Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warnings:

Rape/Non-Con, Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander/Original Male Character(s), Ilya Rozanov/Original Male Character(s)

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Original Male Character(s), Yuna Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Winner's Room (Sports RPF), Dom Ilya Rozanov, Top Ilya Rozanov, Reluctant, Dom Shane Hollander, Bottom Shane Hollander, Power Bottom, Dom/sub, Rape/Non-con Elements, Fuck Or Quit Hockey, Consensual Sex, Sex Between Ilya and Shane Is Consensual, They Can’t Technically Say No But They Don’t Want To, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Autistic Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Has Sensory Issues, Sex Cult, The NHL Is A Sex Cult, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, weaponized internalized homophobia, Slurs, It’s Only Gay If You Are Submissive, It’s Only Gay If You Like It, Judgmental Shane Hollander, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Alternative Timeline, Alternative Universe- Winner’s Room, Ilya Plays His Rookie Season In The KHL, Unrealistic Hockey Capabilities, Pubic Shaving, Emasculation, Smoking, Chair Sex, Cock Rings, Blinker, Marking, Condoms, Gags, Sexual Attraction, Denial, Harems, Past Shane Hollander/Cliff Marlow|Cliff Marleau, Porn with Plot, Sub Shane Hollander, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros (Game Changers), Dehumanization, Mirror Sex, Phone Sex, Rope Bondage, Blindfolds, Dildos, Barebacking, Sexual Overstimulation, Sex Tapes, Verbal Abuse, Man in the Crease Podcast (Heated Rivalry), Car Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shower Sex

Language:

English

Series:

Part 2 of Winner Takes All

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-18 Updated: 2026-10-07 Words: 114,576 Chapters: 15/?

The Wrong Prize

Summary

Shane Hollander begins his NHL career unchallenged when Ilya Rozanov enters the KHL after World Juniors. One season of being allowed to terrorize the ice and the Winner’s Room is enough for Boston to drag Ilya out of Russia.

What they had not accounted for in releasing a second generational talent into the league was that not all predators are solitary. Ilya may want to bring Hollander to his knees, but he wants to present the defeat of an inferior player to his feet first.

He just has to convince Hollander to let him.

Notes

The Wrong Prize is the main story in the “Winner Takes All” series. Both Victory Conditions and The Wrong Prize can be read separately from each other. Victory Conditions is Shane Hollander’s POV of his first three Forfeits and how he ends up in this position.

Given the nature of the Winner’s Room the sex is dubiously consensual at best. Please keep this in mind with the tags and read at your own limits. Shane and Ilya are not good people in this. But like with all good things the grey is where it’s fun to explore.

I have a love for world/character building and no chill. Which is to say enjoy your porn with plot. Hopefully the plot makes the porn better.

Chapter 1: Even When You Win You Lose

Cutting down the ice with the puck on the blade of his stick Ilya Rozanov fired into the basically empty net of the Montreal goal. He roared the victory turning and pointing his stick at his opponent as Shane Hollander came to a stop behind him breathing hard. The Montreal Barn echoed his roar with their anguish.

“I think you will disappoint them today Hollander,” he chirped before he was swallowed into hugs from his line mates. 

He got a glimpse of Hollander’s pretty brown eyes narrowing and the man spitting on the ice before turning to return to his bench. Ilya would enjoy taking him to the Winner’s room. Especially since he expected Hollander would enjoy it as well. 

Cliff Marleau grabbed his arm at the bench and pulled him until they were looking into each other’s eyes. “Don’t taunt Hollander Roz,” his eyes were big and doe like, “stop drawing his attention to you.” 

It was the first time Ilya had heard Marleau speak in three days. The man had been quiet and with drawn leading up to the game against Montreal. 

Ilya of course ignored him. Going straight over to Hollander to chirp him as soon as they were back on the ice together. 

Ilya had tried very hard to be a good son. Instead of going straight into the NHL he had played a year in the KHL. Despite his best efforts Ilya could not be a good son and stay in Russia. 

Which meant he had missed the memo that the NHL was a creepy sex cult on top of being the best professional hockey league in the world. 

Ilya probably should have had more of an issue with the creepy sex cult part of it, but all it had really done had made sense of why his father had insisted that the NHL took it up the ass. 

You weren’t suppose to like taking it up the ass, but whatever. Ilya got to fuck a member the opposing team if he scored the winning goal during a game. And if his team had lost? Someone might want to fuck him. He sure ran his mouth often enough. But it hadn’t happened yet. 

He had only been playing in the NHL for a month. Everything had been mostly entirely normal, all things considered. 

Hollander was the first challenge he had faced on the ice in the NHL.

The Bears didn’t win every game since Ilya had arrived, but they had won most. Mostly because of Ilya, but also because they had worked hard since last season to claw their way out of the bottom rankings. 

Hollander was not one for big celebrations on the ice Ilya had learned at world Juniors. When scoring a goal for Montreal it was a simple pump of fist and going to the bench to be congratulated. Looking like the only thing on his mind was the next goal. 

Somehow a mix of a robot and a hunter. 

Ilya took great pleasure in slamming him into the boards. 

Listening to the brief gasp of breath and the way Hollander leaned just slightly back into him. It was not a surprise. 

“Fuck you,” Hollander panted and threw a sneaky elbow into his ribs before winning the puck off the boards and skating off with his prize. 

Ilya was smiling when he chased after him. 

When the game ended 3-2 in favor of Montreal and a hat trick from Hollander they had circled through the line of players. Montreal and Boston apparently had a friendly enough relationship that they did shake hands at the end of the game. 

Instead of shaking his hand Hollander had clapped him on the shoulder as if he was telling Ilya what they both already knew. And for a moment the robot was absent, the hunter standing alone. It almost made losing worth it. 

Marleau was rushing around the locker room with a pinched look on his face when they got back. He was throwing around his clothes into a small bag and brought that bag into the shower with him. The one with the stall no one used. And no one even gave him shit about it. It was the opposite of Marleau every other game. Confident and boisterous going around to touch and congratulate everyone. Ilya liked his senior. They were a lot a like. A good friend.

“What’s up with Marleau,” Ilya asked his stall mate Hansson who was a seasoned Swiss defender. 

It was sometimes easier to get the other foreign guys to talk than the Americans and Canadians. 

Hansson shrugged but was very careful to not look at Ilya or speak above a whisper in the quiet locker room. 

“Hollander has a reputation for having favorites,” Hansson admitted and Marleau cursed from the shower stall at something, “and being very particular. Just leave Marleau alone okay?” 

Ilya scoffed. 

The implication was about the Winners room of course. 

But anyone with eyes knew Hollander was particular. Ilya had played against him in World Juniors and if his behavior on the ice hadn’t clued him in, he would have defiantly been made aware when Hollander came over to introduce himself and offered a hand shake twice in the span of two minutes. Proceeding this had been a compliment of Ilya’s skills and a scolding about smoking. 

Ilya had been kind of distracted by his pink lips, and a constellation of freckles on his pale glowing skin. 

A chance to play against Hollander had almost made him join the NHL his rookie season. 

“Okay,” he answered when Hansson had looked at him expectantly. 

Ilya grabbed his sweat pants and muscle t-shirt throwing them on as he patted around for his cigarettes. 

The other guys were mostly changing into their suits for the bus ride to the hotel, but some of them would see the trainers, and staff medical before leaving. So it wasn’t odd of him. 

It was really nonsense for Marleau to be worried. But men were stupid. Hollander was the best. He would also want the best. Not fucking Cliff Marleau. Who came back out of the shower dressed in soft sweatpants and a hoodie. He sat down on the bench in front of his stall tapping his foot insistently. 

Ilya was busy scrolling through his phone as they waited. 

This was different from the few other times they had lost. When everyone had been quiet and shuffling not fully committing to getting dressed. Watching the door with looks of dread and reservation. Until one of the other team's goalies had come in to announce who the winner had wanted. 

There was some rule about how goalies were off limits from winners and forfeits and how rookies could be a winner but not a forfeit.

The rules had been presented to him in a dark room by the player association after he had arrived in Boston and before his first practice with the Bears. 

There had been a power point and diagrams that had made Ilya blush. And it had been a lot of English. Sure he had been practicing during his year in the KHL, but you really couldn’t expect him to understand that much English when they are also revealing a sex cult.

But he got the gists of it. 

Drapeau the goalie for Montreal walked into the room and Marleau stumbled to his feet like he was drunk. Ilya reached out to steady him on instinct. Marleau had grabbed onto his arm digging his fingers in for a second. 

“He wants Rozanov,” Drapeau announced like it was some kind of surprise, one that grossed him out. 

Ilya winced as Marleau dug his fingers tighter into his arm. Fuck. That was going to leave a mark. 

“What,” Marleau shouted his face going red,

“No! He can’t have Rozanov. He’s a rookie.” 

Ilya snorted. “No I’m not.” 

Marleau gave him a panicked look. “He’s not,” Drapeau agreed, “doesn’t matter if it’s his first year in the NHL he was a rookie in the KHL. Doesn’t count.” 

Ilya works to carefully pry his friend’s fingers off his arm. “It’s okay,” Ilya tells him because the man is clearly terrified. 

Maybe Ilya is naive. But he had no idea why. 

One of the rules for this weird sex cult was that the winner couldn’t do anything to the forfeit that would cause harm that would prevent him from playing in his next game. 

That still left plenty of room for pain, but the list of things could not do had been very long. 

“No,” Marleau fights to grab Ilya again, “no. You can’t. Roz. You don’t know-“ 

His breath chokes and he looks back to Drapeau. “Please,” he is begging and Ilya wonders what the fuck Hollander does to his forfeits if Marleau is this scared and trying to prevent Ilya from going at the same time, “let me talk to him. Please. I can convince him.” 

Drapeau’s lips curled back into a snarl. Oddly enough in the weird sex cult where men fucked each other implying you would willingly engage in gay sex of any kind was still culturally taboo. 

The Captain had to come up to grab Marleau as Ilya tried to extract himself again and was failing this time. 

Half the team was looking at Marleau like he was crazy and the other half had a sympathetic twinge in their eyes. 

A few of the other guys stepped up to Marleau like he  was a startled horse and Ilya was able to slip away. 

“Wait. I’ll walk down with you,” Feller their back up goalie announced. 

Which was apparently a right the goalie from the loosing team had. Or maybe a responsibility? Whatever. The Winning goalie would retrieve the chosen Forfeit to the Winner’s room and the loosing goalie would make sure that the Forfeit left the room by sunrise, along with fetching any necessary medical care or proceedings if something happened that broke the rules. 

Which seemed to fall into the category of the winner or forfeit refusing to perform the ritual, the Forfeit retaliating against the Winner, or the Winner causing some kind of unallowed harm. 

Since the goalies were not able to participate in the sex part of the ritual they were unbiased or something. 

They waited as Feller finished chucking his goalie pads to the side before the procession moved down through the halls of the Montreal arena. 

It was a silent affair and Ilya seemed to be the only one that was unbothered.

“If you aren’t out of the room thirty minutes after Hollander leaves or if sunrise comes, I’m coming in to get you,” Feller reminded him as they arrived at the door. 

He grimaced. “Marleau tends to want the time to-“ he doesn’t finish the sentence, “just take the time you need after okay?”

“Pussy,” Drapeau huffed, probably about Marleau. 

This was the opposite of how Feller had delivered him to the Winner’s room the first time Ilya had won. That had been a lot more playful shoving and hair ruffling from the older player. Feller looked almost morbid now. 

What was so scary about Hollander? 

Sure the man was a menace on the ice, but he was a generational talent. Sure, off the ice he was quiet, intense, but he was also full of awkward fumbling and nervous little movements if he wasn’t on camera. On camera he was still quiet but he was confident and a reserved kind of charming. 

Weird heterosexual men and their sex cult. 

“No problem,” Ilya shrugged effortlessly and went to open the door. 

Feller grabbed his hand. “There should be a rule book in the cabinet if you want to go over it again.” 

“Da,” Ilya huffed and rolled his eyes, waving both goalies away, “Hollander is not scary. He has a very weak backhand. What can he do?”

“No he doesn’t,” Drapeau argued automatically and Feller who had been on the receiving end of those back hands looked like he agreed.

Ilya made another shooing motion and managed to slip into the Winner’s room, shutting the door behind him. Hollander was not there yet. He let out a breath and immediately pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. 

If he wasn’t so curious Ilya might be more concerned about this situation but he had already seen a lot of weird things this year. 

Including a weird cross thing in Minnesota that he had gotten the goalie Thomas to admit that their Captain liked to whip men on it. Ilya hadn’t been very interested in the whip. He had been interested in getting their captain tied to that cross a few weeks later and fucking him against it until he cried and came. 

It had been funny. 

Each winner's room was a little different. A bed obviously. A connecting bathroom with a shower. And a cabinet full of toys that Ilya had only dared to poke around when they were home in Boston. Mostly he was happy to get serviced and let the other man leave. 

He would be more interested in getting them to cum, if it wouldn’t be such a humiliation. He had learned that in the winners room the Forfeit did not want the favor returned. Which was fine. But not what Ilya looked for in sex partners. 

For a sex cult where you supposedly had full control over another body, he was pretty limited in being able to take what he wanted. 

Fucking a man’s ass wasn’t gay, but wanting to see how many orgasms you could pull out of him was. Whatever. 

The Montreal room was different. 

One wall was all mirror, from floor to ceiling. Someone liked to look at himself. Which Ilya could appreciate. 

He set his packet of cigarettes on the bed side table noting the leather cuffs tied to the headboard. And yeah. On the foot of the bed was another set. 

Those things weren’t so weird. The chair was new. 

It was on the same wall as the bed. Facing the mirror. Very sturdy with a straight back for good posture. Wood finishing and leather padding. Arm rests. And cuffs on the arm rests and feet of the chair. Which was the part that confused him. How were you going to fuck someone in this chair if they were tied down like that? The back didn’t recline. So it wasn’t even a good place to fuck someone’s face. 

He was trying to puzzle it out when the door opened behind him. 

Ilya turned to watch Hollander stroll in. Like he owned the place. Considering the fact he had scored the most game winning goals for Montreal in a season, he probably did own the room. More or less. 

Outside of playoffs Montreal had not lost many games last season. And only two so far this season. The year was fresh and there was plenty of time to bring Montreal to their knees. 

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya purred, turning to face him and throwing his arms out to the side like he was presenting himself for assessment, his mouth smiling around the cigarette. 

Hollander looked him over in a quick blink that said he was not used to a man so relaxed in this room. His nose scrunched. “Why are you smoking? You’re a professional athlete. You’re going to ruin your lungs.” 

He came straight over pulling the cigarette from Ilya’s mouth and tossing it into the ash tray Ilya had found.

The scolding made Ilya’s chest warm. “It’s just one cigarette,” Ilya complained, rolling his eyes.

“It smells like smoke in here now. You smell like smoke.” 

Hollander’s brow creased and Ilya wanted to reach up and smooth the wrinkles away. 

The problem was that even if he was pretty sure that their attraction to each other was mutual if Hollander hadn’t accepted his own attraction then he could be in trouble for acting too carelessly. And everyone seemed to think Hollander was some kind of terrifying sadist. 

Ilya wasn’t scared. But he wasn’t stupid.

“Sorry.”

He wasn’t sorry at all. 

Hollander tried very hard to look annoyed. It almost stuck on his face. “No you’re not,” he grumbled. 

Ilya felt his fingers twitching to touch him. To bring Hollander into his body. He wanted to reward him for his hat trick. Even if it burned him with fury that Hollander had been able to get it. 

“I’m not,” Ilya agreed, letting the smile spread across his face and Hollander was leaning into him. 

His fingers ghosting against Ilya's chest. He brought his head down inching forward to see if Hollander would accept a kiss. 

But he’s shoved away. “Gross,” Hollander hissed and it struck Ilya in the chest. 

The rejection. 

“We’re not doing anything until that stench is gone. Bathroom.” 

He points to the bathroom and Ilya obediently heads over without argument. 

“The mighty Shane Hollander defeated by a little smoke,” he teases to see if he can get away with it. 

Hollander snorts behind him and pulls out mouthwash and a toothbrush from the bathroom cabinet. “I won,” he said simply, “I get what I want for winning. No one defeats me.” 

“Not yet,” Ilya hums, grabbing the tooth brush without being told what to do, “next time I will.” 

“Fat chance.”

He watches Ilya brush his teeth and rinse with the mouthwash. Like he might be grading him for it. It should be weird but Ilya finds himself endeared to it. 

“This is,” he starts to tease but had to stop to look for the English word, “kinky? Very kinky.” 

He nods confident he had gotten the word right. 

And he’s rewarded with a laugh from Hollander. Who looks surprised by the sound coming from his own mouth. 

Ilya doesn’t dare to ruin it by speaking so instead he brushes his teeth with a smile. 

When he finishes he turns back to Hollander with his open mouth making a ta da sound. 

Hollander shoves him. “You’re such an idiot.” 

Ilya is baffled by Marleau shaking and pleading. It was honorable to protect someone but Ilya could not imagine needing to be protected from this. He lets Hollander back him up against the glass of the shower door. Lets the man press their lips together in a hungry kiss. 

He moans into it. His hands snake down to rest on Hollander’s hips and pulls him in. 

It makes Hollander freeze. Ilya relaxes his grip but doesn’t move. And Hollander pulls back to study him like he is a puzzle. 

“I can still smell smoke,” Hollander says.

Ilya isn’t sure if that’s true anymore. Regardless he wasn’t going to argue. He searches Hollander’s eyes to see where he had just gone wrong and how far he is from the point of no return. 

Hollander backs up and points to the shower. 

“Clean the scent off, and you can shave while you are in there.” 

Shave. 

Ilya frowns wondering if shave is slang he had missed.

Hollander is back at the sink carefully putting away the mouth wash and throwing away the tooth brush. 

“Shave,” Ilya repeats and looks back to the shower sliding the door open to look inside for hints.

He finds shampoo and body wash, and a wash cloth. Along with two razors one of which was electric and shaving cream that says…

He squints. 

“Hollander what does this say?”

He holds out the bottle. Maybe he should not let Hollander know that English was not second nature yet. But it was evident in his speech and he knew that. 

Hollander looks back. 

“Intimate pubic shaving cream and cleanser,” he says and it’s dismissive. 

Ilya puzzles out the words together. And yeah no. 

“Hollander,” he says again and wiggles the bottle at him again.

Intimate? Like intamacy? Was this suppose to be sexy shave? 

Pubic? Public? 

Intimacy public shaving cream and cleanser? 

Hollander’s blank face didn’t go away, but he stepped forward again. Ilya’s breath hitched. It was like on the ice. The Hunter. 

He leans in and his hand reaches down to grab Ilya’s cock and balls. He squeezes lightly with a smirk and Ilya shudders. Keeping his need  for the touch to himself. Too much enthusiasm had made Hollander shut down last time. 

He swallows as Shane keeps his hand there. He’s not making eye contact but he’s watching Ilya’s face closely. Waiting. 

And that is in fact his answer. 

He blinks in surprise. “Oh,” he gasps, staying very still, “okay. Yes.” 

Which had Hollander narrowing his eyes. Not like he was happy. Like he was judging something. 

“I take off my clothes and shower now,” Ilya asked, waiting for Hollander to back up or do something, “so you will stop complaining about smell of smoke.” 

He lets himself smile lazy and teasing and that seems to work. Hollander’s shoulders relaxed 

“Yes,” Hollander agreed and stepped away, “leave the shower door open.”

“If that’s what you want.”

He batted his eye lashes at Hollander hoping to get a smile. But he doesn’t. Instead Hollander leaned back against the counter to watch. 

Ilya shrugs and begins to strip tossing off his clothes. Hollander makes a frustrated noise and begins to grab what Ilya drops. He flings his boxers towards the door just to watch the way Hollander glares. That and the way his ass thrusts out when he bends down. 

Next time. 

Hollander gives him an annoyed look and waves to the shower clearly telling Ilya to go. He disappears back into the main room. 

Ilya shrugs and turns on the water. Heating it to what he likes and steps inside. He doesn’t know why the cleaning products are unscented. Most hockey players tried everything to cover up the scent of hockey gear and sweat. Maybe Hollander liked it? 

Either way it was only to remove the smoke smell so Ilya didn’t worry about it. He didn’t notice any tools to clean his ass. Which, he sighed, there had been diagrams in the presentation, but he didn’t think the straight men had paid much attention to that. Maybe Hollander had been the same. Even if his pupils had dilated when he touched Ilya’s balls. 

He hadn’t shaved his balls or ass before. But there was a first time for everything. Some of the women he had slept with hadn’t liked how hair got in the way. Maybe Hollander was the same? 

But this was not about Ilya getting touched. In this situation from his experience the forfeits cock was very much an after thought. Unless you paid attention to the slides about hurting a cock. Maybe that was why Marleau had been so freaked out. 

Hollander had liked shoving Ilya into the boards in return. But not as much as when Ilya had done the shoving. 

Ilya winced at the idea of Hollander abusing his cock and balls. 

He was reading the directions on the shaving cream when Hollander came back in. Ilya did not want to fuck that up and end up bleeding because he was an idiot. Especially if Hollander planned to beat them. 

He considered his tools and grabbed the electric razor first stepping away from the spray and flicking it on. He had seen Svetlana shave her legs before. It couldn’t be that dissimilar.

Keep the skin taunt. Get rid of any long course hairs first with an electric razor before smoothing it with the other one. There were plenty of places in the shower to rest his foot and brace himself. So he started the process with single minded determination. 

Of course he felt the moment Hollander came back. Heard his socked feet hit against the cabinet, but he didn’t let himself tense or look. Allowing Hollander to see what he wanted without having to think about being watched in return. 

And what he got was an intense stare on his dick. 

Maybe Hollander wanted to hurt. But maybe Hollander just wanted. 

When he got to shaving his balls he found it very difficult to tell what he was doing, until he looked down and saw a mirror built into the floor of the shower. 

Huh. 

Useful. 

It made the process easier but it was still tricky. 

Before he knew it, the bush around his cock was gone along with the hair on his balls. Ilya touched his skin interested and shuddered at the new sensation. Much more sensitive. 

With the mirrors help he started to spread his ass looking for the best way to tackle that. 

“What are you doing.” 

Ilya paused. “Shaving intimate area,” he answered, having understood the words now, especially since he had read the directions. 

He waved the razor at Hollander, like duh. 

Hollander looks at him like he had just answered in Russian. Maybe he had. 

“Hair around cock, balls, hair around hole,” he explained like he was teaching Hollander about shaving. 

Hollander was still giving him the look and Ilya huffed. “What does shaving asshole make you gay? Cock and balls fine but asshole too much?” 

The look turned into a puppy tilt of his head. “Do you want to shave your asshole?” 

Ilya didn’t know how to answer that. He had assumed it was expected. Given the givens. Would he have chosen to do it on his own? No. But Ilya was usually pretty agreeable with the sexual desire of his partners. 

He huffed. Waving the razor in air. “You are Winner!” 

The puppy tilt left replaced by something cold. Ilya sighed and groaned, tilting his head back. Why had this gone wrong? Maybe touching asshole really did make you gay to Shane Hollander. 

“No. You don’t need to do that.” 

The words were very carefully chosen. Ilya took the out anyways. Since this had clearly been the wrong path. He used the wash cloth and soap to make sure the hairs had all gone away before turning off the shower. 

Hollander was still fully clothed. But he had a towel now. Which he tossed to Ilya. “Dry off before you get out.” 

Ilya obeyed unashamed of letting Hollander look. Which Hollander did. Eyes on Ilya’s cock. But with less intensity. Not puppy dog tilt but some kind of question. 

“You did not get from that what you wanted,” Ilya asked, facing Hollander as he dried off his hair. 

Hollander was frowning at him.

Ilya thought about the little bag Marleau had brought back into the shower the one with the stall and how no one had teased him about hiding. 

Marleau had been ashamed that Hollander had wanted him hairless. He supposed shaving before would prevent Marleau from having to do that in front of Hollander. Was the bareness the point? Or maybe. 

“Am I suppose to be emasculated?” 

Hollander’s eyes snap to Ilya’s face and his frown furrows deeper. Ilya doesn’t like it.

“You know the word emasculated but not pubic?” 

“Emasculated is in boring introduction to weird sex cult slide show,” Ilya defended himself and moved from his hair to dry off his body. 

Hollander is back to laughing. It’s a victory. Ilya feels the smile on his lips. 

“Weird sex cult?” 

“Yes,” Ilya confirms .

It's all very self-explanatory. Hollander doesn’t say anything for a moment watching Ilya dry off. “You do not feel emasculated.” 

Ilya doesn’t know if it’s a question or a statement. 

“I miss Europe,” he complained. 

He finishes drying off and looks back at Hollander. They make eye contact for a moment. Hollander opens his mouth but it’s too late. Ilya has already thrown his towel onto the ground outside of the shower. 

“You are a child,” Hollander complained bending down to pick up the towel and throw it into a bin. 

He looks back to the shower and finds Ilya still standing in it. The confused puppy look it back. He steps over and sniffs. 

“No smoke,” he notes and Ilya lets the man grab his balls feeling over his work. 

He holds back his gasp. Then Hollander steps back letting go. “Come on,” he ordered and heads out of the bathroom.

Ilya follows as if Hollander still had his balls in his hand. Eager like the questioning puppy on Hollander’s face.

Hollander waves his hand to the chair.

“Go sit down.” 

When he obeys he learns more things about the chair. The arms are there but they are weird. It does not go straight down. Instead there is enough room for two people to sit on the chair without hitting their thighs or knees on the arm rest. 

The arm rest despite the padding is not comfortable. It elevates his arms higher than the normal resting position forcing him to stretch and avoid slouching. And the chair is low. Not extreme, but enough that Ilya has questions. 

He still does not understand how this chair leads to sex but it was clearly designed with something in mind.

“Very interesting chair,” he notes. 

Hollander does not waste time. He quickly secures Ilya’s hands in place with the leather cuffs and the ankles. 

Ilya pouts. “Was I not obedient enough for you Hollander? Must tie me down?” 

He tests how much give the cuffs have. 

Hollander looks at the buckles carefully sliding a finger under each one. “It’s not cutting off your circulation?”

Many men would not care if they were cutting off circulation. Ilya wiggled a little. His heart pounding faster. It was sweet even if the whole thing was weird. 

“Not too tight,” he promises and pulls his hands back to show that he can’t escape the cuffs. 

There is maybe two inches of room for him to move his hands, “tell me what you’re going to do to me.” 

Hollander’s look is blank. The kind he gives in press interviews when particularly dumb or offensive questions are asked. 

It takes a while for him to search through his catalog of answers to find one he likes. “No.” 

His lips quirks into one of the most sexy smirks Ilya has ever seen and he groans his protest. 

“Hollander,” he complains. 

His dick should not be getting hard from having a man standing over him like this. But he is. Half hard or at least getting there. But he can’t hide the bodily reaction to a man like Hollander standing in front of him while he is naked. It’s Hollander’s fault he is sexy. And the mirror gives him a view of Hollander’s ass. Hockey does not give good attractive asses but Hollander is an exception. Ilya would like to burry himself between his cheeks for hours. 

“Rozanov,” Hollander mocks him. 

Ilya hits his head against the back of the chair. 

“Yes. Ilya Rozanov at your mercy,” he points out, “it is in player union contract. If Ilya Rozanov looses game to Shane Hollander, he must go to little room and do whatever Shane Hollander wants until he is done or until sunrise.” 

He can’t help but look Hollander over again. 

“And so far Shane Hollander has wanted to yell about cigarettes and pout when I shave for him like he asks and stare while he makes me sit in a suspected weird sex chair.” 

Hollander laughs again at the weird sex chair. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” he declares and there is no complaint in anything but the words. 

Ilya had to fight to keep the beaming smile off his face. He can’t hide how his cock is half hard now just from the way Hollander laughs. 

He can do this. Play between the lines Hollander wants of him. Ilya is very good at games like that. 

When Hollander leans into him again slotting their mouths together Ilya doesn’t dive into the kiss. He lets Hollander press him into the chair, taking and taking and leaving Ilya whimpering against his mouth as he almost shakes with the need to burn their mouths together. 

He lets Hollander coax him into a deeper kiss. His tongue playing at his lips before slipping inside. Ilya opens for him. Hollander teases against his tongue. Ilya waits for the invitation to let his tongue into the mix. Waits for permission to kiss back. 

He doesn’t know how long the kiss has lasted. But enough his dick has hardened to another degree. 

It keeps going and Ilya lets his head get fuzzy. Enjoying the space a good relaxed make out session puts him into. 

Sex made everything sharp and clear. On alert but in a way that made his blood sing. But kissing? For the sake of kissing? Fuzzy and warm. The kind of thing that made Ilya want to curl into his bed with all of the blankets and not get out while he watched the snow fall from his window. 

It was not a good head space to be in when he needed to be on his guard and alert. 

When Hollander pulled away Ilya followed with a whine and unclear focus. He blinked hard knowing he couldn’t afford to not be sharp. But it took him a minute of panting before he could focus. Hollander was smugly staring at him staring at the dick that had finished jumping up to rest on Ilya’s stomach. 

“You’re hard,” Hollander points out.

Which obviously. Was he not suppose to get hard from a kiss like that? 

“Yes Hollander,” his words don’t come out as sarcastic as he would like, “I tend to get hard when gorgeous men kiss me.” 

For some reason this is not the correct answer. 

Hollander frowns. 

Ilya hits his head back again trying to clear his mind. Why would Hollander not like him admitting that? 

Unless Hollander was under the impression he was straight. That he wouldn’t be willingly having sex with him if it was not for the sex cult thing. 

Ilya tried to reason with him. Since he knew Hollander liked men as well. “I have been thinking about you since you introduced yourself with your adorable freckles.” 

This earns him another press question blank look. 

Ilya groans. “Hollander. Come on. You knew before yes? On ice? I smile when you tap my shoulder after win.” 

This does not help Ilya’s case. 

Maybe if he hit his head enough times against the back of the chair this would be over. 

Had Hollander really not understood all the signs Ilya had been throwing at him? 

Really if Hollander was the type of man to go spreading around that Ilya had a genuine attraction to men, he had just put himself in a position where he was fucked. 

Hollander’s jaw worked. 

“Shut up,” he hisses but it’s more panicked than demanding. 

Ilya moves but can’t get up. He huffs. “Hollander. You are having panic attack,” he told him, and Hollander looked like the kind of man who desperately needed to be touched, “it’s attraction not marriage proposal.” 

He waits. Hollander had been fine. But now he looks like he needs Ilya’s arms around him. For Ilya to press him into the bed and bite against the back of his neck and remind him of what the present was. 

He is forced to watch Hollander fight the panic on his own. Helpless in a stupid chair. 

Ilya is not against begging. Not when he has to.

“Hollander please. Tell me what you need. Let me up. I’ll give you anything you want.” 

He hates more than anything not being able to do something. Sitting still listening to his father yell when there was no right answer. When the least wrong one was silence and waiting. 

If he could just do something he could fix Hollander. 

“You will give me what I want. You don’t have a choice,” Hollander finally spits out. It’s a threat but Ilya doesn’t care.

Hollander walks over to the night stand. 

“There are rules,” he tells Ilya, confident, direct, not looking at him at all now.

“Yes”, Ilya agrees in relief and curls his fingers down into the leather of the arm rest. 

“You keep your eyes on me. On what I’m doing to you. What I’m doing to you. You’re doing nothing. You are taking it.” 

Ilya nods his agreement enthusiastic as he can be. 

“You can watch in the mirror, but you’re not allowed to close your eyes or look away.” 

Why would he ever want to look away?

Hollander brings his hand back around Ilya’s dick and strokes. Ilya bites into his lip but this is the wrong answer. Hollander slaps against his cheek. Light and sharp. 

“No,” he says it like he is talking to a dog, “all of your sounds belong to me. You’re not going to hold back.” 

It was counter order to the pace Hollander had been setting all night. Shying back every time Ilya pressed to far too quickly. 

His fingers slip down to massage Ilya’s balls lightly running a finger nail over the sensitive skin that has him gasping. He doesn’t try to hold back the sound or look away. 

“That’s all you get to do. Look at me and make sounds for me.” 

Ilya nods. “Yes,” he agrees, “my eyes and mouth are for you.” 

The blank look doesn’t come back but there is something unsettled in the way Hollander shifts. 

Ilya had to remind himself that whatever is happening he had to imagine Marleau in it. What Marleau would think and feel as a man who would not want to be at the sexual mercy of another man. 

Hollander had tried to emasculate him. But that would have definitely worked on Marleau. He was tied down to a chair unable to move. It felt like a threat to Ilya, there was no choice he was going to be able to fight back. His only option was to sit here and experience what happened to him. No matter what it was. Even if the rules would have kept him in place, this was physical. Answering a primal part of the brain. 

He had to look at Hollander. He had to make sounds. And Hollander was not shying away from touching his dick. The stroking had continued. If Ilya had been the winner it would be gratifying to have an attractive man pleasuring him while he relaxed sitting. But he was not the winner. He was the forfeit. The forfeits were for pleasure. An object. Something to get your needs satisfied with. 

So what was Ilya. What was Marleau? 

What if they reserved the roles. What reversed between the winner and forfeit? If pleasuring the winner meant your body had to not just be a vessel but an active participant. To be engaged and wanting what was done to you. Especially when you would not admit to wanting it. 

He shivered. 

Hollander was not looking to slap his balls, but he was a sadist. 

The realization seemed to put Hollander back where he expected to be. Something in Ilya’s eyes put Hollander back on the even ground that had escaped him. 

He let go of Ilya’s cock. “If you need help to obey I have a few tools,” Hollander told him and picked up something from the night stand. 

Ilya recognized one as a ring gag. The other was weird. Little stiff patches of leather that was held in place maybe by wrapping around the back of the head? He tried to picture it. The leather fitting next to the eyes. 

“It’s a blinker,” Hollander explains, “it forces you to look at what is exactly in front of you. They use them on race horses to keep them from startling.” 

A horse tool. 

Ilya felt his mouth drop open. What happened in the beautiful mind of Shane Hollander? 

“You came up with this all on your own” Ilya asks. 

Not just the horse blinker, but all of it. It was setting into his mind now. But he wasn’t sure if he could play the role of reluctant participant. 

“Lavoie said humiliation was a good way to get off if I couldn’t stomach getting off by a man alone,” Hollander considers this, “well he phrased it differently, but I took the words to heart.” 

Shane Hollander was not the good boy the NHL and press made him out to be. 

Ilya loved it. 

But he wasn’t sure if he could feel humiliated or even pretend too. He felt his cock leaking. 

Hollander had figured out a way to play with a man that Ilya hadn’t. Ilya wanted to genuinely make his partners feel good, but he hadn’t thought about flipping the tables like that. 

“Do you need help being good,” Hollander asked in a hum. 

“Only if you want me too,” Ilya couldn’t keep away the honesty, too aroused and impressed. 

Hollander studies him. But sets the blinder and gag down. He does pick up a rubber ring. Ilya has no idea what it is. 

“I trust you,” he answers and Ilya gets the feeling that that’s more honest than Hollander should be. 

“With those rules at least,” he waves the rubber in front of Ilya’s face, “this is a cock ring. I secure it to the base of your cock and it prevents you from cumming.” 

Forced to feel pleasure but never get the satisfaction from it. 

“Impressive,” Ilya mutters and doesn’t look away from Hollander’s face even as the man slips the ring onto him. 

It’s almost comforting to know he’ll give Hollander exactly what he wants and his body can’t prevent that from happening. 

“I made the mistake of not starting with this the first time,” Hollander admits, “it was very annoying.” 

“Tell me,” Ilya requests breathing hard as Hollander continues to stroke him. 

Hollander’s eyes are on his cock. And maybe Hollander is a stickler for rules. There was no talking about what happened inside the Winner’s room, unless you were in it. Past experiences might also be off limits even when you were in it. 

But Hollander’s lip quirks. “It was Sullivan from New Jersey,” he tells Ilya, “he cried. A lot.”

Ilya tried to imagine it. Hollander cruely making a man cry. His face scrunched like he had at the cigarette smell. “I had to go take a shower because his cum was dripping out of me. And when I came back I made him get hard again.” 

Ilya would definitely not get in the way of Hollander and what he thought of as his toy.

“Sullivan is old,” Ilya grunts eyes fluttering at the pace Hollander had set with his cock. 

Hollander laughs while Ilya moans. “He’s one of the older guys. His body is not up to getting hard twice in a row now. He begs for the cock ring.” 

Ilya jerks at the idea of Hollander taking Sullivan again. Breaking him apart over and over. 

But everyone had said that Hollander had favorites. 

“When he came into my room the second time I asked him if it was the same fucking his wife as it was me, and I was pretty sure he was going to terminate his contract after that. But the man is stubborn.”

Ilya’s mind focused on the concept out of all those words. 

Fucking Hollander?

“You let him top?” 

Hollander’s face is a blade cutting through the ice, “I took him inside of me. I fucked him. But he was in me.” 

“Fuck,” Ilya breathed out flushed and reverent looking at the man not thinking his own eyes could get any bigger, “and you are going to fuck me same way?” 

He hopes so. Ilya didn’t like to bottom. Not that there was anything wrong with it. But it never got him wild. He had been fine with bottoming for Hollander because he had to, but he would have been thinking about how Hollander’s ass pushed into him against the boards the entire time. 

“Yes,” Hollander answered matter of fact and with drawls his hand. 

“No,” Ilya whimpered at the loss of sensation. 

Hollander’s eyes spark. Like Ilya had answered his declaration instead of the loss of his hand. “You’re going to be inside of a man, and you are going to like it.” 

Ilya did not bother pointing out that he was looking forward to that part a lot. “Just because I take your cock inside of me, doesn’t mean you’re fucking a woman. It’s not just a hole.” 

“It’s your hole,” Ilya agreed breathless, “you. I’ll be inside Shane Hollander.” 

Maybe he shouldn’t be saying that in English. “Because I want you to be,” Hollander made that part extra clear and Ilya could only nod. 

He took the time to try and regain his breath. Hollander was appraising him again. But this time his eyes landed on Ilya’s arm. Where Marleau had grabbed him. 

Ilya didn’t dare follow Hollander’s eyes and look away from him. 

He reached out and traced the finger mark divots. Ilya sat as still as he could. No point in upsetting the Hunter. 

“This didn’t happen during the game. And they’re fresh.” 

Ilya nods, not able to stop from wincing as Hollander presses into them. “Marleau did not want me to come here. He was very afraid.” 

Hollander rolled his eyes. “He hates the cock ring. Complains like a bitch,” Hollander bites his bottom lip and Ilya whines as his thumb presses even harder against the mark, “last time I told him he could either have the cock ring or viagra.” 

Ilya squirmed at the pain as Hollander’s thumb refused to let up. Like he tact Ilya to the chair with his thumb. “We used condoms. And every time he came I made him drink it.” 

A sadist. But Hollander wasn’t sparking with desire or lust. Nothing that seemed overly aroused at the story. It was all matter of fact. Instead his eyes were glued to the spot Ilya had been marked. 

“Do me a favor,” Hollander asked and finally released Ilya’s arm, looking back at his face, “for me and not because you have too.” 

His face would look charming if it was not a little murderous. Just a little. 

“Tell Marleau for me that the next time he leaves a mark on what belongs to me we can see how he likes the cock ring and viagra and the dildo he admitted to using with his Forfeits.” 

It’s not a threat. It’s a promise. 

Ilya shudders. “Yes,” he agrees instantly, “but I get something in return.” 

Hollander pauses. The bloodlust real and not directed at Ilya, but for him. He has never been so wanted before. So claimed. He’s going to loose himself in it. He’d do anything to remain claimed like that. 

“What do you want,” Hollander asks and it’s not an argument, it’s a negotiation.

“In this room together, I’m yours. Not just a forfeit or a winner. Something that belongs to you.” 

The feral look ratchets up ten degrees. 

Ilya takes the look head on. Let’s himself own it. It is for him after all. 

“That’s a stupid trade,” Hollander tells him, “That was already true.” 

He leans in and crashes their mouths together. Ilya can’t breathe and he doesn’t want to. Kissing back with everything he had. Sure that this time Hollander would not back away. 

The kiss starts with a violent need but turns slow and soft. Hollander is in his lap. Grinding against his cock making needy desperate sounds Ilya can’t soothe. He can’t move. 

It’s Wrong.

“Let me go,” Ilya asked pulling away, “let me touch you. I’ll fuck you the way you want.” 

He could feel the way Hollander wants it. Just like on the boards. A return claiming. 

But it’s the wrong thing to say. “No,” Hollander pants and gets up, “no. I’m not letting you think you’ve won just because-“ 

Ilya whines. “No. Hollander. I need to fuck you. Need to give you what you need.” 

Hollander shakes his head no. Quick and certain. Whatever Hollander had worked out in his stubborn beautiful mind hadn’t been enough to have permission to take what he actually wanted. 

“You want me to press you down into that bed and fuck you until you can’t think. Until your ass is shaped for my cock, and my cock knows nothing but your ass. Fuck you until you’re screaming and clawing my back while-“ 

“Shut up,” Hollander demands voice steel. 

Ilya stops. “You’re not equals in the winners room,” he points it out like it’s an obsolete truth and not a lie Ilya could fuck out of him, “and I’m not letting myself become less than just becuase I want you inside me. Just because you can admit to wanting me outside this room.” 

So Hollander had figured that out at least. 

It’s quiet as Hollander disrobes. Ilya expects it to be sharp and demanding like how he had told Ilya to stop but it’s ritualistic instead. Carefully folding each piece and laying it out on the bed. 

Fondness creeps up his spine. Dangerous. 

What is he suppose to do with this darling man? 

Hollander grabs the lube and coats Ilya’s dick with it. Ilya looks in the mirror. See’s Hollander’s hole red and lightly puffy like he had been playing with it earlier.

Ilya groans. “No Hollander,” he complains, “don’t do it yourself. Should have let me do it.” 

Hollander rolls his eyes and settles back on Ilya’s lap. 

The chair makes a lot of sense now. Ilya can’t move but his cock is available to Hollander. While Hollander had plenty of room to move against him, and fuck himself on the cock 

Point to weird sex chair being correct, but he would take a point away because he liked it. He would like it better if Hollander took the hand cuffs off so he could touch Hollander the way he deserved. 

“Prep sucks,” Hollander told him and without any ceremony was guiding Ilya’s cock to his hole.

And then he slammed himself down onto Ilya’s dick with the most beautiful moan he had ever heard. Ilya almost closed his eyes at the feeling but Hollander’s brown ones were pools of pleasure he couldn’t look away from. 

He wanted to argue about prep. Tell Hollander all the ways he wanted to get him ready for his dick. But all those words were lost. Instead Ilya could only moan as Hollander rode him 

The height of the chair allowing Hollander the perfect amount of leverage to fuck himself just the way he wanted. 

Just a tool for Hollander’s pleasure. 

Yes. He understood why Marleau was terrified of this. But Drapeau was right. What a pussy. 

Ilya didn’t have to worry about holding off his orgasm so he put all his attention into Hollander. On how he sounds. How he feels. How he knows this isn’t enough from the way Hollander’s mouth twists. Struggling. 

And Ilya can’t help. Hollander has the leverage. He doesn’t. 

All he can do is beg. 

“Shit. Hollander. Sweetheart,” he doesn’t know how to sooth him into moving where he needs to be, and the English language feels almost lost to him, “fuck. No. No. Shift closer to me. You need to be closer.” 

Hollander does not listen. He keeps going at his own pace. At the wrong angle. His breath hiccupping when he catches his prostate, but he’s never learned how to find it correctly. He doesn’t know how to move. And Ilya doesn’t have the hands or words to help him. 

Translating it from the feeling in his dick, and the way Hollander’s breathes out at each thrust to actual words to English was impossible. And falls on unlistening ears anyways. 

Ilya devolved into Russian. Begging Hollander to let him make it good for him 

And eventually that is taken too. As Hollander kisses him. Squeezing his ass along Ilya’s cock milking him. But it’s wrong for both of them. 

Hollander cums with what must be a mix of luck and sheer stubbornness. His hand fisting his own dick with frustration. His cum painting Ilya’s stomach. When he pulls away from Ilya his eyes are only a little glassy and scrunched. Because he hadn’t been satisfied.

Ilya jerks against the chains. The words are still lost on him his tongue feels heavy. He is vibrating. Hollander’s body lilts like he should be slumping into Ilya, but he only moves away. 

A growl slips out of him. Feral and desperate. He doesn’t care about rules. About what the Players Association thinks. He needs to make it good for Hollander. To fix the vacant look on his face as he gets off of Ilya’s dick with a wince. 

He stumbled as he stood. His cheeks are going red from the lack of physical grace. 

“You are not satisfied,” Ilya chokes out and it hurts him 

Hollander is giving him the press blank look. “English,” he orders. 

It’s enough to get Ilya’s mind back on that track, but Hollander is looking down at Ilya. At his lap. Where his dick had gone flaccid. Almost as soon as Hollander had pulled off with his face pinched 

Ilya struggles for the words but his mind starts to loose them as Hollander puts on his clothes. “No,” he protests 

“I came,” Hollander points out voice detached, “I don’t need anything else.” 

“Liar,” Ilya hisses and jerks again.

“You don’t get to decide,” Hollander snaps, “it’s about what I choose to do.”

He is shoving his feet into his shoes.

“You fuck me bad so you can still fuck them and pretend to like it,” Ilya doesn’t know if the words make sense in English, he doesn’t know if they make sense at all, it’s just an accusation, “men who cry and shudder at the idea of opening you. Fucking your prostate so you cum. Who will hold you-“ 

Hollander steps forward. Puts his hand over Ilya’s mouth to silence him. His hand is shaking. 

Ilya bites it. Hard. He needs. Hollander needs to know- 

Hollander back hands him. It’s a very weak back hand. But only if you account for the way Shane Hollander is perfect at everything. 

Ilya goes very still. 

“Shut up,” Hollander’s orders and he shakes harder. 

“Hollander,” Ilya begs. 

He needs Ilya. 

Hollander hits him again. Softer. “Hollander” 

Again. 

And he has to stop. Because Hollander does not want to hit him. His shaking gets worse. He won’t let Ilya fix it. Won’t let him take care of him. Make him feel good. 

Stupid tears prick at the corner of his eyes. 

Hollander’s fingers fumbled the latch of the first arm cuff twice. They lock eyes. Ilya knows he doesn’t have enough time. Hollander knows he will try anyways. 

His fingers stop moving when he gets a good grip. He looks at Ilya searching his eyes, before he surges forward to kiss him. 

Ilya kisses like kissing has a right answer. That if he does this perfectly. If he can consume Hollander then the man will stay and let Ilya pleasure him. The way he wants to be pleasured.

But he can’t get that lucky. The first cuff goes slack and by the time Ilya is reaching for the second to undo it Hollander has yanked himself back. He is bolting out the door. 

Ilya tries anyways. Racing against his own body to undo the second hand cuff and then the ones at his feet.

But by the time he had stumbled to the door, Hollander was long gone.

Ilya stands in the center of the winning room for far too long. Trying to get his mind back on track. To get to a place where he can fix the mess this stupid sex cult caused. 

Because Shane Hollander had found a way to Bottom and keep in line with the rules. But he hadn’t found a way to get what he actually wanted. To be fucked and filled and claimed. To be pushed to his limits. 

Instead he was made to fuck. Unsatisfied. And have weak men break under him.

Ilya would be more upset at the NHL for creating the conditions Hollander had found himself in, if he wasn’t more disgusted with himself for not being able to convince Hollander he could have what he wanted. 

Eventually Ilya cleans Hollander’s cum from his stomach and tosses the cock ring into the sink before throwing on his clothes and storming back to the visiting locker room. 

When he steps inside Feller and their Captain are bracketed around Marleau.

As the man freaks out about being made to want Shane Hollander’s ass. When he can’t even appreciate an ass like that. And would never think about trying to please the man attached to it. 

Ilya kind of hates him for a minute. Marleau flinches as Ilya starts to undress in front of all three of them. 

“Rozy,” he says with self deprecation and hope in his voice. 

Which is quickly swallowed when Ilya throws his boxers in with the rest showing himself off as freshly shaved.

“You okay,” his Captain asked with none of the shrilling whining. 

Ilya pauses looking in the mirror. At Hollander’s finger prints already purple bruises against his arm where Marleau’s nails had been. 

He lets his fingers dance across the marks before pressing down where Hollander’s thumb had. He takes in a deep breathe. 

“Next time,” he finds his suit so they can get the fuck out of Montreal before Ilya tears up the city looking for the second best forward in the league, “we win.” 

“Damn right we will,” Feller agreed, but it sounded like an apology for something terrible that had never happened.

Stupid sex cult. 

Chapter 2: The Losers' Group Chat

Chapter Summary

Ilya gets added to a group chat. He makes it a problem for everyone else.

Chapter Notes

Thank you for the kind comments. I promise there will be more psychological analysis and warfare.

To say things are different after Ilya’s first time in the Winner’s room as a forfeit would be an understatement. 

The things that don’t change are what is important. 

Ilya plays good hockey for the bears. 

He goes out with the team. 

Starlight freckles are burned into his mind, brighter than any constellation. 

He does not feel ashamed.

It takes ten days before Marleau will look him in the eyes again. Which was also ten days of nervous fussing like he was expecting a break down. Probably because he had one himself after being the forfeit to Shane Hollander. 

Ilya finds himself in a new club. One that no one wanted to be in, especially Ilya. 

He finds himself added to a group chat. There is basically one player from each team in the NHL. Except for Boston which has two. Marleau and himself.

Ilya is tempted to tell them to kick Marleau out. He will not need to be in this chat any longer. 

Not that the chat does much. Ilya is added and the chat is dead for days after. Not even any kind of welcome. He scrolled back up as far as he could to read through it. Most of it is about Hollander. Ranging from hockey stats to tabloids claiming to know what he was thinking on any given day. 

Many of the articles feature Hollander’s, ‘you just asked me a stupid press question and I’m thinking about how to not tell you how stupid it is,’ face.

There are also articles about shaving your balls, which quickly changed to an article about waxing. This is one of the conversations that seems to actually happen by way of messages. Complaints about regrowing hair, and maintenance schedules. One of the men from their division sends a link to laser hair removal which was followed by nearly a dozen ‘no’ in varying languages and different exclamations with horrified emojis 

Ilya can track who each member of the group chat is, by mid season last year by the date and who Montreal had played against that year for the first time. The list is very easy to make. 

All of them go on Ilya’s shit list. 

Men burning in shame for giving pleasure when Ilya was being eaten by how he hadn’t been allowed to give it. 

Not in the right way. 

He didn’t know if he could forgive Hollander for running out unsatisfied like that. 

Of course the group chat isn’t actually allowed to talk about what happened to them. There is only the vague implications they could all dissect because Hollander was a man of routine. 

Ilya is fascinated by cryptic warnings when Hollander diverges from what he had been doing. It wasn’t anything one would actually pick up. Not if you didn’t know. 

But he knows when Sullivan had his first experience with Viagra. There were different articles about side effects popping up in the chat. With a couple of confused ‘what the fucks’ that never got answered. 

He did not think that Hollander was making all of them take viagra. But it was interesting to see the panic it had created. 

There were other things. A picture of the shower soap Hollander had in the winner’s room shower. The ones that were non-scented. And a link to buy travel bottles of it. Ilya had bought two sets. Often there were pictures of cologne that were crossed out with a red X or had been circled in green.

Ilya would have to show Hollander the group chat. His forfeits sitting in a little room talking about him. He wonders if Hollander will blush, if his brows will scrunch as he thinks, or if his face will go press conference impassive. 

The bruises on Ilya’s skin darken before they start to fade. Turning a deep purple. He pokes them to remind himself of his goal. 

He’s in his home gym. Sweat rolling down his neck and chest, while he watches the Montreal vs Los Angeles game. In the mirrors he notices the marks Marleau had left on his skin were gone, but the ones Hollander had left were changing from purple to green. 

He stopped the treadmill. Since their time in the winners room Hollander had been playing, well, erratic. 

Not bad. In the game two nights ago he scored five goals. Ilya had been treated to the sight of an expanse of muscled shoulders with deep scratches splayed across it in the group chat the next morning and a request for treatments on disinfecting scratches. 

Apparently sending photos of sex injuries Hollander gave them was not off limits. 

Hollander was not a gentle lover. Ilya hadn’t thought he would be but the level of marks did surprise him sometimes. Hollander was dealing more physiological blows than physical ones from what he could tell. But he had been willing to hit Ilya when he had needed him to stop. 

There were a lot of teeth marks from Hollander biting in the chat. Ilya had a lot of thoughts about Hollander biting.

One might expect the group chat to be full of messages making fun of each other or Hollander himself. Ilya never saw any messages like that. Hollander’s name is not even mentioned outside of titles on linked articles and videos. If he is referred to at all it’s usually done by the capital H ‘He’. Large and nebulous on the small screen. 

He went over to the mirror and took a photo of the bruises. Keeping his face out of it along with anything identifiable. It was just his arm muscles and the pretty coloring with his sweat dappled across it. 

Then he sent the photo directly to the Los Angeles’ Forfeit. 

Ilya: Show this to him.

Hollander would like it. The Forfeit would not. Not only coming out of this game having to submit to Hollander, but also being made to deal with demands from Ilya. Yeah. The Forfeit would be having a very bad night. 

Would it be too gay if Ilya started to fuck Hollander’s forfeits? Or would they see it as a revenge slash establishing dominance thing? 

Ilya would ask Hollander later. 

Fifteen minutes after the game finished he got a response. 

Los Angeles: What the fuck Rozanov?

Ilya watched Hollander talking in the press scrum on his tv. Hair freshly showered and glowing after his win. He looked like royalty. 

Ilya: You. You are fucked. 

The smile on his face felt mean even to him. He should not be doing this. This was a very dangerous game. What did his team mates keep saying? No risk, no glory. 

Ilya: I will ask him if you showed it. I do not think he will be happy if you don’t.

It’s silent for another forty five minutes. He takes the time to shower and find a snack for himself. His phone rings. 

“Rozanov,” Hollander sounds like he is seething when Ilya hits the answer button on his phone.

Ilya smiles leaning back in bed. He imagines the man in the Winners room. Maybe tied down already. Maybe horrified and horny about it.

“Hollander,” Ilya purrs back. 

“What do you think you are doing,” Hollander demands, and Ilya imagines him pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I am laying in bed after long practice and work out,” Ilya answers, “what do you think you are doing?” 

There is a whimper on the other end of the phone. It is not Hollander whimpering. It’s followed by gagging and a disapproving sound from Hollander. 

“Someone is trying to earn the right to suck my cock,” he explains to Ilya, “but clearly did not do his homework.” 

Ilya hums. “And what is homework Mr. Professor?” 

“You’re such an asshole,” Hollander sighs, but Ilya can hear the amusement laced in his voice. 

They listen to more choking. “I can be a good student,” Ilya complains, “what is assignment?” 

Hollander doesn’t answer right away. Quiet, and Ilya lets him have the space. 

He doesn’t think anyone has control over anyone in the league the way Hollander does. His ability to win, their inability to confess what gets them so rattled. 

Thirty men in a group chat, telling each other which kinds of cologne Hollander likes and sharing tricks on how to shave their balls, because Hollander has found a way to make them. To make them feel worse if they do not. If it was just physical pain he inflicted it would probably be a mercy. 

It would be beautiful. If Hollander enjoyed it. 

Except he sounds bored as he watches the show in front of him. 

“I give them the size of a dildo and they should go buy one in that size. To practice sucking it. When I see them next they can ask to show off for me. I stick a suction cup dildo against the mirror, and if they do a good job, they can try it for real. Otherwise“ 

His voice trails off. “Otherwise,” Ilya prompts. 

He stroked his cock. The image was fresh in his mind. The pretty third line winger Hollander had chosen from Los Angeles. Ilya had played against him already. He was so small and easy to shove around. The man had suffered more than a few hits from Ilya. It was easy to think of him on his knees. Filling in the image of him in front of that big mirror trying to choke himself on a dildo was just as easy 

Hollander clears his throat. 

“Otherwise they can practice until sunrise while I watch,” Hollander admits. 

“And?” 

“And what?” 

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Continue. What else.” 

Hollander grumbles, clearly annoyed that Ilya had known there was more. “And get to wear a vibrating cock ring while they do it.” 

The laughter that bubbles out of Ilya is unexpected. He forgets about stroking his cock distracted by Hollander. He turns on his side. 

“That would be hot,” Ilya tells him, “if it was something that turns you on.” 

“It does,” Hollander insisted, “I’m very turned on.”

“Is punishment for Forfeit. Not what you want. You’re soft right now aren’t you?”

“Rozanov.” 

“Am I on Speaker?” 

“Rozanov,” Hollander’s teeth are clenched and it's enough of an answer. 

“Are you jealous of them,” Ilya asks instead of listening to the warning he has no obligation of obeying, “being filled and made to yield? Not having to think at all. All they have to do is obey.” 

He’s met with deep breaths and the silence of Hollander’s seething. “They hate everything you crave and generously give them.”

“Fuck you Rozanov. You don’t know shit.”

Ilya almost believes him. But he can tell that he doesn’t need to poke that any further. Not right now at least. There are plenty of other things he can tease Hollander about. 

“You are going to be so good for me in two weeks after I beat you.” 

“I don’t lose. What is wrong with you?”

These are not real complaints. Not if Hollander’s breathing is to be believed, or the lack of bite in them. The man is protesting because he feels like he has to. He doesn’t understand why Hollander can’t already trust or believe their connection, but he will prove it to him. 

“Something different than what is wrong with you. It’s good. We will fit together. Don’t worry. I have changed our winners room for you.” 

Ilya had mirrors installed. Not the full wall mirrors. But a mirror on the ceiling. Plus he added a headboard with a mirror on the bed. He knew the point of the mirror for Hollander was for the men to face the fact that they were fucking a man. That they could not escape Hollander and what they were doing. That was not the point to Ilya. He wanted to watch Hollander see himself give into pleasure. To be the unashamed root of Ilya’s desire and lust. Hollander needed to see the proof everywhere that Ilya reveled in what they were doing. 

The information is too much for the other man to handle. “You’re being stupid.” Hollander insisted.

Not to what Ilya had just said. Hollander has returned to the point of this call. How Ilya had used the Forfeit to get to him. 

“You ran out on me. Didn’t give me a way to contact you otherwise,” Ilya let his voice be a playful pout to hide his fury. 

“That was on purpose asshole,” Hollander grumbled, “you can’t do this. What if”

Ilya makes a dismissive noise interrupting him. “What if they start to talk to others? Tell everyone you are gay and a bottom? Who would believe them? Sounds like, ah what’s the word, coping? Especially with the way they are terrified of you. Everyone knows. Imagine they tell and say ‘Hollander is gay and I know because in the winners room he makes me shave my balls and rides my dick while I cry.” 

“I don’t think they would phrase it like that,” Hollander’s voice is pissy, but it’s to keep himself from laughing, Ilya can tell. 

“I will be careful,” Ilya promises, “or you could give me your phone number.” 

Hollander’s breath hitches. “No.” 

A groan slips past his lips. So fucking stubborn. There’s another series of loud gagging sounds. 

“Did you like the picture,” Ilya asks, forcing himself to be teasing. 

If he pushes too far Hollander will hang up and give his attention to his forfeit. “I don’t like that it’s fading,” Hollander admits. 

Ilya shivers. “I would say in two weeks you could fix that. But you would have to win.” 

He could not come out of the Winner’s room as the Winner looking like Hollander had been in control. But there will be opportunities. Hollander will not repeat the nonsense he had the first time. Ilya will make sure of it. 

The gagging intensifies for a moment. Ilya wonders if it was the forfeit’s choice or if Hollander had pushed him onto the dildo.

“I don’t lose.” 

It’s a pout. Some kind of mantra Hollander told himself.  “Don’t worry. It will not be a loss for you,” Ilya feels the growl in his voice, “I will give you exactly what you denied yourself last time.” 

A shaky breath from Hollander. 

“Be careful Rozanov,” it’s a warning again, but it sounds like a plea. 

Like Hollander is begging for what he wants. 

“So if your forfeit is doomed to suck fake cock all night what will you be doing?” 

There’s a creaking sound like the bed moving. “I make sure he doesn’t choke himself to death,” Hollander sighs, “but I have a book.” 

Ilya can’t help but laugh. “You bring a book to illicit secret sex cult ritual?” 

“Stop calling it a secret sex cult,” Hollander is almost giggling. 

“It is a secret sex cult! What boring book did you bring to read?” 

“You don’t know it’s boring,” Hollander protests. 

“What is it about,” Ilya asks.

 “The 2002 Stanley Cup Run,” Hollander admits and Ilya laughs at him, while Hollander tries to defend his reading material. 

“No I love it,” he tells the other man. 

Hollander hums and Ilya can hear the book tapping against his thigh. “Sure you do.” 

“Yes. It sounds like good material to fall asleep too. Very boring.” 

“It’s interesting,” Hollander protests.

“It’s really not,” Ilya turns fully onto his stomach and wonders if Hollander can hear the smile on his face, “you’re boring,” he yawns, “read it to me.” 

“Why,” Hollander asks, “shouldn’t you be out clubbing or doing something exciting?”

“To put me to sleep I had very long work out Hollander. I need my beauty sleep to beat you in two weeks.” 

Hollander grumbles. “I’m putting you on speaker,” he warns and Ilya hums his understanding waiting for Hollander to settle in before he starts to read picking up where he had left off. 

Ilya doesn’t care what Hollander is saying. He just wants to keep him close and on the phone. Hollander is bored in the Winner’s room. Bored enough to let Ilya taunt him. But he’s going to run again. 

He lets himself fall asleep. The material is very boring, but Hollander has an equally nice voice. 

Some time later an alarm wakes him up. 

“Rozanov?” 

“Yes,” he asks, voice thick with sleep and rubs his eyes. 

“I’m going to hang up,” the alarm stops and Hollander’s voice is deep, steady, none of the lightness Ilya had coaxed out of him earlier, “I have to take care of him so his throat doesn’t get damaged.” 

Of course Hollander had plans for protecting throat. “You do not have to hang up for that,” he protests. 

“Did you pass that message to Marleau for me?” 

“Da,” Ilya answered and rubbed his face into the pillows.

He chuckled at the memory, “waited until he was drunk at his house. He got very pale and very sober.” 

“Good. Good boy.” 

Ilya felt his cheeks flush. He probably should not like being called a good boy. But his defenses were down. He was still almost asleep. It was not his fault. Hollander is going to leave anyway.

“Give me your phone number,” Ilya requests. 

“No,” Hollander’s voice was flat, final. 

“Hollander,” Ilya whines.

“Don’t do anything else stupid.” 

There was the sound of frantic breathing on the line and the call ended. 

Ilya almost threw his phone at the wall. 

When he woke up again there was a new set of messages in the group chat. The Los Angeles Forfeit asking for ways to soothe sore throats. Followed by recommendations of drinks, advice, and sympathetic wincing emojis. 

He stretched out in bed and started to look for the stupid hockey book Hollander had been reading last night. He found the link to buy it online and sent that to the group chat. 

Ilya: I hear books make a good distraction.

This was definitely not following Hollander’s order of not doing anything stupid. 

No one responded to him. But when he sees Marleau at practice that evening, Marleau is back to not looking him in the eyes. 

Ilya wishes he could tell Hollander that too. 

Chapter End Notes

I know where this fic is going but not how long it will take to get there. Bare with me. I promise Ilya gets to take care of Shane next chapter. Posting schedule is whenever I finish the latest chapter I am working on.

Chapter 3: Even When You Lose You Win

Chapter Summary

Ilya isn’t going to fuck up his chance to prove to Hollander that last time was a mistake. When Montreal comes to Boston for their second match up of the season he’s the only one who knows what to expect and a plan to make sure Hollander knows Ilya is going to give him exactly what he needs.

Chapter Notes

Thank you for everyone who is loving Dom Shane. He is taking a nap this chapter, but he’ll be back!

While the winner’s room in this chapter is inherently Dubiously Consensual by nature of the premise, Ilya and Shane are enthusiastic and explicit about their consent with each other. All sex in this fic between Shane and Ilya will be as consensual as the situation allows.

All of your enjoyment is deeply appreciated.

Two weeks later Montreal arrives in Boston. The thing that had been clawing inside Ilya’s chest pushing to provide for Hollander calms down as soon as he sees him on the ice. 

He will make things right. Tonight. All he has to do is win. He would win and Shane would let him fix the mess from the first night. 

Hollander skates over to Ilya on the warm up ice. Next to him Marleau flinches. “Hollander,” Ilya greets with a smile. 

Ilya had made a name for himself as soon as he came into the league. They put him on par with Hollander. Asked him questions about Hollander. Which Ilya made sure to chirp him about. But it wasn’t a big deal. A chance for a crazy story line would have been their rookie season. 

Hollander pulls off his glove and offers his hand to shake. It’s not unusual. Okay. It’s a thing that happens when players are friendly with each other. It’s just not common either. 

It makes Ilya’s heart for some stupid reason flutter.

“Rozanov.” 

Ilya has his glove pulled off and into the hand shake. Hollander doesn’t offer his hand to Marleau. 

Hollander is shining. On the ice. Full of confidence. “I’m going to kick your ass tonight.”

Ilya makes a dismissive sound and flaps his hand away. “Already talking about asses Hollander?” 

Ilya is European. He can say whatever he wants. Marleau makes a choked sound. “So rude. You call me an asshole all the time,” he tacks on just for plausible deniability. 

Hollander’s eyes are sharp. “Because you are an asshole. Stop being one and I might not call you it.” 

Ilya snorts and shoves Marleau playfully. “He says he might not call me it,” he rolls his eyes, “tell him I am nice guy Marley. Not an asshole.” 

Marleau’s eyes are wide. He’s faced with two predator stares and knows how to handle neither of them, that’s pretty clear. Ilya watches his throat swallow around a few words before he shakes his head and gets on track. 

“Nicest asshole I’ve ever met,” and Ilya is impressed by how diplomatic the answer is.

Marleau skates away. Ilya’s eyes focus on Hollander. 

“Will you miss him,” Ilya asks. 

Hollander snorts. “Jealous?” 

“Angry,” Ilya wants to say more but Montreal is already calling for Hollander while Ilya can hear chirps from Boston. 

They slide away from each other. The next time Ilya is near Shane they are at the face off. 

Ilya winks at him and wins. 

The only people on the ice who score are Ilya and Shane. They play like no one else is there. Simple props for their game. Ilya plays his best game of the season so far. 

The sweat rolls down his back. He’s breathing hard when the game finishes. He stops by Hollander during a fight that broke out too far away from them to get involved. The refs are all distracted. Everyone is pairing off to get involved in the fight or to stay out of it. 

“Don’t you dare prep yourself,” Ilya whispers and Hollander gives him a look with big wide eyes. 

“Fuck you,” Hollander seethes. 

The score is 1-2 with 20 seconds left on the clock. Plus the puck will be in Montreal’s zone. There’s technically time for Hollander to score but Ilya will make sure he doesn’t. Plus one of their defensemen might be going to the box. 

“No. Other way around,” Ilya teases. 

Hollander’s face is flushed with fury, the man clearly has a deep hatred of losing but Ilya can see the excitement in his eyes too. That didn’t mean Hollander wasn’t going to try and score. 

Hayden Pike skates over a frown on his face. He looks between the two of them like he isn’t sure who he needs to be concerned about. Pike surely knew Hollander had picked him as a Forfeit last time. 

Ilya smirks. “Look Hollander, Montreal's 15th best player came to save you.” 

“Hey! Fuck you Rozanov,” Pike exclaims. 

Ilya let his eyes flick lazily from the score board and over to Pike. “Well if you ask so nicely,” he agrees. 

Pike flinches which earns him a glare from Hollander. Chin jutted out and stance firm. Sure it was a glare but it was also a pout. Ilya wanted to kiss it away. 

“I hope you choke on the puck,” Pike grumbles 

Shane put a hand on Pike’s chest and gently started to push him away. 

“Is puck new innuendo," Ilya made himself sound earnest. 

Hollander flips him off. “Come on Hayd. Let’s set up for the face off.” 

Ilya won the face off. Montreal did not score. Ilya Rozanov was the winner. His teammates crashed down around him cheering their victory. Marleau looked relieved. 

Except that relief only lasted for so long. Ilya brought the travel shampoo and body wash to the shower with him and wasn’t ashamed of his ball and cock that had been waxed the day before. Ilya really didn’t mind how it looked. Neat, fresh, clean, and they are sensitive. 

“Who do you want Rozanov,” Feller asked when Ilya came back to the stalls throwing on gym shorts and a wife beater. 

Rozanov adjusted his cross to sit in the middle of his chest. “Hollander.” 

The room went silent for a minute. None of the usual laughter or razzing. It was funny. They didn’t know why Hollander scared Marleau or any of the other Forfeits. But they knew he did. Hollander hadn’t been chosen as a Forfeit even when he had been eligible this year. In all fairness. It was not often. 

But none of that mattered to Ilya. Hollander was his. “Alright,” Feller agreed and Ilya followed him out grabbing his box of smokes before heading to the Winner’s room.

He had enough time to get rid of his shoes and set everything up. His cigarettes sat on the night stand and the lube and cock ring on the bed with him. He had a book. Because he was a smart ass. It was opened to a random page on his lap. He forced his eyes on the English text to keep his eyes from the door. 

Hollander did not make him wait long. The door clicked open. Hollander entered the room like he owned it. 

His eyes landed on him. Ilya dropped the book, forgetting the bit he was going to do. His legs swung off the bed. The door shut behind Hollander. Then they were both moving. 

Hollander rushed forward. Ilya pushing him back up against the wall. Claiming his mouth in a searing kiss. The other man didn’t give up. He squirmed against the wall. Shoving and shoving, but not trying to get away. Just like he wasn’t able to get enough. Like he couldn’t settle down. 

Ilya kissed him harder. Pressed him further into the wall, unyielding until Hollander was pliant against him. He licked into his mouth encouraging Hollander. Pulling out soft little moans from the man.

His fingers curled into Ilya’s shirt. 

“Fuck,” Ilya gasped pulling away to look down at him, to see the hazy look in Hollander’s eyes, he cupped his cheeks, “I’m angry. At you.” 

It sharpens Hollander. He glares. Ilya kisses him before he can come back from it. “Stupid fucking NHL,” he mutters against Hollander’s lips and brought his other hand down to squeeze that ass, “let’s make this clear yes?” 

Hollander gives a confused sound and tilts his head back against the wall panting. “What are you talking about?” 

The confusion makes his face pinch. Not unlike his fury. Ilya is not following a script Hollander thinks he should be. Too bad. 

Ilya takes his chin in his hand but doesn’t force eye contact. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Ilya promises, “and you’re going to take it like the slut you are. Not because of some kind of weird sex cult nonsense but because that’s what you are.” 

Shane shakes his head. “I’m not a slut.” 

“Then why have you been pressing back against my cock all night when I slam you into the boards.” 

“Shoving back against a hit is not sexual!” 

“Is it when you do it like that,” Ilya answers unimpressed. 

Hollander squirms and Ilya presses him harder into the wall. The man huffs out a groan. 

“Do you think about my cock when you were fucking your Forfeits? Did you imagine it was me?” 

Hollander actively tries to look away his chin turning out of Ilya’s hand. Ilya slides his grip into Hollander’s hair. “Ah,” he corrects as he tugs making Hollander keen, “honesty Hollander. Give me honesty.” 

The man clenches his teeth together. Glaring at Ilya’s cheek. 

“Yes.” 

“Yes,” Ilya pushes. 

it earned him a beautiful blush. “I thought about your cock when I was sliding their dicks into me.”

“What was my cock doing?” 

He leans down for a gentle kiss. Nibbling on Hollander’s bottom lip. Who greedily tries to kiss back. Ilya pulls away before he gets the chance. 

Hollander whines. His fingers were digging into Ilya’s shirt, almost like he was trying to pull it off. 

“It was,” Hollander makes another sweet sound because Ilya has slotted his thigh between Hollander’s legs. 

He starts to grind against him. His hips rolling against Ilya’s leg, hard cock already looking for friction. “I was sucking it. Letting you push it inside my mouth and taking it.” 

Ilya groans. “You can. I’ll let you.” 

“Let me,” Hollander huffs, but his focus is fading from the conversation, as he humps Ilya’s thigh. 

“Yes. Let you. Because you want it.” 

