Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Hayden Pike, Svetlana Vetrova, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Alexei Rozanov | Andrei Rozanov, Grigori Rozanov, Polina Rozanova

Additional Tags:

Canon Autistic Character, Autistic Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Trying His Best, Honesty, First Time, Rivals to Lovers, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Angst with a Happy Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Not AI / Fuck AI, Early in Canon, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros (Game Changers), Ilya Rozanov's Montreal Jane, Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Being Assholes (Game Changers), Shane Hollander's Boston Lily, Misunderstandings, Communication Failure, Ilya Rozanov Needs A Hug, Ilya Rozanov Needs Therapy, Anxious Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Needs Therapy, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Consent King Ilya Rozanov, Shower Sex, Good Friend Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slurs, Texting, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Bad Friend Hayden Pike, Bottom Shane Hollander, Soft Dom Ilya Rozanov, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Underage Drinking, Stalking, Harassment, goalie fight, Protective Ilya Rozanov, Overprotective Ilya Rozanov, Momager Yuna Hollander, Ass Play, Under-negotiated Kink, Assault, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch Ilya Rozanov, Protective Shane Hollander, Service Top Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Speaks Russian During Sex

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Найти дорогу домой (Nayti dorogu domoy, or, find the way home)

Collections:

Subscriptions:Tracking, I need sunshine ☀️🏒 ~ Heated Rivalry (Game Changers) fics, Heather rivalary Fics, HR, a library of only the BEST FICS TO EVER EXIST ✨, RainyBugs_Hollanov_Yay!, odd assortment but trust me they're great, let’s reheat that, No thoughts just gay hockey, The best pairings to bask in

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-26 Completed: 2026-07-20 Words: 166,869 Chapters: 34/34

Mr. Answer Man

Summary

In room 1410, Ilya Rozanov is ready to walk out the door after successfully getting his 19 year old hockey rival into bed. He knew how to make this moment happen and he knows what they have to be to each other now that it's over. But as he turns the doorknob to leave, he's stopped with questions he never expected. And giving Shane Hollander what he needs in that moment will change everything.

I note which chapters are SFW vs NFSW, because many of you said knowing meant the difference between reading this on your lunch break or having to wait. (Thank you for wanting to read my work that much.)

Covers the first two years of their rookie seasons (which is mostly skipped over in the show/books). Canon divergent from the first hookup seen in HR s01ep01. Most things are from the show but the timeline is a mix of both; Hunter and Marleau are aged up per the show instead of as young as they are in the books. (Also, Shane and Ilya don't wait *two years*, they stick to the book timeline. IYKYK.)

Please note this will the first in a series; you can subscribe to the whole series as well so you don't miss anything :)

Chapter 1: Are you supposed to… just leave?

Chapter Summary

After their initial hookup, Shane asks the things that are on his mind. Ilya stays to explain, then stays for round 2. NSFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

I’m autistic and see a lot of myself in Shane Hollander. So I thought, in this situation, what if he did exactly what I did the first time I hooked up with someone and didn’t know what the protocol was after it was over, what the next steps were, how to be like everyone else in a moment that felt amazing and confusing at the same time... What if he just asked?

July 2010

Ilya had already done the post-hookup things everyone (he was sure) always did: he took a moment to linger in the after of it all (just one) then physically moved away. Had an obvious reason to leave no one would interrogate too deeply. Dressed quickly but not in a panic, not in a way that made it seem like anyone was wrong here. It always worked, it was always good, everyone would always come at least once, and then it was over. Leave without looking back. Outside, a cigarette to get back to himself. Returning to his apartment or hotel room for a hot shower, clean clothes, and finally sleep without thinking too much about the emptiness creeping back in to the places where heat and sweat and pleasure had filled him an hour before. Same as every time since he was 14, even the times with Sveta. Even those rare times when she slept next to him after it was over.

Then Hollander said, “Wait!” as Ilya put his hand on the doorknob, and Ilya had jerked his hand back. He turned his head to look at the other man but stayed by the door.

On the bed, Hollander was where Ilya had left him: sitting up, leaning against the pillows, on top of the bedspread, with his legs straight in front of him. Ankles crossed. Still naked, except for his white socks. Tanned cheeks a little flushed still, his shoulders – which had dropped during his orgasm – starting to creep back up toward his ears. He wasn’t looking at Ilya.

He was beautiful, even after Ilya had gotten what he came for. He shouldn't be. This was supposed to get Hollander out of his system, but there was something about the freckles scattered across his cheekbones that made Ilya's heart stutter in his chest.

“What is it, Hollander?” Ilya asked but what he meant was What did I fuck up that you have to tell me before I can escape? though the words in his brain were in Russian.

Hollander bit his lip.

“Listen, I won’t tell anyone,” Ilya said. Of course, why would you want anyone to know you just came with my name on your lips? was the part he didn’t say, but both thoughts lived in his head at the same time. Reassure Hollander so he could go, because that’s what you do when you’re not an asshole no matter what reputation he’d earned on the ice. And you hate yourself after you leave because being happy wasn’t something you earned by being cruel to someone like Shane fucking Hollander, Canada’s golden boy.

“That’s not… that’s not what I was going to say.” Hollander exhaled slowly, eyes still not finding Ilya’s face. He seemed nervous, suddenly, but he also didn’t seem to have noticed that he was naked, soft cock resting gently against the top of his thigh. He had seemed nervous to get naked in front of Ilya the first time. Now it was as if he'd forgotten that his clothes were still folded on the other side of the room. Did he remember that the taste of his orgasm was still in Ilya’s throat? “I was gonna ask you a question but I don’t know if you’re going to be a dick about it.”

He sounded so young.

Ilya sighed. He kept his jacket and shoes on as he carefully took a seat on the corner of the bed, farthest away from Hollander but facing him. “Ask me your question,” he said softly, and prayed it wouldn’t cost him more than walking away already was. The price of having Hollander like this was always going to have been walking away. Ilya didn't want to feel guilty about handling this moment badly too.

“I haven’t done… this… before,” Hollander said. “So I just -” biting his lip again, eyes pointing firmly at his own socks, “I don’t know if this is how it’s supposed to go.”

“How what supposed to go, Hollander?”

“This, like, when it’s over. Aren’t you supposed to… stay or something, for a while? Or are you supposed to… just leave?”

“What do you want from me?” Ilya asked, the words coming out sharper than he meant them.

“I just thought - I don’t know what the right answer is but you do so I could ask you and then I’d know. Then I wouldn’t get it wrong.”

“Fuck Hollander, you’re boring but you cannot be this boring. What do you usually do after sex? Same as with woman. Do that.” Waiting for Hollander to put all of Ilya's faults into words was harder than Ilya had expected. He wasn't sure why he cared.

“I don’t have a usually.”

Oh, thought Ilya, and then suddenly, Oh no.

“You asked if it was my first time with a man,” Hollander added softly. “You didn’t ask if it was my first time.”

Ilya put his hand on the other man’s calf. Slowly. With purpose. “Look at me.” Hollander did what he was told. His brown eyes were wet but he wasn’t crying. Just… lost, maybe, in a way Ilya had never seen him on the ice. “Hollander,” Ilya said as gently as he could, “I cannot know what you do not tell me.”

“Yeah, okay.” He nodded like this made perfect sense but no one had ever told him before. “So is it okay if I ask you? You know, questions?”

“Why you ask me, hmm? I will answer your boring questions but first you tell me why.” His thumb moved against the other man’s leg, slow circles meant to say I’m sorry I almost left you and I don’t want to hurt you and as long as you sit here naked in front of me I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

“I’m not good at people,” Hollander said, staring into Ilya’s eyes. “It’s okay, I know how my brain is. Hockey stats and team rosters I can do but people are hard. Knowing what to say is hard. Knowing the right thing. If you tell me then I can do that; I can practice it like I’m perfecting a slapslot, then I’ll get it right.”

“You trust me to tell you what’s right, Hollander?” Ilya said but he thought fuck what am I doing here?

“I mean, yeah. I do.” Like it was a fact and it was simple and it made perfect sense. The idea that Hollander would trust him, Ilya Rozanov, for any reason Ilya could think of made him want to scream or tear his own fucking skin off. Nothing about this night was going the way he'd expected. Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!

But what Ilya said was, “Okay then ask your questions and I will help you practice for your next hotel room with a scary Russian hockey player so you know how to leave.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov, you’re not scary,” Hollander said with a laugh the same way he’d laughed when Ilya had said you want me to, uh, lie on the bed and let you do it some more? “Will you be honest with me, though? Because I’ll believe you and I… I’ve trusted people before.”

Ilya’s thumb kept moving slowly against Hollander’s leg. Waiting.

“Some of the guys on my old team, they figured out I’m like this and things they told me turned out not to be true.”

“What kind of things?”

“What I’m supposed to say to girls and how to be in the locker room. Stuff to make me look stupid when I did what they told me.”

Something happened in Ilya’s chest he didn’t want to examine too closely. His hand stopped moving. He said, carefully, instead of the other things he suddenly wanted to say, “Did they hurt you?”

Hollander shook his head. “Not like that. It was embarrassing, and I know I am the way that I am okay? I don’t need to be reminded there’s something wrong with me even if they think it’s funny.”

There’s nothing wrong with you, was the thought, and you’re perfect Shane Hollander, but the words came out as, “Those guys were dicks,” instead. Hollander laughed again and Ilya’s thumb started moving again. “Ask me your questions,” Ilya said next. “I won’t lie to you.”

Yes I will I fuck everything up.

“Did you want to leave? Is that how it’s supposed to go?” Hollander asked as if he hadn’t been the one who panicked at the idea that Ilya might tell someone. As if Ilya hadn’t immediately said he had an early flight to catch and Hollander had said the same.

“It depends on what you want, I think. For me, I meet someone at a party, I know what they want. I want it too. We get together, we fuck, it’s simple. They don’t want me to stay so I don’t.”

“Did you think I wanted you to leave?”

Ilya leaned across the bed and kissed Hollander’s leg, softly, next to where his own hand rested. Hollander’s skin was warm. “Why do you not take off your socks?” he asked witout looking up.

“That’s not what I asked you, dude.”

Ilya shrugged a little. “You want, we make deal: You ask me, I ask you. Is fair, no?” The hair on Hollander’s leg was soft and dark.

“I don’t like hotel carpets,” Hollander said. “Who knows how often they’re cleaned? It’s disgusting and if I take my socks off I have to think about it more than I want to.” He put a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, giving him a tiny shove. “Your turn to answer.”

“Oh so I am Mr. Answer Man for you, hmm?” but he hid his smile by kissing Hollander’s knee. “Mr. Encyclopedia.” Another kiss. “You just want me for my brain.”

“Rozanov, you promised.”

I didn’t promise to break myself open for you, Ilya thought, and then okay maybe I did.

“The first thing you said after was I couldn’t tell anyone. Not, it was good for you, or, you want it again. Just, I am secret you don’t want anyone to know.” Shameful. He rested his head against Hollander’s leg and waited to be told he was right.

But the strong hands that had pushed him on the bed thirty minutes before were now pulling him up as Shane got onto his knees on the bed, facing him. A hand lifted his chin so the two men were looking each other in the eye. “That’s not what this is,” Hollander said. So fucking earnest. “I was scared, okay?”

“I scared you?”

“Not you, Rozanov, but yeah. I mean, you’re not scary but you could tell someone and then it gets back to my locker room and those guys look at me like I’m a freak. Like I’m a joke.”

“Hey, hey,” Ilya said, catching Hollander’s face as the other man started to hide his eyes again. Lifting him up with one hand, wrapping the other around his waist and pulling him close. “I would never do that to you.”

“Well you are kind of an asshole,” Hollander said quietly, but his lip twitched when he said it.

“Yes,” Ilya agreed, “but not like that.” He kissed Hollander on the corner of his mouth. Kissed the side of his jaw, felt strong arms come up to hold him back, felt Hollander’s cock hardening between them. “We have same secret, Hollander.” And because it was safer than what he wanted to say, he added, “And you are very hot. So maybe I stay and touch you some more.”

“You think I’m hot?” He grinned as if this was the greatest thing he’d ever heard.

“Well, you know, not bad for second best hockey player in the league.”

Hollander laughed, loudly, and shook his head. “Take your clothes off, asshole.”

I am so fucked, Ilya thought, but he grinned back.

Chapter End Notes

(Last edited 4/22/26)

Chapter 2: Who’s Lily?

Chapter Summary

Part 2 of room 1410. Things are said. Both of them have questions. Some of them are answered with sex. NSFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

July 2010

The sound of their kissing went straight to Ilya’s dick as he stripped off his clothes for the second time that night: Hollander helping him rip off his jacket while he kicked off his shoes, Hollander pulling Ilya’s shirt off this time, kissing Ilya’s neck, his chest, Hollander – Shane fucking Hollander – hungrily pushing Ilya’s pants down while they kissed as if it was a competition. Shane moaned first, softly, which should have been a point in Ilya’s favor but he moaned back a second later, breathing harder at the sounds they were making together, so just this once he was willing to call it a tie.

He got his hand around Hollander’s thick cock and stroked up once, twice, watching the other man’s face. Hollander had his eyes closed and his head tilted back slightly. The warm yellow light splashed across his cheeks, across those freckles. He wanted to lick them but okay that’s probably too much for the first time we’re together so instead of letting himself wonder why he thought there might be a second he asked, Hollander firmly in his hand, “What have you done before?”

Shane blinked at that. “What?”

“You said you have not, so what does that mean? No fucking, okay, but no girlfriend has sucked your cock?”

Shane breathed out a little and looked down, away, but said, “No.”

“No, how do you say, hand job?”

Shane laughed. “Dude, I know you know the words for hand job.” He looked down at what Ilya was doing with this other hand at that moment, looking back up with one eyebrow raised, a slight tilt to his head, and a grin on his face.

Ilya smirked, giving Hollander’s cock another slow stroke. “My English is not very good,” he said, exaggerating his Russian accent. He leaned in and Hollander met him halfway. This kiss was slower, exploring. Ilya gently bit Hollander’s lower lip and tried not to smile when he won another of those soft, delicious moans. “So... that is no?” Ilya prompted.

“No. I mean, my last girlfriend tried for a few minutes at a party but I was kind of drunk and there were people in the other room so it felt weird.”

“You have had girlfriends? More than one?” Hollander didn’t answer for a moment so Ilya turned slightly, falling onto the bed on his back and bringing Hollander down with him. His hips lifted as one of his hands ran down Shane’s back. Pulling the other man’s hip toward him, he rubbed their cocks together and was rewarded with another moan. “It’s okay if not,” he whispered.

Ilya hadn't. Girls, he did. Boys too, a few times. But girlfriends? He'd never had the chance. 

Or never wanted to, probably. Same thing, right?

“Fuck you, Rozanov, I’ve had girlfriends. I’m just not out fucking people all the time. I’ve got practice every day and last year I was finishing high school too. I was with Jessica until right after the draft.” He started to pull away but Ilya kept one hand on Hollander’s cock and one on his lower back until Hollander settled back down.

“I am not making fun of you,” Ilya said seriously. “I ask so I know what you want to do tonight. Maybe what is okay for me is not okay for you.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Hollander said, suddenly calm. Then he added, “thanks,” before kissing Ilya hesitantly, their lips brushing together gently before Ilya pressed in deeper. They kissed again and again, rubbing against each other, breathing hard in the quiet hotel room. After a while Hollander asked breathlessly, “What do you want to do to me?”

Everything, Ilya thought, everything you like, everything that will make you feel like this, everything you want me to do I’ll do but what he said wasn’t this yet more honest than he’d intended: “Not tonight but I want to fuck you, Hollander.” He’s not going to let you touch him again after this you know.

“Why not tonight?” Not teasing. Curious.

“I have condoms back in my room, but no lube.”

“Oh, right, and we need that stuff?” Hollander asked, as if there would be a test on it later.

“Da, Hollander, we need or I could hurt you and I will not do that.”

“You’re not that much bigger than me!” Hollander said with a laugh that was becoming a very close second to his gasping moan for Ilya’s new favorite sound.

Ilya got himself and Hollander together and stroked slowly, both cocks at the same time in his hand, watching the other man’s face tighten up as his pink lips fell open and his breath came out in shaky bursts. “Hmm you might be right but I should take a closer look to be sure,” Ilya said right before flipping them both over, Shane’s back on the bedspread. Ilya had one leg between Hollander’s already. He put the other just inside of Shane’s knee and pushed his legs farther apart. He kissed down his jaw, his neck, his chest, feeling Hollander’s blood and heartbeat just under the skin. He moaned against Hollander’s hip and was rewarded when the other man’s ass rose off the bed to meet him.

Hollander was so fucking hard.

Ilya was too.

“Is still okay?” he asked, looking up at Hollander with his lips so close to the other man’s cock he could almost taste him.

Hollander nodded.

“Words, Hollander.”

“Yes, it’s okay.” Shaky, but said out loud.

He took the base of Hollander’s cock in one hand and wrapped his mouth around the other. Hollander was right, Ilya’s was bigger – thicker and longer – though not by much. There was pressure as Ilya took Hollander completely into his mouth in one motion, but it was worth it to hear Hollander moan louder than ever. He pulled back, almost to the end of him, then circled the head of Hollander’s dick with his tongue and the man moaned louder still.

Back down his shaft, Ilya hollowing his cheeks as he moved his tongue around Hollander’s cock, sucking hard. Back up again, almost pulling off completely but not quite, tasting the precome on the tip as Hollander groaned and tried to chase Ilya’s mouth with his hips. His hands in Ilya’s hair, grasping at his curls, pulling harder than he probably meant to.

Ilya pushed Shane’s hips down, hard enough to bruise, and Hollander moaned louder than ever, a cry that ripped out of him and filled the empty space around them. Ilya moved up and down on Hollander’s cock, carefully sticking to a pace slower than the one Shane was trying to set himself beneath Ilya’s hands.

He stopped moving his head after a moment, to let Hollander take charge, to let Hollander fuck Ilya’s mouth. He was dimly aware that he had never thought the name of the person he was fucking so much in his life. I never do this, Ilya thought. Never said their name so much either. He thought it over and over, on every thrust of Hollander’s warm hard cock into his mouth. Hollander Hollander Hollander Shane Hollander Shane Shane -

“Rozanov, stop, STOP!”

Ilya jerked back immediately, looking up. “What?”

Hollander was panting hard. “Just wait.”

Ilya held himself still, barely breathing. Is he okay, did I hurt him, did he not like that, did he realize he’s here with his hockey rival and he doesn’t want this anymore, does he not want me anym-

“I want to do that, okay?” Those deep brown eyes looking at him. Serious and sure. “I want to go down on you and I want you to come in my mouth.”

Fuuuuuuuck

“Please,” Hollander added, as if that needed to be said.

Ilya slid up Hollander's body in a flash, grabbing his shoulders then kissing him deeply. One hand moved up Hollander’s arm to trap his hand against the bed. The other hand moved from Hollander’s waist to grab at his muscular chest, then pinch his nipple between Ilya’s thumb and forefinger. The little whining noise Hollander made pushed itself into Ilya’s brain and squeezed. “Fuck, Hollander,” Ilya whispered. He realized he was grinding his cock against him but couldn’t stop.

“Shane.”

Ilya’s brain short circuited and his entire body crashed, like the hardware couldn’t run without the software to support it. He collapsed. One second he was supporting himself with his arms and the next he just… wasn’t. All of his weight on Hollander now, but the other man didn’t seem to mind. Ilya managed to mumble out, “What?” but his brain was a blank screen and the voice, that other fucking voice that never left him alone, was nowhere to be found.

“That’s my name," Shane said. "Can you call me that when we’re off the ice?” Then, almost a whisper, he added, “Can I call you Ilya?”

“Shane,” Ilya said, trying it out with a mouth that barely remembered how to make English words. Saying it was hitting an on switch he didn’t know he had. His brain lit up in a million colors and every one of them was the color of Shane’s eyes, his hair, his skin, his fucking freckles and the voice was back but at least for once the voice understood the fucking assignment and that assignment was Shane Hollander.

Shane grinned. “My turn, Ilya?”

Ilya couldn’t speak. He nodded, once, and then Shane was flipping them both over with all the strength of a professional hockey player, kissing the tight muscles of Ilya’s stomach, grabbing Ilya’s pec with one hand – my move, he learned that from me, Ilya thought stupidly – then Ilya’s cock was in Shane’s mouth.

The air in the room was warm. It was thick and smelled like a combination of them both: skin, sweat, Shane’s shampoo which was different from the hotel shampoo Ilya had used before he came up to Shane’s room, the spray of cologne Ilya had walked through then tried to wipe off when he suddenly wondered if Shane would realize he had dressed up like he was going on a date.

This wasn’t like the first time, when Shane had dropped to his knees and clumsily tried to fit Ilya into his mouth all at once. That was hot, yes, hotter than Ilya would admit, seeing his hockey rival and number two draft pick on his knees within minutes of getting Ilya in the door of his hotel room, but this, what Shane was doing now, was precise.

He couldn’t go down as far as Ilya had, not yet anyway, not his first night of sucking cock, but seemed to be trying to replicate everything Ilya had done to him that night then doing it again just a little bit better than he had 30 seconds ago. Each time he went down a little further. Everything that caused a groan or gasp to fly out of Ilya’s mouth got noted and repeated. Shane was sucking cock like it’s an All-Stars skills challenge and he planned to win.

This is the sexiest thing you will ever see in your life, Ilya thinks. Don’t miss it.

Ilya pushed up onto one elbow so he could see everything. His other hand found its way into Shane’s soft black hair and twisted carefully – grabbing but not pushing. Holding on, not controlling. Shane’s head comes up carefully, letting Ilya’s cock fall out of his mouth. His lips are swollen and red, and the rims of his eyes are red. There’s a hard blush across his cheeks, under his freckles. Behind him, Ilya can see the curve of Shane’s ass like it’s a mountain vista in the background of a postcard proclaiming “Wish You Were Here!”

No, you were wrong, this is the sexiest thing you will ever see in your life. He suddenly wishes he could send this postcard to everyone he knows.

“Is it okay?” Shane asked.

“Da, Shane, yes, so good, you’re so good for me,” Ilya whispered. “Please don’t stop.”

When Ilya came a few minutes later, it wasn't not Hollander on his lips, but Shane.

When he could breathe again he pulled Shane toward him. The other man was grinning too hard to resist when Ilya kissed him harder than he should have energy for after coming twice in less than an hour. One of Ilya’s big hands finds Shane between their hips and jerks him off until Shane can’t stop himself from fucking himself into Ilya’s fist.

“Like this, please Ilya,” Shane moans around Ilya’s lips, “I want to come like this, I want to see you please -”

Ilya bites Shane’s lip before whispering back, “Come for me then Shane. Show me what you can do.”

And Shane does.

After Shane watched Ilya get dressed (slower this time, eyes locked on each other the whole time like a striptease in reverse) and Shane got back into his own clothes, Ilya walked back to the bed. “You have phone? Give.”

"You want my phone?" 

Ilya stuck his hand out and made a face until Shane, clearly unsure about it, handed over his phone. It was simple, the kind that slid apart instead of flipping open, but Ilya knew how it worked. He punched in his own phone number, saved the contact, and texted himself before handing it back. Just in case Shane wouldn't think to make sure Ilya had his number too.

“Who’s Lily?” Shane asked.

“Is safe. This way you can text me your boring questions and your stupid teammates think you landed hot Russian girl instead.”

"What's my name going to be?" 

Ilya grinned. "Jane."

“You’d be okay with that? Me texting you questions?” Shane’s eyes look unsure but one side of his mouth twitches upward like the two parts of his face are having different conversations.

“Is okay, Hollander. I already know you’re curious about me.” He winked at Shane when he said it – an actual fucking wink because his plan to get Shane’s attention at their joint photo shoot actually worked, he’s on top of the fucking world, he’s Ilya fucking Rozanov – and walked out the door while Shane laughed out loud behind him.

Chapter End Notes

(Last edited 4/22/26)

Chapter 3: How do you get a guy to go away?

Chapter Summary

Time passes, and Shane finally reaches out, though not in the way Ilya hoped. Still, texting about teammates and bus trips is better than nothing, right? Until Shane asks a question Ilya doesn't answer, and finds himself in a situation that worries them both.

Mostly SFW chapter - a few naughty words but no on-screen/explicit sex.

Chapter Notes

TW/CW: There is an implied situation at the end which can be read as possible SA but it's not. I'd add a tag if that was the case. It's explained in the next chapter but I wanted to give a heads up for anyone who might need it.

Fall 2010

Ilya didn’t expect to hear from Shane again. Not really.

And he didn’t, not for the first week. Not for the second, either. Ilya went home to Russia for the summer anyway, so he turned his attention to keeping in shape. Running, weights, the usual. Anything to keep him active and out of his father’s house during the day. Clubbing with Sasha and Svetlana almost every night helped too.

Ilya was back in Boston at the beginning of September, two months since the CCM shoot without a single text from Shane Hollander. Training camp was underway at that point so Ilya focused on the ice instead. He found his stall in the Raiders locker room, met his team officially at the rink, and unofficially at Cliff Marleau's apartment where the rookies were ordered to gather for American pizza, watery beer, and Mario Cart. He settled into his cheap one bedroom in a part of town that might make him nervous if he wasn’t a hockey player, wasn’t 6 feet tall, wasn’t Russian. He'd been offered a chance to billet with a veteran player instead, which most rookies did, but after a summer with his father and step-mother the idea of being forced to share a space - breathing someone else's air - waiting for someone else's anger to change the shape of his days... He'd rather live alone. For now.

Ilya was on a rookie’s salary this first year but he had plans for the future. Wins, cups, cars. Women, probably. A wife, eventually. Maybe.

Maybe then I’ll be enough, he thought sometimes, then immediately tried to pretend he didn't.

Ilya let the team drag him out to a club that doesn’t card – because in America he’s underage – and he lets Cliff buy him a beer or three. He smiles when a doe-eyed redhead asks him to dance. He smiles when she invites him back to her apartment. He smiles when he bends her over the arm of the couch and fucks her until she’s moaning into her couch cushions and he smiles when he tells her I had a fantastic time thank you and Sorry I can’t stay the night I’ve got an early flight even though neither one of those things is true.

He doesn’t think about Shane. Not really.

Okay, now and then he thinks about texting Shane. Some days. Many days. He thinks about saying hello (stupid), asking about the weather (also stupid), asking about the game (better but if Shane wanted to talk about hockey with him, he’d have done that already right?), whether he’s found someone else to fuck now that his season is starting (definitely not), whether he’s thinking of Ilya in the shower again (something Ilya is also definitely not doing, much).

He thought about texting Shane when he’s getting into his gear before the Raider’s opening game, but he doesn’t. He picked up his phone to text Shane when the game is over but there’s nothing from Shane so he puts it away again. He chewed on the cord of his hoodie while watching game tape with Marly and Connors, his phone in his hand in the dark, just in case.

It doesn’t matter how often he thinks about reaching out, what matters is that he doesn’t do it.

So when his phone buzzed on the shelf of his stall after his first win against Buffalo, his heart doesn’t leap out of his chest and he doesn’t grab for his phone so fast he drops it onto the bench. And Marleau definitely doesn’t raise an eyebrow at him when Ilya recovered his phone a second later.

He expected it to be nothing. It won’t be Shane, now, after 3 months of silence. Ilya unlocks his phone screen and sees:

Jane: What’s your plan for the zombie apocalypse?

What the fuck kind of question is this? Ilya wonders.

Lily: What?

Jane: If there are zombies where do you go?

Lily: What the fuck kind of question is this?

Jane: It came up

Lily: it came up

Lily: in a conversation

Lily: with other adults?

Jane: fuck you we’re adults

Lily: okay

Jane: you really don’t have a zombie plan Rozanov?

Lily: no JANE

Jane: sorry LILY

Ilya makes himself breathe for a minute, then sighs.

Lily: Am I in Boston when the zombies attack?

This is how Ilya learned that Shane’s parents live in Ottawa and have a cabin on a lake somewhere near there. Shane has a plan for if the zombies come while he’s at a game at Bell Center, another one for if he’s in his apartment (he has a two bedroom in Montreal near the rink the Metros use for regular practice) or if he’s with his parents. Shane has a plan for how to get from Montreal to Ottawa if he needs it. This has something to do with a question another player asked in their locker room but if there’s more to it than that, he doesn’t say.

It’s another week before Shane texted again, and while it still isn’t the flirty, sexy texts Ilya imagined when he took the other man’s phone in a hotel room over the summer, it’s better than nothing. It’s weird though. Shane’s texts are random but intense.

Jane: Who’s your agent? My mom does all my deals and stuff but I’m thinking about getting someone else

Lily: Friend of my father

Jane: Do you like him?

Lily: My agent? No. Maybe. He’s okay?

Jane: Would you switch to someone else?

