Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike/Jackie Pike, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais & Shane Hollander

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Jackie Pike, J.J. Boiziau

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Vacation, Costa Rica, Resort Hotels, Vacation Hook-Ups, Alcohol, no plot just vibes, Ilya Rozanov is a Shameless Flirt

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-14 Words: 5,658 Chapters: 1/?

Like a House on Fire

Summary

When Shane’s friends are too hungover to get out of bed on their first day of vacation, Shane is left to his own devices while they sleep it off. With nothing better to do, Shane finds himself bonding with a very attractive Russian hockey player at a beachside Tiki bar.

When Ilya’s teammates get on his nerves, he takes a chance and buys a guy at the bar a drink. Only to realize, they've crossed paths before.

Or, Ilya stayed in Russia after Juniors, but he never forgot about a certain pretty Canadian boy or his pretty freckles.

Notes

IDK what this is or where it's going, I just like the idea of these two conversing for the first time outside of a hockey setting. I also don't know how smutty it's going to get so I tagged it M for now but the rating may change depending on how horny these boys get.

Chapter 1

This place is supposed to be paradise. 

On the surface, it really is – calm turquoise seas, sugar-white sand, palm trees, a resort with every amenity imaginable, but it’s not even 10 AM and the temperature is already somewhere south of hell. Shane wipes perspiration from his brow and glances around the beach one last time, in case he somehow missed his friends, who have all gone MIA.

Who is he kidding? They’re not here, and there was never a chance they would be. 

Neither Hayden nor JJ had answered their doors earlier when Shane knocked to wake them up for breakfast and their planned excursion to see the rainforest. They hadn’t answered their phones, either, leaving Shane to worry that they’d already left without him. A thought that was quickly followed by a much darker concern that they’d all been kidnapped by a cartel.

The more likely explanation is that they’re all suffering from massive hangovers and are currently suffering so badly, they’re incapable of crawling out of bed or picking up their phones. JJ had disappeared into the crowd to dance with some girl at a club last night and never emerged, while Jackie and Hayden sat at the bar indulging in high-test frozen drinks until Hayden could barely stand up on his own. 

Meanwhile Shane had nursed a single beer with a lime wedged into the neck of the bottle and tried not to let his distaste for this sort of crowd get to him. He’d gone to bed sober and alone. 

It sucks they’ve missed their meet-up time for the excursion, but Shane had been kind of ambivalent about it anyway. Breaking the carefully planned itinerary so soon into the trip bothers him a lot more. It doesn’t bode well for the remaining six days of activities they all agreed on when they organized the trip, and Shane isn’t sure how much enjoyment he’s going to get out of staring at the beach all by himself for a week.

Maybe he should have just gotten on the bus this morning without them, but he’s not exactly the adventurous sort on his own. He could just as easily read his book on the history of Canadian hockey on the balcony, in the shade, in his hotel room, all by himself.

It’s not a big deal. They can just reschedule. It’s fine. 

That’s what he tells himself as he trudges toward the tiki bar at the edge of the beach, seeking something cold to drink and maybe something to eat. He missed the breakfast bar at the hotel while searching for his friends and now he’s starving.

On the way, he passes by a small group of men around his own age, most of them built like athletes or underwear models. He pretends not to notice them, but it’s hard not to. They’re loud, extremely attractive, not wearing very much, and speak a language that sounds Slavic. 

One of them is watching him with a crooked, close-lipped smirk. It might be judgmental, if not for the guy’s curious, almost appreciative gaze. Shane is not terribly experienced with romantic relationships or sex, and most of his encounters have been… frustrating, but he’s familiar enough with the look to recognize it for what it is. Countless women have given him that same look since he was drafted to the MLH three years ago. The majority have walked away disappointed in his lack of enthusiasm.

This guy, though. Something about his cocky, flirtatious smile sparks something within Shane that he thought was broken. He’s insanely good looking. A mop of unruly, wind-tousled light brown curls, gilded bronze in the sunlight. Full, soft-looking lips. Strong jaw. Incredible body. 

Shane is glad for the sunglasses he’s wearing. They hide the fact that he’s looking right back, taking in the guy’s broad, muscular shoulders and his glistening, golden skin. 

Jesus Christ, Hollander. Get it together. 