Hollander groaned and shook his head. Ilya nipped at his lips again. 

“It’s just us, Hollander. You can admit it,” he coaxes, “I will not judge that you want to choke on my giant cock.” 

Hollander shoves him again with no real force. “It is not giant!” 

“Is to- Nine inches,” Ilya lies. 

The man looks like he might get a measuring tape. His body is relaxing. Kind of. The angry tension had melted away, and was replaced by boiling need. “You are the worst. I hate you.” 

It’s a very cute pout. Ilya kisses it. “You love it. You want to suck my nine inch cock.” 

“Why am I even attracted to you?”

He was so easy. Before Ilya could say anything Hollander slapped a hand over his mouth and shoved hard enough that Ilya let himself be walked back to the bed. 

“Fuck,” Hollander sighs, and drops to his knees as Ilya landed on his ass, bouncing slightly.

Ilya blinked at how fast Hollander was yanking Ilya’s pants off. 

“Hollander.”’

But he couldn’t get much else out. Hollander was diving down on his cock like it was the most pleasurable thing he had ever done. 

Ilya gasped. He wouldn’t say Hollander was unpracticed at it, or exactly bad at it. He was just.

“Uh,” Ilya moans, eyes fluttering as Hollander groans around his dick trying to take all of him at once, straight down his throat and barely gagging.

He had the sense to pull back but only enough to try again before he got overwhelmed. His eyes were blown. Big and needy. Body sinking into it while clawing at Ilya as if he didn’t take more right this second he would die. 

Fuck. The weird sex cult had made him forget what it was like to be wanted. Hollander wanted nothing more than his cock. Like he would die without it. Which was the most arousing thing he had ever experienced. 

“Stop,” Ilya encouraged gently, trying to pull Hollander back, “stop, stop.” 

It took him a moment to process the words. To move off Ilya’s cock. He almost whined at the loss of Hollander’s mouth. But it was only temporary. Hollander had introduced him to a very good tool for this.

Hollander looked at him. Frowning. “What? Was it bad?” 

He was usually so steady and determined. Now his anxiety was evident in how he was shifting his weight. Rocking back and forth on his knees. “No, no,” Ilya corrects immediately and puts a hand on Hollander’s cheek, “too good.” 

That was mostly true. How Hollander looked was too good. His ability to suck cock. That would improve. It wasn’t like Ilya had that much experience either. 

Hollander had that smug little look on his face as the words washed over him. 

Ilya chuckles and squeezes the back of his neck before giving his face a light pat that Hollander leans into. 

“Here,” Ilya says reaching back for the cock ring to show Hollander, “get naked I’ll let you suck my cock some more.” 

“Let me?” 

This time the words still hold irritation but they are soothed by doubt. Hesitation. Like Hollander is putting emphasis on the meaning of the word ‘let’. Dumb cult. 

“Yes,” Ilya promised, and slid back further onto the bed, “let you. I think. I could make you. You will like that. But not tonight.” 

“You can make me do anything you want,” Hollander points out. 

Ilya threw off his shirt so he was naked. “Blah,” Ilya declared and waves his hand at Hollander and his clothes, “yes. You will like me making you. But not tonight.” 

Hollander grits his teeth. “Tonight. Obviously. I’m the Forfeit." 

Ugh. What a dense, stubborn man. “No,” Ilya corrects. 

He scoots back to the edge of the bed to get his hands on Hollander. To wrestle him into meeting his eyes. “No. Listen to me, Hollander. We played little ritual to get here, but no one knows what happens in this room. You submit to me. That is your wish. I let you because it is hot and sexy.”

He pulls him in for a kiss. Hollander yanks himself back, not letting it happen. “You are so full of yourself! That’s not the rule.”

A loud groan pulls through him. Stubborn man. “Is to rules,” Ilya argued, “winner gets what he wants. Forfeit provides. I am very good at providing.”

“You got that backwards. I am not the winner,” Hollander huffs like he is explaining a point that Ilya had been missing. 

“Yes. I won on ice tonight. Like always.”

“I beat you last time!” 

“Doesn’t count. Was first match.” 

“You are the most annoying man on the planet.” 

Ilya tugs at him until he gets from his knees to his feet. He stands with him holding him close. “Hollander. We want same thing. We both win here. You can have what you actually want.” 

Hollander bites into his bottom lip. Thinking Ilya’s words through. 

“You want the same thing as me?” 

“There is a very sexy man with pretty freckles who would like to be fucked into crying,” Ilya points out the obvious, “yes of course I want. I miss men who want pleasure I bring them. Not just a thing to fuck.” 

Hollander’s eyes narrow and Ilya lets him have the time to think. He strokes his hair as he waits. Then presses his thumb into the tissue of Hollander’s neck. Massaging gently into the tense muscle by his spine. 

“No. I can’t be less than you.”

Ilya frowned. “Who said anything about less?”

“Sure you can want to fuck a man, but it’s still,” Hollander cuts himself off with a huff, “being the one getting fucked is being less of a man. It’s Roman.” 

That was so many words and all of them nonsense. “Roman? What does Rome have to do with anything? Shut up.”

He yanks at Hollander again. Crashing their lips together just to get him away from such stupid thoughts. Ilya pulls back and slips two fingers into Hollander’s mouth. Hollander immediately sucks. His eyes shut with a slutty moan. 

“You are good hockey player. What do I care about how you like sex in the bedroom? It does not change my level of respect. Why would I respect man less if I get to make him choke on my cock and scream while fucking? He is very masculine and manly doing those things.”

He presses in further seeing how far he can go before Hollander starts to choke. The answer is pretty far. Hollander won’t pull back. Even when he does start choking. Beautiful. His eyes water as he refuses to move. Ilya pushes further. Just to see if Hollander will pull back on his own. The tears that rolled down his cheek and his throat spasming were the only things that moved.

Ilya pulls his fingers out and Hollander chases them. Desperate. A punished sound tearing from his chest. 

“Shush,” Ilya soothes, “we are doing what we both like. Got it?” 

Hollander melts into him. “Fine. Yes,” he huffs. 

He’s rocking slightly on his toes. Ilya lets the movement carry them into a sway.  

“And you want to be a giant cock slut I fuck into tears.” 

Ah. There was that very pretty blush on his cheeks. Ilya grinned. Hollander squirmed but his hand was back on Ilya’s cock. 

Ilya patted his cheek to keep his attention. “Come on. In bed. No more clothes. Your mouth is already too empty” 

“Fuck you,” it was a cute grumble. 

Hollander took a minute to step out of Ilya’s arms. Kissing Ilya’s neck as he adjusted to the apparent changes in his plan for the night. When he let go Ilya flopped back onto the bed for the last time leaving plenty of space for Hollander to join him.

They were both big men. Ilya might be a little bigger. Technically. Across the shoulders at most. Their builds and height were mostly the same. It was more than arousing to find a man as big as he was who wanted to be tossed around. 

Hollander stalled for a moment watching Ilya stretch out his breath hitching. “Wait!” 

Ilya groans. His hand found one of the pillows and hurled it at Hollander in complaint. He really did want to get his cock sucked. He was hard as diamonds. 

“Hollander,” he whines.

The man dodged the pillow with ease. “Why did you shave!”

Ilya looked down at his cock and balls. “Pretty man I want to sleep with and suck my cock doesn’t like hair,” Ilya shrugged, “so I go to little shop and get waxed.” 

Hollander’s blush hadn’t gone away yet. “I don’t dislike hair down there. You were right. It was about emasculation.” 

His eyes flickered over Ilya. “Which clearly didn’t work on you.” 

He was almost pouting but Ilya could see him working through a thought. “You can grow it back out,” he grumbles.

Then his eyes are cutting across the room, shifting from wall to wall. Ilya gets the sense he is looking for something, or taking stock, but he has no idea what this is about. “You want us to share the Winner’s room.”

“Obviously.”

Ilya was patient as Hollander figured out what he was thinking. The man hesitates for another moment before turning away from the bed and walking over to the light switch. He dimmed the lights. Enough to see, but much less bright. Then Hollander found the air system and hit a button on that as well, the rattling sound it had been making died. Ilya made a careful note of that in his head. It was weird, certainly. He wasn’t going to pretend like it wasn’t but Hollander’s shoulders relaxed even further with something becoming more loose in his stance. 

“That okay?” 

“Hmmm. Yes. Perfect,” Ilya agrees, “come to bed.” 

If Hollander did not come to bed he was going to wrestle him onto it. 

Hollander nodded and let out a breath of air before taking off his clothes, folding each piece and setting them down on the counter top. Ilya was in trouble, watching it made him nearly swoon. 

Then Hollander was climbing into bed. Extremely stiff. He laid down next to Ilya flat as a board. Ilya held back a chuckle. He turned on his side and rubbed a hand against Hollander’s stomach. “This good?” 

Hollander nods while Ilya shifts to kissing his chest. He moves his hand down to grab Hollander’s cock, starting to stroke.  He watched Hollander’s eyes for any signs he wanted it to stop. It was very clear the man did not want him to stop. 

Until Ilya found himself pushed onto his back with Hollander sliding on top. Hollander was kissing down his body and Ilya fumbled for the cock ring. “Wait, Hollander,” Ilya gasps, holding out the ring.

Hollander froze looking down at it. “That’s not necessary.” 

“You like it,” Ilya points out, “and I want you to suck my cock for as long as you like.”

“Oh.” 

Hollander took the cock ring and slid it on. His hand was already sliding against Ilya’s cock. Touching and stroking. An inhibited exploration. Ilya moaned, pulling his hands back behind his head in what he hoped was a relaxed inclined pose so he could watch Hollander. 

“You’re not really getting anything from not being able to come,” Hollander points out and Ilya thinks it supposed to be an argument. . 

Ilya grunts breathing through his nose. “Trust me. I’m getting everything out of waiting to come,” he argued back. 

Hollander looked at him dubiously but was distracted by Ilya’s cock. His mouth found Ilya’s thighs kissing and nipping the skin. Hollander paused looking up at him. 

“Can I leave a?” 

“Yes,” he cut him off, Ilya’s heart sped up at the idea of Hollander marking him, of wanting to claim him again, “do that.” 

Hollander nods and goes back to work. Ilya arches up into the touch. His teeth bite into Ilya’s flesh and he moans. Eyes staying on the man as Hollander works a bruise into his thigh. It feels good. Sharp. Everything about this brings the bright focus that sex and hockey gave him.

“What a good mouth,” Ilya praised as Hollander pulls back and pushes his thumb into the hickey. 

Ilya almost shudders. Hollander’s eyes are darkly intense. “You like this,” Hollander said in part revelation and part asking for confirmation. 

“Have you slept with a man before,” Ilya asked as Hollander shifted back to settle on his stomach between Ilya’s legs.

Hollander gave him a very unimpressed look. “I clearly have.”

“Not Forfeits. A man.”

He watches the words process through Hollander’s brain. Of the things he had heard people say about Hollander, expressionless and unreadable were often some of the descriptive words they used. What terrible words for him.

Hollander bends his head back down to bite Ilya’s thigh. Ilya laughs and squirms. “It’s not judgment,” Ilya tells him as Hollander continues to try to bite him and he has to pull himself up against the headboard to get away. 

“It sounds like judgment,” Hollander grumbles with nothing left to try and bite. 

“It’s very sexy that I get to take your virginity.” 

Hollander grabs his ankle and yanks him back down the bed. It knocks the wind out of him and his cock aches. 

Fuck. He hadn’t had a man try to over power him in a while. Hollander strokes his ball sack. “I’m pretty sure I am not a virgin.” 

“Sex with dildos does not count as sex. You are still a virgin.”

“Forfeits do not count as dildos.” 

Ilya remembered the way Hollander had fucked himself on his cock. “To you they do. Fleshy dildos that you make cry.” 

Hollander must have decided that arguing with Ilya would get him nowhere. His face pinched and he opened his mouth before switching course and diving down onto Ilya’s cock again. 

And well there was no reason to keep arguing at that point was there? Not when Hollander was moaning louder than Ilya was. It was like Hollander was the one getting his dick sucked. Who had let this man deny himself for so long? How had no one pressed him into a wall and fucked him?

Not that Ilya was currently doing that. First he had to prove himself to Hollander. But soon he was going to fuck that pretty throat until Hollander was sobbing. 

For now Hollander was educating himself on how to suck and use his tongue at the same time. It had the air of someone who had studied only through text books, but had never had the chance to have real practice. 

Ilya slipped a hand down to pet through Hollander’s hair, unable to keep his hands off him. He needed to be touching him. Hollander apparently needed it too. He shuddered as Ilya went through a second pass in his hair. 

“Look at you,” Ilya purred. 

Hollander proceeds this by taking too much of his dick at once, but he doesn't pull back even as he chokes. Instead he seemed to push forward harder. The way his eyes started to water made Ilya’s dick twitch but it was only an addition to the sound he made. Wounded and offended at his own body for not being able to take everything he wanted. 

“A natural cock sucker.” 

The words made Hollander melt. The teary eyes go glassy and soft. Hollander makes another delicious whimper. He takes Ilya further down with determination on his chin. It makes him, so prett. His face flushed and red. 

“God,” Ilya groaned, “made for this Hollander. Exactly for this.”

His lips were swollen already, his freckles on display. 

“I want to fuck your mouth,” Ilya admits. 

Hollander whined, his fingers digging into Ilya’s thighs. They might bruise. The man pulled off after a few more bobs of his head. 

“Do it,” he demands and the need is explosively wild in his eyes, “do it. Please.” 

The whine is thick in his voice and Ilya is so happy Hollander introduced him to cock rings. It would be impossible to last long with this man. Not when he looked and sounded like that. 

“Done exploring by yourself,” Ilya teases him anyway, rubbing his head a little and pressing Hollander into his thigh, who opened his mouth to lick at his cock again, “did you get bored?” 

Hollander nipped at the skin between his thigh and balls. Ilya squirmed using the fingers in the man’s hair to pull him away. “You want me to fuck your face and you bite me. Is that how you ask for things you want?” 

“You’re not doing it. You’re teasing me,” Hollander argued, his eyes clearing a bit now that there was a fight to be had. 

He has a hand braced on Ilya’s thigh and one on the bed as he arches following the tug on his hair. Ilya yanked again and Hollander gasped a moan. 

Hollander looked him in the eyes for a moment. Just a moment. The challenging fire that Ilya was helpless against was burning through him. 

“I already know what it’s like to fuck my throat with a dildo.” 

Ilya groaned. “Did you make yourself take your own test before making your Forfeits?” 

Ilya drags Hollander back down to his cock, holding him just out of reach. The man’s hot breath panting over him. Fuck. 

“I wouldn’t give a test I couldn’t pass,” Hollander basically gloats. 

Ilya wanted to challenge him right now. But Hollander wanted his face fucked. Which had just turned so beautifully smug. He rocks his hips up so his dick brushes against Hollander’s lips. 

Hollander goes cross eyed and tries to go down but Ilya still has a grip on his hair. “Ask nicely.” 

He’s pretty sure Hollander would like to argue with him, but Ilya thrust up again, sliding his dick against Hollander’s cheek. The man squirms trying to get his mouth around him. 

It takes him a moment. Thoughts have left Hollander’s head it seemed. “Please,” the words are gritted out at first before moving into a needier cadence, “please fuck my face.” 

“What,” Ilya teased, letting Hollander get close enough to lick the tip of his dick. 

The man did immediately. He pulled his head back as soon as he did. Hollander growled at the loss, jerking forwards despite the pain it was bound to cause him. 

Ilya had never been more turned on in his life. 

This man. Who wanted so badly. Ilya was the one who got to give it to him. It was a heady kind of power.

“Nicely,” Ilya ordered, patting Hollander’s cheek with his free hand. 

He had a hard time not hating the entire league at that moment. They were all fools. The best of all of them had such simple desires and none of them could fill it. “Shit,” Hollander breathed out.

Hollander was going to pull out his own hair with how hard he was straining forward. Ilya refused to let go. 

“Please. Fuck my face,” Hollander took in a deep gulping breath looking at him with pleading eyes. 

Ilya waited. Hollander huffed. “I need you fucking my face. Please? Put your cock in my throat and make me choke on it?” 

He was squirming on the bed. Not sure of himself now and only sure of what he wanted. Throwing out words like they would offer him absolution and mercy. 

His hand snakes down to grab Hollander’s arm and pulls him up his body. Hollander immediately cries when he realizes he is being moved away from his prize. His eyes fill with wet tears but Ilya ignores them and uses his strength to flip them so Hollander is on his back and Ilya is on top of him. 

The tears haven’t fallen yet and Ilya uses both hands to grab Hollander’s cheeks tilting his head up. Forcing his head back and up to the ceiling. 

He had requested mirrors to be put on the ceiling. Not like Hollander’s wall of mirrors, but similar. Hollander gasps. His mouth gaping open, his eyes locked on to the mirrored versions of themselves. “Look at how bad you need it,” Ilya demanded.

Hollander’s chest moved up and down with heavy pants. Any words he might have had were clearly stuck in his throat. Ilya shifts up further onto Hollander’s chest, pinning his arms down and rubbing his dick over his face. “Oh,” Hollander gasped.

Ilya had never seen wider eyes or pupils so blown. “Do you see what you want, Hollander? Are you faced with it now?” 

The man makes a beautiful choking noise. Ilya should have recorded it. He’ll hear that in every dirty fantasy from now on. 

Forcing Hollander to stare at his desire the same way Hollander demanded his Forfeit’s did. Hollander is tense and relaxed all at once. Those pretty tears stubbornly refusing to spill over. 

“Please,” Hollander begs again. 

“Ask nicely,” Ilya doesn’t let up. 

The frustration pulls out of Hollander in a shivering yell that has him sinking into the bed. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he is almost crying fully, the tears on the cusp of spilling over and his voice wavering, “I don’t know how to ask nicely.” 

He is a mess. He is confused. Perfect. Broken down for Ilya by his want alone. 

“Yes,” Ilya purrs and lets the tip of his cock slide into Hollander’s mouth who takes it like one would take water in the desert. 

“You know nothing. My pretty little virgin. You need me to teach you.” 

There is no fight in him. Only needy desperate whines around the tip of his cock. Suckling like this will get Ilya all the way inside of him. 

The tears have abided. For now. Just the desperate whore who is staring at his reflection. Ilya would have never expected for this to go so well. 

What fucking fools to not see the man who would bend so beautifully for them if they were only brave enough to want it. Ilya will be greedy and keep it for himself. For a while at least. 

He slides his dick in further rocking back and forth in shallow thrust making sure Hollander can keep his gaze on the mirror, while he can keep his own eyes on the man. 

The inverse of what Hollander did in his own winner’s room. He was giving Hollander all the things he had been silently screaming for. 

“Next time we are in Montreal,” Ilya says huffing as he slides his cock far enough in that he can feel Hollander’s breath on his balls, “I will fuck you up against your mirror.” 

Hollander’s mouth was too full to reply. His hands had come to rest on Ilya’s ass. Trying to pull him in deeper. He was so greedy. Ilya was ready to give it to him. Especially since Hollander’s gag reflex didn’t seem to be very strong. Had he fucked himself on a dildo enough that it had went away? 

Didn’t matter right now. 

He moaned watching Hollander take it. Watching Hollander watch himself. Watching the way Hollander’s face changed as Ilya let himself go and fuck him. Increasing levels of bliss. 

“Fuck. Hollander,” Ilya gasps as his orgasm builds with nowhere to go. 

Shit. He needed to get inside of Hollander. Fuck his ass. 

But they had a lot of work to do first. If it wasn’t for the sharpness keeping his mind calm Ilya wouldn’t have the ability to pull out of Hollander’s mouth. But the man was so loose and perfect. 

Except for the devastated sounds he made when he realized Ilya’s cock was not coming back. 

Ilya shifted on the bed releasing Hollander’s arms from where he had pinned them and fused their mouths together. 

Hollander kissed back with need. Just as greedy as he was with cock. Not letting up even a little. His hands flying to Ilya’s hair and his hips were rocking up into him. Now that their bodies were pressed so much closer together, all he could feel was wet from between Hollander’s legs. 

He pulled back again, shifting to sit between Hollander’s thighs. The man tried to tug him back up with his hair, but his grip was far too loose and easy to dislodge. 

That pretty cock was absolutely leaking. A dripping fountain that Ilya had to put his mouth on. 

“You are soaked, Hollander.” 

Hollander was still watching in the mirror. His face was deep red with his freckles dotting what felt like his entire face at this point. Ilya leaned down, taking the cock into his mouth. 

“No,” Hollander whined and shoved at his shoulder, “fuck! Fuck. Rozanov. I’m going to come.” 

A miscalculation on his part but Ilya didn’t regret it. 

He grabbed Hollander’s ass and lifted him, taking his cock fully into his throat. He sucked while sliding a finger down Hollander’s ass cheeks to remind him of where he was going later. 

“I can’t. I’m going to. Fuck. Rozanov.”

Hollander spilled into him. It was so fucking hot. This man losing control for him. Because of him. So close on the edge after just sucking dick that he exploded in Ilya’s mouth as soon as he was inside. 

He waited to make sure Hollander was done. The man muttering apologies and trying to hide his face under his arm. Ilya pulled off surprise to see Hollander’s cock still half hard. 

“Shit. Sorry,” Hollander repeated, “you didn’t have to.” 

“I wanted to,” Ilya cut him off and leaned back down for another kiss. 

Hollander didn’t scrunch his nose at all. Very good signs. 

He couldn’t afford to lazily make out with Hollander. He still had a job to do. 

Ilya ran his finger back over Hollander’s hole. 

“From now on, you let me prep you. Until I teach you how.”

Hollander shoved at his chest again. There was nothing like any kind of real force behind it. Ilya knew what Hollander felt like when he wanted to slam Ilya away from something. Namely the puck. 

“I know how to prep myself!” 

“No. You know how to stick fingers in ass,” Ilya huffed and kissed the top of Hollander’s nose as an offering,  “you winced when you took my cock. Whole time. When I fuck you today there will be none of that.” 

He squeezed the back of Hollander’s neck. “Little virgins can not be trusted to take care of themselves.” 

“You can’t just say they don’t count because I was in charge,” Hollander growls.

“They don’t count because they were not participants,” Ilya corrected.

Hollander’s feathers unruffled. Just a little. Ilya squeezes the back of his neck again and brings his mouth against him. 

“I have much to teach you.”

It gets Hollander going again who bites him. Ilya laughs. “I can’t stand you,” Hollander declared. 

Ilya looks down at him. Into shining happy eyes. There are no other choices but to kiss him again. “I know,” he purrs.

It’s impossible to not want to keep kissing Hollander. His lips are better than any party drug. It’s dangerous. 

Ilya forces himself back. Away from Hollander before he gets to the happy hazy place that kissing brings him too. He needs to be careful. Hollander makes a wounded sound as Ilya pulls away from the kiss. 

Shit.

Ilya brings a hand down to feel up his peck. The man is so beautiful. It drives him crazy. Hollander continues to squirm. The man had so much tense stillness in his body, but here in bed he’s fluid. 

Sitting between Hollander’s legs he grabs his thighs and pushes them up. Hollander, so obedient and perfect, lets him. Ilya doesn’t need to give him any directions. He grabs his own thighs holding himself up and open. 

He needs to take a minute to look at Hollander’s hole. There’s pre-cum everywhere on Hollander. He really is a faucet. Ilya dips his fingers into the wetness and drags it down to Hollander’s ass. Making him glisten. 

Fuck. 

“Look at you.” 

His hole twitched under his touch. 

Ilya for all his posturing did not have much experience in this. 

Okay. Well. 

Before the NHL’s sex cult shit. In Russia he had done it a few times. With Sasha they had decided to be each other’s first. Receiving anal was …

It was fine. Sasha had been able to get him off, but Ilya hadn’t been the biggest fan. Nothing unpleasant. Just nothing he really wanted either. He had liked the prep. Sasha’s fingers inside of him had been erotic. It would be okay when he was chosen as a forfeit. Ilya didn’t doubt that his big mouth was going to fuck him over some day. Literally 

Right now. 

“Shit. Hollander,” he groaned, “I need.” 

Ilya didn’t waste any more time. He brought his mouth down on that pretty asshole and sucked. Hollander nearly screamed. 

“Oh fuck,” the man whined, “oh shit. Rozanov. Rozanov.”

Fuck. Hollander loved this. He ran his tongue over the hole using the mirror on the ceiling to watch Hollander’s face. Hollander was blissed breathing hard. His eyes locked on their bodies. 

The mirror had been such a good idea. 

He would not be able to do this to Forfeits. They would not want the pleasure. Sex was better like this. Gasping. Desperate. 

Women were much easier to get his hands on. He had been with women since he was fifteen. Men? Special treat. He had thought that America and Canada would be easier. Not so much. 

In its favor, Canada had Shane Hollander and Shane Hollander was falling apart on his tongue. His cock already hard again and dripping against his stomach. Ilya wondered if he could make Hollander come from just this. 

He was a natural bottom. Perfect in all the ways for this that Ilya was not. It took so little work to be able to get his tongue inside of him. To fuck him with his tongue. 

“Please,” Hollander begged, wiggling his ass trying to get more. 

Greedy bottom. Ilya was excited to see him split open on fingers. On his cock. They were in the same division. So they would play five times a year. He had three more times to lazily fuck Hollander to orgasm with his tongue. 

He pulls back. Hollander is looking directly at his face. He drops his legs bracing his heels into the bed. His legs still splayed wide. “More,” he demands breathless. 

So much for asking nicely. Ilya wants to kiss him again. It’s too dangerous. “Lube,” Ilya orders, waving his hand to the bottle. 

Only a little dazed Hollander finds it in the blankets before frowning at it. Ilya sees Hollander fight past the hesitation. 

“Wrong one,” he finally declares. 

Wrong one. Ilya doesn’t let himself hesitate. Wrong lube. He had just grabbed one. Had there been options? Was there even options for lube?

He takes the lube from Hollander glaring at the bottle. Below him, Hollander laughs. “What is so funny,” he asks, squinting at the label and wondering what was bad about this one. 

Hollander sits up and kisses him. Soft and languid. Still laughing. Ilya is hopeless against him. The man pulls back, kissing down his chin and throat. Almost nuzzling there. 

“I think the virgin might actually know more about you than something,” Hollander teases.

“Impossible,” Ilya tells him and doesn’t mean it. 

He looks back at the bottle. “What is the correct one?” 

“If they have it, it’ll be a green tube with white swirls,” Hollander explained, which was a lot more helpful than a name, “but anything silicon based is okay. I don’t like the water based ones.” 

He could make fun of Hollander for having a special kind of lube he liked. On the other hand there were plenty of better things to tease him about. 

Ilya nodded. Stealing another kiss he got off the bed and heads over to the cabinet. 

So Hollander had a preferred lube brand and was still bad at prepping himself? Terrible. They would have to fix that. 

Left to his own devices Hollander rambles.

“Water based lube just has a worse feel and it gets everywhere, silicon based lubes are harder to clean up, but I always want a shower after anyways. You can’t use them with most toys, which is fine by me.” 

Opening the cabinet Ilya started to poke around. The amount of stuff in the cabinet was really obscene. Sure he could look at all of it, but it would only be fun if his partner was having fun. Hollander had liked the cock ring so he had found the cock ring. Simple. He had grabbed the first lube he saw. Now he poked around listening to Hollander. 

“It’s probably stupid to have a preference for,“ 

“It’s not stupid,” Ilya interrupts automatically. 

He finds the lube Hollander had described changing them out and heading back over to him, “not the sexiest conversation topic, but not stupid.”

Hollander’s eyes have dropped down to Ilya’s cock. Which if he pretends isn’t furiously aching he won’t be distracted by it. Right? “You’re so hard,” Hollander breathes out trying to shift to his knees before Ilya reaches out and stops him. 

He pins Hollander to the bed by his shoulder. It earns him an eye roll. “So you know how lube works but not what seeing a beautiful virgin does to men?”

He pops the cap open and Hollander shivers, arching up even before Ilya can touch him. “Slut,” Ilya declares and pats Hollander’s ass, “what other ass has seen every NHL team?”

Hollander shivers. “It’s probably not every team,” he informs him, “I barely score the game winning goal half the time.” 

Barely. Half. Not even true. Closer to three fourths, but sure if Hollander wants to round down. Montreal doesn’t win every game of course. The statistics just didn’t work out that way. But they had gone from a bottom team to a top team Hollander’s first year. And Ilya would turn Boston around in the same period. 

Ilya dribbles lube onto Hollander’s hole and spends a moment admiring the way his cock is still dripping. 

He teases the entrance with his finger while Hollander keeps going. “I don’t think I would be able to skate if I was having anal every couple of days.”

Ilya would fuck Hollander every day if given the chance. He was pretty sure he could train this ass to take cock well enough that it would barely need to be stretched if he was insistent enough. 

“Is this why you have a dildo sucking test?” 

Hollander closed his eyes with a groan and Ilya decided that was a good time to slide his finger into the man. Well not all the way just catching the tip of his first finger inside. Hollander’s eyes flew open. His hips bucked like he could take more that way. 

He paused waiting for his answer. Hollander glared at him. Though he knew better by now than to argue with Ilya. “One of them,” Hollander agreed, letting out a breath and wiggling his ass, “it’s a chore to get off during a bad blow job. And it,” Ilya started to slide his finger in further, Hollander’s words stuttering as a result, “ah, it’s humiliating for them to try. But not as bad as feeling the desire while I fuck them.” 

“And if they have not earned the right for blow job and you do not want anal?” 

He slides his finger down to the knuckle. It’s easy. Hollander’s muscles give way quickly. So pretty. But still so tight. Hollander groans, but rises to the challenge of not giving up speaking, so Ilya rewards him by going straight to a second finger, his tongue had opened him up enough. 

“Hand jobs,” Hollander answered, “or sometimes I immobilize them and put in a spider gag and fuck their face. It’s, uh ah, not something that works for all of them.” 

Ilya watches him take a big breath. Apparently once Hollander felt chatty he had a hard time stopping. “It only works on the guys who get really turned on by humiliation and degradation.” 

“Why not all of them?”

Ilya figures he already knows why. He knows what game Hollander is playing. Hearing him say it is better than knowing. 

Ilya has two fingers working now and he curls them searching for Hollander’s prostate. 

Hollander shifts on the bed trying to get better purchase for his feet so his hips can move with Ilya. 

“Hmmm. It doesn’t work, if they don’t want me. I’ll end up like Oakley.”

“Who the fuck is Oakley?” 

Laughter slips out between Hollander’s lips around the moan, “yeah. Exactly.”

His eyes have gone far away, as Ilya finds his prostate. Ilya wonders how long Hollander can talk through the pleasure. 

“He had a terrible mouth but got the reputation of having a good one,” Hollander shudders and his fingers are clawing into the bed, “I think he got fucked so much he couldn’t skate his best. He lost his potential. He lost and lost more often, and it got worse.”

His breath hitches. “He retired during the summer. Doesn’t matter anymore.” 

Hollander blinks like he is trying to think. “But if they want me, they won’t say anything about me, because that’s telling on themselves.”

Ilya hadn’t needed the logic laid out for him. Except how Hollander had come to that conclusion was … it was sad. 

Hollander decided he needed to force men to want him in order to keep playing his best hockey. 

Ilya brought himself down and kissed Hollander. Stealing the words from him as his chest started to ache.

This conversation didn’t need to happen. He fucks him with his fingers listening to the way Hollander gasps around his tongue. The man loses his fluidity and is quickly back to begging for cock. 

Ilya is really tempted to make him come on his fingers. He slides the third in. “I should finger you to orgasm and then fuck you anyways.” 

There’s a moment of torn indecision on Hollander’s face. Yeah either would be good to him. Over sensitive nerves be damned. 

Hollander’s face has slid into a calculation and Ilya hits his prostate with three fingers. The man hits his arm and Ilya laughs. Hollander turns his big needy eyes on him. 

“Wouldn’t it be better if you felt my ass working you as I came on your cock,” Hollander manages to gasp out.

Okay. So maybe Ilya had given him too much time to think. Too bad Ilya has lost the ability to think. He fumbles the rhythm and Hollander looks like he won until Ilya pulls his fingers out. 

“On your stomach,” he tells Hollander, feeling far too frantic. 

On his stomach, well his knees would be easier for the first time. Ilya had full plans for pulling Hollander up to his knees and fucking into him. He actually has to wrestle Hollander because the man has decided he does not want to obey. 

“Wait. I want to,” 

Ilya realizes what Hollander wants watching the way his eyes have stayed up on the mirrors. 

“Is,” Ilya huffs a breath and succeeds in flipping Hollander onto his stomach and pulls his chin up to show off the headboard. Because apparently Hollander does not have the ability to pay attention to anything that’s not a cock right now. 

There is a mirror in the headboard too. A thin strip, angled just so to bounce off the mirror on the ceiling. 

“I got you,” Ilya promised as Hollander sees it. 

His body goes back to being pliant. So good for Ilya. He shifts Hollander’s body where he wants him. Makes sure he is spread enough and fingers him again. Just to make sure Hollander had a good feeling of this position. 

This man is going to be sobbing under him. A shuddering whimpering mess. 

“You want it,” he asks shifting to slide his cock across Hollander’s ass. 

“Yes,” Hollander groaned, thrusting his ass back against Ilya. 

Good enough for him. He pulled his fingers out and notched his cock on Hollander’s hole. There was so much he wanted to do with this man. 

Hollander didn’t tense and clench. Which was points for him. Instead he breathed through it as Ilya slid into him. Still he went slowly, reaching his hand around to stroke Hollander’s cock. The man groaned. When Ilya bottomed out he kissed Hollander’s shoulder. “Still good?” 

This was not an amazing question to Hollander. The man thrust his hips back. “Move,” he demanded. 

“Slut,” Ilya purred and rolled his hips, careful not to pull back as he did so. 

“Asshole,” Hollander gritted out trying to slide forward but Ilya wouldn’t let him move, hands firmly on his hips holding him in place. 

He did it again to earn another delightful whine from Hollander’s lips. “No. Rozanov,” Hollander complained, clawing at the bed, the sheets tearing away from his hands. 

“What,” Ilya asks and moves back but not more than half an inch before shifting forward again. 

“Fuck me.” 

He watches the muscles on Hollander’s back tense and relax, fluttering as he takes deep unsteady breaths. “Hmmm,” Ilya answers, “what will you do to get me to move?” 

Ilya flicks his eyes up to the mirror. To the confused puppy look on Hollander’s face. 

“Aah,” Ilya slides back half an inch again. 

Torture for them both and not nearly enough. That’s the point right now. “What do you want,” it looks like the words pain Hollander.

Ilya kisses his neck nipping at his spine. “No more chair. Never again.” 

He wasn’t dumb enough to think one night would be enough to make Shane Hollander soft and pliant. Ilya didn’t want him that way. 

But if he couldn’t get his hands on the man he couldn’t do his job. 

He doesn’t get an immediate agreement so he stops moving at all. Hollander’s head drops to the pillows. 

“Oh my god.” 

Ilya moves one hand from Hollander’s hip to stroke the rim of his hole. Looking at the way it stretched around his cock. 

“No chair,” Hollander gasps, arching into the touch. 

“No more tying me down,” Ilya insists. 

He spat admiring how his spit made everything glisten. “I can’t give you what you want if you tie me down.” 

Ilya rubbed his spit into the hole. What if he stretched Hollander with a dildo? Split him open on two cocks. There was so much to do. Ilya hadn’t had the luxury of a regular male sex partner, since Sasha had moved to France. 

Hollander nodded. Frantic. “No more tying you down,” he promised and continued to try and rock his hips back. 

Ilya let him. Let’s Hollander fuck himself back on his cock as he moans. “Yes,” he cries out, “thank you.” 

It’s the last full set of words either of them are able to get fully out. Ilya had been working himself up all night. And now that he is inside Hollander. Who is hot and tight. His ability to think is gone. All that’s left is the desire to fuck into Hollander’s prostate. 

He almost missed Hollander’s orgasm. He would have if it wasn’t for the way Hollander clenches. Milking Ilya’s cock. “Shit,” Ilya chokes out realizing that Hollander just came hands free. 

It’s one of the hottest things he had ever experienced. His orgasm builds and he fumbles to pull out and get the cock ring off. Hollander collapses onto the bed whimpering while Ilya tugs at his cock until he whites out. 

His cum splatters across Hollander’s back and ass. Maybe he was too fast. Ilya groaned, collapsing on the bed next to Hollander. He had done his job. Ilya could not be expected to hold out forever. 

“Now the bed is dirty,” Hollander complained, his face down in the pillows and ass in the air. 

Ilya floating in pleasure took a longer moment to understand what Hollander even said.

“What? Hollander shut up.” 

He reached over using that side of the sheet to lazily clean Hollander’s back. The man complained. Ilya ignored him, grabbing the man and rolling him to the other side of Ilya and the bed. 

There. Problem solved.

Hollander curled his arms around him. Every part of him was warm and flushed. They were going to need a shower. For now this was good. 

He closed his eyes for a bit. His nose was buried in Hollander’s hair. The man against him was breathing deep and steady. 

“Hmmmm,” Ilya declared, opening his eyes, “I want a cigarette.” 

He shifted them both so he was sitting up against the headboard and Hollander was leaning into his chest. The night stand still had the stupid book and Ilya’s cigarettes and lighter so he grabbed all three. 

Hollander made a choking sound when Ilya gave him the book. His fingers ran over the printed two thousand and three in the title. “What the fuck,” the man grumbles and didn’t even complain when Ilya lit his cigarette.

“What, you don't like book?” Ilya asks, taking a drag. 

The man wiggled against him in a way that was appealing to his cock. He didn’t have it in him to go again right now, but later. Right now he was busy with the confused blissed out man. 

“I do. But why do you have it?” 

Ilya could tell him it was supposed to be an asshole joke. Pretending to read when Hollander came into the room to tease him. 

The truth came out instead. 

“Boring Canadian Hockey player I want to fuck reads between rounds of sex. I bring boring hockey book so he does not go looking for one between rounds.” 

Okay it was part of the truth. Ilya gives a half shrug and Hollander turns the book around in his hands. There is nothing soft about those hands. There are not a lot of things about Shane Hollander that are soft. 

Hollander looks back up at the mirror. Catches Ilya watching him. “You want to fuck as opposed to wanted to fuck?” 

It takes Ilya a second to realize that the question is not so much about the actions but the time of the actions. Hollander wants to know if he wants more sex. Ilya gives him a lazy grin. 

“I’m not done with you yet.” 

He squeezes the man and Hollander’s face flashes with smugness. The same face he makes when he scores a goal. Which is a revelation in itself. That Ilya might be some kind of prize to Hollander. His own heart beat picks up. 

Hollander sets the book down and curls further into Ilya’s chest. Cuddly and trying hard to put on a grumpy face but failing miserably. 

“Fine,” he agreed and looked at Ilya’s mouth, unable to keep the smile from his lips, “I hope you don’t think you’re allowed to smoke in my Winner’s room.”

Ilya hums and realizes he has something much better to put his mouth on. “I could make you smoke one with me,” he teases. 

He would never do that. But it’s technically in the rules. He could. 

“You want me to ruin my lungs? I’m pretty sure that counts as sabotage.” 

Hollander sounds prissy. Ilya might even believe the frostiness if he was stupid. Like every other idiot in the league. Hollander was just begging for attention. 

Ilya hummed as he reached over to the ash tray disposing of his cigarette. For now. “Gimmie Kiss,” he orders and nudges Hollander to sit up a bit more so he can reach him better. 

It earns him an eye roll and a scrunched nose but Hollander obeys and kisses him. Even if he is grumbling about the smell. He melts into the kiss. Fuck. So sweet. Nothing soft about him, but all of him sweet. 

Ilya cups his face and brushes his finger across his freckles. 

“You won’t win again,” it’s a bold declaration and not true, “but if you do, I will fuck you, suck you, kiss you, whatever you want, and not smoke.”

Annoyance flashes on Hollander’s face. But is replaced by his smugness. “And if you win again? Which you won’t.” 

Just as bold of an untrue claim. Instead of answering Ilya rolls on top of him. Bracketing Hollander’s large perfect body under his. Hollander gasps, spreading his legs. They both already know. 

Ilya isn’t ready to go again yet. There isn’t any pressure to leave the room until sunrise. Where the consequences of their actions will follow. That is not now. 

Now, he leans down to capture Hollander’s mouth for the lazy sweet kisses he had been craving all night. It’s not an easy feat since they are both smiling, but Ilya will make it work. 

Chapter End Notes

If you are using a screen reader or text to speech to read this fic and there is something that can be improved on accessibility please let me know.

Chapter 4: The Winning Mentality

Chapter Summary

In which Ilya rage baits a goalie, offers Marleau some comfort, and makes a Forfeit’s night significantly worse. Hollander does a bad job of pretending he isn’t amused.

Chapter Notes

Thank you for your continued kind words. Mean Dom Hollander (I love him too) is back along with the group chat and Marleau. Ilya as always is pinning.

As I am engaging with psychological aspects of this, in the future I will be adding any appropriate warnings about topics or changes in tone as I find appropriate. If you think something is inadequately tagged or warned please let me know.

This chapter contains a conversation about if being sexually assaulted counts as cheating on a partner. Additionally there is a discussion about the mental effects of being both a winner and a forfeit. These conversations are not in-depth or graphic.

If you have been sexually assaulted, it is not your fault and it is not cheating.

In the hall ten minutes before sunrise Ilya had heard two men outside the winner’s room door arguing. Hollander had hit his head against Ilya’s chest. “Drapeau was pissed when Feller came for me.”

Ilya laughed. “He’ll get used to it.” 

Hollander had hit him. A light punch against his shoulder. “He will not.” 

“Next time I teach you how to throw a punch too,” Ilya offered, taking both of Hollander’s hands and pulling him into a final kiss, “you hit so soft.”

“I’ll show you a real hit next time.”

They parted. Hollander stepped back and did a little shake quickly hitting the side of his leg with an open palm before his normal grumpy face was back on. It had taken Ilya longer too get himself together. Endeared by Hollander far too much. 

Hollander had opened the door and stepped out first while Ilya followed. “Holzy!”

Drapeau had a murderous look on his face while his eyes had checked Hollander over. Who was relaxed and casual. Unharmed. Hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants as he stood just in front of the door looking at their goalies.

Hollander was not supposed to be unharmed. It made something in Drapeau’s eyes rise with suspicion. 

Gross fucker. Worried about Hollander being hurt and being alarmed when he wasn’t. It was okay if Hollander had been violated. But if Hollander had wanted it, it was a problem. 

“Hey,” Hollander had answered his goalie, “you look exhausted. Let’s head back and you can sleep on the plane right?” 

Hollander had not been exhausted despite all the physical exercise. They had napped between rounds. “You don’t need to be seen by any of the staff?” 

Ilya snorted. “Just because you are a weird pervert who would get off causing damage does not mean I am.” 

Feller had caught Drapeau in a lunge. It was probably too much to say out loud, but Ilya was too satisfied with the reaction to care. 

“Don’t rage bait my goalie,” Hollander hissed, but his eyes had been shining with amusement. 

He had stepped in front of Drapeau grabbing his shoulder to shove him back away from Ilya. Feller shifted to stand in front of him. “Rage bait? Are we going fishing now?” 

Ilya knew full well what rage bait meant. It was just funny to fuck with people. Especially when they could not tell how good his English was. Ilya had used his year in Russia to practice with Svetlana. He wasn’t perfect. A lot better than he would have been last year. 

“You’re going to get punched,” Feller told him and started to drag Ilya away from the Montreal players, “and I’m not even going to report them for it.” 

He knew Ilya was an asshole. “Bye Hollander! See you next game,” Ilya had called after waving his hand as he let himself get towed along.

Drapeau snarled curses after him and Ilya had caught Hollander turning his head away from his goalie to bite back a smile before tugging him down the hall. 

The goalies are not the only ones thrown off. No one in the league knows how to react to Ilya taking Hollander into the winner’s room. Not like anyone can really talk about it directly. He hears muttering about his domination of Hollander in that game. Which was funny, because it had been a very solid game for both of them. 

It gets chalked up to a rivalry thing. The Best players in the league are fighting in every way possible. Like Ilya is trying to prove himself off the ice as well as on it. 

Ilya has scratches on his shoulders and a bite mark on his neck as proof of how well he had done in the Winner’s room. Not that anyone would think Hollander’s pleasure was the goal.

His teammates stare at them when he changes in the locker room that afternoon before their practice. Except for Marleau who does everything he can to look away. The team seems to be taking their cues from him about the whole situation. Which is to pretend it had never happened. 

He wonders how long they can ignore it. 

Not like he isn’t being a menace about it. He’s pretty sure Hollander would not think he was behaving but Hollander still refused to give him his cell phone number. 

He puts a photo of the scratches in the Forfeit Group Chat after Feller had gone home. He receives an interesting series of emojis in response. All of them wanting to say something and not being able to talk openly. Even there. Where they all know the truth. 

Or at least parts of the truth. 

There's little exclamation points, shocked faces, side eyes. Some little sick faces that Ilya rolls his eyes at. He makes notes of those ones. 

The interesting one is from the Philadelphia Forfeit. 

215-985-3333: Oh my god. I’m going to be murdered.

Montreal plays Philadelphia two days after their second time in the Winner’s room. The first game since Hollander’s loss. Since Ilya had him. 

It would be funny, that the Forfeit saw this as a bad thing, if Ilya wasn’t so frustrated with them all. 

That remark inspired a large round of prayers and meaningless consolations. The undertone of ‘thank god it’s not me’ unsaid but tearing through the chat as loud as a roar. 

The Forfeit would surely be a test. Ilya was curious to know what Hollander would do as well. 

Ilya: Keep us updated. 

He could say it because he was an asshole. But the chances of a real update were low. Ilya might know anyways. 

Ilya doesn’t expect anything interesting to happen for the rest of the day. It’s an off day for Boston and then another game at home the day after. Marleau is laying on his couch with a beer. Ilya is pretty sure Marleau got assigned to be his baby sitter. 

He’s not sure if Marleau is here because of the winner’s room or because Ilya is in his first year of a move from a separate country and his job is to make sure Ilya doesn’t get in trouble. Marleau is good company regardless. 

The kind of guy who is easy with casual affection, and likes fun. Ilya does genuinely like him. It’s kind of a shame he’ll make Marleau uncomfortable forever. But that was what happened when people knew too much. 

The group chat gets a text. Montreal is playing Philadelphia on the screen. Marleau has been frowning at the screen the entire time. 

Hollander had scored two goals already. He was playing very loose and the camera had caught a smile once or twice from him. Ilya was a little mad that the Philadelphia Forfeit would be the one joining Hollander tonight. 

615-259-9055: Jenny. You should probably break up with your girlfriend.

Ilya frowned at the screen. That seemed like a strange thing to say in this particular chat. 

972-641-7273: Fuck.

Which one was Jenny? Hollander checked a defenseman into the boards on the screen. He could hear the boards rattling and the man lost his footing while Hollander skated away with the puck. 

Right. Jenny was the Dallas Forfeit. Ilya hummed. Watching a text bubble pop up. 

972-641-7273: Do you think it actually counts as cheating?

Ilya frowned and bit the inside of his lip. It wasn’t a secret that NHL players cheated on their wives and girlfriends, often. It wasn’t even a stereotype. And what was known was only the ones who got caught. It was one of those things that was part of the game. 

He watches his phone listening to another goal siren go off. Hat trick for Hollander. 

“He’s really fucking relaxed tonight,” Marleau notes. 

It’s not a question. Technically. But it is Marleau prodding. How is Shane Hollander scoring a hat trick after being a Forfeit. What had Ilya done to him? Or more importantly what had Ilya not done? 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed and offered no further explanations.

615-259-9055: I mean would she think it’s cheating?

403-237-5888:  It’s not like you are actually making that choice right?

800-601-7200: my girlfriend would think it was cheating if she found out. But I don’t feel like I’m cheating. That feels a lot better 

888-998-6423: That’s why open relationships are the only way man. Especially if you like her. Even if she thinks you’re sleeping around it’s okay.

615-259-9055: Eh. My last girlfriend dumped me because I didn’t want to be touched. So she could just decide to get rid of you if you aren’t putting out enough.

972-641-7273: Fuck. I really liked her.

Ilya glances up to see Marleau reading his phone now with a deeper frown. “God I hate this,” he groaned and tossed it back down on the couch. 

“Which part,” Ilya asked wondering how much Marleau dare to say even when they were totally alone like this. 

“Your face,” Marleau grumbled but he’s taking that second to think, to bend the words into something he could say, “just. I know we all agree this because it’s the price you pay to play hockey. Plenty of guys leave because they fell in love. But it’s not fair. You shouldn’t have to choose between playing what you love and being in love.” 

“What’s Jenny’s choice, huh? Quit his team at the start of the season? Have to explain that choice to his family, friends, home town and manager. He’s playing good hockey. No one is going to believe him if he says he’s done. But if he does stay his girl might find out about,” Marleau waved his hand in the air trying to capture all of it, “she’ll notice something about it eventually. And she’ll dump him and call him a cheater. So now he’s fucked at hockey and romantically?”

Ilya wouldn’t normally call Marleau a thinker. But apparently there was evidence he was. The man pissed him off about Hollander, but he had a point. He wondered if this conversation was about cheating accusations at all. 

“Have you thought about leaving,” Ilya asked.

Maybe too direct. Marleau flushed. “No,” he denies automatically, “I don’t have a reason to quit. It’s not like I’m interested in anyone.” 

Ilya doesn’t speak right away. Letting the silence of the room tempt Marleau. 

“Everyone asked if Hollander’s rookie season was a fluke,” one of the announcers on the tv declared, “but he is already leading the league in goals and is just behind Ilya Rozanov in points.” 

Marleau flinched at the comparison. “Rozanov is certainly already proving he is a name to watch out for. He’s second in goals scored already this season. Hollander has some real competition this year.” 

“Maybe,” Marleau admitted. 

He picked at the label on his beer bottle. It’s empty now. Marleau had only had one. But Ilya would let him pretend it was more later if he wanted. 

“I was trying to think of how many more seasons I could survive like this,” Marleau’s voice is small, “how many before it would start to really effect my game, not just against Montreal. It’s not just the five nights a season. It’s every night you can’t say anything about it.” 

Marleau ripped at the label, tearing off a chunk and crumbling it in his hand. “I hate how weak I get,” Ilya wasn’t always a nice guy, he was a mean one a lot of the time, but he wasn’t heartless. 

He grabbed Marleau’s arm and pulled him across the couch and into his side, throwing an arm around him. Marleau tensed for a moment, but relaxed. “I’m a fucking mess against Montreal and everyone knows why and I can’t even say anything about it. I hate this group chat so fucking god damn much, but if I didn’t make it then no one would have any kind of goddamn space to even vaguely say something.” 

Ilya rubbed his arm. He’s fine with this. Giving comfort. It doesn’t really change the fact of what he thinks about Marleau as a Forfeit. But he had learned to compartmentalize that as soon as he learned about the Winner’s room. 

He hadn’t known Marleau had made the chat. 

“I’m not like fucking Hollander or you, but I’ve scored plenty of game winning goals.” 

It was true. Marleau had had a decent record before Hollander had come into the league. “And after last season. Seeing how much a person could win,” Marleau let out a shaky breath, “having a set one from each team. That’s better right?” 

Marleau was barely talking around it now. “I started to think about what I would do if I was a scorer like that. How do you choose that many people? And by the time last season ended I didn’t want to win at all.” 

Ilya could not imagine not wanting to win. But he had very different feelings than Marleau. It still sounded a bit like weakness to him. Regardless, this was a lot of words for him. Marleau was a shit talker. Not much of a serious guy. Usually at least. 

He set the beer bottle down on the ground. Curled further into his arms. Ilya held him tighter. Letting Marleau take the comfort he needed. “You’re here now,” Marleau was staring at the screen where they were comparing Hollander’s stats with his own. 

The game had ended. Apparently they didn’t even want to pretend to talk about Philadelphia. His stats were neck and neck with Hollander’s already. 

“I think bringing you to Boston is good for the team,” Marleau admitted, and a highlight reel from their game against Montreal two nights ago started playing, “and very bad for everyone else.” 

Ilya would not insult Marleau’s honesty with lies. “Yes. Probably.” He agreed.

And for some reason this is what makes Marleau cry. Ilya doesn’t scold him for it. Just holds him and lets the bigger man get it out of his system. It had been a lot of words. Ilya replays them in his mind. He thinks about the Dallas Forfeit who is going to break up with his girlfriend because Shane Hollander is going to fuck him in a few days. More likely than not at least. He does feel bad about that. 

There is nothing anyone can do. Not unless they all decide to do something. Which they will not. It does not occur to Marleau that this is not a real price to pay for playing hockey. That this was a strange thing to do. For him it was normal and he was defeated by that. 

Ilya sent Marleau to bed in his guest room. 

He checks the time after and goes about his house settling things in for the night. Picking up trash and turning off the lights. 

When he finishes and makes it to his bedroom he decides there has been enough time and calls the phone of the Philadelphia Forfeit. 

It rings through the first time going to voice mail. Ilya pulls out his book on the 2003 cup run flipping through the pages randomly as he hung up and dialed again. 

It rings. Chirping at him until almost the last ring. Then Hollander’s voice growls at him through the phone line. “This is not being careful Rozanov.” 

Ilya feels himself grinning. “Is fine,” he argues, “no one will know.” 

“Someone will in fact know,” Hollander growls, “I don’t even have him tied down yet.” 

“Hmmm. Sexy,” Ilya purrs, “what are you going to do to him tonight?” 

Hollander sighs, sounding heavy and annoyed. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“Mad because his cock won’t be as good as mine?” 

It earns him a frustrated laugh. “Your dick is barely subpar.” 

“That’s not what you said when you were crying on it last night.” 

“I was only crying about how bad it was.” 

Ilya wants to keep going but Hollander has a one track mind. “Why are you calling me?” 

“I could be texting you, but I don’t have your phone number.” 

“Clearly for a good reason!” 

“No. The reason you gave is because it’s dangerous and now I have to call the Forfeit to talk to you.”

“Rozanov,” there was a snapping sound, “shit,” Hollander groaned. 

“I’m putting you on speaker. I need both hands.”

“Okay,” he agreed, “what do you need both hands for?” 

The sound changes as Hollander puts the phone on speaker. 

“Are you really taking a call from Ilya Rozanov on my cell phone right now?” 

The Philadelphia Forfeit sounds baffled his voice higher pitched than any man of his size had any right to be. He was a very big first line forward. He had outstanding defensive stats as well as offensive ones. 

“I was tying him down spread eagle,” Hollander tells him, “they don’t have the cuffs I like here and their equipment manager is shit because these ropes broke. All these ropes are like 10 years old and brittle.” 

Ilya can hear him rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell him that,” the Forfeit complains.

“Is his cock hard,” Ilya asks, interested. 

It earns him another laugh. “It was hard when he stepped into the room,” Hollander is a gossip despite his fake protests.

“I wasn’t!”

The Forfeit can make all the sounds he wants. He isn’t included in the conversation. “Do you want him spread or just immobilized,” Ilya asks. 

Hollander hums and he can hear him going through the cabinets. “Both? I really need to submit an equipment request to all the arenas. I keep forgetting how little Philadelphia has here.” 

“So unlike you to be unprepared.” 

“Well I didn’t get much sleep the other night,” Hollander grumbles.

Ilya can almost hear the smile in his voice. “You want his mouth, not his cock,” Ilya tells him, “has he earned the right to suck you off?”

Hollander makes a frustrated sound that’s as good as an agreement. The Forfeit must shift on the bed because Ilya hears creaking. “Yeah he has. He does actually have a good mouth.” 

The way Hollander said that made it seem like high praise. “Did he need to spend a night sucking a dildo,” Ilya pressed. 

“No, ” Hollander answered and the cabinet door shut with a creak, “I had him before I made the test. But he would have passed it. He swallowed my cock right to the base and moaned.”

“Oh my god. Don’t tell him that!” 

“Hmmm. I will have to try that with him,” Ilya says, “not as good as your mouth I’m sure.” 

It earns him another happy sound from Hollander. 

“What,” the Forfeit demanded, bafflement turning into shock. 

“Is any of the rope good?” 

“Only one of them. It’s pretty long though,” he sounds like he is thinking, leaving Ilya to press down on his cock wondering what Hollander is considering.

“Tell me what you are thinking,” Ilya offers. 

This hadn’t been the point of the call but he is enjoying it. 

“You haven’t been to Philadelphia yet, but the bed is a big four poster one. I’m guessing whoever liked roped was the one who had it put in. It had a head board and a foot board. There’s a lot of good attachment points. I’ll have them order more rope.”

He can hear Hollander planning. Too bad they would never be in Philadelphia together. “Do you want to play with rope more?” 

“Rope runs a larger risk of cutting off circulation, which isn’t something I have wanted to deal with,” Hollander muses, “but I’m not against it. I’ll let you know.” 

“Why would you let him know!” 

They continue to ignore him. “I’ll have some rope ordered to Boston,” Ilya decides, “nice things, unless you want something rough?” 

“Nice ones for now,” Hollander hums. 

“We could skip rope for silks,” Ilya offers, putting Hollander on speaker, and opening up his search browser, “very gentle since you are so delicate and virginal.” 

“You can not keep going with that bit, Asshole,” Hollander protests. 

He loves hearing Hollander call him an asshole. When he meant it and when he sounded affectionate. 

“Are you two flirting? Oh my god.” 

Poor stupid Forfeit. 

“I already know you look good against red, especially with the way you flush, but what about gold? Should I drape you in gold pobeditel’ (winner)?” 

“Rozanov,” it’s a growl disguised as a moan. 

“Yes. I think you would look nice in Boston Black and Gold.” 

“I hate you!” 

Ilya laughs. “You are the worst. Do everyone a favor and get run over by the Zamboni.”

“How hard are you right now?” 

“Shut up.” 

“I’m very hard,” Ilya tells him, “and with no Forfeit to suck my cock.”

“Poor you,” Hollander mocks with no sympathy. 

“Tell me how you are going to tie Forfeit up.” 

“He behaves very nicely,” Hollander explains, “so I don’t have to be mean.” 

“You are a very mean winner,” Ilya purrs. 

He can feel good about it now that he’s sure Hollander will leave satisfied when they see each other next. He’s fine with Hollander being bossy, if it ends with him happy and flushed. Ilya couldn’t get that from any other man in the league. They would all always be like Marleau.

“Anyways. He behaves. So I’m going to lay him on his side on the bed, I’m going to start the rope around his left ankle with his leg straight to a second knot on his upper thigh.”

Ilya heard a breath hitch that wasn’t Hollander’s. “Then I’m going to pull his right leg and left arm to the small of his back, and tie them together at the ankle and wrist. There’s a vibrator in the cabinet. I’ll tell him to be good and hold it for me,” there’s a whimper on the line now, a shameless moan, “and he will be good.”

Ilya could already picture it. The Forfeit spread for Hollander. But it was better to imagine Hollander in that position. 

“I’m going to bring the rope around to his front and tie his right wrist there right next to his cock. I don’t have to tie it to his balls because he’s good.”

“Fuck,” the Forfeit whimpers.

“And then the rope is going to go right back down between his legs to his left ankle and he’s going to keep that leg straight for me. Of course he could move it if he doesn’t want to be good. It would give him more space to move his hand if the whore wants to get off.”

Ilya moaned at Hollander’s mean voice. It was hot to listen to him bully a weaker player. “Fuck. Hollander.”

The Forfeit was moaning too. “I’ll untie him and send him off after he sucks me off,” Hollander finished, “if he doesn’t get off during, he can beg me to let him cum, and if I’m impressed I might let him.”

“Please,” the Forfeit was already begging. 

“You can’t see it, but the faggot crawled over to start mouthing at my cock.” 

Ilya blinked in surprise at the word. It was a normal word. He had learned that one pretty quickly around English speakers. Faggot. Gay. Homosexual. Those common insults are the same across many languages. Ilya didn’t let it effect him. 

“You could send a picture,” Ilya suggests and didn’t even mean it. 

“What! No!”

The Forfeit did sound genuinely freaked out at that suggestion. “That can not be in the rules,” desperate to preserve his dignity, “you can’t even be on the phone!” 

Ilya listens to the sound of a slap. “Do you want to tell me what I can and can’t do again?” 

His cock aches. “No! I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been praising how obedient and good you are. Are you trying to make a liar of me?” 

Hollander was so cruel. “No. I’m sorry!” 

He was mean but there was no satisfaction in his voice. Just a cold detachment. “Apologize to Rozanov.”  

The Forfeit struggled for a breath, but he didn’t stay quiet long enough for Hollander to decide to hit him again. “I’m sorry Rozanov.” 

The words definitely cost the man something. Rozanov didn’t acknowledge him. “You like hitting them?”

Hollander hummed and Ilya listened to the breathing of the Forfeit slowly calm down. “I like it when they are good. I do what they make me do.” 

“Please don’t take pictures,” the Forfeit begs and his voice wavers at edge of panicked control, “please. Please. Hollander. Please.” 

Ilya bit his bottom lip listening to the begging. “You should make them call you Sir,” he tells Hollander.

“Please. Sir?” 

He laughed at how quickly the Forfeit had jumped on that. 

“Ewh,” Hollander scolds, “don’t give them ideas. It’s already hard enough for some of them to not collapse on the ice. If one of them starts to call me Sir by accident we’re both going to die of embarrassment." 

“No Hollander, it’s a great idea, that would be so funny.” 

The Forfeit is still begging. A soft muttering of whimpered pleas. “Now I have to calm him down,” Hollander grumbled.

“Green I’m not taking any pictures,” Hollander declares his attention going to his Forfeit. 

Ilya would like to be able to kick up a fuss at the attention shifting, but he lets Hollander do his work uninterrupted. 

“I could,” Hollander adds with a hum that is soft and comforting, “but why would I want to see your face?” 

Hollander would have made such a good sadist. He tried to imagine the two of them. Hollander standing in the middle of the room with a long rope in his hands. The Forfeit on his knees, maybe tears tracking over where his face was red from Hollander’s slap. Trying to bury his face in Hollander’s crotch. Did Hollander look bored by the man begging for him or was he aroused, eyes blown wide. 

“And for the record, I can do whatever I want with Rozanov,” Hollander continues a bit more stern, with no humor or comfort in it, “you can read the rule book yourself if you want, but there isn’t a restriction about winners taking phone calls.” 

Something else slapped against skin. Not like the hit Hollander had delivered earlier. Nothing harsh. It was followed by an open moan and a gag. 

“But you can complain to your goalie and the players association. You can tell them about how Rozanov heard you beg for a dick like a cock whore. I’m sure your goalie won’t tell your team mates that you’re filthy and desperate for a cock inside your throat.”

There’s another gagging sound and Hollander makes a soft shushing noise. “Relax. Just suckle. I’m giving you what you need. I’ll finish my phone call and then I’ll let you suck me off okay?”

His response is a soft moan and Ilya listens as the sound changes in the phone. Hollander’s attention is pulled back to him, Hollander must have taken it off of speaker.

“Did you have to freak him out?” 

“I did nothing,” Ilya argues and fuck Hollander was finishing the phone call with his dick in his Forfeit’s throat it was hot.

“What did you call for anyways?” 

Well he had called for this. To prove it to himself and Hollander that Hollander would pick up. To show off to the Forfeit. But he did have a question. He gets up to go start a cold shower. 

“I have a question,” he tells Hollander, “what made you pick Marleau as your Forfeit?" 

It doesn’t take Hollander long to respond. “Oh. He checked me out on the ice.” 

Ilya waited for more. There wasn’t any. Ilya had never seen Marleau check out a man before. 

“What,” he asks when it was clear that Hollander wasn’t going to continue. 

Hollander makes a frustrated sound. “Are you jealous or something?” 

“No!” 

It was laughable.He could not imagine being jealous of Marleau. Not with how weak Marleau acted. 

“Then what,” Hollander is flustered, not used to having to explain his choices, “he checked me out. I took him into the Winner’s Room.” 

From what Ilya had gathered it was kind of a mystery how Hollander had picked his Forfeits. There wasn’t any pattern anyone could tell. 

“You take anyone who checks you out? Hollander I do not think there are that many players in the league that check out men.” 

Hollander grumbles. “It wasn't obvious. He probably didn’t even know he did it. And no, not all of them have checked me out.”

Not all. He said it like many had. “Explain it to me,” Ilya orders. 

“I.“ Hollander huffs, “it’s like seeing the shooting lane that you know will get you the goal, open up. It’s not any one thing right? It’s a lot of little things, and a lot of things it can’t be.” 

“Right,” Ilya agrees and sets his phone down on the counter, starting to strip off his clothes, “tell me just about Marleau.”

His cock was viciously hard. Hollander doesn’t answer right away. Ilya doesn’t expect him too, letting the man take his time to think. 

“Marleau,” Shane starts like he is mapping out his words and how to say them, “is loud and brash and confident. But he’s a yes man. He’ll elevate the energy a leader brings, but he’s never going to be that leader. Boston doesn’t have a strong leader which means he’s been trying to fill that role, and it’s causing stress.” 

Ilya blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected Hollander to be able to read someone like that. “Everyone says you are bad at reading people,” Ilya interrupts. 

Hollander laughs and it’s not a happy sound. “I can read a hockey team. Would you be this good at hockey if you couldn’t read a hockey team?”

“No. You have to know your opponent,” Ilya agrees.

“Right. And because Marleau is liked by everyone he’s not close to anyone. It makes him very flexible on the lines but no one is focused on watching his back. He’s going to be taken out by a surprise injury one day.”

Hollander rattled off facts, like it was easy. Like he wasn’t opening the view of the scoring lanes in Ilya’s mind. Reshaping the man sleeping down the hall from him. 

“And I saw him checking out my ass during the first game against Boston,” Hollander adds, “it was a pretty obvious pick.” 

“What about your Philadelphia Forfeit? The one who is excited to suck your cock.” 

“I heard Koch call him a cock sucker and it startled him so badly I was able to take the puck away.” 

Because no one batted an eye at those comments unless there was some truth to them. “Plus he looks at his Captain with open devotion. But the man barely glances at him unless he has done something remarkably good.” 

“Push your cock further into his throat,” Ilya orders.

The order was followed by an immediate groan from Hollander and a further away choking sound. “Shit,” Hollander hisses and Ilya listens to the coughing for a moment. 

“You know one of the things they say is that I chose my Forfeit’s based on guys I don’t like or who get on my bad side,” Hollander muses and Ilya hears the coughing stop followed by a loud gag, “I always thought that was funny.”

“Are you still planning on using my list?” 

Ilya had asked Hollander if he cared if he used the same Forfeits he did. Hollander hadn’t. 

“Yes,” Ilya confirms, “we play Columbus tomorrow.” 

The coughing comes back. “Please,” the forfeit whines, at Hollander. 

“Get on the bed,” Hollander orders the Forfeit, before continuing his conversation with Ilya, “Columbus is terrible.” 

“Not as bad as Buffalo.” 

“True.” Hollander sighs before admitting, “better than Ottawa.” 

Hollander was from Ottawa right? Ilya would have to look it up later. “You think Ottawa could get better?” 

“Maybe if we were playing on it.” 

Ilya laughs. He doesn’t want to hang up. But Hollander will do it. So he takes a failing shot. None of the scoring lanes are open. “Give me your phone number.”

Hollander hangs up. Ilya gets in the cold shower. 

In the morning he is making breakfast. Porridge and eggs. They have a warm up skate in a few hours and he is planning on seeing if he can challenge Marleau into a high energy workout. Even if the idea is stupid. 

Marleau comes into the kitchen freshly showered in work out clothes already. “Thanks,” he mutters as Ilya waves to the coffee pot he had started. 

The man leans against the counter. “If you’re not caught up after the game do you want to go out to the club?” 

Ilya makes an agreeable sound. “Give me two hours and I’ll be happy to go out anyways.” 

Both of their phones go off at the same time. Ilya glances over to catch the notification and sees Marleau’s face go pale. Ilya smiles at the message. 

Philadelphia: Update. It’s worse than any of you could imagine.

Chapter End Notes

A note on the timeline and hockey schedules. For anyone who doesn’t know much about the NHL. The regular hockey season lasts from around October to the start of April before going into the playoffs, April through June. Currently each team in the NHL plays 82 games in a regular season which is give or take 6 months. There is typically a day between each game for practice, rest, or travel, but that is not guaranteed. This leaves teams playing an average playing 3 to 4 games a week. With half their games typically being played in opponents arena. This means a lot of travel.

Saying Hollander scores the game winning goal half the games he plays (according to him, 3/4th according to Ilya) would have him at 41 nights in the winner’s room. And dividing that by 6 months means Shane is spending about 2 nights in the winner’s room a week, if we are rounding up.

This of course is completely unrealistic, but so is the Winner’s Room. And I think this is funnier. Who’s going to stop me, you?

The phone numbers in this chapter and proceeding ones will be the numbers to sexual assault centers in the corresponding NHL city. There is no one size fits all way to experience and recover from sexual assault, but you are not alone and there are resources available.

Philadelphia Center Against Sexual Violence: 215-985-3333

Nashville Sexual Assault Center: 615-259-9055

Calgary Communities Against Sexual Abuse: 403-237-5888

New Jersey Coalition Against Sexual Assault: 800-601-7200

Washington King County Sexual Assault Center: 888-998-6423

Dallas Area Rape Crisis Center: 972-641-7273

Chapter 5: Shared Spoils

Chapter Summary

Hollander teaches his Forfeit’s that domination and topping are not mutually exclusive. Certified top Ilya Rozanov is eager to teach their Forfeits how bad of a job they do at both.

Chapter Notes

I explained RPF to my therapist this week so I could explain to her what a Winner’s Room AU is. She learns so much from me. Anyways she approves of me writing this so clearly I am winning therapy.

Very limited Hollanov in this chapter. Listen. There’s as much Ilya fucking around and being angsty as much as there is Hollanov in this fic. I’m not sorry. Shane and Ilya in the next chapter, I promise.

As always thank you for your kudos and comments. They are very kind.

The conversation about sharing Forfeits had gone like this. 

Hollander had his head pillowed on Ilya’s chest. His fingers brushing through his chest hair and occasionally over his nipple. He tried very hard to not react to that. It would just encourage him to be worse. 

Sunrise had been an hour away. There was not enough time to get hard again. Not after Hollander had already come three times. By now he knew what Hollander looked like when he was stubborn. Ilya had known the man would try again if tempted. 

Hollander had his stupid book open. A chapter already done. His voice had been raspy from sucking Ilya’s cock, but he had been reading out loud anyways. The steady determination he wore on the ice on his face.

“You have a Forfeit for each team,” Ilya had said fishing for a way to start the conversation. 

Hollander had hummed. “Not exactly. Two of them retired, and one went on injury reserves for the season. I’ll need to choose new ones for those teams” 

Ilya rolled his eyes. “Okay yes, but in general.” 

He waved his hand and Shane had nodded looking up from the book over to Ilya. 

“Yes. In general. There’s one from each team.” 

He narrowed his eyes at Ilya. “Why?” 

“Just curious,” Ilya shrugged.

Hollander frowned at him. Looked him in the eyes for a few seconds. “Do you want to pretend like that was a good lie or should I do it?” 

He sat up and Ilya had made distressed sounds trying to drag him back down. “Hollander,” he complained.

Hollander shifted so he was straddling Ilya’s lap. His hands planted on Ilya’s shoulders. Good. It was better if Hollander was invested in it. It would be more fun to play. 

“I was thinking maybe I use your list,” he told him, “I will win a lot this season.” 

The man had huffed, but the now familiar desire had swarmed in his eyes. Through that he had seen Hollander trying to work out what that would look like. What Ilya might be wanting. 

“I don’t think you need my permission of which Forfeits you choose.” 

“Yes. But you clearly have some kind of plan. I don’t want to cause it trouble.” 

“You are trouble,” Hollander had grumbled. 

Ilya had taken his chin in his hand and pulled him in for a deep kiss. “Ah. But you like trouble.” 

Hollander had hummed and leaned into the kiss. Which had finished that conversation more or less.

At his next game Ilya made sure he scored the game winning goal when they played Columbus. 

He was checking the scores of Hollander’s game when Feller asked him who he wanted. Ilya looked up from his phone. For some reason that was the moment Marleau decided to make eye contact with him. 

“Mitchell,” he answered and watched Marleau’s eyes go wide. 

The man flinched, but there was nothing about the look on his face that suggested he was surprised. Half the team didn’t realize this was an odd thing and the other half, the nosier half, realized right away. 

