Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

tipsy conversations, Episode: s01e01 Rookies (Heated Rivalry), fell first and fell hard, The draft scene but if they met up during it and drank champagne

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Man of the Hour

Stats:

Published: 2026-01-26 Words: 5,636 Chapters: 1/1

Man of the Hour

Summary

And the problem is, it’s just too much fucking fun to prod him like this. When they’d met outside the rink in Regina, Hollander was polite, pushing back only a little. But it’s clearly getting to him: his silver medal, number two pick. The only person in his way, ever, is Ilya. Ilya wonders if anyone except the two of them even cares. He can’t remember the last time he cared about beating someone as badly as he wants to beat Hollander these days. Perhaps it’s a side effect from being forced to see his name right next to the guy’s for months on end. Rozanov and Hollander, Rozanov against Hollander, Rozanov versus Hollander. On, and on, and on

Notes

spent like 30 min talking about this idea with anacoluthas on tumblr and decided well fuck it. i'll just write it out. something nice and low stakes. i think shane should be allowed to get a little tipsy and vulnerable.

sort-of named after lorde's "man of the year" because i watched this edit and then played the song the whole time i wrote it.

Cameras clicking in a cicada buzz. Chatter interspersed with heel taps, soft music.

Big day, Ilya Rozanov! Flash that number one! Just like that, yes. More cameras on him than ever before. About to become commonplace, he knows. Turn to the camera here, please. Bigger smiles, boy! Shane Hollander shifting to his left, holding his Montreal Metros jersey up, lips so tightly pressed together Ilya almost burst out laughing until they hit him with the, You too, Shane, show that number!

Ilya stares down from his spot on the second floor. His navy suit is tailored for the occasion; white dress shirt new and crisp, tight-fitting; a perfect blue tie around his neck; hair freshly cropped. The room swells with warmth from lights, from bodies, leaving his neck and back damp. At least he has spent the last hour in the company of his father and his new coach, one of whom insists on needling him at any given opportunity. Even on a day like this. Especially on a day like this, perhaps.

At least neither of them is expecting him to keep his smile up. He wore that thing out during the first hour of photos. Ilya tries to communicate gratitude in other ways: eyes steady on whoever is speaking, posture proper.

He raises his glass to his lips. It’s a pretty good champagne, sparkles on his tongue.

In a moment of weakness, his focus shifts. On the first floor, Shane Hollander is speaking to Montreal’s rep, seeming about as comfortable as Ilya himself is. He watches Hollander adjust his sleeves, touch the back of his neck, move his full glass from one hand to the other. Eyes on the table until someone calls for him. Mom seems to be doing most of the talking.

And then he’s whispering something to the man next to him—dad, likely—and shuffles away from the table. Ilya follows him as he rounds the corner, and for a moment his eyes dart up to the second floor, where Ilya is standing, and then he is gone. The people at the table continue their conversation.

Ilya leans down, lowers his voice even though he is surrounded by people who don’t know a fucking word of Russian, and says, “I will be right back.” Tries to cut the details so that his father can entertain any number of ideas about why he might be leaving and where he might go. He is supposed to stay right there, at his father’s side, making nice and polite with the Boston Raiders, but his pulse is ricocheting between his temples. He needs quiet.

His father turns to him, then waves his hand dismissively, “Don’t take too long.” There is press all over, is the implication. If you are going to play for this country then show your face. Be known, the best. Is that not what he is doing, already?

Ilya puts his empty glass back down on the table, tells both his father and the Raiders’ coach in English, “Excuse me one moment,” and takes the first turn down the stairs. Slow and steady. Picks another champagne flute off a server’s tray and tips it back entirely. He sniffs, shakes his head to clear it, then takes another two glasses from a different server. He makes sure they get a wide smile and eyes to match it. One for me and my friend, thank you. The server glances at him twice, but he’s already moving down the length of the room. He needs that first glass to kick in sooner rather than later if he’s expected to stand around with more suits for another few hours.