Lily: I don’t know anyone else

Jane: I will look into it

Jane: For myself

Jane: I will look into agents for myself because I am thinking about switching

Lily: Okay

In between Shane, Ilya skates. He scores in his games and he gives short sarcastic comments to reporters who want him after the game is over. The Raiders are winning more often than they did last season so there are more celebrations on and off the ice. Marly decided to take Ilya under his wing and get him out to as many bars as possible. Ilya fucks a woman he’s picked up more often than not, and it’s simple. It’s easy. It fills his hours and he’s fucking good at it. Knowing that someone wants him is better than thinking about whether Shane does or not.

Every week or so, his phone buzzes.

Jane: Hayden decided we’re friends

Jane: he says he’s going to be my best friend?

Lily: is this a question?

Jane: I don’t know

Jane: I didn’t argue now we’re going for burgers w/ JJ

Lily: w/ ??

Jane: means "with"

Lily: did he ask you or tell you?

Jane: told me

Lily: do you want to be his friend?

Jane: he’s a teammate so I have to right? He’s nicer than the rest of the guys at least

Lily: you have to do nothing

Lily: what do you want?

Jane: has to be someone or I’m the guy who sits in the corner alone

Lily: you can do better than 15^th best player on the Metros

Jane: fuck off he’s better than 15^th

Lily: no he’s not

Lily: do you feel safe with him?

Jane: I guess? He jokes but he’s not laughing at me most of the time

Jane: mom says to make friends on every team so I’m not alone

Lily: okay if he is bad friend I get to punch him

Jane: okay LILY :D

Jane: they noticed im texting gotta go

Ilya wanted to tell Shane he doesn’t need to make friends, that Ilya will be his friend, but he doesn’t. They’re not friends are they? Hollander and Rozanov are rival hockey players who hooked up once and never will again. The league started running promos about their rivalry before the season even began. Shane was only just texting him because he doesn’t have anyone else, but thanks to Hayden fucking Pike that won’t be true for much longer.

He didn’t hear from Shane for another 5 days.

Jane: What cheese would you take to a deserted island?

Lily: What?

Jane: Hayden asked idk what to say

Jane: on the bus to Toronto

Lily: Who takes cheese to a deserted island?

Jane: Exactly! So many better choices & limited space in your luggage boat whatever

Lily: Tell him vodka

Lily: good vodka

Lily: Russian vodka, not boring Canadian vodka

Jane: not telling him that. I said cheddar.

Lily: Why cheddar?

Jane: I knew the name of that one

Jane: Why cheese?? I don’t even eat dairy

Lily: you can’t eat dairy? Like nothing from a cow?

Jane: I can but I don’t, it’s not on my nutrition plan

Jane: Bus conversations are stupid

There are other texts too, the ones Ilya doesn’t know how to answer so he doesn’t. He’s not sure if Shane even wants a response, and there’s a part of him that thinks that if he responds too often Shane will get tired of Ilya even quicker. Things like:

Jane: My mom wants me working with a new nutritionist

Jane: It’s fine, she’s just looking out for me

and

Jane: Hayden snores but he wants to room with me so I guess it’s good that someone does

and

Jane: Coach wants me to help out running training drills

The texts Shane sends in the middle of the night do something else to Ilya he can’t quite explain.

Jane: I think the thermostat in my apartment is broken

Jane: it’s hot in my living room but cold in my bedroom

and

Jane: I watched a movie on the plane that made me sad so I turned it off

and

Jane: I ripped a hole in my favorite hoodie so I can’t wear it anymore

He doesn’t respond to those either.

A week before his team will be heading to Montreal for their first bout against the Raiders, Ilya woke up in a hotel in Tampa. He rubbed his eyes, personally offended by the amount of sunlight streaming through the hotel window. He reached for his phone without looking, hand slapping the top of the night table before he remembered it’d had run out of battery sometime AFTER the team hitting a bar fresh off their win at Tampa, but BEFORE he’d let a blond girl in a cropped UoT SPARTANS t shirt suck his dick in her car in the parking lot.

He dragged himself out of bed, found his phone on the charger, bringing it with him into the bathroom so he could brush his teeth while his phone turns back on.

Ilya knows he drank too much last night. He does that sometimes. He checked himself over in the mirror: eyes a little red, but not terrible. Stubble he should shave before he checks out, once he’s had a shower and feels more human. Last night’s girl didn’t mark him up, which happens once in a while though he’d rather it didn’t. The beer and vodka shots that mixed together in his stomach last night leeched out into his blood, his skin, his sweat, leaving him feeling more like he’s been poisoned than simply hung over. It wasn't the first time.

His phone started buzzing as several notifications came in at once.

Jane: How do you get a guy to go away?

Jane: It’s fine, he’s just talking to me and I’d rather be alone

Jane: You’re probably out

Jane: I keep texting so he sees that I’m busy but I don’t think it’s working

Jane: You can ignore all of this

Jane: I don’t like tequila shots it turns out

Jane: I know you won tonight

Jane: You go out when you win

Jane: You should

Jane: That last goal in the 3^rd was beautiful

Jane: he wants me to go home with him I don’t know what to say

Jane: being polite isn’t working

Jane: it’s fine I’ll just let him

Jane: delete all this later I’m sorry

This is your fault, Ilya thinks, and immediately throws up in the bathroom sink.

Chapter End Notes

(Last edited 4/22/26)

Chapter 4: What do you want, Shane?

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane talk about last night.

Mostly SFW chapter - discussion of sex but it's not very descriptive/explicit.

Chapter Notes

Ilya hadn’t eaten at the bar, had been too tired to bother when he got back to his hotel room, so there was only been liquid in his stomach. He rinsed the sink and his mouth with cold tap water for half a second, then picked his phone up off the floor.

Lily: Where are you right now?

Ilya moved around the hotel room in a rush, throwing his stuff into his bag with one hand, his brain screaming, while the slowest minute of his life passed him by.

Lily: Tell me where you are

Lily: I am not joking fucking tell me now

He was deciding whether he had time to take a shower first – before what? Before getting on the team bus to the next Florida game or getting a cab to the airport? – when the Ilya’s phone buzzed in his hand.

Jane: I’m at my apartment

Lily: Are you alone?

Ilya bit his lip, staring at his phone like the staring might make a difference. Like the staring would speed up Shane’s fingers and make the text move faster and he needed it to move faster because knowing the answer to this specific question would keep Ilya from tearing off his own skin.

Jane: Yes

Ilya hit the call button. Shane didn’t answer on the first ring. Or the second. Come on Hollander, Ilya thought, in Russian because his brain was always in Russian no matter what his lips were forced to do at any particular moment, answer the damn -

“You never call me,” Shane said quietly, instead of Hello.

Ilya started breathing again. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Shane replied. There was a rustling noise, fabric against skin. Shane was in bed, or getting dressed maybe.

“Hollander,” Ilya said, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice, “I’m asking. It’s a question.” And then, because Shane was quietly existing somewhere thousands of kilometers away, alone in his apartment where Ilya couldn’t touch him, he added, “You know the rules.”

Shane sighed, because of course he did, the questions were his idea in the first place, but what he said was, “I don’t know.”

Ilya could start there. He sat down on the hotel bed. He kept his voice careful. “My phone was dead. I’m sorry I didn’t see your texts until now.” I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

“It’s okay.” Shane’s voice sounded small. Not the media voice from interviews. Not the strong sexy laughing voice from the hotel room after the CCM shoot.

Ilya hated that he was asking, hated that he needed to ask, but did it anyway. Softly, like the asking might be the thing that made last night worse for Shane. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” And after a moment, “It wasn’t like that.”

“Okay, okay.” Ilya wanted to ask what was it like then? But he didn’t. Not yet. They stayed on the phone, breathing at the same time, and Ilya was more aware of that fragile connection than he ever had been before. The phone was the string that stretched from Tampa to Montreal, and the string was a spider’s silk, almost invisible and impossible to keep from breaking.

“I went out with Hayden,” Shane said eventually. “I’ve been trying to do that more lately. We were at this bar near Bell, the music was so loud but they had a dance floor and he wanted us to meet girls.” He paused again.

Ilya could feel it, Shane couldn’t carry this conversation alone, so he asked, “Did you want to meet girls?”

“I mean, yeah? I know that’s what everyone does. I’ve seen some of the photos.”

“What photos?”

“From guys on your team. On Twitter or whatever. You guys go to clubs.”

Oh. Ilya hadn’t realized there were photos online. He never cared before, so he didn’t need to think about who saw him picking up girls in clubs, so he just… didn’t think about it. So this is my fault. “You have seen me with girls?”

“Dude, everyone sees you.” A hint of Shane there, not just the small voice, but the Shane from before who rolled his eyes and laughed when Ilya did something to get his attention.

“I never see you with girls,” Ilya replied.

“Yeah, well it’s private. I don’t let the guys put pics of me online. My mom said it’s not good for my brand deals.”

There’s something else in that sentence but Ilya didn’t quite understand the shape of it, and he couldn’t chase it right now. He had to get Shane back to the bar, and the man who took Shane with him after. “Do you go home with girls?” Ilya asked.

A sigh. “Once. Since you, I mean.”

“Okay. Did you like it?” Ilya bit his lip, waiting for the answer.

“I guess. It was fine.”

Fine. Ilya suddenly thought that if Shane ever described him as fine he would wrap himself in a blanket of dirt and sleep there forever. “Did you have sex with her?”

“That’s what everyone does, right?” Shane sounded annoyed now. “You can’t be mad at me for this, I’ve seen like a million pics of you with girls, I know you go home with some of them.”

“Hey, hey no, Hollander, I am not angry. You have done nothing wrong. I am just asking. I have questions and you’re answering them. That’s what we do.”

“Yeah, okay. You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“So Canadian,” Ilya, smiling. “Always apologizing.”

“Fuck off, dude,” Shane said, but Ilya knew there was no bite in it.

“Tell me what you liked about this girl.” Tell me so I have something to compare it to when I ask you about last night.

“It was a few weeks ago. I was out with the team, she was nice. She wanted to take me home and the guys were so excited for me to get laid, they were practically cheering for me.” A pause. “I thought she wanted to blow me and it was good when… you know. When you did it. So I thought I could do that. But she wanted to have sex instead.” He paused again.

“Okay,” Ilya said, to fill up the space between Shane’s words.

“It took longer than I expected,” Shane said. “My fault, I wasn’t in my head.”

“What does that mean?”

“Oh, um, it means I was distracted. I was… thinking about other things.”

“But you liked it?”

“Yeah, I guess. We got there eventually. I apologized the next morning, she seemed cool with it, but I haven’t seen her again.”

Ilya thought about Shane in a woman’s apartment, sleepy and rumpled from the night before. Maybe drinking the cup of coffee she put in front of him. Trying to figure out how to get himself out of a moment he didn’t mean to find himself in. Ilya wondered how often Shane let himself be talked into something he didn’t really want.

Did you talk him into wanting you, Ilya? Was any of that real? “You stayed the night there?” was an easier question to ask.

“Yeah?” Shane seemed confused. “That’s what you do.”

“I don’t.”

“What, like never?”

“No. Well, sometimes my friend Svetlana stays over at my apartment or I stay at hers, but she is old friend from Russia. When I pick up a girl in a bar, I don’t stay. So it’s okay if you do or if you don’t. Is no problem.” Is big fucking problem, but Ilya pushed that thought away.

“Oh, okay. Good to know.”

Ilya assembled his next sentence from spider silk and tried not to breathe. “Can you tell me about last night now?”

Shane was very still on the other end of the line. Ilya looked at his watch – the rest of his team would be downstairs at breakfast, or getting packed up. Ilya thought about how to get to the next game if he missed getting on the bus. Would they leave without him?

“Hayden met a girl,” Shane finally said. Flat again. Small. “They really hit it off. She seemed cool.” A pause. “Her and Hayd were dancing for hours so I ended up sitting at the bar.”

Hayden fucking Pike left Shane sitting alone at a bar while he danced with a woman and he didn’t notice his friend was there for hours and he didn’t notice the man who found Shane sitting alone.

“After a while, a guy sat down next to me. We talked, and he bought me a few shots. I wasn’t really interested but I guess he could tell, about me, you know?”

“What does that mean?”

“You know what it means, Ilya.”

And yeah, Ilya probably did know. He’d guessed that Shane was at least open to the idea of hooking up with a man, maybe from the first time they met outside the rink in Regina. “So you like men, is not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal, Ilya. It’s a big fucking problem if every time I walk into the room, I’m not just Asian but gay too.” The shape of Shane’s voice got sharper, the soft flatness falling away. “And fuck, I’m not saying that I am, but if everyone thinks that? God, that’s my nightmare, Ilya.”

“Hey you’re okay. Nobody thinks that.”

“The guys on my team -”

“The guys on your team are idiots,” Ilya interrupted. “They say dumb shit in the room because everyone says dumb shit in the room. You’re okay, I promise.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t know that your terrible team is made up of idiots? Um, yes, I do.”

Shane laughed at that.

Ilya let them both sit in Shane’s laugh, for a moment that felt both too long and much too short, before pressing on. “Tell me about this man.” He could practically feel Shane deflate through the phone. I’m so sorry, he thought again.

“He wasn't bad looking. Nothing special. A little older I think but not much. He had a place nearby so we walked over and… Look, he didn’t force me or anything. He, fuck, I don’t know how much of this you want to know.”

“All of it, Hollander. Everything.”

“He wanted me to come to bed and but I already didn’t want to be there, even though I knew I had to. I made us stay in the living room. The bed felt like I was promising more than I was, you know?”

Yes I know, Ilya thought.

“We kissed for a while, then he wanted to go down on me. So.. I let him do that. And after, I tried, I really did, but I couldn’t… I jerked him off and went home.”

“And you’re okay?”

“I feel fucking stupid but yeah, physically I’m fine.”

Ilya wanted to leave it there. Wanted very much for this conversation to be over, for Shane to be okay, for Ilya not to be the one making him feel worse right in this moment. But – there was one more question he had to ask. “Why did you say you had to be there?”

Shane’s breathing changed as he said, “I know I haven’t been with a lot of people. God, I know that, okay? The guys already make fun of me for that. I don’t want to be worthless in bed, Ilya. I need the practice.”

Like it’s something he has to drill over and over until he gets it exactly right, Ilya thought, and at the same time, what the fuck does he mean, worthless in bed? Shane Hollander is a fucking work of art, watching him come undone in bed should be studied, it should be in a fucking museum.

“So? You want to practice, okay, you practice on me,” Ilya said instead, voice getting louder as he spoke. “You don’t go home with anyone unless you want to be there.” He stood up, needing to feel his body move in a hotel room that was now much too small.

“You’d let me do that?”

“No Hollander, I would not fucking let you.” Ilya was yelling now and he couldn’t stop. “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I touch you because I want to. But you should not let me either. You want to? We fuck. You don’t want to? We don’t. Done. No talking you into things. No making you fucking let me touch you like it’s the last thing you want. Fuck! Somehow you speak both English and French but no is the one thing you don’t know how to say.”

“You are angry,” Shane said pitifully.

Was that sad little voice what it sounded like when he hurt Shane's feelings? Of course you hurt him. That’s what you do.

“No Hollander. Okay, yes, maybe I am angry but I am not angry at you. I am angry at -” Ilya waves his free hand in the air, trying to find the English words. “You are Shane Hollander. You have gold medal. You are number two draft pick in the entire NHL last year. You are better than everyone else on the ice and the only person who doesn’t fucking know that is you!”

Because someone made you feel like you were too small to decide for yourself, maybe a lot of someones, and I’m going to fucking find out who.

“Ilya?” Shane asked.

“Yes?”

“I want.” Soft but sure.

“Words please.” Ilya made himself calm down. “What do you want, Shane?”

“I want you to touch me again. If you want that too.”

“Yes, Shane, I want that too.”

“Next week, after the game… do you want to come to my apartment?” Shane sounded like he was smiling now, and Ilya wished he could see it. "I know it's last minute, and fuck maybe coming to mine is too much for you, I can figure somewhere else out if you want."

“Yes, okay. We do that. Your apartment.” Ilya sighed into the phone because Shane was right, it was too much, what they had was never meant to be more than a hotel room and a one-night stand, but here they were. "I want to see it."

“Okay. Good”

Ilya pressed his phone against the side of his head and thanked the invisible thread that still held them together.

Chapter End Notes

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 5: What do you know about enthusiastic consent?

Chapter Summary

The one where Cliff Marleau is a good friend. He and Ilya talk about consent.

SFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

mid-Oct 2010

Ilya was standing half undressed in the locker room after a win at TD Garden, planning to head into the shower, when he checked his phone.

Jane: I heard you were planning on 40 goals this season

He put his mother’s cross in his mouth as he thought of a reply – better to do something else with his lips so he’s not grinning like an idiot about a man on an opposing team in the middle of a bunch of probably straight and potentially homophobic men in his own locker room.

Lily: yes yes I will score many goals

And then, because none of their texts have been flirty so far and Ilya was tired of waiting to see what Shane will do if that is an option, he adds

Lily: very sexy, these 40 goals, you will be impressed

Jane: don’t tell anyone, but I think I’m gonna get 45

Lily: ?? this is dangerous talk Jane

Jane: how?

Lily: I might have to get you up against the wall if you keep talking like that

Lily: I mean boards

Ilya let the cross fall from his lips, waiting for a reply.

It didn’t take long at all.

Jane: you’ll have to catch me first

So that’s how it’s going to be.

He immediately walked out into the hallway – still naked from the waist up – and tells the first reporter he can find no, it isn’t 40 goals I plan to score this season, it’s 50. Then he winks at her. He doesn’t mention Shane, doesn’t look at the camera when he says it, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have to. Someone from the Raider’s PR team finds him later to remind him to get his statements cleared before speaking to reporters, but the woman smiles when she says it so Ilya doesn’t take it seriously.

It’s his rookie year and they already love him in Boston.

The Boston Raiders will be in Montreal for the first time in less than a week, and he is going to Shane Hollander’s apartment. Where Shane lives. Where he sleeps. Where, Ilya assumes, Shane has a bed. Because Shane Hollander wants Ilya to be in the place where he lives and he wants Ilya to touch him and very possibly he wants Ilya to be in Shane’s bed a few hours after Boston beats Montreal so badly the rest of the team goes home crying to their mothers.

Ilya finds this specific idea so hot he comes (quick, gasping) into his own hand in the shower three times that week.

Except there’s still the problem of Shane not understanding when to say no. He and Ilya are both adults, almost 20 and Shane’s actually older by a few months, but Ilya feels a little like he’s taking advantage of a very beautiful and very willing teenager. That’s never been something Ilya wanted to do anyway and is now even less attractive than it was before that whole conversation.

Ilya, who’s had sex with dozens and dozens of people on two continents but never had a girlfriend, whose closest relationships are with a couple of childhood friends who treat fucking each other and using words like knives as all part of growing up the way they did, who has exactly one person on his team who’s even remotely been interested in getting to know him off the ice, finds himself with questions he doesn’t have the answers to.

Which is how he ended up siting in Marly’s living room with a beer in one hand and the other one trying to keep his knee from bouncing up and down so hard it might fly off.

Cliff Marleau was not a small man. He’s a beast on the ice, quicker with his skates than he is with his words, and not unattractive to a certain part of Ilya’s brain that likes it when older men are mean to him in a way he tries not to think about. He didn’t object when Ilya texted to ask if he could come to Marly’s townhouse the day before they’re due to fly to Montreal. He just opened the door, handed Ilya a beer, took a spot on the other end of the couch, and waited.

And waited.

“So…” Ilya began eventually, then stopped again. He picked at the label on his now empty beer. “I thought we could, you know…” He waved his hand in the air.

“No man, I don’t actually know,” Cliff replied. “But whatever it is, I’m here for it.” Like it cost him nothing to say. Fucker probably even meant it too.

“Ok so I have, person, I – in Montreal, who I might see. Again. Tomorrow.”

Cliff nodded.

Clearly this is not enough information, Ilya thought helplessly. More information is needed here. “For sex,” Ilya added. Great job, really well done.

“For sex,” Cliff said with a nod. “Sure.”

Okay we’re getting somewhere now. “And this person, I have… been with once before, but new things, uh, I found out. Between.” Ilya waved his hand again. “Before I did not know, and now I know.”

“Right,” Cliff said. “Things.”

“Right,” Ilya sighed, “good talk, I should go.”

“Hey,” Cliff said, stopping Ilya before he could run out the door, because that is a thing Ilya was definitely about to do, “do you want my advice?”

Finally. “Yes, this, advice, this I am here for.” He sat back in the couch and waited for the older man to dispense his wisdom.

Cliff took a long pull from his bottle.

Ilya waited.

“Roz, I’m happy to help but man you’re going to have to tell me what these things are.”

Right. Yes. The things.

“Okay,” Cliff said after another long moment where Ilya didn’t actually speak any of his thoughts out loud, despite fully intending to, “let me ask you this: your girl got a name?”

Here Ilya was on much stronger ground. “Ah, easy, is named Jane,” he said with a grin. “Best name for a woman don’t you think? Maybe second best.”

“Great, Montreal Jane, got it. Tell me about her?”

“Jane is same age, but we met a few years ago. Nothing happened, just have been introduced you know? Then over summer, we get hotel room and sex is good. Then nothing and I don’t know Jane is going to happen again or not.”

Cliff nodded again. “But now you’ll be in her city again and she wants to see you?”

“Yes, yes, exactly.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“Problem is last week Jane tells me about about other people. This is… not good.”

“Like she cheated on you? Roz, you gotta give her a break, I’ve been watching you score for months.”

“No, no, is nothing like that. Is not serious, I fuck, Jane fucks, okay.” Not okay, but that’s not a conversation for right now. “I did not even know, Jane and I, again. You know. English is a stupid fucking language.” And Shane makes me stupid in English I think.

“No I get that,” Cliff says. “So… you’re not serious, you go out and score and Jane’s fine with that, but she tells you something about those other people you’re not okay with. That about right?”

“Ah. Yes. Jane tells me other people maybe not so right, in bed.” He’s stuck for a moment, painfully aware that he’s sharing too many of Shane’s secrets with a guy who might turn out to be a bigot, but weirdly he trusts Marly and he doesn’t know who else to ask. Maybe Sveta, but bringing Shane – or Jane – to Sveta’s attention would be like dropping a baby bunny in front of a wild cat and hoping it all works out for the best. So Cliff is who Ilya has. “Maybe Jane agrees to things not wanting to do them,” Ilya says slowly. “And Jane says fine everything is fine in a way that makes me think everything is not fucking fine.”

The pronouns feel strange in his mouth but he’s realized he can only refer to Shane by a woman’s name for so long before he has to really commit to the lie.

“Shit, Roz. That sucks. What do you want to do about it?”

What Ilya wants to do involves bribing bartenders for security tapes and then some violence that might impact his American visa. Instead he puts the empty beer bottle on the table and bounces his leg some more. Eventually he says, “I can’t do anything about the guy. But now Jane wants me in her bed in Montreal and I don’t...” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Damn. Okay. So have you thought about maybe not fucking her?”

Ilya groans. “Yes of course but also nooo… Cliff, Jane has the most beautiful ass.”

Cliff laughs. “All right man, for a minute there I thought you were catching feelings.”

“No no, I told you is not serious. But I am not an asshole and I do not want to make Jane worse about sex. Not worse, but… I want Jane to say no to things she is not wanting. I also want her to want to say yes to me.”

“Not to get to into the details here, but how was it the first time you fucked her?”

“Ah, did not.”

“What’s that mean?”

Ilya shrugged. “Did not fuck Jane last time. Was first time together, did other things.”

“Let me get this straight – you didn’t even fuck her, and you’re so hung up on making it good for her that you come to me for advice?” Cliff laughs, but it doesn’t seem cruel. “This Montreal girl’s got you good, man.”

“Shut your idiot face, Marly. I told you we had sex. Four orgasms between us in under an hour.” Ilya grinned at that.

“Oh yeah? Well, good for you.” Cliff had the decency to seem genuinely impressed.

“Yes, Jane is very good for me.” What a good boy you are, Hollander, taking me like that.

Would what Shane do if I said that out loud next time he’s on his knees? Ilya has the strong sense a comment like that would not be… unappreciated.

“Okay so I did not think we were ever going to need to have this conversation, but what do you know about enthusiastic consent?” Cliff asks. His lips are pursed a little and his eyebrows are coming together more than they usually do but he’s focused on Ilya in a way that makes him feel his friend is taking this seriously.

Friend. Hmm. That’s new. But friend is exactly the right word for Cliff now, and for that at least Ilya is grateful.

“I do not know these words together in English. Explain, please.”

Cliff thinks for a second – and it’s painfully, endearingly obvious when Cliff is thinking about what he’s going to say before he says it. “Before you, you know, you and Jane need to talk about what you want to happen.”

“Yes, agree, but Jane has been saying yes to things with other people that Jane did not want, so how am I sure Jane does not do this with me also?”

“You can’t know that, not 100%, but you can ask ahead of time. Make a list: does she want you to talk dirty to her, does she like it when you go down on her, does she want you to put hickeys on her where someone could see them? You ask before anything happens and you check in during. And, this is important, you check in again after. No running out the door. Girls can get fucked up when they have time to think about it after and no one’s there with them. To you know, cuddle and shit.”

“Yes, I do some of this already. Always asking ‘Is still okay’, ‘where do you want me to touch you’.” Cliff nods, happy with that answer. Ilya thinks for a minute. “Maybe not stay, after. I do not think anyone has wanted this from me before.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but you know how you find out?” Cliff grins like he’s won something. Ilya doesn’t dignify Cliff’s comment with a response, but he kicks him – gently – in the shin. “Okay man, all of that is the consent part. You ask, you find out the rules, then you do those things. You don’t do things she doesn’t want. But here’s what I’ve learned: you need the enthusiastic part. That’s the part where you don’t just do the things she’s okay with. You do the things she fucking loves. You find the things she’s begging for and those are the only things you do. You might fuck it up, you’re going to have to ask questions and hope she gives you a straight answer, but at least if you’re only doing the things she really really likes, you should be okay.”

Oh yes, my Jane will give me a “straight” answer. Ilya picks up the bottle to take a drink, to hide his smile, but remembered it was empty and put it back down again.

“So are we good?” Cliff asked. “If you want me to explain to you how to put a condom on I’m gonna need to drink a lot more.”

“Fuck you, Marly,” Ilya laughs. “You helped. I go now, but thank you.” He stood and puts his hand out, but Cliff stood too and pulled Ilya in for a crushing hug.

“You’re a good kid, rook,” Cliff said quietly. “This is a weird fucking conversation and if you tell anyone I’ll deny it but I’m glad you asked me.”

“Same, Marly.” Ilya means it.

Later, Ilya was waiting outside for the ride he ordered, staring at the open text chain on his phone. He wasn't sure if he should wait until they meet in person for this conversation, if it’s something he should even be talking about in text, but he’s also not sure if he’d be able to stop Shane from kissing him long enough to talk. He’s even less sure he’d be able to stop himself from kissing Shane, once he’s there in Shane’s apartment. Where Shane’s bed is.

He took a deep breath and started typing.

Lily: what do you know about enthusiastic consent?

And Shane immediately started typing something back.

Chapter End Notes

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 6: You want to me know your secrets, Rozanov?

Chapter Summary

Extra long chapter because Ilya is GOING THROUGH IT. Bad weather in Montreal, being alone in Shane's apartment for the first time, and a phone call from Alexei - and that doesn't include wondering how Shane really feels about their plan for enthusiastic consent.

(Next chapter is very smutty, I promise. We just have to get there.)

SFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

mid-Oct 2010

Ilya sat in one of those uncomfortable airport seats, looking over Shane’s texts while he waited for their boarding call. Cliff sat next to him, glancing over from time to time but saying nothing. Ilya knew how he must look: his mother’s cross in his mouth, his phone in his hand, his knee bouncing up and down so hard he might break something.

He’s not worth getting worked up over, the voice in Ilya’s head said. He’s just someone to fuck. You’re excited to beat him on the ice, nothing more.

Ilya was having a hard time believing the voice right now, which was weird because the voice – the Russian voice, always Russian – that whispered the worst parts of himself back to Ilya was usually pretty fucking persuasive. The plane was delayed because of ice or snow or some other shit happening in Montreal, like no one bothered to check the weather in advance on a day when Ilya really, really, needed to get on a plane and get into Canada. For the game against the Metros, of course.

He’d texted with Shane for hours last night, and the conversation was good. Probably. Important, at least. It wasn’t the fun sexy texts he kept hoping for though. Mostly he sat on his couch with his laptop open on the coffee table, replaying game tape that Ilya couldn’t remember the details of, while Shane looked things up online and then, sporadically, sent short questions or notes back. Ilya wanted Shane to text about how the other man wanted to get fucked, how he longed for Ilya’s mouth or tongue or cock, how he couldn’t help but reach down in the shower and touch himself the way he wanted Ilya to touch him… But Shane didn’t do any of that.