“Oh fuck,” one of the guys next to Marleau whispered. 

Ilya gave Marleau a moment to process. “We still going to the club after Marly?” 

He let Marleau back out. Decide if he doesn’t want to be around Ilya. He will understand. 

“Of course Rozy,” Marleau answered automatic but still truthful. 

He headed to the showers jaw set in determination. The room stopped looking at Ilya, still taking their cues from Marleau and went back to normal. 

Ilya went back to his phone. A Montreal win, but Hollander did not score the game winning goal. Unusual night for him. Which meant Ilya could not be a menace to him and his poor Forfeit. He would have to give his own his full attention. 

He got up and headed to the Winner’s Room. 

Ilya doesn’t have any fancy plans for the Forfeit. He has what Hollander had done to him. What he could figure Hollander’s goals were from that. Anything else he could adapt. Ilya did not have the same dedication when it came to routine, but he did have ideas. He could keep the energy Hollander brought to the room. 

He found the lube. The one Hollander likes, he’ll burn that into his mind and theirs. 

Ilya brought his cigarettes. Of course he does. There isn’t a point not to. Hollander will not yell at him. If he smokes the Forfeits will smell it and then smell it on themselves after. They will have to think about what happened. 

He has one lit when the Forfeit comes into the room. 

The Forfeit closed the door behind him, his eyes bigger than Marleau’s. 

“What’s this?” 

The unspoken meaning was as loud as if he had spoken them. ‘We don’t pick each other.’ 

Ilya does not need the man to say the words to understand the implicit meaning. Columbus is a bad team. He wonders if he is used to getting fucked. 

“Is not obvious?” Ilya asked, tapping his cigarette ashes into the ash tray and waved to the bed. 

The Forfeit did not move from his spot by the door. 

This Forfeit is smaller than Ilya. Certainly smaller than Hollander, who he had discovered without their shoes and skates was maybe an inch taller than him. He’s so much slimmer than both of them too. Tiny. He wondered if Hollander threw him around. He wonders if he will throw him around. 

“We don’t,” the Forfeit stopped his words, stopping what he almost voices. 

“You,” he pointed at him, “you may not. Not me.” 

He stepped over watching the Forfeit flinch as he got closer, backing him against the door. “It is not my fault you made a mistake to group me in with you.”

His mouth opened. Pretty little shock. Ilya put a hand on his chest feeling up his pecks with a smirk. It feels good to say it out loud. To fully acknowledge what had been pissing him off. 

Ilya blew a cloud of smoke into his face. The Forfeit coughed. He’s watching Ilya, aware that there is a correct thing to say but not smart enough to know what it is or how to even get there. 

The man is not a complete coward. He took in a deep breath, ignoring the way Ilya had slipped a hand under his shirt to feel him up. “And how are you different?”

Ilya smirked, pleased that the Forfeit had asked. He brushed his fingers over a nipple as a reward. The Forfeit gasped. Sensitive. 

“I am not a looser,” Ilya answered direct and clear,

“and I am not afraid of a man’s ass or dick.” 

There are several conflicting emotions going over the Forfeit's face. Even on a terrible team like Columbus a first line player’s pride will not tolerate being a loser. But more than that. He was afraid. Fear was not something hockey players handled very well. 

“You’re a Fa” the Forfeit cut the word off. 

Ilya thought about the way Hollander had called his Philadelphia Forfeit a faggot. Maybe the casual word meant something different after Shane Hollander had ridden your cock. 

“You’re gay?” 

“No,” Ilya answered and gave a half shrug, “not completely.” 

Not that technicalities really mattered, but he liked the freedom to say it out loud. He smirked. “Does not matter what you call it. Especially when you cry for Hollander’s ass. Real difference is I am not scared.” 

The Forfeit opens and closes his mouth. 

“Columbus is a bad team,” Ilya taunted and rubbed the nipple until it was hard, “have you been fucked by anyone but Hollander?” 

He watched his adams apple bob as he swallowed. His eyes dropped down, cheeks flushing red. “Yes.”

Ilya pinched the nipple and the man gasped. He made a mental note about how sensitive the man is there. “But, ah, not since Hollander took me.” 

That was interesting information. “Has this happened to all of you,” he asked glancing down at the Forfeit’s mouth, “no one but Hollander will touch you now? He ruined you?” 

The Forfeit made a pained sound. “I don’t know what the others,”

Ilya pinched his nipple sharply, interrupting him. “Don’t lie. I know NHL whispers more than Russian Grandmothers,” he scolded.

“No one else will touch us,” the Forfeit rushed out, squirming against Ilya’s body. 

He has such a sour look on his face. “I guess that’s not true anymore.” 

Ilya doesn’t let them linger on that. Instead he removed his hand from the Forfeit’s peck and grabbed his face, tilting his head back.

“Did you like getting your ass fucked?” 

“No,” the Forfeit grinds his teeth together his chest heaving with big breaths. 

“Why not?” 

“I’m not a,” he saw the Forfeit change his words, he could almost hear Hollander spitting out Faggot, “it hurt.” 

It’s the most humiliating answer. His eyes are prickled with tears. “I didn’t like it because it hurt. Fuck you Rozanov.” 

Ilya relaxed his grip of the Forfeit’s face and brushed a tear away from the corner of his eye. “Don’t worry. I will make sure it does not hurt,” he let his voice go soft and gentle. 

The Forfeit shook. Ilya pulled back from him and motions to the bed. This time the man goes. He pulled off his clothes as he does so, dropping them to the ground. Nothing like Hollander. 

Ilya stripped himself watching the Forfeit sit on the bed desperate for instructions. Ilya was still thinking about which to give. 

He took one last hit of his cigarette and went back to the ash tray putting it out. 

“League gave very bad sexual education,” Ilya told him and climbed into bed reaching for the lube, “you do not even know you are a bad top when Hollander fucks you.”

The Forfeit was blushing. “Bad at hockey. Bad at being a cock.” 

He stopped shaking, annoyed by Ilya running his mouth. “And you’re more of an active participant?” 

“Yes,” it was only a little bit of a lie, “and I’m going to show you how bad of a job you are doing.” 

“You are quite literally the worst.” 

“You will not say that later when you are crying for more.”

Ilya was not interested in kissing this Forfeit, but he does need to relax him. Get him eased into this. Thankfully that does not take kissing. 

The Forfeit shifted on the bed laying stiffly down on his back. Like laying in a tomb. It gave Ilya the space to climb on top of him. He ran his hand over his abs and back to his pecks. 

“I’m not going to want more.” 

Ilya leaned his head down to lick one of the nipples. It earned him a gasp. He gave the man a smirk knowing it will not take much to get him hard and wanting. Ilya will not attribute that to attraction, it’s a bodily reaction. Hollander probably would. At least he would tell them it was. 

Like he suspected, it doesn't take much kissing, licking, and sucking the Forfeit’s nipples before Ilya feels the man’s dick get hard. “Your dick matches your tits,” Ilya told him and looks up to his face to find the Forfeit watching in the mirror. 

Hollander really does have them well trained. The Forfeit made a strangled sound and tilts his body clearly asking to be touched more. 

Ilya used one hand to continue giving his nipples attention before he reached down to take the hard dick in hand. There’s a small bit of precum on the tip that Ilya swipes down his foreskin. 

“Next time, if you ask nicely I might suck your cock.” 

“I, I, ah,” the Forfeit whined. 

“Do you want to play game? You tell me what I am touching.” 

He moved his hand away from the dick and gets a shuddered cry of protest. Then he sucks his nipple again. 

“My nipple,” the man groaned.

Ilya pulled off and gave it a lick. “And what part of my body is doing it?” 

“Your mouth.” 

Despite his initial tension the Forfeit was quick to obey. 

“Again,” he ordered and moved to kiss the Forfeit’s neck. 

“Your mouth is kissing my neck.” 

“Does it feel good,” Ilya asked, moving his mouth up and next to his ear.

He rubbed his hand across the Forfeit’s thigh. “Yes. It feels good. Your hand is rubbing my thigh.” 

“How is it making you feel?” 

“Aroused,” the Forfeit turns his head to look into Ilya’s eyes, “you’re making me aroused.”

“Did those Winners who fucked you make you feel aroused?” 

“No.”

Ilya reached for the lube and coated his hand before taking the cock again. “Your hand is stroking my cock.” 

“Such a good Forfeit,” Ilya purred, “so obedient." 

He let the Forfeit fuck into his hand. Watching as his eyes got hazy with pleasure. Ilya pulled his hand away when he figured the man was close to his orgasm. “No,” the Forfeit whined, breathing hard as he chased after the touch.

“I’m going to prep you now,” Ilya warned and moved his fingers down to spread his cheeks, “it will be easier fucking you on all fours, but you can stay on your back for now if you want.” 

He let the Forfeit think and take time to process. His fingers are still slick with lube so he runs them over his hole. Just over it. The man shuddered and arched into it. Relaxed and tense all at once. 

“It’s not going to hurt?” 

He looked up at Ilya with apprehension, but the same kind of trust children give a skating coach when they first step onto the ice. Afraid but hopeful. 

“It should not, no. If it does, you tell me, and we slow down.” 

“Why,” the Forfeit asked, back to squirming but this time it is not fear, it’s wanting. 

“Because I will make you see God,” the answer is true and cocky, “and you will never make anyone feel anything.” 

The Forfeit pushed his ass against Ilya’s finger. Rolling his hips up into the touch. Encouraging. The Forfeit is curious and trusting. It is perfect. Ilya would not have been able to do this if Hollander had not broken him down first. 

Sex was always better when his partner was enjoying it. He does not want to be mean if it doesn’t also make them aroused. Ilya knows what it’s like to be made to feel small and get nothing out of it. 

“I make women feel things,” the Forfeit gasped as Ilya tapped his thumb along his hole adding a bit more teasing pressure. 

“Do you,” Ilya made a dismissive sound, “No. I don’t think so. If you were a good top Hollander would, what did you say, let you be more active participant.” 

The Forfeit squirmed. “God just stick your finger in me,” he complained. 

“Oh so you want my fingers now?” 

Another desperate sound from the Forfeit. Ilya smirked. “Back or front,” he put them back on track of the conversation. 

“This is,” the Forfeit hesitated, “this is good?” 

Ilya shrugged. It did not mean anything to him. “Okay. Yes.” 

He grabbed the lube again and spread more across his fingers before dipping one against the hole. 

“Tell me,” he ordered as he circled a finger along the rim. 

“Your finger is touching my hole,” 

“What kind of hole? Do you want me to call it a pussy?” 

“No! It’s my asshole! Your finger is touching my asshole.” 

“Ah,” Ilya allowed, and smirked at the way the Forfeit had stayed loose instead of going tense, “continue.”

He watched the Forfeit swallow. “Your finger is touching my asshole and I want it inside.” 

Ilya was merciful and started to press in. The Forfeit whimpered and his hand reached out latching onto Ilya’s arm. The one not pushing into him. His nails dug into his skin. Hollander was not going to like that. Not at all. He smirked and let it happen. 

“Oh,” the Forfeit made a small surprised sound, “that doesn’t hurt.” 

Ilya laughed at him, and started to work his finger deeper. He searched for the prostate and swore the Forfeit was going to pass out from the shock. 

“Do you know what that is?” 

The Forfeit shook his head no. “It’s your prostate,” Ilya informed him, “when Shane Hollander is fucking you this is what he is trying to hit. But you are stupid and your cock is useless.” 

The nails on his arm dug in deeper. He hoped they would bleed. If he was lucky Hollander would see red. 

He fucked him with his finger. Then a second as soon as the man is loose enough. Ilya has the man gasping and moaning. By the time he has three inside of him the Forfeit doesn’t need any convincing to get onto his hands and knees. Ilya lubed his dick up and added more to the hole in front of him. 

God he can’t wait to have a wanting, willing woman under him. One he doesn’t have to play a mind game with. 

The Forfeit is still looking in the mirror. Eyes trained on the thin headboard strip. Hollander had them so well trained. Ilya would have to praise him for that later. 

He slid his dick along the ass crease. “What if I did not fuck you now?”

“No,” the Forfeit whined and rocked his hips back, “no. I want to know what it’s like when it feels good.”

“Oh, so now you want my dick in your asshole?” 

The Forfeit angled his hips higher trying to get Ilya’s cock head to catch the rim of his hole. “Please,” he asked, “your cock is rubbing between my ass cheeks and I feel empty without you inside.” 

It should be arousing words. It would be. If the Forfeit would not be crying about this later. If he would not go home and deny it to himself that he wanted this. If he would not be ashamed. Ilya would feel merciful if he would act differently later. If the man proved him wrong. But even Marleau wasn’t going to do that. 

He gave the Forfeit what he asked for. Ilya was careful pushing into him. Going slowly and wrapping an arm around his front to stroke his cock to help keep him loose. The Forfeit was whining. 

It wasn’t until he was half way in that the whine became an uncomfortable one. Ilya stopped his movement and was met with a deep shuddering breath. “Too much?” 

He looked in the mirror to see a stubborn shake of the Forfeit’s head. Ilya pinched one of his ass cheeks. 

“No lying.” 

The blush that spread ran right around to the back of the Forfeit’s neck. “It didn’t hurt,” the Forfeit explained breathing hard, “just- overwhelming. Not in a good way.” 

Ilya pulled out until he was at the rim again and pushed back in right before the body under him had tensed. 

“It happens. I have a very big cock. We will go slow.” 

The Forfeit melted under him as Ilya fucked him. Carving him out slowly until he was fully seated inside the man’s ass. 

“You do this for your women,” Ilya asked, picking up a slow grinding pace that had the Forfeit whimpering into the pillows, “you are generous lover and go slow for them?” 

“I,” the Forfeit cried out. 

He shook his head. An admission Ilya found distasteful. “No? You are bad top even with women?” 

It earned him another sob. This one had nothing to do with Ilya’s cock inside of him. “You are sloppy and greedy top,” he accused, “who doesn’t even know how to use his cock.” 

He shifted the angle and found the Forfeit’s prostate before he started to fuck in earnest. Under him the Forfeit was crying and asking for more. Moving his hips with Ilya. It doesn’t matter if Ilya had lost his English after that. He had accomplished what he wanted to. 

Working himself to the point of orgasm Ilya went back to stroking the Forfeit’s dick. Getting him off is half of the point after all. Next time the Forfeit will beg for it. Which will almost be as good as if the Forfeit had chosen to be there with Ilya. 

The Forfeit came hard sputtering into Ilya’s hand. His body went slack, but Ilya held him up pounding into him. Over-stimulated the Forfeit squirmed but Ilya didn’t let up until he came in his ass. The Forfeit would have to clean himself later. 

Ilya pulled out and dropped him onto the bed enjoying the floating blissed feeling of an orgasm as he rolled onto his side. He held out his cum covered fingers to the Forfeit. “Clean them off,” he ordered. 

The Forfeit blinked at him not fully there. Ilya waited and eventually the man obeyed without complaint. 

“Whore,” Ilya teased. 

Once his hand was clean he grabbed a cigarette and lit it. After he was settled he nudged the Forfeit until the man was pressed into his thigh. Head pillowed on the hard muscle there and laying between Ilya’s legs. 

Ilya didn’t touch him. Didn’t talk. But he shared his body heat. Allowed the man to come back into himself where it was warm and with another human instead of alone in bed. 

He’s finished with his cigarette when the Forfeit starts to sit up. He does not look Ilya in the eyes, and winces at the feeling in his ass. 

“You will want a hot bath when you get home,” Ilya told him and tossed out his cigarette, “you will be sore. Your muscles are not used to moving that way.” 

The Forfeit had his mouth open. Half way between shock and terror. “That felt good,” he declared like he hadn’t believed it could.

Ilya considered getting another cigarette. Except he really didn’t want to be here much longer. He looked down at his dick which was still sloppy. Well he had a Forfeit. Ilya nudged him. “Clean this up,” he pointed to his soft dick. 

The Forfeit flinched and Ilya reached for his phone looking up sport news from Hollander’s game. 

A tongue wraps around the head of his cock as he found a video of a press interview from Hollander after the game. He clicked play. 

“Hollander! Last season you didn’t have anyone come close to you for the scoring race, but now KHL star Ilya Rozanov has passed you tonight in goals scored so far this season,” a reporter asked him, “is this the birth of a new rivalry?”

Hollander paused and this time he was not thinking about how stupid of a question this is. This gets proper thought.

What will polite golden boy Hollander say?

“I was disappointed when Rozanov didn’t enter the NHL draft with me,” Hollander told the reporter, “I’m looking forward to seeing what he can do on the ice this season.” 

He looked into the camera then. Right at Ilya. “We have a lot in common after all.” 

Ilya’s heart fluttered. What a diplomatic little answer. What a little shit. Good. 

Ilya glanced over at his arm where the Forfeit had dug his fingers in. They were red, agitated, and yes bleeding. It’s the kind of thing Ilya could probably get the Forfeit in trouble with the player’s union on. Not that the Forfeit had done anything wrong. He had been holding on so desperate for more. 

Shifting over from the video to his own phone camera he carefully got a photo of the marks with nothing identifiable behind it. Then on a whim he sent it to the group chat. 

There was a barking sound from the Forfeit’s pants. Ilya glanced at it while the Forfeit sat up in bed looking over to the sound. He looked back at Ilya before reaching for them. His face went pale when he pulled his phone out and saw the text. 

“Why would you send that!” 

Ilya shrugged and got off the bed heading over to the cabinet. He found the pain meds and a bottle of water. Casually he tossed them onto the bed and shrugged. “Why not?”

“Why not? Why not! Why!” 

Ilya laughed, hunting around for his clothes and pulling open his text messages from Marleau to see if he had sent the name of the club he was at yet. 

Once he had his pants on he headed to the bathroom and grabbed a wash cloth getting it damp before throwing that onto the bed as well. The Forfeit was still looking at his phone horrified. 

“I could have sent a photo of my cum dripping out of your asshole.” 

The Forfeit’s eyes widened and he reached back to check. Which yes there was cum on his fingers. He looked at his own hand like he hadn’t been expecting that. 

Ilya stepped over and patted his head like one would to a dog. “Fuck,” he hissed snatching up the wet cloth and moving away from Ilya, “gross.” 

Ilya hummed watching him over. Making sure he was moving okay and wasn’t going to dissolve into shaking before his goalie could arrive. “Don’t worry,” Ilya answered, “next time I teach you to swallow. If you are good I will give you tips on eating pussy so poor women you are with might get pleasure too.” 

The Forfeit shot him a glare and Ilya found the text from Marleau with the name of the club. Ilya waved a hand at the water bottle and drugs on the bed.

“Take and drink,” he ordered.

The Forfeit hesitated, looking at the label on the drug packet before he tore it open and took it. “Good,” Ilya praised, “should be little sore tomorrow but no real pain. If real pain or bleeding get checked out with team doctor.” 

The Forfeit had the most confused eyes Ilya had ever seen. But he will be okay. So Ilya left. 

Inside the cab he opens up the text messages from the group chat again. The photo he had sent already has responses. 

716-834-3131: What the Fuck

It is followed by confused little emojis. Ilya smirked. 

Marleau: Ignore him.

Marleau: He’s being an ass

Which was true and good advice. Too bad it would not stop any of this. 

Ilya: So mean. Marly. You will make me cry with hurtful words. 

Ilya got a photo of Marleau’s middle finger in the club as a response. He laughed out loud and was about to slide his phone back into his pocket when another message came through the chat. 

Columbus: Green was right. There’s two of them. 

Perfect. 

Chapter End Notes

Just so it’s clear. Even if the experience is gentle or feels good doesn’t mean it’s not sexual assault.

OhioHealth Sexual Assault Response Network of Central Ohio (SARNCO)- Columbus: 844-644-6435

Crisis Services- Buffalo: 716-834-3131

Chapter 6: Certificate of Recgonition

Chapter Summary

Generally Ilya is a giving and thoughtful lover in bed. At the same time there is only one man he wants curled up against him. When Shane needs help getting out of his head Ilya will use everything at his disposal to satisfy his man. Everyone is just a tool for him to use. Maybe including himself, but that's a truth Ilya doesn't want to face.

Chapter Notes

Ya'll are right, I should be trusting you to be here for putting Ilya in fucked up situations and watching what he does. You read the tags. Here's some Hollanov dropping their forfeits into a fucked up situation anyways. As a warning the dehumanization of the Forfeits in this chapter does get kicked up a pretty big notch.

Sub Shane is back! Just for now. Shane is going to be pretty absent in the next two chapters, but we're getting some soft happy Hollanov after that as a treat.

I'm very pleased with how chapter seven came out and I'm excited to share that with you.

Since ya'll have been speculating yes Scott Hunter is bouncing around and having a bad time. I do have plans for him, but not the plans you are most likely thinking. Thank you for your comments and speculations. I am very endeared by you.

Ilya was getting his cock sucked two days later when his Forfeit’s phone rang. Both of them paused. “Get it,” Ilya ordered. 

The Forfeit pulled off his cock lips shiny from spit. Then reached into his back pocket pulling out his phone. Ilya hadn’t gotten to undressing either of them yet. 

The Forfeit hesitated then went pale. “It’s, uh,” his voice was raspy already even if they had only been at this for a few minutes, “Morris?”

Morris. Ilya referenced the mental list in his mind. The Vancouver Forfeit. “Answer the phone on speaker.” 

His Forfeit obeyed. Ilya pet a hand through his hair. He was one of the many hockey players with long hair. Ilya planned to put that hair to good use later. 

“Hi Morris,” his Forfeit sputtered. 

Ilya did not think they were friends. “Are you with Rozanov yet?” 

Tension Ilya hadn’t known he had been holding relaxed in his shoulders. He smirked, and tugged his Forfeit back to his dick sliding his cock inside until the man gagged, catching the phone and stealing it from his hand. “Hollander,” Ilya purrs, “does this count as the stupid thing I should not be doing, or is it because it’s you, it is okay?”

He pushed the man off his dick letting him pant on the ground. “Do you want to tell me why there is a photo of gashes on your arm circulating in every NHL locker room?” 

“You can tell it’s my arm,” Ilya preens, watching his Forfeit’s eyes widen in dawning horror. 

“Rozanov.” 

“I wouldn’t call them gashes,” Ilya muses, looking down at his arm which did host fairly deep nail cuts from last night.  

“They are bleeding in the photo.” 

Hollander was not as amused as Ilya was. “Eh,” Ilya shrugs, “hardly. Doesn’t count.” 

“The next one who leaves marks on you, I’m going to tie them to my chair with a vibrating dildo and cock ring and leave them there all night.” 

Ilya beams at this declaration while the Forfeit pales, eyes widening in unguarded terror. He was kind and gave his head another pat. 

“So mean Hollander. You want all of them to stay controlled on my cock?” 

He listens to Hollander take a few deep breaths. “You’re flirting with him,” his Forfeit couldn’t help but say, “you two are flirting.” 

Ilya threw him a shark smile. “Yes. That is what happens when you are actually good at sucking cock. Pretty men want to sleep with you.” 

“Why do you have it on speaker phone Rozanov?” 

“Did you not want my Forfeit to hear sexy threats?”

“It’s my phone!” The Forfeit interrupts.

Ilya gives the Forfeit a disapproving look. “You don’t own anything in here,” he reminds him, “all of it belongs to me.” 

“My body! Not my phone!” 

“Please shut him up,” Hollander requests and Ilya is more than happy to take that as an opportunity to force the man back onto his cock.

He makes sure the man is choking around him. “Fuck,” Hollander whined at the sound. 

“You wish it was your mouth on my dick,” Ilya asks, easing up his grip to let the Forfeit go at his own pace. 

They had been practicing deep throating, but Ilya had been getting a little mean. “My mouth would be so much better on your dick.” 

“It would be, Sweetheart,” Ilya agrees. “What are you doing to your Forfeit tonight?” 

His Forfeit pulls himself off his dick with fire storms in his eyes. “You can’t talk about that! You can’t talk about what happens in the Winner’s room!”

“Hit him.” 

Ilya followed the order without even really thinking about it. “Hollander you are so mean to the Forfeits! They are just stupid little babies.”

The Forfeit held his cheek like he was shocked. Ilya had no idea why. He knew Hollander could be pretty liberal with physical violence if he felt like he needed to. 

“They’re all older than us,” Hollander explains without sympathy, “and I don’t want to hear someone inside the Winner’s room complaining about a conversation happening inside another Winner’s room. He can go check the fucking rule book and see if that violates any rules.” 

Ilya gives a little shrug to the Forfeit. Well he had tried for leniency. “Tell me what you are doing to your Forfeit tonight.” 

Hollander lets out a shaky breath. “Someone decided to leak a photo and rage bait me today, so I’m already not pleased and this has been a very long road trip. I am sick of these hotel beds.” 

“Yes. Road trips can be very tough,” Ilya agrees, waiting for Hollander to continue.

The deep breaths Hollander had been heaving evened out. “It’s not just the fucking road trips. It’s me,” Hollander declares. 

“What? Nonsense. You are Shane Hollander. First draft rookie who brought his team to the playoffs his first season,” Ilya reminds him, “you are like the second best player in the league.” 

It earns him a short bark of a laugh. “Yeah well Shane Hollander the hockey player is not the problem.” 

“Nothing about you is a problem,” Ilya should probably not sound so openly devoted.

His Forfeit made a protesting sound and Ilya gave him a warning look. He would prefer to be mostly gentle physically, but he could be worse if he had to. 

“I’m so tired,” Hollander admits, “I just want to stop thinking.” 

“Okay,” Ilya agrees confidently, “I will fix it. Give me control.” 

“I can’t,” Hollander grumbles, “not here.” 

“Yes,” Ilya assures him, “you will. I will. Give it to me.” 

It’s silent for a long few moments on the phone. Ilya waits watching his Forfeit who is staring at the phone like it might be a time bomb. To him it could be. But Ilya will need him if Hollander agrees. 

“Yes,” Hollander gives in, “I trust you.” The man laughs continuing. “I don’t know why. I shouldn’t.”

“Tell me what you’ve done to your Forfeit so far,” Ilya orders, letting his voice drop just a little lower. 

“There’s a chair. I have him tied to it. Asked if he knew how to contact yours and he told me the name was in his contacts,” Hollander walked him through what had happened so far, “and then I put a ball gag and the blinkers on him.” 

Ilya took a second and thought about that picture. “Does this room have a better stock of toys,” Ilya asks. 

He heard a cabinet open and a chuckle. “Yeah, they are better.” 

“Look for ear muffs and a blind fold,” Ilya instructs. 

“Blind fold,” Hollander repeats in question, but Ilya can hear him going through the cabinet. 

“You don’t need to ask questions,” Ilya answers, “stop thinking.” 

It takes another moment. “Alright,” Hollander announces.  

“Take off blinker and replace with ear muffs and blind fold.” 

“I don’t think the blind fold goes with what I do in here,” Hollander complains and there is a muffled vocal sound coming from his end of the line. 

“Forfeit does not matter,” Ilya reminds him, flapping his hand, “giant dildo will feel like nothing.”

Hollander makes more displeased noises but Ilya isn’t worried about disobedience. “Okay. Done.”

There are a lot more upset muffled Forfeit sounds from his end. That would die down eventually. “Now what?” 

“Get lube and a dildo. Do they have one of the sticky ones? To the surface?”

“Yeah,” there was some rustling in the cabinet.

“Good. You’re going to suck my cock for me, and when I tell you, you’re going to open yourself for my dick.” 

The Forfeit had not lost his wild eyes. Ilya patted his thigh and the man apprehensively crawled forward putting his chin where Ilya had directed. 

“Oh,” Hollander breathes into the phone. 

“Put me on speaker. Dildo can not hear,” Ilya adds, tracing the lip of his Forfeit. 

“I know you haven’t taken yourself off speaker phone,” Hollander complains but Ilya heard the sound change, “okay I’m getting on the bed and sticking the dildo on the head board.”

There’s a thwapping sound, and Ilya tugs his Forfeit closer to his cock without pulling him onto it. “Get yourself comfortable Sweetheart. You’re going to be sucking my cock for a while.” 

His Forfeit whimpers, already picking up what that meant for him. He rocked back on his knees and Ilya let him go so he could get comfortable as well.

“Please,” Hollander groans, “I want it to be your cock.” 

“It is my cock,” Ilya corrects, “don’t be an idiot. Give my dick a kiss. Show me how much you missed me.” 

“I didn’t miss you at all.” 

Still he hears the sound of Hollander kissing the dildo. Ilya groans and tugs his Forfeit to his cock keeping eye contact with him. “Go ahead, Hollander. Kiss me all over.”

He doesn’t get any protests. Just the sounds of Hollander’s lips. His Forfeit gets the message and starts to kiss as well. Ilya doesn’t try to hold back his mouth or his sounds. “Fuck. Hollander. Look at those pretty lips on my cock. So good for me.”

Hollander moans. Ilya waits a couple more moments. “So perfect. Go ahead. Wrap your mouth around the head.”

There was a slurping sound followed by a deeply pleasured whimper. “Pull back,” Ilya demands, “just to the head. I want to see your lips parted around the tip of my cock.” 

He gives his Forfeit an uninterested glance. Just to make sure he understood that while Ilya may be expecting them both to follow his orders he had no interest in the Forfeit himself.

“You’re such a cock slut Hollander. So eager to push my dick down your throat,” Ilya teases, “pull off me and give it a kiss again.” 

“Rozanov,” Hollander groaned as he obeys. 

The Forfeit looks like he wants to die. “What? You want something? I’m already giving you cock. What more could you desire?” 

“Fuck you,” Hollander pants and Ilya can hear him kissing up his dildo. 

“Later,” Ilya hums and wishes it was actually true, “tell me how to please you Hollander. Since this is not good enough.” 

It earned him more grumbles. His Forfeit was trying to get away with the bare minimum. Ilya grabs his hair and pulls him against his dick. He shoots him a glare until the Thing kisses his cock properly. 

“What is it you told me, Hollander? Something about Winners getting what he wants. You are a very bad Winner if you can’t say it.” 

“You talk too much,” Hollander tells him and has the boldness to be snarky, “I’m going to suck your brain out of your cock so hard you stop thinking.” 

Ilya groans and cups the Forfeit’s jaw in his hand, opening his mouth with his thumb. He presses two fingers in until the man is choking. “Like that,” he asks. 

“No,” Hollander growls, “I’m better than that.” 

Tears are already falling down the Forfeit’s cheeks. He’s trying to pull back because all his effort is going into not biting. Ilya doesn’t let him. He presses deeper. 

“Show me.” 

Over the choking there is a blissful moan, as Hollander takes the dildo inside his throat. He makes it messy. Ilya fucks his fingers in and out of the Forfeit’s throat at the same pace he can hear Hollander moving. It is not trying to hide that it is crying. Ilya is so nice for not fucking his face yet. 

Ilya lets Hollander show off. His moaning whimpers coming through loud and clear. It could not be more obvious to tell who was receiving pleasure in this circumstance. 

“Look at you,” Ilya muttered to his Forfeit under his breath, “pathetic, little nothing. You are choking on two little fingers while he fucks his own face. Weak. No wonder why you have only scored two goals this season.” 

He pulls his fingers out and drops the Forfeit again brushing his wet fingers off his pants. He raises his voice, “is not a race Hollander. You’re going to come hands free from just sucking my cock.” 

Hollander pulls off with a wet pop. “Says Mr. No, Too Good.” 

Ilya thumps his head back and smiles. Fuck. This man throwing it back in his face. “Not my fault. Had second place leader in scoring race on his knees for me. Good jerk off material.” 

“You were not leading the scoring race then!” 

“I am now. So it counts,” Ilya boasts.

“It does not! Choke on a dick Rozanov.”

Ilya runs a hand through his hair and has to bite his lip to keep the smile out of his voice. “Can not. You also came like a rocket as soon as I started to suck you.” 

He does his best to make his most asshole-ish thinking sound. “I think you need to work on your stamina, Hollander. Is this why you are falling behind in the scoring race? Can't keep up?” 

“I’m going to score a hat trick Saturday and you are going to eat those words.” 

Ilya had no doubt that Hollander would succeed in his new goal. “A hat trick. Wow,” Ilya answers and pinches his thigh to help himself sound unimpressed, “I will get a Gordie Howe hat trick for you on top of a hat trick. Should I get into a fight with our Forfeit?” 

He drops his eyes down to the Forfeit. Just to watch the horror that his vocal confirmation of what everyone must already be suspecting fill his eyes. It does. It had recovered from the choking, but that immediately sends big panicked breaths through it’s nose. 

Good. 

“No,” Hollander’s voice comes down the line a bit more sharp, “don’t be mean to them on the ice. That’s not the point of this Rozanov.” 

Ilya glances at his phone and tilts his head. “No?”

Hollander huffs. “I want to play good hockey,” Hollander stresses, “if they feel like they aren’t safe on the ice, it’s going to get annoying. You aren't supposed to retaliate on the ice anyways.” 

Ilya suspects this was going to be a big speech and that was going against his goal of getting Hollander out of his head. “Fine. Fine. I will not start a fight with Forfeit,” he agrees, “how about this. Winner is who completes hat trick quickest.” 

He could almost see the way Hollander’s eyes would light up at the challenge. “What do I get as my prize when I win,” he asks.

Ilya rolls his eyes. Obviously his cock is the answer. “I make you come hands free on my cock again.” 

Hollander groans. “And give you something to gloat about again?” 

He laughs, Ilya would absolutely gloat about it. But the answer here was always Hollander getting what he wanted. “What do you want then if you already have ideas?” 

“I win, and I get to ride you the way I want for as long as I want,” Hollander was feeling out the words and warming up to them. 

“And when I win,” Ilya asks. 

“You’re not going to win,” Hollander declares. 

“When I win,” Ilya repeats. 

“If you win,” Hollander stresses out the word if, “I’ll let you come in my ass.” 

Ilya doesn’t even try to hide the moan that leaves his mouth. “You’re going to get messy for me, Hollander?” 

“I’m going to ride you, until you cry.” 

“How much are you leaking right now? Touch the head of your dick for me,” Ilya reaches down to touch himself thinking about Hollander’s hand.

The order is followed by a shuddering gasp. “Very wet?” 

“Fuck you,” Hollander lets out another shaky breath. 

“I thought you were going to ride me?” 

He looks back down at his Forfeit whose cock is straining against his pants. Ilya makes a show of looking at his hard cock and then back to his face. The Forfeit loses any remaining color in it’s face. Before Hollander says anything else Ilya asks distractedly. “Hollander. Is this one of the ones you fucked with a spider gag?”

“Sanders? Yeah,” Hollander confirms and his tone is prissy again. 

Most importantly he doesn’t sound exhausted and frazzled. It’s the most important thing. “Whore is hard from listening to us,” Ilya tells him.

“Oh,” Hollander's breath is a soft little gasp. 

“Don’t worry. It is a defective thing.” 

The Forfeit drops his eyes and Ilya gently kicks his knees further apart so it is spread. “Give me a good blow job Hollander. Sweet and slow. Let it hear how inferior it is.” 

Hollander’s mouth let out a pleased sound before Ilya could hear his wet mouth sliding back against the dildo. Ilya mutes himself on the call and looks at his Forfeit. He will need to get this thing ready. The fact that he apparently gets off on humiliation and dehumanization is good to know.

“Clothes off,” he tells it and watches it strip. 

Hollander on his end is moaning as he sucks. 

It stands in front of him bare, and dick hard. It is big and thick. And he is shaved. Clean and fresh. It’s team is not playing against Montreal for weeks. 

Ilya stands up and reaches down to stroke his fingers across the bare balls. “Did you shave for me?” 

The Forfeit chokes as Ilya touches it. “I didn’t want to get in trouble.” 

The admission is a whispered grumble. It is holding perfectly still. “In trouble,” Ilya fondles it, making it hiss out another moan, “who said anything about trouble? No, I think you like it.” 

“You have to keep it hairless for Hollander,” the Forfeit protests. 

“No. I don’t think so. You choose to shave before Winner’s room so he does not order you to do it inside room. Also, I am not Hollander.”

Hollander makes a delicious moan that has Ilya catching his breath. It hadn’t occurred to him that the Forfeits might think the rules were the same between them. 

He gave the balls a light squeeze. Not to hurt. Not a threat. Just playing with his toy. “I think you did it because you like it, and this is good excuse. That’s okay. I will let you.”

Ilya smirks and pats the Forfeit’s chest. “Get on the bed.”

He leaves it alone and goes to the cabinet to find the lube. Hollander’s lube. The Forfeit settles itself down. It is not used to this still, but is far more comfortable in this position than others have been. It splays itself like it would for Hollander. A cock to be used. Not a hole. Ilya will have to fix that.

He finds the cock ring. And okay. Ilya likes it. He likes it a lot. Not having to worry about holding himself back. About choosing when he got to chase his orgasm. There was a high in knowing he couldn’t ruin things without meaning too. 

Ilya strips of his own clothing and grabs the phone bringing it to the bed with him. He rests against the head board.. “Go on. Suck,” he orders as the Forfeit shifts to a sitting position on the bed next to him.

It looks at Ilya like it is trying to spell a very long word. “It is not rocket science.” Ilya tells it waving to the foot of the bed, “no wonder why Hollander has only fucked your face. Useless.” 

The Forfeit seems to understand the instruction and moves down to the end of the bed. It looks at his cock like it hadn’t been in it’s mouth minutes ago. The position is probably what’s distracting it. Ilya is not going to be praising the Forfeit for it’s intelligence. 

Ilya let it work it out. Instead of giving the Forfeit his attention he clicked himself off of mute. “Hollander. You kill me with these sexy sounds. I died. I had to go get cock ring just to let you suck my cock more.” 

Hollander doesn’t actually say anything. But it’s hard to miss the delight in his moaning. Ilya slips the cock ring on as the Forfeit for some reason decides hands and knees is the best way to approach this. It is not. The Forfeit’s horror grows immensely at the sight but doesn’t say anything. Instead it brings down its head and wraps its lips around Ilya’s cock. 

The Forfeit is really bad at sucking cock. 

Ilya doesn’t mind. Not really. The only way to get better is practice and he’s not going to impede that for the Forfeit. Besides, it's much better to talk filthy nonsense at Hollander while listening to him relax into sucking the dildo. 

Eventually the Forfeit figures out it didn’t choose the correct position. It pulls off his cock and slides onto its stomach, bracing itself on its forearms and using Ilya’s thigh as a pillow when it needs a minute to rest. Which is often. But it also figures out how to use its tongue and its hands to make its job easier. 

Ilya would praise the thing if it didn’t look so blissed. Once he is sure Hollander doesn’t have much in the way of thoughts left, he changes things up. 

“Come off my cock for a moment Hollander,” Ilya orders and wishes he had Hollander here, where he could run his fingers through his hair, “listen to me.” 

Hollander whines but speech seems to be gone from him. “Good boy,” Ilya praises, “get your lube and squeeze it onto your fingers. I want you to touch your hole for me. Not press into it. Just touch.” 

He pulls the Forfeit off his cock and lets it drop its head into the sheets. Ilya picks up the lube and settles the phone onto the Forfeit’s shoulders. It shivers under him as Ilya comes around for a better angle for its ass.

The lube bottle clicks open on the other line and Ilya rocks his cock across the ass cheeks of the Forfeit. Nothing like Hollander. But whatever. He opens his own lube and squirts cold lube onto the Forfeit’s hole. It nearly squeals. 

Ilya doesn’t use his fingers. Instead he spreads it’s ass cheeks and rubs his cock between them. He moans. “Look at your hole Hollander. So pretty. So greedy. You’re going to take me so well.” 

“Yes,” Hollander croaks out, “I want a finger. Give me a finger please.” 

Apparently Hollander could still find words. Ilya was going to have to work harder. He continues to fuck his cock between the Forfeit’s cheeks. 

“Do you think you deserve a finger?” 

“I deserve two,” Hollander huffs.

Ilya couldn’t help but laugh. He stopped thrusting and coats his own fingers in lube. “If that is compromise. Okay. You can have one finger.” 

He slid one finger into the Forfeit who tensed immediately. Ilya rolled his eyes and stopped. Waiting. Hollander moaned as he got his first finger. “It’s not enough,” he complains immediately. 

“Earn more,” Ilya tells him, “put your mouth back to work. Keep fingering yourself and I’ll tell you when you can have another.” 

Instead of complaining, Hollander obeys. 

He listens to Hollander as he works the Forfeit open. It relaxes enough to take his whole finger leaving it whimpering. Its fingers twist tightly into the bedsheets. Hollander is not good at prepping himself but he had a lot more experience being open than this thing. So Ilya assumes that in the time it takes him to open it up, Hollander will be more than ready for more. He doesn’t move them on until the Forfeit is taking his finger easily and arching into the touch. 

Hollander is more than ready for more. He started complaining a minute ago. Ilya had a heady string of desire in his groin by the fact that Hollander had held off from adding more. The man didn’t add a second finger even though he could and Ilya would never know. 

“Yes,” Ilya groans, “spread your hole for me first. Let me get a good look at your work.” 

He spreads the hole of the Forfeit. He spits on it. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t touch. The Forfeit cries out. Lifting its hips for more. It does not understand it is a hole and not much more. 

Ilya watches the hole. The way the Forfeit is arching its hips. “Gorgeous Hollander. Two fingers now. Keep sucking. I don’t want to hear you pull off to beg for three.”

Hollander grumbles. “I’m going to beg for your dick not a third fucking finger.” 

Ilya will make him like fingering. One day. He smiles at the thought of the challenge and looks back at the hole. Following an instinct and a hunch Ilya delivers a light slap to the hole. The thing fucking howls. Not a bad howl. It’s ass pushing back instead of trying to get away. 

Ilya slides his second finger in without warning and leans forward to press his mouth next to it’s ear. “Next time you will beg me to do that to you again,” he promises. 

It does not offer words in response. Just desperate muffled moans Ilya fucks it, spreading his fingers out and thrusting them back in. He listened as Hollander continues to suck, followed by the wet sounds of lube as he fucks his fingers into himself 

Ilya spreads his fingers watching the hole and wondering what Hollander looked like right now. Ass thrown back trying to get his fingers in deeper? Mouth pushing onto the dildo? What was he trying to get more of?

“You’re driving me crazy with these sexy sounds, Hollander,” Ilya rasped, pushing the Forfeit’s hips down into the bed so it couldn’t move back against his fingers. 

He found the prostate and the thing jerked forcing Ilya to push more of his weight on it to keep it down. Were Hollander’s eyes glassy and blown? 

“Roz,” Hollander started to whimper. 

“I did not tell you to stop sucking,” Ilya cut him off, making his voice harsh, “don’t tell me the great Shane Hollander can’t listen to directions.” 

Hollander and the Forfeit both whimpered. He heard Hollander going back to sucking. Perfect. Perfect needy man. Ilya needs him back under him. 

“I’m so hard for you, Hollander. Thinking about blowing my load down your throat. Fucking your face and making you swallow even if you struggle.” 

Under him the Forfeit made a confused sound as Hollander’s answering sound was nothing but pleasure and wanting. None of the fear, confusion, and self hatred a Forfeit was expected to feel. 

“You’d look so pretty with my cum bursting from between your lips. I should paint your face with my load right now.” 

“Please,” the word came out gargled as Hollander begs, pulling off to the tip. 

“Not until you earn it,” Ilya taunts, “you keep trying to beg Hollander. I told you to focus on sucking dick. You’re so slutty you can’t even focus on my pleasure? Do you not want my dick in your throat?” 

Hollander immediately makes a panicked desperate sound that’s cut off by what must be him pushing the dildo into his throat as far as he could. 

“Hold yourself at my base,” Ilya demands, pushing his fingers deep into the hole and spreading again, checking to see if it could take three fingers yet, “deep. Do not pull off until I tell you.” 

Ilya drips more lube around the hole. More so to make it feel messy than because it needed it. He listened to Hollander whimper on the dildo. Ilya didn’t make him stay on it for more than a few seconds. 

“Fuck I need to see your face pull back. Off. Off my cock.” 

Hollander was breathing deep and hard on the phone. “Another finger. Now.” 

Ilya pauses. Waiting. Just to listen to the way Hollander sounds as he obeyed. It was stunning. Ilya’s breath caught. “Rozanov,” Hollander growls.

“Fuck your fingers. Show me how good you are going to ride my cock.” 

He slides a third finger into the Forfeit whose hole spreads wonderfully. Ilya pulls all three out just to look and it stays open for a few seconds, wide and gaping. Hm. Maybe it has some value after all. 

Ilya stabs his fingers back inside and it earns him a whole body shuddering reaction. He blinks down at the Forfeit and yanks its hips up as it whimpers. His fingers reach down and he has to hold back a laugh. It came. Ilya hits mute for another second. 

“Oh that was a mistake,” he tells it. 

If it was Hollander he would slow down. Give him time to recover before fucking him. Even stop and change what they were doing. But he didn’t have to do that. And he was pretty sure the Forfeit would enjoy this better. 

It moans hips pushing down. “Oh my god,” it whimpered and Ilya coated his fingers in its cum before slipping them back in it’s hole. 

“Your god is moaning on three fingers begging for my cock,” Ilya tells it, “he does not know you are here.” 

Ilya shoves it back down and grasps for the phone again. He unmutes it before speaking. “Good Hollander. Good. You’re such a perfect slut.”

“Please,” Hollander begs, “please. Please.” 

“Please what Hollander?” 

Ilya looked at the hole. He stroked against the prostate earning a sob and started to fuck it with three fingers. “More!” 

“More what?” 

“I don’t know!” 

The Forfeit under him was struggling. Over stimulated but Ilya wasn’t letting it move. “How the fuck does he want more?” 

Ilya rolled his eyes. The Forfeit was crying. That was okay. Its hole was clenching around his fingers. Trying to drag him back in. 

“Take your fingers out.”

That earned him a sob from Hollander. “No. No. No. Rozanov. Please.”

“Did you take them out?” 

Another sob. Ilya was pretty sure it was from Hollander and the Forfeit at the same time. “Yes,” Hollander cries. 

Ilya let out a breath through his nose. “Perfect Hollander. Doing so good for me. So stupid with lust. Needy little slut. Don’t worry. I know what you need. Is your dildo hard?” 

Hollander is silent for a moment. “What? Dildos don’t go soft?” 

He rolls his eyes. “No. So stupid. What would you do without me? The Forfeit. Is it hard?” 

Allowing Hollander time to work through his fog Ilya teased a fourth finger around the hole while it started to arch back for more.

“Yeah. It, it is. I used one of the vibrating cock rings.” 

“Good. Dildo will feel even better for you. Get lube and put it on dildo.” 

“Rozanov,” Hollander’s voice was tight, begging. 

Ilya knew what he wanted. And what Hollander would not allow himself to have. “No,” he made his voice sharp, “you already had your filthy mouth filled. I want your ass clenched on my cock. Don’t make me be mean Hollander.” 

“You are! You’re an asshole.” 

“So the stupid whore doesn’t want my cock?” 

“No!” 

“You can go back to three fingers if you want,” Ilya threatens. 

“I have the lube!”  

He laughs. Yeah of course he does. “Are you sure you aren’t wet enough on your own?”

Hollander’s Forfeit started to make noise again. Ilya held back another chuckle. “Are you going to ride my cock Hollander?” 

“Yes,” Hollander chokes out.

He hears the lube bottle hit the ground. “Eager slut.” 

Ilya pulls his fingers out and teases the edge of his cock against the hole. “Oh god,” the Forfeit tries to rock back against him. 

Ilya slaps his ass. This is of course only encouraging. Really two desperate whores shouldn’t be a problem. The Forfeit on Hollander’s end moaned. Three desperate whores. It should be a good problem to have. Except he only cared about one. 

“Go slow Hollander. I’m giving you the gift of my dick you better appreciate it.” 

“Fuck you,” Hollander grits out, “inside. Please.” 

Ilya laughs. “Hm. Okay. Just the tip. Take just the tip of me okay?” 

He pushed forward, letting the tip of his dick push past the ring of muscle under him. Hollander whimpered. Ilya knew he obeyed. “More,” Hollander demands. 

“No. Get off. Lift your hips all the way up.” 

Ilya pulls out. If Ilya isn’t careful to pay attention all the moans and sobs are going to blend together. He really doesn’t want them to become one voice in his mind.

“Sink back down. You can take a little more this time.” 

“Shit,” Hollander hisses. 

Because even fucked stupid Hollander could still read the next play when it was in front of him. Ilya leads him through it anyways. Hollander does not need to be blind to the game plan to be fucked stupid. He’s not sure which one of them is breathing harder when Hollander tells him he is fully seated. “I’m, hm. Fuck. You’re all the way inside. Filling me all the way up.”

Ilya fucks himself the rest of the way inside his Forfeit. “Yes,” Ilya hisses, “fuck. Hollander. You look so good on my dick. I’m going to fuck you so good.” 

He snaps his hips punching a sound out of his Forfeit. It cries out as Hollander begs. “Fuck me. Fuck me.” 

So Ilya does. Letting their cries and moans and gasps lead each other in their movements. “Faster. Faster. Please.” 

“Take it. Taking me so good, Hollander.” 

None of the pained breath sounds Hollander had made the first time Ilya had him on his dick. He would never let Hollander do that again. Not if he could help it. 

The Forfeit is a sobbing over-stimulated mess under him. Ilya doesn’t show any mercy. Even when it begs for it. 

“Fuck. I’m so close,” Hollander warns.

Ilya pulls out so he could get the cock ring off. “Touch your dick for me,” Ilya orders, “show me your wet sloppy cock. Get it messy for me.” 

Hollander’s voice is the only one that matters. Ilya closes his eyes imagining Hollander under him as he listens to the man finally give in and let go. It’s blissful. Ilya keeps fucking. He fucks Hollander through it even when Hollander’s breath gets steady and even. 

When he does finally come it’s unsatisfying. No. It’s satisfying. He had done his job. He had gotten off. It had to be satisfying. Everything was okay. He comes back from a flash of white collapsed across the Forfeit’s back. “Hollander?” 

“Rozanov,” Hollander’s voice is floaty and wrecked. 

Good. He had done a good job. Ilya pushed his forehead into the Forfeit’s shoulder. They both continue to breathe hard. The Forfeit is silent and Hollander’s dildo is still crying. 

“I’m gonna pull off.” 

“Okay,” Ilya lets himself not think for a couple of moments seated fully inside his Forfeit. 

It wiggles under him. Ilya pulls out and watches his cum drip out of the hole. “It should be you. Not this pocket pussy.” 

“I want a shower,” Hollander mutters, “it’s sticky.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, “a few more things first.” 

Hollander groans. “Get off your dildo,” Ilya drops to his side on the bed and looks up at the ceiling, “untie its hands, take off the things. Get you both water.” 

Ilya understood why Hollander chose not to fully release his Forfeit’s. Even if he was just as strong as Ilya. Something about Hollander tended to make the others call him weak off the ice. Ilya sat up and wiped his fingers off on the sheets. They both moved in silence. Only Hollander’s Forfeit making sounds. 

“Still hard,” he heard Hollander sneer, “did you still want to get off? You’ll need to use your words if you want something.” 

Ilya goes into the bathroom and gets a wet wash cloth. By the time he returns, Hollander’s Forfeit is back to moaning. Ilya supposes it did want to get off. He needs to return them to normal. Or more normal.

Ilya used the cloth to clean his Forfeit’s ass. “Move over,” he orders and the Forfeit shifts curling up on his side in the bed. 

“Wow,” it, no, he whispers. 

Ilya grabbed a blanket and tugs it over his Forfeit. The man takes it. Ilya brings back a bottle of water and watches his Forfeit drink it. 

“Rozanov,” Hollander's voice sounds shaky. 

“It’s okay. We got this. Put blanket around your Forfeit and make sure he can see you on the bed.” 

“Why?” 

“It makes them feel better,” Ilya explains even though he wasn’t entirely sure about this fact. 

His Forfeit flinches when he gets back into bed. Ilya shifted them both so the Forfeit had his head resting on his shins on a pillow. Plush and distance between the two of them while still allowing for human connection. Other than that Ilya didn’t offer touch. 

“Do you want to try that in English?” 

Huh. Ilya chewed his bottom lip. Apparently he was a bit fucked out of it too. “Get book. Read.” 

Since apparently he couldn’t trust himself with language. “I think you have a fetish,” Hollander declares.

He doesn’t disobey. Ilya is listening to nonsense about a cup run that happened forever ago and it’s good. Hollander’s words are real. And there is nothing scary about a boring hockey book. 

“Can,uh,” Hollander’s Forfeit broke up the reading a few pages in, Ilya does not know how much time passed, “I have more water? Please?” 

“Oh,” Hollander sounds genuinely surprised his Forfeit spoke or asked for anything, “yeah. I guess.” 

Ilya checks his own Forfeit. He has his eyes closed, but he’s not asleep. His eyes open back up when he feels Ilya looking at him. “Are we done?” 

It’s not a request. More so a confused clarification. Ilya nods. The Forfeit has clear eyes and doesn’t seem to be trying to front any lasting pain. 

“Yes,” Ilya answers honestly, “we are done.” 

That seems to break the spell for Hollander too. “I’m going to shower,” he declares. 

“Sexy.”

Ilya is honestly pretty excited for his own shower. “Mitchell was right,” his Forfeit mutters, sitting up with only a little wince and rubbing his own face, “this is worse.”

“Yes that’s why you came untouched on my fingers and then a second time on my cock.” 

Ilya definitely hadn’t missed that second orgasm. It just hadn’t mattered. Ilya gets up and starts to look for his own clothes. “Is it worse because you’re a bigger faggot than me now,” Hollander sneers, “taking an ass and taking it up the ass?” 

Ah yes. Hollander was fully back now. Ilya feels his lips pressing into a thin line. “Hollander.” 

“Go choke on a dick Rozanov. Fuck you.” 

He sounded as unsteady as Ilya felt. Not sexually. Something else. 

“I just did Hollander,” Ilya smirks, “and I’ll come in your ass soon. Promise.” 

“No you’re not.” 

“Am to. I’ll send you a photo of my cum and cock if you want,” Ilya offers, “see what you are getting yourself into.”

“I know what I am getting in me.”

“Yes. All nine inches,” Ilya teases.

“Nine inches!” His Forfeit squawks. 

“He's lying, Moron. God. Maybe I should choose smarter Forfeits. If you stopped getting concussions maybe you could be more useful.” 

His Forfeit flinched at Hollander’s words. Hollander really wasn’t kind to his Forfeits. Even if he was in a way reassuring him. Maybe this was Hollander’s unfiltered thoughts. 

“Just give me your phone number and I’ll send photo. Something for you to look forward to,” Ilya promises 

“It’s funny you calling me a desperate whore when you’re the one that’s begging.”

“I call you it because it’s true. Makes you stop denying yourself. Give me phone number.” 

“No.” 

“Hollander,” Ilya gets his name out but the line is suddenly extremely silent. 

The smile Ilya hadn’t realized he had on his face instantly slipped away making his Forfeit flinch. Ilya stormed over to the cabinet and pulled out the pain meds and another bottle of water, throwing both at the bed as he finished collecting his clothes. 

He doesn’t need to make threats. “I thought he liked you?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Ilya snapped jamming his feet into his shoes.

“I don’t understand gay guys,” the Forfeit did not shut up, making a very stupid decision, “if there’s a girl I like I get her number. So does he even really want you?” 

Ilya stopped moving to take a deep breath. “Do you even like women,” Ilya sneered, “or does getting rejected by so many make you feel hot and bothered?”

“Fuck you Rozanov!” 

He said it like he meant it. Not the way Hollander did. Ilya didn’t stop. “After you get rejected by all those beautiful women do you go back to your sad little home where you are alone and useless?” 

The Forfeit stiffened. “Let me give advice for you if you want to be useful,” Ilya let his mouth turn into a twisted grin, “clearly you will not help your team win hockey. They don’t ask you to do anything else for them either. Search glory hole in your area and lock yourself inside. Maybe if you service enough people you’ll feel accomplished for once.”

“You don’t know shit,” the Forfeit sputtered out his face red and his eyes even welling up with tears again. 

Ilya made sure he had all his own things and headed for the door. “I know you’re hard again.” 

“At least I’m not delusional enough to be wanted as a person after I get used.”

The door rattled shut behind Ilya while the sound chased him down the hall. 

Chapter 7: A Winner’s Drive

Chapter Summary

Try as they might a team can’t win every game they play. Even if they have generational talents at the head of their roasters. Loosing streaks are going to happen. There are just higher stakes for Ilya in his first year of the NHL than the KHL.

Or

Ilya has a few very bad days and then a really good one.

Chapter Notes

Chapter Seven is here! I’m very excited. This might be my favorite chapter so far. Emotional complexity for the win.

Unfortunately this means I have to go fix Chapter Eight now and I hate Chapter Eight. It’s good. But I think I have a pacing problem. Hard to say. Believe it or not I can’t shove this non-con, dub-con story at the people in my life and be like ‘what’s wrong with this chapter?’ I have to be the adult and fix it myself. I got this.

It does have more Shane in it than I thought it would. So that’s fun.

This chapter does go back into the emotional and psychological fall out of being a looser and a winner, but it ends mostly in a good place. Also the most arguably con or dub con sex that happens outside of Shane and Ilya! Additional warnings for Grigori Rozanov and all that implies.

I hope ya’ll enjoy! Your reactions have made this very fun to write. Thank you.

Ilya woke with blond hair covering his nose. The strands were endless. He shifted moving slowly to not wake the body next to him up. 

Which was probably too late since what woke him up was his phone ringing. He lunged for it, hitting answer to get it to stop blaring as he danced for balance swimming out of the bed. 

“Why are you disappointing me?” 

Ilya didn’t dare to take a breath. The familiar Russian would have been a gift to hear if it was not for his Father’s usual greeting. 

“You leave the KHL and just to play bad hockey?” 

The body on the bed shifted and Ilya started to scramble for his clothes. 

Shirt. “Embarrassment.”

Boxers. “Incompetent.”

Pants. “Failure.” 

Socks. “Stupid.” 

Shoes? Where were his stupid fucking shoes? He hopped out of the bedroom as he yanked his socks on. The shoes were by the door. 

“Humiliating to have a son like you.” 

Jacket. Keys. Wallet. Door. 

“What? Do you have nothing to say for yourself?” 

Silence. 

Ilya leaned back against the hallway wall looking up at the offensively yellow tile ceiling for a brief moment to make sure he had his voice under control. 

“No Father,” he answered 

“At least you do not make excuses.” 

Since coming to Boston his Father only called when Ilya lost a game. Not that he thought his father watched any of them. 

“Yes Father.” 

This was the third game Boston had lost in a row. Ilya shoved on his coat and started to find his way out of the apartment building. 

“I will not tell your mother what a disaster this game was.”

Ilya stopped walking and turned to hit his head against the wall. Just a gentle tap he wished could bring him into unconsciousness. Playing in the KHL had been fun. Good. Intense. Ilya had thrived on that. The NHL had better hockey, but barely. 

“Father,” Ilya’s breath came out hitched despite his best effort, and he stared at his shoes, “Mama is dead.” 

He knew what this was. His father was old. He had been old when Andrei was born. Ilya, six years younger, had an even older father. “Your step mother. I obviously meant your step mother.” 

Grigori hadn’t that was the thing. At the start of last season Ilya had come home twice to his Father yelling at him for not being there when he was supposed to be picking him up from school. ‘Your mother will be furious with me if I do not bring her Ilyushen’ka home.’

An extremely subtle way to say he had been worried about his son. 

There had been calls from the road too. Asking him where Andrei was or to bring bread home. 

It had just been a few times. A few times that happened in front of Svetlana as well. Changing from something he could hide to something he could not. 

“How is Polina,” Ilya asked, hoping the moment of confusion could turn the conversation in a different direction. 

The line was silent for a moment. Ilya wondered if his father remembered his wife in that moment. How much he was fronting for his fading memory and how much longer he could keep it up. 

“Fine. Of course she is fine. Why do you call with such nonsense questions?” 

Ilya felt his throat work around a laugh. An inappropriate chuckle. Andrei wouldn’t talk about this. Polina wouldn’t talk about this. His father’s friends would ignore it until they could not. Which wouldn’t be until he couldn’t engage with daily life anymore. 

“Sorry Father.” 

“I don’t have time for this. Try not to continue to embarrass us.”

The line went dead. Ilya closed his eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath. The episodes happened weeks and months apart from each other. They could continue to do so for years. One day his father would need more intensive care. Full time around the clock looking after. Medications and specialists. None of which anyone was ready to provide for him. 

He pulled back from the wall and made his way outside looking at his surroundings. What city were they even in? 

Ilya looked around, his head aching. He pulled enough English together to read the road signs and texted Marleau where he was. Marleau would figure it out and come get him. He found a bench to sit on and searched for his packet of cigarettes in his coat. 

There was a difference between love and care. Moscow and its people loved his Father. Big ceremonies and all the medals for his work as police. Which would not provide materially for him and the instability of the Russian currency made it difficult to say if they even would be able to. His brother was a cop and an irresponsible addict. So there was nothing Andrei was going to do.

He did have his cigarettes, but his lighter had gotten lost. Somewhere. 

Andrei needed money for his addictions and family. His father would need money for medical care. Ilya would need it for whatever hockey did to his body. Especially if he had to worry about being like his Father. 

So. The NHL. Where he could make the most money the quickest. The stability of the Canadian and American dollar. And he could always go back to the KHL later. His time in the NHL would be finite. And it would take more time in the KHL to earn a big contract. 

A taxi pulled up in front of his bench. Marleau stuck his head out the window. 

“Rozy, you really need to learn to call your own taxi!” 

Ilya tried to muster up the energy to perform. He really did. Usually he would.

He got up and slunk into the taxi as the door opened for him. “Why? I have you to come when I call like a dog.” 

Marleau rolled his eyes grinning. “He’s out here getting bitches nightly and somehow I’m the dog.” 

Ilya really should have something to say. Just.

Marleau keeps talking. Updating him about the team at the club last night after Ilya had left. Ilya had put his KHL contract money in the bank and whenever Andrei’s account dipped down to below twenty thousand dollars it automatically transferred twenty thousand more into his account. It was not a permanent solution. For now it kept his brother from calling him to ask for money which was enough. 

Later after arriving in Dallas for their game the next day Ilya went out for a run after practice. Marleau had realized he was in a mood and left him alone. Mostly. 

He stopped at a light as his phone began to ping. Ilya opened his messages rubbing at the sweat on the back of his neck. It’s a link in the group chat to a hockey podcast. 

With nothing better to listen to Ilya hit play and continued his run. 

“Welcome back to Man in the Crease. This week everyone is talking about Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.” 

“To be fair every week this season everyone has been talking about them.” 

“You’re right there, but it seems like both star centers have, how can I say this nicely?” 

“Crashed and burned?” 

Ilya gritted his teeth as the two men laughed. Ah. The Forfeit’s were listening to hockey gossip again. Not even original hockey gossip.  

“Well that’s not nice, but it is correct. You know, usually a team gets better when they get home from a road trip, but Montreal has lost their last two home games and the one in Dallas right before. The last game they won was in Vancouver.”

Ilya’s lungs burned. 

“That was the same night that Boston won their last game right? It was at home against Carolina. Boston has been on the road since then and Ilya Rozanov hasn’t scored a single goal.” 

“And neither has Shane Hollander.” 

The builds blurred together as Ilya ran. The images of his teammates trailing behind the opponents goalie after the game. Feller following after them. 

“They have managed to get a few assists each but without their top scorers finding the back of the net both teams are fumbling.” 

Ding. 

“Do we think the start of the season was just a fluke?” 

Ding. 

Ding. 

“If they are anything like Scott Hunter it might be.” 

Ilya wasn’t sure if he was breathing anymore. 

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. 

His lungs ached. “We’ll see soon if Ilya Rozanov can get his mojo back against Dallas tomorrow.” 

Ding. What the fuck. Ding. Was mojo? Ding. What a. Ding. Stupid. Ding. American word. Ding. Ding. 

Ilya slambed to a stop and yanked his phone out of his pocket looking at the screen. His vision didn’t stop blurring. He had to blink before anything made sense. 

314-531-7273: We have to worry about both of them now? Are they having a synced cycle? 

303-322-7273: What are they twins? 

Columbus: No! 

Philadelphia: Definitely not 

Carolina: God I wish

Ding. Ding. Ding. 

Ilya shut his phone all the way off and looked up at the sky. The sun was setting. They had an afternoon game tomorrow. 

He turned and ran all the way back to the hotel. When he opened the door to the hotel room Connors was still on the bed Ilya had last seen him on when he had went out for his run. 

Curled up and on his side pretending to be asleep. His shoulders had tensed when the door opened. Marleau may be his baby sitter but he had enough seniority to warrant his own room when traveling. Connors didn’t. 

Connors had been pulled to the winner’s room two of the nights they had lost. Ilya had watched the face of the Chicago winner track Connors for the rest of the night after it became clear that Boston was not going to come back. Something about the way Connors had already been slow and stiff had clearly tempted the man. Ilya had thought about killing him. 

He had thought about Hollander. Telling him about a player getting a reputation of having a good mouth and getting his career fucked out of him. 

Ilya threw his phone onto his bed and headed into the bathroom to shower. Hollander had picked Marleau in part because no one was watching his back. 

You couldn’t retaliate on the ice against a winner. Obviously. That was against the rules. Ilya could see it. How others would choose someone. Even if retaliation wasn’t allowed. Someone could still make a point. Could go after someone close to the Winner. 

He swallowed back a scream in the shower. There was no point in that. There were too many around to hear. What was the point anyways? It was at the bottom of the list he needed to be doing regardless. The biggest one was that he needed to start winning. 

Ilya got out of the shower and padded back to the room to get dressed. Connors had been kind of okay around the team. Smiling and laughing almost in all the right places, but the moment he got back to the hotel rooms he had shut down. 

“Connors.” 

Maybe Ilya should have left him alone. Connors shoulders tensed more. “Yeah?” 

“I am ordering room service and we are watching a movie. What do you want?” 

“Nothing,” Connors muttered and tugged the blankets over his head.

Ilya walked over pulling them back so he could climb into bed with him. If they were going to win, the second line center needed to be okay. Connors squirmed as Ilya settled himself in bed. “Dude. You have your own bed!” 

Ilya rolled his eyes and picked up the remote. “You have to choose food or movie. Pick one.” 

Connors sat up to look him in the eyes. Deep sad brown eyes, but at the moment not dead. Good. “Did you forget English? I don’t want to.” 

Ilya held out the tv remote and room service menu. “I did not ask what you want. I’ll understand English when you make a decision.” 

“You are impossible.”

“Da. Yes.” 

Connors glared and took the tv remote from him and turned on the tv. Ilya reached over for the room phone and started to place an order. When Connors had put on a movie he flopped back against the pillows, but he was sitting up and had stopped complaining. 

Twenty minutes into the movie room service arrived and Ilya went and got it. He laid the food out onto the bed holding out options until Connors willingly took one before climbing back into bed again. 

“Is this punishment for not scoring goals? Having to watch bad spy movie where good boy American kills droves of Russian spies?” 

Connors shifted in the bed, his eyes going over to Ilya’s face. “Rozy. It’s not your fault when we lose.” 

Ilya looked away from him over to the spies in the movie. Connors grabbed his arm and yanked at him until Ilya gave in and turned his eyes back to him. 

“It’s important to me that you know you’re not the one making us loose.” 

He looked stupidly earnest. Ilya tried to look away again and earned another tug. “I play hockey alone obviously,” he huffed, “everyone else are little blurs I don’t see. Will have to correct your hand placement on stick next practice. It’s like tiny toddler taught you to hold stick.” 

Ilya let himself glance at Connors from the corner of his eye. “Roz. Oh my god. Don’t be so full of yourself. The team is doing shit. Not just you.” 

He couldn’t help himself. He raised an eyebrow. “So I am playing like shit?” 

Connors punched him in the stomach. Mostly softly. Enough to make Ilya let out a little huff. “Owh,” he grumbled. 

“Get a super star they said,” Connors complained rolling his eyes, “it’ll be great they said. They didn’t say how a super star is a fucking diva and steals all the attention away from the rest of the team at clubs.” 

He hit Ilya upside the head. “Why am I being abused,” Ilya whined, grabbing a pillow and hitting Connors back. 

“Why are you such an arrogant asshole? Jesus. I’m going to tell everyone you think this is all your fault and we’re going to spend thirty minutes in the locker room before the game tomorrow telling you about how you aren’t that special.” 

He tugged the pillow out of Ilya’s hands and hit him with it until he started to laugh. 

They finished the rest of the spy movie and ate most of the food. Ilya tried to give Connors space when they were drowsy enough to sleep, but Connors had grabbed the back of his shirt when he had started to move. So Ilya hadn’t tried to leave. 

The next day Connors had followed through on his threat. Telling the whole team that Ilya was blaming himself for the losses. Which didn’t result in 30 minutes of harassment in the locker room. No Connors announced it over team breakfast. Which started a full day of harassment. 

From the breakfast table all through warm up skating, to pre game naps, and getting ready for the game. Ilya was shoved, had his hair ruffled, and made fun of viciously about being too full of himself and cocky. Oddly enough it was also the team airing out all the moments in the last three games that had been eating at them. The moments they felt like they had failed or let the team down. Instead of bringing everything down the team loosened up. 

Ilya wasn’t sure if he had gone five minutes all day without being touched in some kind of way. 

Thirty minutes before they were set to hit the ice someone brought up the media scrum Hollander had somehow been dragged into before his own game.

“Look at this asshole Roz.” 

Ilya had looked at the screen. Shane Hollander was staring down at the media, his eyes bright and alive. His chin tilted with something to prove. Hollander looked good. Not exhausted and haunted like every other time Ilya had seen him on screen that week. 

“Montreal hasn’t won a game since last week. Is there something wrong with the team?” 

It earned them Hollander’s blank media stare. The little smile that didn’t settle in any place on his face. Pretty, pleasant, empty. 

“No. Obviously we want to be winning, but we’ve played some great teams and the puck just hasn’t bounced our way.” 

“What does your team need to do to get ahead in this game?” 

“We just need to get pucks in the back of the net. Everyone is doing everything they can to make that happen.” 

“You’ve been scoreless yourself in the last three games. Are you feeling responsible for your team’s loss?” 

Hollander hadn’t twitched but the look that spread across his face was as good as a flinch. “I think we all feel responsible for how the games turn out. I know I am doing everything I can on the ice to contribute.” 

“Ilya Rozanov hasn’t scored in the last three games either. Who do you think will open the scoring race back up first?” 

That triggered the competitiveness. Hollander had looked directly at the camera and smiled. All of his teeth flashing for the camera. “I don’t think about other players on the ice, but Rozanov did promise to score a hat trick the last time we talked.”

“God what fucking media perfect answers and an asshole,” Connors groused, “gross.” 

Ilya laughed and the video was shut off. Like the others he could read between the lines of that interview and yeah Hollander was furious and blaming himself for the loss. He wasn’t allowed to dwell on that, because the team was sweeping him away again. 

Five minutes before their warm ups on ice Ilya jumped up onto a bench. His voice full of the bravado and cockiness he hadn’t been able to muster the day before. 

“Alright assholes,” he yelled and caught the teams full attention, “if we all know what we are doing wrong it’s time to fucking fix it. I don’t have room in my head for all these mistakes. They don’t matter. What matters is what happens on the ice.” 

Typically it was the captain who gave the speech. But Ilya was already caught too much up into it. The team was cheering. “All day you bore me with terrible stories about all the things you did wrong. Blah. Blah. Blah. I don’t care. We know what we do right. This is what I care about. What I am interested in.” 

He looked around making sure to catch all of their eyes. “What we are going to do is go murder Dallas.” 

Ilya got a roar of approval and when the puck drops murdering Dallas is exactly what they did. Connors opened the scoring. “Fuck yes,” Ilya had screamed from the bench. 

“That’s our boy,” Marleau yelled, big hand

pounding against the boards. 

Nothing about Connors had looked like prey after that. When a Dallas player had gotten away with an illegal check on Marleau behind the refs back, Ilya had dropped his gloves without hesitation. He gotten two minutes in the box for it, but it had been worth it. 

Dallas gave a worthy fight but Ilya wasn’t going to let them win this time. Marleau got a goal off a pass from Ilya. Ilya’s shots still hadn’t gone in but watching Marleau get engulfed by the rest of the players on the ice Ilya knew that his team had this under control. He needed to score, but they could hold the weight when he faltered. 