He keeps walking until the classical music and all other noise blends into one sound. The hallway stretches down and splits off to elevators and other ballrooms. From here, he can see just how many floors up he is, the wide windows giving him a good view of the city outside, cars flitting in and out of the parking lot, people walking up to the main entrance below. Media vans crowd the front of the building.

He weighs his options. At best, he has thirty minutes. If he spins a convincing enough story, he can maybe justify forty-five, but it’s a shit look to dip from your conversation with the people who just agreed to pay you absurd amounts of money. Ilya holds both of his champagne flutes up, then sips on the left one, continuing down the hallway. He passes the men’s restroom and is about to take another left turn to explore further when he hears the door open, dress shoes clicking against the floor.

Ilya turns on instinct.

Shane Hollander’s face is flushed red, and there’s a sheen to his brow like he’s just splashed water on himself. They lock eyes. Hollander does not move.

“Running away?” Ilya asks.

He wonders what he looks like to Hollander right then. A winner? He hopes that his hair is still in place, tie dimpled. Ilya wants Hollander to take him in long enough to hesitate before he inevitably scurries back to his family. There’s no doubt about the fact that he gets on Hollander’s nerves the same way Hollander’s golden boy reputation and no-nonsense attitude make Ilya grit his teeth.

But Hollander is earnest when he tells Ilya, “I just needed a moment away from all of it.”

As if it’s not everything he ever dreamed of. Ilya knows he’s entirely at fault for Hollander’s perfect version of this day not coming to fruition.

“What about you?” Hollander asks. He eyes the glasses of champagne that Ilya is still double-fisting.

Ilya is not earnest. “Looking for you.”

Hollander’s brows pinch together, and then his eyes widen, the tip of his tongue pressing against his bottom lip for a moment “Very funny, Rozanov. Maybe when you fail out of hockey you can go into comedy.”

“What? I have two glasses. One for you, one for me,” Ilya says, feigning shock. He raises one champagne flute, then holds it out in Hollander’s direction. “To congratulate you on being second best. It is good to practice, yes? Since you will be second best for a long time.”

Hollander does not take the glass. He narrows his eyes. “Hubris won’t get you anywhere, and it definitely won’t make your team like you. If I were you, I’d swallow that attitude before someone decides you’re better off face-down and out cold.”

Ilya’s mouth twitches. He likes this Hollander. Same guy who sought him out in Regina and tried to give him shit for smoking, insisting he wouldn’t lose. But he’d lost, anyway, and Ilya had taken that sweet gold back home. One final parting gift before he set his sights on America.

So he doesn’t stop himself from smiling when he says, “I am fucking with you, Hollander. Do you want champagne or not? You are too stiff. It will help.”

Nothing. Hollander eyes him with suspicion that Ilya feels completely undeserved. He’s being courteous! He’s bringing this stupid man champagne! Unintentionally, of course, but still. With an eyeroll, he wiggles the glass in his left hand without letting the alcohol slosh around too much, and holds it out to Hollander.

“Come on, you cannot celebrate because you are second place?”

“We shouldn’t be drinking.”

“Hollander, I am not asking if we should drink. I am asking if you want to have champagne because you are going to play in MLH. You want to go back and take one hundred more photos and not be drunk? You are a brave man. I will admit this. But me…” He raises the other glass, takes a sip, and lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief, brows knotted together in delight. “... I will be drunk and have fun and let media love me, I think. But if you want to be a sore loser, okay, no problem for me.”

“This is so fucking stupid,” Hollander says, but he grabs the champagne glass anyway, and then he’s tilting it back like he’s chasing sour medicine. He drinks about half before he lowers the glass. Ilya catches his nose flaring, how he swallows repeatedly, trying to get the taste out.

“Not good?” Ilya asks, drinking from his own glass again, slower this time. As if it’s a competition.

With Hollander, it sure feels like it.

“I just don’t usually… drink,” Hollander says.

“Okay, well, it is not usual day for you, so,” Ilya counters. He raises his glass. “Congratulations to us.”

Amicable enough. He watches Hollander shift his weight from one foot to another, casting a glance out the windows to their right, and then he steps closer, a mere arm’s length away. Then Hollander taps his glass to Ilya’s, the sharp clink! echoing in the empty space.

