was anyone supposed to say to that?!—and blinked owlishly at Rozanov. Being watched this closely should’ve felt invasive, like the cameras at press events that tracked every micro-expression for analysis or those horrible probing interview questions, but Shane didn’t think that Rozanov was looking for weaknesses to exploit. He was just... paying attention. Learning Shane the way Shane learned opponents’ tells on the ice: which way they favored, how they protected the puck, what they did when pressured.

The difference was Rozanov seemed to like what he was learning.

And in his continued study, Rozanov’s gaze drifted to the water glass between Shane’s hands, then back up. His eyebrows lifted, mouth parting before curving at one corner. Was he surprised? Pleased?

“Only water for you, Mr. Hollander? Such a boring drink for a beautiful person in a nice bar.”

There was that embarrassed prickle again, slithering up Shane’s spine. “I... last time you ordered, so I thought—” He stopped, suddenly certain he’d misunderstood, that he’d made himself look like an idiot who couldn’t even order a drink without permission. What the fuck, how’d he already mess this up? “I can order something if—”

“Nyet.” Rozanov’s hand settled over Shane’s on the bar, thumb brushing his knuckles. “Do not apologize. Unexpected, but I am enjoying this.”

Shane didn’t like unexpected things, and he felt himself frowning.

“Was I not supposed to?”

“You were supposed to do whatever you wanted.” He tilted his head. “You wanted to wait. I like that choice.”

“You do?”

“Da.” Rozanov raised his free hand, catching Svetlana’s attention. When she appeared, he said something to her in rapid Russian—Shane caught maybe three words, none of them helpful. She laughed, replied in the same language, and disappeared.

She returned less than a minute later with two glasses of clear liquid, setting them on the bar. Rozanov picked up his glass, tapped it against Shane’s, clinking loudly. His fingers brushed Shane’s, brief contact that Shane felt in his wrist.

“You waited for me to choose,” Rozanov said, and his smile was warm, pleased. “I walk out, and there you are, waiting patiently. Of course I like this.”

Shane chewed his bottom lip, suddenly unsure. “I wasn’t sure if—”

“Relax, Hollander,” Rozanov lifted his glass higher. “Za nas. To us.”

Relax. Easier said than done, especially now. Shane’s ears burned, the flush crawling down his neck, and he tried to hide his nerves by being normal. Shane lifted his glass. The vodka went down smooth and cold, burning pleasantly in his chest. Rozanov watched him over the rim of his own glass, those hazel eyes tracking every micro-expression.

“Good?” Rozanov asked.

“Yeah, it—”

Shane swallowed, catching the subtle hook of Rozanov’s brow.

“I mean yes, it’s good.”

“Mm. Then we have another, or—” Rozanov’s hand settled on Shane’s knee. Five points of contact: thumb on the inner seam of his jeans, four fingers curving around the outer thigh, effectively pinning him to the stool with the most featherlight of pressure. “Or we stop wasting time at bar and go somewhere more private. Which you prefer?”

Shane took another sip of his vodka, mostly to buy himself a moment to think. “You don’t want to choose that too?”

Rozanov tsked. “Is not how this works. Just because paperwork was done last time you were here does not mean I skip important parts. Always consent first, Hollander.”

Shane pulled a face, nose scrunching. It was oddly unsexy, he thought, to have to reaffirm why he was here and put things so bluntly. It sounded like a contract. It sounded like a business deal, which okay, maybe it was, but…

“You think so loudly, Hollander. You may as well say the thoughts at this point.”

Shane’s thumb traced the rim of his glass. “It’s just… does it have to be so clinical? Asking every time? Won’t that get… I don’t know, repetitive?”

Rozanov’s fingers flexed against his thigh, a single squeeze and release. “Ah. You think asking ruins the mood.”

“Doesn’t it?” Shane asked. “It’s like... signing a waiver before every—”

“No.” Rozanov’s thumb moved, stroking once along the inseam. “Is opposite. You think asking is clinical, boring—nyet. Your yes is what I have been waiting for. Is the best part. You give me your yes, I get to give you what I’ve been thinking about. Is like… hmm.” He tilted his head, considering, searching for the words in English. “Is like receiving present. You hand me something very good, and I unwrap it.”

Shane blinked. “That’s…”

“Every time you walk in here and say yes, you give me permission to do things I have planned.” Rozanov’s hazel eyes held his. “Things I thought about for you specifically. Things I think you will like very much.”

“You’ve been thinking about—”

“Da.” Rozanov leaned in, elbow coming to rest on the bar, closing the space between them. “Since you left last Friday, I think about what else we might do together. What would make you feel good. What would make you… come apart the way you did on my couch.”

“I…”

“No need for embarrassment. Was very attractive.” Rozanov’s thumb pressed harder against his inner thigh. “But those ideas? They stay mine until you give consent. So. I ask. You answer. And if you say yes...” He shrugged, easy and confident. “Then I get to unwrap my present, and we get to do all the things I have been thinking about. And… I have been thinking about you all week too, Hollander.”

Shane stared at him. Rozanov’s palm was inches away from his dick which was, goddammit, already getting hard.

“So.” Rozanov straightened, and he picked up his own empty glass. “Another vodka and we talk more? Or we go to room and I show you what I’ve been thinking about?”

Shane’s brain supplied the obvious answer immediately: Are you fucking kidding me?

Shane could only look at him, suddenly feeling lightheaded. Rozanov’s shirt pulled across his shoulders when he moved, the fabric straining slightly over muscle. His forearms were ridiculous, all sinew and vein when he flexed his fingers. The bastard knew it too, the way he’d rolled his sleeves up deliberately, displaying them like a gift. And that mouth. Jesus Christ, that mouth, plush lips currently curved in a smirk, taking pity on him and asking Shane if he wanted to stay at the bar and have another drink like that was even a real option.

Like he already knew Shane had spent the entire week wanting this exact moment.

Like he already knew there was never any universe where Shane would say no to him.

“The… the room.”

“Da?” Rozanov’s fingers drummed once against the bar, lazy rhythm. He was clearly teasing, and enjoying himself. “You are not sounding very sure. I will not be offended if you would rather stay here. I can order you more boring water. Talk about your week. I am very interested in how your week was, Hollander. Did you think about last Friday?”

“... are you seriously asking me that? Of course.”

“Mm. But I want to hear you say it.” Rozanov’s hand slid higher, stopping just short of where Shane’s dick was already half-hard against the denim. “Did you touch yourself thinking about me?”

“Rozanov—”

“Is simple question. Yes or no?”

Shane’s leg started bouncing again under the bar. Rozanov’s hand pressed down, firmly, stilling it immediately.

“Yes,” Shane managed.

Rozanov leaned in closer, breath warm against Shane’s ear. “Me too. But Hollander… is okay if all you want is to sit here. I will stay. But if you want to go to private room where I can touch you properly, where you can make all the sounds you want without worrying who hears...” His teeth grazed Shane’s earlobe. “Then you know what to say.”

Shane was going to die. Right here at this bar, he was going to spontaneously combust.

“I want to go with you,” he said, words coming out rushed. “To somewhere private. Please. I want—I need—”

“Shh.” Rozanov’s thumb rubbed across his thigh. He raised his free hand, catching Svetlana’s attention, and made a brief gesture. She nodded, already reaching for the vodka bottle.

She poured a fresh measure into a clean glass and slid it across the bar. Rozanov picked it up, took a small sip, then stood, his hand sliding away from Shane’s thigh, leaving the denim there feeling cold where it had been warm. “I know what you need. Come, Hollander.”

Shane followed him through the main room, past the couples in their booths, past Svetlana who glanced up and caught his eye with a knowing look. His face prickled but he kept moving, tracking Rozanov’s shoulders as they cut through toward that hallway, music fading behind them. Their footsteps were muffled by carpet, and Rozanov stopped at a door, this time numbered eleven. He unlocked it and pushed inside, stepping aside so Shane could enter first.

Shane crossed the threshold and Rozanov followed, door clicking shut behind them. The lock engaged—that small, final sound making Shane’s stomach flip.

Room eleven was larger than seven, and the walls were painted a deep blue-grey. Shane’s head tilted to the side as he took it in, the tastefully dimmed floor lamp, the little leather couch along the wall with a coffee table with a TV, the… was that a kitchenette? It was! Complete with sink, mini fridge, cabinets… And there, along the other wall, was a large bed with a fluffy looking charcoal duvet, pillows stacked against the headboard. A small table with two chairs occupied the space near the kitchenette, and a leather armchair sat angled toward the bed. There was even a fake window with gauzy curtains, backlit to suggest Montreal’s nightlife outside. There were throw blankets and kitsch on the shelves.

It looked like someone’s apartment. Like a place where people lived.

Shane’s gaze snagged on the nightstand beside the bed: water bottles, a small basket with the usual supplies tucked discreetly at the back, a box of tissues, and a few tastefully stacked paperback books as though someone might pick it up and start from a dog eared page. For a scene room, it was all so real looking and oddly… domestic? In another life, before being drafted and a salary, it was the kind of little studio where Shane himself would’ve lived on his own, sleeping, waking up, making coffee in the morning…

His movie-addicted brain appreciated the work put into the set. The anxious part of his brain wondered what kind of movie this room was for. Again, it wasn’t a dungeon or a torture chamber and that was good, but part of him panicked at the change of scenery from the little amber lights and the little leather couch from last time, which he’d built himself up to expect.

“You are staring,” Rozanov said from behind him. Shane turned. “It’s just... different. Why this room?”

“Because I wanted you in a bed tonight.” Rozanov said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Couch was warm-up. This time is better, now come here.”

He stood near the door, hand extended.

Shane took it. Rozanov’s palm was warm, callused, and he used it to tug Shane closer until they were standing chest to chest. Close enough that Shane had to tilt his head back slightly to meet his eyes.

“Better,” Rozanov murmured. His free hand came up to Shane’s collar, fingers working at the zipper of his leather jacket. “You are very tense, Hollander. Even more than last week, I think. Are you taking care of yourself? Sleeping?”

“Of course, I’m always taking care of myself,” Shane said automatically, “A full eight hours, always, and especially before games.”

“You lie badly.” But Rozanov said it fondly. He pulled the zipper down slowly, knuckles dragging against Shane’s shirt beneath, and pushed the jacket off Shane’s shoulders. It slid down his arms and Rozanov caught it, turned to drape it over the back of one of the chairs near the small table. When he turned back, his hazel eyes held Shane’s. “I will let this one pass because we are just starting. But Hollander, I do not like being lied to. Do not do it again. You understand?”

“I—yes.”

“Good.” Rozanov’s thumb stroked across his cheekbone once, then dropped away. “Anticipation is good. Makes everything feel bigger. But you have been anticipating all week, yes? So now you are wound too tight.”

“I’m not—”

Rozanov’s hands settled on Shane’s shoulders, thumbs immediately finding the knots there. “Your body does not lie to me.” He pressed in and Shane’s breath stuttered. “See? Is like rocks here.”

“It’s just been a long week—ah!” Shane’s words cut off when Rozanov’s thumb dug into a particularly brutal knot. “Fuck.”

“Tell me about it.” Rozanov guided him toward the armchair, but instead of sitting Shane down, he sat first and pulled Shane to stand between his spread knees. His hands went back to Shane’s shoulders, working the muscle there through his shirt. “What did you do instead of resting?”

Shane’s brain was short-circuiting. Rozanov’s hands felt incredible and his face was right at Shane’s chest level and his thighs were bracketing Shane’s legs and—

“I will guess until you answer. Or—”Rozanov’s thumb dug into a particularly tight spot and Shane hissed with relief. “—can just talk to me. How was week?”

“I—fine. It was fine.”

“Mm. Very convincing. I am disliking this word ‘fine’, from you too. Along with ‘yeah.’” He worked his way down Shane’s spine, fingers pressing through the fabric, finding every knot. “Your shoulders say you have been carrying very heavy things. Your back says you have not been sleeping well. Your body is shouting at me even when your mouth lies.”

Shane’s breath stuttered as those thumbs pressed into his lower back.

“You have been thinking too much, Hollander. I can feel it. All this—” His hands pressed harder. “This is what happens when pretty head is too full.”

He pulled Shane closer until Shane had to brace his hands on Rozanov’s shoulders. “So tonight, no thinking.” Rozanov’s hands slid to Shane’s hips. “You give that job to me.” He pulled Shane closer, fingers hooking in Shane’s belt loops. “And I give you something better to do than worry.”

“Like what?”

Rozanov’s smile was slow, wicked. “You will see.” His hands left Shane’s hips, gesturing. “But first—take off your clothes.”

Shane blinked. “What?”

“Your shirt. Your jeans. Everything.” Rozanov leaned back against the leather armchair, one arm draped along the back. “I want to see you.”

Shane’s hands went to the hem of his shirt, then froze. “You’re staying dressed?”

“Da. I am comfortable.” Rozanov’s boot nudged Shane’s ankle. “You have problem with this?”

“I just thought—”

“Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice dropped, not harsh but absolute. “Shirt. Now, please.”

Shane’s hands moved. He grabbed the hem and pulled the shirt over his head, fumbling as he then folded it into a passably neat little square which went on the coffee table. His hands went to his belt next.

“Slower,” Rozanov said. He lifted the vodka glass to his lips, taking a slow sip while his eyes tracked the shake in Shane’s hands. “Do not rush. I want to enjoy you.”

Oh.

Shane’s fingers fumbled with the buckle. His teammates undressed in locker rooms every day—thirty seconds, efficient, no thought required. This took him twice as long because Rozanov was watching. Because the leather sliding through the buckle sounded obscene in the quiet room. Button next. Then zipper, the teeth separating with a rasp. He pushed his jeans down over his hips, the denim bunching at his thighs before sliding to his ankles. He bent to peel off his socks and the position put him on display: ass up, spine curved, every vulnerable plane of his back exposed to Rozanov’s gaze.

In the locker room, undressing meant nothing. Twenty-plus bodies changing in efficient synchronization, no one looking because that was the way it was. But Rozanov was looking. Drinking him in like Shane’s body was the same as the liquor in his glass, to be sipped slowly and savored.

Shane had spent his life being assessed: by scouts who measured his potential, by trainers who monitored his conditioning, by cameras that broadcast his performance to millions. Always being evaluated.

This felt, alarmingly, dizzyingly, different. Rozanov looked at him the way Shane saw people looking at art in expensive galleries, in museums: with focus and hunger, flitting close to reverence or the outright need to possess. People were always commodifying Shane Hollander, Canada’s golden boy of hockey, looking for ways to own and patent and brand the image of who he was into profit, and it was always a source of immense stress.

Rozanov looked like he wanted to own him too. Instead of dread though, all Shane felt was a rushing, molten, throb of desire. This man, this stunning man, wanting him? How? How? Shane’s cock throbbed against the confines of his boxer briefs, that cognitive dissonance between shame and arousal shorting out his ability to think clearly. He should feel humiliated, stripping on command. Instead his dick leaked steadily, darkening the fabric.

When he straightened, he stood in only his boxer briefs. The fabric did nothing to hide his erection—the outline stark, a wet spot already darkening the grey cotton.

Rozanov’s gaze dropped, lingered. His tongue swept across his lower lip. “Those too.”

Shane’s stomach dropped. His hands went to the waistband, then froze. This was different than last week—last week Rozanov had touched him first, had earned seeing him like this. Now Shane was just stripping on command like—

What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Problem?” Rozanov asked, still holding that goddamn vodka glass like he had all night.

“No.” Shane hooked his thumbs under the elastic. His heartbeat hammered in his ears. He pushed the briefs down in one quick motion, kicking them aside before he could second-guess himself, standing naked while Rozanov stayed seated, fully dressed, looking at him like Shane was a meal he was taking his time with.

“Prekrasnyy.” Rozanov’s fingers gestured in a slow circle. “Turn.”

Shane turned slowly, feeling Rozanov’s eyes on his back, his ass, his legs. When he completed the rotation, Rozanov had adjusted himself through his jeans, quick and unselfconscious.

Good. At least Shane wasn’t the only one affected.

“Come closer.”

Shane stepped forward. Rozanov’s hand caught his hip, pulling him between his spread knees. His palms settled flat against Shane’s stomach, the heat of them sinking through skin, calluses catching slightly as his thumbs traced the lines of muscle.

“Much better. Now I can see all these freckles.” Rozanov’s thumbs traced up Shane’s sternum, following the scatter there like he was connecting dots only he could see. “Ty slovno chto-to, vybroshennoye iz kosmosa spetsial’no dlya menya. Zvyozdy.”

Shane’s breathing had gone shallow. Every place Rozanov touched felt hypersensitive, nerves firing too fast, like his skin had been rewired to only register this—these hands, this moment. “I don’t—what does that mean?”

“Hmm? Nothing important.” Rozanov’s fingers walked up his ribs, then back down. “You are still so tense, Hollander.”

“I’m trying—”

“So much trying. You are too pretty for so many worries.” Rozanov’s hands slid to Shane’s hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows there. “We need to fix this before we do anything else, yes? Cannot have you stuck on many things when I want you thinking only about my hands.”

He pulled Shane down until Shane was kneeling between his thighs on the carpet, eye level with Rozanov’s chest. One hand cupped Shane’s chin, tilting his face up.

Shane didn’t do touching. Handshakes, sure, hugs with his parents, okay. Everyone else existed in their own frames though, apart and away from himself with rare exception. He was starved for touch, but entirely devoid of the ability to find it with meaning. There were moments of fleeting nothings: Teammates slapped his ass after goals, crashed into him during cellies, piled on top of him in victory. Thirty bodies changing in close quarters every day and none of it meant anything.

“Kiss me,” Rozanov said.

Shane’s mouth opened—to say what, he didn’t know—but Rozanov leaned in and swallowed whatever words might have come. The first press of lips made Shane’s brain short out. Warm. Wet. Rozanov’s tongue slid against his and Shane made a sound he’d deny later, something between a whimper and a sigh.

Rozanov kissed like he had all night; unhurried and devastating, tongue sliding deep, teeth catching Shane’s bottom lip. Shane tried to keep up and match the pace, but Rozanov’s hand threaded into his hair and angled his head exactly where he wanted it, and Shane just... let him.

He tasted like vodka and decadence. Shane made a sound—needy, embarrassing—and Rozanov’s grip tightened in response. Shane wanted to melt into this moment, pulled on strings. Move this way? Okay. All he had to do was let himself be kissed. Let his mouth fall open and his bones go liquid because someone else was in charge and Shane didn’t have to decide anything except yes and more and please.

When Rozanov pulled back, Shane followed, chasing it.

“Greedy,” Rozanov murmured against his mouth, and kissed him again anyway. Deeper this time. His fingers tightened in Shane’s hair, angling his head. Shane made that sound again—needy, embarrassing—and Rozanov’s grip turned almost rough in response, holding him exactly where he wanted him.

They kissed until Shane forgot about kneeling naked on the floor. Until he forgot about the absurdity of this; him on his knees between another man’s legs, getting hard from nothing but a hand in his hair and a tongue in his mouth. Until he forgot everything except the slide of Rozanov’s lips and the way his fingers held Shane still without effort, like Shane weighed nothing, like he couldn’t escape even if he wanted to.

He didn’t want to.

When Rozanov finally broke away, Shane was panting. Rozanov’s thumb traced his bottom lip, catching on the wet there. “Better now, yes?”

Shane nodded. Words felt impossible. His dick was so hard it hurt.

“Good.” Rozanov’s hand slid down—past Shane’s jugular, his collarbone, his sternum—until it wrapped around Shane’s cock.

Shane’s hips bucked forward before he could stop them.

One firm stroke, Rozanov’s callused palm dragging from base to tip, thumb swiping across the head to gather moisture. “So hard already.” Another stroke that made Shane’s thighs shake. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

He released him.

Shane made a sound—protest, need, please—and hated himself for it.

“Be patient, I want to watch you first.” Rozanov leaned back in the chair, settling into it like a king before a servant. He raised the vodka glass, took a slow sip, hazel eyes never leaving Shane’s face. “Touch yourself for me, Hollander. Show me how you did it this week when you were alone.”

“I—here?”

“Da, here. On your knees for me.” Rozanov’s boot nudged Shane’s knee wider, spreading his stance, and then he settled deeper into the chair. “Or tell me no, and we can stop. Can always stop. But… you thought about me, yes? When you touched yourself?”

Of course he had, and it felt silly to try and deny it and lie about it now. Shane managed a little nod, feeling small while Rozanov loomed overhead. From any outsider’s perspective, if anyone were to see this, Shane knew that they’d think he was degrading himself, kneeling on the floor like this, but… it… didn’t quite feel that way in the moment. Shane’s knees, despite his nerves, settled into it like muscle memory. It was almost, sort of, like a crouch he’d drop into in a game, waiting for the ref’s whistle.

Except this time he wasn’t waiting to compete. He was waiting to be told what to do. And the relief of that was… exhilarating.

Shane realized then just how badly he wanted to win this, just like he won face offs. He wanted to be good at this. The best. He wanted Rozanov to look at him the way people did when Shane executed a play perfectly. He wanted that same approval, that same you did it right that Shane had been chasing his entire life.

Please let me be good at this.

And he was about to get his opportunity.

“Then show me. Wrap your hand around your cock and stroke. Slow.” Rozanov said, and the way his accent wrapped around the words seemed to rumble through Shane’s chest and settle lower, making him shiver. “I want to see exactly what you did.”

Shane’s face burned. His neck. His ears. This was—he couldn’t—

But his hand was already moving. Wrapping around himself. Giving one tentative stroke that pulled a gasp.

Jesus. Even his own hand felt different with Rozanov watching, like he was giving something away again, another ‘gift’, only he was doing the unwrapping himself and now that he’d started to unravel in the ribbons, he didn’t know how to stop.

“Slower, Hollander.”

Rozanov’s voice was hypnotic, velvety and smooth, and Shane was falling into it before he could even figure out a way to safeguard against it. Or, worse, even think of a reason why he’d want to. Shane slowed his strokes, palm dragging up from base to tip. His free hand clamped onto Rozanov’s thigh—needing the anchor, needing something solid because his head was spinning and his cock was leaking and Rozanov was watching.

“Vot tak. Yes, just like that.”

Rozanov’s approval rolled through the words in that lower octave he only seemed to use when they were doing this. It wasn’t fair that Rozanov could have this effect on him. Wasn’t fair that a few Russian syllables could make arousal crawl up Shane’s spine and pool low in his gut. He knew, on some level, that this should’ve been humiliating: kneeling on the floor, jerking off on command like a dog doing tricks while Rozanov stayed fully clothed and just watched.

And it was humiliating.

Except his dick didn’t care. It leaked steadily, flushing and pink and throbbing, because some broken part of him got off on being watched this closely. On Rozanov studying him the way scouts had studied him at sixteen—looking for potential, for what he could become, for how useful he might be. Only this time Shane wasn’t being evaluated for a draft pick. He was being evaluated for how pretty he looked falling apart.

The worst part? He wanted to pass this test too.

Shane hadn’t been waiting for permission or praise or—no, he was. He’d been waiting all week, apparently, for Rozanov to tell him just this.

And—fuck—he was getting close already, his rhythm speeding up despite Rozanov’s command, because the thought of Rozanov watching him, studying him, learning exactly how Shane liked to be touched—

“I said slower, Hollander.”

Shane’s hand stuttered to a stop. He looked up, meeting Rozanov’s eyes.

Rozanov was leaning forward now. The vodka glass dangled from two fingers, forgotten.

“You are not very good at following instructions tonight.” Rozanov shook his head in mock disapproval, his smile giving away the tease. “Always rushing. Impatient.”

“I’m not—”

“Ah-ah.” Then, amused: “Hands off. Stop, Hollander.”

Shane’s hand froze on his cock. The loss of friction made him want to cry. His body screamed for release, and for a horrible moment he thought about just ignoring Rozanov entirely. He could finish. Right now, if he wanted—three strokes, maybe four, and he’d be done. Rozanov wouldn’t stop him.

This was his body, his choice. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to choose. He wanted Rozanov to choose for him, just like his stupid drink and where to be and to look at him and feel feel feel.

Rozanov leaned forward, forearms on his thighs, studying Shane’s face. “Struggling? Hm. Which is stronger, Hollander? Your want or my words?”

Shane’s cock twitched, leaking another bead. “Your words.”

“Good,” Rozanov’s smile was slow, pleased. “Now get on the bed.”

Shane looked up at him, still kneeling between Rozanov’s thighs, still breathing hard. “On the bed?”

“Da.” Rozanov shifted in the armchair, adjusting himself through his jeans with one hand while the other brought the vodka glass to his lips. “Go. I want you comfortable.”

Shane climbed onto the mattress, the duvet soft and expensive beneath his knees. He turned to face Rozanov, uncertain where to position himself—should he lie back? Stay kneeling? Wait for instruction? Rozanov offered no answer, and instead only watched.

He… had said to get comfortable so… Shane chewed on his lower lip, and let himself lay back, the duvet soft against his spine as he settled back. His cock jutted up from his body, hard and flushed, a bead of moisture gathering at the tip.

“Touch yourself again,” Rozanov said. “Same as before. Both hands. Show me everything.”

Shane wrapped one hand around himself and cupped his balls with the other. His hips lifted immediately, chasing friction. Rozanov watched from the chair, perfectly still except for the slow circle of his thumb against the armrest.

“Look at me while you do this.”

Shane’s eyes found Rozanov’s. Hazel ringed with blown pupils, fixed on Shane’s face with an intensity that made his hand stutter on his cock. He’d leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, studying Shane like he was trying to memorize every detail of how Shane’s stomach muscles jumped under the skin. The flush spreading down his chest. The desperate rhythm of his fist. And it was exhilarating, terrifying, to be so lain open and seen.

“Shit, shit, okay,” Shane forced himself to keep stroking, keep meeting that gaze even though every instinct screamed to look away, to hide, to close his eyes and pretend he wasn’t naked on a bed jerking off for an audience of one.

“Don’t close eyes,” Rozanov murmured. “Smotri na menya.”

Shane didn’t know what that meant, but the way Rozanov said it—low, frayed, the English abandoned entirely—made that much more. That, and the way that Rozanov had shifted forward in his seat, thighs spread wider. His knuckles had gone white where they gripped his own leg, and his pupils had swallowed the hazel of his eyes almost completely.

He’s affected too.

The thought sent electricity down Shane’s spine. His rhythm faltered, then sped up despite the command to go slow. Because Rozanov wasn’t some impassive observer—he was restraining himself, choosing to stay dressed and in control when what he clearly wanted was to—

“Slower. Much slower. Or I make you stop and we start over from the beginning.”

Biting back a curse, Shane forced his hand to slow, dragging his palm up his length. He squeezed harder at the base, twisted slightly at the head the way he did when alone in his bed at three AM. His thighs had started shaking five minutes ago—or maybe ten, he’d lost track. How long had this been? His cock throbbed in his grip, flushed dark with need, veins prominent under the skin. Each stroke dragged precome down the shaft until his palm squelched obscenely with it. His balls had drawn up tight, and heat coiled at the base of his spine, pressure building with each pass of his hand, he was close, close now, oh god please please please…

His toes curled into the duvet. His free hand fisted in the fabric, anchoring himself because his whole body had started to shake. His cock twitched in his grip, flushed dark and leaking steadily. Three more strokes, maybe four, and he’d come all over himself, unable to stop, unable to—

“What do you think about?” Rozanov asked. “When you do this alone?”

Shane’s hand stuttered. “I—”

“Tell me. Don’t get shy now.”

“You.” The admission came out strangled. “Lately it’s... been you.”

Rozanov’s pupils dilated, swallowing the hazel almost completely. He leaned forward slightly, forearms bracing on his thighs. “What about me?”

Shane’s rhythm faltered. Words felt impossible when his brain had gone liquid, when all his blood had rushed south and left him stupid with need.

“Answer, or you stop touching yourself right now.”

“Your—” Shane’s voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again. “Your hands. The way you—” His hips rolled up into his fist. “Fuck, I can’t think—”

“Details, Hollander. What about my hands?”

“How you held me down.” The words tumbled out. “St-strong. How you didn’t let me move. How you—” His thighs shook. “Jesus Rozanov, I’m close—”

“Stop.”

“Fuck!” Shane’s hands fell away immediately, the loss of friction enough to have tears welling in the corners of his eyes. His cock twitched against his stomach, angry red and leaking. Shane’s whole body trembled. His hands fisted in the duvet on either side of his hips because if he didn’t anchor them somewhere he’d wrap them right back around himself.

“Ah.” A slow smile. “You do not like stopping, do you? Almost feeling bad for you, but you make a pretty picture like this.”

“Please.”

Rozanov tilted his head to the side. “Please what?”

“Please let me—I need—”

“Use your words. You need what? You want to stop?”

“No!” Shane shrieked, furious and frustrated. “To come! Please, I need to come.”

“Ah, no. Nice try.” Rozanov picked up his vodka glass and took a slow sip. “Absolutely not. But you are doing well. So. Small reward.”

Rozanov stood. He set the vodka glass on the nightstand, then moved to the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he moved past Shane’s sprawled form, who pulled himself out of the way to make space. Instead of sitting on the edge, Rozanov pulled himself to the very center of the bed, settling back against the headboard where Shane had been just prior, pillows arranged behind him. His legs spread wide, boots still on, one foot planted flat on the duvet while the other leg stretched out. He looked obscenely comfortable, like a king on a throne.

“Come here.”

Shane crawled up the bed on hands and knees, hyperaware of how he must look: naked, hard, still shaking from being denied. He stopped between Rozanov’s spread thighs, uncertain where to position himself.

“Closer. I want you right here.” Rozanov’s hand settled on the back of Shane’s neck, guiding him forward until Shane was kneeling upright between his legs, their faces level. “Have you done this before? Sucked cock?”

Shane’s mouth went dry. “No.”

“Should I let you?”

“Let me?”

Rozanov chuckled. “I’m a nice guy. So. Think I should let you have it?”

Shane’s brain caught on the phrasing—let. Like this was a privilege Rozanov could grant or withhold. This was his small reward, and it wasn’t even his own orgasm. His dick throbbed where it jutted between his thighs, leaking steadily against his stomach. Denial burned through him; he’d been close three times already and each time Rozanov had pulled him back from the edge until Shane’s entire body vibrated with need, and yet…

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. “Please.”

Rozanov’s thumb stroked along Shane’s skin, considering. “Mm. You ask very nicely.” His other hand went to his own shirt buttons, working them open one by one with lazy efficiency. “Help me with these.”

Shane’s hands replaced Rozanov’s, fumbling slightly with the buttons. The fabric was soft; expensive, probably custom tailored. Shane worked down button by button, revealing pale skin and dark hair scattered across Rozanov’s chest. His hands shook slightly, adrenaline or arousal or both, and he had to concentrate to get each button through its hole. When he reached Rozanov’s waist, he pulled the shirt free from his jeans and finished with the last two buttons.

Rozanov flexed his shoulders, and the fabric of the shirt parted over his chest, leaving the golden expanse of skin there exposed, but made no move to remove it entirely now that the buttons had been undone. “Belt next.”

Shane’s hands went to the buckle, the metal cool against his overheated palms. He worked it open, pulled the leather free, let it drop. The button on Rozanov’s jeans came next, then the zipper, and he was kind enough to lift up his hips slightly to assist as Shane hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugging the denim down.

“That’s enough.” Rozanov’s hand caught Shane’s wrist before he could pull them down too far, allowing just enough to accommodate. “Leave them.”

Shane blinked up at him. Rozanov’s jeans hung open, black boxer briefs visible beneath, the fabric stretched tight over his erection. He hooked his thumbs under the elastic. “These too.”

Shane helped pull them down and off, and then—

Jesus.

Rozanov sprawled back against the headboard exposed to him now, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out. Dark hair covered his chest and trailed down his stomach in a line that led Shane’s eyes exactly where they wanted to go.

He’d seen dicks before—unavoidable in locker rooms, in showers, a herd of naked men changing every day—but he’d trained himself not to look. To treat them like wallpaper. Background noise. He did not look.

He couldn’t look away from Rozanov’s.

It felt wrong to use the word beautiful for a cock, but no other word would do. Thick. Flushed dark. Curving slightly toward his stomach with a damp bead of precome at the flushed tip. It was bigger than Shane’s own—and wasn’t that just perfect, wasn’t that exactly what some fucked-up part of him wanted, to be made smaller, to be overpowered even in this? Absently, Shane licked his lips.

Oh god. I want that. I want that in my mouth.

Rozanov stretched his arms overhead, lacing his fingers behind his head, biceps flexing. His stomach muscles shifted under the skin, that line of hair catching the light from the floorlamp. His thighs were ridiculous, thick with muscle, just like the rest of him, even the parts still covered. The contrast was obscene: Shane completely naked and kneeling, while Rozanov reclined fully clothed except for his open shirt and the cock freed from his briefs.

“You look like you might drool, Hollander.”

Shane dragged his gaze up to Rozanov’s face. Those hazel eyes watched him, amused, pupils still blown wide. He looked utterly relaxed. Utterly in control.

“Can’t help it,” Shane managed. “You’re...”

“Hmm?” Rozanov’s mouth curved. “I am what?”

“Fucking stunning.”

The words came out before Shane could filter them. Rozanov’s eyes flared wider, his mouth parting slightly—lips forming words that never came—what would it have been? Surprise? Pleasure? Whatever it was disappeared fast, replaced by that lazy smirk.

“Spasibo.” His hand came up, fingers threading into Shane’s hair. “Now. If you want to put that pretty mouth to use...” He gestured down at himself. “I will not stop you.”

Shane didn’t need more permission than that.

He braced his hands on Rozanov’s thighs and leaned down, pressing his lips to the hollow of Rozanov’s throat first. Tasting salt and skin. Rozanov’s heartbeat against his mouth, rapid despite his outward composure.

“Mm. Good start.”

Encouraged, Shane kissed down, across Rozanov’s collarbone, over his sternum, through the dark hair scattered across his chest. The hair was coarser than expected, catching slightly on his lips. When Shane’s tongue traced the line down the center of Rozanov’s stomach, his fingers tightened in Shane’s hair. Shane continued downward, mapping Rozanov’s body with his mouth. Salt on his skin. The way his muscles jumped when Shane’s lips found sensitive spots. By the time Shane reached the juncture of hip and thigh, his thighs trembled from holding position.

He glanced up. Rozanov was watching him, hazel eyes dark and intent.

“Go ahead,” Rozanov murmured. “Show me what you can do.”

Shane’s hand trembled as he wrapped it around Rozanov’s length—thicker than his own, heavier, the skin sliding over hardness like nothing he’d felt before. His palm learned the shape: ridge of the head, slight curve, the vein underneath that fluttered against his thumb, and Rozanov’s hips shifted slightly into his grip.

“Bozhe moy.”

Shane stroked again, then leaned down and pressed his lips to the tip. It tasted like… dick. Skin. Salty and musk. He parted his lips and took just the head into his mouth, tongue exploring the ridge beneath. There was nothing particularly earth shattering about the act, even though it was very gay and also very hot, but there was something about the act of taking a man—Rozanov—into his mouth, being allowed to do it at all, that elevated the moment into something greater.

It was a monster of a cock. Rozanov was long and thick, and this being his first time, he’d never attempted to wrap his mouth around anything half its size. Still, he didn’t let that deter him, and Shane carefully took as much of Rozanov as he could fill his mouth, the weight of him settling on his tongue enough to make him moan.

Rozanov’s hand tightened in his hair, making the flesh sting and his eyes water, and Rozanov groaned, the sound reverberating through his chest. “Fuck. Da. Just like that.”

Shane had no idea what he was doing. His only reference points were the handful of times he’d let himself watch porn at two AM with the volume muted and his door locked, and one memorable incident in junior hockey when a girl at a party had gone down on him in the backseat and he’d finished in thirty seconds.

This time, it was him doing it. His mouth. His technique. His responsibility to make it good.

He tried to remember what had felt good when he was on the receiving end: suction, tongue, the hollowing of cheeks. He took Rozanov deeper, the weight strange on his tongue, overwhelming, but Rozanov’s fingers in his hair kept him grounded.

“Prekrasnyy,” Rozanov’s grip in Shane’s hair tightened, and he pulled Shane off slowly—too slowly—until his cock slipped free with an obscene wet sound. Saliva connected them before the string broke and dripped down Shane’s chin.

“Look at you.” He crooned, and Rozanov’s fingers flexed in Shane’s hair, tilting his head back. Shane’s mouth hung open, lips swollen and slick, face flushed dark. “What mess.”

Shane’s breath came in ragged pants. He tried to lean forward again, but Rozanov held him in place.

“Here I am, being so generous with you.” Rozanov’s thumb brushed Shane’s wet bottom lip. “And yet... you have not thanked me. Hmm.” His head tilted, considering. “Terrible upbringing. What are we going to do about these manners of yours?”

“Th-thank you. Thank you. Please let me—”

Rozanov’s fingers tightened in his hair and tugged gently upward, leading Shane upward just so from between those thighs, his knees dragging across the duvet until their faces were level. Rozanov’s mouth crashed against his—hot, demanding, tongue pushing past Shane’s lips to taste himself there. Shane’s moan got swallowed, his hands bracing on Rozanov’s shoulders as the kiss went deeper, filthier, Rozanov licking into his mouth like he owned it.

When Rozanov pulled back, Shane was panting.

“Better.” Rozanov’s grip loosened, palm cupping the back of Shane’s skull. “Now you can continue.”

He guided Shane back down—not gentle, but not cruel either—until Shane’s mouth hovered over his cock again. Shane wasted no time, eagerly licking at the saliva-slick head, swallowing him down. His head went dizzy, lightheaded and sparkling, too hungry and too needy to feel the faintest prickle of shame. He wanted this. Wanted to take Rozanov apart the way Rozanov had done to him. His free hand slid down his own stomach, wrapping around his aching cock—

“Ah-ah.” Rozanov’s boot pressed between his thighs, not blocking but warning. “You can touch yourself, Hollander. But you do not come. Understand?”

Shane pulled off just long enough to gasp, “I—what if—”

“You will not come.” Rozanov’s fingers tightened in his hair, guiding him back down. “But you can keep your mouth busy.”

Shane’s hand wrapped around himself as his mouth sank back onto Rozanov’s cock. The dual sensation was overwhelming—Rozanov heavy on his tongue, his own hand stroking at whatever pace his body demanded. He couldn’t help it; his rhythm matched the bob of his head, pleasure building with each stroke.

When he sucked harder at the head, Rozanov’s grip in his hair turned brutal. Shane’s hand moved faster in response, chasing the heat pooling low in his gut.

“Ty takoy khoroshiy.” Rozanov’s hips lifted slightly, careful.

Shane didn’t understand the words. He understood the sound of them, though, and they were syrupy sweet in his ears. Candy on his tongue. He was moaning again as he tongued Rozanov’s slit, fstill trying to swallow the impressive length of his shaft, spit licking his lips, and his face burned because he knew what he sounded like. He sounded like a whore, a slut, and Shane felt like a whore now, whining over the sounds Rozanov was making above him, the taste of him. His teammates would never let him live down a noise like that, but Rozanov’s grip only tightened in his hair like the moan was currency, a thing of value, and Shane’s brain short-circuited trying to reconcile shame with the evidence that Rozanov wanted it.

… which only made him burn hotter, pleasure ramping up and up and up and up. He wanted. He was wanted. Shane’s own hand kept working, kept pulling him toward an orgasm he couldn’t have, and he couldn’t—he couldn’t think about—

“You are getting close, yes?”

Yes. A whimper escaped around Rozanov’s cock. Shane’s hand didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, but the reminder made him hyper-aware of how close he was. How easy it would be to just let go, to chase that release, but no.

“Don’t come, Hollander. Don’t. Not yet.”

Not yet? Not yet? Shane screwed his eyes shut, he couldn’t do this much longer—

Please. Please let me. I’ll be good. I’ll do anything.

He whimpered but obeyed. That was the point, wasn’t it? Rozanov decided. Shane followed. The simplicity of it made his head go quiet in a way nothing else ever had.

“Good, Hollander,” Rozanov purred, rolling his hips just to push a little deeper, “I will take you right to the edge. So sensitive that even small touch makes you crazy. And when I finally let you come…”

A pause.

“It will ruin everything else for you.”

He doubled his efforts on Rozanov—tongue, suction, taking him deeper—while his other hand kept stroking, kept pulling him toward an orgasm he couldn’t have. The psychological split was torture: his body screaming for release while his mind held the line, obeying. He sighed around Rozanov’s cock and bobbed his head slightly, losing himself in the slide of rigid flesh against his tongue. And at some point, his eyes must have closed because—

“Eyes on me.”

Shane’s eyes fluttered back open, bobbing his head as he found his pace, to look up and catch Rozanov’s face just as he took the head of his cock all the way back to his throat again. Those hazel eyes were blown dark, fixed on Shane’s face with an intensity that went straight to his dick. That look gave him a strange sense of floating, all the needful hunger that had driven him to his knees slowly fading away, despite the orgasm building low in his own belly.

“That’s it, Hollander.” Rozanov’s voice had gone rough, accent thicker. “Ty takoy khoroshiy.”

The praise—was it praise?—sent another jolt through Shane’s gut. As far as blowjobs went, it wasn’t perfect, no first-timer was, but damn if he wasn’t trying. Whatever he couldn’t take in, he set to work stroking the unattended portion of Rozanov’s length with this hand, the other still stroked at his own. The skin felt soft in his grip, sliding over hot steel, and Shane stroked up when he pulled back and stroking down when he sucked Rozanov in. In himself, pleasure spiked dangerously high, and he had to fight himself—actually fight his own body—to not tip over.

“Close,” Rozanov warned, voice rough. “Ready for your reward now? I’m going to come. You can pull off if—”

Shane’s answer was to suck harder, taking him deeper, his hand working the base in tandem with his mouth. His other hand kept stroking himself, kept denying himself even as his entire body shook with the effort of holding back.

“Blyad’—you want this?” Rozanov’s hips stuttered, fighting for control. “S—Hollander, I need—fuck—need you to—”

Shane moaned around Rozanov’s shaft, his legs were quivering, just like they did in the third period of overtime. He was overloaded, overwhelmed, fighting to push push push push just a little bit longer, and the idea of pulling away felt very far away. Impossible. No. He had worked so hard for this and he was Shane Hollander and he finished what he fucking started, so he didn’t pull off. Didn’t hesitate. His eyes found Rozanov’s, holding that blown-wide gaze, and he stayed. His hand kept stroking, his mouth kept working, and he was right there, suspended on the edge through nothing but willpower and Rozanov’s command. His cock throbbed in his grip, leaking steadily, every nerve ending screaming for release he couldn’t allow himself.

“Yebat’—”

Rozanov’s thighs tensed on either side of Shane’s head. His grip in Shane’s hair turned almost painful, holding Shane exactly where he wanted him. Shane felt it a half-second before it happened, a twitch, a tightening, and then Rozanov was coming with a broken groan, the first hot rope of his spend catching him off guard. Bitter-salt flooded his mouth, more than he expected, thick and foreign. He worked on instinct—he’d never done this before, never swallowed, never even thought he’d want to—but the alternative was pulling off and that felt wrong, like quitting before the job was done. So he swallowed, and then again as Rozanov spurt on his tongue, each spasm sending more across his palate.

Above him, Rozanov had his head thrown back against the pillows, mouth open on gasping breaths. His chest rose and fell rapidly, a sheen of sweat catching the lamplight. Even coming apart, there was something controlled about it—like Rozanov was allowing himself this pleasure but maintaining awareness, never fully letting go.

Shane’s own hand still moved on his cock, slower now, his own orgasm a distant ache as he focused on working Rozanov through it. He hollowed his cheeks, sucked gently, let his tongue trace patterns until Rozanov’s hips jerked with oversensitivity and his grip in Shane’s hair shifted from demanding to gentling. “Bozhe,” Rozanov breathed, voice wrecked. His hand loosened, fingers threading through Shane’s hair now instead of gripping. “Bozhe moy, Hollander.”

He looked up. Rozanov was watching him with dark, sated eyes, chest still heaving.

“Stop now,” Rozanov said quietly, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. “You can stop touching yourself.”

With a sob, Shane pulled his hand away from himself, tongue lolling wet. The sound horrified him for half a second before the embarrassment twisted into heat. He sounded desperate. Wrecked. And Rozanov was watching him fall apart like it was the best thing he’d seen all week. His whole body trembled. His cock was angry red, leaking, his orgasm so close and coiled in his groin, where it burnt like a pyre.

“Please,” he managed, voice wrecked. “Please, I was—I didn’t—”

“Shh. I know. I know.” Rozanov pulled him up onto the bed, rolling him onto his back against the pillows. “You were perfect. So good for me, Hollander.” His hand wrapped around Shane’s cock, and first stroke sent white fire up Shane’s spine. His hips bucked involuntarily, and Rozanov’s free hand pressed down on his hipbone, pinning him to the mattress.

“No, no—ostavaysis’—stay. Let me.” Rozanov’s English was gone entirely now, consonants rough, words half-Russian. “Posmotri na menya, solnyshko. Now you get to come.”

Shane’s hips bucked up into the grip, desperate. Rozanov’s palm dragged from base to tip, twisting slightly at the head, and Shane’s vision blurred. Three edges—maybe four, he’d lost count—had him so close to the edge that even this single stroke threatened to unravel him completely.

“Fuck—”

Shane’s eyes snapped open. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them again, and all he could see was Rozanov’s face hovering above his own, the rapt awe in his eyes, the Cupid’s bow of his lips as he breathed, watching watching Shane like he was the only thing in the world worth seeing, and then kissing him, swallowing his cries, his curses. His tongue pushed past Shane’s lips, claiming, tasting himself, and Shane opened for him easily. The kiss was filthy, tasting like vodka and salt and Rozanov’s spend, desperate and perfect. Rozanov’s free hand fisted in Shane’s hair, angling his head exactly where he wanted it, and Shane surrendered to it.

“Krasivyy,” Rozanov panted against his cheek, thumb swiping over the head, spreading the wetness. “So beautiful like this. You have no idea—” His hand tightened, twisted, found a rhythm that Shane had never quite managed himself. “—no idea how you look, do you?”

Another stroke. Shane moaned into Rozanov’s mouth, hips rolling up to meet the friction. His hands scrabbled for purchase, one finding Rozanov’s shoulder, rumpling his shirt, the other fisting in the duvet. Every nerve ending fired at once, pleasure building from the base of his spine and radiating outward.

“Please—Rozanov—I’m—fuck—”

“Come for me.” Rozanov’s teeth caught Shane’s bottom lip, tugging. “Now.”

Now? Now? He could come now? He’d been holding back for so long—weeks, months, years maybe, not just tonight—and now, with a word, the dam broke.

Shane’s orgasm didn’t build. It detonated.

He came with a cry, back arching off the bed in a svelte, desperate curve, and his release ripped through him in waves, each one stronger than the last, pulling a broken “fuck” from his lips that turned into a sob. A sob? Oh. Oh, he was crying, wasn’t he? Big fat, crybaby tears on his cheeks, dripping off his chin as hot spurts of his own spend painted his chest, Rozanov’s hand, the blankets.

His thighs shook. His stomach clenched. Every nerve ending in his body fired at once, overwhelming and perfect and too much, but Rozanov didn’t stop stroking him through it, whispering things Shane couldn’t understand—Russian words that sounded like praise, like wonder, like this, yes, exactly this—until Shane’s body went boneless against the mattress, wrung out and shaking, like his orgasm might last forever, reaching the depths of his body, spreading all the way out to his fingers and toes, electrifying every nerve and every cell in his body.

“Jesus Christ—” Shane’s head thrashed against the pillows. “Oh god, oh fuck—”

His hips jerked up again, seeking and fleeing at the same time. And Rozanov kept going, milking him through it all. Shane’s brain was mush, his mouth broken, and he shook and whined, the sensation too much.

“Breathe, Hollander.”

Shane tried. Air dragged in—when? how long?—and leaked back out without him controlling it. His lungs moved on their own, like they were remote controlled. Maybe not really a part of him at all. Rozanov’s hand stilled completely but didn’t let go, just held him while tremors kept rolling through his body—or maybe they’d stopped. Shane couldn’t tell. Everything felt distant and muffled, like his nervous system was wrapped in gauze. Shane’s cock gave another weak throb, oversensitive now, and he whimpered when Rozanov’s thumb swiped across the head.

“N-no, no more—can’t—”

“Shh, I know.” Rozanov finally released him, his hand coming away slick. He wiped it absently on the duvet before leaning down to press his mouth to Shane’s in a tender kiss, thumb smoothing away tears. And… this time it was languid, edging on lazy. Shane’s lips barely moved, too wrecked to do more than accept it.

When Rozanov pulled back, Shane’s eyes wouldn’t focus. Rozanov’s face blurred and doubled, hazel eyes dark but the details kept sliding away. The room swam—not like being drunk, more like the concussion he’d had two seasons ago when the Admirals left wing had checked him into the boards wrong and the world went fuzzy at the edges. But this wasn’t injury. This was...

He didn’t have words for this.

Shane’s body existed in pieces: legs somewhere below him, heavy and useless. Arms he couldn’t lift. Chest rising and falling on autopilot. Rozanov’s face kept blurring in and out of focus, refusing to stay still.

I’m broken, Shane thought distantly. I broke myself.

Except broken things weren’t supposed to feel this good.

“Khorosho,” Rozanov murmured above him. “Ty byl takim khoroshim.”

“I like’er voice,” Shane mumbled, dazed and satisfied and understanding nothing. His eyes were wet as he tried to blink away the haze. He turned his face into the pillow, suddenly embarrassed by the mess he’d become—shaking and crying after an orgasm like he’d never had one before in his life. Except... maybe he hadn’t. Not like this? No, never like this. Not one that felt like coming home and falling apart and being held together all at once.

Rozanov’s hand found his face, turning it back gently. “Ah, no hiding. You did so well, Hollander. Look at me.”

Shane looked.

“Was perfect,” Rozanov murmured. His hand cupped Shane’s face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. “Best gift ever. Amazing. Is okay to cry after big thing like that.”

Shane made a sound, agreement, maybe, or just acknowledgment that words existed somewhere in the universe. His mouth shaped something that might’ve meant yes or okay but language felt very far away.

“...wow.”

“Rave review, I see. You will put on yelp? Five stars?” Rozanov’s low chuckle rumbled through his chest. “You are very far away right now, aren’t you?” He shifted, climbing off the bed. “Do not move. I will be right back.”

Shane couldn’t have moved if he tried. His eyes tracked Rozanov’s path to the kitchenette—those jeans, that shirt—but the details kept slipping. Time skipped. Water running. Then Rozanov was back, standing over him. Had he walked? Shane blinked. Washcloth. White. Damp.

The first touch of it against Shane’s stomach made him flinch, breaking out in goosebumps at the chill.

“Cold,” he managed.

“Izvini.” Rozanov’s hand pressed against his hip, steadying. “I will be quick.”

He cleaned Shane in strokes that felt both immediate and miles away—stomach, chest, thighs. Each pass of the cloth registered somewhere, pulled him incrementally closer to his body, but Shane kept drifting. The ceiling swam. His fingers tingled. Rozanov tossed the cloth aside. Disappeared. Returned—or had he been there the whole time? A glass appeared, cool and slick. Shane blinked at it, confused.

“Sit up for me.”

Shane’s abdominal muscles screamed in protest, but Rozanov’s hand behind his shoulders helped lever him upright against the headboard. The water glass pressed to his lips.

“Drink.”

Cold hit his tongue. He swallowed reflexively, the water sliding down his throat and grounding him slightly. Three swallows. Four. Then his mouth stopped working and Rozanov pulled the glass away.

“Better?”

Shane nodded. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, but words were starting to reassemble themselves into coherency. His brain was coming back online in bits and pieces, but none of them fit together just yet. “That was...”

He trailed off and frowned. What was the word?

“Intense?” Rozanov supplied, sensing his struggle. He seemed pleased to be able to provide the right word too, and as Shane slowly came out of the fog, he noticed the twinkle in Rozanov’s eyes as he sat on the edge of the bed, hip pressed against Shane’s thigh. “You held out longer than I expected. Very impressive.”

“Felt like I was going to die.”

“Da, but what a way to go if you did.” Rozanov’s hand found Shane’s, threading their fingers together. “How do you feel now? Truth only.”

Shane took inventory: His muscles ached. His dick felt raw. His brain had been replaced with cotton. But underneath all that...

“Good,” he managed. Each word took effort. “...floaty.”

“You will float like this for bit. Is normal.” Rozanov squeezed his hand. “We take our time now, yes? No rush.”

Ah good, okay. Rushing sounded like a horrible, miserable idea and Shane shivered the feeling of it away. For him, in this moment, time had become very vague and elastic. Which was… novel. Shane sat there, propped against the pillows, watching Rozanov move around the room. “Can you—is it weird if…”

“If what?”

“... can you just lay here with me? Please?”

Rozanov blinked at him, then inclined his head. “Is not weird at all.” He climbed onto the bed properly, settling beside Shane and drawing him in against his chest. Shane went without resistance, his head tucking beneath Rozanov’s chin, one arm draping across his stomach, greedily absorbing the furnace like heat of his body.

