Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov & Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Ilya Rozanov & Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander/Svetlana Vetrova, Shane Hollander/Other(s), Ilya Rozanov/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova, Sasha | Ilya Rozanov's Coach's Son, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Grigori Rozanov, Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Polina Rozanova

Additional Tags:

Shane Hollander Speaks Russian, Shane Hollander Speaks French, Ilya Rozanov in Russia, Shane Hollander in Russia, Crush at First Sight, Minor Original Character(s), 2008–2009 Russian economic crisis, Period-Typical Homophobia, Homophobic Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Consensual Underage Sex, They're all over the legal age of consent in their countries, Masturbation in Shower, Masturbation, Voyeurism, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Takes place before the MHL draft, Hand Jobs, Oral Sex, Threesome - F/F/M, Horny Teenagers

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-03 Updated: 2026-08-23 Words: 21,168 Chapters: 3/7

Rate of Exchange

Summary

What if, after they first meet at the 2008 Prospect Cup, Shane Hollander goes back to Russia with the Rozanovs to play hockey with Ilya's team for 3 months on a hockey exchange program? And what if, in preparation for this trip - which Shane knew about for months and Ilya did not - Shane learned enough Russian to get by? Oh and they're attracted to each other but neither one of them made the first move before they're on a plane together, and suddenly they've got to spend 3 months living in the same apartment, in Russia, under the watchful eyes of Ilya's family and a team full of teenage hockey players...

Chapter 1: Face Off

Chapter Summary

Shane Hollander finds out, months before the 2008 Prospect Cup tournament, that he's going to stay with the Rozanov family in Russia for 3 months once the tournament ends. Ilya Rozanov finds out on their last day in Canada. They spent most of the next day on two different planes. They talk, in Russian and English. They flirt with each other, though neither of them is entirely sure that's what they're doing. They get to Russia, where things are already not going according to plan...

Chapter Notes

The boys are both 17 during this story (born in 1991, takes place from Dec 2008 to March 2009) and in some countries that makes them minors but the age of consent in Russia and Canada (even for same sex couples) at this time is 16 so no one is doing anything illegal. The consensual underage sex tag is there for folks who need to know they're under 18.

There's a mention of off-screen minor character deaths from OD - no one you'll recognize, just something one of the boys remembers - so I don't think it warrants a big warning but wanted to give you a heads up. None of the Heated Rivalry characters die in this story.

Regina, Canada – January 3rd, 2009

He finds out at dinner, the day Team Russia wins the gold medal at the International Prospect Cup. Ilya Rozanov sat across from his father Grigori, only half paying attention. His coach and assistant coach took up the other two chairs, and the pair of them chatted respectfully with Grigori while Ilya did the smart thing instead: he kept his back straight and his mouth closed. He’d let his mind wander, back through the final game, back through the tournament, back to standing outside trying to get his fucking lighter to catch while the wind swirled around him.

“Ilya Rozanov,” the boy had said. He seemed shy, reaching out his hand to Ilya, this boy was also a Captain of his entire country’s junior team. “Shane Hollander, I wanted to introduce myself.” He had freckles across his cheeks, and lips that looked soft enough to –

“Shane Hollander,” his father was saying. “You know of him, yes?” In Russian, of course, because his father never spoke anything else.

“What?” Ilya asked, confused.

“You see, this is what I mean,” Grigori said. “My son lacks discipline. He will learn this from the Canadian boy, I think.”

“It’s an honor for Hollander, Mr. Rozanov,” Coach said. “Canadians can be weak, but this Hollander has done well enough. He will be better after three months on Russian ice.”

“Shane Hollander is coming to Russia?” Ilya asked.

“You were not listening?” the assistant said. “Shane Hollander coming to your home.”

“You will not embarrass me,” his father added. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course,” Ilya said. “I will do my best.”

The conversation swirled around and away from him after that, like the wind.

---

“I don’t think he likes me,” Shane told his parents after that first meeting. “He didn’t even mention the exchange program. Maybe he doesn’t want me in his house?”

“You still have time to say no,” his mother Yuna said. “I don’t love the idea of my baby spending three months in another country anyway.”

“If I get drafted to America I’ll be in another country anyway,” Shane sighed. “You’re going to have to get used to it.”

“But honey, I can’t drive to Russia if you need me. Humor your mother and let me worry.”

“I’ll be fine,” Shane insisted. “I’ll just have to win Rozanov over. I know I can.”

“You’re both right,” his father David said, always the one to keep the peace. “You’ve worked hard on your Russian, son, and the host exchange program is very exclusive. I’m sure they’ve paired you with the perfect match.”

“Oh, no, Russian,” Shane groaned. “I tried talking to Rozanov in English. No wonder he hates me.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you,” his mom said. “But if you’re worried about it, you have the whole plane ride back to start again. I’m sure he’ll be impressed with how hard you’re trying with another language.”

“Mom, he speaks Russian and English.”

“Yes, but you speak Russian, English, and French.” She smiled as if Shane had won a competition he didn’t know he’d been entered in.

“My Russian is terrible,” Shane admitted. “My tutor said I have all the words in the right order but my accent makes it ужасный for native speakers to understand. I guess I was just nervous about that being Rozanov’s first impression of me.”

“What’s that word?” David asked. “Wonderful? Delightful?”

“Terrible.” Shane pushed the rest of his food around on his plate, but he was no longer hungry.

“Well, let’s go back to the room and make sure you have everything packed, okay?” His mom smiled at him, her eyes kind and only a little sad. “You have an early flight tomorrow.”

---

Ilya watched as the Hollanders moved toward them across the airport. The son looked nervous, but the parents immediately walked over and introduced themselves to his coaches and father. Grigori took the mother’s hand when she offered, barely trying to hide his disdain. She was tall, and some kind of Asian. Ilya realized that was why the son had such black hair and tanned skin. He wondered if anyone in the exchange program had realized; he was sure somehow that Grigori hadn’t known until this instant. The father was white but fared no better. He had a wide, easy smile, and seemed genuinely happy about the idea of his son going back to Russia with them, like it wasn’t a punishment but an adventure. David, he said his name was.

“I always forget how weak these Canadians are,” Grigori said in Russian after shaking David’s hand. The other men around him laughed, but Ilya could see the Hollander boy frowning slightly.

Ilya put his hand out, and David shook it with a smile. “I am Ilya,” he said in English. “Is nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, son. Shane,” he called behind him then, “come over here and say hello.”

The Hollander boy shuffled forward, and stuck his hand out. Ilya took it, for the third time. “Thank you for opening your home to me,” Hollander said in fucking Russian. Ilya could feel the silence of the men behind him as they understood what this meant. “I am excited to learn KHL style play. I have watched many of your game tapes.” His accent was very Canadian and his sentence structure was a little awkward, but it all came out clear enough.

“Yes,” Ilya replied in Russian. He let his thumb drift over the back of Shane’s hand for just a moment before letting go. “Will be good.”

He saw Hollander’s ears go pink at the tips and tried very hard not to bite his lip.

Flirting with a boy who’d be living in his own home for three months was the stupidest, most dangerous and self-destructive thing he could possibly think of. Standing in front of Shane Hollander for 30 seconds had him seriously considering it.

Ilya was saved by the boarding call. Grigori and the coaches were seated in first class. The rest of the boys – all of Team Russia, plus Hollander – had seats spread throughout the rest of the plane. Shane was a few rows ahead of him and on the left side. The aisle seat was open and Ilya thought briefly about taking it, but another boy from his team sat down instead. He watched them talk for a few minutes before Hollander opened his computer and put on a video. It was hard to see from this angle but Ilya thought it was a hockey game.

He wondered if Hollander had brought Canadian movies with him, or if his laptop was full of game tape.

He thought about the USB stick in his pocket stuffed with video files of American porn one of the other boys had gotten from someone on another team. They’d traded it back and forth during the tournament, each taking it for a night, and Ilya had ended up with it on the last day. He wondered if Hollander had porn on his laptop too, if he ever watched it, and if so, did Hollander touch himself while he watched it? Did he prefer the blond women, the redheads? Is it possible that Shane Hollander got hard thinking about any of the men?

God, he really needed to get laid. A week in Canada with no hookups was fucking with his head.

Once they were in the air and the lights had dimmed, Ilya tried to sleep. It was easily a 12 hour flight to Paris, where they’d have a layover of a few hours before catching another flight to Moscow the next day. He reached across the boy seated next to him – Artem, a winger from his team – to slide the window covering shut, but there was too much light from too many other open windows. After an hour or so of struggling to get comfortable, Ilya gave up and pulled out his iPod and headphones. He’d been stuck on Basta’s second album, К тебе, since it came out in March. He wasn’t sure he agreed with the man’s politics, generally staying away from political conversations of any kind, but the music was good. And everyone with even a little fame in Russia was “pro-Russia” unless you wanted to be beaten, arrested, pushed out of the country.

It didn’t matter that the government claimed those days were over. Everyone who’d ever lived in Russia knew it was true.

But Hollander? Ilya suddenly realized there were many things Hollander might not know about Russia, things Ilya took for granted. Things about Ilya’s family, too. Fuck, what Hollander didn’t know might get them both in trouble.

When Hollander got up to use the bathroom an hour later, Ilya hopped up and moved over to the boy sitting next to Shane. “Nik,” he said in a low voice, in Russian, “switch seats with me.”

Nikhail looked up at that, then back at the empty seat Ilya had just left. “Why?” he asked.

Ilya shrugged. “Artem is annoying me,” he lied. “Switch before the Canadian comes back to complain.”

“What do I get?”

“What do you want?”

Nikhail grinned. “Give it to me,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Give you what? My dick? Too many witnesses I think,” Ilya joked, but inwardly he groaned. He knew exactly what the other boy was asking for.

“You know what. You want me to change seats, give.”

Ilya sighed and fished the USB stick out of his pocket. “Don’t get caught with it,” he said, moving out of the way so Nikhail could grab his stuff. He was in place by the time Hollander got back, but the other boy didn’t seem to notice until he was back in his own seat.

“Oh, hi,” Shane said in English when he realized. “What happened to Nikhail?”

“Wanted to sit with Artem,” Ilya said with a shrug. “Didn’t want to move but what can I say, I am nice guy.”

“Okay, cool,” Hollander said. He glanced back over his shoulder, but he looked concerned.

“What?” Ilya asked.

“Obviously I fucked something up but I don’t know what I did,” Hollander said quietly. “Sorry, you don’t need to know that.”

Ilya hadn’t considered that he might worry he was to blame for something as simple as a seat change.

“Why your fault? Maybe Nik is an idiot, you think of that?” When that didn’t affect the look on Hollander’s face, he leaned over and crooked his finger, signaling Hollander should bend toward him. He did it immediately, close enough for Ilya to whisper into his ear. “They’re watching porn,” Ilya said quietly. “You did nothing.”

Hollander snapped his head back to look at Nik and Artem again, a delicious blush across his cheeks. It made his freckles stand out even more.

Ilya wanted to lick them.

“Hey, don’t stare,” Ilya whispered. Hollander looked back at him then.

“Sorry,” he said, but his eyes were on Ilya’s lips.

Ilya knew he could do one of several things in that moment. He chose the absolute worst one: he bit his lower lip.

Just to check.

Hollander swallowed, hard, his eyes lingering. “Um, do you want to watch a game? I have a bunch on my laptop.”

Ilya nodded. “Do you have uh... writing document? On your computer?”

“Oh yeah, like Microsoft Word, why?”

“Open,” Ilya said, and then, when Hollander had done it, he added, “Give.”

need to talk people can’t hear, he wrote, then handed it back to Hollander.

what about?  Hollander wrote back. He moved the computer to a spot between them where they could both type without being as obvious.

Russia law / rules

what rules?

Ilya deleted everything they’ve started so far, hoping Hollander would take the hint. no politics no sex at home no gay, he wrote next.

fuck you I’m not gay, Hollander wrote back.

Ilya deleted it all. is okay with me but not russia, he wrote. be careful, he added.

Hollander ignored that, deleted the text on the page then wrote, what else?

Papa speaks English but he hates it don’t speak it unless you and I alone

Hollander raised his eyes at that. He bit his lip for a moment, then typed, he’s not nice?

Ilya sighed. no, he wrote. do not argue with him about anything. whatever happens stay quiet.

Shane went very still.

is okay I help you, Ilya wrote, then slipped his hand under the computer to squeeze Shane’s thigh for just a moment, until the other boy nodded.

Hollander deleted what they had written. your brother? he typed.

how you know I have brother?

exchange packet they gave me so I could get to know you and Russia.

Ilya stared at Hollander for a moment, long enough for him to see the worried look blooming across the other boy’s on his face. He deleted then wrote, when you know about this?

two months, you?

Ilya shook his head. last night

fuck I’m so sorry

I can figure something else

didn’t mean to intrude

Hollander sat back in his seat, looking straight ahead. He made a face that Ilya thought was a combination of sadness and resignation at the same time. He deleted and typed, then tapped Shane on the knee and tilted the laptop toward him.

papa not good brother not good I help you don’t worry

nice to have you

want to watch game?

Ilya looked pointedly at Hollander, catching his eye then glancing toward the computer until he gave in and read it. He didn’t react right away.

I like if you stay, Ilya added. Russian now please on plane. English only for us.