Instead Shane had searched the internet for enthusiastic consent and come back with an article on a feminist blog about the basics, then waited while Ilya read it too. Ilya had to ask for the definitions on a lot of the English words, which took half the night, but eventually it seemed like they were on the same page about the concept.

And Ilya was pretty sure that Shane didn’t want to do it.

Shane said things like I appreciate that you want us to be clear about this and rules and guidelines can be helpful for me sometimes, but he also said does this mean you can’t do anything unless I ask? and I feel like I’m too much work for you and what if I don’t want to have to decide everything all the time?

Ilya thought about Shane’s reactions in the hotel room: the way the other man had stopped when Ilya told him to, moved when Ilya told him to, the push and pull of them both wanting and the way Shane – who always seemed to be thinking 12 steps ahead of everyone else – maybe didn’t stop entirely but certainly stopped thinking quite so much after a while.

Boy felt too young for professional hockey players who lived on their own and would someday make millions a year for being the best on the ice, but man didn’t adequately describe the two of them either. Maybe neither of them knew what it was like to be a kid so they were both rushing toward adulthood as fast as they could, to get the power and respect that would certainly come with the expectations everyone else had of them.

Ilya wasn’t sure if Shane felt the same way but thought that if anyone would understand how lonely Ilya was most of the time, it might be him.

“Coach,” Ilya called out, “what happens if we can’t get flight? Game is canceled?”

“Fuck no, Rozanov,” his coach yelled back. A couple of the other guys laughed. “The league isn’t going to lose millions of dollars on a canceled game just because the Montreal airport can’t figure out a little snow. Backup plan is we fly into Ottawa and take a bus to Montreal.”

“Okay,” Ilya said with a nod. And then, because he didn’t want his coach to think he was stupid, added, “I thought so. Thanks.”

“This Montreal girl’s really got you worked up, brother,” Cliff said with a laugh.

“Don’t be an idiot, Marly,” Ilya snapped back.

“Did you two talk at least?” Cliff asked, his voice quieter. He leaned slightly, just into the edge of Ilya’s personal space.

Ilya nodded. He looked at his phone again. He re-read their conversation from this morning for the fifth time.

Jane: let me know when you board?

Jane: heading to practice but I saw weather report

Jane: okay if it’s too much to meet tonight

Lily: would walk to Montreal if I had to

Jane: you would not

Lily: would rent very fast car

Jane: you’re a car guy?

Lily: what is?

Jane: it means you like cars

Jane: vintage cars, race cars, fancy cars

Lily: yes is me, car guy

Lily: soon I will have many cars

Lily: Spyder and Maserati to start

Jane: either of those SUVs?

Lily: wtf

Jane: I don’t know cars

Lily: sports cars, very sexy

Jane: need something reliable to drive in the snow

Lily: you are ridiculous person Jane

The last message was sent over an hour ago, and Shane hadn’t replied yet.

Very quietly, without looking at Cliff, Ilya said, “We talked but I think she is having hard time with the idea that everything needs to come from her. I think she like it when I… you know.” Ilya looked around, but no one else seemed to be paying attention to him. “When I say do this or do that.”

“Submissive?” Cliff asked.

“I do not know this word.”

“Like she’s soft. Wants you to take care of her. Make decisions for her.”

Hollander isn’t anything like soft, Ilya thinks. Hollander was a precision instrument, Hollander was all speed and sharp edges and knives cutting through the middle to drop a puck into the net. Ilya wasn’t sure yet if Shane was something different, but... maybe. “Not soft,” Ilya said. “Very strong. I think having to be too strong all of the time though? I would like to take care of Jane. Not sure if she’ll let me.” Ilya bit his lip. “I think I am wrong person to have someone like Jane. I cannot be trusted not to break beautiful things.”

“Hey, buddy, no,” Cliff said. “You asked. That’s more than most people do. You’re gonna be fine.”

Would he have asked Cliff those questions if Shane hadn’t asked his own questions first? Would he have been a man Shane could trust if Shane hadn’t already decided he was? Ilya wasn’t sure.

He open up his messages to send a new one.

Lily: if you tell me what you want I take over from there

Lily: if you want

Lily: only if you want

“All right boys, we’re cleared for Montreal!” Coach yelled. Around him a dozen players half-hardheartedly cheered. Ilya and Cliff headed out with the others. Bag stowed in the overhead compartment, Ilya settled into his seat, buckled up, and took out his phone to put it in airplane mode.

Jane: I want

Ilya grinned and typed out a reply.

Lily: on my way

After the game, Ilya was rushing to get his gear off and get a shower in when someone from the coaching staff called him over to the locker room door. “This got dropped off for you,” the man said.

Robbie? Ilya wondered. Sam? That could be it. “Thanks, Sam,” Ilya said. He looked behind him but no one was paying attention so he slipped out as Sam walked away and found himself alone in the hallway for a moment.

He opened the little envelope Sam had given him. Inside was a plain silver key. Not a car or a locker, wrong shape or the wrong size for those. This is someone’s house key. Was this supposed to go to someone else? There’s no note, nothing on the outside of the envelope either. Just Ilya Rozanov standing in the darkened hallway with no shoes on and a stranger’s house key in his hand.

He went back to his stall to find his phone. There’s a message from Jane waiting for him.

Jane: stuck doing press after

Jane: let yourself in if you get there before me

Lily: this your key?

Jane: yes

Lily: you had it delivered very brave

Jane: heart’s beating so hard

Jane: made the most sense but I might die

Jane: trying to find someone to bring it to you who wouldn’t ask

Lily: you’re sexy when you’re brave

Jane: yeah?

Jane: tell that to my panic attack

Lily: you need to believe me you’re sexy

Jane: make me

“You leaving straight from here?” Cliff asked. Ilya looked up to see the taller man staring down at him. Cliff had gotten to the showers already, and was standing next to him with just a towel wrapped around his muscular hips.

Ilya nodded.

“You want me to take your bag back to the hotel?”

“Ah no, might need it,” Ilya said, not wanting to take the condoms and lube out of the side pocket of his bag in full view of the rest of his team. “But thank you.”

“I got you,” Cliff said with a nod, and went back to getting dressed.

After his own shower, Ilya managed to get out front and grab a cab with only a small amount of teasing from the rest of his team. He smoked a cigarette with the window down as the cab drove from the arena to a quieter part of town, only 10 minutes away. Ilya tipped him too much, then got out. Shane’s building was grey and modern looking, the same as the rest of the block. He double checked the address, then headed for the -

Fuck. The building had a gate. The gate required a code. Shane did not give Ilya the gate code.

Lily: need code to get inside

Jane: you’re there already?

Jane: sorry code is 1410

Jane: one more reporter

Ilya punched in the code and sighed in relief when the lock disengaged with a buzz. He was inside the building, waiting for the elevator, when he realized what number Shane used for his gate code.

1410

The hotel room after the CCM shoot.

It doesn’t mean anything, it’s a coincidence, Shane hasn’t been thinking of you this whole time.

He ignored you for three months, while moving into this place and setting his gate code and using the number of the room you had sex in as the code to open the gate to get to his apartment so every day maybe twice a day he’s using the number he chose, the number that means the night you first kissed, the number that means the night and the place where you came together over and over, the night you keep dreaming about, and Shane fucking Hollander can barely talk about it but his fingers drift over the number pad and the numbers are the room and in the room we’re naked and on fire together.

The elevator door opened, and Ilya stepped off onto Shane’s floor. He didn’t entirely remember getting inside.

The key to Shane’s apartment is warm from how Ilya held it in his hand, inside of his pocket, almost since he ran out of the locker room with Anderson yelling a reminder about their curfew behind him. He took it out carefully. It was just a silver key, nothing special, but Ilya couldn’t help turning it over in his hand just to feel the smooth metal against his skin.

He opened Shane’s apartment and went inside.

It was so much nicer than Ilya’s apartment. He’d suspected that when he stepped out of the cab and saw the neighborhood, but being inside proved it: the small entry hallway opened up into a large open concept living and kitchen space, with a wall of windows along the side facing the street. A stairway just past the living room led up to a second story, and to the right, past the kitchen area, were more doors. He wondered how many rooms it had. He wondered how much it cost.

I’m gonna have to move if I want to fuck him in Boston, Ilya suddenly thought. The idea of taking Shane Hollander back to Ilya’s shitty rookie apartment twisted something in his stomach.

He dropped his bag on the floor next to the kitchen counter and kicked his shoes off next to the others Shane had lined up near his door. Ilya nudged them into line with his toe. He took off his jacket too, hung it up on the coat rack, and wondered if he should take off anything else. He was wearing his game day suit, though he’s tossed his tie into his bag in the locker room.

He’s wondering if he should take his suit jacket off or leave it on – better to get naked faster or better to have more clothes for Shane to take off of him? – when his phone rang. He answered before he realized the caller id said “Asshole” in Cyrillic letters.

“Why don’t you answer your phone?” Alexei yelled at him in Russian.

“I literally am answering the phone right now! What do you want?”

“You know what I want, asshole. Where is the money transfer?”

“What money, Alexei? I already sent you money!” Ilya yelled back. He paced around Shane’s living room. “You spent all of my fucking money.”

“That was for last month. Now is this month. You too stupid to know how a calendar works, huh?” Alexei was laughing now, and in the background Ilya could hear other voices laughing too.

“I give you everything already. Give for you and Papa. He called me again, you know. There’s something wrong with him.”

“He’s an old man. You want me to look in on him? Send the fucking money!”

“Seriously, Alexei, you have my singing bonus, I gave you everything.” Ilya rubbed his hand over his face. “What else do you want?”

“Don’t lie to me, little brother. I saw your big photo shoot with that Asian cocksucker. They pay big money for that, right?”

“Don’t you fucking talk about him like that,” Ilya spits out before he can stop himself. “You want my money? You don’t say another fucking word.”

“Okay, okay, so sensitive. I see new zeros in my bank account tomorrow, maybe I don’t tell Papa you are spending your time with that boy. You know what he’ll say about it.” Alexei laughed again. “Tomorrow, Ilya.”

“Fine, fuck, tomorrow.” Ilya hung up and threw his phone at the couch.

It was true, Ilya had the money from the CCM shoot stashed away in an American bank account, exactly because he had been afraid he’d need it once Alexei had snorted everything else. He thought he’d have more time before his brother figured it out though. He should be using it to buy an apartment or at least one the cars he’s been dreaming about, not wiring it to Moscow.

“Are you okay?” Shane asked quietly.

Ilya spun around. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.” He heard you screaming in Russian like a mad man, he’s going to ask you to leave, he won’t ever let you touch him again, you fucking idiot. “I can go.” He walked over and grabbed his phone from the couch, then turned toward where he left his bag. “Sorry,” he said again, shaking his head. “I should not have been loud in your apartment.”

Shane did something with his face then that Ilya hadn’t seen before: his jaw softened slightly, his eyes narrowed, and his head tilted just a little. There was a tiny furrow between his eyebrows. If he had to guess, Ilya thought maybe Shane looked… sad.

Ilya hated the very idea of Shane ever being sad.

“Do you want to leave?” Shane asked, barely above a whisper.

“No, no, but I – I fucked up. We had plans, and I ruined it. I’m sorry.” Ilya looked at the floor.

The hardwood looked real, like the floors in his apartment in Moscow. New flooring had a shine to it that almost looked plastic. These floors were clean, polished, but warm in a way new floors weren’t. Ilya heard Shane moving closer then. Saw shoes stop a few inches away from his own. They were nice. Classic black. Good choice for dress shoes.

Ilya didn’t want to look up and see the disappointment he was sure lived on Shane’s face at that moment.

“Why were you angry?” Shane asked gently.

“It’s nothing, I’ll go.” But Ilya’s feet didn’t move.

“Ilya, I’m asking you. Tell me what’s going on.”

“My brother,” Ilya said quietly. “He is not good.” Neither am I, was the part he didn’t say out loud.

“How is your brother not good?” Shane’s feet moved another inch closer. Ilya could see Shane’s grey slacks, the bottom of his white dress shirt, the way his hands were in his pockets. He could feel the warmth of Shane’s breath on his face. He wanted very much to look up and kiss Shane until they both forgot about Ilya’s terribly stupid mistake.

“I send money, for him and my father. Alexei has problems, he drinks. Drugs, women. No more money. He needs more and more, always bol'she bol'she. I don’t have, he doesn’t care.”

“Oh, Ilya.” Shane’s hand came out of his pocket and gently lifted Ilya’s face up until they could see each other’s eyes. “That’s not your fault.”

“Is stupid to yell about it in your apartment,” Ilya said. He bit his lip, trying to hold back tears. “He said things about you, I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry.”

“He talked about me?” Shane asked, surprised.

“Just the photo shoot. He doesn’t know about us. He is pushing, pushing me to get more money. I send tomorrow, I fix, is no problem.”

“Can I hug you?” Shane asked.

That wasn't even in the top 10 of things he expected Shane to say in that moment. Ilya couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He pulled Shane close, hugging him so tightly he lifted the other man onto his toes. Shane’s arms came around him and hugged him back just as tight.

“I’m sorry you’re going through that,” Shane said softly, his hand in Ilya’s hair. “That’s not fair to you.”

Ilya bit his lip to keep from sobbing. Shane kept holding him with one arm, his hand slowly stroking Ilya’s hair with the other.

“Wow how sexy I am like this,” Ilya said with a bitter laugh. “Great job, Ilya. Plan big night and cry like idiot.”

“Shut up, idiot,” Shane said, “you’re still going to fuck me later. We can do this first though.”

Ilya pulled away at that, still holding on but just enough to look Shane in the eyes. “I am?”

“Well, yeah, if you want to.”

“But I am crying over stupid brother in Russia and you wanted sexy hockey player in your bed tonight,” Ilya said.

“Yeah, well, both things can be true at the same time,” Shane said with a smile.

Ilya could feel his face grinning before the delight hit him in the chest. “You are my favorite thing,” Ilya said aloud in Russian. “My beautiful boy.”

“No fair,” Shane said, squirming out of Ilya’s grasp, but Ilya refused to let go. “I don’t know what that means.”

“You want all of my secrets, you have to learn Russian. Should be easy for you, eh? Two weeks, perfect, no accent.” He kissed Shane loudly on the cheek.

Shane licked his lips. “You want to me know your secrets, Rozanov?”

“No, is only Ilya in the room.” He kissed Shane’s other cheek, softly.

“What room is that?” Shane asked, then kissed the corner of Ilya’s mouth.

“Whatever room we are in, you and I. We’re Hollander and Rozanov everywhere else.” He kissed Shane gently on the lips.

“In the room,” Shane agreed, and kissed him back.

Chapter End Notes

I found this song AFTER I started writing this story but I love it and it's now in my writing soundtrack: https://youtu.be/ZtAd7J7vljI?si=KAhv9UFmIWs87GkS Mr. Answer Man" by Isaac Chambers (feat. Dub Princess)

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 7: You practiced?

Chapter Summary

This one is just a little heartbreak and a whole lot of Shane getting fucked by Ilya the loverboy.

NSFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

They kissed there, standing in Shane’s living room, Shane’s hands under Ilya’s suit jacket, Ilya’s hands grabbing at the back of Shane’s shirt, until everything else faded away. “Where do you want me?” Ilya purred against Shane’s ear. “In the kitchen, on the couch, on the floor…” He kissed along the side of Shane’s jaw, thrilled when the other man’s breath grew fast and raspy.

“Bedroom,” Shane said between kisses. “Please.”

Ilya shivered at the word. “Take me, Shane.”

They kissed as Shane kicked off his shoes. They kissed as Shane walked backward up the stairs, one of Ilya’s hands on the staircase and the other hooked into the side of Shane’s slacks, just in case. Inside Shane’s bedroom Ilya started to drag them both over to the queen-sized bed, but Shane pushed away just enough to say, “I need to shower first.” His hair was still wet from the shower he must have taken at the arena, but Ilya didn’t want to argue.

“Okay, we shower,” he agreed, pulling Shane closer so he could lick the side of his neck. Shane trembled as he sighed quietly when Ilya reached the bottom of his jaw with his tongue.

“No,” Shane said hesitantly. “I need to shower. You need to wait for me.”

Ilya groaned but let go. “Shower fast?” he said hopefully.

“Fast as I can,” Shane agreed. He kissed Ilya one more time, then spun around and practically jogged into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Shane’s bedroom was simply but tastefully decorated. A queen sized bed was centered along the wall opposite from the closet and on-suite bathroom door. There were two dark wood night tables, one on each side of the bed, though – except for matching beige lamps – only the table farthest from the entrance had anything on top of it. A long dresser made from the same dark wood was against the far wall, and a full length mirror was hung on the wall in that far corner, though it didn’t point in the direction of the bed. Ilya wondered if Shane would be open to moving the mirror to a better location.

He heard the water running in the shower.

He was torn between not wanting to invade Shane’s privacy and wanting to distract his already too-hard dick so he didn’t come all over himself the minute Shane walked out of the bathroom.

He opened Shane’s closet. It was well organized, because of course it was. On one side was cube shelving, little cubbies holding folded pairs of sweatpants, jeans, underwear, a basket for socks, and separately, what looked like most of those same things but for hockey. In the middle of the closet Shane had hung his t shirts, then some button ups in light colors, his game day white dress shirts and a few suits Ilya suspected hadn’t been tailored. On the other end, what looked like workout clothes and a few jerseys. Nothing much stood out; Shane clearly didn’t dress for other people’s attention the way Ilya did.

Ilya borrowed a spare hanger to hang his suit jacket up, using the top of the closet door to hook the hanger. He hoped leaving the door open like that would show Shane he’d hadn’t been snooping in secret. He paused for a second then grabbed a second hanger and hung up his shirt as well. He checked himself in Shane’s mirror. His hair looked good, soft and curly; his broad chest was naked except for his mother’s cross. His black dress slacks sat low on his hips, the swell of his cock clearly visible beneath the fabric. He toed off his socks.

There. Casual but ready for sex. At least this you can’t fuck up. And then, because the universe hates Ilya Rozanov, he caught sight of something behind him in the mirror.

He walked over to the night table Shane clearly used: the lamp was pushed out of the center to make room for a pair of wired ear buds, two books about hockey, a pair of black glasses – which ordinarily would have had Ilya feeling something very different – and next to all of that, a couple of unopened condoms and a bottle of lube.

Ilya picked it up. The bottle was only about half full. Of course he doesn’t need you for this. Of course. Of course.

“Ilya?” Shane said behind him.

Ilya faced Shane, the bottle still in his hand.

“Fuuuck, Ilya,” Shane whispered. “How do you look like that all the time?” He was wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair tousled and wet. 

Ilya held up the bottle of lube. “You left this out.”

Shane nodded. “Yes.”

“You wanted me to know?”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“Who was it?” Ilya shook his head. “Sorry, never mind.”

Shane moved closer to the bed. “What are you talking about?”

Ilya shook the bottle of lube at him. “You had someone, last night yes? You wanted me to know. Okay, I get the message. It’s fine, I can still fuck you if you want. Practice, yes? I am good for that.”

“Oh, Ilya,” Shane said. “No, you’ve got the wrong idea.”

“It’s okay, I can make it good for you.” Ilya took a deep breath. “I promise, I will be good at this.”

“Ilya there’s no one else,” Shane said. He stepped forward until he was close enough to put one hand on Ilya’s chest. “I left that out because you said, you know…” He paused for a moment, and Ilya recognized the effort of trying to find the right words in English. “I feel a lot of things, okay. All the time. But I know it’s hard for people to see that. So when you said I had to show you I wanted this enthusiastically, I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to tell. And I do want this, Ilya, so fucking much. I thought if I put those things where you could see them, you’d know I was ready for this before you even got here.”

Ilya looked at the bottle of lube again. “But it’s half-empty,” he said, as if that explained the hundred other things he didn’t know how to say.

“I practiced. Since the last time I saw you.” Shane blushed then, his ears turning pink first, then spreading to his cheeks and making his freckles stand out even more. “You said it would hurt without lube and I wanted to make sure I was doing it right.”

“You practiced?” Ilya whispered.

“Yes,” Shane said.

“Opening yourself up for me?”

“Yes.” No question. Just a fact.

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya purred, “that’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.” Ilya grinned and grabbed Shane with both arms, lifting him enough to throw him down on the bed. Shane laughed, delighted, and reached for him but Ilya slapped his hands out of the way. “Not now, I am opening my present and I need to focus.”

“So I’m your present now?” Shane said with a smile.

“Yes and unwrapping presents is very serious business so be good for me and hold still.”

“Yes, sir,” Shane said, and Ilya’s brain lit up like a Christmas tree, all beautiful colors and a feeling of home.

Ilya fell to his knees beside the bed and wedged himself between Shane’s legs. He put one hand on each leg, slowly sliding them up until the reached the edge of the towel which was just barely hanging over Shane’s knees. He could feel the other man tremble under his touch. He slowly lifted one side of the towel until he opened it completely, laying each side next to Shane on the bed.

Shane’s cock was already red and hard.

“My beautiful boy,” Ilya whispered in Russian. He kissed the inside of Shane’s thighs, alternating from one side to the other, until he had to get off his knees to reach the top of Shane’s legs where his thighs met. He licked along the inside of Shane’s hip and was rewarded with a little moan, Shane lifting his hips off the bed at the same time. Perfect, Shane Hollander is perfect.

Ilya stood then. Shane raised himself up on his elbows to watch as Ilya unbuttoned his slacks and let them fall to the ground.

Shane bit his lower lip.

Ilya placed both hands on his own chest and slid them, slowly, down his body, watching the way Shane watched him, desire obvious on his face.

Ilya hooked his thumbs into his black boxer briefs and pushed them down, just an inch. He watched Shane’s face, and waited.

"More,” Shane said, his voice husky. “I want to see you.”

Ilya felt his own nipples get hard. He pushed his underwear down, releasing his already-full cock, and stepped out of them. “You still want?” he asked.

“Fuck yes,” Shane said. He scooted back on the bed and motioned for Ilya to join him.

Ilya couldn’t imagine a time where he’d ever say no to that. “So sexy, Shane,” he said, laying kisses along his ribs, up toward his muscular chest. He took one of Shane’s nipples in his mouth and licked circles around is as the other man moaned loudly. “So fucking hot.” He kept kissing upward.

“You don’t have to keep saying that,” Shane said, his voice small.

“Umm, yes I do.” Ilya kissed under Shane’s jaw. “Need to hear you say you know how sexy you are, Shane,” he murmured against the side of Shane’s neck. “I’m not going any further until you do.”

“You make me feel sexy, Ilya. I promise, you do,” Shane said. “Only you. Please fuck me.”

“Okay, because you ask so nice,” Ilya said, smiling into the side of Shane’s neck. He moved quickly to find the bottle of lube, which had ended up somewhere on the bed. He squirted a good amount into his palm, then breathed on it to warm it up. He’d done this once with a woman in New York, and she’d complained it was too cold because Ilya hadn’t known then that room temperature lube wasn’t as warm as a person’s skin. Shane deserved to be with someone who knew what they were doing.

“I need you to relax for me, Shane,” Ilya whispered. “I won’t hurt you, but it’s better for you when you relax okay?”

Shane nodded. He put his hands on Ilya’s shoulders.

Ilya let his lube-slick hand move down and find Shane’s cock. He stroked it once, twice. Shane arched him back and closed his eyes with a little whimpering noise. Ilya let go carefully, let his hand drift farther down, between Shane’s legs, until he found his tight, warm opening.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Ilya whispered.

Shane opened his eyes at that. They were a gorgeous brown. “I trust you,” he whispered.

Ilya slid one finger inside of Shane’s body.

Shane moaned again. Ilya could see the goosebumps rising across his skin. He took Shane’s nipple into his mouth again, licking quick circles around it while he moved his finger in and out of Shane’s ass. “Oh god, yes,” Shane said with a gasp. “More, please.”

“In a minute, don’t want to rush this,” Ilya said in reply. His cock rubbed against Shane’s thigh, painful and exhilarating at the same time. He pulled his finger out, added a little more lube, then carefully slid two fingers inside together.

Shane caught his breath and lifted his hips, chasing Ilya’s fingers as he slid them almost all of the way back out. He pushed his fingers back in, fucking Shane with them slowly, watching him moan and squirm. Have I made anyone else feel this good before? Ilya wondered. He really wasn’t sure. It was intoxicating, how responsive Shane's body was. He could feel it in his belly, heat boiling his blood, strangling his lungs so he could barely breathe. He fucked Shane faster and felt the hot squeeze as Shane tightened against his fingers.

“Yes, yes, please,” Shane moaned.

“One more,” Ilya whispered. He pulled his fingers out again, then slid in three this time. Shane arched his back and let out a wrecked cry that wasn’t pain but something breaking free. Ilya fucked him with his fingers for another minute until he felt the muscles around them relax. Shane was moving his hips to match him, meeting him where he was, and Ilya thought for a moment that this would always be the two of them, not one chasing the other but them both finding each other in the dark.

“Okay, are you ready?” Ilya asked.

“Yes, yes,” Shane panted. “Fuck me, Ilya, god damn it, please hurry up.”

Ilya moved with practiced precision now, sliding his fingers out of Shane’s body and standing up to grab a condom. He opened it and quickly slid it on, already too far away from Shane and missing the warmth of him. He got back on the bed between Shane’s legs, grabbed a pillow and tapped Shane’s hip so he’d rise up enough to get the pillow underneath him. He lined up his cock with Shane’s entrance. Shane’s hands found Ilya’s hips and grabbed him with those strong hands…

“You tell me if it’s not right for you, yes?” Ilya asked. “Anything at all, I can change position, do something differ-”

“Yes, fuck,” Shane interrupted. “I promise, please Ilya, please, I need…”

“Tell me what you need?” 

Shane opened his eyes and looked at him. “You. I need you.”

Ilya pushed his cock inside. He went slowly, giving Shane’s body a chance to adjust as he moved forward an inch at a time. Shane gasped then moaned like it was being torn out of him against his will. “So good for me, Shane,” Ilya panted, his breath ragged. “You’re taking me so well, so good.”

“I want to be good for you,” Shane said between breaths, his voice broken. “Please Ilya.”

“You’re so good, Shane, you’re amazing.” Ilya made the final push into Shane’s tight ass, coming to rest against Shane’s hips. “Still okay?”

Shane nodded. “Please move, please.”

Ilya was thrusting before he’d formed the thought to make it happen. With every snap, Shane panted and moaned, gasping out his pleasure as his back arched and his hands grasped the dark green bed cover. Ilya could barely think. He grabbed Shane’s knees and lifted them to get the other man’s ankles on his shoulders. The new angle let him thrust a little deeper and Shane cried out.

“Okay?” Ilya asked again.

"God yes, fuck Ilya, fuck me I’m going to come!”

“Look at me, Shane,” Ilya commanded, and Shane’s eyes opened. There were tears slipping down his cheeks, and he face was red. He whimpered on every thrust.

“Keep your pretty eyes on me,” Ilya whispered in Russian, “stay with me, I can feel you underneath my skin, please don’t let anyone see you like this, only me, only me -”

“Ilya,” Shane moaned, the name breaking against his lips like a wave crashing against the shore, and his back is arching up from the bed and his cock is spurting across his stomach and Ilya yells, “Da Shane, God yes-” and his brain went white. He shuddered through his orgasm, over and over, barely holding himself upright by the time his cock is empty and he can get his eyes open again. Shane is lying beneath him, sweaty and utterly relaxed. There’s streaks of white across his skin and a fucked-out smile on his face.

This is everything, Ilya thinks, though he can’t explain what that means. This is the best sex I’ve ever had in my entire fucking life.

Eventually the wave flowed back out to sea and Ilya settled back into his body.

“Shane,” Ilya calls softly. He’s gone soft in other ways too, but he wanted Shane to be aware that he’s pulling out before he does it. “Shane, are you okay?”

“Mmm, good,” Shane mumbled. His eyes are still closed. He gave Ilya a tiny nod, and added, “so good.”

“Okay, I’m going to get us cleaned up,” Ilya said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Shane made a little snorting sound that might have been a laugh.

How do I end this now? Ilya thought. His heart flipped in his chest as he pulled out of Shane’s ass and got the condom off. He tied it off and looked around for a trash bin. Not finding one, he headed back into Shane’s bathroom and used the one in there. He found a wash cloth right away; made sure the water was warm before soaking it down and wringing it out, just once, so it wouldn’t drip.

“Don’t leave yet,” Shane said, half asleep. He reached for Ilya without opening his eyes. Ilya dropped the cloth on the floor – I’ll pick that up before I leave, he thought – and crawled into Shane’s bed behind him. He wrapped Shane in both arms, pulling him to his chest. The other man wiggled happily and settled, skin to skin, sharing each other’s warmth.

“Better,” Shane sighed. Ilya kissed his cheek.

I’m so fucked.

Chapter End Notes

As always, thank you for reading! Please share on your socials and tell your friends. Someday I'll log into threads and see folks talking about this story, and then I'll know I've made it ;)

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 8: What’s in a Moscow Mule?

