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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags:

Gay Pride, Pride Parades, Drunken Flirting, Fluff, Banter, Shane Hollander's natural ally is the sports lesbian and that's a fact, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Rimming, Drunk Sex, sometimes you need a story that feels like pride, just glitter and joy and bare shoulders and pool water, Hand Jobs, Anal Fingering, Shower Sex, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Married Sex

Language:

English

Series:

Part 58 of Hockey Time!

Collections:

leiascully's Heated Rivalry fic

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-04 Completed: 2026-07-08 Words: 7,235 Chapters: 3/3

Pride

Summary

Shane has a good time at Toronto Pride (because he spends the whole time talking to lesbians who love hockey).

Notes

Timeline: post-TLG
Author's Note: I spent most of the day wrestling with a different story that I wasn't sure I liked, so I came home and wrote this one instead. Will there be a second chapter with sloppy glitter-spangled sex? Probably. Thank you to the million posts that scrolled across my dash about how Shane Hollander would love sporty lesbians. That's so true.

Chapter 1

Shane is hot. Shane is sweaty. Shane isn't sure where his husband is. They were together, earlier, on a float, waving to the crowds, but now the parade is over and they're part of the crowd. The flood of people have swept Ilya away. Shane's not sure he's seen this much skin at the beach. Everyone is wearing bright colors and covered in glitter. There are at least three different pop songs blasting from different sides of the street. It's amazing and it's way, way more than Shane can handle right now.

"Hollander!"

He looks around, not sure who called his name. Bellowed his name, really. Something about the cadence and the tone of it scratches an itch in his brain.

"HOLLANDER!" A strong hand grabs his arm and pulls at him. For a second he resists, but the press of the crowd around him pushes him toward whoever is hauling him closer, so he goes. Suddenly, he's in the clear, or at least, in a less packed area of the crowd, inside a barrier. There's a table full of women in tank tops and shorts grinning up at him, half-sprawled in their chairs.

"Oh, thank god," Shane says involuntarily. It's what looks like two-thirds of the Canadian women's national hockey team. He doesn't know all of them well, but he knows everyone at least a little. He's not that surprised to see them here. He thinks maybe they were on another one of the floats.

"Listen up, motherfuckers," the woman who's holding his arm says. Emily St. Louis, captain of the women's side. "This is Canada's own Shane Hollander. What do we say to that?"

All of them yell at once and Shane can't make out anything except, "Have a beer with us, Hollzy!"

"Oooh, sorry," says Claire Boucher, pretending to pull away the chair someone else pushes toward Shane. "This table is for gold medal winners only." She pretends to eye his neck. "I don't see any hardware."

"Fuck off," Shane says amiably, sitting down before she can really move it away. Butch is a goaltender, taller than he is, with long legs. Maybe her nickname doesn't entirely make sense phonetically, but he's sure she's earned it. She nudges the chair with her toe and it rocks, because that's how strong she is, but she smiles.

"Four Cups is pretty good. But they're still silver." She grins wide.

"Leave him alone, Butch," Emily says. "It's Pride. Hey, somebody get this man a beer."

"You should feel honored," Priya Singh tells him. "We don't usually invite the men."

"Ah, he's one of us," Julie Chen says, slapping Shane on the shoulder. "Let him stay."

"A...professional athlete?" Shane says.

Butch rolls her eyes. "Gay, Hollzy. We're gay."

"Oh," Shane says. "Yeah. Of course."

Chen jerks her thumb at one of the women sitting at the end of the table. "Not Jonesy over there, allegedly, but we keep her around because she's funny."

Jonesy lifts her beer. Shane's not sure he's ever seen a more deadpan expression. Somebody puts a beer in front of him and he takes a long swallow. The beer tastes fucking amazing: it's perfect weather for it, and perfect company. He feels more at ease with these women than in the crowd. He's definitely gotten more comfortable being around queer people over the past few years, after the GLAAD Awards and a couple of other Pride celebrations, but hockey lesbians in sports bras and baggy shorts are more his speed than leather daddies or twinks wearing Speedos and feather boas, especially right now when he's already kind of overstimulated. It's like he's in an open-air locker room where he can drink.

"So, Hollzy, are we gonna see the Centaurs get another Cup next season?" Charlotte Foisy leans on the table. She has beads threaded onto her braids, colors that Shane is pretty sure are the stripes of the lesbian flag.

"Hell yeah," Shane says.

Jonesy clicks her tongue.

"Ohhh," Butch says. "Jonesy says no. And she's never wrong, except about not being attracted to women." She winks at Jonesy, whose mouth twitches in what might possibly be some version of a smile. "She says you're still working on Haasy on that second line and that your penalty kill units aren't tight."

"Wow, she said all that?" Shane teases. He's feeling loose and happy. "She's quite the analyst."