“I’ll beat you next time,” Hollander tells him, and the promise zips fire-hot from Ilya’s chest to the tips of his fingers, lights something in him he felt that first time they faced off at center ice.

He imagines them back in the rink for their first game, Montreal versus Boston, for the hundreds of games to come after: how many times can he beat Hollander before his legs cave in under him? How many opportunities will he have to chase this high? Perhaps the champagne is finally kicking in, lightens the stuffiness in his chest, removes any thought of his father and his expectations and his anger and the upcoming evening Ilya must spend with him. It is just him and his victory and Hollander there.

Ilya’s had plenty of time to look at Hollander, before. He’d googled him the moment he sped off after their first meeting during the International Prospect Cup. So many photos of him completely covered up by gear, but the occasional photo of him in casual wear, smiling at the camera alongside teammates. His more formal portrait—congratulations, Shane Hollander, captain of Team Canada!—with his soft cheeks and dark freckles and rigid mouth.

But he sure is pretty, Ilya thinks. Pretty in a way that makes Ilya want to be seen as desirable, too. He rolls his shoulder back, standing a little taller. Nonchalant.

“You can believe so if you want,” Ilya tells him. “Maybe you will magically become less shitty skater by next final, yes? Who knows.”

And he grins.

“You know, everyone says you’re an asshole, and I’m starting to see where they’re coming from,” Hollander says, continuing to drink. He’s downed most of his glass. How much time has passed? The red flush on Hollander’s face creeps past his jaw to his bobbing throat, the collar of his shirt. Again, very pretty.

“People say many things about me”—Ilya shrugs—”and tomorrow, they will say congratulations, Rozanov, for being first pick for draft. And you know what they will say?”

Hollander pinches his mouth taut.

Ilya angles his glass toward him, pointing. “What do you think, Hollander?”

There’s a vein bulging from Hollander’s jaw. Ilya thinks about putting his face close to Hollander’s, licking that same vein, following the slope of his jaw so he can flatten his tongue against Hollander’s ear and whisper wet against it, What will they say about you? But he doesn’t, because while Hollander doesn’t seem to be the type to get into fistfights off (or on) the ice, Ilya can’t risk showing back up later as anything other than perfectly kempt.

“I think you should shut up,” Hollander says, voice louder now. He jerks a bit at the sound of his own voice, like he didn’t realize how much he’s projecting. “And I should go back. You, too. They’re probably wondering where we’re at.”

“I think they do not care all that much, really,” Ilya replies with a shrug, emptying his glass. He looks around for somewhere to put it, but there’s only dark marble floors and fake plants and large windows. “And you could leave, or you could drink with me and celebrate. And not celebrate like stand in front of media and say thank you everyone, I am Shane Hollander and I am so happy, thank you, but celebrate”—he reaches inside of his suit jacket, nudging the pocket there before pulling out a shot-sized plastic bottle of vodka—”like you are a fun guy.”

He hadn’t planned on pulling the vodka out at all. Ilya showed up to the draft fully expecting to sip nice champagne for hours and make small talk like a good boy. This is his day! This is his fucking day!

And this is the most he’s enjoyed himself since he got out of bed this morning, jerked off in the shower, and then got drafted number one. He is finally going places. He is going to tear himself out of the arms of Moscow and his father’s looming eye and weighty hand and he’s going to make a disgusting amount of money. He is going to buy cars that other people have to pay off for years and live in a house with a private driveway and a pool and maybe even a fucking sauna. Everything he was never promised but has always wanted is going to be his.

“You’ve kept that on you this whole time?” Hollander asks. “The champagne wasn’t enough for you?”

It’s clearly enough for Hollander. Ilya wonders if he had a glass earlier, perhaps feeling emboldened with his new shiny contract. Is his chest light, too, or is there a creeping nausea in him, now, at the fact that Ilya showed up and ruined his perfect day?

“Do you want, or no?” Ilya puts his glass down on the floor and cracks the metal top open. He drinks half of the shot. Wishes he had one more on him.