Chapter Summary

Ilya says something ill-advised, Pike gets defensive, Shane and Ilya dance together at a club.

SFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

Mid-Oct to Dec 2010

It couldn’t last, of course. Ilya needed to call a cab and get back to the hotel before the sun came up. He could get away with breaking curfew to a certain extent, but only as long as he was in his hotel bed before anyone on the Raiders staff came looking for him. So he’d been smart for the first time since he met Shane Hollander, and left his bed while it was still dark outside.

But Shane, still half asleep and gorgeously naked, crawled out of bed and padded over to his dresser to pull on a pair of blue pajama pants while Ilya got dressed. Then Shane, eyes heavy with sleep, went downstairs as Ilya followed behind him – watching the other man’s thick ass bounce as he took each step – and made his way over to his fridge. He took something small from behind a magnet, a white card, rectangular, and moved to stand by his front door. Ilya grabbed his bag, his coat, and slipped on his shoes.

“Cab?” Shane asked softly.

Ilya smiled. “I’ll call outside. Cigarette first.” He kissed Shane then, slower than he should have.

“Bad for you,” Shane said. He’s so tired he won’t even remember this tomorrow, Ilya thought.

“Oh really,” Ilya said back, grinning. “I never hear this before, this is new information.” He kissed Shane again.

Shane grumbled but a very smile small crept across his lips. He thrust the white card at Ilya’s chest; Ilya took it but let his fingers linger over Shane’s for a minute.

“Don’t die, asshole,” Shane said. Then he opened the door, and Ilya walked out.

Even with streetlights it was too dark to read the card properly, but he saw it was full on both sides with tiny black lettering. It was about the size of a credit card, and fucking laminated because of course it was, so Ilya stuck it in his wallet and tried to think about anything other than turning around and going back inside.

Connors was sound asleep when Ilya made it back into their room, so he was careful to be quiet when he dropped his bag and coat on the floor. He went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and pulled the card Shane had given him out of his wallet.

On one side was an address in Ottawa, Canada, and what looked like directions: I-93N to I-89N to QC-133 N then switching to Autoroute numbers 35, 10, 15, and so on, until it got to ON-417 then some regional roads. The other side looked basically the same, except the directions led from Boston to an address in Montreal.

Shane’s address in Montreal.

Ilya grabbed his phone.

Lily: what is card? your apt what else?

Shane would be sound asleep by now, Ilya was sure, so he closed his phone, got out of his clothes, and brushed his teeth. Slipping into his bed, he checked the phone one last time, not expecting to see anything. But there was a new text waiting for him.

Jane: parents cottage

Lily: why?

Jane: zombies

Lily: ??

Jane: so you get here if phones down

Jane: zombies in boston is too many people

Jane: lots

Lily: go to sleep Jane

Jane: yes sir :p

If Ilya turned his face to the pillow to keep Connors from hearing him cry, that was just being tired after a long roadie, and the release of incredibly good sex. It had nothing to do with this ridiculous boy wanting to keep Ilya safe from an imaginary apocalypse.

Nothing at all.

Life settled back to a normal rhythm over the next few weeks. He wouldn’t be playing against Shane until December, but there were plenty of other teams that needed Ilya’s focus. The Raiders were a shambles when he was drafted – that’s how you usually got a first round draft pick after all, by being the team that needed it the most – but they had the bones of a good team. Mostly their problem was the number of aging veterans mixed with clueless rookies, guys who couldn’t skate as fast anymore or were often out with injuries alongside guys whose ambition was just a little bigger than their technical skill. Ilya, who had both the power and the skill to make his speed useful, was quickly racking up a solid percentage of his team’s points. He was already outpacing expectations, and his season had barely started.

Problem was, Hollander was just a little bit ahead of him.

When Ilya scored a goal against Michigan at home, Hollander – who played against them the following night in Montreal – scored two. After Ilya dropped his gloves to punch a defenseman in LA for talking shit about Ilya's mother, Hollander scored the winning goal against them a week later. When Ilya scored two goals against Toronto, Jane texted, telling him to watch the Montreal vs Buffalo game the following night. So of course Ilya sat at a bar with a warm beer in one hand and that stupid zombie card in the other, watching Hollander score his first hat trick.

That’s probably why, when he sat in the press room after a loss against the Admirals a week later, Ilya fucked up.

“How does it feel to know that Hollander is beating you in the scoring race?” someone yelled out.

“Is nothing,” Ilya said gruffly. “I score, he scores, I score more. He is still second best player in the league.”

“What did you think of Hollander’s trick against Buffalo?”

Ilya smirked. “He text me, Rozanov watch this, then beautiful hat trick because I am watching so I think maybe I should get some credit, yes?”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying.

“Rozanov! Rozanov!” the reporters shouted at him. He nodded at one of them. “You’re saying you and Hollander text each other? Are you friends off the ice?”

No, definitely not, watch as I absolutely walk this back. “Sure, we’re drafted same time, top two, and I am me so why wouldn’t Hollander want to be friends?” Great job, Ilya, he thought miserably as reporters kept yelling at him. That clears everything up.

“What about the rivalry?”

“Competition is healthy,” Ilya said. “We both want to be the best and that comes from beating each other.” And maybe from sucking each others dicks, do you want a soundbite about that? “On ice, rivals. Very how you say, strong fighters. Off ice, we go clubbing. Changes nothing.”

What the fuck, dude? He could practically hear Shane yelling at him from Canada.

There was more they wanted to know, probably, but someone from the PR team was waving them off and Ilya, gratefully, took his cue to leave.

Marly and St. Vicky found him in the hallway. “We’re going clubbing with Hollander?” Marly asked with a grin.

“Uh, yes?” Ilya said with a shrug. “Will be fun.”

Marly laughed, Victor clapped him on the shoulder, and Ilya tried very hard not to throw up.

As the team bus was pulling away from the arena, Ilya’s phone buzzed.

Jane: wtf???

Yeah, this was definitely a problem.

Over the next month they did what Ilya was starting to suspect was Shane dealing with a problem: they didn’t discuss it at all. Instead Shane texted him contact info for a potential new agent for Ilya, an American in New York who spoke Russian. He asked for Ilya’s email address then sent links to online articles about dealing with relatives who struggled with addiction. He texted notes about Ilya’s game performance and who on the Raiders might be playing through an injury.

In interviews, Shane kept the conversation about Ilya to hockey, no matter how reporters tried to redirect him.

What he did not do was respond to anything Ilya texted him back. He didn’t flirt, at all. Shane didn’t reply to questions about if they were meeting up after their game in December, he ignored Ilya’s attempts to be sexy, to be annoying, to outright pester Shane into replying.

Lily: Jane

[message read]

Lily: Jane

[message read]

Lily: Jane

[message read]

Lily: Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane Jane JaneJane JaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJaneJane

Jane: Tell Connors to ice his ankle after the game

Lily: why Jane why are you like this

[message read]

Ilya tried to wait it out. He went to bars with the team, drank and danced but went home alone. He searched for a new apartment. He got signed with the new agent and quietly let go of his father’s friend, then he put his father’s calls on silent and stopped answering them. He got plastered at Vicky’s during what was supposed to be a friendly tournament of Mario Kart between him, Vic, Marly, Connors, and Anderson, and passed out on the floor.

The other guys left him there overnight but Ilya woke up with a blanket draped over him so that was nice.

Finally, FINALLY, the morning of their game, Shane texted him back.

Jane: Hayden, JJ, and I will go out with your team after the game

Jane: to a club

Jane: do not fucking make me regret this

Which was why Shane Hollander was seated on the other side of the table from Ilya, wedged between Hayden Pike and J.J. Boiziau, while Ilya was next to Marleau, St. Simon, and Connors. A couple of the other guys from the Raiders were already somewhere in the club. After introductions and a round of beers Ilya paid for, because he was generous like that, the seven of them settled into an uncomfortable silence and a lot of irritable stares.

Shane was wearing a Metros t shirt that wasn’t too tight but was tight enough for Ilya to clearly see the man’s broad shoulders and thick, muscular arms. Ilya wanted to peel it off of him. Shane didn’t look back at Ilya, even though Ilya was wearing a tight pair of black jeans and a blood red tank top that was, if Ilya was being honest, a size too small for him. Shane kept his eyes on the table and the beer he hadn’t even pretended to drink.

Pike broke the spell first. “This is such bullshit,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the club’s music.

“You didn’t have to come, Pike,” Ilya snapped back.

“I did because your fucking joke on camera meant my best friend had to get dragged out to a club for no fucking reason,” Pike said.

“Wow, come on,” Connors said, putting his hands up in the universal sign for nobody is punching anyone tonight. “Lots of guys in the league are friends.”

“Nobody is fucking friends with this Russian cocksucker,” J.J. said in his thick French accent.

Ilya started to stand up but Marly put one meaty hand on his shoulder and forced him back down.

“I’m friends with this Russian cocksucker,” Marly said with a smile. “And Hollander is too, aren’t you?”

Shane sighed deeply. “Yeah, I am,” he said without looking up.

“There you go, we’re all friends here.” Marly said it like it was settled.

“What do you even talk about?” Pike asked, looking at Shane.

Shane mumbled something, but Ilya couldn’t hear it over the music.

“What was that?” Vic yelled back.

“Cheese,” Shane said.

“What the fuck do you mean, you talk about cheese?” J.J. yelled.

“Cheddar!” Ilya yelled back, grinning. “Also we talk about hockey, you know, the sport we all play. You should try it sometime, Pike.”

On the other side of the table, Shane smiled.

“Fuck you, Rozanov, I play hockey!” Pike yelled.

“Yes, yes, how could I forget Montreal’s 15^th best player?” Ilya elbowed Marly. “Your turn to get drinks.” He stood to let his friend slide past him, then sat back down in Marly’s chair, directly across from Shane.

“Shots?” Marly asked.

“No tequila,” Ilya said immediately, looking at Shane. “Vodka only. Moscow Mule for Hollander.”

“Shane doesn’t drink, asshole,” Pike said. “You’d know that if you were actually friends.”

“Shane can actually speak for himself,” Shane said, finally looking up. Ilya wanted to kiss the sad look off his face. “What’s in a Moscow Mule?” he asked Ilya.

“Vodka but also lime and ginger beer. Is like if your ginger ale and vodka had sexy baby. Not too strong, no hangover for baby hockey players.”

Ilya slid one foot under the table and tapped Shane’s foot. He watched Shane take a deep breath, then felt an answering tap on his foot.

“I’ll take that, Marleau, thanks,” Shane said.

“How much longer do we have to be here?” Pike asked.

“You wanted to come with me, man,” Shane said with another sigh. “You can go whenever you want.”

“I’m not leaving you here with the fucking Raiders, Shane, be serious.”

Vic leaned forward and looked Pike in the eyes. “You know we’re not going to fucking eat him, right?”

“This whole thing is one sick joke,” Pike said. “How do I know what you have planned next?”

“Jesus, Hayd, would you quit it?” Shane yelled. “Is it really that hard to believe I have other friends besides you and J.J.?” He shook his head. “I need to use the bathroom.” He extracted himself from his friends and stomped away.

Ilya desperately wanted to chase after him.

He pulled out his phone instead.

Lily: didn’t mean for this to happen

Jane: you guys fighting like fucking children

Lily: tell me how to fix

Jane: it’s not just you

Jane: Hayd means well

Jane: I wish you’d said we go to book stores

Lily: okay next time we go to book store

Jane: ha ha

Lily: really

Lily: movies, grocery store, library, don’t care

Jane: you like clubs

Lily: yes but

Ilya couldn’t finish the rest of the sentence because he was pretty sure it ended with I don’t care where I am if you’re there. “Pike, why you don’t like me?” he said instead. Maybe I can do one thing right for Shane tonight.

“You’re an asshole, Rozanov,” Pike said, as if that explained everything.

“Yeah, so? That’s on the ice. Here we are in nice club with drinks I pay for and I haven’t once said I was going to fuck your mother, so what is problem?”

“You’re my problem!” Pike yelled. Connors put his hands up again, so Pike made a visible effort to calm down. “Shane is my best friend and you’re just being you. Fucking with him because it’s funny to see him uncomfortable.”

“I never want Hollander to be uncomfortable,” Ilya said honestly.

“Fuck you, man,” Pike said. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Ilya. “You have to know by now that Shane’s, you know… special.”

“Yes, he is second best hockey player in the league,” Ilya said. “Maybe best, on days I am not playing. No one else comes close.”

“That’s not what he means and you fucking know it,” J.J. said.

“You know English is not my first language Pike?” Ilya said, getting irritated. “Say what you fucking mean.”

“Hey, maybe this isn’t something Hollander wants us to be talking about,” Vic said.

“No, he talks like Hollander is broken and I want to know what he fucking means,” Ilya said with a growl.

“It means Shane isn’t like everyone else,” Pike said.

“Yeah, he’s not 15^th best player on the Metros,” Ilya said.

“Oh fuck off,” Pike said, as Marleau returned with a tray of drinks and sat down, effectively blocking Ilya from getting up and going to find Shane.

“What’s happening?” the big man asked.

“Pike was telling me how there’s something wrong with Hollander, his best friend,” Ilya said. He grabbed a vodka shot and downed it.

“He’s just not like other people,” Pike said, “and that’s fine, I’m okay with it, but you have to be careful with him. He’s like a hockey robot when you get him in skates, and god knows I love him, but he’s clueless about chicks. He freaks out if you move his stuff, he follows his nutrition plan like religiously, he hates it when you wake him up because the team wants to hang out in the hotel room and watch movies. And he barely goes out. He’s not coming to a place like this and drinking and dancing.” Pike waved his hands in the air. “So Rozanov making him come out is just his way of fucking with my friend, and I need to protect him.”

“Protect me from what?” Shane asked, suddenly appearing next to them.

“From me,” Ilya said. “And from drinking and dancing.”

Shane looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “You’re an idiot,” he said with a smile.

“Yes probably,” Ilya said, smiling back. “But you like it.”

“Yeah, I do,” Shane agreed. He picked up the Moscow Mule. “Is this mine?” he asked, turning to face Marleau, who nodded. Shane took a drink. “This is pretty good!” he said, then drank again. “Dance with me?” he asked, looking at Ilya.

“Yes, we dance now!” Ilya declared happily. “Marly, Vic, Connors, let’s go dance!”

As the Raiders stood up, Pike leaned over and grabbed Shane’s arm. “You don’t have to do this, man.”

“Come with us or go back to the hotel, Hayd,” Shane said. “I’m gonna dance.”

Ilya followed Shane into the crowd, the rest of the Raiders right behind him. The music was loud and the crush of bodies made it easy for the other guys to break off as they found women to dance with, leaving Shane and Ilya alone, surrounded by strangers.

Ilya touched Shane gently on the arm and leaned in. “We can leave whenever you want,” he said into Shane’s ear.

“One song? I can’t really dance but I’m pissed at those guys so I can’t quit yet.”

“Okay, one song,” Ilya said. “I help you. Eyes on me.” God help me, those eyes. Because Shane looked at him then, really looked, and Ilya’s dick was already half-hard.

“Just do what I do.”

Shane nodded and soon they were both dancing in time to the music. Ilya’s hand moved from Shane’s arm to his hip, barely touching. Shane put one hand on Ilya’s bicep. The crowd got thicker than was probably legally allowed, sweaty bodies pushing Shane and Ilya closer together until they were almost on top of each other. Ilya looked around as they danced, but didn’t spot anyone they knew.

His fingers found the edge of Shane’s t shirt and pulled up slightly. Just enough to graze Shane’s side with his fingers.

Shane was breathing hard, but from Ilya’s touch or the dancing, Ilya wasn’t sure. “Are we really friends?” Shane asked, his words hot in Ilya’s ear.

“Yes,” Ilya said.

“Okay,” Shane said, and smiled.

“Okay,” Ilya agreed. They got closer still. His hand moved under Shane’s shirt, sliding across Shane’s skin, feeling the muscles in his back move as he danced.

“Take me to your place?” Shane asked, and Ilya grinned.

Chapter End Notes

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 9: Nyet, am boyfriend?

Chapter Summary

Ilya is sad.

SFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

New Year's Day, 2011

“Marly,” Ilya groaned from other man’s couch. “Need help.”

Ilya was drunk. He knew that, though he wasn’t certain on the steps between being at the club with his teammates and lying face down on Cliff’s couch with his phone in his hand. Something about a bar. There was beer and of course vodka, though it was the shit Americans drink and not the good Russian vodka of his youth. There was a woman, or three. Maybe four? They’d wanted him, he was sure of it in the way that he was always able to recognize when someone wanted him. Then there was… gin? And a lot of jumping up and down.

At one point he knew he’d texted Shane.

You texted a boy in Canada that you missed him instead of fucking any of the people right in front of you.

“You gonna puke?” Marly asked.

“No, no,” Ilya started to say, then thought about it. Not again at least. Not right now. You have bigger problems. “Nyet. Need other help. Big Cliff brain help.”

“What do you need buddy?”

Ilya wondered if it helped or hurt this conversation that his face was buried in the brown leather of Cliff’s couch and he couldn’t actually see the other man. “Boyfriend,” Ilya grunted.

“You need a boyfriend?” At least Cliff didn’t sound shocked.

“Nyet, am boyfriend?”

“Oh shit Roz, your girl locked you down?”

“No, no no Marly you are so bad at this.” Ilya head was starting to spin. “I cannot be boyfriend. Have never been boyfriend. Don’t know how.” He turned his head to face the back of the couch. Probably better if you don’t suffocate. “Is sad.”

“Okay do you want to be a boyfriend?”

“Can’t!” Ilya groaned. “Russian.”

“I’m pretty sure you can still get a girlfriend if you’re Russian, man.”

“Yes, yes. Is sad.” Ilya felt the phone in his hard, solid and warm. He wondered if Shane had texted him back yet. “Marly?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah?” The other man’s voice seemed closer now.

“I miss -” Ilya stopped himself from finishing the sentence, but a tear rolled down his cheek. “Nothing. Just sad.”

A heavy blanket settled over Ilya, and a minute later the overhead light shut off.

“Get some sleep, Roz. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Ilya hummed in agreement. But when the morning came, Ilya picked himself up off of Cliff’s couch and went home.

Neither of them mentioned it again.

___

The problem wasn’t that Shane had come home with him after the Montreal game in December. The problem wasn’t that Ilya had dropped to his knees in the living room and sucked Shane’s cock until the other man came, trembling and moaning, pulling Ilya’s hair. The problem wasn’t that Ilya had picked Shane up, hands wrapped around Shane’s thighs, Shane’s legs around his waist, and carried the 200 lb hockey player into the bedroom just for the sheer joy of knowing that he could. The problem wasn’t that he’d fucked Shane – gently at first, then very much not gentle at all – into the mattress until they both shouted their orgasms at almost the same time, or that he’d coaxed a pliant Shane into the shower to clean them both up. Or even that, once he came back to himself, Shane sunk to his knees under the warm water and gave Ilya his second orgasm of the night.

Two for each. That was fair, that was good, that was deeply fucking right, so there was no problem there either.

The problem was that eventually Shane left, and Ilya was not at all okay.

It’d been two weeks since then, two months since Ilya had visited Shane’s Montreal apartment, five months since the CCM photoshoot and room 1410, 18 months since the draft, two years since they’d met at the World Junior Hockey Championships in Regina, and in all that time they’d fucked twice, given each other a total of 10 orgasms between them, and only spent 3 nights in the same room. The math was loud in his head in both languages, the math made his teeth hurt, the math had it out for Ilya personally.

Ilya was so fucking lonely, and it was his own damn fault.

He could go out right now and pick someone up. A woman, hell – a man, if he wanted. He hadn’t, other than Shane, since coming to Boston, but he knew that he could. This city was very gay, in a way that still surprised him at times, the way you can be surprised when you go into a coffee shop and there’s a sticker on the window that says people like you are welcome, even though you know you’re Ilya Rozanov, rising star of the Raiders and a Russian citizen, so people like you aren’t allowed to be anything at all.

But the last time he’d let a stranger touch him, Shane had reached out for help and Ilya hadn’t been there. And now, he didn’t know if he could still fuck someone else without seeing those freckles across Shane’s beautiful face.

Shane, who still wouldn’t flirt with him over text.

Shane, who lived in Canada and played for a Canadian team that happened to be his divisional rival.

Shane, who doesn’t talk about when they’ll see each other next.

Shane, who said Ilya was his friend.

Shane, Shane, Shane. Ilya hates himself for not being able to get that name out of his head.

He answers the phone the next time his father calls, just so someone else can hate him for a while instead.

Chapter End Notes

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 10: Will you disappoint me?

Chapter Summary

Ilya and Shane meet up at the 2011 All-Stars game, trying to find time for a real conversation between reporters, teammates, and the fact that Scott Hunter's room is right next door. Ilya avoids his feelings by fucking about it, but Shane refuses to leave things unsaid.

NSFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

Extra long chapter because because after Ch 9 you all deserve a little treat.

Thank you so much for all of the love and really thoughtful comments! I'm so glad this story is resonating with people. If you've posted about it online anywhere, please share a link in the comments so I can see/share it.

Jan 2011

Jane: you miss me?

Ilya kept looking at the message on his phone. It had come in the day after the Winter Classic, after Ilya had dimly remembered the text he’d sent the night before:

Lily: we won and your not hre

Lily: fkn mss you

Lily: stupid hollnder

Jane: you miss me?

He’d been looking at it for six days.

A few times he imagined Shane was sitting somewhere in Canada – in the locker room, in his Montreal apartment, in his childhood bedroom at his parent’s cottage on some lake near Ottawa – looking at his own phone, waiting for Ilya to reply, maybe biting his lip. Waiting for a response that Ilya couldn’t bring himself to type. Feeling ignored. Feeling his heart break. 

Did it fucking kill him too?

If he cares at all about me, I’m hurting him, and I can’t stop.

I was only ever going to hurt him, or me, or us both.

Ilya thought about all the ways he could respond. Yes I miss being able to score more goals than you, was one option.

Another variation on the theme was I miss the way you cry when I beat you.

He could say I miss the way you moan when I work you open or I miss the way you try to fit my whole cock in your mouth or I miss how I can fuck you with all my strength and you love it but somehow in his head that turned into I miss how cute and sleepy you get when you’re all fucked out and I think about you every day and who is touching you when I’m not there, Shane? and I hope you are cared for and when I think about you I forget about hockey and

And, and, and.

He should just write yes but what that really meant was I can never go home again and that was the one thing he couldn’t say.

There was no way Ilya could give up Russia – his only home, beautiful and dangerous, full of pain and nostalgia and the origin of his still bright memories of his mother – for a man he had only had sex with on three occasions.

Part of him was seriously considering it.

So Ilya stared at his phone but didn’t reply because anything other than cracking his own chest open would be a lie, and he’d told Hollander he wouldn’t lie to him.

But then the All-Stars roster went out, with the league splitting their players between North American and European. Both Ilya and Shane had made the list, though for some reason Ilya didn’t understand, Shane wasn’t the league’s choice. He had the most points of any rookie this season, but that didn’t earn him a spot at All-Stars. He’d, luckily, been voted in as the fan favorite, so even though they wouldn’t be on the same team, they’d be at the same event (the same hotel) for three days straight.

Ilya had created six different email addresses so he could vote for Shane over and over.

Jane: see you at AS I guess

Lily: yes want to see you

Jane: you sure?

Lily: very

He hoped it was enough.

Of course, he wouldn’t be able see Shane until there were cameras pointed at them both. He’d arranged his flights to come in the day before but Shane was caught up with another promotional thing his mom had arranged so Ilya spent the night alone in his hotel room in Nashville watching Shane’s game tape and jerking off. Then Shane’s plane was late. Ilya stood in his hotel room in his suit, the warm metal of his mother’s cross caught between his lips, watching his phone to see if Shane texted about having landed.

At least Shane had been texting about that. He hadn’t brought up the idea of Ilya missing him again.

But then it was time to go so Ilya found the makeshift press room in a hotel ballroom, got through introductions to people he would never remember, and sat in his assigned seat behind the table at the front of the room. Shane came in, breathless and gorgeous, already in his suit, and sat down next to him as a woman was fixing Ilya’s hair.

“Hey,” Ilya said.

Shane nodded but didn’t look at him.

“Okay guys, you ready?” someone yelled. Both of them nodded.

“First one is for you, Hollander: the League is invested in the idea of a fierce rivalry between its two top-scoring rookies. Now that you and Rozanov are here, can you tell us more about your rumored friendship? Is this real, or has Rozanov’s famous chirping gotten out of hand?”

Fuck you and your mother, Ilya thought.

Shane cleared his throat and leaned forward to the mic. “Not matter what else we might be, Rozanov and I are friends. We’ve known each other for a few years now, since before the draft. Other people decided we were going to play for rival teams, not us. Off the ice, I’m not going to pretend that I don’t like him anymore. But on the ice, the best thing about him is that he’s always pushing me to do better so I can be better than him. The league and the fans want a show? They’re going to get it.”

Ilya remembered how to breathe again. A feeling he couldn’t name moved up from his hips, through his belly, and into his chest.

“Rozanov, sounds like you’ve got some competition. Anything you want to add?”

Ilya grinned. Oh, that’s what this is. “I like to make Metros cry when they lose. Fans come see Metros lose, think big strong Raiders are very sexy, yes? Good for team, good for league.” I know this feeling.

Shane snorted and shook his head, but Ilya saw a tiny smile pulling up one corner of Shane’s mouth.

“Hollander, any response?” someone asked.

“Um, nothing I can really say on TV, thanks.” A few people in the room laughed at that.

This is joy.

“Rozanov, you’re currently 3 points behind in the scoring race with Hollander, with the end of the season moving toward us quickly. How do you plan to catch up?”

Shane likes me.

Fuck me, Charming Asshole Rozanov needs to take over because Mr. Big Feelings is going to say big feelings things in public in 3… 2…. “I am better than he is,” Rozanov said, his face suddenly serious and professional.

Shane made a choked sound, clearly cutting off something not meant for a broadcast audience. “You are not,” he said instead.

“Hollander!” another voice in the dark shouted. “Is there any temptation to hold back at all and let your friend catch up with you?”

Shane’s answer was immediate: “I’d rather die.”

More laughter.

“Oh, okay,” Rozanov said as made a face for the cameras. Look at me, not him. “Let’s have bet then, okay? Whoever loses Rookie of the Year has to wear the other’s jersey to the first game of next season.”

“You’re not getting me in your jersey, Rozanov,” Shane snapped back. His ears were pink though, and Ilya’s cock was starting to get ideas of its own.

“No, I think you will win award,” Ilya said softly. “But it’ll be be funny, no?” He smiled for real then, hoping that only Shane would see the difference.

Shane stared at him, speechless.

In front of them, cameras flashed.

“Rozanov, this is to you, but Hollander if you could answer the same question…”

They both put their masks back on and turned as one to face the cameras. Ilya had lost the question though under the noise in his own head – something about Boston and original six – but when the man stopped talking, Ilya took a moment too long, trying to figure it out. Under the table, he felt something tap his foot. Ilya swallowed hard, and tapped Shane’s foot back.

“If Rozanov doesn’t mind…” Shane said, waiting. Ilya gave a tiny nod in his direction.

Ilya watched him give a perfect media answer about his mom’s love for the Metros and winning cups but all he could really think about was Shane’s perfect jaw line. He wanted to run his thumb down Shane’s jaw, brush it against those soft lips. He wanted Shane’s mouth to open for him, the way Shane always opened so easily for Ilya, and push his thumb inside. He wanted Shane’s tongue to move around Ilya’s thumb, and he wanted Shane to close his mouth and suck Ilya’s thumb deeper inside.

God, he wanted.

They got through the rest of the interview. Ilya barely remembered it and didn’t care. He looked to Shane as they stood, catching Shane’s eyes. Before they could say anything to each other, they were dragged apart to do other media separately.

Their near misses continued through the next day.

They passed each other in hallways, always with someone else from their team or management who couldn’t be allowed to see anything other than the way they wordlessly nodded at each other as they walked by. They found each other in the hotel bar, Ilya’s hand brushing against Shane’s thigh for a moment as they sat down next to each other, only be to pulled away by their teammates to separate dinners. Ilya texted his room number at 8 PM, and got I’ll try in return around 9, but then Shane texted can’t leave yet at 11:20 and srry Scott Hunter is talking to me !! at 1 AM. Ilya hadn’t been able to escape his team either so it’s not like he was being stood up but if he angrily elbowed the next drunk Swede who sat down next to him, well who could blame him?

They saw each other at the skills competition the next morning and Ilya was so glad to be near Shane again that he barely cared when the other man broke his new record two minutes after Ilya set it.

“Tonight,” he said quietly as he skated past. Shane nodded.