"Hey," Foisy says, "Butch told you. Jonesy is never wrong."

"Except..." Butch says.

Foisy rolls her eyes. "Except about whether or not she's attracted to women." She takes a sip of her beer. "Allegedly."

"You talk a lot of shit for a person who spent half the third period face down on the ice," Shane says, just to watch Butch's eyes spark.

"It's your fuckin' funeral, bud," Chen says, leaning back in her chair. She signals the server. "We're gonna need another round."

By the time Ilya stumbles into the beer garden, Shane is surrounded by bar coasters with diagrams sketched on them in a pen he took from a server. He and Butch are trying to use the coasters to make their points, but the coasters keep disintegrating mid-explanation and having to be redrawn.

"Ilya!" Shane says, and pulls his husband onto his lap, wrapping his arms around Ilya's hips. "Baby, where were you?"

"Where were you?" Ilya asks. He looks sunburned. He's smeared with glitter and body paint, random streaks of it over his shoulder, his collarbone, his thighs where his shorts are riding up. His sunglasses are tucked into the neck of his tanktop. He smells like sweat and sunscreen and beer and a whiff of weed and Shane wants to lick him all over. He settles for just a taste, where his face is tucked into Ilya's neck.

"I've been here," Shane says, lifting his head and looking around. "You know. Celebrating."

Ilya picks up one of the ragged wet pieces of coaster. At one point, it had a diagram on it that clearly indicated why Haasy is doing fine, actually, and how he's improved as part of Ilya's line. "Ah yes. Celebrating."

"Listen," Shane says, "we all have our own ways. To celebrate."

Ilya studies Shane. His eyes are so sparkly. They're like the lake at the cottage. "You are drunk."

"I'm allowed," Shane says with dignity. "It's a special day."

"Yes," Ilya agrees. "It's a very special day." He looks at the table full of hockey players. "Thank you for taking care of my husband. May I have him back, please?"

"Only 'cause you asked so nice," St. Louis says.

"Also because Butch might bite him in half if he gives her any more goaltending tips," Foisy jokes.

"Hey," Shane says. "Those were helpful. They really helped our camp kids last summer."

"You're so full of shit your eyes are brown," Butch says. Chen pushes a glass of water at her. She picks it up and scowls at it.

"Recovery time," Chen says. "So we can rally for tonight."

"But if we keep drinking, we don't have to recover," Butch says.

"Water," Jonesy says, and Butch drinks. Ilya watches this with a sexy little smirk, like he knows something. He looks so hot, both temperature-wise and because he's attractive. Shane is going to cool him off. No. Shane is going to heat him up more. That sounds more right. A stray thought floats by and catches Shane's attention like a kite in a tree.

"My eyes are brown," Shane says slowly.

"Okay, yes, I am taking him now," Ilya says. He peels himself off Shane's lap. Shane pouts. Ilya uses the pen to write his number on one of the less-wet coasters. He pushes it across the table. "Let us know where you are going tonight, if you find a good party."

"You seem like a good time," Singh says.

Ilya winks at her. "Yes. Call me."

"They don't want to fuck you," Shane mumbles, and everybody laughs.

"That's okay with me," Ilya says. He puts his mouth close to Shane's ear. "As long as you still want to fuck me."

"Yeah," Shane breathes. "But. You know."

"Yes, yes, I know," Ilya says, his lips still so close that Shane can almost feel them. Ears are kind of weird, when he thinks about it. They're all different shapes and textures, and they're so sensitive. He wants to rub his ears against Ilya's face. Ilya is probably stubbly by now.

Ilya's hand is in Shane's pocket, reaching for Shane's wallet. He pulls out a couple of fifties and pushes them at St. Louis.

"You know, I'd say we got this, but I know how much you make," she says. "So yeah, I'll let you pay for your drinks."

"Call us later and all the drinks are on me," Ilya promises.

"Well then," St. Louis says. "We might be seeing you."

"Bye bye," Shane says as Ilya steers him away.

"Oh, Hollander," Ilya says, pretending to sigh. "I can't take you anywhere."

"You could take me somewhere," Shane says in his most suggestive voice. "Like bed, maybe."

Ilya laughs. "First I am taking you to the hotel pool. I need to cool off and you need to stop thinking about hockey for five minutes. Then maybe bed. Then dinner. Then parties. Then, if you are very lucky, bed again."

It all sounds perfect to Shane.

Chapter 2: & joy

Chapter Summary

Ilya fulfills his promises.

The hotel lobby is so cold that Shane shivers. Ilya has a hand on the back of Shane's neck, guiding him toward the elevators with the pressure of those warm fingers. Shane goes where he's told. His body is so loose and relaxed. He can't feel the tip of his nose. He puts his hand on his face to make sure it's still there.

"You are so funny when you're drunk," Ilya says in his ear.