Ilya dug his skates into the ice and launched himself into the celebration. 

By the end of the second period Ilya had two goals on the board. Dallas had three goals and Ilya had just broken the tie. He was wolfish in his excitement, bending down for the face off with the Dallas first line center as they started the third. Ilya makes a show of looking him over. “I thought it was supposed to be bigger.” 

He let his eyes linger in a place he technically should not. It caused the man to sputter. “What?” 

“Texas. Everything is supposed to be bigger. But the crowd is so small.” 

“Fuc,” 

Ilya won the face off and sunk the puck into the back of the net a moment later. He show boated even if it was not the most sportsman-like conduct. The crowd silent in devastation. His team wasn’t. Which was what mattered. “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he chirped, offering fist bumps as they left the ice after the game. 

The stars were called. Connor’s getting the second star rocketing back onto the ice to wave at the crowd. Ilya waited until they called his own name for the first, going out to toss pucks to the kids. Even if they were in Dallas jerseys. They were adorable and didn’t care who was giving them a puck and attention. Mostly. 

Ilya blew a raspberry at a kid who was throwing him a thumbs down and they both laughed. After he finished his circuit the tv crew grabbed him for an interview. 

“Rozanov. You scored a hat trick and a gordie Howe hat trick this game, after a three game drought. What inspired this performance today?” 

“I play on good team. I am amazing at hockey,” Ilya smirked, “it’s easy.” 

“Shane Hollander also scored a hat trick today,”

Ilya felt himself light up turning his attention away from the camera to the information he wanted. “When,” he demanded. 

“What?” 

“How far into game did Hollander score hat trick?” 

“Ah, at the end of the second period he got his third goal.” 

Ilya groaned, letting his body go into a dramatic mope. “No,” he whined.

“Rozanov?” 

He threw the reporter and the camera a smirk. “It’s okay,” he assured, “I lost a bet with my good friend Shane Hollander. I will have to pay up after next game in Montreal.” 

The reporter, realizing this was a much more interesting story, changed courses and smiled back at Ilya. “What did you bet on?” 

Ilya tugged his jersey up to wipe sweat away from his brow. “Who could score hat trick first. Obviously.” 

The reporter laughed. “And what do you owe him now?” 

He thought for a second about how to say it. Letting his smile spread even further over his face knowing Hollander would hate this. He would probably blush. “Hollander is very jealous of my Ferrari Spider. I promised if he won bet he could ride it for as long as he wants, how he wants.” 

Ilya had been really stupid there. That was far too suggestive. Except this was hockey. No one would think about how that sounded. They were fine. Hollander might even call to yell at him. 

The reporter laughed and let him go. Back into the arms of his team who complained about his big head and cocky attitude and the whole locker room cheered about what they had all done right. 

His head was buzzy and happy until Feller had come over to where Ilya was talking shit and asked who he wanted.“Jenny.” 

It was quick. Thoughtless. 

He looked over at Marleau. Even if he shouldn’t. He thought about Marleau tearing a label off a bottle and admitting to how he didn’t want to win at all by the time last season ended. 

Marleau had his arm slung around Connors neck as they grappled with each other. Jackson was laughing in the corner with the fourth line wingers. He had been quiet like Connors after his night in the winner’s room. Back to being happy and cheerful. His team. His skills. 

No. Ilya did not understand how Marleau could not want to win. 

“You better fucking hurry up Rozy,” Marleau yelled across the room, “we are not waiting around for you to go out to the club!”

Ilya waved his hand at him. “God I am so ready to get laid,” Connors huffed and took advantage of Marleau’s distraction to slip out of his hold and flip him down to his knees. 

The locker room got louder. “Better pick up before Roz gets there then!” 

“You’ll text me address,” Ilya smirked and found his cigarettes and lighter.

“You’re going to get in trouble with Coach if you keep smoking!” 

Ilya headed for the door. “I can not get in trouble for what happens in my winner’s room.” 

When he arrived Jenny was already there sitting on the edge of the bed with his phone in hand turning it over. He was a cute guy. Shaggy brown hair, broken hockey nose, and light green eyes. He was maybe two years above Hollander’s draft class so his baby features were gone, but he still looked soft. There was a tooth missing he hadn’t gotten filled yet. 

“Cigarette,” Ilya offered, throwing the plastic wrap in the trash as he headed over to sit next to him. 

Jenny watched. There was tension in his shoulders, but not too tight. Not braced exactly but weary. Not afraid. Which Ilya liked. He didn’t exactly want them afraid. 

“Yeah, actually,” Jenny agreed.

Ilya lit his own cigarette and passed the pack and lighter to Jenny who did the same and tossed the pack onto the middle of the bed. 

“Did you break up with your girlfriend,” Ilya asked, careful to keep his voice neutral. 

Jenny laughed, his shoulders tensing and relaxing in quick succession. “Oddly enough, no?”

Ilya let out a soft hum of encouragement for the man to continue. 

He let out an exhale and the air filled with smoke. “I was going to. The night before the game against Hollander I went out, got drunk, came home, and I was going to.”

Ilya watched his eyes drift up to the ceiling. “I came home and she was watching, god I don’t know what it is. Its not godly, whatever the fuck. But like these cartoon guys? And they were in bed kissing.” 

Jenny’s cheeks were a bright pink, “and I’m drunk so I didn’t know what to do about that, and I thought maybe I was making that up, so I just kind of sat down and watched it with her?”

Cartoon guys kissing in bed? Ilya blinked at him, that sounded fake. “She kept apologizing for watching it, but, those guys, I knew what it was like to have your,” 

Jenny shook his head, not able to say it. “She was squirming on the couch. The little guy in the show was making these noises. So I pulled her into my lap and slipped my fingers inside of her. It was hot. She was so wet. And the guy on the screen putting it in, looked so wild. Like if he didn’t get it he was going to go crazy.”

Ilya reached back for his cigarette packet to check and see if they had any weed in them and he had just missed it. Highly doubtful but anything could be possible.

“Did you hit your head,” Ilya asked, “you watched cartoon porn of two guys with your girlfriend and got off?” 

That crooked nose wrinkled. “Yeah? She called it something else. Yoi? Or something. I don’t know. Apparently she’s really into it. Basically she thinks two guys fucking is hot. So we talked about it, and she’s really into the idea of me hooking up with other guys and like threesomes as long as I tell her about it.” 

Ilya couldn’t help himself. He started to laugh. That was ridiculous. Jenny laughed too. Tense, but also at ease. Whatever. They were two guys about to have a sexual encounter and neither could really fully admit to finding sex with men hot. So yeah, all of this was nonsense. 

“I know,” Jenny told him, “it’s fucking weird. But it’s not cheating if she wants me to do it, and I love her so much. She’s the smartest woman I have ever met, and she’s kind, and so fucking hot. I got a banger, man.” 

“Show me picture,” Ilya told him and watched as Jenny opened up his phone and the photos app. 

Ilya whistled looking at the camera roll. She was very tall. Muscled arms and legs, dark black hair that went down to her hips. Which Jenny was right. She was a banger. A good handful of breasts, and a plump ass. More importantly she had a really good smile. 

Jenny flicked through the photos, clearly an album. Different outfits. They had summered together during the break. Her talking to kids at the beach. Then photos at a giant swimming pool in a university branded swim suit. She had medals around her neck. 

“She is swimmer?” 

Jenny nodded, his smile getting bigger. “She’s an Olympic swimmer actually,” it was pure bragging, “she won silver at the last summer Olympics.”

“And she’s with you,” Ilya asked with a teasing smile on his own lips. 

“I know right? That’s not even the worst of it. She’s also an engineering student. She’s going to get a masters in hydrology which is studying like water and shit. She’s so smart.” 

An engineer swimmer for Jenny, who thought it was hot if he fucked around with other men. 

Ilya huffed. “You better propose to her before she finds a better option.” 

It earned him agreement. Ilya hooked his chin over Jenny’s shoulder letting out a breath of smoke. “Trust me, I’m planning on it. I’m going to go pick up the ring tomorrow.” 

That was sweet. What a soft man. “Where does she think you are supposed to be now?” 

“She’s at a swim meet in Oregon this weekend,” Jenny answered, “I haven’t had to explain a disappearance to her yet.” 

Because Hollander had not won. “You could tell her the truth,” Ilya suggested, “you slipped away after game to have sex with a man.” 

He had been watching Jenny’s legs. They had squeezed together when Ilya had put his chin on him. Ilya waited patient for his opening. 

“I guess yeah,” Jenny let out a nervous laugh, “she’d probably pout I didn’t invite her to watch.” 

Ilya hummed and leaned further onto him to point at the phone. “You could still invite her to watch. Make a video and take photos to look at together.” 

Jenny’s breath had quickened. The smoke came out in a short little puff. “She’d, uh, really like that.” 

Ilya waved his fingers at the phone. “Give me,” he ordered.

The man was obedient, putting it in Ilya’s hands. Ilya hooked his ankle around Jenny’s and spread his legs showing off his half hard cock. 

“Has she had her meet yet?” 

Jenny shook his head as Ilya leaned back to get a shot of Jenny’s dick pressing an outline against his shorts from over his shoulder. Ilya put out his cigarette in the ash tray so he could use both hands. 

“No. I mean. She made it past the qualifiers today and finals are tomorrow.” 

Ilya shifted and slid his hand over to palm Jenny’s dick. He snapped a photo of that as well. Then he pulled up the texting app. Unfortunately he needed both hands to type. His girl was very easy to find. Two little pink hearts next to the name Becca and the last text was a good luck one from her. 

Jenny: He said that if you win tomorrow I can show you the rest.

Ilya attached the photos to the text and showed it to Jenny waiting for permission. 

“Are we allowed to take,” Jenny asked and waved to the phone, “here?”

That was a good question. It wasn’t a demand so Ilya didn’t have to be mean. He couldn’t take pictures and send them to anyone with the context of the room. Since secrecy was as big of a rule as no long term damage. But photos or videos themselves? 

“Yes,” Ilya decided, “but only of you and nothing of me or my voice.” 

Jenny tossed his own cigarette onto the ash tray and kicked off his shoes. “Yeah. She’ll love that.”

The man started to strip from his clothes without an order. Ilya felt his own dick pay attention at the enthusiasm. He hit send and went back to the photo app. Ilya got off the bed and turned taking a photo of Jenny spread out for him. 

“What will she like to see,” Ilya asked and started to remove his own clothes.

It was an easier thing to ask than what Jenny would want to do. Ilya didn’t think he could get away with that. Not with this man. Not like he could with Hollander. Not like he wanted to with Hollander. 

“Ah. She liked the idea of my first time with bottoming to be with her watching,” Jenny flinched because that was a very close way of saying ‘please don’t fuck my asshole’ and that was definitely not allowed in the Winner’s room. 

“Okay,” Ilya agreed and climbed between Jenny’s legs, and grabbed his own cock stroking it as he got the camera in the right position to show his own hard dick with Jenny in the background spread and open, he took a couple of shots, “no problem.” 

Really Ilya didn’t care about fucking him. Jenny’s body relaxed further into the sheets. “Tell me what gets her hot and bothered in her cartoons.” 

The blush did in fact go down to Jenny’s chest. Ilya snapped a photo. Then he switched to the video recorder. Jenny was looking up at him. “The cartoons or whatever is pretty tame. We looked at porn too.” 

Ilya made an interested sound and shifted further up on the bed so he could palm Jenny’s pecks while he talked, careful to keep his face in frame. 

“She likes cum shots,” Jenny admitted, “we’ve watched a couple of those together. The guy getting his face painted or chest, or ass. There was one a guy getting cream pied and his girlfriend pegged him right after and made him suck the dildo clean.” 

Fuck. Jenny’s girl was filthy. His blush was going further down his chest and he squirmed as Ilya played with a nipple. Scratching his nail down the bud. 

“And blow jobs. Not like face fucking, or sloppy. More like, ummm, slow” thought left his face for a moment and he struggled to retain his ability to think, “like they have all the time in the world. Which makes sense. I love eating her out. I’d do it for hours if she let me. She tastes so fucking good.” 

The image flashed into his head. Jenny on his knees for his girl. Head under her skirt. It was hot to watch another guy eat a girl out. Lapping at her folds. Especially since so many guys seemed to think that eating pussy made you gay. 

“I think she also likes it if the top has to like throw his weight around? The bigger guys are always coaxing the smaller ones into it. Pushing him down to the bed or couches or against walls and grinding into them.”

Jenny’s eyes closed and Ilya shifted the camera to focus on his face so he could take the nipple he had been teasing into his mouth to suck. “Fuck,” he whined. 

“There’s a lot of, I don’t know the word. She would know it. Rubbing dicks together? It looks hot. We watched one video where they shared a pocket pussy. It was obscene.” 

These were all good things Ilya could work with. Ilya hit stop on the video and sat back up. “Does she have a preference for what you should be doing in this?”

“Both I think?” 

Jenny swallowed and shook his head. “No. Definitely both. She said I would look good spread out on a guy’s fingers.” 

Ilya looked down between Jenny’s legs. “Yes,” he agreed, “she has very good taste.” 

He almost started to ask what he would want, but stopped himself. “Bare your neck for me.” 

Jenny turned his head into the pillow giving Ilya open, trusting, access to his neck. It wasn’t forced. Jenny didn’t have any hesitation in his movement. 

Ilya kissed from his shoulder over to his jugular, nipping his teeth into the soft skin above it. “I’m going to leave a mark here,” he warned. 

It earned him a moan so Ilya took that as permission. He kept the mark small. Not easy enough to hide, but something his girl could easily cover with her own mouth. 

He pulled back and took a photo. Then he pressed his fingers along Jenny’s neck wrapping loosely around it having his fingers frame the hickey. He snapped that photo too. “Send me a photo if she covers that up with her own.” 

The man under him squirmed more. “Can we,” he started to turn his head moving up. 

A kiss. He wanted to make out. Ilya leaned down and gave him a kiss. Ilya couldn’t allow himself to sink into any kind of warm, floaty space. But some kissing wasn’t going to be a problem. Especially if Jenny liked it. It would relax him. 

Jenny’s hands had come up to circle around him. Touching Ilya back. Which fuck. It was nice to be touched in return. 

“Here is the plan,” he told him reaching down to take his cock in his hand and start to stroke, “we’re going to make a very nice video for your girlfriend fucking our cocks together and you’re going to cum all over your stomach. Then I’m going to push you down to your knees and jerk off over your face, and you’re going to thank me by licking my cock.” 

He kept his eyes on Jenny to make sure it was desire spreading through his face, not horror. “Shit. Yeah. Let’s do that.” 

Ilya smirked and got off the bed, taking Jenny’s hand and pulling him up. He paused, thinking leaning in for another kiss. It was nice that Jenny’s girlfriend had given him permission to like this. Ilya nibbled at Jenny’s bottom lip until it was swollen. He snapped a photo of that too. Ilya pressed his thumb against the bottom lip, then offered two fingers. Ilya switched over the video in time for Jenny to get past his hesitation to wrap his tongue around them and suck his fingers into his mouth. 

His tongue did in fact know how to move. His throat did not. Interesting thought for another day, but it wasn’t important at the moment. He pulled back and stopped recording.

“Stay.” 

Ilya walked over to the cabinet and searched for Hollander’s lube. They had it. With his prize he headed back over towards Jenny. 

It took a moment but with enough fussing and propping the phone up he was able to find an angle that would show off what he wanted without revealing his own face. 

Ilya started to record again and grabbed Jenny’s shoulder to push him into the wall. Since his girl liked that kind of thing. Jenny groaned when his back hit the wall. 

He looked down at Jenny’s cock. Cut with a small vein. Not too big, but not small either and curved. This would be a nice cock for Hollander. He could teach Jenny how to fuck Hollander right. 

The camera was framed to cut off just at the shoulders. Blocking out their faces but giving a nice side view. That would give a good look at their cock sliding against each other. Still the microphones were good enough to pick up the wet sounds as Jenny hungrily came in for another kiss. 

Jenny knew the plan. So it was up to Ilya to keep himself from speaking. It was going to be very difficult. Of course instead of following the plan he had laid out himself Ilya grabbed Jenny and flipped him around. The man gasped palms spreading out against the flat surface and he struggled back against Ilya as he was slammed only slightly softer than Ilya would have thrown him into the boards. 

The man moaned like a whore. Ilya thrust his cock between his thighs and let him continue to struggle against him. His mouth kissing and sucking into the back of Jenny’s neck and his other hand flashing the camera the lube bottle as he drizzled it between Jenny’s cheeks. He was squirming so it went everywhere. But it didn’t take much before Jenny was pushing back into him with need. 

Ilya smirked and adjusted his cock to slide between his ass cheeks. Glistening with lube. Jenny spread his legs wide inviting more. He made sure to put on a good show for Jenny’s girl before roughly flipping them again. His own moans were not quite muffled, needing to keep his mouth busy on Jenny so he didn’t speak. Ilya took Jenny’s hand and showed him how to hold their cocks together and create a channel with his hand. 

The man dropped his head to Ilya’s shoulder openly moaning and turning his head to look at the camera. Ilya loved knowing Jenny was not going to regret this sex. That Jenny was going to leave and his girlfriend was going to come home and they would curl in bed together and get off watching this. 

“Fuck,” Jenny whimpered and his hips were moving too, “fuck. Yes.” 

Ilya hadn’t expected Jenny to want this for himself. Not with the way he had been texting. The man shuddered and Ilya took his cock angling it up against his stomach and took over stroking him,

Ignoring his own cock for a second. Jenny still didn’t want this for himself. Jenny’s fingers started to dig into Ilya’s shoulder. 

Ah. That was not allowed. Ilya grabbed his hand and pinned it up against the wall. It took only a few more strokes before Jenny was coming. His orgasm rocking him with deep desperate moans and his girlfriend’s name on his lips. “Becca!” 

Jenny was enjoying this, letting himself have it, but not for himself. Just for his pretty Olympic girlfriend. 

Ilya didn’t give him time to recover. He shoved Jenny to his knees and took his own cock in his hand. Jenny was spaced out and blissed, looking up at Ilya ocean green eyes flicking towards the camera. Not Ilya. Not wanting. 

Not fucking Shane Hollander. 

Shane Hollander with his desperate needy wet eyes and wet cock and a perfect bridge of freckles. 

Ilya came watching his cum paint the wrong face. Jenny’s eyes widened comically. Ilya shut his own. He stroked himself through orgasm and imagined Hollander swatting away his hand so he could put his mouth on Ilya. 

He opened his eyes again when he felt a tongue on his cock. Still not Hollander. But nice. Ilya let Jenny clean his cock, his face dripping with white. Ilya nudged Jenny with his knee and pointed towards the camera. Jenny looked back over and scrambled to his feet to walk over a bright smile on his face. 

Ilya turned and headed for the bathroom. He came back out with a washcloth and Jenny was still standing with his phone in his hand. Trading them out from his hand Ilya glanced at the photos and videos they had taken making sure there wasn’t anything anyone could identify about him from them. 

He sat back against the bed and reached for his cigarettes. “Here,” Jenny took the lighter and pack of cigarettes. 

Ilya watched him as he took one out and lit it. He held out his hand, but Jenny was climbing onto his lap. Jenny stole a kiss before replacing his mouth with the cigarette. Ilya took a drag and looked at the man sitting on top of him before turning his face to blow the spoke to the side, taking the cigarette between his fingers. 

“Come here,” Ilya patted the space on the bed next to him. 

Jenny obeyed, laying in the crook of his arm and stole the cigarette while Ilya finished checking the video over. Not watching it. He was just scrolling through the video. 

Ilya handed the phone back to Jenny in exchange for his cigarette. Jenny shut his phone off and held it in his hand. “It's a good video. She’ll like it, yes?” 

“She will,” Jenny agreed, “thanks. That was nice of you man.” 

“Yes. I’ll try and get Hollander to agree to take photos for you. He will not make a sex tape with you. But I think I can get him to agree to take photos of you tied up.” 

Jenny blushed. “What, he’ll listen to you?” 

Ilya shrugged. “Maybe. I think so. But no promises.” 

“Why would he listen to you?” 

Ilya raised an eyebrow at him. Well there was something to say about hockey players being stupid. He patted his cheek in sympathy for the lack of brain cells in his head. 

It was quiet for a few minutes. Ilya was nice and shared his cigarette. “Oh shit. That’s what Sanders meant when he said he wished you were twins!” 

Ilya laughed, throwing his head back. Jenny looked back at his phone and then to Ilya. “And you don’t want to send him the video?” 

What a different reaction than the other Forfeits. “Hmmm. You do not want him seeing that,” Ilya told him.

Jenny had no idea what Ilya had saved him from. “Okay,” Jenny shrugged and Ilya finished the cigarette. 

He slipped out of the bed and started to look for his clothes. “Bring your girlfriend to the Boston game,” Ilya told him, “I will fuck you in front of her.” 

“Shit,” Jenny groaned and his cock twitched, “yeah. Okay. Really? You’d want that?” 

Ilya shrugged and threw Jenny a smirk. “Yes. We come back here, I prep you in the shower, go separately to my place where pretty girlfriend is waiting and then I fuck you.” 

Jenny watched him get dressed. “But you wouldn’t want to fuck her?” 

Ilya frowned at him. He hadn’t really gotten the impression from their conversation that the sexual fantasies the pair had, included her getting fucked by another man. 

“If you want,” Ilya shrugged, “but I don’t think you want.” 

“No,” Jenny sputtered, “I mean you like women? You want to fuck them?” 

“Yes,” Ilya checked his phone for the name of the bar the team had went to, “I’m going to go get laid now.” 

Jenny’s eyes widened. “Like once wasn’t already enough tonight?” 

Like this would ever be good enough. “Maybe you should be concerned with low sex drive. Hollander tells me there are pills for that.” 

The man scrunched his nose. Displeased. He must have pieced together the rumors about viagra. “But you also like sex with men? If you’re willing to,” Jenny’s voice trailed off, still not able to say it. 

It took Ilya a moment to realize what Jenny was asking. “Ask your girlfriend about what bisexual means,” Ilya offered, “I am glad you did not have to break up with her. It was good that you cared about her feelings. Not every player in the league would.” 

“Why wouldn’t I? I love her.” 

Sometimes Ilya was pretty sure it had to be blissful to be that stupid.

He finished pulling on his clothes and swept his eyes over Jenny again. Hollander’s forfeit hadn’t called. Ilya should try calling him, but for what? Hollander did not want him at the moment so Ilya didn’t need to make his presence know. 

“Good luck for her at swim meet,” Ilya walked out the door with a wave, with nothing else left to say. 

When he arrived at the bar the rest of the team screamed at him. Victory flushed, drunk cheeks and excited chatter. Ilya hadn’t expected to love his team when he came to Boston. He certainly hadn’t expected them to love him back. 

“Roz! You should have seen this guy on the dance floor five minutes ago.” 

“Oh fuck you. My dancing was great.” 

Ilya could convince himself that this was enough. He had to. 

Chapter End Notes

If your wondering what show Jenny walked in on think of Yaoi/BL like- Dakaichi: I'm Being Harassed by the Sexiest Man of the Year, Love Stage!!, and Shungiku Nakamura/ Junjo Romantica: Pure Romance. I just think that a possibly bisexual hockey player on the edge about to break up with the love of his life stumbling into a non-con to dub-con scene from a show like this while already knowing and anticipating what a situation like that feels like would be a mind fuck and delicious.

This is also a situation where Jenny’s Girlfriend is engaging in fetishization. Which works in his favor in this case, but they both would have a lot to unlearn.

I think this is also a good place to note again that Winners in this situation are perpetrators of violence, but they are also having their consent stripped away by participating in the system. Everyone who knows what is happening but does nothing to stop it are also actively letting violence happen and creating the environment for that violence to happen. Some people are committing worse actions than others.

Oh and while I am on my soap box! (What are you going to do, make me stop talking?) Take a minute to think about what cheating in a relationship means to you, and if you are partnered ask them what it means to them if you haven’t already! Cheating has real effects but is also a social idea and system. What you think of cheating might be different from the person next to you. I think it’s a good exercise to do occasionally. That being said sexual assault is not cheating. You are not responsible for someone stripping your autonomy and consent.

Denver The Blue Bench: 303-322-7273

YWCA Metro St. Louis: 314-531-7273

Chapter 8: Minor Penalty

Chapter Summary

The Tampa Forfeit makes a mistake. Ilya is the one to pay the price.

Chapter Notes

I fixed it. I think. Fixing it also meant adding more so ya’ll get 13k for this one.
This is pretty much the opposite of chapter 7. Please take that into consideration as you read ahead. Further warnings for mentions of domestic and familia abuse, and physical assault. Ilya has a very bad time in this.

Boston jerseys littered the stands almost over taking the home colors in a wave of black and gold. Signs decorated with his name followed after them. Other Boston players had signs too, but they were less important. 

Not a very happy crowd tonight. 

Ilya growled in frustration as a Tampa player kept jamming his stick at the puck after the whistle had blown, hitting against Feller’s pads where he had the puck frozen. 

There were many rules in hockey, but the most sacred was no one fucked with a goalie. Ilya grabbed the man by the back of his neck and yanked him out of the crease. “Hey! You get hit so many times in the head you lost hearing? Get off Goalie.” 

“Fuck you Rozanov!” 

The Tampa player shoved him squirming out of his hold, dropping his stick. Ilya heard more shouting behind him. Ah. So this was going in this direction then. More whistles, but the crowd was trying to drown them out as fights broke out in front of the net. Ilya was no stranger to fighting. 

His smile was all teeth waiting for the other man to weigh his options. It only took a few seconds before he was dropping the gloves and sending a punch at Ilya’s face. Ilya brought his hands up in time to block and shook off his own gloves before going for blood. 

By the time the refs had pulled them apart Ilya was mostly unharmed and there was a tooth laying in blood on the ice. 

“Now you make the ice dirty,” Ilya yelled as the refs dragged him back, he was mostly letting them move him and not putting up a struggle, “is just like your playing!” 

As the man holding his jaw spat at him more blood splattered to the ice. The refs also started to lead him to the penalty box. 

“Tony!” Ilya threw his arms out wide at the penalty box attendant smiling as the ref shut the door behind him. 

The man very carefully did not smile too wide. Ilya slunk down onto the bench and reached for the water bottle to dose himself. “Am I still your niece’s favorite?” 

“Tampa might have earned her love back with this game,” Tony chuckled. 

Ilya was in the penalty box most games. Even if this was only his second visit to Tampa and the last of the season he had already had a few conversations with the box attendant. Ilya tried to make the interactions light hearted. 

Tampa certainly earned the love, this game. 

Ilya glanced over at the score board listening to the penalties getting dished out. Two minutes for roughing for both of them. Bullshit when the other player had been slashing his goalie, but worth it. 

“Visit Boston and I will get whole family tickets. We will be everyone’s favorite,” Ilya offered with a wink and it earned him a light laugh. 

Ilya loved Florida. 

The boards in front of him shuddered as two players collided fighting for the puck. Ilya yelled his encouragement for his team mate watching the intense snarling battle. Boston stole the puck back and the Tampa player looked up and met his eyes just for a second. They sparked flicking through several emotions before he skated off. 

His Tampa Forfeit. Ilya had liked him. Pliant and soft when getting fucked but the energy to keep up. No arguments or fear. Not exactly quick, plenty of hesitation, but easy to work through. Needy. 

He was also very pretty. Maybe one of the most attractive of the men Hollander had chosen as a Forfeit. Hollander did not pick his Forfeits based on looks. Or temperament. Or hockey skills. Or personal relationships. Or anything else any other Winner might have used to determine Forfeits. 

This one was. Inconsistent on all fronts. 

Ilya groaned as Tampa got another puck past Feller. The Forfeit had scored already today. It would be the game winning goal too. Boston had two points and this made four for Tampa with five minutes on the clock. Possible to come back from and send to over time. Just not likely and he did not think the team wanted overtime today. Ilya would need to find a way to pull the team out of their heads to push through for an overtime win even when they did not want it. 

It had been a very good goal from the Forfeit. Worthy of all the highlight reels. Which was nice. The Forfeit had started the game in a slump. He was not a mentally balanced player, even after six years in the league. Ilya had seen games where he had gotten five goals in a night, happy, joyful, the darling of Tampa only to slide into what social media called his emo phase where he was angry, sad, and unable to score. Very emotional. A first line center, but inconsistent. It was why Tampa winning this game was going to be a surprise. 

He figured Hollander hated the man from a career stand point. So much potential and so little control to make it into something. Not that the first line of an NFL team was any kind of failure. Unless you consider Shane Hollander’s standards. Not that this first line center really met Ilya’s own. 

The Forfeit smiled across the ice bright and happy as he stole the puck and raced back to the Boston goal. He had just been screaming at Connors a moment before face twisted in anger. Ilya groaned, but Boston has a good defense regardless of the current score. Boston was playing well, it was just an unlucky puck night. 

Maybe if he scored another goal they might get the momentum back. 

The last seconds of his two minutes ticked down and Tony opened the box door. He winked at him before joining the fray on the ice. 

The locker room was a roar of noise. Even after a loss Boston was still vibrant. 

“We are not going back to that techno bullshit club,” Ilya yelled at Connors across the room rolling his eyes as he pulled out a few more gold chains from his bag.

“You look like a whore Roz,” Marleau shoved against his shoulders.

Being a foreigner in the West was great.  There hadn’t been any Russians on the team in several years so most of the guys didn’t have personal references. Ilya could be as loud and flamboyant as he wanted to be and as long as he fucked women and punched guys on the ice no one thought twice about it. Everything about his behavior was played off between the fact that he was an asshole and a foreigner. 

“You wish I was your whore Marly,” Ilya answered, fluttering his eyelashes as the room cracked up laughing, because flirting with a man was funny, but only if you were joking.

“It’s a good club,” Connors continued to try to defend his club suggestion. 

This was their second time in Tampa. Their second game against them as well. Two more to go for the season. Plenty of time to beat them into the dust. Boston was back to winning most of their games. 

Ilya picked up his dirty socks and threw them at him. “Everyone throw things at Connors until he develops taste,” he encouraged, and watched as his friend got pelted with ten different pairs of dirty socks. 

“There are not enough things to throw,” another voice yelled over the noise and the music speaker that had started to play.

One of the older members of the team threw out another suggestion that was quickly agreed too. Even though they lost the game Feller would collect whoever happened to be the Forfeit and bring him to the club after. Or if they had all returned Feller woke up some of the others and they spent the night in the same room. 

Not like they talked about it. But after Dallas they had found their rhythm. A collective responsibility and care. Far from perfect. Except it was working. They were playing better for it too. 

Last time on their Florida road trip Ilya had figured he could be even more high maintenance at the club scenes. Fancy flowery cologne, layers of gold jewelry, bold shirts, and shiny pants that showcased his ass. 

Ilya was even considering seeing if a man caught his eye tonight. A rare treat, to go after one in that context. The idea of strong muscles against his own and a masculine laugh was a turn on after a match like this. 

And since he wasn’t the winner he didn’t have to worry about dealing with anyone. 

Ilya adjusted the collar on his purple club shirt. It was a ridiculous designer shirt he had gotten a few days ago when they had played in Sunrise. Glitter, sequence and beads, also in purple adorned the shirt in intricate patterns. They had had the day off after the win in Sunrise, and Ilya had led half the team through the shopping and social district demanding everyone pick out clubbing outfits for Tampa. 

His outfit was clearly the best. 

“Come on assholes,” he called, turning to the players, “hurry up, you can not be slower than me and worse dressed. Pick struggle.” 

Laughing, jeers, and cheers. “It’s pick a struggle Roz!” 

“Yes that’s what I,” his words cut off as the door to the locker room swung open. 

The Tampa goalie. Everyone stopped speaking as they looked at their intruder. Of course someone would have to go. Would be left behind until they were freed. 

“He wants Rozanov,” the Tampa goalie declared, lips curling up into a cruel smile. 

Marleau’s hand gripped on his shoulder pulling Ilya closer to him. His fingers curled into Ilya's upper arm. Ilya kept telling him to stop doing that. He was going to end up leaving marks and get in trouble with Hollander. Ilya was certainly going to bait some forfeit into doing that one day, but he had been trying to figure out who would enjoy it. Not Marleau, and definitely not the Tampa Forfeit. Who had been obedient and stupid when Ilya had taken him. 

The only sound in the room was the obnoxious music. It wasn’t that Ilya’s name had been called. It was who had called it. One of Ilya and Hollander’s forfeits. Forfeit’s who had never turned around and chosen Hollander when given the chance. And who hadn’t chosen Ilya given the chance either. 

It was a direct deviation from the pattern. It was going to draw everyone’s attention. Ilya felt his veins crackling to ice. This was not the kind of attention any of them needed. 

“Interesting,” Ilya decided, pulling out the word like taffy. 

He pushed Marleau’s hand off of him and shoved his things back into his stall. Ilya could feel the team’s eyes on him. The Tampa goalie’s burning hunger for Ilya’s humiliation. It was an open book. Ilya was not the kind of man who would allow someone to get a rise out of him for that. Not in this way.

He took his punishments to the chin. Quietly and without complaint. Discipline, criticism, and humiliation was to be received with dignity. You did not need to bring further shame to the family. It was joy, play, and victory that was to be expressed. If you could bring pride. 

Ilya did not think about his mother. Her golden locks and soft fingers brushing tears from his cheeks. Her sad, sad eyes looking down at him. ‘Ilyushen’ka. My sweet boy. You can have all these big feelings, but only with me. Okay? Only give them to me. I will keep them safe.’ 

He did not think about his father. Smiling and happy after a dinner with important officials. He didn’t think about the days after and the rapid changing of moods. Ilya didn’t think about his beautiful funny mother no longer around to give his feelings to. 

“Interesting,” Marleau deadpanned, rocking on the balls of his feet like he might follow Ilya out the door, “that’s it?” 

Ilya waved back before slipping his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you at the club,” he called strolling past the Tampa goalie, “maybe.” 

One of them was always going to be left behind. It was lucky that Feller didn’t resent his role. 

There was no point in dragging his feet. He had made his peace with the idea of being a Forfeit when he had joined the NHL. Ilya hadn’t been expecting Hollander’s strategy of ‘if I make them want me they will leave me alone’ to work for him in terms of the entire league. A Forfeit with any kind of intelligence would never have done this. Unless he had a plan. Ilya did not think this one was capable of plans. 

In his pocket his phone was buzzing. The group chat loved it when any one of their teams beat Montreal and Boston. They would be especially excited that the Forfeit was the winner. That would not last when they learned he had called for Ilya. 

He had earned the win. 

Still Ilya wasn’t sure what to expect. Which was the problem. 

His Forfeit was already in the room when he arrived. Sitting on the edge of the bed, mid length golden curls hanging in ringlets around his eyes as he bent his head down. Ilya was used to seeing Forfeits in the winner’s room. Subdued, maybe angry, bracing themselves for what came next. This one was doing the same. Even if he was the Winner tonight. 

Pretty man. Ilya closed the door, taking the time to examine him. Strong jaw line, hockey player nose, not too bad, and even most of his original teeth. Easy to see why he was considered one of the league’s heart throbs. Or was at least. The league had Shane Hollander and himself now. They were hotter and better at hockey. Sure this one was good, but they were his replacement. 

Hopefully that was what this was about. That this man had a plan. Not one of the impulsive decisions he was known for. 

“Very good goal,” Ilya praised, unable to simper like many of the Forfeits did. 

He started to pull off a layer of bracelets dropping them onto the night stand. His Forfeit looked up at him, his fingers already leaving red indents in his palms. Shoulders tensed. 

Not a good start. Ilya had always figured his mouth was going to get him in this room as a Forfeit. His body and mind was still stuck on the assumption he was the Winner here. The space silent and open. But he wasn’t worried. Once the Forfeit took control Ilya would be okay. He was very used to listening to older men. 

He started to undo the buttons on his shirt. If he kept moving he might not snark off too much before this started. That and he wanted to keep the shirt. It was lovely and giving the Forfeit, okay maybe he shouldn’t be referring to him as the Forfeit in his head, but giving him the opportunity to decide how to take it off of Ilya made his skin crawl. He couldn’t do lasting bodily damage, but ruining clothes was more than fair game. 

The man’s mouth came out raspy and dry when he finally spoke. “Thanks.” 

Ilya folded the shirt and set it on top of his layer of jewelry. It didn’t need to get in the way. Those were things that could be used against him. 

But not his attraction to men for once. There was a freedom of being in this room and having both of them know Ilya wasn’t afraid of that. That nothing could be blamed on the fact that he was European or an asshole. A kind of freedom at least. 

Ilya turned back to the bed and strolled over, dropping to his knees between the man’s open thighs. There was a fine line here he was going to have to walk. Ilya couldn’t flinch, but he couldn’t be eager. 

He braced his chin on the man’s knee and let his eye lashes flutter lazily. “What can I do for you, Winner?” 

The man squirmed under Ilya’s stare. Under his actions. Ilya was pretty sure this Forfeit also liked men. Like Jenny did, but he did not have a pretty girlfriend who had given him permission to enjoy it. 

He could have fucked this man so good if he had won. Last time he had made pretty whimpering sounds when Ilya had slid his cock out of him and asked for more. 

Calloused hands reached out pushing Ilya away by his shoulder and jaw. Fluttering panic spread across the man’s face as Ilya followed the push back to give him space. “Oh my god,” he groaned, hands going up to tug through his hair, “this is so gay. Fuck.” 

It left after images in Ilya’s mind.One of his uncles, much younger than his father. Combing fingers through his hair as he was introduced to a young Ilya after he had come back to Moscow after traveling a year after his military service. Scattered, uncertain, and volatile.

Ilya stayed still. Stayed quiet. He felt the fuzzy edges of his mind that came when he spoke with his father. But he needed his wits about him for this. At least until he understood what direction this was going to go. Then he needed to see if he could call Hollander after this. Warn him about the possible consequences of this night. 

“Shit,” the man cursed again, tugging at his hair, his eyes snapping to Ilya wide and earnest, “shit. That sounded, I mean.” 

Then the words came out all in a rush. Almost too fast for Ilya to translate. “I want you to teach me how to suck cock.” 

Ilya wouldn’t have been able to keep the surprise off his face if his life depended on it. He opened his mouth and snapped it close before he could earn some kind of punishment. Leaning back on his hands he got a good look at the blush creeping up the man’s neck.

He opened his hands not coming towards Ilya but trying to grab the line of thought swirling in his head. Like a confused child. “Flores said he passed his dick sucking test with Hollander after he sucked you off,” the Forfeit continued, “and,” he took in a sharp breath, “I failed the test last year and I don’t want to fail again.”

“Wow,” Ilya forced the word out of his mouth as slow as he could, buying himself time to get a filter on his mouth before he said something he shouldn’t. 

He hadn’t been expecting this man to have a good plan with this, but he hadn’t been expecting this either. Ilya was under the impression that the blow job test was completely voluntary. It was not something they had to do. This one must really hate being ridden if he wanted to take the risk of failing again. 

He went through the list in his mind. Flores was the Sunrise Forfeit. If he remembered correctly the two of them were actually friends. Ilya was probably the only man besides Hollander in the league who he knew liked men. Ilya wasn’t sure how learning would have gone if he hadn’t done it with Sasha. 

“You could just not take the test,” Ilya pointed out, unable to help himself.

The man huffed with nervous energy, getting a little sharp. “Okay well fuck you.” 

Ilya nodded because yeah that was kind of the point. That was something that was going to have to happen. 

“You passed the test,” it was half accusation, but mostly a statement. 

He jumped to his feet pacing across the room and working himself up. Ilya kept his mouth shut. He did not pass any test. He had just sucked Hollander off because it was sexy and he wanted to. That was different. This was different.

Ilya was going to have to be adaptable. “If that is what you want,” he agreed, carefully keeping his eyes lowered ever so slightly to avoid direct eye contact without looking away from him. 

He could see the moment before the Forfeit stopped on a dime. Shoulders lacing further with tension. “Would you get up off the fucking floor,” he snapped. 

Ilya immediately got to his feet. He wasn’t going to disobey, and timeliness was part of obedience. It was not listening if he didn’t do it immediately. This did not soothe the man. His eyes got wider, teeth gnashing together as he looked Ilya over. 

““You have your thing with Hollander. So you’re supposed to be good at that.”

Ilya pulled his hands behind his back, crossing them at the wrists.

“And stop doing that! It’s weird!” 

He dropped his arms to the side. Ilya was used to men being a lot more direct with what they wanted from him. The uncertainty had his own feet on edge. He shifted the weight from one foot to the next taking in a deep breath to steady himself as the Forfeit, fuck, what was this one’s name? As the man tried to explain his demands.

“You look like a child.”

He was moving forwards. Stalking towards Ilya now and he instinctively dropped his eyes to the ground. “Stop it,” he growled.

Ilya was faced with the reality that there was probably nothing he could do. That there was no correct move. Reed. That anything he could do was wrong. But that wasn’t so different from his everyday life. This one was named Reed. Ilya knew there was nothing he could ever do that would make up for existing. 

“Stop it!” 

Reed shoved his shoulders. Not the distance creating push from before. A real shove. Ilya rocked back taking the force of the shove and letting it send him backwards. Not to the ground. Not yet. Just up against the wall.

This was a mistake. Reed had not stopped his advancement. Ilya’s head spun at the change. The switch from a nervous request to be taught to suck dick, to violence. Big hands shoving into Ilya again, knocking him back like they were on the ice. Just before grabbing his shoulders and shaking him.  

Well now his head really was spinning. Fingers dug into his biceps squeezing as Ilya closed his eyes trying to lessen the effects. Letting his body be moved like an unloved rag doll. “Stop it!” 

His body was dragged forward nearly a foot before being tossed back. Head thumping against the wall Ilya gasped, but he didn’t dare open his eyes. Instead he listened to the heavy breathing that tickled against his cheek. 

There was a memory ringing in his ears. Hiding under the kitchen table with Andrei as their father screamed at their mother. It had been a good day. The rage coming without any warning. Their father was not physically violent. Mostly. Pushing, shoving, light hits maybe, but that was the worst of it. His weapon was his words. The manic screaming and the calculated clips aimed to slice through you. 

His beautiful strong mother taking the words without any complaint. Meek. 

‘Why doesn’t Ma’am yell back,’ he had asked his older brother. 

Andrei had still been nice to him back then. ‘Don’t ask stupid questions Ilyuska.” 

It should have been a lesson learned. Except Ilya tended to learn things the hard way. He had understood later. Not even that much later. You didn’t fight back against power like that. Not if you didn’t want to make it worse. 

“What is wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?” 

Ilya opened his eyes, feeling the other man’s body almost pressing against his. They were about the same stature. “You knocked out Ward’s tooth two hours ago in a fight!” 

Ah. Up close he could see in Reed’s eyes where his confusion had triggered this rage. Ilya was following the rules, but he wasn’t acting right. The rules Reed was already breaking by asking Ilya to teach him how to suck cock. Reed was breaking the rules and Ilya had been trying to follow them. 

Well. That was an even thinner line to walk, wasn’t it? He took in a deep breath to center himself. He needed to find out what Reed was expecting, and then he needed to figure out how to fix this mess. 

Ilya took in the heaving chest pressed against him and flickering eyes. At least he probably couldn’t make this worse. In which if he tipped Reed into physical violence it was always probably headed that direction. “Use your words,” it was an order, direct and level, “you get nowhere throwing toys around like a toddler.” 

For a moment the tension around Reed tightens. His teeth gritting and hands clenching at his sides. But he subconsciously copies Ilya. Because he takes a deep breath and releases it. “I don’t want you as a forfeit,” he admitted, dropping his eyes. 

Ah. That was interesting. Hollander by the nature of what he was doing had found a combination of masochists, submissives, and deeply repressed men attracted to the same sex. Ilya was kind of amazed by how Hollander managed it each time he had a Forfeit under him. 

“Ah. So I broke you.” 

Not true, but he needed to see what he could push. How far he could push. Ilya knew he was dealing with a volatile man. Finding the lines was going to be important here. 

“I’m not broken!” Reed looked back into his eyes and threw him a glare. “I just, I want something different now.” 

His nostrils flared as Ilya took the words in. “Like being able to suck Hollander’s cock?” 

Reed stepped back and paced away. Ilya stayed against the wall, but forced his body posture into something more relaxed. The lack of confidence Reed had in this was not calming to Ilya. 

“This was such a terrible idea,” Reed groaned as his shoulders relaxed and he dropped back to sit on the bed. 

“Yes,” Ilya agreed without mercy, “the others will have many thoughts.” 

He watched Reed’s throat bob as that information sunk in, eyes going impossibly wide. Good. He needed to understand the consequences of this action. Reed doesn’t have an interest in keeping Hollander’s plan in place. But Ilya does. 

He needed to find a way to navigate this back to the image Hollander had curated. They would not have admitted to Hollander their girlfriends wanted to see them fuck men, or they wanted to learn to suck cock. This Forfeit calling for Ilya after a win. Stupid. The others would know he did it because he was wanting it. He didn’t know how they would react to that. Not in the long term. He really hoped he didn’t have to map that out for the man. 

Reed pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck. I’m so fucking stupid.”

There. Ilya knew his openings when he saw them. How to wrestle control and advantage, when he needed to. 

He slid off the wall coming to a stop in front of him. Ilya patted his head in sympathy. “I will fix it,” he promised, hooking a finger under his chin and making him look up at him, “right now I will give you what you want.” 

Ilya had to know what he wanted before he could fix this for them. Reed wanted Ilya’s authority. Which he could provide. Just not fully. This was the Winner’s room. Ilya was subservient here. Reed could do anything he wanted. 

His mouth parted for his tongue to lick his lips. Ilya watched. Stupid man. Needy man. Ilya could work with that. He liked that even. Minus the stupid part. Except the tension swirling in his gut hadn’t lessened. Everything in his body was an unpleasant burn.

“What I want,” Reed repeated almost like he was asking for clarification.

“Yes,” Ilya confirmed, “you don’t want me as a forfeit, okay,” he shrugged, “but you are still Winner. Still your winner’s room. Tell me what you want me to do to you and I will provide.”

Reed swallowed hard. “You want to learn to suck cock. I will teach you. Anything else?” 

So very difficult for these men to admit what they actually want. And when they did, they did it in the worst way possible. Exhibit A sitting in front of him. He watched the hesitation filter through his eyes. “You’re, like, actually gay? Like the thing with Hollander whatever that is.” 

He had been balls deep inside Reed’s ass when Reed had gotten a call from Hollander’s forfeit of the night. They didn’t always call, even when they were both in the winner’s room for the night but they did it most of the time. Hollander had still not given him his number and Ilya was not asking again.

This time it was not an accusation. Just a question. Ilya gave a half shrug. “Not completely, but yes, I have slept with men outside of the winner’s room and I will again.” 

He could have had a willing wanting man under his body tonight in fact. Ilya felt infinitely older despite the age gap. The experiences they didn’t share eating away the years between them. 

“I don’t know if I would,” Reed finally admitted, his knees knocking together, probably from the force of that lie, “but, I, shit.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut. “God I’ve never had a good idea in my life. Every time I start to think about something I make it worse,” he shook his head squeezing his hands together, “I want to know what to do if I decide to try it. Really try it.” 

“You already made bad decisions tonight,” Ilya coaxes, moving his fingers from Reed’s chin to press against the back of his neck, “go ahead and say it. You can’t make it worse.” 

Why did Ilya still feel like his head was spinning? 

He could see his job here. What he needed to do for this man. Maybe. It would be up to Reed to vocalize it enough that Ilya could give it to him. 

“No one will talk about this room and I will not spill your secrets. I think you know it is much more dangerous for me.” 

Reed’s frustrated eyes melted into something softer, something sad. “Russia. They’re like trying to keep gay people out of the public and the media right?”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t expecting an American man living in Tampa Florida to know anything about gay life in Russia. He had only been referencing his own attractions. “Maybe,” Ilya agreed, but he was spending a lot of time not thinking about his home, “but yes. It is not just hockey that would become a problem for me.” 

Whatever was happening here he didn’t need Reed asking questions about Russia. Reed spread his legs out letting Ilya step between them. He bit into his bottom lip. “Stupid decision but you did it for a reason. You’ve already been fucked both ways. I know you have scored game winning goals many times. So what is it that you do not know? Tell me Reed.” 

It was a gentle order. Ilya didn’t fail to notice how the man was getting hard. His cock pressing up against his sweats. Turned on by Ilya or the humiliation of not being able to communicate. 

Ilya would much rather be dealing with this soft fool than the angry man who had been shoving him. So he would need to learn communication fast. 

“This room doesn’t count. It’s not real. I mean like it’s real right,” Reed explained as he leaned back onto the bed putting space between them as he got flustered again, “this stuff doesn’t not happen. But it only exists here. Mostly. I can’t say I’ve had gay sex until I’ve met a man and we both looked at each other and went, yeah I want to have sex with that guy because he’s attractive or whatever and then we do it. This way. It’s just. You fuck or you leave hockey. That’s not about, like, desire and wanting. So it doesn’t count.”

It was not an incorrect line of thought. However, that wasn't a line of thought Ilya liked to dwell on. Reed moved a lot. Moved more the more anxious he was. Ilya breathed through his nose to keep himself steady. The man seemed to crave distance the more worked up he got. But there was clearly a point where that snapped. 

“It can’t count,” Reed whispered.

Reed shifted further up the bed, his feet digging into the mattress. “But what if this has all fucked me up? What if I can’t do it correctly? What if he hasn’t done this before either? I could ruin it for him if I don’t know how to do it right.” 

It was impossible to not have his heart soften, it was not softening. Why was it not softening?

Okay. He made a dangerous mistake. But he was doing it for a good reason. There might be a man he didn’t want to hurt. Someone he wanted. Ilya could understand that. 

“Would you listen to him,” Ilya asked, taking a step away from the bed and moving down to the foot of it, giving Reed more space. 

“Yes! Of course,” Reed exclaimed, pushing himself to sit fully up, “but what if I miss a sign? What if I’m not good enough?”

Ilya headed over to the cabinet to find the lube, if Reed wanted to know about sex between men they would need that. If he became too still would Reed freak out further? “Then you should not be having sex with him,” Ilya stated, “if you want to work as a partnership and he does not then you do not match and both should go home.”

He wasn’t unaware of the hypocrisy in that statement. Reed was right. This wasn’t really sex. By Ilya’s own definition. But that didn’t matter.

 “And if you can not tell him what you want or don’t want you should also go home.”

Reed flinched and crossed his legs in front of himself curling back up as he let his blond curls curtain around his face. Ilya got the further sense he was looking at a child. “Right. So I need to like know about gay sex and have a baseline for what I might like. I tried watching porn, but I already know it doesn’t really work that way. And a lot of that shit is pretty extreme.”

Ilya found Hollander’s lube in the cabinet and then set it down. He didn’t want to use that here. He found another bottle. 

“How did you? I guess you might not. How do you decide who does what?” 

He had to parse out the question as he turned from the cabinet. A year ago if someone told Ilya he would be having a conversation with a man almost six years his senior about introductions to sleeping with other men he would have called them an idiot. Yet here he was. There was a chair by the bed so Ilya slipped into it giving Reed space. “I top,” Ilya answered truthfully, but continued to explain. 

Giving away so much information was unnatural. He wanted to bite off his own tongue. “I top and I like to be in control. I bottomed with a friend in Russia but it was not for me,” he shrugged, “not terrible but not for me. Getting fingered was okay. But I’ve met men who don’t do penetration.” 

“So you just have to try everything?” 

“No,” Ilya admitted, “there are many things I have not tried and would not choose to engage in.”

Ilya could have those choices taken away from him. Here. “I wanted to try bottoming because I was curious. It turned out it wasn’t for me and it was okay. I thought coming on a man’s face might be hot and it was. Man I am sleeping with asks me to choke him with my hands. I don’t because I don’t think that sounds sexy. Man I am sleeping with suggests I lick his feet. So I try it and I did not repeat that because it was not sexy.”

Reed’s head bobbed up to stare at him. “You licked a guy’s feet?” 

“Only a little,” Ilya answered and pinched his fingers together, “like I said, not sexy.” 

Ilya let Reed laugh at him. It’s good for the man to burn off the nervous tension he was still holding. 

“What sounds sexy and not sexy to you?” 

Reed swallows. “Definitely not feet, or choking. I don’t think, I can’t imagine doing the rough stuff anywhere else but here. I don’t know.” 

Ilya could understand that. Not relate to it, but understand it. “You do,” Ilya gave him an unimpressed look, “you’ve been thinking about it.”

“Thinking doesn’t get me anywhere good,” Reed put his hands over his eyes with a groan. 

“Be good and tell me,” Ilya ordered. 

He watched Reed’s breath hitch. Maybe not the rough stuff but there was something he wanted. “I think about his body over me,” his voice started off small but growing in confidence, “he’s so big. How he smells when he’s sweaty. I think about his thighs. They’re like water melons.”

So it was a particular man Reed wanted. Reed cleared his throat looking away from Ilya. “The last time with you I, ah. I thought about what it might be like if he was in me instead. How he would touch me.” 

Ilya watched Reed’s dick getting hard again. “What he would sound like. If he would, praise me.” 

His cheeks were the color of fire trucks. “And then I thought about fingering him last time I was a Winner. If he would like it.”

Very tame. But that was fine. “Then I tried to watch porn and I saw those videos of guys getting off, and I wanted to watch him get off. With a pocket pussy or something. Just fucking into it.”

“So maybe you want to bottom,” Ilya suggested, “but are not against topping. It’s okay to do both.” 

“You really don’t have to, like, pick one?” 

“Many men will do both. But like I said some don’t do either,” Ilya reminded him. 

“Oh,” Reed breathed through those thoughts, “so what do they do then?” 

“Blow jobs. Hand jobs. Rubbing against each other's dicks or thighs or ass. Toys. There’s a lot to do. Penetration can require a lot of work not everyone wants to do,” Ilya could not relate still, but whatever. 

Reed still looked overwhelmed. “You talk with the man you are going to sleep with. It is not complicated,” Ilya assured him. “It’s not that different from asking a woman what she wants.” 

“You talk with women about what they want?” 

It was Ilya’s turn to put a hand over his eyes and groaned. “Why are you all bad at sex?”

“But doesn’t it kind of take you out of the mood to just sit and talk about it,” Reed asked. 

Rolling his eyes, Ilya got off the chair and stepped over, grabbing Reed’s foot and pulling him back to the edge of the bed. “Have you ever heard of dirty talk?” 

He climbed up on the bed and bracketed the man with his body. “Look how pretty you are under me,” Ilya let desire he didn’t feel curl around his voice.

Reed gasped a little. “Tell me where to touch you first.” 

“Oh,” Reed was looking up at him with wide, pretty eyes.

Ilya leaned back brushing his ass against Reed’s dick rocking for a moment. “Do you want to fill me up,” Ilya asked, “you could finger me open or I could finger myself for you to watch.” 

“That’s. Okay. I get it,” Reed’s cock did feel a little nice against Ilya’s ass, he wouldn’t mind grinding against it some more, he could get into this, he could, “but what if he says something I don’t want to do?” 

Really. Ilya had to do all the work for him. Thankfully none of them needed to be smart. “Suggest something.” 

“Uh. I want to touch your nipples?” 

Ilya pinched his thigh. “Try again,” he ordered, “like I just showed you.” 

It took Reed a moment but he eventually got it. His hand slid up Ilya’s hip and over to his chest. Grazing just around where he had said he wanted to touch. “These would look so good between my fingers.” 

Ilya took his wrist and slid it down. “They would look even better around my cock,” he put Reed’s hand against his dick, and Reed gave it a little squeeze. 

“My mouth might look even better there,” Reed had a hesitant smile on his face. 

Ilya nodded his head. “We will need to test that out and see,” he agreed. 

Reed removed his hand and relaxed back into the bed. “That makes sense. I can do that.”

The looseness in his limbs only lasted a moment. Tension snapping back into his body. Ilya was almost dizzy with the change, watching him carefully to see if he needed to put distance between them quickly. Some kind of memory was flashing over his eyes. 

“I did try! I practiced like he told me too. I could deep throat before I went into the room,” he told Ilya like he was trying to plead his case against Hollander’s failing grade in blow jobs, a little petulant even,

That was a sudden change of topic. Reed’s hips were subtly rocking into Ilya so he continued to slowly roll his hip against Reed's dick trying to enjoy the stimulation. In a different context he was pretty sure he would like this. “I think you watched too much porn,” Ilya told him, “deep throating does not make a good blow job.” 

Reed blinked at him. “I thought that was like the goal?” 

“You think like virgin," Ilya complained with a heavy groan, “the man you sleep with better thank me.” 

He shifts back off of Reed’s lap and starts to pull off his pants. Reed blindly helps him, which is nice. They really don’t need this to be an argument or a struggle. “You know what the parts of your dick are called,” Ilya asked, settling between the man’s legs once he was open to him. 

“Why are you such a dick? Yes I know what my own body parts are called,” Reed hissed. 

He was hard. Cock thick and hairy. He had not shaved like some of the other Forfeit’s would. Ilya brought his head down breathing hot air against his dick before dipping lower to kiss the inside of his thighs. Ilya takes his time to press gentle kisses and licks to the area. He let his eyes trail up to Reed’s face who was watching with open desire. “I wonder how long it would take before you are begging me to take you into my mouth,” he mused, running his fingers up to spread his thighs further with his hands. 

Reed made a small little choke sound. “Do you want to find out,” Ilya asked, licking a stripe across one of his balls.

“No,” Reed squirmed in the bed, already impatient, “I don’t.” 

Ilya couldn’t help but laugh at the open honesty. He was going to have to tell Hollander about this. Hollander would probably want to strangle Reed for it but that wasn’t Ilya’s problem.

Reed had been so responsive in Ilya’s Winner’s room. Except he hasn’t had a choice in saying what he did or didn’t want. 

“No? What should I do then,” Ilya asked, ghosting his thumb against his perineum as he started to suck a ball into his mouth. 

Reed doesn’t even say anything. He just whines. Reed in the winner’s room was passive but needy. Taking everything Ilya gave him without back talk or complaint. Wanting anything Ilya would give him. It makes sense that Reed doesn’t have words even now. Which was probably a problem, but not Ilya’s problem. 

Ilya lets himself spend time sucking and nuzzling Reed’s balls. Going slow and torturous. If Reed didn’t understand build up Ilya was going to take his time explaining it to him. Putting his own mouth to work meant he didn’t have to try to find the English words for it, or answer the blabbering questions Reed had. 

Reed wasn’t passive, well he was but not in the way a dead fish was passive. He was moving and making pretty sounds. Someone else would find this pretty hot. Ilya just wasn’t one of them. He made himself moan around the ball in his mouth shifting his hand to dance fingers along Reed’s cock. Not really stroking, but giving the appearance of such. 

He makes sure both balls get an equal amount of attention before pulling off. Ilya shifts to take the dick into his hands and at a better position for his mouth. “You want to settle yourself in a good position where you feel relaxed. You’re going to get tired moving your head and holding your mouth open. So finding a way to rest your head and mouth is important.” 

“Okay,” Reed agreed, sitting up on his elbows to look at Ilya, “I did think it was pretty uncomfortable to go for so long.” 

Ilya nodded and then sat up reaching for the lube and pillow. “Lift up your hips,” he told Reed as he wiggled himself into place. 

Reed obeyed and Ilya shoved the pillow under his ass to give himself more access to the area he wanted. “You can move your partner,” he explained, “try different positions until you find what you like.” 

Ilya licked a stripe from his cock down to his hole. “I like a man exposed for me, so I can play with his cock and hole,” he got a moan in response to his explanation and Reed canting his hips to get more. 

He picked up the lube and spread it onto his fingers before spreading some just along the base of Reed’s cock since he didn't plan to take him all the way, and used the rest to play with his hole. Teasing the bud for a few minutes with his finger and tongue. After that he went back to kissing his thighs while he slowly stroked his cock. 

“More,” Reed finally broke squirming, “please. More.” 

Ilya obeyed, opening his mouth to take the tip into his lips. He sucked once before pulling off to lick his cock instead. Reed made a noise that was half way between a choke and a moan. “You’re going to kill me,” he whined. 

Laughter pulled out of Ilya. “Yes,” he agreed, “that’s how you want to make him feel. You should also think about how you want to make him feel while he is blowing you.” 

There was what Ilya would assume was a blank screen going through Reed’s mind before he managed to reboot. “You can make the guy sucking you feel a certain way?” 

Ilya had to sit up. He used his hands to push the man into the mattress. “Are women blow up sex toys to you? You can not be virgin,” he protested. 

Men could get married in Boston for fucks sake. Reed blushed. “I’ve had sex! I just let her do what she wants, and wait for it to be over.” 

Was Ilya the only man in the NHL who actually liked having sex with women? Well Jenny did. He clearly adored his girlfriend. How did Hollander manage to pick out the deeply closested submissive gay men? Why could none of them just. He didn’t need to ponder the whys. It would drive him crazy.

“Reed,” Ilya said slowly, taking his time to draw out the syllables, “that was gayer than saying you wanted me to teach you to suck cock.” 

Reed shoved at Ilya’s shoulder with no real force. “That’s just normal shit.”

Was Ilya really the freak here? “I’m a gift to American and Canadian women.” 

“How do you want your partners to make you feel when you are giving oral,” Reed asked. 

Ilya really should just keep his mouth shut and not talk. If he didn’t talk he didn’t have to answer these questions. Ilya licked along the underside of Reed’s cock. 

No. There were men in the NHL who actually did like women. Liked their bodies and actually paid attention to sex. It was one of the reasons he liked Connors. Connors always wanted to get laid, but he waxed poetic about eating pussy and getting a woman to orgasm. Marleau wasn’t like that. He was more crass. But Ilya had watched him bully a rookie to tears when the guy had been bragging about treating his girlfriend like a sex object. 

It wasn’t like there wasn’t a lot of stupid shit said in the Boston locker room. Some of it was probably really shitty. But there was a baseline of respect that was expected from everyone that Ilya hadn’t seen in other teams. 

He wanted to be out with his team. Not here.

Reed made another pleased sound and Ilya pulled his mouth back to force himself to answer. “Powerful, like I am giving them a gift. If it was anyone else touching them they would be disappointed. That I am driving them wild. They need me to get off.”

“That sounds like you are in control still,” Reed stated and was angling his hips trying to get back to Ilya’s mouth. 

“Why would I still not be in control?”

Ilya raised his eyebrow to Reed and leaned back down to take his cock into his mouth. Ilya sucked the head, moving his hand to the base and jerking. There was plenty of time to get deeper. 

“Yes,” Reed gasped his head falling back with a groan. 

Why was Ilya not into this? He loved a responsive partner. A man who appreciated that he was in charge. How he could make them feel. Reed was an attractive man. Ilya would have gone for him at the bar in a different life. 

He kept going. Adding more mouth and tongue and what he was doing with his hands. Showing Reed how to give a proper blow job. Ilya’s body moved, without his mind, staying focused on what he was doing just enough to make sure Reed was paying attention to his lesson. 

More importantly he had an issue to solve. It was one thing if the Forfeit’s knew Hollander was gay. If they knew Ilya liked Hollander. They were the Winners, they were the best players in the league, they fucked the Forfeits and made them like it. If they told anyone Ilya and Hollander were flirting they would have to admit how they knew. What had been done to them. 

But Reed did not have that luxury. He was a good player. One of the best players on his team. Not on their level. Everyone would knew Reed was Hollander’s Tampa Forfeit. Everyone knew Hollander made men fidgety and scared. Everyone knew Ilya had followed in Hollander’s wake choosing his Forfeits as his own. The pattern was too established. There was no question about what was being done to him in the room. 

And if Reed chose Ilya. 

Ilya let out his own moan as he took Reed further into his mouth. His hand continued to stroke the part of the shaft not in his throat. He wasn’t going to take him any deeper. There was a point he was making. 

If Reed chose Ilya in particular it meant he wanted something from him. Not just a random hole. If Reed wanted sex he could choose anyone. It would be better to choose anyone else. To not link Ilya to any kind of desire. 

Except there was another option. One that Reed could be taking instead of sex. 

Reed was making hopeless needy sounds and Ilya felt his ball start to draw up. Ilya knew how Reed sounded on the edge of orgasm. He pulled his mouth off and his hand back. 

“No,” Reed growled, thrusting his hips up and moving his hand to grab his cock. 

Ilya grabbed both his hands, pinning him down. “Fuck you,” Reed hissed something very dangerous building up in his body and voice, “I was so close.” 

He had tears prickling the edge of his eyes. Ilya watched as the frustration started to swing deeper into anger. “Fuck you. Put“

Ilya slapped his free hand over his mouth before the man could give him an order. Before Ilya had to obey. The last thing he needed was for this man to act on instinct and be in charge. 

He struggled under him. “Not in bed,” Ilya told him, “it can’t be in bed. If there is evidence we had sex you’re fucked.” 

Reed breathed hard under him, but his body relaxed. “I’ll get you off in the shower,” Ilya promised and something had switched in his brain, he knew what had to be done now, “I will take very good care of you. Such good care of you. You have to let me.” 

Ilya slowly pulled his hand away from Reed’s mouth. “What the fuck are you talking about?” 

Most of the men Ilya had dealt with usually went from stoic to explosive, not Reed’s uncertain submissive energy to explosive. He would have to adapt. Ilya had forgotten for a moment. Lured into the nervous child act Reed had been putting on. 

No it wasn’t an act. “Let go of me.” 

Ilya dropped his hands immediately and slid off of him. Reed sat up. His dick still violently hard. 

It wasn’t like the nervous child was an act from Reed. The uncertainty was still there. Just overtaken by a grown man’s anger and volatility. Ilya had been stupid letting him get so close to the edge of orgasm. It was his fault. 

“I can fix the mistake,” Ilya told him, getting off the bed, snatching up the lube and holding out his hand, “we have to finish in shower.”

Sex was not technically a necessary part of the winner’s room. 

Reed glared for a moment but took Ilya’s hand. Ilya led him into the bathroom kissing and touching. He carefully removed Reed’s shirt moving his mouth along the places he had known Reed liked to be touched. 

There was still a partially annoyed look on Reed’s face when Ilya pulled away to start the shower. “How are you going to fix it,” Reed asked and his eyes were set on Ilya’s pants. 

Heavy desire inside of them. Ilya needed to keep control. Ilya stepped back over once he set the lube down and was sure the shower was warm. Sliding Reed’s hands over his jeans Ilya pressed into him. 

“That is not part of sex lessons,” he told Reed, forcing his voice into a husky tone he didn’t feel, “but being flexible is.”

Reed’s fingers played along with his waist band. “Tell me what you want,” Ilya encouraged. 

“I want to get off,” Reed huffed and flipped the button open, drawing his fingers down Ilya’s zipper, and pulling his pants down. 

Ilya stepped out of them and Reed frowned. “Why are you soft?”

His eyes glanced back up to Ilya’s face. Ilya chucked his boxers off as well. Which, Wow, there was a million answers to that question. None of which Reed would like. 

Ilya stepped back into the shower and ran a hand over his abs. “It happens,” he lied with a shrug, “good opportunity for you to practice what I showed you.”

Reed hesitated before stepping in with him. He got down to his knees. It turned out Reed was a very good student. 

The Winner’s room as laid out by Hollander was about humiliation. A ritual to punish a team for losing and force the winner to assert his dominance of the sport. Sex was the most often used tool. It was easier to skirt around rules that way. Less ambiguity. And if you were going to hurt someone you might as well get sexual release out of it. 

The Eastern Conference was an anomaly as far as Ilya could tell. Having two Captains who preferred Sadism over sex with their Forfeits. The Philadelphia Captain who Ilya had fucked on his own cross, and one of the New York Teams Captains. Of course there were other sadist winners. But as far as Ilya could tell it was limited and teams usually tried to make sure theirs would not score a game winning goal. Not because it was wrong, but because of how easy it was to go too far. The line between damage and too much damage could cause a fuss. 

But if a player had a moment of sadism. One Forfeit in six years. It was just a thing that happened. 

Reed pulled off his cock a smug look on his face as Ilya held back a whine from how close he had gotten to orgasm as well. The man kissed his way up Ilya’s body as he stood. “What’s next,” he asked against Ilya’s ear. 

Ilya pulled his mind back. He needed to keep focused. “Now I teach you how to finger yourself.” 

He got them through it. Ilya liked to teach people new things in bed. It should have been good. He got Reed fucking himself open with his fingers. One. Two. Three. Until Reed was rocking back and crying about how it wasn’t enough. Ilya dropped to his knees to finish him off. 

By the time Reed had come back to himself Ilya was on his feet again and cleaning off the bottle of lube to make sure it didn’t look used. He would need to dry it off and put it back where it belonged. 

Reed blinked at him, a little frown on his face. “Did you get off already?” 

“Yes. I stroked off while sucking you,” Ilya lied, and wished he could put his clothes on, but that wasn’t where this was going. 

It was too obvious of a lie on top of other lies. “Oh,” Reed glanced down at his feet and took in a deep breath, “why did you make me feel good when I was the Forfeit and I can’t make you feel good? You haven’t enjoyed a single second of this.” 

Ilya shut off the water and stepped out, wiping down the lube. He tossed the towel to Reed. “Dry off,” he told him and left the bathroom. 

“Rozanov!” 

Ilya kept moving, heading over to the cabinet to rerun the lube exactly where he had found it. “Rozanov!” 

He started to look through the other supplies. Considering what might be the best tool for this. He hadn’t braced himself in time for Reed to be on top of him. Grabbing his shoulder and shoving. 

It was fine. It was better if he was angry. Reed would find this job much easier if he did it this way. 

“Rozanov,” his fingers dug into Ilya’s jaw, yanking him and forcing him to look into his eyes, “start explaining.” 

Ilya held still watching his shoulders rise and fall with heavy breaths. Reed had come out in the towel but he wasn’t dry enough yet. He couldn’t be wet when he left the room. Ilya was good at getting people upset, but getting a man like this to toe across the line was not his instinct anymore. 

“Emotionally unstable older men I have to take care of turn me off,” Ilya spat and felt his body tensing despite his best efforts. 

Reed flinched back his hand dropping away from Ilya’s jaw. Something close to agony pulled across his features. Ilya ignored the toys in the cabinet and pulled out a manual instead. It was one the league had made.

“Go get your belt,” he ordered, flipping through it for the page he wanted. 

“What?” 

Reed’s voice was a soft wheeze like Ilya had punched him. Ilya slipped past him and grabbed at his clothes tossing the shirt and boxers and pants at him minus the belt, he kept that in his own hand as he looked at the diagram. The best places to hit without causing serious damage. It was color coded and everything. Visual clarity to help those who weren’t proficient in English yet. 

“Get dressed,” Ilya repeated through clenched teeth, “and dry your hair.” 

He ignored Reed as he slipped through the guide. This needed to look like a sudden decision. Not like Reed had carefully thought it out. Spontaneous. 

Ilya thought about where he got hit along the board. Where damage was expected. Where he could recover from it quickly. The places that would not affect his next game. Reed stomped over and Ilya glanced at his hair. Mostly dry. Good. 

He held up the diagram and pointed with his fingers. “You’re going to hit and kick me here,” he told him, “shove me around the room and then take your belt and hit my shoulders three times each. Where the muscles are.”

All the color and anger drained out of Reed’s face. He stumbled several steps back. “No I’m not! I don’t want to do that.” 

Ilya felt his lips twist in disgust. He had to. “You can let the others think you are a faggot,” he stole Hollander’s word from him, “you can hang a sign around your neck that they can have your ass and mouth until you drop dead in this sport from being passed around by our other Forfeits.” 

There wasn’t anything to say that was what was going to happen exactly. But it was one of the possibilities. Ilya held up the diagram again. “I don’t want to assault you!” 

The asshole parts of himself was easy to put on. It was easy to find the right words to get this man to do what he wanted. 

“Why not? I assaulted you.” 

They had agreed on that in bed earlier. By both their own definitions of sex. How his answer to Reed about why he wasn’t aroused was still a lie. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t stand Reed’s temper. It was the mirror Reed put in his face. 

Reed took another step back and Ilya followed. “You’re going to leave bruises. You’re going to make a mess of this room. You’re going to take a photo of me bruised and send it to the group chat.” 

“Oh my god,” Reed looked as panicked as Ilya felt, “no. No. I don’t want to.” 

Ilya took another step forward while Reed kept going back. “Do you have another idea? I do not want this either.” 

The man was too stupid to have any other ideas. He hadn’t been smart enough to think about his own decision. Ilya stopped in front of him holding out the diagram. “Diagram tells you where it’s okay to hit.”