He pivoted to skate backward as he neared the end of the ice. Scott Hunter was leaned over, too far away now for Ilya to hear what he was saying. The smile on the older man’s face – and worse, the way Shane smiled back – did not go unnoticed.

And didn’t that make something twist angrily behind Ilya’s ribs?

When the day finally turned into night, Ilya waited alone in his hotel room. Shane was on his way up, having finally ditched the rest of his team. Ilya had his phone in his hand, wanting to know right away if there was another delay, another distraction.

He’ll change his mind, that damn voice told him. He’s been avoiding you since he got here. He barely texts. You’re good for a fuck every few months and you’re there when he’s bored and in between he barely knows you’re alive.

And the other voice, the one that sounded less like his father and more like Ilya, said maybe the times he notices me are the only times I am alive.

There was a soft knock at the door.

Ilya knew he should open it, but was suddenly, deeply, afraid. After a moment he got his feet to start working again, and made it over to the door. Shane rushed in, breathing hard.

“Is someone chasing you?” Ilya asked. Great choice, asshole.

“Anyone could have seen me!” Shane hissed. His hair was damp. “Scott Hunter is right next door.” He was wearing a hoodie and sweatpants, not trying at all but looking unfairly hot anyway. Ilya’s cock had been hard since Shane knocked.

Terrified and aroused at the same time is not a great place to be, emotionally. Ilya thought that voice sounded a little like Shane, but it wasn’t wrong.

Shane sighed. “We need to talk.”

“No, talk after,” Ilya said.

Shane looked at him then, really looked. “Fuck,” he said, and launched himself at Ilya. They kissed against the wall, Shane pressing against Ilya’s body, rushed and dirty. Shane kissed like he was trying to crawl inside of Ilya’s mouth and live there; Ilya had absolutely no objection to the idea. His heart raced. He pushed Shane away for a moment.

“On your knees,” Ilya said.

Shane dropped like a rock. He grabbed at Ilya’s pants, got them open and released Ilya’s cock in one movement. His mouth was around Ilya’s cock a second later, warm and wet.

“Wow,” Ilya whispered without meaning to. His back arched off the wall as Shane licked and sucked at him, moving fast – it was too much, too good, too soon. He reached for Shane’s shoulders to pull him up into a kiss. Then he grabbed at the back of Shane’s thighs; without a word between them, Shane must have known what Ilya wanted. He jumped up into Ilya’s arms and, pants still around his thighs, Ilya carried him to the bed. He dropped Shane and for one moment gorgeous, blushing, Shane just stared up at him.

They stripped faster than they ever had in their lives.

Ilya sucked Shane’s cock for a moment, listening to the other man moan quietly, until he could feel Shane’s thighs trembling under his hands. He crawled up his body then, stopping to plant kisses along his stomach, ribs, shoulders. “Turn over,” he whispered. Shane did.

Ilya fit himself behind Shane, grabbing Shane’s ass with only one of his hands because he was propping himself up with the other. “I want to fuck you,” he said. He slid his free hand around Shane’s hip to get his hand onto something firmer.

“Not here,” Shane replied. “He’ll hear us.” Scott fucking Hunter.

“Hmm, maybe you like that,” Ilya said, his voice low and filthy with need. Shane’s cock twitched in response. Ilya looked down, making sure that Shane saw. “Oh, you do like that… we could let him listen like mating call.” He kissed Shane’s shoulder. Shane’s cock got even harder. Ilya imagined fucking Shane loud enough to be heard, or somewhere where people could see this beautiful man coming undone solely from the power of a magnificent Russian dick, and filed that thought away for later. “Your poor ass,” Ilya said, teasing one finger against Shane’s entrance. “Has it been lonely? It’s been a month…”

“Not exactly,” Shane said with a sigh.

Ilya froze. “What?” 

“I’ve… done stuff.” Shane blushed, starting at his ears and creeping down his face.

“With who?” Ilya said, pushing back slightly. “This is what you wanted to talk about?”

“What? Ilya, no,” Shane said, twisting around to face him. “I’m trying to tell you I have a… thing.”

“A thing.” What the fuck does that mean?

“A… dildo,” Shane said quietly. Oh… that kind of thing. Not another man. A toy. A sex toy, which Shane Hollander, Canada’s golden boy, bought with his very own hockey money.

Ilya was thrilled and incredibly turned on at the same time. “What… color?” he growled.

“Fuck you, I’m not telling you,” Shane said, curling in on himself with a small embarrassed laugh.

“Noooo, Shane, don’t hide from me,” Ilya said dramatically. He kissed the other man’s shoulder then. “That’s so sexy,” he added, kissing his chest. He kissed up Shane’s neck, stroking his jaw. “So hot, I will think about you fucking yourself when I’m not there to do it for you.”

“Really?” Shane asked. He sounded nervous.

Ilya kissed him in response, and kept kissing him until all of Shane’s uncertainty bled away.

“We’d have to be quiet,” Shane said softly between kisses. “If you want to fuck me, we can’t shake the bed. You can’t make any noise at all.”

“I think you are the one who is noisy, Shane,” Ilya said. He grabbed Shane’s cock and stroked it, watching as Shane closed his eyes and lifted his hips with a moan. “I will have to help you stay quiet, yes?”

“Please,” Shane said, breathless.

Ilya grabbed the lube from the bag he’d left on the floor next to the bed, and quickly got two fingers inside of Shane’s ass, watching Shane’s mouth drop open at the unexpected stretch. “You tell me if I hurt you, yes?” Ilya asked. “I want you to feel me tomorrow, but never hurting you okay?”

Shane nodded. “Promise, but it feels so good, Ilya.”

“Yes, you are good boy, taking me like this.” Shane moaned again at that, exactly like Ilya always assumed he would. “Always a good boy for me.” They both breathed faster as Ilya fucked Shane with his fingers, Ilya’s cock rubbing against Shane’s hip. More lube, and three fingers were pushed inside, just the right amount to loosen Shane up but not quite much as Ilya himself, so Shane would always be ready but still feel Ilya coming home.

Because that’s what this was Ilya realized as he got a condom on, lined himself up, and pushed oh so slowly inside of Shane Hollander. Coming home.

“Fuck, Ilya, so good, please fuck me,” Shane begged. “Please, move.”

“Shh, sweetheart, we have to be quiet remember?” Ilya said with a wide grin. He very slowly pulled almost all of the way out, and very slowly pushed his thick cock all of the way back in. Shane groaned desperately as his dick leaked onto his stomach. “Do you want me to help you stay quiet?”

“Yes, please.”

Ilya moved until he was almost laying on top of Shane, with one hand on the bed next to Shane’s shoulder. He brought his other hand up to cover Shane’s mouth. “If you want me to move my hand, you tap me on the shoulder, okay?” The other man nodded. His eyes were wet and his pupils blown wide.

Already so beautiful for me, Ilya said in Russian. He started thrusting again, impossibly slow, each movement dragging him closer and closer to an orgasm. Underneath him, Shane shook. He grabbed Ilya tightly with both hands. I’m going to have marks tomorrow, Ilya said, English still the wrong language for these confessions, the slow torture of fucking Shane so carefully quietly wrecking him. Thank you, my good boy, I love it, I can’t wait to see them.

Shane broke below him, pushing his hips up trying to get Ilya inside of him faster, trying to fuck him back, fuck him harder. Ilya was sweating now, goosebumps all over his skin. He could hear Shane moaning even under his fingers. Ilya sped up as much as he dared, but he could hear the bed squeak quietly and didn’t want to risk upsetting Shane by being any louder. Tears fell, down Shane’s cheeks, toward the bed. He didn’t look sad, he looked glorious, more like Ilya was fucking the very water from his eyes. Ilya fought down on every instinct he had to speed up, move faster, bring them both to the orgasms they deserved. To make this beautiful boy feel exactly as wrecked as Ilya did.

Suddenly Shane tapped his shoulder and Ilya instantly stilled. He moved his hand away.

“I keep wanting to bite you,” Shane panted. “I don’t want to hurt your hand, we still have to play tomorrow.”

“Oh sweetheart, I would not mind,” Ilya said, “But I don’t want you to worry.” He tucked his hand under Shane’s head. “Bite my shoulder. It’s okay.”

“It’ll leave a mark,” Shane said, frowning.

“It’s okay, I like it,” Ilya assured him. He kissed Shane then, to prove it.

He held Shane like that, thrusting slowly but driving in as far as their bodies would allow, over and over with precise, powerful movements, Shane muffling his cries against Ilya’s shoulder, until finally they came together.

After they both came back to themselves, Ilya softening but still inside, Shane slowly opened his eyes. “Ask me why I didn’t text you for three months,” he whispered.

“Why do you need me to ask you?” Ilya said. He didn’t want to hear whatever Hollander was about to say.

“I feel like I have a million thoughts in my head, I’m noting everything all the time. But I can’t get it out. There’s a wall between my brain and everyone else. I think… no one wants to know all of these thoughts, it’s too much, I’m too much for people.”

“What? No, Shane, did I make you feel that-” Ilya could feel the panic building in his chest.

“Not you,” Shane sighed. “Not you, I promise. But I can’t help it. When you ask me questions it’s like a signal to my brain that this is safe to talk about, then the wall has a door in it and everything tumbles out.”

“Oh,” Ilya said.

“Ask me about the three months.” Shane was staring at him with those warm brown eyes. He still had his arms around Ilya, and even though they were both sticky with Shane’s release, Ilya didn’t ever want to leave.

“Shane, why didn’t you text me for the first three months after I gave you my number?” Ilya asked.

Shane grinned. “Because I am a giant idiot and I thought you didn’t like me.”

Ilya was speechless. His mouth moved but no sound was coming out. In that moment, his brain just couldn’t put ideas and sound together to do anything useful at all. And Shane, his Shane, fucking laughed.

Not at Ilya. With Ilya. He sounded delighted.

“I know, I get that now. I mean, obviously right? But I told myself you felt sorry for me because anyone else would have felt sorry for me and that was the only reason you gave me your number. I’m not exactly… and you’re Ilya Rozanov. Why would you want me?”

“You want a fucking list?” Ilya said, grabbing Shane's shoulder and pretending to shake him. “Because I have a fucking list. One, you’re Shane fucking Hollander. Okay, is end of list.”

Shane laughed again. Ilya’s dick had slipped out when it finished softening but Ilya was pretty sure that if Shane kept being this happy he’d be ready for round two in another few minutes. He twisted the condom off and dropped it in the little trash can he'd dragged over before Shane got there, knowing this would be part of the cleanup if he got his way.

“It took me three months of thinking about you every day," Shane said when Ilya had snuggled back up to him, "and pretty much jerking off thinking about you every day, before I gave up and just said the first stupid thing that came to mind.”

“Not stupid,” Ilya said defensively, thinking of the little white card that lived in his wallet. “I like that you made a plan for me.”

“Good because I make a lot of plans and you feature heavily in several of them.”

“Oh, yes?” Ilya kissed Shane softly. “Tell me about these plans of yours.”

“Later, pervert,” Shane said, smiling. “We’re not done talking.” Ilya grabbed Shane’s pec and squeezed, but kept quiet. “I need a lot of… I guess you can call it reassurance. My brain wants me to think that you’re like everyone else. You’re going to talk around me instead of talking to me. You’re always going to be putting up with me instead of actively wanting me around. You’re going to fuck me when you get the chance then go home and fuck a million other people you like so much better.”

Ilya shook his head. “I haven’t been,” he said quickly, before he realized what he was admitting. “Just you, since before Montreal.”

“Really?” Shane said, a wide grin splitting open his face.

“Is no big deal, Shane. Is just sex.”

“You love sex though,” Shane said. “You took home a different girl every night.”

“Maybe not that many,” Ilya said, looking away for a moment. But close. “And maybe I will again, but right now, am not. Is okay.”

“Just me?” Shane asked, as if he couldn’t believe it.

Ilya shrugged. “Are you?”

Shane shook his head. “Nope.” Grinning like he’d won a prize.

“So, what, no nice men in Montreal?” Ilya asked, betraying himself. Please say no.

“Maybe, but how many of them are incredible hockey players who are also so mind-bendingly hot they literally make me want to lick every inch of their skin?” Shane made a face like he was actually considering his answer. “10? 15... 20, tops.”

“You’re a menace, Shane Hollander,” Ilya said with a laugh. “Just for that I should stop fucking you.”

“Nooo,” Shane whined. “I want to go again in a minute.” He wiggled his hips against Ilya’s, and damn if they both weren’t already half hard again.

“Okay, I guess if those other 20 guys are busy, I can fuck you when I’m in Montreal for a game,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes.

“And when I’m in Boston,” Shane said.

“Okay, yes, Boston too.”

“And maybe we can see each other in between?”

Ilya looked down at him. “You want this?”

“It’s a 90 minute flight, Ilya. It’s not like we have to only see each other 4 or 5 times a year.”

“But we can’t…” Ilya sighed. “We can’t be anything. Russia…” He shook his head. “We can’t tell anyone.” He wanted to cry at the thought.

“Hey, hey,” Shane said. He reached up a hand and turned Ilya’s face back so they could look each other in the eye. “I get it. The league, fuck, my parents – we can’t tell anyone. It’s okay. But I did miss you, Ilya.”

“I missed you too,” Ilya said. It was too much to say and not enough at the same time. “So, friends, and we fuck when we can.”

“Yes,” Shane said. “And you have to tell me you want me, like be direct. Use your words. I’m serious, I need a lot. And I don’t always know what I need, so I’ll try to tell you more too but it took me six fucking months to figure this out and I think about you every day.”

“And you jerk off about me every day too?” Ilya asked. His cock was hard again, so he ground it against Shane’s for a moment, just to hear the soft moan that slipped out of the other man’s mouth.

“Sometimes twice,” Shane said. He bit his lip. “And you promise we’ll play just hard on the ice?”

“Oh yes, very hard,” Ilya said, moving his hips again.

“Stop it, asshole, we’re having a moment here.”

“Shane I would be very disappointed if you didn’t fight for every single point, okay? I only want to beat you at your best. No pity pucks for sad Russian boys, okay?”

“Okay.” Shane smiled.

“Enough talking? I can fuck you again, yes? Keep Hunter awake at night listening to two hottest players in the league?”

“How about a shower because I’m gross now, and I suck your dick under the water so no one can hear you?”

Ilya jumped up at that, grabbed Shane’s outstretched hand, and pulled him toward the bathroom.

And Shane laughed the whole way.

---

At the All-Stars game the next day, the fans cheered as they faced each other in the center of the ice.

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya said with a slow drawl. “Will you disappoint me?”

Shane grinned. “Nope.”

And the puck dropped.

Chapter End Notes

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 11: What, Russians don’t blush?

Chapter Summary

Ilya's depression spirals, people notice, and the Montreal v Boston game gets snowed out.

SFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

Feb – March 2011

There are five weeks between the 2011 All-Star game and the final Montreal vs. Boston game of the regular season.

For the first week, Ilya is happy. Shane was texting regularly, and the bruise he left on Ilya’s shoulder was easy to see any time Ilya looks in a mirror shirtless. Ilya took a picture with his shitty camera phone and texted it.

Jane: I’m so sorry!!

Lily: I’m not

Jane: has your team seen?

Lily: yes they think I am stud

Jane: wtf

Lily: is wrong word?

Jane: no

Jane: idk if my team would think that if I came in with a hickey

Jane: they might stop asking when I’m going to hook up again

Jane: only slightly less annoying that other shit they come up

Lily: tell them you fuck a Boston girl

Lily: I will mark you up next time

Jane: maybe

And Ilya – alone in his apartment – thinking about leaving hickeys all over Shane’s body, needed to be naked immediately.

Lily: srry brb you’re too hot

Lily: need to

Lily: do what you’re not here to do

Jane: fuck I’m not alone

Lily: I am want to see?

Jane: not right now jesus

Lily: I take picture after let me know when you want it

Jane: yes please

It was barely five minutes but Ilya came on his chest with Shane’s name in his mouth, and thinks the distance between them might not be as much as he feared. He has to try three times to get a photo that a) isn’t too blurry to make out, and b) doesn’t have his face in it. Shane asked for it late that night.

Shane called almost immediately. They  jerked off together over the phone for the first time, moaning each other’s names, hot and frantic. Ilya came first with Shane following him right after.

Five weeks, Ilya thinks. I can do this.

He doesn’t entirely believe it.

They text each other every day.

Jane: had to buy a new door lock

Lily: ?

Jane: keypad so my mom doesn’t need a key

Lily: you don’t want to give her one

Jane: it’s a security thing

Jane: no keys mean I can change the code whenever

Lily: but your mama goes in your apt w/o key?

Jane: yeah it’s not ideal but security is important

Jane: also I can give you code so you don’t need a key either

Lily: okay I also buy this

and

Jane: want to punch my own d line

Lily: ?

Jane: it’s fine

Lily: my least favorite word

Jane: what’s your favorite?

Lily: idk

Jane: mine is crepuscular

Lily: ???

Jane: it means twilight or dawn

Jane: animals that don’t come out at day or night but in between

Jane: they don’t have a place here or there

Jane: find their own place when the world doesn’t expect them

Lily: good word

Some of the texts he got that week aren’t sexual at all, but more of them are than ever before. Random conversations turning flirty when Ilya doesn’t expect it.

Jane: got checked hard tonight

Jane: mom said it looked bad on tv but I’m fine

Lily: saw that

Lily: you made highlights reel on espn

Jane: ?

Lily: checked then goal 30 sec later

Jane: oh yeah

Jane: too long in ice bath still cold

Lily: cold everywhere?

Jane: yes?

Lily: too bad I’m not there

Jane: tell me what would you do

Lily: my hands are warm

Lily: mouth too

and

Lily: at Marly’s for dinner

Lily: team bonding

Jane: on  bus

Lily: Dallas next?

Jane: Utah

Lily: watch out for new d

Lily: Russian, bigger than me

Lily: would bruise little Canadian center

Jane: idk you’re almost too big for me :;

Lily: Jane is that a sex joke?

Jane: it’s a fact LILY

Jane: the winky face is for dramatic effect

Lily: you’re terrible at sexting

Jane: who taught you that word?

Lily: Vic

Lily: just now

Lily: asked if I am sexting Montreal girl :D

Lily: I said no is hockey facts ;)

Jane: tell me about big Russians bruising Canadian centers

Lily: you want team to see me hard?

Jane: go in the bathroom

Lily: 2 min

Other conversations started out normal but turned into something… worrying.

Jane: Dinner with Hayd and JJ

Lily: still talk to them?

Jane: teammates, no choice, but they’re trying I guess

Jane: rooming with H still

Jane: he’s obsessed with my meal plan

Lily: ??

Jane: calls it disgusting bird food

Jane: it’s macrobiotic

Lily: idk this

Jane: fish and vegetables, some rice, lots of pickled things, really good for your digestion

Jane: new nutritionist

Jane: mom found her

Lily: coach ok?

Jane: yeah

Lily: then fuck Hayden

Jane: oh you’d like it if I fucked Hayden?

Lily: shut up

Jane: you said it

Lily: just think it would not be good for you

Lily: I can do better

Lily: fuck who you want

Jane: okay

and then, an hour later

Lily: please don’t fuck Hayden Pike

Jane: would never

Lily: okay

Ilya laid on the couch and thought about this for an entire afternoon. In the end he doesn’t have any answers, but he called Shane when they were both in bed for the night and they fumbled in the dark together, so it doesn’t feel quite so much like they’re a million miles apart.

The second week it’s a little harder to get going in the morning. Ilya’s shoulder was sore from a rough check in their game at Columbus and his knuckles were bruised from punching Utah’s newest defenseman for checking Montreal's center harder than necessary the week before (though if Shane asked about it, Ilya was definitely going to lie). The string of hotel rooms in between is starting to run together in his head. Some of the older guys say it’s always like this at the end of the season, unless you’re staring down a Cup run. The Raiders are good this year, better than they have been in a long time, but privately Ilya thought there was no chance they’ll make the playoffs this year. Montreal, maybe, but probably not. He hadn’t talked to Shane about it yet, they were both still in the fight, but knowing it was going nowhere took some of the heat out of it. For Ilya, anyway.

Three weeks after the All-Stars, Ilya was finally back home, resting on his one day off. Dinner was decent Thai food – he'd been trying different nearby restaurants, trying to figure out what he actually likes, for a few months now. Ever since Connors asked him how he felt about tom yum and egusi soup and Ilya had to admit he didn’t know what those things were. Turns out Connors just really likes soup. Ilya filed that away in the same place he knew that Marly had a tattoo on his ass he got for a girlfriend who dumped him a week later, his only Russian-borne teammate (Roman Ivanov) watched Saturday morning cartoons any time they were back in Boston, and his Captain fucking loved waffles.

Ilya had settled onto his couch after he ate, found a dumb America movie about space travel or black holes or something, and let himself relax. He was struggling to keep his eyes open by the time his phone buzzed.

Jane: Hayd is getting married

Lily: nice that he’s committed to only disappointing one woman for the rest of his life

Jane: that’s a terrible thing to say

Lily: tell me I’m wrong?

Jane: … anyway

Jane: he asked me to be his best man

Ilya smiled at the thought of Shane in a tux, put his phone down on the coffee table, and was asleep before the movie was over.

By the fourth week, Ilya realized there was something wrong. He’d missed both of the optional skates that week and barely functioned during the required practices. He was scoring well in the games still – mainly driven by anger at himself for not being more… functional, he thinks. Better, somehow. Less damaged. But he isn’t those things, so in between goals he lets himself get goaded into fighting and spends more time in the sin bin than any other week his rookie year so far.

And after the games the thought of going back to his empty apartment or empty hotel room, even to call Shane, feels so fucking devastating that he just stops doing it.

He goes to clubs instead, getting drunk, dancing with anyone and everyone. He dances until he sweats, drinks another beer or another shot, and throws himself back into the crowd to dance again. Pretty girls grind on his cock and kiss his neck and it works for him until it doesn’t. Then he pours himself into a cab and only into his bed when he’s certain to pass out immediately.

Shane doesn’t text him for three days.

Eventually he finds the pictures of himself online: Ilya with his shirt off dancing in a club, Ilya with a blond on one arm and a dark-skinned brunette with her tongue in his mouth.

Lily: didn’t bring anyone home

Lily: didn’t go home with anyone

And then, an hour later

Lily: sorry

He doesn’t get a response until at 3 AM, when his phone buzzes once.

Jane: okay

It’s better after that, Shane texting about his games and his team, but not about sex anymore.

Shane doesn’t call again either.

Ilya stops going out. If he’d been able to be rational about it, he’d know he was choosing the possibility of something with Shane over the probability of random sex with strangers, but he wasn’t thinking about any of that. He thought about the garden his mother had when he was a child, how it died the summer after she did with no one to care for it, how the flowers he used to be able to see out his bedroom window turned brown and withered away before his brother finally ran the lawnmower over the whole thing like his mother’s flowers had never existed.

He thought about how he couldn’t remember the name of her favorite flower.

He wondered if Shane would smile at him again, the way he seemed to smile only for him.

The fifth week was better because the game against the Metros was coming up. Ilya stopped drinking for a little while, even home alone in his apartment. He showered and washed his sheets, then said fuck it and splurged on having his once-a-month cleaning lady come an extra time. He brushed his teeth more than once a day, and used the fancy conditioner on his hair, the one that made his curls bouncy and silky soft.

He stared at the balance in his secret savings account for about 12 minutes that Thursday afternoon then ordered a graphite grey 2011 Aston Martin V8 Vantage from the dealership Sveta works at. For the rest of the day it feels like his brain works normally again.

The day before he was due to fly to Montreal, Ilya willingly ate a salad. Sure it had egg, cheese, bacon, and croutons on it, but it was still mostly vegetables. Cliff watched with a deeply confused look on his face.

Sitting in the airport lounge, Ilya felt a sense of déjà vu (which his Russian brain pronounced as all one word: dezhavyu) while LeClaire talked about the storm dumping snow on the Montreal airport, but he didn’t worry because his coach had explained about backup plan buses the last time.

“Sorry boys, no one’s getting into Montreal today,” the gate agent called out.

His teammates groaned all around him. “Coach, this means Ottawa right?” Ilya asked.

“Not today, kid. Ottawa’s snowed out too. Game’s rescheduled for next week.”

Fuck, Ilya thought, and kicked his bag. He pulled out his phone to text Shane.

“Jane will understand,” Cliff said quietly.

“I don’t know, Marly,” Ilya said, and added, “I fucked up.”

“Pictures?”

Cliff knew which ones.

“Yeah,” Ilya admitted.

“Does she know you didn’t score?”

Ilya nodded.

“Are you guys exclusive?” Cliff looked more concerned than curious.

“We didn’t say, but I think… we can’t be.” Ilya bit his lip. “Too complicated.”

“What does Jane want?”

“Jane knows why we can’t.” Does he though? Ilya wondered. Probably, right?

Cliff dropped a meaty hand on Ilya’s shoulder. “Wanna come to mine, brother?” but Ilya shook his head.

“Better to be alone, but thank you.”

“All right. You be good,” Cliff said, and headed toward the exit.

Ilya gets himself home in a blur. He’s not quite sure how it worked but he ended up in front of his apartment door. He’d texted Shane at some point – his phone was still in his hand – offering a late night call as a backup plan for the sex they hadn’t actually confirmed was going to be happening after tonight’s game, before it was postponed. But Shane had already accepted an invite to have dinner with Hayden fucking Pike and his new fiance, because of course that asshole was still sucking up all of Shane’s free time like a fucking leech and Ilya had serious plans to rearrange his face the next time…

No, take a breath, do not let Pike get the better of you.

He did exactly that, shook out his arms to rid himself of the extra tension he wanted to leave outside his door, and punched in the code on his fancy new doorknob, and let himself in.

The light was on in the kitchen. Ilya frowned as he dropped his bag by the door. Did he leave it on?

And then a body was hitting him, squealing with delight.

Shane?

But this body was different: small, lithe limbs with not enough height, not enough muscle. Slim arms wrapped around his neck. Ilya felt curly hair tickling his chin.

“Sveta, what are you doing here?” he asked in Russian when he realized who he was hugging.

“Surprise!” she said happily. They didn’t speak English when it was just the two of them. She stepped back so he could see that she was wearing one of his Raider’s jerseys, and not much else. “You like?”

He was thrilled to see her and incredibly fucking disappointed to see her at the same time. He looked at his phone, wondering for a second if it would be better or worse to text Shane that Sveta was in his apartment while Shane was still with Pike.

“Oh, okay, fuck you,” Sveta said. “You have better options?” Her accent was more Americanized than Ilya’s, having lived in the US for years, but she’d kept the rounded sounds that made her accent seductive. Better for selling very expensive cars to rich old men.

Ilya sighed. “No, it’s nothing. I’m just surprised that you’re here.”

“I had to bring your car and I thought you’d need company tonight, since your game was postponed.” She put her hands on her hips.

Her legs were very long, and very bare.

“How did you know?” he asked, and she laughed.

“It’s on the news. Maybe you were too busy with…” she grabbed his phone suddenly, and ran away into the kitchen with it. “Oh, Jane is it? Maybe I text her and say you’re taken tonight?”

Ilya moved quickly after her, his long legs catching her almost immediately, and snatched his phone back. He put it down on the table, and picked Sveta up to set her beside it. “It’s nothing,” Ilya said, snuggling his face into the side of her neck. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She dragged him to the bedroom, hopping up onto his bed. She’s smiling and gorgeous; truly one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen. The sex between them has years of experience. The sex between them is formative, it’s foundational, it’s built into every trick, every move Ilya has ever used on another woman. Until Shane, Ilya would have said Sveta was the best fuck he’s ever had. She reached down to grab the hem of his jersey and slowly started to pull it up her body, biting her lip in anticipation.

And right then is when Ilya fucking Rozanov burst into tears.

“Oh, Ilyusha, it’s okay, we’re okay, come here,” she murmured softly, pulling him down on the bed with her. He let himself go, finding a position where he can lay with his head in her lap, Sveta stroking his hair while she whispered, “you’re okay, I’m here, you’re not alone,” over and over until he fell asleep.

Ilya was woken by his doorbell the following morning. Sveta wasn’t in his bed, but he didn’t expect her to be – she preferred to fuck then go home alone, so even if she stayed she would have gone to his guest room for the night. Ilya found his way to the door while rubbing the sleep from his eyes but paused when he saw Tom Anderson, the Raider’s captain, on the other side.

“Sorry to bother you kid,” the older man said. “Figured if I got here early enough I’d catch you. Can I come in?”

Ilya led them to the open-concept living room/dining room area without speaking; he started a pot of coffee, but Anderson waved off the empty cup Ilya tried to hand him. They were both still standing silently in the kitchen a few minutes later, coffee pot burbling behind them, when Sveta came downstairs.

She was completely dressed in her own clothes, thank god.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know your girlfriend was here,” Anderson started to say but Ilya cuts him off.