Hollander studies the tiny plastic bottle and, to Ilya’s surprise, takes it from him. It’s small enough that their fingers touch, and Ilya finds Hollander’s skin warm and soft. Maybe his palms are calloused, worn in places Ilya can’t feel.

“This is so fucking stupid,” Hollander repeats, as if he’s not the one taking the bottle to his lips out of his own volition and finishing the shot. Talking to himself more than Ilya, no doubt. But then why the hell is he staying? Go back to your family, Hollander. Go stand shoulder to shoulder with them and put on a smile and have your family dinner at some boring fucking restauraunt and listen to them praise you endlessly. Why are you here?

Hollander’s nose scrunches up so hard his teeth flash, cheeks bunching up, and Ilya’s never really noticed he has freckles, before, but in the sterile lighting, cold and horrendously bright, Ilya can’t focus on anything else. Ilya has bested him in the draft, beat him in the International Prospects Cup, and now he has convinced him to hide from the press in some random corner. Did this feel like loss to Hollander, too, or is the champagne enough to maybe get the stick out of his ass?

“So, you are going to Montreal,” Ilya says.

Hollander nods. “Yes.”

“Good team,” Ilya says, though he couldn’t care less. It only matters that Hollander is going to be playing for Montreal because Ilya is making himself at home in Boston, where he’ll be given plenty of opportunities to knock Hollander down a peg or a hundred.

“Historic,” Hollander adds. “Boston’s good, too.” But it sounds more like small talk.

“They will be even better now,” Ilya says, if only to watch Hollander try to control his expression. Then, just to make it a bit harder on him, Ilya adds. “Because they will have me, first draft pick. But good luck to Metros, also.”

Doesn’t work. He’s one stop from staring at Ilya slack-jawed. And the problem is, it’s just too much fucking fun to prod him like this. When they’d met outside the rink in Regina, Hollander was polite, pushing back only a little. But it’s clearly getting to him: his silver medal, number two pick. The only person in his way, ever, is Ilya. Ilya wonders if anyone except the two of them even cares. He can’t remember the last time he cared about beating someone as badly as he wants to beat Hollander these days. Perhaps it’s a side effect from being forced to see his name right next to the guy’s for months on end. Rozanov and Hollander, Rozanov against Hollander, Rozanov versus Hollander. On, and on, and on.

No one ever really challenges him. People will fight him, sure. There are guys on the ice who try to get their frustrations on his success out on him there. Ilya loves it when they’re embarrassed, after. When they fail. When they’re forced to reckon with the fact that he’s just better than them. Has put in more work. Is more talented. Will get everything they are dreaming of.

He wishes he had a smoke right now. His heart sits at the base of his throat, thrumming loudly. He’s not usually one to drink champagne, but it sure is making him feel nice, right now. He should get into collecting alcohol, too, the fancy stuff. Just no American bullshit. European, maybe.

“I think I…” Hollander starts, then takes a few steps back until he can lean against the wall right next to the bathroom door.

He slides down, stares at the floor, and then covers his neck with both his hands. “Oh my god, I was right, this is so—shit. How long have I been gone? Like, fifteen minutes? Twenty?”

“Half hour, maybe,” Ilya supplies. He doesn’t actually have a clue.

He walks over to where Hollander is sitting until he stands right between Hollander’s feet. For a moment, Hollander stares at Ilya’s feet, then he tilts his head back against the wall, eyes meeting Ilya’s.

“You are bad with alcohol,” Ilya says. Not a question.

“No shit,” Hollander tells him, an edge to his voice that makes Ilya’s stomach churn in the best way. He drops forward, arms on his knees, head hanging low. Ilya taps the side of Hollander’s shoe with the toe of his own, but he doesn’t move.

Ilya could leave him here to collect himself and give him some time alone he’s clearly desperate for.

He takes a seat instead, close enough to Hollander that if he moved they would touch. Ilya takes a deep breath through his nose, holds it. He slips the vodka shot bottle into the pocket of his dress pants and asks, “Your parents, they are happy, yes? That you will play for Montreal?”