Reed grabbed it. He was hyper ventilating. Chest heaving. Ilya watched unsurprisingly when the man dropped the booklet and ran back to the bathroom. There was the sound of wrenching. 

Maybe Ilya should feel better knowing Reed really didn’t want to hurt him. Maybe Reed should feel better knowing Ilya hadn’t wanted to fuck him either. He didn’t think it canceled each other out. 

A few moments later Reed came back out of the bathroom considerably more calm. He picked up the diagram and his hands were only trembling slightly. “I can make you mad enough to want to do it,” Ilya offered. 

It would not be hard to do it to this man. That might snap his control more and lead to more injuries. Ilya could take that if it made it easier for him. “Oh my god,” Reed groaned, “please do not do that.” 

Ilya huffed and Reed grabbed his arm pulling until they met each other's eyes. “Do not do that,” that was an order, “I’m a mess. I fucked up. I know. I’m sorry.” 

Reed swallowed. “You don’t have to fix this for me. Don’t make it worse for you.”

It was not just for Reed, but even if Ilya didn’t like him, he didn’t want to see the worst happen to him. 

Reed looked down at his feet. “Tell me the plan. Please. I don’t want to do anything more than I have to. I didn’t mean to.”

“This is exactly what Winner is meant to do,” Ilya told him and then he led Reed through the scene he had in his mind. 

The events of the Winner’s room that night had gone like this. 

Reed had picked Rozanov. Not annoyed by what happened in previous winner’s rooms, but by his chirps on the ice. He had gotten under Reed’s skin. 

Ilya arrived at the room after him. Reed had given him the chance to apologize and ask for forgiveness. Ilya as one would expect had continued to run his mouth. Reed had moved from the bed to where Ilya was standing throwing him back against the wall before punching him in the lip. Another shove had Ilya tripping across the room. Stumbling to knock against the bed. Reed had punched him in the stomach. Then against each rid before Ilya scrambling for purchase lost his balance and ended up on the floor. Before Ilya was able to curl in on himself Reed kicked his ribs twice then his thighs. Ilya rolled onto his stomach and Reed pulled his belt off before hitting Ilya against the shoulders three times. After that he sat on the bed and smoked cigarettes putting one out on Ilya’s chest. When Reed finished he snapped one photo of Ilya. Who it was implied he had dragged to the bathroom and shoved into the shower.

There was a new photo that popped up in the group chat. Ilya Rozanov. His lip was swollen and split. Bruises splattering across his body. He’s turned in the photo. Twisted on his side so he is still curled around himself. Half of one shoulder in shot showing off a long red mark. Bruises going down the side of his body already purple. Eyes vacant, not even looking at the camera. A hand framing the front of the shot with a middle finger and bruised knuckles. 

Tampa: Do you think he will say that to my face again? 

The record will show Feller coming into the room thirty minutes after Reed left. He will write a report stating that he found Ilya naked in the bathroom trying to put his clothes on after taking a shower. Body stiff and bruised. The players association approved team doctor was dragged to the room to check Ilya over. Who is given a clean bill of health after he insists that he is fine. His ribs aren’t even bruised. The official record will have Marleau and Connors arriving back to the arena thirty minutes after Feller found him. 

The official records of that night don’t mention that Reed had cried the entire time. That when he paused straddling Ilya with his belt he almost stopped. The heaving little panicked breaths while Ilya remained stoically silent. Until the last hit of the belt where he muffled a scream into his arm. 

The records will never know that Reed dropped the belt and immediately crawled over to cradle Ilya’s head in his lap, petting his hair and apologizing. While Ilya laying in pain had the ever present thought of, ‘I hurt you first.’ 

That it was Ilya who made Reed get up and light almost an entire packet of cigarettes letting it burn on the ash tray. That he had taken one for himself after Reed had helped him into the bathroom and Reed had gotten him pain killers Ilya had almost refused to take. He hadn’t been able to put the cigarette out on Ilya’s chest. Reed had been too busy throwing up in the toilet again. 

Officially no one would know until morning, but all their Forfeit’s knew as soon as the photo was sent all of their phones exploded with messages. 

403-237-5888: The Fuck?

780-423-412: Dude. 

312-443-9603: Are you trying to get Andy killed? 

313-474-7233: I think I’m going to be sick. 

702-366-1640: I like watching Rozanov get hit on the face on the ice. Not this. 

202-333-7273: Did he fight back?

And twenty missed calls from the Elmont New York Forfeit until Ilya made Reed shut off his phone. 

A private message. 

Finn: Dude. What happened?

Finn: Are you okay? 

Finn: Call me. 

A call to Marleau’s phone was immediately answered. 

The official record wasn’t going to have Ilya leaning against Reed’s shoulder as Reed started the shower for him. Making sure it was a good temperature. 

“Next time you have stupid virgin questions about gay sex just call,” Ilya had offered and it had almost made Reed start to cry again. 

Later. When Ilya was finally laying down in their hotel bedroom with cold compresses against his back and ribs, Marleau had kicked Connors out to give the rest of the team an update, and get some other supplies. 

Ilya had almost been asleep when Hollander’s voice had filled the room. “Rozanov!” 

His eyes had fluttered open as Marleau dropped the phone down next to his face, his brows scrunched in confusion. 

Ilya struggled to focus on the phone. “Hollander?” 

“Rozanov,” Hollander breathed out like a prayer and Ilya closed his eyes again, taking in the warmth of that voice.

“Did you call to read that boring hockey book?”

Marleau sat back down on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through Ilya’s hair. Ilya turned into the touch. “How is he?” 

“Out of it,” Ilya heard Marleau reply, “but the doc said he’s going to be fine. That the bruising looks a lot worse than it actually is.” 

Marleau and Hollander had talked for a while. Ilya drifting in and out of sleep until Connors came back. 

“Is that Hollander’s voice?” 

“Yes,” Ilya had opened his eyes, starting to sit up but Marleau had nudged him back down, “my good friend Shane Hollander.” 

“It’s weird that they are friends right,” Connors asked and Ilya felt the weight dip down on the bed, flinching, before Connors removed the cold compresses and applied fresh ones.

“You’re weird,” Ilya complained but sighed into the feeling of cold on the lashes on his back, “it’s not hard to believe that the two best players in hockey are best friends.” 

“I thought I was your best friend,” Marleau pouted. 

“Well you’re still an asshole so I guess you are fine,” Connors chuckled and took over rubbing Ilya’s head from Marleau. 

“I can have more than one best friend,” Ilya grumbled, waiting to hear Hollander’s voice again. 

“I should go. Let you rest Rozanov,” Hollander finally said. 

Between his mind not wanting to stay in one place and the pain meds they had given him Ilya was out of it just enough to whimper at those words. “Boring,” he declared. 

Despite his protests Ilya was quick to fall asleep after that. 

The next day Ilya couldn’t sit with his back touching anything. They had a plane flight to Saint Louis so the team doctor gave him sleeping drugs for the plane and sent him to bed to rest as soon as they got into town. 

For the game the next day Ilya was given the good pain killers and he made sure they won. Ilya moved on the ice just as well as he had the day before. Taking hits and giving hits like his body wasn’t as bruised as it would be during play offs. It was good. Ilya had proved he was okay. 

Inside the winner’s room Ilya flopped down onto the bed on his stomach. The drugs were already wearing off even if they had given him over the counter medication now that the game was done. 

He waited for the Saint Louis Forfeit to arrive more or less dozing as he did so, checking his phone to see when Hollander’s game had been. Earlier. Hollander must also be waiting. 

The Forfeit comes in with a click of the door and Ilya shifts to pillow his head on his arm. Ilya had not met this Forfeit off the ice yet and he knows he should put on a performance. His energy had gone into the game. He has three days to recover after this. Ilya had been cleared from the mandatory practice so there was three days to rest between travel and waiting for their next opponents to arrive. 

Not time to really heal, but enough for a hockey player. Ilya was always good at rising to expectations.

“Phone,” Ilya demanded, wiggling his fingers out to the Forfeit.

He could call from his own phone. He had all the Forfeit's phone numbers. He was in the group chat. But he didn’t want to call Hollander from his own phone when he couldn’t actually call him. 

The Forfeit gave it to him silently watching Ilya like one would a lion they were caged in with. Ilya waved over at one of the chairs and scrolled through the contacts looking for the Forfeit with Hollander tonight. “Go relax,” he ordered not caring about him at all at the moment.

This was a smart Forfeit. He shut up and secluded himself where Ilya can see him but without demanding attention. 

Ilya hit call when he found the name he wanted. The phone picks up at the first ring. “Hey. How are you feeling,” Hollander sounds breathless, “your goals were nice.” 

“Oh you saw,” Ilya asks, stretching his body out further on his stomach with a deep groan, “were you not playing your own game? Was yours too boring?” 

Hollander laughs, sounding relieved. “Time zone differences asshole. I watched your full game after mine. I wasn’t expecting you to be moving so well.” 

“I don’t know why not,” Ilya lies, “I am in my prime. Not old like Scott Hunter.” 

Hollander doesn’t let him get away with it. “What were you on?” 

“Toradol,” Ilya admits, “felt fucking great.” 

There’s a soft humming sound from down the line. “How do you feel now?” 

“Fine,” Ilya lies, “laying down is nice.”

He hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt after he had taken off his gear. The welts were large and raised and had barely missed drawing blood. But it was okay. Everything was surface level. 

“That was out of character for Reed,” Hollander was very careful with how he put the words out. 

Ilya read between them easily enough. It’s balancing what he needs to say to what the Forfeits can hear that is the issue. None of them could know Ilya had done it, mostly for Reed. Mostly so none of them turned around and cannibalized each other. So they didn’t try to eat Hollander any way they could. 

“He could not handle chirps on ice,” Ilya went along with the lie he had planned out, “he has big mood swings,” which was true, Ilya had confirmed what he had already known with the hockey tapes that morning, Reed was the kind of guy who played very different depending on his emotions, “it is out of his system, it won’t happen again.”

It wouldn’t. 

“I’ll make sure of it,” Hollander bit out after too long of silence. 

“No, Hollander,” Ilya reminds him, “you can’t retaliate for what happens in the winner’s room.” 

He could almost feel the burning anger coming down the line. Ilya taps his thumb along his pulse point. It would be nice if Hollander was in bed with him. If he could look into those pretty brown eyes. 

“I can’t cause physical, financial or social damage for it,” Hollander corrects him and Ilya hears a page flip, “I’ve checked the rule book. I know what I can and can’t do.” 

Of course he checked the rule book. Ilya lets the smile spread over his face. He thinks about how Hollander’s freckles scrunch when he frowns. “Zashchitnik (Defender) trust me. I took care of it,” Ilya requests. 

Hollander takes in a sharp breath. “What did that word mean?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Ilya teases. 

“You’re insufferable,” Hollander complains. 

Ilya closes his eyes and chuckles. “I have heard this before.”

“You sound better. You didn’t really sound with it last night.” 

“This is too much talk,” Ilya doesn’t want to talk about it, ever. 

“Fine,” Hollander takes in a deep breath, “did you get your plane tickets? It sounded like your agent was having issues.” 

“I got the tickets,” Ilya promises. 

The truth was his agent had been having problems so Ilya had bought them himself. Hollander makes a pleased sound that has Ilya covering his mouth to hide the smile. There really isn’t anyone to catch him smiling like this, but what was he supposed to do?

“And you have the itinerary?”

It wasn’t like he was going to read the itinerary. “Yes, Hollander. I got it in an email which updated itself to my calendar without permission. It was very invasive and boring.” 

“It’s efficient,” Hollander argues.

Is he smiling too? Ilya baits him into an argument letting the man’s voice wash over him. His eyes slip shut as he does so and Hollander’s voice lulls him to sleep. 

“Rozanov!” 

Ilya sits up sharply turning to the sound. His body spasms in protest pulling a small groan from his mouth. It’s the Forfeit. Who is laying on the ground looking up at the ceiling. He does not look at Ilya. 

“Sorry,” it’s Hollander’s voice coming from the phone, “you weren’t waking up to me so I had MacDonald get your attention.” 

Ilya slides back onto his stomach, his eyes on the Forfeit. “What time is it,” he asks. 

“Not close to sunrise for either of us yet, but it’s late,” Hollander explains. 

Ilya does not want to have to deal with his Forfeit. But doing nothing is unacceptable. He couldn’t do nothing. That was the point of all of this. 

“You can always have my attention,” Ilya purrs, “just ask.” 

“Fuck off,” Hollander sighs with no force behind the word, “what are you going to do with MacDonald?” 

Ilya could see MacDonald’s body stiffening when he’s brought into the conversation. “Nothing athletic,” Ilya can’t think of a single thing he wants other than to go to back to sleep, maybe kiss Hollander, “nothing touching my back.” 

He would be fine. He just needed a couple of days. 

“Let me,” Hollander swallows around his words and then the confidence pushes through, “let me take control.” 

Ilya glances back at the phone. “You want control?” 

“Just over MacDonald. I want to take care of you,” Hollander confesses, “I need to be able to do something.” 

Ilya softens fully, in the way he hadn’t been able to properly for Reed. “Okay,” Ilya agrees and looks back over to MacDonald who has sat up. 

He’s a big man. A giant defender for Saint Louis. Fun to play against. Even Ilya feels small next to him. Right now he has a quiet passivity to him. Ilya can’t imagine this being a Hollander stand in. 

“I’m behaving,” MacDonald promises before either of them have to say anything. 

“Good,” Hollander praises from his end of the line, “good boy.”

Ilya watches the Forfeit blush. His cheeks going red. “Tell Rozanov what I taught you three weeks ago,” Hollander suggests. 

The Forfeit blushes harder. “Rimming,” he mutters.

“I didn’t hear that,” Hollander’s voice was a lot softer than what Ilya usually heard with his Forfeit’s. 

“Rimming,” the Forfeit makes eye contact with Ilya as he raises his voice. 

“You teach them so much. So generous Hollander,” Ilya praises. 

“It is,” Hollander agrees, “MacDonald go grab lube and the blue stroker from the cabinet and give them to Rozanov.” 

Interested Ilya watched him. “He’s very obedient," Ilya tells Hollander. 

“He is. He is very good at learning tricks,” Ilya hears the praise in Hollander’s voice, “and wants to learn new ones.” 

The Forfeit comes back into Ilya’s view with the required items. “Like a Puppy,” Ilya observes and the man’s face gets even redder, “are you a puppy?” 

“If you want me to be.”

It’s a very good answer. “Would you like to be a puppy,” Ilya presses anyways. 

Hollander makes a dissatisfied sound from the phone and all of Ilya’s attention goes to him. The Forfeit is saved from answering the question. “You don’t want him to be a good Puppy?”

“I don’t want you distracted,” Hollander’s voice comes through the line dark and thick, “focus on me Rozanov.”

“All of it is for you,” Ilya promises, “I will never think of anything but you for the rest of my life. No more cars, or clubs, or hockey, just Shane Hollander.” 

“You’re such a dick,” Hollander groans.

“What! I thought you wanted all my attention.” 

Ilya ignores the man behind him. Ignores everything that happened in the last twenty four hours. Instead he gives himself entirely to the moment, because Hollander asked him to. “I want all of you,” Hollander admits stealing the air from Ilya’s lungs, “just you Rozanov, exactly how you are.”

Chapter End Notes

The original concept for this chapter was a lot softer with Ilya amusedly guiding a Forfeit through the workings of consensual gay sex. But writing it Ilya really wasn’t into it. Which I think fits better into the story thematically and lets me set up for some stuff that happens later.

I’m going to try and even some of it with Hollanov fluff, but I love angst so we’ll see what happens.

Chapter 9 is currently at like 10k and Chapter 10 is around 9k, so expect some longer chapters coming up again.

Chicago Resilience: 312-443-9603

Detroit Avalon Healing Center: 313-474-7233

Los Vegas Signs of Hope: 702-366-1640

D.C Rape Crisis Center: 202-333-7273

Chapter 9: Luxury

Chapter Summary

The NHL does not trust their two young star players to be left to their own devices. If they are going to be joy riding in a Ferrari they might as well do it for content and under supervision. The league may be moving their pawns around, but it gifts Ilya with a luxury he hadn’t dared to dream about. Time with Shane Hollander.

Chapter Notes

Hello, I have finally brought to you both purely and entirely enthusiastic consensual sex and mostly happy Hollanov. Everyone needs a bit of a respite.

This should be mostly light and airy, with the usual themes and content as an under tone.

All of this chapter is a bit of nonsense but they deserve it.

I saw a post one time describing Hollanov as dogs playing with each other. So now I imagine them as over grown puppies in a constant state of play bowing and running around. Controversial but Ilya is a poodle and Shane is a Husky.

Ilya stepped out of customs at Montréal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport. His carry on luggage rolled behind him as his eyes searched the crowd. Which had instantly identified him when he got off the plane. It was Montreal after all. The home of hockey.

“Hollander!” 

The man visibly winces when Ilya yells for him in the crowd. Everyone turns to look at their darling super star golden boy. Who had come to the airport to pick up the first best player in the league. 

Ilya had accidentally made their bet a thing. In his defense he hadn’t been exactly aware of how desperate the NHL was for a story to follow, or that Hollander had a million brand deals, or that Hollander’s mother was his agent who could make Ilya’s agent roll belly over to do whatever she wanted. 

Point being Ilya hadn’t meant to make his teasing about the bet into a whole media production about Shane Hollander driving his sports car. 

Ilya slips through the crowd to get to him. Hollander met him half way, throwing an arm around Ilya’s shoulder and tugging him through the airport before the crowd could turn into a mob.

“I’m going to kill you,” Hollander mutters under his breath. 

He is wearing sunglasses inside with some kind of designer outfit he definitely hadn’t chosen, but looked stupidly attractive in. Thick layers to protect against the Montreal winter. 

“Smile for your adoring fans Hollander,” Ilya directs, waving at the crowd, which security had stepped in to divert. 

He looks over and Hollander is smiling. Just the curl of his lip while he played along with Ilya waving his hand to the hockey fans watching them make their escape. 

“Happy?” 

Hollander let go of him and leads Ilya towards the parking garage. “Aren’t you,” Ilya teases. 

After both Ilya and Hollander had made it clear to the media they were on friendly terms the questions had started. Like, when on earth had they become friends? Hollander had given a boring press answer like, ‘mutual respect for each other on the ice during junior international competitions’.

Ilya had been less perfect. “Should the best players in hockey not be best friends? We complain about how slow everyone is. Like Scott Hunter. He is a million years old and can barely skate.”

The internet loved that. The group chat. Not so much. Ilya had been delighted. There was a very funny video of a reporter asking Hayden Pike how long Ilya Rozanov had been Hollander’s best friend and Pike had the most sour cat reaction Ilya had ever seen. 

“No. You’re the worst. Why would I come to pick you up at the airport and risk getting mobbed?” 

He is so deadpan. Monotone. Ilya wants to jump him so badly. Instead he laughs and knocks their shoulders together as they stop for the cross walk. He lifts his hand away from his luggage to rub a hand through his curls and in that time Hollander steals it.

“Hey!” 

Hollander gives him a glance and then is taking off down the cross walk. Ilya chases after. “My bag! You thief."

It’s an international airport, but it’s still early in the morning. There are no witnesses to Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander racing around a parking garage yelling at each other. 

A silver car comes into view, making both men slow down.

Hollander clicks his car remote and it lights up with a little beep. “What is that, a jeep?” 

A little frown creases Hollander’s face. “No. It's British. Good in the snow.” 

“Okay.”

Ilya rocks back on his heels as they stop, waiting for the trunk to open. What kind of argument is he supposed to mount when he can see those freckles in person? 

“Come on,” Hollander chides, making his way around the car, “we’re going to be late.” 

It was early in the morning. They weren’t going to be late for anything. He’s pretty sure at least. The plan was to get to Montreal and follow along with whatever Hollander was doing or told him to do. It was a strategy that usually worked for him when he didn’t have all the information. 

Inside the car Ilya steals Hollander’s sun glasses. It gives him a moment to look into his pretty brown eyes. It makes Ilya think of the Kigilyakh. The stone people. Freckled in the depth of brown, carved to stand alone, but so openly layered. Ilya put the sun glasses on. “I can’t believe I am letting you drive my Spider and you pick me up in such a boring car,” Ilya whines just to keep himself from leaning in to kiss him. 

Hollander rolls his eyes and thunked his head back in the seat before pulling out of the parking space. “You’re making me drive your car. I do not want to drive that death trap.” 

Ilya chuckles. “I don’t understand how your Mom let you buy that. My mom yelled for five minutes about your interview. Okay she didn’t actually yell. She yelled with her eyes. While I had to explain,”

He swallows the lump that had formed in his throat. Luckily Hollander was in the middle of a rant and didn’t need Ilya to respond. He rubbed his wrist with his thumb turning his head to look out the window as they pulled out of the parking garage. 

The morning sun was bright rolling up against the concrete buildings of the airport. It’s the kind of December that rains as much as it snows, leaving odd mixes of snow piles and grass. Even in a Montreal winter the weather was unpredictable. In terms of driving fast cars in the winter, this was the best it would ever get. 

“You’re lucky we didn’t enter the draft together. She would have made you public enemy number one.” 

“Oh. Am I supposed to be terrified of your mother,” Ilya asks. 

“Only if you have a reason to be,” Hollander smirks. 

“Then we are fine. I’m perfect,” Ilya preens and pretends like he hadn’t been reading Google translated Wikipedia pages and blog sites last night to prepare for this. 

Hollander snorts. “Sure.” 

They both fall silent as Hollander drives them out of the airport. Past all of the security cameras that could still be watching them. Ilya is used to surveillance. His family is full of police. The Olympics next year will make it worse. Nothing could make him feel relaxed about it. Even here. Especially here maybe. 

Ilya’s thoughts jumble to a halt when Hollander turns down a service road ten minutes into the drive. It was definitely not a road to the race track, at least he could read the names of locations. It would be hard if he couldn’t. There is a path of trees along the river, with a tiny service building and a retention wall. Out of sight of anyone. 

“Are you going to murder me,” Ilya asks, pushing the sun glasses to the top of his head to get a better look at their surroundings as Hollander parks in the middle of the street. 

Ilya knows how mean Hollander can be when he wants. He hears a seat belt unbuckle and Ilya barely has time to turn his head before he is attacked. 

Hollander’s mouth is hot and wet and greedy. Ilya laces his fingers against the back of Hollander’s neck and breathes him in deeply. There is not enough air to get any words out. He has enough sense to drag a hand down to his own seat belt and get it undone.

He leans into the man, returning the hunger. Ilya tries to get a good grip on him. Put Hollander’s head exactly where he needs it to slip his tongue into his mouth. Except Hollander has other plans.

Ilya’s body jerks back until he lays flat. Hollander’s hand shifts away from the seat lever and down to Ilya’s pants. 

“Holy Shit Hollander,” Ilya groans leaning up on his elbows as Hollander fishes his dick out of his boxers. 

“Shut up,” Hollander mutters, and leans across the console to wrap his lips around Ilya’s dick. 

Ilya groans and promptly does not shut up. “Look at you. So perfect,” he praises, his cock instantly hard as soon as Hollander’s mouth is on him. 

He wouldn’t hold back his whimper if he had a choice in the matter. Hollander has one hand braced on Ilya’s thigh, spreading him open and the other on the console for balance. 

Ilya wraps his fingers in Hollander’s hair, feeling the way Hollander bobs up and down on his cock. “Fuck. Look at how much you need it,” Ilya continues to run his mouth, “so perfect. Look at you.” 

It did not escape him that they were technically on a public road and could be seen. However, he couldn’t care at the moment when his cock was in the tight heat of Hollander’s throat and Hollander’s shoulders were relaxing. 

Ilya struggles to not buck his hips up. To make Hollander take more. Hollander is moaning around his cock. Pushing himself down further to take more than what he should be able to. Has Hollander been practicing with dildos? 

“Gorgeous,” Ilya praises and Hollander pulls off his dick, lips glistening with spit. 

“Stop holding back,” he growls, “I can take it.” 

Ilya drops his head back for a second, needing to look away to draw in air. Once he had control over himself again he yanks Hollander’s hair back making the man whine. “I was being so nice, letting you take what you need,” he knows he sounds wrecked, “sitting so pretty so you could stuff yourself full of cock. And yet you want more from me?” 

Hollander grits his teeth and pulls against Ilya’s grip, pained pleasure swirling in his eyes. “If I wanted something that would stay still I would use a dildo.” 

Ilya doesn’t let Hollander sass him anymore, angling the man back to his dick and snapping his hips up as soon as Hollander’s mouth opens for him. They both moan. Ilya keeps his eyes on him. Letting his hips move naturally without trying to hold back. His hand goes back to gently carding through Hollander’s hair as the man sucks. 

Hollander is so fucking greedy with his mouth. Ilya forgets about playing nice. His own orgasm isn’t the point of this, except for all the ways it is. It’s Hollander’s desperation and Ilya is happy to be there for the ride. 

Where did he learn to use his tongue like that? 

“Hollander,” Ilya warns, but he pushes down on Hollander’s shoulders encouraging him to take more. 

There was no way Hollander wants him to come anywhere in his car which is perfectly clean and still smelt new. Hollander presses down further on his cock with a moan working his throat along Ilya’s length. “Fuck. You’re so perfect. So so perfect,” Ilya moaned in Russian as he came down Hollander’s throat. 

The man drank him greedily pressing down against Ilya’s hips and pushing himself down to the base. He loves how strong Hollander is. Knowing he could probably over power him or would make it a challenge at the very least. He loves that Hollander chooses to be pretty and pliant instead. 

Ilya lets his body relax, going languid and watching Hollander pull off his cock through hooded eyes. Hollander flopped back against his own seat with a content sigh. Ilya reaches his hand out and lazily laces their fingers together as he enjoys the post orgasm bliss. 

“You kill me, Hollander,” Ilya declares, rolling his head to look at Hollander’s face, “I am dead.” 

The other man laughs while Ilya leverages himself up to lean over for a kiss. “Gross,” Hollander complains ducking away but he nuzzles against Ilya and places a kiss on his forehead. 

Nothing soft about him, but all of him sweet. 

Ilya shifts and starts to lean across the console to return the favor, but Hollander bats him away. “We do not have time for that.”

“No time. You come so quickly,” Ilya argues as Hollander opens the console and pulls out a small bottle of mouth wash. 

He’s derailed from his line of argument by this. Hollander waves at Ilya’s pants. “Put your dick away so I can open the door.” 

“You’re the one who got it out,” Ilya can’t help but argue shifting to put his cock back in his pants and bring the seat back up. 

Hollander gives him what might be a very patient look before rolling his eyes and opening the door as soon as Ilya was put back together. “I did not think you would risk getting caught giving a public blow job,” Ilya notes looking out at the river. 

He does not get an answer for a moment. The door slams shut and Hollander chucks his mouth wash back into the console. “It’s not public. It’s a private service road and I got a car with tinted windows. No one could see in even if they were around.” 

Ilya sat up straighter in his seat smelling blood. His grin slowly creeping up on to his face. “Did you buy a new car with tinted windows just to blow me?” 

Hollander looks away his cheeks rising with that pretty blush. “No,” he huffs, “that would be ridiculous.” 

Ilya laughs. “When did you get car?”

Hollander grumbles starting the car again. “Recently,” Ilya needles. 

“Fuck off,” he finished a perfect neat three point turn and glances back at Ilya. 

“How recently? Before or after we have double hat trick?” 

“Last week,” Hollander finally admits. 

Ilya stole his hand again, unwilling to let go this time. Not until he had to. “You did buy this car to have sex in,” Ilya crows, “did you look up service road too?” 

“Was I supposed to wait all day? Do you know how long the photo shoot alone will take?” 

His dick tries to get hard again. Really. Hollander had been so desperate, had wanted him so badly, he had went out and bought a new car with windows tinted enough that no one could see inside, just so he could suck Ilya’s cock sooner. 

“We could always sneak away on set,” Ilya suggests because he needs to reward this behavior. 

Hollander squirms. “No! Dude. My mom is going to be there. And sets are not sexy.” 

“Neither is your sex car.”

“Do not call it a sex car.” 

“I’m calling it a sex car, even though my car is sexier,” Ilya decides, “the windows are dark enough. Do you think,” 

Hollander elbows his side without letting go of his hand, “whatever you’re going to say, no.” 

Ilya relaxes back into the seat unable to keep his delighted smile off his face. “You’re so boring,” Ilya whines, dragging out all the syllables.

Deep brown eyes cut to him and the smile on Hollander’s face is undeniable. Ilya is pretty sure he’ll die happy with this feeling.

The roads pass by and Ilya finds himself leaning forwards to look out the window waiting for the race track to come into view. “Excited,” Hollander asks, giving his hand a light squeeze. 

“I like fast cars,” Ilya shrugs, trying to play it cooler than he actually feels.

He really couldn’t believe that they had booked out the entire Circuit Gilles-Villeneuve for a day just so they could do a stupid segment about Hollander driving his car and an ad campaign for some clothes company. 

It was probably half self defense on the league's part. The last thing they needed was for the two twenty one year old super stars to get into an accident, joy riding in a Ferrari together. So a race track in Montreal that is properly snow plowed and salted was probably safer than letting them do it together after a game. Not that they knew Ilya would actually be fucking Hollander into the mattress all night instead of driving a sports car. 

This way he got to do both. So he wasn’t upset. 

“Are motorsports popular in Russia?” 

Ilya thought about that. “Competition is popular in Russia,” he gave Hollander a smile, “we like winning. But I would say yes. There is good following. Football and hockey are better.” 

“So are you planning on going to racing events this summer,” Hollander asks, “I’ve heard that a few of the Boston guys go to NASCAR events together in the off season.”

Ilya pushed his thumb into his knee. “No. I will go home to Russia.” 

“Oh,” Hollander makes a soft sound from the back of his throat and before Ilya can ask about it, the first section of track appears. 

Ilya sits up. There is security standing outside and Ilya takes his hand out of Hollander’s even if no one can see yet. 

Hollander pulls up to a stop at the blockage and rolls down his window. The security guard looks at him for half a second. “Mr. Hollander! Sir.”

There’s a brief exchange of words before the blockage is pulled back for him and he rolls up the window. 

“Mr. Hollander,” Ilya mocks. 

“Don’t,” Hollander protests but it’s already too late. 

“Sir,” Ilya continues, “Mr. Shane Hollander, Sir.”

Hollander drives through the opening and turns onto the race track. Ilya squirms in his seat. “Do not do that on set,” Hollander demands but it’s basically a plea. 

“Do what Sir,” Ilya keeps going. 

A hand smacks into his chest and Ilya giggles. “You’re lucky you’re cute.” 

Ilya could swoon. 

Hollander does a full lap of the track for them. Even past all of the people gathered under a tent for the set. It’s early December in Montreal so of course it’s cold, but the sun is out and the track is plowed from any remaining snow. Not the most ideal conditions but Hollander probably wouldn’t break the speed limit. It's not like they are going race car fast on the track anyways. 

When Hollander stops the car Ilya slides the sun glasses back on to his face and watches the milling people. There are people coming in and out from the pit to the tent. “Do you think they will let us look around,” Ilya asks. 

“You’re going to be lucky if you have a second to breathe,” Hollander is watching the people in the distance and the ones coming to swarm the car.

Ilya shrugs and opens the door stepping out. The set people already have ideas and are talking a mile a minute. Ilya looks back to Hollander who is getting pulled away so Ilya lets himself get dragged as well. 

They end up in one of the pit buildings where hair and makeup pull and push until they are in the clothes they want. Ilya is good at English. Much better than he was at 18. Once they realized he had to go the the NHL Svetlana had been ruthless about practicing the language. Still many people talking all at once was an issue. Especially if he was not familiar with them. Not to mention the written word.

Ilya glances at Hollander when they get propped up into make up chairs instead of trying to get any kind of words in. 

“What are you looking at,” Hollander asks as a make up artist hovers over him using a pencil on his eyes. 

Ilya had done a few ads. When he was playing for the KHL. There had been a CCM thing, but everyone had one of those. So this isn’t new exactly. Except Hollander looks like it’s an average every day thing. Which was not what Ilya was expecting. Maybe he should have when an itinerary got downloaded to his phone. Not that he had read the itinerary, or would have even if he could.

They put Hollander in a half zip pull over that was mostly white and blue with red accents, geometric shapes, and an American flag across the back. It should be gaudy, but on Hollander it wasn’t. He looked like the classic good boy next door. Ilya desperately wanted to unzip the beige slacks and get his cock in his mouth while he ran his hands under that sweater. 

Ilya had a blue sweater with a little bear on it, a dark jacket, and blue jeans. He liked the cute bear, but he also thought it was stupid. 

“What,” Hollander asks more insistent this time when he notices Ilya looking. 

“Nothing.” 

Hollander gives him a glare, but then a woman is pushing her way into the room coming straight for them. It’s, of course, Yuna Hollander. Ilya sits up straight from his slouch when he sees her. She has a phone pressed up against her ear and looks like she owns the entire production. 

Ilya can see exactly where Hollander got his looks from. 

Her phone disappears when she gets to them and smiles at her son. “The set crew is almost ready with the car,” she announces as her eyes flick over to Ilya.

He stands on automatic as soon as she looks at him tucking his hands behind his back. “Rozanov,” she greets face impassive, “it’s good to finally meet you.”

Her hand stretches out and Ilya is not the kind of stupid to give her a weak handshake back. He gives her his best respectful smile. “You as well,” he agrees, “Hollander tells me how important you are to his success," which was true, “my agent was also very impressed.” 

His agent hadn’t said those words exactly. More so posturing irritation about a Canadian woman, but he had told Ilya to sign the contracts and play nicely. Which was about as much involvement in the matter as the man ever gave. 

She gives him a small smile. “Well, thank you,” she releases his hand and brushes her hands down her slacks, “speaking of which, when is he arriving?” 

Ilya hesitates, “who?” 

“Your agent,” she says it like this is an obvious thing and purses her lips, “I’m surprised he’s not here already.” 

His agent. Ilya shifts on the balls of his feet and laces his fingers back behind his back again thumb digging into his wrist. “Ah, no, he is not coming.”

Yuna Hollander looks at him like he just told her that he was a bear living in a forest. “Why would he not be coming?” 

“Mom,” Hollander interrupts, the same look on his face. 

Which is a double vision Ilya hadn’t needed imprinted into his mind. She glances at her son. “His agent should be here Shane,” she protests, “that’s part of the job.” 

Part of the job? Hollander didn’t look like he disagreed. “That’s not Rozanov’s fault. You don’t need to grill him about it.” 

Her gaze softened. “You’re right,” she concedes and Ilya’s head swims at the interaction. 

The fact that she had backed down, the fact that Hollander had interrupted her at all. She reaches out and pats Ilya’s arm. “Regardless,” she decides and steps back, “we’re happy that you made it to Montreal safe. I’m not sure how I feel about sports cars fitting into Shane’s brand image, much less him driving one, but,” 

She stops and purses her lips looking at the American flag on Hollander’s sweater. “I suppose it can’t be any worse than this outfit. Shane is Canadian for fucks sake.”

“Mom,” Hollander interrupts again. 

She sighs. “I need to go have a word with costuming about this.” 

She breezed off and Ilya felt himself melting back into the make up chair. The staff engulfs him again. “She’s a bit intense,” Hollander almost apologizes. 

Ilya chuckles. “No shit,” he agrees, “I see where you get it from.” 

Hollander gets switched to a different geometric sweater not long after. A few minutes after that they are being led out back to the track and there are ten people explaining what is going to happen. It’s a scripted interaction with scenes blocked out, but Ilya doesn’t mind. 

They have Ilya play up the cocky asshole party boy in his script and Hollander as hockey’s golden child, but it’s fun. Playful. Ilya knows they didn’t intend to make it sexy, but it’s a little sexy. 

His Ferrari Spider is brought out and while they are fussing with a camera Ilya drags Hollander over to it and pulls open the hood to tell him about the specs. 

“We really aren’t supposed to get distracted and move away from our marks.”

Hollander doesn’t know anything about cars. That’s clear on his face, but he’s also smiling at Ilya and nodding along and Ilya needs to keep talking or else he is going to combust. He’s going to reach for Hollander and touch him. “They go from a stand still to sixty miles an hour in three point four seconds Hollander,” Ilya waves at the engine trying to find a connection that would make sense to Hollander to, “six seconds to go one hundred and sixty. You go faster than the puck in six seconds!” 

Hollander’s eyebrows rose at that. “I guess that is impressive,” Hollander allows and leans towards where Ilya is pointing. 

He takes Hollander around the car pointing out his favorite features and aerodynamics. Hollander is not a silent participant. He asks questions and teases Ilya about being a car nerd. Ilya is about to cram Hollander into the car when he realizes they have been left unattended for too long and looks around to see the silent camera crew filming them. They must have finished fixing their camera. 

The director cuts the filming as soon as Ilya catches sight of the camera. “Sorry,” he calls over. 

“It’s good B Roll,” the director answers and they are swarmed with directions and scripts. 

Which goes well. Their set up. Friendly, very bro supposed meeting. Hollander pretended like he had an interest in sports cars like Ilya had claimed. Ilya got to drive the Spider around the track once before the camera crew is ready for Hollander to get inside. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath when he slides in the driver’s seat and the camera people are fussing with angles and microphones. 

Ilya really should be worried about someone else driving his baby. But also Hollander looks hot in his car despite the obvious nerves. 

“Are we sure the track is safe for this,” Hollander asks him, “there’s not any ice?”

“Yes. We even have NHL approval,” Ilya waves his hand, “you’re just not allowed to go over one hundred miles per hour. Which is a shame. Going faster is fun.”

“And illegal, Rozanov,” Hollander flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. 

Ilya shrugs. “This is fun car Hollander. Relax.” 

“I’m going to look stupid on camera,” Hollander complains. 

His mother is out by the camera tent pacing. Very composed, but clearly not used to the idea of her child doing something more stupid than playing hockey. 

The staff pulls away and give Hollander the all clear. He grits his teeth and starts the car. “Bet you can’t handle the speed,” Ilya declares on impulse. 

“What,” Hollander demands, his eyes snapping over to Ilya.

“I bet. You can not. Handle. The. Speed.” 

Hollander’s eyes spark and he looks away to the clear stretch of road in front of him. The Spider roars to life and then squeals as Hollander slams on the gas taking off. 

Ilya’s body jerks back against the seat as he laughs. 

He definitely goes over one hundred miles an hour but the track has a lot of curves, so he ends up going much slower around those. They blow past the camera tent and do a second lap, as Hollander gains confidence driving. Ilya explains g-force and turning to him and the best parts to slow down and speed up. Hollander is extremely coachable following directions beautifully. 

Ilya has to work very hard to not praise Hollander. To tell him what a good job he is doing. How well he is riding it. This is supposed to be a very guy friend thing. It’s very hard to accomplish when Ilya just wants to eat him. 

He shifts and tries to imagine unsexy things. Which had gotten progressively easier in the last year. 

Hollander does five laps of the track. Which is two more then they had blocked out but Ilya is nothing if not a bad influence. 

They get waved down after the fifth lap which is probably the only thing that makes them stop. Getting out of the car Ilya notices the cameras are still rolling. His eyes track the camera crew and he turns towards the track just as the sound of an engine rolls through his ears and a blur of red zips past. 

“Oh fuck,” Ilya yells feeling his eyes light up as he whips around to follow the race car into the pit where it rolls to a stop. 

Hollander’s shoulder brushed against his. His own eyes wide. He should have tried to read the itinerary if this was on it. Ilya can’t keep the smile off his face. 

“Hollander! That’s a race car,” he exclaims, “that’s an F1 Ferrari!” 

“I didn’t even see it before it was going past us,” Hollander admits, “and I knew it would be here today.” 

The driver is getting out of the car, his helmet pulled off. The man is handsome in the way Marleau is handsome. Boxy and rugged. He looks at the two hockey players and waves with a shy cocky smile. 

“So itinerary does not remove all surprises, huh, Hollander,” Ilya teases as he waves back nudging Hollander to approach. 

“Fuck you,” Hollander mutters back and then winces covering his mic with his hand, “I always forget about these things.”

Ilya laughs at him and his eyes track the driver. Who is, fuck, that really was, the NHL had pulled out a lot of stops for this. “I heard we might have some Ferrari fans here?” 

Francisco Aguilar Ferrari’s current top driver and maybe the best F1 driver in the world. “You might,” Hollander says dryly when they get over and reaches out his hand in greeting.

Aguilar shakes his hand back and then offers his hand to Ilya. Ilya naturally shakes it. “And you must be Boston Fan,” he quips, needing something to say, “you could not be here as a Montreal fan. Yuck!” 

The man is ten years their senior but smiles like he is just as young. His eyes keep going over to Hollander. 

Aguilar laughs. “The team wanted to make a last minute press stop in Montreal and we heard that there were some kids messing around in a Ferrari who booked the track out. We thought there might be some wiggle room possible to share the space.” 

Which was how Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander both ended up posing in a race car for a calendar or magazine or something. Ilya didn’t really care. Regardless of the reason it was cool. 

He gets to sit with Hollander as they watch the car go around the track. It’s slower than it normally would be. It’s still winter and it’s the off season for F1 after all. Hollander asks questions and Ilya answers and it’s basically perfect. 

Except for the fact that Aguilar also smiles at everything Hollander says and spends too much time listening to him. Ilya knows that look. The look that’s not really looking. Aguilar wants Hollander. 

That’s not his fault. Ilya knows exactly what that feels like. He also knows exactly what it looks like to be on the receiving end of Hollander’s own wanting glances. Aguilar gets none of those. 

“I’ve heard that Montreal is very nice,” Aguilar says to Hollander after they have had the microphones removed and the video team is packing up to leave. 

Yuna Hollander is on the phone somewhere and they have been left to their own devices. 

“It is,” Hollander agrees with a smile, “it’s nice to be so close to home.” 

“Where is that?” 

“Ottawa,” Ilya interrupts and Hollander shoves him, “boring place for boring Montreal Center.” 

“I don’t think you’re boring.”

Which, if the situation was two NHL star centers in a competitive friendship like they were being portrayed and Hollander happened to also be a closeted gay man, that might have been a decent line for the older man. 

Hollander’s eyes have slipped back to Ilya, away from their impressive company. “Call me boring again on the ice,” Hollander challenges. 

Ilya sways on his feet. That was true. He couldn’t call Hollander boring on the ice. “Can not,” Ilya admits, “you’re so slow on the ice. You could not keep up enough for me to say anything.” 

“I am not slow. You’re such a fucking liar,” his eyes drift back to their company for a second, just to clarify his superiority, “I’m the fastest in the league.” 

“No way. Prove it!”

“I won the speed race at last all stars competition.” 

Ilya blew a raspberry. “I was not there. It does not count.” 

Hollander narrows his eyes like he can find a way to prove he is faster right now. “What’s an all stars competition?” 

Ilya and Hollander both look back at him. At the interruption of their argument. The best part about it is that Hollander has his bitchy judgmental face on. About an event that almost all NHL players hated. Ilya likes him so much. He takes pity on the race car driver and explains it so Hollander doesn’t. “NHL super stars go to Florida to do press and compete in skills competitions and then a friendly match.” 

“That sounds like fun to watch,” Aguilar’s eyes flicker back to Hollander, his eye lashes almost fluttering.

“I could get you tickets if you want,” Hollander offers because he is a polite and perfect Canadian even if he thinks people who know nothing about hockey are stupid. 

Aguilar brightens. “Yeah?” 

“It’s in February” Hollander continues, “Rozanov and I have a game against each other and then we’ll go to the airport the next day.” 

Ilya is looking forward to that. Playing against Hollander and then getting on the same plane and fucking off for a week. Even if it would be full of press and events it was still time they could steal away with each other. 

“Are you two playing against each other this weekend?” 

“No,” Ilya answers, “Boston and Montreal both have a two day break right now. NHL wants a segment about two super stars being friends and driving fast cars together.”

Which was mostly how this had happened. “So work between work. I get what that’s like,” Aguilar nods a long, “that’s why you work hard and party harder right?” 

Hollander looks at him blankly. Ilya can’t swallow his smile at how unenthusiastic Hollander is at a man who has been watching his lips for thirty seconds. He doesn’t know if Hollander can’t tell the man is flirting or is simply uninterested. 

“Hollander is boring and does not party.” 

“I have a rest schedule so I have energy for games. I’m not wasting my time getting drunk when I could be using that energy for winning!” 

“Parties are fun,” Ilya points out, like it’s a winning argument. 

“Are you two always like this,” Aguilar’s eyes are ping ponging between the two of them. 

They both shrug. “Probably.” 

“Aguilar! It’s time to go!” 

They all look behind them at the F1 staff coming for their own super star. Aguilar attempts one last look at Hollander to try and get his attention before leaving. Too bad for him Hollander is still thinking about their argument. Ilya can see that in his eyes. 

“He wants you so bad Winner,” Ilya purrs in Russian to Hollander, “but you are mine.”

Hollander’s eyes narrow, recognizing the Russian word for winner. Too bad he doesn’t have time to ask about it. They are all being whisked around again and this time they are dragged back to hair and make up. 

These outfits are much better. Luxury and sexy. Ilya’s outfit is leaning slightly more flamboyant. Flowing black silk shirt and waist hugging dress pants. The styling team must have looked at his club outfits on Instagram. 

Yuna floats back into their orbit updating Hollander on a dozen different things he listens to with a casual intensity. They put him in a much more respectable outfit. Equally sexy, entirely masculine. Ilya would really like to unbutton his shirt with his mouth. 

“Rozanov I called your agent,” Yuna tacks on the end of her report like this is all very normal, “I thought he was incompetent when we were setting this up, but he’s also very unprofessional.” 

Ilya felt his eyes widen. She continues. “I’m putting you in contact with a friend of mine who is an agent and a contract lawyer. Really you can do better than that lazy oaf. She’s very good and will take care of you.” 

“You can’t just decide he needs a new agent,” Hollander defends on his behalf. 

“He does,” she protests innocently, “Shane honey you can’t pretend like he doesn’t.”

Laughter bubbles out of Ilya’s chest. They are both so alike. “Thank you Mrs. Hollander,” he tells her his eyes soft, “that was very kind of you.” 

“See!” 

She waves her hand at Ilya and Hollander throws up his hands. “I’m not responsible for anything that happens,” he declares. 

Ilya settles back and watches Yuna and Shane Hollander go over their obligations. After this photo shoot they have an interview with some kind of Montreal new show that chats with people. Then Yuna wants to take them out for dinner and they will be free for the evening. Tomorrow morning they are set to appear together on a hockey podcast. One of the less annoying ones. Which ends their obligations and they can hang out until Ilya has to drive to Ottawa to meet his team for their next game. They will not see each other again until their game before all stars. 

Ilya plans to make the most of their precious time. 

When they leave the building again a horse trailer has appeared. “I fucking forgot about this,” its Hollander’s turn to be surprised. 

Horses? Ilya perks up and wanders until he can see them.  

“Why did it have to be horses,” Hollander asks, almost hiding behind Ilya’s shoulder and looking at the two midnight black creatures. 

“They are giant,” Ilya whistles his heart thrumming, “we should say hello.” 

“What? No!” 

It’s already too late. Ilya has taken Hollander by the arm and drags him over to the horses and their handler.

The two of them are muscled giants but they still look soft. Ilya hasn’t ever been close to a horse in real life, but he could admit that he liked watching them run. He especially liked watching jockeys bounce during races. 

“Hollander look. They have little coats so they do not get cold!” 

One is draped in red and the other in green. They are tied up against the trailer eating hay, tails swishing slightly. It reminds Ilya of the breeze in the trees. 

 “They are going to kill us,” Hollander hisses while Ilya greets the handler.

“Hello! Who are these  fashionable babies?” 

She smiles at them, one hand planted on the red one’s flank with a brush in that hand. “Jade and Ruby,” she holds out her free hand, “they’re Arabian mares and trained actresses.” 

“Ah! They match their coats,” Ilya cheers turning his head to smile back at Hollander. 

Hollander has not come out from behind him. His eyes wide at the horses. “Trained actresses,” Hollander repeats. 

“Since Ferrari and Ralph Lauren both used a black horse in their logo they would be a good tie in. But don’t worry, they are professionals,” the trainer reassures. 

This did not convince Hollander who was clutching on the back of the fancy shirt Ilya was wearing. Ilya holds his palm out to the closest beast who was quick to investigate. 

“Of course they are professionals. Look at those sweet faces,” Ilya coos running his hand along the neck of the horse. 

There are muscles there as well. Hot and well defined. It’s the first time he really understands why engines are measured with horse power. “You know one kick from one of those and your hockey career is done right,” Hollander hisses in his ear. 

“Relax Hollander,” Ilya laughs.

He does not relax. 

Ilya does not get the chance to coax Hollander into making friends with the horses. Instead his Spider is parked in a spot where the camera crew deems acceptable. They take turns posing with Ilya’s car individually and together. Which he gets the impression goes better than anyone was expecting. Even if Ilya and Hollander keep breaking into laughter after one of them makes eye contact for too long. 

Once they get to pose with the horses Hollander gets stiff. Ilya can see the way his chest is rising and falling with increasing speed. The horse is not any more relaxed than Hollander is. Swishing her tail back and forth. The handler tried to encourage Hollander to relax saying something about horses reading emotions but it doesn’t seem to help. For two professionals they are not working well together. 

Hollander’s eyes keep searching him out. Flickering between the horse and Ilya. Something curls in his gut. Knowing Shane Hollander, when scared of a creature who could theoretically hurt him, looks for Ilya. Like Ilya was the one who could protect him. 

He moves before the realization finishes clicking into place in his mind. Ilya steps up, taking the halter of the horse and petting her neck. He puts his body between the two to give Hollander a minute to breathe. 

“Hollander. If the poor pony ruins your skating career she will be destroyed in the tabloids,” Ilya explains to him, “she can not take that kind of stress.” 

“Why do they have such big eyes,” Hollander whispers to them, “why is everything about them so big?”

“Come here. Next to me,” Ilya encourages waving his fingers as the crew watches in silence. 

He does not think about Hollander’s mother watching him coax both man and horse together. Hollander obeys moving around slowly until he is behind Ilya again, both of them looking at the horse. Who shuffles a bit. 

Ilya has a feeling both horse and man are giving each other freaked out eyes. “She is big sweetheart,” Ilya tells him and knocks his hip back against Hollander’s. 

He talks a bit of nonsense to the horse about how pretty and strong she is until he can feel Hollander relaxing next to him. From there Ilya slowly works them closer together until Hollander has his palm spread out on the horse’s nose. His body is still tense but Hollander gets tense whenever Ilya takes his hands off of him. Every time Hollander reacts to unconsciously to him it’s the best drug he’s ever taken. 

They take their photos together with the horse before they try Hollander by himself again. Mostly with Ilya sneaking further away from the shot. Man and horse slowly warming to each other. 

It all goes fine until the horse gets spooked by something crashing down in the tent and moves back suddenly. The handler goes for the horse and Ilya goes for Hollander wrapping his arm around his shoulder as he jumps back eyes wide. It’s too intimate for view, but the crew has exploded with damage control.

“You look very pretty,” Ilya tells him as the set is distracted by the horse and whatever happened to break. 

Hollander lets out a long breath, his voice just as low as Ilya’s. “You’re wearing make up too.” 

Ilya forces himself to let go of the man. “Yes, but I am not pretty.” 

They are shooed away from the set placement so everyone can settle down again and Ilya finds himself standing next to a snow bank that would have been made when the track got plowed. He looks at the set and then the snow and then Hollander, then back at the set. 

“Don’t,” Hollander warns as Ilya’s hand reaches down, “we are in designer brand,”

He doesn’t get the rest of his words out before Ilya throws a handful of snow at his chest. It thuds against him. Hollander’s eyes lit up and then they are both reaching down for more. Ilya ends up with his face in the snow bank as Hollander shoves snow down the back of his shirt. 

“Russians do not feel cold,” Ilya yells shivering at the snow melting against his skin. 

Hollander’s strength is pressing down against his shoulders keeping him pinned. There is nothing about this man that’s weak. 

They are of course caught in their antics. Yuna Hollander has a horrified look on her face until the camera crew decides that this is something they also find amusing and good for content. Which they allow to be a wrap. 

Ilya and Hollander get sent back to the building to change back into their clothes while Yuna Hollander finishes the details. 

“God this is so embarrassing,” Hollander complains, drying his hair with a towel, “we are supposed to be professionals.” 

“We are supposed to be hockey players,” Ilya corrects, reaching out to tug the short strands of black hair, “is fine.” 

“I don’t need a reputation of being difficult to work with.” 

“You are not. You take instructions so well Pobeditel’ (Winner),” Ilya praises since no one is actively around. 

Hollander had been right. There wasn’t really time or space on set to sneak away. Disappointing. 

“Shut up,” Hollander looks like he is going to bite into Ilya’s neck and tear out his throat. 

It’s a welcome idea. They could make that sexy. 

His Ferrari is getting sent ahead to Hollander’s apartment since Ilya doesn’t know where he is going in Montreal, so when it’s time to leave the track he gets in Hollander’s car while Yuna Hollander promises to meet them at the studio.

The interview is good. Fun. They are made to change into more designer clothes from the horse brand. He gets to sit with Hollander and talk and no one is afraid of them. Ilya has to keep careful control of his face to make sure he isn’t looking at Hollander with open devotion. 

Yuna Hollander at the studio asked questions about his brand image and how he wanted to appear. Which Ilya had no answers for and Hollander had to save him from trying to give anyways. She was only appeased when he promised to call her friend. 

He thinks it goes well. Both Hollanders are smiling after and Yuna Hollander drags them to a fancy restaurant Ilya is not prepared for. 

Ilya was certainly not prepared for the food order that came out of Hollander’s mouth. “What? No. Hollander. Mr. going out to parties is a waste of energy. Do you need to save energy because you eat bird food?”

“It’s an athletic diet,” Hollander corrects and Ilya motions the waiter back over, while Yuna Hollander watches with narrowed eyes. “I only eat healthy things.” 

“More bread,” Ilya tells the waiter, “and what was that appetizer? The ones with the nuts and jam and what’s the word grain cracker? Bring that.”

“I’m not eating that Rozanov,” Hollander protests.

Ilya continues to bulk up his order. “And that sliced potato thing with the cheese and bacon.” 

The waiter nods to him and rushes off while Ilya drapes his arm on the back of Hollander’s chair while Hollander complains. His mother has stayed silent. “None of that is healthy carbs,” Hollander seethes. 

Ilya raises his eyebrows giving him his most unamused look. “My coaches in Russia would have tied you to a chair and force fed you,” Ilya informs him generously and blows out a breath, “salmon with butter and a dry salad. No.”

“I work with one of the best nutritionists in the world. Lots of famous athletes swear by him.” 

“I see. He is trying to ruin all your careers!”

“You smoke! You can’t lecture me!” 

“You smoke?” 

Both of their heads whip around to Yuna Hollander. Who has her son’s raised eyebrow, judgmental stare, and wide eyes. 

“Almost never,” Ilya lies automatically.

She looks over at Hollander. “Boston wants me to quit. Is process,” Ilya adds before this can blow back on Hollander. 

He has no intention of stopping smoking but she didn’t need to know that. She already didn’t like him. “I’m sure your parents are happy with that,” she brushes her hair back along her shoulders so it’s all sitting perfectly in line. 

“Smoking is much more common in Russia,” Ilya explains instead of saying his father doesn’t care and his mother is dead. 

Out of the drugs he could be doing Ilya had chosen the tamest ones. Really Canadians and Americans were boring about their drug choices. Very stuck up. 

“I will not try and get Hollander to smoke,” Ilya promises. 

The waiter comes back with the appetizer Ilya had ordered. Ilya immediately shoves it at Hollander. “Call it a cheat day Hollander.” 

Maybe this was not the best way to convince her he wasn’t a bad influence. He smoked, got her son to drive a fast sports car, and now was badgering him to break his diet. This was not a good impression. 

“I guess you wouldn’t,” she agrees, throwing him for a loop. 

Hollander rolls his eyes and eats. Ilya suspects it’s more so Ilya doesn’t continue to argue with his mother but he will take the victory. His arm has been on the back of Hollander’s chair for too long. He drops it. 

“Is your family coming to Boston for Christmas?” 

Ilya’s feet wiggle. He reaches out and grabs his own cracker and fruit nut dip. “No. Christmas is not really a big deal in Russia. My Captain decided I am going to spend it at his house." 

Ilya is kind of looking forward to that. He rubs his thumb into the meat of his thigh. “He has an eight year old and a four year old so I am going to dress up as Santa and bring presents.” 

Talking about someone else’s family was better than his own. Yuna Hollander softened. “Oh, that’s sweet,” she picks up her wine to take a sip, “Boston has been playing a lot better this season. They have been putting in the work, but it seems like adding you did the most,” she continues. 

Ilya can do hockey talk. He knows a lot about hockey. “Yes. We are playing good hockey,” Ilya agrees, “I hear the new Assistant Coach helped, and Boyle returned after knee surgery this season.” 

“I was surprised when Boston traded their first round draft pick for Knowles last season, but that did shore up Boston’s defensive problems,” Yuna explains, “but we’re happy Shane got to go to Montreal instead of Boston.” 

Without Ilya there hadn’t been any doubt that Hollander was going to be the first round draft pick that season. It had been a known fact Hollander was going to Montreal as soon as Ilya had declared for the KHL draft. 

“It was more shocking you entered the KHL for a year and then transferred," she adds.

Ilya can feel Hollander looking at him. The unspoken agreement that he also didn’t get why Ilya had made the decisions he had. Ilya lets his fingers tap on his knee under the table. “My father is a very big KHL fan,” Ilya explains because it’s what he told everyone when he had to answer this question. 

The answer didn’t exactly make sense in the long term, but it worked well enough, “I wanted to play for his league even if NHL was the goal. It was a good experience but I never planned to stay.” 

He had planned to stay. He had planned to be the darling of the KHL, try and make his father proud, try and do something for Russia, but instead he was met with his Father’s health and how he spoke to him every day. Ilya had to leave. 

Yuna Hollander looks at him like she might only barely believe this answer. 

The bread arrives and there is a sunflower seed spread. Ilya has no idea what that means but he grabs it and puts one on Hollander’s plate with a firm look. Hollander rolls his eyes and makes a comment to his mother about Boston’s hockey season and before Ilya knows it the two of them are dissecting all of the NHL rosters with pin point precision. Which didn’t devolve into Hollander or Ilya playing for bad teams or being bad players or what they needed to be working on. It was weird. 

Hollander ate two of the potato things when they came, along with his bland fish and salad. Ilya was satisfied by that. 

It’s actually a pretty good meal. Yuna Hollander is as intense as her son, especially about hockey, but there is something ultimately kind when she looks at her child. By the end of dinner Ilya feels like she had extended some kind of grace to him as well. 

Outside the restaurant Hollander and his Mother went over the details for the morning again. “Don’t stay out too late tonight,” she tells them as she pulls back from a hug from Hollander, “but have fun.”

Ilya rocks back on his heels staying silent. “We’re just going back to my place to watch a movie or something.”

Definitely or something. Ilya was going to strip Hollander bare and then suck him dry. 

Yuna Hollander gives him a firm look and he straightens, sliding his hands behind his back. “You are not paying next time Rozanov,” she scolds, “that was nice of you, but you are our guest.” 

Ilya hadn’t even thought about it. The two of them had been talking about the second defensive line in Detroit when the waiter had come back with the check. He had quietly taken it on instinct and sent it back off before either of them had registered another person nearby. 

As soon as he had any kind of money on his own he had been expected to pay. Which was fine. 

“Thank you Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya says instead, just so he can’t fuck anything up. 

She gives him a small smile and fusses at Hollander about some other brand deal she had forgotten to mention earlier. Ilya is pretty sure she hadn’t. It was a kinder version of his father yelling at him for not being at school to be picked up. 

Maybe. 

They watch her get into the car before scrambling into Hollander’s. The doors click shut. Ilya has his hand on Hollander’s dick as soon as the sound hits his ears. “Fuck,” Hollander tries to bat his hand away, “let me drive home.” 

“Like you waited? You’ve been denying me all day.” 

Hollander grabs his wrist and forces his hand down to his knee. He gives Ilya a stern look, face already flushed, and then spreads his fucking legs. “It’s ten minutes away and you can do whatever you want with me.” 

Ilya slides his hand further up and squeezes the muscle of his thigh. “Make it eight.” 

“It’s already ten if I’m speeding,” Hollander admits as he throws the car into drive and pulls out of the restaurant’s lot. 

Ilya traces his fingers across the inseam of his pants. He’s hot just from the idea of perfect golden boy Shane Hollander planning to speed for him. 

“You can make it in eight.” 

“If we get pulled over we’re going to get in so much trouble,” Hollander warns but Ilya sees the speedometer climbing as soon as they hit open road. 

Ilya shrugs. “We get pulled over and we sign things for them and maybe give them money. No big deal.” 

Hollander cuts him an odd glance. “So you pay for dinner and I pay for a speeding ticket?” 

“Of course not. You pay bribe. They will not give 

speeding ticket.” 

“Have you done that before?” 

Ilya groans, throwing his head back. “It’s not a big deal. Everyone does it.” 

Hollander had a look on his face that said. ‘No. Not everyone does it’, but Ilya had moved his hand up further to Hollander’s crotch. He plays with the zipper on his pants. “Hands to yourself,” Hollander chokes out, and tilts his hips into Ilya’s touch. 

Ilya presses his palm deeper. “Are you sure you want that?”

Hollander only whimpers. They get back to a shiny fancy apartment with Hollander slamming the breaks into his parking spot. 

“There. Seven minutes and forty five seconds,” he gloats, his hips canting up into Ilya’s touch. 

“Impressive,” Ilya puts all the teasing he can into the word and they both yank their doors open at the same time. 

Ilya keeps his hands off of Hollander long enough to get inside the building before he slides his fingers up the back of Hollander’s shirt. Hollander swats him and Ilya swats his ass. “Come on,” Hollander encourages, heading for the stairs. 

“You’re so slow,” Ilya whines. 

He’s shoved and then Ilya shoves and laughter bursts through his chest as they are racing up the steps. Hollander has a light airy laugh as he shoves Ilya back to give him a chance to unlock his door. 

Ilya waits keeping his hands to himself looking around for neighbors, but it’s the nice kind of apartment where you were sectioned off from everyone else. 

The door clicks open and Hollander is pushing inside before Ilya can move him. He catches the door and it slams shut behind him as Hollander turns to crash their mouths together. 

Ilya catches him easily pulling their bodies as close as they could get. Until there isn’t any room for air. Hollander yanks at his shirt and belt, hands messy and distracted in a way that gets absolutely nothing done but ruffle Ilya’s clothes. 

His own hands are much more effective. He has been palming this cock for the last seven minutes and forty five seconds. “Rozanov,” Hollander gasps as Ilya finally gets that pretty cock out of Hollander’s pants. 

“You have been denying me all day, Hollander,” Ilya growls as he goes down to his knees, “so selfish touching me in the car and not letting me return the favor.” 

“I need it,” Hollander gasped, his fingers flying into Ilya’s curls as he wraps his lips around the tip of Hollander’s cock, “I needed it so badly.” 

Ilya sucks lightly at the head, precum already pooling in his mouth. His eyes flicker up to look at Hollander’s face. Mouth already opening in a moan. This. This was what was driving Ilya crazy all day. The fact that this was not pretty words. 

Hollander needs this. He needs him. Ilya was the only one could could give it to him. 

He pulls back, licking the slit. “Have you ever heard of the club Hollander? You don’t need to wait to get your mouth on a cock.” 

Hollander shakes his head no. “Too risky,” he argues.

Which Ilya could understand. It wasn’t like he was hooking up with men in Boston. Well he was. Technically. But that didn’t count. 

He doesn’t have time to do anything else because Hollander is stepping back and pulling at him to get up. Ilya follows hand clutching Hollander’s when his hair is released. They stumble from the front entrance and Ilya is trying to get more of his hands on Hollander and get rid of the shirt. 

“If I don’t get my mouth on you in ten seconds, Hollander,” Ilya warns. 

“There isn’t lube in the hallway,” Hollander protests but drags him faster to the bedroom. 

He stops and Ilya gets his mouth on the back of Hollander’s neck latching on to make an aggressive hickey that already has the man whining. They both look at the bed. There are no mirrors in the room. 

The bed. 

Ilya pulls his mouth back and searches the room with his eyes. There is another door leading to a bathroom. 

“Shower sex,” Ilya suggests at the same time the words also slip out of Hollander’s mouth. 

Hollander rocks his ass back against Ilya’s pants. They start to stumble forward again Hollander turning in his arms so they can kiss. 

Ilya lifts Hollander up onto the bathroom counter without breaking the kiss and doesn’t let himself linger on the thought that there isn’t a mirror in here either. 

They lose about twenty minutes just kissing. Hollander’s legs wrapped around his waist and Ilya making no move to pull away. Every time they both try to shift towards the showers they get distracted. Ilya more so. They’ve managed to get naked, but quitting Hollander’s lips would be worse than quitting nicotine. 

It’s Hollander who is able to break the kiss enough to get them into the shower. At some point hot water runs down Ilya’s back as he pants into Hollander’s mouth. He didn’t know whose hand had whose cock. It was the last thing in the world that mattered. 

Hollander had an arm wrapped around his neck whining beautifully. “Tell me what you need, Hollander.”

“You. You. You. You,” Hollander sounds delirious, “just you. Please.” 

Ilya groans and drops a hand to fondle Hollander’s balls. “Just me,” Ilya teases, “are you sure?” 

It’s Hollander’s hands on both their cocks. Sliding them together. His rhythm does not falter. “Yes,” Hollander doesn’t say much more because he is biting into Ilya’s shoulder. 

The pain is bright, vibrant, and intoxicating. Ilya sees a bottle of lube and reaches for it. Slipping some onto his fingers before he is reaching down to Hollander’s hole. 

The man gasps and bites down harder. There might be blood later. Ilya does not care. He welcomes it, his finger slips inside with ease. “Did you open yourself this morning,” Ilya asks.

Hollander’s teeth retract from his shoulder. “Only a little,” he admits and shifts his ass back against Ilya’s finger. 

“Only a little,” Ilya repeats and teases a second finger around the hole just testing to see how loose he is. 

Not very loose. Just loose enough for Ilya to notice. “Were you thinking about me,” Ilya presses. 

“I wasn’t getting off,” Hollander protests, “I was being efficient." 

Ilya’s cock shouldn’t be throbbing from that. There was nothing sexy about efficiency, except for everything Hollander did was somehow sexy. Ilya laughs and join Hollander’s hand around their cocks while he searches for his prostate. 

“You must have felt so empty all day,” Ilya mocks. 

Hollander shoves back against his finger. “Your ass looked good in those pants for the photo shoot. All I could think about was you riding me.” 

Ilya curls his finger and angles them back until Hollander finally releases the shuddering gasp he had been waiting for. “There you go,” Ilya praises, “let go for me.”

He wants an orgasm out of the way so they could last longer later. Ilya wants to spend the entire night in Hollander’s ass. 

Hollander bites into his bottom lip. “You first,” he argues. 

“You already owe me this orgasm. Do you want to owe me two,” Ilya threatens.

He slides his finger along his prostate again before pulling out to add more lube. “I owe you orgasms now,” Hollander huffs and Ilya feels his fingers digging into his bicep so hard he already knows it will bruise. 

“Yes, and if I come before you you’ll owe me another one.” 

“I’m not going to be far behind you,” Hollander groans, “then I would just owe you the one.” 

“No. Two. This one won’t count,” Ilya corrects, changing the rules as he thinks about them. 

“That’s illogical.” 

Ilya presses their lips together to keep him from talking. Hollander does slow down his stroking. Trying to balance getting off himself, and not pushing Ilya over the edge yet. 

Ilya works a second finger inside of Hollander. It might stop words coming from Hollander’s mouth, but it doesn’t stop the desperately needy sounds. He bites down on Hollander’s bottom lip, causing his ass to clench down on his fingers. Hollander’s hands fly up to his hair, forgetting his dick. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” he nearly screams, “fuck. Rozanov!” 

Ilya strokes Hollander through his orgasm. He was whimpering, riding his fingers even as he erupted spurts of cum onto Ilya’s stomach. “So good for me,” Ilya praises, “so pretty Hollander. Amazing.” 

He starts to slowly pull his fingers out and Hollander scrambles trying to get them back inside. “No,” he whines, “No! Don’t make me empty.” 

Ilya kisses his cheeks. “You’re going to be sensitive,” Ilya coaxes, stopping as Hollander snatches his wrist to keep him from pulling out all the away. 

“Fuck me,” Hollander demands instead of listening, “I need you in me.” 

Ilya groans pushing Hollander up against the shower wall and hauls his foot onto the bench sliding his fingers in deeper as Hollander spreads. The man makes a choking sound and whimpers. His soft cock on display for Ilya. 

“You are over sensitive,” Ilya tries again and slowly pumps his fingers thinking about getting down on his knees and putting that soft cock into his mouth 

Hollander squirms. “I don’t care,” he bites out, “I need you inside. Come inside of me Rozanov. I need it. I can take it. Let me take it.” 

“But you’re soft,” Ilya reaches for the lube again taking his fingers out. 

“Use me,” Hollander shoves at him impatient and certain. 

He wouldn’t be considering this if Hollander sounded any less demanding. If his little whining breaths made it seem any less like he would die without it. 

Ilya slips in a third finger. Opening Hollander more. Working him open long enough to give him a taste of the over stimulated fucking he is begging for. 

“Fuck your fingers,” Hollander’s breath is hitching and Ilya isn’t sure if it’s tear on his cheeks or just the shower. 

He slicks himself up and guides Hollander’s leg to wrap around his hip. Hollander is squirming. Trying to use his hand to grab Ilya’s cock and get him inside. Inside even though he already came and it’s going to be unpleasant. There is no hesitation. He is just desperate. 

“Cock hungry whore,” Ilya teases, “so desperate for it you don’t care if its too much.” 

Hollander shifts his hands to grab Ilya’s shoulders. He uses his upper body strength to pull himself up Ilya’s body. Wrap both his legs around his waist. “No,” Hollander corrects, “I need to make you feel good. I need to be used by you.”

Fuck. Ilya lines his cock into Hollander’s hole and pushes in. He goes slow to make sure its not any rougher than it needs to be. Hollander yells his fingers digging into Ilya’s back. Ilya would go slow but Hollander has a mission. He uses every inch of leverage he has. Digging his heels into Ilya’s ass, pressing his shoulder’s back against the shower wall, moving with all his strength to fuck himself on Ilya’s cock. 

It is not an insignificant amount of strength. 

Ilya really doesn’t have any kind of self control after that. How could he? 

He fucks into Hollander as Hollander cries from the overstimulation and need. His breath hot and hitching as they move. He’s so fucking beautiful and perfect. 

His orgasm blows through him with an intensity that almost has him dropping Hollander as his knees weaken. Ilya whimpers as Hollander takes his face in his hands and kisses him while Ilya comes inside of him. 

Eventually Hollander gets back on his own feet and Ilya pulls out of him. They continue to lazily make out as they clean up. Hollander standing under the spray to get all the cum off his body. Ilya grabs the shampoo checking the label. 

“Seaweed,” he asks. 

“It’s supposed to be good for strengthening hair follicles or something,” Hollander answers as Ilya dumps some onto his hair.

Holander’s nose scrunches. “You’re not supposed to use that much.” 

Ilya shrugs and takes some of the excess and swipes it over his own hair before going back to massaging Hollander’s head. Hollander leans against him and lets Ilya wash his hair. Ilya indulges and grabs the body wash as well. It’s not the scentless kind either. This one has little red berries on it. 

“These are not scentless,” he notes, working the soap over Hollander’s pecks taking the time to tease his nipples a little. 

“Why would it be scentless,” Hollander asks looking at the bottle, his face scrunches before smoothing out with understanding. “Oh. Yeah. Well a lot of guys wear bad cologne and trying to get a scent that either goes with it or is strong enough to cover all of them would be a pain. So,” his voice trails off,

“Yeah.” 

“Oh,” Ilya answers and works very hard to forget what any of that meant. 

Chapter End Notes

The girl I have a crush on says Shane would be afraid of horses and this is permanent cannon in my mind now.

Thank you for suspending your disbelief about December racetrack access in Montreal. I am so sorry to everyone who could not. I hope my F1 cameo as a reference to the winner’s room trope made up for it a little.