“This okay?” Rozanov asked, his fingers threading through Shane’s hair.

“Yeah.” Shane’s eyes slipped closed. “Really okay.”

They lay like that for several minutes—or maybe longer, Shane had lost all ability to track time. Rozanov’s fingers kept moving through his hair in slow, soothing strokes. His other hand rested on Shane’s shoulder, thumb making lazy circles there. Shane just let himself drift, letting the thrum of Rozanov’s heartbeat smack away all the thoughts in his head away, letting himself just be.

This was what people meant, maybe, when they talked about being ‘present’. He certainly wasn’t performing now, or acting a part, or trying to be the Shane Hollander. He wasn’t forcing himself into the shape that he needed to be for everyone else. Actually, he felt broken open, a Shane-colored jigsaw puzzle of all the little parts he usually forced into place to make the pretty picture, but all jumbled and in a heap. That was supposed to be bad, but… here… was Rozanov, holding the pieces as they were, in that pile, and… that… felt amazing. It almost felt like there were new ways that things might fit. A movie with a trick ending. A twist. Maybe there wasn’t even a script at all or… maybe… it didn’t matter anyway.

Here, in this numbered room with a man who barely knew him but somehow saw him, the plot could go anywhere.

Or nowhere.

And how wonderful was that?

But all good things needed to end, and Shane could never escape himself for too long. At some point his jeans appeared—when had those reappeared?—and Rozanov helped him step into them, Shane bracing himself on those broad shoulders. His shirt followed, then his socks. When Shane fumbled with his buttons, Rozanov’s hands covered his to help, just like last time.

“Let me.”

Shane’s arms dropped. He stood there, swaying slightly, while Rozanov fastened each button. Those hazel eyes stayed focused on the task, but he was smiling.

“What?” Shane asked.

“You look very sweet right now. All soft edges.” The last button slipped through its hole. Rozanov’s palms smoothed down Shane’s chest, straightening the fabric. “I like you like this. That you let me be soft with you. Is cute.”

Shane scoffed. He was not cute. He ducked his head, but Rozanov’s finger caught his chin, tilting it back up.

“No hiding.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Shane’s forehead. “Come. We get you fed.”

“I’m not really hungry.”

Rozanov rolled his eyes, pulling him forward with an arm flung over his shoulders, “I am not ‘really’ asking.”

Shane followed Rozanov back through the hallway, legs unsteady beneath him. His body felt wrung out, loose in the joints, brain pleasantly empty. The low music from the main room grew louder as they approached, sultry vocals from the speakers layering over conversation and laughter. Predictably, the bar was still busy. Shane’s eyes swept across the space automatically out of old habit before Rozanov’s hand at the small of his back guided him toward an empty booth near the corner.

“Sit. I will bring you food.”

Shane slid into the booth, still feeling slow and foggy but no longer lost. The leather was cool against his thighs. His mouth was only a little sore and the rest of him had this all over, pleasant tingle. He watched Rozanov cross to the bar and lean against it, saying something to Svetlana that made her laugh before she disappeared into the kitchen with a wink. The couple from earlier had left. A new group occupied the booth across from Shane’s—three people deep in conversation, oblivious to everyone else. Everyone looked so normal. Like they belonged here.

Shane felt like he was sitting naked at the bar, even fully clothed.

And… and wait. If they were all here, at Wolfbird, did that mean that all of them were doing this same thing? Meeting with professionals? Waiting to see Rozanov himself? They all had to know what happened in those back rooms. Every person here. They could look at Shane and know exactly what he’d just done, what he’d let Rozanov do to him, how thoroughly he’d been taken apart—

“And you were doing so well. No spiralling or dropping on my watch, Hollander.”

Shane’s head snapped up. Rozanov set a glass of water and a plate down in front of him. It was some kind of sandwich cut in half, golden crust and melted cheese oozing out the sides with a mountain of french fries beside it, and Rozanov then slid into the booth across from him with his own plate and a glass of not water, letting their feet knock beneath the table.

“This is like... a thousand calories,” Shane said, staring at it. And then: “What’s a drop?”

“Eat first,” Rozanov said, sipping what Shane assumed was another vodka. “Then maybe I explain.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Life is not fair. I can think of worse deal than eat something nice for answer you want.”

Grumbling, Shane picked up half the sandwich. Warm bread, soft beneath his fingers. He took a bite. The cheese hit his tongue first, sharp and salty, followed by roasted vegetables and some kind of pesto, and he had to suppress a groan. He’d been living on protein shakes and grilled chicken for so long he’d forgotten food could taste like this, and hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. When was the last time he’d eaten? Breakfast. That protein shake this morning. Nothing since and… wow, cheese.

“Good, yes?” Rozanov watched him eat with obvious satisfaction.

Shane nodded, swallowed. “This is so wildly out of my diet that I don’t think my tongue knows how to handle something this good.”

Rozanov waggled his eyebrows. “On contrary, I think your tongue is quite capable. And… hah! Yes, there. You are laughing again, and all is well. Eat more, Hollander. I swiped extra fries for you.”

The fries did look incredible. And they were also incredibly out of his macros.

“So that… drop thing you mentioned?”

“Right. Boring talk, as promised. Drop is normal thing, but not what I want for you,” Rozanov explained, biting into his own sandwich. “When we do things together, lots of big brain chemicals. Afterwards… without them, is easier to fall very down into bad feelings. I try to avoid at all cost for you. Your face does this thing when you panic. Right here.” He gestured to the space between his eyebrows. “Gets all pinched together. Is your poker tell, and how I know you are too much thinking again.”

“I’m always thinking.”

“This I know by now.”

Shane picked at a french fry, watching Rozanov nurse his vodka. The way he held the glass—fingers loose, thumb tracing the rim absently—reminded Shane of how he held his stick during timeouts. Muscle memory. Something done so often it became unconscious.

“You drink this a lot,” Shane said, then immediately felt stupid. Obviously. This is a fucking bar.

Rozanov glanced at the glass. “My father’s favorite. He taught me to drink it properly—” He caught himself, mouth quirking. “Is boring story.”

“I don’t mind boring.”

“Hmm.” Rozanov’s eyes flicked to Shane’s face, assessing. “He said vodka should taste clean. Like winter air. American vodka tastes like nail polish remover.”

Shane surprised himself by laughing. “That’s specific.”

“He was specific man.” Rozanov’s accent had thickened again, leaving Shane to wonder why. Because he was remembering something? Feeling something? Regardless, Rozanov seemed to realize it and straightened, taking another sip. “Anyway. Is just drink.”

They ate in comfortable quiet for a while after that. And, though he was tired… that familiar, unwelcome nervous jitter in his leg was just beneath the surface. He felt hyperaware of the space around them—the bartender wiping down glasses, the group at the far booth erupting into laughter, someone walking past toward the bathrooms. So many people. And even with NDAs, they had to recognize him.

“This is the worst part,” Shane heard himself say, holding a fry in his hands without actually bringing it to his mouth.

Rozanov’s eyebrows lifted. “What is?”

“This.” Shane gestured vaguely at the room, the plate, the normalcy of sitting at a bar making small talk. “Coming back out here and trying to be... I don’t know. Regular. After—” His face heated. “After... that.”

“After I made you come until you cried?” Rozanov winked, looking every part of the devilish menace Shane was coming to recognize him as. “Can say it, Hollander. Will not burst into flames.”

“Yeah. That.”

“Okay,” Rozanov said, dragging out the syllables. “And why is this bad part? You think people are staring at you?”

“Aren’t they?”

“No one is looking at you, Hollander.” Rozanov assured, looking rather cocky with the assertion. “They are looking at me, and they are jealous.”

Shane took another bite, chewing slowly. The sandwich was good but felt wrong in his stomach, or maybe the wrongness was him, sitting here fully dressed like the last hour hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t been on his knees begging, like Rozanov’s hands hadn’t—

“Hey.” Rozanov’s boot nudged his ankle under the table. “Where did you go?”

“Sorry. I’m just... weird. About this.” Shane set down the sandwich. “I don’t know how to do the... after part. I read about it, a bit. Afterwhatsits? Aftercare. I think it’s just weird to be in a bar like this, eating fries after something so…”

Rozanov waited patiently for him to find the right word this time, and when it never came, Shane’s shoulders slumped.

“I don’t know how to explain it, I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It—is fine. Fucking words are hard. I understand plenty.” Rozanov said, and oddly, it really did sound like he understood. It was kind of him, Shane thought, not to pathologize his stupidity at the moment. He leaned back in the booth, licking salt from his fingers and looking thoughtful. An idea passed over his features, and Shane watched him consider it, arms crossing over his chest. “I… Hollander. You know, we don’t have to do sessions here. If you prefer.”

Shane’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

Rozanov’s thumb traced the rim of his vodka glass. “I am saying—I don’t do this with everyone. Private sessions.” He glanced up, hazel eyes meeting Shane’s. “Most clients, they come here, we work, they leave. Is good system. But you...” He trailed off, then seemed to decide something. “I would like to see you again. Away from here. If you want this too.”

“You don’t usually offer that?”

“No.” Rozanov shook his head. “Maybe two, three times in five years. Has to be right person. Someone I trust will not—” He made a vague gesture, searching for words. “Will not make problems. Will respect boundaries. Will be safe.”

Right person. Not just any client. Him specifically.

“It is not… something I offer everyone, but… I would consider, for you, private sessions. At your place.” Rozanov’s tone stayed casual, but his gaze sharpened, assessing Shane’s reaction. “No fake apartment or awkward sitting at bar after. More privacy. You do not have to see anyone except me, and then no taxi ride home after.”

“Oh.” Shane’s brain tried to process that. Rozanov, in his penthouse. In his actual space, stepping around the carnage of his closet, maybe leaning on his counter by the blender. “Is that... do you do that? With other clients?”

“Only with ones I like very much.” Rozanov picked up his sandwich again. “And I think, maybe, more comfortable for you there.”

He would be. The relief of it, not having to walk back through this room, not having to feel exposed under the amber lights and watchful eyes. Just... Rozanov and him, alone, no audience. That sounded nice, really nice.

But also.

Inviting Rozanov into his home felt bigger. More real. The sessions at Wolfbird existed in their own separate reality, sealed behind NDAs and locked phones. Bringing Rozanov to his condo meant letting him into Shane’s actual life, seeing where he slept and ate and fell apart at three AM scrolling through Twitter or where he did his neurotic early morning binge workouts on the Peloton.

“Would need your address in advance,” Rozanov continued. “For my own safety. And it would be more money.” He paused. “But no pressure. You can think about it. And, I think you know I am worth it.”

Shane picked at the crust of his sandwich. His leg had stopped bouncing. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll... I’ll think about it.”

But he already knew his answer.

Shane pushed his empty plate aside, feeling fuller than he had in weeks—and not just from the food. The bar had quieted around them, couples filtering out into the night, leaving the space softer, more intimate.

Rozanov stood, having checked his phone. “Come, I think car I called for you is here. I walk you out.”

They made their way to the front desk where Shane retrieved his phone from locker twenty-three. Rozanov helped with his jacket again, and at the door, cold air leaked in around the frame. Rozanov’s hand settled at Shane’s lower back, warm even through his coat.

“Again: text me when you are home,” Rozanov said.

“I will.” Shane turned to face him, snow beginning to fall outside, fat flakes drifting past the windows.

Rozanov’s thumb brushed against Shane’s spine, the touch so light Shane might have imagined it. Then those hazel eyes caught his, and Rozanov’s lips bowed into something that wasn’t quite a smile—softer than that, more private.

“You know, Hollander,” he said, accent thick with something Shane couldn’t name, “I think maybe you are dangerous for me.”

Shane’s breath caught. “Dangerous how?”

“Because when you leave, I already am thinking about when you come back.” Rozanov’s hand dropped away. “Now go, puppy, before I clip leash on you and keep you here all night.”

Chapter End Notes

My Hollanov fics on AO3

I wanted to write porn, and so... *waves hand* here's 16k of it. Happy New Year! This chapter was largely kink and smut fulfillment for my own selfish wants, AND a portal to open the door for ✨private sessions✨ . Oh lalaa.

And last but not least... thanks for reading! If you liked it, I’d love to yap in the comments.<

Not sure what to say? Comment anxiety? How about...

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”
- 🌌 “this wasn't my favorite”
- ✨ “FRIDAY, at last!”
- 🍆 “Stop, Hollander. Don't come.”
- 🥪 “This is like... a thousand calories.”
- 🗡️ “this usually isnt my thing... and yet”
- 💀 “how dare you (affectionate)”

Chapter 6: Toska

Chapter Notes

Reminder: This fic does deal with some themes of financial insecurity and it can be distressing to read, BUT, and I am crossing my heart here, I promise happy endings.

The Voyageurs-Bears game started at seven. Ilya had the TV on by 6:45, volume low, while he ate leftover pad thai straight from the container. His fork scraped against cardboard.

The sound reminded him, almost, almost, of his mother’s spatula against the kastryulya, wood on metal, the specific scrape of making do, but it wasn’t quite right either. The sound kept circling, trying to attach itself to a memory that wouldn’t come, a bird that couldn’t find its perch. Kak dusha bez doma. Like a soul without a home, the memory was there, somewhere across the ocean, but the ocean had swallowed the coordinates. In Russian, he could name this feeling: toska. Ilya took another bite. The noodles had congealed overnight into a single mass that he had to work apart with the tines, and the peanut sauce had lost whatever appeal it might’ve had yesterday, but… still good, honestly, and his body needed the fuel. Ne vybrasyvay yеdu, his mother would have said. Don’t waste food.

In his mind, he saw her, the kastryulya, and it was winter in Moscow and his mother stretching one chicken across four days, boiling the bones for broth that tasted like all that was warm and good in the world.

Pad thai from the place on Beaubien that stayed open past midnight for people who worked the late shift and the desperate cost twelve dollars. Twelve dollars was two metro rides, or a little more than 6% of what he owed Andrei this month. But twelve dollars was also dinner tonight and lunch tomorrow if he stretched it, cherepash’imi shagami, turtle steps, the way he made everything last… which meant it wasn’t twelve dollars at all. It was six. Math.

Always math.

His apartment was dim. He hadn’t bothered with the overhead light, relied instead on the blue glow from the second hand TV and the streetlight bleeding through his blinds. Outside, Montreal was doing its usual Tuesday night routine: cars passing, someone’s bass thumping three floors down from a party that had already spilled onto the fire escape, the occasional snatch of French, someone arguing about the Habs on a balcony, tabarnak carrying down the block. Inside, Ilya’s radiator clanked and hissed, somehow still not quite dead and very much not alive either, fighting the cold. Typical Montreal winter bullshit, slush that never quite freezes and never quite melts.

Ilya’s phone sat face-up on the coffee table next to his keys and wallet, and the screen occasionally pinged with notifications but… none of the ones he had found himself waiting for.

It had been four days since Hollander walked out of Wolfbird with the offer of more private sessions rather than these meets at the bar itself and the diplomatic answer that he’d ‘think about it’. It was the same way people said, ‘I’ll call you’ or ‘let’s do this again sometime’. The phatic language of polite exit, and one he recognized.

And then four days of nothing apart from the usual amorphous not-quite routine:

Saturday: two clients at Wolfbird, both pleasant enough. A nervous academic who wanted to be tied up and feminized, a regular who paid extra for Ilya to call him moy mal’chik while he came. Fine. Forgettable.

Sunday: Walks with Biscuit. Luna and Max were both making slow progress, too. Marianne still would not leave her husband to marry Ilya and help him get a PR card, but she did give him a homemade poundcake which was nearly as good.

Monday: a private session in Westmount with a businessman who’d wanted degradation, wanted to be called worthless, and wanted Ilya to spit in his mouth and hurt him. Ilya had done it—he was professional, he delivered, no request was too hard—but he’d scrubbed his hands twice after and still felt the residue of it under his nails.

Tuesday’s shift at Wolfbird had been slow, just one walk-in who’d left after the initial consultation. The money added up to rent, to groceries, to another wire transfer east. The work was work.

And none of it had been Hollander.

Ilya stabbed another clump of noodles and reminded himself that he wasn’t disappointed.

And he wasn’t. So what if a client didn’t want to take him up on his very generous, very sought after, very much desirable offer? Hollander was allowed to be wrong. Rich men were wrong all the time. It was practically a hobby.

On his television screen, the RDS panel was halfway through their pre-game breakdown, and Ilya relied on subtitles: they were talking about the Voyageurs’ winning streak and Boston’s defensive strategy. A rivalry game. Montreal-Boston always brought out the crowds, the energy, the sort of hockey that made people scream at their TVs. Ilya didn’t particularly care about hockey anymore (he reminded himself, and it wasn’t true, but he was so good at the lie) and he hadn’t since Trois-Rivières when the dream died on bad ice under worse lighting—but the game was on, and watching TV was better than staring at his phone like some desperate teenager.

The anthems played and the players lined up. On screen, the camera panned across the Voyageurs’ bench, Bell Centre’s ice bright enough to hurt the eyes even through the TV.

There. #24. HOLLANDER.

Predictably, the camera loved him, holding on his face for three full seconds: dark eyes focused on the ice, that jawline the genetics gods had been generous with, and those freckles scattered across his cheekbones like someone had flicked a loving paintbrush. Ilya knew many of those freckles, and had traced them with his thumbs, his lips, but there were still so many more to know and add to his chart of the stars. Hollander’s mouth moved—talking to a teammate, probably—and then he tapped his stick against the boards twice and skated to center ice for the opening faceoff.

Ilya set down his takeout container and leaned forward to watch.

The puck dropped.

And… Hollander won the faceoff. Hollander could skate.

—no, worse. He played like someone who’d transcended it entirely, dissolved the boundary between flesh and purpose until nothing remained but motion itself. Zabud’te o sebe. Forget yourself. Ilya knew this state, had lived in it once when the ice was his native language and his body spoke it fluently. Watching Hollander move was like watching someone read poetry in his mother tongue, not Russian, but the one he’d been exiled from, the one that still shaped his dreams on occasion. Forget yourself. That’s what good skating required: ego death, the dissolution of the boundary between want and action. Ilya had felt it, years ago, that flow state where time went strange and the body knew what to do three seconds before the brain caught up.

Hollander was in that state now, and he looked nothing like the unmoored man who’d knelt on the floor of room eleven and asked Is this okay? in a threadbare whisper.

On screen, Boston’s left wing came in hard. Hollander braced, took the hit, and stripped the puck in one smooth motion, already snatching back control without even a single wasted movement or moment. He fed the puck to a teammate, already pivoting again, and Ilya thought he looked like he was already reading three plays ahead.

Ilya’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. The noodles hung there, sauce dripping back into the container.

Three passes later, the Voyageurs scored.

This was Shane Hollander. Not some anxious client who stumbled into Wolfbird and could barely make eye contact. This was a man whose face appeared on commercials, whose name showed up in sports highlights, who had an entire arena of people screaming every time he touched the puck. Ilya had seen this face two inches from his own, flushed and desperate, asking is this okay? Then coming apart begging please please please with his pupils blown wide. The star athlete version and the man on his knees in room eleven occupied different universes, except… they didn’t.

And Ilya had offered him private sessions to see that far-flung, secret, side of him again.

On screen, Hollander stripped another puck, this time from Boston’s center. The Bears’ defenseman caught him with an elbow to the shoulder—borderline dirty, enough to make the hometown crowd boo—and Hollander went down hard. His helmet hit the ice first, then his shoulder, the impact loud enough that the microphones caught it.

Vstavay, Ilya thought. Get up.

The camera zoomed in on Hollander’s face—eyes squeezed shut behind the visor, mouth open in a grimace. Ilya knew that expression well, so well, too well, and needed no words to understand all that it meant in that split second of taking inventory: what hurts, how bad, can I move? He’d worn that same face on worse ice in Trois-Rivières when his knee had buckled wrong and the pop had been loud enough for the bench to hear.

Hollander rolled onto his side—side first meant he was testing balance, not bravado. Good sign—and Hollander’s stick slipped from his glove, skittering a few feet across the ice. The referee was skating over, whistle between his teeth but not blowing it yet, waiting to see if Hollander would get up on his own. Boston’s players kept circling, playing through because the puck was still live. Ilya’s right knee throbbed in phantom sympathy, the old injury site remembering what the TV couldn’t show: the grind of bone on bone, the sick looseness of a joint that wouldn’t hold, the moment you realized your body had betrayed you and there was no going back. An injury, any injury, could be the last one and then what? Did the universe of Shane Hollander the athlete, the little sun of hockey, collapse in on itself?

Get up get up get up—

Hollander braced his weight forward, kicked the stick back within reach, and pushed himself vertical. His legs held as he tested his shoulder, rolling it once—wincing but functional—and tapped his stick against the ice twice: I’m fine. Don’t come out. Don’t make this bigger than it is.

Ilya’s hands uncurled. His palms stung where his nails had left crescents. When had he started clenching?

The replay showed the hit in slow motion: elbow to shoulder, Hollander’s body folding, the moment of impact stretched into something almost balletic. The announcer’s voice cut through in French: “Belle mise en échec, mais Hollander se relève...”

Hollander Hollander Hollander. Outside of the screen Ilya’s own replay played in his mind:

Hollander on the bed in that fake apartment, one hand working his own blushing cock, while his mouth stretched around Ilya’s. An impossible task. Ilya had told him to keep stroking himself, keep the rhythm steady, while taking Ilya deeper. He’d expected Hollander to fail—wanted him to fail, really, to break concentration, to choose one or the other just to see what would happen.

But Hollander had tried anyway, his thighs shaking, wetness at the corners of his eyes and breath coming harsh through his nose, hand fumbling but persistent on his own length while his tongue worked the underside of Ilya’s cock. Determined. Stubborn the same way he was stubborn on the ice—taking hits and getting back up, swallowing pain, refusing to quit.

In bed, his coordination had been shit. Ilya had watched Hollander’s hand slow when he took him deeper, then speed up clumsily when he pulled back for air. And he kept trying, eyes watering, because Ilya had told him to, even when he was denied again and again, whimpering and begging without words. It was cute. It was astonishing how hard he tried, how Hollander lost himself in it, sinking so easily, so fast, and trusting Ilya to pull him back up for air.

When Ilya finally did pull him off—slowly, his cock slipping free with an obscene wet sound—Hollander’s eyes wouldn’t focus. His face blurred and doubled, pupils blown so wide the brown had nearly disappeared. “I’m broken,” he’d whispered, and Ilya had kissed him instead of saying good.

On the ice. In bed. Maybe they were not two different universes at all. Hollander left nothing behind, determined to prove that he would not fail.

And… that… was where Ilya felt himself fall. Prekrasnyy. His hand had fisted in Hollander’s hair harder than he’d meant to, hips pushing forward, chasing his own orgasm with a howling, bottomless selfishness that had no place in a paid session. He’d come down Hollander’s throat thinking mine, which was exactly the sort of possessive bullshit that ended careers.

Then, after, when he’d been spent and pleading—please please please and Ilya’s own posmotri na menya, solnyshko—Ilya finally letting him come, just like he promised, rewarding tenfold, the way Hollander had looked at him, pupils blown wide, mouth open, and still somehow waiting for permission. Ilya’s grip had gone white-knuckled on Hollander’s shoulder, nails digging in hard enough to leave crescents, and when he’d finally—finally—stroked Hollander through to completion, he’d felt the orgasm in his own body like an echo. Like Hollander’s pleasure had threaded directly into his nervous system and rewired it, and it was all he could do, there was nothing to do, but kiss him and swallow down every sweet cry because he needed it.

He’d needed to hold him, too, even before Hollander asked.

Can you just lay here with me? Please?

Ilya would’ve done anything he’d asked in that moment, especially if it meant being exactly what Hollander needed in exactly the way he needed it.

Most clients didn’t ask for that, though. Most clients wanted the scene and then wanted to leave, to return to their lives and pretend this had never happened. But Hollander had tucked himself against Ilya’s chest and absorbed the warmth like he might be starving for it, fingers curling into Ilya’s shirt, breath evening out as he melted into the touch. Ilya’s thumb had moved in circles on Hollander’s shoulder blade. Hollander had made a small sound and pressed closer, guileless and sweet and so broken open there was nothing false left to wade through, and just… let himself be held, giving Ilya all the pieces of him with the trust that he’d put him back together again. It was that simple. It was that easy.

It was all that Ilya was starving for. Hollander was all but in his lap, melting, at peace. It radiated. Ilya wanted to drown himself in that feeling of contentment.

He would have, could have easily, done nothing else for the rest of the night but lay there.

I think maybe you are dangerous for me.

Hollander was dangerous. Wanting anything was dangerous, Ilya knew.

Ilya muted the TV to get away from the thought, because they were still saying Hollander’s name again, again, again…

The apartment felt too quiet without the commentary, just his own breathing and failing appliances. On screen, play resumed. Hollander was back on the ice, taking his position at center, but favoring his left shoulder slightly, a tell so subtle the cameras probably missed. Ilya caught it because he knew how bodies compensated, how they lied about pain. His own knee had been lying for years, telling him yes, you can run while meaning but not forever. Hollander’s shoulder was telling a similar story. All of these were signs to be read; it was a sign he would’ve used as an advantage back when he played, and a sign he looked for now as a Dom.

It was a sign that, likely, the Boston players had already seen as well, but… both the camera and Ilya’s attention slipped back to Hollander’s face, which had fixed itself in a focused, invulnerable mask.

It was the same one he’d worn at Wolfbird until Ilya had coaxed it away.

Two different people. The composed professional gliding across the ice, and the man who’d dissolved under Ilya’s hands, who’d begged with his whole body to be taken apart. And he had to wonder, he did, if Hollander—

Ilya’s phone buzzed against the coffee table.

Андрей.

Not a text. A call. The screen lit up with his brother’s name, the Cyrillic letters glowing accusatory in the dim room. Ilya stared at it through the first ring. His thumb hovered over the decline button. The second ring vibrated through the cheap IKEA furniture.

He answered on the third.

“Andrei.”

“Finally,” his brother said in Russian, already irritated. “You fall into a hole or you just decide to ignore me? I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”

A lie. Ilya’s phone showed no missed calls. Ilya kept his eyes on the muted TV and watched Hollander skate past the bench in complete silence, stick raised to acknowledge his teammates. The crowd’s mouths opened in soundless celebration.

“Do you need money then?” It was the only reason Andrei called. “Again.” Ilya added, because this was never a one-time problem.

“Can’t I just call to see how my brother is doing?”

“Sure. And I can also become astronaut. You can but you don’t.” Ilya pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes.

“Fine. Papa’s medication went up again. The doctor says if we don’t pay the difference, they’ll switch him to the generic, and you remember what happened last time—”

“I sent you money last week. Did you already turn it all to powder?”

“Two hundred doesn’t go as far as you think, Ilya.”

“Not when you snort half of it up your nose, no.”

“Not when I’m also feeding a child!” Andrei’s daughter began wailing in the background, thin and reedy. “Arina needs formula. Katya can’t breastfeed anymore, the stress of it all—you wouldn’t understand. You don’t have anyone depending on you. You only live for yourself Ilya, it must be so nice.”

He could have said: I sell my body to keep Papa on medication you probably steal. He could have said: I live for everyone but myself.

Instead: “And here you are calling me for money just the same!”

“You left us, Ilya! You are not here, I am the one taking care of Papa every day!”

The words landed exactly where Andrei aimed them. Ilya picked up the half-empty soda that’d come with his takeout and drank. “How much?”

“Three hundred. Just to cover this month. The clinic says they won’t keep prescribing it if we can’t cover the difference. They say there’s nothing they can do without the money. Paperwork, rules. You know how it is.”

“Three hundred! Are you joking?!”

“You think I’m lying?” The outrage in Andrei’s reply arrived too fast, already prepared. “You think I want to ask you for money? I’m the one stuck here, Ilya. I’m the one dealing with Papa every single day while you’re—what, serving drinks in some bar? Living your Canadian dream like you don’t have a father who needs you? A niece who’s never even met you? All clean streets and no problems, yes?”

Ilya’s free hand pressed flat against his thigh. He kept it there, nails digging through denim into muscle. Serving drinks. Yes. Serving drinks and nothing else, nothing that would make his family spit on the ground and call him pidoras if they knew the truth.

“I… will send it Friday.”

“I need it by Thursday.”

“Friday,” Ilya said. “I get paid Friday.”

Silence stretched between Moscow and Montreal, an ocean of bandwidth and lies. Then: “Heh. Getting paid that much for bartending? Maybe I should move to Canada too.”

“This has to stop,” he said, not for the first time Ilya heard that familiar, unwelcome waver of begging beginning to thread into his own voice. “I will send you this, but no more this month.”

“Yes, but you know how it goes. Tomorrow they say one thing. Next week something else. You don’t want to help your family?”

Ilya’s nails bit harder into his leg. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell Andrei exactly how he earned that money, watch his brother’s face twist in disgust, burn the bridge completely. Instead he said, “Is that all? Maybe you want my kidney while we’re here.”

“Yeah, that’s all.” Arina’s crying grew louder and Andrei exhaled with theatrical exhaustion. “Some of us have actual responsibilities. I have to go. Send the money Ilya. Don’t forget. You’ll understand one day,” Andrei said, already disconnecting.

The line went dead.

Ilya lowered the phone. The dial tone hummed against his ear for several seconds before he registered the call had ended. He set the phone face-down on the coffee table and unmuted the television.

Noise. Noise made it a little bit easier to drown out the white-water between his ears. French commentary he barely understood, crowd sounds, the scrape of skates on ice. All of it better than Andrei’s voice still echoing in his skull. Things. Colors. Noise. Hockey players colliding into each other, smashing, destroying like asteroids carving craters into the Earth. The satisfying crack of sticks on puck. On screen, a Voyageurs defenseman and Boston’s center both chased the puck into the corner. They collided at full speed, legs tangling, and went down in a heap of limbs and obscenities Ilya could read on their lips even without sound. The puck squirted free. Both players tried to stand, grabbing each other for leverage, which only resulted in them falling again. A third player skated past, stole the puck, and left them there.

Ilya’s mouth twitched. Idiots. Beautiful, highly-paid idiots.

… hockey… could still make him happy, it seemed.

The game was in the third period now. Montreal up 3-2 with twelve minutes left. Hollander took a shift, backchecking hard to break up a Boston rush, then tapped his stick against the ice for a pass that never came, and—

And Ilya couldn’t focus on the play at all. Three hundred dollars. He’d send it Friday like Andrei demanded, and then he wouldn’t eat properly for a week. Maybe two. The eggs would stretch if he was disciplined about it. Rice was cheap. Svetlana would worry if he told her and she would be furious if he hid this from her. She liked feeding people. He was excellent at being fed. He would swallow his pride. He could make it work. He always made it work, he always got up. He could take extra clients at the bar.

There were as many options as there were issues.

On screen, Boston pulled their goalie with four minutes left. The Voyageurs’ defensive unit stayed on, Hollander among them, crouched low at the faceoff dot. The puck dropped. Hollander won it clean, chipped it out of the zone. Boston regrouped and pressed again. Hollander blocked a shot, the puck catching him somewhere on the shin, and he bent forward briefly before skating it off, the camera catching his face in profile. There was pain, Ilya knew, but whatever it cost him, he swallowed it down and kept playing.

Hollander, it seemed, also knew to make it work.

Montreal won 4-2. The final buzzer sounded at 9:37 PM. Hollander’s teammates swarmed their goalie in a pile of raised sticks and discarded helmets. The camera found Hollander skating toward the celebration, and this time he dove into the scrum, grinning, helmet off, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He was laughing. Actually laughing, head thrown back when someone grabbed him around the shoulders and shook him. The broadcasters replayed his blocked shot from the third period, the puck catching his shin guard, his wince, his recovery. Earning the win through small violences his body absorbed and metabolized into victory.

The radiator chose that moment to clank triumphantly, as if celebrating Montreal’s victory as well, and Ilya raised his takeout container in salute. “Za pobedu,” he muttered to the radiator. To victory. At least something in this apartment had team spirit.

Ilya watched Hollander tap gloves down the line, watched him skate a lap while the crowd roared, watched him disappear into the tunnel still smiling.

The math rearranged itself. Five hundred dollars from a one hour off book session with Hollander would cover Andrei’s three hundred, leave one-forty toward rent. Two sessions would be eight-eighty. Three would pay rent entirely and leave him breathing room for the lawyer, for groceries, for the coffee pods that cost forty-five cents each. But the money wasn’t the only variable. Hollander had been… easy wasn’t the right word. Nuzhdayushchiysya, needy maybe. Or chutkiy, responsive might’ve been better; that trembling want when Ilya touched him, the way his breath caught, the freckles darkening against flushed skin. Ilya had enjoyed watching him unravel. Had liked the weight of Hollander’s head against his shoulder afterward, the boneless trust of it.

Most clients were work. Hollander had been pleasure.

And… Hollander had said he’d think about it. Four days of nothing meant the answer was no, obviously, because no one had ever made him wait this long to say yes, and Ilya should’ve known better than to hope for easy money from rich men who could afford to forget.

But the numbers kept adding. Kept solving themselves.

One private session. That’s all it would take.

His phone sat dark in his palm. He could text. Still thinking? I have openings this week. He could keep it professional, keep it light. Hollander might say yes. And it would feel good too, for both of them. Win-win. The money would fix everything.

Ilya’s thumb hovered over the screen.

Then he locked the phone and set it face-down on the coffee table. He turned off the television. Brushed his teeth. Fell into bed with the numbers behind his eyes.

Sleep was a long time coming.

Without responsibilities, as his brother liked to say, Ilya was free to waste his time as he wished. And today that meant the dogs, the shelter, and actively searching for the things which made life worth living. Thankfully, it seemed, the day would provide: there was a family in the lobby. They’d arrived at ten-thirty, right when Marianne said they would. Two kids, maybe six and eight, already squealing before they’d made it through the door. Their father held a leash they’d brought from home (new, still stiff, bright red) and their mother had her phone out, ready to document what was sure to be a heartwarming video.

And… predictably… Biscuit lost his mind.

The terrier mix launched himself at the kennel gate, paws scrabbling, whole body wiggling so hard his hindquarters went sideways. His tail was a propeller that could’ve flown his furry self across the Atlantic. No more pacing. No more howling at the walls but… okay that would likely still happen, Biscuit adored to sing. And Ilya had come to adore him, too, in these past few months of walks. In the beginning, when he’d first arrived, Ilya remembered watching over time as the dog gradually stopped flinching at sudden movements, and stopped being destructive when left alone. Walks. Games. He had learned so much about this little dog. He loved toys that crinkled more than squeaked. Other dogs were scary, but children were just about his favorite thing on earth.

Now Biscuit was going home with two children all his own, and his tail whipped so fast it blurred.

Ilya brought him out on lead, the kids already kneeling with hands outstretched. Biscuit went for the smallest one first, licking her face until she shrieked with laughter. The parents exchanged that look—this is the one—and Ilya walked them through the basics while the kids buried their faces in Biscuit’s fur. Pulls on the leash. Obsessed with tennis balls. Needs long walks or he’ll eat the furniture.

The paperwork took twenty minutes. Biscuit kept looking back at Ilya from the daughter’s lap, tongue out, panting. When they stood to leave, the dog pulled toward the door, toward the car in the parking lot visible through the glass with all its rows of beat-up Civics and Subarus. The little girl held the new red leash and Biscuit surged forward, tail still going.

Biscuit glanced back once—ears up, eyes bright, tail still whipping—and in that single look Ilya saw the entire architecture of attachment and release. The dog’s backward glance wasn’t doubt. It was acknowledgment: I see you, you gave me what I needed, now I go toward something better. Then he faced forward and pulled toward the car, toward the children, toward his new life that would not include Ilya at all.

This was a good thing, how it was supposed to work. This was why he was here at all. But… Serdtse ne kamen’. The heart is not a stone. It broke a little, or a lot, when things left, even when they should.

Ilya understood this the way he understood Russian grammar: instinctively, structurally, in a language that predated English and would outlast it. But understanding a thing and accepting it were not the same, and the ache in his sternum as Biscuit disappeared into the parking lot felt suspiciously like grief for something he’d never been allowed to call his own.

Steeling himself, Ilya returned to the kennels. Filled water bowls. Scooped kibble. Walked Max, who was still anxious without Luna but at least walking and eating now, and tried not to think about how this was supposed to work: you gave what was needed, they got better, they left. You didn’t keep them. That was the job.

Had that session with Hollander… given him what he needed? Was that the end?

Ilya sighed and cleaned another kennel, glancing at the cute photo and dog profile taped to the door. Twiggy: 7 years old. Loves: naps, cheese, more naps. Dislikes: exercise, vegetables, the concept of personal space. Special skill: can open the treat cabinet with his nose.

Twiggy was asleep in the corner, on their back with all four twig-like legs flung up into the air, snoring like a chainsaw. Living his truth.

From somewhere in the back, he heard another volunteer yelp “No—Chester, drop it—that’s my phone—” followed by frantic scrambling and a dog’s triumphant bork.

Ilya smiled despite himself. Chester was a menace. Big, beautiful, highly adoptable menace with velvety soft ears and dinnerplate paws.

Another cute face in hundreds.

I cannot keep you all.

But he could help many of them, Ilya knew, like one of the newer rescues that had arrived: a particularly elderly and opinionated dachshund that liked to stop mid-walk to bark at cars, buses, people on bicycles, and anything in the general vicinity. Right now, she was wearing a pink dog sweater and with all of Ilya’s own height behind her, feeling unknown levels of invincibility beyond the human mind. She was barking at a leaf. Just a leaf, skittering across the concrete in the wind that dared blow too close. Just a leaf but clearly this one was a threat. The little dog pounced on it, looking then betrayed when it stuck to her paw. Stubby legs shook violently to dislodge it. Ilya watched her, an eyebrow quirked, hop in a circle, three-legged, before the leaf finally fell off, and then she sniffed it suspiciously, then looked up at Ilya as if to say I saved us expecting great praise.

Which… he of course gave.

“Bravo, khoroshaya devochka. Very brave,” Ilya told her, crouching down. “You show leaf who is boss. S toboy ya chuvstvuyu sebya v polnoy bezopasnosti—I am feeling very safe with you. Wow.”

The dachshund’s entire back half wiggled with the force of her tail wagging. Ilya scratched behind her ears and she leaned into his palm, eyes closing in bliss. Her pink sweater had a rhinestone heart on the back. Ridiculous. He probably looked absurd—six feet of him folded down on the sidewalk, cooing at eight pounds of geriatric dog in designer knitwear—but the dachshund sighed against his hand like he’d just solved every problem in her small, fierce world.

Ilya rubbed her ears one more time and stood. She trotted beside him with renewed confidence, pink sweater glittering.

Good girl. They were all good.

Following his hours at the shelter, there was still work to be done as well. He rode the metro across town ($6 fare, so half an order of takeout or 3%, no, 1.5% of what he needed to get by Friday for Andrei) to a posh quarter near the city center. Here… was his solicitor, and inside the red-bricked building, Maître Marchand’s office smelled like furniture polish and old files. She spread the paperwork across her desk at two o’clock sharp: permanent residency application, still processing, still requiring more documentation.

“And is there an update on how long?” Ilya asked.

“Another year. Maybe longer.” She made a note. “You know these things take time, Mr. Rozanov, just be patient. We’re making good progress. Oh, and I’ll need twelve hundred for the next filing phase.”

Patient. As if he hadn’t been patient for years. As if patience were something he could afford when he was one bureaucratic error away from deportation, one wrong move from losing everything that barely qualified as anything. Sidet’ v luzhe—to sit in a puddle. An awkward, uneasy situation with no good way out.

He nodded. The number joined the others piling up behind his eyes.

“Your employment,” she said, pen hovering. “Do you have tax records? Pay stubs? Consistent income documentation?”

“Freelance consulting work.” The lie came easy, worn smooth from repetition. “Sometimes bar work, as is needed. I keep records. All legitimate.”

“And… I know I’ve mentioned this before Mr. Rozanov, but… you’re a nice young man. If you had a Canadian spouse or common-law partner, this process would be significantly faster,” she said, like he could just order one online. Prime shipping on citizenship, two-day delivery. He had the relationship experience for it; Svetlana had been lovely, and he’d enjoyed sleeping with men too, so really, his options were wide open. Truly a buffet of romantic possibility for the undocumented sex worker with approximately negative dollars to his name.

He was a catch.

Or, he would be, if his life had been written by Kafka, maybe, and it was all absurdism.

“I’m just saying, Mr. Rozanov, it’s worth considering if you’re currently seeing anyone!”

He was seeing many people, and most of them at an hourly rate. Some wanted to be tied up. Some wanted to be degraded. None, he suspected, wanted to file joint tax returns.

He nodded his head though, smile on his face. “I hear love, like paperwork, takes time… and is expensive, slow, with everyone lying. I am being patient.”

She didn’t push. He paid what he could—six hundred that he’d previously allotted for the month, which was half—and promised the rest by month’s end.

Maître Marchand closed the file, then paused. “You volunteer at the shelter, yes? Near Rosemont?”

“Da. Yes.”

She knew that already. Being an upstanding member of the community with tracked volunteer hours padded any applications for permanent residency and citizenship, and so Ilya had, for years now, provided proof of his time at the shelter.

“My daughter has been asking for a dog.” She smiled, the professional mask slipping slightly. “I—I realize we are still working on your case, but I thought I might ask you if you know anyone that might need a good home that might be a good fit? It would need to be a small breed. Low energy. I work long hours...”

Ilya pulled out his phone before she finished the sentence. Scrolled to the photos from earlier—the dachshund in her pink sweater, mid-bark at the offending leaf. Another of her napping in a sunbeam. “This one, I think maybe. Greta. Eight years old, but still much fire within. Very lazy. I think would be thrilled to be on little pink leash with little girl. Oh, and only barks at things that deserve it.”

“Such as?”

“Leaves. Clouds in wrong shape. The wind.” He showed her the video of Greta’s heroic battle. “She thinks she is Rottweiler.”

Maître Marchand laughed—an actual laugh that made her seem younger. “She’s perfect. Can I...”

“I send you the shelter contact. Ask for me when you go. I make sure she is ready and can meet her, of course.”

She nodded, already looking at the photos again with that soft expression people got when they’d already decided. “Thank you, Mr. Rozanov.”

“Of course. And let me know if more is needed for application.”

Ilya’s residency status: pending. Greta’s: about to be approved. At least one of them would have a real home by Christmas.

Another day. Another client, this time in room 9 at eight o’clock. The woman’s name was Claire, early thirties, first time at Wolfbird but she’d done her homework. She knew what she wanted: sensory play, temperature contrasts, the surrender of sight, the fucking works. She’d come with a list of likes and dislikes and a Pinterest moodboard of ‘aesthetic’ kink. Which, okay great. Excellent. It was easier to please people who knew exactly what they wanted. Ilya listened to her list, asked his clarifying questions, and confirmed boundaries. Negotiation took seven minutes. Professional. Efficient.

The session itself was a different rhythm entirely.

He secured the blindfold first, black silk which would be cool and soft against her temples, and watched her shoulders drop two inches once the world disappeared. Her breathing slowed. Already sinking. Good. Ilya worked with ice next, dragging a cube along her collarbone, down between her breasts, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. She gasped. He followed with warm wax, the candle held at a safe distance, droplets landing on her sternum. The contrast made her arch off the table.

“Oui,” she whispered. “S’il vous plaît.”

He continued, methodically reading her body’s responses the way he’d learned to read ice years ago: the small tells, the shifts in weight, the way her breath hitched half a second before she moaned. Feathers along her ribs made her squirm. More ice at the hollow of her throat made her whimper. He paced her, built her up in waves, let her crest without breaking, and when he finally touched her between her legs after several rounds of edging—fingers slick, sliding in so nicely—she came fast and hard. Hard enough that her thighs trembled. Hard enough that tears leaked from under the blindfold.

Ilya felt the usual satisfaction—he’d read her correctly, paced her well, given her exactly what she’d asked for. Good session. She’d leave happy, probably book again. He’d done his job. But there was no rush to it, no feedback loop where her pleasure threaded directly into his nervous system. With Hollander it had felt like—

He cut the thought off. Different client, different dynamic. Not every session needed to feel like the world was ending. Or beginning.

Ilya removed the silk and found her eyes wet, her face open.

“You are okay?” he asked, already reaching for the water bottle.

She nodded, then laughed—breathy, incredulous. It was always nice when people enjoyed themselves. “God. Yes. I’m—” Another laugh. “Sorry, I don’t usually cry.”

“Is normal.” And it was. He helped her sit up, handed her the water, draped a blanket around her shoulders. “Big release, da? Nothing to apologize. Drink that, now.”

She drank, still shaking slightly. He stayed close, one hand resting between her shoulder blades, grounding her while she came back to herself. Five minutes passed. Then ten. She talked a little, first about her job, the stress, how she’d been nervous walking in but Aimée at the front desk had been kind asking if it was her first time… and then lying to say she asked everyone that. Ilya listened, offered a few words when needed, but mostly he just held space to let her unload in the way it seemed like she needed to.

By the time she stood to dress, her breathing had evened out completely.

“Thank you,” she said, pulling her sweater back on. “That was... I needed that. You’re like a magician.”

“Professional Dom is occasionally also dick wizard, similar techniques with wand,” Ilya said with a wave of his hand, and he enjoyed the laugh it earned him. “You did very well.”

She smiled, then hesitated, fingers twisting the strap of her purse. “Do you do private sessions? I’d feel more comfortable somewhere less public. This was amazing, but…”

Ilya’s brain did the math automatically: her full rate with no house cut, low risk, clear boundaries, probably a standing weekly appointment. Rent money. Lawyer money. Andrei money.

“No.” Ilya said, because he was a hypocrite. A beautiful, self sabotaging no. “Apologies, but I only work here at Wolfbird. But I can request this same room for you next time if familiarity helps.”

“Oh.” Her face fell slightly, but only for a moment, before brightening again. “Okay. Yes, that would be good. Thank you.”

She left a fifty-dollar tip on top of the session fee. Ilya pocketed it and stripped the table in autopilot, his brain already calculating. Claire was nice. Low risk. Repeat client potential. Even without private sessions, the extra income would help. And… besides… taking private clients meant breaking Wolfbird’s rules. Technically. Allegedly. It was another reason why asking Hollander and not hearing anything back had him on edge. Claire, maybe, would’ve been a nice and easy private client. He did like the Pinterest boards.

But… a sigh. He already had one potential private client in mind..

One who still wasn’t reaching out.

Blyat.

He sent the $300 to Andrei.

The e-transfer went through at 9:47 AM. Ilya watched his bank balance drop, the number turning red for three seconds before the app refreshed and pretended everything was fine. Sent. Done.

Andrei did not call or text back.

Ilya hadn’t expected him to, he never did, not even a spasibo or the courtesy to pretend.

Ilya poured himself coffee and stood at the window. But… really. What did he want Andrei to pretend? That they were still family? Perhaps all he needed, wanted, was to know. He felt so far flung here, across an ocean, across a language and even deeper layers of misunderstanding. Andrei could say something like Papa asked about you today or Arina said her first word or even the weather here is shit today. That didn’t even need pretending that he still cared. It was fine if Andrei didn’t remember they were brothers instead of just bank accounts separated by an ocean, but, there had been a time…

Ilya sipped at his coffee, and let the memories wash over him like the scald on his tongue. When they were children, before hockey, Andrei used to sneak him extra blini when their mother wasn’t looking. He used to let Ilya tag along to the park even when his friends complained about the younger brother being annoying. He used to teach him how to tie skates, how to take a hit, how to spit properly after getting punched in the mouth. He was a good older brother, proud and eager to prove himself, and their father loved him.

And… then scouts started showing up to Ilya’s games. Then the attention shifted, their father was not looking at his firstborn son but the second one. Then Andrei’s face went cold in a way it never warmed again. Tak mnogo zim, tak mnogo lyot. So many winters, so many summers since they’d been brothers instead of this: creditor and debtor, separated by an ocean and everything it had drowned.

Ilya drank his coffee. It had gone lukewarm while he… how long had he been standing here? Wasting time. Wasting his worries.

He couldn’t afford to be sentimental.

He could afford some things though. Like the earbuds in his ears currently blasting music into his skull as he took a morning run. Saturday morning, nine-thirty, and the sidewalks were slick with yesterday’s rain frozen overnight into black ice that caught light like scattered glass. Ilya’s breath came out in white puffy clouds, the sort Greta would’ve liked to bark at. His legs burned in the good way, muscles remembering what they were built for, and the elastic compression sleeve around his right knee was already damp with sweat despite the cold.

He never ran without it, and never complained about having to wear it since he could still run at all. Just as long as he didn’t do anything particularly stupid, just as long as he kept things simple, simple forward motion, nothing crazy, only the predictable impact of heel-toe-heel-toe…

Skating was different. Skating required the knee to torque, to pivot, to absorb hits from angles the joint was no longer built for. The pop he’d heard those years ago, the pop he’d been thinking about during Shane’s on-screen fall, had been cartilage giving up, ligaments deciding they’d had enough.

Running was a compromise his body could still make. Hockey wasn’t.

But Ilya was happy to compromise. A small thing was better than no thing at all, and just as it was in the gym, this body was his, and he still loved to make it sing and sweat.

His playlist shuffled to something with a driving bassline and he picked up his pace, weaving between pedestrians who moved too slow, who didn’t understand that forward momentum was the only thing keeping certain thoughts at bay, and then… because of course…

He rounded the corner onto Boulevard Saint-Laurent and there it was: Hollander rendered mythological, on a billboard plastered against the sky like some patron saint of unattainable things. Nedostizhimyy. The Russian word arrived unbidden—unreachable, beyond grasp. Shane Hollander, fifteen feet tall, wearing Voyageurs blue and cradling a hockey stick like it was part of his skeleton. The photographer had caught him mid-stride, all athletic grace and photogenic determination. PERFORMANCE STARTS HERE the text read in both English and French, advertising some protein powder Ilya couldn’t afford and wouldn’t buy even if he could.

Ilya’s pace didn’t falter but his eyes tracked up, following those freckles blown up to actual constellation scale. Annoying. Stupid. Attractive even at this resolution, which seemed cosmically unfair. Canada had really gone all in on this one.

Also: still not texting. Rude.

He kept running.

By the time he passed Complexe Sportif Gadbois, his lungs were screaming and his calves had started their familiar protest. His right knee sent up its usual warning flare. He would need to slow down or stop soon and… probably should’ve turned north ten minutes ago but his feet kept going, pulled by some magnetic bullshit he refused to examine any more deeply than it being bullshit.

And then, there it was: the rink sat back from the street, its doors propped open despite the cold. Ilya slowed to a walk, panting hard, then stopped walking completely to stare. That slap of pucks against boards. Voices echoing off high ceilings, shouting plays in French he barely understood but recognized anyway because hockey had its own sort of language.

His hand found the door handle—metal cold enough to sting even through the glove, cold enough to wake him from whatever fugue had carried him here. Through the gap he heard more, a siren’s song, that scrape of skates on ice, that particular hiss-and-cut that lived in his bones the way hymns lived in believers.

He stood there. He hadn’t come here since…

Nineteen years old, fresh off the plane from Moscow with two duffel bags and a head full of dreams that felt inevitable. The QMJHL first, obviously. Then AHL. Then NHL. This was destiny, this was kismet. This was all he’d ever wanted and all he’d ever been good at since he was twelve years old and skating back in Russia. The path was clear, had always been clear, because he was good. Good enough that scouts had noticed, good enough that coming to Canada had seemed like destiny rather than desperation.

And he’d been great here, making the Trois-Rivières team on the first tryout. The dream felt inevitable. Six months of playing the best hockey of his life, hearing his name called, feeling the future open up like a door he was already walking through, and—

Then the knee. A practice scrimmage, nothing special, just a bad pivot at the wrong angle. The pop loud enough for the bench to hear. The understanding, weeks later in a clinic he couldn’t afford, that cartilage didn’t grow back and some joints never forgave you, a pain made only worse by bureaucracy. While he was still in recovery, the team’s administration fucked up his visa paperwork. Filed it late, filed it wrong—small team, overwhelmed staff, the kind of mistake that happened all the time but ruined lives anyway. By the time anyone noticed, his visa had expired.

Three months later the team folded entirely, funding dried up, and Ilya’s sponsorship disappeared with it.

The dream didn’t only die on bad ice. It died again, again, again, in a government office with fluorescent lights and a clerk who barely looked up while stamping EXPIRED across his future, and in every subsequent appeal.

A group of kids burst through the doors, hockey bags slung over shoulders, still laughing about something that had happened on the ice. Ilya stepped back. Let them pass.

He wasn’t bitter about it in the same way anymore but… it… was tempting to think back to then. If he’d kept playing, maybe he would’ve… played Hollander on the ice. After all, Hollander was the same age. Twenty-six, just like Ilya. But Hollander, today, was living in arenas that held twenty thousand people while Ilya was standing outside a community rink in running clothes that had seen better years, calculating whether he could afford new shoes or if these would last another season.