Hollander nodded, but his eyes still looked sad. He took the computer back, exited out of the Word program without saving it, and loaded up a video. They spent the next few hours watching Admirals games, talking about Hunter and Bennett, then moved on to a Montreal v Boston game from earlier in the season. Even in Russian, Hollander was sharp and awkwardly funny in his critiques of older players, seemingly knowing every hockey stat there was.

Ilya had heard that Hollander had the smartest hockey brain of anyone from their year, but dismissed it as idiot speculation from announcers. Now, he thought that if anything they might have been underestimating the boy.

He grinned more than he had in ages, bumping his shoulder against Hollander’s whenever he said something particularly insightful or on the rare occasions he said something about himself outside of hockey, which was always humble to the point of being self-deprecating. As if Shane Hollander knew he was the best player in their year but somehow also didn’t think he had anything else to offer.

More than once, Ilya felt his cock stirring and had to turn away for a moment to think of anything but the boy sitting next to him.

Food came around, a half-decent chicken and pasta dish for both of them, with a Coca Cola for Ilya and a ginger ale for Hollander. They talked a little about their performance diets then, which for Ilya was mainly focused on getting enough protein allowing him to eat whatever else he wanted as long as he continued to bulk up. Hollander’s was more narrowly focused; he worried more about his speed and handling than he did muscle mass. Ilya ended up giving him half of his vegetables, and smiled when Hollander’s cookie ended up on Ilya’s tray.

After they ate, Hollander opened up some of Ilya’s game tape. “This okay?” he asked. Ilya nodded. So they spent a few hours going through several of Ilya’s junior games, with Hollander asking specific questions about his shooting choices, then watching Hollander’s tapes with Ilya asking questions. By the end, Ilya felt like he knew Hollander’s style well enough to think they could play a decent line together the moment they were both on the ice. Ilya was a more dominant player, forcing opportunities to score where they hadn’t been before, but Hollander saw openings that didn’t exist for anyone but him.

Eventually the pilot announced they were an hour from landing. “Need to go back,” Ilya said. “See you soon.”

“Yeah dude, I’ll miss you too,” Hollander joked, shoving him gently as Ilya stood up.

Ilya nudged Nikhail awake and motioned for them to trade back. He settled into his seat, watching as Nik went back to Hollander. They talked for a moment, too far away for Ilya to hear, but he felt pretty confident it wasn’t about him. Hollander didn’t open his computer again though; he leaned against the wall of the airplane, looking out the window into the dark that was just beginning to brighten into dawn, and stayed that way until they started their descent.

Paris, France – January 5, 2009

Paris thought it was almost 7 AM when they landed, but Shane’s brain still thought it was 11 PM the night before. The sun had risen just before they landed, and he yawned involuntarily, missing an entire night’s worth of sleep. It made realize that Moscow was even further ahead, and doing the math meant the Russian team had won their gold medals basically playing every one of their games in the middle of their night. Shane wasn’t sure he’d have performed half as well if that’d been him.

It made him embarrassed to have even made the finals.

Everyone scattered to find bathrooms and food, but he noticed Rozanov dropped into a seat near Shane and opened his phone. While Shane was deciding what he needed more first, most of the boys started to wander back, complaining about the signs being in French.

Well, yeah, of course they were. The airport was in France.

“Listen up!” Rozanov yelled in Russian, climbing up on his seat. “My good friend Shane Hollander speaks French. So you will ask him your questions and he will tell you what to do, and you will say thank you Shane, good job Shane, or I will beat your asses, yes?”

Shane blushed at that. Rozanov saying they were friends. Rozanov saying good job, Shane…

He was surrounded then, boys shouting out requests for directions to the bathroom, where to find a map, a beer, a place to lie down, how to find their next plane, a pizza, a croissant, what the exchange rate was. He answered them as best as he could, mixing his Russian with some French when he needed to tell someone a word to look for: over on the left, look for the man symbol, map is on the wall there, we’re not old enough to drink here (which got some groans), the departures board is over there, the map says there’s a food court down the hall, I don’t know the exchange rate but if you use a card it’ll do the math for you.

All while Rozanov loomed over the crowd, grinning like he’d won a prize.

As each boy got the information he needed, they said thank you, or clapped a hand on his back, or bumped his shoulder, then moved away, until finally Rozanov dropped down off the chair and grabbed his bag. He looked over his shoulder, and Shane watched his gaze find Mr. Rozanov and the other adults clustered together.

“Find place to smoke?” Rozanov asked in English, quietly. Shane looked at his lips, picturing the way they’d closed around a cigarette when they’d first met a week ago, the perfect cupid’s bow of pink wrapped around a cigarette the way the could wrap around…

Shane made a small choking noise. Nope, no, not thinking about that.

“Smoking is bad for you, you know?” he said instead.

“Oh, is it?” Rozanov was smirking now. Shane really needed to stop looking at his lips. He turned back to the map, spotting the symbol for a smoking lounge then tracing his finger along the route from where they were to where Rozanov wanted to be.

“Um, it’s here, on the map, see? You just go down this way, turn left, then right after the duty free shops, and right again.”

Rozanov moved to stand next to him then, one long arm reaching out to trace the same path until their hands were almost touching. He groaned dramatically. “Is so far, Hollander, I will get lost.”

“Fuck you, you know how to read a map,” Shane said, but he was laughing.

“Noo, is so sad, Russian boy lost in French airport forever, all because boring Canadian is asshole.” He pouted. “Save me from terrible fate, Hollander.”

“Fine, but you should still quit.”

“Yes, yes, next time. Now I have plane for 12 hours and I need. Let’s go.”

They found it easily, a glass door opening onto concrete and blue sky. Rozanov ducked to the left, pulling out his lighter and cigarettes, cupping his hand to block the wind. The lighter clicked a few times, until Rozanov swore. He waved at Shane, beckoning him over.

“Hollander, I need you,” he said, and Shane’s chest got tighter.

Shane moved to stand near him, but Rozanov reached out with both hands and guided him a few feet to the side while also pulling him closer.

“Wind,” he said with a nod, as if that explained it. He clicked the lighter again and got it working, lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag before exhaling it to the side so it didn’t blow in Shane’s face. He looked around then, peering through the glass door, even though the spot he’d chosen was against a wall. Shane looked too, but couldn’t see anyone he recognized. He started to move back toward the door, but Rozanov’s hand caught on Shane’s arm. “Stay,” he said.

Shane stayed. Neither of them spoke again as Rozanov smoked, but Shane watched as he alternated between long drags on the cigarette, and licking his lips. Staring at the other boy’s lips was a terrible idea, Shane knew, but the other option was to stare into his sea-green eyes and Shane was pretty sure that would be even worse.

Get it together, dude, he thought.

“You really know for two months?” Rozanov said as he stubbed the remains of his cigarette out on the sole of his boot.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I guess that explains why you said you’d see me at the draft.” Shane rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “I just thought you hated me.”

“No,” Rozanov said softly. “I don’t hate you.”

Shane looked up at him then, trying to read the expression on his face. That had never been his strong suit, and against Ilya Rozanov, Shane was completely lost. “That’s good, I guess. I mean I don’t hate you either. It would be hard to hate you and share a room with you, I think.”

Rozanov raised his eyebrows at that, biting his lower lip for a second as he looked from Shane’s eyes… downward. His eyes flicked up and he said playfully, “Oh you think about my bedroom, Hollander?”

“What? No,” Shane sputtered. “I just… assumed, you know. If you were at my house we’d have to share a room. For space. Because we don’t have extra... space.”

Rozanov laughed then.

“Okay, fuck you,” Shane said angrily.

“No, Hollander, is fine. We have how you say,” and he switched to Russian now, “room for visitors.”

“Guest room,” Shane said, translating.

“Yes, guest room,” Rozanov said, sounding out the shape of the unfamiliar words. His voice dropped into a purr. “But I will show you my room if you ask pretty.”

Shane shook his head. “It’s going to be a long three months if you keep making fun of me, man.”

“What is ‘making fun’?” Rozanov asked, his face serious.

“Oh, it’s uh making a joke about me, laughing about me,” Shane said, switching to Russian, then back to English. “Like when you call me pretty, to make fun of me.”

“I do not do this, Hollander,” Rozanov said, sighing. “You want food? We go.”

He opened the door, holding it so Shane could walk back into the airport first.

---

Ilya followed Hollander to the food court. It wasn’t far, but walking behind the other boy gave him a chance to think about the three things he’d learned so far without worrying about it showing up on his face:

The first was that, unfortunately, he was attracted to Shane Hollander. Not just the pretty boy with deep brown eyes and freckles scattered across his cheeks like stars strewn about the night sky, but as a person. Hollander was an amazing skater, interesting to talk to, sweet and shy in a way that made Ilya want to press further. He felt like a prize to be won, and Ilya desperately wanted to win. He wanted to kiss those pink lips, run his hands all over Hollander’s skin, watch as the other boy gave in to his own urges, and listen to the sounds he was certain Hollander would make as they chased their pleasure together.

Fuck, just thinking about it was making him hard.

Okay, the second thing: he was pretty sure that Hollander liked him back. Well, Hollander at least found him attractive, which was good enough. The way his breath caught when Ilya bit his own lip, the way he blushed when Ilya mentioned sex… and there was the way Hollander let Ilya tell him what do. The way he let himself be nudged in Ilya’s direction. Which was part of the first thing, honestly. There was so little in Ilya’s life he could control the way he wanted to take control of Hollander’s body. He thought that, maybe, maybe Hollander would like that too.

But here was the third thing: Ilya was almost positive that Hollander had no real idea Ilya was flirting with him. It might be that Hollander was inexperienced – Ilya had the vague idea that at 17 he’d already fucked more people than the rest of his team combined, so if this sweet Canadian boy was a virgin, or at the very least had never had sex with another man, it wouldn’t be a surprise. It also might be something about Hollander himself. He was so serious, even when he was laughing. Or, not serious, but straight-forward. Ilya relied on subtlety and double entendre when flirting – it was too dangerous in his home to say anything important that couldn’t be explained away as a joke or miscommunication. Hollander might not be able to have that kind of conversation; Ilya knew other boys like that in school, a few hockey players too, so focused on certain subjects they struggled everywhere else. It wasn’t unusual. But because the things Ilya had said already weren’t having the effect he wanted, that would make getting Hollander into bed much, much harder.

Which meant that even if he wanted Hollander and Hollander wanted him back, Ilya had no real way to be sure. He could come out and say it plainly, risking the chance it would backfire spectacularly. He could pursue Hollander very slowly, over months, circling closer and closer to what they both desired until neither one of them could resist it any longer. But Ilya didn’t have that much time. He had, at most, three months, all of which would happen while Hollander lived in his home and skated on his ice, with eyes on them both the entire time. Three months might not be long enough.

The other option would be to leave it alone. Drop this infatuation with a boy he couldn’t have, find someone else to strip naked instead, and move on.

“You okay?” Hollander asked.

Ilya focused. Hollander’s face was in front of his own, staring intently at Ilya as if he were concerned.

I’ll feel better when you kiss me, Ilya wanted to say. “Yes, sorry,” he said instead. “Tired. What are we eating?”

Hollander pointed out their options. He seemed most excited about a place where Ilya could get a burger and Hollander could get a salad, so Ilya chose that one. Hollander’s face lit up in a smile. The burger was good, actually, and they split an order of fries which Ilya paid for. The salad Hollander bought was huge, but had chicken on it so it wasn’t just vegetables. It made Ilya wonder what kind of body the other boy was hiding under his gear or his baggy sweatshirt.

He was about to do something… stupid, probably, like lean over the table and take Hollander’s hand, when Artem dropped into one of the empty seats at their table.

“We still have 3 hours to kill,” Artem said, in Russian. “One of you bitches needs to entertain me.” ‘Bitches’ was in English, something one of their teammates had picked up over their week in Canada that quickly spread through the rest of them. At first they’d fallen all over themselves laughing whenever someone worked it into conversation and even now, none of them could say it without at least grinning.

“There is arcade,” Hollander said helpfully in Russian, which was good, it meant he remembered what Ilya told him and more importantly he did it without arguing. “We could do an hour there before we go to gate.”

“Shit yes, let’s go,” Artem replied immediately, so Ilya shrugged and followed them out of the food court.

They found the arcade easily, but only Hollander had Euros on him, which they needed to buy tokens from the automated machine near the room’s entrance. He bought two handfuls of the little brass coins, split it into thirds, and gave a portion to Artem and Ilya both. Artem put out his hand for a fist bump, which Hollander awkwardly returned, and bounced off to find “something with explosions”.

“Thank you,” Ilya said in English, now that they were alone. “You did not have to.”

“S’okay,” Hollander said. “Uh… what do you want to play?” He looked around, studying the dizzying array of colorful machines lined up around them.

Ilya watched the blinking lights play across Hollander’s face and sighed. Even with his stupid haircut that did nothing for his face, Hollander was fucking gorgeous.

“That one,” Ilya said, pointing at a red game. There were two of them, next to each other, but no one else was using them at the moment. “Fast and Furious. You know this game?”

Hollander shrugged. “I think everyone's seen that movie.”

Ilya smile went wide. “Hollander, you are less boring than I thought!” he exclaimed, grabbing the other boy around his shoulders and steering him toward the game. Hollander tensed up for half a second, then melted against Ilya’s body, and let himself be led.

