Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, Sort Of, Situationships, Relationship Status: It's Complicated, Tuna Melt Canon Divergence, pre-tuna melt, Fluff and Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Ilya Rozanov Fucked Around Now He's Finding Out

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-07-13 Completed: 2026-07-20 Words: 19,776 Chapters: 2/2

a pox on all your houses

Summary

"Chlamydia?" Ilya has never heard Hollander's voice reach such heights in the absence of a cock. "You have chlamydia?"

"I did not get it on purpose," Ilya complains.

Notes

So I watched Heated Rivalry for the first time back in May and had an immediate and mighty need to give Ilya Rozanov chlamydia. The original plan was to bang out 5k of crackfic about this very silly concept and be done--and instead, this very rudely grew legs and feelings on me, and is now sitting at 19k. Whoops.

This is not beta'd, and I know nothing about hockey, nor do I have an encyclopedic knowledge of Heated Rivalry, and so all mistakes are my own. Thank you to everyone who has listened to me complain about this for the last two months.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Svetlana: I'm going to fucking kill you

Ilya quirks an eyebrow.

Between his nationality, his profession, his love life, and the way he generally behaves as a human being, Ilya is very used to receiving death threats. This isn't the even the first one this week.

He does worry, sometimes, what he will do if he ever runs out of clever ways to reply.

Ilya: I will still be hotter than you
Ilya: And richer
Ilya: I hope you're not plotting my murder for the inheritance because no one is getting shit from me, it's all going to my massive fucking tombstone
Ilya: And a solid gold statue of me
Ilya: Outside the mausoleum I will build for all my trophies

I have already sent the concept art to my law—he's halfway through typing out, when Svetlana's reply finally pops up.

Svetlana: You gave me fucking CHLAMYDIA

"What?" Ilya says, out loud.

He blinks.

He deletes his half-typed message.

Ilya: I fucking did not
Ilya: What the fuck

Svetlana responds with a photo of what is clearly a printed lab result, in English, that reads CHLAMYDIA: POSITIVE. Below it, GONORRHEA: NEGATIVE.

The photo is followed by another text message, which consists only of a single exclamation point.

"When is that from?" Ilya demands, the moment Svetlana answers her phone. "Is that from today?"

"Obviously the test is from today," Svetlana snaps. "The chlamydia is from six weeks ago when you couldn't shut the fuck up for five minutes during my movie, and I had to pause it and wear you out like some kind of fucking puppy with the zoomies."

"Well, you picked a terrible movie," Ilya reasons.

"I picked up chlamydia, you asshole."

"Not from me! What the fuck. Just because I am slutty does not mean I am infectious. Who else did you sleep with? Kyle?"

"Kyle?" Svetlana repeats. "Oh, please. Kyle wishes I would call him and accuse him of giving me chlamydia. It's only been you, and some other guy at the club—"

"Ah!"

"—back in August," Svetlana finishes, loudly. "And I didn't have this fucking green shit start coming out of my vagina until two weeks ago. Ergo. You."

"Ew," says Ilya.

"Don't ew me, it's your fault!"

"This is—what do they say in English—" Ilya gestures with his free hand. "Slut shaming. You know this word? Slut shaming, you are slut shaming me. My dick is perfectly healthy. No green shit."

Svetlana lets out a noise of disgust. "Your dick wasn't what was inside me, idiot. Remember?"

Ilya, who had been pulling at the band of his sweatpants just to make one hundred percent sure about said green shit, pauses at this. "…Are you saying I have mouth-chlamydia? Tongue-chlamydia?"

"I am saying that I definitely didn't have chlamydia when I checked back in June, and then you ate me out, and now I've got to wear a stupid pad in my underwear because I've got this fucking green pea soup oozing out of my—"

"SVETLANA."

"It is copious, Ilya. Copious."

"I do not want to know this," Ilya complains.

"And it smells."

"Sveta, please!"

"It's the least you and your chlamydia whore mouth deserve," Svetlana says mercilessly.

"I do not have chlamydia whore mouth!" Ilya protests. "I am sorry you have chlamydia whore vagina, but it is not from me. I am clean."

"Guilty until proven innocent," Svetlana replies.

"You are going to owe me," Ilya says, "the biggest fucking apology."

The doctor frowns. "Well, usually, one test is sufficient for most patients. If the genitalia testing returns—"

"No," Ilya interrupts. "I want both. Mouth and dick. I need to know one hundred percent sure that there is no infections."

After a pause, the doctor shrugs one shoulder and says, "All right. We can do both. And we should probably run the rest of the STD panel as well, while you're here—unless you've had other testing in the last few months?"

"I want most accurate test possible," Ilya says, because he isn't exactly sure when he'd last been tested for STDs but has a sneaking suspicion the answer won't thrill the doctor today.

He's, like, fifty percent sure that it was part of his annual team physical.

Forty percent.

"Of course, of course," the doctor agrees, as she scribbles on a clipboard. "We can do that."

"I will pay extra," Ilya adds. "Any cost. Maybe can have letter, too, saying this is most accurate test, no chance it is wrong?"

"There's always a chance the test is wrong," the doctor says, looking up with a raised eyebrow. "But we can get the odds down to about one in a thousand with the right swab. It's the best test on the market."

Ilya nods. "Okay, yes. Good."

One in a thousand odds, times two swabs, is… two in two thousand. This is basically zero. Svetlana will owe him so very, very many tequila shots.

"Also," the doctor continues, "if you're really wanting the most accurate swab—"

"Yes, yes, most accurate possible," Ilya agrees quickly.

"Right. Well, usually we test for chlamydia and gonorrhea in men via a urine sample," the doctor continues patiently.

Ilya nods.

"But if you want the most accurate, then—well, it doesn't matter for oral testing, that's just a throat swab—but for genital testing, there's some good data to say that in men, a urethral swab is one to two percent more accurate than a urine sample."

"Ur-ee-dral," Ilya repeats slowly.

The doctor nods. At her patient's continued blank stare she adds, a touch sympathetically, "That's the pee hole."

Pee hole?

"It goes up—"

"Up?" Ilya squawks.

The doctor nods. "Yes, up. But only about this far."

Her thumb and her forefinger are terrifyingly far apart.

Ilya could fit a whole hockey puck in there.

"Oh, only that far," Ilya says faintly. "Okay then."

The doctor quirks a smile at him. "Like I said, we can do a urine test instead, if you want. It's only one or two percent less sensitive than the urethral swab."

Ilya swallows.

He grips the edge of the exam table, compressing the foam right down to the metal frame, and thinks of how sweet the vindication will be when he gets to send that photo of his results. The apologies Svetlana will owe him. He will bring this up for years.

"No," Ilya says, with stalwart heroism. "Is okay. You can do pee hole swab."

They're between early morning practice and late morning weights when Ilya opens his phone to find an email from his manager, a handful of Snaps from people he doesn't care about, a text from his housekeeper, three texts from Jane, zero texts from Svetlana, and a voicemail.

Ilya listens to the voicemail, because it's a Boston area code and so he assumes it'll be about the giant television Best Buy is supposed to install in his living room this afternoon.

He is wrong.

He responds to the clinic's voicemail, then, in the middle of the locker room, because he assumes there will be quite a lot of victorious crowing to do over his lab results.

He is wrong again.

The Americans have some sort of saying about this, don't they?

"Both?" Ilya demands, loud enough to make several heads turn in his direction.

Shit.

"Yes, Mr. Rozanov, unfortunately both of the swabs did return positive for chlamydia," the clinic worker says into his ear, with dry sympathy. "The good news, though, is that the rest of your testing came back negative, including the HIV, herpes—"

"S'cuse me, s'cuse me, sorry," Ilya is mumbling as he ducks and dances his way upstream the river of coaches and trainers who are entering the locker room just as Ilya is fleeing. He scans frantically for an empty room off the hallway.

"—syphilis, and hepatitis B," the clinic worker drones on. "You also tested negative for—"

Ilya ducks into a blessedly abandoned equipment room, and slams the door shut behind himself.

"—and trichomonas," the clinic worker finishes.

Ilya clutches at his phone. "Okay, okay, go back—I have chlamydia?"

"Yes, sir." A beat. "I'm sorry, sir. I know this can be a very distressing diagnosis to receive."

"But," says Ilya. "But I don't have any symptoms!"

"That's actually very common," the clinic worker informs him. "Only about half of all men who get chlamydia will develop symptoms—it's why we encourage regular testing if you're sexually active."

"Maybe. Maybe swabs are wrong? Or this is lab mistake? Another person's test?" Ilya tries.

"That's unlikely."

Yes, they had done two separate swabs, from two different areas of his body, and both have come up with chlamydia.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck.

"Okay," says Ilya, who is trying very hard not to think about the text he's going to have to send to Svetlana. And… other people. "Okay, so. Is chlamydia. What now? Antibiotics, yes?"

Yes, antibiotics. He is assured that chlamydia is very treatable, there is an antibiotic he will take twice a day for seven days, he is not to have sex while he is taking it, it will be called into the pharmacy today, he can start it at any time, and is there anyone else that Ilya would like a prescription for?

"…Ah," says Ilya.

"We would need a first and last name, as well as a date of birth," the clinic worker says.

"Right," says Ilya.

A beat.

"Alternatively, I can send you a double supply, and you can just pass on half the pills to your partner?"

"Is… more than one partner," Ilya says.

"Two, then? Three?"

Ilya does some rapid estimations. "How far back, you think? The last two months? Three months?"

"Anyone you've been in sexual contact with in the last year, is what we recommend, if you don't have any other recent negative testing," the clinic worker supplies. "I don't see any prior lab results in your medical record here, but I can only see testing within our own system..."

"You said everyone I had sex with, from the past year?" Ilya repeats.

He does more math.

"Or as I said, if you had known recent negative testing—"

"I think, maybe forty," Ilya decides.

A pause.

"Forty people?"

Ilya tips his head. "Yes. About that. Less than fifty, for sure."

"I see," says the clinic worker.

"You think Walgreens will have big enough bottle?" Ilya asks.

"…Let me give you the number for the health department," says the clinic worker.

Ilya: I have chlamydia whore mouth :(

To: irozanov@raiders.mlh.com
From: sveta.vetrova@gmail.com
Subject: Invitation: Your Murder

Svetlana has invited you to Your Murder

     When
     October 5th 2016 8:00 pm - 11:00 pm Eastern Standard Time

     Guests
     Svetlana Vetrova - Organizer
          sveta.vetrova@gmail.com

     Ilya Rozanov
          irozanov@raiders.mlh.com

Reply
Yes || No || Maybe

To: irozanov@raiders.mlh.com
From: Amazon.com <auto-confirm@amazon.com>
Subject: Your Amazon.com order #113-8791689-2393001

Hello Ilya,

Thank you for shopping with us. We'll send a confirmation when your item ships.

     Details

          Satin Dams® Box of 100 Assorted Latex Oral Dams | Grape, Strawberry, Vanilla and Spearmint Scented Dental Dams | Bulk Hermetically Sealed Dams | Quantity 5

     Arriving: Monday October 3rd

Ship to:

Svetlana Vetrova
3145 India Row, Apt 1276
Boston, MA 02110

View or manage order

The Boston Public Health Commission is going to receive a very generous donation when this is all over. Somehow. The nice lady on the phone had said that as a government organization they are not actually allowed to accept financial gifts from private citizens, but Ilya is Russian. He knows better. Of course this is what the government employee must say over the phone at first. He will take care of it.

For now, though, he needs to compile a list of everyone he has slept with in the last year.

The lady had told him that while the names and phone numbers of his partners were preferable, they can also work with Instagram accounts, Snapchat handles, even photographs—anything Ilya can provide, and they will do the detective work from there. She had also promised that all his partners would be notified anonymously, which significantly decreases the odds that Ilya is going to have his latest plight plastered all over Twitter.

So, tonight, Ilya sits down with his phone and his laptop and begins to type out a list.

He scrolls through his DMs, and diligently copies over names.

He thumbs through texts.

He reads through old threads with Svetlana, and Marleau, and Anton, and anyone else he might have gone clubbing with last year.

Ilya then stares at the compiled list of names and handles on his Google doc, some thirty minutes later, watching the cursor blink and blink and blink—and then he opens Tinder on his phone and goes to re-read his messages. He turns to Twitter, and WhatsApp, and even fucking Facebook. He combs through everything, far and wide, for the last twelve months, looking for even a hint of a memory of a forgotten hookup.

And in the end, there are—

Nine.

There are nine people on the list.

How has he only hooked up with nine people in the last year?

Ilya goes out every weekend! He drinks! He parties! He is the most famous, most sexy hockey player in America. He buys condoms in bulk, and his housekeeper has a Found Thong protocol, and he knows the club back alleys of Boston like the ridges of his mouth guard, and his favorite local delicacy to sample during roadies are vaginas.

But are they, anymore?

Do they?

…Does he?

Nine people.

NINE.

"Eleven," Ilya mutters to himself in the shower, scrubbing his armpits. "Technically, it's eleven."

(But for two very different and obvious reasons, Ilya is not about to add Hollander or Svetlana to his list for the BPHC.)

It's probably old age sneaking up on him.

That's probably it.

Twenty five must be the start of middle age.

Dear god, he's peaked and he's now passing his sexual prime. It's over. The decline into senility has begun. His youth is spent.

"Listen," Ilya says, as he fishes out a vitamin D tablet. "This last spring, at Venu, there was puck bunny there. Alanna. You told me not to fuck her."

"Yeah?" says Anton. "I mean, I don't remember it specifically, but I definitely would have told you not to fuck Alanna."