Bitterness rose in his throat, familiar and acidic. But beneath it a soft edged recognition. No, it would be too simple to just hate Hollander for his success. There was more to it than that, and it was something maybe only Ilya knew in all the world. Hollander had all that success, all that money, all those screaming fans, and he’d still walked into Wolfbird looking like he might shatter. Had paid eight hundred dollars to kneel on a floor and let someone else make decisions for two hours because his own life had backed him into a corner he couldn’t escape.

Golden cage versus precarious freedom. Ilya was what he was—bisexual, doing sex work, undocumented, broke—and he’d made his peace with it. Mostly. Hollander clearly hadn’t made peace with anything, sneaking around like wanting what he wanted was a crime.

He glanced at the rink again, considering.

Could… he even still skate? The question wasn’t about his knee—the knee was a traitor, had been for years. The question was whether he could bear it: stepping back onto ice and discovering that his body had forgotten the grammar of the thing he’d once loved more than breathing. Better, perhaps, to stand here in the cold and imagine he still could, than to step through and learn for certain that he couldn’t.

But could he? It would be painful, he knew, and again running was allowed because it was simple simple simple but if he tried, if he wore a brace, could he maybe, just for a little while, skate…?

In his pocket, Ilya’s phone buzzed and the moment ended along with the daydream. He let the door swing shut. The sounds cut off, muffled now by wood and winter. He pulled out his phone, still standing on the sidewalk like an idiot, and found Svetlana’s name on the screen.

Ilya typed back:

>

The pub was exactly as shitty as promised. Sticky tables with old Molson rings burned into the varnish, dim lighting that hid the stains, and a TV mounted above the bar showing, because the universe had a sense of humor, another Voyageurs game. Was there more than one this week? Ilya slid into the booth across from Svetlana at seven-fifteen and she was already halfway through a foamy pint.

“You’re late,” she said in Russian.

“Traffic.”

“You don’t have a car.”

“Pedestrian traffic, then. I had a detour today..” He flagged down the server, ordered the cheapest beer on tap and poutine because his body needed the calories and his wallet could handle eight dollars. Svetlana got wings. The food arrived fast and greasy, and all was right in the world.

They talked about her week—the new bartender Darius at Wolfbird who couldn’t mix drinks to save his life, her roommate’s ongoing saga with a boyfriend who kept “forgetting” to pay rent, the regular who’d tried to tip her in cryptocurrency.

“Did you take it?” Ilya asked.

“Fuck, no. I told him I don’t accept Monopoly money.” She grinned. “What about you? Anything exciting in the world of—” She lowered her voice and switched to Russian. “—professional intimacy freelancing?”

“Ah, you know. The usual. Made a woman cry happy tears, turned down money I desperately need, thought extensively about a client who’s ghosting me. Very productive week.”

Svetlana’s eyebrows rose. “Ghosting you?”

“It’s nothing.” Ilya took a large bite of poutine to avoid elaborating.

“Solnyshko—”

“I said it’s nothing. Look, your face is on television.” It wasn’t, but she turned to check anyway, and Ilya ate more poutine in the blessed silence, and tried not to watch the TV himself.

He watched the TV.

Montreal versus Toronto, first period just ending. The camera cut to commercial and there was Hollander, goddamn Hollander, again, this time in a tuxedo that probably cost more than Ilya’s entire wardrobe, holding a Rolex like it might solve all his problems. The ad was in English but Ilya caught the gist: A Crown for Every Achievement… Rolex. Hollander’s face filled the screen, all sharp angles and those fucking freckles, looking like he’d never had a moment of doubt in his life, like uncertainty was a country he’d never visited. Ilya knew better. He’d seen Hollander cracked open, had held all the pieces no one else got to see.

Fifteen feet tall on a billboard. Six feet of wanting on his knees. Dve zhizni v odnom tele—two lives in one body, and Ilya knew them both.

Svetlana kicked him under the table.

“What?”

“You’re staring.”

“It’s a commercial. Where else should I look?”

“At me, durachok.” She leaned forward on her elbows, chin in her hands. “I’m much prettier than whatever watch commercial has you drooling.” She gestured at her face with both hands, framing it like a painting. “See? Actual human person. Right here. Also much better company than television.”

Ilya dragged his eyes back to her. “You are the prettiest person in all of Montreal. Happy?”

“Yes, but you can do better than that.” She grinned, all teeth. “Try again. With feeling this time.”

“Svetlana Vetrova, you are goddess among mortals. Light of my life. If I could marry you for PR card, I would propose right now with onion ring.”

She plucked an onion ring from his plate and held it up to the dim pub light, examining it like a jeweler appraising a diamond. “Romantic. Really, solnyshko, you know how to sweep a woman off her feet.” She bit into it anyway. “But we tried that already, remember? And then you—”

“It was one time—”

“—fell asleep during sex.”

“I was tired!”

“And then you stole all the blankets and I woke up freezing.”

Ilya grabbed his beer to hide his smile. “You forgave me.”

“Because you made me breakfast.” She pointed a wing at him. “Blini. The good kind, with the jam I like.”

“I am excellent at apologies. And I remember eating something else out,” Ilya waggled his eyebrows lasciviously, “as additional bribery for forgiveness.”

“Mm. Yes, but you’re better at being my friend.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Ilya took a long pull from his beer. “Although, you know, if you married me, it would be so easy. We already know we have good sex. Well—” He tilted his hand back and forth. “—usually good sex when I am not falling asleep after a twelve hour day.”

“And we both know you’d be miserable married to me.”

“I would not be miserable being married to you,” he said, and then he sighed. “But… I know you would be miserable being married to me.”

They had thought about it, once.

Three months of sleeping together when she’d first started at Wolfbird, both of them lonely enough to mistake compatible bodies for compatible hearts. The sex had been good, better than good, really. Svetlana knew what she wanted and how to ask for it, which made things easy. Simple. And she’d been kind to him afterward, making tea, talking about nothing, letting him stay over when his apartment felt too empty. It ticked so many boxes: friendship, attraction, trust, shared language so he could actually speak and be understood without pantomime, someone who understood the work they did and didn’t flinch from it.

It should have been enough. It should have been exactly what he needed.

But... it wasn’t, and not for any reason he could outright name. And she’d known it, the same way she knew most things about him—just looked at him one morning over coffee and said, “We should stop this before one of us gets hurt.”

She’d meant before she got hurt, because Ilya couldn’t give her what she deserved. And she’d been right.

Easier if he’d loved her. Bozhe, so much easier. Legal status, companionship, someone who knew him and stayed anyway.

“Still seeing that woman?” he asked. “The one with the—” He gestured vaguely at his own chest with both hands to cup very large and imaginary breasts, “—incredibly nice smile?”

“Brittany, yes. Sometimes.” Svetlana’s mouth curved. “I’m also seeing a man named Marcus. Sometimes both at the same time, when schedules allow.”

“Razvratnitsa.”

“Says the man who fucks people for money.”

“It’s different. I am a professional deviant. You are recreational deviant. An amateur.”

She laughed, the sound bright enough to cut through the pub’s noise. “I love you, Ilyushka.”

But not like that.

“I know.” He stole one of her wings. “I love you too.”

The same way: not like that.

Some people were meant to be kept. Some people were meant to save you. Svetlana was the first kind, and Ilya was grateful for it, even as he wished—briefly, foolishly—that she could have been the second.

“Good.” She ate another wing, wiped sauce from her fingers, then studied him across the sticky table. Her voice dropped, losing its playful edge. “Which is why I’m asking again: what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong and you are most beautiful person in Montreal, in Canada, the world, and if you do not give me one of those wings, now, I think will die.”

She slid the basket toward him but kept her eyes on his face. On the TV above them, the game came back on. Hollander skated past the camera, stick raised. Svetlana’s gaze flicked up to the screen, then back to Ilya.

Their eyes met.

She knew. Of course she knew, not only had she seen him twice she’d gotten them drinks and while they didn’t talk particulars, Ilya had no doubt that Svetlana probably had his whole roster memorized. But her face stayed neutral, just the slightest lift of one eyebrow. A question she wouldn’t ask here, surrounded by other tables and the clatter of the kitchen and voices that carried. “Between all the commercials and games, they really keep him busy.”

Ilya hummed in noncommittal agreement, and then took a wing and bit into it, the heat of the sauce a welcome distraction.

Was that why he hadn’t reached out? Busy? How hard was it to send a text?

Svetlana leaned back in the booth, stretching her arms above her head until her shoulders popped. “You know what you need?”

“More wings?”

“A vacation. Somewhere warm. Beach. Drinks with little paper umbrellas in them.” She gestured broadly. “You would look incredible in a small swimsuit. No winter, no stress, no—” She caught herself, glanced around the pub, then finished smoothly, “—no responsibilities for two weeks.”

“I cannot afford a vacation.”

“You could if all of your extra funds weren’t going to that horrible brother of yours…”

“Don’t,” Ilya said, and in an instant the human was sucked out of him. Svetlana looked at him kindly, too kindly, and worry was knit on her brow.

“You cannot afford not to take vacation. You look tired, Ilyushka.”

“Nothing sleep and another beer will not fix.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then stole his beer and took a sip before handing it back. “Okay. Then at least eat. You’re paying next time anyway. Tonight is my treat, but next time, I want even shittier pub and mozzarella sticks. But for now… let’s order more. Do you want to try this deep fried oreo basket with me?”

“No I do not want to eat fucking delicious deep fried cookies with you,” Ilya deadpanned. “No. I hate joy. Since it’s your treat, order two baskets. Tell me more about Brittany and her enormous… personality.”

Svetlana flagged down their server.

They stayed another hour, splitting the oreos and talking about nothing important—Brittany’s laugh, Marcus’s terrible taste in movies, whether the new bartender would last two weeks or fold after one. The pub filled and emptied around them. By the time Svetlana checked her phone, it was past eleven.

“Shit. Last metro leaves in twenty minutes.”

They split the bill despite Svetlana’s protests, pulled on coats, and stepped into the cold. Montreal’s winter hit like a slap—wind cutting down Saint-Laurent, sidewalks slick with refrozen slush. Svetlana hugged him at the metro entrance, her perfume catching in his nose.

“Love you, durachok.”

“Love you too.”

She disappeared down the stairs. Ilya took the orange line east, the car half-empty at this hour. A drunk couple made out across from him. Someone’s headphones leaked tinny music. He got off at Rosemont, climbed back to street level, and walked the four blocks home with his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the wind.

Ilya shouldered his apartment door at 11:45 PM and was greeted by the radiator’s death rattle and cold air that meant the heat had clicked off hours ago. He dropped his keys on the counter, the clatter too loud in the small space, and peeled off his coat, then his sweater, leaving them in a pile by the door that he’d deal with tomorrow. A bag of greasy takeout—chicken tenders, fries, leftover onion rings, another basket of goddamn oreos—went directly in the fridge to be rationed later.

He ran a shower hot enough to fog the mirror and turn his skin pink, and Ilya let himself disassociate under the spray for a few minutes (hours, days, whatever) and let the water beat against his shoulders, washing away the pub smell; all the fryer grease and spilled beer and the particular staleness of a place that never quite aired out. His hair plastered to his skull. Water ran into his eyes. He scrubbed at his scalp with blunt nails, then his face, then down his neck where Svetlana’s perfume had probably transferred when she’d hugged him goodbye outside the metro.

When he finally turned off the water, the bathroom had become a sauna. He wiped the mirror with his forearm—one streak through the condensation—and his own face appeared in pieces. One eye. Half his mouth. The scar through his eyebrow from some fight he barely remembered. He looked away and dried off.

Sleep pants. Toothbrush. The minty taste was almost enough to wake him up slightly, which defeated the purpose but whatever. He spat, rinsed, put the toothbrush back in the cup that had a chip in the rim.

His phone sat on the nightstand where he’d left it before the pub. No new notifications. He set his alarm for noon since his shelter shift started at one, which gave him time to sleep in, maybe grab something to eat on the way, and plugged the phone in to charge.

The mattress dipped when he sat on the edge of the bed. He pulled back the covers. Slid beneath them. The sheets were cold against his bare shoulders and he curled onto his side, pulling his knees up slightly, waiting for his own body heat to warm the cocoon.

Through the wall, someone’s television murmured. Voices too muffled to make out words, just the rhythm of conversation punctuated by canned laughter. Somewhere above him, footsteps crossed a floor. Outside even more walking to and away from bars just like him. So many people. Montreal was full of them—packed into buildings like this one, stacked on top of each other, living separate lives that occasionally bled through walls in the form of noise and cooking smells and arguments at 2 AM. Svetlana had her roommates, her Brittany, her Marcus.

And somehow Ilya always ended up here. Alone. So many people, and none of them were currently in his bed, which felt rude.

His hand found his mother’s cross beneath his shirt, thumb rubbing the worn gold. The metal warmed under his touch. Mama. The word formed in his mind, round and soft in Russian, the way it had sounded when he was small and she had been the world. What would she think of him now? Her son, selling intimacy in a country she’d never seen, sending money to a father who’d forgotten his name, lying to everyone about who he was and how he survived.

Dushá bolit. Soul aches. There was no English equivalent that carried the same weight, the way grief and longing and homesickness collapsed into a single sensation behind the sternum.

Was that why he did this work? Not the money—okay, yes, the money, obviously the money—but the rest of it from sessions and aftercare and everything else. Sometimes clients treated him like a piece of fuckable furniture. Sometimes clients looked at him like he’d solved something fundamental and… that… was important. Important to him, just like money.

It was disgustingly sentimental.

Did he need them to need him? To want him, even if it was transactional, even if it ended the moment they walked out the door?

What did he actually get from it, beyond rent money and wire transfers to Moscow?

The answer surfaced like something dredged from unfathomable depths: To matter. To be necessary. To break and be broken and to be soft. Even if only for an hour. Even if he had to be paid.

His clients left and their lives continued without him. The dogs got adopted and forgot his name. Andrei called only when he needed money. Svetlana loved him but not enough to stay.

Everyone left. Everyone got better and left.

Ilya recognized the spiral beginning, the familiar descent into questions that had no good answers. How many years could he do this? What happened when his body stopped being worth four hundred dollars an hour? When the knee gave out completely, when his face aged past desirable, when immigration finally caught up with him and he got deported back to Russia where being a bisexual sex worker would go over fantastically well—

Stop.

He was catastrophizing, a sport he was far more consistent at than hockey. If catastrophizing were an Olympic sport, he’d have a medal by now. Probably gold. Russia would be so proud. Ilya rolled onto his back. Stared at the ceiling. The crack that ran from the light fixture to the corner had gotten longer since he’d moved in, branching like a river delta, the Danube reaching the Black Sea, which felt appropriately metaphorical for his life. Everything eventually led to the sea. Or deportation. One of those.

He was not weak. He was not sentimental. Biscuit was adopted this morning and that was good, that was how it was supposed to work. The dog went to a family with two kids and a backyard and unlimited tennis balls. Greta would likely be adopted by a loaded fucking solicitor with a little girl to frolic and wear pink sweaters with. Perfect. Exactly right. Nothing to mourn there.

And Hollander not texting was also fine. Probably for the best, actually. One less complication. One less private client to juggle in secret. One less variable in an already precarious equation.

Ilya closed his eyes.

Counted his breathing. Vdokh. In. Vydokh. Out. Vdokh. Vydokh.

The television through the wall went silent. The footsteps above stopped. The radiator clanked once, then settled into its usual wheeze.

Sleep came eventually, in pieces. First his legs went heavy, then his arms, then his thoughts started to blur at the edges and lose their shape. When he finally slipped under, the dream came with it.

Ice.

Clean and white and endless, stretching in all directions under lights so bright they turned the surface to glass, to mirror, to some substance that existed between states. The air bit cold in his lungs but in the good way, the way it used to when cold meant alive instead of surviving. A lake? A rink? It didn’t matter. When he pushed off the boards his knee held—not just held but sang, became once again a marvelous articulation of bone and tendon and possibility instead of a catalogue of limitations. Blades from his skates cut through ice with that particular scrape and hiss that sent shivers down his spine, goosebumps over his arms to lift up the hairs.

That sound was prayer and salvation, muscle memory written in a language older than words. Domoy. Home. This was home, had always been home, even when home was taken from him.

He was skating. Really skating. Pushing himself harder and harder, reveling in the strain, the burn, the rush of it all as he carved arcs with the skates, sending icy spray across shin guards. Another stride, then another, his lungs pulling cold air, his shoulders rotating for the next turn even before his brain had caught up to the idea, where the boundary between want and action dissolved completely.

And there, ahead of him on the ice, was someone else.

Dark hair. Muscular and svelte. Moving with the same ease, flying over the ice, floating, dancing, stick in hand, carving turns that put all words of beauty to shame, sprays of crystal in his wake.

Ilya chased him. Of course he chased him. What else could he do when the other skater carved turns that left comet trails in the ice, when each movement was an invitation Ilya couldn’t refuse? He chased. He pushed harder. His skates bit down and he accelerated, and the distance between them closed until he could see freckles scattered across the back of the other skater’s neck where his jersey collar didn’t quite meet his helmet.

Like stars. Like constellations you could navigate by, and chart a course toward home.

The dream shifted the way dreams did. Now they were facing each other at center ice, close enough to touch, bending down. A faceoff? Those freckles extended across cheekbones, over the bridge of a nose, disappearing into hairline. He knew those stars. He could count them, could map them the way he’d mapped them before with his thumbs, his lips, his teeth.

Dark eyes met his and Ilya knew this face the way he knew his mother’s voice, his own heartbeat, the taste of longing that had no English name. Toska. That uniquely Russian ache, the craving for something absent, for someone who exists only as absence.

Hollander opened his mouth to say something—

Ilya woke up.

Chapter End Notes

My Hollanov fics on AO3

Aaaaand we're back with some tasty Ilya POV. I hope you enjoyed it! Poor guy is waiting... and waiting... gee I wonder why Shane isn't texting. Hm...

I know everyone (including me!) is very excited to have Ilya say "I'm coming to the cottage penthouse," but I believe in having some breathing room between scenes, lol. I have a plan! I swear! It might even be a good one! Hang in there :)

This chapter had quite a bit of angst in it and hopefully a little bit of levity, but if you’re needing something a little bit happier in Ilya’s POV (and perhaps proof that I can in fact write a happy ending…) you might like this one shot I wrote for New Year’s: Midnight, Finally 🥂, in which Ilya finally gets to kiss his husband at midnight the way he's always wanted to. Or maybe you liked Ember & Ice the audio drama, and could use some wholesome wedding night shenanigans in Still Waiting to Wake

Thanks for reading! If you liked it, I’d love to yap in the comments.

Not sure what to say? Comment anxiety? How about...

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”
- 🌌 “this wasn't my favorite”
- 🍩 “the onion ring proposal would've worked on me”
- 💸 “send that poor man some MONEY!”
- 🗡️ “this usually isnt my thing... and yet”
- 💀 “how dare you (affectionate)”

Chapter 7: Potasovka

Chapter Notes

This fic uses a work skin to simulate text messages. You may turn it off by clicking 'Hide Creator's Style', but it will affect the formatting slightly!

TITLE CARD: “Post Game Interview”

FADE IN: The Voyageurs’ media room after the Montreal-Toronto game. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, too bright, washing out everything to flat white. The room feels less like a place and more like an apparatus. A wooden podium sits center frame, the team logo stamped on the front. Behind it: white backdrop, sponsor logos repeated in grid formation. SFX: CAMERA SHUTTERS, rapid-fire clicks, overlapping like chittering insects.

CUT TO: SHANE HOLLANDER. Even in street clothes after the game—designer jacket chosen by someone else, hair fixed by someone else’s hands—this is the Shane Hollander, number twenty-four for the Montreal Voyageurs. He holds a sports drink. The label faces inward—careful, always careful—condensation coating the plastic, making it stick to his palm. He is surrounded by a bouquet of microphones that crowd the podium. Twelve recording devices, all pointed at Shane’s face like accusatory fingers. It occurs to him, briefly and unhelpfully, that blinking too much looks guilty. SFX: VOICES OVERLAPPING, a cacophony of demand.

CUT TO: Reporters shouting for his attention.

V.O: “Shane, Shane, over here—” / “Shane, question for TSN—” / “Hollander, can you comment on—”

CAMERA FLASH hits Shane’s face. White burst. He blinks—too many times—and forces his features into the shape PR handlers trained there. Smile. Not too much. Look approachable. Look humble. His pulse hammers visibly against his collar. Sweat gathers at his hairline despite the air conditioning pumping cold enough to see his breath if he exhaled wrong.

MEDIUM SHOT: A smartly dressed reporter with a notepad (RDS, mid-fifties, sharp suit) leans forward in his seat.

“Shane. You scored twice tonight, three assists. That’s eight points in your last four games. What’s changed for you?”

CLOSE UP: Shane’s throat as he swallows, thinking of how to answer.

The question sounded simple. It wasn’t. Shane had learned the difference between simple and easy the way a skater learns ice—through repetition, through falling, through the bone-deep knowledge that surfaces are always more complicated than they appear.

This was his fourth media availability in six days. Monday’s post-game after Boston. Wednesday’s practice media scrum. Thursday’s sponsor event where they’d made him smile with a protein shake. Friday’s morning skate interviews.

Now this.

His face hurt from holding the same expression, his voice strained from hitting the same humble notes. His actual thoughts had dissolved into white noise: static, amorphous, the shape of exhaustion.

He’d had two games this week. Four practices. That night he’d reviewed films until midnight. His body was a catalog of small violences: bruised ribs from a cross-check, tweaked shoulder from a hit along the boards, upset stomach from shitty meal prep. He’d eaten the same chicken and rice for six days straight because cooking required decisions and he had none left to make.

The real answer to “what changed” was that he’d been too exhausted to maintain his anxiety at previous levels. The noise in his head had finally drowned itself out through sheer volume. He was barely a person right now, just a puppet in a Shane Hollander suit.

He couldn’t explain that in a sound bite.

“Just staying focused,” Shane said instead. Inside his mouth, it still tasted metallic from when he’d bitten his tongue during the second period after taking a hit along the boards, teeth clicking together, and the cut had reopened when he smiled for the cameras. “Everyone on the team’s been working hard, and Coach has us dialed in. Regardless of who actually scores points it’s always a team effort. I’m very proud of the team for how they’ve been playing.”

Just. He’d started the sentence with just, which made it sound defensive, apologetic, like he was explaining why he deserved to take up space.

“Shane—” A woman from ESPN. “Joo Jaekyung said in an interview last week that Asian players have to work twice as hard to get half the recognition. Do you feel similarly?”

What? Wasn’t he a Korean MMA fighter in the International Leagues? The question slides sideways, missing him entirely and still managing to pin him in place. This… didn’t have to do anything with hockey. Different sport. Different country. Different person entirely. But she’d said it like they were interchangeable, like Shane should have opinions on every Asian athlete’s experience because they all shared... what? A face that made people ask where he was really from?

The comparison was meant as solidarity, maybe, but Shane, with all his media training, knew what it was now: a trap. If he agreed, he looked bitter, ungrateful for his success. If he disagreed, he dismissed Jeong’s experience and his own.

Either way, they’d have their story.

Shane exhaled, forcing his shoulders to drop to a natural-looking angle and holding them there to get the right posture: relaxed, approachable, the posture they’d taught him in media training when he was nineteen:

You represent more than yourself, Shane. You’re a role model.

“Mr. Joo, I mean Jaekyung, an incredible athlete,” Shane said, buying himself three seconds with filler; compliments were an easy way to stall. “I can’t say that I follow MMA with my focus being on hockey, but I think every athlete works hard to earn their place. I’m grateful for the opportunities I’ve had.”

The ESPN reporter’s pen kept moving. She wanted more. They always wanted more, they wanted him to be inspirational, wanted quotes about breaking barriers, wanted him to make white audiences feel good about diversity without making them uncomfortable about racism.

Someone else jumped in—younger guy, blogger credentials, the kind who asked questions that skirted the line. “Gilbert Comeau said in an interview recently that you’ve been ‘playing with more confidence lately,’ that you seem ‘lighter.’ He said, and I quote, ‘whatever Shane’s doing off-ice is working.’ Teammates notice when someone’s happy. And the speculation is… maybe Shane Hollander’s found love at last? So what’s her name?”

The room leaned forward. Phones tilted to catch his reaction. Someone’s camera auto-focus whirred, trying to capture the micro-expression that would become tomorrow’s headline.

Shane drank from the sports drink—lime-flavored, coating his teeth—and used the swallow to buy time. When he lowered the bottle, he managed something that looked like a smile. “Comeau’s a great athlete and teammate, and I appreciate his support. The whole team’s been playing well together.” Compliment, stall. A few reporters chuckled at the deflection, seeing it for what it was. “I’d rather keep the focus on what we’re accomplishing as a group. That’s what’s important right now.”

“But you are seeing someone?” The blogger again, not letting it go. “Come on, Shane. Give us something. Your fans want to know!”

Did ‘seeing’ a sex worker that he’d ghosted for a week count?

Shane’s fingers tightened around the bottle until the plastic crinkled, and thank god the microphones didn’t pick it up.

“I’m fortunate to have great people in my life,” he said, the words coming out slightly faster than before. His script was fraying. He could feel it unraveling. “I mean—yeah. I see everyone. Family, teammates, friends. Right now, my priority is helping this team make the playoffs. That’s what matters.”

The PR handler stepped in from the side: “Two more questions, folks.”

Two more questions felt like two years, and it’d taken everything not to sprint out of the media room when Shane was finally released, the heavy metal door closing behind him with a pneumatic hiss that sealed him away from the cameras. The smile dropped from his face. His hand found the wall, leaning heavily against it.

What the fuck. Why were those always such a fucking shitshow?

Twenty-three minutes.

He’d checked the clock when they’d sat him down: 7:47 PM. Now his phone read 8:10. Twenty-three minutes of his face muscles holding that expression, his voice hitting those exact notes of humble gratitude, his brain three steps ahead of every question trying to predict the trap.

Because it was always a trap.

And he’d messed up the cut in his mouth again, having bitten his tongue again during that last answer—I have family, teammates, friends—the plural of people turning singular in his head: person. One person. The person I can’t mention because his existence would end my career. He’s not even mine, anyway, really, it’s not like that, it’s not really anything because it’s his job and it’s me that’s pathetic enough to need it.

Sorry, next question?

Down the hall, voices filtered through: teammates still leaving, staff packing up equipment, the building returning to its bones. Shane pushed off the wall and walked toward the parking garage, each step taking him further from the performance, closer to the car where he could finally stop pretending his jaw didn’t ache from smiling.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out:

Shane typed: Yeah I’m fine, just tired. I hate when they ask me things like that

With a sigh, he backspaced to delete the line, then tried again:

The parking garage was nearly empty at this hour—his car and a few others belonging to staff who worked late. Shane unlocked the door and sat in the driver’s seat without starting the engine.

Inside his car it was quiet. He’d scored twice tonight. Eight points in four games. Playing the best hockey of his season, maybe his career. Two goals. Eight points in four games. The numbers didn’t matter. Neither did the photoshoots or all his other obligations. Only the question mattered, the one he couldn’t answer: what’s her name?

This past week had been an absolute meat grinder of obligations and him giving his best.

And all anyone wanted to know was if he was fucking someone.

CUT TO: BLACK. SFX: TAPE REWINDING.

TITLE CARD: “Meatgrinder”

SMASH CUT TO: INT. BELL CENTRE - TUESDAY. The puck drops, but SHANE HOLLANDER is already moving. He is flying over the ice, his afterimage on the jumbotron above. SFX: ROARING FANS. Twenty thousand people cheer from the stands as Boston’s center wins the draw, chipping it back to their defenseman. NUMBER 24, HOLLANDER, pivots, chasing. The Bears are playing angry tonight, they move like a pack of wolves, hunting for contact rather than space.

One of Boston’s wingers caught Shane with a shoulder along the boards. The hit rattled his teeth, but Shane was already pivoting, sticking actively, stripping the puck before the guy could finish the check. Tomorrow there’d be a bruise. He fed it up the wing to Hayden, tape to tape, and grinned behind his mouthguard. Right now he had the puck.

Boston came hard, forechecking in waves, but Shane read the patterns developing. Their defense was gapping wide on the backcheck. He filed that away, three plays ahead, already seeing where the openings would be.

They scored first on a deflection. Unlucky bounce. Then again two minutes later on a two-on-one that developed too fast to stop.

0-2.

On the bench, a teammate’s hand found Shane’s shoulder. “Long game. Shake it off, Cap.”

Shane was already shaking it off, watching Boston’s defensive rotation, seeing the seams. There—their left defenseman cheated toward the boards on the forecheck. Exploitable.

Boston might play dirty, but Shane played smart.

Smart, though, wasn’t proving to be enough just yet.

Four minutes left in the period, Shane planted himself in front of the net. Their defenseman wound up from the point. Shane didn’t flinch when the shot came, just held his ground. The puck deflected off his shin, sharp and stinging enough to draw a curse even through the padding, and trickled past the goalie.

1-2.

His linemates crashed into him against the boards, gloves hammering his helmet. Shane’s shin throbbed but it didn’t matter. They were back in it. Why bother worrying about pain? Why did it matter at all when they could still win?

In the second period, Montreal came out buzzing. Shane’s line pressed hard, winning puck battles, cycling in the offensive zone. The building was loud now, feeding them energy.

Eight minutes in, Shane saw Hayden breaking down the wing before Hayden knew he was open. He threaded the pass through two defenders—ridiculous angle, but—no choice.

Hayden’s shot was stopped but the rebound came right back to Shane.

He one-timed it without thinking. The puck deflected off someone’s stick and wobbled past the goalie.

2-2.

The building exploded. Shane raised his stick as his teammates swarmed him. His whole body hummed with it—the crowd, the momentum shift, the way the puck just found him like the ice itself wanted him to score.

So he did it again. A rebound off chaos in front.

3-2.

“Fuck yeah, Holls!”

Adrenaline and praise hit like a drug. He could live on this feeling forever.

Furious to lose their early lead, Boston tried to slow them down with physicality. Their forecheckers came harder, finishing every check. Shane battled in the corner for a loose puck, three bodies converging. He had it for half a second, which was just long enough for Boston’s forechecking winger to come through high, elbow tucked, driving it up into Shane’s shoulder and yanking his upper body sideways, snapping his head back in recoil with a grunt.

Pain first and then oh shit because his torso was twisting, skates still in one place, and his balance—gone.

His helmet cracked against the ice first. For a second there was just the white ceiling of the rink and his brain doing triage amidst the whitewater rush of disorientation: what hurts, how bad, can I move? Are they scoring? His stick had slipped from his glove, skittering across the ice.

SHANE (V.O.): Get the fuck up, Shane.

With a groan, Shane rolled to his side, testing. The world was still spinning but—okay, good, not dead or unconscious. That was a start. Beyond that, his shoulder screamed but his legs were solid, which was promising. He needed those to skate. Shane kicked his stick back toward his glove, grabbed it after a brief fumble, and pushed himself up, finding a ref already eyeing him, whistle in his mouth.

Shane rolled his shoulder once—it would stiffen later, but later wasn’t now—and tapped his stick twice against the ice.

I’m fine. Don’t make this bigger than it is.

The crowd was still booing but Shane was already skating, pushing hard into his stride, chasing the play that had moved up ice without him. Endorphins filled every molecule of his body, and he was panting, inhaling the cold and exhaling pure adrenaline. He had one job. One job.

Go, go, do, do. Beat them back.

The third period collapsed into defensive zone time. Pucks off glass. Sticks in lanes. Bodies stacked in the neutral zone, shoulders bumping, skates tangling. Shane threw himself in front of one that caught his shin and made his whole leg go numb.

He could still skate, so that’s all that mattered. No big deal.

Six minutes left, Montreal scored again on a scramble in front. 4-2.

The crowd was deafening, home-town Montreal fans gone feral for their team clawing a win back from the dead from their nemesis from Boston. Shane’s legs burned but the energy in the building carried him through the final shifts.

When the buzzer sounded, he raised his stick with everyone else, grin splitting his face despite the ache setting in everywhere at once.

This was what it was all about.

Skating.

Winning.

In the locker room after, everyone was loud. Schneider was already planning where they’d go out. Shane showered, partly dissociated in the wash of success and revelry. True to his suspicions, there was a bruise forming; his body cataloged damage. This time the additions were bruised ribs and a tweaked shoulder.

He didn’t care. This was what his body was for.

Shane dressed, and let the noise wash over him, the win still humming under his skin. The team went out to celebrate, which was mandatory after a game like this, especially for their Captain that got his bell rung and still snagged the points.

He got home at eleven, collapsed into bed still damp from the shower, and was asleep with a smile still on his face.

CUT TO: BLACK. SFX: TAPE FAST FORWARDING.

CUT TO: INT. SHANE’S BEDROOM - WEDNESDAY - 5:30 AM. SFX: ALARM SHRIEKING. SHANE HOLLANDER’S hand slaps the nightstand, silencing it.

It was Wednesday, and like any other day that meant the same scripted routine. Honestly there was tacit relief in that, too, since it meant he could wake up and not have to think too hard about anything in particular. The usual routine followed as it usually did: shower, brush teeth, protein shake. Gym by 6:30. Then there was practice at 2:00 pm, and the energy in the facility was good. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker was playing something with too much bass, and Coach Thériault hadn’t told them to turn it off yet, which meant they could get away with it.

Loop, cross, tighten, loop again. Shane laced his skates in the locker room, the familiar tug and pull of the ritual. His fingers knew the pattern without thinking: loop, cross, tighten, loop again. Around him, guys were still chirping about last night’s game. Schneider was doing an impression of the Boston goalie’s tantrum after the third goal. Andropov was scrolling through his phone, showing someone a video of the hit that had sent their defenseman sprawling.

And, for Shane, as soon as he stepped onto the fresh ice and his blades bit down, the world simplified.

Skating had always been home.

Shhk, shhk. The first stride was always the same: his blades bit down, that specific scrape and hiss singing up through his ankles into his knees, and his body remembered what it was built for since he was six years old. Cold air hit his lungs. The rink opened around him, all white and clean and endless and almost peaceful without the fans or the monitors on, and for the first time since the press conference last night, his shoulders dropped from where they’d been wedged up near his ears.

He was gliding, almost floating, out here. Skating, now, was almost thoughtless for him in a way that few things were, and here on the ice everything else—the reporters, the cameras, the are you fucking anyone—fell away. No one was asking him to explain what it meant to be half Asian half something else or what it meant to be a role model or if he was getting his dick wet on the side.

Shane circled the rink once, lazily stretching his legs out. The stick felt like an extension of his arm. The puck was just a puck. Out here, the demands were simple: pass or shoot, left or right, fast or faster. Binary choices. Clear answers. No one asked him to explain himself on ice. Hockey was much simpler with its demands for him, and he could do all of those things. He was good at them, and it felt good to be exactly what he was supposed to be.

And what a relief that was to feel that way even for a little while.

Time did that thing it only did on ice: stretched and compressed, becoming a far away, unimportant thing to worry about later. They ran passing drills first. Shane fed the puck to Hayden, who one-timed it back, and the rhythm built between them the way hours of practice had taught them both to read each other. Sticks flashed through the lane. Thériault loved to make them make plays with obstacles in the way, forcing them all to make passes under pressure. Bodies were closing in, and still Shane’s blade met the puck exactly where muscle memory said it would be.

He sent a saucer pass through traffic, just high enough to clear the ice, just soft enough to land flat and perfect on Comeau’s tape, and then Comeau buried it in the top shelf.

“Fuck yeah, Hollander!” Someone banged their stick against the boards.

“Atta boy, Cap.”

All that mattered was the rhythm: receive, pass, move, receive again.

He grinned. This he could do. This made sense.

During the water break, Schneider wiped sweat from his face and announced: “A hot dog is a sandwich.”

“Fuck off it is,” Andropov said.

“Bread on two sides? It’s a sandwich.”

“It’s one piece of bread folded. That makes it a taco.”

Shane drank from his bottle and listened to the debate escalate. Burgers were sandwiches, obviously. But were wraps? What about quesadillas? By the time Coach blew the whistle, three guys were arguing about whether cereal counted as soup and Schneider was threatening to bring a PowerPoint presentation tomorrow to prove his point.

“I’m like,” Hayden started, tugging his helmet back on with a wry smile, “amazed that you know how to use PowerPoint, Schneider. Actually I’m surprised you even know how to read.”

“Fuck you, Pike.”

“Make a PowerPoint about why I should let you.”

“Oh I’ll make you one, full of pictures of me fuckin’ your Mom—”

And this, this was easy too. This—the stupid debates, the chirping, Schneider threatening academic rigor over sandwich taxonomy—this was the other part he loved about the ice, about hockey. The team, really his team since he’d become Captain.

Back on the ice, Shane stripped the puck from Schneider in a drill, pivoted, and sent it cross-ice to Andropov before the defenseman could close the gap. His body read the play developing, saw where Andropov would be before Andropov got there. Time stretched and compressed; he moved, the puck arrived, everything connected.

Easy. Easy. Why couldn’t everything be like this?

Hayden said something about pizza being an open-faced sandwich, dragging them all back to the food debate.

“Fuck no, that’s where I draw the line, that’s not even close,” Shane called back, skating past.

“Yeah but you’ll do a tuna melt open face and that’s still a sandwich?! Hypocrite Hollander. Tell me why that makes any sense.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Answer the question, coward.”

Shane’s body hummed with that good tired feeling—muscles used the way they were meant to be, lungs burning clean, endorphins singing through his bloodstream. He could still feel the ice under his blades, that perfect resistance and give. His brain had gone quiet for two hours.

He wished he could bottle that feeling. Carry it with him into press conferences and sponsor events and all the other bullshit that came with the job.

Back in the locker room after, the smell of sweat and equipment tape filled the space. Shane sat on the bench unlacing his skates.

“We should grab lunch,” Schneider said, toweling off his hair. “That new taco place on Saint-Laurent.”

“If you say that it’s a goddamn sandwich—”

“Nah, fuck lunch. Let’s hit that club downtown,” Andropov interrupted before the debate could begin anew. “The one with the rooftop thing?”

“At four in the afternoon?”

“Happy hour, baby.”

“Hollander, you in?” Schneider called across the room.

Shane wanted to say yes. Part of him wanted to go eat tacos and argue about sandwich definitions until his face hurt from laughing. That part was still loose from practice, still riding the high of ice and motion and simplicity.

The rest of him was already calculating: PT at four-thirty, film review at five, meal prep, emails, his mother’s texts. The day had a shape to it.

Deviating felt impossible. No, it felt like a crime.

“Ah, I can’t,” he said, and it wasn’t even a lie. Shane pulled off his practice jersey. His shoulders were damp with sweat, cooling in the air. “I have PT at four-thirty and I really can’t miss, plus I have to…”

“Yeah yeah yeah, busy. Busy Bee Hollander, I get it.”

The guys filed out, still debating restaurants versus bars. Hayden clapped Shane on the shoulder on his way past. “Next time, yeah? I don’t see you enough.”

“Yeah. Next time.”

Shane watched them leave, their voices echoing down the hallway. His body still hummed with that good tired feeling, muscles used the way they were meant to be. For two hours, he’d been exactly what he was supposed to be—a hockey player who loved hockey—and nothing more complicated than that.

He grabbed his bag and headed the opposite direction, toward the treatment rooms down the hall. This way, past the lockers and showers, was a quieter area lined with white doors he knew by heart. Inside, fluorescent lights hummed over vinyl tables and half-drawn curtains, ice bags stacked in a blue bin against the wall.

Shane’s shoulder had started to stiffen during cool-down, the muscle remembering last night’s cross-check. By tomorrow it would be worse—it always was—which was why he had standing appointments twice a week whether he wanted them or not. Physical upkeep was part of the job, part of the contract, and ultimately part of keeping his body functional through eighty-two games.

And so, when he arrived, things went the way they usually did. Pleasantries and small talk with the team’s in-house physiotherapist, then shirt off, and then…

“This is going to be tight.” Medical-speak for this is going to hurt like hell.

Shane turned his head to the side and started counting ceiling tiles, just in time for the PT to find the most recent knot in Shane’s rotator cuff and destroy it. Shane’s breath hissed through his teeth.

One tile. Two tiles. The fluorescent light above flickered—someone should fix that.

Three tiles.

The PT’s thumb found another knot and dug, pressure building until Shane’s breath hissed through his teeth. Four tiles. Five. Counting was safer than thinking. Thinking led to questions like why haven’t I texted him and does he think I’m an asshole and was six days too long—

He moved to a different spot, using deeper pressure now, working the muscle fibers of his shoulder, the back of his neck, around his spine, all the places that had seized up from too many hits, too many games in too few days.

“Breathe through it,” the physiotherapist said.

Shane was breathing. He was counting tiles. Six. Seven. He wasn’t thinking about Rozanov. There was a water stain in the corner that looked like Florida. Eight. Nine. Ten tiles across, twelve down.

“How’s that feel?”

Like someone was trying to separate his arm from his body. “... fine.”

“You’re tensing up. Relax.”

Relax. Everyone kept saying that like it was simple. His coaches, his PT, the meditation app his mother had downloaded on his phone. Just relax, Shane. Just breathe.

Easier said than done. Relaxing, turning off, was not ‘easy’. In fact, it was really fucking hard, verging on stressful, which only made it that much more difficult to relax at all. And wasn’t that the kicker? He could have a perfect game last night, a perfect practice this morning, under the hands of one of the highest paid and desired physios in the league, and still be as tight as a bow. If that wasn’t enough, what was?

Ten tiles across, twelve down, and…

Shane’s mind drifted a moment in a rare wobble of focus. Eleven had been the number on the door last time at Wolfbird. And there, inside, on his knees at Rozanov’s feet, he’d felt like he was levitating almost, light as a feather. Boneless. A creature of pure sensation rather than a mind and a man in a body. Everything within him had just… let go, and so easily too.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The physiotherapist shifted to a different spot, and Shane went back to counting tiles.

Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.

The physiotherapist worked methodically through the tight spots in his shoulder and upper back. The pressure hurt but Shane knew it was working—tomorrow he’d feel better for it.

When the session ended, Shane sat up and rolled his shoulder, feeling the difference.

“Better?” the physiotherapist asked.

“Yeah. Much better. Thanks, doc.”

“Good.” The physio wiped his hands on a towel. “You took some heavy hits last night. That cross-check in was brutal—I saw the replay.”

“Felt it too.”

“I bet.” He grabbed the ice pack from the bin. “Ice this tonight before bed, and ease up on overhead lifts before Thursday’s game, alright? Your shoulder needs recovery time, not more stress.”

“Got it.”

“And Shane?” The physio gave him a look. “Try to breathe during our sessions. Holding your breath makes the tension worse.”

Shane pulled his shirt back on, managing a smile. “I’ll work on it.”

“You always say that.”

“I always mean it.”

But just because he meant it didn’t mean it would happen.

Shane also meant to not let film review stress him out, but que sera sera…

Sitting in that dark room with Thériault and the assistant coaches while the projector threw last week’s game onto the screen frame by frame for autopsy was never going to be relaxing.

“There—pause it. Hollander, what do you see?”

He had seen it, of course. There in projector technicolor on the pulled-down screen, there wasn’t much Shane couldn’t see, even with the blue-light glow. Thériault, Shane thought, knew that he’d seen it too, but liked the song and dance of making him say it out loud anyway. It didn’t matter that they’d won because Thériault didn’t care about the final score in this exact moment either.

Shane watched himself on screen, watched Andropov’s positioning two strides behind where he should’ve been.

“Andropov’s gapping too wide on the backcheck.”

“Show me where he should be.”

They rewound and watched it again. Obediently, Shane pointed out the angle, and then the coverage zone Andropov had abandoned. They moved to the next clip to repeat the process again and again. Now they were looking at Schneider’s faceoff stance, and Thériault prompted Shane to speak on how his weight distribution was off, losing the draw before the puck dropped.

Two hours of this that slipped into three… looking over every line, every shift, cataloging what needed fixing even after a win.

It was late when Shane eventually made it home, and whatever warm fuzzies he’d had from the win, from the practice with his teammates and burrito-taco-pizza-sandwich tomfoolery were all but obliterated. He was tired. His mind was as tired as his body, but where muscle and sinew he could roll out with foam or soak in an ice bath or go bother the team physiotherapist about his thoughts just… buzzed, spiraling around him like a hive of irritated hornets.

Nights like these he was grateful for the meal prep because it was thoughtless.

Easy. Easy. Why couldn’t everything be like this? Only when he’d thought that on the ice, the feeling had been freedom and flying and being strong, unstoppable even, and this—chicken breast, brown rice, steamed broccoli, all weighed and portioned—was somewhere closer to resignation.

He ate standing at the counter, fork scraping against plastic, chewing without tasting.

And by the time he’d finished that, and laid down in bed, plugging his phone in to charge, the idea of texting Rozanov was the farthest thing from easy. Still, it had been a few days, he did want to see him again… especially since he’d been thinking about him. Rozanov and his voice, Rozanov and his hands, Rozanov and his pretty eyes and the magnanimous, matter-of-fact, is allowed, simultaneously forgiving all his desires and giving permission to feel them just the same.

Rozanov who made his head quiet.

Shane’s cock stirred against his thigh.

He tried to ignore it. Rolled onto his side. Counted his breaths like the meditation app suggested. His dick didn’t care about breathing exercises.

The memory surfaced unbidden: kneeling between Rozanov’s legs, those hands in his hair, guiding him. Good. Just like that. You are doing so well for me.

Shane’s hand slid beneath the waistband of his sleep pants before he’d consciously decided to touch himself. His fingers wrapped around his cock, already half-hard and thickening fast.

This was getting ridiculous. Two sessions—two—and he couldn’t go three days without jerking off thinking about it.

His grip tightened. His hips rolled into his fist until he came with his face buried in his pillow, biting down on fabric to muffle the sound. Afterward, he cleaned up with tissues from his nightstand and lay there in the dark, and…

Shane picked up his phone and opened the message thread, staring at the blank little textbox waiting to be filled. This wasn’t as hard as the first time he’d reached out, but… it… sort of was. Shane stared at the cursor blinking in the empty text field.

Hey

Wait, no, that was stupid.

Hi, I know it’s been a while, I am barely a person right now

No, not that either!

Grumbling in frustration, Shane set the phone down on the nightstand and rubbed his face with both hands.

Tomorrow. He’d do it tomorrow when his brain worked.

He was asleep before he could pull the covers up.

CUT TO: BLACK. SFX: TAPE FAST FORWARDING.

CUT TO: INT. PHOTOGRAPHY STUDIO - THURSDAY - 2PM Studio lights bake the air. Three umbrella reflectors surround SHANE HOLLANDER on a platform barely wide enough for his feet. A green screen stretches behind him. A crew moves around the perimeter like a troupe of choreographed dancers in a ballet: camera operator adjusting a lens, assistant repositioning a light meter, stylist hovering with a lint roller. There are clouds of hairspray in the air, to the point that coughing is inevitable.

“Turn your wrist—no, the other way. There. Hold that.”

Shane, ever obedient, held it. The watch caught studio lights, flashing rose gold across the green screen. His arm ached from the angle but he kept his elbow locked where the assistant had positioned it three minutes ago.

The director circled him, assessing. Shane held the position, arm extended, feeling the strain bloom across his deltoid. The watch face caught the lights, flashing rose gold. “Tilt your chin up. More. Eyes on me.”

Shane lifted his chin. The director stared at him, gaze sweeping from his face down to his shoulders and back up.

“Beautiful. Now give me confidence! Yes! You’ve earned this. You’re proud of what it represents, give me aura, Hollander.”

Shane rearranged his face. Confident meant relaxed features, slight smile, eyes focused but not too intense. He’d done this enough times to know the formula by now. In another life, his Mom liked to joke, if he’d failed at hockey he could’ve been fantastic in modeling.

The camera clicked. Flash. Click. Flash! Flash!

“Perfect. Let’s try one where you’re looking at the watch itself. Like you’re seeing it for the first time. Make me want it.”

He lowered his gaze. The second hand ticked forward in tiny jumps. Sixty seconds. Sixty ticks. Shane’s shoulder burned from holding still but he didn’t move because they hadn’t released him yet.

Shoots like this were a reality of being a professional athlete and while Shane didn’t dislike them they were always… an experience. This was no different. Shooting with Rolex a few months back was similar enough to shooting with Tag Heuer, at least, even if all the lights pointing at him were too hot on his skin. There was sweat gathered at his hairline, the small of his back.

The blazer the stylist chose was just barely too tight, too.

An intentional choice, she assured, to show off his arms through the fabric. That was important, Shane knew, the sex appeal of it all. Sex sells. People saw a successful, maybe attractive, man wearing this overpriced watch and… well, if the Shane Hollander liked it, then it was a good purchase!

He wondered if it ever really worked like that, having never recalled a time when he saw an ad with an actor or athlete with some random fashion item and needing it. Did people think that way? Surely they had to know that those were paid, it didn’t mean that they actually liked those things…

Thoughts flowed from there in a nonsensical spiral. Some celebrities owned brands, he supposed. Was that an ad? There were singers with fashion lines and actors with liquor brands. He could think of at least five different celebrity-owned Vodkas and—

—just like that, Shane’s mind snagged on a fixed point in his memory:

Rozanov sipping on vodka, eyes raking over his body. Hollander. Shirt. Now, please.

“Shane? Are you still with me?”

He snapped back, nearly dizzy with the blood already, shamelessly, moving south. His cock was getting hard. Actually hard, blood rushing south while he stood under studio lights surrounded by fifteen crew members. Shane shifted his weight and tried to think about his meal prep, about traffic, about anything except Rozanov’s hands on him.

The director was watching him from behind the monitors, head tilted and arms crossed.

“Ye-yeah. Sorry.”

Why now? Why now of all times was he thinking about him?

“Don’t apologize, just stay present. We need you engaged for this.”

Shane shifted his weight, trying to alleviate the pressure of the trousers on his dick, which had decided now was the perfect time to wake up. Come on Hollander. He’d performed want before for cologne ads, car commercials, protein powder spots. He knew how to do this.

“From the top. Remember—this watch is an achievement. Everything you’ve worked for. Show me that.”

Shane, biting the inside of his cheek to help him focus on something not lewd, lifted the watch again. Turned it. Let the light play across the face.

The director’s voice filtered through his concentration. “Good. That’s good. Hold it—no, don’t tense your shoulders. Relax.”

Relaxing while holding a specific pose under lights hot enough to bake bread was physically impossible, but Shane tried anyway. He dropped his shoulders half an inch and immediately the assistant called out.

“There…! That’s the angle. Don’t move.”

Shane froze. His deltoid started to shake from holding but he clamped down on it, kept his arm exactly where they’d positioned it. Don’t close eyes. Rozanov’s mouth near his ear. Breath warm against his neck. Be patient, I want to watch you first. A flush spread across his cheeks.

The camera flashed. Shane blinked away the afterimage and tried to focus on the watch in his hand. He was supposed to cradle it with reverence, make people watching at home think owning this specific piece of metal would change their lives, that it was hot, the most attractive thing a man could wear or do or…

… well. When he thought about it like that, it was hard to make the watch the sexiest thing, because he’d seen what Rozanov could do with his tongue, without even touching him at all. A piece of metal couldn’t compete with that, and—

“Shane, your face. What are you thinking about right now?”

Rozanov above him, leaning back in the chair: Touch yourself for me, Hollander. Show me how you did it this week when you were alone.

Shit. Another interested twitch from his cock, heat pooling low in his gut. No way could he explain that he’d been thinking about kneeling between another man’s thighs, about obeying commands that made him so eager and pliant, about coming so hard he cried.

He definitely couldn’t explain that being directed around this studio—move here, tilt there, hold this position—was making him think about it more.

“Nothing. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just be here. We’ve got twelve more setups to shoot and I need you focused.”

Twelve more!

“Hang in there, you’re doing well.”

This was a disaster. He had twelve more setups and his body wouldn’t stop responding to even this basic praise like he was hardwired for it.

Shane’s shoulders sagged before he caught himself and straightened. The assistant was already moving lights, repositioning the reflectors. Someone came at him with a lint roller, attacking invisible specks on the blazer. Another person appeared with powder, dabbing at his forehead. Hands adjusted his collar. Someone smoothed the blazer across his shoulders. Another person tilted his head a fraction to the left. Shane stood still and let them move him into position and make him camera-ready.

The director clapped his hands. “Alright, next setup. Shane, I need you standing, watch on your wrist this time. We’re going for aspiration—you’ve achieved something but you’re hungry for more. Can you give me that?”

Shane nodded. Moved to the new mark on the floor. Someone had re-taped it while he wasn’t looking.

“And... action.”

He looked at the watch on his wrist. The director called adjustments—chin up slightly, eyes softer, shoulders back but not stiff. In a strange way, the directions were almost… familiar? He’d never really thought about it before, the mindlessness of showing up to look a certain way had always come easy for him. Maybe that’s why so many brands wanted to work with him, Shane Hollander was notoriously biddable.

Had he always been this way? Shane moved to another pose and angle. He thought about Rozanov’s hands, large and firm, the way they’d been on his skin. He thought about how Rozanov looked at him with those eyes that shifted from clear, startling hazel to something stormier and darker when aroused. Thought about the dark hair at his chest, barely visible beneath unbuttoned shirts… and in the background, the director’s voice—yes, perfect, you’re doing great Hollander—sent a shiver down his spine, pooling low in his gut like honey, like heat.