"Am I?" Shane says, trying to sound sexy instead. The elevator dings. It's like the noise puts a thought in Shane's head and he throws out his arms, bracing himself in the open doorway. Fortunately, there's nobody trying to come out of the elevator. "Did you pay the tab for the table?"

"Of course," Ilya says.

"The whole table?" Shane demands.

"Yes, lyubimyy," Ilya says, rubbing a hand up and down between Shane's shoulders. "It was like I was taken over by the spirit of your mom. I made them put all the checks together and I gave them my card."

Shane relaxes and lets Ilya nudge him into the elevator. "Good."

"I would not let them pay," Ilya says. "Mostly because your mom would be disappointed in me, but also because they were right. They barely get paid compared to us." He bumps his hip against Shane's. "Also my husband drank so many beers. I did not know if what I gave them would cover it."

Shane fists his hand in the hem of Ilya's tanktop. His knuckles brush Ilya's waistband. He does it again, just to make sure Ilya knows it's on purpose. "Are you going to take advantage of me while I'm in a compromised state?" He can hear the hope in his voice.

"Not yet," Ilya says. "I told you, we're going to the pool." The elevator arrives at their floor and Ilya steers Shane down the hall to their room. For a moment, he presses Shane up against the door, and then the lock beeps and the door opens. Shane stumbles backward, reaching for Ilya's shirt again, and Ilya catches him with a strong arm around Shane's waist.

"But I want you," Shane whines. His fingers slide up under Ilya's shorts, stroking the bulge of Ilya's half-hard dick.

"You will have me later," Ilya says. He leans in very close and speaks directly into Shane's ear. "I promise you will have your fill of me." The way he nudges against Shane makes his meaning clear. Then he pushes Shane away. "Go and change."

Shane grumbles, but he goes. He watches Ilya strip off the short shorts and the tank top he put on for this hot day. Ilya's thighs look so fucking strong. Shane wants to sink his teeth into them. He wants to straddle Ilya's hips and rub himself against Ilya's stomach. He wants to squeeze Ilya's tits so hard he leaves bruises.

"Put clothes on," Ilya says without looking. He drags on his swimsuit. Shane remembers it from the All-Stars weekend after he broke up with Rose, or Rose broke up with him, or whatever. He remembers Ilya climbing out of the pool and the way the sight of him, shining and golden with water beaded on his skin, took Shane's fucking breath away.

"Shane," Ilya says, laughter in his voice. "You are staring. And you are not getting changed."

"You're hot," Shane says defensively.

"Put on your suit so we can go to the pool," Ilya says. He disappears into the bathroom, but leaves the door open.

"Is it because I'm all sweaty?" Shane asks, finally figuring out how to take off his clothes.

Ilya's laugh echoes against tiled walls. "No. I would fuck you at center ice after a game when we are both absolutely disgusting. It's a special day. We can't spend it all in the hotel."

Shane changes, moving slowly in case Ilya changes his mind, but Ilya stays in the bathroom until Shane is done. They go down to the pool. It's noisy, people splashing and playing and music thumping. They set down their things and go to the steps. The water feels fantastic. Someone presses a beer into Shane's hand and he pops it open and takes a swallow. Ilya winks at him.

There might not be anything better than being drunk in the pool. Well, sex. Shane drinks his beer and kind of dances in the water to songs he only half-recognizes and watches Ilya and all the other beautiful people. Everyone in the pool is beautiful, all sizes and shapes and colors of people but all beautiful. Shane even finds himself thinking that a couple of the women are hot: the ones with big shoulders wearing boy-cut suits. He can't tell Ilya this because Ilya will make fun of him. Anyway, it's not like they make him hard. He just...appreciates the aesthetic.

The sun slides across the sky. Shane doesn't know what time it is. Party time. That's what matters. He gets out of the pool and lies on a lounge chair for a while, letting the sun warm him, sipping on another beer. When he's too hot and his skin feels tight and dry from the chlorine, he gets back in the pool.

"Chicken fight!" someone calls.

Ilya splashes over. "You want to get on my shoulders?"

Shane shakes his head. "You get on my shoulders. I don't think I can balance up there right now." He's less drunk than he was, but still not entirely sober.

Ilya's face lights up. He pushes Shane under the water. Shane barely has time to grab his nose. Ilya swings his legs over Shane's shoulders and Shane stands up, carefully, balancing under Ilya's weight. Fortunately, he's been working on his squats lately, so it's doable. Shane grins to himself and surges forward. Ilya falls backward immediately, laughing, and they try again.

It's easy, once Shane figures out how to move. All the other pairs are smaller than they are, and if they're professional athletes, they're not the same kind of team players as Shane and Ilya. Shane slides through the water, his arms locked around Ilya's legs. Ilya's thighs squeeze his ears as Ilya shoves at one of the other players. Fuck, he loves the weight of Ilya pressing into him, even like this. They topple one person after another, letting their opponents splash into the water, until they're the only ones.