Ilya replaces the bottle of vitamin D, and reaches for the prescription bottle of ondansetron instead. "Yes, okay. Why not?"

"Why not?"

"Yes, why not," Ilya repeats. He adds another tablet to his pile. "You told me, before, but music was very loud and I was maybe a little drunk."

"Bro. Wait, wait wait, bro I remember this night—it was after that Denver game—dude, tell me you did not sleep with her anyway."

"Answer the question, Anton," Ilya grits out.

"I fucking warned you!"

Ilya tips a doxycycline tablet into the palm of his hand. "You fucking did not."

"Dude, I totally did, I remember this! I told you! Everyone knows she's got fuckin'—gonorrhea or some shit. Chlamydia. I don't know. She refuses to get treated for it. She got Harley and Clutch back in February, and Pullman at Christmas."

"You did not fucking say she had chlamydia."

Anton audibly chokes on a laugh. "Bro. Are you saying—"

"You think I would sleep with woman if you tell me she has chlamydia?"

"So you didn't sleep with her?"

"Of course I slept with her!"

"Man, I definitely warned you, I said 'Bro you don't want to tap that, she's got the clap', and you said 'Some of us like that in a woman, Anton' and I was like oooookay man you do you but—"

"'Clap'?" Ilya demands. "'Clap', what is 'clap'? This is nickname for chlamydia?"

"Yes!"

"You think I know this?"

"Well, yeah, when you said 'Some of us like that in a woman', and not 'Hey Anton I don't know that word, what does it mean'—"

"Fuck you," Ilya announces.

He does, hazily, remember hearing Anton say 'the clap' and thinking about the weather terminology unit of his English 7 class, and how in English clap can mean applause, or a loud boom of thunder, and then he had thought about in English how they are called 'thunder thighs', and how nice it is to have his head buried between two soft, full, warm thighs, and—

"Clap is fucking stupid nickname," Ilya says.

"Yeah. Congrats on the chlamydia, I guess?"

"Fuck you," Ilya says again, and hangs up on him.

He stares at the last unopened bottle on the counter (NatureMade For Him 50+ Multivitamin) and then, with a weighty exhale, he starts to peel the safety plastic off the cap.

Jane: Are you even alive?
Jane: Not that I care.
Jane: Only I'd hate to have to faceoff with Stevens for the rest of the season.

The next morning, Ilya is one of the last to arrive at practice, having had to turn around and go back to take his stupid morning dose of stupid doxycycline. He stomps into the locker room, gym bag over one shoulder and protein shake in hand, and not thinking about the conversation he's going to need to have with Hollander tonight.

"Eyyyyyyyyyyyy!"

Ilya's head snaps up.

"Eyyyyyyyyy—"

"Eyyyy—"

"EYYYYYYY!" Anton, with finger guns, the loudest of them all.

"Welcome to the fuckin' club!" Harley says, slinging an arm over Ilya's shoulders and bodying him into a locker.

"Sucks, dude," says Pullman.

"Happens to the best of us," says Clutch.

"What club are they talking about?" one of the rookies whispers to Marleau, from the other end of the bench, not quietly enough.

"The I Fucking Kill You Club," Ilya snarls, shoving Harley off of him and stalking off to his locker, ignoring the hooting laughter and confused rookie murmurs he leaves in his wake.

Svetlana: Did you send me FIVE. HUNDRED. DENTAL. DAMS????

Ilya: So you know how you complain always I don't get you anything?

Jane: What?
Jane: No.
Jane: I don't need you to get me anything. I make more money than you do.

Ilya: Unfortunately is not returnable gift

Jane: ??
Jane: Are you talking about your dick?

Ilya: No
Ilya: Well
Ilya: Yes but not like that

Jane: And you say I'm bad at sexting.

Ilya: This is not sexting! This is serious conversation

Jane: Right.
Jane: Which you decided to open with a dick joke.

Ilya: All I talked about was gifts, you are the one bringing up my dick
Ilya: Is habit I guess

Jane: Fuck off.

Ilya: Is compliment <3

Jane: Are you watching this Nomads @ Drillers game? Lemaire's a disaster tonight.

Ilya: I don't need to watch game to know this
Ilya: That man makes glaciers look like sonic jets

Jane: He's always been slower but his technique is usually great. Just flubbed his third pass in a row.

Ilya: His winger had injury recently, yes?
Ilya: Left arm?

Jane: You're thinking of Dryden. He's second line this year

Ilya: No no omelet
Ilya: ouimet
Ilya: https://thehockeynews.com/news/latest-news/ouimet-leaves-peaks-game-with-two-minutes-to-spare
Ilya: Listen we are not on the track

Jane: I must have missed that.
Jane: Looks like their official report was no actual injury to his arm, though.
Jane: You think it's Ouimet that's giving bad passes? I haven't noticed anything off with him tonight.

Ilya: Forget hockey game

Jane: So we can talk about your dick again?

Ilya: There is something you need to know

Jane: Because seriously I'm at Hayden's.
Jane: Holding a BABY.

Ilya: Fuck
Ilya: Why

Jane: He's my godson?

Ilya: You are so annoying
Ilya: Fine
Ilya: Text me when you are home, I tell you then

Hollander calls him.

Hollander never calls him. Ilya never calls Hollander. They text, they sext (well, Ilya sexts), they assault each other with deeply casual nudes on SnapChat (okay this is also just Ilya)—but they don't call.

Every day, this stupid STD forges new mountains of chaos for him to traverse.

"Hollander," Ilya says.

"Are you kidding me?" Hollander demands.

"I just told you. Three seconds ago. Is not a joke," Ilya replies.

"Chlamydia?" Ilya has never heard Hollander's voice reach such heights in the absence of a cock. "You have chlamydia?"

"I did not get it on purpose," Ilya complains.

"No, you just have sex with literally every single fucking girl you come across," Hollander says.

"Is not every girl."

Hollander lets out a noise of disbelief.

"Only the hot ones," Ilya explains.

"You are so fucking—ugh—" Hollander blows out a breath. "Shit. It was only a matter of time, wasn't it? Of course you fucking—shit. Shit, I need to go get tested."

"If it helps," Ilya says, knowing it won't, "you are definitely hottest girl I fuck."

"This isn't fucking funny, Rozanov!" Hollander shrills. "Jesus Christ, I—I could have chlamydia!"

"Yes," Ilya agrees.

"I have a game in two days!"

"Is chlamydia, Hollander, not tuberculosis. I think you will play just fine."

"Any infection can affect your playing, asshole, it absolutely—oh my god. I have a game in two days. Oh my god, you googled this already, right?"

"Did I google," clarifies Ilya, "how chlamydia infection affects ability to play hockey?"

"Yeah."

"No."

There is a rustle and a click. Speakerphone. "I'm looking it up."

"Hollander," Ilya says.

"Shut up," Hollander says.

Ilya rolls his eyes, and waits.

And waits.

"Okay, okay, listen—fuck—'While chlamydia primarily affects the genitourinary tract'," Hollander reads, panicked and overloud, "it still produces a systemic inflammatory response that can result in fatigue, malaise and fevers—'"

"How many websites do you have to click on to find this?"

"It says it can cause pneumonia! Fuck, Rozanov, I can't get pneumonia, I can't—"

"Hollander."

"—I could have lung scarring—"

"Hollander. Breathe."

"Fuck you," breathes Hollander.

"You do not have pneumonia."

"I could. I might."

"You don't."

"Oh my god last time I sucked you off in the shower and you didn't fucking warn me—"

"That was eight weeks ago, Hollander. I think if you were going to get pneumonia from choking on my dick, you would already be in hospital, yes?"

"…Maybe," Hollander mutters, audibly annoyed that Ilya is ruining his delusions of tragedy.

This is, truly, a thankless relationship.

"You might not even have infection at all," Ilya points out, because he is apparently the patron saint of catastrophizing hockey captains tonight. "We use condoms, no? This is why we use condoms."

"Not for oral," Hollanders counters, with petulance. "And like. Um. The other oral."

"Oh, yes, so sorry I do not wear condom when giving rimjob."

"Fuck you," Hollander replies.

"Not until I finish my antibiotics, moy malenkiy chaynik."

Hollander groans. "Fuck. I need to go get tested."

"Yes," Ilya agrees.

"I hate you so much right now."

"I will cry many tears into my pillow tonight."

"Fuck off," Hollander says.

Ilya manfully refrains from terrorizing Hollander with the knowledge of what a urethral swab is. He will find out soon enough.

"Okay," Hollander adds, eventually. "Um. Good night. Rozanov."

There is a pause.

"Good night to you too?" Ilya tries.

"Yeah," Hollander says. "You too. Good night. Um. Bye."

The call ends.

Ilya rolls his eyes, and tosses his phone onto the couch cushion beside him. "Fucking weirdo," he grumbles.

He lays in bed that night, phone propped on his sternum, staring at the list of names he'd already relayed to the nice lady at the BPHC. He's not reading them. The nine names. His eyes are instead set in some middle distance, unfocused, the list a place of visual rest than an informational entity—and his thumb moves slowly up and down, preventing the screen from going dark.

No, you just have sex with literally every single fucking girl you come across.

Four days, he had waited to call Hollander.

Four nights, staring at his phone on the nightstand, with inexplicable dread gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

Fuck.

Whatever.

Ilya told him. It's done.

Jane: Rozanov I'm at the doctor.
Jane: This is so fucking embarrassing.
Jane: We are using condoms for EVERYTHING from here on out.

Jane: I'm sorry I freaked a little bit last night.
Jane: I know you didn't, like, do this on purpose.

Ilya: You knew what you were getting into when you chose to fuck a slut Hollander

Jane: [typing]
Jane: [typing]
Jane: I don't know what you want me to say to that.

Svetlana guides the Lamborghini smoothly around the next curve, and then without a word or a glance at the GPS she starts downshifting and abruptly pulls off onto a side street—turns, pulls off the road, and brings them to a stop with a perfect view of the sunset between the half-barren trees of the Blue Hill Reservation. How she knew this spot was here, Ilya does not know, and he doesn't bother to ask.

She turns to him, golden and wind-swept, and says, "Are you going to get the food, asshole, or will we starve?"

Ilya rolls his eyes, but unbuckles his seatbelt and then unwedges the insulated food carrier from between his legs, settling it carefully on his lap to unzip. His knees fall together with relief in the newly available space.

"I am enjoying my apology very much, Ilyusha" Svetlana says, with satisfaction. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," Ilya replies dryly, passing her a takeaway box, a soda, and then a fistful of napkins.

Frankly he's just glad that he was able to get away with dropping five grand on a rental, and didn't have to buy her the damned Lamborghini.

"Thank god I'm done with those pills," Svetlana groans, opening the lid to reveal a North Short 3 Way the size of her head. "The nausea was fucking awful." She glances over at Ilya. "You?"

Ilya shakes his head. "Not really. I take the medicine before I eat, and I've been okay."

"Of course the perfect Ilya Rozanov does not get side effects," Svetlana teases.

A bucket of french fries is carefully inserted between them, ahead of the gear shift, and then Ilya works on finding a place for his own sandwich, his soda, his napkins, his elbows, and also his knees.

It turns out Italian sports cars are not designed with six foot three Russians in mind.

"So," Svetlana says. "No other girls on your doorstep, seeking retribution?"

"No, all the other girls, they understand that I am an innocent victim. They do not blame me. They send me nice cards and teddy bears and balloons. 'Get Well Soon, Ilya'."

"Bullshit," says Svetlana.

Ilya shrugs a shoulder, and lifts his sandwich for the first bite.

"Did you figure out which one gave it to you in the first place?" Svetlana asks.

Ilya nods, and swallows. "Puck bunny, from this spring. Turns out she is insane. She thinks antibiotics are mind control drugs from the government and is treating her chlamydia with herbal tea instead." Ilya pauses. "Unsuccessfully." He tilts his head. "Obviously."

Svetlana turns to him, one eyebrow up. "And you slept with this girl?"

"Well, she seemed very normal during the application process, you know. Gave a good interview."

Svetlana laughs out loud.

Then, just as Ilya is biting into his sandwich again—

"So now that the horrible green pea soup isn't coming out of my vagi—"

"SVETA."

She laughs, and laughs.

Ilya scowls, and tries to scootch even an inch further away from her, but unfortunately his shoulders are still overwide for the seat by about six inches and the laws of physics have not changed in the last five minutes.

Svetlana lets him eat in peace, then, as she sets about demolishing her own sandwich.

It's a mild evening, for October, and Ilya doesn't know how she could have found a better spot for it. There are still splashes of autumn leaves in the trees, here and there, all the more vibrant for the sunset, and Ilya can hear no urban sounds except the faint rush of cars on a distant highway. A sweater and leather jacket are the perfect buffer against the cooling breeze.

Ilya is a city boy, through and through, but. He doesn't hate the countryside.

"How did Jane react?" Svetlana asks curiously.

Ilya, because he makes a living off of expertly honed reflexes, does not choke on his roast beef.

Svetlana gives him an unimpressed look. "I assume you told her."

"Of course I told her," Ilya says, after he's painfully swallowed a half-chewed bite. "I'm not a complete asshole."

Svetlana nods, and reaches for a french fry. "Is she upset?"

"No, she was overjoyed," Ilya says flatly.

Svetlana has a few more french fries.

"Are… you guys okay?" she asks, with uncharacteristic hesitation.

"She is just a girl I fuck sometimes," Ilya says shortly. "There is no—she is not my girlfriend. She's nothing."

"Okay," Svetlana says, shrugging.

The sun is, at this point, low enough that Ilya no longer needs the sunglasses. He shifts a knee, fiddles with the glove compartment until it opens, and deposits them inside. Closes it. Lets his poor leg reclaim the extra four inches of space.