God, praise always felt good.

On the ice when he scored. In film review when the coaches noted his positioning. But this was different. This was his body responding before his brain could intervene, arousal blooming from simple approval like he’d been wired for it.

Oh.

Not everyone, he thought distantly, liked to sink into praise the way he did. Not everyone went warm and pliant when told they’d done well.

His mind slipped sideways again.

Rozanov with his piercing hazel eyes and that smirk. For not being an athlete, he was staggeringly built; enormous biceps, broad chest, muscular in a way that made Shane’s athletic frame feel almost delicate by comparison. He wondered, edging towards an awful hope, if he was as strong as he looked, lifting and pinning and taking with those molten eyes, that voice, dripping with approval, that rolling ‘r’ that made him shiver. Vot tak. Yes, just like that…

“Mr. Hollander!”

He jerked. The director was staring at him.

“Where’s your head today? Where are you? If you’re not feeling well we can reschedule.”

“I—ah, no, I’m sorry.” Shane’s stomach dropped hard enough he felt it in his knees. “Really there’s no need to reschedule, I can be good for you.”

Even as the words left his mouth he heard the echo—I can be good—and had to resist the urge to close his eyes. His cock was still half-hard and his brain wouldn’t stop supplying Rozanov’s voice over every instruction and he had at least thirty more minutes of this.

The director quirked an eyebrow at that. “Well you’re somewhere else. I need you to be ‘good’ for me here.”

“Yes, sir. I’m here.”

“Then prove it. Give me something I can use.”

He was trying.

Feet on the mark. Shoulders back. Eyes forward. The next ten shots went smoother once he shoved everything else behind a wall and just performed—the thing he’d been trained for since he was six. Be what they needed. Hit the mark. Don’t think about why the director’s voice kept layering over Rozanov’s in his head, both men telling him exactly where to put his hands, how to tilt his chin, where to look.

He looked serious when they needed gravitas, the director’s voice kept layering over Rozanov’s in his head: both directing him what to do, how to do it. The structure was identical even if the context wasn’t.

And… fuck. What a terrible thing to be into standing in front of a director of all people. His erection pressed against his zipper. This was getting worse instead of better, and even though he’d managed a sneaky tuck, this was beyond risky. At least the flush on his face, the want in his eyes, was real this time. Shane turned his wrist at the exact angle that made the watch face catch light, and tried his very best to look like a sexy CEO business daddy.

Or… whatever that was scribbled over the shoot’s moodboard by the snack table.

And then, at last, they were done.

“Great work today. We got some killer shots.”

Oh thank fuck.

“Thank you for having me today,” Shane said instead, sounding like a normal person and not a deviant, even as little sparks of want in the shape of Rozanov’s hands crawled down his neck and across his chest. He needed to stop thinking about Rozanov or he was going to walk out of here visibly hard in front of the entire crew.

Which… somehow he managed at the end, changing into his normal clothes once more, accepting the watch as a gift he would never wear or use, and then racing home where he could devolve in private.

And devolve he did. He didn’t even try to bother pretending he was anything except debased.

By the time Shane unlocked his penthouse door, his erection was pressing almost painfully against his jeans, the fabric tight enough that each step made him hiss through his teeth. He was already leaking; Shane could feel the wet patch spreading in his boxer briefs, sticky and damning, and he made it exactly four steps inside before his hands went to his belt.

The bedroom was too far. Hell, the couch was too far. He sagged against the entryway wall, fumbling with the button of his jeans, fingers clumsy with need.

Shane’s fist wrapped around his cock the moment his jeans hit his thighs. Four fucking steps into his own apartment and he was about to jerk off against the wall like a teenager who couldn’t control himself.

His cock was aching, blushing in his hand, wet at the tip.

When had he become this needy? He braced his free hand against the wall, sliding over the eggshell white paint. The slide was dry at first, making him groan, then slick as precome beaded at his tip and smeared across his knuckles. His other hand braced against the wall, chasing the release that had been building since the studio and since god knew how long before.

The wall was cool against his bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. Rozanov’s voice filled his head. The empty apartment around him was silent except for the wet sound of his fist, the filthy catches in his breathing.

And the fantasy—god, the fantasy wouldn’t stop:

Rozanov Rozanov Rozanov. Only this time, it wasn’t a flashback to the fake apartment, to kneeling at his knees, but an absurd, borderline insane fantasy:

He was back at the photoshoot, all the lamps and hotlights were there again and even the attendants were still there, politely watching from the sidelines as the director, Rozanov, oversaw. All of them watched as Fantasy-Rozanov circled Shane on the platform. An ad for vodka or whiskey or bedsheets about to be spoiled, it hardly mattered, not with that accented voice directing him—tilt your chin up, Hollander—watching him obey. Good. Just like that.

Shane’s real hand moved faster, his hips jerking forward into his fist.

And then, the voice in his head; the after image of his desire: Fantasy-Rozanov stepped closer, hazel eyes tracking over Shane’s body. “Take off the blazer, Hollander. Shirt too. I want to see what I’m working with.”

In his mind, Shane stripped. Buttons slipping free. Fabric falling away. The crew’s eyes on him, all of them vaguely professional, distant, taking aloof notes on clipboards like this was a normal thing. Just another shoot. Distantly, the far away part of him that was maybe still rational recalled Wolfbird’s earlier negotiations, when Rozanov had asked about exhibitionism—other people watching? Public scenes?—and he’d been adamant with his no.

The thought of real eyes on him made his skin crawl, unfathomable depths of anxiety rising up within him, threatening to drown him from the inside out, but… this wasn’t real. The only undertow he felt was one of desire, to be coveted, to be kept.

“Better.” Rozanov walked around him, boot heels clicking on the studio floor. “Now the rest. Touch yourself. Show them how eager you get. Make me want it.”

The fantasy Shane reached for his belt, nearly ripping it off, but Fantasy-Rozanov’s hand caught his wrist.

“Slower. I want them to see everything.”

Shane whimpered—an actual sound in his empty penthouse that echoed—and his grip tightened. His hips jerked forward into his fist, chasing more friction.

Fantasy-Rozanov positioned him: chin tilted up, shoulders back, one hand braced against an invisible wall. “Perfect. Let me see that pretty cock.”

The crew adjusted their equipment. Lights re-positioned. The camera operator zoomed in.

“You’re doing well,” Rozanov said in the fantasy, circling again. His fingers brushed Shane’s cheek, turning his head toward the camera. “Don’t close eyes. Look at them. Let them see how desperate you are.”

Shane’s eyes would’ve been wet. His mouth open. His cock flushed dark and leaking steadily into his fist—

His real cock, here, now, throbbed in his grip. Close, so close already—

“Touch your balls. Use both hands. Show me.”

Shane obeyed in the fantasy, always obeyed, and his real body followed. His free hand dropped, cupping himself, rolling gently while his other hand kept stroking.

The crew made approving sounds. Someone adjusted a reflector.

The fantasy unspooled further behind his eyelids: Rozanov leaned in close, boxing him in, looming over him. Rozanov positioned him exactly where he wanted, arranging him like he owned the right, manipulating his body this way and then that with firm, appreciative hands, casually directing him on how to pose, how to touch himself, how to spread his legs…

“Going to come for me, Hollander? Going to make a mess in front of all these people?”

“Yes—” The word ripped out of Shane’s mouth, real sound in his real apartment.

“Go ahead. You can come, Hollander.”

Shane’s orgasm ripped through his body, taking him apart. He unspooled, strings cutting like a marionette with a snap of relief, ramping ecstasy, one moment at the top of his zenith and then falling falling falling, shoulders dropping, knees buckling, spine curving as he slid down the wall.

His cock jerked in his grip, spilling hot across his knuckles, his wrist, splattering the floor. Another spurt, then another. His thighs shook. His free hand slapped against the wall for balance as his knees gave out halfway, sliding down an inch before he caught himself.

His cock kept twitching, emptying itself while aftershocks rolled through his gut. Streaks of come dripped down the paint. His fist was covered in it.

What the fuck.

What the fuck.

The fantasy dissolved. No crew. No cameras. No Rozanov.

Just Shane Hollander alone in his penthouse entryway with his pants around his thighs and come he’d have to clean up later. His brain was still trying to process what had happened—not the orgasm itself, but why. He’d gotten hard during a photoshoot because the director kept giving him instructions. Simple directions about where to stand, how to hold his hand, what expression to make.

That’s all it took now. Someone telling him what to do.

Shane’s head fell back against the wall with a thump.

Tilt your chin up. Show me confidence. Make me want it.

And he’d done it. Every time. Without question. Because that’s what good players did—they followed instructions, they executed the game plan, they became whatever the team needed them to be.

His cock gave a weak twitch. You are doing so well for me, Hollander. The memory of that voice could still undo him.

Shane pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. When did it start? This Pavlovian response to praise, this bone-deep need to be told he’d done well. He’d spent his entire life being directed: coaches calling plays, trainers correcting his form, PR managers shaping his words. His mother pushing him toward excellence. The league itself with its endless, grinding demands.

Good players followed instructions. Good players executed the plan. Good players became whatever the team needed them to be.

He’d thought this thing with Rozanov was about the submission, about finally letting someone else make the decisions so his brain could quiet down. And maybe it was. But it was also that he’d been trained for this his whole life, conditioned to respond to commands and praise like Pavlov’s dog with a whistle.

The perfect athlete.

The model minority that was culturally ‘obedient’ or whatever.

The good Canadian boy who never complained, never failed, never stepped out of line.

… of course he’d ended up on his knees for a man who’d looked at him and known exactly which buttons to press.

And… really, it was concerning how not terrifying the realization of that was. Instead of sending him into a spiral about what it meant, about how clearly fucked up he was, he just felt… tired. And beneath the exhaustion: want. Still there, still burning. Because knowing he’d been performing his whole life didn’t make him want it less. It didn’t make Rozanov’s voice in his head any less effective at turning his brain off.

When did obedience become arousal? When did “good job” start hitting like a drug? And why—why—did knowing this about himself only make him want it more?

Shane finally pushed himself up and went to find paper towels.

CUT TO: BLACK. SFX: TAPE FAST FORWARDING.

CUT TO: INT. SHANE’S BEDROOM - FRIDAY - 5:30 AM. SFX: ALARM SHRIEKING. SHANE HOLLANDER’S hand shoots out from beneath the mountain of blankets on his bed, and knocks the entire clock off the nightstand to the floor, unplugging it in the process. He returns to sleep.

CUT TO: INT. SHANE’S BEDROOM - FRIDAY - 11:47 AM. Sunlight is cutting in through the blinds from the floor to ceiling windows. Shane Hollander is, bizarrely, still in bed.

… he really should get up. Shane scrubbed hands over his face again, blotting out the sun with his fingers. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d slept in, much less to almost noon. Today was an off day, sure, but that didn’t mean that he could waste it by sleeping and laying here. There were things to do! He should work out. He should work on the million emails from his agent, follow up with Tag Heuer after yesterday’s shoot, he should…

… probably text Rozanov. It’d been over a week now.

He shuffled to the kitchen instead and pulled a protein shake from the fridge. Vanilla. He drank it standing at the counter, scrolling through his phone with his free hand.

Hi, I know it’s been a while

No. That sounded apologetic, like he’d done something wrong by having a job.

Are you still available for private sessions?

Christ, that was worse—formal enough to be a business email. Dear Mr. Rozanov, I am writing to inquire about your services.

If Rozanov came here—to his house—where would he even sit? The sectional couch faced windows that overlooked downtown and that… felt… too exposed for what might, hopefully, happen. The bedroom felt presumptuous. The kitchen had exactly two stools at the empty marble island because Shane never had guests over, and there was something very unsexy about it all.

And, worse, the logistics of getting him here were even more off putting. Shane’s building had a doorman. Security cameras. A parking garage with assigned spots and a concierge who knew his name. He imagined Rozanov standing awkwardly in the lobby while Shane fumbled explanations, imagined someone recognizing him, asking questions, filing it away. He was pacing. There was guest parking but it required notice. The service elevator needed a keycard.

Shane stopped pacing. The service elevator?

He pictured it: telling Rozanov to take the freight entrance around back, the one the cleaners and delivery people used. There were big, grungy, metal doors that opened onto the loading dock. The fluorescent-lit hallway that smelled like cleaning supplies and exhaust fumes.

The fuck?

Shane was pacing again, shaking his head. No, no he couldn’t do that. That was rude, even he could see how that was blatantly insulting. Sure, maybe, a session was a ‘service’ but Rozanov was still a person…

But the main elevator meant walking through the lobby together. Past the doorman’s desk. Past the seating area where the lady from 28B liked to read her newspaper. Under the cameras that fed to the security office where Shane had nodded hello to the guard maybe three hundred times.

What would he even say? This is my friend Rozanov, sorry I don’t know his first name? They’d never seen Shane with friends before. My personal trainer? At eight PM on a Tuesday? My physical agent? Who made house calls after hours? My cousin? A relative from out of town?

Ew ew ew. No.

His phone buzzed against the counter.

Shane grabbed it like a lifeline.

Shane stared at the screen. When was the last time he’d invited anyone here? His parents visited twice a year and that required three days of preparation: stocking the fridge with food he didn’t eat, hiding evidence of his actual life, setting up the guest room like a hotel. Hayden had never been here. None of his teammates had. His agent conducted all their meetings at restaurants or the arena and really it was so much harder to get someone here than it was to go meet them there, so that’s why there was even a ‘usual spot’ at all.

His penthouse was thirty-two hundred square feet of ostentatious luxury that might as well have been a museum exhibit: Habitat of the Professional Athlete, circa 2017. Note the untouched kitchen, the furniture arranged for viewing rather than living, the complete absence of anything suggesting a human occupies this space.

When did that happen? When did he start treating his own home like enemy territory? When did having someone over—anyone over—become an impossible task requiring military-level logistics?

Shane typed back yes to Hayden before he could overthink that too.

Their ‘usual’ spot was a café near the practice facility, and for a Sunday, it was remarkably slow. Hayden was already at their usual table, scrolling through his phone with a coffee the size of his head.

“Jackie’s obsessed with this reality show,” Hayden said instead of hello. “I swear to god, Holls, she makes me watch people argue about whether someone’s couch matches their throw pillows for an hour. An hour of my life I’ll never get back.”

Shane slid into the chair across from him. “So don’t watch it.”

“Oh I tried that. Big mistake.” Hayden leaned back, doing his best impression of his wife’s voice—high and affronted. “’So you don’t care about spending quality time together? You’d rather just ignore me?’ And then I’m the asshole.”

“You are the asshole.”

“See? Even you’re on her side.” Hayden grinned and took a long pull of coffee. “Anyway. What’ve you been up to? Feel like I haven’t seen you outside the rink in weeks.”

Shane chewed his bottom lip. When had he last seen Hayden outside practice? “Nothing much. The usual.”

“That’s depressing.” Hayden set down his cup. “We should grab dinner sometime. You, me, Jackie. She keeps asking when you’re coming over.”

Hayden was a good friend, always putting in the effort. Shane wished he knew how Hayden could just make it seem so easy. Just come over. Dinner. No big deal.

“Yeah, that’d be good,” he heard himself say.

They argued about whether the team should trade for a defenseman from Carolina. Hayden thought yes, Shane thought the asking price was too high. Neither of them cared that much and it was meaningless and good and Shane felt his shoulders drop for the first time all week.

“There’s this new arcade bar that opened on Saint-Laurent,” Hayden said, draining his coffee. “We should check it out.”

Shane started to decline—his default response to anything social—but Hayden was already standing, pulling on his jacket.

“Come on. Be brave. Live a little bit.”

The arcade was loud and smelled like old carpet. Hayden won every game of ski-ball while talking endless trash. Shane lost at air hockey, at racing games, at everything involving hand-eye coordination that wasn’t on ice. Worse, his mind was still swirling about logistics. If he couldn’t handle an arcade with Hayden, how was he supposed to have Rozanov at his penthouse? What did people even do when someone came over? Offer drinks? Food? Sit on the couch and talk?

How did this work?

Pathetic. He’d negotiated million-dollar contracts and faced down opponents twice his size, but the idea of Rozanov sitting on his sectional made his brain short-circuit.

“Hollander. Are you alive over there?”

Shane blinked. Hayden was holding out a ski-ball, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“You’re distracted as hell today.” Hayden rolled the ball between his palms. “Everything good?”

“Fine. Tired.” Shane took the ball, aimed without looking, released. It clattered into the gutter.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. You’re somewhere else.” Hayden collected another ball. “Is it the press stuff? I saw that interview on Tuesday. It looked rough.”

“It’s always rough.”

“Yeah, but you looked like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin.” Hayden landed his ball in the center ring. “Just saying. If you need to vent about the media circus or whatever, I’m around.”

The offer was genuine. Shane could hear it. And the instinct to deflect—I’m fine, don’t worry about me—rose up automatically as breathing.

But Hayden kept going. “Jackie says I’m shit at the feelings stuff, but I can listen. Or we can keep losing at arcade games and not talk about it. Whatever works.”

Shane fed another token into the machine. The balls clattered down the chute. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what? Ski-ball? Yeah, clearly.”

“No. This.” Shane gestured vaguely between them, at the arcade, at the easy way Hayden existed in the world. “Just... hanging out. Being normal.”

Hayden’s expression shifted, something careful entering his eyes. “Holls. You know you’re allowed to have a life outside hockey, right?”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because you’re wound so tight I’m surprised you don’t snap.” Hayden rolled another ball, not looking at him. “When’s the last time you had someone over? Not your parents. Not team stuff. Actually had a friend at your place?”

The question landed like a cross-check. Shane’s hands curled around the metal rail of the ski-ball machine.

“I don’t—I don’t really do that.”

“Why not?”

Because I don’t know how. Because my home isn’t a home, it’s a showroom. Because I’ve spent so long being Shane Hollander the hockey player that I don’t know how to be anything else, and if you saw my actual life you’d realize there’s nothing there.

“It’s easier to go out, I guess.” Shane said instead.

Hayden studied him for a long moment, then seemed to decide to let it go. “Alright. But the offer stands. You ever want to just exist somewhere that isn’t a rink or a camera, my place is always open.”

They played a few more games. Shane button-mashed his way through something with race cars and won purely on luck—mashing a button at exactly the right millisecond—and Hayden threw his hands up.

“That’s such bullshit. You didn’t even aim.”

“Fortune favors the bold,” Shane said, grinning.

“You were button mashing.”

“Boldly.”

They stayed until the beer got warm and Hayden had to head home. Outside, the sun was setting, painting Saint-Laurent in orange light.

“We should do this more often,” Hayden said. “It’s been too long.”

Shane agreed because that’s what you did when someone offered friendship. You agreed and meant it and had no idea how to actually follow through. And he did want to.

Walking back to his car, Hayden’s earlier question echoed: When’s the last time you had someone over? And then: fortune favors the bold. Hayden made it all so easy with his ‘hey come over’ and maybe it wasn’t such a big deal? Did it have to be? Maybe texting Rozanov wasn’t an impossible task. Like maybe he could just... do it.

CUT TO: BLACK. SFX: TAPE FAST FORWARDING.

But… not tonight, Shane realized, after trying and failing to send a text for a half hour.

Fuck.

CUT TO: BLACK. SFX: TAPE FAST FORWARDING.

CUT TO: INT. BELL CENTRE - SATURDAY NIGHT.

Saturday’s game against Toronto was mechanical: Montreal up 3-1, running the clock, going through motions Shane could execute in his sleep. The post-game presser was mercifully short. Three questions about team effort, then out with the team, and then he was free to sit in his car in an empty parking garage, staring at Rozanov’s contact and promising himself he’d text tomorrow.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow.

CUT TO: BLACK. SFX: TAPE FAST FORWARDING - SUDDENLY STOPS. There is a loud MECHANICAL CLICK, and the image flickers.

TITLE CARD: “Today”

CUT TO: INT. SHANE’S BEDROOM - SUNDAY - 7:00 AM. The alarm clock is back on the nightstand but unplugged. SHANE HOLLANDER is, miraculously, awake and up anyway, though he’s still slept in.

What a bizarre feeling. There was no practice today, no game, no film review, no social obligations, no… anything… that needed to be done immediately. What did people do when they didn’t already have everything mapped out? How did they even know where to start? Just like that, Shane found himself thinking about that day, weeks ago now, where he’d ambled around Montreal with an aimless, nearly anthropological, exploration trying to answer the same thing:

Where did people go anymore, where do people without hockey even go?

What did he have outside of hockey?

The question sat in his chest like a stone. No, that wasn’t quite right. Stones were solid, knowable. This was more like the hollow spaces between his ribs, the places where something should be but wasn’t. This was closer to solastalgia, a word he’d read in studies in schools and remembered for no reason apart from the fact that it felt like him, it felt like his heart, and it felt like the homesickness for a life that he’d never been allowed to build.

He lay there another thirty seconds—a luxury as unfamiliar as free time—then swung his legs out of bed.

The penthouse was silent around him. The familiar floor-to-ceiling windows showed Montreal waking up below, early risers jogging along the waterfront, coffee shops opening their doors. Shane padded to the kitchen and blended up a protein shake. Chocolate this time, since he was feeling daring, which he drank standing in the middle of the living room, looking out at the city.

In the skyline, the day stretched ahead with no shape to it.

Shane worked out because that was what he did on Sundays. Except usually there was a schedule: forty minutes weights, twenty cardio, stretching routine. Today he loaded the bar, pressed it six times, then stopped and stared at the ceiling. His mind drifted. Rozanov’s hands on his shoulders, working out the knots. You are too tense, Hollander.

He added more weight and tried again.

After the shower, he stood in his closet and stared at his clothes. Everything hung in color-coded sections—suits, dress shirts, casual wear organized by season. When had he done that? He grabbed jeans and a hoodie and felt like he was playing dress-up.

The fridge held the same meal prep containers. He ate one standing at the counter, the chicken and rice tasteless in his mouth. His phone sat three feet away, screen dark.

Text him.

Shane put the container in the sink and walked to the windows. The St. Lawrence stretched out below, sunlight sparkling off the water. He’d lived in this building for two years and couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually looked at the view instead of past it.

He should run errands. Dry cleaning. Groceries. The car needed washing.

Instead he sat on the couch and scrolled through his phone. Twitter showed highlights from last night’s game—his two goals, the assists. Comments praising his play. Someone had made a GIF of him smiling during the celly, and fans were calling him “adorable” and “wholesome” and arguing in the replies about whether he was dating anyone.

Shane closed the app.

His thumb hovered over messages. Opened them. Rozanov’s contact sat there, unchanged since last Friday when Shane had promised to think about private sessions.

A week ago. He’d left Rozanov waiting a week.

The screen went dark. Shane set the phone face down on the couch cushion and stood. Paced to the kitchen. Back to the windows. His reflection stared back at him in the glass—hoodie, messy hair, no performance required.

He’d spent all week thinking about Rozanov. During the commercial shoot when the director’s instructions had made him hard. During practice when his body had moved on autopilot. Late at night when he’d replayed that session in room eleven over and over, Rozanov’s voice in his ear, Rozanov’s hands positioning him exactly where he wanted.

I want you in a bed tonight.

It’d been the most powerful, awe-inspiring, orgasm of his life. I broke myself. And then spent a week avoiding the man who’d made it happen.

His phone buzzed from the couch. Shane lunged for it—then saw his mother’s name on the screen.

He typed back:

He set the phone down and stared at it.

Fortune favors the bold.

This wasn’t bold. This was texting someone back after a week of radio silence. This was basic human decency.

Shane picked up the phone, opened Rozanov’s contact, and started typing before his brain could intervene.

Hi. Are you free this week?

His thumb hovered over send. The apartment was silent. Thirty floors below, the city breathed—traffic and voices and life continuing without him. Up here, nothing. Just Shane and the text he couldn’t quite send, the want he couldn’t quite name.

Fortune favors the bold.

He hit send before he could think better of it.

The message showed as delivered. No typing indicator appeared. Shane set the phone on the counter and walked away and made it three steps before walking back and checking again.

Still nothing. That was fine and normal. Shane knew this was normal. But the waiting felt like standing at center ice before a faceoff. That suspended moment when everything narrows to a single point: the puck, the opponent’s eyes, the ref’s hand. Anticipation so sharp it bordered on pain.

Agony.

He was being ridiculous. Rozanov probably had clients on Sundays. Or a life. Or literally anything better to do than wait around for Shane Hollander to get his shit together.

The phone buzzed.

Shane grabbed it so fast he nearly fumbled it onto the floor.

Heat flooded Shane’s face despite being alone in his apartment. He typed: No I didn’t forget then deleted it. Tried: Sorry for the delay and deleted that too. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. What did he even say? How did he explain—

The three dots appeared immediately.

Shane stared at the screen. Yes, what? What kind of response was that? He started typing: Yes I’m here, sorry, I’ve been meaning to text but the week was—

Shane’s thumb froze mid-word.

Wait, what? Shane’s phone lit up before he could process it.

Incoming call: Rozanov.

Shane’s thumb hit accept before his brain caught up. “He—uh–hello?”

“Hollander.” That accent, those rolling consonants, sharper than Shane remembered but no less affecting. The sound wrapped around Shane’s name like Rozanov still had hands on him. “For such a talented man, you are terrible at texting. Absolutely terrible. I am watching you type, delete, type again, delete again. What, you can’t make words in language that you speak? Is making me crazy.”

“I—what?”

“For centuries I am waiting for you to send three words. So I call instead because this is ridiculous and I have better things to do than watch dots on screen.” A pause. “So. Tell me. What was so important this week that you forget how to use phone?”

Shane’s brain scrambled for an answer that wouldn’t sound like excuses.

“Hollander.”

“I had two games this week. Tuesday and Saturday. Plus practices, film review, a commercial shoot, press conferences—”

“So you were busy. This I understand. Even hedgehog understands.” Rozanov’s voice held dark amusement that Shane could practically feel through the phone. “But you have phone, yes? You have thumbs? You can send text that says ‘Rozanov, I am busy this week, will contact you when I can breathe.’ This is not difficult.”

“You’re right. I should have—”

“Stop apologizing. Is annoying.” A pause. Shane heard movement on the other end, fabric rustling. “You still want to see me or no? You can say no. I prefer honesty to... whatever this is you are doing.”

Shane’s mouth had gone dry. “Sorry, I should have—I.. of course I want to see you, shit, I—”

“Enough, Hollander. You are sorry, it is fine. So. When you want to see me?”

“Tuesday? At eight? At my place. I sent you the address.”

“Yes, I see address. Very fancy building. Doorman?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm. This is fine. I do private sessions at buildings like this before. Tell doorman I am personal trainer or physiotherapist coming for appointment. They never question this. Athletes always need fixing.”

A beat.

“And you look very breakable.”

“I–oh.” Shane’s shoulders dropped with relief he hadn’t known he was holding. “Yeah. That—that works.”

“Good. I text you when I arrive at lobby. You tell doorman my name, that I am expected. Simple.” The rustling sound again. “Tuesday at eight. I will be there. Anything else you need to tell me before then?”

Shane’s mouth opened. Closed. His brain supplied a thousand things—I’ve been thinking about you all week, I jerked off four steps inside my front door because I couldn’t wait, the photo shoot made me hard because the director kept giving me instructions and all I could think about was you—

“Hollander. You are doing the thing again where you think very loud but say nothing.”

“I just...” Shane exhaled. “I’ve been thinking about last time. A lot.”

“Mmm. A lot?” And there it was, a barely there, amused lilt in his voice. “What parts are you thinking about?”

“All of it.” Shane paced to the windows, pressed his forehead against the glass. The city sprawled below, indifferent. “Just... everything.”

“That tells me nothing, Hollander.”

Shane’s face burned. “I can’t—I don’t know how to—”

“Try.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Good. Tell me anyway.”

Shane’s breath fogged the glass. “When you... when I was...”

He couldn’t finish.

“When you were on your knees?” Rozanov supplied, amused. His voice was more of a purr, a croon, now, with a horrible, wonderful, little rasp. “When I had my cock in your mouth? When I made you show off for me like good little pet?”

Shane’s entire body went hot. “Yeah. That.”

“Which part specifically?”

“All of it,” Shane repeated miserably.

“How pretty you looked between my legs? Or maybe each time I made you stop?”

Shane’s cock twitched in his jeans. “Yes. Yes. Can we—can we not do this?”

“But you are so cute when you are embarrassed.” Rozanov laughed, and the sound was going right to Shane’s dick. “Have you touched yourself this week, Hollander?”

Shane’s hand found the window frame, gripping. “I—yes.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t—” Shane swallowed. “A few.”

“A few. What is few? Two? Five? Ten?” Rozanov’s voice held amusement now. “You can tell me. Or you can lie and I will still know.”

Shane’s fingers tightened on the frame. “Maybe... Twice?”

“Twice, so you mean three.” A low sound that might have been approval. “And you are getting hard right now, yes? Just from talking about me?”

Shane glanced down. His cock pressed against his zipper, obvious and demanding. “...yes.”

“Touch yourself.”

Shane’s hand moved before the words finished processing. His palm cupped himself through his jeans and the pressure pulled a hiss past his lips. Through the phone, Shane heard rustling. Fabric, movement. Then a sharp inhale. Was Rozanov also...?

“Wait—I thought—Tuesday—”

“Tuesday I will see you in person. Right now I am on phone and I want to hear what you sound like when you touch yourself.” Rozanov’s voice dropped into that lower register, the one that made Shane’s knees weak. “Unless you want to wait until Tuesday. You can do that if you prefer. Hang up now and be good boring boy and wait two days.”

Shane’s hand stayed where it was, pressed against his erection. Two days felt impossible.

“Or… stay. I have been thinking about you all week too, Hollander.” Rozanov continued, and his voice had gone rougher. More rustling, then a distinct wet sound. “My cock has been hard so many times thinking of what I will do to you if you ever reached out. I have been waiting. So now you can unzip your jeans and show me how much you have been thinking about me. But Hollander—this is session. You understand? You want this, you pay for it like before. You want?”

Always consent first.

“Yes. Okay. I’ll pay.” Shane’s free hand fumbled with his zipper. “How much?”

“Hm, phone so—” a pause, and Shane realized that Rozanov was likely calculating a rate, “—let’s say two hundred. I send you link to pay.”

“Fine. Yes. Okay.”

And just like that, the link came. Shane paid, his phone making a little whoosh noise and it was gone.

“Good. Now take out your cock and tell me what you are wearing.”

Shane shoved his jeans down his thighs, his boxer briefs following. His cock sprang free, already flushed and leaking. “Jeans. Hoodie. That’s—that’s it now.”

“Where are you?”

“My living room. By the windows,” Shane said, but even as he spoke he felt himself… sinking. Floating? That tingling feeling was coming back.

“Anyone can see you?”

“No. I’m thirty floors up.”

“Mm. Pity.” Rozanov’s voice held dark amusement. “Are you hard for me, Hollander? All wet for me already? Stroke yourself. Slow. I want you to last.”

He did, and obedience flooded him with relief. With trembling fingers, the slide was dry at first, then slick as precome beaded at his tip. His breathing went ragged immediately. He could hear Rozanov’s breathing change too—heavier, catching on something. The unmistakable sound of skin on skin, and Shane wished that he could see—

“You still there, Hollander?” Rozanov asked, voice almost sounding distant.

“Yeah, sorry, my hands are shaking a little,” Shane breathed. “F-fuck, Rozanov, are you—”

“Yes,” Rozanov said , his voice low and dark, rumbling through the phone to curl in Shane’s gut. “And I want you tell me what you thought about. This week when you touched yourself. Give me details. I want to picture you being so needy for me.”

“I—” Shane’s hand moved faster despite the instruction to go slow. He forced himself to ease up. “Thursday. After the photo shoot. I got home and I...”

“You what?”

“I—I barely—” Shane’s hand moved faster despite himself. “I couldn’t even make it—ah—bedroom. I just, mmmngh, against the wall, I—came so hard, Rozanov, fuck.”

“Bednyy shchenok,” Rozanov drawled, and the mock sympathy needed no translation. “Because?”

“The director kept—” Shane’s hips rolled into his fist. “Giving me directions. Tilt this way, look there, hold still. And I got—” He paused, sucking in a breath. “Hard. In front of all those people because all I could think about was your voice telling me what to do, and… shit…”

“What else?” Rozanov’s breathing had changed too, slightly heavier. “What else did you think about?”

“Your hands in my hair.” Shane’s grip tightened on his cock. “Holding me down. Not letting me move even when I—” His voice cracked. “Your cock in my mouth and I had no idea what I was doing but you told me I was good and I—fuck—”

“Slower, Hollander. Don’t you want to be good for me? My good boy?”

Shane’s hand stuttered to a crawl. His thighs shook.

“Do you have toys, Hollander?” Rozanov’s voice was silken in his ears, tracing his skin like a caress. “Things to use when you touch yourself?”

“I—what?”

“Toys. Vibrator? Plug? Dildo?” Rozanov’s tone stayed casual, like he was asking about the weather.

“I have—” Shane swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “A dildo.”

“Da?” Interest sharpened Rozanov’s voice. “What color?”

“Does that—does that matter?”

“Humor me.”

“Purple,” Shane admitted, mortified.

Rozanov made a delighted sound, a laugh, and Shane nearly gasped at the flush of arousal that flashed through him. Even his laugh was sinful.

“Perfect. Go get it.”

“R-right now?”

“No, tomorrow. Yes, right now. I will wait.”

Shane set the phone down and walked to his bedroom on unsteady legs, his cock bobbing with each step. He pulled open his nightstand drawer and grabbed the toy; purple silicone, nothing fancy, something he’d ordered online at two AM and hidden the moment it arrived.

Back in the living room, he picked up the phone. “I have it.”

“Good. You have lube?”

“In the bedroom.”

“Bozhe moy, Hollander. Go get that too. Do you like running these errands for me? Is that it?”

Another trip, this time faster. Shane grabbed the bottle and returned, his cock aching from being ignored.

“Okay. I have everything.”

“Sit on your couch. Get comfortable.”

Shane collapsed onto the sectional, the leather cool against his bare ass. “Okay.”

“Put phone on speaker. I want your hands free.”

Shane fumbled with the screen, set the phone beside him. Rozanov’s voice filled the room, disembodied and commanding.

“Now. Lube on your fingers. Touch yourself. Not your cock—I know you want to, but no. I want you to open yourself up first. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.” Shane’s hand trembled as he squeezed lube onto his fingers. Cold. The shock of it made him hiss.

“Good. Now reach back. Slowly.”

He obeyed with slicked fingers, reaching between his legs, the first press inside making him gasp, body resisting. That ring of muscle was tight at first, shy, then accepting. Warm. So different from the slick coolness of the lube. He could hear it, the wet sound of his finger sliding in with an obscene squelch, and his face burned knowing Rozanov could hear it too.

“How does it feel?” Rozanov asked, and something in his tone said he already knew.

“Good. I–ah. Weird. I don’t—I don’t do this much.”

“But you will do it for me now, yes? Add another finger when you are ready. Imagine mine, thick and pressing in, all the way to knuckle.”

“Hnngh!” Shane groaned, but did as asked, working himself open diligently. One finger becoming two, the stretch burning and then easing into something better. His cock leaked steadily against his stomach, untouched and craving. Shane could hear everything—the wet schlick when his fingers pressed in, the rhythmic plap of it. And… And so could Rozanov.

“Fuck,” Rozanov’s voice was strained now. “You sound so wet. I can hear you. Can hear what you are doing to yourself.” A groan, followed by faster movement on Rozanov’s end. “I wish it was my fingers. I want to feel how tight you are. Tell me when you are ready for toy.”

“I-I’ve got two fingers i-in me,” Shane whined, trembling. “Now. I’m—I need—”

“Need what?”

“More. I need more.”

“Ready for the toy now?” Rozanov asked.

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay. Go slow for me. I want you to feel every inch going in.”

Shane grabbed the dildo with shaking hands and slicked it. The lube was obscene—too much, dripping down the purple silicone, pooling in his palm. He positioned himself, the tip pressing against his opening, and closed his eyes.

And there—behind his eyelids—was Rozanov.

Fantasy-Rozanov, with his angular face and cheekbones that looked carved from marble, kneeling between Shane’s spread thighs. His brown hair was slicked back the way it had been that first night, curly and damp from exertion, and those startling clear hazel eyes watched Shane with an intensity that made his skin prickle. Shane could almost smell that spicy, woodsy cologne. One of his hands around the base of his own cock, the other guiding Shane’s hand. Like this, Fantasy-Rozanov mouthed while Real-Rozanov rumbled in his ear. Let me watch you take it.

Shane pushed the head inside. The toy was cold at first, firmer than fingers, the stretch immediate and demanding. He had to breathe through it, had to force his body to accept the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Through the phone, Rozanov’s breathing had changed. “Tell me. What do you feel?”

“Full. God, it’s—it’s so much, I—” Shane pushed another inch, and his spine curved, back arching off the couch. Fantasy-Rozanov’s hand pressed against his stomach, holding him down. Stay still. Let it open you up.

“You are doing so well,” real-Rozanov said, and the praise went straight to Shane’s cock, made it throb against his belly. “Halfway now?”

“I think—yes. Fuck.”

“Good boy, good fucking boy, Hollander. Fuck,” Rozanov moaned over the phone, sounding afflicted. “How much can you take?”

“I don’t—”

“Breathe. Take more. For me.”

Another inch. Shane’s thighs shook.

“Mm. Good. You are doing so well. Little bit more.”

Shane bore down, took another inch, then another. His cock throbbed untouched, precome pooling on his stomach.

“Bozhe moy.” Rozanov’s breath hitched. Shane heard it: the faster pace, Rozanov’s fist working his cock. Schlick schlick schlick. He could almost picture it, that long, beautiful cock straining just for him, begging to be licked, shining with spit, lube, anything. “I am so hard for you, Hollander. Thinking of you split open like this. Blyat. Can—can you go take more? Tell me if too much.”

“No, I—unhg—I can, I can… ah!”

Fantasy-Rozanov’s hand cupped Shane’s face, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

Real-Rozanov made a noise Shane never heard from the man before, edging on a snarl. “Do you have any idea how you sound right now? You have all of it? You are okay?”

“Yes…!” Shane’s voice cracked. The toy was seated fully now, and he felt split open, exposed despite being alone. “So good. Don’t make me stop, please—”

“Khorosho. Okay. Just checking. Good?”

“Yes! God, yes.”

“Such a good boy for me, I wish I was there right now. Now touch your cock. Stroke yourself while you move the toy.”

Shane wrapped his hand around himself again, his shaft flushed dark and throbbing, and started moving. The dual sensation made his vision blur. Every thrust of the toy dragged over that spot inside him, and his fist felt too good, too much, and he was already spiraling toward the edge.

“I’m, shit, I’m close—”

“Stop.”

“No! No Rozanov, please.”

“Hollander. Stop touching your cock. Hands off. Now.”

Shane obeyed with a sob, his hand falling away, and he actually whined, a sound that came from the back of his throat, high and needy and pathetic. His cock bobbed against his stomach, leaking steadily. “Rozanov, please—”

“Not yet, solnyshko. Be patient.”

“But I—I’m so—” Shane could barely form words. Fantasy-Rozanov had vanished. There was only sensation now with the toy still buried inside him, his cock aching for touch, the couch leather sticky against his back.

“I know. I know you want to come. My poor boy. But this is how you will remember me until Tuesday. Every time you want to touch yourself, you will remember this feeling. How much you need me.” Rozanov’s breathing was labored too. “Fuck, Hollander, I am close. Going to come just from hearing you beg. Keep going, and spread your legs. Do you feel me between them?”

Whining instead of answering, Shane wrapped his hand around his cock, already slick, flushed dark, throbbing in his palm, while his other hand worked the toy. He could, God, he could, and Fantasy-Rozanov was back, the deep athletic V of his abdomen and cut waist settled so nicely between his thighs, cock plunging in and out in time with his hand, snap snap snap. Oh fuck, he could feel the slap of each thrust, kisses of his pelvis at a cruel, wonderful pace.

He tentatively rolled his hips and undulated his spine like a snake, and he slid halfway off the toy, then pushed back on, that dual sensation made his vision blur, making him moan so loud he would’ve been embarrassed if he could think past the need building in his gut. His hips lifted off the couch, chasing sensation from both sides. The phone broadcast his gasps and moans into the room, filling the space with evidence of how desperately he needed this.

“I can hear how wet you are; you are making such pretty sounds for me, Hollander,” Rozanov murmured. “I wish I could see it. Imagine is me fucking you. My cock instead of toy. Would you want this?”

“Y–yeah.”

“Tsk. No, Hollander. You will need to ask me much nicer than pathetic ‘yeah’. Say it properly.”

“I want—” Shane’s hand moved faster. His skin felt hot, like he was baking under the sun, and he could feel sweat on his forehead and across his back, and the brush of leather from his couch against the back of his thighs. It’d be so much better if, god he wanted, if only he was in Rozanov’s lap, feeling his skin instead of this leather. The fantasy of Rozanov’s hands, Rozanov’s weight, Rozanov’s—

All sense, and words, caught behind his teeth, trapped. He’d never said them out loud before, much less asked for this. He’d never wanted to ask.

But he did want it.

God, he wanted it so badly he ached. Shane’s filter was disintegrating, the careful walls he’d built around himself crumbling under the weight of Rozanov’s voice. It was a relief, he realized, to finally admit what he wanted to someone. To come clean. Because with Rozanov, it felt too late to lie, and maybe he didn’t want to anymore anyway.

“I want you to fuck me,” Shane’s heart hammered against his ribs, too far-flung to even be ashamed. “Please. I want your cock inside me, I want—”

“Tuesday,” Rozanov promised. “Tuesday, if you are good, if you ask me nicely, maybe I will give you this. But only if you are good for me now. Only if you wait until I say you can come.”

Shane’s hand faltered. His cock throbbed in his grip, the toy buried deep, and he was so close already it hurt.

“Not yet,” Rozanov said, reading him perfectly. “Slower. Both hands. Make it last.”

Shane whimpered but obeyed, slowing his strokes, gentling the rhythm of the toy. The orgasm that had been building pulled back fractionally, leaving him teetering.

“That’s it. You are doing so well for me, Hollander. Being so good.”

Shane’s entire body went warm. Not just his face—his chest, his stomach, down to his fingertips. Heat bloomed through him like ink in water, spreading, inevitable, coloring everything in pleasure. He looked down at himself, legs splayed and spread on his own couch, one hand wrapped around his cock, the other working a dildo in and out of his hole while a man on the phone told him he was good.

Good.

The word settled into him the way breath settled into lungs. Essential. Life-sustaining. He’d built his entire identity on being good—good player, good son, good teammate, good role model. All he ever wanted was to be good, please let me be good, I am trying, and here—Rozanov—made it so easy, all he had to do was be. He only had to be himself and be honest. All he had to do was feel, and that was good, it was allowed, and Rozanov said it like a benediction, making it mean something Shane had never considered before.

This was better than scoring a goal. Better than anything.

“Please.”

“Not yet. Little bit longer.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. Breathe. Stay with me. Such a good boy for me—” Rozanov’s voice broke on a groan, the rhythm of his hand audible, faster, impatient even. “Khoroshiy mal’chik, fuck, Hollander—”

Oh fuck, oh fuck, was he coming?

Through the phone, Shane heard it: Rozanov’s breathing going ragged, a low groan, the wet sound of him spilling over his fist.

Shane whined, trying to picture it, working himself faster.

In his mind’s eye, he could see Rozanov, his head thrown back, exposing the long column of his neck, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed back his own sounds. His free hand would be braced against something, knuckles white with tension, while the other worked his cock. Shane knew that mouth would be open, lips wet and swollen kissing. Biting, oh god please. He’d have that desperate, almost pained expression from before, right before he came—eyebrows drawn together, a flush creeping up from his chest to his cheeks.

Shane’s chest was heaving, sweat gathering at his temples. The toy filled him perfectly and his cock ached in his fist and Rozanov’s voice wrapped around him, wrapping him, enveloping. He could feel him everywhere. Shane kept producing sounds he couldn’t control—ah-ah-nnh—each one more mortifying than the last because Rozanov could hear him, and was listening to every pathetic unh Shane couldn’t swallow back.

“Now, Hollander.”

That’s all. Just his name, but in that specific tone—the one that meant permission granted, you’ve earned this.

Shane’s hand moved twice more—three times—and—oh!

His orgasm punched through him, knocking all the air from his lungs like a cross check. Recoil. His head snapped back with a cry, back arching, hips jerking up into his fist while the toy shifted deep inside him, dragging another broken sound from him. He came in hot ropes across his stomach, his chest, one streak hitting his chin. The toy, his cock, his hand—everything was too much and not enough, his body wringing itself out until he collapsed boneless against the cushions.

“Bozhe,” Rozanov breathed, and there was another rustle of fabric as he maybe righted his own trousers. “You sound beautiful when you come apart.”

Shane couldn’t speak. His hand fell away from his cock, trembling. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

“You are okay?” Rozanov asked, gentler now.

“Yeah. I’m—yeah.”

“Good. Stay there. Catch your breath.”

Shane lay there listening to his own heartbeat, to Rozanov’s breathing on the other end. The apartment settled around him. His release cooled on his skin as he pulled the toy free to deal with later.

“So,” Rozanov said eventually. “Tuesday at eight. I will bring everything we need. You just need to let me in door and try not to panic about doorman, yes?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“And Hollander? Between now and then—no touching yourself.”

Shane’s spent cock gave a valiant twitch. “I… um. Rozanov that’s… that’s two days.”

“I know, I can do math. And you can do this. You are very good at following instructions when you want to be. Don’t you want to wait? Don’t you remember how good it felt to wait for me?”

Shane did remember. His back arching off the bed, unable to control it. Coming so hard his vision whited out. The orgasm that kept going and going until he’d actually cried from the intensity of it. Every nerve ending in his body firing at once because Rozanov had made him wait, had edged him until Shane’s entire existence narrowed to desperate need.

“What if I—” Shane swallowed. “What if I can’t wait?”

“Then you can’t. But I think you can, and I think you will wait. You want to be good for me Tuesday, yes?”

“... yes.”

“Then you will get your treat, like all good dog. Now go clean yourself up. Drink water. Rest.”

“Okay.”

“I see you Tuesday, Hollander.”

The call disconnected.

Shane stared at his ceiling. His body: loose, sated, wrung out like a cloth. His mind: suspiciously quiet for once, the hornets finally gone still.

The phone sat on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. His come was cooling on his skin, tacky between his fingers.

Two hundred dollars. He’d paid two hundred dollars for that, and the afterglow was fading. Reality crept in through the cracks.

What was he doing?

He felt— he wasn’t sure. It was heavy, but it wasn’t quite shame or guilt; he’d wanted this, had asked for it, had gotten off so hard his legs were still shaking. But something else? What was it? Feelings were so hard, fuck.

It felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, a precipice, and realizing only now he’d already stepped off, and now gravity had him, and there was no going back.

Shane’s hand found his phone. Rozanov’s contact stared back at him, the call log showing 00:23:47. Twenty-three minutes and forty-seven seconds.

He’d paid $8.40 per minute to be told what to do.

The math was absurd. The whole thing was absurd. Shane Hollander, Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, lying on his couch covered in his own come with a dildo because a voice on a phone had told him to, and he’d come apart like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear a single scrap of that honeyed praise.

Maybe he had been.

It was worth it. And he was already looking forward to Tuesday. Not the voice this time—the man himself. Rozanov in his space, in his home, in his bed. Shane had asked for it. Begged for it.

I want you to fuck me. Please.

The words hung in the empty apartment like ghosts, the same want in all their mouths:

Please. Please. Please.

FADE OUT

Chapter End Notes

My Hollanov fics on AO3

Oh wow, inch by inch, we’re getting closer to that private visit… and, some news I think everyone will be excited about: that first private visit will be from Ilya’s POV! We’ve had some fun with Shane’s POV during scenes, and now it’s time to flip that. Dom POV vs. Sub POV is always a fun shift for me.

It was actually not my plan to edge everyone with the wait for private visits, but I hear everyone's shrieks about it, lol. I knew I wanted that part to be in Ilya's POV, and it deserves its own chapter; I promise the wait will be worth it. Also, to everyone agonizing about the wait, please allow me to quote Mr. Rozanov from Chapter 5:

“I will take you right to the edge. So sensitive that even small touch makes you crazy. And when I finally let you come…”

A pause.

“It will ruin everything else for you.”

Hang in there babes!

A few misc housekeeping things/notes:

1. You may have noticed that I turned off guest comments… and… ow, my heart hurt to do it. I love my guest readers and this was not a choice I made lightly, but I am getting (across all my works) too many spam/bot/hate comments and I needed to make a boundary just for peace of mind. Anyone reading here without an account can still send me things on Bsky or Tumblr! I have always historically responded to every comment on a fic, and I will keep trying to do that until I just physically can’t keep up anymore lol.

2. After some (actually hilarious) feedback from readers, I did go ahead and update the description of this fic. I think this version is snappier and better reflects the work and not just Shane’s experience.

3. My undying thanks to the Game Changers wiki for the names of all the different background players!

4. Originally, this chapter was called "Myasorubka" (Meatgrinder), but in speaking with the translator for this work into Russian it was recommended I switch to “Potasovka” which makes better sense!

5. Yes, I read Jinx and yes that is THE Joo Jaekyung!

6. Writing hockey is HARD. RIP.

7. Thank you to my friend Dayntee for reading my porn across the universes. Love you.

8. Last but not least, I have been having fun making some fake bookcovers for my works. I uploaded one for Wolfbird at the top of chapter 1 here on AO3, but you can see more of the wraparound cover I am making and hope to use later when binding this work here on my Tumblr.

EDIT 1/19/2026: ow, I ended up injuring my hand this morning. Please be patient with me to respond to comments and writing the next chapter, as typing is quite painful at the moment :(

Thanks for reading! If you liked it, I’d love to yap in the comments.

Not sure what to say? Comment anxiety? How about...

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”
- 🌌 “this wasn't my favorite”
- 🎤 “Come on, Shane. Give us something. Your fans want to know!”
- 🍆 “All hail Shane’s purple dildo”
- 🗡️ “this usually isnt my thing... and yet”
- 💀 “how dare you (affectionate)”

Chapter 8: Chastnaya Sessiya

Chapter Summary

"I'm coming to the cottage penthouse,"

Chapter Notes

“Prochain arrêt: Champ-de-Mars.”

The announcement spat out in clipped Québécois French, flattened by the tinny speaker as the metro car rattled through the tunnel between Berri-UQAM and Champ-de-Mars. Overhead, fluorescent lights flickered in rhythm with the wheels on the tracks. Ilya kept his duffel bag wedged between his feet, one hand resting on the worn strap. The zipper was half-broken, and had been for months, but replacing the bag meant spending money he didn’t have on what worked well enough.

Inside: the usual commerce of intimacy. Lube, condoms, massage oil. Clean towels to erase the evidence after.

In his other hand, something unusual: a sesame bagel, still warm and wonderful.

Allowing himself a rare treat, he’d walked the twenty minutes out of his way from his apartment and Rosemont station, cutting down side streets past duplexes with narrow staircases corkscrewing up their facades, snow packed grey and hard along the curbs, because the shop was worth it; open all night for even his worst 3am fix, bagels pulled fresh from the wood-fired oven at any hour. The gnocchi stand next door had been open too, and now he tore off pieces of bagel and dragged them through the small paper cup of tomato sauce balanced on his knee. A splurge, but a private session meant he could afford it today.

As he chewed, Ilya ran through the mental checklist of what Shane had asked for over the phone, his voice breaking on the words I want you to fuck me, and what that meant Ilya needed to bring, how long this would take, how gentle he must be.

How much it would earn him.

Five hundred dollars an hour. Two hours, maybe three, depending on how this session went.

The math was always running in the back of his mind like a second heartbeat.

A thousand, perhaps even fifteen hundred meant survival. Andrei’s payment this week, eight hundred to Russia for Papa’s care—always Papa’s care, endless and expensive and as intangible as love. Formula for Andrei’s brat of a child. Cocaine, probably. Whatever else his brother claimed he needed, would always need. It meant a few hundred left over for groceries, and he could actually get things that he liked, and if he was exceptionally careful… he could also, for once, be the one to take Svetlana out for a meal and pay back a scrap of her kindness.

It meant not having to take another client this week, unless he wanted to.

Which… was a dizzying thought. The luxury of ‘enough’ to say no. How long had it been? Would he even miss the sex? Perhaps declining and doing nothing, doing absolutely fuck-all, would feel even better than actually fucking.

It also meant he could afford to think about Shane without calculating the opportunity cost. And Shane—bozhe moy, Shane was going to be a mess tonight, if it all went according to his plans. It’d been two days since Ilya had forbidden him from touching himself and from finding any relief on his own which meant… likely… it’d been forty-eight hours of Shane bursting at the seams, thinking about his voice, his hands, what might happen tonight.