Their prize is another beer. Shane dumps Ilya into the water and holds both cans as Ilya comes up, sputtering and shaking water out of his hair. Shane grins and passes Ilya a beer.

"Drink up," Ilya says. "I'm getting hungry." He winks at Shane as he swallows. Shane looks around. There's a group at the end of the pool with a beer bong, a funnel with a long tube. He makes his way through the crowd.

"Can I?" he says.

"Fuck yeah," says one of them. He passes them his beer and takes the tube, rinsing the end quickly in the pool. That's probably not any cleaner, but it makes him feel better. He gets low in the water and puts the tube in his mouth. His new friend snaps open the beer and pours it into the funnel, and it swirls down into Shane's mouth. He opens his throat and swallows it all. He wipes his mouth, handing the tube back to one of the others.

"Thanks." His stomach feels very full as he sloshes his way back to Ilya, who looks absolutely astonished. "All done."

"You always surprise me," Ilya murmurs, almost inaudible in the noisy pool. He tips his can up and drains his beer, not as quickly as Shane did, but pretty fast. He crushes the empty can in his fist. "Okay. Let's go."

They make their way out of the water. Ilya drops his can in a bin as Shane retrieves their towels and shirts and shoes and room key. They dry off as best they can and toss the towels as they go. Ilya's tank clings to his body, soaked through in patches, and his trunks are plastered to his thighs. Shane has to work to keep his hands off Ilya as they go back to the room. As soon as they're inside, Ilya is pushing Shane onto the bed, working his trunks off, and hauling Shane's legs over his shoulders, spreading Shane wide.

"Fuck," Shane says. God, Ilya's mouth, Ilya's tongue — it feels so fucking good. It's like being in the pool, except it's completely different, but whatever, he knows what he means. There's some of the same sense of floating, of being absolutely immersed, even if it's in pleasure instead of water. And he's a little drunk again from pounding that beer, and that makes it all feel floatier. It's like when Ilya licks his rim, he's licking Shane all over. Shane feels it everywhere, sensation flooding his body. It's absolute fucking bliss. He could stay here forever, knees around his ears and Ilya's head between his thighs.

"Jesus Christ, Ilya, baby, yes," he says, and Ilya hums against Shane's sensitive skin. The gentle vibration adds a whole new dimension to the pleasure rippling through Shane's body. It's so good. God, he wants Ilya to fuck him, to fill him, but this is so goddamn good that he never wants it to stop. And Ilya doesn't stop. He licks and licks and licks and fuck, they must have done this a hundred times, but it's always so good and it's nothing Shane would have been able to ask for the first time, even if he'd known he wanted it. What a goddamn gift Ilya has given him, taking charge, so that Shane's only responsibility is letting himself experience wave after wave of pleasure.

Shane has no idea how long he's on his back, so hard he's dripping onto his own stomach, one hand knotted in Ilya's curls and the other clutching the covers. His mind is so empty of everything but Ilya and the pleasure Ilya offers him. Finally, Ilya moves away, gently untangling Shane's hand from his hair. Shane gasps at the loss.

"Please," he whimpers, and then says it again in Russian just to watch Ilya's dick twitch.

"Yes, yes," Ilya says in Russian. He works a towel under Shane's hips. "Don't worry, sweetheart." Shane squirms, waiting, while Ilya gets a bottle of lube out of his bag. It's probably good that they can't really go back to Russia. Shane would be hard the whole time, listening to the way the Ilya's mouth shapes the words. Ilya rubs two slick fingers over Shane's hole, teasing him, circling and circling while Shane pants and begs and spreads his legs wider in invitation. Finally Ilya steps back, strips off his tank and his trunks. He pauses, hands on his hips, dick jutting out.

"Do you want it?" he asks. His mouth is so red and so wet.

"Fuck yes," Shane says. "Give it to me."

Ilya surges forward and pushes into Shane. Shane groans in relief.

"Baby, you feel so good," he pants. "Love you so much."

"You're mine," Ilya grits out between thrusts.

"Yes," Shane agrees, "yes, yes, yes, yours," and it's true, it's always been true, maybe since the first time they shook hands outside a rink in Saskatchewan.

"Don't come yet," Ilya commands, and Shane wraps a hand around his own dick. He can't resist a few quick strokes, but fuck, he's so close already, it's almost too much. He fists the base instead, squeezing, looking at the ceiling instead of at Ilya's flushed and sweaty face, Ilya's flushed and sweaty chest, Ilya's arms and Ilya's abs and Ilya's shoulders all tightening with effort.

"Please, baby," Shane gasps. "I need you." It's a ridiculous thing to say with Ilya literally inside him, but that's how he feels.

