Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Sexual Roleplay, very silly guys, Shane dreams of being fucked on center ice, Exhibitionism, They both wear Montreal jerseys, Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Established Relationship

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-29 Words: 8,140 Chapters: 1/1

Not Bad for a Rookie

Summary

“Tell me about your dream again,” Ilya says.

It’s two in the fucking morning, and Shane’s body is already worked up from Ilya’s palm kneading his thigh, his lips brushing against Shane’s hipbone. Hasn’t even had his cock touched yet. He’s been hard for half an hour, and Ilya has done absolutely nothing to help him. Wine-tipsy and warm all over, Shane had let Ilya lay him on his back, stripping him slowly: t-shirt pushed to his armpits, Ilya’s mouth chasing the hem, pulling it over his head. Too slow for Shane’s liking, Ilya unzipped Shane’s pants, shimmying them down his thighs, tongue flat against the soft skin on the inside of his left thigh, leaving it wet. Ilya’s breath prickled cold, rippling through the rest of his body.

Notes

as always, for kris—you are my it-girl.

thank you to smug for the read-over! russian pet names courtesy of this tumblr post by sisituation. no one actually sees them go at it in this they're just playing with the idea of it!

“Tell me about your dream again,” Ilya says.

It’s two in the fucking morning, and Shane’s body is already worked up from Ilya’s palm kneading his thigh, his lips brushing against Shane’s hipbone. Hasn’t even had his cock touched yet. He’s been hard for half an hour, and Ilya has done absolutely nothing to help him. Wine-tipsy and warm all over, Shane had let Ilya lay him on his back, stripping him slowly: t-shirt pushed to his armpits, Ilya’s mouth chasing the hem, pulling it over his head. Too slow for Shane’s liking, Ilya unzipped Shane’s pants, shimmying them down his thighs, tongue flat against the soft skin on the inside of his left thigh, leaving it wet. Ilya’s breath prickled cold, rippling through the rest of his body. His dick plumped in his underwear, stretching against the fabric.

He kissed Shane’s knees, his ankles, nipped at his shin. Spent thirty minutes building heat in Shane, getting him so wet that his boxers clung to the outline of his cock. All the time, he barely said a word, leaving Shane to stew in his own pleas, Ilya’s mouth twitching at the sound. Teeth gleaming with a smile.

And now that he finally, finally fucking says something, Shane thinks he might just be able to come from the sound and nothing else. Ilya’s rolled, short rs punctuated with his tongue on Shane’s pec, following the swell of it.. He swallows hard, stomach tensing against Ilya’s palm resting over his abs. Ilya hums, staring up at Shane with his stupid beautiful eyes, fingertips pressing down on Shane’s stomach. His arm brushes against Shane’s leaking cock. Jesus Christ.

“What dream?” Shane asks, trying to keep his eyes on Ilya rather than letting his head fall back against the pillows at the slightest friction on his dick.

Ilya blinks, pressing another kiss to Shane’s hip. His hand shies down toward Shane’s stomach. His forefinger traces a line from Shane’s bellybutton to the coarse hair on his groin. “The dream where I fuck you on center ice.”

“I already told you!” Shane reaches down to nudge Ilya’s hand, which has stopped moving. He needs it on his dick now. “We’re on center ice and… you’re fucking me. And that’s it.”

“Come on, I want more details.” Ilya’s index finger draws a tiny circle by Shane’s belly button. “Think… Is it during a game? Is there a crowd? Are they watching me fuck you?” He uses one hand to squeeze Shane’s pec. Shane feels like he’s going to explode. “Tell me.”

“Fuck.” Shane gasps, wriggling his hips. “I barely remember, it’s—shit, it was just a dream, okay? We were naked, and I don’t think there were any people. Can you touch me now?”

Ilya’s eyes gleam. His gold chain pools on Shane’s stomach. “No.”

“There’s nothing more I can tell you! I don’t remember!”

“Make it up,” Ilya tells him. “We are center ice. Naked, yes? How am I fucking you? From behind? On your back?”

After skirting around it, Ilya finally grabs Shane’s cock, dragging his palm up its full length and rubbing his thumb over the head so he can smear the precum. Smoother glide. He sucks along the line of Shane’s hipbone, nosing into his dark pubes, mouth so, so close to Shane’s cock, and he wants so badly for Ilya to just take him into his mouth. Shane closes his eyes, tries to relive the dream, but it’s not even bits and pieces. It’s been weeks since he woke up hard and wet from it.

“I’m on my knees,” Shane says, swallowing hard. His fingers knot into the bedsheets. “My hands keep slipping so you, fuck”—Ilya’s mouth around the head of his cock, tongue flatting to cover all of it—”so you have to grab my waist and hold me up. You’re clothed, I think. But bare chested? But I’m—shit, that’s so good, Ilya.”

Ilya pulls off his dick, and the air is cold on Shane’s sensitive skin, the building pressure in his stomach dissipating the moment Ilya’s mouth is not on him. He opens his eyes and reaches down to grab the back of Ilya’s neck, urging him.

Smiling, Ilya says, “Keep talking and I will continue, okay?”

Shane groans, fingers digging into Ilya’s skin. But he’s so close, and he wants to come, and now that the idea’s in his head again—the cold ice on his knees and palms, his chest, eyes on him, everyone being able to watch how Ilya’s cock fucks him open—his skin buzzes.

“At first there was a crowd, but we’re—we’re alone, now,” Shane continues.