“No, no, not girlfriend,” he said quickly. Sveta raised an eyebrow at him but kept quiet. “Is old friend from Russia, Svetlana. She stays in guest room,” and then, because he didn’t want to be alone with whatever the fuck was happening right now, he added, “She only speaks Russian.”

Sveta, bless her ancestors, smiled. “We’re doing this then,” she said with a little wave, as if the Russian words were some sort of greeting. She sat down on one of the barstools at the island.

“Oh, right,” Anderson said, a little helplessly. “So, the reason I came, rook…”

“I have fucked up?” Ilya said. Might as well get this over with.

“Oh, no, not like… no. That’s not.” Anderson sighed. “We’re worried about you, kid.”

We. Multiple people.

“Worried,” Ilya said dryly. It’s not a question.

“Some of the guys,” Anderson said. “We can tell something’s wrong.”

“I score many goals.” Ilya shrugged. “I do my job.”

“Yeah, kid, on the ice you’re fine. Well, maybe too many fights for a center, but your scoring is great. No complaints.”

“So no worries then? Great talk, thank you for coming by.”

“Not so fast.” Anderson put his hands up in front of him, palms open. “It’s the other stuff I need to talk to you about.”

“I play hockey. What else is there?” Ilya grabbed the coffee, swore under his breath with the hot liquid sloshed over the top, and poured himself a cup. Then, a moment later, poured one for Sveta. He set it in front of her and tried very hard to ignore the look on her face.

“Rozy, I think deep down you’re a good kid. You’ve clearly got some stuff happening in your life you don’t want to talk to about, not to me anyway. That’s okay but kid…” Anderson sighed. “Outside of the ice I’ve seen you drunk more than I’ve seen you sober, and you’re only 19. It’s not even legal for you to drink here.”

“I am Russian, I am fine,” Ilya said with a sniff, looking away.

“Yeah, I don’t think you are. You’ve got a chick who looks like that sitting in your kitchen but you’re out almost every night picking up like it’s your job.” Anderson glanced over at Sveta but she kept her expression innocent as she sipped her coffee. Like she didn’t understand every fucking word he was saying.

Ilya wished he sent her back to her room after all.

“I don’t do that,” Ilya said quietly. “I dance, okay, sometimes I kiss, but I don’t…” he stopped. “Not for a while.”

“Okay,” Anderson nodded. “That’s good. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with getting around a bit when you’re young but some of the guys treat it as a challenge, plus the drinking, that’s how good players fuck themselves out of a job.”

Ilya tensed up, his whole body reacting like what Anderson just said was a threat. No Boston hockey, no US work papers, no excuse not to go back to Russia for good.

No escaping his family if he goes back for good.

Ilya set his coffee cup down on the counter. “How do I fix?” he asked quietly.

“Just tone it down. Don’t pass out on the floor anymore. Don’t get caught in pap pictures if you can help it. Show up to practice and be the guy I think you are. Do that,” Anderson added with a smile, “and you’ll be wearing that A next season.”

Ilya nodded. “Yes, I do this. Thank you.”

Anderson waved at Sveta then, who waved back, and showed himself out. 

“You going to listen to him?” she asked the moment the door clicked shut.

Ilya shrugged. “Does it sound like I have a choice?”

“Yes, Ilya, you always have a choice.”

“You know better than anyone that’s not true,” Ilya said, defeated. “Can you go? I’m sorry, I love you. Thank you for being here. Please go away.”

She stood then, crossed the distance between them, and gently kissed his cheek. “My poor boy,” she said softly. “You call me?”

He nodded.

She was gone five minutes later.

By the time the Metros arrived in Boston for their rescheduled game (their schedules didn’t line up properly to do it in Montreal this time), Ilya had been early to every practice, and stayed late to skate laps when he was alone on the ice. He’d turned down 3 requests from his teammates to go out drinking.

He hadn’t told Shane any of it. Not about Sveta, not about Anderson, not about the fact that he was apparently one more fuck up away from being exiled back to fucking Russia like a Soviet spy being handed off for a better political prisoner.

He did email pictures of his new car though.

And offered to drive Shane back to his apartment after the game.

Marly caught him checking his texts in the locker room, and half-whispered, half-laughed, “You’re blushing, Roz.”

But Shane had texted you give me a ride, maybe I give you one? So Ilya was definitely fucking blushing. “Impossible. Am Russian,” he said instead.

“What, Russians don’t blush?” Marly asked, louder now. “Hey, Big Ivan is that true?”

Ivanov looked up from tying his skates. “What?”

“Is it true that Russians don’t blush?”

Ivanov looked at Ilya, who shrugged. “Yes,” Ivanov said matter-of-factly, and went back to tying his skates. Cliff just laughed, and slapped Ilya on the back.

Chapter End Notes

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(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 12: Uh, dude, what the fuck?

Chapter Summary

A rough night on the ice, a goalie fight, and the Raiders inviting themselves along for dinner with Ilya and Shane. Shane reveals things not even Ilya knew.

This chapter contains canon-typical slurs from a hockey player (not our MCs, and we know it's bad to say those things, yes?)

SFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

March 2011

The game was pissing Ilya off. He shouldn’t be angry, he should be excited. He’d scored once already, stealing a puck from Hayden Pike of all people, flicking it into the net so fast the Metro’s goalie – something Miitka, Shane called him Mitty Ilya vaguely remembered – couldn’t get there from where he’d been guarding the wrong corner. He’d gotten Shane against the boards, slamming into him almost the same way he got him against a mattress, hard and sure. He’d heard the little moan Shane let out when it happened, too.

He should have been on top of the fucking world.

But he’d heard the way Gilbert Comeau said faggot as he skated past them a minute later, and Ilya was almost certain he’d meant Shane. His own fucking teammate. So of course the next chance he got, Ilya faked a pass to Marly but sent it to Connors instead, just a second ahead of Comeau, meaning that when the other man checked him into the boards Ilya had been, officially, out of play. Meaning he could shove Comeau off with more force than he needed to, and say, “I fucked your girlfriend this morning” low enough that only Comeau would hear. When the other man roared and dropped his gloves, Ilya only needed to take one clumsy hit before he could punch back. The refs would have to look the other way. It was perfect.

Except the refs pulled him off after three punches, the last one breaking Comeau’s nose, and when they’d cleaned the blood off the ice Ilya was the one with a two-minute penalty.

Ilya’s second penalty of the game came at the beginning of the third period, when he’d gotten in the middle of a fight between Marly and three fucking Metros, including Shane’s friend J.J. Cliff could, Ilya was sure, easily take any two of the Metros, probably any two current players in the NHL, but three was unfair and the Raiders didn’t let their guys go down under a pile of bodies without stepping in. He was closest, it was his job (despite a voice in his head that sounded like Anderson reminding him that it very much was not his job).

Shane had skated by, just a little slower than necessary, once Ilya was in the box. Shane had a look on his face that said dude what are you doing? Ilya spent the next two minutes trying not to think about getting sent back to Russia and never getting to see that face again.

The goalie fight happened toward the end of the third. Realistically, there’s no way Ilya could get the blame for this one. Some weird physics of hockey meant that when Carmichael checked Berkes behind the Metros goal, Berkes had actually flipped over? And landed on the net, practically on top of Mitty? Who’d dropped his gloves and actually left the crease to go after Carmy?

Goalie fights happened maybe two or three times a year. They were a statistical anomaly, a strange artifact of the game, and Ilya was fucking enthralled. The fight spread as other guys tried to break it up, then the Metros started jumping the boards to get out on the ice so the Raiders did too. Ilya had just gotten out there, gloves dropped, fully intending to get in at least two decent punches – and was, if he was being honest, headed straight for that fucker Comeau – when all of the sudden he felt something catch on his jersey as he was pulled back into a stop.

“Not this time, Rozanov,” Shane said. He pulled Ilya toward him until they were side by side, then put his arm around Ilya’s back.

Ilya had seen the same move half a dozen times this season. Guys on various teams pulling each other out of a fight to stand just off the the side. Make it clear to the refs that we’re not involved in this. Usually to save someone from more penalty time. It wasn’t even unusual for guys on opposing teams to do it.

But Shane’s arm around him, in front of both their teams and the 17,000 fans that could squeeze into TD Garden for your average hockey game and the impossible number of people watching at home… Ilya could barely breathe. He brought his arm up to hold onto Shane too, and wished time to stand still.

Hayden fucking Pike skated up and stopped on Shane’s other side. He put his arm around Shane too, that asshole. “Hey guys, what are we doing?” he said loudly.

Shane didn’t look at him. He hadn’t looked at Ilya either. Eyes on the ice, he just said, “Goalie fight,” with a little nod.

“Fucking weirdos,” Pike said.

Connors, who’d been pushed out of the fight and looked like he was about to dive right back in, saw them and changed direction. He came to a stop on Ilya’s other side, and hung his arm loosely around Ilya’s shoulders.

“Goalie fight,” he announced loudly.

“Goalies are weird,” Shane said, just as loud.

The refs finally got enough of the individual fights broken up that the rest gave up, in pieces, like a long exhale of breath leaving a rattling chest.

“See ya, Rozanov,” Shane said as Hayden dragged him back to their side of the rink.

“I like that kid,” Connors said.

Ilya just nodded. I like him too, he thought. I maybe like him too much.

Neither team scored again, with too many key players riding out the countdown in the penalty box, so the Raiders won with the two goals they’d scored already.

Jane: I got press, wait for me?

Ilya: player lot

But as he was headed out, Ilya realized a handful of his teammates had fallen in behind him.

“Where we going?” Marly asked.

“Uh, I uh…” Ilya paused. “Have plans.”

“Girl plans?” Connors asked.

“No, uh.” Ilya took a deep breath and pushed open the door that lead from the team side of the building to the parking lot. “Hollander plans.”

“Cool,” Vicky said. “Club?”

“No clubs,” Anderson said. Ilya turned; he hadn’t even realized their captain was with them.

“No clubs,” Ilya agreed, thinking of Russia.

“Food then?” Connors asked.

“You’re always fucking hungry, man,” Marly said, rolling his eyes.

“And you’re not? You eat a fucking elephant every day,” Connors said, shoving Cliff a little with his shoulder.

“Ammunition for the gun show, my man,” Marly said with a grin, flexing one of his meaty biceps.

“I could eat,” Vicky said, and the other men agreed.

“Oh, uh… Hollander has strict diet, yes?” Ilya tried to remember what Shane had said about his nutrition plan, for the dinner they had absolutely not agreed to have, and hoped his teammates wouldn’t find it appealing. “Fish, rice, that kind of thing. Probably you don’t like.”

“Like sushi?” Anderson asked, and Ilya groaned internally.

“I could murder a sushi,” Marly said with a nod.

"It's a cuisine, not a dish," Connors snapped, but he was smiling playfully. Marleau just shrugged.

Ilya pulled out his cigarettes and lit one. He smoked while the other guys argued about the best local sushi restaurants, checking the hours vs the relative distance. “Okay but you are not all going in my car,” he growled. The Aston Martin only had two seats, which - and Ilya was admitting nothing - might have been the main selling point. 

The door opened then. Shane had a smile on his face when he walked out, until he saw four of Ilya’s teammates standing next to him in the dark under the parking lot light. He stumbled for just a second but kept walking toward them as his face did that thing when everything dropped off it until it was just Hollander again, media trained hockey player.

“Rozanov,” he said with a nod.

“Hollander,” Ilya drawled. “The guys want to join us for dinner.”

“Dinner?” Shane repeated, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Ilya raised his hands in a way that he hoped said I’m sorry about this and please play along and can I still fuck you later? all at once.

“Rozy said you can eat sushi, right?” Connors asked. “We were just picking a place.”

“Only because you losers don’t understand that Yojimbo is the best sushi restaurant in a 10 mile radius,” Vicky said.

“No, asshole, Maguro is the best,” Marly argued. “It has more stars.”

“Stars isn’t the only thing that matters, Marleau,” Vicky said.

Anderson rolled his eyes and stuck his hand out in Shane’s direction. “Tom Anderson,” he said. “I’m responsible for these idiots, sorry about them.”

Shane shook his hand. “It’s an honor, Mr. Anderson. I’ve followed your career for a while.”

“Just Tommy, kid,” Anderson said with a smile. “Ride with me?”

Shane looked back at Ilya, who shrugged. “Okay, sure.”

“Where are we going?” Anderson asked.

“Yojimbo,” Vicky said, and “Maguro,” Marly yelled at the same time.

“Do you want to get papped in a fancy joint or eat casual in the back of a hole in the wall?” Anderson asked Shane.

“Casual, please.”

“Yojimbo it is. See you boys,” Anderson said, walking toward his own car, a white Porsche Boxter he’d bought a few years before Ilya joined the team. Shane trailed after him like a baby duck.

“Guess I’m with you,” Connors said as St. Simon and Marleau peeled off, still arguing with each other.

“Great,” Ilya said, trying to sound like he meant it.

At the restaurant Ilya sat on the other side of the table from Shane, watching. He watched Shane carefully go over the entire menu, looking for specific things he obviously recognized but didn’t just assume they had. Shane helped Anderson order too, answered Connors’s question about what went into miso soup (miso was a fermented paste apparently? Served with seaweed and little chunks of tofu) and Shane smiled a little when Connors ordered two bowls just for himself.

The waitress said something to Shane in a language Ilya didn’t know, Japanese probably, but Shane blushed a little and shook his head. “Sorry,” Shane had said softly. “I, uh, don’t really speak it.” The waitress nodded and took the rest of their order in English. Ilya resolved to ask Shane about this later, when they were alone, but Marleau said instead,

“Are you Japanese?”

The rest of the table quieted down, waiting for Shane’s answer.

He sighed. “Half, my mom is. Or, her parents were, she was born in Canada.” Shane bit his lip, and Ilya wanted to kiss him desperately.

He would be desperate, Ilya decided when he got the chance to kiss Shane Hollander again. He would be obvious and wanting and wrecked and that would be okay.

“Everyone expects me to be fully Asian or whatever, but I’m from Ottawa,” Shane added. He shrugged.

“Cool,” Marly said, and just like that the conversation moved on.

The food was excellent, and Ilya had to admit the cozy atmosphere was probably better for Shane than being in an uptight Michelin-star restaurant, but every time Shane’s phone buzzed the other man got a little more tense. Finally he checked his messages. “Fuck!” he said, slamming the phone down on the table. “Oh, sorry,” he said when he realized the table had gone silent.

“You okay?” Ilya asked.

“Yeah, it’s fine, just the usual stalker shit.”

Vicky’s eyes went wide. “You have usual stalker shit? Like, every day stalker shit that’s different than other kinds of stalker shit?”

“Ok, yeah, you know, this is just… they keep getting my phone number. I change it every six months, I should have done it again this year, I just… haven’t yet.” Shane bit his lip and looked at Ilya.

He kept his phone number rather than change it because I have it, Ilya thought.

“Uh, dude, what the fuck?” Connors said.

“It’s not like death threats or anything,” Shane said. He picked up his phone again. “And it’s different from when they break into my parent’s house."

“Okay, seriously, what the fuck?” Marly asked with a small laugh that said this situation was more unhinged than humorous.

“It happened one time,” Shane said, his voice small.

“I didn’t know,” Ilya said. “How long?” His voice trailed off. He couldn’t trust himself to speak and not give away all of their secrets all at once.

“I don’t know, since Juniors I guess,” Shane said. “Mostly people thinking I don’t deserve to play hockey, like I’m stealing something from them. This guy,” he waved his phone, “I think it’s the same guy anyway, he keeps getting new numbers to text me. I block him, he texts me again from a new number a week later.”

“What does he want?” Anderson asked.

Shane handed Ilya his phone. Ilya opened it and clicked on the top message. “You weren’t on the plane,” he read out loud. “Does that mean you’re finally ready to admit you don’t belong on this team you-” Ilya closed the phone with a loud snap and shook his head. “I’m not saying that.”

“Damn, man, sorry,” Marly said in a low voice.

Shane took his phone back. “It’s fine,” he said. “Everybody gets this stuff.”

But the Raiders all shook their heads. “No, kid, we don’t,” Anderson said. “Have you talked to anyone? Your team, the police?”

Shane sighed. “I have a police file. I let them know when it gets bad. I mostly stay off social media so I don’t have to see it.”

“And your team?” Ilya asked.

Shane looked down at the table. “They mostly think I’m making it up.”

“Is that why you didn’t fly back with them?” Connors asked. Ilya looked at him, confused. “It’s their bye week after tonight,” Connors told Ilya, like this was common knowledge. “The rest of the team already flew back to Montreal.”

Shane blushed a little, his ears going red. “I… needed a break. I’ll fly back on my own.”

“Why didn’t I know that?” Ilya asked softly.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

“I just. I mean,” Ilya sputtered. There are no words that are going to save me from having to explain this, he suddenly thought.

But Shane fucking Hollander made a face of pure innocence and said, dryer than unbuttered toast, “I guess you just don’t care enough to stalk me the way everyone else does.”

“Damn, Holzy!” Marly shouted, while everyone else burst into laughter.

“Hollander is cold,” Vic agreed, slapping Shane on the back.

Ilya leaned back in his chair and grinned.

They finished eating, tipped well, then stopped to do the math a second time and tipped even better. Anderson agreed to take Connors home so Ilya could give Shane a “ride to the airport”.

“Be good, rooks,” Anderson called out to them as they went their separate ways.

Ilya didn’t bother asking whether Shane really had a flight home. He drove more carefully than the way he’d driven when it was just Connors in his passenger seat, straight back to his apartment. Neither of them said anything until they got to the front door, until Ilya was showing Shane the door code on the same exact lock Shane had installed on his apartment because he’d sent Ilya a picture and Ilya had sent that picture to the locksmith he hired to do the work.

Then they were inside, shoes off, bags on the kitchen counter, alone at last.

Chapter End Notes

This chapter ended up needing to be split into two parts so the next one will go up tomorrow. Also the second half of this chapter has all the sex. Sorry about that - or not, sorry, if it gives you something to look forward to!

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 13: Can I decide tonight?

Chapter Summary

Part 2 of Ch 12: After a revealing (but unplanned) dinner with some of his teammates, Ilya takes Shane back to his apartment. Shane asks for control, and Ilya unravels beneath him. They spend the night together, and start to make plans in the morning.

NSFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

March 2011 (later the same night)

“We should talk, yes?” Ilya said, when they were both standing awkwardly in his living room. Shane hadn’t spoken the whole way back to Ilya’s apartment, and was very much not speaking to him now. Ilya wasn’t entirely sure Shane was looking at him even now; his gaze seemed to be focused just over Ilya’s shoulder, at the view out the apartment’s window.

Ilya’s apartment was high enough up that the view from this side of the building was the Boston skyline. Maybe not the best view money could buy – or in this case, rent – but it was nice.

“Shane?” Ilya asked. “You okay?”

He watched as Shane came back to himself: his jaw relaxed in a way that made Ilya realize it had been tense until then, he took a deep breath, and his eyes focused on Ilya’s face. He nodded.

“Yeah, just… long day. Can we talk after?”

Ilya took a step forward. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. You know that, right?”

Shane smiled, soft and shy. “I do. And I want to.” He stepped forward too, meeting Ilya in the middle. He put one hand on Ilya’s chest.

Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane. “Okay, sex first then we talk. I am thinking this is how we do it every time, maybe you need big strong Russian to make your big brain stop having so many thoughts so you can focus on the ones you want, yes?”

“Fuck you, asshole,” Shane said, laughing. Ilya pulled him closer.

“No,” he purred against Shane’s throat. “I fuck you.”

“Better hurry up then,” Shane said, his voice getting low and hungry. He found Ilya’s lips with his own and kissed him – tentative at first, then deeper as they pressed their bodies together. Shane’s tongue licked into Ilya’s mouth, Ilya bit carefully at Shane’s bottom lip, and their hands moved over each other like they were trying to touch everywhere at once. Ilya pulled them toward the bedroom but Shane wouldn’t stop kissing him on his mouth, his face, his neck… Ilya moved slow enough not to stop Shane from doing what he wanted but managed to get them both onto the bed eventually.

By the time they got into the bedroom, they’d left a trail of socks, shirts, and jackets along the way.

Shane was down to his pants while Ilya had dropped his just inside the bedroom door. Shane was still kissing him, more aggressively than ever before, nipping at his shoulders and neck as Ilya tried to get out of his bright red boxer briefs without knocking either of them over. Ilya pulled back, panting, and laid down in the middle of his bed.

“Come on,” he said, waving one hand at Shane, “I want to see you.”

Shane smiled at that. “You always want to see me.”

Ilya shrugged slightly, acknowledging this as another one of Shane’s facts. “Yes,” he said, because he did always wanted to see Shane naked. It was becoming a problem, but it was still true.

Shane sighed happily, and slipped out of his clothes. First his slacks, which he folded carefully and set on top of the dresser. Then his underwear (black, the same style of boxer briefs he and Ilya always wore, same size even, though not the same brand) were stripped off and folded the same way.

“You like?” Shane asked, as if after all these months he wasn’t sure.

Ilya licked his lips. “You’re perfect, Shane Hollander,” he said in English, his voice low and needy. “You’re going to kill me and I’m going to thank you for it,” he added in Russian.

“Can I…” Shane paused. “Can I decide tonight?”

“Yes, anything you need.” Ilya didn’t hesitate. He didn’t know Shane well enough yet, didn’t know what the other man could have in mind, and there were things they hadn’t discussed yet, things Ilya didn’t want to do, hadn’t done for a long time and was honestly a little afraid of having that conversation with Shane because he was almost certain that anything you need would include Ilya saying yes to something he had never planned to do again.

Shane nodded.

He moved toward the bed, close enough to lean against it and reach for Ilya’s ankles. He rubbed both hands up Ilya’s legs at the same time, moving up his calves, pushing his legs further apart. When he’d made enough space, he picked up one leg and knelt on the bed, bringing his other leg up until he was on the end of Ilya’s bed, on his knees.

He licked his lips.

He never took his eyes off of Ilya’s face.

Ilya was already painfully hard.

Shane moved his hands upward, still softly stroking both of Ilya’s legs at the same time. He moved his body forward as his hands climbed. Ilya couldn’t stop watching how Shane’s muscles moved under his skin, how his thick thighs supported him. Shane’s hands found the sides of Ilya’s hips and squeezed. Ilya jerked off the bed, unable to stop himself, but Shane pushed him back down.

“Where’s your lube?” Shane asked.

“Drawer,” Ilya said, starting to turn over to grab it, but Shane push him back down again. He put one knee on Ilya’s hip to keep him down, not hurting him but pinning him to the bed.

“Be good,” Shane said. Not a request. Ilya’s breath caught in his throat. Shane got the lube and a condom from the night table drawer and moved back between Ilya’s legs. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said gently.

“Don’t stop,” Ilya groaned. “Just want to make you feel good.”

“You do,” Shane whispered. “But you’ll tell me if you want me to stop or do anything different, right? Promise?” He dropped the condom packet on the bed next to them, and opened the bottle of lube.

You have to say no, the voice in Ilya’s brain insisted. You know what he wants but Russian men do not do this, you do not do this.

“Yes,” he said instead. “Do whatever you need to do.”

Shane poured lube into his hands and rubbed them together to warm it up. He reached one hand toward Ilya…

Ilya’s eyes went wide and his chest stopped moving as he held his breath…

Shane wrapped one hand around Ilya’s cock and with the other, reached behind his own ass to start opening himself up.

Ilya’s breath tore out of him as he started breathing and moaned loudly at the same time.

Shane worked himself open in long slow strokes, matching those movements with his other hand as he stroked Ilya languidly but with firm fingers. Watching him was the same as feeling him - Ilya’s dick and his brain were in total agreement on this one.

“You’re so beautiful,” Ilya whispered between moans. “Fuck, Hollander, you’re so good for me.”

Shane brought his hand up to the tip of Ilya’s cock, so hard he was straining against Shane’s hand. “You’re wet for me already,” Shane whispered.

Ilya nodded. “Yes, sweetheart, I want you, please,” he moaned.

Shane’s hand didn’t speed up, didn’t stop, just kept going at that slow and exhilarating pace.

Ilya’s hands found the comforter and twisted against it, grabbing fistfuls of fabric. “Please let me touch you,” he begged.

“No,” Shane said. Not a punishment but a promise. “Be good.”

“I’m so good, Shane, sweetheart, please I’ll be good for you, just let me -”

“No,” Shane said again, and took his hand away from Ilya’s cock.

And Ilya fucking whined. His hips shot up, chasing Shane’s hand but finding only empty air.

Shane’s knee moved onto Ilya’s hip again and pushed him back down. He found the condom, got it open.

“Wait,” Ilya panted. “What, what are we doing?”

“I’m going to fuck you,” Shane said.

“Yes, but how?” Ilya stared into Shane’s eyes, trying to say something his brain didn’t even have words for.

Shane looked back at him for a moment, then his brown eyes widened slightly. “Oh, Ilya,” he sighed, not unkindly. “I meant I wanted to be on top while you were inside of me.”

“Yes, okay, good,” Ilya nodded. “I want this too.”

Shane smiled again then, his real smile, the wide one Ilya never saw on the ice. He rolled the condom onto Ilya’s cock and smiled again when Ilya rolled his head against his pillows and moaned loudly. “Hold still, but tell me if I’m doing this wrong,” Shane said.

He moved on top of Ilya’s hips, lined himself up with one hand, and slowly slid down onto Ilya’s cock, taking him all in one impossibly long moment. His head fell back and he gasped as he took Ilya fully inside.

Ilya watched him, nipples hard and the shine of sweat across his chest, his neck, his face. Shane sat for a moment, squeezing Ilya so tightly, then slowly relaxing. He bit his lip, then oh so slowly, began to lift himself back up.

Ilya grabbed the comforter even tighter, willing himself to stay, to be good, to not do anything to ruin this perfect moment of Shane Hollander riding his cock.

“Yes, that’s it,” Ilya mumbled. “Use me, Shane. Make yourself feel good.” Fuck, I’m shaking, Ilya realized. I’m going to come before he does.

Shane moved up and down, his hot ass tight around Ilya’s cock, almost in a straight line, and Ilya is shuddering underneath him, goosebumps breaking out across his skin, and he feels like he might break his own fingers with how tight he’s twisted them into the blankets to keep from grabbing at Shane’s hips and moving him, forcing him, to go faster. His abs are rock hard with the effort of keeping himself still, keeping himself from breaking under the orgasm threatening to choke him, and suddenly Shane is moaning so fucking loud and –

rolling his fucking hips –

“God, yes, please, Shane, fuck me don’t stop please fuck me,” Ilya is crying out in Russian –

and Shane is moving faster now, chasing his own orgasm, moaning so loud –

Ilya can’t fucking wait any longer – he takes Shane’s cock in his hand and strokes him in time with the way Shane is moving his hips –

“Fuck, Ilya, yes, god yes,” he yells –

and they’re both coming together, moans and curses echoing off the walls of Ilya’s bedroom, as Shane spills out across Ilya’s hand and Ilya comes thrusting up into Shane’s ass –

Ilya opened his eyes to silence. It had been… he didn’t know how long, actually, but Shane was slumped over his chest with his eyes closed, and Ilya had Shane’s now-soft dick in his hand, and they were both sweaty and stuck together.

Shane grumbled something incoherent as Ilya rolled him off. He managed to get himself cleaned up and Shane too, bringing a warm wet washcloth from the bathroom. Shane was oversensitive and whimpers a little as Ilya wiped the cloth over his skin, but he barely moved and his eyes never opened. Ilya pulled the blankets down enough to get them both under the sheet, tucked himself in next to Shane, and covered them both up again.

In the middle of night, Shane suddenly started awake, saying something about how he’d meant to leave, but Ilya was too tired to care. “Stay,” he whispered, reaching out to stroke Shane’s hair until the other man settled down. “I fuck you in the morning, then you go,” he added sleepily.

Shane mumbled, “Such an asshole,” against Ilya’s shoulder, and they both drift back to sleep.

Ilya woke up to Shane’s mouth on him, which turns out to be an excellent way to start the day. He was so happy to come down Shane’s throat, his hands in Shane’s hair, that he immediately returned the favor.

After a shower, together, brushing their teeth, also together (Ilya’s bathroom is nice enough but it’s not so huge two people can share a sink without being side-by-side, shoulders brushing against each other a a way that felt warmer than it should), and Ilya stepped onto the balcony to have a cigarette (by himself, because Shane didn’t smoke) while Shane poked through whatever Ilya had left in his fridge.

Ilya ended up buying groceries to be delivered.

“You need new phone,” Ilya said, once the food was ordered.

Shane shook his head. “I just need to get a new number. I’ve done it before.”

“Nyet, new phone,” Ilya insisted. “You need new one anyway, your stupid slider phone is too old. But also smarter reason,” he added.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?” Shane asked.

“You keep old phone with old number for stalkers. Use new phone with new number only for important people.” Ilya shrugged. “Me, of course. Your parents too? Maybe coach. But old number stays on so no one knows you change it.”