"You have me," Ilya promises. He leans down, pressing his forehead to Shane's, and Shane trembles with love and lust. Fuck, tipsy sex with Ilya is so good. Shane tightens his muscles around Ilya's dick and Ilya's eyes flutter closed. He hisses between his teeth. "Fuck, Shanya."

"Come inside me," Shane demands. "Come on, Ilya, baby, please."

"Yes," Ilya says. He switches to Russian again, his breathing so ragged Shane can only understand "fuck", "sweetheart", "need", and "beautiful". He spreads himself wide, trying to take Ilya deeper, and Ilya thrusts hard. It doesn't really hurt, but it's surprising. Shane yelps, his fingers digging into Ilya's biceps.

"It's good," he says quickly, "you're good, I can take it." And he can: he can take anything Ilya can give him, always, because they're a match for each other. Ilya's close. Shane can feel it in his own body, almost, that tension that pulls so tight it's almost unbearable. His fingers are still clutching Ilya's arm, and he presses harder, until Ilya groans. His other hand is still on his dick, but the pressure isn't really enough to keep the pleasure at bay. Ilya is too gorgeous, the weight of him too overpowering. Shane keeps squeezing anyway. His other hand moves from Ilya's bicep to Ilya's chest, squeezing and kneading, pinching at Ilya's nipples.

"Fuuuck," Ilya gasps, and Shane feels the orgasm shake through Ilya's body. He feels as triumphant as if he's scored the game-winning goal, to know he's the one who makes Ilya feel this way, desperate and needy and fulfilled. He whimpers, aching for his own release. Ilya leans on one arm, his dick still inside Shane, and pushes Shane's hand aside. Shane grabs the lube and drips some into Ilya's waiting palm. Ilya wraps his fist around Shane's dick and pumps, firm and knowing. He's not thrusting, but the way he still fills Shane is so fucking good, and the way he touches Shane is perfect, like he can read Shane's mind. Maybe he can, since Shane's thoughts are just Ilya oh FUCK yes Ilya.

Almost immediately, Shane can feel his balls tightening. Pleasure coils hot at the base of his spine. He's drunk again, but this time on Ilya, dizzy with how good it feels. Ilya manages to get his mouth to Shane's chest and his teeth scrape over Shane's nipple and Shane shouts, pain and delight mixed together. Ilya sucks at Shane's skin and it's half soothing and half worse and Shane loves it. He pulls at Ilya's hair and Ilya groans deep in his throat.

"Fuck," Ilya says, and pulls out. Shane moans, unhappy at the loss of contact, but then Ilya's mouth is on his dick, Ilya's tongue swirling around the shaft, and Shane's back arches as he comes in Ilya's mouth. Ilya swallows and lets go. He pulls himself up the bed and stretches out next to Shane, laughing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"What's funny?" Shane tries to demand, but his voice sounds lazy and satisfied.

Ilya shrugs. "Just. I'm happy."

"I'm happy too," Shane says.

"It's a nice day," Ilya says. "First, everyone cheered for us. Then I lost my husband and found him drinking with hockey lesbians. Then we won swimming."

"We didn't win swimming," Shane says. "We just won chicken. I don't think you can win swimming unless it's a race or something."

"Is close enough," Ilya says. "Then I watched you drink a beer through a funnel, because you wanted me to fuck you so much. Then I made you come so hard you almost choked me."

"That does sound like a nice day."

"Yes." Ilya stretches. He's ridiculously fucking hot. He's also still covered in glitter and smudges of body paint. Shane's sure he's glittery too. "Now we will shower and have dinner, and then we will party with your new lesbian hockey friends and I will make you dance with me instead of only talking about hockey. But I will let you talk about hockey some."

"You're so generous," Shane says, deadpan.

"I know who I married," Ilya says. "Ten minutes of hockey, ten minutes of dancing."

"Fifteen minutes of hockey," Shane argues, even though he's looking forward to dancing with Ilya.

"No." Ilya kisses him, quick and possessive. He pats Shane's belly. "Come. Let's go. I'm hungry."

"You just ate," Shane teases.

"Yes, I ate, and you got full," Ilya says. "So. I need more. Also I smell like a pool and I have glitter everywhere." He rolls off the bed. "I will shower without you if you don't get up."

"Fine," Shane says, letting Ilya pull him to his feet. "Actually, when I think about it, I don't think I had lunch."

"No," Ilya says. "Probably not. You were too busy drinking beer and talking about the Centaurs' secret plays."

"Whatever," Shane says. "They're not even in the same league as us. Not like they're not good, because obviously they're amazing, but like, literally, they're in a different league. Also it's not a secret who's on what line."

They're still arguing when they get in the shower, and it's perfect, and Shane has never been happier.

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

In da clerb, we all fam or whatever.