He forces himself to look away, telling himself it’s only envy that drew his attention, though he knows it’s a lie. There’s something familiar about him, maybe, but then again, Shane would definitely remember a guy who looks like that. 

God. He really needs to get laid, but he’s just not into the options he has. Women are great and all, but so far, he hasn’t really enjoyed sex with any of them. It’s been just okay, and always felt like a lot of work. Usually the relief he felt when it was over was far greater than the satisfaction he got from it. Which is frustrating and occasionally embarrassing.

And though he’s sort of accepted the fact that he has more than a passing interest in men, he’s been terrified to explore that. It’s way too big a risk and finding someone to experiment with safely and discreetly seems impossible in his situation.       

Shane forces himself to tear his eyes away from the man and continues on, up the beach, which is now reflecting the morning sunlight like a mirror. The heat is baking him in his own skin. He might as well be crossing the Sahara. They’ll probably find his bones a decade from now, bleached and picked clean by carrion birds and have to identify him by DNA and dental x-rays. 

By the time he drags himself into the tiki bar, which is only marginally cooler than the beach, Shane’s mouth has gone dry and his skin feels like it’s been sandblasted. At least the bar has dozens of fans mounted to the bamboo roof. It’s also in the shade and they probably serve cold drinks. Hopefully food, too. 

He chooses a stool located directly beneath one of those fans and orders a large water with ice and peruses a menu that features only appetizers. There are only eight to choose from, and none are particularly inspired or filling, and none are remotely breakfast related. Nor are any of them on his list of nutritionist-approved meals. 

He could always head back to the hotel, but it seems so far away. He might die of heat exhaustion before he reaches the doors.

Fuck it. He’s on vacation. This will have to do. For now. 

“Can I get a double order of the loaded nachos?” he asks the bartender, since the nachos are the most balanced and have actual vegetables that aren’t potatoes. “Sour cream on the side please?” 

“Sure. Can I interest you in one of our frozen cocktails? Half price until three.” The bartender says in monotone, as if he doesn’t care one way or another. 

“No thanks. That’ll be it for now.” 

There are only a handful of other people at the bar and none of them are sitting there alone. All of them are drinking one of those frozen cocktails, in spite of the fact that it’s only a bit after 10 AM. 

Shane’s halfway through his ice water, his stomach rumbling, when someone slides onto the barstool next to him. He glimpses the knee-length board shorts first. They’re black and printed with great white sharks. The legs that stick out beneath the hem are beautifully muscular and tanned an attractive gold. 

His breath catches as he allows himself to look up at the tight, black tank stretched over a muscular torso, at the gold Russian orthodox cross resting just below the hollow of his throat, and then finally at the man’s face. 

It’s the guy that was watching him on the beach. Up close, he’s even more stunning. So much so that Shane’s brain short-circuits for a second and his heart skips a beat. 

What the fuck?

“Can I please have Imperial. In bottle, please,” the man says to the bartender. His voice is deep and rich, and his thick Slavic accent is doing things to Shane that he doesn’t really understand right now. “Also, another for my new friend. Whatever he is drinking.” 

“Another round of water, then?” the bartender asks flatly. 

“Water?” the man asks. “No. Bring him something maybe frozen. Made with pineapple.” 

Shane is dumbfounded by this guy’s audacity. Bold, to order a drink for someone he doesn’t know with such confidence. Bold, to assume Shane likes pineapple. Which he does. But that’s beside the point. 

“It’s not even noon,” Shane says as the bartender walks away. 

“You are on holiday, yes?” 

“I am.” 

“Holiday is for fun.” The guy’s shrug is careless but his crooked smile widens into a grin. “You do not look like you are having much fun. Frozen drink will make it better.” 

“I didn’t think it would be so hot here.” 

“Yes. Much warmer than home. I like it, though.” 

In spite of himself, Shane is curious about this stranger. He needs to know what kind of person just sits down, buys someone a frozen drink without asking, and starts a conversation. Definitely not something Shane’s ever done, or thought about doing before. He always at least introduced himself first, though he barely had to talk to the handful of women he’s hooked up with. Shane’s not exactly known for his conversational skills unless the topic is hockey, and none of those women were interested in conversation anyway.

Probably a scammer or something. His mom had warned him about this kind of thing when he told her of his plan to take his first vacation without her or dad. They thought he was too naive, that he would be easily taken in by a swindler. Maybe she was right because Shane is oddly charmed by this gorgeous stranger, for reasons he can’t explain. 