"You know if she stops sleeping with you over this," Svetlana says, "she's a fucking idiot."

Ilya glances over at her. "She might. She is pretty stupid."

"She was smart enough to pick you, out of all the harlots in Boston," Svetlana replies.

Ilya gives her a wry look. "I should rent you nice cars more often."

"You absolutely fucking should," Svetlana agrees, and takes another fistful of french fries.

Ilya glances down at his half-eaten sandwich. He's not really hungry for the rest, but he takes another bite anyway.

Ilya: Hey Hollander
Ilya: Make A Wish called, they said is very nice of you to let Martel and Mckinnon actually play in a game

Ilya: Offsides? On what fucking universe??
Ilya: Yes good contest this!!!!
Ilya: Oh my god is like six replays of your left skate, you are clearly not ahead of puck
Ilya: Fucking finally

Ilya: Ok this is nice pass
Ilya: I would have deked the other way, but you managed to make work

Ilya: Enjoy victory while it lasts. Next week, I crush you

Jane: Fuck you.
Jane: Did you miss the great wall of Dinah on my left? If I'd deked that way I'd have been put straight into the boards.

Ilya: Yes, you would have, but I would not
Ilya: I have better footwork than you

Jane: You wouldn't have gotten the puck over there in the first place
Jane: You don't have the hands for that kind of run

Ilya: [typing]
Ilya: [typing]

Jane: And yeah screw that ref

Ilya: He will be out before playoffs for sure

I've got it too.

This is the text comes from Jane the next morning, as Ilya is taping his stick before warm-ups. Just four words. Ilya nevertheless understands their meaning.

His stomach flips weirdly.

He sets his phone down on the bench beside him, screen-locked but face up, and keeps an eye on it as he winds tape around the blade of his stick. Then as he tapes the knob. Then, still, as he starts pulling at the laces of his skates.

His phone is quiet

Ilya presses his phone against his thigh throughout their first team meeting, waiting to feel it buzz, and checks one last time before he heads out onto the ice just to make sure he hasn't missed any texts. He checks between warm-ups and practice, as he gulps down water. He checks after practice.

Nothing.

Whatever.

Hollander is probably just busy.

Ilya shoves his phone into his gym bag, swaggers over to Marleau's locker and says, "Hey dickface, you owe me burrito."

Ilya gets home for his afternoon break, three hours in hand before he has to return to the stadium for tonight's game, and still there are no texts from Jane. He holds his phone and stands in the middle of his living room, staring at the stupid canvas prints he'd argued with his designer about for a week—she'd wanted him to get real art for some reason—and then he blows out a breath and flops onto the couch.

Ilya: Ok, so?
Ilya: You have world's first case of lethal chlamydia?
Ilya: How long you have left to live?

Jane: Fuck you.

Ilya: Can not
Ilya: Doctor's orders ((((

Jane: They sent an antibiotic for seven days and said I'll be fine.

Ilya: Thank god, I do not have time for funeral right now
Ilya: And you probably have very strange Canadian funeral ritules
Ilya: Rituols?
Ilya: Rituals!!!!
Ilya: There will be a maple syrup involved somehow, no way you have Canadian funeral without this
Ilya: Bury you in tim hortons parking lot like honorable Canadian man you are
Ilya: All the mounties will come to salute

Ilya: Did you know they make SHIRTS?????
Ilya: https://www.etsy.com/listing/1760979259/chlamydia-survivor-shirtsarcastic
Ilya: How much I have to pay you to wear this in public

Ilya: Hollander you know with antibiotic you cannot have sex but you are still allowed to text yes?
Ilya: Or are rules different in Canada???

Jane: Don't you have a game in like 30 minutes?

Ilya: Yes but I am being very funny and you are being very bad audience

Jane: No you're being a fucking asshole.

Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Is just chlamydia
Ilya: Relax

Jane: Fuck you.

Ilya: You will be ok I promise

Jane: Should have deked right

Ilya: Fuck off Hollander

Ilya: Are you ok today or did you wake up on bitch side of the bed again?

Jane: Trying not to barf at the airport.
Jane: I hate these pills already.

Ilya: Ah, bad timing to start right before a roadie

Jane: At least it's only to Detroit.

Ilya: Hm then Buffalo Toronto Boston
Ilya: Not bad

Jane: Yeah better than last month's. Anything more than five games in one trip should be outlawed.
Jane: Hayden is great but the farts he rips could double as fumigation.

Ilya: How are you this many years into MLH and you do not have contract clause for your own room, Hollander?

Jane: I don't know.
Jane: No one else on the team has one.

Ilya: No one else on the team is captain?
Ilya: No one else on the team is on rolex billboards??

Jane: It would be weird. Like I don't like them or something.

Ilya: I have my own rooms
Ilya: Teammates still think I am bees knees

Jane: Bees knees????????

Ilya: 🐝
Ilya: Look at his little knees

Jane: HER knees.

Ilya: ?

Jane: That's a girl bee.

Ilya: It's my bee? I say is boy bee. Actually his name is Oleg
Ilya: He is good Russian bee

Jane: That bee has a stinger, Rozanov, which obviously means it's a worker bee. All worker bees are female.
Jane: The drones are male but they don't really leave the hive, so they don't need a stinger for defense.
Jane: I mean I think technically bees don't really have a gender at all? Like they don't even have sex chromosomes, but that's how biologists refer to them anyway. To make it easier.

Ilya: Of course you know this

Jane: Yes?
Jane: It's pretty common knowledge.

Ilya: It is cute you think that
Ilya: Anyway do not be homophobic Hollander, Oleg is maybe transgender bee

Jane: Oh my god
Jane: Why are you like this

Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝
Ilya: 🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝

Jane: Will you STOP

Ilya: Bored
Ilya: You weren't replying ((

Jane: You're not the only person I text with you know

Ilya: Oh yes
Ilya: How many death threats you have from other women so far?

Jane: What?

Ilya: About chlamydia
Ilya: I have three!

Jane: None?

Ilya: I suppose is very early for you. Is ok мой маленький чайник, give it a one or two days for health department to make calls. They will come.

Jane: The health department??

Ilya: Do they not have this in Montreal?
Ilya: In Boston you can ask the health department to call all the women you have fucked. They tell them they should get checked for infection and they keep your name secret whole time. It is VERY GENIUS

Jane: Oh
Jane: I mean
Jane: I don't know
Jane: Montreal probably has that too

Ilya: Do not tell me you personally called your women

Jane: Okay please don't call them my women?
Jane: That's gross.

Ilya: This is more Canadian than tim hortons funeral
Ilya: Of course you called them
Ilya: Very polite, many apologies
Ilya: Oh but they will also be Canadian too so probably they apologize back to you, yes?? And then you apologize for apology. And then they apologize for apologizing for apology. Circles and circles and circles.
Ilya: Fuck probably like thirty minutes of apology circle
Ilya: I hope you did not have many women to call, it will be taking HOURS

Jane: Yeah.
Jane: I mean no.
Jane: Not that many.

Ilya: This means I win death threat competition!
Ilya: I am GREATEST

Jane: Sorry have to board now

Jane: Dude I don't know how you're doing this

What Ilya is doing, mostly, is watching Philadelphia and Pittsburgh be profoundly mediocre on ice while indulging in an idle bit of fondling himself. He'd had an invite out to the club, but Ilya had just finished his antibiotics yesterday and… he must be feeling weird about having sex so soon after getting over the chlamydia. Or something. He isn't really thinking about it. Whatever. The clubs aren't going anywhere, he can go out another night.

Ilya: Doing what?
Ilya: Being so sexy?
Ilya: Being the best hockey player in the world??

Jane: These pills.
Jane: Ugh.

Right.

Hollander probably assumes Ilya is still taking his antibiotics, because Hollander probably assumes that Ilya hadn't waited four whole days to relay the news, because Hollander is just… fucking like that.

Hollander would not have waited four days, to tell Ilya.

Hollander wouldn't have waited four hours.

Ilya: They are making you sick?

Jane: Are you not?
Jane: I haven't kept a meal down in two days.
Jane: Hayden asked if I was PREGNANT.

Ilya: Well if anyone could manage it
Ilya: You are taking the nausea pills also yes?

Jane: What nausea pills?

Ilya: Boston doctor sent me antibiotic and also pills for nausea. Long name. I don't remember. Take 30 minutes before taking antibiotic pill.
Ilya: They do not do this in Canada?

He abandons his phone to the couch in favor of the kitchen, where he opens the cupboard that contains his little hockey pharmacy. He scans over protein powder, vitamins, creatine, various painkillers and gels, and finally comes across the little orange bottle he'd tucked behind the caffeine pills.

Ondansetron

Back on the couch, there are replies awaiting.

Jane: I don't know.
Jane: I guess my doctor didn't.

Jane: Sorry I had to puke some more

Ilya: This is medication

He attaches a photo of the bottle in his hand, making sure to angle so that the entire drug name is visible—which isn't easy, given its absurd length.

Jane: I already told you they didn't send me anything

Ilya: No
Ilya: Is so you can ask for this

Jane: I'm in America I can't just go to the doctor Rozanov
Jane: Fuck
Jane: I hate this so much
Jane: Also this hotel really needs to clean behind their toilets better

Ilya is then treated to a photo from the perspective of someone on level with a toilet bowl, and indeed, the accumulation of hair and debris that peeks out from behind the toilet back.

It paints an unpleasant visual of Hollander on the bathroom floor, sweaty and pale. Alone.

Or worse, with Hayden.

Ilya: You can use black wings team doctor no? This is what they are there for Hollander

Jane: Are you joking?
Jane: I am NOT telling the black wings team doc I have CHLAMYDIA

Ilya: Oh my god you are drama queen
Ilya: Tell him you have stomach problem
Ilya: Bad chicken

Jane: I don't think they give you nausea meds for food poisoning.
Jane: Like they want you to puke up all the bad food.
Jane: Also I don't have a fever or, like, diarrhea, or anything.

Ilya groans, letting his head tip back to stare at the ceiling in despair.

Ilya: He is team doctor not CIA interrogation expert
Ilya: He will not care why you ask for a stupid nausea medicine

Jane: I don't want to risk it.

Ilya: Risk what???

Jane: I'll just wait until I'm back in Canada. It's fine. We'll be in Toronto by Wednesday.
Jane: My doctor can send the meds to a pharmacy there.

Ilya: Wednesday is three days from now?????
Ilya: Hollander. Talk to team doctor

Jane: It's not that bad.
Jane: I'll be fine.
Jane: Hayden got me some stuff from CVS that I'm going to try.

Fucking Hayden.

Ilya is going to check that man into another fucking zip code when they play next week.

What kind of idiot looks at their teammate, who has not been able to keep down food for two days, who apparently spent twenty four minutes on ice last night in this state and plans to do it again tomorrow when he will be even more underfueled and dehydrated—and thinks the solution is ginger tea and that fucking pink shit?

Also fuck Hollander's doctor for not sending him anything to help in the first place. Like a professional internationally traveling athlete can just afford to have horrible side effects for a week? Like Hollander deserves to suffer, just because Ilya Rozanov was a careless fucking idiot?

Ilya: Whatever Hollander
Ilya: Don't faint on ice tomorrow

Jane: Fuck you.
Jane: I said I'll be fine.

And most importantly, fuck Shane Hollander for being so fucking stubborn.

Ilya lays on his couch, phone held loose in one hand, and stares at his own dim reflection in the television screen.

He is thinking about the three shots on goal Hollander had taken last night, but hadn't gotten into the net. The check he'd taken from Popov that had sent him into the boards. The passes he hadn't connected. The game that everyone had expected to a shut-out but instead had almost gone into overtime, until a last-minute goal from Dagenais had secured the Metros their expected victory.

He is thinking about Shane Hollander, clammy and green on the bathroom floor, stubbornly insisting that he is fine and his idiot friend being too stupidly nice to realize that actually Hollander needs someone to be a little mean to him sometimes. Needs someone to hold their ground, rather than capitulate. Needs someone to fight with him.

He is thinking about the gender of bees, and the exhaustive number of ways in which the various brands of ginger ale can be sorted and ranked according to certain neurotic Canadian hockey captains.

His phone buzzes.

Ilya immediately swipes past his lockscreen and opens his text messages—but instead of an update from Jane, he instead finds a series of messages on one of the Raiders group chats.

Anton: Bro they've got DJ Naught you HAVE TO COME
Anton: So fuckin sick roz
Anton: Get your ass over here rn

"Fuck," says Ilya.

He hits the back button, and his eyes go to the thread preview immediately below it.

Jane
I said I'll be fine.

"Fuck," says Ilya, with more feeling, and opens up the chrome app instead.

montreal metros stay what hotel in detroit

Jane: What the fuck.

Ilya: Yes?
Ilya: Good morning to you also?

Jane: Do you want to tell my why the front desk called my room at 7 this morning to sign for a private courier package
Jane: From LILY BOSTONOVA?

Ilya: Lily Bostonov would have been wrong gender
Ilya: Duh

Jane: I fucking hate you.
Jane: What did you even send me? I'm going to be in Boston in less than a week.
Jane: This better not be anything inappropriate.
Jane: If this is one of those chlamydia shirts I will genuinely kill you.
Jane: I know you think this whole situation is hilarious but I really really don't okay.

Ilya: Maybe stop texting me and open fucking package??

Jane: I'm waiting for Hayden to go on his run.
Jane: I don't know what you needed to overnight to my hotel but I'm not opening it with an audience.

Jane: [typing]
Jane: [typing]

Jane: [typing]

Jane: Dude what

Ilya: Oh hello did you open package then?