He was momentarily sad about having to let go, but then Hollander climbed on top of the fake motorcycle seat and leaned forward. Ilya could see the way his thick thighs tensed under the fabric of his sweatpants, the curve of his ass, and fuck he was thinking of bending Hollander over like that and feeling him under –

“You okay?” Hollander was asking.

Fuck it. Ilya licked his lips, letting his eyes wander down Hollander’s body in a way he was sure would be noticed.

Hollander blushed and sat back up. “Am I… doing something wrong?”

“No,” Ilya sighed. “You’re perfect.” He bit his lower lip.

“Oh, um…” Hollander looked around them nervously. They were in the corner of the arcade, which was already dark, and blocked from anyone outside the room seeing them by a row of games. The place was pretty empty, probably because for most people it was time for grabbing a coffee or rushing to catch their morning flight, not wasting time with video games.

For the first time since they boarded their flight out of Regina, no one could see them.

Ilya stepped forward until he could feel the warmth between them, drawing him in. Hollander was breathing harder now, but he kept his eyes on Ilya’s face.

“I…” Hollander swallowed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Is okay,” Ilya said softly. “I help you.” He knew Hollander meant the game, but he hoped it was a good enough excuse to get closer as he reached up with one hand, gently stroking his thumb against Hollander’s lips.

Hollander closed his eyes and sighed, his breath hot against Ilya’s hand.

Ilya moved his lips to Hollander’s ear, his thumb now stroking the side of Hollander’s chin. “Later,” he whispered. “Not here, okay?” and stepped back.

Hollander blinked a few times, and Ilya’s dick fucking loved the way the boy looked like he was swimming back up to himself, waking out of a dream. But he nodded slowly as if he understood.

“Let’s see if you are fast on a bike as you are on the ice, yes?” Ilya said, dropping a handful of tokens on the top of the machine and putting in enough for them both to play before straddling his own bike. He pointed out the controls and offered a few hints on how to maximize his virtual bike’s performance. Hollander just shook his head and laughed.

Four rounds later, Ilya gave up. “You are a cheat, Hollander! You tell me you do not play this game before! Is lies, all lies.” He shook his head dramatically.

“No, I never said that,” Hollander said, laughing. “We have this in the mall near my house. I played it every week for like a year.”

“So why you say… oh,” Ilya said, realizing. Hollander’s face went very still. They had been talking about the same thing after all.

“I’m out of tokens,” Artem called in Russian out as he walked toward them. “Oh, Fast and Furious, I’ll play winner!”

“Here, take my spot,” Hollander said before Ilya could argue. “I will find the bathroom and go to flight. You know where to go?”

Ilya tilted his head and frowned. “Hollander, stay.”

“We have three months, Rozanov, you will be tired of me,” he said, a sad half-smile on his lips. “See you.” He turned and walked away.

“Let’s go bitch,” Artem said to Ilya, and laughed.

Ilya played another couple of rounds of the game, beating Artem every time, but still felt miserable about the missed opportunity. He’d been trying to be careful, trying to sound Hollander out in a slow way that offered them both a chance to escape if Hollander didn’t want what he was offering, only let himself reach for more because he honestly couldn’t help himself, but he’d missed a cue and left the other boy feeling… what? Misunderstood? Embarrassed? Whatever it was, Ilya had fucked it up. He finally left the rest of his tokens on the top of the machine and walked out of the arcade alone.

---

Shane spent too long in the airport bathroom. He washed his hands and face, then did it again. He finally ducked his head under the cold tap and dried his hair best he could with paper towels. The hard blush in his cheeks faded then, but the tips of his ears where still pink.

He had almost kissed Ilya Rozanov.

He was so sure that’s what the other boy wanted, when Rozanov had brushed his hand along Shane’s lips and his jaw, whispering later like a promise. But no, Shane had misread it and Rozanov had been confused when he figured out Shane’s mistake.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

The door banged open, three of the Russian boys spilling into the bathroom. Shane nodded at them as he grabbed his carry-on bag and left. He checked the departures board, just in case, and found their gate was the same as before. He found the right one easily; most of the team was already there, so he dropped into a seat at the far edge of their boarding area and put on his headphones. He stuck his bag in the seat next to him, just in case.

Rozanov wandered up at the last minute, scanning the crowd. Their eyes met and Rozanov started walking toward him, but Shane looked away quickly, ashamed. The boy had been nothing but nice to him and he’d screwed it up, for what? A fantasy of a hot Russian hockey player who probably had no interest in guys in the first place. And it wasn’t like Shane did either. He’d had girlfriends, and sure he felt very little sexual interest in them but his focus was on hockey, had been for years and would be until he was drafted (ideally by his mom’s favorite team, the Montreal Metros). Whatever confusing feelings he had when looking into Rozanov’s beautiful sea green eyes was probably a combination of jealousy over the other boy’s stats and the jet lag from flying across the Atlantic.

Never mind that he’d felt this way since he first offered Rozanov his hand outside the rink in Regina.

Now he had to share a home and ice time with him for three months, and pray he didn’t mention the incident in the arcade again.

He waited, staring at the floor with his headphones on but no music actually playing, afraid that Rozanov would come over to say he’d changed his mind, he wasn’t okay with Shane being in his house after all. Shane would have to find another host family, somehow, or worse, go back to Canada right away, having fucked up this incredibly opportunity few other players were getting. He wondered if the Russian boy who’d gone to Sweden so a French kid who didn’t speak Russian or Swedish could go to Canada instead (if he was remembering that correctly from their orientation session) would have to come home? If all three of them would have to go home, because Shane couldn’t tell the difference between normal Russian hospitality and a 17 year old hockey player who definitely could not have been flirting with him, because they were both boys, because being gay wasn’t illegal but it wasn’t great in Russia either, because he’d heard the way some of the other Russian players had talked on the ice and Rozanov had a reputation for picking up girls already.

Shane thought about all the ways he’d failed and tried very hard to remember how to breathe.

Rozanov didn’t walk over to him after all, which was both a disappointment and a relief.

They didn’t sit next to each other on the plane to Moscow either; Rozanov sat a few rows ahead and didn’t look back at Shane after they’d boarded. Shane pulled his hood over his head and tried to sleep. It didn’t work, of course, but it was probably better than spending 5 hours staring at the back of Rozanov’s head.

Moscow, Russia – January 5, 2008

They didn’t speak to each other after getting off the plane, or standing in line at the baggage carousel, or waiting outside with Mr. Rozanov and a few of the other boys waiting on drivers. No one spoke at all during the drive into Moscow, with Shane up front in the passenger seat and both Rozanovs in the back.

There was a moment, when they’d bumped into each other grabbing their bags from the trunk, that Rozanov had finally looked at him, but they both looked quickly away.

He reached out and grabbed both bags off Rozanov’s shoulders when Shane realized the boy was getting all of his father’s things as well and he thought for a moment Rozanov might argue but he gave a tired nod and trudged up the stairs with two suitcases. Shane had only his own suitcase but three carryon bags, and their apartment was up on the top floor, which meant 4 flights of stairs. He was exhausted by the top and had no idea how Rozanov would have managed to carry everything himself.

Shane didn’t even think about watching Rozanov’s plump round ass as he followed up the stairs behind him. Hardly at all.

Okay, maybe a little.

Mr. Rozanov grunted out, “I am going to sleep,” then disappeared.

“You want to see my room?” Rozanov asked suddenly in English. Shane nodded. “Leave suitcase in hallway.”

Shane left his suitcase but kept his carry on bag on his shoulder. Everything truly important was in it: his passport, laptop, a change of clothes (just in case), and the envelope of rubles his mom had picked up from work before the tournament. She worked at Bank of Canada, not as a teller, as an analyst of some kind. “This is going to be a lot of money in Russia, Shane. They’ve been sliding into a depression over there, and I don’t know how bad it’s going to get. So please keep this hidden.” She had frowned when she said it. “I’m giving you more than you could possibly need because I don’t have an easy way to get you more if you need it. Split it up once you get settled and hide it in different places, okay?”

“Mom, Rozanov is not going to steal from me,” Shane had sighed, exasperated. “You’re doing too much again.”

“Maybe,” she’d said in return, pulling him close to kiss his cheek. “But I need you to let me worry about you, okay?”

“Love you too, Mom,” he’d said.

Shane rubbed his eyes in a stranger’s hallway in Russia, trying not to cry at the thought that his mom wouldn’t kiss him again for three whole months.

“You okay?” Rozanov asked, his voice soft.

“Yeah. Just miss my mom,” Shane said. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.

The other boy nodded. “Me too,” he said with a sad half smile. “You’re over there,” he said, pointing to a closed door they’d just passed. “This is me.” Rozanov’s room was at the end of the hall.

It was, surprisingly, very neat. There was a desk and office chair along one wall, near a larger armchair with overstuffed padding that looked well worn. Lived in. There were posters on the wall, not as many as in Shane’s room, but carefully arranged in the space above the desk. Rozanov’s bed was, well, it was over in the other corner and Shane tried not to think about it very much. The bookshelf near the door was suddenly much more interesting.

Rozanov motioned toward the armchair. It was a warm mustard color that didn’t fit with the dark green furniture Shane had seen in the living room. He wondered if it was leftover from a remodel, just an extra chair they didn’t need to part with since Rozanov had space for it in his bedroom, or if it was something loved and familiar the boy had asked if he could keep. Shane dropped his bag on the floor by his feet then sat down, and kept sitting an extra few inches, the cushions softer than he’d been expecting. He rubbed one hand along an arm of the chair, his fingers worrying over a few loose threads.

Rozanov held his hand out, almost touching the doorknob. “This okay?” he asked. Shane nodded, and Rozanov shut the door with a tiny click. He looked at his options for a moment, and Shane could see him doing a complicated math which moved across his face then disappeared.

The boy sunk into the office chair. “What a fucking day, huh?” he said with a grin.

The chair. Not the bed. Shane made a choice not to think about the bed.

“Yeah, long day,” Shane said. “Do we have to be anywhere today? I’d like to stay up and reset my sleep schedule if I can.”

Rozanov nodded. “I am doing this also, is okay. No one will care about us today.” He spun around in the chair, long legs splayed out.

“Okay. Good. I mean, thank you.” Shane could feel the blush creeping back into his ears. “You didn’t have to be so nice to me today.”

This time Rozanov’s cheeks turned faintly pink. He shrugged. “Was easy. No problem. Ah… wanted to say…” He took a deep breath. “In arcade -”

“No, sorry, I’m sorry,” Shane quickly interrupted. “I didn’t mean to mess anything up. We can just forget that happened, okay?”

Rozanov stilled. “I don’t think you want me to forget,” he said.

“I just, clearly, I misunderstood the situation. I don’t, I mean, I’ve never,” Shane forced himself to stop for a moment, to get himself under control. The other boy watched carefully but didn’t say anything. “I wasn’t trying to suggest anything, I mean, about you,” Shane said. “It was just, jet lag or something.”

“No, it was not,” Rozanov said.

“I’ve never, with a guy I mean.” Shane stared at the floor.

There was a long pause, and then, so quietly Shane almost missed it, Rozanov said, “I have.”

Shane let himself look up then. Rozanov’s face was so soft, missing its usual hard edges. It made him look younger. There was something pleading about his eyes, the way he looked back at Shane as if he wanted desperately to know he’d said the right thing.

He looked beautiful.

Shane thought about the right answer, because there always was one, every time there was one right way and one wrong way to handle any social situation, and Shane knew because he almost always picked the wrong one. He knew the moment was stretching on too long, that the lack of a response would be taken as a response by most people, and the pressure of answering quickly started to loop over the anxious feeling building in his chest about saying the wrong thing to Rozanov when the only thing he could imagine saying wasn’t words at all but pressing their lips together and letting that answer for him. He felt his tongue come out and brush against his own lower lip, giving himself one second of wondering what it would be like if that tongue wasn’t his, before drawing it slowly back into his mouth.

Rozanov watched Shane’s tongue like it held all the answers to questions neither one of them had asked.

“Good,” Shane said. It was the only word he had.

“Good?” A wide grin spread slowly over Rozanov’s face.

“Good,” Shane repeated, nodding.

Rozanov leaned forward, his hands finding the arms of his chair as if he was about to push himself off of it -

There was a noise in the hallway.

Rozanov’s door opened.

“Who the fuck is this?” his brother Alexei asked. “Papa know you’re bringing boys home now, Ilya?”

“Papa knows about this one,” Rozanov said, rolling his eyes. “Hockey exchange student, very boring. What do you want?”

“Didn’t know they played hockey in China,” Alexei said. He looked Shane for a moment, then away, as if he no longer held any interest. “My apartment is having construction so I am here for a few nights.”

“He is Canadian.”

Alexei shrugged. “So?”

Rozanov moved one foot to the side, using it to pull himself around so he was facing directly at his brother. “Hollander is in the guest room,” he said.

Alexei laughed. “Not this week. He can take the couch.”

“You take the couch, asshole,” Rozanov shot back.

Alexei took a step forward, one hand curling into a fist. “You want me to beat your ass in front of this boy?” Alexei growled.