“Where is home?” Shane asks. 

“Moscow.” The beer is delivered. Followed by a very large bowl-shaped glass containing something electric blue with sugar and a pineapple chunk on the rim. The man looks at it and laughs. “Incredible!”

“I’ll have your nachos right out,” the bartender says to Shane.

“Thanks.” 

“You are from States?” the man asks him as he sips his beer. 

“Canada,” Shane says. “I grew up in Ottawa but I work in Montreal.” 

He doesn’t mention what he does for work. In case this is some sort of scam, Shane doesn’t want to give away the fact that he’s a millionaire. Or a sports celebrity that would probably be worth a lot in ransom. 

“Ah, so you know cold like I do.” 

“I guess so,” Shane says. “We get lots of snow.” 

“In Moscow, same. I am Ilya, by the way,” the man says and extends his hand. Shane shakes it. He has really nice hands. Large and strong, but they’re also kind of beautiful. Like artist’s hands. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Shane. And likewise.” 

“You have not tried your very blue drink,” Ilya says. He laughs again. “Was not what I was expecting.” 

Shane laughs too, because it definitely wasn’t what he expected, either. He takes a sip and is surprised to find it isn’t overly sweet, but it is nice and cold. It tastes like pineapples and something he can’t quite put his finger on. It’s also pretty strong. The rum hits him right away and he struggles not to cough on it. 

“Good?” Ilya asks. 

“Not bad.” He nudges the drink at Ilya. “Try it.” 

Ilya takes a sip. Cocks his head and nods. “Yes. Good.” He turns to the bartender, who is idly wiping down the counter a few feet away. “Please can I also have one of these?”

The drink and the nachos are delivered at the same time. Ilya smirks at the double order, delivered on two plates. “You were waiting for me?” 

Shane blushes. He wasn’t, but it sure looks like he ordered for two. The bartender hadn’t mentioned the portions were actually huge. One is enough for three people, but he’s kind of glad he has someone to share them with. There’s no way he was going to be able to eat all that by himself.  

“You are expecting someone?” Ilya asks. “Girlfriend? Or just very hungry?”

“No, I just thought they’d be small so I got two.” Shane nudges the second plate toward Ilya. “Help yourself.”

Ilya doesn’t argue and shoves a chip covered in toppings into his mouth with a loud crunch. Shane dives into his own plate. 

“So, did you come alone?” Ilya asks. 

“No, with friends but they got too drunk last night. They’re probably still passed out.” 

“You did not get drunk?” 

“I don’t usually drink much.” Shane glances over his shoulder. The guys Ilya was with earlier are gone. “What about you? You came with friends?” 

“Sort of. They are… people I work with. Some of them are assholes.” 

That feels like it could be a red flag, but Shane senses Ilya would not have chosen to travel with them if he didn’t have to. He wonders what Ilya does for work, if all his co-workers are built like they lift small vehicles for a living. 

Body builders, maybe. Or actual underwear models.

“I know all about that,” Shane says. “I see my co-workers more than I see my family. I don’t like some of them, but I have to travel with them a lot, too. Not always fun, you know?” 

“Yes. Annoying. Am having good time, anyway. Is nice to not be home.”

Shane doesn’t want to pry, but it doesn’t sound like home is a place Ilya is too fond of. He doesn’t know much about Russia, but he knows things there aren’t great for a lot of the people who live there, for a lot of reasons.  

“I think I would like to move to US or Canada soon. Is nice there, yes?” 

“Canada is nice. I like it. The States can be rough, depending where you are.”

“Yes. Lots of guns. Shootings. Rednecks in pickup trucks.” Ilya smirks knowingly and shoves another chip in his mouth then chases it with a sip of the blue drink. Shane has barely touched his, but Ilya is nearly finished. “But, better opportunities for me in North America, maybe. More money.” 

“Canada has its share of rednecks in pickup trucks. The guns are mostly for hunting, though,” Shane says. He shouldn’t ask, but there’s something intriguing about Ilya, and he can’t shake the feeling he knows him from somewhere. “What do you do for work?” 

“Professional hockey. Kontinental Hockey League. KHL.” 

“No shit,” Shane says, stunned. “You serious, or are you trying to scam me?” 