Ilya wondered how many times Shane had reached for himself out of habit before remembering the rule. How many times he’d stopped mid-motion, obeying even when no one was watching. Had he failed? That’d be fine, too, of course. He would make Shane explain, in detail, why he’d touched himself though, perhaps ask him to demonstrate…

The thought made Ilya’s cock stir against his thigh.

He liked when they thought about him. Liked knowing he’d gotten under Shane’s skin, into his head, made the hockey star forget how to sleep without remembering Ilya’s hands on him. But this—this was better. Shane would arrive desperate, already half-undone before Ilya touched him. Obedient. Wanting.

Exactly the way Ilya wanted him.

He dragged the last piece of bagel through the sauce, licked tomato from his thumb, and shifted the bag between his knees and watched the tunnel walls blur past the scratched window. For a moment, his reflection surfaced in the glass, and he looked like the man he was paid to be: handsome, expensive, with no aesthetic left to chance. He looked like a statue, that desirable lines of his face, his designer leather jacket, dark and fitted, slacks clean and pressed, a black mocktop stretched smoothly across his muscular chest. He looked like… someone’s European boyfriend, here on holiday, maybe. Some rich ex-pat’s son here to waste time and cash here in Montreal. Maybe he was a model. Maybe he was any number of impressive, attractive, beautiful things.

But the illusion fractured at his feet, starting with the bag, its frayed nylon, the teeth of the broken zipper gaping like a hungry mouth. He tucked the bag closer, hiding the scuffed bottom behind his boots.

Ilya wasn’t the man in the glass; he was the man wearing all the nicest things he owned at once with rent due in three days.

The train slowed. Square-Victoria-OACI. Ilya stood, shouldering the bag, and stepped onto the platform.

Outside, the air was cold enough to sting his lungs. This time of year in Montreal meant winter refusing to die, clinging to the city with frozen fingers. Ilya walked three blocks east, past boutiques with mannequins in spring clothes that cost more than his monthly rent. Shane’s building rose ahead: glass and steel, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces. A doorman in a charcoal suit held the entrance, and then inside the lobby opened into marble and recessed lighting. A security desk sat to the left, manned by another man in a smart charcoal suit who looked up as Ilya approached.

“Bonsoir. Puis-je vous aider? Vous êtes ici pour voir quelqu’un?”

The French was fast, local, vowels clipped short in a way Ilya never quite managed to follow, so he caught maybe two words of that but… really, what else could he be asking other than why are you here, what do you want? Enough private visits to similarly secure homes lent Ilya a confidence to step over the blaring language gap without looking at how far the fall would be. “I am Rozanov, here to see Mr. Hollander.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted slightly and switched to English. “Ah, yes. Mr. Hollander mentioned you’d be arriving. It is not often he has guests, so I remembered.”

The doorman would’ve spoken to Shane in French, Ilya thought distantly. Flawless Québécois French, probably—Shane Hollander, raised bilingual in a hockey family, never struggling to conjugate a verb or guess at vowels. Ilya said nothing and kept his expression pleasant with the same smile he used with immigration officers and landlords and anyone else who held power over whether he got what he needed.

Yes, I belong here. Yes, I have permission. No need to call security on the Russian with the duffel bag.

The man checked his tablet, nodding when he, presumably, saw ROZANOV there on the list. “Trentième étage; thirtieth floor. The elevator is just there, I have unlocked it for you.” He gestured toward the bank of doors. “Have a good evening, Mr. Rozanov.”

“Thank you.” Ilya shouldered his bag and crossed toward the elevators.

Easy. Ilya crossed the lobby—marble floors, recessed lighting, a fountain burbling in the corner for no reason except to prove someone could afford water that did nothing.

He’d lived in Montreal three years and still couldn’t understand Canadians’ obsession with putting water in places where water didn’t need to be. Fountains. Water features. Decorative water. Back in his home district in Moscow, water went in pipes or bottles or the river, and that was the end of it. Here, and for the more financially inclined back in Russia, water was architecture.

Rich people were insane wherever they were in the world, he supposed.

The elevator was silent. No grinding gears, no muzak, no advertisements for dentists or ESL classes or orthodontists promising perfect smiles. Ilya tracked the numbers as they climbed. His own elevator groaned between floors, shuddered when it stopped, sometimes trapped him for ten minutes while his neighbor banged on the doors from the outside. This one moved like it was floating.

Thirtieth floor. There was a small vestibule and a single door, and Ilya knocked.

Footsteps approached too fast. The lock disengaged. Shane opened the door and his gaze landed somewhere near Ilya’s collarbone, then skittered sideways to the hallway, the elevator, the recessed lighting overhead. Anywhere but eyes. His fingers gripped the door handle, knuckles blanched white.

“Hi. You’re—you made it,” Shane said, though immediately wincing. “I mean. Obviously.”

Ilya cataloged the tells:

Shane had showered. His hair was still damp, darker at the temples, curling slightly at the nape where water had dripped down his neck. His shirt clung to his shoulders, likely expensive cotton, tailored, chosen by someone else. Did he have a stylist? Those jeans that fit perfectly. Bare feet on white tile, toes flexing against the cold, with a flush creeping up from his collar, staining his skin pink. Those stunning freckles across his cheekbones stood out darker against the heat. His weight shifted—left foot to right, right to left, then back again—unable to settle.

Shane had been pacing. Probably for the last hour.

Ilya let the silence stretch, watching Shane’s fingers tighten on the door handle. “Yes, I did make it. All by myself even. Very impressive, I know.” He shifted his weight, the duffel bag settling against his hip. “Though I am still standing in hallway like vampire waiting for invitation. You going to let me in, or should I come back when you are less...” He gestured vaguely at Shane’s entire body, the nervous energy radiating off him like heat. “...vibrating.”

Shane’s face flushed darker.

“Are you going to invite me inside, Hollander? Or is plan for us to use hallway where neighbors can hear?”

“Shh! No! Ugh, come in, I—” He stepped back, creating space, but his free hand rose to rub the back of his neck, a gesture Ilya recognized from their sessions. Self-soothing. Anxiety made visible.

Ilya stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him, and the space opened up: massive, sprawling, too much room for one person to occupy. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the St. Lawrence, a dark, slow-moving strip beyond the city lights, half ice-skimmed near the banks. A sparse kitchen to the left with glossy white cabinets, stainless steel fixtures, and a marble island big enough to seat six. Living area to the right with a sectional couch in charcoal grey that looked like it had never been sat on, arranged at angles that were aesthetically pleasing but functionally useless. Everything was white, grey, and black.

No clutter. No life. A place to exist, not live.

The air smelled like nothing, with hardly the whiff of a candle or cooking.

Ilya’s apartment smelled like his neighbor’s burnt toast and the Indian restaurant downstairs. It sounded like his godforsaken zombie radiator, and someone’s television bled through the walls at all hours. His upstairs neighbor played the same Celine Dion album every Sunday morning at volumes that suggested either profound deafness or psychological warfare. He knew his downstairs neighbor’s soap opera schedule better than his own (non-existent) sleep schedule. Every living annoyance crept its way inside through the thin asbestos-lined walls.

In comparison, this place was a tomb—mogila—beautiful, climate-controlled, and utterly dead.

No, not a tomb. Tombs held bodies that had lived. This was a mausoleum for someone still breathing.

Ilya wondered if Shane even sat on that couch or if he just... existed here between performances, like a prop stored between shows. The kitchen looked like a showroom. The living room looked like a magazine spread. Nothing was worn. Nothing was loved.

Shane stood in the center of all that expensive nothing, fingers working at his neck like worry beads. A man who owned empires of space but didn’t know how to inhabit his own body, reduced to a nervous shadow in thirty-two hundred square feet of designer vacancy.

“I wasn’t sure where we should—” Shane gestured vaguely toward the hallway. “The bedroom is down there, or we could—do you want something to drink? I have water, or I could make tea, or—”

His hands were moving, fingers pulling at the hem of his shirt. The same frantic energy from Wolfbird but worse now because this was his territory and he had no idea what to do with himself in it. Ilya had seen this before: clients in their own homes, trapped by their possessions, drowning in square footage they didn’t need or even know what to do with.

The luxury of enough, the unfathomable horror of excess.

“—wait, I also have food. Um. Or is it better if I show you around? I could—”

Such an eager thing. If Shane wasn’t so anxious, it would be adorable.

“Hollander.” Ilya set his bag down on the floor with a loud thud that made Shane’s rambling stop mid-word. He stepped closer, into Shane’s space but not crowding. “I do not need you to pretend to be perfect host and serve me things, but I do need you to stop worrying so loud. Can you do that?”

“I—” Shane swallowed. “Yeah. Yes.”

“Good. Now let me snoop and see how Shane Hollander lives in his fancy penthouse.” Ilya walked past him, boots silent on the tile as he moved through the open floor plan. He let his gaze drag across the glossy kitchen cabinets and the marble island that looked as though it had never seen the spray of flour or the scrape of a cutting board. When he tugged open the glass-front fridge, he found rows of protein shakes and identical meal-prep containers aligned with a mechanical sort of order that made his own kitchen, with its single bag of frozen varenyky and food bank soy milk, feel like a different country entirely.

“When was last time you cooked something here?” he asked, not looking back.

“I... don’t really cook.”

“Mm. I see this.” Ilya opened the fridge and took out one of the containers. Grilled tofu, broccoli, brown rice. The same thing in every container. “You eat this every day?”

“I’m on a macrobiotic diet for the season,” Shane explained, having followed him into the kitchen to hover by the island.

“Bud’te zdorovy. Sounds like a sneeze more than a word. A what?”

“It… ah, it’s a restrictive diet where I eat organic, in season, vegetables and less animal product, oh and no dairy, so that—”

“You are eating same sad boy kibble every day.” Ilya lifted the container, shaking it slightly. “Even homeless dogs at animal shelter eat better than this. This is what costs five hundred dollars a month for meal service, yes? To eat boiled sadness? There are faster ways to make self miserable. Cold can of tuna with plastic spoon has same result for fraction of price.”

Shane’s face flushed. “It’s not boiled, it’s grilled, and it’s for performance—”

“Performance.” Ilya set the container down, closed the fridge. “Ugh. Is that all you have outside of hockey? Perform on TV? Perform here like nutritionist will appear for fridge audit. Is exhausting just watching you try so hard to be the boy from the billboards.”

“I—it’s not—” Shane’s hands twisted together. “I have to maintain my weight and muscle mass. The team nutritionist says—”

“What do you say?”

Shane blinked. “What?”

Ilya crossed back towards the island, and stood in front of Shane, close enough that Shane had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes. “Nutritionist tells you what to eat. Team tells you what to do. Agent tells you who to be.” His fingers found the collar of Shane’s shirt, smoothed it where it had rumpled. “When do you tell yourself what you want?”

Shane chewed on his lower lip. “I want... I want you to…”

“I know what you want from me.” Ilya’s thumb brushed the side of Shane’s neck, feeling just how warm the skin was there across the delicate architecture beneath. “But right now you are thinking so loud I can hear it from here. Worrying about if you cleaned bathroom good enough, if I will judge your furniture, if you are doing this correct.” He crouched, bringing them eye-level. “So. Do you want to stop being nervous now and let me do what I am here for? Or do you want to spend entire session talking about boring diet and expensive chicken? That is fine too. Your money.”

“I—” Shane’s gaze dropped to Ilya’s mouth, then away. “I want... the first one.”

“Da? You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then look at me when you say it.”

Shane’s eyes lifted, dark and blown wide. His lips parted, then closed. His gaze skittered sideways to Ilya’s shoulder.

“Try again.” Ilya’s tipped Shane’s chin up when he tried to duck away. “Eyes here.”

Shane swallowed. “I want... what we talked about.”

“What we talked about when? We talk about many things.”

“On the phone. You know what I mean.”

“I know nothing unless you tell me.” Ilya’s voice dropped lower, that register he used when he wanted Shane to feel it in his chest. “Use your words, Hollander. What do you want?”

Shane’s face went red. “I want you here. Tonight. For—for the session we planned.”

Ilya’s thumb brushed across Shane’s lower lip, feeling it give, and that pert mouth part. “And what happens in this session?”

“You, um, we…”

“Not ‘we.’ You.” Ilya leaned in, close enough that Shane would feel his breath. “What do you want me to do to you?”

“I can’t just—it’s embarrassing—”

“That is half the fun.” His hand slid to the back of Shane’s neck, fingers curling there. “So say it. What do you want?”

Shane squeezed his eyes shut.

“No, Hollander. Open eyes.”

They opened, those dark pupils blown so wide the brown was just a thin ring.

“I want...” Shane’s stumbled on the words again. “I want you to... be inside me.”

“Inside you where?” Ilya asked, knowing exactly what Shane meant but refusing to make this easy. “Your mouth? We have done this already.”

“No. I—god—” Shane’s fingers dug into Ilya’s shoulders. “You are such an asshole.”

“Say it properly or I leave right now.” Ilya’s grip tightened on Shane’s neck. “Say it like you said it on phone. When you were begging so pretty.”

“I want you to fuck me.” The words came out rushed, barely audible. And then, for added effect: “Please.”

“Vot tak. Much better. We talk about payment after, so no worry about that now either.”

“I thought you preferred to do that first?”

“At club, yes,” Ilya waved dismissively, “but now I know where you live if you try to run.”

Shane’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “That’s not funny.”

“Is little bit funny. But… You are still thinking. I can tell because you are avoiding my eyes. Worrying. Which… tch. I did not take you as the sort to misbehave.”

“Misbehave?”

“Yes. Worrying, stressing, general avoidance… all misbehaving.” He drew Shane closer, close enough that his chest brushed Shane’s, and began walking him backward across the kitchen, towards the open counter area beside the blender. “I offered private session, remember? I wanted to be here. I think about this for days.”

“You have?”

“Konechno.” Ilya’s free hand settled at Shane’s waist, fingers pressing into the small of his back. “Have we not talked about this before? Of course. I spend entire commute here and last two days thinking about this. About what sounds you would make when I finally touch you.” He leaned in, mouth at Shane’s ear. “About how you would beg.”

“I don’t—I’m not going to—”

Ilya’s teeth grazed his earlobe. “We will see.”

Shane made a sound—strangled, needy—and Ilya smiled against his skin. He pulled back just enough to kiss him, swallowing whatever protest Shane might have offered. Shane’s hands came up to Ilya’s shoulders, gripping, and Ilya backed him toward the kitchen island, walking him step by step until Shane’s spine met marble. Not for the first time, he thought that Shane kissed like someone who’d only ever seen the act in a movie or read in a book, functionally understanding the mechanics but without the appreciation of the art.

Thankfully, he seemed eager to learn; his mouth opened when Ilya’s tongue traced his lower lip, but then he froze, uncertain what came next. Ilya slowed and gentled, giving him breathing room to catch up.

“Breathe,” Ilya murmured.

Shane sucked in air, chest expanding. Ilya’s teeth found his jugular, bit down softly, and Shane’s hips jerked forward, seeking friction that Ilya didn’t quite want to give him yet.

“Slower. We have time.” Ilya’s hands slid under Shane’s shirt, palms flat against his ribs. The muscle there jumped at his touch. Shane’s skin was warm, slightly damp from the shower, and Ilya mapped the terrain of him—the hard ridges of his abdomen, the dip of his waist, the way he shivered when Ilya’s thumbs brushed the jut of his hipbones.

Shane’s head tipped against the cabinets, eyes drooping, lids heavy. His lips parted, and Ilya kissed him again, deeper this time. Shane followed his lead better now, matching him, and when Ilya’s tongue swept against his, Shane moaned into his mouth—which—good, good boy. Gripping Ilya’s belt loops like anchors now, Shane was being so good, clinging, melting for him. Ilya pushed forward again, watching Shane’s face flush darker, watching him arch into the contact. Responsive. God, he was so fucking responsive.

The smallest touch and Shane lit up like a match, and Ilya wanted to see how bright he could burn.

It was easy to reward such open need by pressing closer, letting Shane feel the hard line of his cock through his slacks.

When had kissing last done this to him? Made him hard and stupid and seventeen again?

“You are doing well,” Ilya murmured. Shane went pliant, a full-body melt at the praise. Ilya pressed forward again and Shane arched up to meet him—

—but misjudged the angle, their pelvises colliding awkwardly and clinking belt buckles more than feeling good.

Shane froze, face burning. “I don’t—I’m not good at this.”

“What, that? Is nothing. You are better than you think.” Ilya kissed down his neck, teeth scraping over his collarbone. “Stop thinking so much.”

He punctuated the command by biting down where Shane’s neck met his shoulder, then soothing the sting with his tongue. Shane’s hands slid from Ilya’s shoulders to his hair, fingers tangling there, and when Ilya sucked a mark into his skin, Shane pulled, not hard, but enough to show he was losing the battle with his self-control.

Ilya’s cock throbbed. He hauled Shane’s hips flush against his, grinding slowly, and Shane whimpered, his head falling forward onto Ilya’s shoulder.

“Please,” Shane huffed against his neck. “I need—”

“What do you need?” Ilya rolled his hips again, slower this time, dragging it out.

“More. I need more.”

“More what? Use words.”

Shane lifted his head, and his face was flushed, freckles dark against the red. His lips were swollen from kissing, and he looked wrecked already, barely touched. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing. Aren’t… aren’t you going to tell me to strip? Or kneel like... like that time?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know.” Shane’s fingers tightened on Ilya’s shoulders. “I don’t—this is all still new and I don’t know what I’m supposed to—”

“Shh.” Ilya’s thumb stroked across his cheekbone. “There is no ‘supposed to.’ Only what you want.” He held Shane’s gaze. “I can be mean Dom who orders you around, makes you kneel, calls you names. I can do that. But I can also do more. So tell me—what do you think about? When you touch yourself and imagine me there?”

“I can’t just... say that.”

“You can.” Ilya soothed, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Try.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“You are sexy flustered. Very cute.” His lips found the spot below Shane’s ear that made him shiver. “Tell me one thing. Just one.”

Shane’s breath stuttered. His mouth opened, closed. “I don’t—I’m not sure how to—”

“Start anywhere.” Ilya’s teeth grazed his earlobe. “What do you think about when you touch yourself?”

“Jesus, I—” Shane’s hands tightened on Ilya’s shoulders. “Can’t you just... do what you think is good?”

“I could. But then I am guessing. And maybe I guess wrong. Maybe I do something you hate and you are too polite to tell me.” His thumb brushed Shane’s lower lip. “So. One thing. What feels good when you imagine it?”

Shane swallowed hard. “When you’re... in control?”

“That is question, not answer.” Ilya kissed at hisskin, working his way down to his collarbone. “Try again.”

“I like when—” Shane’s trembled as Ilya’s teeth scraped skin. “When you tell me what to do.”

“Good.” Ilya’s hand slid down Shane’s side, settled on his hip. “What else?”

“That’s not enough?”

“Nyet. Is beginning.” His fingers traced the waistband of Shane’s jeans, dipping just beneath the fabric. “Keep going.”

Shane made a frustrated sound. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“What you want. Not me.” Ilya kissed the hollow of his throat, felt Shane’s runaway heartbeat there. “When I tell you what to do, what happens? In your head.”

“I—” Shane’s hips shifted, seeking contact that Ilya kept just out of reach. “It’s easier. When someone else decides. I don’t have to think about if I’m doing it right. You just... you know what you want and I can—”

“Can what?” Ilya’s hand slid to cup him through his jeans, finally giving him something. Shane’s breath punched out of him. “Say it.”

“I can just—fuck—I can follow and not worry about—” He broke off again when Ilya squeezed gently.

“Not worry about what?” Ilya kissed up his neck, rewarding the honesty with slow, firm pressure against his cock.

“About failing. Or disappointing someone.” The words came faster now, like a dam breaking. “If you tell me what to do, then I know I can do it right.”

“Khorosho.” Ilya rewarded him with another squeeze, Shane hardening further under his palm. His mouth found that spot below Shane’s ear again, the one that made him shiver. “You said you like when I am in control. But control can be many things. So tell me—do you want me gentle? Mean? Somewhere between?”

Shane’s forehead dropped to Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t know the difference.”

“Then I help you figure out.” Ilya’s hand moved from Shane’s cock to his hip. “When you imagine me touching you, am I asking permission first? Or am I taking what I want?”

“Taking,” Shane said into his shoulder, barely audible.

“Louder.”

“Taking.” Shane lifted his head, met Ilya’s eyes. “You’re just... doing it. Not asking.”

“And you like this idea?” Ilya’s hand slid to Shane’s lower back, tugging him closer.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because—” Shane hesitated, fidgeting a moment. “Because then it’s not my fault if I want it.”

Poor thing. Always so guilty for wanting at all. Ilya’s first instinct was to argue, to tell Shane that wanting wasn’t a crime or something to take fault in, that he was allowed to have desires without needing an excuse. But even as the impulse rose, Ilya recognized the other truth: this was a kink. A real one. Being reduced to nothing but being able to take it was hot in many ways; the psychological freedom of surrendering choice, of being absolved from thinking.

And Ilya could give him that. The relief of not having to decide, not having to ask. He could be the one who simply took, and let Shane disappear into it.

It might even be fun.

“Mmm, I can do this.” Ilya kissed a line towards the shell of Shane’s ear before murmuring against the sensitive shell: “I can hold you down and pin you and move you exactly where I want you, yes?”

“Yes, shit, yes,” Shane squeezed his eyes shut. “God, I’m sorry, I know this all sounds so insane—”

“No,” Ilya bit his lower lip and tugged, relishing the whine it earned him. “Nothing you say is insane. I am here to do what you want. If you want me tie you up and hang you from ceiling, we do. If you want me to strip you naked and use you like coffee table or abuse your cock under my boot until you cry, is fine. But you must promise me something.”

“Wh-what?”

“If something is wrong—if you are hurt, if you are scared, if you need to stop—you tell me. I will not ask every minute like nervous boyfriend. I will just take you. But you must speak up if you need me to stop. Can you do this?”

Shane swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yes. I can do that.”

“Say it back to me.”

“If I need you to stop, I’ll tell you.”

“Good.” Ilya kissed him as a reward. “Now what else?”

“I—” Shane squeezed his eyes shut. “Isn’t that enough? Can’t you just decide?”

“Nyet, no, no. That is cheating.” Ilya’s hand dropped to Shane’s cock again, stroked once through the denim. “You want this to feel good?”

“Yes—”

“Then tell me what you need.” Another stroke, firmer this time. “One more thing. Then I keep touching you.”

Shane’s hips rolled into his hand. “I like when you’re... when you’re stronger than me.”

“I am stronger than you.” Ilya squeezed for emphasis, enjoying how Shane’s mouth fell open. “This is fact, not fantasy. So what about it do you like?”

“That you could—” Shane’s breath caught. “That you could hold me down. Or pin me. Or—”

“Or what?”

“Move me. Pick me up or put me where you want me.”

“Mm. Like what?” His hand kept moving, steady pressure. “Give me example.”

“I don’t—Jesus—” Shane’s fingers dug into Ilya’s shoulders. “Like throwing me on a bed. Or against a wall. Or—fuck—I don’t know the words for this—”

“Is called manhandling.” Ilya nipped his lower lip, tugging with his teeth before releasing. “And is very sexy that you want this.” He ground the heel of his palm against Shane’s cock, grinding, rewarding any honesty given. “What else?”

“That’s not enough? You said one thing.”

“I am greedy.” Another kiss, deeper this time. Shane kissed like someone learning a new language: uncertain but hungry to be fluent. Ilya wanted to teach him everything: syntax, grammar, the poetry underneath. He wanted to map every response, memorize what made Shane gasp, what made him whimper. “One more and I give you want you want.”

Shane’s hips moved against Ilya’s hand, chasing friction. “I want—God, I can’t believe I’m saying this—”

“Say it anyway.”

“I want to feel small.” The confession came out strangled. “Which is stupid because I’m not small, I’m two hundred pounds and I’ve fought guys who—”

“Is not stupid.” Ilya’s hand stilled. “Honesty is what I want from you.” He kissed Shane’s cheeks, his brow. “You want to feel small because?”

“Because I’m always supposed to be strong. In control. The captain, the role model, the—” Shane’s voice cracked. “I’m tired of it.”

“Then I will be strong for you,” he murmured against Shane’s ear. “I will hold you down and I will fuck you just how you want, and you will be good boy and thank me for it.”

Immediately, he stepped back, creating a small gap between them, and Shane’s eyes flew open. “Wait—”

Ilya grabbed him by the hips and lifted.

Shane yelped—actually yelped—as Ilya hoisted him onto the marble island. His legs came up automatically, wrapping around Ilya’s waist, hands scrabbling for purchase on Ilya’s shoulders. “What are you—you can’t just—”

“I can do that.” Ilya grinned, hands splayed on Shane’s thighs, holding him in place. His right knee twinged—old injury, old grief—but he ignored it. He’d lifted heavier in the gym once. Back when his body was training for hockey instead of this. And more than that, pain was temporary, just as this moment was temporary. He wanted to hold Shane as long as his body would allow, maybe longer.

“See? Is easy.”

“I’m two hundred pounds—”

“And I am strong, stronger than you, and I tell you is easy.” His knee disagreed, a dull ache spreading up his thigh, but Shane didn’t need to know that. Shane got to be the athlete with the working body. Ilya got to pretend his still was. And… worth it, he thought, to have a little pain to be able to do this. He dragged Shane to the edge of the counter, fitted their hips together so Shane could feel exactly how hard he was. Ilya kissed his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Where is bedroom?”

“Down the hall. Last door on the—oh my god, you’re not seriously going to—”

Ilya tightened his grip and lifted again, this time pulling Shane completely off the counter. Shane’s legs locked around his waist, arms around his neck, and Ilya’s brain short-circuited. Two hundred pounds of muscle clinging to him, trusting him not to drop him, and, fuck, he could feel Shane’s dick jutting against his stomach through their clothes. He could feel Shane’s breath searing against his neck and—god, if it didn’t make him want to show off, like some peacock.

Look at me, look at what I can do for you, of course I can do this for you.

Who else can do this for you?

His knee protested again, but it was a dull complaint, so he ignored it. Ilya walked them down the hallway like Shane weighed nothing at all.

“Put me down,” Shane said into his shoulder, but his voice had gone breathless, aroused. “This is—I can walk—”

“I don’t care you can walk.” Ilya said good naturedly, “I want to carry you.”

It was the truth and it was as filthy as the things he was about to do to the man in his arms.

And then he shouldered open the bedroom door.

Inside, immediately Ilya recognized this room was different than the rest of the penthouse, though, not by a large margin. It was still prohibitively expensive and obviously curated, but warmer with the addition of a plant in the one corner. Where the rest of the penthouse had been all white marble and chrome, this room had a few pops of organic color in the form of a dark walnut headboard with wood grain, matching nightstands that flanked the bed. An alarm clock. And clutter! He didn’t think Hollander was capable of such a thing but there it was: a charging cable, a water bottle, a dog-eared paperback spine-up like Shane had been reading before bed.

Which… ah, yes, The bed. Ilya took two more steps into the room and dropped Shane onto it without ceremony.

Shane bounced once on the mattress, a startled laugh escaping him, and Ilya followed him down, caging him with his arms, knees bracketing Shane’s hips. Shane’s face was red, darker than before, the flush spreading down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. His hands had come up to cover his face.

“Don’t hide.” Ilya pulled Shane’s wrists away, pinned them to the mattress above his head. “I want to see you.”

Shane tried to turn his face away, but Ilya held him there, wrists pinned, body caged, nowhere to hide. He looked down at Shane—blushing, panting—and thought, yes. Exactly like this.

He released one of Shane’s wrists to drag his palm down Shane’s chest, feeling the rapid hammering of his heart through the fabric. Shane’s freed hand immediately went to Ilya’s waist, fingers curling into his belt loop, holding on.

“Stay here, do not move. I get my bag from kitchen,” Ilya said, shifting his weight back. “I have—”

“Wait.” Shane’s grip tightened. “I have stuff. In the drawer.”

Ilya paused, eyebrows lifting. “Stuff? You hiding weapon or sex toy?”

“Can you not, I’m just saying I have supplies. In. In the—the nightstand, on the right side.”

Ilya leaned over, keeping Shane pinned beneath him with one hand on his hip, and slid open the drawer. Inside: two bottles of lube, one still sealed. New? Beside those was a box of condoms of a brand he recognized, the economy size with the shrink wrap still on. Definitely new.

Ilya stared at it. It was a forty-eight count box. Forty-eight.

Canada’s favorite son buying forty-eight fucking condoms for tonight like he thought—what? That Ilya would fuck him eight times tonight? Twelve? It was like they were stocking up for a siege.

Ilya mentally counted condoms in his own creaky nightstand. Maybe… two? Three? It wasn’t like he needed to bring people home to fuck them, so why bother having them at all, when he was home all he did was rest anyway, but even for work, since Wolfbird did not provide all supplies for free, he only ever bought twelve packs because buying in bulk when he couldn’t reliably afford toilet paper was optimism bordering on delusion.

Shane had bought forty-eight for one session like money was infinite and need was the only thing that mattered and, realistically, they would use one or two tonight. Wasteful. Stupid. And… endearing? Stupidly endearing? Shane had been planning. Worrying. Buying too much because he didn’t know what would be enough, because he wanted everything to be perfect, because he was terrified of disappointing—

The math was endearing and ridiculous. Ilya wanted to use every single one of that fucking forty-eight, even if it killed him, just to prove Shane’s anxiety was justified.

And there… the purple dildo Shane had used during their phone session, now tucked beneath a folded hand towel like Shane was trying to hide it despite the fact that Ilya had already heard him fuck himself with it.

“Hollander.” Ilya picked up one of the lube bottles, turned it in his hand. “How much sex were you planning to have tonight? This is enough supplies for entire month. If you were planning for orgy or apocalypse I would have prepared better. Brought snacks.”

Shane’s face went crimson. “Shut up.”

Ilya kissed him, swallowing the protest. “I brought my own bag, durak. You did not need to buy small pharmacy worth of products.”

“I know that now,” Shane muttered.

“But is sweet. Very sweet.” Ilya traced Shane’s lower lip with his thumb. “And… hm. I am pleased to finally meet your friend. Mr. Purple.”

Bristling, Shane tensed beneath him, looking abjectly horrified, “Please do not give it a name.”

“Ah, but we are going to be good friends, him and I,” Ilya grinned, “Next time, I think I hold you down and fuck you with it,” Ilya said, nodding toward the purple dildo. “Or maybe I sit back and watch while you fuck yourself with it, kneeling on the floor, between my legs, so you can whine over my dick. I could not see over phone last time, you see, and the sound of you on it gives me so many ideas Hollander. But tonight… no. Mr. Purple will need to wait, as I want you all to myself.”

Shane nodded again, and Ilya released him, sat back on his heels. “Shirt off.”

Shane scrambled to obey, yanking the fabric over his head and tossing it aside. His smooth chest was flushed, nipples hard, and Ilya’s hands went to his jeans, popping the button, dragging the zipper down. Shane lifted his hips without being asked, and Ilya yanked denim and boxer briefs down his thighs in one motion. Shane’s cock sprang free, flushed dark and leaking. Two days of denial showed in the way it throbbed against his stomach, precome already pooling in the hollow of his hip.

“Bozhe moy.” Ilya wrapped his hand around Shane’s length, gave one slow stroke. Shane’s hips jerked up into his fist, a broken sound escaping his lips. “So desperate for me. I think maybe you touched yourself even though I said no?”

“I didn’t—I swear—”

“Shh. I believe you.” Ilya’s thumb swept over the head, gathering wetness. “Truly, would have been shocked if you broke rule. You do not strike me as rebel. No, you are just very, very eager.”

He brought his thumb to his mouth, licked it, tasted salt and Shane’s arousal, leaning forward to taste, only—

“Stop.”

Ilya froze, every part of his body freezing. Stop? Something wrong? His eyes snapped to meet Shane’s, only to find him looking slightly mortified for having pumped the brakes at all.

“I, ah…” Shane’s hands fisted in the sheets. “Actually… Can I—can I do you first?”

Oh. What? That… that wasn’t how this normally went.

Ilya tilted his head. “I am here about to give you mind bending finish, and you want to suck my cock instead?”

“Yeah. Yes. I want to.”

“Explain.”

Shane’s face turned red again, but he held Ilya’s gaze. “Because I liked it last time. And, ah, I want to… I want to make you feel good too.”

Clients asked for things. Clients took what they paid for. They wanted to be serviced, used, degraded, worshipped, but they wanted Ilya to do it. The transaction ran one direction: they paid, Ilya delivered. If they sucked his cock, it was because humiliation got them off or because worship was part of their fantasy. May I service you, Sir? or Would you permit me to? or I need to worship you. Those offers came wrapped in the scene itself, another layer of the power exchange where their pleasure came from the act of submission rather than from Ilya’s actual enjoyment, which was, of course, fine. Anything a client wanted was fine, so long as it was safe and more importantly Ilya got paid. He tended to enjoy himself regardless, too, but… Shane Hollander.

Always surprising him.

Shane was looking at him like he’d asked something completely normal. I want to make you feel good too.

Too. Like they were even.

When he phrased it like that, I want to make you feel good too, it was hard to ignore all of Shane’s inexperience and naivety. He was paying, and therefore did not need to care about making Ilya feel anything at all, but his expectation of reciprocity was there just the same. But Shane wasn’t asking permission to debase himself or seeking humiliation through service. He just wanted Ilya to feel good.

It was just that simple.

And with it came the same familiar prickle on the back of Ilya’s neck, the one that preceded a risk, a bad idea, and the one that he was increasingly starting to associate with Shane.

“You make me feel good by being here,” Ilya said, which was as honest as it was a deflection. This is work. Shane is a client. Exceptional client, yes, but client… but… when was the last time someone had wanted that? When was the last time Ilya’s pleasure was the point instead of a convenient side effect?

“But…” Ilya sat back, started unbuttoning his shirt, falling back into what he knew: touch, make feel good. Constant movement distracted him from the thoughts lurking in the back of his mind. Pleasing someone else meant that he didn’t have to think. It would please Shane to suck him off. So fine. “If you want my cock in your mouth, I will not say no.”

Shane sat up immediately, hands reaching for Ilya’s belt. His fingers fumbled with the buckle, shaking slightly, and Ilya let him struggle for a moment before covering Shane’s hands with his own.

“Slower,” he said. “We have time.”

Together, they undid the belt, the button, the zipper. Ilya shrugged out of his shirt while Shane pulled his slacks and briefs down his thighs. His cock jutted out proudly, clearly excited about the current events, and Shane stared at it like he was memorizing every detail.

“Well?” Ilya prompted. “You said you wanted to.”

Shane leaned forward, wrapped his hand around Ilya’s length. His grip was hesitant at first, then firmer when Ilya didn’t pull away. He stroked once, twice, watching the way Ilya’s stomach muscles jumped at the contact. Shane’s tongue darted out, licked the tip before tentatively swallowing him down, and—

Yebat’.

Like before, back at Wolfbird, Shane’s mouth was unpracticed; accidental teeth, not quite the right angle, tongue unsure where to be, but enthusiasm more than made up for technique. Shane wanted this, enough to make himself gag, enough to make a fool of himself with his inexperience because he wanted to make Ilya feel good, and so hard, head bobbing with determination.

He could feel the fucking vibrations through his dick when Shane moaned.

Ilya’s fingers tightened in Shane’s hair. “Bozhe moy,” he hissed through his teeth. Eyes watering but eager, wanting approval, wanting to please, begging—please please please—for the opportunity to make and share in pleasure instead of only taking. Shane Hollander, reduced to this, servicing him like this and treating it like a privilege.

Ilya had always liked giving people exactly what they needed.

“Greedy,” Ilya breathed. Shane groaned around his cock and the vibration shot straight up Ilya’s spine. “You want this so much, don’t you?”

Shane bobbed faster, taking him deeper, and Ilya’s other hand slammed against the headboard to stabilize himself. Control. He needed control, right now, not to let himself lose sight of why he was actually here, but Shane was taking him deeper, and Ilya’s hips rolled forward before he could stop them and—shit—

Predictably, Shane choked, leaned back gasping, saliva connecting his swollen lips to Ilya’s cock.

Pretty, he thought dumbly, and before Ilya could apologize for moving, for making him gag, before he could say anything, Shane tugged Ilya’s hand from his hair to his mouth and sucked two fingers in deep, eyes rolling back.

“Blyat!” Ilya swore. Shane’s tongue worked around his fingers, same urgent rhythm as before, like he needed his mouth filled at all times, like his tongue needed to be occupied and serve. “You need this, don’t you? Need your mouth full?”

Shane moaned around his fingers and dove back down on Ilya’s cock, swallowing him down, eyes fluttering shut, enjoying himself and… that… gave Ilya an idea.

“You want to make me feel good?” Ilya rolled his hips, shallow, watching Shane’s eyes flutter. Shane whined a garbled yes—high and needy—and the sound went straight to Ilya’s cock.

“Let me use your mouth.”

Shane’s eyes flicked up, uncertain, but… then, the little brat, he leaned in, taking as much as he could of Ilya’s shaft in. Huffing out an incredulous laugh, Ilya held his heavy-lidded gaze as he pushed his hips forward in a small, shallow thrust. Shane gagged, swallowing around him, and Ilya groaned at the sensation.

Ilya laughed, breathless. “Good boy, khorosho. Just like that.” He pushed his hips forward, slow, testing.  “You can take it. I know you can. Take it for me. Breathe through your nose and relax your jaw.”

Shane tried, another muffled sound vibrating around Ilya’s cock as he struggled to accommodate the pace. His hands came up to Ilya’s thighs, nails digging in, and Ilya’s grip in his hair tightened as he thrust through the ‘O’ of his mouth once more, always being careful to not overwhelm… too much.

Hollander wanted to be used, and he wanted to be taken. Some level of discomfort was part of that, but that hardly meant that there wouldn’t be praise. Or pleasure.

“Fuuuck. Yes, that’s it,” Ilya said, petting at Shane’s hair as much as he was using it like a leash to hold him in place, stroking, subduing, until Shane went pliant under his hands. The tight muscles in Shane’s jaw relaxed slowly at first, and then unlocked, trying so hard to let him in, and to give over this part of himself too.

A gift, just like his consent, his trust, to let Ilya do this at all, giving him total control in this small corner of the world far away from the chaos of life when he was adrift in riptide, even if that world was only Shane’s body, only this bed, and only for hours.

He held it reverently, just like the tight tangle of his fingers in Shane’s hair to hold him in place as he took over completely, thrusting shallowly at first, allowing a moment for adjustment, before pushing deeper. Transfixed, a slave to this moment, to the slick ring of Shane’s lips stretching over his shaft, all Ilya could do was stare, as Shane’s eyes watered when he hit the back of his throat.

The control was intoxicating; Shane kneeling for him, struggling but taking it, wanting to please him so badly he’d endure the discomfort. Ilya stared down at him, taking in the picture as a whole: Shane’s trying so hard, the spit dripping down his chin, gagging and still coming back for more—starving for it.

“Pizdets. Look at you.” Ilya’s hips rolled forward, pushing deeper, pulling Shane’s head down harder, forcing him to take another inch. “Da, that’s it. Such a good boy, taking my cock like this.”

He was so hard it nearly hurt, and this wet, eager, mouth was heaven. Exactly what he needed. With other clients, Ilya’s arousal was mechanical—reliable as clockwork. Here though, with Hollander’s unsure little kitten licks and the beginnings of crybaby tears… Ilya wanted to come in Shane’s mouth. Worse, he wanted to hold his head down and feel him swallow, to fuck his goddamn face, and to praise him after, and—

He really would finish right now if he wasn’t careful and like hell was he going to let himself cum like some horny teenager.

“Stoy. Stop, Hollander.”

Using his weakness as an excuse for scene, Ilya’s hand tightened in Shane’s hair and pulled him off until his cock slipped free with a wet sound. Spit connected Shane’s swollen lips to the dark head of his shaft, stretching, stretching, until it broke and dripped down his chin.

Shane gasped, tried to lean back in, but Ilya held him there.

“Look at you.” Ilya’s thumb traced Shane’s wet bottom lip, smearing saliva across his chin. “So messy.”

Shane’s eyes were glazed, unfocused, his mouth still open like he was waiting to be filled again.

“Come now. By now I have taught you better than this. What do you say when someone gives you something you want?”

Shane blinked, processing. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Th… thank you?”

“Are you asking me? You should know.”

“Thank you.” Shane’s voice was wrecked, rough. “Thank you for… for letting me…”

“For letting you what?” Ilya’s grip tightened fractionally.

“For letting me suck your cock.”

“Khorosho.” Ilya hauled him up by the hair until their mouths were level, then kissed him—deep and claiming, tasting himself on Shane’s tongue. Shane moaned into it, hands scrabbling at Ilya’s shoulders. “Good. You did perfectly. But I do not want to come in your mouth tonight. I want to come inside you.”

Shane bit down on his lower lip, likely to keep himself from making a sound.

“On your back,” Ilya said, releasing him. “Middle of bed.”

Shane scrambled to obey, twisting until he was splayed just-so, surrounded by his ridiculous pillows, and Ilya grabbed the lube from the nightstand. He popped the cap, and poured a generous amount into his palm. Ilya took his time coating his fingers, working the lube between each one, letting Shane watch.

Shane’s gaze tracked the movement, barely breathing.

“You will be good for me now, yes?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Khorosho.” Ilya’s slick fingers traced the crease of Shane’s ass, circling his hole. “Relax for me.”

He pressed inside slowly, and Shane’s hands scrabbled for purchase on the sheets. He crooked his finger, searching, and when he found Shane’s prostate, Shane’s back arched off the bed.

“Fuck—”

“Da. Right there.” Ilya stroked over it again; watched Shane’s cock twitch against his stomach. “Feels good?”

“Yes—god—”

Ilya added more lube, worked a second finger in alongside the first. Shane was tight, his body gripping Ilya’s fingers, but he opened beautifully, hips rolling down to meet each thrust, and Ilya bit down into the meat of his thigh because he could because no one would see marks here, even if they bloomed purple by morning and stayed for days.

Three fingers now, stretching him wider. Shane was panting, and Ilya leaned down to lick a stripe up his cock while his fingers worked inside him. “You want more?”

“Please.”

Ilya knew what he was doing. He’d done this hundreds of times, learned every trick that made men fall apart, where to press his tongue, how to hollow his cheeks, when to swallow and when to tease. He was bold, too, reaching up to fondle Shane’s ample chest, squeezing, pawing. Sucking dick was not, actually, all about dick.

Shane’s clumsy but sincere inexperience had been endearing, sexy, even, but now Ilya would show him how it was supposed to feel.

Let me teach you how to do this.

He started slow, tongue tracing the vein on the underside of Shane’s shaft from root to tip, then circling the head. Shane’s hips jerked, thighs tensing, and Ilya pushed one palm flat against his stomach to hold him down.

No rushing.

His lips wrapped around the head, sucking gently while his tongue worked the sensitive spot just beneath. Shane made a keening sound above him, hands fisting in the sheets, and Ilya hummed in approval.

Ilya took him deeper, inch by inch, relaxing the muscles of his throat the way Shane hadn’t been able to. Years of practice meant he could swallow Shane down, all the way to the dark thatch of hair between his thighs, without gagging, and could swallow around him there, nose against Shane’s pelvis.

Shane’s breath punched out of him, drawing a sound—so sweet and pathetic—that made Ilya himself groan, pleasure rumbling up from his vocal cords and directly into where Shane was so sensitive.

“Fuck—Rozanov!”

Ilya drew back slowly, giving another hard suck, and let the flat, broad part of his tongue drag along the underside. Shane’s taste was intoxicating, and, Ilya thought, if he wasn’t careful, he would become addicted quickly. When he reached the tip, he pulled off completely with a wet noise, letting Shane’s flushed cock bob against his stomach, twitching with want.

“Hold still,” Ilya murmured, then licked a broad stripe from base to tip again before taking him back in his mouth; deep, steady pulls now that had Shane’s thighs trembling on either side of his head. Ilya’s fingers inside him matched the pace, three of them now stretching and searching until he found that spot that made Shane’s back arch off the bed. He crooked his fingers, pressed hard, and swallowed Shane down at the same time.

Shane’s hands flew to Ilya’s hair, gripping. “I’m—if you keep doing that—”

“Then you come.” Ilya said, crooking his fingers, pulling off Shane’s shaft just long enough to make bedroom eyes upward. “I want you to come. Can you come for me, Hollander, just from this? Show me.”

And then he was swallowing him down again, pulling Shane deeper and deeper until he felt the blunt head of his cock nudging the very back. He hollowed his cheeks, sucked hard while his fingers fucked into Shane’s hole, hitting that swollen spot inside him over and over. Shane was making sounds Ilya wanted to record—high, broken whimpers that meant he was close, so close.

Ilya doubled down on his efforts, free hand gripping at the swell of Shane’s hip to hold him in place while he took him apart with mouth and fingers. Suction, pressure, the slide of his tongue along Shane’s shaft, the crook of his fingers inside finding that perfect angle.

It took maybe thirty more seconds before Shane’s grip in his hair tightened to the point of pain, thighs shaking, clamping up around Ilya’s head as his whole body went rigid, and then he was coming, spilling with a broken cry. Ilya swallowed it all, kept sucking through Shane’s orgasm, drawing it out until Shane was whining, oversensitive, trying to pull away.

Ilya released him with a wet pop, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Shane lay there boneless, chest heaving, one arm flung over his eyes.

“Feel okay?” he asked, carefully withdrawing his fingers. Shane’s hole clenched at the loss, trying to keep him inside. “Do not die on me, Hollander. I am not finished with you.”

Shane made a sound that might have been words if his brain were working. His arm stayed over his face.

Ilya reached up and moved Shane’s arm away. “Look at me.”

Shane’s eyes were unfocused, pupils blown so wide the brown was nearly gone. His mouth hung open, still pulling in air like he’d forgotten how to breathe through his nose. Red bloomed across his cheeks, down his throat, painting his chest.

“Do not move from there,” Ilya murmured against his lips. He grabbed one of the forty-eight condoms from the nightstand, tore it open with his teeth. Shane watched, mesmerized, as Ilya rolled it on, then slicked himself thoroughly. Ever since the goddamn kitchen he’d been achingly hard, and now—

Now he was going to take Shane apart completely.

“I am going to fuck you now,” Ilya said, holding Shane’s gaze as he positioned himself between his muscular thighs. Shane’s legs came up automatically, hooking around Ilya’s waist, and lined himself up, the fat head of his dick nudging at the pink, needy furl waiting to be filled.

And… then Ilya did nothing for a long moment. He was waiting, just in case a last minute panic or change of mind might come. Sometimes it did. So many men changed their minds at the last moment.

But it never came. Instead there was only a breathy please.

Ilya grabbed both of Shane’s wrists and pulled them up over his head, pinning them to the mattress with one hand. Shane’s breath punched out of him, eyes going hazy. His fingers flexed, testing—could he pull free? Ilya’s grip tightened. No. He couldn’t, but he was welcome to try and fail as much as he pleased.

“Like this?” Ilya pushed forward slowly, just the tip breaching him. “You cannot move. Cannot get away. I have you exactly where I want you.

“Yes—” Shane’s hips shifted, trying to take more, but Ilya held him in place.

“You tell me if is too much. You understand? This is important, Hollander. You say stop, I stop.”

Shane nodded frantically. “I will. I promise. Please—”

Ilya carefully notched himself against Shane’s hole, slick-wet and ready, and applied pressure with his hips, pressing inside, drawing twin groans from each of them. Hot. Tight. The slide was slow; Ilya wanted Shane to feel every ridge, every vein as he sank deeper, and relished the warbling moan that followed. Tight, so fucking tight it bordered on painful, Shane’s body gripping him like a fist, resisting. His walls were rippling, squeezing, so good and so distracting.

Ilya had to pause, had to breathe through the urge to just push, to take, the pleasure already building at the base of his spine rising alongside the outright need to bury himself to the hilt and feel Shane come apart around him. If this were anyone else—any other client—he would already be fucking them, hitting the angles that made them gasp while his mind ran calculations.

How long had they paid for? What position would finish this fastest? Did he need to fake his orgasm or could he actually come?

But Shane… Shane, maybe, needed soft as much as he did, and… he… greedy as he was becoming, wanted to take his time. Indulgence, this excess, was surely a sin, but he was starving and helpless to it as he was to other vices. Was it so wrong? Was it so wrong when it felt good for both of them? Ilya wanted to stay here. He wanted to feel every flutter and spasm of Shane’s muscular, wonderful body as it surrendered to his own. A force of nature on the ice, a monolith of raw talent and success, breaking apart bit by bit and trusting to be put back together.

Already, Ilya found himself panting, hard, tracing the constellations of his freckles trying to memorize each new star-path, the sun-bursts in his eyes, like he was mapping new territory.

There was a nebula across Shane’s cheekbones, a Milky Way scattered over his shoulders, lone stars framing his navel that Ilya wanted to taste, to map, to name. He was breathing hard, charting new territory on a body that could’ve been sculpted by team nutritionists but somehow still held mysteries.

His mysteries to discover. For now.

Shane’s body was a gift: objectively gorgeous, powerful, sculpted by years of training. Thighs that could probably crush him. Abs that rippled when he breathed, maintained by team nutritionists and strength coaches. Arms strong enough to check a man into the boards but trembling now under Ilya’s hands. Shane fucking Hollander, Voyageurs captain, whose face sold everything from sports drinks to clothing. The untouchable one. The straight one, supposedly. The one millions of people watched every week, screaming his name, wanting him, fantasizing about him.

He was a prize, a King, and Ilya was here taking him apart in his perfect bed, splitting him open to cry on his cock, using his perfect, million dollar, billboard body. Ilya wanted to worship it. He wanted to ruin it. He felt dizzy, fucking a legend in his own bed, ruining the sheets, leaving marks.

And his. At least for tonight.

How many people would kill to be where Ilya was right now? How many had tried and failed to get close to this untouchable icon?

It didn’t matter, maybe, since they’d all failed. No one else had seen this. No one else had seen this, Shane breaking open like ripe fruit, sweet and yielding, so sweet beneath his teeth. No one had seen him surrender or had seen those doe eyes go hazy. Ilya was the first. The only one Shane trusted enough to let in. The only person on earth who knew what Shane Hollander looked like when he stopped being golden and just... was.

And for now, it was all his. Only his. That curling swoop of possessiveness Ilya felt was unreasonable and dangerous and he didn’t care, how could he care, how could he think about anything else other than fucking Shane into the mattress? To ruin him for anyone, anything else—

Ty rabotayesh. You are working. The reminder came in Russian because the lie sounded more convincing that way. He is not yours, he told himself. Shane’s body, perhaps, for now. Shane’s trust, for these hours. But not Shane.

Never Shane.

“Breathe for me, Hollander.”

Shane sucked in air, his fingers digging into the duvet and blankets, trembling, and Ilya felt him relax, just barely, just enough, and pushed deeper. Another inch. It took several more coaxing rolls of his hips to open Shane up. And each time the slide was exquisite torture, wet and hot and perfect, and Ilya’s arms were shaking from holding still when every instinct screamed to move. And… fuck, when had it last been like this? Clients didn’t feel like this. Clients were bodies, transactions, professional exchanges.

This—Shane’s hole fluttering around his cock, his breath coming in broken gasps against his neck, those fucking angel eyes—

This was dangerous.

I think you are dangerous for me.

“You are okay?” he asked, because this was Shane’s first time and he needed to know, kink be damned. It needed to be perfect, he wanted it to be perfect, and to be the one to give it to him.

“Yes—don’t stop—”

By the time Ilya’s pelvis was kissing Shane’s, balls heavy and flush with his hole, Ilya was actively fighting with himself, exhaling harshly through his nose, wrestling back the want to snap his hips now, and take everything. But no. Slow. Slow. Shane arched off the mattress, spasming, reaching for nothing in their pin above his head as Ilya withdrew, then slowly thrust back in.

The next stroke came faster. Ilya’s hips snapped forward and Shane’s body slid up the mattress. Ilya pulled him back by the hips and thrust again, harder this time, felt Shane clench.

Shane whined and squeaked as Ilya’s hips met his in slow but strong snaps. His legs tried to close but Ilya’s body kept them spread. Another thrust, this one deep enough that Shane’s cock bobbed against his stomach, smearing precome across his sculpted abs. Ilya’s fingers dug into Shane’s hips. He drew Shane onto his cock as he drove forward and the wet slap of contact made Shane’s thighs tremble.

Again. Again, working his way up up up up from slow and soft and into fast and taking, and the loud, arousing smack smack smack of each kiss of pelvis against the cleft of Shane’s ass echoed in the bedroom. Ilya’s balls slapped wetly against his hole. The bed creaked. The headboard tapped the wall. Shane was panting under him now, head lolling to the side, spellbound and shaking under him as Ilya picked up the pace, taking advantage of the relaxing, welcoming channel. It finally satiated the immolating need, the pyre in Ilya’s chest, the burning desire to fuck and wreck Hollander, and not rock into him with these careful, patient rolls.

This was proper fucking now, and Shane was making sounds—high, broken whimpers that went straight to Ilya’s cock—and Ilya wanted to hear more.