“You do not want them to know Shane Hollander is a slut who bends over for my cock?”

“Ilya,” Shane gasps. His nails must sting, but he can’t bring himself to lighten his grip. His thighs keep Ilya locked between his legs, and then Ilya’s lips are around him again, swallowing around him. Every time Ilya calls him a slut, shame zips through his body, hot and good and he doesn’t know why it makes him so hard, but it does. “Don’t want anyone else to—fuck, fuck I—I don’t want anyone else to see you.”

“So greedy.” Ilya strokes Shane’s cock lazily, flicking his wrist without much pressure. “But I think you would like people knowing. They would be so jealous of you. Everyone wants to fuck your boyfriend, Hollander. You win again.”

And it’s true: everyone does want to fuck Ilya. Specifically, they want to fuck Rozanov of the Boston Bears. Be a nice and pretty notch in his belt. See what the fuss is about, maybe—does Rozanov fuck as good as he makes people believe? Because fuck, if they don’t believe. Shane sees the tweets and the Instagram posts and knows, from the more gossip-inclined people in his room, that women love hovering around Rozanov at bars. Shane can imagine that, too, so clearly. Ilya in a black v-neck shirt, his favorite leather jacket, maybe a single gold ring. Cologne dabbed on strong enough it’ll carry in a bar, perhaps a bit too heavy-handed. Some girl sliding up to him. Her hand on his arm, curling around his bicep. What are you drinking? Waiting for him to say, Why don’t I buy you one so you can try? Only to get nowhere.

But it’s enough to keep the rumors going, and Shane can’t deny that it feels sort of… safe, to have everyone believe Ilya is both available and willing. The chatter gets back to Shane even when he doesn’t go prodding for it. A second thing Shane can’t deny: it is a power trip to know how many people want exactly what he has.

Ilya presses his teeth against Shane’s groin, tells him, “I did not say you could stop.”

Shane’s exhale is shaky. He wants to get off so fucking bad. “Ask me another question, then, asshole,” he says, voice cracking, and Ilya grins at him from between his legs.

“You really seem to like that dream,” Shane says, hunched over the cutting board, slicing up fresh strawberries for his protein shake.

“Is hot,” Ilya says, leaning over the counter to snatch a strawberry from the plastic container. He plops the entire thing into his mouth, chewing slowly. “If you have more dreams like this, I want to know.”

It’s already ten-thirty in the morning. By the time Ilya finally let him come, Shane had been so sleepy he’d passed out almost immediately, and neither one of them had woken up from Shane’s pre-set alarms. He tries not to needle himself about the fact he missed out on his morning run, focuses instead on the fact that it’s a Saturday morning and he’s spending it with his boyfriend who he barely gets to see.

“What about you?” Shane asks. “You just said you dreamt of fucking me in front of others and never gave me any details. Why am I the one being interrogated while having my dick sucked?”

Ilya smiles at him. “I love when you are sleepy and mean.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Ok, you ask me about my dream, and I will tell you. But I am always telling you when we are having sex, yes? What I want you to do. What I like.” Ilya steals another strawberry, and Shane brandishes his knife at him. “But recently I am also dreaming of fucking you on center ice.”

Shane uses his knife to scrape the strawberries into the blender before going to grab the whey powder. He uses the few seconds he has his back turned to Ilya to rub his hand over his cheeks, as if that’ll do anything to calm the red flush on his face down. When he returns to the blender, Ilya is watching him intently.

“It’s not as if it’s even possible,” Shane murmurs. “But, you know, the idea of having sex somewhere… Like, where we’re not supposed to. I mean, because hockey is work. So it feels a bit…”

“Bad,” Ilya fills in for him. “Yes. Forbidden things are extra fun, sometimes. We know this.” He winks.

Shane finishes his smoothie while Ilya starts prepping his morning coffee, squeezing Shane’s hip while passing him by to get the new roast they’d bought. It is Shane’s time to watch as he sips the smoothie. Even now, there is a surreal edge to watching Ilya move about his kitchen. It doesn’t ever really sink in that he’s just… there. That he knows his way around, has his own stuff slotted in alongside Shane’s, has his own creamer in the fridge. His own section of the closet, a pair of running shoes he never takes with him when he leaves. Shane doesn’t really call it his cottage, anymore. Just the cottage. Has, for some time, considered using ours the next time he brings it up. It’s the one thing he keeps chickening out about, and he’s not a coward, but it feels big.

He watches Ilya’s back, eyes lingering on the muscular slope of his shoulders, his pronounced biceps and the scattered birthmarks. Ever since Shane blew him in the hallway after seeing Ilya in his stupidly hot grey tank top, Ilya’s bought it in several more colors. The obnoxiously red one he saves for whenever Boston wins. Shane likes when he wears the blue one.

Today, however, it’s his favorite grey. Sits snug around Ilya’s waist, shows off enough skin to have Shane reconsidering what his preferred exercise for the day could be. What if they just lounged in bed until sundown?

“Lyubimyy, if you stare longer, you will make me think there is something on my face,” Ilya says. He steps forward, placing a soft kiss on Shane’s cheekbone. “Other than—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—handsome.”

“Ugh.” Shane wrinkles his nose and hides his smile behind his half-full glass of smoothie. Ilya puts his hand on Shane’s waist and kisses his cheek again, then his jaw, balancing his own cup of coffee with his other hand.