Hollander raises his head a bit. His cheek rests on his folded arms. His eyes are so fucking torn, in a way, as if he is trying to figure out if Ilya is fucking with him, or if he’s just making conversation. Ilya wishes him the best of luck in deciphering it, too. This close, Ilya can see the stray freckles at the top of Hollander’s eyelid, a few right by the edge of his brow. He has a birthmark on the side of his ear.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “They’re happy for me. Couldn’t have gone to a better team.”

“Mhm.” It’s not an agreement, but Ilya doesn’t know what else to say. “And they worry often? You think they will really come find you here?”

“Ugh. I hope not.” The mere thought of it seems to cause Hollander physical distress. “They probably think I’m off doing an interview or something. I didn’t tell them where I was going because I didn’t want them to… find me easily if they were actually going to come looking. I guess.”

“Oh, a bad boy!” Ilya says, trying not to smile. Failing to. “The Metros do not know they have such a troublesome player on their hands. I should tell them so that they can prepare.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Hollander replies, but it only makes Ilya laugh.

Hollander is still looking at him. Eyes wide and glistening and beautiful, and Ilya is struck with the clearest objective: he wants to fuck Shane Hollander. He wants this version of him, a little off-center and pliable and so easy to chirp. He opens himself up, like he’s intent on drawing a target board on himself with red marker for Ilya’s to aim at. Where is he softest? How does he jerk if Ilya were to knead a bruise? Does he cry when he comes? Would he let Ilya watch?

Cigarette. He needs a fucking cigarette.

“You are here with your dad, right?” Hollander asks.

Ilya holds his gaze. “Yes.”

“That’s cool. That he flew all the way over, I mean. Kind of a long trip, right?”

“Sure, is long flight,” Ilya agrees. Doesn’t tell Hollander he’d rather his father be all the way over in Moscow so that they wouldn’t have to spend more time in each other’s company than necessary. “But is probably last time he will come, so. Special trip for my special day.” Ilya makes sure to drag out the e’s in special, just to rub it in one last time.

Hollander doesn’t even seem to notice. Instead there’s a nick between his brows, his eyes flicking side to side, trying to get a read on Ilya, maybe. Trying to parse out what his expression means when it doesn’t match his tone.

“What do you mean, last time? He’s not going to visit you ever? But aren’t you moving to Boston?”

Ilya shrugs. “Yes. But there is no reason for him to visit me. His life is in Moscow and I will be in Boston, and for summers I will fly back home. Is not complicated.”

“Won’t you, like, miss your family? I can’t imagine living that far away from my family and only seeing them a few weeks per year… I’d get pretty lonely. Especially if you’re moving to a completely new city.” Hollander’s voice rasps at the end, and then rubs the side of his nose, blinking furiously.

Ilya stares at him, dumbfounded, and contemplates asking if he’s tearing up If he’s sitting on this floor, tipsy off half a shot of vodka, sniffling at the thought of Ilya being alone in Boston. This guy who does not even know him, and definitely does not know him well enough to care. It is so absurd that Ilya finds it easiest to be honest.

“Not all people want to see family all the time, Hollander. I will have great time in Boston with my new team, and I have a good friend there, also. I think I will be okay.”

Okay is an understatement. Ilya thinks of his future cars, again, of beautiful women and expensive clothes, silk shirts and watches that have to be stored in special boxes, gold rings and a winning streak with his future team. Moscow will welcome him back for as long as he can stand being there.

“Oh.” Hollander pinches his lashes, fluttering his eyes again, and looks away for a second. Down at the floor. “I mean, if you say so.”

“I say so.”

“Okay.” Hollander sniffles again, but he leans back against the wall.

The redness on his face hasn’t faded much. It reaches even his ears, and before Ilya can stop himself, or be rational, he is pinching the shell of Hollander’s ear between thumb and forefinger. Hollander slaps his hand down over Ilya’s, staring at him with wide eyes. Ilya lets go, but he doesn’t scoot away. He keeps his face as close to Hollander’s as he can without being too obvious. How much can he push before Hollander catches on? Will he even catch on? Maybe the thought of fucking a man is so absurd to a guy like Hollander that the thought doesn’t even occur to him. Ilya can’t deny that the idea of having to spell it out for him makes the whole thing more appealing. Like he’s going to be at fault. Is going to have permanently changed Hollander.