Shane watched the whole thing silently, but he could feel the muscles in his legs tense as he calculated the space between them all. When he’d have to launch himself from the chair to get between Rozanov and his brother. The angle he’d have to hit Alexei at to knock him off course. The uppercut he’d throw because he’d be coming up from a seated position.

He did the same math on the ice all the time. It’d be the same without the skates.

“Fine! Fuck,” Rozanov said, throwing his hands in the air. “Are we done?”

Alexei laughed then, cold and humorless. He turned to leave but caught sight of Shane and for just a moment, Alexei looked like he was seeing him for the first time. “He looks like a woman,” Alexei said, as if it was a joke. "Look at that face." As if he were waiting for his brother to laugh too.

Rozanov didn’t laugh.

Shane didn’t respond either. Didn’t move. Didn’t change the way he was breathing. He waited, knowing – from years on the ice with bullies who told him he was too small, too feminine, to pretty to play hockey – that the silent waiting was a message of its own.

Alexei left.

Shane watched him go.

He watched the door for a minute. Alexei didn’t come back.

“Hollander,” Rozanov said softly.

Shane let himself relax as he looked over at the other boy. Not all at once, but in pieces, just in case Alexei came back.

“You okay?” Rozanov asked. He was staring at Shane, concern written on his face in the way he he furrowed his brow, and the narrow focus of his eyes.

“Are you?” Shane asked.

Rozanov rubbed the back of his neck, and shrugged. “Is fine. Alexei is… always that way. You have brother?”

“No,” Shane said, shaking his head. “No sisters either. I’m an only child.”

“Ah. Must be nice.”

Shane looked at the closed bedroom door again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

Rozanov widened his eyes, but answered quickly. “Yes, of course.”

“You must have to hide things from him.”

Rozanov pressed his lips together. Nodded.

“I need to hide something.” Shane watched the other boy’s face. “Is that okay? Nothing bad, I promise.”

“How big?”

Shane noticed that Rozanov hadn’t asked what it was. Just something that sounded like agreement and logistics at the same time. “An envelope. Um, this big,” he added, holding his hands apart.

Rozanov got up quietly and locked his door. Then he put his hand out, and waited.

Shane moved past him to grab his overnight bag, setting it on Rozanov’s bed. He opened the inside pocket, pulling out the letter-sized envelope his mom had given him, then handed it over.

Rozanov squeezed it between his fingers for a moment, looking confused. He opened it, almost dropping it when he realized what was inside. “Jesus Hollander, what the fuck?” he swore in Russian. “Why the fuck do you have this?” he hissed in English.

“Can you put that away, please?” Shane whispered.

Rozanov stared for a moment, at the money, at Shane, then at the locked door. He moved to his closet, pulling a panel loose the side of the wall. “Two places, one he finds and one he doesn’t. Always have to leave something for him to find if we want him to stop looking.” He pulled a few notes from the envelope and placed them in the small space behind the panel. “Yes?”

Shane nodded.

Rozanov sighed, putting the panel back. He crawled under his desk, reaching up behind it; his face twisted for a moment as if the movement was uncomfortable, until he came back out with a small key. “Almost done,” he said. He stood, brushing his pants to smooth them back out, then stood by his headboard. “Help?” he asked, motioning to the bed. “Move it back.”

Shane got on the end and lifted, pulled the bed frame toward him about about a foot when Rozanov directed him to do so.

Rozanov held up the key with a flourish and a grin. Shane leaned over, trying to get a better look, but couldn’t see anything. The other boy made the envelope of cash disappear, then something clicked shut. He motioned for them to move the bed frame back to where it was, then crawled under his desk again. “Hook, here, for key yes?” he said as he awkwardly put the key back. “There,” he added, pointing toward the bed, “wall safe. Was office, before my bedroom. No one remembers it.”

“Now,” he went on as he stood up, “you tell me why you have robbed bank, Hollander.”

“Fuck you,” Shane laughed. “I didn’t rob a bank.”

“Oh so you are drug dealer. Very interesting, Hollander. Is hockey how you say, deep cover?” He crossed his arms, trying to look serious. “Oh, Hollander, are you mafia?”

Shane laughed louder. “You’re such an asshole.”

“No, no, is important, I am maybe in danger? Yes? You put out hit on me if I score more goals than you?” He stepped closer. “Should I be afraid?”

“I’m gonna score more goals that you anyway. I don’t need to hire a hitman to make it happen.”

Shane took a step toward Rozanov, closing the space between them.

“I don’t know, Hollander. You have scared me.”

“Oh, I scare you?” Shane asked jokingly, but he was looking at Rozanov’s lips again.

Rozanov’s voice got thicker. Quieter. “Yes, you should be nice to me so I am not scared anymore.”

“What should I do, to uh… be nice to you?” Shane asked. He could almost feel Rozanov’s breath on him.

He looked up into the other boy's eyes. God, they really were an amazing color.

There was a loud banging on the door.

Rozanov took one last look at Shane’s face, then swore loudly as he walked over and opened it.

“There’s no food,” Alexei said. “Come on, we’re going out.” He fixed his eyes on Shane. “Bring your girlfriend.”

Rozanov rolled his eyes again, something that seemed to mean a specific thing, in the language of brothers who’d grown up together but didn’t, at all, appreciate this fact. Shane knew brothers like this back in Ottawa, two boys close enough in age that they shouldn’t have different mothers but they did. They both played on his travel team in middle school and fought each other more than they fought anyone else on the ice. One of them dropped off the team to focus on schoolwork. The other left the team when he was arrested for getting high and breaking into a pizza place to play Gauntlet at 3 AM. Shane had heard, a year ago, that one of the brothers overdosed, and it hadn’t been the one he’d expected. The other one followed six months later, a little more on purpose, because it turned out they couldn’t live without each other after all.

“We will go,” Rozanov sighed. “Hollander, have everything you need?”

“Yes,” Shane replied.

“Oh he does speak,” Alexei said. “Do you know any other words, girlfriend?”

“Yes,” Shane said again, with a small shrug that meant obviously, but he knew probably said something else to anyone watching.

Rozanov smirked. “He speaks three words of Russian and his English isn’t too good either,” he told Alexei. “Ignore him.” But when his brother turned away, Rozanov looked into Shane’s eyes and winked.

Let them think what makes you less of a target, the wink said. Also, this is going to be fun, because Rozanov was an asshole.

But Rozanov was also creating a thing that was private between the two of them. The joke wasn’t going to be at Shane’s expense, it would be the two of them laughing at everyone else. The thought made his heart beat a little faster.

Shane nodded, and followed both Rozanov brothers out of the apartment.

Chapter 2: Puck Drop

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane don't get a moment alone. They move around each other in Ilya's apartment, and on the ice. Ilya intrudes on a private moment he shouldn't have seen but couldn't stop himself from watching. They go to a party at Svetlana's house, where Sasha makes a move on them both. Finally, angrily, the truth about their feelings for each other comes out.

Winter was colder in Moscow than it was in Ottawa. Shane’s clothes had been fine for traveling or being inside Rozanov’s apartment – he’d actually felt too warm there, making him think more than once about taking his jacket off before Alexei had decided they needed an early dinner – and he’d seen that Moscow was having a warm snap so he assumed he’d be fine to walk to wherever they were going. But abnormally warm in the evening here still meant only 3 degrees Celsius. His sweatpants and hoodie, even under a decent jacket, weren’t enough. He kept his hands in his pockets until they got there, then rubbed them against each other to warm up. He saw Rozanov watching his fingers go from dangerously pink to something nearer his usual skin tone, but the other boy said nothing.

Alexei was loud. He took up space, sliding into the booth next to his brother so far that it squished the younger Rozanov into the wall. He flirted with the waitress, made fun of Shane for taking too long to figure out his order, and told jokes Shane couldn’t have repeated without feeling vaguely sick. He ate quickly and slurped more than necessary. Shane ate quietly, a couple of scrambled eggs and some wheat toast, the only things he was sure he could eat off the menu without asking questions. Rozanov would have been okay about it, Shane thought, but Alexei didn’t seem like the sort of man you could ask about about maintaining a performance diet in the middle of a run down diner somewhere in Moscow. He could feel his heart rate going down when Alexei excused himself to go to the bathroom at the end of the meal.

“We can go,” Rozanov said with a sigh. In Russian, of course. Always Russian in public. He opened his wallet and pulled out enough money to pay for the meal.

“We don’t wait?” Shane asked, but the other boy shook his head.

“Always does this. His invitation, never his wallet.” Rozanov shrugged. “We need to make other stop anyway.”

Shane followed him out the door. He looked back once, to see Alexei in a back corner, talking to the waitress who hadn’t seemed interested early. Alexei looked up, grinned at Shane, and went back to his conversation. Rozanov led him several blocks in the wrong direction before stopping outside of a tiny shop that advertised cell phone repair and other services.

“You have phone yes? Sorry, should have asked.”

“Yeah, but it works fine,” Shane said. He followed Rozanov anyway. It was only a little warmer inside. The restaurant had warmed him up, but the walk here had let the cold seep in through Shane’s jacket, his sweatshirt, his pants. His legs felt every twist of the wind. His lips felt chapped already. He didn’t want to think about his hands.

Rozanov talked the clerk through what he wanted, a new SIM card for Shane’s phone that would give him a Russian number. “So you don’t text me from Canadian number,” he’d said. “Too much money.”

Shane paid, his fingers struggling to open his wallet, and Rozanov watched with narrow eyes. Back outside, they only went about half a block before Rozanov dragged him into an alley. Slipping between the buildings cut down on the wind more than Shane expected. “Hands,” Rozanov said, pulling off his own gloves. “Give.” Shane took his hands out of his pocket, holding them out. Rozanov swore quietly before taking Shane’s hands in his own. “You don’t own gloves, Hollander?” he asked as he rubbed Shane’s palms, his fingers, until some of the pink had faded.

“In my suitcase,” Shane said. His cheeks felt warm, but he wasn’t sure if that was the cold air or the warmth of Rozanov’s hands on his own. “Sorry.”

“You lose fingers, I score more goals than you. Is okay for me I think but maybe not how you want to spend Russian vacation,” he said, rolling his eyes.

Shane snorted. “Such an asshole,” he sighed.

Rozanov held both of Shane’s hands together, bringing them up to his lips. He blew on them, his breath hot. They stayed like that for a moment, the two of them in an alley, Rozanov’s lips barely brushing the tips of Shane’s fingers. “Gloves now,” Rozanov said, dropping Shane’s hands. He held out his own. “On please.” Shane put on the gloves, missing the warmth of Rozanov’s hands already. The other boy nodded once, then took out his lighter and a cigarette. He smoked it as they walked back to the apartment. Neither of them said anything else for a while.

---

Hollander’s hands had smelled like coconut, and the toast he’d eaten for dinner. Ilya grabbed a change of clothes from his room as soon as they got back, locked himself in the bathroom, and jerked off under the warm water of the shower. That didn’t take long, he thought afterward. Embarrassing.

It was going to be a long three months.

The first few days weren’t terrible, though sleeping on the couch wasn’t doing anything good for his back. He’d woken up in the middle of the first night, quietly sneaking down the hallway to check on Hollander. He found the other boy sleeping on his side in Ilya’s bed, one leg sticking out of the blankets. He wore dark blue pajama pants and a sweatshirt from some Canadian university. His dark hair stuck up in different directions. Hollander’s lips were slightly parted.

Ilya didn’t know how long he stood there, watching the boy sleep. Long enough to be creepy, probably, if anyone had seen him. The next day he told Hollander to lock the door when he went to sleep at night. Didn’t explain why.

The first three times they went to the gym down the block, Hollander stuck to the sweatpants and sweatshirt he seemed to live in. Ilya wore loose black shorts and a black sleeveless tank, his usual gym attire, but he’d had to change in the locker room each time. The other boy didn’t say why, but Hollander shook his head whenever Ilya asked if he was going to do the same. On the third day, after a long run side by side on the treadmills, Hollander finally shucked off his hoodie, revealing a white t shirt that had the sleeves cut off, before moving on to the weight rack. Ilya watched pull down an overhead press, watched the muscles moving along Hollander’s shoulders and the shape of his thick biceps. He turned the volume up on his iPod and ran another two miles.

Hockey, on the fourth day, helped distract him from thinking about Hollander’s body. Right up until it made it much, much worse.

Practice went fine. A little rough as boys came back from their post-tournament break with different levels of sleep deprivation or, in at least one case, being hung over. There was the Hollander of it all too – the way the team was awkward about saying hello, the way the stood a little apart from him as their coach ran through the goals for today’s session. Then having to be separate from him, running through the usual warm ups on the ice while the coaches talked to Hollander on his own, off to the side. Hollander listened. He nodded. He stood very still while four different people talked at him in Russian. In between drills if he looked over there he could see Hollander’s eyes moving across the ice, the team, the shape of Ilya’s body as he performed hockey things. He didn’t look at Ilya’s face the entire time.

None of it mattered once the puck dropped between them.

Hollander centered a line across from Ilya. He was bent over, stick ready, the same serious face he’d worn all through the tournament. His gaze fixed on the ice.

“What do I get if I win?” Ilya asked quietly. In English.

The other boy’s mouth twitched, coming up on one side of his lips, the start of a smile that didn’t go any further. He raised his eyes to Ilya’s jaw, his lips, his cheeks, then finally his eyes. Ilya felt it coming, the way the air felt too thick to breath. When Hollander’s eyes found his, the boy’s smile finished what it had started. “You won’t,” Hollander said.