“Fuck, yeah, that is smart,” Shane said, grinning.

“Is really bad?” Ilya asked quietly. “All the…” he searched for the word. “Harassment?”

Shane sighed. “I really don’t know. I think it’s the same shit I’ve been dealing with for years now, maybe worse since I’m so much more visible now. Like, assholes will be assholes but they can see me more so I’m more of a target.” He looked down. “Maybe it’s worse than it should be. I don’t fucking know.”

Ilya stepped forward and took Shane in his arms.

“Are you safe?” he asked.

Shane nodded against Ilya’s shoulder. “Yeah, that part I’m really not worried about. The worst part is… fuck, I don’t even want to say it.”

Ilya pushed him back a little, just enough to look Shane in the eyes. “Hey, what is it?”

“I keep thinking about how these people are getting my phone number whenever I change it. I don’t give it out, just to my parents and the team. So… it’s stupid, but what if someone on my team is giving it away?” Shane frowned. “I can’t deal with that on top of everything else. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Okay, so new phone plan is good for this too,” Ilya said. “If your new number gets out, you know it’s not me and it’s not your parents, right? So, will be team, if so. You will know.”

“You really are smart, you know that?” Shane said as they sank back into each other.

Ilya made the face he always did when he was pretending to agree with something that made him look good. “Yes, of course, I speak three languages you know?”

“Three?” Shane looked up at him. “English, Russian, and?”

“Getting Shane Hollander into bed.” Ilya grinned. Shane rolled his eyes and smacked Ilya on the shoulder. “Get your laptop,” Ilya ordered, moving a step back.

“Why? Oh, yeah, I should get a flight, get out of your hair.” Shane looked embarrassed then, eyes down, but Ilya reached out and lifted his chin.

“No, you order phone. Have delivered here. Food will be here soon, we eat, we fuck again, you get new phone set up. I show you important settings like “do not disturb” which you will not put me on so I can sext you even when you want to ignore everyone else.”

“My mom is going to hate it if I don’t put her on that list too,” Shane said, but he was smiling.

“Okay me and your mama, no one else,” Ilya agreed.

“Hayden too,” Shane said, and Ilya groaned.

“Noo, not fucking Pike, Shane he will interrupt when we try to say sexy things on the phone to each other,” Ilya whined.

“Hayden is my friend, asshole. J.J. too.”

“You’re killing me, Hollander.” Ilya sighed dramatically. “Must stay and make up for it.”

“How long?”

“When is next Metros practice?”

Shane paused for a moment. “Monday, but I’m supposed to have lunch with my parents on Sunday. That’s… six more nights. Is that too much?”

Ilya thanked gods he didn’t even believe in. “Hmm, maybe you go home Saturday so you can sleep good before?” Because you can’t look greedy, the voice said. You can’t want too much. And five days is more than you deserve, too.

“Five days,” Shane said in a whisper, like a prayer, and Ilya let himself believe just a for a moment that whatever the hell this was, Shane somehow felt exactly the same.

Chapter End Notes

I accidentally used Rosanov instead of Rozanov throughout this, and have been trying to find them all to fix them. If you spot any, please let me know!

Also thank you to everyone who's commented and shared this story. I love you all.

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 14: Do you want me to put you on your knees in front of all of these people?

Chapter Summary

Ilya heads to a joint commercial shoot Shane arranged, and thinks about their time together in March. Shane's clearly uncomfortable at the photo shoot so Ilya tries something new.

Oh he maybe says something to Yuna Hollander about her son and the word "fine". Possibly. It'll be okay, right?

NSFW chapter

Chapter Notes

May 2011

They didn’t get five days together after all. They got back to Ilya’s apartment about 10 PM on Sunday night. They talked the next day and decided Shane would go back Saturday afternoon. That should have meant six nights and five days, or about 134 hours, assuming Shane was leaving Ilya’s apartment at 12 PM on Saturday to catch a 3 PM flight. (The extra hour was for traffic.) It should have been five days. It should have been five entire days of Ilya fucking Shane during the day, kissing him in the sunlight, putting him naked against the windows in Ilya’s living room for all of his neighbors to see, instead of sneaking in and out of hotel rooms and apartments in the dark.

Instead Shane left Ilya on Wednesday morning, and in between the team dinner and dropping Shane off at the departure lane at Logan, Ilya had gotten this: three nights of Shane asleep in his bed, two full days, four orgasms where his dick was buried in Shane’s ass, 3 where he came in Shane’s mouth, and one more where they jerked each other off on Wednesday morning too tired to do any more but not wanting to leave without one more chance for Ilya to chase the fireworks that lived in Shane’s lips.

Five days might have actually killed him. Two days, okay fine three days, whatever, was too much and not enough at the same time. And it was all Yuna Hollander’s fault.

Ilya thought about this as the car hired to pick him up from the airport in Chicago took him to the photoshoot Mrs. Hollander had arranged. An ad shoot where he’d have to be sexy and sell a fucking sports drink of all things, something bright orange that couldn’t even pretend to have natural flavors in it, where the plan – as far as he understood it – was to have him stand around in a wet shirt and smile for the camera, as if that would make anyone buy the fucking stuff. But he’d agreed because Mrs. Hollander made it happen, and she did that because Shane Hollander asked her to, and by now Ilya was painfully aware that he’d do almost anything to be in the same room as Shane again after having to make due with midnight phone calls, the occasional naked picture, and his own hand for the last two months.

Fuck do I have time to jerk off before I need to stand next to Shane in front of a camera crew?

Between the last Montreal game and now, the Raiders had made the playoffs. Ilya had been a demon on skates. The rest of his team kept up, barely, but enough to push them past the Metros and into Ilya’s first playoff series. They’d lost after only five games. Still, it was better than anyone expected, including Ilya, and it meant he had time to do this shoot with Shane before the NHL awards in June, because the very next day he had to be on a plane bound for Russia and would be gone all summer.

No time for American ad campaigns in the summer.

No time for sexy Canadian hockey players, either.

Ilya thought again, for the thousandth time, that he really needed to end whatever this was with Hollander before he went back to Russia. He’d have to go back hard, quiet, ready to say yes Papa to anything and everything. Ilya needed to be Rozanov in Russia. He didn’t know if he could still do that while keeping a piece of himself soft and safe for Shane.

He thought about it, while his hand found its way to his jacket pocket, and the small box there. A birthday present, for Shane.

On Tuesday, the week Shane was at his apartment in Boston, Ilya meant to give him the gift. It was small and silly, just something he’d seen that made him think of Shane, or one of the many things, anyway. He’d known Shane’s birthday was March 10^th since before he came to Canada for the Prospect Cup, one of the many facts he’d learned about the Canadian phenom when he was still just watching game tape to scrutinize Hollander’s crossovers or his slap shot.

But when he brought up birthdays, Shane smiled and said he knew Ilya’s was in June, and something about them being only a month apart. Ilya, confused, tried to argue that no, Shane was three months older, and made a joke about the old man taking advantage of a young, hot, Russian stud. Which is how he found out he’d mixed up March for May when he was first learning English. He knew the difference now, but hadn’t realized he’d made that mistake about Shane’s birthday so it’d stuck in his head as the wrong fucking month. So the gift stayed in a drawer in Ilya’s apartment.

Ilya had been too embarrassed to even look at it again, until now. Even though Shane had no idea this dumb fucking present even existed.

He checked his phone, but the only texts were from right when he’d gotten in the car.

Lily: landed

Jane: thank fuck

Jane: mom’s already on me about this fucking shoot

Lily: ??

Jane: the usual, lots of notes about my brand and image

Jane: and they’re going to make us WET which ugh

Jane: it’s fine

Lily: miss me?

Jane: obviously but also we can’t

Lily: can’t miss me

Jane: no in public we can’t

Lily: no shit JANE

Lily: not fucking stupid

Ilya swore under his breath in Russian and threw his phone onto the car’s seat. He wanted to write you say that every time or can’t believe you’re still ashamed of me but he took his mother’s cross out from underneath his shirt and put that in his mouth instead.

On Monday, after breakfast, they’d showered together. They’d done that once before, back in Nashville, and even had sex that way, with Shane carefully getting on his knees and sucking Ilya’s cock so well he came with his hand in his mouth to keep from shouting. But that time they’d been in a rush to finish up so Shane could sneak back to his hotel room without anyone noticing. This time, they had nowhere else to be. They’d fumbled their way through soap and shampoo, laughing as they figured out how to exist in Ilya’s shower at the same time. In the end they’d taken turns lathering each other up, until laughter and bubbles turned into two muscular young men pressed against each other under the steaming showerhead.

Until that became Ilya on his knees in his own shower, one slicked up finger in Shane’s ass, Shane’s fingers in Ilya’s hair, and the sounds of Shane’s moans echoing throughout the bathroom as Ilya took him fully into his mouth and refused to let go.

Now, Ilya was listening the whatever American “Top 40” station the driver had on. Some woman Ilya would probably recognize if he saw a picture of but couldn’t place in that moment singing about how her love was perfect and terrible to her at the same time:

Pretty, pretty please

If you ever, ever feel

Like you're nothing

You are perfect

To me, yeah

Ilya sighed and stared out the car window.

On Monday night, after Ilya had fucked Shane for the second time that evening, this time with Shane on his stomach on top of Ilya’s bed, a pillow under his hips to raise them up, and Ilya’s hands gripping Shane’s hip bones so hard he could still see the faint bruises of his fingertips on Wednesday morning, they’d stayed up talking until just before dawn.

Shane asked about Russia, about Ilya’s family. Ilya changed the subject to talk about the performance bonuses they would both get at the end of the season. It was life changing money, even under their entry-level contracts: they’d both be millionaires by the beginning of June. Ilya planned to buy a bright orange Porsche and a condo to replace the apartment he was just renting. Shane, it turned out, already owned his apartment thanks to the CCM shoot and the new Rolex deal he’d just picked up, but was thinking of getting into real estate investing as a way to make sure he had an income if he got injured or forced out of hockey before he was signed to a more lucrative deal.

“Oh, you’re Mr. Real Estate now,” Ilya had purred sleepily against Shane’s neck.

“Fuck off,” Shane said quietly, but he had a wide smile on his face.

“No, you love it,” Ilya had said in return, pulling the other man closer.

Shane didn’t say anything else, and eventually they were both asleep.

In Chicago, the car came to a stop outside a plain grey building.

“They said for you to meet them inside, sir,” the driver said. Ilya grabbed his phone and bag, pressing a $20 into the man’s hand against his protests that the ride was fully paid for.

Ilya got out and walked into the spacious marble lobby.

On Tuesday afternoon, Ilya had come back from practice sweaty and planning to drag Shane into a shower with him – he’d skipped his usual so he could get home faster – but found Shane on the phone with his mother instead.

“Mom, it’s one meeting,” Shane was saying. He turned when Ilya walked through the door and pressed one finger to his lips.

Ilya nodded, setting his bag down very carefully to not make any noise.

Thank you, Shane mouthed silently at him. “Yeah, I know, but I’m not in Montreal. Can I, I don’t know, call in?”

Ilya leaned against the kitchen counter, looking at all the tension he’d carefully fucked out of Hollander over the previous 40 hours finding its way back to Shane’s shoulders.

“Yes, I understand about the contract…” Shane was saying. “Yes, I know, my image, I get that it’s important but… I’m allowed to have friends, Mom.” Shane sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll be there.” And then, “I said it was fine, Mom. You’re right, I want to be a good role model.” And finally, “Yeah, I’ll text you my flight info. I love you, too.”

Ilya really fucking hated “fine”. “You’re leaving early,” Ilya was the part he said out loud. It wasn’t a question.

“I’m sorry,” Shane said, deflating. “I know I said… I’m sorry.” His eyes were wet and his breath caught in his chest like he might cry.

“Hey, hey, no,” Ilya said, rushing over to take Shane in his arms. “Is okay, you have contracts, is like a Metros hockey game, they can’t play without you.” He kissed Shane’s cheek, then his forehead.

Shane smiled then, and wiped his eyes. He kissed Ilya gently on the lips. “Fuck me?” he asked, as if he really wasn’t sure of the answer.

“Of course, sweetheart, yes, right now,” Ilya said, grabbing one of Shane’s hands to lead him to the bedroom.

On Tuesday evening, Ilya told Shane they were going out to dinner. He didn’t mean it like a date, not really, though it might have been, who the fuck knows? And anyway it didn’t matter because suddenly Shane didn’t want to be seen with him.

“The guys on your team think I caught a flight back to Montreal two nights ago,” Shane had said. He was wearing one of Ilya’s Raiders sweatshirts, rubbing the end of one sleeve nervously. “If we go out someone will see us.”

“Who care if they see us?” Ilya had said, trying not to raise his voice. “Is just dinner, I’m not going to fuck you against the side of the building.” I might though, if you let me.

But Shane folded in on himself, sitting in the furthest corner of Ilya’s couch, and bit his lip.

“We can order in,” Ilya said with a sigh. “Many good restaurants here. You want to help me pick?” he added, holding his phone out in front of him like a peace offering. The food was good; afterward they played NHL 10 on Ilya’s PS2 and argued about the new 360° precision passing mechanic, which was good in a different way.

Then Wednesday morning had happened, and Shane was gone.

A young woman Ilya would never remember met him in the lobby of the Chicago building, guided him to the elevator, and got him up to a suite of rooms on the 4^th floor. He was ushered into a private changing room, told what to put on, and left alone.

“10 minutes,” someone had said.

It took Ilya 30 seconds to lock the door, three minutes to jerk off into a tissue while carefully not moaning Shane’s name out loud (a box was helpfully left on the makeup table before he got there, though Ilya doubted it was for this purpose), and five minutes to get dressed in a pair of white boxers, faded blue jeans, and a white t shirt.

With his final 90 seconds he texted here to Shane, then turned his phone off and stuck it in his bag.

He opened the door just as the same woman who’d brought him in was about to knock. They found Shane in a huge room, standing just outside of the lighted stage, talking to a beautiful older woman. Ilya recognized her of course, he’d seen her standing next to Shane at the draft and at some of the practices for the Prospect Cup. Shane was wearing almost the same outfit that Ilya was, though his jeans looked a darker shade of blue. Behind them, a full camera crew was set up, and behind them, a bright orange wall the same color as that hideous drink.

Ilya ignored the people talking to him and walked straight up to Shane. “Hello, Hollander,” Ilya said in his media voice. Shane looked surprised, then tried to hide a smile, but Ilya could see the edges of it pulling at his lips.

“Hello, Rozanov,” Shane said. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for uh, making this happen,” Ilya said.

The woman next to them cleared her throat.

“Right, Mom, this is Ilya… uh, Rozanov,” Shane said. He waved a hand at his mother. “This this my mom, Yuna Hollander.”

“Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya said, ducking his head. “Your son tells me many things about you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Rozanov. I’ve watched a few of your games.”

Shane snorted with laughter. Yuna Hollander gave him a sharp look. “Don’t let her fool you,” Shane said. “She’s obsessed with hockey. Worse than me.”

“Ah, it’s always good to meet a true fan,” Ilya said with the smile he saved for women he wanted to charm. “Let me know if you want Raiders tickets, I always have some.”

She laughed the same way Shane sometimes did: half laughter, half so surprised the air left her chest all at once, as if laughing was something new that needed to be corralled before it escaped.

“Thank you but I’d rather be caught dead,” Yuna said.

“Mom,” Shane exclaimed, then sighed. “I asked you to be nice to him.”

“I didn’t say anything about Rozanov!” she argued. “I’m sure he’s not as bad as they say, if you’re friends with him, but honey I’m never going to root for the Raiders.”

“He’s standing right here,” Shane stage-whispered.

“No, is okay, I understand,” Ilya said. “Hollander is only reason to cheer for the Metros, yes? It can be same with me. Raiders bad, Rozanov good. I like it.”

“You’re impossible,” Shane said fondly.

“And you let them cover your freckles,” Ilya said softly.

Shane looked at him, surprised. “Oh, they did? I didn’t realize.” He looked over at the makeup table like he was about to file a complaint.

“I’m sure it’s fine, Shane,” Yuna said before Ilya could open his mouth. “They’re professional makeup artists. They know what they’re doing.”

“Right, yeah it’s fine,” Shane said. He stiffened up, the way he had been before Ilya walked in. “I think we need to check in with the director,” he added, looking at Ilya.

“Yes, you go, I will be right there,” Ilya told him. Shane narrowed his eyes but left without saying anything more.

“Mrs. Hollander,” Ilya said, facing her. “I want to thank you again for this, uh… opportunity.”

“Oh, sure, Rozanov. I think it’s a good chance for sponsors to see the two different kinds of energy you both bring to a campaign.” She was watching Shane talk to someone just inside of the light, not looking at Ilya at all.

“My English is not very good,” he said.

That got her attention. Her body was still pointed toward Shane but her head swiveled toward Ilya. “Oh, no, your English is fine.”

“Thank you, that is perfect example. Fine.”

“What?” She stole another glance at Shane. “Excuse me, I really need to talk to them about -”

Ilya raised his hand. “One moment. This word, fine, to me I think it means content. You know this word?”

“Of course…” Her eyes narrowed the same way Shane’s did when he was confused about what Ilya might say next.

“But this word is different for everyone,” Ilya said, still smiling, as if he was back making small talk at the draft day after party. “To me it means nothing, is filler word. Means, okay. But not everyone. To Shane, he says fine he means you are killing me.”

Yuna gasped softly.

“What a language, huh?” Ilya’s grin widened into something sharper. “I should get out there before Shane comes to find me,” he added, letting her sit with her son’s name for a moment. Not Hollander, but Shane.

He was playing with fire and he knew it.

“Rozanov -” Yuna started to say, then stopped. She looked toward Shane again. Ilya wasn’t sure what the expression on her face meant, but he hoped he hadn’t just screwed everything up.

So he let his animal grin fade into something softer and said quietly, “I am very fond of your son, Mrs. Hollander. He loves you very much.”

Yuna looked at him again, finally really looking at him. “Thank you,” she whispered.

After a moment, Ilya nodded and walked toward the set. He shook out his arms, letting the moment drop away out his fingertips.

“I’m sorry about my mom,” Shane said quietly. “And we’re flying back out right after the shoot so I can’t see you.”

In his brain, Ilya swore in Russian, but he made himself smile. For Shane.

“Is okay, we have Vegas next month,” he said with a shrug. “But I have something in my bag for you. I give, after the shoot. Don’t open here.”

Shane nodded.

They stepped apart then. Ilya let the makeup women work on his face and hair while Shane got sprayed down with water. Then it was Ilya’s turn, and there were people shoving a drink can in his face, pushing his body around until they had the pose they wanted. Next to him, he could see they were doing the same to Shane.

Ilya smiled at everyone, took direction easily, and didn’t care who put their hands on his body. He tried a few fun poses: putting his arm around Shane, grabbing at the other man’s shirt, lifting up his own to expose his abs. Whenever he touched Shane, they were both relaxed and he could see Shane smiling playfully. But Shane was too stiff in the moments between, flinching when the women touched him or sprayed fake sweat on his face. He practically stopped breathing when his mom walked up to move his shirt so it was clinging to Shane’s body in a “better” position.

Personally Ilya thought it all looked good on Shane, but he didn’t want to say that in front of a crowd. Still, he couldn’t bear how unhappy the other man looked during the parts Ilya thought were probably routine for any photoshoot.

Is he always forcing himself through something he hates with these things? Ilya wondered.

Another few shots, more touching, Shane getting more and more visibly uncomfortable…

Finally, Ilya waived them all way. “One moment, okay?”

Somewhere in the dark, the director called, “Two minute break!”

“Let me give you my secret for these kinds of things, Hollander,” Ilya said loudly, as he turned away from the cameras. He was facing backward now, one shoulder barely touching Shane’s, their heads tilted toward each other. Too close and too far away all at once. Again.

“Keep looking forward, don’t look at me,” Ilya whispered. “You understand, say it.”

“I understand,” Shane said, louder, as if this was just two guys making conversation.

“Say, I haven’t thought about it that way.”

“I haven’t thought about it that way,” Shane repeated.

“Do you want me to put you on your knees in front of all of these people?” Ilya whispered into Shane’s ear.

Shane’s breath caught. He nodded slightly, just a tiny movement, and swallowed hard enough for Ilya to see. He took a deep breath then, and Ilya could see him relax into the idea.

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Shane said for the audience.

“Okay you think about that while we do this shoot,” Ilya whispered. “I will think about you showing off for me, yes? You looking pretty while everyone watches.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov,” Shane said, but Ilya could hear the smile in his voice.

“Yes, good plan. Not now though. Now we both be pretty for the camera, but you know you’re only pretty for me yes?”

“Yes,” Shane said, nodding. “We can try that,” he added, a little louder.

Ilya turned back around with a wide grin. “Okay, who wants to sell sports drink?” he said to the people behind the cameras.

It turned out, everyone did.

Chapter End Notes

The song Ilya hears in the car is the clean edit of Perfect by Pink, which was a top 40 hit during May 2011 (lyrics video here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3xQKS8oGCw).

Ilya will absolutely look this song up again sometime in the next month and listen to it alone in his apartment, trying not to feel things.

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 15: Do you want me too?

Chapter Summary

Ilya pushes Shane away. Cliff notices. Shane gets angry about it. Things are said, plans are made.

SFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

I meant to post the Vegas chapter next. Scott Hunter, shots, rooftop, Rookie of the Year award... all of that. But these beautiful idiots decided this conversation had to come first, and you know what? I'm proud of them for sorting some things out so I'm gonna allow it.

Angst, all the angst, lots of angst in this chapter. But there's love too, if you read between the lines.

End of May 2011

When Ilya had finished changing, he found Shane standing next to his mother. Shane was dressed in soft sweatpants and a plain black t shirt that was starting to turn grey – Ilya thought it must be from too many cycles in the wash. He had a caramel brown hoodie on, unzipped and hanging loose off his shoulders. It looked like it might be a size too big. It looked incredibly fucking familiar.

“Hollander,” Ilya said as he walked up. He waited until Shane’s eyes were on him, then added, “Nice hoodie.”

Shane at least had the decency to blush.

“Oh, yes, Shane is this new?” Yuna asked, reaching out to feel the fabric. “It’s very soft. And these hems look hand stitched. This isn’t your usual leisurewear.”

“No, uh, I got it… a while ago,” Shane muttered.

Ilya made a clicking sound and tilted his head. “No, I think you got this how do you say… not a long time ago?”

“Recently?” Shane offered. “No, I mean this one is pretty old. It’s really soft.”

“It’s soft because it’s cashmere,” Ilya said.

Shane looked surprised, and held up his arm to look at the material more closely. “Wait, it is?”

“Oh yes,” Ilya nodded. “It’s Aurelien, Italian company. Most of their hoodies are cashmere or a blend anyway. This one costs $500 US.” Ilya grinned then. “I know because I have the same one.”

“Oh, fuck,” Shane said, realization dawning across his face.

Yep, he definitely stole my sweatshirt the last time he was in Boston, Ilya thought. And I didn’t even notice.

“Language, Shane. Wow, you really don’t pay attention when you're shopping do you?” Yuna asked, shaking her head, but it wasn't entirely unfondly. “At least it’s high end though, you really need to start dressing like a brand ambassador when you go out.”

“Yeah, Mom I know, but it’s hard enough to remember to wear my Reeboks and wear the perfume and now it’s going to be Rolex…” He sigh, and stuck his hands in the hoodie pockets. “Anyway, Rozanov doesn’t need to hear about all this.”

Ilya shrugged. “Is okay, I also don’t want you to dress like shit. People look at you at think I don’t put you in nice clothes, very embarrassing for me.”

“Fuck you, Rozanov, you don’t dress me,” Shane said, pouting a little.

Ilya cocked his head and looked pointedly at the hoodie Shane was wearing. Shane blushed harder, the pink from his ears creeping into his cheeks.

“Yes, well, we do need to head back to the hotel to pack up before we leave dear,” Yuna said. “It was…interesting to meet you, Mr. Rozanov,” she added. “You’re not quite what I expected.”

“Ilya, please,” he said with a smile. “Am very glad we meet too. Oh, Hollander,” he said, digging in his bag suddenly, until he found the small black box. “Here is present.”

Yuna raised an eyebrow at him.

“Birthday,” Ilya said with a shrug.

“Yes,” Yuna said, an odd half smile on her face. “I know when my son’s birthday is.”

“Mom,” Shane said under his breath. He took the box from Ilya, turning it over in his hands a few times but didn’t open it.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Uh, see you in Vegas?”

“Yes, awards, very good. You can see me win Rookie of the Year. I will be uh, gracious in your defeat.”

“Shut up,” Shane said. He stepped closer. Ilya’s heart raced, suddenly very unsure of what Shane planned to do next, what was allowed, here in this room with Shane’s mother watching them like a bird of prey watches a field full of mice.

He wanted to kiss Shane there, in front of everyone, more than he wanted to breathe.

“Okay, see you,” Ilya said instead, and walked out of the room.

He ignored Shane’s texts for almost two weeks.

He hated himself the entire time.

“Another beer?” Marly asked. They were at Connor’s townhouse, watching the final game of the playoffs as a team. Ilya barely cared who was on the screen; it wasn’t the Metros Shane, it wasn’t the fucking Raiders, who else mattered? All that mattered was the texts on his phone, which stopped after the first week. The second week, Ilya had found a FedEx International box on his doorstep, shipped to him from Canada.

Inside was his cashmere sweatshirt, with a note from Shane that just read, “I miss you”.

So now Ilya was scrunched into the corner of one of Marly’s couches, trying to wiggle himself even further into the caramel hoodie that smelled like Shane, holding on to an empty beer bottle and not paying any attention to the fucking playoff game on the huge screen in front of him. He wanted to be anywhere else. He wanted to be in Montreal.

He wanted to not feel so fucking alone.

“I’m good,” Ilya said. I’m really not.

“How’s Jane?” Cliff asked, leaning close.

“Can’t,” Ilya said. “Summer in Russia.” He shook his head. “Can’t have Jane and Russia too.”

“She won’t wait for you?” Cliff asked.

Shane would, Ilya knew, if you just fucking asked him to. “She shouldn’t,” Ilya said instead. He pulled the hood up to cover his hair. In his pocket was his phone and the thread of texts Ilya had memorized by now:

Jane: still in hotel?

Jane: want to thank you properly

Jane: I guess you’re still out

Jane: leaving for airport

Jane: will open present on my birthday

Jane: r u staying at hotel tonight? could call

Jane: landed in Montreal

Jane: home at apt

Jane: you ok?

Jane: is this about the hoodie?

Jane: sorry I grabbed it by accident

Jane: it’s been two days wtf

Jane: you better not be dead

Jane: call me fucker

Jane: jesus this over a fucking sweatshirt

Jane: fuck I’ll never touch your stuff again just tell me you’re not dead or you don’t hate me or something

Jane: lily please

Jane: it’s been 6 days

Jane: I’m sorry

Jane: I opened your present by the way

Jane: I didn’t understand at first, it’s a little plastic cheese

Jane: my dad helped me figure out it’s a usb stick

Jane: I found the pictures of you

Jane: I don’t understand why you’d give me those now you’re gone

Jane: fuck this I’m done trying

Ilya couldn’t remember much about what he’d done between that last text, sent about a week ago, and now, sitting on Marly’s couch. He barely remembered the drive over. He was pretty sure he’d been lying on his couch staring at the door when his cleaning lady had come over, only because sometime after than he realized the woman had put a blanket over his legs and left. Later, he managed to get himself into bed and found there were clean sheets.

He took a shower before heading over to meet the rest of the team, but only because he didn’t want to ruin the smell of Shane’s shampoo on the fabric surrounding him.

“It’s okay to let someone care about you,” Marly said, very quietly.

“I keep fucking it up,” Ilya said. “It’s better this way.”

Marly just put a hand on Ilya’s shoulder, and left it there for a long time.

A week before the NHL awards in Vegas, which Ilya was starting to seriously consider skipping, he got one more text from Shane.

Jane: if you don’t call me in the next 20 minutes I’m getting on a fucking plane you idiot

The thought of Shane doing something as reckless as flying to Boston in the off season made Ilya’s chest hurt. The thought of Shane seeing him like this was terrifying. If Shane saw how utterly destroyed Ilya was, how much damage he’d done to them both – and for what? Shane might never forgive him. He wasn’t sure why he thought Shane would care if Ilya hurt himself, but he thought… maybe. It wasn’t worth the risk.

After 19 minutes, he hit dial.

“Thank god,” Shane breathed into the phone. “What the fuck, dude?”

“Hello to you too, Hollander.” Ilya pressed the phone against his ear as hard as he could.

It didn’t make Shane any closer.

“Really, Hollander? Okay, fuck you Rozanov,” Shane said angrily. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead and I guess now I know.”

“What do you want from me, Shane?” Ilya asked.

“Why the fuck are you ignoring me?”

“Busy,” Ilya lied.