Jane: [typing]
Jane: You know that sending prescription medication in the mail is like super illegal right?

Ilya: Funny I know my English not so good but I do not think this says thank you?

Jane: [typing]

Ilya: Thank you Ilya for sending me good medicine so I will not vomit all day long?
Ilya: Your welcome Hollander. Is no problem. I have extra I did not use.

Jane: Sorry
Jane: I mean thank you
Jane: You didn't have to do this, like at all.
Jane: It was really nice of you.
Jane: I mean really cool of you.

Ilya: Is no problem
Ilya: Need you in top shape for game next week, not weak and fainting on ice like little princess. Will make for very boring game.

Jane: Fuck you.

Jane: [typing]

Jane: Has anyone ever told you you're kind of a confusing person?

Jane: NICE high wrap on Johnson yesterday.
Jane: He's been a lot sharper this season, I think they got a new assistant goalie coach in.

Ilya: Yes he is actually awake during games this year
Ilya: Now admirals just need him to actually move around the net

Jane: Oh they just showed the fight from third period
Jane: That punch from Wajsford looked rough

Ilya: He punches like wet fish, I am fine

Jane: Aren't all fish wet?

Ilya: Only when they're alive )))))

Jane: ??
Jane: That doesn't even make sense?

Ilya is running along the Esplanade when his phone rings. He has fancy new headphones, and so a few seconds after he feels the vibration against his arm, the music abruptly cuts in favor of a mechanical voice that says Incoming call: Jane.

What.

Ilya wrestles the strap off his bicep, pulls the velcro tab, and pries his phone from the sleeve.

"…Hollander?"

"Rozanov, hi, I—shit, are you alone? Can you talk? I should have texted first, sorry, I just—um. Um, is this a good time?"

Hollander sounds panicked. Not life-or-death panicked, but normal, Hollander-panicking panicked.

Oh, good.

Ilya glances around the Esplanade, which is all but abandoned on this random October morning. "Yes, is okay." He tries to keep the what the fuck from his tone of voice, but he's still thinking it. "But I am not in good place for phone sex, if this is why you call."

"Oh my god, I did not—"

"Relax, Hollander," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "It was joke."

"Fuck you," says Hollander.

If Ilya ever gets to make a wish on a magic lamp, he is going to ask for one hundred dollars every time Hollander says that to him. He'll never need to appease another brand deal for the rest of his life.

"Okay, okay. Tell me why you call, then," Ilya says, very nicely, instead of the six or seven other snarkier responses that present themselves.

"Um," says Hollander.

Ilya waits.

"Well," says Hollander.

A pair of joggers pass by.

On the other side of the river, Ilya can see a little tent going up and a bunch of people in action around it with tables and crates.

"Holl—"

"I think I might have given Hayden chlamydia," Hollander blurts out.

What.

"What?"

"Listen I know it's going to sound crazy—"

"Yes," agrees Ilya, most fervently.

"—but he's really particular about his compression shorts because he's got, like, really sensitive skin, and there's only a few brands that make the exact fiber blend that doesn't flare up his eczema, and last month when we were on our roadie Air Canada lost his suitcase and we had a game that night and I had a pair of the exact brand that he wears and—"

Oh Jesus Christ.

"—and none of the stores nearby had them and it was our last game so all my other ones were dirty and we didn't have time to have them washed before—"

"Hollander."

"—and you and I last had sex back in August which means I definitely had chlamydia the week he borrowed—"

"Hollander!"

"I know it sounds crazy!"

Ilya lets the silence settle for a few seconds.

"Maybe a little crazy," Ilya allows, after he has heard Hollander take several breaths of air. "But okay. So he wore your shorts. Did he wear your cup, also?"

"Ew, no," Hollander says immediately. "He got a new one from the store. It was just the base layers."

"Okay, and you wear cup, too, yes?"

"Yes, but—"

"So," Ilya says with patience, "should be fine. No?"

"Okay, number one, it's a cup, not an antimicrobial barrier," Hollander argues, because god forbid they ever have a conversation where he doesn't make Ilya's brain trip over a vocabulary word or two. "Number two, did you know that up to twenty five percent of men with chlamydia in the penis also have it in their rectum?"

"…No," says Ilya.

Huh.

"And you know that I—um." Hollander's voice goes lower. "You know. I probably had it there, too. Because."

"Yes," Ilya agrees, letting Hollander off the hook on this one. "Okay, so, what—you think you accidentally gave Hayden butt-chlamydia?"

Hollander lets out a noise like a trodden cat.

"Is this even possible?" Ilya asks. "To give someone chlamydia with your clothing?"

"…Well," says Hollander.

Ilya heaves a sigh.

"It is possible! It's unlikely, but it's still possible."

Ilya's thumbs work on his phone for a few moments. "'No, chlamydia cannot be transferred via toilet seats, clothing, or other surfaces'," he reads aloud. "'Chlamydia bacteria do not survive for long outside of the body, usually less than 30 minutes, and—'"

"Yeah, I know, I know, I read the same article, asshole."

"Okay," says Ilya. "So did you wear the shorts thirty minutes before you gave them to Hayden?"

"No, but—"

"So is fine."

"But what if it isn't?"

Ilya rolls his eyes. "Look, this is another website. 'It is important to know that you can't be infected with chlamydia through casual contact. This includes sitting on a toilet seat, sharing clothes or kitchen utensils, hugging, kissing or swimming in the same water as an infected person.'"

"Oh my god the ice baths with the trainers," Hollander moans.

"Do you even listen?" Ilya demands. "It says it cannot infect in water. Or clothing. You are okay."

"I have to tell the team," Hollander decides.

Ilya face-palms. "Do not do that."

"I have to."

"You do not."

"No, I have to, I—I—I-Ilya, I have to—"

"You are panicking," Ilya interrupts. "Stop. Stop, stop, stop. Take a deep breath."

Hollander inhales.

"Let breath out."

"Fuck you," says Hollander. "I'm not—I'm fine—"

"Take another breath," Ilya orders.

Hollander does.

He exhales audibly.

"Good," says Ilya.

"I'm not panicking," Hollander announces.

"Okay."

"I'm not."

"Okay," Ilya agrees.

Hollander hangs up.

Jane: Fuck.
Jane: Rozanov.
Jane: Jackie's pregnant.

Ilya: Who in the fuck is Jackie????
Ilya: Oh Pikes wife

Jane: Yes.
Jane: Fuck.
Jane: Chlamydia when you're pregnant is probably so bad right?

Ilya: Hollander you did not give Hayden your chlamydia
Ilya: So Hayden cannot give to Jackie
Ilya: IS OK

Jane: https://americanpregnancy.org/pregnancy/chlamydia-during-pregnancy/
Jane: Roz it can cause multiple complications including PRETERM LABOR.
Jane: Oh my god.
Jane: Shit shit shit

Ilya: You did not give Hayden chlamydia with your stupid compression shorts
Ilya: "Chlamydia bacteria do not survive for long outside of the body, usually less than 30 minutes"
Ilya: https://www.sh.uk/about-stis/chlamydia/mythsvsfacts

Jane: I know, I know, you're probably right.

Ilya: Yes me and every other website on internet
Ilya: Jesus Christ

Jane: Did you know that if a baby is born and the mom has chlamydia the baby can go BLIND????

Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Is 2 am

Jane: I can't sleep.
Jane: What if I make their baby go blind.
Jane: Did you know that chlamydia is the leading infectious cause of blindness worldwide??
Jane: https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/trachoma
Jane: Fuck you should see the pictures of these babies.

Ilya: Fine then tell Hayden

Jane: HOW
Jane: Fuck
Jane: I can't tell Hayden I might have given his wife chlamydia.

Ilya: Ok don't tell Hayden

Jane: His baby could go BLIND

Ilya: Hollander have you at all considered therapy

Jane: Fuck you this isn't fucking funny

Ilya: Sorry sorry

Ilya: Ok
Ilya: Is just
Ilya: Normally you are very rational person. You obsess on statistics for hockey. You trust numbers. Why are chlamydia numbers different?

Jane: Because.
Jane: I don't know.
Jane: You're right, I know you're right.
Jane: It's just been a hard week. I can't get my head together.

Ilya: You are still sick?

Jane: No the meds helped.
Jane: Thank you, by the way. Seriously.
Jane: I just
Jane: I don't know

Ilya: Tell me

Jane: I know it wasn't a big deal for you, the chlamydia.

Ilya: [typing]

Jane: I mean it's NOT a big deal. I know that. Like it's easily treatable and it won't make me sick and I probably didn't give it to Hayden or Jackie or the baby or anything.
Jane: But
Jane: Getting diagnosed
Jane: It just made me feel like… really stupid.
Jane: You know?

Ilya: No
Ilya: Hollander
Ilya: Listen you are not stupid

Jane: And I feel like if I was dumb enough to get chlamydia then what else am I letting slip? What else am I missing?

"Hey, it's Shane Hollander. I can't come to the phone right now, but please leave your name and—"

"You do remember I'm still sharing a room with Hayden," Hollander hisses, when he finally picks up.

Oh right.

Ilya had, in fact, forgotten.

"Hang on, hang on, let me get in the elevator," Hollander says, still harried.

"You are not stupid," Ilya repeats. He pats around his nightstand for the lamp. "Except maybe for not having private room clause in your contract. This is kind of stupid."

"Fuck you," Shane says.

In the background, there's a muffled ding.

Ilya finally finds the switch for the lamp, and his bedroom floods golden.

"You didn't need to call," Shane mutters.

"I get tired on English keyboard sometimes," Ilya replies. "Easier to just talk. You know?"

"Oh," says Hollander.

For some reason, it makes Ilya's mouth curve into a little smile.

"Are there, uh. I mean. How many letters does the Russian alphabet even have? Twenty six?" Hollander asks.

"No," Ilya says. "Is thirty three."

"Thirty three?"

"Da," says Ilya.

"Wow," says Hollander.

"Yes, is very impressive language," agrees Ilya.

"I was listening to this podcast recently about, uh, how the Chinese type?" Hollander says. "Because they don't really have an alphabet, you know, they just have like thousands of characters that represent words and concepts and stuff. And so when typewriters were invented they couldn't just use a Western keyboard with different symbols on it, like um. Like Russians. They had to come up with another solution completely."

Ilya can hear the beep of a card reader, and the swing of a door.

The lobby? The rooftop? Pool?

It's October, in Toronto, and Ilya doubts Hollander is wearing anything but a pair of slides and his pajamas. It would be just like him to panic and run outside and then freeze.

"And, like, there were all these inventions that tried to fix the problem," Hollander is telling him, cadence speeding up a bit as it always does when he starts getting excited like this. "And—and obviously they figured it out, but it's not like Western countries, it's like—because even today there isn't one standard way that the Chinese type—you can type phonetically, where each key represents a sound, or you can type by shape and build your characters line by line, or—and everyone argues over the best way—and they have typing competitions. Like, on television!"

Ilya's chest feels funny.

Heartburn, probably.

"Um. Sorry," Hollander says, while Ilya is busy propping his pillows so he can sit upright and trying to remember if he owns a bottle of Tums. "I, uh. Just thought it was interesting. I hadn't really thought about it a lot. How character-based languages work on keyboards."

"No, no, is very interesting," Ilya says at once. "You know secret about me is, I actually love Chinese typing reality TV shows? I watch right after Shark Tank."

Hollander exhales. "You're such an asshole."

There's a clang, from the other end of the line, followed by a muffled curse.

"Where are you hiding right now?" Ilya asks, wrinkling his nose.

"The, uh, hotel gym," Hollander replies. "Sorry. I banged the pull bar."

"Ah, yes, you are… what is word?" Prone to. Ilya knows the Russian but he forgets the English. "Eh. You are very often banging things in hotel gym, hm?"

"I mean I'm not usually that clums—" Hollander pauses. "Oh."

Ilya laughs out loud.

"No, I am not," Hollander says sourly. "Fuck you."

"Oh, is just certain very sexy Russian men, you are banging in hotel gyms?" Ilya teases.

There is a very loud, very pointed CLANG! from the other end of line.

"We didn't even… do that," Hollander complains, when Ilya has mostly finished cackling.

"You wanted to, though," Ilya replies.

"Shut up. I wasn't the one with the fucking—phallic water bottle between my spread legs."

"My English was not so good back then," Ilya says wickedly. "I had to make actions, not words."

"Your English was fine," Hollander retorts. "Asshole."

Ilya huffs out another laugh, and runs a fingertip over his silken sheets. They're black, which means they're sexy, except that they show every single stray hair and speck of dust and are a bitch to get come stains out of. (At least, that's what his housekeeper tells him.)

"So?" Ilya asks.

"So?" Hollander repeats. "So, you called me, dickhead."

Oh, yeah.

Ilya had.

Hm.

"Uh. Rozanov?" Hollander ventures. "Don't tell me you fucking fell asleep."

Ilya… wants to say yes. Quite badly. He wants to lay the trap for the next joke he can feel brewing. He wants to seduce. He wants to distract. He wants to just hang the fuck up and go back to sleep and not think about why he is calling Shane Hollander at two-thirty in the fucking morning ever again.

Silk bunches smoothly in the creases of his palm.

"I think—"

"What?"

Ilya sighs. "I am thinking I should say sorry. Hollander."

Silence.

"For giving you chlamydia," Ilya adds.

"Oh," says Hollander.

Ilya's left arm is draped overtop his head, allowing him to give his right ear a few good tugs. "I know I am an asshole," he says, at length. He takes in a deep breath, and rolls out his neck. "I say a lot of things. You say a lot of things. But—all that outside, I would never on purpose give you infection like this. I would not. And. I am sorry."