Dominating another person was always euphoric, a relief even, but dominating Shane fucking Hollander? Ilya felt drunk, that burning desire turning to sparks over his skin, prickling everywhere. Each thrust, each smack of their hips connecting was another hit of pleasure, some unnamed drug of ego and eroticism that Ilya hadn’t quite yet been able to define or even find on a regular basis. He felt like he was floating, falling.

“You sound so good,” Ilya said, shifting his angle slightly, leaning more fully against the prone body splayed under him. Shane cried out, spine arching, and—there. That was the spot. Ilya drove into it again, and Shane clenched around him, again, then again, until his vision went hazy at the edges.

Slow down. Make it last. This was what his body was for, to bring pleasure, and Shane… fuck, Shane kept trying to fuck his hips back down, to wriggle, to lean up and kiss him.

Shane moaned his name. “Rozanov—Rozanov—please—”

His name devolved into sounds, little unh, uh-uhn, unghs the fell from pretty pink swollen lips as he plunged inside, hilting deep.

“You are doing so well for me,” Ilya said, shifting his weight, pinning him completely. “Taking my cock so perfectly.”

Shane whimpered, tried to push back, to angle his hips and steal whatever he could, but there was nowhere to go—Ilya had him pinned, spread open, completely at his mercy. Of course, Shane tested the hold anyway, hips twisting, trying to move, tugging his arms. Ilya only tightened the grip on his wrists, leaning, looming, over him more, anchoring him in place on the mattress with his dick with nowhere else to go. “No. You stay where I put you. I fuck you how I want.”

“Rozanov—”

Shane was hard again, leaking like a faucet, his dick bobbing against his abdomen and weeping beads of slick from the tip. By now, Ilya already knew that Shane got wet easily, how easy he was in their earlier sessions, but this was obscene—dripping with every thrust. The sound of their rough panting, along with the muffled slap slap of Ilya’s sac against Shane, of him driving his slicked shaft in and out, in and out, god back in in in in to Shane’s hole, were startlingly loud in the penthouse.

“Ready to come again?” Ilya released Shane’s wrists and watched them fall uselessly to the sheets, Shane wasn’t even trying to move them now, sinking deeper by the moment, even as Ilya slid his hand down to wrap around Shane’s blushing cock, which was already getting hard again, despite having just orgasmed minutes ago on his tongue.

“I don’t—I don’t know if I can—”

“You can.” Ilya stroked him in time with his thrusts. “You will. I want you to come on my cock while I am inside you.”

Shane groaned but the music of the sound was lost when he turned his face into one of the many pillows to muffle it and hide.

“No, no,” Ilya chided, clicking his tongue as he fisted a gentle hand in that dark hair and pulled Shane’s head back into place and held it there, “These sounds, these are mine to hear and enjoy. Behave, Hollander.”

“S-sorry,” Shane gasped, and Ilya hummed as he released his hair, letting his hand slide down to rest, loosely, around his neck.

“How about I just hold you here so you’re not tempted to move?” Ilya asked, stoking the heated skin there in time as he rolled his hips, pulling out, pushing back in, earning an enthusiastic and needy squeeze from Shane’s hole. Oh. My my.

“Ye-oh—yes,” Shane stuttered, his hips shifting like he was trying to fuck himself on Ilya’s cock but couldn’t with how he was pinned. “Please, please, oh,” he begged.

“Since you asked so sweetly,” Ilya crooned, and then angled his hips, driving deeper, that gentle collar of his hand on Shane’s neck holding him just so, face to face, so he would watch that pretty mouth fall into an ‘O’, little tears forming at the corners of his eyes with each satisfying smack of his pelvis.

“Bozhe—you feel so good,” Ilya groaned, adjusting his angle until Shane’s back arched off the bed, yelping. “There it is. Right there, yes?” He thrust again, harder, hitting that spot dead-on.

His free hand wrapped around Shane’s cock, which was flushed dark and leaking despite having come so recently. Ilya stroked in time with his thrusts—slow, deliberate pulls that had Shane writhing beneath him.

“Rozanov—I can’t—it’s too much—”

“You can.” Ilya’s hand tightened fractionally on Shane’s neck. He fucked into Shane harder, the wet slide of his cock punching sounds out of Shane that were half-sob, half-moan. Shane’s hands scrabbled at the sheets, trying to find purchase, trying to ground himself, but there was nowhere to go—Ilya had him pinned, spread open, completely at his mercy.

“So perfect like this,” Ilya said, enraptured by the view: Shane slipping under fast and faster, helpless and only able to take the pleasure he was given, mouth open, gasping, pleading. “Taking me so well. Being such a good boy for me.”

Shane moaned at the praise, his cock pulsing in Ilya’s fist. “Please—please, I’m—I’m gonna—”

“You can come,” Ilya said, feeling magnanimous about it even, his hand working Shane’s cock in quick, tight strokes while he drove into him.

Shane’s entire body went rigid, back arching, and then he was coming—barely anything this time, just a few weak spurts painting his abdomen, but his hole squeezed around him like a damn vice around Ilya’s cock, stuttering squeezes that made Ilya’s vision white out. Shane sobbed through it, tears tracking down his temples.

Ilya released Shane’s spent cock and didn’t stop fucking him.

“No—Rozanov, wait—I can’t—” Shane’s hands came up to push weakly at Ilya’s chest, oversensitive and overwhelmed.

“You can,” Ilya growled. “You can, can’t you solnyshko? Mm. I think you can. This greedy hole doesn’t want me to stop. Do you want me to stop?”

“N-nooooo, ugnh,” Shane whined, shaking his head, more of those fat crybaby tears lolling down his cheeks, “No, do-on’t stop—”

Ilya leaned down to kiss him again, letting tired hands grasp the back of his neck with a plea. His sack slapped against Shane’s abused, ruined hole with every grunt and angle of his hips, all protests dissolving into incoherent sounds. Shane’s cock, soft and spent against his stomach, twitched with each thrust, oversensitive but starting to respond despite the impossibility of it. Shane was shaking, breath coming in desperate gasps, and his hole was fluttering around Ilya in a way that meant—

“I can’t—I can’t—oh fuck, M…clo-ose—”

“Come for me, Hollander,” Ilya growled, grinding in at the end of each rolling thrust, grinding it against his spot. Shane cried out, nails raking down Ilya’s spine hard enough to break skin. Good. Mark me too. Shane slammed his hips up to meet each thrust, strong thighs clamping around Ilya’s waist with bruising force, using that wondrous hockey-hardened body to take take take as much as he was being given, and Ilya felt the shift in his own spine, the way Shane was fucking himself on Ilya’s cock as much as Ilya was fucking him. Begging for more. Demanding more. Nenasytnyy. Insatiable. “Come on my cock. Show me how good it feels. Come for me, come on my fucking cock.”

Below, Shane’s orgasm ripped through him on command, helpless to do anything but break apart one last time, spine arching off the bed, body jackknifing as he came with a shout that cracked his voice in half. His cock jerked uselessly between them, while his hole spasmed around Ilya’s cock, trying to strangle it, and Ilya felt the moment Shane’s brain went offline, eyes glazing over. Shane’s mouth went slack, barely breathing for a moment until shrieking, back bowing off the bed, and Ilya fucked him through it, grinding deep while Shane shook apart beneath him.

“Vot tak,” Ilya groaned, fucking him through it, “Good boy, good fucking boy Hollander—”

Ilya’s own orgasm hit him like lightning, striking and exploding outward, sending sparks through his bones, down his limbs to his fingers and toes. Ilya buried himself to the hilt and came, flooding the condom. He ground deeper, hips working in tight circles as he pumped rope after rope into Shane’s body, the condom swelling with it. “Fuuck, fuck, Hollander—”

It felt like being wrenched under, like drowning in heat and pressure and the fucking sounds Shane was making beneath him. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, could only feel Shane’s body gripping him, milking him, taking everything Ilya had to give.

When the waves finally subsided, Ilya realized he was shaking. His forearms were braced on either side of Shane’s head, holding himself up by sheer force of will. Beneath him, tears tracked down Shane’s temples into his hair, fresh ones joining the trails already drying on his skin. He looked wrecked, destroyed even.

And… smiling. Bozhe moy, he was smiling, fucked out and small and soft and utterly ruined. And happy.

I’m fucked, Ilya thought distantly. I am so completely fucked.

He lowered himself carefully, bringing their bodies flush, and kissed Shane’s temple where the tears had pooled. Salt on his lips. Shane made a small sound, fingers curling weakly into Ilya’s hair.

“You are okay, krasavchik? Hollander?” Ilya murmured against his skin.

“Yeah,” Shane breathed. “So okay.”

“You were so good for me Hollander,” Ilya kissed his cheekbone, sighing contentedly, between the benedictions, “So good.”

He pulled out in increments until Shane’s hole fluttered around nothing. Ilya stripped off the condom, tied it, and dropped it on the nightstand to deal with later. When he looked back, Shane’s eyes had drifted shut, his breathing evening out.

“Ey.” Ilya touched his cheek. “Hey. Eyes on me, solnyshko. Not sleeping yet.”

Shane’s eyes opened halfway, unfocused. “M’not sleeping.”

“Yes, and I am starting center for Boston Bears. Then I become Pope. Miracles everywhere.” Ilya smoothed Shane’s hair back from his forehead, damp with sweat, enjoying the dopey-smile on his face. Ilya kissed his temple, then his cheek “You did so well, Hollander. But really, no sleeping yet. I need clean you up first. You are covered in—well. Everything.”

Shane made a protesting sound when Ilya shifted away, his hand reaching out, fingers grasping at air. “No—don’t leave, please—”

“Shh. I am right here. Just getting towel from massive ensuite bathroom I see.” Ilya stood, his legs unsteady beneath him. When had he last come that hard? When had—

No. Not thinking about that now.

He crossed to Shane’s ensuite bathroom, flicked on the light. Marble everywhere, of course. Heated floors. A rainfall shower big enough for four people which… offered a tempting amount of possibilities for what combinations of people those four could be. He grabbed a washcloth from the towel warmer—heated towels, fuck—and ran it under warm water.

Heated towels. Shane fucking Hollander had heated fucking towels in a bathroom bigger than Ilya’s entire apartment. Ilya’s radiator didn’t warm anything except the cockroaches, but Shane kept his towels warm so they’d feel nice after a shower.

When he returned to the bedroom a minute later, Shane hadn’t moved, and Ilya stole the moment in the doorway to try and commit the scene to his memory:

Shane Hollander, sprawled across the ruined sheets, one arm flung over his eyes, chest still heaving. Dried come painted his stomach. His thighs were streaked with lube. Ilya’s marks bloomed purple on his skin, his collarbone, the inside of his thigh…

Moy. Mine, Ilya’s brain supplied unhelpfully, thoughts rising in Russian before he could stop them, and before he could remind himself that Shane Hollander belonged to no one, least of all the immigrant sex worker recently inside him. Shane belonged to the Voyageurs, to his endorsement deals, to the public who’d crucify him if they knew about this. Ilya was renting time in his body, nothing more. But the feel good chemicals in his head, the look of Shane like that, how it all felt right now, made it hard to remember the difference.

He looks mine. And he looks happy.

He shoved the thought away and sat on the edge of the bed. “Hollander. Arms down.”

Shane lowered his arm, blinked up at him. His pupils were still blown, eyes glassy.

“I am going to clean you now. Tell me if anything hurts.”

Shane nodded, then sucked in a breath when Ilya pressed the warm cloth to his stomach. “S’nice.”

“Yes, I would hope so. Heated towels. Very fancy.” Ilya wiped away the mess, working down Shane’s abdomen to his hips. When he reached Shane’s spent cock, Shane hissed, thighs twitching.

“Sore?”

“... sensitive.”

“I know, your poor cock has worked so hard tonight. Almost done.” Ilya cleaned him as gently as he could, then moved to his thighs, similarly gentle there as he double checked for tears, or injury or anything that would be an issue. Once done, Ilya tossed the cloth toward the bathroom to land on the tile, then rose to rummage through Hollander’s closet. “Where you keep extra bedding? Big blanket?”

“Mmmgnh? Um.”

“Words, Hollander. I need a blanket to wrap you up in that isn’t filthy.”

“The… there’s one in the guest room.” Shane’s eyes tracked him, already anxious. “Aren’t… aren’t you gonna lay down with me?”

“Yes, but after I get blanket. Be right back.”

Ilya stood, legs still unsteady, and walked naked down the hallway. Three doors: one open to reveal Shane’s enviable home gym, one closed, one ajar. He pushed the ajar door wider into the alleged guest room. Within, there was a bed with tucked corners for the blankets, another mountain of decorative pillows all in shades of placid, inoffensive blues. Ilya yanked the throw blanket from the foot of the bed—a soft, charcoal fleece—and carried it back.

“See? Told you I come back.” Ilya shook out the blanket before he returned to the bedside and wrapped the blanket around Shane, bundling him snugly. Then he slid his arms beneath Shane’s shoulders and knees and lifted him up, and Shane’s eyes flew open. “What—Rozanov—”

“Shh. I am carrying you to your couch.”

“I can walk…”

“And again: I do not care you can walk. Let me take care of you. This is my job.”

And… he wanted to. Just as he wanted to lay down together too.

Ilya adjusted his grip, settling Shane’s weight more evenly. Two hundred pounds felt lighter now, or maybe Ilya just wanted an excuse to carry him. To keep Shane close. To feel that solid warmth against his chest a little longer. His knee screamed, a white-hot shriek at first, then dull groan, a mute numbness in the way that meant he’d pay for this tomorrow. He’d need ice. He’d need to elevate it. He’d need to dig out the knee brace he hadn’t worn in months because wearing it meant admitting the injury was permanent.

Worth it, though.

“Besides, bed is disaster,” Ilya said, nodding his head to the rumpled bed, “You want to sleep in mess?”

“...no.”

“Then be good boy for another minute.”

Shane’s head dropped to Ilya’s shoulder, nose pressing against his neck in an adorable little, almost irritated, huff.

By the time Ilya reached the living room, Shane had gone boneless in his arms.

Ilya laid him on the charcoal sectional, arranging pillows behind his head. Shane immediately curled onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter. His eyes tracked Ilya’s movements when he stepped away.

“Where—”

“Water. Stay.”

“M’not a dog.”

“Then stop looking at me like cute little puppy.” Ilya crossed to the kitchen, opened cabinets until he found glasses. Crystal. Of course. He filled one from the tap, then paused. A sleek filtration system sat beside the sink, all brushed steel and LED indicators. It probably cost more than Ilya’s monthly rent. He dumped the tap water, refilled from the filter.

When he returned, Shane was watching him, still curled on his side. The blanket had slipped down, revealing one bare shoulder, the curve of his collarbone, more of those stunning freckles.

“Sit up.” Ilya handed him the glass.

Shane struggled upright, blanket pooling in his lap. He took the glass with both hands, fingers shaking slightly, and drank half of it in three gulps.

“Slower,” Ilya said, sitting beside him. “You will make yourself sick.”

Shane lowered the glass, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry.”

“Do not apologize, you are doing very well. Just drink slower and… ah, hands are shaking. Let me.” Ilya took the glass and held it while Shane drank again. When Shane finished, Ilya set it on the coffee table and turned back to him. “How do you feel?”

“Good.” Shane’s voice was rough, scraped raw from screaming. “Really good.”

“Be specific. Anywhere hurt? Need anything?”

Shane blinked at him, processing the question like it was in another language. “I... no? Everything’s... floaty.”

“Floaty,” Ilya repeated.

“Yeah. Like... warm and loose and...” Shane’s brow furrowed. “I felt like this before, last time at the bar.”

“Mmm, yes. Is called subspace. Endorphins, adrenaline, other things... There is science to it, but it all can be made simple: your brain is very happy right now.” Ilya brushed Shane’s hair back from his forehead. “So. You do nothing. I handle the rest. Relax. Tell me if you need things or want things, and I will get for you.”

“You make it sound like you’re my cute puppy now,” Shane laughed, still starry eyed. “Offering to fetch things.”

“Do not tempt me, Hollander, like you will keep me. Might start marking my territory and pissing in corners. Growling at your neighbors.”

Another laugh.

Ilya leaned in, kissed his forehead. “Rest now though.”

“Ar’you gonna lay down with me now?”

“Yes,” Ilya grabbed the blanket Shane had kicked to the floor, shook it out, then stretched beside him on the sectional. The couch was deep enough that they both fit, though Shane immediately rolled toward him, tucking himself against Ilya’s side like he’d done it a thousand times before.

Ilya’s arm came around Shane’s shoulders automatically, pulling him closer. Shane’s head settled on his chest, one hand splayed over Ilya’s ribs, and Ilya felt the tension drain from Shane’s body all at once—spine loosening, muscles going soft, breath evening out.

“Comfortable?” Ilya asked, fingers tracing idle patterns on Shane’s shoulder blade.

“Mmm.” Shane nuzzled against him, nose brushing Ilya’s collarbone. “You’re warm.”

“You are welcome.” Ilya’s other hand found Shane’s hair, carding through it. The strands were still damp from sweat, curling slightly at the ends. Shane made a pleased sound, pushing into the touch like a cat.

They stayed like that—Shane draped across him, breathing synchronized, the city lights beyond the windows painting everything in shades of amber and shadow. Ilya’s fingers kept moving through Shane’s hair as he teetered on the edge of sleep.

His gaze drifted across the living room, cataloging details he’d missed earlier in his rush to get Shane horizontal: the coffee table stacked with hockey analytics books, the framed jersey on the wall (Voyageurs, number 24, Hollander stitched across the shoulders), the massive flat-screen television mounted above a—

Ilya blinked.

The entire wall beside the television was shelving, floor to ceiling, packed with DVD and Blu-ray cases. Floor to ceiling. Hundreds of them. Maybe a thousand? Ilya couldn’t guess—his own DVD collection consisted of one bootleg copy of Brat and two hockey documentaries he’d stolen from a hostel in Toronto. But Shane’s wall was floor-to-ceiling movies, organized with the same obsessive precision as those meal prep containers in the fridge. Alphabetical within genre, he realized. Action started with The Bourne Identity, ended somewhere near XXX. The rom-coms ran 50 First Dates to You’ve Got Mail.

A macrobiotic diet for the body. Movies for the mind?

“Hollander.”

“Mmm?”

“Do you want something on TV? I notice… you… have a startlingly large DVD collection on the wall. You like movies?”

Shane stiffened for a moment. “...I… sorta love them.”

“Oh?” Ilya shifted, trying to see Shane’s face, but Shane kept his head down, hiding. “Tell me more.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“You have library on your wall. Is big deal.” Ilya squeezed his shoulder. “When did this start?”

“I used to go to this old theatre in Ottawa,” Shane said, the words coming slowly. “The Mayfair. They did midnight movies, cult classics. My dad would take me sometimes when I couldn’t sleep.”

“You could not sleep even as child?” Ilya’s fingers resumed their path through Shane’s hair. “Always anxious little hockey boy?”

“Pretty much,” Shane said, sounding noncommittal. “Besides, I have a lot of time on airplanes so I’m always sort of… watching something. I’ve been collecting for as long as I’ve been playing.”

Ilya wanted to get up, look through the collection properly, see what Shane chose to keep. But Shane was a solid, warm weight against him, and moving meant disturbing this and… though he was more here now, there was always the lingering risk of a drop if he wasn’t careful. He hesitated, fingers still tangled in Shane’s hair.

“I want to look,” Ilya admitted. “But you are very comfortable.”

“So stay.”

“Cannot do both.” Ilya’s hand slid from Shane’s hair to his chin, tipping his face up. Shane’s eyes were heavy-lidded, drowsy. “You do not mind if I go snooping through your movies like nosy guest?”

“Go ahead.” Shane’s mouth curved, small and soft. “Just come back.”

“Konechno.” Ilya pressed a kiss to Shane’s forehead, then carefully began extracting himself—sliding his arm out from under Shane’s shoulders, shifting his weight, untangling their legs. Shane made a protesting sound but let him go, pulling the blanket tighter around himself as Ilya stood.

Still naked and utterly unselfconscious about it, Ilya crossed to the media wall, fingers trailing along the spines of Blu-ray cases. Every case looked used. Spines creased from pulling them off shelves. A few with corner dings. Young Frankenstein had a coffee ring on the plastic. Shane hadn’t just bought these to fill space or impress guests who never came. He’d watched them.

Alone in this tomb of a penthouse, eating his sad protein and broccoli, Shane Hollander had been teaching himself how to feel by watching other people, actors, play pretend.

“You have... bozhe moy, this is entire library. Action, rom-com, thriller, documentary...” He pulled one out, squinted at the cover. “Criterion Collection? Someone has opinions about film. And you buy all of them?” Ilya replaced the case, selected another. “Or is this Shane Hollander Brand Investment? Look, I am cultured hockey man, I watch foreign films? I watch Kurosawa and also The Fast and the Furious because I contain multitudes.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No?” Ilya held up The Godfather. “This one?”

“Of course I watched it. Have you?”

“No. Was spoiled to me too many times and Italian mafia is boring.”

“What—”

Ilya picked out another case, running his thumb over the stylized cover of Casablanca. “And this?”

“Three times. Have you? Did you like it?”

“Just like how many times you finish tonight. Interesting.” Ilya’s eyebrows waggled, teasing. He took out another. Pride and Prejudice, the 2005 version. “And… this one?”

“That one… ah… actually my mom bought that one,” Shane muttered.

“Ah-ha!” Ilya grinned, triumphant. “So some are for show. Shane fucking Hollander, phony fan of cinema, he knows nothing about Mr. Darcy’s hand clasp. I must tell everyone.”

“I just…! It’s regency, I haven’t like—gotten in to that yet.”

“So you plan to later, or you are lying liar. What about this one? Blade Runner?”

“Four times. Maybe five.”

“Five times same movie?” Ilya turned the case over in his hands. “Why?”

“I keep noticing things I missed.” Shane’s fingers worried at the blanket edge. “Different details depending on... on what kind of day I’m having. I don’t know. Don’t you ever just want to be… somewhere else? Even be someone else for a little while? Or to know the ending?”

Ilya looked at the worn spine again, the case that had been opened and closed and opened again. Shane Hollander, alone in thirty-two hundred square feet, watching Deckard hunt replicants because the movie changed depending on his mood. Because the movie didn’t ask anything of him except that he press play and the ending never changed.

“I know the endings, Hollander,” Ilya said, thinking about himself as much as he was the films themselves. So what do you want to watch?”

Shane shifted on the couch. “Pick whatever you want. I don’t care.”

“You care very much, I think.” Ilya tilted his head, studying the wall. “You want me to pick so you do not pick wrong thing..”

“I’m not, I mean…”

“You are.” Ilya selected a case at random. The Princess Bride. “This one. I have never seen.”

“Seriously?”

“No, I am a liar and I have entire script tattooed on my ass. No, I have not seen, so I pick it. Is this problem?”

“No, it’s just—” Shane swallowed. “It’s good. You’ll like it.”

“Then we watch.” Ilya crossed back to the couch, DVD in hand. Shane pointed him toward the player, and Ilya crouched to feed the disc in, the muscles in his back shifting under skin. The machine whirred, accepting the disc, and Ilya straightened.

When he returned to the couch Ilya slid in behind Shane without thinking about it. Aftercare was aftercare. Shane, thus far in all their encounters, had been an affectionate cuddler and… that… was hardly an issue. Ilya’s chest pressed against Shane’s back, one arm sliding under Shane’s head, the other draping over his waist. Shane melted into him immediately, fitting their bodies together like puzzle pieces. His ass nestled against Ilya’s hips, his shoulders tucked beneath Ilya’s chin, and Ilya’s hand splayed flat over Shane’s stomach, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing.

Shane pulled the blanket over both of them, cocooning them in fleece and shared heat just as the menu screen loaded, cheerful medieval music filling the penthouse. Ilya reached for the remote with his free hand, hit play, then tossed it onto the coffee table.

“Comfortable?” Ilya asked, nosing the nape of Shane’s neck.

“Mmm.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“S’a yes.”

The opening credits began. Ilya idly followed what was happening on the screen, but his attention kept fracturing—drawn to the weight of Shane’s body against his. This was how people did it, he realized. Couples. Partners. They fucked and then they held each other and watched movies on the couch like it was the most natural thing in the world. It was nice.

He got glimpses of it at Wolfbird during aftercare, and he liked to give as much as he enjoyed receiving but with his private clients…

Ilya thought of Renée in Westmount in her million dollar home with her blonde hair, impressive tits, and incapability to be soft. Oh, Rozanov, you know you don’t need to do that with me. I like you beautiful and mean. Don’t go ruining it for me now. She was good money and a good fuck. She gave even better tips but…

Pursing his lips together to bite back a frown, Ilya buried his face against Shane’s shoulder and tried to focus on the movie instead of the thought: What if this is the happiest I’ve ever been?

The movie played on: sword fights, true love, giants, rodents of unusual size. Ilya tracked the screen as Wesley climbed the Cliffs of Insanity while Shane’s breathing deepened against his chest as he drifted, edging towards sleep but not quite going under just yet. The endorphin crash was setting in, pulling Shane under into the heavy, boneless exhaustion that followed good scenes.

Floating. Safe.

Really it was just him watching the movie now, Ilya knew. On screen, Westley told Buttercup he’d come for her. As you wish, the movie promised. I will always come for you. Ilya wondered if Shane believed in such things, and as if to answer, Shane’s thumb twitched against his knuckles; small movement, unconscious, like his body was responding to the dialogue even while his brain was underwater.

Ilya glanced down. Shane’s face was slack, peaceful, freckles dark against flushed skin. His mouth hung open slightly, breath warm against Ilya’s collarbone. Beautiful and young and so fucking lonely it made Ilya’s chest hurt.

How many nights had Shane sat on this couch by himself, wrapped in expensive blankets, watching The Princess Bride and wondering if anyone would ever come for him?

Stop it. Ilya dragged his gaze back to the screen, forcing himself to focus there instead of only on every microscopic detail of Shane.

The movie rolled on. There was kidnapping and poisoning and dead fathers and sword fights, and then Ilya felt Shane stirring against him, the quality of his breathing shifting. Muscles tensing incrementally. Awareness was creeping back in.

“Mmm.” Shane’s stretched, blinking blearily. “What’d I miss?”

“Everything. Giant man throwing small man off cliff. Poison. Revenge. Very exciting.” Ilya’s thumb traced the ridge of Shane’s knuckles.

“How long was I asleep?”

“Mmm… maybe forty minutes? Film is almost finished now, I think. Unless there is a twist at end..”

Shane went still, and it wasn’t floating-still. It was thinking-still. The nervous hockey player brain was coming back online, and with it, all the anxiety Ilya had worked so hard to fuck out of him.

Blyat.

“Hey.” Ilya squeezed Shane’s shoulder. “Where did you go?”

“I’m—nowhere. I’m here.” Shane shifted, pulling away slightly. The blanket slipped down his shoulder. “I was just... thinking.”

“I can see that. About?”

Shane chewed at his bottom lip, and Ilya recognized the classic Hollander tells: anxiety spiraling, shame building, about to say something he thought would make Ilya leave. He was easier to read here than he was on the television, on the ice.

“It’s stupid,” Shane said finally.

“Stupid is my specialty. Go on, embarrass yourself. Tell me anyway.”

“I’m just—” Shane swallowed. “I’m doing the math and I... this is a lot of time for you to be here, not—shit! No! Not that I’m not happy you’re here, I just mean—shit, give me a moment, I’m not saying this right.”

Ilya nodded his head, swallowing the beginnings of the hurt. Shane fucking Hollander, perfect bilingual in French and English with no accent, struggling to find words when he knew so many.

“I understand this. Words are—hard. Take your time.”

“Thank you,” Shane sighed, rubbing at his eyes a moment before trying again. “I mean to say that I know your rate is five hundred an hour and we’ve been on this couch for like forty-five minutes now watching a movie and I haven’t even been awake for it and—” The words came faster, tumbling over each other. “I feel like… a loser? A huge loser? A huge loser paying you to watch a stupid movie on my TV? Like, you could be doing things you actually like right now, and instead you’re here with me watching Wesley rescue Buttercup and I’m basically paying you to—”

“Stop.” Ilya’s hand slid from Shane’s stomach to his chest, pressing flat over his hammering heart. “Hollander, do not have a panic attack about this. Breathe.”

Shane dragged in a breath, held it for three counts, then let it go in a slow stream through his nose.

“Again.”

Shane obeyed, and Ilya felt the frantic beats under his palm slow fractionally.

“Better.” Ilya’s thumb stroked Shane’s sternum through the blanket. “Now listen to me. You are not taking advantage. You are not trapping me here. If I did not want to be here, I would not be here. This is not a hostage situation.”

“I know, but—”

“No ‘but.’” Ilya shifted, pulling Shane tighter against him. “And I am not finished talking yet. Aftercare is not—” Ilya searched for the right phrasing. “It is for you, as sub, but is not just for you. I need it too. To come back to myself. To remember I am person, not just...” He gestured vaguely with his free hand. “...not just body that provides service or person that holds you down and takes or makes pain. I enjoy relaxing like this. We have done before in other sessions, and this is—ah, blyat—fucking English. Is thing we have in common, same-same, which is why I offer to do private scenes with you in first place.”

“Rozanov…”

“Let me finish.” Ilya’s nose found the nape of Shane’s neck, breathed him in. “You think I could leave right now and go take another client? After you?” He felt Shane shiver. “No. I am exhausted. I am spent. Even if I wanted to work again tonight—which I do not—I would be too tired to do good job or be useful for anyone else. So staying here, watching movie with you… This is not work. This is... recovery. For both of us.”

“But I’m still paying you to—”

“You are paying me for two and half hours of session,” Ilya interrupted. “Negotiation, prep, sex, immediate aftercare when you were floating. Everything after you came back to yourself? This… this I think I am not charging for.”

Which was, a hypocritical, self-sabotaging, terrible business choice considering his endless need for more money always, and Ilya knew that but… at the same time… he was making $1250 already, and he was also a hypocritical, self-sabotaging, terribly weak person when it came to these rare opportunities to be a soft, almost normal, person.

Shane twisted in his arms, trying to look at him. “You can’t just do that.”

“I am professional Dom, not parking meter. I do not charge by the minute unless you are very annoying. And yes, I could be huge raging asshole and charge minute by minute because you are rich fuck and you can afford, but, I am also, sadly, nice guy and I do not do this. And I am enjoying movie, or at least I would be, but you keep worrying so fucking loud I cannot hear.”

Shane’s mouth worked, trying to form words. “I…”

“Enough.” Ilya tapped two fingers against Shane’s mouth. “You are spiraling and it is ruining the movie. I will leave when ends.”

Shane stared at him for three more seconds, then huffed out a small breathy laugh. He twisted back around, burrowing against Ilya’s chest, and slowly… allowed himself to relax.

“Thank you,” Shane whispered.

“Yes, yes, you are welcome. But really, shut up Hollander.”

They watched the film in companionable, nearly domestic quiet, and it was shocking how normal it all felt. Westley stormed the castle. Ilya’s fingers drummed against Shane’s shoulder blade—one-two-three, one-two-three—before he caught himself and stilled them.

“You want more water?” he asked a beat later.

“I’m good.”

Humperdinck surrendered. True love won because of course it did, this was Hollywood, where love conquered all and people got happy endings. Ilya shifted his weight, adjusted the blanket over Shane’s shoulders even though it hadn’t moved. His free hand found Shane’s hair again, checking—for what? Fever? Sweat? Shane was fine.

He knew Shane was fine.

“Food?” Ilya asked. “I could get you the sad box of boy kibble.”

“Rozanov.” Shane’s voice carried a smile. “I’m okay.”

“Yes, I know, but—” Ilya’s thumb traced Shane’s temple, cataloging: pupils normal, breathing steady, skin cool. All the boxes checked. All the aftercare to-do’s were done and they had been for a while now. This wasn’t even a scene anymore. This was just hanging out, allegedly. Watching a movie. His knee started bouncing. He forced it still.

On screen, Westley and Buttercup kissed.

“You are warm enough? I could get another blanket.”

Shane twisted to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Are you okay?”

“Konechno. Yes. Why?”

“You’ve asked me if I need something four times in the last ten minutes.” Shane settled back against his chest. “You can just... watch the movie, you know. You don’t have to keep—” He gestured vaguely. “—hovering. Besides, I thought you wanted me to shut up? To see the end?” Shane said, hooking up a tired eyebrow. “I’m fine, really. You don’t need to, like, do anything Rozanov. I just want to watch this with you, I haven’t watched something with anyone in forever.”

Ilya exhaled, feeling a terrible little thump-thump in his chest. Yes, he did want to see the end, but he also knew what he was supposed to be doing: leaving. He should be collecting his things. Restoring the distance between client and professional before it became impossible to find ever again.

I’m fucked, Ilya thought, followed by: Ty uzhe znal. You already knew. He’d known in the kitchen. He’d known at that I want you to feel good too, when he wanted to carry him, wreck him, and hold him as much as, if not more than, the money he could easily be taking right now. Money Hollander would not miss. He knew, and Svetlana had warned him, and he’d still walked into it with his eyes open.

I am so completely fucked.

“As you wish.”

Chapter End Notes

My Hollanov fics on AO3

Hi everyone, I hope you enjoy this chapter and the long-awaited private visit! I am still on the mend from my hand injury (TL;DR: puncture wound THROUGH my right thumb nail), and I want to be up front that it may take me a bit more time for the next chapter - typing is pretty painful at the moment still. This chapter was largely prewritten which helped get it out so quickly, but chapters 9 and 10 need a bit more polish first. I am feeling pretty uncomfy and under the weather, so thanking you in advance for your understanding!

Thanks for reading! If you liked it, I’d love to yap in the comments.

4/10/2026: Please take look at these AMAZING pieces by Flyora

Not sure what to say? Comment anxiety? How about...

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”
- 🌌 “this wasn't my favorite”
- 🐀 “Watch out for the ROUSes”
- 🍆 “All hail Shane’s purple dildo Mr. Purple”
- 🎞️ “Is this a movie date?”
- 🗡️ “this usually isnt my thing... and yet”
- 💀 “how dare you (affectionate)”

Chapter 9: Vyyezdnaya Igra

Chapter Notes

Shane smiled at his phone, thumb already moving to type a response. He’d been wondering when Rozanov would find it.

Around him, Trudeau International and Gate 59 was full of with pre-flight chaos: Hayden two seats down arguing with another teammate about whether the Hudson News protein bars were worth eight dollars, a ground crew member dragging a luggage cart through the seating area with a squeal of wheels that made three people flinch, the overhead PA cycling through boarding announcements in French and English that bled into each other. Everyone was too loud and too awake for seven in the morning, but espresso drinks and sugar had that effect.

The three dots appeared, vanished, then started up again as Rozanov typed.

Ah. So he’d looked up the price. Shane shifted in his seat, tucking his carry-on between his feet, realizing he had no idea what Rozanov looked like upset or annoyed. He had only ever seen him pleased, or amused, or focused in that way that made Shane forget how to breathe, and now he tried to picture Rozanov holding the watch box and frowning at the price tag and deciding whether this warranted an actual phone call rather than texting, like that one time before.

He could almost see it. He could almost see the set of his mouth.

True, actually. He had six in his closet right now, all from different sponsors, all sitting in their boxes because he could only wear one watch at a time and he’d stopped caring which one. He’d worn the Rolex to three events before switching to the Omega, then stopped opening the packages altogether when the fourth one arrived. And, okay, yes maybe it was a bit excessive as a tip. He’d been reading online again, trolling forums and kink sites and—oh shit. He was supposed to tip for things like this? But Rozanov already wasn’t charging for more and the link for payment was a fixed amount request and…

… and… then there’d been an idea. A bad one, probably. Shane had paid through the link, but Rozanov had stayed longer, holding him, taking care of him, an entire movie, and even after for a while. That wasn’t part of the transaction. Shane knew that. And he didn’t know how to pay for something that wasn’t supposed to be paid for without making it weird, without making Rozanov think Shane was trying to—

What? Buy him? Keep him?

Fuck.

Shane frowned at the screen. There was something in that. Charity donation bin. Like Shane had insulted him by giving it at all. He didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t about money, not really, and that—

No. He didn’t know how to explain any of it. And he didn’t want to take it back.

He also wasn’t sure how to navigate the fact that, seemingly, they could just text now outside of scheduling sessions.

The dots stopped. Started. Stopped again.

Then:

Why. Despite the word, it wasn’t a question; though they’d only known each other a short while Shane had already noticed that Rozanov never seemed to ask questions so much as he did give directions or orders when he already knew Shane was about to squirm. And he was squirming. Shane shifted in the hard plastic gate chair, wincing as the movement pulled at muscles even he hadn’t used before last night.

And every time he moved, he thought about how they’d gotten that way.

Rozanov’s hands pinning his wrists to the mattress, pressing Shane into the bed until there was nowhere else to go and nothing left to do but take it. Shane had expected to panic, actually he’d prepared to panic, and had rehearsed apologies in his head for when his body inevitably locked up and ruined everything, but instead he’d gone liquid. Boneless. He was safe and he was kept and this was happening outside of his overthinking and panicking and contingencies, building up up up up until there was so much to feel and not enough space to worry about anything at all.

He’d come three times. Three.

A flush crept up the back of his neck. Shane hadn’t known that was possible outside of porn, or that his own body could do that, or could be made to do that. And again… he’d cried, which should have been mortifying, except Rozanov had kissed his wet face and wrapped him in a blanket and called him good boy and Shane had wanted to live inside the words the way he lived at all, the way plants reached for the sun.

Good boy, good fucking boy Hollander—

So. It turned out sex was good. He’d already known that on some level because all the things prior had also been sex too, but this was… was incredible. Sex was the thing everyone had been losing their minds over for all of human history and Shane finally, finally, understood why.

Why.

Why? Because… because. The answer was complicated in a way Shane didn’t have words for yet.

He’d paid through the link—two and a half hours, the number they’d agreed on—and Rozanov had stayed closer to five. Had carried him to the couch wrapped in a blanket. Had held him through an entire movie and then stayed longer, fingers in Shane’s hair, asking if he needed water, if he was warm enough, if he was okay. None of that was in the price. Shane knew that. Rozanov had told him that, had said this I think I am not charging for, and Shane had lain there on that couch with his head on Rozanov’s chest feeling his ribs spread wide open in a way he didn’t know how to close back up.

He couldn’t text thank you for holding me. He couldn’t text I think I’ve wanted to do that my entire adult life, the sex and then watching a movie. He couldn’t send any of the truth, and handing him cash like tipping a waiter felt gross, so he’d done the only other thing he knew how to do: found something in his closet that cost money like that could translate thank you in a language that might make sense, and put it in Rozanov’s bag like it was nothing.

Which, to Shane, it was. The watch meant nothing. But to Rozanov…

He didn’t actually know what three thousand dollars meant to Rozanov. He knew what it meant to him—less than nothing, a rounding error on an endorsement check—but he didn’t know Rozanov’s life, didn’t know his home or his finances or his family or whether three thousand dollars was rent or groceries or a number that reshaped an entire month. Or maybe it was low, and he was used to getting even more expensive trinkets from private clients.

Maybe he couldn’t keep it because a $3000 watch might look stupid next to a $12000 jacket someone else had given him.

Regardless, he couldn’t calculate it from where he was sitting, first class ticket in his lap with a five-dollar espresso going cold in his hand.

Which was exactly why Rozanov was angry.

“We’re going to go ahead and begin our boarding, anyone needing assistance…”

The announcement crackled overhead, half-drowned by the shuffle of passengers rising, bags hoisted, the familiar compression of bodies toward the jetway. They were flying to New York to play the Admirals, and the chartered flight was so short it was barely worth the CBSA security line, It was such a short trip that it didn’t register on Shane’s internal calendar anymore apart from the fact that it was another night he got to play for twenty thousand strangers screaming his name. He was lucky.

A $3000 watch really was nothing compared to being able to play like this.

Hayden glanced over, eyebrows raised, already standing with his carry-on slung over one shoulder.

Shane held up one finger. One minute.

He looked back down at his phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Why.

He didn’t have an answer he could send. Not one that was honest. So he typed the only thing he could:

“Hollsy, You boarding or what?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming.” Shane grabbed his bag, shoved his phone in his pocket without answering.

He joined the line, handed his boarding pass to the attendant, and didn’t look at his phone again until he was buckled into 1A leaning against the window, about to flip on airplane mode.

One unread message.

Shane read it twice, then again, and felt his mouth pull into a smile he couldn’t quite stop. Do not think you are clever. Like Shane had pulled off a heist. Like he’d gotten away with something.

He had, maybe.

Shane plugged in his earbuds somewhere over Connecticut and pulled up Blade Runner on his tablet—the director’s cut, again, of course—but his eyes kept drifting from the screen to the window, to the grey sprawl of the city below.

The flight to LaGuardia was a blink—barely enough time for the flight attendants to distribute the pre-ordered protein bowls and for Shane to sort of watch the movie he already knew by heart. When they touched down, the transition was seamless, a well-oiled machine of logistics. The team moved in a phalanx through the private terminal, a blur of tailored wool suits and heavy gear bags, loading into more chartered transport to their hotel for the night.

This, too, was a familiar part of the logistics. They were in New York, so of course they were staying at the Marriott near Columbus Circle; big enough to disappear into, close enough that the commute to the Garden took less than forty minutes, cutting through the heavy humidity of Penn Station commuters and the smell of roasted nuts from street carts. Shane had stayed here before countless times, each experience flattening into the next. This room was exactly like any other hotel room: two king beds, grey carpet, a window that looked out over midtown but was high up enough to be partially removed from street noise.

“Mind if I take the bed here?” Hayden asked, already dumping his bag on the one nearest to the door to unpack.

“I never do,” Shane said, already making his way to the one nearest to the window, doing the same. Toiletries into the bathroom. Game jersey out of the garment bag and onto the back of the closet door, the way he always did—he liked to see it hanging there the night before, a reminder of what tomorrow was. Compression pants laid flat. Shin tape rolled and set on the nightstand.

The routine took eight minutes. Shane had it down to muscle memory after these years of doing it, and there was something satisfying about the efficiency of it, the way his hands knew where everything went without him having to think regardless of what city, what Marriott or Hilton, or who they were playing against. When he was younger, an unsure rookie with something to prove, road trips felt like disruptions, a break in the rhythm of home now.

Now they felt like part of it. A different stage, same show.

Hayden flopped backward onto his bed, still fully dressed, and pulled out his phone. “Want to grab food somewhere? I’m starving and the minibar peanuts are like twelve dollars.”

“Team dinner’s at six,” Shane said, checking his watch. Four-thirty. “We could walk around, find something to eat, maybe snag some of those New York bagels or whatever.”

“Walking sounds good. I need to shake off that flight.” Hayden sat up, running his hands through his hair. He grabbed his keycard from the nightstand. “Come on, let’s go find overpriced snacks like proper tourists.”

They walked twelve blocks through midtown over pitched sidewalks with decades of patches and rattling metal grates underfoot past street vendors and tourists with cameras, before ducking into a bagel shop where the line snaked out the door and the air tasted of salt and toasted garlic. Hayden ordered an everything bagel with cream cheese; Shane studied the menu and settled on a plain bagel with avocado—no dairy, and the avocado counted as healthy fat the team nutritionist would approve of. They got their food wrapped to go and headed toward Central Park. Shane bit into his bagel as they crossed into the park, matching Hayden’s easy pace. A cyclist blew past them on the left, bell ringing twice, and Hayden stepped sideways into Shane’s shoulder without breaking stride.

“You know,” Hayden said, “I am pretty sure that you, like, only like me and your parents, so what was the deal with those sneaky texts this morning? Smiling at your phone?”

Shane chewed then swallowed. “What? I can’t smile?”

“I mean you can, but… come on. Who is she?”

She. Hayden wasn’t even asking—he was assuming, the same way everyone always assumed, because why wouldn’t he? Shane had never given him a reason to think otherwise. Shane had never given anyone a reason to think otherwise. That was the whole point. It was just like the post-game interviews all over again. Who is she, what’s her name, and he would never, ever, be able to answer those questions.

“Oh so now you think there’s a girl?”

“I’m right, right? I haven’t seen you look like that since—” Hayden paused, genuinely thinking. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look like that. Is she cute?”

They’d never look at me the same way.

For a split second, Shane let the screen in his mind flicker to life, and play out the fantasy.

TITLE CARD: “The Truth”

SMASH CUT TO: EXT. CENTRAL PARK - DAY. SHANE HOLLANDER and HAYDEN PIKE walk side by side past joggers and dog walkers. The autumn light cuts through bare branches overhead. Hayden tears into a bagel, soft cream cheese dripping onto his fingers.

HAYDEN: I’m right, right? I haven’t seen you look like that since— Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look like that. Is she cute?

SHANE stops walking. His hands curl around the bagel wrapper in his pocket.

SHANE: There is no girl, but… there is a man.

Hayden’s bagel freezes halfway to his mouth. His eyes go wide, then narrow, then dart around the park like someone might be listening.

HAYDEN: What? Shane, what are you—

SHANE: There’s not a girl, but there is a man, because… I’m gay. Or... I don’t know what I am. But I’m seeing him. A man. That’s who I was texting.

The bagel falls from Hayden’s hand, hitting the gravel path with a wet splat. He stares at Shane like he’s speaking Russian.

HAYDEN: (too loud) You’re gay?

A woman jogging past turns her head. Hayden notices and drops his voice to a whisper that somehow sounds worse.

HAYDEN: (continuing, hushed) Jesus, Shane. How long have you... I mean, are you sure? Maybe you’re just—

SHANE: Just what?

HAYDEN: I don’t know, shit, man. Confused?

Shane watches his best friend’s face cycle through expressions: shock, discomfort, the forced smile of someone trying very hard to be okay with something that makes his skin crawl.

HAYDEN: (continuing, trying too hard) But that’s... that’s good. I mean, if that’s what makes you happy. Right? I mean, um. Jesus. Fuck. Shane we fucking shower together, you’ve been around my kids.

SHANE: Hayden…

HAYDEN: (stepping back) How long has this been a thing? Why didn’t you tell me? How long have you been lying to me?

SHANE: I wasn’t lying, I just…

HAYDEN: (voice rising) We’ve been friends for years, Shane. Years. And you never thought to mention that you’re... that you’ve been... Christ.

Hayden runs his hands through his hair, looking anywhere but at Shane.

HAYDEN: (continuing) All those times we talked about girls. All those conversations. Were you just... humoring me?

SHANE: It wasn’t like that. It doesn’t change anything about me, I’m still me. It doesn’t change anything—

HAYDEN: I think it does, Hollander. I don’t think I can have your back if I don’t even know who’s standing next to me. What else haven’t you told me? What else have you been hiding?

Shane blinked, and the scene abruptly cut to black, fizzling into nothing. No. He… he couldn’t tell him, even though he knew Hayden would try. Shane believed that. Hayden would be startled and uncomfortable and would attempt to say the right things but he would be hurt and maybe even angry underneath. He’d replay their years together, looking for the moments Shane had lied, and he wouldn’t be wrong to find them and he’d be right to be pissed. Hayden always did have a temper.

It was great on the ice, when it was directed at other people, but this… would bring all of that focus and heat onto him.

Shane swallowed. Hayden was one of maybe three people in the world he actually liked. The friendship mattered more than Shane knew how to say, and watching Hayden recalculate years of shared history was not a conversation for a Tuesday in Central Park.

It wasn’t just Hayden, either. Shane was the captain. His name was on sponsorship contracts, on the franchise’s marketing collateral. Coming out would have apocalyptic effects; the media cycle alone would reshape how the Voyageurs played for the rest of the season, and Shane would be the one carrying it, and likely alone. Shane would become a thing instead of a teammate. An asterisk. A story.

A faggot, a pussy, or any other of the one million things said in locker rooms in passing between jokes about ew don’t be so fucking queer, man.

Shane took another bite of bagel and watched a woman in a business suit powerwalk past them with a tiny dog under one arm. “It’s… not a thing. And we’re not talking about it.”

“Fine, keep your secrets.” Hayden crumpled his empty wrapper and shoved it in his pocket. “But whoever she is and whenever you’re done being a pussy, Jackie’s going to want to meet her. You know she’s been on me about getting you over for dinner again. If you keep this up, you’re going to forget what real food tastes like.”

“I am literally eating food in front of you right now.”

“Yes but where’s the pound of cream cheese? The love? You eat fuel. There’s a difference.” Hayden sidestepped a jogger and fell back into step beside him. “So… dinner? I mentioned it before and you said yeah so… does Thursday work? After we’re back? Jackie is doing this chicken with the lemon crispy skin thing and it is fucking killer. I bet she can even make a birdfood version if you really need that.”

Shane did like the sound of that. And it had been a while, a long while, since he’d hung out and… he also liked Pike’s kitchen, with the crayon drawings taped to the fridge and the perpetual chaos of toys migrating across the floor. Ruby would want to show him something; she always did, a drawing or a cartwheel or the latest thing she’d learned at school. Last time it had been the ten provinces and three territories. Now it was state capitals in the United States, and she’d gotten thirty-eight right.

“Yeah. Thursday works,” Shane said.

“Good. Bring wine.”

“I’ll bring whatever bottle is closest to the front of my fridge.”

“See, this is what I’m talking about. You need someone in your life who cares about wine selection. Someone who will stop you from bringing a twist-off to a dinner party like an animal.”

“Your wife drinks rosé from a box, Hayden. I don’t think I’m the animal here.”

Hayden’s laugh echoed off the trees as he stretched his arms overhead, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah. Fuckin’ love her. Now. Tell me you’ve actually watched Hunter’s tape this week, because I need someone to talk to about that new breakout pattern they’ve been running with the Admirals…”

And of course, Shane had watched it. Three times.

Shane had studied Scott Hunter since juniors. He was skilled. He was tenacious. He was also… according to People Magazine, one of the world’s 50 Most Beautiful People, and absolutely, definitely, absolutely, had not been a foundational brick in Shane’s own sexuality.

Because back then he didn’t know what to call it.

It was the skating. That’s what he’d told himself at seventeen, eighteen, twenty-two. Hunter’s edges were immaculate, his crossovers so clean they looked effortless, and Shane had watched hours of tape telling himself he was studying technique. The way Hunter’s thighs flexed when he accelerated. The way his shoulders dropped before a shot. The way he looked when he’d scored and his whole face opened up, sweaty and triumphant and alive.

There’d been a time where Shane had owned a poster. Briefly. Sophomore year of juniors, tacked to the inside of his closet door where his roommate wouldn’t see it. He’d taken it down after three weeks, rolled it up, thrown it away. The excuse he’d given himself was that it was childish, fan behavior unbecoming of someone who wanted to play in the show himself.

And, outside of appearances, Hunter was also a force of nature on the ice and deserved to be taken seriously.

“The cycle’s effective because he’s patient with it,” Shane said now, years and miles and a whole career away from that closet door. He was happy to talk about technique. “He’s not forcing the pass. He waits until the D commits. If we can—”

“—if we can take away his time in the neutral zone,” Hayden finished. “Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. Force him to make the decision early, before he wants to.”

“Pressure him high. Don’t let him get comfortable with the puck.”

“And if he dumps it?”

“Then we win the race to the corner and make them cycle in their own end instead of ours.”

Hayden nodded, visibly working through the scenarios. This was why Shane liked him—Hayden thought about the game the way Shane did, in patterns and contingencies, the chess match underneath the speed. They’d spent hours like this over the years, picking apart tape, arguing about positioning, building the shorthand that made them effective together on the ice.

“Vaughan’s been cheating toward the middle on the power play,” Shane added, picturing the Admiral’s right-wing and alternate captain. “Anticipating the pass. If Hunter doesn’t have that outlet—”

“He’s got to shoot or hold. And if he holds, we collapse on him.”

“Right.”

They walked for a while longer, the gravel crunching underfoot, the reservoir glinting through the trees ahead. A pair of runners passed them going the opposite direction, breathing hard. Shane’s legs felt good, loose from the walk, the pre-game restlessness already building under his skin in a way that felt familiar. Welcome, even. Tomorrow he’d be on the ice against one of the best players in the league, and he was looking forward to it.

They looped back through the park toward Fifth Avenue, where Hayden got distracted by a pretzel cart and Shane let him, checking his phone while Hayden argued with the vendor about mustard options. No new texts from Rozanov. Shane wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one considering… he… wasn’t entirely sure what ‘We will talk about this when you land,’ really meant. Was he supposed to text Rozanov when he landed? Was that an order or… did… that sort of thing only happen in sessions where it was like an official, paid, thing?

Was he supposed to text first? Was that allowed? Did the rules of the room extend beyond it, or did they evaporate the moment Rozanov walked out the door?

In sessions, he knew the rules. He knew when to speak and when to wait, but here—outside the negotiated space, outside the transaction—he had no map. Rozanov’s silence could mean I’m busy or I’m angry or I’m thinking about you or I’ve already forgotten, and Shane had no way to parse which.

He’d translated a $3000 watch into thank you. He’d translated Rozanov’s hands on his wrists into you’re safe here. But he couldn’t translate this. The absence of words. The not-knowing.