He was right.

Ilya spent two hours chasing Hollander around the ice, stealing the puck off his stick, having it stolen right back. He slammed Hollander into the boards and heard a small laugh in return, not brittle and angry but something warmer. He scored – not that first time, that was Hollander’s – but after that, and enough that by the end of practice they were tied. Ilya knew there were other boys on the ice with them. Other teammates. He was certain of it as a kind of background radiation, the way you know oxygen is in the room but you don’t think about as long as your lungs still work. The coaches had things to say. The team had things to say. Distantly, he knew he and Hollander were being congratulated for… scoring, probably. Then it was over, and the team went off to shower while Hollander was held back.

Ilya looked up, once. Hollander was looking back at him. Then Coach said something loud and sharp, and Hollander was back in their conversation again.

Ilya got undressed and showered, surrounded by most of his team. He was dimly aware of it all. The noise of two dozen teenage boys with their sharper edges worn off by the physical part of hockey, without the pain of winning or losing. Just a team, in it together. He felt the cold air on his skin as he stripped out of his gear, the warm water of the shower, the chemical smell of the body wash they kept in the dispensers on the wall. He noticed, as he got dressed, that Hollander hadn’t come into the locker room yet. Ilya took his time, putting on one piece of clothing at a time. He joked with his team, laughing in the right spots, moving around the room to talk to certain boys individually. It looked like a good captain checking in.

He was the last to leave.

Ilya was tying his shoes when Hollander finally burst into the room, out of breath. “Is someone chasing you?” Ilya joked.

“Sorry,” Hollander panted. He leaned over, resting his hands on the top of his thighs. “Thought you left already.”

Ilya shrugged. “No, I wait. You need shower?”

“Uh, yeah,” Hollander said, looking at the floor. “Five minutes?”

“Okay. I smoke,” Ilya said, standing up. He grabbed his bag and hoisted the strap onto his shoulder. “Come when you finish?”

Hollander nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

The cigarette was an exercise in restraint. Ilya, leaning against the wall outside, next to the door, smoking. Hollander in the locker room, showering. Ilya telling himself that thinking about another boy showering was the kind of thing that led to getting jumped in an alley by half his teammates. The kind of thing that led to Grigori’s voice, raised in anger. Grigori’s fists, or Alexei’s, or both. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t going to happen. Ilya crushed out his cigarette under his boot and went back to the locker room.

He was quiet when he opened the door. He was quiet when he shut it again, setting his bag against it so he’d hear if anyone came in behind him. He was quiet when he moved across the room, toward the sound of running water. Don’t do this, he thought. This is the worst idea you’ve ever had, he thought.

He did it anyway.

Hollander wasn’t looking at him when he stepped just inside of the shower room. Ilya was prepared for Hollander to be looking at him. He’d say that he got tired of waiting. He’d make a joke about making sure Hollander hadn’t drowned. He could do that. But Hollander wasn’t looking at him. He was facing away, with one hand on the wall in front of him, fingers splayed out against the white tile. The water from the shower ran in streams through his black hair, down his muscular back. Dripping around the sides of Hollander’s hips. Curving over that beautiful ass. Down his thick thighs.

Of all the fantasies Ilya had since the boy shook his hand, twice, outside a rink in nowhere, Canada, none of them came close to the wet fucking dream that was Shane Hollander’s body. Ilya had watched him shower for two seconds and knew he was never going to forget it. He was half-hard already, and probably needed to breathe in a way that would become inconvenient if he didn’t start again soon. You need to leave, he thought. He’s going to turn around and see you staring like a wolf.

Ilya didn’t leave. He wanted to. He meant to. He’d planned on it. One look, just to see what Hollander was working with, just to know for sure if this boy was worth pursuing. Okay, look over, now you know that you’ll want this boy for the rest of your life, great, let’s go. But Hollander wasn’t showering. Ilya realized this during the third second he was standing just inside of the shower room. He saw Hollander’s hand on the tile. He saw the way his other hand was moving in front of his hips. He heard, just barely audible over the sound of running water, a tiny sound.

The sound stopped his heart. The sound was Hollander moaning. Not too loud. Small moans, breaking free from his chest the way the breath you exhaled had to leave eventually. The moaning, the way he moved his hand, the water slipping over his back. Hollander was stroking himself.

Shane Hollander was touching his own cock and making those sounds and Ilya was watching him do it. He would never again be able to pretend he didn’t know how the boy’s muscles moved as his hand fluttered. He was watching and Hollander didn’t know he was there. It had been five seconds and Ilya was already straining against the fabric of his jeans. He needed to leave and he needed to do it now. He needed to say something, break the silence, ruin this moment so it didn’t haunt him for the rest of his life. But then Hollander spoke. Once. And another moan, louder this time.

Ilya bolted from the room.

He was outside again, smoking his third cigarette – this one lit from the dying ember of the last one – when Hollander found him. He was back in his usual outfit, the sweatpants and jacket that hid him from the rest of the world. A dark green hat pulled down tight over his black hair. There was a flush in his cheeks that made his freckles stand out.

“Thanks for waiting,” the boy said.

Ilya shrugged. He didn’t have any words, so he didn’t try. They walked together to the bus stop. They stood side by side, not speaking, until the bus came. They sat next to each other, not saying anything, as they rode the bus back to Ilya’s block. Hollander looked at the floor. Ilya looked out the bus window, watching the city go by. They went up the stairs together. Ilya had gotten most of his body under control before Hollander came out of the locker room, but the goosebumps that ran across his skin in the shower room were still there.

“I’m uh, gonna go read,” Hollander said, once they were in the apartment. Ilya nodded. He might have made a noise, something guttural and noncommittal. Something that said I don’t care what you do. He wasn’t sure.

Ilya went into the kitchen. He stood at the sink with both hands clenching the porcelain. He tried very hard to remember how to breathe. You can do this, he thought. No, I really can’t, he thought next. His fingers gripped harder. His knees trembled, and he let himself lean forward, the old kitchen sink the one solid thing he could feel.

Because when Shane Hollander had come, moaning, in the shower room at the rink, the thing he said just as his orgasm found him was fuck, Rozanov.

---

Shane sat at the dining room table with the Rozanov family trying very hard not to think about anything at all. The father and step-mother sat at one end of the table, with Alexei sitting next to Polina and the other Rozanov son next to his father. Shane sat on the other side of Alexei. The chair between him and his teammate was empty. When his father was in the room, Rozanov didn’t look at Shane. Shane realized that on the second night, the first time they’d all sat down together. Breakfast and lunch, him and Rozanov were on their own. That first night, they’d gone to that restaurant with his brother. But every night after the family sat for dinner. Polina cooked, something that wasn’t on his diet plan, but Shane ate whatever was put in front of him and tried not to think about it. Alexei joked about his brother in a way that didn’t feel funny to Shane, told stories about his friends, his accomplishments at work. Sometimes he’d make comments about Shane too, that ranged from mild insults to fully racist shit he probably didn’t even realize was a problem.

Shane had been around that kind of guy before, on the ice. He kept his head down and tried not to think about it. And Rozanov didn’t look at him either. Hadn’t been looking at him, not really, since their first practice together at the rink. That was days ago, and whatever shifted between them – whatever Shane had done to alienate the boy he thought was becoming… something… but he had no idea what it was. Well there was one thing, which Shane definitely did not want to think about here at the Rozanov family dinner table. He was so sure he’d been alone in the shower, with the locker room empty. He didn’t know what came over him, to do something so reckless. But Rozanov had said he was going to smoke, and when Shane came out to find him later he was there, outside, smoking. So there was no way he could know, right? 

The way it felt to close his eyes and pretend it was Rozanov’s hand on him instead of his own - Nope, definitely not going to think about that.

“We will not be back tonight,” Rozanov was saying.

Shane’s head snapped up.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Alexei was asking.

“I told you, we are going to Vetrov’s. Will be there late, so we’ll stay and come back tomorrow.” Rozanov shrugged, like this was publicly available information and not something Shane was learning for the first time.

“You’re not going to talk to the old man, you’re going to fuck his daughter,” Alexei said with a smirk.

Oh, Shane thought. The disappointment welled up in his belly, threatening to dislodge the meal he barely remembered eating.

“Do not speak of her this way,” Grigori said suddenly. Alexei’s mouth closed. “Ilya can do much worse than to marry the daughter of a national hero.”

“We are not getting married, Papa,” Rozanov sighed. “Svetlana is good friend, nothing more.”

“Good friend that you fuck,” Alexei said under his breath.

Grigori slapped his hand on the table, loud enough for everyone to jump. “Enough! You do not embarrass me in front of our guest,” he said.

“Yes, Papa,” both brothers said at the same time.

“You take the boy with you, Ilya,” Grigori said. It didn’t sound like a question.

“Yes, Papa,” Rozanov repeated. As if it were a chore.

“Good. Do not let him shame our family in front of Vetrov.” Grigori used the cloth napkin next to his plate to wipe his face, the dropped it on the table.

“Of course,” Rozanov said.

His father stood, which was the signal for everyone else to do the same. The first night Shane wasn’t quick enough to realize what was happening, until Rozanov kicked him under the table. Then he’d scrambled to his feet. He’d gotten it right after that. Grigori shambled off toward his bedroom. Polina, the stepmother, quickly began clearing the dishes.

The first night, Shane had tried to help with that too, but Rozanov shook his head and motioned him back down the hallway. “Better for her if you do not,” he’d said with a shrug, once they’d washed up and were back in his bedroom. Tonight, they’d done the same routine, until Shane found himself watching Rozanov strip out of his shirt in his bedroom, tossing it into the hamper.

“Oh, uh… should I change?” he asked.

Rozanov let his eyes wander down Shane’s body. He could feel the heat in his skin, creeping down his face as the other boy sighed, still not looking Shane in the eyes. “Going to party,” he said. “Sveta’s father will not be there.”

“Oh,” Shane said, feeling stupid. “Do you want me to… I don’t know. Find somewhere else to be?”

“Why?” Rozanov looked at him then, confusion written on his face.

“So you can fuck your girlfriend,” Shane said quietly.

“You don’t want to watch?” Rozanov said with a laugh. He turned back to his closet, pulling out a dark teal t shirt with a v neck. He pulled in on, and Shane watched the muscles in his back flex as he moved. “Is okay,” he said, turning back around. “I bring you, so I will not fuck Sveta tonight probably.”

Just any other night, Shane thought miserably. Great.

“You can wear whatever. Is not serious. And you look the same in everything I see you wear.” Rozanov grinned as he said it, as if it was funny that Shane was boring no matter how hard he tried.

“Great,” Shane said. “Are you going to tell me what I did to piss you off?”

Rozanov’s smile disappeared. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I can see that you’re angry with me. And I don’t know why.” Shane sighed. “I guess I thought we were… something. But you’ve barely looked at me all week. As soon we started skating together, you don’t even talk to me anymore.”

“You think what, I am jealous? You skate on my ice one time and I cannot bear what a loser I am compared to you? Fuck you.”

“I’m not saying that’s why,” Shane said with a huff. “That’s just when.” He switched to Russian and tried again. “That is the day it happened, not the reason.”

“Yes, I understood you,” Rozanov said before he rubbed his nose. “My English is not so terrible.”

“Your English is amazing,” Shane said. “Much better than my Russian.”

“This is true.” Rozanov looked at him for a long minute. “You are not, ah, insulting me?”

“No, not at all. I just want to know what I did wrong. I’m sorry, for whatever it is.”

“No, I am sorry.” Rozanov’s face was soft now. “You did nothing. It is just, being here. I cannot say… what I want to say. I thought, we go to Sveta’s tonight, I can be… more myself.” He leaned in to whisper in Shane’s ear. “With you. Please.”

Shane nodded before he realized he was doing it.

---

The cab let them out in front of a very large three-story building. Most of it was built with warm cinnamon-colored bricks but white accents surrounded each window and the small porch, with more white flanking the sides of the building as columns that ran from the ground to the flat roof. Ilya immediately started for the front door but realized Hollander wasn’t next to him. He turned to see Hollander staring. “Is cold, yes?” he said in English. “We go inside.”

Hollander nodded. “Is this… all one home?”

Ah, thats’s the problem. “Yes, Sveta’s father is man with money. This is city home. Also has bigger home in country.” Rozanov grinned. “We go for government parties some times. Is your home not this big?”

“My house?” Hollander shook his head. “No mine is, well it’s not an apartment, it’s all one building, but it’s the same size as yours I think. Only different is the garage and the backyard.”

“You have… ah, ground, outside of your home?” Ilya frowned. “Word is not right.”

“We have a yard,” Hollander said. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. “It’s not a big space, the same size as my house probably. Big enough to run around when I was a kid. Play soccer, have a barbecue. That kind of thing.”

Ilya let the words tumble around in his head like rocks, waiting for the rough edges of English to become polished enough for him to understand. He thought about little Hollander running around his yard shrieking as his mama chased him, the way Ilya’s mama had when he was still small. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a smile he didn’t ask for. Behind him, the door opened.