We will get back into more of the darker aspects, but the next two chapters will still be pure Hollanov!

Chapter 10: Of All The Games We Play

Chapter Summary

It turns out that when you’ve been regularly having nonconsensual sex you actually have to talk about your feelings and desires if you want to have good sex. Ilya will do it. He’s just not happy about it.

Chapter Notes

Quick turn around on this chapter because I decided to be a bit experimental with chapter twelve and it is under two thousand words.

More pure Hollanov! We are veering away from almost pure fluff tho, but there is still fluff and fun times. Going back into more of the psychological impacts of being a Winner and how that affects their mentality.

Shane’s mentality does veer into sexual self harm. And there is light mentions of the racism that plays into Shane’s actions of the Winner’s room. Asian men being desexualized and feminized heavily plays into Shane’s experiences with the winner’s room, but as a white person I’m not going to delve into that very heavily.

Also we are moving into their negotiated/ under negotiated Dom/Sub dynamic.

I think that’s all the warnings I need to add for this chapter. Let me know if I missed something.

Ilya has discovered the worst game in the world. 

Scrabble. 

Unfortunately Shane Hollander is very cute, scrunching his nose and giving Ilya bright smiles when he lays out the little tiles in a line. Plus Ilya is not going to take the loss without a fight. Giving up wasn’t something he was capable of. 

Ilya leans over the game board to steal another kiss. Hollander shoves at his shoulders. “No cheating! Stop trying to look at my tiles.” 

There is a hockey game on the tv and the room is washed in bright light. Ilya can see every inch of him. They are laid out on the floor. Hollander had dragged out a big rug and dropped the game to the ground. Sleep was not an option. Not with their time together slipping away from them like a counting clock. Sex was, well they were trying. 

“I’m not cheating. I just want kiss,” Ilya pouts, smiling as Hollander leans over the game board to give him his kiss. 

They get distracted for a moment before Hollander pulls away and shoves Ilya back to his side of the board. This game is also dumb for how far apart they have to sit. 

“Besides,” Ilya settles back watching as Hollander plays with the fringe on the side of the rug, “I barely read English. I could not cheat even if I tried.” 

He wouldn’t admit that to anyone else. Ever. But Hollander already knew so much about him. The worst of him, among all the other things. 

Hollander sits up, his back straightening, realization slowly filling his eyes. “What?”

Ilya glances back down at the letters, and shrugs his shoulders. “I can’t read much English. Some, but not a lot.”

“But you are basically fluent,” Hollander argues. 

“Speaking and reading are not the same,” Ilya lays a few tiles on the board, pretty sure had gotten it right, “I did not have time to learn to read English.” 

Hollander frowns the crease lines scrunching against his cheeks. Ilya gets up on his knees and reaches over to smooth them flat. “Is not a big deal Hollander. I do not need to read much English anyways,” he presses another kiss against bright pink swollen lips, “team handles most things. It is easy to pass off everything else.”

Feign arrogance and cockiness and he could get everyone else to do what he wanted. “Did your agent get the itinerary and contracts for you in Russian then?” 

Hollander is leaning into his touch. Like all he has to do to soothe himself is to have physical contact. Relaxing the troubled little lines on his face. 

“No,” Ilya doesn’t have enough walls up to lie, distracted by the gift in front of him, “I read what I could and signed. I have enough to get through life.” 

It wasn’t like he couldn’t read any English. Just, not as much as he maybe should. He understood his text messages and airport tickets. And if he was too tired to do that then he had teammates to help. Translation apps filled in some. He just wasn’t reading magazines or books in his spare time and medical and legal stuff went over his head. 

“You shouldn’t sign contracts without understanding them,” Hollander’s lips purse in a sour pout, “what does your agent even do for you?” 

Ilya doesn’t have an answer for that but he doesn’t need to because Hollander is crawling over to him. He rolls to the side to give the other man room watching as he drags his own little tiles to this side of the board.

Hollander grabs Ilya’s chin and pulls him into a hot languid kiss. “We’re calling Farah together before you leave tomorrow,” he warns, “you need an agent who is going to take care of you.” 

His heart flips in his chest. So sweet. So perfect. Ilya ducks his head to kiss Hollander’s neck to hide his face. Hollander gasps and Ilya sucks at his pulse point. He nuzzles against him. “You shouldn’t try to distract me from this. We’re doing it Rozanov.” 

Ilya is going to burst. “I’m trying to do you, Hollander,” he answers, rolling on top of him and pinning his arms over his head. 

Hollander groans and rolls his hips up. They are both still soft. Ilya huffs and Hollander rolls them back to their sides with his own defeated groan. Their bodies were just not keeping up with their desire for each other. Or they were tired from the long photo shoot. Or something. 

Hollander adjusts their tiles so they could both see the other’s. “Now who is cheating Hollander,” Ilya teases and wiggles on his stomach until as much of their bodies are touching as humanly possible. 

“You can’t cheat if you suck at this game,” Hollander mocks, “and I’m going to win regardless so we might as well be next to each other.” 

Ilya presses a kiss behind Hollander’s ear. “You are not winning.” 

“Rozanov you are trying to spell our as O W R not O U R.”

Ilya snatches his tiles back and huffs. “English is dumb.” 

“We could play it in French.”

Stupid over achiever who was perfect in French and English. “I hate you.” 

Ilya can feel Hollander’s smile. “No you don’t.” 

Later after Ilya officially loses at Scrabble, but only because Hollander cheated, he is sure, they are in the kitchen and Ilya is trying to find something in Hollander’s fridge that actually counts as food. If they can’t snack on each other this will have to tie them over for now. 

“I eat healthy food,” Hollander corrects again with a frustrated little huff. 

“You eat worse than a little mouse,” Ilya insists, pulling ingredients out he thinks he can make work, “you’re not eating like that around me. No sugar blah, blah, fine, but we are eating real food.” 

Hollander gives him a face that says he is going to continue arguing so Ilya takes his chin in his hand looking into his eyes. “I will call Farah for better agent and you will eat better. Deal?” 

He watches Hollander weigh the options but melts against him. Ilya leans in for the kiss. “Fine. If you are around I’ll let you decide what we eat. Within reason.”

Ilya kisses his nose smiling. “Of course,” he agrees, “I will not feed you ice cream and deep fried food.” 

“Thanks,” Hollander whispers and Ilya softens in return.

He makes them food while Hollander rambles about the game that was playing in the background during their Scrabble match. How had Hollander paid so much attention to the game? Ilya loved hockey, but Hollander loved it in a way that surpassed what Ilya was able to engage with. He wasn’t bored. Far from it, but his mind was so vastly different from Hollander’s. 

Ilya curls himself into Hollander’s lap after they finish eating. Hollander’s hand is big, spread out across his shoulder as he rubs circles into Ilya’s back. They talk. About nothing. Hollander tells him about Ottawa and growing up with his parents. Ilya tells him about the clubs he went to in Moscow and his year in the KHL.

Ilya wants sex. He does. He’s never wanted another person more in his life. He can’t stop touching Hollander. Ilya is burning alive from how much he wants him, but every time they start kissing it won’t lead into anything. 

“My mom liked you,” Hollander says eventually as it becomes so late in the night they stop showing any hockey highlight clips on the sport channel. 

He reaches for his remote and changes it to a recording of a different hockey game. Is he never not watching hockey? But Hollander isn’t exactly watching it. When Ilya looks up at him, Hollander's expansive brown eyes are locked on to him. 

“Did she?” Ilya asks his fingers curling into the loose boxer shorts at Hollander’s thigh, “I thought maybe she would not. With the smoking and fast cars and partying.” 

Ilya rolls onto his back so he can look up at Hollander properly. He shouldn’t want to be so openly bare for this man. Or anyone. Hollander maintains eye contact for a second before his gaze slides just to the right of Ilya’s eyes. If Ilya wasn’t studying his face so closely he wouldn’t notice it, but he was feeding off each second he got here. 

“You should stop smoking,” Hollander points out and Ilya groans arching himself further into Hollander’s lap, “how are you going to play hockey when your lungs give out?” 

“I barely smoke,” Ilya whines. 

“You can’t barely smoke,” Hollander pulls at Ilya’s hair, “you either smoke or you don’t. One cigarette could give you lung cancer!” 

Ilya gasps at the tug on his hair arching into the sensation. Hollander’s eyes track him, sinking down to Ilya’s mouth. Ilya licks his lip. He still needs to get his mouth on Hollander. But later. When Hollander is too sore to fuck. 

Hollander pulls Ilya’s hair leading him up until their mouths are sliding together. Ilya fumbles for a better position but Hollander has him effectively locked in place. His cock throbs. Hollander slips his tongue into Ilya’s mouth pulling out another whimper from him. 

Ilya had thought of a million sexy things he wanted to do to Hollander given the chance. He tries to summon any of them. His entire focus is watching every micro twitch of Hollander’s reactions. 

He ignores the unpleasant way his heart kicks in his chest. Hollander’s fingers loosen in his hair and Ilya is able to sit up fully. Push Hollander down into the cushions and climb on top of him. “One time with you is not enough,” Ilya purrs, but the unsettled feeling in his stomach is back. 

Hollander is breathing hard, one leg dropping down onto the floor so he can spread himself wider as Ilya reaches for the lube they had brought from the shower. He is so open for Ilya. Stretching himself beyond what he should be able to. 

“We don’t need lube,” Hollander gasps out, arching his hips up into Ilya, “I’m so wet right?” 

Ilya frowns. “What?” 

Hollander twitches under him and makes a grab for the lube. Ilya puts a hand on his chest and pulls his hand back out of Hollander’s reach. His eyes study him as he processes the words.

Hollander’s jaw is clenched. “There is still enough lube.” 

He’s not meeting Ilya’s eyes. It’s different this time. Hollander is looking away instead of indirectly at him. Ilya had watched Hollander clean himself out in the shower. There was no way there was enough lube. Hollander did not want any lube? Hollander was lying to him. 

“Hollander. What the fuck!” 

“Yes. Fuck me. Just put your cock in. I want to feel it,” Hollander sounds wanting, but something was off. 

Ilya searches his face. His throat tightens and breath clogging in his lungs. “No.” 

The memory of Hollander’s face as fucked himself down on Ilya’s cock the first night in the winner’s room crashes over him. The twist in his face as he worked himself. Pleasured but in pain. 

Hands shove at his shoulders. “Get off!”

Ilya immediately jumps back off of Hollander’s body falling into the couch and his own furry over takes him. He’s going to be sick. “Why the fuck would you ask me to hurt you!”

Brown eyes snap over to him. Widening at what he finds on Ilya’s face. Ilya takes in several deep breaths to keep himself from yelling. Trying to find the air that had sucked itself out of the room. “Don’t fucking ask me to do that again Hollander. I’m not,”

He stops himself before he can get the lie out. He’s not the kind of man who hurts his bed partners. Except for all the ways he was. 

“I don’t deserve,” Hollander’s breath hitches as he tries to explain himself. 

This happened every time they tried to start sex after the shower. Except for the arguing. A sudden start and stop. Their dicks hard and immediately flagging once they hit a pin point that stopped them both in their tracks.  

Ilya growls in frustration climbing off the couch to pace the room. He wants to fuck Hollander. He wants to treat him right. It’s just not working. It’s unfair. Maybe it’s a punishment. Like Hollander punishing himself by fucking himself too dry. Not opening himself up correctly.

They couldn’t pretend like the winner’s room didn’t happen. Ilya runs his fingers through his hair. “I want you,” Hollander’s bottom lip is a stubborn pout, one he is trying to hide.

Ilya drops to his knees next to him and leans over for a kiss. Trying to tell him with the kiss everything he wants and doesn’t want. He hates talking. Ilya would rather just touch and explore and feel good. 

Hollander sighs into his mouth. “Fine,” he declares when Ilya pulls back like Ilya had actually said something, “fine. We have to talk.” 

Ilya groans watching Hollander get up. “Do we?” 

Hollander looks like he would rather be in the gallows. “If we want to have sex,” Hollander grumbles and heads back to his room. 

Ilya follows, letting Hollander throw comfortable sweats at him to put on. He does want to have sex, but having Hollander is a need not a want. 

So he lets Hollander lead him out of the apartment and over to his car. “No,” Ilya pulls the back of his hoodie when he sees his own car and guides Hollander over to it.

Not in the new boring car Hollander bought, just to get to him sooner. 

Neither of them speak as Ilya pulls out of the parking lot and down the road. Hollander gives him instructions on where to drive and they end up at a scenic overlook on the outskirts of Montreal. Ilya parks his car turning it off, but leaving the headlights on. There were no other cars around but he doesn’t get out. 

Hollander fiddles with the draw string on his hoodie while Ilya worries his thumb into his pulse point. Ilya should probably say something first. 

He’s not going to. 

“In my senior year of high school I ran into an old Ottawa Captain,” Hollander tells him letting out a deep sigh, but there was a kind of awe in his words, maybe an old reverence to a former hero. 

This story wasn’t going anywhere good. Ilya reaches over and grabs Hollander’s hand, lacing their fingers together. Hollander swallows. “He said, ‘If you are smart, you’ll drop out of hockey. A guy like you is going to get eaten alive.’ I shouldn’t have been shocked by it.” 

A guy like you. Ilya frowns looking over Hollander. Hollander had already been highly accomplished before entering the NHL draft. “I was used to hearing things like that,” Hollander adds, “I was so mad at myself for being upset.” 

The hand in his own squeezes. Ilya glanced down running his thumb over the warm tan skin, his own pale and cool. Ilya had never been told he didn’t belong in hockey. He had heard other players make remarks about Hollander. It also wasn’t like the KHL was particularly kind to Russia's Asian ethnic groups either. So Ilya wasn’t stupid, but he hadn’t thought about it either. 

Ilya doesn’t have to coax Hollander into sharing. There was no trick he was playing. Hollander offered it so freely to him. His struggle and his words were open for Ilya to see and he didn’t even need to ask to be shown.

“He meant how I looked, but not because I’m Japanese-Canadian,” he winces around the descriptor like it’s a burn on his tongue, “or maybe because of that, in its own way..”

Ilya brought his other hand up to rest on Hollander’s cheek. His thumb swiping over the bridge of freckles. “Because you are so pretty?” 

“Yeah,” Hollander swallows a lump in his throat, “Oakley was pretty. We don't really look alike exactly. Lavoie told me to have him the first time I went into the winners room. Oakley was ready for it even if he hated it. But I wasn’t going to hate it.” 

Hollander’s voice gets progressively lower as he spoke. “I had spent the summer waking up from a,” Hollander’s face goes pink. 

His eyes darted down to Ilya’s lap. Ilya pushes just so Hollander would have a minute to gather himself for the rest of what he was going to say. “A wet dream? Were you dreaming about me, Hollander?” 

“You’re such an arrogant asshole,” Hollander protests, which is as good as a yes. 

“What were we doing?”

Ilya leans into Hollander and plants a soft kiss on his lips. “I was sucking you off outside in Saskatchewan,” he admits, cheeks bright red. 

“But it was so cold. My poor dick would be so soft even if your mouth is hot!” 

“I know how the cold works! It’s just dream logic. Stop being a dick,” Hollander exclaims the strength pouring back into his voice.

“You like my dick,” Ilya protests and kisses him again, “I was dreaming about you too.” 

Hollander’s breath hitches. “You were?” 

“Yes. How could I not? Bold, sweet, Canadian hockey player came over to flirt with me. I was obsessed.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Hollander bites into his bottom lip and Ilya pulls back to give him space again, “but it was harder to ignore what I wanted after that. I knew the Winner’s Room was going to be a problem. I wasn’t going to be able to top and if anyone got their hands on me,” Hollander’s free hand curls into a fist, “they would know. They would know and tell everyone else and I would spend my entire hockey career getting fucked until my ass was too broken to play.” 

Ilya had pieced that together more or less. “That is not why you asked me to fuck you dry,” Ilya notes. 

Hollander turns his head away. “If it felt good every time I would want the real thing too badly to focus on hockey. It would be a distraction.” 

Ilya gives Hollander a moment. Gives him the time to decide if he was done explaining. That’s not the full story. “Even if I make them enjoy it, that doesn’t make them want it. Especially not me. And if the sex is going to be kind of shit it might as well be because it hurts a little.” 

Well. That was the crux of the issue wasn’t it? Ilya could get a man crying for more, but it wasn’t the same if he hadn’t wanted it from the start. Carolina, Los Angeles, Saint Louis, he might have gotten them off, but they hadn’t wanted to be there. He was not a partner to them. 

Ilya doesn’t have time to be shocked by how quickly the dark clouds wrap around his body. “So you want me to make it hurt?” 

Hollander’s eyes flicker to his face before turning down again. Refusing to even look at Ilya. Closed off to him. “Why should it feel good?”

Ilya huffs letting go of Hollander. Touching him. Touching him when he has closed himself away. “So I must hurt you like everyone else? I must punish you for wanting me?”

The clouds rattle through his body. The car is too stiff. The air is too hot. Ilya shoulders the door open and climbs out. The night air should feel good. His lungs continue to constrict. Unable to pull in the air. 

“Rozanov!” 

Hollander is rounding the car. Ilya backs away from him. “Fuck you Hollander,” Ilya sneers but his heart rate picks up as Hollander continues to advance on him, “I am not going to be your monster.” 

But he could be. If Hollander did not want him in the winner’s room. He would be a monster to him just like all the others. Had he been a monster? Was everything they had done been a form of self harm for Hollander? Was he going to make Hollander afraid of him? 

“Rozanov,” Ilya stumbles back as Hollander snaps again reaching out to grab him. 

He catches his footing on a rock and falls back. Which is fair. Ilya isn’t sure if he had enough air in his lungs to stay standing anyways. 

Warm muscled arms catch him before he can hit the ground. Ilya starts to struggle against the hold but the other man is strong. He lowers them both to the ground pulling Ilya into his lap. Ilya gasps as Hollander tugs his fingers up to the pulse point of his neck, the steady beat a contrast to his own racing. “I’m sorry,” Hollander’s voice is just as warm as his body as he starts to rock them back and forth. 

Ilya’s free hand curls into Hollander’s hoodie. His pulse was even and strong under Ilya’s fingers. Skin so warm and smooth . “I don’t want you to hurt me. I’m sorry.” 

Hollander’s hand releases his wrist only to slide his fingers to find the pulse point on Ilya’s wrist. He starts to tap on Ilya. In time with the pulse point in his own neck. Ilya can feel the steady deep breaths the man is taking. His own heart responds to the connection. 

“You haven’t hurt me. I’m okay. I’m safe with you.” 

Ilya shudders body trying to take in a gasping breath. “I’m sorry,” Hollander says again, “you never have to hurt me.” 

Hollander is so weird. Odd tapping and holding and rocking, but Ilya gets air back into his lungs with his pounding heart correcting itself. Hollander makes soft sounds and promises Ilya doesn’t have to hurt him. Ilya finds himself hiding in Hollander’s neck because of his reddening cheeks instead of his uncontrolled body. The dark clouds present, but not trapping him. 

“You‘ve been starting sex and then drawing away all night,” Hollander mutters against his ear, “is that why? You felt like you were hurting me?” 

“No,” Ilya grumbles, trying to retrace the swirling feelings the night had brought, “maybe. Yes.” 

No, because he had known he wasn’t hurting Hollander. Maybe, because Hollander had been encouraging Ilya to be rougher. Yes, because touching a man was something he always braced for now. 

Hollander holds him tighter which Ilya hadn’t thought was possible. His breaths still big and his finger still tapping. Ilya wasn’t sure which one of them it was for. It’s silent for a moment. “What happened with Reed?” 

Ilya laughs because it’s the only thing he can do. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Except he needs to if he is going to spare Reed from Hollander’s rage. 

“He is impulsive idiot,” Ilya shudders and takes in a deep breath of Hollander’s scent, seaweed and pomegranate, but under it sweat, ice, and rubber.

“He wanted me to teach him about gay sex and did not think about the consequences of calling me to winner’s room.” 

Hollander’s fingers flex against Ilya. Ilya knows if he could see into the night and look at Hollander he would see a predator. “I fixed it,” Ilya tells him, “not his fault. I came up with solution. He cried.” 

It was important that Hollander understood that Reed hadn’t taken any pleasure in that act. “You came up with a solution,” Hollander’s voice is icy cold. 

Ilya pulls back from his neck to try and catch those eyes in the dark. “Yes?”

“And the solution was making Reed beat you.” 

It was not a question. It was a flat affect. “He could not call me for sex. We made sure of that,” Ilya reminds him, “stupid decision he was already punished for.” 

Hollander does not look convinced. But he had not been the one to cradle Ilya’s head and sob after he had committed the violent act. Far more remorseful than either of them were about their own violence. 

“I still don’t like him,” Hollander buries his face into Ilya’s neck grumbling the words. 

Ilya laughs and ignores how wet his voice sounds. “Me either.” 

They sit like that for too long breathing each other in. Hands tangled into each other sitting on the ground in a scenic overlook in the pitch black night of the outskirts of Montreal. 

“Okay,” Hollander says as he pulls back shifting Ilya in his lap and Ilya takes the moment to realize he had been the one curled up into Hollander. 

“Okay. This is fucked but we can handle it,” Ilya has no idea how Hollander thinks they can fix this, “we just have to be honest and it’s not like you can make me do anything I don’t want. I’m just as strong as you. So if we’re honest it’s fine.” 

Ilya blinks. Yeah, that was not going to work. Hollander’s hand is on his cheek, thumb touching the corner of Ilya’s mouth. “Not about everything. Obviously. Just- about sex. What we want. What we don’t want,” Hollander’s voice wavers, “if we’re up front about it then you don’t have to worry about hurting me, and I can,” Hollander’s hand shakes a little. 

Ilya takes it, pressing kisses against the tips of his fingers. “Get exactly what you want?” 

He can feel Hollander nod. Ilya can feel the idea settling over both of them. “You will bare yourself to me,” Ilya asks for confirmation, “let me know exactly what you think and feel?” 

It feels like a pixie wing in his hand. Any movement and it would snap. If he expected Hollander to be so fragile he would be mistaken. The idea formed from his own mind and had clearly taken root. Ilya would lay whatever Hollander needed at his feet to keep that trust. “Yes,” Hollander’s voice is steady when he answers. 

“Give it all to me,” Ilya requests the words out of his mouth before the idea fully forms, “just when it’s the two of us alone. Give it all to me and I will take care of it.” 

Hollander’s fingers fist into his shirt. Ilya still can’t really see his face. He doesn’t need to. “Yes,” Hollander gives in, fingers getting tighter instead of looser, “I mean,” 

Ilya pulls Hollander’s fingers off his shirt. Slides them down to settle on his hips. Hollander, giving himself over fully. Sexually at least. 

“Relax Hollander,” Ilya orders before Hollander can blabber on. 

With the permission Hollander's shoulders drop and he crumbles into Ilya. It’s Ilya holding Hollander against him. If this had been their first conversation on the topic Hollander might have worried about submitting to him. About how Ilya would see him if he gave in. Gave himself to Ilya. 

It was a stupid thing to ask for. To have complete control of Hollander when they were alone together. Not just sex. Everything. The magnitude of it gripped his chest but instead of swirling panic rising up against him it was Hollander. His mouth turning to kiss Ilya. Sliding their lips together and searching. Ilya gives. 

If Hollander lies this will not work. If Ilya lies he will hurt them both. Except if he can trust anything it’s Hollander and what he sets his mind to. 

Ilya gets them to their feet. He isn’t sure if he wants to go back into the car yet. The scenic overlook is empty, no cars on the road anywhere. It is too late at night or maybe too early in the morning. 

In front of the car, a bit of distance away from the headlights there was a park bench where they could sit and look out to the view. There was no view he wanted to see but Hollander. Still Ilya let them over. They should get all of this conversation done now. 

“We need to talk about Jenny,” Ilya tells him, guiding Hollander to sit next to him. 

The headlights backlit them giving Hollander a soft glow. 

He sees Hollander’s eyes twitch with a frown as Ilya pulls him closer. “From Dallas? What did Jenny do?” 

“Nothing,” Ilya soothes and rubs a hand down Hollander’s arm to reassure him, “it was good. Listen.” 

Hollander does not lose the tension. “Before you played in Dallas one of the Forfeits tells Jenny in the group chat he should break up with his girlfriend before you arrive.” 

It shifts the tension in Hollander’s body from fight to uncertainty. “Why would he need to do that?” 

“He did not want to cheat on her,” Ilya explains, running his fingers up to work the tense muscles in Hollander’s shoulders. 

“He didn’t? I’ve never heard the guys in Montreal complain about having to cheat. And being a forfeit can’t possibly be cheating.” 

“Yes, well Montreal sucks,” Ilya shrugs. 

Hollander hits his chest. “We are going to beat your ass in February!”

Ilya makes a soft humming sound letting his lashes bat at Hollander. He continues on ignoring the challenge for a moment.  “Yes it is kind of weird, but she is nice Olympic swimmer who is studying to be an engineer. He sent me photo of engagement ring. He has good taste.” 

Hollander balks. “He texted you? Specifically.” 

“I am very encouraging. I told him if he does not marry her he is stupid,” Ilya could get to the point but it’s a lot more fun to watch the confused expressions twist over Hollander’s face. 

This time Hollander is patient and waits for Ilya to explain. “He told me pretty girlfriend thinks that it’s hot when men sleep together. So as long as he tells her about it or she can watch then it’s okay. He is not cheating.” 

Hollander’s nose screws up. “Okay. So what do we need to talk about?” 

“In Winner’s room with Jenny I made little video and pictures for pretty girlfriend. Just of him. You should take photo for her too. To help with the not cheating part,” Ilya explains. 

“You took a video!” Hollander jerks straight up, “are you crazy? What if that leaks?” 

“Is Jenny’s problem them,” Ilya holds his hands out placating, “did not have my face or anything identifiable. I made sure. No voice either. No evidence against me.” 

“Do you know how risky that is? Rozanov. That's not just a sex tape,” Hollander hisses. 

Ilya doesn’t think about the implications of what else it could be. “Is fine,” Ilya puts his hands on Hollander’s shoulder, “Jenny is very enthusiastic. Do what you usually do. Then take photo of him on his knees or tied down or bruise you leave. He sends to girlfriend and everyone is happy.” 

Hollander does not look convinced. “Okay. Hollander. Look.” 

Ilya reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. The light shines away from them as he pulls up his text message chain with Jenny. Pictures of the ring, and a large dark bruise on his neck. Just like Ilya had asked. 

Jenny: Great trick man. She tore me up. 

“It is so we hurt him less,” Ilya tries again. 

Hollander’s eyes flicker up to Ilya’s face. “Hurt him less. Is that what you’ve been doing? When you tell me to get them water or something. You know Mitchell started to whine at me last time when I didn’t undo his ankle cuffs and said Rozanov would have given him a blanket at least.” 

Ilya tilts his head, putting his phone away. “Did you give him a blanket?” 

It earns him a big sigh from Hollander. “Of course I gave him a blanket, and I undid his ankle cuffs.” 

He pinches Ilya’s thigh. “Answer the question.” 

Ilya bites into his bottom lip. “Maybe,” he shrugs because putting a name to it is more than he had ever done, “I like rough sex, but it is always better with soft touches after.”

The body next to him shudders. “So we’re not going to just have boring soft sex now?” 

A laugh tears out of Ilya’s chest. Soft boring sex with Hollander? No. Nothing about him inspired that. Ilya tugs his chin until their lips are seared together. “You think just because I want you to tell me if it’s too much I don’t want to make you feel it for days?” 

Hollander gasps into his mouth. “It was a pretty undefined agreement,” he protests. 

Ilya nips his bottom lip. “You choose forfeits who like it,” Ilya continues the conversation, “men who like men or men who are submissive enough it doesn’t really matter.” 

Pain flares through his own lip as Hollander bites him back. “That’s really an accident. Mostly. I mean guys who might be attracted to dick are better,” Hollander explains, “but it’s more than that. I told you. It’s a lot of things.” 

The man is shifting around against him now. Ancy. “But speaking of which, Quill, Salt Lake’s Forfeit, got out on LTR for a broken ankle so he’s going to be out for a while if not the rest of the season. I need to pick a new one, but you’ll play Salt Lake first.” 

Which was a problem, and it was going to be a problem whenever someone gets added to the list. If they were sharing Forfeits. “Forfeit is not ours until you’ve had them,” Ilya decides, “I choose someone else.” 

That makes Hollander frown. “Everyone would know I’m the one making that kind of decision then. They’ll think you’re the one following.”

Ilya considers that. How it may look to outsiders. Outsiders who clearly have noticed that Ilya and Hollander are choosing the same Forfeit’s. Right now it just looks like Ilya had made a decision to copy after his time in Hollander’s Winner’s room. Except that hadn’t started until Ilya had taken Hollander into his own. They would know that too. If they cared. But anyone looking too deeply into it would be met with suspicion as well. 

Did it change anything if anyone thought Ilya was following Hollander’s lead? It was more or less a primary assumption. “That’s okay,” Ilya decides which Hollander shakes his head at, “it’s okay.” 

“You can’t be okay with looking submissive in the winner’s room!” 

Ilya shifts Hollander. Tugging him from his side down off the bench to between his knees. Hollander’s body tenses for a moment before he wiggles to a more comfortable position. “Rozanov!” 

The headlights illuminate his face as Hollander looks up into his face. Big wide eyes growing heavy as Ilya runs his fingers through Hollander’s hair. It takes seconds to melt him. For Hollander’s breath to even out between his legs. Like it was a natural thing to be comforted by kneeling for Ilya. 

“I think it will be okay. Like I am interested in conquest not sharing.” 

The man has gotten settled on the ground. His cheek resting on Ilya’s thigh and eyes fluttering open and shut as Ilya’s fingers work through his hair. He looks heavenly. Like god had designed Shane Hollander just to please him. Maybe staying in the KHL would have been the only way to stay out of this man’s magnetic grasp. Ilya had never wanted to devote himself to a person more. 

“Okay,” Hollander accepts, his nostrils flaring, “fine I guess, but you need to be careful. I didn’t make this with someone else in mind. I don’t know how far I can protect you.” 

It might have been laughable. The idea of being protected. If it was anyone else. Hollander is different from all of them. This is the best player in the NHL and the terror of the Winner’s Room. If anyone in this league has power it is him. 

Ilya moves his fingers from Hollander’s hair to brush against his line of freckles. “I will be careful Zashchitnik (defender), I promise.” 

Being careful was not what he would usually do. Ilya threw himself at danger the way addicts threw themselves at the bottle, but he would try for Hollander. 

“Tell me what that means,” Hollander asks. 

“Learn Russian,” Ilya offers without any sympathy just to watch the way Hollander’s brows furrowed with the challenge. 

“I’m going to start talking to you in French.” 

Ilya groans at the threat, throwing his head back to hide his smile for a second. Terrible man. Ilya likes him so much. 

“First with French Scrabble and now this,” he asks and pulls Hollander’s chin up so he could lean down and steal a kiss, “we will play stupid game in Cyrillic.” 

Hollander laughs against his lips. “Alright you bring Cyrillic scrabble next time and I’ll beat your ass that way.” 

Ilya snorts. Sure Hollander was going to do well with a new alphabet in a language he had no experience with. Sure. 

He has to ignore the way his sternum clenches at the idea of next time. 

“What else,” Hollander sighs, pulling back from the kiss and resting back against Ilya’s leg. Neatly folded into his submission. 

Ilya uses his foot to nudge his knees further apart. Opening Hollander back up for him. Just because he can. Hollander whines, but splays himself for Ilya. Images of Hollander kneeling and spreading apart for him flash into his mind. What else? 

Jenny and Reed. Choosing Forfeit’s. What else? Ilya is distracted by Hollander’s thighs. There isn’t snow here. It was plowed or something. So all he has to look at is Hollander on display for him. Hollander who is willing to give up all control when they are alone together if only Ilya is honest with him. How is he supposed to think under those conditions? 

“Rozanov,” Hollander demands, and Ilya makes himself focus. 

“I want to teach some of them to fuck you,” Ilya confesses watching the imidate protest etch itself on Hollander’s face. 

Ilya taps his cheek to keep him from verbalizing the protest. “I think you can let some of them be more active participants without it being an issue. You keep control, but they don’t need to be lifeless dildos. It will feel better for you.” 

Hollander narrows his eyes. “I don’t think you understand how this works.” 

“I do. I think,” Ilya argues and his thumb traces lazily around Hollander’s bottom lip, his dick had been in that mouth, “it must be for you. Because of you. Not them.”

He had been thinking about this a lot actually. How he could orchestrate it. How to give Hollander more. Hollander relaxes a little. “They have to see it as a humiliation,” Hollander insists. 

Ilya nods. “Not too difficult,” he promises, “much worse to be a vibrating dildo than a dildo, yes?” 

Hollander laughs, turning his face into Ilya’s thigh to muffle the sounds. Ilya can’t help the burning pride that flashes through him. “Is it,” Hollander prompts that smile still on his face. 

He can’t keep his fingers from tracing over his laughing freckles. “You let your Forfeits get off when they are in the room with you,” Ilya ponders, “can be different for each one. Forfeit is so desperate to participate he gives up opportunity to come or he only comes if he does a good enough job.” 

Ilya watches the way the black strands slip through his fingers when he goes back to petting Hollander’s hair. “Dehumanization is not hard either. Like your Saint Louis Puppy or turning them into a machine to fuck you,” Ilya explains and it earns him a moan from Hollander his mouth opening and shifting further up Ilya’s thigh. 

His own breath hitches. His cock had been twitching a minute ago but he can guess where this game is going to go. “Little servant who is supposed to lavish on you,” Ilya adds, “or naughty coach teaching virgin player how to fuck, maybe buisness man and begging employee for job.” 

“Please stop getting your ideas from bad pornos.” 

Ilya laughs watching Hollander press another open mouth kiss closer to his dick. His cock reaches half mast. Hollander is studying it from the corner of his eyes. 

“We could take ideas from bad porn,” Ilya offers, “you are sexy pizza delivery driver and they had no cash for tip so you take it out on their dick. Or they get stuck in washing machine and step brother needs to come help,” 

Ilya is cut off from continuing this line of thought with Hollander laughing so hard he face plants into Ilya’s stomach. Deep warm breaths coming through the layer of fabric of his hoodie. Shoulders shaking. He doesn’t even have enough air to argue with Ilya because he is laughing so hard. It steals the words away from him far more effectively than any argument. 

There is enough control in his body to wait until Hollander has stopped laughing and can breathe again. “Where were you even going with that?” Hollander asks, as Ilya nudges him to his feet so they can leave. 

Hollander is quick to follow reaching around Ilya to grope at his ass and thighs as they walk back to Ilya’s car. He feels Hollander’s fingers dip into his front pocket and grab his keys. Ilya waits, interested in seeing where that will go. 

Back at the car Hollander’s face is almost stained red and he slips in front of the drivers side door before holding out the keys toIlya. “There’s not a scratch on her Sir, like promised,” Hollander explains. 

Ilya’s breath catches at the word. Sir. He remembers Hollander’s embarrassment when he suggested the forfeits call him that. But now here he was flushed and playful using it for Ilya. Pretending to be a little vallet? Ilya is pretty sure that was what this bit was. 

He starts to back Hollander up against the car. “Are you sure? You did not take her for a joy ride?” 

Ilya boxes Hollander up against the door of the car. The man arching into him as he leans back. His fingers going to rest on the waist band of Ilya’s sweats. 

“No Sir,” he’s breathless, tilting his head back letting Ilya see his pretty neck, “you promised a very generous tip if she was well taken care of.” 

Ilya pressed into him. Grinding their bulges together and making Hollander squirm. “So I did,” he agrees, “but you looked very unimpressed with my Ferrari,” he lets out a low tisk as he runs his hands under Hollander’s hoodie, both of their skin is cold, but the fire inside of him is burning, “was there a different ride you would like to take?” 

Hollander looks away, his fingers clutching at Ilya’s chest. He gives the most half hearted push Ilya had ever felt in his life. “I’m working,” he gasps, “I can’t go for a ride right now.” 

Ilya hums leaning down to press a line of kisses against Hollander’s jaw. “I think you can. I think you want to. Get in my car you took such good care of.” 

He steps back and Hollander scrambles to the passenger side and yanks the door open without a protest. Ilya takes the second to take in a deep breathe. Center himself enough to drive. Maybe he wasn’t going to be that centered, but he could get them back without crashing. 

As soon as he closes the door Hollander has his hands gripping Ilya’s thigh. He squeezes, strong fingers flexing. Ilya closes his eyes for a moment. 

Maybe he will crash them. 

“Hands on my dick Hollander,” he orders. 

Of course Hollander immediately goes for Ilya’s dick, but he swats his hand away before he can touch. “My dick,” Ilya corrects, “the one I own.” 

It earns him a beautiful gasp. Hollander reaches into his own pants, shuddering as he does so. “How wet are you?” 

Ilya is already speeding down the road. Rushing them back to Hollander’s apartment, and very firmly keeping his eyes on the road. “Fuck you,” Hollander gasps.

“Very wet then.”

“That’s not how anatomy works dick head.” 

“I think it is. I know how much you leak. I bet if you pulled your hand out now I could see how wet you are,” Ilya purrs, “but keep your hand there. Work yourself to the edge, tell me when you get there.” 

The radio never clicks on but Ilya had a symphony in his ear regardless. Hollander is making beautiful whining sounds and high pitched pants as he is trying to hold back. “I’m close,” he warns, voice coming out in a frantic slur. 

“Take your hand away.” 

Hollander obeys. His head slamming back against the car seat. “Fuck you,” Hollander curses him panting. 

His mouth is open wide, eyes blown, chest coming in big heaving pants. Ilya struggles to keep his eyes on the road. “Soon. Almost back to your place.” 

White knuckled on the steering wheel Ilya didn’t let his foot off the gas, until he was sliding into the parking lot of Hollander’s apartment building. Hollander barely waited for Ilya to stop the car before he was climbing out and racing for his apartment. Ilya on his heels. The only reason why they didn’t get stuck in the hallway was that Hollander had just enough of a head start to stay out of Ilya’s reach. 

Hollander turns to Ilya as soon as he gets the door open, reaching out to curl his fingers into the back of Ilya’s neck. “So beautiful,” Ilya praises his hands immediately finding Hollander’s ass. 

Their lips collide and Ilya doesn’t stumble at all when Hollander climbs him, wrapping his legs around Ilya’s waist and letting Ilya take his whole body weight. He pushes Hollander up against the wall as he gets distracted by his lips. 

“Rozanov,” Hollander growls. 

Ilya gets moving again carrying Hollander through the front hall as the man tugs Ilya’s hair and rolls their hips together. “I’m going to make you feel so good,” Ilya promises as Hollander pulls back to bite at Ilya’s neck. 

“Get your dick inside of me and I will,” Hollander is breathless as Ilya drops him onto the bed tearing at the fabric he can reach to get them bare. 

“Greedy slut,” Ilya kisses Hollander’s neck, giving up on getting the clothes off and sticks his hand down the man’s pants to get to his dick. 

Hollander is much more efficient at getting rid of clothes. His hips wiggling and feet kicking to work his pants off despite Ilya spreading his precum around his hole. With all the access he needs Ilya grabs the back of Hollander’s knees and guides them up until Hollander is wrapping his arms around his legs to keep them in position.

How long could Hollander keep himself like that? Knees up and thighs spread as he is laid out on his back. According to the rumors Hollander had an extensive yoga routine. That did not mean keeping your core activated for long periods of time was easy. 

He’s just going to have to find out how long Hollander can keep position. 

“So good,” Ilya praises and drops to his knees, “so obedient for me. Keep them there.” 

Ilya grabs Hollander’s hips and yanks him to the edge of the bed so he has perfect access. “All mine,” he presses his thumb against Hollander’s fluttering hole. 

Dry, but swollen and pink. Clearly recently fucked. Ilya had been inside of him only hours ago. “Fuck,” he growls before he lets his tongue dart out to lick the bud. 

He moans at the way Hollander twitches. “Oh god!” 

Ilya takes his time. He spreads Hollander open with his tongue making his hole wet, open. Not nearly enough for what he wants to do. The sounds are better than the ones in the car. These are the ones Ilya is responsible for. He doesn’t stop until he can feel Hollander’s thighs trembling next to his head. Until all words have left him. Ilya pulls back. His mouth planting soft little kisses and licks along the rim before he forces himself away. 

“Can you keep your legs up longer for me?” 

Hollander is straining. His face flushed, core wrapped tightly, knuckles as white as Ilya’s had been on the steering wheel. Tears welled up at the corner of his eyes, but not dropping. Beautiful. So fucking beautiful. There is a puddle of precum on his stomach waiting for Ilya to taste. 

“Yes,” Hollander’s voice is strained, but his eyes spark with the determination he displays on the ice, he will never back down from a challenge. 

Ilya reaches down to palm his own cock. He was aching as well. If he wasn’t careful he was going to finish too early. Not that Hollander would complain. Except Ilya wanted this to last as long as possible. He went to go find the lube, mostly to make Hollander hold the position for longer. To make the tension build in his thighs and mind and hole. It would be fun to play with toys, but Ilya couldn’t imagine touching him with anything but his own skin at the moment. 

He comes back and Hollander’s breath comes out in little hic ups. His fingers digging pale lines into his skin. The tears are just at the edge of threatening to spill over. 

Ilya lubes two fingers. Hollander can take two. He will want two, and Ilya is sure he can do it, especially with how long he had fucked him open on his tongue. Stepping between his legs, Ilya spreads Hollander’s ass and slides inside. He’s still tight despite all the work Ilya has done, but not in a risky way. Just one of the ways Hollander happened to be different. Tight but opened gloriously. He curls his fingers searching for his prostate. Hollander’s dick jerks.

“Close! Close! Close!” 

Ilya stills immediately waiting to see if Hollander would tear over the edge or if he had alerted Ilya with just enough time. Could he make Hollander cry? Would those pretty tears spill over? His breath shudders and Hollander makes an agonized sound. His knees stay up, his tears stay in place, and cock keeps from going over the edge. Those thighs are shaking. 

Oh. This kind of control needs to be rewarded. And broken. 

Ilya soothes his free hand over Hollander’s thighs making soft shushing sounds. “Amazing Hollander. You take away my breath,” he praises.

Hollander shudders. “Please,” he begs openly, eyes glazy. 

Does he even know what he is begging for? 

“Please what,” Ilya asks as he starts to pull his fingers back millimeter by millimeter. 

“I don’t,” Hollander whines, “know. Just. Please. Please. Sir.” 

“How can I know if you don’t,” Ilya teases, pushing his fingers back in just as slow. 

If he was expecting Hollander to have words for him he would be disappointed. Instead Ilya gets a string of growls and whimpers and sweat rolling down Hollander’s thighs. Ilya leans down to lick a bead of sweat. He twists his fingers, swirling the lube inside. His fingers spread, testing how much Hollander will be able to take. Enough.

Simple and boring sex was not on Ilya’s to do list. He just wanted Hollander to not be in pain when he took him. 

Well. That wasn’t exactly true. Hollander’s thighs might cramp with how long he has made him hold this position. His breath was coming out in little punches. He might not be breathing at all even. Ilya had made Hollander get to the edge twice so far. So maybe it was wrong to say he was avoiding causing Hollander pain. It was just a certain kind of pain. 

Ilya took his fingers out and replaced them immediately with his cock. A slow brutal slide that didn’t stop until he was balls deep inside of him. Hollander’s mouth and eyes were dropped wide open, the air having left his lungs completely. “Let go,” Ilya orders and starts to pull out. 

By the time he is thrusting back in, Hollander, like always, has beautifully obeyed. His legs drop to the bed, limp as a noodle and the tears have finally crashed over his cheeks. The tension gone and unraveled into a puddle for Ilya. He fucks into him viciously demanding that Hollander takes him limp and pliant. Ilya has lost the English language but he praises him with all he can get out in Russian. Chasing his orgasm as Hollander sobs into the pleasure of being used. 

No one will ever compare to this. To him. Hollander is made for this kind of treatment. To be pushed to his limits and then tipped over. Just enough into Ilya’s safe arms. Hollander isn’t able to warn him when he gets to the edge this time. Instead Ilya feels his ass clenching around his cock and a choked moan leaving Hollander’s mouth as he paints his own stomach with cum. 

Ilya keeps going. Hollander’s dick twitches and his noises turn higher pitched, nose scrunching with over stimulation, but no complaints. “Roz,” Hollander tries to come up with human speech but gives up for another encouraging moan before he gets through Ilya’s full name. 

It's what pushes Ilya over the edge. He pulls himself out of Hollander just in time to add his own cum to the mess on Hollander’s chest. Stunning messy man. He huffs hovering above him. Looking at the white stripes that paint against his skin. Cum and pre cum mixing together. Ilya shudders as he comes down from orgasm. His hips continue jerk with the primal need to fill Hollander, but Hollander will not be moving for a long time after this. So no shower until later. 

Ilya pants as he comes back to himself but Hollander is still wonderfully blissed and dazed. He really can’t help himself when the man looks like that. Ilya spits on him. Adding more of his own fluid onto the mess. “Gross,” Hollander barely gets the words out in a mumble, but he is arching like the drop was Ilya’s hand. 

He follows the spit with his finger, mixing all of their fluids together and into Hollander’s skin. Hollander whimpers and squirms, but doesn’t ask Ilya to stop. He knows he is being claimed. Ilya knows this is perfect. 

When he is satisfied with how dirty he has made Hollander Ilya gets up to fetch a wet wash cloth and clean Hollander up. He takes his time kissing his stomach and telling him how well he had done for him. How perfect he is. When Hollander is clean and they have managed to kick off the rest of their clothes he pulls Hollander further onto the bed and wraps their bodies together with the blanket. 

Ilya can not read English like Hollander can, but he can pull out his phone and read Hollander the Russian KHL articles he had saved. Hollander curls up against him seeking out every inch of skin Ilya can provide and moving Ilya bodily when he can’t get what he wants. 

A man. This man. Contently wrapped around him. Having been given what he wanted and needed. He had given him it. Hollander had wanted this from him. 

Hollander noses into Ilya’s neck. Ilya’s breath hitches as Hollander’s lips press a delicate adoring kiss to his forehead. A silent little thank you Ilya felt over his entire body seeping into his soul. 

He turns his head away caught by the emotion and shifts them up. Shifts Hollander to sitting up as well. 

“I’d make you shower but you still owe me an orgasm,” Ilya teases. 

Hollander groans shifting over the bed to grab the book on the side table. It’s not about hockey. There are birds on the cover. “My turn to read,” he announces and pulls Ilya to be tucked into his arms instead, moving Ilya until his ear was over his heart and Hollander could use his body to prop up the book. 

“Birding,”‘Ilya asks, looking at the cover, working through the title slowly. 

“My dad likes to go birding, and this is kind of an autobiography of a black birder, I guess,” Hollander explains. 

“What the fuck is birding? A birder? Are people birds now?” Ilya waves his hand at the book trying to emphasize how weird that sounds, stupid English. 

Hollander rolls his pretty eyes. “No, don’t be an idiot.”

He pinches Ilya’s nipple and Ilya lunges for him. They wrestle for a moment until Hollander has him pinned back in the position they had started in. Ilya goes limp against him. Let’s Hollander hold him. “Birders just go out and look for birds and watch them,” Hollander finally explains as Ilya relaxes against him. 

Ilya raises his eyebrows. “Wow,” he stresses out each letter in the word making sure Hollander can hear exactly what he thought of that. 

Hollander’s fingers find his hair as he lightly taps the book against Ilya’s ass. “He has a bird feeder by the back porch,” Hollander explains anyways as Ilya sighs into the fingers petting through his hair, “my parents sit and watch the birds together every morning over coffee.” 

“Boring,” Ilya declares and Hollander has a smile spreading over his cheeks like he knows exactly what Ilya means by that. 

Chapter End Notes

Hopefully I am writing this in a way where it makes sense if you haven’t read ‘Victory Conditions’. But if Shane is kind of confusing about his time in the winner’s room for you in a way that doesn’t make sense for the story structure please go back and read the first part in this series, and let me know, and I’ll make adjustments.

 

If you are wondering what book Shane is reading it’s “Better Living Through Birding; Notes from a Black Man in the Natural World” by Christian Cooper. The book’s publish date doesn’t align with this time line, but sue me. https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/671722/better-living-through-birding-by-christian-cooper/

When I was searching for the name of this book I found a list of books by black birders so I’m going to add the link for that too incase anyone is interested. https://bookshop.org/lists/books-by-black-birders

Why is Shane reading a book about birding in his spare time? Man can do a loon call, I promise not all country people can just do bird calls on the spot. Birding is also something you can do while traveling or at home so I like the idea of David and Shane standing out at rest stops, or in the city or, at the cabin looking around and listening for birds in their few spare moments of free time. Imagine little Shane in the back of the car on their way to a hockey event across Ontario with a big bird identification book on his lap arguing with his Dad about what bird they saw.

Chapter 11: Indecent Exposure

Chapter Summary

There aren’t any mirrors in Shane’s apartment and as the morning sun brushes against his skin Ilya finds himself wishing for the absence of windows as well. If the morning doesn’t come that means he doesn’t have to leave. The day and truths he doesn’t want to address are coming for him anyways.

Chapter Notes

This chapter starts very fluffy, but ends pretty rough for Hollanov as they stumble into a secret they didn’t want to know about. Yellow flag going back up for non-graphic discussions about sexual assault, see the bottom notes for further details. Saying it here would spoil it a bit.

Until you get to that point enjoy Possessive Shane and Devout Ilya.

I thought after the trip in Montreal we would go back to the Room for a few scenes, but actually we are going to Florida for All Stars instead. We’ll get back to the room after that. A lot is changing. All Stars is going to be a lot of fun for me to write. And ya’ll will get a full introduction to Scott Hunter in this world! And he’s gonna bring some more plot/world building with him.

“What is this?” 

Ilya glances at the pile of clothes he had tossed at the bed. Then his eyes go to Shane Hollander lounging across it. Ilya almost considers throwing the clothes back into their drawers and pinning Hollander back to bed for the entire day. 

That isn’t a real option but Ilya really wants it to be. 

The first hints of morning light are already seeping through Hollander’s bedroom window and bringing the end of their time together with it. 

“Clothes,” Ilya supplies, doing his best to be annoying.

Hollander sits up grabbing the hat Ilya had thrown at the bed. He doesn’t pause his task, digging around for the matching hat. 

“Rozanov,” Hollander says, with the careful voice one would use with difficult children, “this is a Boston hat.” 

“And a Montreal shirt,” Ilya points out helpfully. 

Ilya finds the Montreal baseball cap he knows Hollander will have and tugs it over his head. He turns back to Hollander with a grin. “I think I would rather choke on rocks than wear this,” Hollander tells him, holding it out like a dead fish.

He steps over to Hollander to tilt his chin up and steals a kiss as he takes the cap and puts it on Hollander’s head backwards. “Your mistake giving me full control,” he teases. 

Hollander’s nose scrunches. “We would not be alone so that doesn’t count,” Hollander argues, but he is melting into Ilya’s hands. 

“That is why you wear Montreal shirt,” Ilya explains, “this fits with theme. Bad boy corrupting you.”

Hollander’s eyes spark. “Bad boy corrupting me,” his voice tilts in the way Ilya had learned means he wants to play a silly little game. 

Ilya loves Hollander’s games. It means he gets to watch Hollander be bright and playful. He hums his interest letting Hollander slide onto his back. It gives him space to climb on top of Hollander and bracket him with his body. 

“Very bad. Your mother is so anxious. I am a bad influence. I drive fast car and everything.” 

Hollander arches into his body. “A fast car isn’t that bad,” he argues, rolling his hips against Ilya’s, “the smoking and the drinking is probably worse.” 

“Ah,” Ilya runs his hands over Hollander’s chest, from the perfect hard ridges of muscle to his nipples, “but I haven’t gotten you to smoke or drink. I don’t think that counts as corrupting.” 

Hollander squirms under him and then bats his eyelashes. “Taking my virginity certainly does.” 

Fuck.

The amount of power this man has over him. Ilya brings his mouth down in a claiming kiss. He doesn’t hesitate to move his hands down to grab Hollander's cock. It’s half hard, but Ilya isn’t sure if he will be able to perk up all the way this time. He had sucked Hollander off an hour ago. Four times in a day might be a little much. 

Hollander whines into his mouth, fighting to control the kiss. Trying to get more from Ilya. Too quickly Hollander grabs his hand and pulls his mouth away. “We don’t have time,” he pants, but he hasn’t stopped rolling his hips, “we still have to call Farah.” 

Ilya groans, thumping his head down against Hollander’s chest. “Nooo,” he whines, dragging out the O, “one more!”

Laughter rumbles out of Hollander’s throat. “For who,” he asks, fingers carding through Ilya’s hair. 

Ilya raises his head up to give him an obvious look. “You still owe me one Hollander.” 

Hollander tilts his head back. His eyes squeeze shut and a low groan vibrates through his chest. Then he shoves Ilya with more strength. Serious this time. 

Ilya whines rolling off of him and onto his stomach. Hollander follows and starts to press kisses from his spine up to his shoulder. Ilya feels Hollander’s teeth digging into a patch of muscle and moans. “This is very good job of getting out of bed,” Ilya snarks, dropping his head into the pillow as Hollander sucks. 

He is going to leave a bruise. Which is probably going to be an issue. Ilya would just pass it off the same way he always did. Something like they had gone out to a club and both picked up a woman. There might be rumors they had slept with the same woman at the same time, but nothing substantial.

Ilya doesn’t want to stop him even if it would cause an issue. 

A whine gasps out of his mouth when Hollander removes his mouth. Fingers trace along the bruise he had made before digging into it. Making sure the mark will stick. Then the fingers trail along his shoulder blades to where a different kind of mark had faded away. 

“Is nothing,” Ilya mutters knowing what Hollander is thinking. 

He gets a disgusted sound back. “Did not leave any marks. You can see,” Ilya continues. 

Ilya is pretty sure he had diffused Hollander’s anger at Reed from a wild fire to an almost boiling simmer, but Hollander is nothing if not stubborn. Lips press back on his shoulder blades. Near the last mark. Teeth biting in. Lips sucking. Ilya probably shouldn’t be melting into the bed, but he is. His body relaxes under Hollander’s silent demand. Hollander’s fingers tracing the path of where his marks are visible and the memory of marks live. 

Ilya’s cock is paying attention too. His hips grinding into the bed. Hollander’s fingers dip down to his waist and then further. Down to his, oh. 

“Do you,” Hollander swallows back the words as his thumb traces Ilya’s hole. 

He clenches the sensation going straight to his cock. He isn’t entirely sure what is being asked. Hollander is not asking to fuck him. At least Ilya doesn’t think he is. 

“The rimming was fine,” Hollander continues, “I guess we haven’t talked about it.” 

This is a very unfair conversation to be having at the moment. With Hollander on top of him, his mouth so close to skin, the marks he left still throbbing and a light touch to his hole. How is Ilya supposed to think? Mind games. Just like scrabble. 

“Nothing to talk about,” Ilya answers and cants his ass back into the touch, “you bottom. I top. Easy.” 

Hollander huffs and pulls his thumb back. Ilya groans and rolls onto his back. He pushes up on his elbows to catch Hollander’s eyes. His face is pinched into a scrunch. The last thing they need is Hollander thinking too much. 

Ilya snaps his fingers, getting Hollander to glare at him. “What,” Ilya asks, flipping his hand around, “no inside thoughts.” 

Hollander lifts an eyebrow at him, his lips curving up into a smile. “No inside thoughts?” 

Ilya shifts up further to tap Hollander’s forehead. “Yes. No inside thoughts,” he confirms, “you think too much and will cause trouble.” 

“You don’t have proof of that.” 

Ilya waits, waving his hand again. Hollander shifts on his knees. The Boston cap is still on his head. He looks good in it. Far too good. 

Hollander works his jaw for a second, hands coming down to Ilya’s knees and spreading them open. “Someone could take what belongs to me.” 

His eyes drill into Ilya’s when he says it, which speaks more to Ilya than his tone of voice or choice of words ever could. “Even if I don’t want it myself.” 

Hollander holds eye contact in very few situations. Not noticeably if you weren’t spending an obscene amount of time cataloging everything he does. He’s not even sure if other people notice that Hollander does this.

Ilya takes a deep breath. Centering himself. There are a lot of things they can’t talk about directly. A lot of things they were focused on never thinking about. This is one of those things. At least the conclusion of those words. What they really mean. Speaking about it plainly would open more than anyone could handle. The only option is the context they are in. What small significant crumbs the context has allowed. Ilya isn’t going to even allow himself to think past that context, even if it would come for him one day. 

“I do not bottom,” Ilya confirms, “but is not bad for me. I could,” he shrugs, not looking to break eye contact before Hollander does, “I will for you. If you need it.” 

Hollander’s face starts to twist again. “That’s not what we agreed to last night.” 

Ilya grabs him under the arm and gently tugs Hollander further between his open legs. He gives him a light kiss. “We agreed not to hurt each other,” Ilya reminds him, “it would not hurt me.” 

Naturally Hollander isn’t convinced. Ilya takes Hollander’s hand and drags it back down to his hole. Makes Hollander brush against him and lets his own body squirm. To show him just how unhurt he is at the moment. Hollander’s breath hitches as his eyes trail back down to his hole. 

“I like fingers sometimes,” Ilya explains, “I like a mouth. Sometimes it is nice to have a cock rubbing there.” 

Hollander takes more control of his fingers and goes back to stroking his ass. Ilya spreads his legs as wide as he can, and makes sure his posture is relaxed. Making sure Hollander can see that this felt good to him. 

He watches Hollander swallow. His adams apple bobbing. Ilya really wishes he could mark that exposed skin. They could not risk both of them showing up with marks. “I don’t know,” Hollander finally admits, his eyes glued to the way Ilya’s hole is fluttering against his fingers. 

“You do not have interest in topping.” 

If Hollander had had any interest in topping he would have not went about the winner’s room the way he had. It would have been a lot more simple. Hollander’s nose scrunches. “No. I don’t.”

The unfinished but hangs heavy in the air between them. 

“It does not stop belonging to you if someone else has it,” Ilya  purposefully keeps the image of being fucked in the winner’s room out of his head.

It would definitely happen one day, but he can’t spend time thinking about it. An unpleasant experience and then he would be fine. Hollander’s eyes glance back up. “But they would know what you sounded like, what you felt like, and I wouldn’t.”

Ilya hasn’t ever wondered what it would feel like to be the puck on the ice. He knows now. Shane Hollander looks at him the same way he looks at the puck. Not just that the puck belongs to him, but that this is an obvious and unavoidable fact. 

“It would not be the same,” Ilya promised, and keeps trying to keep a spiral of thoughts out of his head. 

To not think about Reed, but the man comes into his mind like a virus. “Could be nothing similar if it is not you.”

“Oh,” Hollander’s fingers still and Ilya whines watching the realization settle heavy in Hollander’s eyes. 

He wiggles his hips. Sure they should be getting ready for the day, but Ilya does not care if they are late. They can call Ferah after their podcast interview.

“Oh,” Hollander says again looking down at Ilya, but this time it’s laced with desire. 

Hollander moves across the bed and grabs the lube bottle cracking it open. “I don’t want to fuck you,” he finally admits, “but can I finger you while I suck you off?” 

Ilya loves that Hollander has become distracted from his original goals. That hat. Boston black and gold resting on his head. Visibly marking him in ways Ilya can’t. 

“How are you getting off in this plan,” Ilya asks, unable to keep the smile off his face. 

Hollander has not thought this part of the plan through. He gives Ilya helpless pouting eyes. “You could owe me two,” Ilya teases instead of being helpful. 

Ilya has a million ideas for how Hollander could get to orgasm in this situation, but he likes playing games more. He likes the frustrated huffs that pull out of Hollander’s lips and the way his nose scrunches. “Fine,” he snaps rolling his eyes, “fine. Fuck you. Yes. Please let me.” 

So furious that Ilya was greedy with Hollander’s pleasure. When Hollander’s pleasure was the direct link to his own. How Hollander looked when he got what he wanted was what sent Ilya over the edge. “So good for asking for permission," Ilya purrs, grabbing some pillows, shoving one under his ass and one under his shoulders so they both have a good view of what they wanted. “Ask nicer.” 

Hollander’s eyes snap from Ilya’s dick to Ilya’s face furry blushing across his cheeks. “Fuck off.” 

Ilya reaches down for his cock and starts to lazily stroke it. “So you don’t want it?” 

“I want it!” Hollander bites into his bottom lip taking in a deep breath, “can I have it? Please?” 

Really such a shame Hollander is so fun to rile up. That he is giving Ilya a wonderful show. “It. What’s it? How can I give permission if I do not know what it is?” 

Hollander pinches the inside of Ilya’s thigh, impatient and bratty. “You’re such an asshole, we just talked about this!” 

Ilya giggles, nudging Hollander’s hip with his leg. “Did we? I forgot.” 

Hollander wrestles his leg back down while he laughs. Cheeks flushing. So beautifully happy. 

“Let me suck you off and finger you please. You dick,” Hollander finally gets out between his huffs of laughter. 

“Ah,” Ilya agrees, relaxing into bed, “well since you ask so nicely. I will let you.” 

Hollander settles back between his legs and goes for the lube again. 

It is at that moment, when everything is perfect, Ilya’s phone starts to blare. He hits his head back against the pillows. “Ignore it,” he orders Hollander, who is already distracted by the sound. 

There are only a handful of people who ever call him. So even if the ringtone wasn’t a popular Russian club song he would have known exactly who is trying to get a hold of him. 

“Let me just shut it off,” Hollander tells him when Ilya makes no move to answer it. 

Fuck. Then he was going to see the time! Ilya jerks up fighting him to get to the phone. “Hey!” 

Hollander has decided to be stubborn, shoving Ilya back down and climbing onto his hips.

“Hollander, it’s my phone,” Ilya tries to argue but it's too late. 

Hollander has his hand on the phone. He frowns down at the screen. Fuck the time. Ilya is about to start whining about him getting distracted when Hollander turns the phone towards him. Letting him see Sveta’s name and the pink heart she had put after it. 

“Who is this?” 

Ilya reaches for his phone again and huffs as Hollander puts strength in keeping him pinned down. It would be hot how Hollander has a hand spread across his chest and is sitting in his lap, if not for the look on his face. Lips pressed into a line and doubt creeping into his eyes. “Do you have a girlfriend and didn’t tell me?” 

Well, fuck that accusation. But not unreasonable given their occupation. “No!”

Ilya surges back into motion to get his phone back. Three moves later one of their fingers jams the answer button. Russian swearings fills the air, along with Hollander’s voice as he refuses to let Ilya explain. Hollander looks at the phone like he could murder it with his mind. Ilya, promptly, decides that maybe if he crawls under the bed this might all stop. He pulls at pillows to cover his face. 

“Ilyushka!”

“Rozanov!”

He waits for both of them to shut up. “Is that Shane Hollander,” Svetlana switches to English the moment she realizes that there is someone else on the line.

Ilya groans fighting against Hollander as the man tries to steal the pillow Ilya hopes will suffocate him.

“I am. Who are you?” 

None of that monotone now. If this was not Sveta on the other end of the line they would be fucked. Hollander sounds exactly like a jealous lover. “Ilyushka is terrible for not telling you about me,” she complains. 

Ilya can feel even through the pillow how hard Hollander is glaring at him as he gives up the fight for said pillow. “I am his angel.” 

“Not helping,” Ilya yells, not that Sveta ever tried to be helpful. 

“It’s true,” Sveta, because she is magic, understood him perfectly across a phone line and through the pillow barricade Ilya had made. 

“I am his best friend for his entire life, I convinced him to go to the NHL. And I bring good wine to his house. Which he is not even at by the way. When he is having a crisis and declaring someone else to be his best friend. I have very generously not ordered a hit on him for it. I am an angel.” 

“Not girlfriend,” Hollander clarifies his tone, dropping the accusation. 

“Gross,” Sveta answers.

Ilya isn’t even looking at him but he can feel Hollander’s shoulders relaxing. “I am out of Ilyushka’s league, but he is in your own,” Ilya gives up his attempt to wiggle to hell, under the pillows and lets his body go slack as Svetlana bulldozes Hollander. 

“You have been playing very well in this league. They would not have made the playoffs last year without you. But the media does credit your entrance to the team far too much for the success. Hockey media has a very short memory, but Chuck Nelson retiring in goal was a god send. It was surprising they traded Hamilton for Drapeau, given the experience difference but it paid off. At the very least he looks like he wants to stop the puck. Watching Nelson it was like he let pucks in on purpose sometimes.” 

Svetlana does not stop her assessment to let Hollander get a word in. “I imagine there were things going on behind the scenes, given Montreal’s aggressive trading before you were drafted. They should have been ashamed you were first line center when the season started, generational talent or not. To have someone with no experience,” she clicks her tongue to the roof of her mouth, “that is why you are given all of the credit I suppose. Montreal was essentially a new team last year. You will take them to the second round of the play offs this time”

“Do you keep Rozanov this humble,” Hollander asks, his tone wrapped up like his wry smile. 

Ilya loves that smile. “Of course I do,” Sveta declares, “you have seen his ego.” 

This drags a laugh out of both of them. Ilya can accept being the bunt of a joke for these two. Hollander’s hand reaches under the pillows to comb through his hair. Ilya is almost tempted out of his hiding place by this alone. 

“A lot of the older players in Montreal also retired that year. Given international competitions I did have some of the most experience,” Hollander explains. 

Sveta huffs. “That is too much pressure to put on a young player’s shoulders. Even if he can handle the weight.” 

Ilya closes his eyes. He misses watching hockey with her so badly it is a physical ache in his chest. “Do you have any observations about this season,” Hollander asks. 

There isn’t any condescension or edge in his tone. It’s the same open curiosity he spoke with his mother. The same kind of respect. Sveta knows hockey better than anyone, but most people do not respect her knowledge. At least until she makes them pay in blood. 

“Yes, why is Avis on the power play? He is a good winger, but his back check has been declining. He keeps falling apart in the neutral zone.” 

“Yes! Thank you,” Hollander agrees and climbs off of Ilya, “no one is pointing that out, and it’s driving me crazy.” 

With that Ilya has officially lost them both. He groans and gets out of his pillow fort and starts to reach for the clothes he had thrown together earlier. He lets Hollander get entranced, talking about hockey with Sveta. Ilya stole a quick kiss after getting the Montreal cap on, and left the room. While the two talk he can at least keep himself busy and make breakfast.

Hollander, like all NHL players, has proportioned meals ready in his fridge. However, Ilya has time to kill and pre-made breakfast is not going to work for the two of them. Besides, he can take the time to prove to Hollander he can make something healthy and not terrible to look at, much less eat. Going through his fridge and pantry Ilya is able to scrounge up a decent breakfast of granola, peanut butter, and fruit with eggs. 

Plates in hand Ilya returns to the bedroom. Hollander is still spread on the bed talking to Sveta and holding his own in the conversation now. He must have gotten dressed, because Montreal’s logo is spread over his chest, but the Boston Cap is still sitting on his head.

He hadn’t thought about introducing Sveta and Hollander.

At all. 

Ever. 

But if he had thought about it he probably would have realized it would go like this. 

Ilya sets the plates on the night stand and climbs into bed with Hollander. He pulls the man into his lap. Hollander makes a happy sound in response even as he refuses to get distracted from his conversation. 

Hollander lets Ilya feed him breakfast as the pair talk. Entranced in their conversation. Hollander’s eyes bright and happy, humming around bites and kissing Ilya’s jaws between bits of food and words. 

If Ilya had been able to think about a perfect morning this might have been it. 

Eventually the food is gone and Ilya has been lazily petting Hollander’s hair when the pair finally realize they had both been in the middle of something that wasn’t hockey. 

Sveta gets back to the point of her call. “Ilyushka, why did I come to surprise you at your apartment only to find it empty?” 

Ilya had not told his best friend a lot of things since he entered the NHL. Talking to her now was a lump in his throat he would never dislodge. She was a ruthless woman, but even she had limits. Ones Ilya could not hold himself too like he would have before. He knows if she had been in his position she would have made a better decision. So he has been dodging her calls. Even if her absence makes it hard to breathe some days. 

“Sveta,” he tries, but she cuts him off. 

“Because if you had told me you were in Montreal I would not be sitting in an empty apartment, with no food or entertainment.” 

Ilya digs his chin into Hollander’s shoulder. The brim of the Boston hat brushes against his head. Hollander squeezes his knee. “I’m sorry,” Ilya gives in immediately. 

“Sorry is useless,” she dismisses, “you will have to make it up to me. When do you get home?” 

Sveta had never believed in apologies. Even when they were children. She had believed in making things right and not repeating a mistake twice. Things Ilya could not do. 

“I drive to Ottawa this evening,” he tells her, “then team plays Buffalo before coming back to Boston.”

“Fine,” she answers, “I will stay here until you come back, and you are making this up to me.” 

Ilya knows she wouldn’t make him talk about anything he doesn’t want to. She’ll let him know she knows something is up, but she won’t nail him to the wall. At least not until Ilya is ready to talk. Which with this topic he could never tell her. 

“Yes,” Ilya promises her, “I will find some trouble for us to get into.” 

He switches to Russian. “Do you need anything? I can send some money,” Ilya starts. 

“Stop,” she orders, in Russian as well, cutting him off, “I’m an accomplished consultant and an heiress. You’re buying drinks when we go clubbing and carrying my bags when we go shopping. Don’t insult me.”

Ilya can’t help but to smile. “You might end up carrying my bags,” he tells her, because there were times he bought just as many clothes as she did. 

She huffs and he can almost see her rolling her eyes. “So what are you doing with Shane Hollander,” Svetlana teases.

“Sveta,” Ilya groans. 

“Is his dick big?” 

Ilya’s eyes flash to Hollander. He knows he doesn’t speak Russian, but Hollander is a special kind of man. If he could get past language barriers by virtue of will Ilya would not be surprised. Hollander does not look murderous, but he is studying Ilya. 

“Come on,” Sveta whines. 

“That’s not your business,” Ilya snaps. 

The phone is silent for a moment before she shrieks in delight. “So it’s serious!” 

“Good bye! I love you,” Ilya exclaims before he hangs up the phone. 

Hollander is looking at him like he has just discovered a puzzle he wants to solve. Which can not be a good thing. Ilya pats his thigh. “We are going to be late to podcast thing,” Ilya reminds him, hoping this will be enough of a distraction to keep Hollander’s mind away from whatever puzzle he has found. 

Naturally this does not work, Hollander does start to get off the bed. Ilya is not sure if this is an achievement on his end. “You didn’t tell me about your best friend.” 

Ilya shrugs. “I tell reporters all about my best friend Shane Hollander,” Ilya deflects, grabbing the plates and heading out of the bedroom. 

Naturally Hollander is right on his heels. “You don’t talk about your life at all,” Hollander continues. 

Ilya dumps the dishes in the sink. His chest tightening as Hollander follows. Hollander’s cleaner will probably get the plates. He turns and Hollander is pressing him up against the counter. A hand on his shoulder and a hand on his hip pressing him into the counter. It’s almost suffocating. “You talk too much,” Ilya tries to deflect and feels the weight in Hollander’s hands, a command to keep still, clearer than any words. 

Hollander is making his intense eye contact, again. Searching Ilya’s eyes in a way that makes him feel burned alive. Like Hollander has taken off his skin, pulled back his veins, and dismantled his skeleton just to try and see his soul. 

“Tell me one thing,” Hollander asks, it’s an ask and not a demand.

If it was a demand Ilya would be able to brush it off. To hold Hollander back. It would be safer if it was a demand. Hollander will strip him bare, but will not ask to take any of him. Not unless Ilya is willing to give it. 

“Please?” 

“Just one.” 

Hollander nods. Ilya takes a deep breath. Tries to find something that will not scoop out his guts to admit. Something Hollander can turn over in his mind on repeat, that will not scratch Ilya raw. He can do that. 

Ilya brings his fingers up to fish his necklace out of his shirt. To the cross pendant always sitting next to his heart. A failed promise he still holds onto. “This was my mother’s,” he whispers to Hollander. 

He watches Hollander process the information. Carefully calculate the tense of what Ilya said. He knows Hollander won’t push, but he doesn’t know what the man will do. His breath hollows out in his chest as he watches Hollander drag his eyes down to the cross. 

Hollander presses their mouths together in a soft kiss before leaning down to place a kiss on the pendant. “Thank you.” 