He checked again—just glancing, just in case—but there was nothing from Rozanov. Which was fine.

So… why hadn’t he texted yet?

Shane realized, belatedly, that the answer might’ve been as simple as he was busy. Afternoon in Montreal might be prime hours, probably, for whatever his schedule looked like with other clients.

Shane didn’t actually know what that schedule looked like.

How… many other clients did Rozanov have?

“You want one?” Hayden asked, already tearing into his.

“I’m good.”

“Your loss. These are incredible. This is what food is supposed to taste like, Hollsy. Salt. Carbs. Joy.”

They wandered south without any real destination, the way Shane only ever moved through cities when he was with Hayden. Left to his own devices, he’d have gone back to the hotel, stretched, maybe reviewed more tape. But Hayden operated on a different frequency—one that involved ducking into a bookstore because the window display looked interesting, then spending twenty minutes in the travel section planning a hypothetical trip to Portugal he’d never take.

Shane found himself in the gifts section, turning over a snow globe with the Manhattan skyline trapped inside. Tacky. His mother would love it.

He bought two—one for each parent, because his father pretended not to care about souvenirs but always displayed them in his office anyway—and tucked the small bag into his jacket pocket. Hayden didn’t comment, just raised an eyebrow and smiled like Shane had done something predictable and endearing.

By five-thirty, they were back at the hotel. Shane changed his shirt, checked his phone again—still nothing—and told himself that was fine. Rozanov was probably working. Rozanov had a life that existed entirely outside of Shane’s, which was healthy and normal and not something Shane needed to think about right now.

By six, they were seated around a long table at the steakhouse the team always used, twenty-two players and coaching staff scattered across white tablecloths and flickering candles. Shane sat between Hayden and their left wing, half-listening to an argument about whether the Admirals’ power play was actually improved or just lucky, when his phone buzzed against his thigh.

Rozanov had sent a photo. The watch box propped up against a grimy window, a faded sign behind it advertising gold and electronics in block letters.

Shane huffed a laugh before he could stop himself, wondering if Rozanov really would sell it and what that might feel like. But… if he’d already gone through the effort of finding a place that handled resale, that… was a little more work than necessary to prove a point.

“What’s funny?” Hayden asked, mouth full.

“Nothing,” He typed under the table.

Strangely, texting Rozanov was easier now that they weren't talking about scheduling sessions. Normally he'd be typing and retyping and it... just... didn't feel that way today. Backsass felt good. This was almost like chirping on the ice.

The reply came some ten minutes later.

Shane stared at the screen until the light dimmed, a small, tight knot of satisfaction twisting in his gut. He shoved the phone into his pocket as Hayden slapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, nearly knocking him into their table at the back of the steakhouse.

“Hollander! Put the phone away, the appetizers are here,” Hayden chirped, already reaching for a plate of calamari. Across the table, J.J. was mid-boast, gesturing with a breadstick toward Schneider.

“I’m telling you, their backup goalie has a weak glove side. High and left, every time,” J.J. said, his voice carrying over the clatter of the restaurant. “We’re going to light them up before the first intermission.”

Shane forced a grin, sliding into his chair. The smell of charred beef and expensive red wine was thick enough to taste. “Don’t get cocky, J.J. They’re physical. If you’re looking for the glove, you’re going to end up in the boards.”

“Spoken like a man who lives in the film room,” Hayden teased, nudging Shane’s elbow. “Relax, Cap. We’ve got this.”

Shane nodded, playing the part. He laughed at the right times, ate exactly half his steak, and drank two glasses of water instead of even a sip of wine. He was a machine being calibrated. By the time they walked back to the hotel through the biting New York air, his mind was already beginning to shut the doors.

The morning of the game was a series of snapshot camera clicks:

Snap. He woke at 7:00 AM without an alarm.

Snap. Shower.

Snap. Breakfast. Plain oatmeal, no sugar, the same texture every game day.

Snap snap snap.

To anyone else, the repetition might have looked like superstition, but for Shane, it was a relief. The sameness felt good. It was the only part of his life where the rules never changed, where he didn’t have to guess what was expected of him. He knew the weight of the oatmeal down to the gram, the temperature of the water, the exact rhythm of the day. It wasn’t about luck; it was about narrowing the world until nothing existed except the black disk of the puck and the white sheet of the ice.

He stayed on a strict hydration schedule, nursing a gallon jug of water until he was pissing clear by noon. If his body was a system, he wanted it flushed of everything but the game. He arrived at the Garden two hours before the rest of the bus, hating the frantic, rushed energy of the team’s arrival. He needed the silence of the empty locker room to settle into his skin. He taped his sticks with a focus that left no room for stray thoughts, the friction of the black tape against the blade the only sound in the room.

By the time the bus pulled up and the rest of the Voyageurs spilled in, only the Captain—Number 24, Shane Hollander—remained.

The Garden was loud.

Twenty thousand people packed into seats that climbed toward the rafters, their noise trapped under the iconic ribbed ceiling until it pressed against Shane’s skin. He waited for the beat, then stepped onto the ice left-skate first.

Always the left.

Warmups were a grind. He felt sluggish, his edges catching more than they should, but he didn’t panic. A bad warmup usually meant a legendary game. It was just science. He skated a lap, then drifted toward the net. For his first shot, he didn’t wind up. He let fly a soft, wobbling muffin of a puck that floated into the center of the net. He needed to see the mesh ripple on that first shot more than he needed to make a good shot.

He needed to know the path was open.

“Get your head in it, Hollander!” Hayden yelled, passing him at full tilt. A second later, a puck whizzed off the heel of Hayden’s stick, clipping Shane’s shin guard while he was mid-stretch.

“Fuck off Pike!” Shane snapped, but he was grinning, not even flinching. It was their ritual—Hayden trying to break his focus, Shane proving it was unbreakable.

The Admirals’ fans were brutal, too. They booed during warmups, booed during the anthem, booed when Shane’s name was announced with the starting lineup. He smiled at that. Let them boo. It meant they were paying attention.

One final check: three short sips of blue Gatorade at the bench, then he skated to the circle.

He stood at center ice for the opening faceoff, stick down, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. Across from him, Scott Hunter mirrored his stance looking every inch the man he did on the old posters and the magazines. Scott had an inch on him and a few extra pounds of muscle through the shoulders which usually made Shane feel like he had to work twice as hard just to hold his ground. At least that’s what he normally felt. With Scott, looking at the familiar, immaculate stretch of Scott’s jersey, Shane didn’t feel smaller. He felt focused.

Hunter was the kind of player who made Shane better by existing to play against.

They’d faced each other six times in the past three seasons. Hunter had won four of those games.

God, it would feel good to tip those numbers back in his favor.

“You look like you actually slept for once, Hollander,” Hunter said, his voice muffled by his mouthguard but his eyes creasing with a grin. “Sponsor finally give you a night off from the cameras?”

Shane tightened his grip on his stick, feeling the familiar hum of adrenaline, but a sharp, genuine smile touched his lips. “Something like that. You ready to lose in your own building, Hunter?”

“In your dreams, kid,” Hunter let out a short, dry laugh, his posture tightening into a coil of pure competitive intent. He leaned in as the ref gripped the puck. “Try to keep up.”

The puck dropped.

Shane won the draw, snapping it back to his defenseman, and the game began.

Hockey at this level was a language Shane had spent his entire life learning to speak. He read the ice the way other people read faces—patterns emerging from chaos, the geometry of passing lanes and shooting angles, the split-second calculations that determined whether a play succeeded or failed. Every shift was a conversation, his body asking questions that the defense had to answer: Can you stop this? What about this? What about now?

Hunter was fast. One of the fastest in the league. But Shane had watched enough tape to know the weight shifts that preceded his cuts, the way his shoulder dropped before he accelerated, the tells that gave away his intentions a half-second before his body followed through. When Hunter drove wide on their first defensive zone possession, Shane was already there, angling him toward the boards, forcing the dump instead of the carry.

Good. That was exactly what they’d wanted.

The first period was a chess match. Both teams probing, testing, looking for weaknesses. Shane had three shots on goal—two blocked, one saved—and Hunter had two. Neither team could find the back of the net. The Admirals’ goalie tracked the puck without wasted movement. Shane filed it away: top corner, glove side.

He’s slow getting his arm up.

In the locker room between periods, Shane sat in his stall and ran through adjustments. More traffic in front of the net. More shots from the point. Make the goalie work, make him uncomfortable, and eventually something would get through.

“How do you feel about the cycle?” Hayden asked, dropping onto the bench beside him.

“It’s working. He’s cheating toward Hunter on the weak side, leaving space behind him.”

“So we hit that space.”

“Every time. Make him pay for it.”

In the second period, the Admirals came out hitting.

Shane took a hard check in the first two minutes—a clean hit, shoulder to shoulder, the kind that rattled your teeth and made you remember this was a contact sport. He bounced off the boards and kept skating, kept pushing, because that was what you did. Pain was information. Pain meant you were still in the fight.

Four minutes in, he stripped Hunter of the puck at the blue line. It was instinct more than strategy—his stick in the right place at the right time, a flick of the wrist that sent the puck skittering loose—and suddenly Hayden was gone, breaking toward the net on a two-on-one with Schneider trailing.

Shane watched from center ice, too far back to join the rush, his whole body leaning forward as if he could will the puck into the net.

Hayden shot. The goalie kicked out his pad.

The rebound came to Schneider.

Schneider buried it.

The red light flashed. The crowd went silent. Shane raised his stick and screamed something wordless and triumphant, and then Hayden was crashing into him, Schneider right behind, the three of them tangled together at center ice while the Voyageurs’ bench erupted.

“That’s the one!” Shane shouted into Schneider’s ear. “That’s exactly the one!”

1-0.

The lead lasted six minutes.

Hunter scored on the power play, a wrist shot from the circle that found the top corner before their goalie could move. It was a perfect shot—Shane could admit that, even as he watched the puck cross the line, even as the Garden exploded around him. Hunter had waited for the screen, waited for the lane to open, and then he’d put it exactly where it needed to go. There was nothing anyone could have done.

1-1.

The third period was war.

Both teams were tired. Both teams were pushing. The ice was getting choppy from the abuse, the surface chewed up by sixty minutes of skating, and Shane’s legs burned with every stride. His lungs burned. His shoulder—the one that had taken the hit in the second—throbbed every time he raised his stick. None of it mattered. None of it could matter, not now, not with twenty minutes left and everything still to play for.

Hunter was everywhere. He took away the passing lanes and crowded Shane’s hands, a relentless shadow that left Shane’s forearms burning from hacked slashes. Hunter Hunter Hunter, fucking Hunter, blocking lanes, forcing turnovers, killing penalties, suffocating in his defense and his offense. A younger, cockier, more hot-headed Shane Hollander would’ve wanted to break his stick over his knee. This older, supposedly wiser, Shane Hollander did too, but he hid it better.

Shane had studied him for years, had built his game in part by watching what Hunter did and trying to match it, and even now—even hating him for being so goddamn good—he couldn’t help but admire the work.

With eight minutes left, Shane had a chance.

A two-on-one with Hayden, a play they’d run a thousand times. Shane carried the puck over the blue line, Hayden streaking down the left wing, the defenseman caught in the middle trying to decide which threat to take away. The goalie was cheating toward Shane, expecting the shot, which meant Hayden was open, which meant the smart play—and likely the right play—was the pass, but what if—

No time to think. Shane took the shot.

The goalie kicked out his pad, and the puck deflected wide.

“Fuck,” Shane hissed, slamming his stick against the boards.

“Shake it off,” Hayden said, skating past. “Still time.”

But time kept bleeding away. Six minutes. Five. Four. And then Vaughan—the same Admiral right wing and alternate captain, the same Vaughan he and Hayden had been talking about yesterday, Carter fucking Vaughan, who’d been cheating toward the middle all night—buried a rebound off a scramble in front of the net. The puck squirted loose and he was there, stick on the ice, and the red light flashed before Shane could even process what had happened.

2-1 Admirals.

Shane called timeout. He gathered his team around him at the bench and looked at each of them in turn: Hayden, breathing hard but ready. Schneider, young and hungry. The veterans, the rookies, the twenty-one men who’d followed him into this building and trusted him to lead them back out.

“Two minutes,” Shane said. “That’s all we need. We’ve got two minutes to find one goal. Hayden, you’re crashing the net. Schneider, stay high. Give me an outlet if I need it.”

They nodded. They believed him. That was the thing about being captain—they believed him, even when the math said they probably shouldn’t, even when the game was slipping away and the crowd was deafening and everything pointed toward loss.

Shane pulled the goalie with ninety seconds left.

Six attackers against five. The ice felt smaller now, crowded and chaotic. Shane lived for this—the high-stakes math of the man advantage—but his lungs were screaming. He could feel his heartbeat in his face. He cycled the puck, his vision narrowing until the world was just the blue line and the red of the Admirals’ jerseys. He wasn’t thinking about the fans or the “Golden Boy” narrative or anything at all anymore, no, no now he was just a set of reflexes trying to force a gap in a wall that wouldn’t budge, to be a knife that found a chink in armor.

He got the first look from the high slot feeling the vibration travel up the shaft of his stick as he snapped the puck toward the top corner.

Save. The sound of the puck hitting the goalie’s pads was a dull thud that echoed in Shane’s teeth.

Fuck. Okay. Not done yet, keep going, keep going—

Thirty seconds. He got the second chance on a rebound, a desperate, lunging backhand. He saw the mesh, he could almost feel the ripple of it in his mind, but—no! The goalie’s glove flashed, snatching the air out of the building, clenching around it and Shane’s heart all in one crush.

Distantly, there was the final horn and the roar of the home team fans.

Shit.

Shane stood frozen at the hash marks, his chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes. The Admirals poured off their bench, a blur of celebratory white and red, their joy a jagged contrast to the sudden, hollow ache behind Shane’s ribs. The loss anchored itself in his marrow. It was the weight of a machine that had been calibrated to perfection and still… came up short. Fuck. Fuck.

Still mourning, Shane felt the familiar presence of Scott Hunter before he saw him. Scott skated over, looking remarkably unruffled for someone who had just spent sixty minutes at war. He tapped Shane’s shin guard with the toe of his stick—a brief, solid contact that felt louder than the crowd.

“Hey. Good game, Hollander,” Scott said.

Shane looked up. Scott’s face was flush, his eyes bright with the adrenaline of the win, but there was no mockery there. That was the problem. He meant it. Scott Hunter, childhood idol and sexual awakening, looked at him like a peer, like the only other person in the arena who actually understood the cost of those last ninety seconds and everything he’d given out on the ice to try to win.

“Yeah, you too, Hunter,” Shane rasped, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears.

He meant it. He hated that he meant it. He wanted to be angry, to find a flaw in the system to blame, but all he felt was the suffocating reality that he’d given everything he had, and Scott Hunter had still been an inch better.

There were no cheers on the walk out, only the clack-clack of blades on rubber mats. Shane wanted to peel his skin off along with his gear, and it seemed to be a common sentiment in the locker room. Twenty-two men stripped in near-silence, the only sounds the hiss of tape being cut, the thud of pads hitting the floor, the occasional grunt of someone pulling off a jersey still damp with sweat.

Nobody talked about the game. The locker rooms felt like a morgue.

Shane peeled off his base layer and reached for his towel, draping it around his waist before shoving down his compression shorts. He’d been thinking about this moment since yesterday and… it would’ve been easier with a win. After a win, everyone was too charged up to notice small, strange things like the hickies Rozanov had left on his inner thighs. They had faded from purple to a mottled yellow-green, but they were still visible.

Still obviously mouth-shaped.

He kept his back to the room and walked toward the showers.

“Hollander.”

Shane stopped. Schneider was staring at him, or rather, staring at the strip of thigh visible below his towel.

“The fuck happened to your legs?”

Shane’s stomach dropped. He adjusted the towel, pulling it lower, but the damage was done. Schneider was grinning now, the loss already forgotten, and behind him Hayden was craning his neck to see.

“Nothing,” Shane said. “Took a hit in practice.”

“That’s not a hit.” Schneider’s grin widened. “That’s a bite mark.”

The morgue came back to life.

“Holy shit,” someone said—J.J., probably, his voice carrying across the room. “Hollsy’s got hickeys?”

“On his thighs?”

“Who the fuck gives hickeys on thighs?”

“Holly’s got himself a fuckin’ freak, nice man.”

Shane felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. He kept his posture loose, his face neutral, the way he’d learned to do in interviews when reporters asked questions designed to make him flinch. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Shut up. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Bullshit,” Hayden said, appearing at his elbow with a satisfied look. “I knew it. I knew there was a girl. You’re such a terrible liar, Shane.”

If only you knew.

Around them, the energy was shifting. The loss still hung in the air, but now it had competition—twenty-one men suddenly very interested in Shane Hollander’s sex life. Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else made a crude gesture that Shane pretended not to see.

“She must be kinky,” J.J. said, wandering over with his towel slung over one shoulder. “Thigh hickeys? That’s some freak shit, Cap. Marking you up before swallowing you down, yeah?”

“Good for you, man. Finally getting some pussy.” That was Couillard, one of the rookies, his French-Canadian accent thickening the words. “T’es crinqué comme un ressort depuis le début de la saison. Ça te prendrait une petite dose plus souvent!”

“C’est assez, les gars,” Shane grumbled back, his own code-switching accent slipping into the sharp, flattened vowels of the city. “Can we focus on—fuck—literally anything else? On a perdu le match, tabarnak. Let’s act like we care about the score.”

“No,” Hayden said. “We cannot. Because you”—he jabbed a finger at Shane’s chest—”have been holding out on me. On all of us. Who is she?”

“Nobody you know.”

“Is she hot?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“She’s definitely hot,” Schneider said. “Look at him. He’s blushing. And like, no chick ever catches Cap’s eye so she’s gotta be a babe. Am I right?”

The questions didn’t stop even as the water started, and the shower shifted from wind-down to gauntlet. Shane kept his eyes to the wall and let the water run hot enough to redden his skin, listening to his teammates dissect his love life with the same enthusiasm they usually reserved for playoff brackets. Theories were proposed and debated. Someone suggested she was a model. Someone else suggested she was married. J.J. maintained his position that she was, quote, “an absolute freak,” and Shane let them spin their stories because every assumption they made was another layer of cover.

She. They all said she.

“I bet she’s one of those hot yoga instructors,” Couillard was saying when Shane finally shut off the water. “You know the type. Bendy.”

“Hollander does do yoga,” Hayden said.

“Bet she’s got him whipped already. Look at those marks. She owns him.”

Someone laughed—a sharp, barking sound—and then a voice Shane didn’t immediately place said, “What, is Hollander a faggot now? Letting some chick bite him like that? Holls, be honest, is she bending you over the counter with a strap?”

The word hit his sternum like a puck off the boards. Two ugly syllables that punched through the steam, landing somewhere below his sternum and staying there. A small cold dagger he would carry for the rest of the night. The water kept running hot over his shoulders, all of it continuing as if the world hadn’t tilted sideways for exactly one person in this room.

They’d never look at me the same way.

He’d heard it a thousand times. Locker rooms since he was fourteen, bus rides, hotel lobbies. He knew how to let it pass through him: spine straight, face bored, hands steady on the towel. The word aimed at a hypothetical person who didn’t exist here. Everyone in this room was exactly what they were supposed to be.

That was the deal. That was the price of the ticket, the rookie contract, the captaincy—the understanding that he would let these words wash over him like the hot water on his back, that he would file them in the locked drawer where they couldn’t touch him.

No one could know. No one ever would know. He told himself this the way he told himself everything else—often enough that it almost sounded true.

No one could know.

“Fuck off, Gagnon,” Hayden said, but he was laughing when he said it. “You’re just jealous nobody’s biting you.”

“Yeah, and his dick’s so small he needs a strap too.”

“Oh fuck off J.J., your mother liked my dick plenty fine last night—”

“Ta gueule, gros cave!” J.J. barked back, “My mother’s got better taste than that. You’re just mad ‘cause you spent the whole third period chasing Hunter’s tail like a fucking lost puppy. Esti de déchet!”

The moment passed. The conversation moved on, thankfully, into the usual chorus of ohhs and jeers, the tension of the loss finally bleeding out into familiar, foul-mouthed territory. The focus shifted away from Shane’s skin and back to the easy, well-worn rhythms of team toxicity.

Shane didn’t wait for the next volley. He turned and retreated, the rubber of his slides squeaking on the wet tile and walked back to his stall. He grabbed his undershirt, his fingers fumbling with the hem. His hands were shaking—a fine, persistent tremor that made the fabric twitch. He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms, grounding himself against the sudden, cold spike of adrenaline.

It’s just the crash, he told himself, the lie tasting like copper in his mouth. That was just the loss. I’m fine. It’s fine. No one knows.

Following cleaning up and clearing out to lick their wounds, the team ended up at a sports bar three blocks from the hotel.

Shane hadn’t wanted to go. What he’d wanted was to order room service, watch something mindless on his laptop, and text Rozanov about the game—or not about the game, maybe about nothing at all, maybe just to see if he’d respond, if he’d been waiting, if all this time it had been Shane’s turn to reach out.

But captains didn’t get to disappear after losses. Captains bought the first round and sat in the booth and pretended morale was a thing that could be fixed with vodka sodas and loud music.

Honestly, sometimes it could.

“To not sucking next time,” Hayden said, raising his glass.

“To not sucking,” the table echoed, and Shane drank… though it was ginger ale rather than booze watching J.J. and Schneider scramble for a corner booth while Couillard hovered by the jukebox.

The bar was packed for a Wednesday night; Admirals fans still riding the high of someone else’s loss, a few Voyageurs jerseys scattered through the crowd like they’d wandered into enemy territory. Shane had picked a booth in the back corner, away from the windows, but it didn’t matter. People recognized them anyway. People always recognized them.

A woman appeared at the edge of their table within twenty minutes. Blonde, pretty, wearing an Admirals jersey that she’d cropped to show a strip of stomach. “You’re Shane Hollander,” she said, like this was information he might not have.

“Um, guilty. You caught me.”

“I’m sorry about the game.” She leaned against the booth, her hip brushing Hayden’s shoulder. “That last shot was so close.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I buy you a drink? To make up for it?”

Shane smiled. It was reflex by now—the interview smile, the sponsor smile, the I am approachable and grateful for your attention smile that he’d perfected somewhere around his third season. “I’m good, but thank you.”

“Oh, come on.” She touched his arm. Her nails were painted dark red, and her fingers were warm through his sleeve. “One drink. I promise I’m not a puck bunny.”

Across the table, J.J. wore a wide, expectant grin, while Couillard caught Schneider’s eye and gave him a sharp, knowing nudge. The entire row of his teammates was locked on him, a wall of silent pressure waiting for him to score.

This is my life.

“Maybe later,” he said. “I’m on captain duty tonight. Gotta make sure these idiots don’t get arrested.”

She laughed like he’d said something genuinely funny, and Shane extracted himself from her touch as politely as he could, giving nothing away.

The night wore on. Shane nursed his single drink and watched his teammates get progressively louder, progressively sloppier, progressively more likely to do something that would end up on Deadspin. He intercepted J.J. before he could start a fight with an Admirals fan. He confiscated Couillard’s phone when the rookie started drafting a tweet about the refs. He made sure everyone had water, had food, had a clear path to the bathroom.

Captain duty.

His phone sat heavy in his pocket. He checked it twice—just glancing, just in case—but there was nothing from Rozanov. Which was fine. It was late. Rozanov was probably working, or asleep, or doing any of the thousand things that made up a life Shane knew almost nothing about.

He put the phone away and ordered another ginger ale.

Around midnight, a different woman slid into the booth beside him. Dark hair, sharp eyes, a smile that said she knew exactly what she was doing.

He’d hoped it’d just be the one tonight, but…

“You’ve been sitting here all night,” she said. “Very responsible.”

“Someone has to be.”

“That sounds exhausting.” She leaned closer. Her perfume was expensive, something floral that caught in the back of his throat. “I could help you relax. If you wanted.”

Behind her, Shane could see Hayden watching. Gagnon too. The whole table had gone slightly still, the way men did when they sensed an outcome being decided.

“My apartment’s close,” she added. “Very private.”

Shane looked at her. She was beautiful. Objectively, empirically beautiful, exactly the sort woman he was supposed to want, what his teammates would high-five him for taking home. He could do it. He’d done it before; not often or well, but enough to maintain the cover. Enough to be one of the guys.

They’d never look at me the same way.

“I’m flattered,” Shane said. “Really. But I can’t tonight.”

Her smile flickered but held. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m—” He cast around for an excuse that wouldn’t sound like an insult. “I’ve got someone. Back home.”

“The thigh-biter!” Hayden crowed from across the table, joined then by J.J. and even Miitka. “Thigh-biter! Thigh-biter! Thigh-biter!”

“Really cool, guys, thanks.”

The woman laughed, good-natured about the rejection, and slid back out of the booth with a shrug that said your loss.

Shane watched her go and felt nothing except relief. And clarity: he would spend his whole life watching women like her, and the ones who’d come before, walk away. That this was a kind of freedom, too—the freedom of the closed closet door, the turned-down offer, the body that wanted what it wanted and would not be bargained with.

The morning was a blur of checkout and security and the familiar compression of bodies onto the charter flight. Shane claimed his usual seat—1A, window—and watched the tarmac crew load luggage through glass smeared with yesterday’s rain.

Hayden dropped into 1B, already half-asleep, and Shane dug out his noise-canceling headphones. The flight to Montreal was, again, barely a puddle jump of a flight, though just enough time for a movie if he picked something short.

He scrolled through his downloaded library. Ghostbusters. Dead Poet’s Society. Monsieur Lahzar. C.R.A.Z.Y. Brief Encounter—ah, wait he’d been meaning to rewatch that one. Two people meeting in secret, stealing time in train stations, building something real in the spaces between their public lives.

His phone buzzed before he could hit play.

Rozanov had sent a photo. The Tag Heuer on his wrist, the rose-gold face catching morning light through what looked like an apartment window. His apartment? He wondered what the rest of Rozanov’s apartment looked like. He wondered if Rozanov slept on the left side of the bed or the right, if he had books, if he thought about Shane at all when they were not together or if Shane was simply an appointment, a name, a body that paid.

Shane stared at the picture—Rozanov’s forearm, the fine dark hair, the watch face bright against his skin. Such a small thing. A circle of metal and glass. And yet.

He kept it. He was wearing it.

Shane didn’t know what that meant. He only knew that he wanted it to mean something, and that wanting felt dangerous, and that he wanted it anyway.

Shane locked his phone and tucked it into his pocket. The flight attendant was making the announcement about electronic devices, and Hayden was already snoring beside him.

He put on his headphones, pressed play on Brief Encounter, and let himself smile.

Later, he wouldn’t remember the movie. He’d remember this: the hum of the engines, Hayden snoring beside him, and the weight of his phone in his pocket like a hand reaching back.

Chapter End Notes

My Hollanov fics on AO3

Hey! So rather than making everyone wait until the 2nd or 3rd week of Feb... I just cut this chapter a bit shorter. I hope you enjoy it just the same. That also means that the total number of chapters is going to change; and we will be north of 20. Please be patient for Chapter 10, I do not have a release date planned and it'll come out when it comes out.

Update 2/9/2026: As of today, all posted chapters have been beta'd and edited. Thank you to Aphantastical for taking on this Herculean task! ❤️

Update 2/13/2026: Just in time for Valentine’s Day, a PODFIC for Wolfbird is available here on AO3!

I've seen a fun trend of discussion questions at the end of chapters so, for anyone interested that would like some extra credit:

1. Ilya goes from outright rejecting the watch, to threatening to selling it, to saying he will wear it for a little while. Why do you think that is? Do you think he will ultimately keep or sell it?

2. Shane worries that coming out would make him a "thing" or an "asterisk" rather than just another hockey player on the team. How does this fear of being "different" affect his ability to enjoy his own success? Do you think he value his career more than his personal happiness, or are they maybe the same to him?

3. On the ice, Shane describes hockey as something that happens in his "marrow" and "nerves." He reacts to Scott Hunter’s movements before he even thinks. Why do you think Shane is so much more confident when things are moving at 100 mph on the ice than when he’s sitting still at a gate in an airport?

For even MORE immersion in the lit. class dynamic, you can respond to two of your peers. Go nuts.

(I had no idea how much all you guys would like FanficBookClub, omg I am genuinely having a blast, give me some time because I will responding to everyone!!)

I tried to translate this chapter's name to 'away game', however if there is a better way to say this in Russian, please let me know! Additionally, my continued thanks to the GameChangers wiki for all the names of everyone on the rosters, lol. Thank you!!!

Update 3/23/2026: okay so walking from the hotel to MSQ in 15 minutes was perhaps a stretch but in my defence: I am dumb AND I am not from NYC and I thought for 1.5 miles that was reasonable without accounting for actual city walking. This has been updated and I grovel a the feet at the New Yorkers who were like ‘um, so no.’

Thanks for reading! If you liked it, I’d love to yap in the comments.

Not sure what to say? Comment anxiety? How about...

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”
- 🌌 “this wasn't my favorite”
- 🗽🚕🌭🐀 “New Yoooooork!”
- ⌚ “Do not play games with me. I am not keeping $3000 watch”
- 🗡️ “this usually isnt my thing... and yet”
- 💀 “how dare you (affectionate)”

Chapter 10: Vremya

Chapter Notes

Just how long was a ‘little’ while?

When did a moment become an age?

Ilya had seen a documentary once—back in Russia, dubbed over with that flat monotone narration they used for everything scientific—about deep time. Geological time, specifically, which made human lifespans look like the flicker of a match. They’d used a cosmic clock to explain and the picture helped to understand the scale in a way a human mind could fathom impossible vast things: if Earth’s history were compressed into twenty-four hours, dinosaurs appeared at 11 PM and there’d already been four mass extinction events.

Humans? 11:59:52. They appeared eight seconds before midnight. Within those eight seconds, there was the whole of human history in micro moments too small to even quantify.

The Roman Empire lasted a fraction of a fraction. The Soviet Union? Less than that.

Imperial Russia had stood for three hundred years and crumbled in an afternoon. The USSR, seventy years of parades and propaganda and his grandfather’s medals gathering dust in a box no one wanted, gone before Ilya turned one. Empires rose and fell. Stars burned out. Light from dead suns traveled for millennia just to reach eyes that would never know what they were seeing had already ended.

His mother had been alive for thirty-four years. Dead for fourteen.

In cosmic time, she hadn’t existed at all. The grief had not gotten smaller. He had only built a life wide enough to hold it without looking down.

So what was a ‘little’ while? Years? Months? The human existence was already too small.

Technically, it would be a little while if he never sold it at all.

Inside of time, outside of time, in any epoch, in this cosmos or another, the truth remained: the watch was a problem.

It sat on his bathroom counter where he’d left it after removing it from the box—because of course Hollander had put it in an actual box, nestled in the black foam like jewelry—and every morning it was there looking at him while Ilya brushed his teeth. Tag Heuer. Aquaracer. The steel links were heavy in a way that said this costs more than your rent.

And it did. Three thousand dollars.

He’d turned it over under the singular lamp in his apartment, the steel links pooling heavy across his knuckles, and admitted—only to himself, only once—that it looked good on his wrist. Devastatingly good. Enough to make him want to take a selfie and send it to Andrei with the caption doing great, wish you were here, which would’ve been funny if Andrei had ever once in his life understood a joke.

And what a joke. Three thousand dollars! His rent payment, gone. Eight hundred to Moscow, gone. The remaining four hundred would cover his phone bill, he could purchase a transit pass and stop paying individual fares, and there’d be enough for a month of protein powder, and for exactly enough groceries to eat like a human being instead of a stray cat circling the same three dumpsters.

The math was loud.

The math was always loud. Ilya was so tired of math being the loudest thing in every room he stood in.

The second loudest thing, of course, being the fucking watch itself, ticking the seconds. Usually, the math of his life was a sequence of subtractions—rent, kibble, the radiator’s hiss. But Shane had introduced a terrifying addition. This was the burden of abundance: having enough to finally notice how much he was missing.

Tag Heuer was as distant to Ilya as the constellation of Triangulum Australe out in space. Tag Heuer was Swiss and luxury and used formula-1 components in their mechanisms. He liked nice cars, even though he’d never own one. Really, Ilya realized he might’ve even liked nice watches in the same distant and noncommittal way, that even if he had the money to waste, this wouldn’t have been what he would have chosen for himself.

The very close and committed reality of his life meant that he would have chosen nothing; watches were vanity, and vanity was a luxury that belonged to people who didn’t send half their income to Moscow.

Strangely, the watch wasn’t what he’d imagined Shane wearing, either, even though the new ad campaign had come live and the come fuck me eyes on magazine pages were very tempting.

Shane struck him as the type who wore whatever a sponsor handed him and forgot about it by Tuesday, which, apparently, was exactly what had happened.

Regardless, though, the watch was nice in the way that many nice things were when you stopped interrogating them. The weight of it. The way the second hand swept instead of ticked, smooth and continuous, like it had been engineered to make time feel less sharp. Nice things didn’t demand justification. They sat on your wrist and gleamed and you either kept them or you didn’t.

And he wasn’t going to keep it, he was going to sell it, which was exactly what he’d texted.

… and… of course, Shane called his bluff. There was a sneaky, secret, brat beneath the veneer of how the media portrayed him, Ilya was learning, and he was annoyed by how endearing it was.

Okay. Sell it. It’s yours.

No guilt, no manipulation, no wounded puppy routine. Shane had given it freely and expected nothing back, and that was the problem, because Ilya didn’t know what to do with a gift that had no strings. When he wore it, the band settled against the bones of his wrist the way a hand settles on a waist when the music slows: familiar before it has any right to be. Warm from his skin, it kept time and took nothing from him. He’d built his life around transactions he could measure, exchanges he could track and repay. His experience of generosity was transactional: favors always came with invoices, clients’ extravagant tips always came with expectations, Andrei’s requests always came with threats. The last person who’d given him something without wanting anything in return had been his mother.

Svetlana didn’t count. Svetlana was an anomaly, a glitch in the cold mathematics of the universe.

He picked up the watch and turned it over in his hand. The caseback was smooth, unengraved. Shane hadn’t personalized it, which meant he could still sell it, which meant he should sell it, which meant—

Blyat.

He put it back on the counter and went to work.

The woman’s breathing had gone ragged fifteen minutes ago, and she still hadn’t used her word.

Ilya adjusted the tension on the rope where it crossed between her shoulder blades, checking the color of her fingers where they curled behind her. Good circulation. Warm skin. He shifted his weight off his bad knee and leaned close to her ear.

“You are shaking,” he said. “Color?”

This client preferred the stoplight system.

“Green. God. Green.”

He smiled against her hair and pulled the next length of jute through the ring, cinching it across her sternum in a diamond pattern he’d spent three years perfecting. Kinbaku was his favorite work—geometry and control, every wrap a sentence, every knot a punctuation mark. The rope told the body what to do, and the body listened, and by the end, behind the knots, there was nothing left except the architecture of surrender.

Uzly. Knots. In Russian, the word also meant junction, node—a place where paths converged or diverged, where a choice had been made and locked into place. English had no equivalent. English treated knots as problems to solve, tangles to undo, but Russian understood that a knot was also a decision that held one together when everything else was falling apart.

She was a regular, and Ilya liked the predictability of it—knowing what she needed before she asked, the routine already written in the muscle memory of his hands. There was comfort in repetition, in being exactly what someone expected him to be. She was a corporate lawyer who spent fifty hours a week telling other people what to do and came to Wolfbird to stop. Ilya liked her—she was smart and funny during negotiation, and once the rope went on she disappeared into it completely, like sinking into warm water. Easy to read. Responsive. She cried sometimes, after, and it was the good kind of crying, the kind that meant the pressure valve had finally opened.

He ran his thumb along the line of rope at her hip, checking the lay of it, and she whimpered.

“Shh. Almost done.”

He wasn’t thinking about Shane Hollander.

Shane Hollander was not in this room. Shane Hollander was in another city, doing whatever hockey players did between games. He was not thinking about Shane Hollander, because thinking about Shane Hollander during a session was unprofessional, and Ilya Rozanov was a professional, and the fact that his phone was in his pocket with two unanswered texts was irrelevant.

The first had arrived yesterday: a photo of hockey skates propped against a locker room bench, laces still untied, the leather scuffed and dark with sweat without an explanation, a caption, and nary an emoji. Ilya had stared at it through two full cups of coffee pod coffee and a cold shower, trying to parse what Hollander meant by sending it. Look, I played hockey today seemed too obvious, but I’m thinking about you seemed too generous, and the truth was probably somewhere in the middle, in that grey space where neither of them knew what they were doing.

The second text had come forty minutes ago: I just watched a 40 minute video essay about the cinematography in Barry Lyndon on a layover

Ilya had no idea what Barry Lyndon was. He also had no idea why Shane assumed he would know, or why Shane’s assumption pleased him. He also didn’t care, because he was working, and because the ease with which Shane texted him now had become its own problem in the advent of this new phase for them following their first private session.

And Ilya knew that, largely, this new phase was his own making since he’d been the one to start texting about not-session things first.

After that, the texts kept coming. Shane’s name, or the abbreviation of his initials, on his phone had begun to feel like weather—atmospheric, ambient, altering the pressure of a room Ilya was standing in alone. An airplane window. An art display in the international terminal. A photo of a city skyline at dusk, taken from what must’ve been Shane’s hotel room for the night, the city lights blurred and golden against the glass. Ilya never asked why he sent these things, and Shane never explained, and somehow that made it easier without the tenuous dance about scheduling and the reminder that their entire orbits around one another were transactional.

It was almost normal. It was alarmingly easy.

Which was why Ilya had his phone stowed away safely in his pocket, and why he wasn’t answering, because if he started answering Shane Hollander’s texts during sessions with other clients… then he shouldn’t be seeing them at all.

The woman’s thighs were trembling. He palmed the back of her neck, grounding her, and began the slow work of undoing the chest harness.

“Breathe for me. Yes. Like that.”

He unwound the rope in reverse, each pass releasing pressure, and she swayed forward into his hand as the last coil fell away. He caught her weight against his shoulder and guided her down onto the mat, one arm supporting her back while the other pulled the blanket over her. She curled onto her side, and he crouched beside her with one hand on her sternum, feeling her heartbeat settle from a gallop to a canter.

“You did well tonight,” he told her, and meant it, and she smiled without opening her eyes.

He stayed with her for twenty minutes while she came back to herself, then helped her sit up, brought her water, let her talk about her week if she wanted or sit in companionable stillness if she didn’t. Tonight she wanted to talk about her sister’s wedding. Ilya listened, nodded in the right places, and wiped down the ropes with the cleaning solution that smelled like tea tree oil.

She tipped him an extra forty dollars and told him she’d see him next Tuesday.

After she left, he sat on the edge of the leather bench and pulled up Hollander’s text.

The reply came some minutes later while he was coiling up the ropes and wiping down the room with wipes.

Ilya read the second text twice, caught between annoyance and something closer to amusement. NASA lenses were interesting; he’d grown up on stories of the space race.

Every Soviet child knew the cosmos. It was in the blood, the curriculum, the postage stamps. Gagarin’s face on classroom walls. Tereshkova proved women could fly before the Americans let theirs try. Ilya had grown up with it the way Canadian children grew up with their hockey—as cultural fact, national inheritance, proof that his country had once been capable of reaching past itself. His mother had loved those stories. She’d kept a turka on the stove and a book of Tsiolkovsky’s writings on the shelf above the radiator, and when Ilya couldn’t sleep she’d sit on the edge of his bed and tell him about Laika, the little dog they’d sent up in Sputnik 2, who had been brave and small and alone and who had not come back.

“Ona byla khoroshaya devochka,” Mama would say. She was a good girl. And Ilya, five years old and unable to distinguish between tragedy and bedtime, would fall asleep thinking about a dog playing fetch among the stars.

She would have understood why he volunteered at the shelter. She would have understood most things about him, he suspected, had she been given the chance.

He remembered her at night, and how she’d hold six-year-old him in her lap, another arm slung around Andrei out on the balcony in Moscow, and point at the sky and say, “Vidish’, Ilyusha? Vsego etogo mozhno dostich’.”

See? All of that is possible to reach.

Back then, Mama had made the cosmos feel like a neighborhood, and Ilya had grown up believing the stars were close. Now, as an adult, there was a small, violently childish and petty part of Ilya that would always prefer the Soviet program over NASA, and it was the same way he preferred his first language over his second… but engineering was engineering. If NASA had built lenses that could see in the dark and shoot award winning cinema, that was perhaps worth knowing about.

And Hollander. Shane Hollander with the stars in his skin who apologized for talking about things as if Ilya hadn’t been the one asking questions, as if enthusiasm were an imposition and he was not allowed to enjoy things outside of hockey… that was worth paying attention to, too.

He pocketed his phone and went to prep room six for his nine-thirty, which was a married couple: Nadège and her wife, Camille, who came in once a month and usually booked the full two hours. Ilya had been working with them for almost a year and knew their rhythms: Nadège was the one who initiated, Camille was the one who needed permission, and together they became a circuit that Ilya could close or open depending on what the evening required.

Tonight, they wanted to be overwhelmed.

Ilya positioned them across from each other on matching Sybians, close enough that their knees almost touched, far enough that they would have to lean if they wanted to get close. He bound their wrists behind their backs with soft rope and adjusted the angles until both women were seated properly, the curve of the saddle fitted snug against them. Nadège watched Camille the entire time, her breathing already uneven, and Camille kept her eyes down until Ilya tilted her chin up and told her to look.

“You don’t look away from her,” he said. “Not once.”

Camille nodded, throat working.

He turned the machines on low and stepped back.

This couple was interesting in that they didn’t need him to touch them, but rather they needed him to watch. They need him to control the speed, to decide when they’d had enough. They didn’t use the stoplight system—green, yellow, red felt too clinical for what they wanted—but they had a safeword. Primrose. In a year, neither of them had ever said it. Ilya suspected they never would. They were disgustingly in love, and his role here wasn’t to fuck them or even touch them much, but rather to build a frame they could move inside, to give them permission to want what they already wanted, to let them be filthy and vulnerable and safe all at once.

Love, watched from the outside, felt like it had a specific color. Ilya had never found the English word for it, but in Russian the closest was something between tender gold and blue-grey grief, shchemyashchaya nezhnost’: the aching tenderness he felt while witnessing a warmth he was standing just outside of.

Nadège leaned forward as much as the position allowed, trying to close the distance, and Camille met her halfway, allowing two sets of immaculate breasts pressing plush into one another. Their mouths found each other, desperate and clumsy, while the vibrations climbed and their hips began to roll in time with the rhythm Ilya set. He stood with the remote in his hand, thumb on the dial, watching the way their bodies tensed and released, tensed and released, the way Nadège broke the kiss to gasp and Camille chased her mouth back.

He turned the speed up.

Camille came first, her whole body jerking forward, a high sound caught in her throat, but Ilya didn’t let her stop. The machine kept going, vibrations climbing through her thighs, and she whimpered into Nadège’s mouth while Nadège whispered against her lips—French, too fast and filthy for Ilya to catch, but he didn’t need to understand the words to know what they meant. Nadège followed thirty seconds later, shaking hard enough that Ilya moved closer, one hand on her shoulder to steady her, and she turned her face into his wrist and bit down.

He let her.

They went several times more before he turned the machines off. By then, both women were trembling, slick with sweat, Camille crying and Nadège laughing breathlessly, and Ilya freed their hands and helped them off the Sybians one at a time. He cleaned them with warm cloth, checked their wrists for rope burn, and draped a blanket over both of them on the soft daybed in the corner.

Aftercare was tea and a shared blanket and the two of them curled into each other on the daybed, whispering things Ilya deliberately didn’t listen to. He cleaned up, coiled the rope, recorded the session notes in his phone, and let them have their privacy.

Nadège caught his arm on the way out. “Same time next month?”

“I will be here.”

She kissed his cheek—a liberty he allowed from exactly three clients—and followed her wife into the hallway, leaving him to turn the room over, again, for his last session of the evening: a man named Patrick who wanted to be a footstool.

Ilya didn’t judge. He didn’t judge any of it, that was the first rule, the foundational one, the thing that separated competence from cruelty. Patrick was fifty-two, recently divorced, had spent nearly three decades in upper management thanks to nepotism, and spent each of those decades telling people what to do, and wanted, for ninety minutes every other Thursday, to kneel on all fours with a cushion on his back while Ilya sat on him and read a book.

That was it. No sex. No pain. No rope. Patrick wanted to be useful in the most literal, physical sense—to bear weight, to hold still, to serve a function that required nothing from his mind except endurance. Ilya understood this better than most people would guess. The need to be of use without being in charge. To matter through the body when the brain had been wrung dry.

So he sat on Patrick’s back with a cup of tea balanced on the cushion and read a paperback. Tonight it was a spy novel Svetlana had lent him, the prose terrible but the plot satisfying in the way of puzzles, and every twenty five minutes or so he said, “Good. You’re doing well,” and felt the muscles under him loosen incrementally.

Patrick always left looking ten years younger. Ilya suspected it had less to do with the kneeling and more to do with the fact that for ninety minutes, someone had noticed he was there and told him it mattered.

Ilya understood this in the marrow. There were days when the whole city moved through him like wind through an open door, and he could not remember the last time anyone had needed him to be solid.

He checked his phone between Patrick’s departure and close-out.

Four texts, spaced six minutes apart. Ilya could picture it—Shane on the team bus or in a hotel room, phone propped on his chest, typing with his thumbs, deleting and retyping because the first version wasn’t precise enough. Ilya had noticed that about him. Shane was loose and careless in conversation, all ums and half-finished sentences, but in text he wrote like he was drafting a brief. Ilya thought, idly, that Shane wrote the way he skated: with a discipline that looked like restraint until you studied the edges, and then you saw how badly he wanted to fly apart.

So he typed back:

Ilya stared at the screen.

Cheeky, Hollander.

This was the thing. The edge of the thing. Shane asking is that an order from a hotel room in another city, half-joking and half-not, testing whether the dynamic they’d built in Wolfbird’s rooms and in his penthouse had legs outside of it. Whether Ilya’s authority traveled. Whether the rules of the space extended past the space.

The professional answer was no. The professional answer was I’m not your Dom right now, I’m a man you text about movie lenses at midnight, go to sleep or don’t, it’s not my concern. The professional answer was also boring, and dishonest, and Ilya had never once in his entire life given the professional answer when the unprofessional one was more fun.

He locked his phone and slid it into pocket, then turned back to finish his close-out paperwork. The session notes took three minutes: duration, activities, any concerns to flag for next time—and then he wiped down the room with disinfectant, working in methodical circles across the leather surfaces. The ropes went back on their hooks in the supply closet, coiled and sorted by length, and when everything was in its place, he grabbed his coat and bag and stood for a moment in the amber-lit hallway of Wolfbird, weighing whether to leave through the front or the back exit. His knee had been grinding since the Shane session two weeks ago—he’d carried Shane from the kitchen to the bed and then the bed to the living room, which had been worth it for so many reasons, but ever since he’d felt the cartilage protest with a wet click that hadn’t fully quieted since.

He would not check his phone again tonight. He would go home and shower and ice his goddamn knee and go to bed like a person with boundaries and self-respect.

He checked his phone in the elevator.

He did not wear the watch to work, but he did wear it to the shelter.

He hadn’t planned to. He’d been running late—overslept after a double shift, knee screaming from the cold—and grabbed it off the counter without thinking while he searched for his keys. It was on his wrist before he registered what he’d done, and by then he was already on the bus and it was too late to go back, and anyway it was fine.

It was a watch. It told time. That was all it did.

Refude du Nord ran a Saturday adoption event once a month in the parking lot behind the building, and Ilya had been volunteering there long enough that everyone else had stopped assigning him a role and simply let him choose… so he often chose to do the things that no one else wanted to do or could do. Being 6’3” had its perks. His knee was fucked, but his arms were strong, and fuck the knee anyway.

His knee had opinions about the setup regardless about how he felt about it though—forty-pound bags of kibble hauled from the storage shed to the tent, the metal kennels dragged across uneven asphalt, the folding table that required a hard shove with his hip to lock its legs into place. By the time the first families arrived at ten, he was limping on his right side and had already dry-swallowed three ibuprofen from the bottle he kept in his coat pocket.

He’d stopped jogging two weeks ago, following that first private session, the Princess Bride, and the penthouse.

That route along the canal near the Hollander-PERFORMANCE billboard that used to loosen the joint now made it swell by the halfway mark, and he’d turned back the last time with his kneecap feeling like a hinge that had rusted mid-swing. He missed the runs—the cold air, the emptied head, the forty minutes where his body worked the way it was supposed to—but he couldn’t afford to make it worse, and he definitely couldn’t afford to fix it.

So he stopped hauling the food bags and tried to do something easier.

Easier, today, was a brindle hound mix named Tournesol—sunflower—who had been returned twice and had the anxious, watchful eyes of a creature who expected abandonment as a matter of course. Ilya sat on the ground beside her crate with the door open and his hand resting just inside, and waited.

Tournesol watched him. He watched her back.

“Nu, davay, krasavitsa,” he murmured. Come on, beautiful. Russian came easier with dogs. With people, he performed in English—the right accent, the right grammar, the careful construction of sentences that would land correctly in mouths that expected fluency. With dogs, he could speak the way he thought: loose, warm, full of diminutives that English didn’t have. Krasavitsa. Lapochka. Solnyshko. Russian had a hundred words for tenderness. English had sweetheart and honey and both of them sounded like a waitress at a diner.

He was biased, maybe, but the dogs seemed to like Russian more too.

Having a few slices of deli ham also never hurt, though.

“Ty v poryadke,” he told her, offering her some of the ham, because the dogs didn’t care what language he spoke and Russian felt more honest. “Nikto ne zastavlyaet. Kogda budeshy gotova.” You’re okay. No one’s making you. When you’re ready.

After ten minutes, she crept forward and pressed her nose to his knuckles. She sniffed the watch and tongued the pristine crystal face to smudge it with drool. She snarfed down the deli meat in dainty, happy chomps and then licked his palm. Then, immediately, she was in his lap, seventy pounds of warm, wiggly dog, her face buried in his armpit and tail thwapping at a mile a minute.

“Good girl,” he murmured, scratching behind her ear. “See? Not so bad.”

A little girl with red rain boots stopped in front of the tent and stared.

“Can I pet her?”

“You can try. Sit here, next to me. Slowly. She is nervous of new people.”

The girl sat. Tournesol lifted her head, sniffed the air, and after a long, deliberating pause, stretched her neck out and licked the girl’s hand.

“She likes me.”

“She does,” Ilya agreed. “Maybe you smell like ham.”

The little girl laughed. “Maman made jambon sandwiches!”

And then, as if summoned, the girl’s eponymous mother appeared behind her, looking harried, pushing a stroller, already shaking her head. “Maisie, we talked about this, you can’t just run off, and we were going to look at little dogs today.”

“Mais Maman! But she likes me!”

Ilya looked at the mother. “She is very well-behaved for being big,” he said, and let his accent lean into it slightly—women trusted him more when he sounded foreign; it was a trick he’d learned early, the way being tall and handsome and slightly exotic made people assume he was gentle. “And gentle. Housebroken already. Doesn’t chew. She is shy, is all. She needs a home where someone is patient.”

The mother looked at Tournesol, who was now resting her head on Maisie’s thigh with an air of tragic devotion. Ilya bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“I’ll… take a pamphlet,” the mother said.

He handed her one. He’d written Tournesol’s name and kennel number on the front in Sharpie, along with his volunteer contact info in case they had questions. The mother tucked it into the stroller’s cup holder, which—in Ilya’s experience—meant there was a seventy percent chance Tournesol would have a home by next weekend.

He spent the rest of the afternoon rotating dogs through the tent, answering questions about breeds and temperaments, and pretending not to notice the watch on his wrist every time he reached for a leash or filled a water dish. The watch threw back ambient light in small bright fragments, and for a stupid, involuntary half-second he thought of vesnushki—freckles—the dark constellations scattered across Shane’s cheekbones. Shane’s skin mapped like a star chart. The watch caught light the same way, scattering it, and Ilya’s wrist had become a small planetarium.

Durак, he told himself. Idiot. You are being sentimental about a timepiece.

He pushed the thought away and helped with the next kennel, taking a break some twenty minutes later with his phone. Despite himself, he sent:

Ilya scrolled through his camera roll until he found the one Marianne (who rudely still would not leave her husband and marry him instead) had taken earlier—Ilya cross-legged on the ground, grinning and covered in fur, Tournesol’s massive head in his lap, his hand on her ribs and the watch. He cropped himself out and sent the dog only. It was easier to be generous with things that weren’t him.

Ilya looked at the message for a long time. Then he locked his phone and helped Marianne load the kennels back into the van.

Svetlana lived in a third-floor walkup in Verdun with too many plants and a television she used exclusively for horrible soap operas and the cooking competition show she was addicted to. Her apartment smelled like the clove cigarettes she swore she’d quit, and Ilya had spent more hours on her corduroy couch than in any other piece of furniture he didn’t own.

“I brought wine,” he said, holding up the bottle.