"Oh," says Hollander, again.

Perhaps he's more eloquent in French.

"I-I mean," Hollander stutters out. "I mean, it's fine. I know you didn't do it on purpose. I know it's like—it's not actually a big deal."

"It is big deal to you," Ilya says.

"Yeah, well, there's—" Hollander stops. He blows out a breath. "It doesn't matter."

"Hollander."

"I said it's fine, dude."

"Ah, this is why you text me all day and night about making babies blind with your chlamydia butthole?" Ilya prods. "Because you are fine?"

"Since when do you even fucking care, Rozanov?" Hollander snaps.

"Oh my god, you are like teenage girl," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "Get over yourself. I ask simple question."

There is a noise, distinctly similar to a pull bar being brought down, followed by the clatter of weights falling back on the stack as it's released.

It happens again.

And again.

Then—quiet.

"It's stupid," Hollander mutters.

"I am stupid idiot who gave you chlamydia," Ilya reminds him.

"I mean, my—my brain is stupid. Like… It gets stuck on things sometimes. Like, dumb stuff. I don't know."

Ilya frowns. "You mean like, ah… how is it called…"

Тревожность.

Anxiety?

"It's fine," Hollander says hastily. "It's fine, it's—I know how to deal with it. It's not a new thing. The, uh. The chlamydia is just. I guess." Hollander huffs. "I'm just not supposed to be someone who gets chlamydia. You know?"

"Yes," Ilya says quietly. He runs a hand through his hair, and leaves it dug into his curls, thinking.

"I'll get over it," Hollander says. "Don't worry about it. It's—I got over socks, I can get over chlamydia."

Ilya blinks. "Socks?"

"Long story," Hollander replies. "Stupid brain."

"Okay," Ilya says, with skepticism.

"Hey, this is kinda weird, right?" Hollander asks.

"You are very weird person, yes," Ilya agrees. "I am saying this for years."

"Not me, asshole. This. Us. Talking on the phone."

"Is third time this week," Ilya says, because… it is.

Huh.

"Anyway," Ilya says, moving on before this realization can percolate any further. "You think you are suffering, Hollander. Whole team has found out I have chlamydia. They buy me cake before last game that says Congratulations on Your STD."

"Your whole team knows?"

"Yes, they are most terrible gossips," Ilya says fondly. "Worse than old grandmas. But good taste in bakeries! Cake was like… spicy chocolate? Very very good."

"Jesus," says Hollander.

"Still, I make them do bag skate next day," Ilya adds. "I sit on the bench with cake and watch."

Hollander laughs. "You better hope they don't find those stupid chlamydia shirts online."

"Ehhhh," says Ilya. "My housekeeper can always use more rags for cleaning. Or I can give to Svetlana. She will beat me with it, probably, but it will be very funny also."

"Who's Svetlana?" Hollander asks curiously.

Ilya stifles a yawn. "Old friend. From Russia. I give her chlamydia, too."

"…Oh," says Hollander.

Maybe Ilya should ask the magic lamp for one hundred dollars every time Hollander says oh, instead of fuck you. Maybe he could ask for both. You get three wishes on a magic lamp, don't you? He can ask for oh and fuck you, and… hm.

Fuck off, is probably the third most common thing Hollander says to him.

Or fuck me.

Maybe Ilya should just ask for one hundred dollars every time Hollander says fuck.

"You, um. Saw her this summer? When you went home?"

"Yes. But I see her here, too. She lives in Boston."

"Oh," says Hollander, for approximately the ninety-fifth time. "That's cool I guess."

It has never occurred to Ilya, what it would be like for Svetlana to meet Hollander. Part of him thinks she would eat Hollander alive, but… part of him also wonders if she might not. If she might be taken in by Hollander's hideously awkward social manners. How he ducks his head when he smiles. The way he's so fucking earnest.

"So she's like your girlfriend?" Hollander asks, abruptly.

"What? No," Ilya says. "No, that would not work at all. She and I, we are—what is it? Friends with fucking?"

"Friends with benefits," says Hollander, though it's flat.

"Yes, this," Ilya agrees. "Friends with benefits."

"Right."

"She was very angry about chlamydia infection. I had to rent her a Lamborghini as apology." Ilya pauses. "Maybe I should not be giving you ideas, hm?"

"Do you, uh. Like. D'you have a lot of friends with benefits?" Hollander asks.

Ilya frowns. "Not really. Mostly girls in clubs, puck bunnies. Sometimes Tinder, but… this one can be problem. Why are you asking this?"

"What, I can't ask about the girls you're—fucking?" Hollander demands, with an uncharacteristic stumble over his favorite word.

"…Are you jealous?" Ilya asks slyly.

Silence.

Ilya's smirk begins to fade.

"Look, I need to go to bed," Hollander says suddenly. "I need to—"

"You are jealous?" Ilya says, baffled.

"What? No."

"Is… just girls, Hollander," Ilya says, wondering where the fuck this is coming from. "You do not care before, if I am fucking them, same as I do not care about the girls you fuck in Montreal, yes?"

Hollander laughs, but it's suddenly—shockingly bitter. "Yeah. Right. All the girls I fuck in Montreal."

And what the fuck does that mean?

"Look, it's—never mind," Hollander says, before Ilya can even get his mouth open. "It doesn't matter. You're right. Have sex with whoever you want, Rozanov. It's none of my business."

"This is because one of them gave us chlamydia?" Ilya asks, feeling like he's missed a step on the stairs. Several steps on the stairs. "Because I promise to get testing all the time, now, I have learned lesson, I will check every three months, I will—"

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Hollander interrupts. "I said it's fine, dude."

It doesn't sound fine.

Hollander doesn't sound fine.

"Look, I need to go to bed," Hollander says.

"You are upset."

"No, come on, I—I'm tired. It's almost three in the morning."

"Hollander."

"I have be at the rink by like, eight, tomorrow morning and I've got meetings all afternoon and then we've got Toronto at six and then—"

"Do you not want me to fuck other girls?" Ilya blurts out.

His heart is pounding.

The blood is rushing in his ears.

He can hear Hollander breathing, and the phone is slippery against the sudden sweat on his palm, and Ilya doesn't know why the fuck he'd just asked that.

"I can't…" Hollander says, thready and high. "Fuck, I can't do this."

"What do you—"

The line goes dead.

Ilya is very glad that he hadn't listened to his designer, and went for the canvas prints instead of original paintings on his walls.

A canvas print is a lot easier to replace, when you throw a cell phone through it.

Chapter 2

"I've been saying since boot camp that he should be putting Carmichael on that little Michigan shitstain, but what do I know? I've only been on this team for seven fuckin' years." Pullman rolls his eyes, and takes a swig of his beer.

"He's saving Carmichael for the Metros," Marleau says, shaking his head. "You know his ankle's still not a hundred percent. And he's worried about that new winger they picked up in the draft."

"Yeah, well, now we're two months into the season and already down a D-man," Pullman replies.

Wiggs' head comes up from his phone. "Hey, you don't know that, man."

"Did you see the same hit I did this afternoon?"

"He'll be fine. Back on ice next week."

Ilya is digging into the label of his own beer bottle with a stubby thumbnail, and worrying at a piece of food stuck in between two of his molars. It had appeared some time between the hot wings and the mozzarella sticks, and he's trying to get it out before the jalapeño poppers arrive.

On the screen just over Pullman's shoulder, Montreal are tied with Toronto in the second period, and Hollander is at center ice.

He wins the faceoff, of course.

The puck immediately gets passed off right, where Ilya would have gone left, and Hollander gets buried in Toronto jerseys for a few seconds before Pike comes in hard from the left. The camera zooms out, and somehow Hollander has popped up on the other side of the blue line, connecting the puck from JJ, around a D-man, back to JJ, over to Pike, back to Hollander and—

Right into the goalie's glove.

Ilya winces a little—but it's Christoffel Rodier, so there's no real shame in the miss. That man is a brick wall and a half. Even Ilya has a hard time getting past him.

Back in August, fresh off a preseason shutout, Ilya had been pouting on the couch and texting with Hollander.

Ilya: Shut the fuck up Hollander you never score on him either

Jane: My Stanley cup says otherwise.
Jane: *cups
Jane: :)

Ilya: You think I do not watch playoffs???
Ilya: You scored on his tandem

Jane: I definitely got a couple shots on him last year.
Jane: He's not impossible. You just have to study his tapes and not get psyched out by his posturing.
Jane: And know how to aim a puck.

Ilya: Fuck you I score on him also
Ilya: More than you probably

Jane: We're up against them next week.
Jane: Bet I get one in.

Ilya: …what do you bet?

Ilya had mostly been kidding but by the next morning he had awoken to an email inviting him to a shared, color-coded Google spreadsheet and a list of precise rules to be followed (shots on goal did not count, assists did not count, shootouts did count, etc., etc.) and it wasn't like Ilya was going to say no to a competition where the prize was sex.

Hollander misses again. A beautiful backhand, especially for him, but evidently still not good enough for Rodier.

Can not wait to see new 0 in spreadsheet Hollander, is what Ilya wants to send.

Is not looking good for your mouth

Maybe you bring your pads, after our last game in April. Important to save your knees for playoffs

"Roz? Hello?"

Ilya's head snaps around to Marleau. "What?"

"You're in outer fucking space, is what," Marleau replies. "The Guardians aren't that interesting. Jesus. Where do you want to go out, after this?"

"Juno," Ilya says at once.

Pullman wrinkles his nose. "All the way over in Seaport?"

"They have this thing," Ilya says. "Is called taxi cab."

"Wiggs isn't allowed in taxis anymore," says Marleau.

"Fuck you," says Wiggs. "It's only happened twice, and the second time wasn't my fault, I was—"

"I will babysit his phone," Ilya says impatiently. "In my hand, whole time. Physically impossible, he will not forget in taxi this time. It will be fine."

"You guys know Marleau has puked in multiple taxi cabs. Multiple. I don't know why I'm the problem here."

"Bro, I told you, I only get car sick if I'm not in the front!"

"Bro—"

The jalapeno poppers arrive, and the argument is paused so they can be immediately demolished.

"Let's just go to The Drop," Pullman says, through a mouthful of breaded cheesy peppers. "It's literally two blocks away."

"Yeah, I'm down," Marleau agrees.

"Sorry, Roz," adds Wiggs.

On the screen, second period is closing out and the score is now 1-2. Hollander is mid-celly.

This night is going from bad to worse.

The girl keeps circling back to him on the dance floor, every other song.

She's hot.

Their gazes meet, again and again, through laser lights and drifting smoke, their bodies moving in time to the music. Her mouth is plump, and her eyes are dark. Her hands are a featherweight on his hips.

When she kisses him, Ilya does his best to ignore the unpleasant slick of her lip gloss. A mouth is a mouth. A body is a body.

A kiss is a kiss.

The song transitions into an intro for something electronic, something faster—a remix of that Drake song—and energy ripples through the club as excitement begins to build. Bodies press in around them. Strobe lights flash. The beat drops, and the floor goes electric.

The girl pulses against him, with him, tits bouncing, head bobbing. She brings him in for another greasy kiss.

The squeeze of her hand over the bulge of his cock, then, does not come as a surprise.

When she pulls back, neon pink lasers reflecting in the dark of her eyes, she licks her lips and tilts her head in the direction of the exit.

Getting diagnosed, it just made me feel like… really stupid.

It keeps echoing in his head, even now.

Especially now.

Ilya wonders how many other men this girl has sucked off in back alleys. How often she lets them get away with not using protection. When she was last tested for anything. Last month? Last year? Does she get tested at all?

Her mouth is shiny with that stupid gloss, red and full, and all Ilya can think about is the way it'll leave the condom slippery with grease afterward.

How she may do this often enough to be good, but she still won't know the particular way he likes that extra bit of pressure from a thumb right at the base, or the way a swallow just before he comes makes him practically white out.

He isn't even hard.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Ilya shakes his head.

She is gorgeous and willing, she is here, and still—he offers her a half-smile, and shakes his head no.

He gets a shrug in return. The girl sways into a turn without missing a beat, and lifts her hands up over her head as she starts to grind her ass up against him instead.

They dance on.

Ilya: Nice goal on Romier Hollander
Ilya: Too bad it only brings you up to tie with me

To: irozanov@raiders.mlh.com
From: Amazon.com <auto-confirm@amazon.com>
Subject: Your Amazon.com order #197-8103310-4788802

Hello Ilya,

Thank you for shopping with us. We'll send a confirmation when your items ship.

     Details

          Montblanc Men's Mb0348s Sunglass Man Metal Sunglasses, Multi-Colour | Quantity 1

          SIMKHAI Elikai Ribbed Tank | Quantity 2

          Omega Men's 326.30.40.50.01.002 Speed Master Racing Analog Display Swiss Automatic Silver Watch | Quantity 1

          Rice Krispies Treats Crispy Marshmallow Squares, Kids Snacks, Cereal Bars, Original, 31.2oz Box (40 Bars) | Quantity 2

          Sweatsedo Mens Velour Tracksuit | L | Burnt Orange | Quantity 1

          adidas Men's Grand Court Alpha Shoe | Size 13 | Halo Green/Grey/Tent Green | Quantity 1

          Nintendo Classic Mini Console | Quantity 1

          Fullstar The Original Pro Chopper - Vegetable Chopper and Spiralizer, Food Chopper with Container, Fruit Slicer, Kitchen Gadgets & Gifts, Home Essentials (4 in 1, White) | Quantity 1

     Arriving: Saturday October 13th

Ship to:

Ilya Rozanov
81 Fullerton St
Boston, MA 02110

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Svetlana: Fuck this construction on the south Boston bypass
Svetlana: Can they not just do this at night? Instead of fucking rush hour??
Svetlana: You have one minute to start distracting me or I will start picking apart the loss to Detroit yesterday

"Why are you even on the bypass at—" Ilya glances over at the clock on his nightstand. "—nine in the morning?"