Ilya’s fingers claw into the counter in an effort to keep his knees from giving out. He swallows. 

“It is nothing.” 

Hollander cups the back of his neck and kisses him again. Harder this time. Consuming. Then he pulls back the playful smile on his lips that Ilya can not resist. “Race you to the car,” he challenges before he bolts away. 

Ilya yells, blowing out the breath he had been holding and races after him. He steals one of Hollander’s shoes and throws it across the room while he tries to shove his feet into his own. Hollander pulls Ilya by the ankle until he trips and sends Ilya to the ground. It gives him the time he needs to get his shoe. Ilya giggles and Hollander does as well. 

He’s not sure who made it to the car first. He wouldn’t ever admit it, but he’s pretty sure who won doesn’t matter. Not in the long run. 

Hollander doesn’t press him for details in the car. Instead he picks up a previous conversation they had been having and Ilya isn’t sure if he’ll ever be this happy again. 

Somehow they make it to the studio on time, despite their morning of distractions. Ilya pulls his hand away from Hollander when they turn into the parking lot. “Is your mother meeting us here?” 

Hollander glances at him. “What? No. The itinerary,” Hollander changes his words as he remembers Ilya had not read the itinerary, “no. I told her to head home to Ottawa, it’s not really going to look great around former members of my team if my mom is here.” 

They get out of the car and Hollander follows some pre-established path to get up to the podcast studio. Ilya hasn’t really listened to this one before agreeing to come onto it, but he knows it’s one of the better ones. Given that hockey podcasts were all the same, that didn’t say much. He might not have read the itinerary but he had done his homework. 

“I’m going to kick your ass if you don’t call Ferrah before leaving,” Hollander threatens. 

Ilya rolls his eyes and yaps his hands at him. “Is not my fault you spent all morning talking to Sveta.”

Hollander rolls his eyes back,  before smacking Ilya’s chest “You could have made me stop.” 

Ilya could have, but why would he have wanted to? 

Before he knows it they are sitting in a little studio that looks professional enough with their hosts. They have microphones in front of them and headsets over their ears. Hollander manages to look radiant instead of stupid. Ilya rearranges a few of his curls even though this won’t be on camera. 

“Welcome back to Puck with Chucks. We’re your hosts Chuck and Chucky!” 

He turns his head to see if Hollander also thinks this is a stupid name. Hollander kicks his ankle, and Ilya has to bite back a smile. The introductions had gone well. Chirping with the former Montreal players as they settled into the studio. One of them, the goalie, Chuck Nelson, Sveta had been talking about. Just the two of them. Working both the sound system and being active in the podcast. The other was a former center with a pitiful set of stats. And they both had the misfortune of being named Chuck while looking almost identical. Apparently they should have started as podcast hosts since this was going better than the five year decline Montreal had suffered during their active playing years. 

“And we have some really exclusive guests for you today,” the other one says leaning into the mic like a camera was on them for dramatic effect, “they are maybe hockey’s most unlikely friends.” 

“Like a tiger and a bear.” 

“A cow and duck?” 

“Or a snake and a baby.” 

“Woah. Woah. Woah,” Ilya interrupts, “who is baby here?”

“Clearly you,” Hollander puts in dryly. 

“If you didn’t recognize their voices folks, that is Ilya Rozanov and Shane Hollander joining us in the studio today.”

“Ah, no,” Ilya tells Hollander, “not clearly. Clearly I am Bear and you are Duck,” 

“How is it clear that I am the Duck?”

“Because you are like little duckling. Small and fluffy and slippery.” 

“We are the same size asshole!” 

Ilya makes a dismissive sound. “And that listeners is why these two are our unlikely friends,” one of the Chucks interrupts while Hollander glares at him. 

Ilya wants to slide his dick into that pout. He shifts in his chair looking away to the hosts. 

“But before we get into this friendship, let’s talk about the hockey stats.” 

“Is long list,” Ilya boasts. 

“We’ll give the cliff notes. Don’t worry.” 

It gets a laugh from the other Chuck. “I mean even the cliff notes are long, and it’s only their second season playing professional hockey. Let’s start with Rozanov.” 

“Yes, because I am best player in the league.” 

Hollander kicks him under the table. “You have barely played in the league.” 

“For this pair of super stars it’s their second year playing professional hockey, they were the first draft pick in the first round, rookies of the year, and league point score leaders.”

“And if you are wondering how that’s possible,” the other Chuck interrupts, “that's because Rozanov played his first season in the KHL and Hollander played in the NHL. Which if you remember was a big upset last season before the draft.” 

“Let’s talk about that first real quick Roz. All sources thought you were going to declare for the NHL draft. What changed? What brought you to the NHL after your rookie season?” 

Ilya clears his throat. “Was always big debate. My father is huge KHL fan, and wanted me to play for them. So, compromise, rookie season in KHL and career in NHL. Good to get to know team mates for Olympics next year.” 

“Oh,” a Chuck laughs, “you’re already so sure you will make the Olympic team?”

“Yes.” 

Both men continue to laugh at Ilya’s short answers. “What about you, Hollander , are you already betting on being on team Canada?” 

“I’m putting my focus on this season, but I would be honored to be considered for the national team,” Hollander offers with a cocky smile. 

So diplomatic. He was definitely being scouted for the national team already. It wasn’t even a secret. Ilya rolls his eyes. “Yes, he will make the boring Canadian National Team and Russia will beat him just like at World Juniors.” 

“We beat you last time!” 

Ilya felt his jaw clench. “We won first.” 

“Which is a good led into this surprising friendship,” the other Chuck gets in, “leading up the draft before your rookie year there was a lot of debate about who would end up being the first and second draft pick. After your performances on the junior international stage all of the hockey world was expecting a hockey rivalry, not a bromance.” 

“We are rivals,” Hollander corrects immediately, “and friends.” 

“Is normal for hockey players I think,” Ilya adds, “off ice I will drag him to parties he is too boring for, and then on ice I will bring him to tears.” 

They could think Ilya would drag Hollander out to parties all they wanted. If they knew about Ilya feeding Hollander breakfast while Hollander talked about hockey with Sveta they would, well it would not be good. The Forfeits could know Ilya wanted to fuck him. But that was different. That was not the way Ilya wants to settle Hollander on his knees in front of him and comb his hands through Hollander’s hair while brushing his fingers against freckles until Hollander relaxes into him. 

Hollander has his teeth bared at the challenge. “You can waste energy on parties while I grind you into the ice during the game.” 

The Chucks chuckle. “Right. That animosity is pretty easy to see on the ice during the two games you have played against each other so far,” one of them says, “but we haven’t seen much of the off ice friendship yet. We did get told that you fulfilled the details of a bet we learned about a few weeks ago?” 

Ilya grins, “yes. Was good day, full of surprises. Hollander does not drive like Canadian Grandmother.” 

“As opposed to Russian Grandmothers,” Hollander asks. 

“Russian Grandmothers would run you over,” Ilya explains, “at least in Moscow.”

Hollander rolls his eyes. Which doesn’t stop Ilya from seeing Hollander’s amusement. “Will you be shopping for a sports car in the near future, Hollander?” 

“I don’t think so,” Hollander chuckles, “it was fun but they are not very practical for Montreal winter.” 

Ilya makes a loud dramatic sound. “Is not supposed to be practical Hollander,” he looks at their hosts, “Hollander drives a very boring practical car,” he stresses out the word boring again.

“You’ll convert him eventually, Roz. For now how about you lead us through the first interaction you two had. Was it on the ice?” 

“No,” Hollander takes this question easy and casual, “not on the ice. Team Canada had studied film from all the teams. By then everyone knew Rozanov was set to be a first round draft pick. So I wanted to introduce myself.” 

Ilya hums watching Hollander’s face. The way his eyes twinkle. Ilya had hung onto that memory for months. His shitty English unable to properly flirt with the cute boy as he worked through what the other teen had even been saying. The little nervous pacing Hollander had done and two hand shakes. So cute. So handsome. Something Ilya had felt like he might break if he held in his hands too long. Except anyone who had seen Hollander on the ice knew he was far from breakable. Something he could dirty then. 

Now Ilya knew they were both tainted. 

“Was your English always this good Roz if you two made fast friends? You can hardly tell now if it wasn’t for the accent.”

“No,” Ilya admits while something flashes in Hollander’s eyes he doesn’t know how to name, “I have a friend from Russia I grew up with who is American. She drilled my English during rookie season, and some of the older players have been in NHL, very helpful.” 

“Oh, a friend, or a friend,” one of the Chucks wiggles his eyebrows and puts an odd amount of stress on the friend.

Ilya takes this to mean something sexual, but he looks back to Hollander to see his reaction. To see if he can glean anything from him.  Hollander is not content to let this conversation go without speaking. Which might be a mistake. “Svetlana knows more about hockey than anyone I’ve met. She remembers stats I’ve forgotten.” 

That was probably true, but maybe not what Hollander should have said. “Oh so you’ve met this girl friend,” the Chuck teases, “do we have a love triangle on our hands? Fans, why don’t you tell us if you are team Hollander or team Rozanov for this lucky lady? I’ll put up a poll on Twitter after the show.”

Hopefully Svetlana would choose to be amused by this. Otherwise it was not the worst rumor to have going about them. It could be worse. 

“No love triangle,” Hollander tries to defend but it’s already too late. 

“How far does this bromance go? You’ve met the best friend, what about the parents?” 

Hollander’s eyes trail down to Ilya’s chest where his cross sits. Ilya speaks before Hollander has the chance. “Yes. Yuna Hollander is how do you say it? Scary Impressive.“

Both of the Chucks laugh. Ilya isn’t sure what was funny about what he said, but they move past the topic of parents. 

“The all star break is coming up in a couple of weeks. Are you hoping to continue to be on opposing sides or do you want a chance to play together?”

“Opposing,” Ilya and Hollander say at the same time. 

“Wait. Wait! Wait, Chucky! What makes you think they will both be chosen for All Stars Week?” 

“Oh was their rookie year stats not enough for you Chuck?” 

“Well let’s not ignore their stats so far this season. I mean it’s the current season that counts right?” 

“Fair enough. I guess we really do need to address the elephants in the room. I pulled up the stats this morning.” 

He takes out a sheet of paper and wiggles it in front of the mic, to make sure it picks up the paper sound. “Now, they aren’t Wayne Gretzky yet, but I’m almost afraid to see how close they are.”

“And how scary is that?” 

Ilya throws Hollander a smirk. “For those of you who don’t have the stats memorized Gretzky’s record was 1.17 goals per game in a season. Hollander has 1.02 and Rozanov has 1.05. Which means Hollander and Rozanov on average are scoring a goal per game. 

Hollander sends him a glare back.  “I think we do need to mention before we go further that Rozanov is in the top ten highest goal scored in a season in the KHL.” 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, “and I will do the same this season for the NHL.”

Hollander coughs into his elbow and Ilya watches as he smothers a smile. 

“Yeah, what was the promise you made? Sixty goals.” 

“What about you, Hollander? Any promises to make?” 

Hollander clears his throat. “I just want to support my team the best I can. If that means scoring goals that’s what I’ll do.” 

“Folks if you have done the math then you know these guys have scored 47 and 48 goals already this season and we haven’t even hit February yet. I don’t need to tell you that these are incredible seasons. Do we even need to list off the rest of the stats?” 

“Need to or want to, because I want to. I mean these are the kinds of stats that you dream of in a player. I wish mine had been that good.” 

Ilya leans back in his seat and watches Hollander as they are praised for their skills. For what they are going to build. Hollander is glowing under the dim studio light. Everything is going to be okay. Ilya has this under control. 

The podcast is recorded for maybe thirty minutes before the Chucks push away the microphones and turn off all the equipment stretching.

Hollander moves to get up and Ilya is following when the goalie narrows his eyes. “Hey wait, what’s the rush for?” 

The temperature in the room immediately drops. Ilya leans back into his seat. 

He definitely doesn’t have this under control. 

“Boston needs me in Ottawa,” Ilya offers in explanation but does not give out at what time he is needed. 

One of the Chucks waves him off. “Come on. We’re all players,” he tells them, “a goal per game, and a lot of those game winners too.

You have a lot of stories to tell.”

Ilya recognizes this. It’s not any different from any other form of gossip. Except the topic. Hollander is stiff next to him. His eyes cut to Ilya and he can see how lost Hollander feels in this. How hard he is trying to hide that confusion. Hollander is not a sociable man, and he can not share his stories. Even if he wants to.  

Ilya stretches out kicking his feet up to the desk. His eyes narrowing at their hosts. “Hollander, how many goals does dear friend Chuck have to reminisce about?" 

“Thirty,” Hollander answers on automatic. 

“Thirty in a season,” Ilya gasps, looking down at his fingers bored.

“No career. Over five regular seasons before he retired due to injury.”

“Oh,” Ilya says, sitting up a little and makes eye contact with Hollander, “and how many game winning goals?” 

“Five.” 

Ilya nods his head slowly, turning to look at the former forward and smiles at him. “We will forget more goals than you ever scored. It would be rude to rub all those stories in your face.” 

“Oh come on,” The Chuck whines, “you’re the most interesting story us old guys have. I mean Shane Hollander has a singular Forfeit from every team. That’s insane. And then you come in and choose the same Forfeits as him. There has to be a story to that.” 

Well that was certainly the most direct Ilya had ever heard anyone put it. Which was far too open to talk about it. But if you weren’t actively playing he supposes there is a lot less danger. Less risk. The league would not be watching as closely, the names of former players would fade in the public mind, time away from the event would change how the event was remembered, and there was no one around to enforce the rules. 

This was the obvious conclusion of post retirement discussions in small groups. 

“Hey I got plenty of stories,” the goalie Chuck laughs, “I know what a Forfeit looks like after the Winner’s room.” 

Ilya and Hollander do not look at each other. “Bad luck getting the brunt of a sadist Winner Roz,” the Goalie winces, “those ones I kind of felt bad about.” 

“Fuck I was called for Scott Hunter once. He really is a sadist, but I think I made it out pretty easy. I heard he tried some stuff with needles last season, and I thought getting hit with a cane was bad enough. Thank god he never calls for repeats.” 

Ilya continues to stay silent and Hollander takes his cues from him. He is so good. Ilya glances back at him and inclines his head in a small nod. Hollander lowers his eyes ever so slightly. So Ilya will get them out of this.

Hollander’s eyes flicker back over to the Chucks. Intense and calm now that Ilya has taken control from him. Ilya will get them out of this but he will not be doing it alone. 

“Any time I picked anyone up from Hunter they were so quiet, but that’s better than when they were crying. I had to hit a few guys to get them to shut up.” 

Ilya’s stomach turns. The idea of Feller coming to collect him after Reed and being met with additional violence or disdain? The idea that Feller would greet anyone on the team like that. 

“You guys got all the fun and goalies only got work,” the man rolls his eyes. 

No wonder why their five seasons in Montreal led to the team’s disgrace. The other Chuck rolls his eyes too and laughs. “Come on. I know you took your own revenge.” 

“What,” Ilya can’t help but ask the word popping out before he can recognize that he doesn’t want to know.

The goalie shrugs. “Not everyone is conscious when you have to go collect him. And if I needed to work out some of my anger still,” the goalie shrugs the implication hanging thick in the air. 

Ilya scolds his face harsher than he ever had to before, including for his father,  “It’s not like they were going to notice,” the man continues, “and if he did, what was he going to do about it? Who was he going to report it to? Hamilton did the same sometimes.” 

“Don’t get fucking weird about it. It’s not gay. Goalies deserve to release some stress too,” the skater says.

“Montreal lost two hundred games in the five seasons you both played,” Hollander says next to him voice so flat that any other noise would cause a ripple, “how do you know he never did that to you?”

Ilya is going to buy Feller a car, or a house, or something. Right after he made sure everyone on the team knew they could come to him if something was wrong. If their goalies did anything but get them back to the team safe. 

“He wouldn’t have done that.” 

Ilya glances between both men, focused on reading their reactions, as possibilities of what could have happened opened loudly in the room. 

The skater turns to his goalie who looks just as relaxed as he did a moment ago. “We’ve been friends since high school.” 

Next to him he feels Hollander wince. Ilya nudges him with his knee as he prepares to throw a match on the kindling, both feet planted firmly on the ground now. 

“How many times did you end up passing out in winner’s room,” Ilya asks.

The skater looks back at them and the goalie throws them both a glare. “Chucky.” 

“The players association discourages Winners from leaving Forfeits injured enough to pass out,” Hollander is thinking out loud, solving the puzzle that had been laid out in front of them. 

“How often did your teammates pass out as Forfeits,” Ilya asks to give Hollander time, “no one on Boston has been retrieved passed out. I did not even after a sadist.”

The skater gets to his feet. Hollander continues, “Goalies get unfiltered access to the medical bay.” 

“With sleep medications,” Ilya follows the train of thought like he is reading Hollander’s mind, “they gave me a dissolvable kind you put in water after Reed.” 

“You can shut up,” the goalie jumps his feet, but Ilya doesn’t flinch. 

“How many times did you drug your own player? Give him a bottle of water before the winner’s room,” Hollander asks and Ilya watches realization dawn over the skater’s face.

“No one said I did it to you,” the goalie turns to try to disarm the bomb, but it’s already too late. 

“Get the fuck out!” 

Ilya and Hollander bolt out the door and back to the car without stopping. Hollander peels out of the parking lot before Ilya has the door fully closed, but it doesn’t matter with the ringing in his ears. 

“Would your goalie,” Hollander asks as soon as they are several blocks away pulling into a parking garage and heading up. 

Ilya shakes his head. “Not Feller,” Ilya has to stop to actually consider if Feller would, taking in a deep breath, “no. He would not. No opportunity either. We all watch each other.” 

“Drapeau?” 

Hollander shakes his head and they continue climbing up the parking garage levels. 

“No. Not that,” Hollander’s fingers flex on the steering wheel, “I could see him hitting someone, but not that.” 

The top level of the garage is empty. Hollander doesn’t bother pulling into a parking spot before he parks the car and shoves out of the driver’s seat. 

Ilya hears him throw up. He doesn’t move for a minute deciding if he is going to be sick as well. 

No. Not right now. 

Hollander gets back in the car. “Are they more lucid for you after the blankets and the water and physical contact,” he asks. 

“Yes,” Ilya answers, and his voice feels tight in his throat. 

Hollander nods. “And you wouldn’t leave them tied down or unaware?” 

“Never,” Ilya swears without hesitation. 

He wouldn’t have before, but now he would make sure of it. “Get out your phone,” Hollander orders. 

Ilya can’t think of anything to do but obey, unlocking it for the man. He thinks about every goalie he has met in the NHL. Hollander gets out of the car again and a moment later he hears Hollander open the back hatch. There is a shuffling around before Hollander opens the passenger door and holds Ilya’s phone back out to him. There is a photo of Hollander’s gear bag, with his numbered jersey laying across it in his car, ready to send as a message. 

“Tell them they aren’t to drink anything they didn’t personally break the seal on before they come to the room” Hollander orders, his eyes a little wild, voice as stilted as if he had played a whole sixty minute game.

He takes the phone back. His fingers pulling up the right chat and the right words for this. The photo goes first. The authority. 

Ilya: He says don’t drink from anything you didn’t break the seal yourself after games. 

His phone instantly starts to ping. Ilya tosses his phone into the back seat and slips out. Hollander drops down to sit against the car on the pavement and Ilya sits next to him. 

“How many,” Hollander starts to ask but trails off. 

Ilya closes his eyes. “You need to make sure everyone on your team knows they can report anything to you,” Ilya tells him. 

“I know,” Hollander snaps as he puts his head on his knees, “I never left them unaware and I always untied them enough they could finish it themselves.” 

Ilya doesn’t touch Hollander. Just in case there are cameras watching.

“Could you want to quit,” Ilya asks because quitting was something neither of them could actually do. 

“No.” 

He nods and they sit in silence. “I have to leave for Ottawa in four hours,” Ilya reminds them both.

“I have a practice skate this afternoon.” 

“Alright. Plan,” Ilya declares, “we go back to your place and we eat one of your trainer prepared lunches.” 

He wasn’t sure if he could eat right now. Except what he could handle and what they needed were different things. Distantly he thinks in the back of his mind how the Chucks hadn’t even made fun of their swapped baseball caps. 

“We’re going back to that big couch, I will put you on your knees and you will sit quiet and still for me as I stroke your hair and pretty freckles.” 

Hollander whimpers next to him. “And if you are good I will let you suck my cock.” 

“Yes Sir.” 

Maybe later the words will make him hard. Right now shoulder to shoulder with Hollander, he is soft. Instead warmth and trust wrap around him. “Do you want anything else?” 

It takes a while for Hollander to answer. His mind, probably, still in the room. “It’d be really nice to be thrown into the boards right now.” 

Hollander snaps up and shakes his head at Ilya. “Not the pain. Just, it feels like everything that is too big gets slammed back into me, and I can settle down.” 

Ilya hums thinking. “Do you own rope?” 

“Yes,” Hollander’s breath hitches. 

Ilya climbs to his feet and holds his hand out to Hollander in offering. Hollander lets Ilya help him up. Helping each other. Ilya can’t resist. He brushes his fingers against Hollander’s freckles. Hollander’s eyes drop down. So fucking beautiful. 

“Yes Sir,” he repeats. 

Later, much later, Ilya pulled his suitcase out of his Ferrari in Ottawa. His phone was shut off and will be for the next day, at least. He goes inside. 

Marleau is holding court in the lobby, several of their teammates laughing at something he had said as Ilya came in.  His head swiveled to him as soon as Ilya walked into view. “Roz!” 

Ilya ignored him and headed towards Feller. “You want my Ferrari,” Ilya offered, holding up the keys. 

Feller laughed leaning back into the sofa. “Who doesn’t want your Ferrari?” 

Ilya threw the keys at him. Feller fumbled to catch them his eyes going wide. “For real? Dude. What the hell?” 

“Take it. I never want to see it again,” Ilya answered, waving his hand as he headed to the elevator, “it is  too old for me.” 

Marleau started to push past the group to follow him. “I’m going to bed,” Ilya announced as the elevator door opened. 

“Roz! Wait!” 

Ilya jammed the close button and watched as Marleau’s face disappeared from view. His back hit the elevator wall as Ilya took a deep breath. Nearly 36 hours since he last slept on the plane to Montreal? It was time to get some fucking sleep.

Chapter End Notes

Welcome to a deeper warning about the contents of this chapter. This will spoil a reveal made at the end of the chapter with the podcast interview, but the contents of the reveal are more important than the surprise of it.

The end of the chapter will have a non graphic discussion of physical and sexual assault with the assistance of drugs, from a trusted authority figure slash friend, and the manipulation of a harmful system to allow for it to happen, and avoid accountability. Additionally a character is fine with a friend sexually assaulting others until he realizes that he is one of the victims. The tone of these discoveries on Shane and Ilya’s end is horror and thus the scene is framed in that light. Who’s excited for themes about institutional abuse and how people are allowed to cause even more damage by the power that institution provides?!

 

For obvious reasons Shane is never part of the group chat, but here is a sexual assault help center in Montreal regardless, I think this is a good chapter to slide it in at.

Montreal Sexual Assault Center (MSAC): 888-933-9007

 

I refuse to watch a men’s hockey podcast as research for this. But I have listened to a lot of women’s hockey podcast, so that’s our basis for hockey podcasts here. You’ll have to tell me if it’s accurate or not. But all hockey interviews rink side are the same, and I love them. Don’t check my math too close for the hockey stats, I only cared about accuracy a little.

 

I love Svetlana. She won’t have any major appearances in this story, but she’s my baby.

Chapter 12: Interlude

Chapter Summary

A brief look inside Ilya Rozanov’s phone.

Chapter Notes

An experimental interlude. Not written in the sense of actions and dialogue but purely from the contexts of Ilya’s phone. I won’t be doing the cool graphic stuff other people did for phone stuff, because I don’t have the desire to or the time, and making that accessible seems like a nightmare. So hopefully this simplistic format doesn’t pull you out of it too much.

The group chat is back, along with a few other contacts in Ilya’s phone. Trigger warnings include casual misogyny in the context of hook ups, familia financial manipulation and verbal plus emotional abuse.

If anyone is reading this with a screen reader or text to speech and it’s not accessible or confusing please let me know and I can make adjustments. Or if the format causes undue strain on anyone’s eyes

This chapter pushes us closer to Florida and All Stars Week, but we don’t get there till chapter fifteen. I’m really excited to write chapter fifteen. I decided to split the next chapter into two for tonal reasons. So this is part world building, and part time skip.

I’m glad ya’ll seemed to like my reveal about the Chucks. Thank you for your kind comments. I promise I am drinking water. Stay safe if you’re being affected by the recent heat waves.

6/30 edited based on feed back to help flow and understanding for screen readers/text to speech. Will continue to make adjustments as I pick through how to make it better.

Screen Saver Background 

Image Description: A Fast and Furious actress draped over a red Ducati 

Wallpaper Background

Image Description: Ilya Rozanov holding the Alexei Cherepanov Award

Camera Roll

Locked 

Enter Pass Code 

Mobile Games

Cut the Rope 

Plants Vs Zombies 

Candy Crush Saga

Bubble Witch Saga 

Clash of Clans

The Room 

Triple Town 

Fruit Ninja 

Temple Run 

Subway Surfers

Need for Speed Shift 

Where’s My Water 

Minecraft 

The Heist 

Drag Race

Glow Hockey

Bejeweled

Angry Birds Classic

Angry Birds Space

Angry Birds Seasons

Angry Birds Rio

Email Inbox

One New Message 

From: FarahJalali@groundsports.org

Subject: Contract 

Attached Eight Documents

Hey Ilya,

So you are right. The contract with your current agent does prevent me from taking over as your primary sport agent until your contract with his agency ends in two years. 

That contract doesn’t forbid you from signing contracts with specialized agents in other fields as long as their specializations do not overlap. Which you signed with a sports agency that specializes in the KHL and Russian sport brand deals. Given that you are signed to the NHL and my specialty is helping international players make the transition from their home leagues to the NHL you can still sign with my agency under specific conditions.

If you still want to move forward with me we can get you a personal assistant, press and media training, our international law services, translator services, language tutors if you need them, and you can sign with me for a marketing contract so I can get you started with brand deals in the US and Canada. 

I hate for you to stay contracted to someone who hasn’t been putting in the work for you, but it’s going to be better in the long run if you are still signed under a Russian agent and company for the Olympics. I know you said you don’t care, and to drop professionalism, so you’re going to have to get my unfiltered thoughts if you want to work together. 

I’ve attached the marketing agent contract and the contract to sign for Ground Sports Agencies. You’ll have to sign before we can go further with any services, but there isn’t any pressure to do so either. I also added the pamphlets about those services so you can get a complete idea of what’s being offered to you. All of which is available in English and Russian, but reach out at any time if you have any questions. 

If you decide to move forward we’ll have another meeting before you sign anything, and have a translator present to make sure you understand the legal jargon and then you and I can talk about your goals and needs further. 

I hope to be working with you soon. 

Sincerely, 

Farah Jalali

Call Log 

Recents

Out going: Slacker; Duration: thirty two seconds

Incoming: Father; Duration: ten minutes

Incoming: Marly And Me; Duration five minutes

Incoming: Andrei; Rejected

Incoming: Sveta; Duration twenty-nine minutes

Incoming: Sveta; Missed call

Incoming: Father; Duration two minutes

Incoming: Connie; Duration five minutes

Incoming: Marly And Me; Missed call

Incoming: Marly And Me; Missed call

Incoming: Sveta; Duration one hour and seven minutes 

Messages 

Two Message Notifications 

Group Name: Party Whores 

Previously Read

Connie: Wait what was the name of the fucking club again? 

Slacker: Fat ass three O’Clock

D Dog: Fuck, where did Roz go? I saw him walk in just five seconds ago. 

Marly and Me: Got the attention of a fat titted chick and strutted right back out. 

Connie: I haven’t even arrived yet! He should share!

Ilya: up your game losers

Sveta

Previously Read

Sveta: I restocked your booze. You’re welcome 

Sveta: answer your phone 

Sveta: I am coming to the next home game against Montreal. You will bring him clubbing with us. 

Ilya: he does not go clubbing 

Sveta: you are not keeping my new best friend away from me 

Ilya: I thought I was your best friend? 

Sveta: you replaced me with a man. Go fuck yourself. 

Ilya: Do you want to watch? 

Sveta: you or him? 

Ilya: rolling eyes emoji 

Sveta: If you also lose against Buffalo I am disowning you. 

Ilya: fuck you. Why do have no faith in me?

Sveta: Where did you go? I go into the smoothie shop and you’re gone? 

Ilya: Around the corner for privacy. Have to take phone call. 

Sveta: I have a blueberry one for you. Meet me back at the car. 

Sveta: Plane landed safe in Moscow. Don’t make me fly out again because you stop responding. 

Ilya: Okay

Ilya: Photo attached; Ilya Rozanov leaning against a wall for a mirror photo, black button up with gold line detailing, black cargo pants, large gold dragon belt buckle. 

Ilya: I got the belt buckle in Texas. 

Sveta: this is the worst thing I have ever seen. I love it. 

Ilya: Photo attached; Ilya Rozanov in a Santa costume and a large bag of gifts thrown over his shoulder. 

Sveta: Happy New Years!!! Send me a kiss! 

Sveta: Photo attached; Selfie of Svetlana Vetrova in a dark Moscow club, beaming at the camera, in a sequence blue dress, champagne in hand, with Sasha and another man both kissing her cheeks on each side. 

Sveta: We miss you! 

Ilya: Photo attached; Ilya Rozanov, Marleau, and Connors blowing kisses to the camera with large glittery hats on, and 2013 novelty glasses at the bar.

Andrei

Previously Read

Andrei: Stop dodging my calls

Andrei: Bitch 

Andrei: Don’t make me tell Papa 

Ilya: What. 

Andrei: Your niece starts preschool next year. Do you want her to go to public school? 

Ilya: What school does Yuliya want to send her to? 

Andrei: Does it matter? 

Ilya: You want me to pay for it but not know which one, asshole? 

Andrei: Link to preschool application website. 

Ilya: 850,258 rubles! 

Andrei: So you don’t want what’s best for your family? 

Ilya: Go to hell. 

Ilya: Send me bill and I will take care of it. 

Andrei: You could just give me the money. 

Ilya: I could also snort cocaine like you do. 

Andrei: Fuck you fag 

Ilya: Did you get the clothes I sent? 

Andrei: Photo attached; a family photo of Gregori, Polina, Andrei, his wife Yuliya, and daughter Yekaterina at a fancy New Year’s party in fancy expensive clothes. 

Ilya: Photo attached; Ilya Rozanov in a suit that matches his family’s smiling with a happy 2013 sign in hand. 

Ilya: Tell Katechka Happy New Years from me. Did her gifts arrive on time?

Andrei: If you were not a coward who abandoned your family you could have given them to her yourself. 

Marly and Me

Previously Read

Marly and Me: Attached Youtube Link; Ball kicking compilation

Ilya: they are out of your rum 

Marly and Me: try a different store?

Ilya: No

Ilya: Pick something else 

Marly and Me: you break my heart Rozy. Come on I’ll suck your dick! 

Ilya: keep your mouth away from me. 

Marly and Me: I’ll just have what’s already here

Ilya: Ask Rookies next time 

Marly and Me: Shit! That’s a great idea! 

Marly and Me: Connors and I just put on fast and furious

Ilya: Omw

Connie

Previously Read

Ilya: hurry up

Ilya: I will break into our hotel room

Connie: Attached Pornhub Link; Two Blonde Virgin give three hour tit and blow job

Connie: Feel free to interrupt 

Ilya: you know they are not virgins right? 

Group Name: Boston Bois!!

One New Message

Cap: New Baby Alert 

Cap: Photo Attached; Blurry photo of an ultrasound 

Group Name: The Chat 

Previously Read

Detroit: What the fuck did they do to the Chucks? 

Detroit: Attached link to Puck with Chucks Facebook post Titled Break Announcement. 

Calgary: what does this have to do with them? 

Buffalo: Sal. You think? 

New Jersey: Probably. God I want to retire. 

Buffalo: You keep saying that, yet here you are in hell with the rest of us. 

Las Vegas: Do you two want to share with the class? 

New Jersey: Don’t worry about it. 

D.C: I wasn’t worried about it before now

Sunrise: You weren’t in the league before those two started their careers. Montreal tanked for a reason. 

Las Vegas: A reason? 

Buffalo: A bad goalie will kill a team

D.C: No shit. Who would have fucking guessed that in Hockey? 

New Jersey: Not the game you dumb ass, a team. 

613-234-2266: Think about what your goalie does for you off the ice 

Chicago: oh hey. He made those new rules around the time their podcast episode came out. 

Vancouver: Wait there is more than one new rule?

Calgary: Unfortunately 

Vancouver: and you haven’t warned us???!

Los Angeles: Its not really rules, except for the one everyone knows about. 

Calgary: I had to drink a full bottle of water before he would leave. 

Vancouver: huh? 

Toronto: He’s acting more like Rozanov now, after. 

801-467-7282 has been added to the group chat

801-467-7282 has left the group chat

801-467-7282 has been added to the group chat 

Salt Lake: He’s going to keep adding you back in. I warned you. 

801-467-7282: Fuck you! This is your fault for getting injured! 

Chicago: So if Higgins comes back later does Newhook get kicked out? 

Columbus: Marleau is still here 

Marly and Me: fuck you I made this group chat

Jenny: All stars gang what day and restaurant are we thinking? 

New Jersey: you’re going to do that dinner thing again? 

613-234-2266: it wasn’t terrible last time 

Sunrise: Yeah Reed and I are going to sit this one out

204-786-8631: Why? 

Sunrise: and people are concerned with how often I hit my head. Get your brain checked if you can’t think. 

Anaheim: I don’t think Reed will want to run into Rozanov. 

Jenny: I don’t think Roz is invited. Sorry Buddy. 

Ilya: What am I not invited to? 

Jenny: Dinner with everyone in the chat who is invited to the All Star’s game. 

Denver: how in hell are you friends with him? 

Detroit: No I get it. Are we still getting drinks Rozy? 

Ilya: Hell Yes. I will beat your ass in pool like promised. 

Detroit: Nice. Don’t bring Hollander. 

Ilya: eyes rolling emoji

Ilya: I will not attend your boring dinner. Floridians should go. 

One New Message

204-786-863: Should Rozanov even be in this chat still? 

Contact Profile 

Call

Message 

Email 

Photo: Default 

First Name: Shane 

Last Name: Hollander 

Company: NHL SC 

Add Phone Number 

Add Email 

Ringtone: Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want: The Smiths

Chapter End Notes

Salt Lake City Rape Recovery Center:
801-467-7282

Salal Sexual Violence Center- Vancouver: 604-255-6344

Sunrise of Pasco County INC, Domestic & Sexual Violence Center: 352-521-3120

The Sexual Assault Support Centre of Ottawa: 613-234-2266

Klinic Community Health- Winnipeg: 204-786-8631

Chapter 13: Deke

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane have to face the unintended consequences of their public friendship. They’re going to have to do some damage control. Luckily for them they have practice moving opposing players where they want them to be.

Chapter Notes

Okay interlude done, updated team dynamics time now that we are further into the season. We are back into the sandbox of racism and ableism in how players treat and talk about Shane. Especially in comparison to how Ilya is treated. Also touching back up on how sexual assault in the context of the winner’s room would affect cross team player dynamics and rape culture. Marleau is catching strays the entire chapter. I would say all of this is not in-depth, but is the guiding point in the chapter.

You get Hollanov kinky sex and emotional intimacy next chapter as a reward!

“Who pissed in their Cheerios?” 

Ilya glances away from the ice over to Connors. “Pissing in Cheerios? What the fuck is Cheerios?” 

Marleau jumps over the boards, almost falling into Ilya’s lap as the third line went out onto the ice. “Rozy you love Cheerios! They are the little brown circle breakfast cereal. You pour sugar on them at the hotel.” 

Ilya helps Marleau right himself and gives Connors a wild look. “Why are you pissing in my Cheerios! That’s disgusting!” 

The bench erupts into laughter. Connors rolls his eyes. “That’s the point of the saying.” 

“Rozanov!” 

Ilya vaults over the boards as the coach orders him out, blasting over the ice to scoop up the puck. He catches Hollander hitting the ice out of the corner of his eye.

Well, not much time to do anything flashy before Hollander gets to him. Ilya glances at the ice as he slips past a defender. No good shot opportunities and he has a bullet launching at him now. Ilya passes the puck and shifts to move to hopefully catch a rebound by the goal. A warm large body smacks against him taking him into the glass before he can make it to the net. 

Ilya huffs, shoving his shoulder back into the man to throw him off. When he is able to turn his head he sees Hollander’s bright happy grin, for a split second, before the monster goes back to chasing down the puck. 

Hollander is slightly less physical on the ice than most players. Though the stats might not be entirely accurate since Hollander gets away with a lot of shit. It’s simply not expected of him. Regardless he’s a fast player, with perfect puck handling, and a strong skater. Force wasn’t necessary for him most of the time. 

Ilya does not have Hollander’s level of grace on the ice, but he makes up for it with his own strength. 

There's a stoppage of play and they get sent to the face off dot. 

“Hollander,” Ilya calls.

He has been chirping at him the entire game, so Hollander doesn’t react waiting for the ref to get ready, “what does pissing in Cheerios mean?” 

This gets Hollander’s attention. His eyes dart away from the ref holding the puck and his nose scrunches. “Gross. What the fuck are you on about?” 

“Buddy,” Pike groans next to Hollander outside the circle as the two centers slide into place. 

“Connors asked ‘who pissed in their Cheerios’ so I ask you if this is nonsense or a saying,” Ilya answers helpfully. 

Hollander’s brow has not unscrunched. “That sounds like nonsense to me,” he looks slightly to the side of Ilya, “are you trying to distract me?” 

Ilya smiles around his mouth guard. “It’s a saying,” one of Ilya’s team mates defends Connors while Pike continues to make pained sounds.

“Argue about it after the games boys,” the ref instructs and Hollander’s focus is back on hockey. 

“There is no argument,” Ilya protests and almost gets kicked out of the circle for talking back. 

When he is back on the bench with Connors Ilya continues the conversation. “Hollander says you are full of shit.”

Marleau still flinches every time Hollander is mentioned. He’ll probably never stop. Ilya had decided after Reed to stop blaming Marleau for that flinch. 

“Oh my god. Fuck off Roz,” Connors whines, “I just meant that Montreal is acting weird. Look at them.” 

He waves his hand out to the ice, but Ilya doesn't need to look to know what he means. “Why did you not just say that?”

The thing is, Montreal is changing. Over the last month and few weeks the team dynamic had shifted visibly on the ice. Not to the average eye or the average fan, but if you lived every moment of your life in hockey it was obvious, or at least it was starting to be. Ilya had just already known to look. 

Connors is watching now. Looking at the pattern of the players on the ice as Hollander is released for another shift. 

Ilya nudges him. “He will be Captain of Montreal next season,” Ilya points out and sees the moment Connors connects the dots. 

“Shit,” Connors exclaims as Hollander tears down the ice with the puck, “you’re right!” 

The goal buzzer goes off and Ilya leaps to his feet yelling profanity. Hollander skates past their bench primly on his way to get high fives from his own. “You’re behind Rozanov,” he taunts as he goes by. 

Ilya can’t keep the smile off his face. The smile doesn’t stay there. Ilya finds himself snarling at Hollander as they both go after the puck when they are both back on the ice. 

He fucking loves it. 

Ilya does not love losing. A little Montreal Rookie defender scores the last goal of the game bringing the total score from one goal Hollander and one goal Rozanov to two goals for Montreal. 

The Montreal bench explodes to celebrate their rookie defender. It had been a good blue line slap shot that had only gotten past Feller because of a screen. Luck more than anything. But that was a hockey game. 

Ilya is the third star of the game which means he gets the chance to wave at the children and throw pucks at them while making faces at their Montreal jerseys. Of course he takes too long and the second star player decides to harass him. Hollander skates over doing a neat little circle around Ilya. “What did you say about beating us tonight,” he chirps.

“Holzy,” the little Rookie yells before Ilya can answer, “you were right man! Those shooting exercises really worked!” 

He skates to a stop in front of them. His eyes widen as he realizes that Hollander has come over to speak to Ilya. He has the game winning puck clutched in his hand. It must be his first goal in the league. He’s the first star of the game. Well deserved if annoying. 

This was going to draw attention. All three stars on the ice when everyone needed to be going home. 

“Shit. My little brother has your junior national poster in his bedroom,” his eyes are wide looking down at Ilya, “you came to the NHL and I’m not his favorite hockey player anymore.”

Ilya laughs and holds out his hand to shake. He hadn’t realized he would feel so much older than rookies. They were basically the same age but this one looked so young and fresh. Maybe it was the Room making him think this way. 

“Maybe you will be his favorite player again tonight,” Ilya offers.

The guy laughs. “God I hope so. I wish I could call him as soon as I leave the locker room, but I guess I’m stuck here for a minute.” 

His brow furrows and Ilya feels Hollander tense up next to him. “You don’t have to go right away,” Hollander’s voice is more gentle than it ever is, “you can take your time.” 

Relief flashes over the rookie’s face. “Yeah? Cool.”

The joy of the goal has been washed away and Ilya angles his body to make sure none of the cameras can pick up their conversation, moving their group closer to the exit tunnel the Zamboni is ready to come out from. Hollander has angled his body as well, moving his rookie down the ice as fast as they can without being obvious. 

“It’s all just really vague,” a nervous chuckle as he rubs the back of his neck, “I’m not really sure what to do.” 

What stupid fucking kids. Ilya glances at Hollander who is doing his best is probably thinking the same thing he is. “But if you’re friends after it, it can’t be that bad. I mean the older guys are saying it’s weird, but maybe that’s an old guy thing?” 

There is no place to be alone in a hockey arena like this, but away from cameras, press, and fans was necessary if they were going to have this conversation. Even if the kid is trying to be vague. Still, better than the kid calling him into the Room, Ilya allows.

“I think that is normal feeling,” Ilya offers, “to not be sure.”

He glances at Hollander who tilts his head to one of the side tables that has things players can sign, if they have a second to spare.

What did you say to that even, if you have the privacy to say it? The Rookie follows them, especially when Hollander claps his hand on his shoulder. He’s not sure what Hollander would say in total privacy if they had it. 

“Rozanov and I like competition more than we like or hate anything else,” Hollander passes the Rookie a pen, his eyes flicking over to Ilya again. 

“We are exceptional in every way,” Ilya boasts looking down at the selection of Montreal gear scrunching his nose. 

Hollander’s voice sweeps over them both. Unflinching and certain as he says, “You will not be friends after. You will not even like each other.” 

Ilya finds a few pucks and drags them over to himself. Close enough. What Hollander said was true, but not exactly correct. There was Jenny and Otto who he was going to play pool with at All Stars, but he didn’t think either liked Hollander. 

There was no way to explain that here. 

“Oh,” the Rookie answers, pausing as he signs a poster, hand hesitating before he moves onto the next one, “yeah. I guess it was stupid to think,” he lets out a long huff, “I kind of just want to go home and celebrate with my family.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya watches Hollander pull back a pained expression. The open agony in his face that he quickly hides away. 

Hollander’s voice sounds like a floating bubble waiting to be popped. “Yeah, I did too.” 

Ilya sets the pucks he signed into the finished box and caps his pen. He slaps the defender on his back. “Don’t worry too much,” Ilya tells him, “your job is to stop puck. Not score. This could be your last goal in NHL.” 

The kid rolls his eyes. “You’re a dick.”

But there is a smile on his face now. Ilya doesn’t know how to handle that smile. He hums and steps away, trying hard not to think about how one of his teammates will be going to the Room with this kid. “Oh, so now you are thinking about my dick,” Ilya teases. 

The guy flushes, shoulders tensing. “Oh fuck off! I’m not a fag, no one wants to hear about your dick Rozanov.” 

Hollander does not react to the word. He doesn’t react to anything at all. Still carefully signing a t-shirt. 

“I think about my dick,” Ilya corrects and playfully cups his own crotch, in the most obnoxious way he can, “and he’s thinking about getting ass. Too bad you can not come with, since you are a baby. Can you even drink?” 

“Fuck off, we’re in Canada,” the guy laughs as Ilya slips into the visiting locker room.

He will need to make an appearance at the bar even if he is going home with Hollander. They hadn’t advertised that part out loud, but everyone knew they were both going down to Florida for all stars tomorrow.

Most of the guys are leaving early in the morning at the airport anyways, and a few are getting on a plane tonight. While All stars were happening everyone else got to go on vacation. 

Ilya heads into the showers chatting with everyone, and keeping the room light as they wait for Drapeau to show up. He is in a friendly argument with one of his line mates when the goalie arrives. Ilya wonders how the Rookie had chosen his Forfeit. If he had tried to get advice from Hollander and if Hollander had given him any. 

This is the part of the ritual Ilya hasn’t been able to soothe over yet. He can win the team as many games as possible. Keep them out of the Room on all fronts. He can convince everyone that seeing the Forfeit the same night is an act of team bonding. He can keep the energy up and light after a game.

Until the moment the goalie arrives. Drapeau is the emptiness of space, sucking away all air and sound in the room. Waiting. A team lost without gravity at that moment. 

Ilya can almost taste the fear in the air. “Oswald,” Drapeau gruffs, but his eyes are locked in Ilya with a glare. 

What had Hollander said to his goalie after Ilya had left Montreal? Did Drapeau feel the weight of the legacy he had inherited from his team, or did he also think it was his right to take from them? 

Oswald grimaces but squares his shoulders. It’s not a bad choice for the rookie, given that he is worried about being hated. Oswald is at the end of his career, set to retire after this season. A waning career and a waxing one meeting after this game. A poetic kind of conquest. 

Ilya can not fix the way the room parts for Oswald or how they all watch him leave tucked between Feller and Drapeau. The only thing he can do is win. 

That was where Ilya could not understand Marleau. He could forgive the fear, he could not forgive losing the desire to win. 

“Hey fuckers,” Ilya yells when the room does not go back into motion, “there a flights to catch and clubs to get to,” he points at several of the older men, “I am expecting pictures of fat baby cheeks being pinched.” 

Marleau knocks their shoulders together laughing. “You’re such a Russian Grandmother Roz.” 

Ilya shoves him away, but without any force. “You don’t know anything about Russian Grandmothers Marly. They eat babies, not pinch cheeks.” 

The team laughs but doesn’t fall into the easy banter of movement of a busy locker room. Ilya pauses as the team turns to look at their captains, Jarvis, Reaves, and Cava. 

Jarvis and Cava are two of the men who have small children. Jarvis the Captain had announced his wife’s third pregnancy after Christmas to the team, but Ilya had found out when he was staying with them. Cava has a two month old, who seems to be the light of his life. Which Ilya really doesn’t know how to process so he had focused his efforts into not thinking about it. 

He looks at his Captains. “Maybe we should have given this to you before the game, but no one wanted to deal with your peacocking before vacation,” Cava announces as he holds out a jersey to Ilya. 

Ilya takes it looking at his name on the back before flipping it over. His heart pounding in his chest. He’s not stupid. He knows what this means, even before he sees the A. 

There’s no time to process it as Cava grabs his free arm and tugs it into the air like a boxer. “I give you Boston’s new Alternate Captain!” 

It is a title more than anything. Talk to the refs, maybe be in the press more. Nothing really serious. Except for what it means here. 

The locker room finally explodes. Ilya’s body moves across the room in back slaps, and one arm hugs. He doesn’t even have time to breathe. At one point he looks up across the room and Connors meets his eyes. Well. So much for Hollander getting Captain first. 

Ilya follows the thrum of bodies out of the locker room, his fingers still curled into the jersey. He’s sure he has said something, but any memory of that falls away as he looks across the hall and Hollander is there. 

Part of Montreal is hanging out nearby. Both teams bristling like wet cats but Ilya really can’t care. He holds up the jersey. “Beat you Hollander!” 

“And there goes the peacocking,” Cava complains. 

Hollander’s mouth twists in an annoyed little frown but the smile is bright in his eyes. Ilya would skip over to him and kiss him if he could. To wrap himself across his shoulders and gloat. 

“Yeah. Fuck off,” Hollander answers uncrossing his arms as Ilya approaches. 

Always so open for him. Montreal and Boston slip away in his mind, the world narrowing down to just Hollander. “I figured you might want a ride to the bar,” Hollander says, the frown not dropping from his face, something brewing in his eyes that’s just for Ilya. 

“Not in your terrible car,” Ilya whines and Hollander is already rolling his eyes. 

“It’s winter and won’t cause an accident.” 

Hollander turns and starts to head out to the garage and Ilya moves to follow. They both stop when the volume behind them gets louder. “Wait, we are really going out with Montreal,” Connors squeaks. 

“We’re not letting Holzy go out alone with you fucked up assholes!” Pike barks. 

“Oh we’re the fucked up assholes and Hollander is an innocent flower?” 

Ilya looks back at Hollander, they both look down at the A in Ilya’s hands. “No,” Ilya whines to Hollander watching as the men start to puff up. 

He steps up anyways. “You all are assholes,” Ilya raises his voice to be heard over the group, “and you will be cock blocks too if you keep me from club. I want to get my dick sucked.”

“Keep that to yourself Roz!” 

“Ewh!” 

“I need a beer to get that out of my brain.” 

Next to him Hollander shifts on the balls of his feet, but neither team notices how interested Hollander is in Ilya getting his dick wet. The tension fizzles out as everyone heckles Ilya instead. Montreal and Boston players both making plans to grab cabs. Separately. 

“I’ll pay first round,” Ilya offers to keep their spirits up and that earns a cheer from both teams. 

It also lets Hollander return to their retreat. Ilya right on his heels. They make it to the garage before the rest of Montreal do.

Hollander tosses Ilya the keys and he doesn’t question it climbing inside and pulling out as soon as both their doors are shut. They aren’t going to be stupid enough to touch inside of the hockey arena even if it is just the garage. Even if the windows are tinted enough no one could see in. 

“We need to talk,” Hollander says as his door closes. 

“Talk,” Ilya asks, raising his eyebrow at him, “talk about what?”

Hollander hits his head back against the seat. “If we are friends and choose each other when we play,” Hollander starts. 

Oh that. 

The rookie announcing how weird it was to the others. “Our teams remember what loss feels like in the Room,” Ilya finishes, “they would think something else must be happening if we continue as friends.” 

“Yes,” Hollander confirms, nodding his head with a deep sigh, “Lavoie is already furious I brought up the Chucks. If I were to call for you it would probably give him ammunition.” 

Ilya pulls out of the parking garage and reaches for Hollander’s hand as he listens. “They knew about Goalie Chuck,” Ilya asks, not sure if he is surprised by this information or not. 

“Subtle discussions aren’t really my strong suit,” Hollander laughs without any humor, “I think I more or less confirmed some suspicions but I don’t think they had any kind of proof.” 

“But they trade Hamilton for Drapeau same time Chucks retire?”

“Hamilton would have kept some consistency but he is a subpar goalie,” Hollander squeezes his hand, “Montreal took the risk to drastically change the roster.” 

A smile curls at the edge of his lips. “The risk paid off.” 

Yes. Because Shane Hollander is the best hockey player in the world. Maybe. Second best. Probably. 

“I spoke with Butler about Hamilton, and he said he’ll make sure everyone in San Jose knows to look out. I suspect Hamilton will retire after this year; he hasn't played a single game in two years anyways.” 

Ilya can’t help but laugh a little. It’s still not funny. “Team is following you on ice now,” Ilya points out, “not your Captain.”

“It was leaning that way anyways,” Hollander looks out the window, “but I made sure Hayden and Mitty walked in on the conversation I had with Drapeau, Lavoie, and the rest of team leadership.” 

“You what,” Ilya barks out delighted that Hollander has admitted this manipulation to him. 

He sees the smirk curling up at the corner of Hollander’s lip. “I wanted to try and go through the right avenues, but I’m not an optimist.”

“You’re perfect,” the words slip out of Ilya’s mouth without a thought.

Hollander squirms. “I wish the locker room was as easy as the ice.” 

For Ilya, it was that easy.

“You seem to be in control of your locker room,” Hollander notes. 

Ilya would be amused by the obvious pout if it wasn’t for the swirling questions in his gut. He plays with Hollander’s fingers as Hollander instructs him to turn at a light. “Yes,” he agrees, going back to the risk the rookie had pointed out, “if some of them knew. I might be okay, but if it was, what is English word? Specticale? It would probably not be good. And worse if it left the rink.”

The fact that they kept the weird kinky sex cult a secret was a miracle for how much hockey players like to gossip. They fall silent for a few streets. “They do not have to believe it is sex,” Ilya points out. 

It worked once before. Hollander snatches his hand away with a furious glare. “Don’t suggest that!” 

Ilya lets him have his space keeping his eyes on the road. “Zashchitnik (Defender),” Ilya tries to soothe, “it does not have to be truth. Only enough to be believable. Men get into fights all the time and stay friends.” 

He gets a huff in return. “It would be easy,” Ilya decides despite Hollander’s increasing tension, “the dinosaur from New York is a sadist and no one would suspect anything from him. He doesn’t leave anyone in condition they could not play. His Forfeits do not gossip, usually, and neither do yours.”

“Rozanov,” Hollander warns. 

It was the lack of evidence that would let speculation spread. But if the narrative was that they just beat each other up a little after the games. Not so bad. Returned violence for what happened on the ice. Getting it out of their system so they could be friends later. 

“What happened to not being Monsters to each other?”

The words hit Ilya the same way a physical slap would have. He flinches and pulls them off into a random ally. Ilya parks and turns to him. “I wouldn’t hurt you,” Ilya promises, trying to put all his reassurance into his voice.

Not real violence. Just enough to look like it. It doesn’t need to be the same as it was with Reed. Hollander meets his eyes. They are a flaming pool of fury that leaves him speechless. “I don’t care about me! I don’t want to hurt you. Fucking thick headed mooran.” 

Ilya tries to take in a breath to respond, but the air won't fill his chest. Hollander grits his teeth and rubs under his cheek like that could force the wetness that hasn’t spilled from his eyes into going back up his tear ducts. 

“You already got beat once this year. How am I supposed to do that again?”

Ilya reaches. Hollander squirms. Ilya has to wrestle him until he has both of Hollander’s wrists in his hand. It is not an easy task when they are in a car and Hollander is as strong as he is. When Hollander is actually putting effort into it. Hollander glares like a trapped cat. Ilya half on top of him having scrambled over the console of the car.

“No one said anything about beatings Pobeditel’ (winner)” Ilya purrs now that he has him trapped, “I thought you were worried about only having boring sex.” 

Hollander pants under him. “Fuck you.” 

Ilya chuckles. “Yes we will get to that tonight. Just like you want.” 

He presses a kiss to Hollander’s nose before nipping it. Hollander shoves back with his shoulders again and Ilya has to dig his feet into the floor to keep him pinned. “I’m not suggesting beating each other,” Ilya explains, “I’m suggesting leaving marks they would think might be a beating.”

Ilya rubs his thumb across Hollander’s cheek. “Maybe I slap these cheeks red while you suck me off. They think I hit you. You know my cock was down your throat and I kiss every freckle after.” 

The tension in Hollander’s body lessens a little. “It’s just giving our teams a reason to believe it’s not sex,” Ilya assures.

Hollander huffs and tugs his arms back. Ilya lets go confident, as he could be, that Hollander listened. Rough fingers slip under his shirt to get to skin. “Don’t pretend like it would just be a few little slaps to make it work,” Hollander orders. 

Ilya shakes his head leaning in for another kiss. “It’s about humiliation, yes?” Ilya doesn’t actually have a fully formed plan, but he knows the shape of it will work, at least for Boston, “they ask. You’re not supposed to answer,” he shrugs. “You want to gloat. Want to make me know you are better than me. Have me tell you how amazing you are. Continuation of on ice competition.” 

Ilya takes Hollander’s hand pressed into his ribs and pushes his fingers down against the normal bruises. “You mark me. You make the mess worse. Press against failure. They will believe it.” 

Hollander’s eyes blaze at the word mark. “Are you sure,” he asks, fingers digging into Ilya’s side now, “Rozanov. We can’t risk this going wrong.”

Ilya pushes his fingers in harder, until Hollander’s nails bite into his skin. It makes them both gasp. “Even if they suspect, they will keep their mouths shut,” Ilya promises, he had seen the way this weird sex cult works and none of them want to assume homosexuality, “Besides we go out, we hook up with beautiful women, they see the difference between hook up and conquest.” 

Hollander stiffens again. Ilya groans, throwing his head back. “What?” 

The man under him squirms with a little whine. Ilya can feel a half hard cock rubbing against his thigh. Fuck, he wants it. No. Later. He looks down at Hollander. Impatient. 

“I don’t hook up with beautiful women.”

There is a blush starting to creep up on his pretty face. “What you only hook up with ugly women,” Ilya starts to tease, before the realization crashes over him, “fuck.” 

Hollander doesn’t do women at all. He doesn't have any kind of desire to even top men. Ilya huffs. “Yeah Fuck,” Hollander hisses back.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Okay so you pretend. Have you never pretended, Hollander?” 

“That is such a waste of time.”

“Oh I forgot you were mister efficient.” 

Hollander drags his nails across Ilya’s ribs in retaliation. “Owh!” 

“Stop being a dick!” 

“Learn which thing is bigger problem!”

They both glare at each other. Ilya waves his hand in the air to emphasize his point. He pokes his thumb into Hollander’s chest. “We have to get you laid.” 

“Yes, and it’ll be so great, if she responds by telling everyone I didn’t sleep with her or that I couldn’t keep it up in bed!” 

Ilya lets out a slow breath. This is Montreal and they are going to a club. Everyone will know who Shane Hollander is. He is right, it would be a good piece of gossip. 

Ilya taps Hollander’s pecks and then gives them a good grope. “You need a fake girlfriend.” 

“And how am I going to do that? I’m pretty sure that leads to the same exact problems.”

Really, Hollander should be terrifying to Ilya with a glare like that. Instead it only makes him harder. Ilya works the problem over in his head. “Give me your phone.” 

“What?” 

Ilya pulls back and gets into the driver’s seat so Hollander had room to get into his pants. “You have a phone. Give it to me.” 

Hollander obeys leaning over the console to watch what Ilya is doing. 

“You will have secret girl in Boston next time you come play,” Ilya tells him, jamming his number into a contact page and passing it back to Hollander, “it starts as internet hook up, and becomes regular thing. You let teammates see just enough text messages to know. In Room in Boston you choose me, rough up friend a little, then get to go see your girl.” 

“Lily,” Hollander’s fingers look at the contact page and hits the message button. 

Ilya watches him his heart pounding in his chest, watching him type, before hitting send. His own phone pings. “And who am I going to be?” 

He snatches his phone from his back pocket, his heart twisting as he looks at the new message on his screen. 

It shouldn’t make his heart skip a beat. But it does. Ilya clicks the contact to add the number to his phone. He looks over the phone screen to throw Hollander a smirk. “Jane.” 

He hits send on a return text and throws his phone into the consul to reach across the car and claim Hollander’s mouth in his. 

Jane: Hey. Is this the right phone number? 

Lily: Depends. Are you planning on making it up to me still? 

Eventually they pull apart. “You will come on dance floor with me at club, and you will dance with a pretty woman and you will act like you want her,” Ilya orders when he pulls away. 

Hollander nods. “Fine. Okay. I think that all will work.” 

With a plan set in place they get back on the road. “How long do you think we have to stay,” Hollander asks, his fingers already laced back with Ilya’s. 

“If you can pull a girl in front of everyone? As quickly as you want,” Ilya promises. 

Hollander’s eyes shift over to Ilya’s face. “You don’t think I can pull a girl?” 

Ah. There is his rival. Ilya holds back a smirk. “Can you? No one has seen you do it before.”

“It’s because I’m not interested, not the other way around.” 

“Pull a girl and when you get out send me a text. I’ll come save you,” Ilya promises with a wink. 

“I don’t need saving,” Hollander growls 

Ilya chuckles and squeezes his hand. “I know Pobeditel’ (winner),” he soothes knowing it will just rile Hollander up more. 

“Pobeditel’” Hollander repeats or at least tries to, the Russian word crumbles on his tongue causing Hollander to glare at him harder. 

Their stop along the way means they are the last ones to arrive. Ilya leaves the jersey in Hollander’s car when they go in. No point in getting something like that dirty anywhere but on the ice. Boston and Montreal have sectioned themselves off at two different tables in the VIP section. 

It looks like the little guard dog that follows Hollander around has decided to make problems. He is already yelling across the section. 

“Maybe we must stay to handle this,” Ilya sighs. 

“No we are fucking not,” Hollander snaps and heads straight for the bar instead of the disaster waiting for them. 

Ilya should have known better than to give him a mission before assessing the situation. He follows Hollander to the bar, but for a different reason. Ilya orders enough shots for both sets of teams. 

“Those assholes are on my tab tonight,” Ilya explains to the bartender with a wink, but pauses as he holds his card out to her, “but only if they don’t throw punches. They throw punches they can pay for their own tab.” 

She laughs and leans in with her own flirty smile. “Oh so you are pulling out the big guns,” she teases. 

“No. No,” Ilya corrects and rolls up a shirt sleeve to flex his muscle, “these are the big guns.” 

It earns him a bigger laugh and a towel swatted at him. He laughs back big and earnest. Ilya can’t imagen a time where he won’t like people and flirting. He hopes he doesn’t live long enough to meet a version of himself who doesn’t. 

He leads several waitresses over to the VIP area with the shots throwing out his arms and peacocking as he goes over. “Assholes,” he announces to both teams, “I will make a deal. Drinks tonight are on me.” 

Everyone starts to cheer and Ilya has to give them a second before he could yell above them again, “but! If anyone throws a punch tonight the tab goes to them.” 

These are evidently agreeable terms. Ilya takes a shot with the group before Hollander’s chihuahua realizes the other man is missing. “Wait. Where is Holzy?” 

Ilya grabs the drink he had ordered from the table as Pike’s comment earns him intense glares from Montreal. He rolls his eyes and points down to the dance floor where he had seen Hollander slip off to once he had gotten a drink. 

The Montreal players gathered along the balcony to look down. “No fucking way. Holzy does not go on the dance floor. Even Pikes can’t make him.”

Ilya glances down his eyes immediately finding Hollander. He isn’t graceful down there, but Ilya knows to trust him. Hollander isn’t even really dancing. He’s standing on the edge of the dance floor, his face stoic as he takes casual sips of his drink watching the people dance. 

“Oh god,” Pike groans, “what is he doing?” 

“Given that he’s on a dance floor I would assume he’s looking to get laid,” Connors offers, like it’s obvious.

That gets him a lot of weird looks and huffs from Montreal. “Holzy does not have sex,” one of them states firmly, “you really think he can get laid? I mean look at him out there.”

Ilya doesn’t look at Marleau but he watches their teammate’s eyes go to him one by one.

“Would he even know what to do?” 

Do they really think Shane Hollander is a virgin? Ilya reaches back, clapping Marleau on the shoulder and squeezing. Just like when Marleau thinks he needs comfort. 

“I’m going to get a drink since you’re paying,” Marleau dismisses himself. 

It draws Montreal’s attention. A group of sneers follow him away. “Fag,” one of the fourth line defenders laughs barely under his breath, “bet he cries that Holzy hasn’t looked at his ass all season.”

Ilya grabs Connors before he even has time to think about it. Think about how he knows how Connors will react to that. “Go help Marleau get drinks for the team,” Ilya puts all the authority he can in his voice as he leans down to Connors ear. 

It’s enough to send the man off, even if he is growling under his breath. 

Maybe Ilya should stay to make sure they really don’t try to kill each other. 

“Fuck. He looks so awkward," another one of his teammates laughs, “if he’s like that in bed no wonder he doesn’t have a girlfriend.” 

Hollander has migrated further on to the dance floor. Still mostly stiff but there is a group of women who have noticed him now. Not that anyone could not notice him. “You do know his modeling contract makes more money than your salary,” Ilya asks as casually as he could. 

Pike glares at him like he is waiting for a punch line. Ilya waits for Pike to defend his supposed friend from his own team.

“I guess the awkwardness works for him,” one guy chuckles and they all look back down to see the group of women who were migrating over to him. 

“Damn. Look at that. Go Holzy.” 

Montreal and Boston talk around him as Ilya watches the crowd of women surround Hollander. Their hands and eyes roving over him. Hollander gives them little smiles as they start to dance. His own hips moving slightly more now that he is directly engaged. Following their lead. Despite that, nothing about him looks submissive. 

Ilya swallows the rest of his drink and drops the glass down on the flat of the rail before pulling out his phone. He knows Marleau is right down at the bar, but he takes the photo anyway. He sends it off to the group chat. A little grin Hollander is hiding behind a sip of his drink. A blond pulling up his shirt to touch him, a brunette on his arm leaning up to whisper in his ear, and a red head behind him dancing bracketing him into the circle. 

Ilya: When you are thinking of your god here is what he is doing. 

He doesn’t expect a response to this. It’s a dumb thing to send. It doesn’t even make sense. They all know Hollander is gay. But it is Ilya taking it. Watching over him. 

His eyes wander over to the bar where Marleau has pulled out his phone. Marleau’s eyes glance over the screen before drifting over to the dance floor and finally up at Ilya. He doesn’t think about how he is the same as the Montreal players calling him a fag. 

“Try to behave,” Ilya smirks, “it looks like I need to catch up before I lose the scoring race.” 

He makes his way to the dance floor and immediately gets lost in the music. There’s a little clock ticking down in his head. Ilya needs to grab a woman before Hollander texts. 

A few hockey players had followed him. He can feel the way the crowd warps around them. Moving with the hockey players and leaving beautiful women flooding into their arms. 

Hollander has already left by the time Ilya finds himself dancing with a woman who is very interested in him. Too bad Hollander doesn’t like women as well. It could be fun to share one or two with him. Ilya tries really hard to believe that at least. He starts to lead her out of the club intending to keep his promise to Hollander. 

It doesn’t take him long to find Hollander with the three women arguing on the side wall in front of the club.. Hollander has his hands up trying to back away but the blonde has a death grip on his shirt. 

“Britney. You fucking whore. I saw him first!” 

Ilya looks down at the woman he had grabbed. “Sorry, but I think I need to go save him.” 

She laughs. “He does look like he needs it.” 

Ilya kisses her cheek and leaves her at the door before going for Hollander. “Hollander,” he yells, “fucking Pike is going to get arrested.” 

It doesn’t actually matter what he says. Just that it sounds urgent enough for the women to let him go. Hollander turns his eyes to him and the relief there is brilliantly evident. 

The blonde holding him hostage startles enough that Ilya is able to steal the hold from her and drag Hollander away. “Jesus fucking christ Hollander. I tell you to get one woman, not three!”

Hollander is laughing now that Ilya has saved him.

He shakes free of his hold as they walk to the car. “I think that was the problem. They wanted me to pick one and when I hesitated it turned into a fight.”

Ilya laughs along with him. “At the very least it will help your reputation,” Ilya sighs.

Or maybe make it worse. Maybe they would stop accusing Hollander of being sexless. Hollander shrugs. “They’ll think whatever they want to. As long as we work together well on the ice I don’t care.” 

He should care, but Ilya doesn’t think he can actually explain that to him successfully. He would just have to do damage control himself whenever he got the opportunity. 

“So if I pulled a hat trick does that mean I get three times the reward,” Hollander asks, his eyes cutting to Ilya with a cocky smirk. 

“Greedy slut,” Ilya purrs so no one else can hear. 

Hollander fucking preens. Ilya doesn’t put his hands on him, but he imagines it. Slipping his hand down to the small of Hollander’s back letting his fingers brush against the waist band of his pants. “You get three desperate women, and all you want is my cock.” 

Hollander groans and elbows him. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Ilya, promptly, does not shut the fuck up. “What, you want three cocks? That might take some creativity and time, but,” 

Hollander hits him again and Ilya screeches before taking off at a run for the car. The other man is hot on his heels. Ilya can feel Hollander’s laughter on the back of his neck as he slams himself to a stop against the car. Hollander is there a split second after him and both of their bodies cause the car to rock. Ilya really wants to kiss him. 

Instead he shoves the keys back at Hollander. “Get us home, and we’ll see about reward.” 

Hollander snatches the keys and they are both fast to get into the boring as fuck car. Ilya loves it. He loves it and it’s perfectly tinted windows. 

Ilya waits only long enough for Hollander to pull onto the street before he starts to make himself a menace. “What are you doing,” Hollander demands as Ilya starts to unbuckle his belt. 

“Taking the edge off,” Ilya explains, keeping his eyes on Hollander as he takes his cock out to start to stroke it. 

Hollander glances at him, at his cock. His face flashes through arousal and frustration as he drives. “Look at the road Hollander,” Ilya chides before the man could form words, “you do not want to cause an accident do you?” 

That gets him to look back at the road instead of Ilya’s hand moving over his dick. It feels good. He lets out a breathy moan that has Hollander twitching. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” he complains instantly.

“You like it.” 

Hollander does not have an argument for that. He watches those pretty fingers flex on the steering wheel. His hand is actually far too dry for this to be comfortable. Ilya lets go of his dick and holds his hand in front of Hollander’s mouth. “Spit.” 

There isn’t any hesitation to his obedience. Ilya commands and Hollander spits. A direct line of connection. One to the other. It’s not until Ilya pulls his hand to his cock that Hollander rolls his eyes. 

Ilya doesn’t waste time jerking off. He doesn’t hold back his sounds. Just as Hollander likes. His eyes glued to the man. 

“This is not a reward,” Hollander squirms in his seat at a red light. 

“I did not say it was.” 

Hollander looks away from the lights long enough to throw Ilya a glare. It makes precum drip from his cock. He groans, spreading it across the tip with his thumb. Hollander’s eyes aren’t on the road anymore. 

Behind them a car honks as the light turns green. Hollander jerks and tears his eyes back to the road. 

By the time they get back to his apartment complex Ilya has worked himself to the edge and Hollander is choking back whines and wiggling in his seat. His fingers fumbling for the seat buckle even before he has the car fully parked. 

Ilya catches him around the back of his neck with his free hand and yanks him down to his cock. “Don’t swallow,” he orders as Hollander automatically opens his mouth for his cock, “just hold it in your mouth.”

Hollander strains, his eyes, flickering up, with a frantic nod. Ilya releases him. The man all but falls onto his cock with his mouth. Ilya groans leaning back in the seat as he thrusts his hips up to fuck in to his throat. 

It’s a mean order. The angle is terrible for catching cum in his mouth. He’ll either have to swallow or let the cum seep down his lips and chin and Ilya’s cock. But he’ll do it for Ilya. 

Everyone, looking at this man, coveting him, judging him. But Ilya was the one who got him. 

He thrusts up again making Hollander choke as his dick slides in further. Gagging as Ilya’s release starts to flood him. Ilya can feel Hollander’s mouth working. Trying to keep it in without swallowing. Wet and messy. 

He hasn’t stopped whimpering. 

When Ilya comes down he pulls Hollander’s mouth off. Ilya had barely done anything to him and Hollander already looks fucked out. Eyes glassy and lips wet. “Show me.” 

Hollander opens his mouth to show off his prize. “So good,” Ilya praises, fingers threading through his hair, so he can hold the man in place. 

Then Ilya presses their mouths together and licks the cum out of his mouth. Stealing what Hollander had worked so hard for. The man is putty in his hands. Letting him with protesting mewls and a frustrated struggle. Nothing serious. This was Shane Hollander. If he didn’t want it to happen it wouldn’t. Simple as that. 

It is a heady rush of power. 

When Ilya lets go, Hollander's eyes are on fire. A glare that would bring lesser men to their knees. “What the fuck!” 

So frustrated. So worked up. No real thoughts in his head except for his desperate need. Ilya leans in to kiss him again. Letting his mouth speak for the hunger that hadn’t lessened at all. Ilya pulls back and pats his face, hard enough to make it sting. 

“I thought you would want to suck my cock,” Ilya mocks, “you’re always so hungry for it.” 

A meal Ilya just purposely denied him. Watching Hollander’s face he wonders if the man might decide punching him is the answer to all of his problems. 

“Go fuck yourself with your own cock,” Hollander snaps pulling back and then fumbling around for the wet wipes to clean them both up. 

Ilya waits watching as Hollander first rubs down his own face and hands before carefully taking care of Ilya’s own cock and putting it away. So fussy and for what? He grins. 