Svetlana took it, read the label, and raised an eyebrow. “This is nice wine.”

“It was on sale.”

“This wine is never on sale.” She stepped aside to let him in. She was in pajama pants and a sweater that looked like it might’ve been expensive because it was even though most things she owned were second hand. Svetlana was meticulous about two things: her hair and her knitwear. “Who are you trying to impress?”

She was right, of course. It was not on sale, and he was splurging to purchase it to share with her.

“You. Is it working?”

“You don’t need to impress me. I already know what you look like naked. Sit. I’ll open this.”

He dropped onto the couch and pulled out his phone while she rummaged for a corkscrew. Hollander was playing tonight—Montreal at Pittsburgh, 7 PM Eastern—and the game hadn’t started yet. Ilya had checked the schedule three times today without meaning to, the way his thumb found the NHL app now like muscle memory, and part of him wanted to ask Svetlana if they could watch the game instead of a movie. She wouldn’t mind. She’d probably say yes, pour wine, and ask him why he cared so much about hockey all of a sudden when he’d spent the last three years actively avoiding it.

Which was exactly why he wasn’t going to ask.

He’d cancelled on her twice already this month—once for a last-minute booking, once because his knee had been too swollen to walk the fifteen blocks to her apartment—and she hadn’t complained either time, but that didn’t mean he could keep doing it. Svetlana was the only person in Montreal who knew him as Ilya first and Rozanov second, and he wasn’t going to ruin that by flaking whenever something shinier appeared.

Even if the shinier thing was Shane Hollander skating across a television screen.

He opened the thread:

He looked at her shelf again while waiting for the reply. Svetlana’s collection was much smaller than Shane’s (most normal people’s were, Ilya surmised) but more eclectic, made up of mostly Russian imports with cracked cases, a handful of American things.

Ilya took a photo of the shelf and sent it.

He wrote for me at the end, then erased it, then wrote it back, then erased it a second time before ultimately leaving it, devil may care the consequences.

Svetlana came back with two glasses and the open bottle and settled into the opposite end of the couch, tucking her feet beneath her. She poured, handed him a glass, and glanced at his phone.

“Are you texting your boyfriend?”

“He is not my boyfriend.”

“Mm.” She sipped. “I’ve seen you take fewer shifts at Wolfbird. And I worry it’s to see him instead.”

“You count my shifts now? Should I invoice you?”

“Ilyusha. I am being serious.” Svetlana turned the wine glass in her fingers, watching the light catch against the rim. She didn’t look at him when she spoke. “You know I would never say anything. But client poaching is against the agreements that let you work there. He is a client, Ilya. And he will leave eventually, like they all do. What happens when he leaves and you can’t come back?”

The radiator ticked in the wall. Outside, a siren wound through the streets and faded.

“Be careful, solnyshko.” The teasing dropped out of her mouth, leaving only the worry underneath. “I’ve seen this before.” She paused. “People like us, like you with your work, don’t do relationships like normal people.”

Lyudi kak my. People like us. In Russian the phrase carried the weight of caste, and rather than description it was a border. Svetlana had drawn the line and placed them both behind it, and she was right, and he hated her for being right, and he loved her for saying it to his face instead of letting him walk into the wall himself. Ilya picked at the label on the wine bottle where the condensation had loosened it. A curl of wet paper came away in his fingers.

“It’s not a relationship,” he said. He could show Svetlana the bank transfers, the session notes, all the evidence that this was work. The spreadsheet would confirm what he’d said. The rest—whatever else was happening beneath the documented hours—had no category for it, no line item. “I am using him to pay my rent.”

Svetlana looked at him the way she looked at clients who said they were fine before ordering triple or quadruple shot cocktails that would melt their brains out their ears. The look that said I believe you said those words, and I don’t believe anything else about them.

He took a drink of the wine, which was too good for this conversation, and picked up the remote. “We should watch ‘Stalker’.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“I have it on good authority from a film expert I am consulting.”

“A film expert.”

“Yes.”

“Are we going to dance around this forever or can we skip the bullshit and call him Hollander? Or do you need a nickname for your not-relationship?” She leaned back against the cushions, her mouth curving into a grin that was only half mean. “Because we could just watch the game, you know. I like hockey. Pittsburgh’s defense has been a mess all season—Montreal might be able to take them apart.”

Ilya opened his mouth to say no, absolutely not, and instead what came out was: “Pittsburgh’s defense is not that bad. Their goaltender is the problem. He overcommits to the right and cheats high on glove saves. Hollander will win, and I do not need to watch the game to know it. So the movie instead.”

Svetlana stared at him.

“What? I read an article.”

“You read a hockey article. You, who has not voluntarily watched hockey in years until very recently, read an article about Pittsburgh’s goaltender.”

“‘Stalker’. Put on ‘Stalker’. You will love it, it’s Russian and slow and everyone suffers.”

“Like this conversation.”

Ilya’s teeth pressed together, the muscle at his hinge flexing once. “You are not helping.”

“I am trying to help, Ilyusha. But fine.” She tilted her head, studying him with the same look she’d given him when he’d shown up at her door years ago with a knee brace and no job prospects, the look that said I see exactly what you’re doing and I’m letting you do it anyway.

“If you want to watch Tarkovsky brood in black and white for three hours instead of your pretty hockey player, that’s your choice.”

“Svetka. The movie.”

She let him change the subject, because she was his best friend and knew when to stop, and they settled into the couch with Tarkovsky’s fog-drenched landscapes filling the screen and the wine filling their glasses and the radiator clicking its arrhythmic lullaby. Ilya watched the film without seeing it. On his wrist, the watch ticked off seconds in the dark.

Halfway through, his phone buzzed.

Hollander on the bench between shifts, gloves off, phone in hand while his heart still hammered from the ice. Twenty thousand people were in the arena and Hollander had pulled out his phone to tell Ilya first. Or tell him at all. Ilya turned the phone face-up, the screen glowing blue against his palm.

Was Hollander even allowed to have his phone on the bench like that?

He typed Good boy before realizing his mistake and changing it to Good job.

He sent it before he could think any harder, and put his phone face-down on the cushion. The difference between those two words was the entire width of his life. The difference sat inside his stomach, undigested, a seed he’d forgotten to spit out and staying the way a pit swallowed in childhood supposedly stays in the body forever; carried, invisible, never quite belonging to the blood it travels through.

Svetlana fell asleep twenty minutes before the film ended, her head tipped back against the cushion and her mouth open in a way she would kill him for describing to anyone. Ilya let Tarkovsky’s final frames wash over the room—the long tracking shot across still water, the dog, the glass moving on its own—and when the credits rolled he sat in the dark for a while with the television off and the radiator still ticking and his phone still face-down on the cushion beside him.

He picked it up. The screen showed two notifications: a score alert from the NHL app: Montreal 4, Pittsburgh 2.

He could picture Shane in the visitors’ locker room, hair still wet from the shower, grinning the way he grinned when he forgot to be anxious about it. A win had to have him thrilled. He would be flushed and loose and pleased, finally breathing.

Maybe… he could text him? The movie was good. You were right about Tarkovsky. Or even Good boy, Hollander. You scored for me after all.

Instead, Ilya stared at it long enough for the screen to dim.

What… was he doing? And why was he feeling like this, wondering what to send, how to send it.

He locked the phone, plugged it into the charger Svetlana kept wedged between the couch cushions for him, and pulled the afghan off the back of the sofa. It smelled like her clove cigarettes and the cheap detergent she bought in bulk from the dépanneur on Wellington, and he’d slept under it enough times that his body already knew the weight of it, the specific scratch of the wool.

He could text Shane in the morning. He could say congratulations on the win and the movie was boring just like you, what are your other recommendations and neither sentence would cost him anything. In the morning those words would be safe—a friend commenting on a game, a casual opinion about a movie. Morning would strip the danger out of them the way daylight stripped the danger out of everything.

Right now, in the dark, with the pit still sitting low in his gut, every version of the message meant too much.

He turned onto his side, tucked his bad knee against a throw pillow, and closed his eyes. On his wrist, the watch ticked against the corduroy.

The next day, his brother picked up on the fifth ring, which was two more than usual and meant Andrei had looked at the caller ID and debated whether to answer.

“What.”

“I sent the money,” Ilya said. No preamble. He was walking back from the shelter, the late afternoon cold enough that his breath dissolved before it reached arm’s length, and he wanted this conversation finished before he reached the Métro. Phone calls with Andrei in enclosed spaces made him feel caged. “It should be there by Thursday.”

“Good.” Then, as if remembering a script: “Thank you.”

The gratitude landed flat, perfunctory, the verbal equivalent of a form letter. Ilya heard the television in the background—a football match, crowd noise swelling and falling—and pictured his brother on the couch in the apartment that used to smell like their mother’s cooking and now, he imagined, smelled like nothing at all.

“How is Papa?”

“The same.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“What answer do you want Ilyushka? He’s the same. He eats, he sleeps, he watches the birds outside. Yesterday he called me Vova for twenty minutes.”

Vova. Their uncle, dead since 2003.

Ilya shifted his bag to his other shoulder, his knee protesting the cold in a low, grinding way that would get worse on the Métro stairs. “Can I talk to him?”

“He’s sleeping now.”

“Andrei, it has been so long I barely remember the last time we spoke.”

“What? He sleeps. He’s old and sick and he sleeps, Ilya. I can’t wake him because you feel guilty from across an ocean. And what would you talk about anyway? Will you be Vova for him? He does not remember you. He will not remember that you called tomorrow.”

Ilya stopped walking, and a woman with a stroller swerved around him on the sidewalk, muttering, and he let her go without noticing. Instead, he briefly entertained the image of showing up at the apartment and introducing himself as Uncle Vova. Hello Papa, it is I, your dead brother, resurrected from the grave and significantly taller than you remember. How are the birds?

He didn’t laugh. It wasn’t funny. He thought about it anyway, because if he didn’t make it absurd, he would have to make it real, and he was on a public sidewalk in a foreign country and did not have the right kind of privacy for real.

The football crowd roared through the phone speaker—someone had scored, and he could hear Andrei’s attention splitting, the slight hitch in his breathing that meant he’d turned to look at the screen.

“Tell him I called.”

“He won’t remember.”

“Tell him anyway.”

Andrei made a sound, and it wasn’t agreement. It was the exhale of a man settling deeper into a couch cushion. “Fine, fine. I’ll tell him.”

The line went dead. No goodbye, but Ilya hadn’t expected one. Goodbyes required the pretense that the next conversation would be different, and neither of them bothered with that anymore.

He pocketed the phone and descended into the Métro, eight hundred dollars lighter. The platform was empty at this hour. Ilya leaned against a tiled pillar and watched a rat navigate the tracks; a creature whose entire existence fit inside a tunnel, never once wondering whether it was loved.

Did rats live long? Did they dream? Did they remember their siblings or children? Did it even matter if they did at all if they were as gone as quickly as they came? It was the same inward spiral as before. A little while. An eon. lya had opened this week thinking about that: the neat, nihilistic comfort of it, the way deep time made everything too small to grieve.

Ilya envied it for three full seconds before the feeling became pathetic and he let it go.

A rat. His mother’s thirty-four years. The Soviet Union’s seventy. A missed phone call and his father’s mind, evaporating like water in one of Mama’s old teacups, so gradually that neither son could say when the cup became mostly empty.

All of it less than a blink. All of it already over before the universe could register the loss.

It was a good trick. It had worked for years. He couldn’t mourn what was already insignificant; he could only note it the way a scientist notes data: observed, recorded, filed. But the math had a flaw, and the flaw was this: if eight seconds contained the whole of human history, then the fraction of a fraction that held Ilya Rozanov—his debts, his bad knee, his six hundred square feet of peeling paint in Rosemont, the eight hundred dollars he wired monthly to an apartment where his father mistook his sons for ghosts—that fraction was so infinitesimally small it shouldn’t have been able to hold any weight at all.

And yet…

… here he was. Underground in a city that wasn’t his, alone, and the weight hadn’t gotten smaller. He’d only gotten more practiced at carrying it while pretending it was light. A strong man’s trick, and Ilya was very strong, and very tired, and the train was four minutes away according to the board. A little while. Everything was a little while if you pulled back far enough, and this was only four more minutes he would spend standing on a platform thinking about time, which was, if he considered it, probably the most Russian thing he’d done all week.

The train came. He got on. The watch ticked against his wrist, and his father was asleep in an apartment four thousand miles east, dreaming of a brother who’d been buried for fourteen years instead of a son who was standing right there.

Chapter End Notes

My Hollanov fics on AO3

Hello again everyone! How are all you lovely people doing? I do hope you enjoyed this chapter, and never fear! We will see Shane again in chapter 11 🌶️🍑🍆💦

Some updates/housekeeping/fun things:

1. This fic is now beta'd! It needed it. I needed it. My biggest thank yous to the wonderful Aphantastical for taking on this Herculean task! ❤️

2. For my friends that enjoy audio books, a PODFIC for Wolfbird is available here on AO3! I am begging you to check it out.

3. As much as I enjoyed Book Club in Chapter 9, I was WHOLLY unprepared for how many people responded! Thank you for everyone who participated, and thank you for continuing to be patient as I am STILL responding to people for that.

4. While Ilya's remembered childhood documentary is imagined, that cosmic clock/geological timeline modality comes from a very real one I've seen (and enjoyed!) called "Cretaceous Sea Monsters :: Formidable Sea Rex Documentary" (2017). You can see the breakdown of Earth's Geologic time at the 07:15:00 mark in this video, though I think the whole thing is pretty fun if you are a nerd like me and enjoy dinosaurs. In general, its just a great visual when considering what these huge swaths of time really look like!
^{I bet none of you expected me to connect the cretaceous and heated rivalry, huh? Well WRONG! 🦖🦕🐳}

5. While you're waiting for chapter 11, consider checking out the newly illustrated Lovers of the Sun and my hollanov gladiator AU Spolia Victoris! Both are completed oneshots. I also have a nearly complete ballet AU in Nutcracker! Mind the tags!

6. Here's a link to where you can watch Stalker for free on Youtube!

7. Last.... I sorta want to make a playlist for this fic? Throw me your song recs for songs that make you think of this story!

Thanks for reading! If you liked it, I’d love to yap in the comments.

Not sure what to say? Comment anxiety? How about...

- ❤️ “I liked/loved it!”
- 🌌 “this wasn't my favorite”
- 🦖 “When did a moment become an age?”
- 🐶 “Good boy / Good job”
- 🗡️ “this usually isnt my thing... and yet”
- 💀 “how dare you (affectionate)”

Chapter 11: Privychka

Chapter Notes

Ultimately, Shane had been busy for fourteen days following their first private session.

In those fourteen days, Ilya had developed a problem with clocks.

This wasn’t new, exactly; time had always moved strangely for him, stretching and pooling in his shitty apartment like water finding the low points in a warped floor. He could sleep six hours and not know if it had actually been nine or eleven and it didn’t matter anyway. He could eat the same meal three nights running and only realize on the fourth when he opened the fridge and found the pot empty. Weeks folded into each other when the only landmarks were shifts at Wolfbird, his smattering of private clients, the metro ride between them, and Ilya had built a life that ran fine on that blurriness, the way a man with poor eyesight stops noticing what he can’t read.

The problem was that the blur had developed the occasional snap to focus.

His phone buzzed at 11:47 PM with a photo of a hotel hallway and suddenly Wednesday had a seam in it. He caught himself checking the NHL schedule the way other people checked weather: reflexively, without deciding to, his thumb finding the app like a tongue finding a loose tooth. It’d become a habit.

So, of course, Ilya also knew just what Shane was busy with for those fourteen days.

First he’d flown to New York for their game against the Admirals with Hunter pulling his team ahead by a hair, and then he’d flown all over between both the United States and Canada. After New York was Pittsburgh, and then he was back in Montreal for three days only to fly out again to Philadelphia with the last away game of this stretch being in Toronto. In those two weeks, there’d been work, the adoption event, and Ilya had watched half of the games on television at Svetlana’s apartment, and then one at his own. Four cities, four games, and the Voyageurs had gone 2-2, which wasn’t terrible, but Shane’s plus-minus had dropped and there’d been a turnover in the third period against the Flyers that ended up in Montreal’s net.

And Toronto had outright beat them.

Ilya had seen Shane’s face after that last goal from the Leafs. The cameras loved him even when he was losing, almost especially when he was losing, but Shane always managed to keep his cool while others would fall apart. Shane had skated back to the bench with his eyes blank, already doing the math on what he’d cost his team.

They’d texted sporadically. Shane sent a photo of his hotel room desk covered in playbook pages. Ilya sent back a picture of Tournesol, who’d been adopted by a family in Outremont. Shane asked if Ilya was free Friday. Ilya said yes before checking his schedule.

Three weeks. Twenty-two days since their last session, and Ilya had taken two other private clients in addition to backroom sessions at the bar in that span and thought about Shane during all of them.

He took the orange line to Berri-UQAM, transferred to the green line, and got off at Peel. The cold air found the gaps in his coat and reminded him his knee didn’t forgive the weather. He’d dressed carefully—black jeans that fit well, a charcoal sweater with a clean neckline, his one good leather jacket. The watch sat against his wrist, visible when his sleeve rode up. He’d stopped registering the weight of it until he pictured Shane’s eyes dropping to it, the flicker of recognition, the knowledge that Ilya had kept it.

And this time, after the awkward shuffle inside and the inevitable oh-shit-you’re-in-my-house from Shane, Shane’s gaze did exactly that—snagged on Ilya’s wrist when he reached to hang his jacket on the hook by the door. Shane didn’t say anything. His mouth opened a fraction and then closed, and his ears went pink above the collar of his shirt, and he turned away to get water glasses from the kitchen like a man who needed something to do with his hands.

Ilya let him have it. He didn’t mention the watch, and he politely, patiently, drank the water, before corralling Shane against the cabinetry once more and kissed him there, and then in the living room against the windows, until he’d managed to get the man to say what he wanted.

Shane asked to be praised.

Not in those words. Shane never used the right words on the first try; he circled, backtracked, started sentences he abandoned halfway through like a man testing ice with one foot. They were in his penthouse, Shane on his knees on the living room rug, and Ilya had just told him to ask for what he wanted.

“Can you—” Shane stopped. Swallowed. His thumbs pressed into the tops of his own thighs hard enough to dimple the fabric of his sweatpants. “Today was bad. The whole week was bad. I keep making mistakes on the ice and I can’t stop thinking about—” He cut himself off again. “Can you tell me I did well today?”

Ilya crouched in front of him. Shane’s gaze was fixed on the floor, like he was asking for something he’d already decided he didn’t deserve.

“Look at me.”

Shane looked. His pupils were wide, the brown of his irises nearly swallowed.

“Hollander, you won half the games recently. What is this business of being bad?”

“It doesn’t matter what I won if I still lost. And that turnover against Philadelphia—went right to their center, ended up in our net. Then Toronto...” The sentence died between his teeth. “We shouldn’t have lost to Toronto.”

“What did you do wrong in Toronto?”

“I—” Shane’s hands flexed against his thighs, fingers spreading wide and then curling back in, his nails catching the fabric of his jeans. “I was too slow on the transition. Gave up two turnovers in the neutral zone. The second one led to their winning goal.” He inhaled through his nose, a sharp pull of air that did nothing to loosen him. “And it wasn’t—it’s not one game. New York, I had two clean looks in the last ninety seconds and couldn’t bury either of them. Glove save on the first, pad on the second. I should have gone to the far side on the backhand, I knew the angle was there, but I rushed it and Hunter’s goalie read me.”

His knuckles whitened where they gripped his thigh. “Pittsburgh I scored but we still almost blew a two-goal lead in the third because I kept pinching too high and leaving Hayden exposed on the backcheck. Coach pulled me aside after. And the Philly game, that turnover was a blind pass I had no business making. I saw their center cheating toward the lane and I threw it anyway because I thought Schneider could beat him to it, and he couldn’t, and that’s on me. That’s a puck I should eat every time and—”

It would not stop. Shane was vomiting up the words now, saying it all the way a man reads an itemized bill—each failure catalogued and cost, every goal-against and missed opportunity filed away while the wins got shredded. Ilya had watched Shane play enough by now to know that half of what he’d listed was the ordinary margin of a sport played at full speed by exhausted men on skates.

The other half was Shane Hollander holding himself to a standard no human body could sustain and then flagellating himself for the gap between what he demanded and what physics allowed.

“Cheers from an entire arena, screaming your name, isn’t enough for you, Hollander? To know you did well? What, your ears don’t work or is it that you do not listen?”

How many thousands of people fit into Scotiabank Arena? The Wells Fargo Center? Fifteen thousand or twenty, it didn’t seem to matter, because no amount of people could make Shane Hollander believe he was good at the thing he’d built his entire life around.

The man had entire crowds chanting his name on any given Tuesday and still went home to an empty penthouse to catalog his failures like a clerk in the world’s most depressing accounting firm.

Ilya would’ve laughed if he wasn’t busy being appalled. The man earned more in a season than Ilya would see in three lifetimes and he came home to sort his losses into little folders like a bukhgalter in a windowless office, stamping each one FAILURE in red ink. At least when Ilya counted his own failures he had the decency to do it on a budget. Shane had built a million-dollar operation out of hating himself; built on the refusal to believe the evidence, the conviction that the real verdict was always the worst one, the tireless work of building a case against yourself.

Ilya did the same thing with money. Shane did it with his worth.

Impressive, in the worst possible way.

Ilya had watched the highlight reels. Thousands of people in the crowd losing their collective minds over a goal, and Shane skating back to the bench like a man returning library books. The whole arena could scream his name until they went hoarse and it wouldn’t land, because Shane didn’t believe crowds. Crowds cheered for the jersey. Crowds cheered for the logo. Crowds were stupid.

Ilya, on his knees in a penthouse with his hand on the back of Shane’s neck, was not a crowd.

A therapist would tell Shane to journal. To practice affirmations in the mirror, maybe, reciting I am enough to his own reflection like a man trying to teach a parrot. The parrot would learn faster. Ilya had seen the self-help books on Shane’s shelf besides the hockey ones—spines cracked, pages dog-eared, none of them worth the paper they’d killed a tree for—and thought: Hollander, you do not need a book. You need someone to grab you by the hair and tell you, and mean it, and make you come so hard afterward that your body has no choice but to believe it.

Ilya could do that. Ilya could do that because it was true. It wasn’t even difficult.

“Because I know that you can listen.” He cupped the back of Shane’s neck, thumb fitting into the groove where the muscle met the tendon. The shudder that went through Shane was full-bodied, a crack that splintered down through his shoulders and his spine and undid the locked bracing of his posture until he folded forward, his forehead pressing into Ilya’s hip, the bridge of his nose against the bone there.

He let Shane breathe there for a while, and counted the exhales—five, six, seven—and on the eighth one, Shane’s weight had settled into his knees, and his spine had given up its military posture. Some of the anxious circuitry behind his eyes had gone dim. Kneeling was a funny thing: so simple, and yet here it was doing what fifteen thousand screaming fans couldn’t by giving Shane a single fixed point to exist on, a place small enough to fill.

When his shoulders had loosened enough that the shirt fabric stopped pulling taut across his back, Ilya slid his hand from Shane’s neck.

Shane’s eyes were wet but nothing had fallen. He looked wrecked and furious about it, the way he looked when his body betrayed the composure he’d spent a lifetime building, and Ilya held his chin and looked down at him and thought, There you are.

Ilya traced Shane’s lower lip with his thumb, pressing the pad of it against the swell of Shane’s mouth until his lips parted further, sucking at the tip.

There you’ve been, this whole time, under all of it.

“You want to be good for me?”

“Yes.” Barely a word. Breath shaped around a consonant and a vowel.

“Then show me. Hands behind your back.”

Shane’s hands left Ilya’s thighs and clasped behind him, fingers locking at the small of his spine. His shoulders drew back with the position, opening up the line of his chest, and the shift put him exactly where Ilya wanted him—upright, exposed, dependent on Ilya for balance and direction and pace.

Ilya unbuckled his belt. Drew the zipper down without rushing. Shane’s eyes tracked every movement.

“Open.”

Shane opened his mouth, and Ilya fed his cock past his lips, one hand still cupped around the back of Shane’s skull to control the angle and the depth. Shane’s mouth was hot and wet and immediately, desperately eager. He tried to take too much on the first stroke, gagging, and Ilya pulled him back by the hair.

“Slow. I set the pace, not you.” He held Shane’s head still, thumb rubbing a circle behind his ear. “Breathe through your nose. Take what I give you.”

Shane blinked up at him, lashes damp, and nodded against Ilya’s grip.

“Good. Again.”

Shane hollowed his cheeks on the upstroke and flattened his tongue on the slow drag back, and Ilya’s fingers tightened involuntarily… because that was new. Shane hadn’t done that last time. Shane had been paying attention to what made Ilya’s hand clench in his hair, cataloguing it the way he catalogued game tape, and now he was deploying it like some new play out on the ice. Competitive thing. Clever thing. Ilya felt all that remained of his blood surge downward to his dick, watching rapt as Shane’s jaw went slack and his breathing evened out through his nose, muscles unknotting under his skin until his whole frame loosened and his weight swayed forward into Ilya’s hand instead of bracing against it.

He was listening. He was good at listening, when someone gave him instructions worth following.

Ilya let his thumb drag along Shane’s skin. “Look at you,” he said, and let the satisfaction sit open in his voice. “On your knees in your own penthouse, sucking my cock, and you’re hard from it, Hollander.” He glanced down at the strain behind Shane’s fly. “Does your coach know you follow directions this well? Maybe they are not motivating you correctly. Maybe I should send him a note. ‘Dear Coach, I have found a better use for your center’.”

Shane’s ears went scarlet. His rhythm didn’t falter though, rather it deepened, his tongue working harder along the underside, and his hips shifted forward in a small, involuntary roll against nothing. He was trying to be better at it. Ilya had meant to tease him and instead had given him a performance review he intended to ace.

I am in so much trouble. And the trouble has brown eyes and a mouth that learns too fast.

He buried that thought under the next thrust and kept talking, because talking was the leash he kept on himself; if his mouth was working, his brain could pretend this was still professional.

“You learned this in what—ten minutes? Fifteen? Hollander, you are wasted on hockey. All those years of practice, all those drills, and this is what you were built for.” He rocked his hips forward, shallow, controlled, and watched Shane’s lashes flutter.

“You know what I think? I think you’ve been waiting for someone to tell you exactly what to do with that mouth. Not your coaches. Not your trainers. Me.” His fingers tightened in Shane’s hair. “And the worst part, Hollander? You’re good at it. You’re so good at it I’m going to come down your throat and you’re going to thank me, and tomorrow you’ll be back on the ice and no one—not your team, not your fans, not a single person in that arena—will know just how incredible you are on your knees. I feel sorry for them, truly… but more, I feel like I do not want to share such a pretty thing.”

Shane moaned around him, a vibration Ilya felt in his spine, and his hands spasmed behind his back where his fingers were still clasped; knuckles white, tendons standing out, holding the position Ilya had put him in even though Ilya hadn’t reinforced it once.

Holding it because Ilya had told him to and Shane would sooner dislocate his own shoulders than break an instruction he’d been given on purpose.

Beautiful, ruinous, desperate for it—kneeling and breaking apart on a word.

Ilya pushed deeper. Shane took it, all of it, swallowing around him and then releasing around Ilya’s cock in a rhythm he’d taught himself on the fly, adapting, perfecting, because that was what Shane did. Ilya came with his fingers locked in Shane’s hair and Shane’s name bitten off behind his teeth, and Shane took it without pulling back, his eyes squeezed shut and his lashes dark against his flushed cheeks and his whole body trembling with the effort of staying exactly where Ilya had put him.

Ilya loosened his grip and slowly slipped out of his mouth, fixated on the wet sheen of Shane’s lips, the gloss on his own dick. He smoothed Shane’s hair back from his forehead, fingertips trailing down.

Shane’s lips were swollen and slick. His lashes were wet. His chin was tipped up in Ilya’s hand and his mouth was full of him and his eyes were already asking before the rest of him could—wide, blown dark, locked on Ilya’s face with a raw, starving expression that needed no translation in any language:

Tell me I did well.

Ilya could see it written across every line of him. And he could give it to him now, easily, and watch the whole scaffolding of Shane Hollander come undone.

Instead: “Swallow.”

Shane swallowed. His eyes never left Ilya’s face.

“You did very well.”

The sound Shane made was not a word. It came from somewhere behind his sternum, a cracked-open exhale that Ilya felt against his hip, and Shane’s forehead dropped forward into Ilya’s thigh, his shoulders caving inward, the held-breath tension of the last twenty minutes releasing out of him in one long shudder.

“Again,” Shane begged into the fabric of Ilya’s jeans.

And then, because it was true: “You did well.”

“Again.”

So Ilya said it again. And again.

He said it with his hand in Shane’s hair and his thumb tracing the shell of his ear. The words changed nothing and everything. The words were old and useless and Shane drank them like water, bathed in them like the ocean, and the waves washed over him differently, a rising tide of affirmation that dissolved what remained of shame and composure, until Shane wasn’t hearing the English anymore. He was hearing the pitch of Ilya’s voice and the steadiness of the hand on his skull and the fact that someone was still here, still touching him, still telling him he was enough, and his body was converting all of it into permission to stop holding himself together.

His hands had unclasped from behind his back at some point—Ilya didn’t know when—and were now fisted loosely in the hem of Ilya’s sweater, fingers twitching every few seconds like he was checking that Ilya hadn’t moved. His breathing had gone slow and deep. His pupils had swallowed his irises whole. He looked drunk, except drunks were sloppy and careless and Shane, even now, even here, had folded himself neatly against Ilya’s leg with his knees together and his spine curved in a line that would have made ballet-posture coaches weep.

It should be criminal for any man to be able to reduce another with a blowjob. Ilya felt a little dizzy, like a god, like he himself was floating a little. It should be impossible to feel this good by giving someone what they wanted.

Ilya had dropped dozens of clients into subspace over the years. He knew the signs and the neurochemistry if not the words in English: oxytocin, endorphins, the parasympathetic nervous system finally winning the war against whatever cortisol-soaked hell the client had been living in. He’d guided bankers and lawyers and a city councillor through this same doorway and walked them back out an hour later, neatly, professionally, and gone home and made dinner.

Shane on his knees with his fingers curled in Ilya’s sweater and his breathing synced to Ilya’s did not feel like any of those times. Shane trusted him with a totality that bordered on clinical insanity, and the worst part—the part Ilya was not going to examine right now, not with time left on the clock—was that Ilya wanted to deserve it.

He tucked that away and ran his knuckles down and tilted his face up until those blown-dark eyes focused on him, hazy and content and still, somehow, waiting for the next instruction.

“Good,” Ilya murmured. Then, because he was still himself: “Now, Hollander. Let’s see all the other ways you can be good for me.”

Moving, Ilya shifted back against the couch and spread his knees, letting the cushions take his weight. His kneecap throbbed beyond where the pre-session ibuprofen could touch; it lived in the cartilage and came alive in cold weather like a spite-fueled houseguest. He should have rescheduled, maybe, if it was still bothering him this much. Any sane person in his profession would have rescheduled, taken the financial hit, iced the joint, and stayed home.

But… that was not a possibility for Ilya with his lack of savings, his lack of safety net, and worse, his lack of sense when it came to Shane Hollander, who had texted are you free Friday and Ilya had said yes before even considering if his body was on the same page as the mind. So… he would adapt and make it work today. This position—reclined, Shane doing the work above him—was practical. It saved his knee. It would also give him the best view in the city: his own cock plunging into Shane Hollander’s naked body with the skyline of Montreal behind him.

“Stand up.”

Shane stood. His legs wobbled under him and he caught himself on the arm of the couch, blinking, still half-submerged in the praise-drunk fog Ilya had pulled him into. His mouth was still swollen, lips red from their earlier devotions, and his hair was wrecked from Ilya’s hands, and he looked—Christ—he looked like a man who’d been thoroughly used and was desperate to be used further. The front of his jeans strained where his cock pressed against the denim, neglected this entire time, and Ilya could see the damp spot where the fabric had darkened at the tip.

Patience. Ilya had not touched him there yet. He’d been saving it the way he saved the last cigarette in a pack—knowing the anticipation made the thing itself better.

“Take your clothes off.”

Shane’s fingers went to his shirt buttons. He fumbled the first one, then the second, the coordination that made him lethal on the ice apparently useless when Ilya was watching from below with one arm draped over the back of the couch. Ilya didn’t help.

Where was the fun in helping? He liked watching Shane struggle with this, the captain of the Montreal Voyageurs, hands shaking while he tried to undo his own fly because a man on his couch had told him to strip.

The shirt came off and Ilya’s mouth went dry, because knowing what Shane looked like did nothing to blunt the impact of seeing it. Thick through the chest and shoulders, the muscle packed dense for function—Ilya could see where the deltoid bunched from years of stick handling, where the obliques cut in hard from the rotational power of a slapshot. Freckles scattered down his neck and across his collarbones, the dark constellations Ilya had been mapping since their first session, and he wanted his mouth on every single one of them.

Shane pushed his jeans down his thighs, stepped out of them, and folded them. More importantly, despite how far he’d sunken, he folded them neatly, edges aligned, and set them on the coffee table next to his shirt. His cock was visibly straining against his boxer briefs and his hands were shaking and his ears had gone scarlet, and he was folding his jeans. Ilya pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth to keep from smiling. Every time, and it ruined Ilya a little more each time he saw it.

If the man ever stops folding things during sex, that’s when I’ll know he’s truly lost his mind.

“Those too.”

Shane hooked his thumbs in the waistband and pulled them down and stepped out of them, and there he was—naked, hard, nearly six feet of NHL forward with his hands at his sides and nowhere to hide.

Ilya let himself look. Really look, the way he rarely allowed during sessions because looking too long stopped being professional and started being hungry. Shane’s cock was flushed dark and curving toward his stomach, thick enough that Ilya’s nearly groaned at the memory of having it in his mouth during previous romps, and while he’d already planned out the night in his head, knew that he wanted it in his mouth again next time, pinning Shane down and swallowing him until he sobbed. The muscle of his thighs bunched with the effort of standing still.

A bead of pre-come welled at the slit and slid, slow and viscous, down the flushed head. Ilya’s eyes followed it, tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth.

Krasivyy. Beautiful. None of the English had vowels enough for the body in front of him. The English ones—hot, sexy, attractive—were blunt instruments. They didn’t have the vowel sounds for what Shane’s naked body did to a room.

“Come here.” Ilya patted his thigh once. “I’m going to sit right here, Hollander, and you are going to do all the work tonight. You want to be good? Earn it. Show me what this body can do when it’s working for me instead of your team.”

Shane crossed the distance between them. Ilya guided him forward by the hip, then pulled him down, straddling his lap, knees bracketing Ilya’s thighs, their bodies pressing together with nothing between Shane’s skin and Ilya’s clothes. The heat of Shane’s bare ass settled against the rough denim over Ilya’s thighs and Shane hissed at the friction.

“Hands on my shoulders. Keep them there.”

Shane obeyed. His fingers dug into Ilya’s shoulders through the charcoal sweater, gripping hard enough that Ilya could feel his heart beating through his fingertips. Ilya reached between them and wrapped his hand around Shane’s cock.

“Oh God—”

“Not God.” Ilya squeezed, thumb dragging through the slick gathering at the head. “Rozanov. You can remember, yes?”

Shane choked on a laugh that broke apart into a groan when Ilya stroked him, slow and tight, root to tip, spreading the wetness down his shaft. Shane’s cock twitched in his grip, and the outraged, wrecked look on his face, caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to die, was worth more than his hourly rate.

“You’re—fuck—you’re making jokes right now?”

“I am always making jokes. You should be used to this by now. Fuck, Hollander. I love how wet you get.” He twisted his wrist on the upstroke and Shane’s hips bucked forward, chasing it, and Ilya let him—two, three thrusts into his fist before he pulled his hand away entirely.

Shane whined. Actually whined, head dropping forward, forehead pressing into Ilya’s shoulder, hips rutting forward shamelessly.

“Not yet. Patience, Hollander. Behave.” Ilya kissed his temple, then reached for the supplies he’d set on the side table before the session started: condom, lube, the unsexy logistics that were part of the job but had to be handled before everything turned slippery and stupid. Ilya slicked his fingers and reached behind Shane, pressing the pad of his middle finger against the rim and holding it there, circling in slow passes that let the muscle clench and flutter under his touch. Shane’s thighs locked tighter around his hips.

“Breathe.”

Shane breathed. Ilya pressed one finger in, slowly, past the resistance, and Shane’s mouth fell open and his eyes went glassy and his grip on Ilya’s shoulders turned punishing.

“Good. Push back against me.”

Shane did, rolling his hips down onto Ilya’s hand, and the visual of it, this enormous athlete working himself open on Ilya’s finger with his cock hard and dripping between them, was enough to make Ilya’s brain go briefly, dangerously offline. He added a second finger and crooked them forward, searching, and when he found the spot Shane’s spine arched and his head tipped back and the sound he made was guttural and startled, like the pleasure had ambushed him.

“There. There he is. There you are, Hollander.” Ilya worked the spot mercilessly, three, four, five strokes with his fingers angled and pressing, until Shane was grinding down onto his hand openly, greedily, chasing the pressure with rolls of his hips that he would have been mortified by ten minutes ago and was now too hungry to stop.

Ilya let him have it.

Good. Take what you want. I’m watching.

Shane was grinding down onto his hand now with his eyes open and fixed on Ilya’s face, and the shame that had been clamped over him ten minutes ago had burned off like fog. He was rolling his hips in long, filthy circles, adjusting the angle himself, chasing the pressure with a focus Ilya recognized from watching him on ice—except on ice, Shane’s focus came packaged with tension and self-punishment, and here, now, with Ilya’s fingers inside him and Ilya’s permission wrapped around him, the focus had nowhere to go except toward more. He was letting himself want it. He was showing Ilya that he wanted it, which was harder, and braver, and Ilya rewarded each grind with a curl of his fingers that made Shane’s mouth drop open.

He withdrew his fingers and Shane gasped at the loss, hips rolling forward into nothing.

“Please—” Shane’s voice cracked, his hips canting forward into nothing. “Rozanov, please—”

Ilya liked that word in Shane’s mouth. He liked how hard Shane had to work to say it, how the consonants softened when his body was doing the asking instead of his pride.

“Since you asked so nicely.” Ilya reached between them and shimmied his hips in his jeans, inching them down lower for access, the denim parting around his cock while the rest of him stayed dressed: sweater, belt, the watch catching amber light on his wrist. Shane’s eyes dropped to the gap in the fabric, and the naked want on his face—at the sight of Ilya’s cock freed from his jeans while Ilya himself remained fully clothed, while Shane knelt bare and leaking in his lap—sent a possessive heat crawling up the back of Ilya’s neck. He tore the condom wrapper with his teeth and rolled it on, taking his time about it, letting Shane watch.

“Sit down on me. Slowly.” He held Shane’s hip with one hand. “I have been giving so very much to you, so I think it fair that you do the work tonight. I will enjoy the view.”

Shane sank, and his face went slack, mouth falling open, brow furrowing, a sound leaking out of him that started as a gasp and thinned into a whine. His fingers dug into Ilya’s shoulders hard enough to dimple the skin. Ilya watched his lashes flutter, watched the crease between his brows smooth and then tighten again as he adjusted to the stretch, and read the body searching for pain, for guarding, for pulling away.

But Shane was sinking, not bracing.

“That’s it. Keep going. All the way down.”

Shane lowered himself inch by inch until he was fully seated, Ilya buried inside him to the root, and then he stopped, breathing in harsh pulls, his forehead pressed to Ilya’s and his eyes squeezed shut.

“Open your eyes, Hollander.”

He opened them; brown, blown black, wet edges and shining like stars. This close, Ilya could count the freckles across his nose. Vesnushki. He kissed the bridge of Shane’s nose, where the freckles were densest, and felt Shane’s cock twitch against his belly.

“Now ride me.” Ilya settled his hands behind his head, elbows wide against the back of the couch, and smiled. “You want more praise? Earn it. Make it good, Hollander. I am going to sit here like a lazy king and you are going to work for what you want.”

Shane lifted his hips and sank back down, and Ilya moved his hands to Shane’s waist. He didn’t thrust. He didn’t need to. His fingers marked the rhythm against Shane’s hipbones—a squeeze when Shane hit the right depth, a tap of his thumb when Shane’s angle drifted—and Shane corrected each time without being told, the same way he probably read plays on ice, absorbing instruction through his body faster than his brain could translate it.

Shane Hollander was a professional athlete. His body was a performance machine. And right now every ounce of that training, that discipline, that obsessive perfectionism, was being channeled into riding Ilya’s cock like it was a sport he could win.

Ilya leaned back and watched, because that was the gift of this position; he could see everything.

The Montreal skyline burned behind Shane’s shoulders; the lit crown of Place Ville Marie, the skeletal cranes over Griffintown, the whole glittering mess of a city Ilya had moved to with six hundred dollars and a duffel bag… and Shane’s body cut a silhouette against all of it, rising and falling, his stomach contracting with each drop, sweat tracking down the hollow of his throat and catching in the freckles along his collarbones. His cock bounced between them with every rise, flushed and neglected and leaking, and his lower lip was clamped between his teeth, and his eyes kept trying to close and he kept forcing them open because Ilya had told him to.

It looked like a shot from one of Shane’s precious films. Something that needed to be recorded and shot, something that needed to be praised in forums for its beauty and artistry. Shane on top of him, naked and wrecked, the whole city spread out behind them like a set designer’s fever dream, and Ilya still in his sweater and jeans with his cock buried in his greedy hole, plunging wetly inside. Ilya had lived in Montreal for three years and never once thought the skyline was beautiful. He was revising that opinion now, though the skyline had nothing to do with it.

If someone had described this scene to him two months ago he would have laughed and then asked how much it paid.

It paid five hundred dollars an hour, he knew.

It was worth four hundred thousand, he thought, maybe more.

“You look incredible. You have no idea what you look like right now. I could watch you do this for hours.”

Shane’s rhythm faltered, his hips stuttering. “I—keep talking. Please.”

“You want to hear it? Fine. You feel like you were built for this, Hollander. All that ice time, all those trainers, all those nutritionists measuring your chicken breasts to the gram—and this is what your body was actually designed for. Riding my cock in your own living room.” Ilya planted his feet and met Shane’s next downstroke with a small, shallow thrust of his own, punching the air out of Shane’s lungs. “Your coach would be furious to know this is where your real talents lie. What do you think your trainers would say, Hollander? Does this count as cardio? Should we be tracking your heart rate? Just how hard can you work for me?”

“Oh fuck—”

“That’s what we are doing, yes.”

Shane laughed and it became a moan when the angle shifted and Ilya’s cock dragged across his prostate on the next stroke. His pace picked up, thighs burning visibly now, the muscles starting to tremble with the sustained effort, sweat running down his chest. His hand dropped between them to grab his own cock and Ilya caught his wrist.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” Ilya caught his wrist and pinned it back to his own shoulder. Shane groaned, head tipping back. “Rozanov, I need—”

“You need to show me you can finish what you started.” Ilya’s thumb rubbed a circle into Shane’s wrist. “When you’ve made me come, maybe I’ll let you. Maybe I’ll make you wait. And I promise you, Hollander, it will be worth the wait… but no, no hands. You will come on my cock or you will not come at all. But you haven’t gotten there yet.”

Shane groaned, head falling back. “Rozanov, I’m—I need—”

“You’ll come when I decide. And I haven’t decided yet.” Ilya guided Shane’s hand back to his shoulder. “Both hands. Hold on.”

Shane’s fingers bit into muscle, but his rhythm was deteriorating. His legs were shaking, every muscle in him burning, and still he wouldn’t stop. The rolls of his hips were getting shorter and more desperate, and his face was coming apart faster than his body: mouth slack, brow crumpled, a flush crawling down his chest. His knees kept slipping on the leather. His thighs could do this for hours; Ilya had seen him skate full shifts in overtime. It wasn’t his legs that were failing. No, he was losing control just as he was losing the angle, feeling too good, trying to stave off his own orgasm and compensating by grinding down harder instead of lifting.

Ilya saw it happen—the same hinge-point every session had, where the body outruns the mind and the only question is who catches the fall.

"I can’t—" Shane’s voice splintered. "I’m going to—I can’t hold it—"

“You can,” Ilya said.

Whining, thighs trembling, Shane kept trying. His cock was furious between them—dark, drooling, untouched—and Ilya could feel the tension building in Shane’s body, the way his hole kept clenching tighter on each downstroke, the way his breathing had gone ragged and thin. Shane dropped and Ilya’s cock dragged hard across his prostate and Shane’s whole body seized—spine snapping straight, mouth falling open, hands spasming on Ilya’s shoulders.

“Fuck—no, no, I’m—Rozanov —”

He came. Untouched, cock pulsing between them, streaking Ilya in hot stripes while his body clamped down around Ilya’s cock so hard Ilya’s vision whited out at the edges. Shane’s face crumpled and he pitched forward into Ilya’s neck, a broken, horrified moan muffled against his collar, his hips still grinding in helpless little circles as his body wrung itself out.

“Shit—I’m sorry, I didn’t—I couldn’t —I’m so sor—”

He’s apologizing. He just came untouched on my cock like a pornstar and he’s apologizing. Apologizing like he’d just lost a game or knocked over someone’s drink at a party. The Canadian-ness of it alone could kill a lesser man. Ilya had never in his life met someone who needed permission to enjoy the things his own body did to him, and he had met a lot of people. It was sad and it made sense: Shane had never, in all their sessions before, failed to execute according to plan, and his body finishing before Ilya’s was the same as a botched play, a turnover in the neutral zone, puck in his own net.

This sport. This sport and what it did to people. Twenty-some years of being told that losing control was the same as losing, and here was the result: Shane Hollander coming so hard his whole body seized and his first instinct was to say sorry.

Shane’s eyes were wet and his lashes were clumped and his mouth was trembling and he looked like he was bracing himself for a reprimand, the idiot, as if Ilya was going to scold him for being so responsive that his body outran his instructions. Ilya clenched his teeth as a new gravity of a protective, violent sort of possessiveness thrummed through him. He didn’t want the apology; he wanted the wreckage.

This man.

Snarling, he grabbed Shane’s hips, held him down, and ground up into him—one hard, deep roll that punched the apology right out of Shane’s mouth and replaced it with a shocked wail.

“Blyad’, Hollander.” Ilya’s fingers dug into the meat of his hips, fucking up into him in earnest now, each snap snap snap of his hips punishing. “You think I’m upset? Coming untouched on my dick. Do you know how hot that is?” He rolled his hips again, slower, grinding against Shane’s prostate, and Shane whimpered and tried to squirm away from the overstimulation and Ilya held him in place. “No. No. Stay, Hollander, you will take it. Fuck. You were so good; I want to fuck you through it.”

Shane’s arms locked around his neck. Ilya tipped them sideways, guided him down onto his back, followed him without pulling out. His knee screamed. He could not have cared less.

Shane was spread beneath him now, legs hooked over Ilya’s forearms, his spent cock twitching on his stomach, his whole body flushed and trembling. The city kept burning behind them through the floor-to-ceiling windows, indifferent, and Ilya had the unhinged thought that if he turned his head he could probably see the Bell Centre from here—the building where fifteen thousand people paid to watch Shane skate, the building Shane went home from feeling like a failure—and here was Shane, pinned to his own couch with his legs in the air, looking up at Ilya like Ilya had hung every one of those city lights personally.

“Good boy, Hollander,.” Ilya pressed his forehead to Shane’s. “Good fucking boy.”

He fucked Shane into the couch like he wanted to drive him through it; long strokes at first that smacked against pert cheeks, bottoming out on each one, letting Shane feel the full drag of his cock in a body still clenching in aftershocks. Shane was oversensitive and it showed—every thrust pulled a flinch out of him, a bitten gasp, his spent cock twitching against his stomach, and his hands clutched at Ilya’s back, scrabbling for purchase on anything at all.

Ilya picked up the pace. Shane’s mouth fell open and the sounds came freely now—ah, ah, ah—punched out of him on each thrust, and he wasn’t trying to muffle them anymore. His thighs shook where they were hooked over Ilya’s arms. Already, his cock was thickening again, filling out against his belly, flushed and wet, and Shane looked wrecked about it—glancing down between them and then back up at Ilya with an expression of dazed, helpless disbelief that his body was already coming back online.

So easy for him.

“Look at that.” Ilya adjusted the angle, drove deep, and watched Shane’s eyes roll. “Getting hard again already. Nenasytnyy. Insatiable. I love it. I love how greedy your body is for me.”

Shane made a sound between a laugh and a sob and his hips started rolling up to meet Ilya’s thrusts, matching him, working with him, and the drag of his filling cock against Ilya’s clothes left a wet smear on every stroke in a mess that was quickly becoming obscene. His abs clenched with each thrust, his body curling toward Ilya’s involuntarily, and his mouth hung open, wet and red from Ilya’s cock ten minutes ago. Cosmopolitan’s Hottest Man in the NHL. Ilya had seen the magazine cover in a grocery store checkout line before he’d read it at Wolfbird, wedged between a recipe for fifteen-minute pasta and a headline about mercury retrograde. A glossy headshot, Shane looking polished and miserable in a suit someone else had picked. Every woman in that checkout line could buy the magazine. Every man with a browser could pull up the photoshoot. And not a single one of them would ever see this. Not a single one of them, not one, knew what he looked like getting properly fucked.

That, again, was his alone.

That thought hit Ilya somewhere below the professional detachment he was supposed to be maintaining, that he’d long given up on maintaining. The knowledge that this was his—not the sex, the sex was work, but this, the man, the moment, the feeling of him, and the trust so total it bordered on insane, and Shane gave it to him every time like it cost nothing when Ilya knew, knew, it cost him everything.

His hips stuttered. He was close. He was closer than he should’ve been, because the noises Shane was making and the way he kept flexing against Ilya’s hold—not fighting, testing, feeling the strength there and relaxing into it—were doing more damage to Ilya’s self-control than any session had in years.

“Hollander. Look at me.”

Shane’s eyes snapped to his. Dark, glassy, barely tracking.

“Touch yourself,” he said against Shane’s mouth. “Come with me. I want to feel it again. Think you can do that for me?”

Shane’s hand flew between them and he got two strokes in before his back arched off the couch and his whole body locked—thighs clamping around Ilya’s ribs, heels digging into his back, his cock pulsing in his own fist. He came across his stomach and chest in long streaks, his mouth open and soundless for the first few seconds before the noise caught up with the sensation and he moaned Ilya’s last name like a prayer he’d been holding in his mouth for weeks, caged behind his teeth, dragging Ilya over with him. Ilya buried himself deep and came with his mouth pressed to Shane’s jugular, biting at his collarbone, the juncture where neck became shoulder, tasting him there. For a few seconds there was nothing in the world except the squeeze of Shane’s body around his cock and the hammering of Shane’s heart under his mouth and the slick heat between their stomachs where Shane’s come was cooling.

Still panting, as Ilya returned to himself, he pressed a kiss to the ridge of his collarbone, then his neck. Ilya could feel every breath of him, every rib, every shudder still left in his spine. Shane’s palms lingered on his back, fingers spread, holding on with a desperately. He'd let go of everything else and needed an anchor, and as much as he would’ve liked to stay…

Feeling himself go soft in a condom was a uniquely miserable sensation. Groaning still, Ilya pulled out and dealt with it, tying off the end and reaching over Shane to leave it on a napkin on the side table to throw away when their legs started working again.

“Good boy, Hollander,” Ilya crooned, letting his body go lax, and on top of Shane to intentionally flatten him against the couch. The other man was clearly still floating, fucked out and overwhelmed, and to pin him was to keep him from flying away entirely. “Good boy,” he reiterated,pressing his mouth to the freckle below Shane’s left ear—vesnushki, again, always—and let himself breathe.

Praise now would be more important than ever considering that, technically, Shane had failed in his task to make his Dom finish first, and it was critical to nip whatever perfectionist spiral it might cause before it could even begin. He had to show him that even though he had ‘failed’, the world did not end, and he was still perfect.

“That was so good, ty moy molodets, blyad’, kakoy zhe ty krasivyy—”

Ah. So maybe he needed a moment also, to keep himself from flying away, if English was lost to him.

Ilya’s plan had been to get up immediately, deal with the practical aftermath—washcloth, water, the usual choreography of a man who did this for a living. Instead his hand was in Shane’s hair and his mouth was on Shane’s temple and he was murmuring nonsense in Russian that Shane couldn’t understand, which was the only reason he allowed himself to say any of it. Ilya could pour whatever he wanted into a language Shane didn’t speak, and it would reach him as sound, as warmth, as vibration against his scalp, and Shane would never know that Ilya was handing him ammunition that could destroy them both.

Shane’s nose was pressed into the hollow of his throat. His breathing had gone slow and even, each exhale warm against Ilya’s collarbone, and his fingers kept twitching against Ilya’s ribs like a dog dreaming of running.

Get up, he told himself. Washcloth. Water. You are on the clock.

He kissed Shane’s other ear instead, and let his mind wander.