Chapter Notes

I wanted to finish this a while ago and then I was traveling for two weeks and then I was exhausted and jet-lagged and then other stuff happened. Anyway, happy Pride.

Ilya finds them somewhere to eat that fits his criteria of being interesting enough to be worth going to and casual enough to allow shorts. Shane doesn't think either of them look bad, but it's too hot to dress up much. Shane is at least wearing an outfit approved by Jordan, his stylist: a short-sleeved shirt that Shane suspects will be completely unbuttoned by the end of the night if Ilya has anything to say about it over shorts that cling to his thighs. Ilya's got on a loose sleeveless tank made of mesh or fishnet or something, Shane isn't sure of the terminology, and tight dark ripped jeans like he's immune to the heat. Maybe he is. Ilya never seems as sensitive to temperature or texture as Shane is.

The restaurant is good, because of course it is. Ilya has a gift for finding places like this. The food is experimental enough to satisfy Ilya's enjoyment of new things and normal enough that Shane can find something he likes. He's a lot better about food, but it's still tricky sometimes. Fortunately, Ilya takes care of him. They both enjoy themselves, and he doesn't feel too full or heavy afterwards. That last part is good, because towards the end of dinner, Ilya gets a text.

Come out, come out, wherever you are, it says, and there's an address pin. As Ilya shows it to Shane, another message comes through. We won't let Butch and Hollzy talk shop all night.

"One of the players," Shane says.

"Must be," Ilya says.

"I assume we're going," Shane says, trying to pretend not to be excited about it.

"Yes, definitely," Ilya says. "We have to see your new friends, hmm?"

"Wouldn't want to disappoint the hockey lesbians," Shane teases.

Ilya gives him a Look. "Do not joke about the hockey lesbians," he says sternly. "They could destroy you. It would not even be hard for them."

"Don't worry," Shane says. "Lesbians are the only women I never disappoint."

Ilya laughs. "We will get dessert first," he says. "Then we'll meet them."

"What if I don't want dessert?" Shane asks.

"You do," Ilya says, which is annoying and annoyingly hot, but he's right. Once Shane sees the menu, he does want dessert. He licks yuzu sorbet out of his spoon and things about putting his tongue into the hollow of Ilya's collarbone.

The bar isn't too far away. It's on a rooftop. The music is loud and the place is crowded, but there's a nice breeze and a mist machine keeping things cool. Shane isn't sure how they'll find the women. It turns out he didn't need to worry. Almost as soon as they come in, Butch slings an arm around each of them and hauls them toward a table by the bar. The rest of the team is crowded around it, drinking and chatting.

"Look who I found." She lets them go with a little shove. Shane is pretty sure Ilya is really enjoying himself.

"This," says St. Louis, stabbing the air with her finger as she points at Ilya, "is the motherfucker who bought all our drinks earlier." There's a chorus of cheers and boos. She pushes a couple of folded bills at Ilya. Shane thinks it's the money Ilya gave her earlier, before he decided to pay the whole tab. "We thought about leaving this as a tip."

"You should have," Ilya says.

"I told them to get it changed into small bills," Singh says. "In case we find drag queens."

"Or strippers," Foisy adds.

Singh nods her head. "Or strippers. We keep our options open. But Lou said no for some reason."

"I will dance for you, if it will make you happy," Ilya jokes.

"Do it," Chen orders.

Ilya puts his hands over his head and gyrates his hips. It's working on Shane, at least. The way Ilya's abs work under the loose mesh of his shirt makes Shane's mouth go dry. The women whoop and holler, pounding on the table. Butch laughs outright. Jonesy just nods, once, very slowly.

"What is the plan?" Ilya asks when he's finished his silly dance that Shane is only a little bit hard about. "Are we drinking? Are we dancing? Tell me."

"Yes and yes," St. Louis says decisively. "And we're not talking about fucking hockey." She cuts her eyes at Butch.

"Fine," Butch says. "I'll find something else to spend my time on." She drags her eyes over Jonesy so blatantly that Shane is surprised it doesn't pull at Jonesy's shirt. Jonesy ignores her. Chen lifts a finger at the server and taps it for another round.

It turns out Shane can dance with women, if he knows the women aren't interested. It takes a beer or two, and wow, he's drunk more today than he does all season, but eventually he's out on the dance floor shaking his ass while Singh pretends to dance up on him. Maybe he's never going to get invited on one of those celebrity dancing shows, but he's having fun. Ilya is draped over St. Louis, who is laughing at him. It's the perfect end to a perfect day, really, or as perfect as a day that doesn't include actual hockey can get.