“Are you going to tell me what that was about or not,” Hollander tries again. 

“I told you,” Ilya repeats, “I knew you would want to suck my cock.” 

This pushes Hollander over an edge. He slams his way out of the car and down the path to his apartment. Ilya laughs, giving Hollander a head start before he follows after him Alternate Captain Jersey clutched in his hand.

Chapter End Notes

For anyone wondering I am basing a bit of the racism Shane faces in the hockey world off of Jason Robertson getting snubbed from Team USA rooster in the 2026 Winter Olympics. You should check out the videos from 365_hockeygirl and The Asians In Hockey Podcast on the topic. Really you should be following both already if you are a hockey fan. But 365_hockeygirl brings up a really interesting paper about racial bias in hockey data and its link to racial stereotypes.

On a different note, I think I need to write a little character study for Reed in order to make chapter fifteen what I want it to be. Ya’ll got no idea how excited I am for chapter fifteen. Reed is always suffering in my head, cursed to get attached to my random OCs I make up just to get tortured. Which is to say we’ll see how long it takes me to post the next chapter after this. But interested parties might get a world building one shot about Reed and Flores.

Sorry to my Hayden Pike lovers in this chapter. Like he’s fine, but I really don’t see that man standing up against all of the NHL’s -isms and -phobias other than like genuinely being like ‘no it’s cool to be friends with gay people.’ Which isn’t nothing, especially in the context, but he’s also a head empty white man.

Chapter 14: Reward

Chapter Summary

Shane likes to be rewarded for succeeding against challenges. Ilya likes to be a dick. Somehow this works out well for both of them.

Chapter Notes

So Florida is not Chapter 15. Other things decided to happen and we have had to push it back. We’re getting to Florida in the next chapter tho!

Right now we all deserve Hollanov kinky soft sex. This should be a pretty green flag chapter. Grigori at the end at the same vein as before, but Ilya doesn’t have the time to spiral.

Side note: some of ya’ll are talking about/recommending this fic to other people?! Which first of all that’s delightful I am honored. Second of all how the fuck? Like it’s one thing if it’s just kinky sex but like *waves hand at graphic themes and explorations that are major triggers people don’t like talking about*. I sincerely love this for all of you, and I’m delighted. I call this the “Fic I can’t talk about” to people or to my poor wonderful sister who has to listen to me talk about it in vague ways she calls it “nonconsensual fight club”. Anyways I am baffled and delighted. Ya’ll leave the funniest and nicest comments. Thank you.

Ilya catches up to a door about half way through closing. The tips of Hollander’s fingers pulling away from the edge of the wood as Ilya reaches it. A chase Hollander lets him get close too. 

He toes off his shoes watching Hollander disappear into his bedroom. Ilya isn’t sure what Hollander is planning, but he knows his own plans. They have been twisting in his mind for months. How he wants this man stretched out and needy. Giving him the ability to fly within Ilya’s control. 

Hollander still doesn’t let Ilya catch up, slipping into the bathroom, but he leaves the door wide open. That’s okay. Ilya has his own things to do. He drops his jersey onto the dresser and looks around the room. “Hollander. Where is my bag?” 

Instead of dealing with getting his own luggage from the team hotel to Hollander’s apartment in Florida, Ilya had sent his bags to Hollander’s ahead of time. Or at least he had gotten the agency Farah set him up with to do it. The staff would send his hockey gear to Florida for him, but he had packed his suitcase for when he got to have Hollander all to himself. 

Ilya listens as the shower turns on. “In the closet,” Hollander calls back, and doesn’t offer anything else. 

Whatever Hollander’s plans are, Ilya will continue to derail them. The box is right where Ilya had packed it. Nothing descriptive, but a rectangle wrapped in black paper. He hadn’t thought they would have a chance to use it until Florida but not having to be in The Room is a blessing. 

After he closes his suitcase Ilya heads to join Hollander. 

The bathroom still doesn’t have a mirror in it. There isn’t any room in the apartment that has one, and most reflective surfaces have been tampered with to be distorted reflections. Nothing obvious, just mostly texture and shading. Not even a hand held or pocket mirror. Ilya had checked. He’s more impressed by how Hollander manages it, than surprised. 

He finds Hollander fussing with the shower, gloriously naked, and any play of coldness wiping away when Ilya holds up the box. He shakes it making only a slight rattling sound. “What’s that,” Hollander asks, closing the frost tinted shower door. 

“It is not triple your reward,” Ilya purrs, handing the box over and relaxing back against the counter, “but unless you want to get creative, double will have to do.” 

Hollander takes the box from him, his face twisting into suspicion hiding a softer warm delight. 

“You know how to gift wrap,” he chirps as he starts to pick open the wrapping paper. 

Ilya hums watching the sleek black paper fall away. The box fits into Hollander’s hand but not easily. He bites his lip as he sees what Ilya got for him. “I already have a dildo,” he informs Ilya, rolling his eyes with a soft pink blush dusting his cheeks.

“So triple the reward might be possible then,” Ilya teases just to see the way Hollander’s expression sharpens. 

The man leans across the bathroom and gives Ilya a little shove. “We are not! Whatever you are thinking. No,” he declares with a firm finger poking into Ilya’s chest. 

Hollander can’t fight back the smile that’s wrapped around his face. Ilya takes Hollander’s wrist who struggles only for a second as Ilya turns him around and pulls him into his arms. Hollander goes pliant and limp as soon as Ilya hooks his chin on Hollander’s shoulder and they are connected front to back. 

“This one,” Ilya explains, tapping the box with his free hand to the window of the toy, “has a remote for vibration settings.” 

He can feel the way Hollander’s breath hitches and how their heart beats start to pound in tandem. Ilya kisses Hollander’s neck with soft little touches that leaves him shuddering. When Ilya reaches down to his cock, Hollander is hard again. “It is only one inch smaller than me.” 

Hollander huffs. “Oh that’s why it’s so tiny.” 

Ilya bites Hollander’s shoulder and gets a laughing struggle out of the man in return. “Tiny,” he yells as Hollander wiggles his ass against Ilya’s cock. 

“Oh so this feels tiny to you!”

Hollander nods between bratty laughter and Ilya has to squeeze him closer. He turns them around so he can push Hollander up against the sink and bend him over. The box gets dropped on the counter and Ilya pulls his pants down just enough to take out his cock and slip it between Hollander’s ass cheeks. He watches the way it slides between them. Thick, the head already red, freckles decorating Hollander’s entire body. 

“You should see how hot this looks,” Ilya groans, “hold yourself open for me, yes?” 

He does. Hollander’s fingers reach back to spread his ass cheeks as the laughter dies down into a needy pant. He makes sure Hollander can feel how big and thick he is brushing up against his fingers. “An inch smaller so that when I press into my hole you still have to open up for me.” 

“Fuck. Rozanov,” Hollander gasps, digging his fingers in tighter.

His skin reddens from the pressure before the blood runs away and pales. “I know you want to be filled while you are sucking me,” Ilya tells him, bringing up a hand to slide his finger up against Hollander’s hole. 

He knows how well this man sucks him in. “Who says I want to suck you off after the car,” Hollander challenges and spreads his legs wider so Ilya has more access to him. 

Ilya pulls his dick back, earning a whine from Hollander. He slides his hands across Hollander’s cheeks as he gets to his knees. “That made you want it even more,” Ilya reminds him, his hand going up between Hollander’s legs to grab his dick. 

He gives it a few languid strokes spreading Hollander’s precum up his shaft. “There is a puddle here from how much you’re dripping,” he adds, leaving a little kiss against Hollander’s finger tips.

“That’s an exaggeration,” Hollander defends his whole body shuddering as Ilya licks the rim of his hole. 

He pulls back and takes the hand stroking Hollander and spreading the precum up to his hole. “I don’t think so,” Ilya disagrees even if Hollander is correct, “but okay. We can pretend this is lube.” 

He presses the tip of his fingers inside before pulling out again to rub his thumb along the bud. “You’re such a tease,” Hollander groans, his head dropping against the counter.

Ilya proves him wrong by pressing his mouth against his hole and sucking. He takes a few languid minutes to kiss and lick him. Nipping at Hollander’s finger tips, but the man is so beautifully obedient and doesn’t remove his hands. He moans for Ilya, body relaxing into the sensation. 

Hollander smells like the ice rink, clean from the showers but still musky and sharp. Ilya loves it. He loves touching him and teasing him and getting to listen to him. 

He makes himself pull back. “You were so stunning in the car, letting me use your mouth. I was so selfish with you.” 

His words are almost cut off by Hollander gently rocking his hips back. Trying to chase the sensation of Ilya’s tongue. He spits on the hole and is able to work his finger into the first knuckle. “Yes,” Hollander agrees, voice straining with need as he pushes back more insistently now. 

“You were so good in the club, showing off for your teammates how you don’t need to do anything to get what they covet,” Ilya praises, moving his mouth forward again to see if he could get any of his tongue inside along with his finger. 

Hollander can’t speak anymore. Just little whining sounds to go with his rocking. Ilya slides his finger out and dives in further with his tongue. He’s going to lay this man out one day and open him fully just like this. With his mouth alone. 

“So much better than all of them combined in every way. So perfect in the car helping me get ready to give you your reward,” Ilya adds, taking his mouth off of him and guiding Hollander’s hands to the counter. 

Here this man was. Going from frustrated and strung up because Ilya had pushed, to pliant and needy. Just because Ilya had put his hands on him. He was the one who could bring this god to his knees. Hollander finally catches up to the fact that Ilya is still planning on rewarding him. “My reward?” 

“Yes, Hollander. Your reward,” Ilya promises, getting to his feet and turning Hollander back to the shower which has started to steam up the room.

Every sound Hollander makes is almost like it is a surprise. Forced out of him. Burning to get free. So so needy. The man tilts his head back to kiss Ilya’s neck. Submissive, needy, but far from passive. 

“I’m going to open you up and work this toy into you,” Ilya explains as Hollander grinds back against him. 

“You still have that pretty rope from last time I was here, yes?” He doesn’t wait for Hollander to answer. “I’m going to lay you on your stomach and tie your legs down to the corners of the bed. Spread you out exactly where I want you. Where you want to be. Because I’m going to splay myself out for you in return, and let you play with my cock with your mouth for however long you like. I’ll let you decide when I come and when you want to be done.” 

Hollander steps away from him and opens the shower door, hitting the faucet off and turning back to Ilya, eyes blown and demanding. 

Ilya smirks having successfully worked up Shane Hollander. His chest is heaving. “You can do whatever you want, but I’ll be playing with the remote.” 

Hollander stalks back over to him. Getting his hands on Ilya and starting to undress him. “And if I get you off are you going to count it against me,” Hollander asks, kissing up Ilya’s jaw. 

He shakes his head. “No. I will not count it to what you owe me.”

His hands shift back to grab the sink giving Hollander the space to undress and touch him all he wants. Giving him access to his soul if he thinks to take it. 

Hollander is biting his lip as he works Ilya’s pants off his ass. He squeezes his cheeks and looks into Ilya’s eyes as a groan slips out of Ilya’s lips. “Can I finger you?”

“Greedy,” Ilya laughs the surprise of the request rolling through the word. 

Maybe it speaks to the strength of their agreement that Hollander doesn’t back down. That he trusts Ilya to tell him if he does something he doesn’t want. “You said that’s mine too,” his burning wonderful eyes hungry for Ilya, “I should be able to play with what’s mine if I want.” 

Ilya thinks about it. If he is in the mood to have his hole touched. When Ilya doesn’t immediately have anything to say Hollander moves to take Ilya’s hand. He searches Ilya’s eyes cracking him open as easy an unlocked diary. “You can say no.” 

Ilya knows it’s not a demand. And Hollander offers that truth anyways. It isn’t something Hollander would offer anyone else. He couldn’t. But here, because they chose to. Hollander gave it so easily. 

His head falls into a slow nod. “I know,” he promises, stealing a soft kiss on his cheek, “I was thinking if I want it.” 

He doesn’t get to think any further because Hollander is undressing him the rest of the way. Putting his mouth all over Ilya’s body. He leaves his cock alone for now but everywhere Hollander has undressed is free game for him. It’s far too easy to lose track of time when Hollander’s mouth is on him. 

Hollander ends up on his knees in turn. Mirroring where Ilya had been minutes ago. “I need to thank you,” he says while Ilya’s head spins from the tongue on his abs. 

“What,” Ilya asks and ends up sliding down to the ground to be level with him. 

He’s not sure he could stay standing and let Hollander keep touching him much less have a conversation. Hollander’s hands drift to cup Ilya’s face. Tracing the crook on Ilya’s nose. “You really shouldn’t have cared after the first time, but you always make everything perfect.”

Ilya opens his mouth and then closes it again. Any words he could think of forming closing around his throat. It’s far too intimate. Far too honest. 

“You were trying that first time and I didn’t let you,” Hollander continues like he isn’t frying Ilya’s brain, “but it scared me how much you wanted me in return even though I knew you did.” 

How could a man exist with so much open and bare honesty? What was Ilya supposed to do with that? 

“Hollander,” Ilya manages to pull the word out of his mouth, but the man is not done talking. 

“I know off ice I can be a fish out of water sometimes, and everyone likes to make sure I know it, but you don’t. You look at me like you trust me on and off the ice”. 

“I do,” Ilya confirms because it’s the only thing he can think of saying, the only truth he can give without it being too much. 

Hollander smiles. An easy tilt of his lips. Ilya has never felt more vulnerable in his life. He has never liked the feeling this much. 

It’s terrifying. 

“I know you said you were going to open me up, but can I,” he looks down at Ilya, pretty eye lashes batting at him, “can I do it? Show you how I’ll take care of myself for you?” 

Ilya can’t bite back the groan. The carnal desire those words bring out. It’s so much easier to think of that than the serious words Hollander had offered. 

His cock throbs. “You’re going to put on a show for me,” Ilya all but growls, nudging Hollander to his feet. 

Hollander nods breath coming out in a small pant as he gets to his feet. “How long have you been thinking about opening yourself while I watch?” 

Ilya follows him up. “Since you were here last,” the man admits. 

He leans in to kiss the junction between his neck and shoulder. “Get your lube and on the bed,” Ilya orders, squeezing his ass.

Hollander scrambles out of the bathroom and doesn’t even look back. Ilya needs the minute to kill the burning ache in his dick. To convince himself he won’t blow his load as soon as he sees Hollander touch himself. And of course to brush his teeth. He doesn’t think Hollander will want to kiss after he ate his ass and Ilya really wants to kiss him. Ilya gets the dildo ready while he is at it.

It was unfair that he had gotten himself off in the car to take the edge off and Hollander had ruined all that work, just by asking to prep himself in front of Ilya. 

That and his unbearable honesty. 

He really wishes Hollander actually likes his tops to wear cock rings. It would be easier. He could relax. But he is also pretty sure that if he brought one out, Hollander would squirm in a way that isn’t appealing.

On the other hand, the way Hollander is on his hands and knees on the bed with a bottle of lube ready for him when he walks out of the bathroom is. His dark hair is a puddle on the light blue sheets as waits for Ilya. “Go ahead,” Ilya encourages as he steps over to run fingers over Hollander’s muscular back, “show me how you open yourself.” 

Hollander whines when Ilya pulls his fingers away, so he moves around to look him in the eyes cupping his cheek for a second. Hollander turns his head to kiss at his finger tips. “Thank you.” 

He sucks two into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut, and tension leaves his body as he sucks. Ilya allows it. Waits. When Hollander pulls his mouth back he’s moving for the lube. Pressing back a finger against his hole. 

Dropping the dildo onto the bed Ilya moves across the room watching him, going to where Hollander kept his ropes. The way Hollander had relaxed into them last time was not something he was going to forget. How the pressure and control had centered his nerves. 

Hollander doesn’t push in right away. Instead he plays with his hole. Stroking it with his finger and whining like Ilya is teasing him.  

He pauses to watch. “Rozanov,” Hollander grits out and his hand automatically reaches out to grab Hollander’s thigh. 

Just a touch. Just the confirmation that he is there. Hollander shudders, tension in his body relaxing as he goes to pop open the lube. He puts an obscene amount on a finger and Ilya forgets his task to watch Hollander dip the tip of his finger in and out. This is definitely not a rushed process. 

“I’m here,” Ilya promises, eyes stuck on watching the fluttering hole his cock belongs to. 

“Fuck,” Hollander whines sliding his finger in deep. 

Ilya feels his mouth curl up into a smile. “You want to be good but you are already desperate for my cock inside of you,” he teased. 

Hollander starts to work his finger with a little huff. “Fuck off.” 

Ilya would not have gotten very far with Hollander if he didn’t understand that a ‘Fuck off’ from him often meant ‘give me more’. “What do you want more,” Ilya teases, giving his thigh a small squeeze, “your ass filled or your mouth?” 

Hollander’s head drops down to rest on his braced forearm. “Both,” he snaps.

Ilya watches for another minute before he returns to his task. He lets go of Hollander to reach back for the ropes. It earns him a few little complaining sounds from Hollander, but he ignores them. 

He attaches the rope to the legs of the bed first before reaching for Hollander's ankles.  Hollander huffs his finger sliding free when Ilya pulls him up against the edge of the bed. 

Ilya had kind of looked up how to play with rope safely. The books the Player’s Association had made really did good work when they included diagrams. He doesn’t want to hurt Hollander, or any of the Forfeit’s really. But going into spaces that actually cared about safety, to learn, would be fraudulent, so he will make do.

Regardless he’s pretty sure this is fine. Giving only the barest of room for Hollander to move his leg. He spreads them out, listening to Hollander curse him for the movement as he tries to get himself open. When he is done Hollander’s legs have a slight strain from the inability to close them any further without backing up. And even then he could only get so many inches before falling off the bed. Open for Ilya. 

“Look at you open and getting ready for me,” Ilya purrs when Hollander settles back down and starts the process of adding a second finger. 

Ilya makes sure the sound of the chair dragging is obnoxious when he settles in to watch his show. Hollander wiggles until he can prop himself up on his elbows and look back at Ilya. His cheeks starting to dust pink again. 

Hollander has two fingers inside of him now. Carefully spreading wide and making room in himself. “Do I have to add a third,” Hollander asks as Ilya watches him squirm against the feeling of his own fingers hitting his prostate. 

“Yes. Today. Tomorrow when I fuck you, we will see.” 

Hollander groans and teases the rim with a third finger. “You could wear a plug on the plane and then maybe I won’t need to open you at all.” 

That earns him an indignant squawk. Hollander stretching across the bed to grab a pillow to throw. Ilya laughs as he catches it and Hollander huffs falling down onto the mattress, arms splayed at his sides. “Awh could not finish opening yourself,” Ilya teases. 

Hollander shakes his head and mumbles something. “Huh?” 

The man makes no attempt at making himself clearer. Ilya gets to his feet to go over. Cupping Hollander’s chin in his hand and lifting him so he can hear. The man squirms. “I just need a second to calm down.” 

Too aroused then. Ilya smiles down at him. “Do you want me to give you one before we start?” 

It was not the nicest thing for Ilya to suggest with what he has planned, but niceness was not the main factor in this either. 

Hollander’s eyes narrow his lips pressing into a firm line. “What about you?” 

“I got off in the car so I could lay pretty for you to play with, I will be okay until you are begging me to fuck you.” 

How could Ilya not want to curl up into this man’s ribs when he was equally focused on both their pleasure? That even if Ilya forced them to have Hollander be the priority, Hollander never forgot him. Saw Ilya’s release as a reward. 

Hollander huffs eyes searching Ilya’s face. “What’s the catch?” 

Ilya laughs leaning down to kiss him. “Who says there needs to be a catch Pobeditel' (Winner)? Maybe I just like to see you cum on my fingers.”

He slides onto the bed behind Hollander, guiding him up to his knees so they are pressed together. Ilya reaches for the lube as he kisses the back of Hollander’s neck. 

Hollander moans as Ilya’s hard dick slides between his cheeks. Ilya doesn’t need Hollander to say it to know what he wants. Ilya coats two fingers and presses both inside. “You are always so tight," he growls into his ear, “does your ass miss my cock?”

“Yeah,” Hollander answers eagerly, rocking his hips back against Ilya’s fingers. 

Desperate as he is, Hollander had done a good job of opening himself up. Despite that he really is still tight. One day Ilya is going to get him loose enough he can slide in without any resistance hours later. 

Right now he’s teasing a third finger against him. 

“Fuck, Rozanov,” Hollander whines, “I’ve been thinking about this all day.” 

“My fingers in your ass?” 

Hollander hums with a quick nod of his head. “You open me up so good. I never liked this before you.” 

His head drops back on Ilya’s shoulder turning in an obvious plea for a kiss. Which is something Ilya can’t resist. He makes the most beautiful noises as Ilya strokes his prostate. Working all three fingers inside and filling him. For a moment he considers sliding the toy in to help finish him off. But nothing compares to doing it all himself.

He feels Hollander crashing to the edge so he reaches around him to grab his dick. Hollander moans rocking hard against the touch. “Can I,” he sounds drunk as he begs.

“Da,” Ilya moves away from Hollander’s mouth so nothing can muffle his sounds, “come for me Pobeditel' (Winner).”

The permission is what sends Hollander off the edge instead of Ilya’s touches. He groans, feeling Hollander’s cum sputter over his hand. Ilya works him until he is squirming with over stimulation. It’s not until then that Ilya reaches down for the toy and slides it into him. 

“Isn’t that better,” Ilya asks,“full now like you should be.” 

He only gets a soft nod. Gone is the best hockey player in the world, just because Ilya made him orgasm. Ilya nuzzles against his neck, planting kisses there until he is sure Hollander is a bit more with it. “Stay like this,” Ilya orders, “I’ll be right back.” 

“Jersey,” Hollander slurs waving at the dresser Ilya had dropped his new Alternate Captain jersey on. 

It sends a new bolt of arousal through his dick. At what Hollander wants.

Fuck.

Getting up Ilya retrieves a wet cloth and washes off his own hands. Hollander wouldn’t appreciate them both being dirty. Especially since he knows it will be a while before Hollander is done. When he comes back Hollander is already leaning towards him. A silent demand for Ilya’s presence. 

He grabs the jersey, slipping it over his head before Ilya climbs onto the bed in front of him. He locks their mouths together as he drags the cloth over Hollander’s stomach. It’s quick work to make sure he is clean. Then Ilya is dragging them both down, settling back onto the bed. He pulls his mouth away looking at the line of drool stuck on Hollander’s chin. 

Hollander waits patiently as Ilya settles himself into position. Getting the lube in reach of Hollander’s hands and grabbing the remote for himself. He shoves a pillow under his ass and even more under his shoulders so he can enjoy the show. Hollander’s eyes start to burn with greed. 

Hollander’s hands come up to stroke Ilya’s thighs, his fingers teasing against the jersey. “You’re letting me do what I want,” he asks and encourages Ilya to spread wider. 

“As long as you want to,” Ilya agrees, spreading for him. 

Hollander glances over at the lube bottle and raises his eyebrow in a silent question. Ilya looks down at it too. Still not completely sure, but he thinks he can be brought into the mood for it. 

“Start slow,” he offers. “Ask first.” 

Hollander nods and that’s all the man needs. He has his parameters and that’s all it takes. His mouth kisses up Ilya’s thighs, taking his time to kiss and lick to his heart's content. Ilya runs his fingers through black silky hair making sure he doesn’t hold back any sounds. 

Ilya had expected Hollander to go straight for his cock. To suck him immediately, but with infinite time Hollander has other ideas. He gets a kiss to the tip and the base but instead of continuing Hollander rests his head on the inside of Ilya’s thigh with his mouth and nose right next to his cock, and that strong stiff body slowly begins to relax. 

His own breath hitches as Hollander’s eyes flutter shut. He’s still awake. Ilya knows that. Even if Hollander doesn’t open his eyes to look at him. To press a kiss or a lick to what he can easily reach. 

Ilya probably should be driven mad by this. Except he feels the exact same way Hollander does. Soaking up the affection of a warm willing body. His cock doesn’t go soft, but it slides to halfi mast. 

“Do you want me to read,” Ilya asks after he realizes that Hollander plans to stay like this for some time. 

Hollander minutely shakes his head no, his lips barely parted. “I just want to feel you.” 

So Ilya lets him. Let’s Hollander have the time he had promised. The experience is strangely erotic, when barely anything is happening. 

That’s the problem with being around Hollander. Everything is far more than it should have any right to be. It’s dangerous. Ilya should not let this happen. 

He does anyways. Always. 

Despite this, Hollander is not an object at rest. He had just slowed for a period. Ilya has relaxed into the feeling as well, but he’s instantly aware when Hollander’s mind flips over. Small little kitten licks and kisses all over his cock. Hollander nuzzling into his balls and giving them extra attention. 

Ilya almost warns him not to leave a hickey. There is no way he could explain that to anyone this weekend, but Hollander moves on before he grows too concerned about it. 

Hollander’s mouth is perfect on his cock. Playing with him inch by inch. Getting his taste achingly slow. Mouth spreading wider as he takes Ilya further into his mouth every few passes. Until Hollander has taken him to the root and stops moving. “Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya moans feeling the breath from Hollander’s nose blow across his pubic hair. 

He expects Hollander to pull back. To maybe start bobbing his head. Except the man swallows around him a few times refusing to move. Little by little Ilya watches as his body relaxes again. 

“Shit,” Ilya hisses when Hollander is settled again, mouth full of Ilya’s cock and head resting on his thigh. 

His eyes are blown with bliss. He occasionally swallows or pulls back slightly for a better gulp of air. Hollander's fingers lazily playing with the hem of his jersey. 

He looks perfectly content. 

Which is why it’s the best time to hit the button on the remote. He can’t hear anything, but the way Hollander’s body tenses tells him that the vibration setting on the remote did indeed work. 

The man squirms but refuses to let go of the prize in his mouth. When Hollander gets used to the vibrations and manages to settle back down again, Ilya hits the button. 

Hollander’s eyes fly up to his own. “What,” Ilya asks, rolling his eyes like he doesn’t know exactly what he is doing. 

He gets a huff in return, but the man is stubborn and tries to settle again.

Ilya had promised Hollander he could have his dick for as long as he wanted, and do what he wanted with it. Ilya had not promised to behave during this. 

The second Hollander’s eyes start to go fluttery again, Ilya hits the button twice. Hollander pulls his mouth off with a cry squirming his body and not able to close his legs an inch. 

“Rozanov,” he yells but his tongue and throat have forgotten how to move so his name comes out garbled. 

“Hollander,” Ilya responds making sure he sounds as innocent and put out upon as possible, 

Hollander hits his thigh, eyes narrowing. He looks from Ilya’s face to the cock he desperately wants and Ilya can pin point the second Hollander decides he is going to win this challenge. 

Ilya, happily, settles in for the ride. 

Hollander blows past any attempt to relax and starts a serious teasing blow job. Ilya is pretty sure his dick is the only one Hollander has sucked, but one could not accuse Hollander of being a lazy student. 

Good thing Ilya has many settings on the remote. Ilya changes the vibration pattern and watches Hollander’s eyes widen as Ilya smirks at him. 

“Are you going to come,” Ilya taunts, tracing his fingers back through Hollander’s hair. 

Hollander nods, a little frantic. “Please,” he begs through Ilya’s cock in his mouth, not willing to pull off. 

“Of course,” Ilya answers, “go on. Come for me.” 

Hollander rolls his hips into the mattress and with a few more thrusts Ilya knows he has worked himself to orgasm. His thighs visibly shaking and a long drawn out moan vibrating across his dick. Ilya only gives him a few seconds before he is upping the vibrations again. 

“What,” Hollander pants pulling off his dick while he squirms against the bed. 

“What,” Ilya mocks, curling his free arm behind his head watching drool drop from Hollander’s lips to the bed. 

“It’s,” Hollander huffs, unable to get out a full sentence through the over stimulation. 

“Do you want to stop,” Ilya offers in mock concern, “I will turn it off if you are done playing with my cock.”

The devastated whimper that pulls from Hollander’s mouth makes Ilya’s dick twitch. He definitely would not have been able to hold out if he hadn’t gotten off before they started this.

“No,” Hollander growls through clenched teeth.

Ilya almost laughs. Instead he lets Hollander go back to work. Which is furiously trying to drag an orgasm out of Ilya. He has been practicing holding off his orgasm so he could tease Hollander better for this very reason. 

Ilya keeps playing with the vibrations until Hollander is sobbing around his cock. He eases off when he can tell Hollander is getting close and presses forward hard when he is begging for more. Squirming and humping the bed. Tears pooling down his cheeks. Hollander is so beautiful. 

He waits until he can see those thighs quivering again before he turns off the toy. Hollander pulls off his dick and buries his face into one of Ilya’s thighs. “So good Hollander,” Ilya praises, “taking it so well. Did it feel good?” 

Hollander gives a confused sound and presses into his thigh harder, teeth finding his skin and biting into it. Ilya allows it. Letting the over simulation wear off. 

“Fuck you,” Hollander mumbles after a bit of time. 

Ilya laughs. “I came fucking dry,” Hollander accuses with a glare. 

“Want to do it again,” Ilya offers with a light tug on his hair. 

Hollander shakes his head. “You done,” he’s serious with his offer now, none of the teasing. 

It’s silent as Hollander thinks. Consider his options. He looks back at Ilya’s cock. Ilya watches knowing Hollander is doing calculations in his head. How many hours they will have together. How many days. How many opportunities to get what he wants. 

Hollander is an extremely greedy man. He wants it all. 

“I know Pobeditel' (Winner),” Ilya soothes, rubbing his thumb against Hollander’s cheek, “you want everything. We will have several days to play.” 

He watches the calculations that go through his eyes. “I get to suck you off before we leave for the airport,” Hollander decides. 

Which, how was Ilya supposed to say no to that? He grins down at him and nods. Hollander shoves at Ilya’s thighs. “Fuck me,” he demands. 

Ilya does, grabbing the lube Hollander hadn’t used and getting behind him. “You’re still going to be over sensitive,” Ilya warns pulling the toy out and tracing his hole 

“I don’t care,” Hollander arches his back sticking his hips out, “just fuck me. Come in me. I want you to fill me up.”

Ilya laughs, kissing the back of his neck. “You are not escaping without one more,” he warns before pressing three freshly lubed fingers inside. 

He knows Hollander is stretched enough but he wants to feel his prostate again. See how his hole is going to clench around him. Hollander groans, shifting his hips higher. 

“You’re going to, ahhh,” Hollander pants, “be the one owing me at this rate.” 

Ilya pulls his fingers out and lubes up his cock. He presses a few kisses behind Hollander’s ear. “It doesn’t work that way,” he taunts.

He gets a furious moan in response and Ilya works to bring Hollander to a breathless, growling, fourth orgasm of the night. Hollander’s body collapses into the bed as soon as he comes. His ass is milking Ilya’s cock. He groans following him down fucking in rough shallow thrusts. 

Ilya is pretty sure Hollander is murmuring in French, but he wouldn’t be able to understand him at this point even if it was in English. Hollander’s arm throws itself back. Reaching blindly until he can grab any part of Ilya and pull them closer. 

His orgasm is warm and blinding. Ilya lets the full weight of his body crash down on Hollander because he knows he can take it. And Hollander does. It’s several long minutes before Hollander starts to move again. Hand slapping out to get Ilya moving as well. He groans softly, pulling out. His eyes trace down to the hole he has been torturing so sweetly. 

Ilya slides his fingers inside, unable to help himself. He pulls out listening to Hollander whine. His legs straining against the ropes. A real protest now. He would still let Ilya fuck him again. Hollander would probably love it. 

“We’re messy,” Hollander complains.

Ilya laughs, reaching for the discarded cloth and wipes off his fingers. “Let me untie you.” 

He gets down on his knees next to the bed and works the knots out. Pressing a kiss to each ankle as he does so, making sure to rotate it in his hand before giving Hollander that part back to himself. 

Hollander curls up as soon as his legs are freed. His eyes are closed but his nose is scrunched. 

“We need condoms if we are going to keep doing this,” he announces, still not opening his eyes as Ilya comes back over to press a kiss against his forehead. 

“Condoms,” Ilya asks, “do they not test us enough Hollander? They put everyone on prep, yes?” 

Hollander opens his eyes just enough to glare at Ilya. His foot snaps out to kick Ilya’s knee. “Fuck you. Of course. But I don’t like the way cum feels coming out. I mean it’s hot when you come in me. But now everything is dirty and we are going to have to get up to fix it, and I would rather fall asleep.” 

His nose twitches, a smile trying to over take his grumpy look. Well simple enough. Ilya can fix most of these issues. Just not as fast as Hollander wants. 

Ilya presses a kiss to his forehead. “Okay,” he agrees easily, “I will pick up condoms in Florida for my room, you should too. And you decide when we use them.” 

Hollander’s eyes open all the way and he is leaning up for a kiss that Ilya is helpless to give into. His fingers rake through Ilya’s curls, rubbing into his scalp. “Hollander,” Ilya groans. 

The look on the other man’s face says he knows Ilya’s weaknesses and plans to use them to his full advantage. Ilya should be afraid. 

“Who made you so perfect,” Hollander asks. 

Maybe Hollander is not aware enough still to use his weaknesses to his advantage. Clever or not. Ilya shakes his head. “I think you hit your head and we all missed it.” 

“No I’m serious,” Hollander says, “if one of my teammates slept with a girl without condoms and she wanted to go back to using them I’m pretty sure they would throw a fit.” 

Ilya is the one to scrunch his nose this time. This was not a thing he could blame on Hollander’s shitty team mates. His own would be the same. “I like that you’re good.” 

“I am not good,” Ilya reminds him, “no one who plays in this league is good.” 

Hollander shakes his head, eyes bright. “No,” Ilya starts to protest, trying to get ahead of whatever argument is building, but Hollander slides their lips together.

Ilya’s mind goes hazy from the deep lazy kisses and the argument falls away until he doesn’t remember what it was even about. When Hollander pulls away his face is smug. Ilya would like to check him into the boards over it. If he didn’t feel like a noodle. 

“You liked that,” he asks Hollander, searching his eyes, “all of it was good?” 

Hollander nods. “I did want to kill you about the car,” he agrees and his lips quirk up into a smile, “but it was hot. It was all really hot.” 

Which was true. Even Hollander just laying close to his dick had been hot. “It was good for you,” Hollander asks, “I don’t know what you expected exactly." 

Ilya laughs, bringing his fingers up to complete his favorite trace of Hollander’s freckles. “Very good,” he promises before tapping Hollander’s cheek, “you will get more if these in Florida? In the sun?” 

Hollander’s cheeks darken into a soft blush. “Shut up.” 

“We will have to go to the pool. I will make you sit in sun, so I can have more to kiss.” 

Hollander’s discomfort with the mess drags them out of bed before they can fall asleep. He doesn’t let Ilya carry him to the bathroom and into the tub, but he does let Ilya fill the tub for them. No bubbles, and no special scents, but warmth for their muscles and jets because even without mirrors Hollander is still very fancy. 

Hollander wants to hold him, so Ilya allows it, only pulling away so he can go change the sheets for a clean bed. 

“I put down two fitted sheets,” Hollander announces when Ilya starts to draw off, “so it’s only the comforter and sheets you need to replace if you pull off the first set.” 

Ilya leans back down to kiss him. “Very efficient,” he purrs and leaves Hollander to soak a little longer. 

He likes the simple task of making the bed up for Hollander. For getting to take care of him like this after he had been so perfect for Ilya. The Forfeits wouldn’t allow this kind of care. Ilya could only tailor the experience based on what Hollander told him and the things he gleams when they are under his hands. And even then a softness like this wouldn’t be allowed. 

Except for Jenny. And maybe Otto. Maybe, maybe a few others, but not in the same way as this. 

Not the equal, unquestionable choice. 

Ilya’s phone rings from the nightstand. He stops his movements looking at it. His breath hitches before he glances at the time. Moscow is seven hours ahead of Montreal. Plenty of time for a man on a military schedule to see the score of the game and call his son. It was just a little early for this call. 

He takes in a deep breath and grabs his phone. He answers without speaking and the familiar barrage of Russian hits his ears in the worst way possible. 

“Ilya,” his father barks, “why are you not home? I expect my son to not be a delinquent on the streets at night.” 

Ilya breathes through his nose pacing a few steps across the room. “A hockey game Papa,” he answers, “a far away one. We stayed the night.” 

Handling his father’s lapses in memory had been hard when he was in Russia. It was a more frequent experience. But it didn’t prepare him for dealing with these episodes over the phone. When he is impossibly far away and the young son his father is imagining is gone. 

The line is silent for a moment. “Are you coming home today?” 

“We have several more games before I come home,” Ilya answers. 

Which is true. The regular season will wind to an end not that long after All Stars, and if he is lucky he will have months of playing hockey left to get to the Stanley Cup. But after that, When his season is done he will go home. Back to Russia. Try to talk to Andrei again about their father’s health. Play with Katechka as much as he can and shield her from their family. He will buy her nice toys and clothes and school supplies and he will return to Boston in August for training camp. He will set up a trust fund for her, and set aside more money for Andrei’s bad habits, and try to think of something to do about his Father. 

But right now he has Hollander and hockey. 

“Did you win your game?” 

“No Sir,” Ilya answers, his head bowing down, waiting for the weight of a physical blow that has never come. 

It would all be a lot easier if his father had hit any of them, even once. 

“Don’t come home until you win. I won’t have an embarrassment sleeping under my roof.” 

Ilya’s shoulders drop as the line rings with the lost connection. Dismissed. It should have stopped hurting years ago. Ilya hates himself for the way this aches every time like the first. If only he was stronger. If only he could win everything. 

“Hey,” it’s a soft warning before large calloused hands slide over his waist and chest. 

Hollander’s body, tugging him close so they are pressed together. “That wasn’t Svetlana.” 

It’s a statement not a question. The question hangs in between those words. 

Great. The only thing worse than that phone call is having Hollander bear witness to it. He thinks about lashing out. Shoving Hollander away but before he can muster up the energy Hollander has tugged him to the bed, and wrapped the blankets around them. He moves Ilya’s body until he is fully held and encased in his arms. 

Ilya does not offer any explanation. Hollander’s fingers trace along the name on his back. “You don’t have to talk about it.” 

“Good,” Ilya interrupts because he won’t be talking about it. 

Hollander pinches his thigh. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he repeats, stubborn as always, finger moving onto the 81, “but if you ever want to I’ll listen.” 

It’s so fucking Shane Hollander. If nothing else drives him crazy this man will. Ilya reaches back until he has one of Hollander’s hands. 

“I know Zashchitnik (Defender),” he kisses his knuckles before lacing their fingers together and tugging the man to wrap around him impossibly closer, “I know.” 

Ilya falls asleep in the arms of the god he wishes he could be the only one to worship. 

Chapter 15: Prodigal or Prodigy?

Chapter Summary

The airport isn’t a place that usually makes Ilya burn with jealousy, admiration, shame, and affection. Except that with Shane Hollander anything is possible. He’s just not thinking about it, except for all the ways he is.

Chapter Notes

I’m not going to say this is a green flag chapter, but it is relatively lighter than most. There is mentions of sexual activity, but no sex scenes or explicit detail. There are non explicit references to child and spousal abuse per Ilya’s backstory.

Additionally this chapter contains racial micro aggressions and vague discussions around sexism. With that I also want to note that this fic will explore more with racism than I originally intended. But since I am taking the premise of this seriously I need to be more engaged with the likely impacts. As a result I’ve taken out any mentions of JJ in this fic so far. He’s going to come back later on, but in the books he joined the NHL after Shane anyways, so I think brining him in later is going to make the most sense.

One last thing about this chapter for this notes. This chapter does contain Ilya and Shane interacting with a little girl. Nothing bad happens to her besides being a little lost. However given the material of this story I understand if some people would feel unsettled even if none of the triggering content is in conjunction with this character. I don’t think there is anything load bearing in this chapter if that would make you want to skip it.

If you would like a further discussion on the themes of this chapter and recent increase awareness to sexual violence see the bottom notes.

If Ilya had thought that Montréal-Pierre Elliott Trudeau International would be less of an event the second time, he would have been sorely mistaken. 

Farah and Yuna Hollander being friends and already in mind to coordinate with each other makes everything easier. It doesn’t take any kind of convincing or questions for them to get an afternoon flight booked together and hotel rooms with a conjoined door. Maybe they should be more sneaky about that.

There isn’t a rush to get to Florida. As long as they make it in time for their sponorships and league obligations Friday it doesn’t matter when they arrive. They had booked a later flight. Sleep and avoiding their teammates the priority, given that they expected to end up in the Room.

Instead Ilya wakes up in Hollander’s arms. His alarm blaring in both their ears and hot breath tickling the back of Ilya’s neck.

Generally, Ilya doesn’t let himself be cuddled. Svetlana the rare exception. He usually maneuvers bodies in bed so that he is the big spoon. With Hollander it’s natural to take turns. To let his strong body envelop Ilya. Then to turn over later and pull him up against Ilya’s heart. 

Sometimes, he lets himself imagine that this is what it’s like to be wanted with no strings attached. He doesn’t know what Hollander wants. Returned attraction and affection obviously, but there has to be something more. Until he finds the catch he’s willing to melt into this indulgence. 

The morning sex is slow and soft. Hollander finally gets to suck him off. Ilya gets to finger him to orgasm. It means Ilya gets to bicker with Hollander about healthy food, while Hollander eats everything Ilya puts in front of him. It’s a trust Ilya doesn’t think he’ll ever be given again. 

Instead of ordering a car service to get them to the airport Hollander drives his boring car, and puts it in long term parking, just so that they can hold hands on the drive. 

It’s never dull between them. With Hollander conversation flows as easy in his second language as his first. It might kill him one day when he has to give this up. 

Ilya is used to traveling by plane. Moving with a team in commercial and private jets. With everything handled for him. He had figured out international travel on his own when he had moved from Moscow to Boston, but letting Hollander handle it all now is a weight off his shoulders. It’s completely different from when he gives up control to the Boston Staff. 

Hollander moves through special airport processes with a certainty Ilya can’t relate to. It makes sense. Knowing Hollander’s family had money his entire life, compared to Ilya’s father who had a house, title, and wife, and was still hungry when Ilya was a child. He knows that hockey had been a gift, in a way, to make up for the fact that supply chains hadn’t been able to provide consistent food. A gift most families had never gotten. His gift which turned into an investment before long. It was his father’s medical fund. The safety net Andrei and Katechka need. 

He tries hard not to think about it. It’s easier to focus on Hollander and the ritualistic way he goes about the airport. Ilya has a feeling that even if he had any desire to lead them through this airport, Hollander is better off if left to his routines. 

They make it through security in a special fast lane that gets them past the waiting lines. Hollander is very smug about this. It’s boring. It’s terrible. Ilya has to put more distance between them before he reaches out to touch Hollander. A futile struggle against gravity. 

Ilya has never had this problem before. Wanting to be casual and affectionate with anyone in public, much less a man. It is one thing to do it in the safety of Hollander’s apartment and another to do it in an international airport. One that had more than likely flagged them once they entered the building never mind security. 

Ilya isn’t sure how long he can keep this up before the risk becomes too great for both of them. But that’s another thing he doesn’t think about. At least not when Hollander is dragging him into an airport luxury store, because his Father likes a certain brand of chocolates from there. He can’t imagine what it would be like to have a father he wanted to get gifts for. 

He picks an argument about the game last night as they are walking to the VIP lounge. Hollander had insisted on being two hours early to the airport, and while Ilya would have done the same he lets Hollander think it’s all his idea. 

Despite the fact that the airport has several posters featuring Hollander from his many different ad campaigns, most people do not realize Montreal’s hockey god is in their mix. At least not when Ilya isn’t making a show of it. Now it’s midday instead of early morning and everyone has their own things to do. 

Which is probably why no one else has one notices the crying little girl clinging to a pillar in the middle of the corridor. The pillar is not located next to a bathroom or near a terminal which is what makes Ilya stop. Hollander notices the falter in Ilya’s step immediately and stops with him. 

Ilya looks around for a brief second. Checking to see if one of the little shops or restaurants has a parent a few steps away, but no one seems to be keeping an eye on her. 

She’s tiny. Her tears and backpack almost shadowing her. Wobbling lips as she tries to hold back her obvious tears and sad wet brown eyes. Dark curly wisps of hair frame her face while the rest of her hair is pulled back in two pretty neat braids, with pink ribbons on top of her pigtails and large multi color beads tying off the bottom of the braids. She’s darker than Hollander by a few shades. He really can’t tell children’s ages by looking at them. Other than sorting them into boxes of too young to skate and old enough to hand a stick, but his heart immediately clenches looking at her. 

Even if they are the opposite physically, his mind immediately flashes to Katechka. It has him crossing the hall before he even considers what he is going to do. Her eyes track him when he gets close trying harder to stifle her tears, firmly planted where she is standing. 

“I like your bows,” Ilya tells her as he crouches down next to her and points behind his own head where his hair is getting long, “very practical and pretty to keep your hair out of your face.” 

Her nod is hesitant, looking up at him with such expressive eyes. “My Mommy does my hair,” she tells him a bit calmer now to have something to focus on. 

How did you gauge the age of children? She is so small. Definitely not old enough to be traveling by herself. He lets his eyes track the corridor again searching to see if someone is coming for her now that another adult has approached. Ilya hums, nodding his head. “She has very good taste.” 

No. No one has turned their attention to her. His stomach swirls with unease. The little girl wrinkles her nose. “You can’t eat hair or ribbons.” 

Ilya lets an easy smile spread across his cheeks at the correction. He feels Hollander’s shoulders brush against his as he crouches down. “Right,” Hollander agrees with her, “Ilya is Russian and English is his second language, so sometimes he says things wrong. He means that she knows how to pick out pretty things.” 

His heart beat picks up at Hollander’s gentle tone. The serious way he explains it to her. The little girl’s eyes widen impossibly further at Hollander. Ilya is pretty sure he had gotten that linguistic expression right but they can argue about that later. “Yes,” he agrees instead, “Shane knows a lot about picking out pretty things. He is a model.” 

Hollander lets out a long suffering huff. “A model,” she repeats as her face scrunches with doubt. 

Thankfully she is no longer crying. Ilya leans back on his heels and points behind him over to one of the Reebox posters with Hollander’s face. “See,” he asks. 

She inches away from the pillar and looks around it to see where Ilya is pointing. She glances back from the poster to Hollander and to the poster again. Then she turns back to them fully. A language Ilya is not familiar with flows out of her as she looks at Hollander. 

Hollander winces, and takes a long moment to think through his words. Ilya recognizes the clumsy attempt to speak a language one is not close to fluent in. It’s a little gratifying to see Hollander, who speaks and reads two languages perfectly, struggling. He supposes Hollander might have relatives who speak Japanese, but the man has never mentioned it in their handful of conversations or to the press. It has only been his perfect English and French. 

Thankfully the child seems to be born of endless grace because she cuts Ilya an unimpressed look and goes back to English. “Your English is better,” she announces.

Ilya laughs harder than he should. It leaves him unbalanced and falling on his ass when Hollander shoves him in retaliation. His face is flushed with almost the same unimpressed look the little girl had. 

He wiggles to an upright position, crossing his legs in front of him. “Okay. So you know who we are,” he says to the little girl. “Shane and Ilya. And we are going to Miami, Florida together. What is your name?” 

The girl hesitates but they have already won her over. “I’m Miyuu,” she announces, “Mommy and I are going to Miami too. We’re going to meet Papa there and then fly to see Obaachan and Ojiichan.”

Given the context clues he assumes that those are the words for grandparents. But that doesn’t get them any closer to getting her back to her family. Except for learning that she is traveling with her mother. 

“Wow, very big trip,” Ilya exclaims, nodding along with Miyuu, “do you know where your Mommy is?” 

She shakes her head rapidly. Eyes refilling with fresh tears, the balls at the end of her hair making a distressed clacking. “I saw other kids playing in the hall and I wanted to join. So I left the room. And now I’m lost!”

Hollander immediately makes soft soothing sounds. Not quite words but an instinctual attempt to calm her. Miyuu throws herself into his arms. Her tears both freed and muffled into his broad shoulders. Hollander catches her like his job is to care for children instead of slamming other grown men around for a puck. He stands up, gently swaying back and forth, turning his head to talk softly in her ear. “I got lost my first time in the airport.”

Ilya reaches for the bag Miyuu dropped. He has a faint memory of his mother writing on the inside of his and Andrei’s school bags with their names and her phone number. Her phone number, the one his father hadn’t known about. It had been after a classmate brought back Andrei’s school bag he left behind. 

She had been smiling while her hand shook. Andrei sitting in her lap, still crying after Papa had spent hours yelling at him. Maybe Miyuu’s mother had written something down like that too. 

“I saw some really cool toys in a shop so I went to look,” Hollander continues, swaying as he watches Ilya poke through the bag. “And when I looked back my Dad was gone. My mom was smart and made sure I knew what to do in case I got lost. So I found someone from the airport staff and told them I was lost and my parents' names. They gave me a popsicle while we waited for them. I hadn’t even finished it by the time my parents came to get me.” 

Ilya finds an identification card attached to the inside of the largest compartment. It’s a white laminated paper clipped to the bag with a safety pin. The hand writing is neat and precise in English, French, and what he is guessing is Japanese. He pulls it out reading through the English lines, before shouldering the bag and pulling out his phone. 

Thankfully not a lot of reading skills are needed for a phone number and the word Mom. 

He really should have Farah hire him an English reading tutor. Which sounds incredibly boring. 

“I think ice cream is a good idea,” Ilya announces, as the little girl processes Hollander’s story, “it looks like your Mom is smart like Hollander’s Mom and left us a way to call her in case you got lost like Shane did. How about we go get ice cream and by the time you finish yours I bet she’ll be there.” 

Miyuu turns her attention over to him and nods. Her tears starting to dry again. “I like ice cream.” 

“Me too,” Ilya starts to put the number into his phone as Hollander leads them over to an airport map to look for an ice cream shop, “but Shane hardly ever eats ice cream. You should tell him about your favorite flavors so he knows what to get.” 

She gasps at this information and the tears are a distant memory as she starts to tell Hollander about all the ice cream he is missing out on. Hollander glares at him rolling his eyes and mouths ‘asshole’. 

Ilya winks, putting the phone to his ear and immediately gets a frazzled desperate mother on the other end. 

By the time they have settled at a table in the ice cream shop there are ten flavors of hard serve ice cream to be tried with deliberate intent. Just to see which is Hollander’s favorite. 

Ilya is pretty sure he has never been more enamored than when he was watching a child talk Hollander into trying multiple ice cream flavors. 

Hollander talks to her like she is an adult. She has claimed her spot being carried on his hip. Ilya had to take Hollander’s carry-on bag to help with juggling a squirming child, who wants to look at all the ice cream flavors. He doesn’t mind it in the slightest. 

They get Miyuu to give a dissertation on all the ice cream flavors she has tried before and Hollander is very careful to keep napkins at the ready for when she splatters it on herself or the table. He’s so good with her. Calm and attentive. Ilya hasn’t ever thought about kids, but for a split second he wonders. 

The thought is pulled away from him before he ever has a chance to fully form it or squash it when a woman rushes into the shop. She looks a bit too professional to be traveling with such a small child, but Ilya sometimes gets on planes in suits. So what does he know? 

“Miyuu,” she calls relief rushing into her voice as soon as the little girl pops her head up. 

Ilya stands to greet Imani in person. Somehow the little girl had traveled half an airport away from her mother. It is understandable that the woman is a bit frantic. 

Imani is darker than her daughter but they almost have the same exact face. He wonders if the open adoration and love is how Yuliya looks at Katechka when she gets lost at the play ground. For all the money Ilya puts into his niece and the time he wishes he could have with her, hockey has kept him the absent uncle. That, and he doesn’t know how long he can stand to be around Andrei. 

The woman is tall, but still shorter than both hockey stars, and doesn’t have any kind of carry-on bag with her. Ilya is assuming Miyuu had wandered out of one of the VIP rooms. 

Miyuu jumps into her mother’s arms and hugs her tight. “I’m sorry Mommy,” she sniffles. 

Imani looks at Ilya and Shane over her daughter’s shoulder. Assessing, before she smiles faintly. “We are going to have some words Miss, you can’t run off in the airport,” she declares pulling back to check her daughter’s face, “but that can be a conversation with your Dad.”

The little girl nods, as serious as can be with a sprinkle on her cheek. “Ilya and Shane helped me get unlost,” she declares pointing at the two men and then leans closer to her mother to whisper in her ear, rather loudly, “Shane is a model, but his Japanese is really bad.” 

“Oh? A model, huh?” 

Ilya glances back to Hollander to see how he is taking the assessment. He has on his perfect media smile, but Ilya knows from the way he is holding his shoulders Hollander is having some kind of feelings about it. 

Imani looks back at Ilya but he points to Hollander. She shifts her gaze over to him before the realization slowly forms in her eyes. “Well that’s one job title we could use I suppose,” she agrees as Ilya offers her a chair. 

Miyuu squirms away from her mother and back to the ice cream to tell her about all the flavors they have. Ilya is not ashamed to admit they went overboard with their order. “Let me get you some,” Hollander offers Imani, getting to his feet.

She waves the idea away with a soft smile playing on her lips. “I think we have plenty here. Maybe just another spoon?”

Ilya laughs and Miyuu tries to shove the lemon cobbler blueberry pie flavor at him again. He leans down and lets her put the spoon into his mouth. “Do you need a hair cut? Your hair looks like it’s getting long.” 

Hollander goes over to the counter as Ilya pats at his hair. “Do you think long hair would look good on me? I could tie it back with pretty ribbons like yours.”

She hums, taking her time to consider the answer, carefully studying his face.

“Oh! Is that your wife?”

His wife? Ilya turns his head to look at the counter where Hollander has immediately started to blush. “No,” he stammers out, “I’m not married.”

The lady at the counter gives him a disapproving look. “It’s not good to have a kid out of wedlock you know.” 

Ilya chokes back a laugh at the panic on Hollander’s face. “A kid,” he looks behind them at Miyuu who is still deliberating, “shit. No! She’s not mine.” 

“Oh. Her uncle then! Are her parents married?” 

Hollander looks like he has swallowed sour candy. Ilya very quickly realizes that the comment isn’t funny. “Can I just get water and a spoon please?” 

Miyuu has made her decision. She pulls one of the ribbons out of her hair and hands it over to Ilya, with the seriousness of presenting a crown. “I think you should do what makes you feel pretty,” she announces.

Ilya takes the ribbon. It’s so small. It looks like a string in his hand. “This is very good advice,” he tells her. 

He reaches back to feel his hair again. Definitely not long enough to pull up into a ponytail yet. Which he only knows how to do, because he’s helped Svetlana with her hair so often. He considers what to do, before tying the ribbon around his wrist and into a very messy bow. “There now we match,” he declares and holds it up, making her laugh. 

Hollander comes back, setting down an extra spoon and the water. “Oh here. Let me,” Hollander takes Ilya’s wrist and fixes the ribbon so it’s pretty and neat. “Now you really match.” 

Ilya looks and it’s an identical bow to the one the little girl has in her hair. Miyuu loves this. “Thank you,” Imani says after taking a sip of water, “it was really kind of you to look after Miyuu and get her ice cream. She usually doesn’t run off, and I had just turned around for a second to take an important work call. Normally her nanny travels with us, but,” her voice trails off as she realizes she is rambling to two young guys and waves the words off. 

“What do you do for work,” Hollander asks, taking his spoon to the ice cream Miyuu is offering him. 

“My husband and I run an international luxury real estate company,” she answers, tucking a braid behind her ear that had gotten loose from the ponytail the rest were pulled back in. “Which probably sounds very boring to you.”

Ilya would agree, but Hollander is leaning forward. His eyes sparkling. “What kind of luxury real estate?”

Miyuu looks over at Ilya with the same bored expression that is on his own face. He grabs the chocolate that is almost empty and the butterscotch to mix them together and presents her with his hard work for sampling. 

“What does a young man like yourself know about luxury real estate,” Imani gives him a sharp smile. 

Hollander shrugs a little. “Not much yet. But I’m interested in getting some investment properties.” 

Imani studies him for a moment before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a card. “I can probably help you with that. I’m guessing you are looking for some places in Montreal.” 

It earns a soft laugh from Hollander. “That’s one of them. Ottawa too. But I think I might just buy property and build.” 

“Mommy,” Miyuu interrupts, already bored of Ilya’s concoction, “can Cousin Ilya and Cousin Shane sit next to us on the plane?” 

It is adorable that the little girl has decided they are cousins. Ilya covers a laugh with a bite of ice cream. “No sweetheart. They have their own plane to catch.” 

“But they are also going to Miami,” Miyuu argues. 

“Yes, but a different airplane,” Ilya apologizes to her, “and we have assigned seats. Otherwise we would.” 

Miyuu pouts. “How long are you going to be in Miami,” Hollander asks.

A couple of days,” Imani answers, reaching over to stroke her daughter’s pouting face, “then we are going to Japan to visit my husband's family.” 

“I have spare tickets for the all stars game and skills competition," Ilya announces, “the three of you can have them if you want.” 

It’s not like his own family is coming. It would be nice to get rid of his.

“What’s an all stars game,” Miyuu asks tugging on Ilya’s sleeve. 

“It’s where the best hockey players from all teams get together and prove how great they are. Then they play a friendly game against each other,” Ilya explains.

“Oh,” the little girl perks up, “like Julie Chu? When we get home from Japan we are going to go see her play hockey. She’s American,not Canadian which isn’t as cool, but she’s won a bunch of medals. So if it’s for the best players she has to be there.” 

Ilya blinks. He has no idea who Julie Chu is. Hollander shifts in his seat. “No, it’s just for NHL players,” he tells her. 

Ilya is pretty sure this child is old enough to know about hockey. He was definitley playing hockey at whatever age she is. “What’s the N H L,” she asks, saying each letter carefully like she is trying to memorize it. 

“It’s the National Hockey League,” Ilya answers.

Miyuu looks back at him with an intensity that someone this young should not be able to possess. “National,” she sounds out the word before she makes the connection, “what nation?” 

Maybe she does not know about hockey, but Ilya wouldn’t have been able to come up with that kind of question at her age. Did children this age even know the word for nation? “You are a very smart little girl,” Ilya tells her.

Miyuu nods, taking this as a fact instead of a compliment. “Mommy says it’s all the traveling,” she explains, “and Papa says my vocabulary is bigger than I am.”

“The NHL is the men’s league for Canada and the United States,” Imani answers.

“What about the ladies,” Miyuu presses. 

Ilya doesn’t know how to answer that. It’s one of the things he doesn’t think about. Ilya and Hollander both look at Imani, but she doesn’t say anything waiting for them to answer. 

“I think she plays in Montreal for a women's league,” Hollander finally mutters. 

“How can it be for all the best players if the women’s team isn’t even there? That’s not All The Stars.” 

Is he supposed to tell her that girls don’t play hockey? 

They do. Russia has a women’s team. There is some kind of women's league, but Ilya has never seen it. He knows women love hockey too. Svetlana a prime example. 

He’s pretty sure Sergei wouldn’t have allowed Svetlana to join any kind of team even if there had been one for her. There had always been a half resentment, half love with Sergei and hockey. He would sit in the net for hours letting Svetlana and Ilya takes shots, taught them stick handling, and showed them drills, but he wouldn’t let her come to any of his games. Even as a child. 

But Ilya supposes he has an idea of why now. 

“Yes you are right,” Ilya agrees, carefully dancing around the topic, “I did not choose the right words. Maybe they have their own all stars event too.” 

He feels Imani’s eyes on him. The judgement and acceptance of what they are saying. Ilya has to admire her. The fact that she is making them answer Miyuu’s questions instead of brushing it off. This does seem to pacify Miyuu a little. “So you like hockey then,” Hollander asks.

Miyuu shrugs. “I don’t remember seeing hockey before, but my nanny played with Julie Chu, and wanted to go. So all of us are going.”

Ilya laughs again. He has no idea what competition Miyuu is going to go see later but he hopes she has fun. “Maybe you would like to see us play around on the ice before you go see a real competition then?” 

Miyuu thinks about this. “Is there ice cream there?”

Hollander laughs too. Miyuu is not as amused by them as they are of her. “We don’t go places just because they have ice cream,” Imani scolds. 

Miyuu pouts, and then kicks her legs under the table. “No,” she finally decides, “not if there aren’t any girls playing.”

Imani nods. “Alright, that’s a no from us, but it was kind of you to offer.” 

Miyuu looks up at Hollander. “Are you mad I don’t want to go?”

“No,” Hollander answers immediately, “and even if I was it wouldn’t matter. You’re a lot smarter than us.” 

Miyuu beams and they enjoy a couple more minutes of each other’s company before Miyuu and Imani have to leave to make their flight. 

“Julie Chu reached out to me after I got drafted,” Hollander says after they cleaned up the ice cream and started to walk back through the airport. 

“Did she,” Ilya asks, because Hollander talks that way sometimes, needing Ilya to give him space to get to what he wants to say.

He’s going to have to look up Julie Chu. “It was something about Asian players in hockey,” Hollander continues after a moment, “I don’t remember. I didn’t even look at it really. 

Ilya wishes he could take Hollander’s hand. Wrap an arm around his shoulder. But this is public. Far too public. Instead he knocks their shoulders together. “Even beautiful hockey women are out of your league,” Ilya teases. 

Hollander shoves him as hard as the crowded hall allows. “You are impossible,” he complains with a groan. 

“She was in the Olympics when I was like 11. No one really cared about the women’s game, but every four years I kept having people come up to me and tell me about her. Like I should care about a women’s American hockey player. She’s not even Japanese either,” Hollander lets out a deep breath, “it felt like they were telling me that if I worked hard I could be as good, as they thought she was. Which, they didn’t think she was good.”

Ilya tries to imagine it. Small little Shane Hollander who was maybe already getting scouted being told about a woman hockey player. No one had ever mentioned any woman playing for Team Russia to him. 

“I didn’t realize that I thought so little of her too,” Hollander admits, his voice going small and looking away from Ilya.

“What are you going to do about it now,” Ilya asks. 

Because that is Shane Hollander. Action. Not sulking like Ilya would. Hollander turns back to look at him. Eyes brimming with a question, but it turns into a soft smile. 

“I guess I should start with seeing if Julie Chu will still take my call.”

Ilya smiles back. They  arrive at the first class lounge thirty minutes behind schedule. “I think we need a drink,” he tells Hollander, spying the bar. 

“We do not need to be drunk on a plane,” Hollander snips back, but his shoulders start to relax. 

“Blah, blah, blah,” Ilya rolls his eyes, “one drink Hollander. What do you want?” 

He hasn’t actually seen Hollander drink before. Except for the one beer from last night and he doesn’t think Hollander drank much of that. 

“A beer? Whatever is on tap,” Hollander answers and starts to move towards some of the empty seats in the lounge, “but we should pick out a movie to watch before we board the plane.” 

A movie? 

Ilya chews on that idea as he heads over to the bar. The bartender is a stunning woman. She is fun and flirty as soon as Ilya locks eyes with her and he doesn’t have a single interest in flirting back. He can’t even bring himself to do it. Not when he knows Hollander is watching and close enough to touch. 

It’s another problem he is going to have to add to the list. 

Ilya grabs them both beers and returns to Hollander. He has pulled out a tablet from his carry on bag and is biting his bottom lip. Ilya could kiss that lip, bring the plump flesh between his teeth and nibble. 

Hollander smiles when Ilya sets the beers down and takes his. “The flight has movies preset, but I have a library downloaded on my tablet,” he explains with a seriousness that Ilya is not expecting.

He watches him scroll through an impressive online catalog. “Wow,” Ilya says, raising his eyebrows. 

Hollander looks up at him, narrowing his eyes. “What?”

“I did not know you are such a movie nerd.” 

It earns him an eye roll and Hollander shoves the tablet at him. He is so violent, so much shoving. 

Perfect days are not supposed to be set in planes and airports with eight hours of travel between customs, lay overs, and air time. Somehow it is anyways.

They close the curtain in first class and Ilya falls asleep on Hollander’s shoulder while they watch movies. He laughs at the snarky comments Hollander makes about the security guards at customs. His heart clenches when Hollander stops to help an elderly man find the information he needs to get through the line. 

Ilya had told the press that Shane Hollander is his best friend mostly as a joke, but by the time they touch down in Florida it’s the truth. 

He knows he’s in even more trouble when Hollander leads him to the rentals instead of the taxi line after they have gotten their luggage. He gets the keys for a bright orange sports car. Obnoxious and beautiful with dark tinted windows.

“And you thought you deserved a reward last night,” Ilya growls as Hollander passes him the keys. 

Hollander smirks the same way he does when he scores a goal. 

They shove their luggage in the impractical back and laugh as Ilya tears out of the parking lot. The hotel is more resort than hotel, giving them no reason to leave it outside of their scheduled all stara events the league has planned. Ilya has been looking up places he can take Hollander anyways. 

Not like in a date way. Just like, two guys hanging out way. Two guys in Miami looking to cause trouble in their spare time. Another reason to drive the pretty car Hollander has rented for him. 

It’s evening by the time they arrive. Dinner, a work out, and sex on both their minds after giving the valet the keys and their luggage. Ilya is reading off a list of restaurant options as they make their way down the path to the entrance to the resort. 

Only to be ambushed by hockey journalists. Cameras flash, voices pitched into demanding yells, Ilya turns his head to make sure Hollander is still by his side and okay. He is. Taking in the flashing lights unphased. Which, alright, it’s not a full paparazzi crowd, but it’s more than Ilya expected. Hollander is not surprised. Instead he heads over to the group leaving Ilya to follow. 

Maybe it’s because Hollander really is a model that he attracts this attention, or why he is used to it. 

“Excited for All Stars, Hollander,” one of the journalists exclaims when they stop in front of them, little tape recorders held out. 

They are respectful. Not crowding and Ilya lets go of his initial anxiety. “It’s going to be a fun week, Phill,” Hollander answers naturally. 

Of course Hollander is perfect and knows the weird hockey paparazzi by name. 

“Any rumors on what skills competition you’ll be doing? If the two of you are going head to head?” 

“Nothing the league hasn’t already confirmed,” Hollander tells them with a knowing smile. 

Perfect, angel, golden boy of the league. Ilya is disgusted by it. Made worse by how attractive he finds him. 

The paparazzi are three men Ilya realizes now that he’s not taken off guard and flashing cameras are held off from a frenzy by Hollander’s calm. 

“Rozanov it’s your first All Stars! How are you feeling?”

“Good. Will be fun. Could be challenge for once, but is only first All Stars in NHL. I played for all stars in KHL. I am big Star in all countries.”

He thinks about Miyuu as he clarifies this. How Canada and America have put themselves at the center of the world, and how no matter what league or country this discussion was about they would never assume it was for women. 

Regardless, All Stars would not be a challenge. None of them had chemistry, and no one would be playing their best, but it would be fun regardless. He gives them a half shrug and a cocky smile. Hollander huffs and Ilya can hear him rolling his eyes. 

“Speaking of your career in the KHL, you’ve said in interviews recently how big of a KHL fan your father is. Has he come to any of your NHL games yet?” 

Ilya almost scoffs. The idea of his father coming to any of his games. Ever. When was the last time his father went to one? Maybe when he was ten. Right before he started to get scouted. 

Instead he smiles. “Not yet,” he answers and doesn’t offer any more words. 

“What. You can’t afford the tickets,” one presses and gets the rest of them laughing. 

Ilya opens his mouth to speak. Something rude and sharp and funny. He doesn’t know what exactly. The words will leave his mouth before he can fully think them over, or the consequences. 

“Hey, not all of us have jobs that have us drop everything and send us down to Florida to play around,” Hollander cuts in voice light and laughing, but the point of what he says is clear, “but we need to get checked in. Great talking to you guys.” 

It makes Ilya sick and fluttery in equal measures to know that Hollander will protect him. That Hollander has an idea of what Ilya would like to be protected from. 

They both flash their best smiles at the same time and wave off any more questions before entering the building. 

Hollander’s shoulders tense further and two dark haired men usher their blond counterpart away in opposite directions. “Don’t they live here,” Hollander mutters under his breath, clearly not wanting to see their two Floridian forfeits so early in the weekend. 

This is what Americans and Canadians did not understand about gold. Countries where their economies are stable and the women did not need to wear their wealth close to skin. The value of gold is something you unbury the dead for. A biting malleability, in which nothing hurts worse than when you had all that gold and there is nothing to spend it on. 

Gold will pay his father’s medical bills, fill Andrei’s nose with coke, and ensure Katechka goes to a good school. He could be draped in gold and still fight off the biting pangs of hunger. 

After checking in they don’t bother to go to their rooms yet. They both get caught up in a tide of NHL players and staff that drag them back out into the night. Dinner, dancing, shining Shane Hollander who holds the attention of men his senior in his grasp. 

Later. Much later. Ilya enters his own hotel room door just to keep up appearances and immediately knocks on their shared door. Hollander is still smiling when he opens it. His eyes twinkling with the game they are about to play. 

Chapter End Notes

Have I talked about Julie Chu before? Everyone should talk about her more regardless. Her hockey career spans from Harvard in college, professionally for the WWHL and CWHL, and internationally including four Winter Olympics. She is highly decorated in all three. She has coached for Minnesota Duluth and Concordia Stingers. Despite her achievements and the impact she has had on hockey Chu like many players from racial and gender minorities hasn’t received proper recognition and attention. Which is also slowly changing. Her wife, teammate, and international rival, Caroline Oullette was inducted into the IIHF and Hockey Hall of fame in 2023. She is currently an assistant coach for Team Canada (and the Montreal Victoire), and you can see her on the bench for this up coming women’s worlds in November.

But speaking of the Women’s World Cup the 2013 IIHF Women’s World Cup is the event that Miyuu and her family are going to go watch.

Frankly there is a lot of reasons I wanted to write Ilya and Shane helping a child. One being how children are treated in our world and what that says about us. At least in the United States children have very few legal rights and protections. Which puts them at unique risk for interpersonal and institutional violence.

There are support systems and process for adults who experience abuse, as inadequate and under funded many of them are, but to access that support a person needs not only the autonomy and agency to do so, but the tools, knowledge, physical capability, and insight to do so. Which are things children lack in many different regards.

It felt important to me in this work to portray a child who is allowed agency and to have it valued the same way an adults is. To show an example of a parent who lets their child ask questions and make decisions about what they want to do and how they feel. Which I hope is what I portrayed.

I also wanted a conversation where sexism in sports is directly pointed out and confronted. And having a child say ‘it’s not the best if everyone isn’t represented’ and not be minimized for that is cathartic for me.

Bigotry isn’t just ‘I hate or think less of insert group of people’ it’s also about what we passively accept and don’t push back against. Having characters acknowledge it and then brush it off because it doesn’t impact them directly is how a lot of us uphold different forms of bigotry.

Okay last tangent for now I promise. Given that awareness for institutional sexual violence is on the rise for many people, I think it’s important to acknowledge that conversation as this work is eroticized systemic sexual violence.

People who have experienced sexual violence have vast and personal experiences. While there are patterns many people follow it doesn’t mean there is any number of correct experiences or reactions. It is not anyone’s job to police that either.

I have listed phone numbers to sexual assault centers, but I cannot garuntee the level of support or experience they are able to provide. And those who have sought out support, protection, or justice often know how complicated that can be. They are frankly band aids in a system that has existed for a long time globally. Which can make many people feel powerless and hopeless.

Most people do not have the power to single handedly topple governments and institutions. Becoming active and engaged in politics in a system that was designed to be difficult for the average person can be overwhelming. It makes it easy to decide abusers deserve the harshest punishment and then argue about what conditions must be met to declare someone an abuser.

In this story there is not a single person responsible for the violence committed. It is people given half the information and impossible choices made easier by not confronting the narratives they are fed and what they tell themselves.

Which is what I hope you will indulge me in. I think we all want to believe we are safe people to confide in and would stand up for what’s wrong. But is safety and acceptance something we are or skills and responsibilities we take on? I hope you can be curious and kind with yourself to examine how you internally react when someone brings up to you the harm you have caused and how you externally reacted. If no one brings anything up to you, why? Being in relationship with other people means sometimes we harm them on accident or even on purpose. What has made you feel safe and affirmed when bringing up harm other people have caused? Do you have the experience and language to know, and have you found ways to express that? These are questions I have difficulty answering myself, but I hope that the more I explore this in myself the more it opens others to explore it in themselves.