“What is scam?” 

“Like, trying to, I don’t know, trick me?” 

“No. Is true. My team won championship last year. Is on internet. Look.” 

Shane pulls out his phone and searches for articles on the Russian leagues. The very first one has a picture of the man sitting beside him, lifting a large trophy over his head. His hair is shorter, dark with sweat and plastered to his forehead, and his grin is impossibly wide. But it’s definitely the same guy.

“Jesus Christ,” Shane mutters as he pockets his phone. “What are the odds?” 

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I play professional hockey, too. MLH.” 

“Yes?” Ilya isn’t suspicious the way Shane was. He’s excited. “In Montreal?” 

“Yeah. The Voyageurs.” Shane bites his lip. He doesn’t follow Russian hockey at all. The games don’t air in Canada, but he does know a lot of their professional players participate in the juniors before moving on to the big leagues. The good ones are usually recruited to play for the MLH. “Have you ever been to Canada?”  

“Yes. Twice, for Prospect Cup. Regina in 2008. Ottawa in 2009.” 

Holy shit.

“Then we played against each other.” 

Ilya’s grin gets bigger. "You remember me.”

It finally clicks. There’s a reason he looks familiar. This guy, he was an absolute menace on the ice. So good, it had pissed Shane off. The whole Russian team had, actually, but this guy in particular. 

“Yeah. I remember you. You guys played dirty.” 

Jesus. This guy had stared him down with a knowing smile and then winked at him at face-off. Blew him kisses every time he scored a goal.  

“No. We played hockey. And we beat you,” Ilya says with a cocky grin. He pops a chip in his mouth, crunching loudly.  

“Only the first time,” Shane says with a cocky smile of his own. 

Ilya hasn’t stopped smiling. “What is saying? Small world?”

“Yeah, it really is,” Shane says. 

He remembers wanting to introduce himself to the kid the podcasts couldn’t stop talking about, but he’d never been able to get close to him. The Russian players seemed to be closely guarded by their handlers and chaperones. At the time, he’d figured Ilya Rozanov was going to be his biggest competition his rookie season, but he hadn’t showed up for the draft. 

“You could have played for the MLH,” Shane says. “You were good enough.” 

“I wanted to. My father did not want me to leave Russia,” Ilya says. “Russia did not want me to leave Russia. National pride, you know?” 

“What about now? It’s probably not too late.” 

“I am thinking about it. They pay you well, yes?” 

“The pay’s pretty great. Plus brand endorsements pay well, too. And you get free stuff.” 

“What is stuff?” 

“Clothes. Shoes. Rolex gave me a couple of watches.” 

“And this is all players?” 

“No. Just the really popular ones. You know. The big names.”

“Ah.” Ilya finishes off his drink. Shane remembers his own and takes a long swallow, though it’s no longer frozen. He takes a second and drains the glass, feeling competitive all of a sudden. “So you are very famous, then.” 

“I guess.”

“Rolex is famous. And expensive.”  

Things suddenly feel awkward. Ilya signals the bartender for another round and Shane busies himself with his nachos, which have grown cold. Neither of them speak again until the drinks arrive. 

“I remember you,” Ilya says. He casts a sideways glance at Shane. “I would not forget those freckles, Shane Hollander.” 

Shane doesn't know why that statement sizzles through him like he just got zapped by electricity. It could be Ilya’s flirty tone. Or the fact that he made enough of an impression during a handful of face-offs to be remembered. Or the fact that his freckles were worthy of remembering, when he’s always hated them and wished they would disappear. 

“Very pretty,” Ilya adds with a smirk and a wink. 

He’s been called pretty plenty of times over the years, as a taunt, but this is the first time it’s ever felt like a compliment. It’s also the first time he’s had a man who looks the way Ilya does openly flirt with him. 

But maybe he’s not flirting. Maybe it’s a language thing. A translation error. A cultural difference.

That has to be it. 

It doesn’t explain the wink, though. 

It also doesn’t explain why Shane is so fucking into it.

This is a sign, Ilya thinks as he watches Shane Hollander sip his frozen drink at the bar beside him. 

It has to be a sign. Ilya doesn’t really believe in signs, but running into the one player he’d considered good enough to be his equal while on vacation has to mean something. He’d never admit it, but he kept up with Hollander’s career in the MLH after juniors. Ilya can’t say why, exactly. Just that he both admired and was jealous of Hollander’s instant fame. 