"This is my song!" Ilya yells, working Shane's shirt buttons out through the holes until Shane's shirt hangs open. Shane can barely hear him over the music, but he understands anyway. Ilya has said it about approximately three-quarters of the songs the DJ has played. Shane doesn't know a lot about music, unless it's music his parents used to play around the house, but he's heard a lot of these songs in and around the rink during warmups and after games. Ilya keeps going up to the DJ and yelling to them while the DJ nods and smiles, which could have something to do with the bill Ilya slipped them.

Shane can't help grinning every time he looks at Ilya. Ilya seems so happy. He's singing along to the music while he dances with anyone who's interested. That includes a hopeful guy way too young and slender to be Ilya's type. Ilya winks at Shane over the guy's shoulder and doesn't let their bodies touch. Shane dances with Chen and Foisy and feels much more smug than jealous. Not that it isn't fun to be jealous, sometimes, but this kid has no chance. He's not even a mouthful for Ilya. Besides, Shane knows with absolute certainty that Ilya is coming home with him. Whether or not Ilya tries to tempt Shane into inviting a third party is another story, but it's not anything more than a fun game for either of them. Ilya teases and coaxes, Shane refuses, and then they fuck about it. It's almost traditional at this point.

Singh pokes at Shane, shimmying her shoulders, and he smiles at her and lets the music move him. It's not as good as being on the ice or a really hard workout. He can't quite lose himself the same way. But dancing is hot sweaty work after a long day of drinking and swimming and arguing, and the beat of the music is louder than his thoughts. When Ilya dances up to him at last, Shane throws his arms around his husband without even thinking about it.

"Hey, baby!" He leans in for a kiss. It's so fucking nice he does it again. Ilya is laughing at him, but Shane doesn't care. This. This is what happiness feels like. Maybe it's just what Pride feels like: free and easy like he never is, joyful and sparkly and open. Usually, if Shane has to talk about his identity, his first thoughts are his heritage or hockey. But tonight, and most of today, he's felt the ties that bind him to all of these beautiful queer people.

Ilya holds him tight. "You are enjoying yourself, hmm?"

"I am," Shane says, trying to be serious. From the way Ilya smirks, he doesn't think he's pulling it off. "I could be enjoying you, though."

"Soon," Ilya promises.

"Not now?" Shane pouts, which earns him a pinch on the hip. The pain sparks like glitter, there and gone.

"I like when you wait," Ilya says. He slides his hands over Shane's ass and squeezes. "So you will wait."

"I waited earlier," Shane says.

"Look," Ilya says, jerking his chin toward a darker corner of the room. "Don't be too obvious."

Shane reaches his arms over his head and pretends to stretch, turning to see Jonesy pressing Butch up against the wall. They aren't kissing, aren't even touching, but the heat between them is obvious, even from across the dance floor. Butch stares down at Jonesy like she's hypnotized. Jonesy is almost, almost smiling. She raises an eyebrow and Butch's lips part. "Oh. Okay. Uh, good for her."

Ilya's one-sided smile is full of mischief. "Which one?"

"Both of them," Shane decides.

"Remember our first time in Toronto?" Ilya asks. He says it correctly now. "The showers."

Shane nods. "Like I could forget."

"Want to remember differently?" Ilya offers.

Visions flash through Shane's mind, a hundred other ways that could have gone. "Fuck yes."

Ilya takes his hand and drags him away. "We're going," he tells the gals.

St. Louis salutes him. "I'm sure you've got pressing business to attend to."

"Don't worry, I paid for drinks," Ilya jokes. Chen whoops and Foisy offers Ilya a fist bump.

"We'll be seeing you," Singh says. "Anybody had eyes on Butch lately?"

"Or Jonesy?" Foisy adds.

"Uh," Shane says.

Ilya cuts him off. "I'm sure they're somewhere." He waves. "Bye bye, good night."

Shane manages to keep his hands to himself and encourage his husband to do the same until they're actually in their hotel room, which is so brave he can hardly believe it. By the time the door closes behind them, he's already heading toward the bathroom, tugging off his shirt. He has the water on and his shorts off when Ilya comes in.

"What took you so long?"

"I was locking the door," Ilya says. "And making sure it said do not disturb." He crosses the room and pushes his hand into Shane's hair, tugging Shane's head back so he can kiss Shane's neck. "Unless you want to be interrupted?"

Shane hisses as Ilya's teeth scrape his neck. "No."

"So get in the shower." Ilya pushes him, not too hard but not too gentle. Shane goes. It's a nice big boxy shower with plenty of room for both of them. Through the glass, he watches Ilya undress. The way Ilya strips off the mesh shirt is obscene. Shane was already half-hard from the way the light caught Ilya's profile on the ride back to the hotel. He lets his hand wander to his dick, stroking gently.

"Already different," Ilya says approvingly. His voice rumbles in his chest. Shane stares as Ilya eases out of his pants. He's bigger than he was when they met, broader: years of working out under the advice of professionals. It makes Shane weak. It makes Shane hard.