“I have an idea. I think you will like it,” Ilya says. He rests his head on Shane’s shoulder, breath warm against Shane’s throat. “Tomorrow, Shane Hollander is meeting with the newest rookie for the Voyageurs, and because he is a good captain, maybe he will show this rookie some tricks on the ice… Maybe he will spend some time alone with him…”

Shane tilts his head back when Ilya kisses his neck, brows furrowing. “What rookie are you talking about? My only plan is to stay at home with you.”

Ilya puts his cup down and crowds Shane against the counter, arms on either side of him. He raises his brows, giving Shane a pointed look.

Shane throws one hand up in turn. “You’re making zero sense here.”

“Oh my god, Shane, I am roleplaying ice-fucking scenario with you,” Ilya says. “I am saying we go to your fancy rink here at cottage where you have plastic ice, and I can fuck you there. Center ice, yes? I will be your nice, sweet rookie who is very excited to play with legendary captain”—Ilya doesn’t miss the opportunity to mouth at Shane’s jaw—”Shane Hollander. And maybe my captain is going to be nice also and show me what is the best way to make him come.”

Shane looks to the side. Ilya waits, nosing along the length of his jaw. His hand on Shane’s waist lightens its grip, instead stroking up and down until he can slide his pinky finger inside Shane’s pants, wedged between fabric and skin.

His heart is racing so fast it’s as if he swallowed his own pulse, and now it is bouncing around inside of him.

“Yeah—I mean, yes, fuck, I want that,” Shane admits, swallowing loudly.

He can feel it when Ilya smiles. Sees it when he finally leans back. “I have one more idea.”

Shane stays quiet. Ilya tilts his head. He raises his hand to Shane’s face and drags one finger over Shane’s cheek, then over the bridge of his nose, says, “When I fuck you, I cover your eyes. Who knows, maybe there is an audience. Maybe is just the two of us…”

Shane’s stomach tenses. Ilya must feel it against his palm, because his tongue presses against his top lip, smiling lazy and pleased.

He plucks the smoothie glass from Shane’s hand and places it on the counter, stepping closer so that their hips line up, hand circling to Shane’s lower back. “I want to kiss you but I have tasted your gross morning smoothie, so…”

“Well, apologies for my gross smoothie,” Shane says dryly, reaching out to grab it when Ilya wraps his fingers around his wrist with a laugh and leans down for a kiss.

“Is a joke,” Ilya promises. “There is nothing that will make me not kiss you.”

Shane chugs the rest of his smoothie, grabs the front of Ilya’s tank, and hauls him in.

“Okay, but what are the optics of this?” Shane asks.

They’re sitting on the couch, Ilya’s legs draped over Shane’s lap. Ilya’s got one hand tucked into his pants and the other one wrapped around a Corona. Shane is slumped against several pillows, fingers tracing a circle around Ilya’s ankle bone.

“What?” Ilya asks, nudging his foot so he can press it against Shane’s stomach. He wiggles his toes.

Shane pinches the skin on top of Ilya’s foot, just to hear him yelp, and then says, “Like, why would you be meeting with me one on one just because you’re a rookie? And does this mean that you’re a decade younger than me, or is this back when I first got the C?”

Ilya looks at him with both eyebrows raised, then lets out a long, deep breath, and takes a swing from his beer. “Shane, these things are not important for the sex.”

“I’m just trying to figure out the scenario.”

“Okay, well, scenario is I am Montreal rookie and I think my captain is very hot and sexy, and I want to fuck him.” He nudges his heel against Shane’s crotch and Shane flinches, wriggling in his seat because shit, the pressure on his dick is nice, but he’s going to get hard in no time.

Ilya rests one arm on the back of the sofa, extending his leg so he can rub his entire foot against Shane’s half-hard cock. Jesus. Shane inhales sharply through his nose, eyes screwing shut as his head falls back against the pillows. He can’t see it, but he hears Ilya snickering to himself. Reaching to the side, Shane grabs one of the pillows and throws it at him.

When he opens his eyes again, Ilya’s got a toothy grin on.

“Whoa, Hollander, save it for the game, okay? Ottawa will have hard time making playoffs with injured captain,” he says, tossing the pillow onto the floor. “And no more questions about rookies or optics or anything. We will go to your indoor hockey rink and we will have fantastic sex. Maybe I tie your hands, too. Maybe blindfold is not enough.”

Shane’s body is trembling. Ilya won’t move his foot, so every time he shifts in his seat, it’s right there, pressed against his now fully-hard cock. He entertains the idea of finishing just like that, on the sofa, even though it’ll mean he’s going to have to wash his underwear immediately. His nape flares hot. Pressure coils. The head of his cock is visibly tenting his sweatpants.

Ilya takes another slow sip of his beer. Rubs his tongue over his bottom lip so that it is wet and glossy, and Shane imagines how their kiss will taste when Ilya finally decides to indulge him. If he wanted to, he could reach out right now, or shove his pants down, but he doesn’t. He waits as Ilya hums, drinks his beer, and slowly moves his hands inside of his pants, stroking his own cock without letting Shane see. Their eyes stay locked on one another. Shane’s lower back is damp with sweat.

For what feels like way too long, Shane watches Ilya’s wrist flick against the waistband of his pants, arm muscles rippling with the action. There’s a vein along the inside of his arm Shane wants to put his tongue to.

And the whole time, Ilya’s lips curl into a smile, so evidently pleased with how Shane neither moves away nor tries to get himself off.