"Client in Jamaica Plains," Svetlana sighs.

Ilya makes a noise of disgust.

"I know," Svetlana agrees, with martyrdom. "And I didn't even get my favorite driver."

Ilya casts about. "…Paul?"

"Patrick," Svetlana corrects.

Ilya clicks on a red Yamaha logo, and while the webpage loads, he reaches over to grab his Extra Large Dunkin Donuts Pumpkin Spice Signature Iced Latte and has a moment of profound appreciation for the American obsession with minimizing the need to ever leave your house. There is a delivery option in the app now. Ilya is truly living in the future.

"I'm surprised you're awake at this hour," Svetlana comments.

"Club was lame last night," Ilya says. "Music was lame. Drinks were shitty. I'm buying a jet ski."

"A jet ski?"

"I've decided to have a mid-life crisis," Ilya explains. He hovers over the drop-downs for Rec Lite, Recreation, Performance and Luxury, and then selecting Luxury after he confirms it's the most expensive option. "And I already own a motorcycle. And a Porsche. And I don't have a wife to divorce."

"I'd make a fabulous ex-wife," Svetlana informs him.

"I weep for your future divorce attorney," Ilya replies. "Do you know, you can only buy a jet ski in like two colors? Some models, only one. Like I want to spend twenty thousand dollars on a jet ski that's black?"

"Where are you even going to use a jet ski? It's October and we live in Boston."

"We still live on the ocean, Svetlana."

"It's October."

Ilya rolls his eyes. "I'll buy a wetsuit. What kind of Russian do you think I am?"

"You know you could get it painted after you buy it," Svetlana says. "What do you want? Yellow like the Porsche?"

"Mm," says Ilya, clicking on another link. "Hot pink."

"I am not riding a hot pink jet ski," Svetlana complains. "I'll look like fucking Barbie. Get yellow."

"Who says you're riding it?"

"Oh, so you're buying me my own?"

"I thought it was too cold for the little Russian princess to be out on the water?"

"It will be summer, eventually," Svetlana says. "What about blue? Do they have blue?"

"Buy your own midlife crisis machine, woman," Ilya grouses, as he clicks on an elite sporting model that is, by complete coincidence, bright turquoise blue.

"You should buy a boat," Svetlana suggests.

"I don't want a boat," Ilya says.

"A yacht," Svetlana presses.

"That is also a boat."

"Think of all the parties you could throw! You could get one with a hot tub. And a DJ booth. And dock the jet skis on it! It would be perfect."

Ilya opens a new tab and types in buy yacht.

"Mm," he says, scrolling. "Only like one million for a yacht—oh, one point five for this one, with the hot tub. Not bad."

"You could be captain of two things," Svetlana says coaxingly.

"Stop trying to spend my fortune," Ilya complains, and closes out of the tab. "I'm getting jet skis and that's it."

"Jet skis, plural?" Svetlana asks.

"Shut up," says Ilya. He slurps on his Extra Large Dunkin Donuts Pumpkin Spice Signature Iced Latte. "Hm. Also."

"…Yes?" Svetlana says, at length.

"I think," says Ilya. "Maybe. I am going to only have sex with Jane, right now."

Silence.

"Oh, shit," says Svetlana. "This is a mid-life crisis."

"You see why I need jet skis," Ilya says sadly.

"Oh my god."

"I know."

"You're going monogamous?"

"A day of national mourning for the women of Boston, yes."

"Is—is Jane putting you up to this?" Svetlana asks. "Because of the chlamydia thing, she suddenly doesn't want you with anyone else?"

"No," Ilya says quickly. "No, no, no, she—she does not know."

Jane isn't even really talking to him, at the moment, but that's beside the point.

"Wow," says Svetlana.

Ilya jabs the straw up and down through the ice, jiggling the cup, trying to get what's left of the coffee into one pocket.

"I don't even remember the last time you had a girlfriend," Svetlana says. "When we were twelve? Thirteen?"

"She is not my girlfriend," Ilya objects. "We are just—I am just not fucking other people anymore. For a while. Maybe. Who knows, maybe I will change my mind."

"I have to meet this woman, Ilya," Svetlana says.

"Ah-hah," says Ilya. "No."

"I promise to be nice!"

"Jane is—very shy."

"Not in bed, apparently," Svetlana retorts. "My god, this is the sex demon that has just ruined you for all other women! She must have the most talented mouth on the Eastern Seaboard and a cunt to match."

Ilya thinks of the delicious stretch of Hollander's mouth around his cock.

The heat of his tongue, and the tight ring of his fingers around the base, the way he presses the pad of his thumb in just right.

But most of all—god fucking help him—Ilya thinks of the way Hollander looks up at him through his lashes, mid-blowjob, sly and confident and familiar.

He's never had anyone learn his body like Hollander has.

It should only make sense, he thinks, that he's been ruined for all these stupid one night stands. Why would he settle for the drunken grad students who are doing this on a dare from their friends, or the club girls who think Ilya wants some kind of performance in bed? Why should he have to go out into the night, waiting for taxis and getting cheap alcohol spilled on his clothing, when he, indeed, has his very own little Canadian sex demon just a phone call away?

"Well," Svetlana says. "Mazel tov, I guess."

"Thanks," says Ilya.

"It had better be a yellow jet ski," Svetlana adds.

"It only comes in blue or black," Ilya replies. "You want yellow, you can have it painted."

"Done."

Ilya hits Add to Cart.

Ilya: Hollander

Ilya: Hollander

Ilya: Hollander

Ilya: Hollander

Ilya: Hollander

Ilya: Hollander

Ilya: Ok this is boring
Ilya: I have a better idea
Ilya: 2015 2016 season
Ilya: Darrell Lessio #2 in league for save percentage .932

Ilya: Pavel Davydov #7 in league for goals, scored 7

Ilya: Drillers #6 with average goals per game 3.31

Ilya: Drillers #4 with power play 20.6%

Ilya: Queens #1 with shut outs 4

Ilya: Ricard Cirella #1 with penalty minutes 276

Jane: Do you have a fucking timer set for this?
Jane: Also fuck you.

Ilya: Yes )

Jane: YOU had the most penalty minutes last season and you know it.

Ilya: Oh ok my mistake
Ilya: The others are correct, ok?

Jane: I hate you so much.
Jane: You know they're not. Asshole.

Ilya: Oh no did I get another one wrong? (((
Ilya: Which one???? ((((((((

Jane: What do you want Rozanov?

Ilya: To share hockey fun facts with my Jane!
Ilya: You come to Boston tomorrow? Or Sunday morning?

Jane: Tomorrow.

Ilya: Late?

Jane: No I think we land at like noon.
Jane: Why?

Ilya: You are coming to my place yes?
Ilya: Remember is NEW HOUSE

Jane: [typing]
Jane: [typing]

Ilya: I miss your mouth
Ilya: I am suffering since last time
Ilya: No one in Boston sucks cock like you do ((

Jane: Well you can keep missing it asshole.
Jane: I'm not done with my antibiotics yet.

Ilya: What?
Ilya: How long are antibiotics in Canada? In Boston was 7 days???

Jane: Also 7 days.
Jane: Except when you spend the first 4 puking up everything you try to eat.
Jane: And then when you see a doctor in Toronto for more nausea meds they tell you that you have to start the antibiotics all over to make up for the doses you puked up.

Ilya: Oh
Ilya: Well this is only small problem

Jane: See you next time I guess.

Ilya: Where is your hockey IQ Hollander??
Ilya: You give up just like that????
Ilya: We will make strategy

Jane: It's fine dude.
Jane: Maybe next time you're in Montreal we can find some time.

Ilya: Oh my god you have creativity of potato
Ilya: Listen
Ilya: There are many very sexy things we can do without touching each other
Ilya: Is maybe fun
Ilya: Like challenge
Ilya: You can practice your dirt talking

Jane: Dirty talk. It's called DIRTY talk.

Ilya: Or I can practice mine
Ilya: How fast can I make you come with just my voice, you think?
Ilya: I am thinking
Ilya: You naked in my bed
Ilya: Touching yourself

Jane: I cannot believe you are trying to talk me into weird chlamydia sex right now.

Ilya: Maybe I tell you where to touch yourself
Ilya: See if you are good boy for me
Ilya: I think you would be

Ilya: Are you touching yourself right now?

Jane: No?
Jane: I'm in an Uber on my way to a meeting

Ilya: You are hopeless
Ilya: Okay but
Ilya: This sounds hot yes? No need to touch, we can still have sexy fun

Jane: IDK I still probably shouldn't jerk off on your sheets.
Jane: What if I reinfect you that way?

Ilya: I will wash them???
Ilya: You think I am going to sleep in gross sex mess?
Ilya: We can use towel too

Jane: I don't know.
Jane: Like every website about chlamydia is really clear. NO sex until you finish the antibiotics.

Ilya: I will clean sheets with bleach after. Very clean.
Ilya: Most clean.
Ilya: They will smell like hospital.

Jane: Do you even own bleach?
Jane: And are your sheets white?
Jane: Otherwise you know the bleach will ruin them.

Ilya: Oh my god ok
Ilya: Fine
Ilya: I will burn them
Ilya: I have real back yard now I can do this
Ilya: No more chlamydia 100% gone
Ilya: Happy?

Jane: Burn them??

Ilya: Karla will probably have party
Ilya: She has hated these sheets many years

Jane: Who is Karla?

Ilya: My cleaning woman

Jane: Oh.
Jane: Anyway you shouldn't burn trash.
Jane: It's really bad for the environment.

Ilya: Oh my fucking god

Jane: What?

Ilya: When I kill you
Ilya: These text messages will get me exoneration from jury

Jane: Did you just look up the English word for exoneration?

Ilya: This is not important
Ilya: Come to my house tomorrow

Jane: Maybe.

To: irozanov@raiders.mlh.com
From: Amazon.com <auto-confirm@amazon.com>
Subject: Your Amazon.com order #230-1154300-3718062

Hello Ilya,

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     Arriving: Saturday October 13th

Ship to:

Ilya Rozanov
81 Fullerton St
Boston, MA 02110

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The knock at the door does not come as a surprise, because Hollander had texted twenty two minutes ago that he was en route. Possibly it was twenty one minutes ago. Or even twenty three.

Ilya has not even a little bit been counting.

The door opens to reveal Hollander in typical Hollander state—gym-casual, hands in pockets, hair still visibly damp from the shower—and there is no reason, no fucking reason that this sight should make Ilya's dick twitch.

"Hey," Ilya says.

Hollander nods. "Hey."

Ilya steps back, and uses the open door as coverage to discreetly readjust his pants.

"Do I take my shoes off?" Hollander asks, casting a look back.

Ilya shakes his head. "No, you're good."

It isn't that Ilya had imagined what Hollander would look like in this house. How impressed Hollander would be with the sleekly modern design, or the refrigerator that comes with an app, or the custom-built infrared sauna, or the toilets that should in fact look suspiciously familiar to Hollander because Ilya had had something like a religious experience two years ago in Montreal when he'd first sat down on Hollander's ten thousand dollar imported Japanese toilet, and the first thing Ilya had done in his new house was install one in every bathroom.

Anyway.

Ilya is not feeling any kind of way about Hollander stepping into his brand new house for the first time, because it's just a house, and more importantly, it's just Hollander.

God, but he looks good in this lighting, though.

He'd look even better, bent over the imported marble countertops.

"Wow," says Hollander, thumbs hooked under the straps of his backpack as he takes in said countertops, and the equally luxurious kitchen they reside in. "Wow," he says again, shifting his weight as Ilya approaches. "This, uh. This place is great."

His shoelaces are tied into advertisement-perfect knots.

All of his backpack's zippers are aligned exactly in the center.

Ilya wants to fucking wreck him.

Hollander glances back at him. "Did you get this built, or, like—oh."

Ilya has begun to slide the backpack off of Hollander's shoulders.

"It's just, um—"

"Breakable?" Ilya asks, close enough to smell hotel shampoo. Close enough to hear a hitch of breath, or see pupils start to dilate.

Hollander shakes his head.

Ilya tosses it sight unseen toward the entryway. It is the work of two simple steps forward, then, to corner Hollander against the kitchen island, right where Ilya wants him, and Ilya doesn't need to put his hands on those tight little hips except for all the ways that he does, actually, very much need to do that. He can't help it. It makes him a little crazy, sometimes, how Hollander always seems to fit right here, between Ilya's hands and around the push of his thigh.

Like he was made to be Ilya's.

Hollander's eyes are on his, flickering with uncertainty, his hands hovering just over Ilya's bare chest, and twice he opens his mouth and takes in a breath that does not become sound. He stares helplessly at Ilya, lips parted, thin rings of amber glowing in the afternoon sun.

A classic glitch in the Hollander operating system.

Ilya hooks his hands under Hollander's thighs, and—

"Rozan—oh."

Shoves.

He grins, then, stepping forward into the awaiting vee of Hollander's legs where he's now seated on the countertop.

"I think we should talk," Hollander manages.

Ilya slides his hands up Hollander's sides, reveling in the solidity of his body. The warmth of his inner thighs where they press against Ilya's hips. The way his ankles lock around Ilya's thighs like a reflex. Like a claim.

"Yes," Ilya purrs, slipping Hollander's jacket from his shoulders. "Talking. I hope you are ready for dirtiest talking of your life."