“You are a little drunk, I think,” Ilya tells him, making sure to poke his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. Catches Hollander’s eyes on it. He taps his own ear this time. “Red ears. Very cute, Hollander. You were not lying when you said you do not drink often.”

“Obviously,” Hollander says. “You don’t seem too affected.”

Ilya’s definitely not drunk. His body, however, is pleasantly relaxed, his thoughts existing in a sort of secondary space, or perhaps at a moment’s delay, like they’re not really his. The champagne buzz has settled in, ripples every few minutes throughout his body, one arm here, a leg there, across his fingertips. A bit tipsy. The perfect sweet spot.

He just gives Hollander another thin smile. “You want to see me drunk? I did not think you were a guy like that.”

“Are you always this frustrating to talk to?”

“No, only on some days. I have schedule I can send you so that you will know.”

“Jesus, you’re annoying.” But then Hollander laughs, more of a giggle than anything, until he keeps going, the sound ringing between Ilya’s temples. His nose scrunches again, puckered lips twisting into a smile that he’s so obviously trying to stop, eyes crescenting, little wrinkles at the corners. He snickers into the palm of his hand, rubbing it over his own face until he stops, and then he looks at Ilya, again. Eyes dark and gleaming.

Perhaps Ilya is drunk after all, somehow, off this special stupid fucking American champagne that gets you drunk without noticing.

He wishes the draft was over and they were playing against each other already. He wants to slam Hollander into the boards, skate circles around him, score when Hollander is at his most confident, watch his face contort with frustration, be passed by him, lose to him, win against him, try again and again.

Ilya realizes, in a moment of dread among all other wonderful and excellent things that are his now, that he will spend the rest of his career chasing Shane Hollander. Not because Shane Hollander is a better player than him, but because there is no way Hollander's desire to best Ilya is stronger than Ilya's need to beat him. The high of the chase. The thrill of toppling someone who is your equal. That one, graceful moment at the podium, alone. Does Hollander feel it, too?

“We should probably go back,” Ilya says but doesn’t mean it.

He wants to remain here in this corner of nowhere with Hollander and get drunk, for real. Draw a little laugh out of him again and see if he can get away with one more, brief touch. And because Ilya is nothing if not a daring man, he puts his hand on Hollander’s shirt collar and says, “It is crooked, here,” and fixes something that was pristine all along. Like everything else about Hollander. Except for his hockey. Probably.

Hollander doesn’t stand up when Ilya does. He watches Ilya brush his ass with his palm to get any dirt off, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt and sliding a finger underneath the length of his collar to pop it back into place.

He extends his hand toward Hollander, who takes it and pushes himself up.

Ilya rubs his thumb over the back of Hollander’s hand, then lets go. They stand there, face to face.

“Maybe I should leave first,” Hollander suggests. He rubs his palm over his wrist once, twice. Traces the grooves of his knuckles with his thumb. Ilya watches him fidget. “Would it be weird for us to show up together?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya says. “I think reporters would like it, probably. Good showmanship. But might be more trouble than it is worth.”

Hollander nods. “Alone, then. It was…” He goes quiet. “Well, congratulations, I guess.”

“Very kind of you, Hollander,” Ilya tells him, and then Hollander is holding his hand out, staring at Ilya like he hopes to anchor them both to the floor. And the need is there again. I want him, I want him, I want him. “See you in January.”

So Ilya shakes his hand and doesn’t let go until Hollander pulls away.

He watches him leave, and then he retreats into the men’s restroom, dumping the vodka shot bottle into one of the trash cans, and shoves his hands underneath ice cold water from the sink. Puts his palms on his cheeks, then against his forehead, his neck. Anything to cool himself down.