The beer bottle goes on the coffee table. Ilya gestures at his lap, says, “Okay, come here,” and Shane straddles him, shoving at his pants before he’s even properly seated. Ilya laughs into their kiss, quieting only so he can lick his way into Shane’s mouth. His palms glide up Shane’s chest, palms over his perked nipples and it’s just cold enough in the room for Ilya’s touch to be the warmth he needs.

“You have to call me Hollander,” Shane murmurs against Ilya’s lips. “Captain Hollander.”

Ilya’s grip on his hips tightens.

Shane starts feeling a bit weird about the whole thing once he’s standing on the plastic indoor rink. He’s wearing his CCM undershirt, sneakers, and, at Ilya’s insistence, his usual running shorts and Montreal jersey. Tugging on the hem of the shorts, Shane tries to scoot them down a bit, but there’s really no length to give. Even when he’d bought them he knew they were so out of left field compared to the rest of his closet, but Ilya loved them so much he bought four more pairs, and now they’re all he wears during their morning runs. Without all the padding, the jersey hangs loose, making the shorts look even more out of place.

He’s adjusting the shooting targets on the net when he hears Ilya approach and turns around and, well, it’s not like he hasn’t thought of Ilya in a Voyageurs jersey before, but… Fuck, seeing it in person is completely different to Shane’s fleeting fantasies of Ilya fucking him wearing a Hollander jersey. This isn’t how he imagined that scenario coming true, but he’d be a liar if he said he’s not already hard. He adjusts his shorts, hopes his own jersey is covering his half-chub, and stands up.

While Ilya washed up this morning, Shane had spent thirty minutes practicing lines in his head. Now, with Ilya right in front of him, all of those well-thought out quips flick out of his head. It’s not as if they wouldn’t have sex if he broke character. He doesn’t doubt Ilya would laugh it off, bend him over, be nice to him even without the theatrics. Still—feels too close to losing.

“Looking good,” Shane tells him, giving him a blatant one-over. The blue looks good on him, but so do most things. All things. Shane presses his tongue against the back of his teeth. “How’s it feel being part of the best team in the sport?”

Ilya grins at him and leans on his stick. He’s wearing the same black sweatpants from this morning, the ones that hug his ass just right. Shane could ask him to turn around, and he knows Ilya would do it. He’d just be a smug asshole about it, too.

“Is very exciting to be on same team as Shane Hollander,” Ilya tells him. He taps the toe of his boot against the ice. “I used to have a big poster of you by my bed, you know? From glory days.But you are prettier in person.”

Shane’s ears burn hot. Right. They’re here to flirt and, hopefully, go for a round or two. “You don’t have to flatter me. Just don’t screw up.” He pauses. “Also, these are my glory days.”

“Okay, Captain,” Ilya says, shrugging. His eyes crease playfully at the corners, posture slouched in that nonchalant way he has never grown out of. It’s annoying how effortlessly sexy he is: even more annoying that he is so aware of it, too. Ilya rolls his shoulders, pushing his chest out, straightening up. “I am very grateful the best player on the best team is giving me private lessons. If you told me this would happen, I would not believe you.”

“Well, you said you’re having a hard time adjusting… Anything to help out a rookie.” Shane tugs at the collar of his jersey, adjusting it over his shorts. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, angling his knee in a bit. Trying to cover up. It does him no good; he can feel his cock slide against the fabric, leaking. How long before Ilya can see it on his thigh?

“Yes, this star rookie,” Ilya says, emphasizing way more than he needs to, “is having a very, very hard time. Maybe I need more practice. Hands-on practice.”

Shane rolls his eyes. Pressure bristles in his chest, stomach, wherever Ilya’s obvious eyes rake over him. “Why did we draft you?”

“Because I am very good looking,” Ilya tells him, closing the distance between them a bit. “And because when you retire in one hundred years they will need new center to replace you.”

“Why are we talking about my retirement? I’m not even”—Shane pauses, talks himself out of it—”whatever. Just watch your mouth. You’re nowhere good enough to be my replacement.”

“Well, I was first in draft, so…” Ilya raises his brows, still smiling, eyes catching the lights overhead in what must be a calculated move to make Shane lose track of himself. He keeps flexing his grip on his stick, knuckles whitening for a second, rolling his wrist.

“Low blow,” Shane says. “How about you take some shots, and I’ll see if you’re beyond saving.”

Ilya stares at him in silence, then shrugs. “Okay…” He pinches his bottom lip with his teeth, edges of his mouth curled. “If that will get you hard, Captain.”

“What?” The pressure in Shane’s chest rises, stomach prickling. God, he’s definitely going to be fully hard in, like, a minute flat. Being made to do target practice likely isn’t what Ilya expected when he waltzed in there, but Shane has no clue how they’re supposed to progress. At what point do they just… make out? Should he initiate, as the captain? Should he just tell Ilya to strip? He sorts that thought away for later.

“I said, okay, if that will help, Captain,” Ilya repeats. He tilts his head and knocks the side of Shane’s shoe with the blade of his stick. From this close, Shane can see the gold chain around his neck where it peeks up at his nape, mostly hidden by his jersey.

Shane presses his tongue against the corner of his mouth. “Alright, show me how you shoot.”