"No, like—"

And Ilya tries to kiss him, but Hollander—

Startles backward.

Ilya stills.

They are snared together, muscle and tendon, ankle and wrist, nose to nose and forehead to forehead, and the kitchen is perfectly silent. Hollander's eyes are dark and wide.

Anxious.

"Shane," Ilya says.

Hollander swallows.

Ilya rubs a thumb against the skin of his neck. "Is okay."

"…You don't call me that," Hollander says shakily.

"Oh, okay," says Ilya, nudging him a little. "You forgive me for horrible sex infection, no problem, but I use your first name and this is misconduct penalty? Makes sense, yes, I see."

"Fuck you," Hollander says, but it's with a huff of laughter. That stupid little smile. "I haven't forgiven you for shit yet."

Ilya hums, and slides his hand up to cup the angle of Hollander's jaw in the palm of his hand. His thumb rests just under a spray of freckles. "Allow me," he rumbles, with a deliberate little nuzzle, "to make nice apology, then."

He feels, rather than hears, Hollander's breath hitch.

Ilya presses the advantage, crowding in somehow closer, skin to skin and breath to breath. Cock to cock. "Shane."

"Ilya," Hollander whispers.

It sounds a confession.

It sounds like an admission.

And this time, their mouths meet in the middle.

Hollander, naked and cross-legged on the bed, stares at the dildo.

They hadn't made it fully up the stairs for round one, and Ilya has the bruises blooming on his shins to prove it. He is maybe getting too old for stairway sex. This is a part of his mid-life crisis he will ruminate upon later. Hollander had then been extremely distracting, once they'd actually gotten into the bedroom and our of their clothes, and Ilya had very nearly almost forgotten.

Sitting bolt upright in the middle of dirty talking Shane Hollander into an orgasm with a sudden declaration of Hang on, the thing! is, possibly, not the smoothest moment Ilya has ever had.

Still.

He has nine inches of magnificent aquamarine blue justification in the palm of his hand, now.

"Is new," Ilya states, sliding one bare leg underneath himself and ignoring the stretch of his rug-burned knee. He rotates the dildo back and forth a bit, so Hollander can properly admire the craftsmanship. "From Amazon this morning. Never used. I just took out of the box to clean."

Hollander eyes it.

"Has four point nine stars," Ilya adds, waggling the dildo demonstrably.

"You want us to use…"

"Us?"

Hollander looks at him.

Ilya raises his eyebrows. "Obviously is for you."

Hollander kicks him.

"Oh, very nice," Ilya complains. "This is thanks I get? I do illegal mail to get you medicine. I buy you nice big dildo from Amazon, not cheap—"

"Okay, you gave me chlamydia, you asshole," Hollander says, but it's with a little huff and a smile. He kicks Ilya again, too gentle to really be a kick at all this time. "You're the reason I needed nausea meds in the first place?"

"…Okay," Ilya allows. "This is maybe not wrong."

"And—"

"Yes?"

Hollander's eyes flick between Ilya and the dildo.

"We use condom," Ilya reasons, beginning to tick his points off his fingers. "Is brand new. And is only for you. And I check with Lisa, confirm sex toys can be cleaned with soap and water even if you have chlamydia, safe to re-use, but if you are being paranoid we can throw it away after—"

"Wait, who's Lisa?"

"Very nice lady," Ilya says. "She is junior administrative assistant at Boston Public Health Commission. Although she says Tameka is leaving for new job in Rhode Island, so she is hoping for promotion for Christmas. I offer to write letter of recommendations."

Hollander blinks.

"Anyway," says Ilya.

A beat.

"Hollander."

"What?"

Ilya looks in him the eye. "I am very sorry for chlamydia. I am sorry you need nausea medication. I am sorry I cannot fuck you with my glorious thick cock today. Please will you accept offering of nice big dildo, instead?"

Hollander—laughs.

And Ilya feels something loosen in his chest, something that had been tight and growing tighter still, and he can breathe again.

God.

First heartburn, now angina.

He'll be in the rest home with Hunter by next month, at this rate.

"Okay," Hollander says, grinning easy now. "Okay, okay. Yeah. But—"

"What?"

Hollander looks again between Ilya and the dildo, and then back again. He takes in a little breath. "So you think that's a big dildo?"

Ilya is not proud of the noise that leaves him.

Hollander is bright pink but smug as hell.

"Hollander," Ilya manages. "Shane."

Hollander gives a little shrug.

Jesus fuck but Ilya wants to lay him out and pound him flat into the mattress.

"New plan," Ilya announces. "We are doing video call, when you are back in Montreal."

Hollander's eyebrows go up. "We are?"

"Yes," says Ilya.

"Oh." Hollander bites his lip, still quite pink. "Uh. Okay."

"We can celebrate—" Ilya casts about. "—end of your antibiotics. Is big milestone. Needs big dildo. Is only making sense."

Hollander's foot bumps against his shin. "If you say so."

Ilya is stretched out on his side, face half-smushed into Hollander's bicep, drifting between a doze and a light hypnosis, afloat in the rhythmic rise and fall of Hollander's chest beneath the palm of his hand, settled in a way he rarely feels these days, content—when the air raid siren goes off.

"Jesus fucking—"

"Sorry, sorry!" Hollander yelps, flailing his way out of the bed.

Ilya presses a hand over his heart, now upright, watching a bare-assed and graceless Hollander stumble over toward a puddle of clothing. "The fuck is that?"

"An alarm!"

"For what?" Ilya demands. "Fucking—nuclear war?"

"No!" Hollander has managed to retrieve his phone. "No, it's just—hang on—"

Silence.

Ilya exhales.

"Sorry," Hollander says, sheepish. "Um. I didn't want to miss it. In case my phone was in another room or something."

"Good plan," says Ilya darkly.

Hollander offers him a lopsided smile. "Well, it worked?"

Ilya rolls his eyes, and flops back onto the bed.

He hears Hollander set the phone on the floor, and then a moment later, the sound of clothing rustling.

"So?" Ilya asks, eventually.

"It's for my meds," Hollander says.

Ilya scrunches his nose.

"They are not making you so sick, now?" he asks, after a few beats.

"Not really," Hollander replies. "I got more of the ondansetron from the doc in Toronto. As long as I take it like half an hour before the doxycycline, it's been okay."

Ilya mouths ondansetron to himself, having no doubt that Hollander—being Hollander—is pronouncing it perfectly.

He feels the bed dip, and Hollander's face appears above his. "Where'd you throw my backpack earlier?"

"Mm," says Ilya. "Same place you throw all your shots on Rodier."

Hollander blinks.

Ilya grins.

Hollander scowls. "So you mean, into the net?"

"Remind me. What is your shots on goal from last game?" Ilya asks.

"You literally texted me two nights ago that we were tied. I know you know this."

"Took you long enough to catch up."

"Fuck off. I'm at a disadvantage."

"Yes," Ilya agrees. "Weak backhand. Sloppy footwork."

"He wasn't even in goal the last time the Metros played Toronto," Hollander bites out. "You can't score on a goalie that's not there. It's not my fault he scratched the game."

"Is not my fault spreadsheet maker did not account for scratched games," Ilya replies, with a shrug.

Hollander looks ready for murder.

Ilya grins, and bounces up to smack a sloppy kiss to his cheek.

"You don't have to follow me," Hollander says.

"Who says I am following? Is not all about you, Hollander," Ilya replies, from two steps behind.

Hollander rolls his eyes.

"Over there, by the door," Ilya tells him, gesturing toward the entryway, as he himself detours toward the kitchen. He makes a beeline for the thing Americans apparently call an appliance garage, and pulls the handle.

Elsewhere, he hears the zippers on a bag, and the rattle of a pill bottle.

Ilya pulls the kettle out, and pops the lid as he carries the jug over to the sink. "You want tea?" he asks.

"Tea?" Hollander repeats.

Ilya flips the tap. "Yes. Tea. I am making. Do you want some?"

Hollander appears at the kitchen island with two small orange pill bottles, and frowns at Ilya. "You drink tea?"

"No," says Ilya. "I just like to make cup of tea and stare at it. Is famous Russian tradition."

"You're a dick," Hollander informs him.

Ilya lets the kettle fill a little past the two-cup mark, and shuts off the water.

At the island, Hollander slips a pill onto his tongue to dissolve.

"What kind of tea you like?" Ilya asks, gesturing at the haphazard collection of boxes and jars that sit next to the kettle in the appliance garage.

"Um. Nothing caffeinated?" Hollander ventures.

Ilya studies his options for a moment. He'd been craving a black tea—Svetlana had gifted him a shockingly good Ceylon over the summer and he's been steadily depleting the supply—but his eyes catch on a French lemon ginger blend instead.

Ginger is supposed to be good for nausea, right?

He's already making tea. It might as well do Hollander some good.

Ilya grabs the box and checks the brewing temperature, and then programs the kettle accordingly. He then starts shaking loose leaf into an empty teapot.

"I should probably go," Hollander blurts out.

Ilya looks over at him.

"Um," says Hollander, and shifts awkwardly.

"Ah," says Ilya, nodding in understanding. "You hate tea."

"What? No! Dude, I'm half Japanese, that's like—like genetically impossible or something," Hollander huffs, shaking his head. "It's just, uh. I mean. It's late. You know?"

"Mother Hayden is expecting you home, then?" Ilya asks, raising his eyebrows.

Hollander lets out a deeply aggrieved noise—as if Ilya is the one being annoying here—and rolls his eyes. "Fuck off. He's not my mother. He—"

Ilya waits, watching Hollander's face go through several emotions.

A few beats later, Hollander is still struggling when the click of the kettle comes, so Ilya gives a mental shrug and turns around to give Hollander time to sort out his own glitch for once. He pours boiling water into the teapot, sets the kettle down, and then puts the lid on the teapot.

He's opened the cabinet above the kettle and is debating his mug choices when Hollander abruptly says, "I told Hayden you gave me chlamydia."

Ilya pauses.

Tells himself that it isn't fucking fondness rising in his chest like the sun, but irritation. Exasperation.

Dyspepsia, perhaps.

"Okay," he says slowly. He glances back over his shoulder at Hollander. "Why?"

"Well, not you you," Hollander amends hastily, fiddling with the pill bottle in his hands. "He knows I got it from Lily, because, uh. I guess he knows about Lily. Just. From all the texting. He's seen the name pop up on my phone and stuff."

"And why," Ilya sighs, although he knows the answer, "does Hayden know about the chlamydia?"

"Um," says Hollander.

Fuck.

It's definitely fucking fondness.

Ilya grabs two Raiders mugs as revenge, and closes the cupboard. "So how does Hayden feel about maybe getting your butt-chlamydia, moy malenkiy chaynik?" he asks.

Hollander mumbles something.

"Hm? What was this?"

"I said he laughed at me," Hollander snaps. "And—and said some other stupid stuff. I don't know. He said he was proud of me for, like, 'living on the wild side', or whatever. Um. And then he tried to high five me. It was stupid."

Ilya nods sagely. "Hold out for the chlamydia cake. Give high five then."

Hollander scowls.

"You have had Russian tea before?" Ilya asks.

"Uh," says Hollander. "No? Is it decaf?"

"No, I mean—tea is normal tea. But Russians make tea special. Ah. Is, ah. Is a special way to make tea."

Fucking English.

Ilya gestures. "Come, I will show you."

Hollander comes around the kitchen island, looking unnecessarily wary.

"This is zavarka," Ilya explains, tapping the teapot.

"Okay," says Hollander, a bit blankly. He glances at Ilya, and then at the counter, and then gestures with instructive authority. "Teapot."

Ilya rolls his eyes. "Thank you, Professor Vocabulary. No, is not teapot. Inside of teapot, is tea leaves and little bit hot water. Not good to drink. Too strong. This is zavarka."

Hollander nods slowly.

"Some people, they like their tea very strong, yes? And some people, not so strong maybe. So when you have tea, you make very very strong in teapot, and then add zavarka to cup first, however much you are want—and then you add more water, to make full cup. So everyone can have a tea they like. Is very smart, yes?"

"Oh." The corners of Hollander's mouth poke upward. "That is kinda smart, yeah."

"Russians always having good ideas," Ilya agrees. He happily pours some of the zavarka into his mug, and then looks over at Hollander. "Scale of one to five, how strong you like your tea?"

Ilya pours according to Hollander's request, but leaves room for a little extra water if it ends up being too strong a brew for him. He is, subsequently, unsurprised to learn that Hollander does not take any sugar or honey in his tea.

"Yes, obviously," Ilya says, rolling his eyes. "Why make sweet and nice when there is free option to suffer?"

"Tea isn't supposed to be sweet," Hollander explains, brow furrowed. "It's—adding sweeteners just masks the full flavor of the leaves."

Ilya dumps another heaping teaspoon of sugar into his mug. "Mazokhist," he mutters.

Hollander's eyes narrow. "Did you just call me a masochist?"

"You can take them over, please," Ilya says, gesturing at his perfectly prepared mug and Hollander's sad gross bitter one. "I will get snacks."

"Oh." Hollander blinks. "Uh. I don't need…"

"What, you are world's only professional hockey player who does not need to eat dinner?" Ilya asks.

Hollander glances at the clock. "It's eight o'clock at night."

"And I am too lazy to cook," Ilya says, with a shrug. "Eat. Don't eat. I don't care. Snacks can be for just me."

Ilya digs into the refrigerator, and emerges a few moments later with baby carrots, tahini, and a carton of raspberries. A handful of Rice Krispies Treats from the cupboard completes the feast. He sits down next to Hollander at the counter, one leg under his bottom, one leg dangling from the bar stool. He swivels a bit, flashing a grin at Hollander, and snags a carrot.