A generational talent, they called him. Ilya can’t help but wonder what would have happened if he’d entered the draft at the same time. Because they are equals in Ilya’s opinion. 

Would they be friends? Would they hate each other? Would they constantly be compared to one another? 

Would Ilya still love playing hockey, instead of feeling like the weight of his country’s expectations was eroding the joy he got from playing? 

For the last year, Ilya’s seriously considered making the move from Russia to North America. The MLH has been interested in him since he was seventeen, and though he’d very badly wanted to leave Russia for a better opportunity, he’d allowed his father and his brother to convince him to stay. At the time, he felt obligated to do what he was told, to take care of his family like a good son should. 

Staying was the wrong decision. Playing in the professional leagues isn’t fun the way it was in juniors. You either win, or you’re a disgrace. There’s no in between. 

Ilya reads the writing on the wall, and he doesn’t like what he sees. It’s always been oppressive at home, the demand for blind obedience, the expectation of victory, and the unquestioning devotion to country and leader has been drilled into his head for years, but it’s not something Ilya can sustain much longer. He loves his country and his city, he’s just not so sure they love him in return. 

Things have gotten… dangerous for someone like Ilya. All it would take to ruin him is a rumor about what he’s been doing with Sasha in secret. 

And Sasha himself is a problem. Openly flaunting his sexuality, flirting with Ilya in public, the increasingly risky situations they find themselves in – Ilya finds all of that entertaining, yet with the changing environment and harsher punishment, all that could easily land Sasha in a lot of trouble, and it could land Ilya in trouble by association.

He’s sure North America, and the hockey culture there has its own set of problems, but not the kind that will see him jailed, fined, or worse, if he’s ever found out. 

At least with a team in the MLH, he has a chance to change his situation. The money is good enough, he only needs to play a couple of seasons to be set for life. He can pay down his father’s growing debt and build his own life somewhere he’s free to be himself. He won’t have to worry so much about government surveillance or find himself suddenly falling out a window if he’s found to be too much of a problem.

So he knows that spotting Shane Hollander on the beach is a sign. One he should pay attention to.

Hollander is staring at him and trying to make it look like he isn’t. It’s more than just curiosity in his innocent, earnest brown eyes. There’s something else there – admiration, hunger, maybe. Ilya files that under interesting, and considers what to do about it.   

“Do you want another drink?” Ilya asks casually. 

“Thanks, but I think I’m done,” Hollander says. He slurs his words a little, so Ilya doesn’t press the issue. “I should see if my friends are up yet.” 

“You have called them, yes?” Ilya asks. He’s not quite ready to let Shane Hollander go yet. For more than one reason. “I think they will call you when they are awake.” 

“Yeah. Probably.” 

Ilya finishes off the last nacho on his plate and chases it with the last of the blue drink. “We should do something fun.” 

“Like what?”

“We will find something,” Ilya says confidently and signals the bartender that he’s ready to pay. “Is paradise, yes?” 

“What about your friends?” Hollander asks. 

“They are teammates. Not friends.” 

He’s friendly with his team, but they are not his friends and they never will be. There’s only one person he considers a friend and she isn’t here. 

They pay their respective bills and move on from the bar. Ilya heads for the beach. Hollander follows. 

“I can’t believe you remembered me,” Hollander says as they cross the sand toward the turquoise water. 

“Was fun,” Ilya says. “I always remember players who challenge me.”

“You were so good, it pissed me off,” Hollander says. His little scowl is cute.  

“Made it interesting, yes?” 

“Yeah. Definitely did.” 

“And then we beat you.” 

“Only once!” Hollander says. 

Ilya smiles at his tone of indignation. He can tell Hollander hates to lose. That he’s used to being the best. That he probably went home after that first defeat and studied the tapes endlessly until he found team Russia’s weaknesses. 

“I want to do that,” Ilya says and points to a sign that advertises parasailing. Beside him Shane frowns, either thrown by the change of subject, or by the activity itself. “Would be fun.” 

“Looks dangerous.” Hollander slurs his words a little again, adorably drunk off two of the pineapple drinks at the bar. Ilya’s got a nice buzz, but he’s not slurring his words. 

“Come on. Let’s do it.” 