It sounds fucking ridiculous, but if Ilya thinks so, too, he doesn’t show it whatsoever. He nods, as if this is completely rational and not part of a very silly scenario created specifically to get Shane off, and Shane growing sentimental when he’s about to get railed feels even sillier. Ilya could certainly use some of this dedication in other aspects of his life, but if he is saving it all for Shane, then he’ll take it. Ilya is his favorite indulgence. Perhaps his only one.

“Maybe I take my shirt off to help you see better,” Ilya suggests after spending two excruciating—for Shane—minutes doing target practice. Shane had sort of expected him to mess up on purpose, but Ilya’s crashing targets like he’s mid-game, not like he’s in Shane’s indoor rink doing foreplay. Which this is. Definitely.

Shane takes him in: his solid hands, his broad shoulders and chest, his nice ass…

“No!” Shane protests. “I mean, no. You don’t need to, it’s fine. Keep it on.”

“My captain is very flustered, suddenly,” Ilya says. “I like this. You do not want to see your rookie shirtless? But we will be naked together often from now on?”

“It’s just…” Shane reaches out, touching Ilya’s chest with more familiarity than the scenario probably calls for. He loops one of the jersey strings around his finger. “It looks good on you.”

“Oh?” Ilya says, leaning forward, and yeah, this is perfect. Shane needs him even closer. “It is just the jersey that looks good, or me also?”

Shane hooks his focus on the fainter birth marks on Ilya’s face, the shadow along his jaw, the fine lines stretching from the corners of his eyes. He touches his cheek with two fingers, trails them down the side of Ilya’s face to his lips, feeling the plump bottom lip against his fingertips, and Ilya kisses them.

“So very pretty, Hollander,” he says, and Shane’s chest swells. Then: “Everyone is thinking so.”

Shane holds his breath as Ilya leans in further. His focus is on Shane’s mouth, Shane’s own gaze on Ilya’s curved lashes, the freckle at the corner of his left eye.

“Who is everyone?”

“Everyone who wants to fuck you,” Ilya says, not averting his gaze. The kind of look that burrows under Shane’s skin, full of intent. Not desperate, yet, but pretty close.

Shane’s entire body twitches at the thought. He can’t imagine a world in which people are dying to fuck him, not really; his entanglement with Ilya all those years ago was something special and strange. Even with women at his side, the interest had felt like watching someone else operate his body. None of it ever registered. Maybe they find him handsome, sure. But it’s not like there are people in his social media notifications begging to be his pit stop the way he’s sure Ilya’s Instagram DMs continue to flood.

“You do not believe me,” Ilya says.

Shane licks his bottom lip. “Honestly… not really?”

“Okay, well, my captain is being stupid.” Ilya tosses his stick to the side so he can take Shane’s face into his hands. “You think people are not dying for a chance to sleep with Shane Hollander? I am the luckiest man in the world, you see, because I am the only one who gets to fuck you.”

Shivering, Shane holds his breath. He clutches Ilya’s wrists with his hands. “Not very appropriate language to use with a teammate.”

“Sorry,” Ilya says, sounding anything but. “But you like it.”

And then Ilya’s hand slides up Shane’s thigh, up the bare skin to the hem of his shorts, wrist brushing against Shane’s hard cock. The shorts bunch up around Ilya’s wrist, fingertips sliding underneath Shane’s underwear. Almost to where he needs it most.

Shane is not above begging. Not when it comes to Ilya, to this, so he says, “Yes, fuck—please touch me.”

Ilya’s mouth is on his jaw, his chin, tongue swiping into Shane’s mouth before he can ask for anything else, and then his hand is pushing Shane’s jersey up his stomach so he can shove his other hand into his shorts. “Love these,” he says. “So fucking tiny. Very slutty. Is so easy to see when your dick is hard. And it is always hard for me, yes? How will you help this poor rookie with your cock like this?”

“Shut up.” Shane pants into the kiss, holding his jersey up so that Ilya can stroke his cock without anything in the way. His grip is too loose. Doesn’t give Shane the friction he’s craving. “I can do laps around you with my eyes closed. Now touch me properly before I go fucking crazy.”

“Okay, Hollander.” Ilya hums. “Get on your knees, close your eyes, and I will touch you how you want.”

And they’d talked about this. No blindfold, just Shane having to keep his eyes shut on his own, no matter what Ilya does to him. Trust Ilya through it. He swallows hard, heartbeat insistent in his ears, thrumming at the back of his throat. He takes one last, long look at Ilya’s face, the slight flush to his cheek, eyes heady already, like he’s dying to fuck Shane as badly as Shane needs to have him inside. Knows this to be true.

He sinks to his knees, the plastic, fake-ice material uncomfortable against his bare skin. Might even bruise if Ilya decides to fuck him from behind. The thought of it shouldn’t be as appealing as it is, but Shane can’t deny that when he’s a little extra battered from a game and Ilya mouths along his bruises, pressing his fingers into them, the sharp pain only makes his climax all that much better. He doesn’t doubt that Ilya knows, even if Shane’s never told him. Not with how often it’s happened.

Ilya watches him, waits. Shane closes his eyes.

He expects Ilya’s cock in his mouth, or on his face, maybe. But instead Ilya’s palms press against Shane’s stomach, urging him onto his back. Rustling from clothing, Ilya shoving at his jersey until it’s bunched under Shane’s armpits, and then his mouth is right there, kissing wet down the center of his chest.

“Fuck,” Shane says, breath trembling. His hips push off the ground, but Ilya forces them back down, holding him there.