“Ilya!” a woman’s voiced yelled happily. He turned just in time for Sveta to run down the steps, her red curls bouncing, before jumping into his arms. Out of habit he grabbed her so she didn’t fall, but didn’t have time to stop her from pressing her lips against his. “Sasha bet me he could get you to bed before I did,” she laughed once she was done with the kiss. “I think he will lose, no?” She leaned back slightly so Ilya could see she was wearing a pair of red leggings that looked tight enough to have been painted on her pert ass and very long legs, with a cropped КХЛ shirt that barely covered her ribs. It was cold enough outside that he could see she wasn’t wearing a bra over her baseball-sized tits.

“Sveta,” he tried to say, but she hugged him again. “Sveta,” he said again, pushing her away carefully. “I bring friend tonight.”

She narrowed her eyes then, looking over Ilya’s shoulder to where Hollander was standing just behind him. “A friend?” she asked. “What kind of friend is this, Ilya?”

Hollander took a step forward and stuck his hand out. “Shane Hollander,” he said. “I play hockey with Rozanov.”

“Oh, a hockey friend?” Sveta said, shaking Hollander’s hand lightly. "I am Svetlana Vetrova."

“A friend friend,” Ilya corrected.

Hollander smiled at that, looking at Ilya. He couldn’t help himself – he smiled back.

“Oh,” Sveta said, realizing something. “Okay. Please bring your friend inside, Ilya.” She bounced back up to her door, her ass shaking a bit on each step.

Ilya motioned for Hollander to go first, watching the way his ass moved each time he lifted a leg to go up to the next step, remembering the way water had dripped down Hollander's body in the shower. Sveta keep stealing glances at Shane as she showed them around the first floor of her home. The place was massive, and there were far more people here than he’d expected. He let her take his jacket and hang it in a closet by the door, laughing when she opened it to find a boy in there with his hand under a girl’s shirt, shutting them both back in there again afterward. There was music playing in the living room, where a few dozen people were sitting on long couches or dancing in the middle of the room. Shane didn’t recognize the Russian singer but that didn’t worry him nearly as much as the fact that he didn’t know where to put his hands.

“You want to dance, Hollander,” Rozanov said behind him, his voice very clear to Shane’s ear. “Or drink first?”

“I’m good,” Shane said in English, before realizing his mistake. “Not for me,” he added in Russian.

“No dancing or no drinking?” Rozanov was in front of him now.

Shane watched his lips. He couldn’t look at the other boy’s eyes, not right now, not here in this dark living room with too many other people watching but none of them were their coaches, or Rozanov’s family.

“No one is watching us here,” Rozanov said quietly. “What do you want Hollander?”

“Bitches!” Artem called out as he walked over, a thin blond hanging off of his arm. “Hollander, there are girls here!”

“Yeah, I see that, Artem,” Shane said. One of his hands moved up to rub the back of his neck without him deciding to do it.

“Katya,” the blond said. Her name, Shane assumed. “Are you Chinese?”

“No, Japanese,” Shane said. “Canadian,” he added, as if it mattered.

“Hollander plays hockey,” Artem said helpfully.

“Oh, I have girl for you,” Katya said. “Ana!” she yelled. “Ana, come here!”

A petite brunette peeled herself off one of the couches to join them. “Hi Ilya,” she said, grinning. “I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”

Rozanov smiled awkwardly. “Yes,” he said.

“Ana, this is… what is your name?”

“Shane,” he told her, holding his hand out.

“Hollander,” Rozanov corrected.

Ana took Shane’s hand. “You’re Ilya’s friend?” she asked.

“He plays hockey,” Artem said again. “Let’s dance, bitches!” He led Katya back into the middle of the room.

“Okay, Shane,” Ana said. She pulled him toward the others and started dancing in front of him, still holding his hand.

“Um, I was…” Shane started to say, turning to look back at Rozanov. The other boy was standing where Shane had left him, frowning. “I think I should go,” Shane tried to tell Ana, but Rozanov turned around and walked out of the room.

Ilya found the kitchen, pushing past Nik to get to the beers scattered on the counter. “Rozanov,” Nik said with a nod. “You bring Hollander with you?”

Ilya flicked his head toward the living room. “He’s dancing with Ana.”

Nik nodded. “New meat,” he said. “He’ll be more popular than us tonight.”

And fuck Ilya hadn’t planned on that when he agreed to come to this party. “Yes,” he growled angrily, popping open a beer and taking a long drink..

“What is that sour face for, Ilya?” a new voice said. Sasha. Of course. This night needed to be as complicated as possible, so right on cue, the most complicated thing in Ilya’s life.

At least he was, before Hollander.

“Excuse me,” Nik said as walked out of the room with only a nod to Sasha.

The other boy had dark brown hair and beautifully delicate features, with thin lips and sharp cheekbones. Sasha was taller than Ilya now, thin and wiry like the models he hung out in Paris, where he lived with his mother for half the year. “We’re alone again, Ilya,” Sasha said, moving closer. He wore a black silk shirt with a few buttons undone, and tight black jeans.

“I know about the bet,” Ilya said. “You will both lose tonight.”

“Hmm, we’ll see,” Sasha said. He put both hands on the counter, one on either side of Ilya’s body, caging him in.

“Not tonight, Sasha,” Ilya said quietly.

“Plenty of bedrooms upstairs if you don’t want anyone to see us.” And yes, that was true, that was part of Ilya’s plan for tonight, one of Vetrov’s many guest rooms, soft lips and a strong muscular body in the dark, Ilya finally finally getting his hands on Hollander…

Sasha pressed his hips against Ilya’s. “What are you thinking about?” he whispered into Ilya’s ear.

“Oh, sorry,” Hollander said.

Ilya’s head snapped up. “Fuck,” slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Sasha looked at the other boy standing stiffly just inside of the kitchen. “Hello, kitten,” he said. “Did you need something?”

“I was, just looking for Rozanov.” Hollander looked down at the floor, then left the room.

“Interesting,” Sasha said in that tone Ilya recognized, and fuck fuck fuck nothing was worse than Sasha finding someone interesting.

“Stay away from him,” Ilya said. Fuck, what a stupid thing to say.

“Oh,” Sasha said lightly, as if Ilya had simply read him the time off the clock. He pushed off of Ilya then and followed Hollander out of the room.

Ilya hit a cabinet door with the flat of his palm, swearing under his breath.

Ana grabbed Shane’s arm as soon as he walked back into the living room, pulling him back out to where everyone else was dancing. She pushed his arms up to rest on her shoulders before putting her hands on his ribs. He didn’t argue as she moved against him, half-heartedly finding the rhythm in the music and moving his hips in time to it. He watched the tall boy who’d been with Rozanov in the kitchen come out alone, make his way over to Svetlana, and lean down to whisper in her ear. Then they both looked in his direction. Something about the way they smiled together made Shane feel naked, the way he’d felt in the locker room when he was a kid, small and brown-skinned in a way none of the other boys on his team were, before they’d understood what he could do on the ice.

You don’t belong here, he thought for the hundredth time since he touched down in Moscow. You need to go home. He wondered what his mother would say about him wanting to leave Russia. He wondered what she’d say if she knew he only stayed for the way Rozanov had looked at him the first night in the other boy’s bedroom, before Alexei interrupted them, and hadn’t looked at him again since. Would she be disappointed that he wanted to kiss a boy? Would it matter more to her that hockey was a distant second on the list of things he cared about right now, dancing with some girl who’s face he couldn’t remember even though she was standing right in front of him?

Then Rozanov walked into the room.

Shane jerked a half a step in his direction before Ana pulled him closer. He glanced over to where Svetlana and the other boy were laughing now. Of course, they’d noticed. How obvious was he about this stupid fucking crush? The tall boy – Sasha, Shane distantly remembered, Svetlana had said there was a bet between whether she or a man named Sasha would fuck Rozanov tonight, of course that had to be him, he looked like a fucking model and what was Shane? An awkward fucking hockey player with stupid freckles and a body that was nothing special off the ice. Sasha and Svetlana were moving to stand on either side of Rozanov now, whispering at him while Rozanov stood staring daggers at Shane. He doesn’t want me here, Shane thought miserably. I’m just in his way.

“Excuse me,” Shane said, gently removing Ana’s hands from his body. “Sorry.” He walked away from the living room, down a hallway, looking for somewhere, anywhere else to be.

He found another, smaller living room, with a dark red couch on one side and a dark green one on the other. No one else was here, so he moved to the far couch and dropped down onto it. A moment later, Rozanov walked into the room. “Hollander,” he started to say.

“There you are,” Sasha said happily, one arm around Svetlana who stood next to him.

“Could we have a moment?” Rozanov asked over his shoulder.

“No,” Svetlana said, smiling, “Come, sit, tell me about your new friend,” she said, taking Rozanov’s arm to guide him to sit in the middle of the red couch. She found her spot next to him.

Sasha looked between Shane and Rozanov, grinning widely. He sat down on Rozanov’s other side, leaning his body against him. “Yes, tell us about this boy,” Sasha said with a happy sigh.

“Fuck you both,” Rozanov said.

“Yes, we will do that too,” Svetlana said. “But now you are being rude in my home, Ilya. You know I don’t like it when you’re rude to me.”

“I like it when he’s rude to me,” Sasha said, kissing Rozanov’s cheek.

Shane bit his lip angrily. “Yeah I think I’m just gonna go,” he said, but he didn’t stand up.

“Hollander, I’m sorry,” Rozanov said. “Stay. We will have fun.”

“This isn’t exactly fun for me,” Shane said, in English.

“Hollander,” Rozanov warned.

Shane looked away. The room wasn’t large but the ceilings were very tall. Floor length velvet curtains hung on either side of the window at the other end of the room.

“You play hockey, Hollander?” Sasha said. Shane looked back at him and nodded. “Your Russian is terrible.”

“I know,” Shane said.

“How is your French?” Sasha asked in that language, smiling again. “Will you understand if I tell you what Ilya looks like naked and moaning my name?”

“Sasha, stop it,” Rozanov was saying in Russian but Shane said, “My French is fine, asshole,” instead.

“He is very pretty when he comes,” Sasha said without anything on his face giving away the fact that he was telling a stranger that Rozanov had sex with another boy, the way you tell someone what aisle you could find canned corn on in a grocery store.

“Not really my business,” Shane replied, still in French. “He will not want you to say these things to me.”

“Are you sure? I can tell you the sound he makes when he’s bent over underneath me,” Sasha said. “He is clumsy but he has a big cock and his mouth is not bad.”

Shane stood up quickly. “Say one more fucking word,” he said.

Ilya didn’t understand anything they said to each other in fucking French, but he saw Hollander jump to his feet, heard the tone in his voice when he said whatever it was that sounded like a threat.

“Hollander, wait,” he heard himself saying.

“What the fuck do you want from me, Rozanov?” English, again. Hollander must be truly pissed off. But he took a deep breath and sat back down.

“I wonder if he is jealous of you or of me?” Sasha said in Russian then. “Let’s find out.” He got up then, moving across the room to sit on the couch next to Hollander. He put one arm around the other boy’s shoulders, leaned over, and said, “Will Ilya stop me, do you think?” into Hollander’s ear. “Does he care who touches you, the way you care who touches him?”

“No,” Hollander said, still staring at Ilya. “Why would he?”

“I make you a deal,” Sasha said. “If he doesn’t stop me, I will show you what you are missing.”

“Sasha, stop being a dick,” Ilya said. “He doesn’t want you.”

“No, Ilya, that’s not how this works,” Sasha said, a sly grin on his face. “You have to tell us you want this boy badly enough to make me stop touching him.”

“Or what?” Hollander asked.

“Or I keep touching you until you get what you want,” Sasha replied.

“Hollander -” Ilya started to say, but the other boy cut him off.

“Fine,” he said. “Whatever.”

Next to Ilya on the red couch, Sveta laughed.

“Oh, I like this one,” Sasha purred. “Has Ilya touched you at all?”

“No,” Hollander said. Short. Clipped. Like he was angry about it. Or angry at Ilya for bringing him here in the first place.

Sasha put his free hand on Hollander’s thigh. “I love hockey boys,” he sighed. “So strong. Ilya, have you seen his muscles? Maybe better than yours.”

“Fuck off, Sasha.”

Svetlana rested her head on Ilya’s shoulder. “You sound jealous,” she said.

“I am not,” Ilya replied, but he couldn’t take his eyes of Hollander’s face. “I just don’t think you should be doing this.”

Sasha leaned against Hollander’s side. He kept his eyes on Ilya as he took Hollander’s earlobe into his mouth.

Ilya could feel the muscles tightening in his jaw.

Sasha kissed Hollander’s neck then, just under his ear, his eyes closing for a moment before looking up at Ilya.

“Hollander, that’s enough,” Ilya said quietly.

“Do you admit you want to fuck this boy?” Sasha asked sweetly. “Or maybe you just want to watch me do it?”

“This is not a game, Sasha.” Ilya crossed his arms. Sveta didn’t move from her spot against his side.

“Oh?” Sasha pursed his lips as if he was considering his next words, then grinned. “It is to me. Do you want me to stop, Hollander?”

“That’s up to Rozanov, right?” Hollander shrugged. “I didn’t make the rules.”

Sveta laughed. “You two are delightful,” she said.

Sasha picked up the hand that had been on Hollander’s thigh, tugged at the front of his t shirt, and slipped his hand inside. “Ilya, he has abs,” Sasha sighed happily. “Look?” He pulled up the front of Hollander’s shirt.