His father lays into him when he finally returns, an hour and a half gone by without notice, but Ilya finds the criticism runs off him. He does his rounds, shakes more hands, catches Hollander’s eye, again, moves around him, finds someone a few tables away to make conversation with, pretends not to notice when Hollander stares at him, continues that dance until it is time to leave. The weather makes his suit feel even more stuffy, and he strips the moment he makes it back to his hotel room. His father is already in a taxi on his way to a hotel across town. Tomorrow morning he will be on a plane back to Moscow. Perhaps he will send Ilya a text before he boards. Perhaps the next they hear of each other will be when Ilya next arrives at Sheremetyevo International Airport.

Ilya finishes his perfect day alone in a small hotel bedroom. He cranks the window open and lights himself a cigarette, pretending that Boston’s request for him to quit only comes in effect once he actually starts playing in the MLH.

He flicks embers off the cherry and watches them fall. Takes another drag. Blows the smoke out the side of his mouth and pictures Shane Hollander next to him, curled up, drunk-red-flushed-pretty. Ilya can’t think of a scenario where he’ll ever get that again. Hollander doesn’t seem like the bar crawl type, and he definitely isn’t going to get friendly with him just because they had one conversation that lasted longer than four seconds.

Not to mention they’re mortal enemies now, and Ilya is nothing if not a sucker for some good spite.

He stays up. His heart rattles about, pulse refusing to settle. Has a drink—doesn’t help. Smokes one more cigarette. Closes his eyes and pretends that he’s meditating and hopes it will trick his brain into relaxing, only to find himself returning to that corner of the building. To Hollander’s cologne smell, barely there. How he rubbed his eye and looked down at the floor. His hand clasped in Ilya’s.

It wouldn’t be Ilya’s first time pursuing a man. Not even his riskiest. Might be his dumbest decision so far, though. There would be real money on the line, not to mention security, comfort. If he somehow manages to coax Hollander into bed with him and someone finds out…

He’d been just different enough from the Hollander Ilya is familiar with to intrigue him. And Ilya likes being intrigued. Likes, without doubt, a bit of a chase. To feel like he has really earned a kiss, a fuck. Shane Hollander is Ilya’s man to beat—and he’s fucking gorgeous. A very terrible combination, really, for a guy like Ilya. He’s not sure what he’s laughing at, but he laughs, anyway. Lies on his back and stares at the white ceiling, the stupid, decorative pillows tossed onto the ground, trying not to make a connection between the scattered marks on the ceiling and Shane’s freckles. Because it would be stupid. It would be so fucking stupid.

By now, Hollander must have returned from a nice dinner out with his family. They seem like the kind of people who do stuff like that together. Maybe he even mentioned running into Ilya. He definitely wouldn’t tell them he knocked back a vodka shot, though. Ilya can see him taking that with him to the grave, even if it’s not even that serious. Is he lying in his hotel bed, too, walking through the day from start to finish? Trying to come to terms with his disappointment? Ilya can’t imagine a world in which Hollander isn’t frustrated with the outcome of the day, even if he’d shook Ilya’s hand at the end. That’s why he’s fun.

Sleep doesn’t come. Ilya shakes his restlessness off, changes into his gym clothes, and stuffs his hotel key in his pocket. An hour at the gym will knock him out of his head and let him rest easy once he’s back. Tomorrow, he’ll forget about Hollander until they’re back on the ice. He can find some guy to fuck who looks close enough to him, maybe, and get it out of his system.

Ilya will, instead, find Hollander on that stupid fucking bike machine, shorts riding up his thighs, drenched in sweat already, dark hair curling slightly at his nape and around his ears. He will sit down across from him on the floor, once again, his foot touching Hollander’s ankle. A touch which makes Hollander’s legs tense, muscles shifting. His focus drifts. Slides down Ilya’s body in a way that is so painfully obvious it is endearing. Everything is. This is the terrible truth.

Ilya pokes the inside of his tongue with his cheek and stares openly. So that there is no doubt. Tells Hollander, “Sleep well,” with a tone that wishes him no such thing. He hopes Hollander goes back to his hotel room and stays awake all night thinking of Ilya’s foot nudging his own. Of sweat on skin and champagne and the rattling of gym machines. That he takes at least a little bit of this absurd need in Ilya’s body away from him so that they can chase this together, too.