Ilya’s breath on his bare skin is more pronounced when he can’t focus on anything else. His fingertips hook on Shane’s shorts and scoot them down his thigh. Grinding his palms against Shane’s thighs hard, he drags them up the lines of his muscles until he reaches Shane’s hipbones, sensitivity sparking into pain horrendously good and sore at the same time. When Shane lets out a staggered gasp, Ilya snickers against his stomach, shifting between Shane’s legs. He’s right there, but Shane still can’t get him to touch his fucking dick.

He is everywhere else, instead: massages Shane’s ass, kissing his stomach, his groin, even rubbing his nose into the crease along Shane’s thighs and inhaling, lapping at the skin, leaving it chilled in the cold air of the indoor rink. The fake ice is rigid against his body, making him feel more confined than if Ilya was just fucking him on their bed.

“I think maybe I should show our team how needy Captain Hollander is,” Ilya murmurs, placing one last kiss on Shane’s hipbone before he is nudging Shane’s legs further apart. Shane feels the swell of his cock as it comes to rest against Shane’s own; it smears wet when Ilya thrusts slowly, grinding them together. And then his voice is right by Shane’s ear. “How many do you think are watching? Guess.”

Shane tries to distract himself with the weight of Ilya on top of him, but a needling voice in his head wants him to open his eyes to check. How many? Where? Would they be close enough to see Shane’s cock trapped against Ilya’s body, or would they only ever be able to hear him gasp

He musters a, “What?” Screws his eyes even tighter shut. There’s no noise other than Ilya’s breathing, his voice, the sound of their bodies rocking together. But if Shane could calm himself, maybe he’d catch the click of shoes, or a door, or gear being tossed around.

“Guess how many people are going to watch you get fucked,” Ilya says. His teeth nip at Shane’s ear. Kisses down Shane’s jaw, to the column of his bared throat, urging Shane to tilt his head back. “Two? Five? Give me a number.”

There’s no one there. The rational side of Shane knows this. There’s barely five people in the whole world who even have the physical address to this place. But he’s not—he can’t check to see if that’s true. Not with Ilya’s palm kneading up and down his chest, squeezing his shoulder. Surely looking right at him to make sure Shane’s not peeking. His breath on the soft spot beneath Shane’s chin.

“Shit, I don’t know,” Shane says, his nose twitching. He tries to push his hips up again, but Ilya grabs him, slamming them back down. Fuck, he’s going to feel that tomorrow. “Three?”

Ilya kisses his collarbone, his pec. Closes his mouth around a nipple.

“Seven?” Shane asks, again, a moan caught at his teeth. The idea of someone seeing him this desperate for fucking Rozanov’s cock is a brand of humiliation that jostles his insides, prickles the shameful streak in him, the one that loves to sidle up with pleasure. The part Ilya loves to tug on, just to be an asshole. “Just—I don’t care, I don’t—just fuck me, I’m ready, okay? I need you to fuck me.”

“Ready?” Ilya asks, tone rising at the end. Shane knows he is fucking smirking, is too familiar with the way he speaks, what delights him. “Hollander, this is a very slutty thing to do before meeting with your new rookie. Is like this was your plan the whole time.”

Shane’s not sure how Ilya’s managing to keep in character. He fumbles around until he finds one of Ilya’s hands, grabs it hard, and shoves it between his legs. Urges him on. “Yes, I fingered myself before, so can we please get to it before I find another insufferable rookie to fuck me?”

Ilya huffs, then kisses Shane lightly, says, “There is no other rookie with a dick big enough for you, I think. Your hole is very greedy.”

If not for Ilya’s tight grip on him, Shane would chase after him for another kiss. These pecks are not cutting it. He’s so hard he feels like Ilya could lick him once and he’d spill all over himself.

“Jesus.” Shane groans, stomach tensing. Fingers pressing against his hole.

Ilya makes an appreciative noise. “Wow, Hollander. You were not lying. You are wet and ready for me.” Two of his fingers push inside, thumb tracing the seam up to Shane’s sac.

Shane can’t help but sigh in relief. He’s had lube smeared in his ass and been half-hard for at least half an hour, stuck watching Ilya in his Montreal jersey strutting around, playing rookie. He deserves this. He expects Ilya to keep going, to fuck him with his fingers while talking to him about how no one else is able to do this, would be able to please him, but he doesn’t. Instead Shane feels the blunt head of Ilya’s cock, pressing in, filling, god, Ilya’s hands on his thighs, folding him, keeping him trapped between the ice and Ilya’s weight and Shane whimpers, head knocking back.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya says, his face against the curve of Shane’s shoulder. Breaths already heavy, slick on Shane’s skin.

Shane’s cock keeps catching on Ilya’s jersey as it hangs off him, the fabric rough as it drags over the sensitive head. He fists the front of Ilya’s jersey, dragging it up, and Ilya takes the hint, because the next thing Shane can feel is his solid, bare chest, his abs. Maybe he could rub himself on Ilya’s stomach and get off that way. It wouldn’t be the first time.

But Ilya’s hand is on him, fingers rough as they tug on Shane’s cock, palm cupping the head before dragging down the full length, thumb pressing extra hard, just how he likes it. Shane gasps, and Ilya takes that from him, too, kisses him like he’s trying to hollow him out. Memorize the shape of his teeth, the taste on the soft inside of his mouth. Fucks into him hard and fast, one hand on Shane’s thigh and the other on his shoulder so that when he slips, Ilya can drag him right back onto his cock.