He takes Hollander by the arm and tugs him down the dock, toward the booth near the end. He resists a little, but not much. His brow, like Ilya’s, is beaded in perspiration, his dark hair shining and damp beneath the brilliant sunshine. His freckles stand out above his flushed cheeks and Ilya has a sudden urge to lick them. He would bet they taste like salt.

Ilya laughs at himself, wondering if Hollander would be into that. He thinks maybe he would. He’s noticed the way he keeps stealing glances, checking him out without being too obvious about it. He knows because he’s been doing the same. 

“Hello,” Ilya says pleasantly to the attendant at the booth. “We would like to do the parachute thing, please.” 

Hollander laughs. “Parasailing.” 

“Yes. That.” 

“Sorry. We can’t take anyone out if they’ve been drinking,” the attendant says. “I can smell you from here, so don’t even try to argue about it.” 

“Okay then. Tomorrow,” Ilya says. He turns to Hollander. “He said you are too drunk.” 

“You had as much as I did. More than I did.” 

“Yes, maybe. But I am not drunk. So we will do something else,” Ilya says with a shrug. “But we will come back tomorrow.” 

“I had plans tomorrow.” 

“Yes? What plans?” 

“I don’t know. A tour of… something. It’s on our itinerary." 

“I don’t think you have plans.” 

“I do. I just… don’t know what they are.” 

God, he’s cute. Maybe he does have plans, but Ilya isn’t quite ready to let him go just yet. He can’t say why. Only that something important is happening here. He can’t say what that might be, either, but there’s got to be a reason they met at the precise moment Ilya had been seriously contemplating making the move from Russia to North America. 

There are several teams in North America that are interested in bringing on a Russian champion, though he’s kept it quiet for now. Ilya’s waiting to hear back from his agent for more details, but he thinks he’s going to do it, no matter what his father or his asshole brother says. 

He really isn’t the kind of guy who believes in signs, but this sign is written in bright flashing neon, and it’s telling him that maybe this chance meeting was the key to something better. A better life. A freer and happier one. 

And Shane Hollander is pretty. Though he hides it under a loose t-shirt, Ilya can tell he has a beautiful body. Ilya would definitely like to see more of it. Maybe all of it. If Hollander is willing, so is he. 

He wonders, if he dared to kiss him, if Hollander would kiss him back. 

Something tells him, he would. 

“What now?” Hollander asks, as if he’s not ready to go yet either. “Pool?”

“Okay,” Ilya says. “But, ocean is right here.” 

“There are sharks in there.” 

Ilya laughs. For a hockey player, Hollander is surprisingly risk-adverse. Ilya tugs off his tank top and casts it aside, silently daring Hollander to do the same. Ilya wants to look at him, to see what he’s hiding beneath that boring black t-shirt. 

Hollander’s gaze goes to Ilya’s body immediately, his eyes travelling the length of his torso with naked, unguarded interest. 

“Like what you see?” Ilya teases. 

Hollander blinks a couple of times, his expression shifts into a scowl, before fixing his eyes on the crucifix resting just beneath the hollow of Ilya’s throat. Ilya reaches up and touches it. The gold is warm from the sun beneath his fingertips.

“Do you think it is stupid?” 

“No. It looks good on you.”  

“It was my mother’s. She gave it to me three days before she died.”

Ilya doesn’t know why the fuck he just said that. He doesn’t talk to anyone about his mother. When people ask, he just says that she’s dead. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Was a long time ago,” Ilya says, as if it doesn’t even matter. Because it does. It still hurts. “So, are you going to swim in your clothes?”

Hollander seems to be fighting with himself about something. He bites down on his lower lip, his eyes a little glassy and far away.

“Hollander?” 

“Yeah,” Hollander says, snapping back from wherever he just went. “Sorry.” 

Then he tugs off his t-shirt and folds it before setting it down next to Ilya’s hastily discarded tank. 

It’s kind of adorable. Weird, but adorable. 

Ilya doesn’t even bother trying to hide his own interest. He lets his eyes drink Hollander in – his beautiful skin, the dusting of freckles on his shoulders, his smooth, sculpted chest, his tight abdomen, his narrow waist and hips. To the outline of what might be an erection inside his swim trunks. 

Interesting. 