Ilya could see the other boy’s six pack, the muscles tensing as Sasha pulled this shirt up higher before stroking his fingers back down toward Hollander’s waist.

“This is a stupid game,” Ilya said. “What do I care? You want to fuck Sasha, Hollander, go ahead.”

“I don’t,” Hollander said.

Sasha gasped in fake shock. “I need to try harder then, don’t I, Ilya?” He licked up the side of Hollander’s neck. “I am very good, Ilya, you know you love it when I fuck you…” he said as Hollander winced at his words, but Sasha didn’t see that.

Ilya saw it, though.

“Do you know what he tastes like, Ilya?” Sasha crooned. “You have him in your house and you haven’t tasted him?” He put one hand on the back of Shane’s neck, squeezing it. He slid the other one up inside Shane’s shirt – Ilya could see Sasha’s fingers pinching one of Hollander’s nipples.

For the first time since this started, Hollander closed his eyes. He tilted his head back enough to rest it on the top of the couch.

“Do you think he’s getting hard for me, Ilya?” Sasha asked, looking toward where he sat across the room. “Should I find out?” His hand moved, slowly, back down Hollander’s abs.

“Stop,” Ilya said in a voice so low it was practically a growl.

Sasha’s hand didn’t stop. It moved past Hollander’s belly button, touching the top of Hollander’s jeans, then moving to undo the top button.

“Fucking stop it!” Ilya yelled as he jumped to his feet.

Sasha put both hands in the air as he laughed.

Hollander opened his eyes, staring at Ilya.

“I win,” Sasha said, still laughing. “Ilya, come get your boy… unless you’d rather have me, Hollander?” He looked at Hollander’s pink lips with a grin. “I can fuck you so much better than he can.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sasha,” Ilya said as he moved quickly to the other couch, grabbing Hollander’s wrist to drag him up. “If you’re not gone when we get back I will break your face.”

“It’s my house, idiot,” Sveta called out as Ilya dragged Hollander into the hallway.

Ilya moved them both into a guest bedroom and slammed the door shut.

“What are you doing?” Hollander asked in English. He was breathing hard, like he’d just come off a ten-minute shift on the ice.

“What the fuck was that?” Ilya asked angrily. “You let that asshole make you hard in front of me?”

“Fuck you, he didn’t do shit to me.” Hollander crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“Oh yeah?” Ilya asked. Then he was moving to close the space between them. He wrapped one arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as he shoved his other hand down the front of Hollander’s jeans, finding his half-hard cock pushing against the fabric of his underwear. Ilya fondled him angrily, feeling the fabric between his fingers, the firm length as Hollander swelled and got fully hard in Ilya’s hand.

Heard the way he gasped and moaned as Ilya moved his thumb over the head of Hollander’s cock, now peaking out over the waistband of his underwear.

“Stop, stop,” Shane panted against the side of Rozanov’s neck as he grabbed at his arm, pulling the other boy’s hand out of his pants.

“You don’t like? Because I think you do.”

“Fuck, you have to, I don’t know, ask!” Shane said. “You can’t just take whatever you want.”

“No one ask me,” Rozanov said, whining like an angry child. “No one ask, do you want Hollander in your house for three months, Ilya? No one ask, do you want him on your ice, in your locker room, sleeping in your bed where you can’t fucking touch him?” He shrugged, but his face was doing something complicated and tragic. “No one ask me if I want to know what you sound like when you come with my name on your lips but now I know and I can’t fucking breathe.”

He stepped back until he hit the door behind him. His face was pink and there were tears in his eyes.

“I can’t fucking breathe, Shane,” Rozanov repeated quietly. “Why don’t you want me the way I want you?”

Shane.

“You didn’t ask me what I want,” Shane said. “You didn’t ask me if you could watch me in the shower,” he said bitterly, and watched the look on Rozanov’s face as he said it. Like he’d been slapped. Shane took a step forward. “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to come hang out with not one but two people you fuck on a regular basis.” He took another step forward. “You didn’t ask me if the guy you fuck could touch me just to see your reaction to it, like I don’t fucking matter at all.” They were inches apart from each other now. “I’m just part of some fucked up game you play with each other.”

Shane could feel Rozanov’s hot breath on his skin.

“You didn’t have to let him,” Rozanov said angrily. “Why the fuck did you let him do that, and not me?”

“I needed to know,” Shane said. “And I haven’t stopped you from touching me,” he added. “You just didn’t try until you were pissed off in your girlfriend’s bedroom.”

He felt, more than saw, Rozanov’s hands coming up slowly until they settled on either side of his hips.

“I am not angry,” Rozanov said, gripping Shane’s jeans tightly. “Svetlana is not my girlfriend.” He pulled Shane close across the last few inches that had separated them. “Tell me what you needed to know so badly you let Sasha put his hands on you.”

“If you wanted me,” Shane said softly against Rozanov’s lips. “If you wanted me enough to stop him.”

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov moaned, just before Shane kissed him.

Chapter 3: Giveaway

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya's first chance to get their hands on each other gets interrupted; neither of them goes to bed alone, but neither of them ends up where they want to be.

Chapter Notes

I never said it was 5 chapters. Is lie. Liar told you that. I said 7.

Also, remember to always check the tags. I sometimes update them before posting a new chapter.

January 10, 2009

Hollander’s mouth was warm and soft. He pressed his lips against Ilya’s and for one half of a second, Ilya had been too shocked to respond. But then his hand was on Hollander’s face and his tongue was parting Hollander’s lips and the other boy was letting him into his mouth with a soft sound as Ilya walked him backward until he was pressed against the bedroom door -

The doorknob rattled.

Hollander’s eyes went wide as Ilya broke off their kiss and slapped his hand against Hollander’s mouth.

“What?” Ilya called out, in Russian.

“Roza, you in there?” another boy’s voice answered.

“Using the phone,” Ilya said back. “Five minutes.” Then Hollander bit Ilya’s palm, and Ilya called out “Ten minutes,” instead.

“You see Hollander?” the boy in the hallway asked. Someone from their team, then.

“I think he is getting his dick sucked,” Ilya said easily, like this was everyday conversation. “Check upstairs.”

“Okay,” they heard from the other side of the door. “We are going to different party soon, maybe new girls. Text if you want to join.” Whoever it was walked away then, but Ilya kept his hand against Hollander’s lips for another long moment until he was sure they were alone again.

“Thanks asshole, now I have to pretend someone did that to me when I go back,” Hollander whispered angrily.

“Do what to you?” Ilya asked quietly, grinning now. “Use your words Hollander, you have so many of them.”

“You know what,” Hollander said, his voice still low, but he didn’t push Ilya away. Their bodies were still pressed against each other and Ilya could feel Hollander’s hardness rubbing against his own when he moved. He did it intentionally, just to check, grinding their hips together to watch Hollander’s breath catch and the pink flush spread across his cheeks.

“Tell me,” Ilya ordered. “What did I say would happen to you?”

“You said someone was going to suck my dick,” Hollander said.

“Do you want?”

Hollander’s eyes widened. “With who?” he asked, as if he thought Ilya meant for him to go get someone else’s lips around his cock.

“Do you want,” Ilya said slowly, emphasizing every word, “me to suck your dick, Hollander?”

“Here?” His voice cracked on the word.

Ilya kissed his jaw in response, then kissed up to Hollander’s ear, moving slowly down his neck. He kept one hand on the side of Hollander’s face as he slid his other hand down to the top of Hollander’s jeans. “Yes,” he whispered so his breath would blow across the sensitive skin there, “if you ask nicely.”

Hollander opened his mouth then, but the sound that came out of his mouth was too quick for Ilya to understand, jumbled together consonants that were only possibly English to begin with.

“What?” Ilya asked in Russian, confused. He leaned back so he could see the other boy’s face properly.

“DidyouletSashafuckyou?” Hollander blurted out.

“Is that what he said to you?” Ilya pushed off Hollander’s chest, stepping backward so they were no longer touching. “No,” Ilya said, switching back to English, “Sasha is a fucking liar who says things that are not true.”

“So you… haven’t…anything? With him?”

Ilya opened his mouth to explain – because yes they’d done some things and at the same time, not the thing Sasha was apparently bragging to people about – but Hollander bit his lip and Ilya understood then that he’d mistaken an accusation for something else entirely. He relaxed as the realization hit, his lips spreading in a wide grin. “Hollander, are you jealous?”

“No,” the other boy insisted, crossing his arms in front of his chest and looking at the floor. But the skin under his freckles was pink again, and so were the tops of his ears.

“No, do not hide from me,” Ilya purred. He gently pried Hollander’s arms open and slipped inside of them. “This is good for me I think.” He moved his hands down Hollander’s sides, finding the tops of his hips again. “You want me.”

“That’s never been the problem,” Hollander muttered. He looked away, down, finding a point on the floor to focus on. Whatever they had just been about to do fizzled into nothingness.

Ilya couldn’t get a read on the guy. There were times his brain and body screamed that Hollander desired him, and times that he knew it was true. When Hollander stared at Ilya’s lips. When he got jealous. When he let Sasha touch him just to find out if Ilya would want him more. When he jerked himself off in the locker room shower, Ilya’s name ripped from his mouth. But other times, it felt like Hollander didn’t want him at all. Like there was something wrong with Ilya for even thinking that he did.

That last part might be all in his head, Ilya knew, but every sexual experience he’d had in the last few years had taught him that he needed to be wanted in order to be interested in the other person. He needed the way their eyes went wide when they saw him, needed to feel the heat between their bodies, or hear the way the other person’s voice changed when they said his name. He needed to hear Hollander say his name like that again, more than he needed to eat. Hollander’s desire would keep him fed, Ilya was sure, if only he could get it back.

Ilya moved one hand to Hollander’s jaw, gently tipping it upward. He watched the boy’s eyes flit around, trying to lock onto anything other than Ilya’s face, before he gave in and looked him in the eyes. Hollander’s eyes were deep and warm. Ilya stroked his jaw. “Tell me what you need,” he said softly.

Under his hands, he could feel Hollander trembling.

The moment stretched between them as the air between them warmed. Ilya’s skin prickled with it as the nerves in his skin ignited. There he is, Ilya thought. Come on, give it to me.

“You,” Hollander finally whispered.

Their lips crashed together again, awkward until they found the position that slotted their faces together and then oh Hollander was chasing his lips and Ilya’s tongue was in his mouth and their hips were pressed together and they were panting as their hands slipped under each other’s shirts and Ilya was grabbing the front of Hollander’s pants and they were both fully hard now and -

bang bang bang

Hollander jumped, pushing Ilya away from him, but Ilya dug his fingers into Hollander’s back and refused to let go.

“Roza you done yet?” someone was yelling from the other side of the door. “Hurry, let’s go!”

“Fuck,” Hollander whispered.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “Fuck. You go out the window.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Hollander demanded, obviously mad but still whispering. He looked even more gorgeous like this, angry and on fire with it. Ilya wondered how hard it would be to make it happen again.

“I have to go out the door, they know I am in here,” Ilya said. He motioned toward the large window on the other side of the room. “We are on first floor.”

“We climbed stairs to get in the house, you idiot.”

Ilya shrugged. “Okay is three or four meters. Hold on to windowsill, then when you are hanging, you only drop maybe one meter. Easy jump.”

Hollander seemed to be considering it. “And then what?”

“Then I go through the house and open the back door. You come back inside, say you were getting air and got turned around. You have never been here before, they will believe.”

“Jesus Christ,” Hollander said, but he walked toward the window. Ilya followed, pointing at the window locks while Hollander rolled his eyes. They got it open, then Hollander leaned out, checking the distance to the ground. “I hate you,” he said as he climbed over.

Ilya grinned. “No, you do not.” He grabbed Hollander’s wrists, just to be safe, as the other boy maneuvered himself until he was hanging from the sill, only holding on by his fingers. “I will find you,” Ilya said.

Hollander’s jaw clenched as he looked down to the ground, still half a body length away from his feet. “You better,” he said as he looked back up. Ilya got five seconds of those eyes, Hollander’s deep brown eyes, then the boy nodded.

Ilya released his wrists. Hollander dropped.

Whoever was in the hall banged on the door again at that moment. Ilya could hear Hollander mumbling something in the dark but he was out of time. He closed the window, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and dialed his voicemail.

“Yes, yes, I have to go now,” he was saying in Russian as he opened the door. “Idiot hockey boys, sweet girl. Yes, miss you too, talk to you later,” he added before clicking the phone shut. To the boy standing on the other side of the doorway, he grunted a displeased, “What?”

Maks, one of their forwards, looked back at him in surprise. “Everyone is looking for you.”

“Phone sex. I am done now, we go.” He waved his hands impatiently, shooing the other boy out of the way.

“No one can find the American,” Maks said.

“So fucking stupid,” Ilya muttered. “Hollander is Canadian.”

“He is lost is what he is,” Maks said, sighing dramatically.

“Has anyone searched outside?” Ilya asked as they entered the big living area next to the kitchen.

A few of the other boys from their team crowded around them. They all shook their heads. None of them had seen Hollander, and Ilya couldn’t say that he had so he pretended he was just as concerned as they were. It wasn’t entirely an act; he realized, suddenly, that Hollander had gone through the window without a jacket, and it was probably neg 10 this time of night. “Okay so someone fucking go outside!” he yelled.