"Get in here," he says, the words rough and breathless. Ilya steps under the spray. He watches Shane touch himself, just like Ilya himself did all those years ago. Shane watches his husband get hard for him. He watches Ilya's long fingers wrap around the thick cock he loves, and he can't help himself any longer. He drops to his knees in front of Ilya.

"What would you have done if I'd done this instead?" He blinks water away.

"Probably died and gone to hockey heaven," Ilya says. "Or pushed you up against the lockers and made you almost come over and over until someone came looking for us."

Shane swears and leans forward, taking Ilya into his mouth. God, he loves this. He must have been so bad at it the first time. Fortunately, they were 19. He's sure Ilya would have come from any contact. He's not bad at it now. Ilya's cock is heavy on his tongue, musky and salty when Shane works the skin back. Fuck, this is exactly what Shane wanted.

"Da, yes, just like that, Hollander," Ilya says, and God, Shane remembers that, or something like it. Ilya's hand pushes into his hair, tugging a little. Shane keeps up his rhythm. He loves the way Ilya's cock stretches his lips, the way it pushes against the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat. He reaches between Ilya's thighs and slides his fingers up until his fingertips are rubbing Ilya's rim. Ilya groans and bends a little to make it easier for Shane.

Shane makes it last as long as he can, but fuck, he's so hard he's aching, and Ilya tastes and feels so good. He can't help wanting to push Ilya over the edge. He's circling the tight pucker of Ilya's hole and his tongue is working the vein on Ilya's shaft and his other hand is stroking Ilya's balls or kneading into the hard muscle of Ilya's thigh and he wants and he wants and he wants Ilya to come for him, he needs it. Ilya is everything and Shane can never get enough. He caresses and sucks and pumps and nudges until Ilya is shaking, until Ilya is groaning, until Ilya grunts out, "Hollander," and comes so hard that Shane almost chokes. He sits back on his heels, letting the spray rinse his face. Ilya gives him a hand up and a lazy kiss, and then another, and another, until Shane is leaning against the wall because he's too dizzy with need to stand.

"Fuck," Ilya says. "I will need a shower after this shower."

"I need you," Shane says, and Ilya growls. He flips Shane around so that Shane's chest is pressed to the wall, and then Ilya has two fingers pressing against Shane's hole and his other hand fisted around Shane's dick.

"What would you have done?" Ilya says in Shane's ear. "If I had done this."

"Probably passed the fuck out," Shane says honestly.

"Would you have let me?" Ilya's fingers push in, not as deep as Shane wants them, but his whole body shudders in relief anyway.

"I don't think I could have stopped you," Shane says. "I wouldn't have wanted to."

"No?" Ilya says. He's still pushing slowly into Shane, so slowly. "Even if you were scared?"

"I never want you to stop," Shane says. "Even when I'm scared."

"I love this," Ilya says. "The way you want me."

"Always," Shane says, and shivers when Ilya kisses his neck.

"So slutty," Ilya says. It sounds like a compliment. Shane wants to hear him say it again. He'll do whatever it takes to hear Ilya call him a slut like that. It feels free: like dancing, like the pool. Something he thought he would always be cut off from, but Ilya gives it to him. And then Ilya's long fingers are stroking inside him and Ilya's teeth are in his shoulder and Ilya's palm is slick but not quite slick enough around his dick and it's perfect. Shane is lost in the feel of it all. He surrenders to Ilya as sensation floods his body. He's fucking drunker on a hand job than he was anything he imbibed all day.

It doesn't take long. That's okay. It's been a long day and they already had sex earlier. The second round never lasts as long, unless they're intentional about it. But it's fine, when Shane splashes all over the shower wall with a gasp. It's more like it would have been, if they'd done this then.

"I'm glad it all happened the way it did," he says, sprawling next to Ilya on the hotel bed when they're clean and sort of dry.

"Me too," Ilya says. "Even if I didn't get to fuck you for so long after that."

"Now you get to fuck me all the time," Shane points out. "Also you were fucking like a million other people."

"True, true." Ilya scratches at his stomach. "Is best this way." His belly gurgles. "Do you think it's too late to order room service?"

Shane swats at him. "Yes. Also we just brushed our teeth."

"Oh, no," Ilya says. "What if we run out of a whole tube of toothpaste, because Toronto has none probably." He reaches for the menu and checks the hours. "Bad news. It is too late to order room service."

Shane yawns and pulls the covers over himself. "I'll take you out to breakfast."

"Promise?" Ilya asks. "Not smoothies."

"Not smoothies," Shane agrees. "I learned my lesson after last time."

"Fruit soup is not breakfast," Ilya says, easing in next to him. "I worked very hard today. And I paid for all the drinks."

"Yeah, baby," Shane says. "You definitely did." He's asleep before Ilya even finishes describing what he's going to order for breakfast.