“I think they are jealous.” Ilya’s voice is wrecked. Shane wishes he could see his face: red and flushed, eyes blown. “Hollander, do you really not know? You are so beautiful, and you take my cock so good. Are so eager for it. I have met no one who needs my cock as bad as you do, Hollander. If I could, I would wake you up and fuck you every day, then I would blow you in the shower”—his bite on Shane’s collarbone, tongue soothing the sting—”I would fuck you in your locker room, your car”—grip clasping Shane’s bicep—”and you would beg me please, please, even after everything because you cannot get enough. And…”

And? And? Shane chases his high, touching Ilya’s shoulders, taking liberty with his nails as he rakes them down Ilya’s chest, hard enough to make his hips stutter, a whimper slipping out for Shane to lick up.

Ilya’s tongue along the ridge of Shane’s ear, uncontrolled breaths scratching Shane’s head, voice wrecked: “They will leave today and think of you when they come. Touching themselves to you because they will never get to fuck you. I’m the only one good enough to fuck you.”

“Yeah, only you, only ever you since—” Shane’s words click against his teeth, sentence falling apart, scrambling as Ilya’s cock fills him. Ilya’s curls brush his face and Shane turns his face to seek out his mouth, tastes sweat. He fists Ilya’s hair, holds his mouth to Shane’s so hard that Ilya gasps and winces against him, but his hips don’t slow, his pants just as eager. “Only ever you since that—since the first time, fuck, Ilya, right there, come on, please, please—inside, come inside—”

Ilya’s thrusts are shallow, desperate. That kind of needy he gets when he’s so close, Shane knows.

“Tell me how I feel,” Shane begs, trying to make sense of his own sound. Choked up and a little pathetic. “Come on, Ilya, fuck—don’t stop, don’t—”

“So fucking good, Shane,” Ilya promises, pretenses lost. He kisses Shane everywhere, the curve of his cheekbone, his frantic pulse at the base of his throat, sucks on his nipple and lets out a complaining gruff when Shane lets go of his hair, guides his hands back, grinds into him like he’ll die if they come apart. “Open your eyes. I will show you.”

Shane hiccups, as if any noise is desperate to get out; can’t fit anything in him except Ilya’s fat cock. He opens his eyes, Ilya’s forehead to his own, that perfect furrowed brow, lips parted and as eager for Shane’s mouth as he is for Ilya’s. His pink flush shades from the roots of his damp hair to his shoulders.

Ilya holds his gaze, then trails his eyes down Shane’s body, and Shane follows. Ilya’s legs push his thighs up again, giving Shane a full view of his own stretched hole, his rim clinging to Ilya’s cock like it’s meant to be inside of him, lube sticky, precum smeared on Ilya’s stomach, Shane’s everything. So lewd that if Shane wasn’t so fucking close to coming all over himself, he might’ve felt embarrassed.

“See?” Ilya says, nodding down. “The most perfect for me.”

Shane nods frantically, wrapping an arm around Ilya’s neck, trying to grind back onto his cock. His body aches, elbows slammed against the plastic ice rattling his entire body, his teeth vibrating, vision dimming in and out, splotches of dark-and-bright as he adjusts to the bright lights. He puts one hand to his cock and Ilya nods, too, watches as he gets himself off, Ilya’s name somewhere in the stilted moans, enough of a plea for Ilya to come, too. He pulls his cock out before he’s even done spilling, the last of it roping over Shane’s hip, dripping down the crease between ass and thigh. He shoves Shane’s hand out of the way, and Shane wants to cry when Ilya’s tongue replaces it, is coming into his mouth before he’s even taken him in entirely, Ilya’s throat working around him until there’s nothing else to give.

Ilya pulls off, heaving a laugh, and flops down next to Shane. And Shane can’t help but giggle, too, the sound of it completely distorted by his labored breathing, and as he centers himself, his body making sense as its own thing separate from Ilya, again, everything trembles. His legs won’t stop shaking, abs tensing uncontrollably as he tries to get his breathing right.

Rolling over onto his side, Ilya pushes himself up on his elbow. Shane meets his eyes. Ilya’s hand strokes up Shane’s chest, down again, pressing against the convulsions.

“Okay, Captain, I think we have scared whole Montreal team off from practice. They will need zamboni to clear all your come off the ice,” Ilya says, uncharacteristically serious, patting Shane’s stomach.

Shane rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, star rookie.”

Ilya’s grin widens, and Shane hooks his finger in Ilya’s pants, shoved halfway down his thighs, to get him to scoot closer. Ilya shuffles onto his knees, pulling his pants back up over his ass and tucking his dick away carefully, wrinkling his nose as he does so. A tiny gasp. Must be sore: they probably should’ve brought more lube. The friction at the end has left Shane’s hole raw and aching, too, but he doesn’t mind.

“I would not mind being a Voyageur if it means I get to have more hot sex with my handsome, older captain,” Ilya tells him, leaning down for a kiss, arms bracketing Shane’s head. “You are sexy even when you are old.”

“You’re really working this angle,” Shane says, slowly pushing himself up, too. “Didn’t know you were dying to fuck older men this whole time. Maybe that’s why you’re so obsessed with Hunter.”

Ilya’s horrified expression is worth the jab. “Shane, this is the most terrible thing you have ever said to me, and after we had such good sex.”