There was noise as the order rippled through the people standing nearby, and for a moment Ilya was genuinely, truly, angry, standing impotently on the other side of the room as it took far too long for someone to reach the wide double door to the yard. He wanted to push past them all, to wrench the doors open, to pull Hollander into his arms and rub his cold skin until it was warm again under his hands. Fuck that there were people watching. Fuck his fucking family and his coaches and every dumb fucking player on his team who would care that Ilya Rozanov was touching another boy in a way that didn’t involve knocking him into the boards or pushing him onto the ice. He ground his teeth together as Artem and one of his friends, not on their team but just one of the boys who hung around, went out into the night. It was taking too long, it was freezing out there, he could feel it in the air that rushed into the room as the doors swung wide. Ilya took three steps forward before Artem was back, one arm around Hollander’s shoulders as he guided him into the room. Artem’s friend hurried in after them and closed the door.

Hollander was pale, but worse, he was limping.

“Hollander!” Ilya called out as he shoved past someone. Hollander saw him and opened his mouth but Svetlana got to him first.

She said something in French as she took Hollander from Artem, getting herself under Hollander’s shoulder. Another girl, short and blonde, Ilya didn’t remember her name but he didn’t think he had fucked her before, pushed Artem out of the way to position herself on Hollander’s other side. The two of them got him over to a low couch. Ilya moved toward them.

Sveta and Hollander were talking in French then, their voices low. He couldn’t understand them of course, but Sveta’s voice had a soothing tone. She was rubbing Hollander’s arm, exactly the way Ilya had wanted to do. The blonde on the other side was doing the same thing.

“What happened?” Ilya asked in English. He knew he sounded worried, because he was, but hoped the English would hide his feelings from most of the people in the room, who didn’t speak the language.

“Twisted my ankle,” Hollander said softly. The color had come back to his skin in a rush, so his face was pink now, as if he’d been running. His freckles stood out against his skin.

“I take you home now,” Ilya said, but Svetlana shook her head.

“Everyone out now!” she yelled in Russian. “Fuck all of you, thank you for coming, out now!”

There were some moans and muttered complaints but the party broke up quickly. No one wanted to be on Svetlana Vetrova’s bad side; most of the kids there didn’t have access to anywhere nearly as nice, without nosy parents to get in the way. Soon it was just Ilya and Sveta and Hollander, the blonde girl, and Sasha, who came up to stand behind Ilya and put one hand on Ilya’s shoulder.

“Let’s find a room,” Sasha whispered into Ilya’s ear.

“Fuck off,” Ilya replied, not taking his eyes off Hollander.

“Ugh, hockey boys, so boring,” Sasha said, the words low and drawn out. “Call me when you get tired of this one,” he added, his voice loud enough to carry. Then he left.

Ilya wasn’t sure if Sasha had been talking to him or to Hollander. “Hollander, I will help you up,” Ilya said in Russian.

“No, Daria and I will take him,” Sveta said. “He needs to warm up. Maybe if you are very good I will let you speak to him when we are done with him.” She stood, pulling Hollander up while the other girl – Daria, Ilya guessed – nudged him up on her side. As they passed him, Sveta whispered, “The fucking window, Ilya?” in English. She sounded angry.

Hollander looked at him over his shoulder, but didn’t say anything.

Ilya was left alone in the wide empty room.

---

The girls got Shane into a bedroom. He bit back a laugh when he realized it was the same one Rozanov had brought him to earlier. He glanced at the window, wondering if Rozanov had locked it again after he jumped out of it. The whole plan had been stupid but he didn’t blame the guy, not really, not when Shane hadn’t been able to think of anything better. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that the window was directly above some low, winter-hardy shrubbery Shane hadn’t been able to see in the dark. So when he dropped, he landed in the bush, immediately catching one foot and falling onto his side. He wasn’t angry at Rozanov about that.

He was, more than a little bit, angry that neither of them remember how fucking cold it was outside.

And now he was in a stranger’s bedroom for the second time that night, with an entirely different set of hands undressing him. Two sets, really, since Svetlana’s friend (Daria, he told himself, her name was Daria) was helping too. It hadn’t felt sexual, with Svetlana telling him in French that he needed to get out of his cold clothes, under warm blankets, get off his sore ankle. Telling him Rozanov was an idiot who meant well, that leaving him in the other room was a tiny bit of punishment that would only make him want Shane more.

He was about to object to the last part, to tell Svetlana that he didn’t need Rozanov to want him, that he was a perfectly normal straight guy – look, proof, he was in a bed with two beautiful Russian girls, wearing only his boxers now, it was practically a scene from James Bond or maybe porn – when Daria found his dick with her mouth and Shane forgot how words worked.

Until he remembered Rozanov in the other room and suddenly Daria’s mouth didn’t interest him at all.

It took her another few moments to realize Shane’s interest (and his cock) had gone down. “Did you drink too much baby?” she cooed at him as she came back up from under the covers.

“Ankle,” Shane said, desperately trying not to think about Rozanov. “Hurts, sorry, you were uh, very good.”

“It would be good for you to let her suck you,” Svetlana said in French. She was pressed against him, tucked under his shoulder, with one of her hands sliding across his chest. She found one of his nipples and pinched it. Shane gasped, and she grinned. “Unless you prefer you know who? Let him wait, I think. Let him chase you.” She teased his nipple with her fingers.

“I don’t want to be chased,” Shane said. “I want to be caught.” It was too honest given that Shane hadn’t been drinking but he didn’t care. He had lived with the Rozanovs for a week, without any real chance to be alone with their youngest son, and it was driving him crazy.

“We will give Daria what she expects, you and I, then she will go back and tell all of her friends that Shane Hollander is very not gay while he is in Russia, yes?” Svetlana smiled the way Shane had always imagined cats would smile if they could. He felt like a small mammal, looking at the creature who was about to pounce on him. “I will help you,” she said. “I will tell you what it is like when he fucks you. Don’t you want to know how Ilya will fuck you?”

Daria had been, idly, stroking Shane while Svetlana spoke. He had only been half hard, but when she mentioned Rozanov the blood flowed back down into Shane’s dick until he was aching with it.

“Ah, there he is,” Daria said happily in Russian, before she went back under the covers.

Svetlana reached down, pulling the blanket up so it covered the other girl completely. “Better if you don’t see her I think,” she said into Shane’s ear. She moved one her legs until it was covering Shane’s, holding him in place. “Play with my tit.”

Shane put his hand other her shirt. Her nipple was small and hard; he pinched it between his fingers the way she’d done to him.

“He likes it hard and fast,” she moaned into his ear, still speaking in French. God, he hoped Daria couldn’t understand French. “He is playful, like a puppy. He will throw you onto the bed, grinning like he has won a prize. Do you want that, Shane? Do you want to be a prize he can win?”

“Yes,” Shane whispered.

“Louder, Shane, let him hear you,” Svetlana ordered.

“Yes!” Shane said louder, in English. Between his legs, Daria sucked faster, her mouth warm and wet. “Fuck, yes!”

“Such a good boy,” Svetlana said. “He will tell you that, do you like that? He will tell you that you are a good boy, I think, that you take him so well. He is proud of his dick, it is so big.” She moaned again, and licked the inside of Shane’s ear. He moved his hand to squeeze her breast before playing with her nipple again. “Will he fuck you, do you think?”

Shane moaned loudly.

Svetlana swore. She rubbed herself against Shane’s side. “Yeah, you’d like that. You want his big hands on you, don’t you?”

“Yes, please, please touch me,” Shane begged. In English, still. Begging for one Russian in particular, who wasn’t in the room.

There was a loud banging noise, a flat hand against the door. “Hollander, what the fuck!” Rozanov yelled from the other side of it.

“Wait your turn!” Svetlana yelled back. She giggled as Rozanov tried the door handle. “I locked it,” she said in French, once again whispering into Shane’s ear. “I told you he would chase you.”

“Let him catch me,” Shane begged. The heat between his legs was building, a pressure forming in his hips. “Please.”

Please, he thought. Please let it be him.

“Svet, open the fucking door!” Rozanov yelled.

Shane knew the other boy didn’t know French but maybe he understood Shane’s want, knew it better than Shane understood himself.

“Fuck, Shane, he wants you so much,” Svetlana moaned, “he’s going to break down the door and fuck you, do you want that?” and Shane’s hips bucked up, his cock spurting into Daria’s mouth as he cried out.

Shane came with Rozanov’s name in the air, then passed out.

---

Ilya was about to smack the door again when he heard the lock turn. Sveta opened it with one arm around the little blonde girl – fuck, he knew her name, but it didn’t matter so he lost it – and smiled sweetly at him. “Oh, Ilya, there you are,” she said to him in Russian. “Daria, I need to speak to Ilya now, you go home, okay? Tell everyone about your fun with big manly hockey player, see you later!”

The other girl looked at her, then at Ilya. “I could stay?” she said, licking her lips.

“No, no, thank you, no,” Sveta said, taking her by the shoulders. She walked the girl – Daria, fuck, why couldn’t Ilya keep that in his brain? – down the hall.

Ilya watched them long enough to make sure they were out of slight, then quietly went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. “Hollander,” he said in English, keeping his voice low. “What happened?”

Hollander’s clothes were in a pile on the floor. He was asleep in the middle of the bed, lying on his back with the blankets around his waist. Ilya sighed. He picked up Hollander’s clothes, folded them carefully, then set them on the little night table next to the bed. The boy’s mouth was open a little bit. Ilya could see his chest rise and fall slowly. He had dark nipples on his muscular chest, and Ilya wanted to bite them. He let himself sit on the edge of the bed, just looking for a moment.

“Hollander,” Ilya whispered. “You didn’t wait for me.”

“Please,” Hollander mumbled as he rolled over onto his side, facing Ilya. His eyes were still closed.

“What, Hollander?” Ilya asked. He let himself reach out with one hand to gently stroke Hollander’s freckle-covered cheek. “Hmm? What do you need?”

“Let him,” Hollander said into the pillow. His voice was very quiet now, hard to make out.

“I know what he is saying,” Sveta said in Russian, from the doorway.

“Did you fuck him?” Ilya asked, bitter but controlled, keeping his voice low so he didn’t wake Hollander.

She laughed. “Not me.”

“You let that other girl fuck him?”

“Her name is Daria,” she said, but he cut her off.

“I don’t fucking care, Sveta,” he hissed. “You knew he was mine.”

“Well I didn’t because you didn’t fucking talk to me,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Dumb boy. Come eat me out and I’ll tell you everything he said when he was moaning about you, okay?”

Ilya looked back at the sleeping hockey player next to him. Hollander’s hand twitched against the bed sheet, like he was trying to hold on to something.

He rubbed the back of his neck. On one hand, he was mad at Sveta and the stupid nameless blonde girl. Probably unfair to be, but someone had gotten Shane Hollander naked and it wasn’t him. He wanted to wake the boy up, to erase the memory of whatever had happened in here with his lips, his hands, his cock. Wanted to be the last thing Hollander felt before he went back to sleep. But on the other hand, Hollander was already asleep. And Ilya’s cock was half hard. And Sveta would come first against his mouth, then again while riding him, and she felt so good wrapped around him, even if the good feeling didn’t last for very long once it was done.

And, if he was being honest with himself, he really, really wanted to hear that Hollander had needed him, Ilya Rozanov, even while Hollander was fucking someone else. Maybe that would make it okay that Ilya was definitely going to be thinking about Hollander when he came tonight.

He touched Hollander’s lips with one finger, feeling warm breath move across his skin. “Goodnight,” he whispered. He was already across the room, just having taken Sveta’s outstretched hand, when he heard the soft sound of Hollander’s body moving under the blankets, and looked back.

“Ilya,” Hollander mumbled. His hand was still outstretched, moving a little, as if it were seeking something that wasn’t there, but his eyes were still closed.

Sveta held Ilya’s hand tighter and jerked him forward before he could go back to Hollander’s bed. “Come on,” she demanded.

Ilya sighed, and went.

Chapter End Notes

Of all of my work, this story got the most comments telling me to write faster, to change the plot, to make sure certain things happen, to demand - over and over and over again - that I rush the explicit sexual content between these teenage boys. This story is the reason I locked my comments so only registered AO3 users can say anything, and it's the reason I mostly ignore my Threads DMs. It took me over three months to be ready to put this next bit out there, and I'm pretty sure it's going to get a lot of people in their feels. SO if you want me to finish it, please be nice. Please let the story unfold at its own pace, let me write at my own pace, and if that doesn't work for it, it's okay to put this on your read later list. Come back when it's totally finished, or don't come back at all if this isn't giving you what you need. I just want everyone to be happy, okay?

Also please note that like most of my Heated Rivalrly fics, a happy ending is the ultimate goal (even if it happens after this story is over). But this is so early in their lives, and especially because it's set in Russia before they're even drafted, the path to their eventual happiness is not going to be linear or easy. None of them - not Shane or Ilya, Svetlana or even Sasha - are bad people in this story! They're all just very young and a little bit stupid. Let Shane and Ilya be messy boys figuring things out for a bit, okay? I promise an ending at least some of you will appreciate ;)

* Okay, fine, yes, the other Rozanovs are pretty terrible. We'll deal some more of that in the next chapter...