"This is weird, right?" Hollander asks, after Ilya has gotten through approximately half a dozen carrots and a quarter of the jar of tahini.

Ilya glances over at him. "What?"

"We don't—you—you made me tea." Hollander's fingers drum against the marble countertop, restless. His gaze turns sharply to Ilya. "We don't have tea. You don't make me tea, you're, you're Ilya fucking Rozanov, you don't—"

Ilya shrugs one shoulder. "First time we met, we did not fuck. Now we are fucking. First time we fuck, we do not text. Now we are texting. This is first time I make you tea. Now, we are drinking tea."

"Is it—is this because you feel guilty? About the chlamydia?"

"Hollander. Is just tea."

"No," Hollander says tersely. "It isn't. You know it fucking isn't, it's—you keep changing the rules."

"Hollander. Relax. Is not so serious." A grin pokes at one corner of Ilya's mouth. "You are the only one inventing any rules here."

"No, I'm just the only one who has to fucking follow them," Hollander snaps.

Ilya's grin fades.

Hollander's jaw works. "Don't stay over. Don't linger, don't kiss, don't ask about Russia, don't get upset when you get fucking ghosted for six months, don't get—and—and I only figure it out when I screw up and you fucking punish me for it. So don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about, Rozanov. It isn't just. Fucking. Tea."

Ilya feels something cold drip into the pit of his stomach.

Hollander is staring at him. His face is hard.

Okay wow last time I make you tea.

You are such drama queen.

Fucking relax.

But the words drip drip drip into that pit in his stomach, colder by the second. Ilya hates that. He hates the way Hollander's eyes have gone flat. He hates, most of all, the way his brain is replaying Sochi and the 2014 MLH awards and that one night in Seattle—Tampa—Montreal—a dozen, a hundred little punishments he's doled out over the years.

It's more complicated than that.

But also.

It's not.

"Okay," Ilya says, raising his hands in surrender. "What are rules?"

"You tell me," Hollander says coldly.

Ilya swallows.

"You know," he says carefully, "is probably bad idea to ask for rules from player with statistically most time in sin bin last season."

Hollander throws his hands up. "Okay. I'm out—"

"Oh my god, drama queen, you sit back down," Ilya snaps. "I am bad at following rules, okay? This is what I am saying. Fuck you."

Silence.

"Well," says Hollander. "You're real fucking good at making them."

Ilya looks down at the counter.

He inhales, and exhales.

Inhales again.

"Okay," Ilya says, looking up once more. "Okay, rule is. I want to fuck you. And I want to suck you off. And maybe I want do video call with your very giant dildo. And—"

Hollander's gaze is unrelenting.

Ilya draws in a new breath. "And maybe. Sometimes, now I want to have tea after we fuck."

"With me."

"Whatever," Ilya says.

Hollander is unblinking.

Ilya waves a hand. "Okay, yes. Fucking—with you. What, you think I will just make tea for me and drink it in front of you like an asshole?"

"Well," says Hollander.

"Fuck you."

"Right. So it's just tea?"

"I don't know, Hollander," Ilya says, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck. Maybe is like. Texting sometimes. Or you tell me about stupid bee things. Or we play video games, or—or watch hockey game, or something. I cannot give you list. Just. These things, sometimes."

Hollander studies him. "You mean, like. Friends with benefits?"

"Well…"

"Like Svetlana?"

"No," Ilya says immediately. "No, no, Svetlana is like… ninety-nine percent friend. One percent fucking. When I give her chlamydia, this is first time for us in maybe one year. You are more like… Hm."

"Ninety-nine percent fucking?"

"No," says Ilya.

Hollander waits.

And waits.

Ilya blows out a breath. "Come on, Hollander. We both know, has not been ninety-nine percent fucking for long time, now."

"…Maybe," Hollander allows.

Ilya nudges Hollander with a socked foot. "It has been—what—seven years we are doing this?"

"Yeah. I mean—yeah."

"Okay. So, seven years is long time to fuck, without maybe making tea sometimes. Yes?"

Slowly—oh so slowly—the corner of Hollander's mouth starts to twitch. "I guess. Or, like… texting about bees, sometimes?"

Ilya nods. "Yes. Yes, maybe bees, sometimes. Maybe Chinese reality typing TV shows, sometimes. Maybe you stay the night, if you want, sometimes."

"And maybe..." Hollander exhales wanly. "Maybe sometimes we give each other chlamydia."

It's an olive branch, but it still catches Ilya right in the stomach.

Fuck.

"No," Ilya says softly. "No, that will not happen sometimes."

Hollander bites his bottom lip.

"Not again," Ilya insists, clapping a hand to Hollander's thigh and squeezing. "Hollander. Shane. I promise, not again. Okay?"

"Okay," Hollander whispers.

Ilya nods. "Okay."

Hollander's getting that stupid smile on his face.

"Okay, okay," Ilya says hastily, withdrawing his hand and sitting up straight. "This is rule. Anyone breaking rule gets penalty box, two minutes. New rules are needing official approval from RHL Board of Governors. Yes? Good?"

"RHL?" Hollander asks.

"Rozanov Hollander League," Ilya says, obviously.

Hollander frowns. "But why not the Hollander Rozanov League? That's the alphabetical—"

"Is by draft order," Ilya says.

"Draft order?" Hollander repeats, with offense. "Fuck off. If anything it should be in order of, of most Stanley Cups to least Stanley Cups."

Ilya grins. "No, no. I think should be maybe most MVP awards."

"How about least time in the penalty box."

"Most time in the penalty box."

"Most shots of the season."

"Most successful shots on Romier."

Hollander freezes. His eyes fucking gleam.

Ilya holds out a hand.

"You are so fucking on," Hollander says, and gives it a hard shake.

"RHL," Ilya muses.

"HRL."

"Okay, Shane."

"Okay, Ilya."

Ilya grins. "Drink your sad gross tea. Is getting cold."

"Enjoy your future diabetes in a cup," Hollander replies, and shoulder-checks him as he turns back to the counter.

Ilya checks him right back, and then grabs a baby carrot from the bag. Dips it in tahini. Crunches, crunches, crunches. Grabs another carrot.

Next to him, finally, porcelain scrapes against marble and then—

"Wait, is this a fucking Raiders mug?"

Ilya had imagined gently drifting into consciousness in a warm tangle of Hollander and bed sheets, the grey dawn of Boston filtering in through the curtains. The places he would put his mouth and the dirty little things he would whisper to bring Hollander back into the waking world. Languid, velvety (chlamydia-safe and separate) morning orgasms. Long, lingering kisses. Perhaps another orgasm, after that.

Instead—

The fucking air raid sirens.

"Blyat—"

"Ow!"

"For fucking sake Hollander."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I—shit—there."

Silence rings.

Ilya glares at Hollander, rubbing his nose. "You have skull like fucking—helmet."

"Well, asshole," Hollander bites back, rubbing his jaw, "maybe don't sock me in the face with a fucking uppercut—"

"Was not on purpose!"

"—and you won't punch my head back into your own fucking nose."

Ilya has no conscious memory of falling asleep spooned up behind Hollander, but it had clearly happened at some point in the night. His arm must have been around Hollander's chest—his hand, just on trajectory for Hollander's jaw.

Even now, their legs are still tangled together.

"Maybe you don't pick alarm that used to be signal for fucking Luftwaffe," Ilya retorts, detangling himself enough that he can shove himself upright against the pillows. "Jesus Christ."

Hollander rolls his eyes, and flops back onto the bed.

Ilya studies him—bedhead, and chapped lips, and pillow crease lines stamped into his cheek—and feels a now-familiar surge of warmth in his chest.

He should really buy some Tums.

"Shane," he says.

Hollander side-eyes him. "Ilya."

"You have medication to take, no?"

"Shit," Hollander mutters, and runs a hand over his face. "Yeah. Sorry. I don't… even remember falling asleep last night."

"Is because you have two carrots for dinner," Ilya replies. He claps Hollander on the thigh. "Idiot. Come on. I make us breakfast."

"What? Oh. No. I mean, you don't have to…"

"You are fainting from hunger," Ilya says. "And really, is the least I can do. Is my fault you are on low protein diet this week."

Hollander blinks. "My nutritionist hasn't changed my meal plan in months?"

"Hollander."

"What?"

Ilya makes a pointed hand gesture, while tonguing a bulge into the side of his cheek.

"Wha—oh come on."

"Low protein diet," Ilya repeats, with wicked delight.

"You're so gross," Hollander complains.

"Poor baby," Ilya croons, rolling into his side to plant a wet kiss to Hollander's cheek—

"—get off—"

"Starving for come," Ilya continues, easily pinning down an arm. He gives Hollander another, even sloppier kiss. "Next time, I promise make sure you are nice and full."

"I hate you," Hollander informs him, staring pointedly at the ceiling.

"I will be—hm. How is it called."

"A dickhead?"

"'All you can eat buffet'."

Hollander makes a noise of disgust that does nothing to hide the grin that breaks free at the same time.

Ilya grins right back, and then on impulse, fastens a gentle bite to the angle of Hollander's jaw.

Hollander grunts, rolling a shoulder against the dead weight atop him. "Get off of me, asshole. I thought you were going to make breakfast?"

Ilya's teeth scrape over the barest hint of stubble as he releases his catch. "Yes, yes, okay. Breakfast."

He procures a pair of clean sweatpants for himself from the dresser, opting to freeball for the morning, and then on consideration, he turns around and holds up another pair for Hollander. "You want?"

Hollander looks up from his phone. "Oh. Uh. Yeah, I guess. Thanks."

"Mother Hayden thinks you have died?" Ilya guesses, nodding at the phone.

Hollander sighs. "I wish."

Ilya raises an eyebrow.

Hollander, resigned, flips his phone around as Ilya approaches the bed with the sweatpants. He holds it out, and Ilya plants a hand on the bed to lean across and read.

Hayden: Hey stud
Hayden: https://smartsexresource.com/answered-questions/what-happens-if-i-have-sex-during-my-treatment-of-chlamydia/
Hayden: Thought you and Lily might find this helpful this morning

Ilya looks up at Hollander. "I will give you one thousand dollars to let me send a reply."

"No."

"Two thousand."

"Fuck off," Hollander says, and grabs the sweatpants out of Ilya's hand.

"Boring," Ilya complains.

Hollander does not dignify this with a response.

Ilya slips into his own pants, and disappears into the bathroom for his morning piss. At the sink, he washes his hands and his face, but makes the executive decision to skip shaving and teeth brushing—he doesn't have an extra toothbrush for Hollander, for one, and Ilya has the bizarre notion that it would seem rude.

He spies Hollander lingering at the door, as he's pouring himself a shot of Listerine.

"You want?" Ilya asks, turning away from the mirror to hold the little plastic cup out.

Hollander's face does something weird.

Ilya, hoping to preempt the glitch, sets the cup on the counter and gulps a mouthful straight from the bottle. He swish-swish-swishes the minty freshness around his mouth. Spits. Wipes his mouth on a towel.

"I, uh," says Hollander, still standing awkwardly in the doorway. He glances down at the ground, toes curling into carpet, and then back up at Ilya. "I really don't remember falling asleep. Last night. I'm sorry to, like." His eyes dart around the bathroom. He swallows, and shrugs a shoulder. "Yeah."

"I told you last night, you could stay, no problem," Ilya says, with a shrug of his own. "Is, actually, still not a problem."

Hollander watches him with a faintly guarded look.

"Is within RHL playbook rules, remember?" Ilya adds. He pushes off the bathroom counter, and as he passes by, he grabs a handful of perfect hockey butt. "We go round five, after breakfast."

Hollander jumps a little—but then huffs out a laugh and hip-checks Ilya away. "That's HRL, actually."

"Okay, Mr. Delusional," Ilya says. "Now hurry up. You have medicine to take. Imagine you skip dose and need to start over for third time, hm? You probably get—what is word—like, super chlamydia. When medicine does not work. Yes?"

Hollander pinches the bridge of his nose. "Dude, come on. Please don't give me anything else to freak out about."

Ilya swats his ass. "Okay, so less freak outing, more pissing. Let's go, Hollander."

"You're such a dick," Hollander groans, but he steps into the bathroom at last, and Ilya steps out so Hollander can close the door properly.

He flops back on the bed.

For a few minutes, Ilya stares up at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of Hollander pottering about the bathroom, while also trying to remember if the eggs in his fridge are expired or not. He definitely has ingredients for protein shakes, but it's game day so they're both going to need more than just that. He's got bread and cold cuts—a shit load of tuna, because he's been on a tuna melt kick recently—and maybe some sausage? Definitely cheese.

The sound of gargling comes from the bathroom.

Ilya runs his tongue over his teeth, minty but not quite clean.

He reaches out, and pats around blindly. Realizes his phone is a little higher up, and shifts himself accordingly until he has his prize. Mashes his thumb around the home button until it recognizes his fingerprint. Scrolls until he finds the Amazon app.

Finally, he finds Colgate Extra Clean Toothbrush, Soft Toothbrush for Adults, 6 Count (Pack of 1), and adds it to the cart.

To: sveta.vetrova@gmail.com
From: Amazon.com <auto-confirm@amazon.com>
Subject: Your Amazon.com order #994-7459314-6710444

Hello Svetlana,

Thank you for shopping with us. We'll send a confirmation when your items ship.

     Details

          Chlamydia Survivor Fluffy Kitten Rainbow T-Shirt | Men's L | Quantity 1

     Arriving: Saturday October 20th

Ship to:

Ilya Rozanov
81 Fullerton St
Boston, MA 02110

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