Shane puts his hand on Ilya’s neck, nudges him close until they can kiss, and Ilya’s protests fall wayside. Kisses him again, trying to keep it simple when Ilya nudges his tongue in again, like he can’t help himself, testing the tip of it against Shane’s teeth.

“If you’re trying to go for round two, you’re gonna have to give me a second to recover, I’m fucking spent,” Shane says, gesturing at his bare ass and soft cock. He should probably get his shorts back on, but his legs haven’t stopped shaking. The shorts hang off his ankle, underwear tangled around them, splotched wet with precum.

“Maybe round two is in the shower,” Ilya murmurs against Shane’s cheek. He tilts his head so that Shane can get a better look of his eyes. “I was not joking when I said I would fuck you everywhere if I could.”

“You do,” Shane tells him, “fuck me everywhere.”

And Ilya’s coy eyes twist with the curve of his smirk. “Because my gorgeous boyfriend is always begging for my cock.”

Shane could tell him to fuck off: wants to, very badly. Instead he cups Ilya’s cock through his pants, says, “And whose fault is that?”

Ilya’s eyes widen, and then he closes the distance, again, kissing Shane open-mouthed, groaning against his plushy top lip, sucking it between his teeth. Shane is on his back again, Ilya’s fingers digging into his ass, kneading the flesh, trapping Shane’s thigh between Ilya’s knees.

“I am so lucky,” Ilya tells him, kissing the corner of Shane’s mouth. Licks the spot after.

Shane drags his forefinger over Ilya’s right eyebrow, trails it down to the dark mole on his cheek. He taps Ilya’s bottom lip. “Might get luckier later in a second if we make it to the shower.”

There’s two Montreal jerseys in the wash. Both of them say HOLLANDER on the back, because the idea of ordering a custom jersey with Rozanov printed on the back for two-hundred dollars and waiting for it to ship had seemed like a completely unreasonable thing to do for what would, essentially, be one fuck.

“Maybe I will still buy a Rozanov Montreal jersey,” Ilya tells him as they wait for the laundry cycle to finish

“Pretty sure that’s treacherous,” Shane says. “Might make the merch team think they’re being pranked.”

‘Would be good prank.” Ilya is grabbing a Coke out of the fridge. When Shane turns to him, he is already holding a Ginger Ale out. “Next time, I want to fuck you in my jersey. Maybe we are finally playing on same team, or you are rookie player, this time, playing for Ottawa.”

Shane pops the tab on the soda can. “You want to create a nightmare scenario in which I am drafted to Ottawa as a rookie? And then I get fucked?”

“You are really thinking too much about why you are in Ottawa, and not thinking enough about the great sex we will have,” Ilya complains. “And I cannot make you wear Boston jersey.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Yes, so,” Ilya gestures vaguely, “Ottawa.”

Shane sticks his fingers into Ilya’s waistband, takes a sip from his can. He rubs his tongue against the inside of his mouth. Ilya’s eyes catch on the movement, and Shane slides his thumb over Ilya’s hipbone in turn.

“Okay,” he says. “If you want me to. But we’re both rookies.”

“You are very specific about this,” Ilya tells him, but he’s angling his hips forward, distracted. “It is very sexy to me, shanezhka. You are horny for hockey first and me second.”

“That’s not—okay, who is it that would send me suggestive texts before our games? I would say the thought of ramming me into the boards really does it for you.”

“Yes, the thought of ramming you always makes me hard,” Ilya agrees. “So is any thought of you. You drive me crazy. I do not know how to deal with it. And also, I know a Montreal girl named Jane who would text me back every time. I know for fact I am not the only one who is excited before our game. Remember, you sent me photo of you hard in your underwear right before—”

Shane puts his soda down. He peers back at Ilya, whose eyes have wandered from their thighs slotted together to Shane’s mouth, his eyes, now. Outside, the afternoon is warm and pale, light washing out Ilya’s face, but never enough to where Shane can’t see how his affection weighs heavy on him, this thing that now has a name.

“I am always excited to see you,” Shane tells him. He rubs his thumb over Ilya’s collarbone, stretching the collar of his t-shirt. “Back then, too. I just couldn’t… I didn’t want to admit it, you know.”

“Yes,” Ilya says. “I know.”

“But I’m telling you now.”

“You should tell me even more often,” Ilya murmurs, puckering his lips until Shane steals a kiss. “I want to wake up every morning to hear my boyfriend is excited to see me… and I want to see he is excited, too.” Ilya’s fingers tickle the inside of Shane’s thigh, and fuck, he’s really gotten so easy. Why’s all it takes for him to get hard nowadays a wink and the flick of a wrist? Surely he wasn’t this bad before.

He expects Ilya to reach into his underwear and grab him. All Ilya does is stroke his thigh, prickling the dark hair there. Ilya’s nose bumps into Shane’s jaw when he kisses his throat. When he tries to do it again, Shane pulls back and, before Ilya can complain, knocks their foreheads together. From this close, he can even see the faint acne scars on Ilya’s cheek, the cut at his eyebrow from an ill-shot puck.

“Ready to learn how to fold laundry instead of shoving it into the drawers without looking?” Shane asks. “I saw what you did to my t-shirts the other day. Horrible. You have to pull your weight if you’re gonna keep coming back here.”

Ilya laughs. Shane wants to fold it into himself and keep it there. Tuck it between his ribs. A bit worn and wrinkled, safe enough and all his, for now.