“Oh. Wait. My phone,” Hollander says. “I don’t want to leave it on the beach. Or my wallet. We don’t have towels, either.”

Ilya hums, wanting to argue about that, but he very nearly ran into the water with his own phone and wallet in his pocket. 

“You are so boring,” Ilya says. “But okay. We will go to pool. And maybe stop by room and get towels first.” 

“Yeah, that sounds like a better idea.” 

“Your face is also pink. You need, uh, the stuff that stops the burning.” 

“Sunscreen.”

“Yes. I would not want your pretty freckles to burn. Would be terrible.” 

Impossibly, Hollander’s cheeks redden even more. 

They head back to the hotel and Ilya follows Hollander up to his room, a flutter of anticipation in his stomach. He doesn’t expect anything to happen, but he can’t help but imagine what might. If not now, maybe later. Ilya is a patient man. 

Hollander’s room is much bigger and much nicer than his own. King-sized bed. A patio with a view of the sea. Large en-suite tiled in pale turquoise with a big shower. Very nice. 

“You are not sharing with a friend?” Ilya asks as Hollander digs through his bag for something. 

“I was supposed to bunk with my friend Hayden,” Hollander says. “But he decided to bring his girlfriend, even though they’re getting married next month and have this whole elaborate honeymoon planned. And my other friend JJ hooks up with a lot of girls, and I didn’t want to get locked out of my own room until dawn, so I got my own.” 

“You do not want to hook up with girls?” 

“I mean, I have…” Hollander pulls a bottle of sunscreen out of his bag. “It’s just, I don’t know. Not for me, I guess.” 

“Ah.” Ilya suspects he knows what not for me means. He’s not sure if Hollander is aware of that, though. 

“What about you?”

"I was with a girl last night,” Ilya says with a shrug. “Beautiful girl from Greece. Lena.” 

Hollander looks disappointed. Ilya finds that interesting so he takes a chance. 

“What about men?” Ilya asks. “Have you ever hooked up with a man?” 

Hollander’s laugh is nervous and he shakes his head. “No way.” 

“You are not attracted to them?” 

“Um.” The look of absolute terror in Hollander’s eyes would be funny if it wasn’t so…sad.

“I am not…” Ilya searches for the word he needs. He doesn’t find it, so he decides to just be direct, before he ruins his chances and scares Hollander off. The admission might scare him off anyway, but if Ilya’s reading the situation correctly, it won’t. “I have been with men before.” 

The only answer he gets is a soft oh.

“Is okay if you want that,” Ilya says. “Is no big deal.” 

Is okay if you want me, too, Hollander. 

He shifts gears because he can see that Hollander is about to bolt. 

“So, do you have towels?” 

“Yeah. In the bathroom.” 

“Okay.” There is a pair of large red and white towels on the vanity in the bathroom. Ilya grabs them. “Ready to go?” 

Hollander looks like he’s been struck by lightning. He’s standing frozen next to his bag, the bottle of sunscreen in his hand, his gaze fixed on somewhere far, far away. 

 “Hollander?” 

Hollander tosses the sunscreen on the bed and surges forward. He pushes Ilya back against the wall beside the bathroom door and kisses Ilya on the mouth. Ilya laughs softly against his lips and kisses back, a hand driving into Hollander’s sweat-damp hair to drag him closer. 

It’s sloppy, and Hollander’s obviously pretty inexperienced, but Ilya definitely can’t fault his determination. 

A second later, Hollander shoves himself away and drags a hand down his face and shakes his head. “Shit. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what –”

“Hey, is okay,” Ilya says. “No big deal. I liked it.” 

“It’s just that I’m not –”

“Okay. You are not.” Ilya takes a breath and straightens up. “So. Pool?” 

The naked want in Hollander’s eyes is at odds with his stiff posture and conflicted expression. 

“Or, we could stay here and I could let you kiss me again.” 

“Let me,” Hollander scoffs. 

“You want?”

Hollander blinks at him rapidly, seeming incapable of answering. Ilya takes a chance and steps into his personal space. 

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Ilya asks. 

The answer is obviously yes, but Hollander’s gone to war with himself. It’s plain to see every thought in the shifting expressions on his face, which are painfully easy to read. 

Then, Shane Hollander sinks fluidly to his knees. The lust-filled brown eyes peering up at him might just be the most beautiful thing Ilya has ever seen in his life.