“Right, busy. Fuck you,” Shane said. Ilya could hear passing cars; Shane must be walking around outside. He checked the time. It was almost 3 AM.

“You’re up late,” Ilya said. “Out at a club? I know drinking is legal for you in Canada.”

“No I wasn’t fucking at a club,” Shane said. “Not like you really care what I do, do you? I could fuck half of Montreal and you wouldn’t notice.”

Tears filled Ilya’s eyes. “Are you?” he asked, barely able to choke out the words.

“No, god, and fuck you for thinking that I would.” Shane wasn’t getting less angry, but he hadn’t hung up the phone yet so Ilya was grateful for that at least.

“You could,” Ilya said. And then, because it was only fair if the knife in his hands cut them both, he added, “We are not anything.”

He could hear the way Shane stopped breathing on the other end of the line. The absence, the little strangled noise Shane made, the way the rest of the world rushed in to fill the empty space.

“Right,” Shane said finally. His voice had gone quiet, like whatever fight he had in had bled out through the open wound Ilya inflicted. “Why did I think I mattered?”

Ilya smacked the phone against the side of his head.

“You do matter, Shane,” Ilya said. “I just…” He trailed off. This is why he had to cut all contact off completely. I am always one conversation away from running back in Shane's arms. Whether it's good for him or not.

“You just what?” Shane asked, and his voice had changed again.

It sounded like he was crying.

The tears that had been threatening to fall slipped down Ilya’s cheeks.

“I go home to Russia the day after Vegas,” he said.

“Must be nice.”

“No, Shane, is not nice. My family is not nice. I thought… when we met I thought your family was perfect, did you know?”

“No? I mean, they’re great, but they’re not perfect,” Shane said softly.

“I know this now I think, but before – I think I would have hated you, a little bit,” Ilya admitted. “I would have fucked you and I would have hated you and I would have wanted you too much. Even now, I don’t. I don’t have words in this stupid fucking language to explain it.”

The space between them was sharper than it had ever been, and Ilya wanted to break himself on it, just to feel a different kind of pain.

“I get it, I think,” Shane said. “If you had left that night, after the CCM shoot, and we hadn’t talked…” he sighed. “I don’t think I could have stopped myself from kissing you again, but I don’t know if we would be friends. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I know we would not have,” Ilya said. “I am an asshole.”

“Yeah, you definitely are,” Shane agreed. Ilya thought he could hear a smile in Shane’s voice.

Please let me make you smile again. Please let me.

“Tell me about Russia?” Shane asked.

“Russia is… it’s a place, it’s home. It’s also my father who only cares how much I embarrass him and my brother who only cares how much money am I sending, always how much money. I want to buy things for myself, have fancy things to show I deserve, you know? I have, you know, good job and winning now. People can see, fucking English, god dammit.”

“You want people to see that you’re successful.” Shane said. “You want your family to be proud of you.”

“Yes, this is word, proud. I want and I want and I don’t get.”

“I’m proud of you,” Shane said, so quietly Ilya almost missed it.

“Shane,” he said. “You make me weak.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I can’t have you and Russia at the same time.”

“Okay,” Shane said.

“Okay, so…” Ilya struggled to get the words out. “Okay. Goodbye, Shane.”

“Wait!” Shane yelled, just as Ilya was pulling the phone away from his ear.

“What is it, Hollander?”

“You’re not moving back to Russia forever, right?”

Ilya sighed. “No, but three months is very long.”

“You’ll be back at the end of the summer?” He could hear little snuffling noises, like Shane was wiping his face with his sleeve.

“Yes,” Ilya said. Whatever fight there was in him was gone now. He was exhausted.

“Why can’t you have Russia and then, you know…”

“No, I don’t know. Say what you mean,” Ilya said.

“You have me… after. When you get back.”

Ilya didn’t say anything for a while. “I can’t call you,” he said finally, as if that explained everything.

“Okay, I mean it sucks but I’ll live.”

“I can’t text either,” Ilya said.

“Not at all?” Shane sounded surprised.

“Nothing more than how’s the weather and have a nice summer, maybe. Probably shouldn’t even do that.”

Shane sighed. “At least tell me why.”

Ilya wiped his eyes. He grabbed his lighter and cigarettes from the coffee table, made his way out to the balcony. Finally, he said, “If my family found out about you, it would be very bad for me. They would be… very angry. Maybe don’t let me come back to Boston.”

“Oh my god, Ilya, are you serious?” He could hear Shane walking around again. “What the fuck?”

“Why are you outside?” Ilya asked. He took a long drag from his cigarette. The cashmere hoodie was warm enough for 3 AM in Boston but he suddenly wondered whether Shane was warm enough in Canada.

“I’m staying at my parents house and I didn’t want to wake them,” Shane said. “Stop changing the subject.”

“You have jacket?”

“What? Yes, I’m wearing a jacket. Can we talk about Russia please?”

“Pants, or pajamas?”

“Sweatpants, and seriously Ilya, stop asking what I’m wearing.” Shane huffed angrily.

Ilya thought it was adorable. “You’re like an angry kitten,” he said quietly. “Rawr.”

“Kittens don’t say rawr dude, that’s dinosaurs,” Shane said. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What do kittens say then, hmm?” Ilya asked. He closed his eyes for a moment, thought about Shane standing outside his parents house in the dark just to call him. Wanting to keep from waking his parents up, but fully dressed and ready to find a plane if Ilya hadn't answered. Shane was too much and perfect at the same time. He's going to kill me if I keep this up. I'll die and the cause of death will be Shane fucking Hollander.

“I don’t know, they say meow I guess.”

“Hmm this is Canadian, this kitten sound. In Russia cats say mjau,” Ilya said, pronouncing it like ‘myow’. “Not me ow, like me got an injury, ow.” He smiled, finishing his cigarette.

“You’re really not going to tell me?” Shane asked.

“You really want to wait for me?” Ilya asked in return. If I’m not fucking you, I have no value in your life, the Russian voice said inside Ilya's brain.

“Of course,” Shane said. “I mean it’s guess it’s fair, I didn’t talk to you for three months either.”

Ilya laughed at that. “Of course, fair, I should have known the golden boy of Canada would want to play fair.”

“This is the last time, though,” Shane said. “After this summer we’ll be even. No more ignoring each other.”

“Okay,” Ilya said. “After the summer.”

“Will I see you in Vegas?” Shane asked.

“Do you want to?”

“Yeah, I mean. Yes. I want.”

"Tell me what you want, Shane,” Ilya said, his voice dropping into the purr he knew Shane liked.

“You, Ilya. I want you.”

Ilya let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Are you sure? Because I might be an idiot,” Ilya admitted.

“Oh you are,” Shane laughed. “But I want to see you.”

“Okay, how about this, we share room yes? I get two keys, text you room number when I get there. We have before and after awards. Before, I make up to you. After, when I win, you give me reward.”

“I’m winning, asshole,” Shane said.

“We’ll see, Shane,” Ilya replied, grinning now. “Go inside before you get cold.”

“Do you… you know,” Shane sighed. “Do you want me too?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I want you too.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Ilya.”

“Good night, Shane,” Ilya said, and hung up the phone.

He was so fucked.

But maybe, just maybe… Shane was too.

Chapter End Notes

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 16: How does he look at me?

Chapter Summary

2011 MLH awards !! Ilya and Shane share a hotel room. Ilya apologizes with his body (a lot). Scott gets in Ilya's head, then gets in the way. Ilya tells Shane how he really feels.

NFSW chapter.

Chapter Notes

This chapter is twice as long as I meant it to be (at almost 9k words) but didn't feel like it would make sense to cut it into two parts, so you get it all.

I hope you enjoy it. Next chapter is Russia, and it's going to be very heavy, so remember to hydrate, read the chapter notes, and check the tags! Thank you so much for reading - your comments (and the few times I've found people mentioning the story online) are so nurturing and motivating. Writing a giant fic which will be longer than your average novel by the time it's done, then posting it for FREE for people to read, is a gift writers make to our community. (And there are so many good ones! Please let me know if you want recommendations.) The way you've all been responding with kudos and comments? You deserve good things, and makes me feel good about the time and effort it takes to write this for you <3

Ilya got to Las Vegas first. They’d each bought their plane tickets separately, before their phone call, but both had independently decided to get there the day before so they had a chance to rest and connect with people before the awards. Shane’s parents would be arriving the next day, and he’d fly back to Ottawa with them after the MLH awards, to spend some time with them at their cottage on the lake. It just worked out that flying in from Boston took a few less hours than flying in from Montreal so Ilya had gotten their keys first – two, so neither of them would have to wait in the hallway for the other to show up, reducing the chance anyone would spot them going into the same room together.

It was only as Ilya was walking to the elevator that he realized the woman behind the hotel counter had looked him up and down, a flirty smile on her lips as she told him the room number. He wondered, as the number above the elevator counted down, if or when he’d stopped noticing that sort of thing.

You’re distracted by the pretty Canadian boy, the voice in Ilya’s head told him, sounding more like his father than ever. You will miss something important because you are staring at his lips instead of paying attention.

He shook his head, trying to shake the thought out of his skull, as the door opened. He got in and turned to choose his floor number when Scott Hunter rushed into the elevator dragging a black hard-sided suitcase behind him. It looked like Ilya’s, to be honest, like the same black suitcase most players had. Something that carried enough for a few days, was strong enough to hold up against being thrown into airplane hold after airplane hold, and small enough to meet the size requirements for every airline without having to think about it.

“Rook,” Scott said, nodding at Ilya. “We better not be next to each other again.” His face was so serious. And old.

“I do not assign hotel rooms, Hunter,” Ilya replied. “I have other job, playing hockey? Maybe you have heard of it?”

Scott leaned over and hit ‘8’.

Ilya grinned and tapped the button for ‘10’. “There, you are safe from rooming next to sexy Russian. Too bad, so sad for you.” He made a fake crying face then, just in case Scott had missed the joke. It was possible; he might have been born before humor was invented.

“Ha ha,” Hunter said sarcastically. The elevator started to climb. “I can’t wait until Hollander gets here.”

Ilya stilled at that. “Oh, yeah? Why is that, Hunter?”

“He’s the only one of you rooks I actually want to spend time with.”

Ilya could feel his jaw tightening. “Hollander is too young for you,” he said quietly.

Scott looked like Ilya had slapped him. “What the hell does that mean?”

But the elevator beeped then, doors sliding open at the eighth floor. Scott stared for a moment, then grabbed his suitcase and started to walk away, shaking his head.

“I’ll tell him you’re looking for him,” Ilya called out just before the door shut.

“Fuck!” he shouted, once he was alone again. He slapped the wall of the elevator. The doors opened on the 10^th floor, and there was an older black couple waiting, so Ilya forced a smile onto his face and made space for them to enter as he was leaving. “Enjoy Vegas,” he said, in case they’d heard him yelling a second before.

They smiled back at him.

By the time Shane arrived, a few hours later, Ilya had already: showered, jerked off in the shower (thinking about the way Shane threw his head back and moaned when Ilya licked around his nipples, one hand on Shane’s cock, stroking slowing in time with Ilya’s tongue, and when he imagined Shane coming hard against Ilya’s fingers, Ilya shuddered into his own), ordered room service, put his clothes away, ate the cheeseburger and fries, put the dishes outside for the cleaning staff to pick up, straightened up the room (not that it was messy yet, but because Shane had annoying habit of cleaning at Ilya’s apartment when he’d rather the man was folded in half against whatever hard surface was closest to them instead), and showered again.

Then Shane was standing in their room, and Ilya had him up against the hotel room door and finally, finally, they were kissing again.

Ilya kissed Shane over and over. Shane’s hand found the back of Ilya’s neck. Ilya’s hands pulled Shane's white tee shirt up, sliding over the other man’s warm skin. He could feel the strong muscles in Shane’s back, his sides, as kept one hand behind Shane and moved the other up his ribs.

Shane pushed Ilya back slightly. “Do you want to give me the tour?” he asked, breathing hard.

“There is king sized bed,” Ilya answered, jerking his head in that direction, “you want to see?”

“Yes, please,” Shane said, and fuck why did that please always go straight to Ilya’s cock?

He walked them toward the bed, kissing Shane the whole time, only stopping to strip Shane of his jacket and shirt. Then he pushed him onto the bed until he landed with a soft bounce, staring up at him with those gorgeous brown eyes.

Ilya took off the plain black t shirt he had been wearing.

“Great tour,” Shane said with a happy sigh. He bit his bottom lip, looking down Ilya’s chest to the chiseled v of where Ilya’s stomach met his hips, just under the top of his black joggers.

“Yes, you will give excellent review,” Ilya said. “Pants off now.”

“You first,” Shane said, licking his lips.

Ilya’s joggers hit the floor a moment later. He climbed on top of Shane’s lap, leaning over to catch one of Shane’s nipples in his mouth. He felt Shane’s fingers curl into his hair as he bit, gently, squeezing the nipple just enough for Shane to moan. He could feel Shane growing hard against him, trapped under dark blue denim.

“Pants off?” Ilya asked. “I owe you apology still.”

“And you think your apology is in my pants?” Shane asked.

Ilya raised his eyebrows and lifted himself up on his strong thighs so he could look down at the shape of Shane’s bulge straining against his zipper. “I think it is, yes.”

He took Shane’s laughter as approval, and quickly shucked the other man out of his jeans and boxers in one movement. He was back on top of him in a flash, licking and biting at Shane’s neck and chest.

“Can I mark you?” Ilya growled into Shane’s ear.

“Not my neck,” Shane panted. His nipples were hard pebbles, dark against his chest. “Lower.” He slid his fingers into Ilya’s curls, guiding him down.

Ilya latched on to the side of Shane’s chest, biting and sucking hard against one of Shane’s ribs.

“Fuck, Ilya, that’s so good,” Shane cried out.

He moved one hand down, between Shane’s thighs, dragging it up until he’s palming Shane’s cock, before he finally released Shane’s skin from between his teeth with a loud ‘pop’. The mark he left was breathtaking. It was large, already turning purple, and anyone who saw it would know someone got close enough to Shane Hollander to leave it behind.

It doesn’t matter that they won’t know it’s me, Ilya tells himself. It matters that we know. He blew air across the mark, and Shane’s cock leaked between Ilya’s fingers.

The air between them was thick and the smell of their combined sweat and colognes was sweet as honey. Ilya slipped his own boxers off, dropping them on the floor. He kissed down Shane’s body, an apology spelled out in every brush of his lips.

“Please, Ilya,” Shane begged, hips moving on their own. “Please, I need your mouth, please.”

Ilya swallowed him down.

When Shane has orgasmed into Ilya’s throat, Ilya let him ride the wave, bucking his hips against Ilya’s lips, moaning so loud Ilya can hear it over the sound of the blood rushing through his own ears. When Shane settled against the bed, Ilya let him go with one final lick around the head of his softening cock. Shane whined, oversensitive, and tried to pull Ilya up for a kiss, a fuck, something… Ilya isn’t sure, but he has plans of his own.

He licked the crevice at the top of Shane’s thigh, kissing and biting down Shane’s ass. He pushed Shane’s left knee up to his chest, then the right, holding them both with one arm like they’re hanging off a bar.

“Wait, what are you…” Shane started to ask, barely able to get the words out.

The only answer he gets is Ilya licking a circle around Shane’s rim, then pushing his tongue inside.

Shane gasped and lifted his hips.

Ilya withdrew his tongue then pushed it in again, farther.

Shane cried out, grasping at the sheets in a panic. “Oh, god, Ilya, oh god, what – please, please …” he begs quietly.

Ilya licked and kissed Shane’ s entrance, alternating between delicate touches and pushing back inside to fuck Shane with his tongue. He briefly wondered at what exercises Shane had been doing to give him this kind of flexibility, since the man is practically folded in half, but Ilya's arm was getting tired so he focused on the task at hand instead. Ilya had only eaten a guy out once before, and it was only okay for him (but apparently was pretty great for the guy). With Shane it’s a fucking revelation. He thinks he could make Shane come again just from doing this.

He’s positive he could come just from doing this to Shane.

But then Shane was begging, “Fuck me, please, Ilya, I need you, fuck me, please,” and Ilya was reaching into the night table for the lube and a condom and then he was fingering Shane the rest of the way open

and then Shane was crying

“Sweetheart, no what’s wrong?” Ilya asked, pulling his fingers out suddenly. He moved up to take Shane in his arms, kissing away his tears.

“So good,” Shane said, rutting his cock against Ilya’s hip, “please don’t stop.”

“You are okay?” Ilya asked, making sure.

Shane nodded, biting on his lower lip. “Please fuck me.”

Ilya doesn’t need to be asked again. He swiftly gets the condom on and pushes inside of Shane. It’s a little too early, he’s not fully stretched, but he’s slicked up and so hot it’s almost painful as Ilya gets all the way inside.

“I won’t last long,” Ilya warned, but Shane shook his head and said, “me neither, please just move,” so Ilya does. He managed a few minutes of slow, careful thrusts, but Shane was too tight around his cock. There’s too much heat and sweat and the sound of Shane’s whimpering noises that escape from his throat every time Ilya pushed into Shane’s ass are overwhelming.

Ilya’s thrusts started to fall apart. He lost the rhythm and just fucks Shane with everything he has. The sound of their skin slapping together turned into pressure building up below Ilya’s stomach, spreading into his hips. His skin was on fire and his nipples are so hard he wondered briefly if they’ll stay that way forever, tiny buttons of sensitive pink skin too painful to touch.

Beneath him, Shane had one arm pressed against his eyes.

“Look at me,” Ilya orders him, but Shane shook his head. “Look at me, Shane, or I stop.” It’s a lie and he thinks they both know it because he’s so close to coming he doesn’t think he can make his body stop moving at all, like it has a mind of its own and the only reason he even has muscles is so he can fuck Shane Hollander this way, hard and sloppy and wrecking them both.

But Shane moves his arm and fixes his brown eyes on Ilya’s sea green. Shane’s pupils are wide, there are tear tracks down the sides of his face, and his lips are swollen.

“You’re so beautiful, so beautiful,” Ilya gasps out in Russian. In English, he manages to say, “You’re taking me so well, Shane, such a good boy for me,” before Shane arches off the bed, his throbbing cock shooting strands of white over his chest.

Ilya’s orgasm happens a second later.

After, they shower, and after they had gotten soap into every crevice of each other’s bodies, Ilya carefully sunk to his knees under the warm water.

“I can’t go again,” Shane moaned, but his dick was already betraying him.

Ilya didn’t bother to argue. He took Shane in his mouth, moaning as Shane’s cock fully hardened between his lips. One of his arms was wrapped around Shane’s hip as the other man leaned back against the shower wall. With his other arm, Ilya got Shane’s leg up onto Ilya’s shoulder. Shane slapped one hand against the shower wall, keeping it there. Ilya could feel Shane’s legs trembling. As he sucked and bobbed, listening to Shane’s moans echo loudly in the bathroom, he slipped a finger into Shane’s ass, and curled it against his prostrate.

Such a good trick, Ilya thought, as Shane came down his throat for the second time that night.

“I’m gonna die if you keep this up,” Shane said weakly, once they were back in bed. “In case you’re wondering, I’ve officially forgiven you.”

“Okay we get food, we sleep, tomorrow we do this over again. Then maybe if you don’t die, we go to fancy award show,” Ilya said as he planted kisses on Shane’s chest with every comma. Not leading anywhere. Just because he could. “You win, we come back here...You will think of me wearing your jersey to your season opener, I look so good in it you think, tomorrow night you will ride me like cowboy until you break me.”

“What if you win?” Shane asked sleepily.

Ilya kissed his forehead. “I will think of something.”

“Can you tell me about the pictures?” Shane asked. "The ones you gave me."

Ilya’s eyebrows rush to meet each other for a moment, until Shane grabbed his keys from the night table, and holds up the little yellow triangle hanging from them - a keychain shaped like a piece of cheddar. “I thought I texted you what those were last week?”

“Yes, but I want to hear you say it,” Shane said. Ilya nodded, so Shane got out of bed to grab his laptop. “I don’t keep anything on my phone or computer,” Shane said, explaining.

“Yes, was point of cheese,” Ilya said. “You worry.”

“You should worry too. If anyone found these…”

Ilya kissed Shane’s shoulder in a way he hopes is reassuring.

Shane, because he’s Shane, can’t just keep secret pictures of his sexy Russian hookup away from the Internet or hackers on a novelty USB stick on the keys he doesn’t let anyone else touch. He also has to hide them three folders deep, under a pile of spreadsheets about team stats and nutrition macros.

“Your spank bank is called International Trade Prospects?” Ilya asked, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Shut up, it’s not a spank bank. Some of the pics you gave me are fully dressed. Like this one,” Shane said, pointing to one of Ilya looked somber in a suit. He’d been at a party of some kind, but everyone in the background was blurry.

“A dinner for my father. I was 16 here,” Ilya said.

“Why did you give me this one?” Shane asked.

“It was night I decided I would go to MLH instead of staying in Russia. Also, look how I sexy I am? Like a Bond villain.”

Shane laughed. “Dude, you’re not cool enough to be a Bond villain.”

“Fine, but I’m still sexy, yes?”

Shane kissed him then, slow and sweet. “Yes,” was all he said, before turning back to the computer. “What’s this one?”

The picture on the screen was Ilya, Marly, and Connors at a club somewhere in Boston. Ilya was wearing a silk shirt the color of the ocean, with the top three buttons undone. The light over the bar illuminated Ilya’s hair in a way that made his usually brown curls look golden like summer wheat drying in a field.

“New Year’s Eve. I, uh… wanted to give you picture that was not… me with girls,” Ilya managed to get out. He could feel his ears getting warm.

Shane looked at him for a long time, until Ilya had to look away, tucking his face under Shane’s ribs. He found the ticklish spot he’d discovered by accident months before, until Shane burst into laughter and shoved roughly at Ilya in return.

The other half-dozen pictures were of Ilya half dressed, or naked, or naked with his cock in his fist and his own release drying across his stomach. One was the picture he’d text Shane months ago, which Ilya hadn’t included. He must have saved that one himself.

“Those are your actual present,” Ilya teased, bumping their shoulders together.

Shane sighed. “Would it be okay if I gave you your present when you get back?”

“Of course,” Ilya said. “You want to give me present?”

Shane kissed him again as if that was an answer, his tongue licking into Ilya’s mouth.

“What did you do for your birthday last year?” Shane asked, later, when they needed to come up for air.

“Birthday is not a big deal in my family. If I want something, I get it for myself.” Ilya shrugged.

“Okay so what did you get yourself last year?”

“You,” Ilya said, pressing his face against Shane’s arm for a moment to hide his smile. “Is what I am doing for myself this year too. Maybe next year? Who knows.”

“Yeah,” Shane laughed. “Maybe.”

In the morning Ilya gets woken too early by Shane’s alarm, but it’s worth it to not wake up alone. Unfortunately, Shane is awake right away. Even worse, he slipped out of Ilya’s arms before they could do much more than a few morning kisses. Apparently the need to brush his teeth before anything else was an everyday thing.

Ilya groaned against the pillow that smelled like Shane’s shampoo, but got out of bed anyway.

His morning was not going to plan. After brushing their teeth, and a shower together where Shane laughingly slapped Ilya’s hands away before he could start anything interesting, he was then forced to get breakfast before the buffet runs out then go to the gym to burn off breakfast because we’re not on vacation, asshole, we need to keep up our conditioning, and then fuck I forgot I have to meet my parents for lunch and before, finally, blissfully, falling back into bed for a nap.

Shane Hollander was exhausting. Ilya could not get enough.

He woke from his nap to someone slipping into bed with him.

“Hi sleepy,” Shane mumbled into Ilya’s neck. He was naked and very warm.

Ilya’s arms moved to encircle the other man and draw him close. “M’awake now,” Ilya said as they kissed.

Then Shane moved under the covers to take Ilya’s stiffening cock in his mouth and Ilya was very much awake now thank you.

They got dressed together before the awards. Shane brought a basic tux with a bow tie; Ilya’s had a more fashionable cut but was similar in that it was black with a white dress shirt and black bow tie. They weren’t dressing to match, but Ilya can’t help thinking that they fit together anyway. After watching the other man struggle through three attempts, Ilya stepped forward to help Shane with his bow tie.

“I fucking hate them,” Shane said, giving up.

“I can see that,” Ilya said, his voice low and warm. His fingers moved quickly to get Shane’s tie sorted out.

“I spend all night thinking about the way it feels instead of paying attention to what people are saying. It’s fucking stupid.”

“Okay, I make you deal. You think about tie, instead of worrying about it being on you, think about how I will use it to tie you to the bed and make you come.” Ilya kissed his neck just above his collar, then kissed up the side of his jaw until he could take Shane’s earlobe in his mouth.

Shane moaned softly. “Can’t believe you’re getting me hard again. Don’t you get tired of fucking me?”

Ilya grabbed Shane’s hips, pulling them against his own so Shane could feel that they were both half hard already.

“Never,” Ilya purred. Shane chased Ilya’s lips, his eyes closed, but Ilya put one hand on Shane’s jaw and gently forced him up. Shane opened his eyes.

For a moment, they stood there, leaning against each other.

“You can’t look at me like that when we’re in public,” Shane whispered.

“How do I look at you?” Ilya asked.

“Like you want to eat me,” Shane said. Ilya kissed him instead of answering, because that was all he knew how to say.

For the ceremony, Ilya was seated at the same table with the other rookie up for their award, LeMaire, plus other players who were up for awards who hadn’t brought anyone with them. He let the conversation flow around him, chiming in when it felt right, trying not to keep looking over at Shane’s table. It didn’t work very well. Once he’d glanced over to find Yuna staring back at him. He gave a little wave in her direction. She nodded, then went back to talking with someone else, smiling brightly. She looked lovely in a sleeveless gold dress.

Ilya thought he could see both of his parents written into the shape of Shane’s face, but the dark hair and calculating eyes belonged to Yuna Hollander first.

The awards show started, and almost immediately felt like it was dragging on for far too long. There were skits. There were speeches. There were awards he didn’t care about. Okay, fine, he cared in general, but not tonight. Finally the woman announcing the awards called out their names as their faces appeared on the big screen behind her. “The nominees for Rookie of the Year are Shane Hollander, the Montreal Metros, Vincent LeMaire, the Minnesota Nomads, and Ilya Rozanov, the Boston Raiders… and the Rookie of the Year is…”

Of course, it was Shane that won. Ilya had more points this season, by a few anyway, but Shane was cleaner on and off the ice. He tried to find some jealously in his chest as Shane took the stage, but Ilya didn’t have it in him. Shane really did deserve this. Ilya found himself clapping just as loudly as everyone else in the room.

And then, as the applause was dying down, Ilya stood up and put two fingers in his mouth to whistle appreciatively at Shane. The crowd laughed. Shane grinned in Ilya’s direction for a second before turning to face the audience, his serious media face settling over his gorgeous features.

His speech was fine – boring but in the way the MLH awards were always boring, and Shane did a fine job at giving it. He thanked the league, his team, his parents, and the friends he’d made along the way. Ilya wondered if that meant him.

After the ceremony, players and league officials lingered in the room for a while. Ilya thought about going over to congratulate him but remembered Shane’s nervousness back in their hotel room, present even after most other thoughts had been thoroughly fucked out of his head, and decided to wait. He could see now that Shane smiled but even at a distance Ilya could tell it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He wondered how anyone could stand next to him and not notice Shane was uncomfortable being the center of attention.

Maybe everyone did. Maybe it was only Ilya who thought it was a secret.

The after party was being held on the floor below them, so Ilya quietly excused himself while Shane was still making the rounds, shaking hands with veterans and team staff, while his mom did most of the talking. He stood in the back of the reception room for several moments, where the room was darkest, nursing a flute of champagne he’d grabbed of the tray of a passing waiter. As Shane walked downstairs, the crowd erupted with “Rook! Rook! Rook!” Ilya couldn’t help but smile as Shane waved awkwardly, his parents a few steps behind him. Ilya wanted to be there with him, next to him in the light.

You’re just jealous that you didn’t win, the voice in Ilya's head growled. It’s nothing more than that.

He was getting ready to ditch the event for a cigarette on the roof when he saw Shane had made his way to the bar. The bartender handed over something clear, which Ilya was sure was one of Shane's sickly-sweet ginger ales. He pulled out his phone to text Jane, when Scott Hunter approached Shane at the bar. Ilya can’t hear what they’re saying. He’s half a second from walking over when he sees Shane look around at the crowd.

Not finding what he was looking for, Shane pulled out his phone.

The phone in Ilya’s hand buzzed.

Jane: Hunter wants to do shots

Lily: oh he does?

Jane: he wants all 3 rooks, you in?

Lily: yes I will come save you from dinosaur

Lily: like caveman with spear

Jane: he’s not that old

Lily: he’s ancient

Ilya looked up to see Shane smiling fondly at his phone. Nearby, Scott was facing the other direction, talking to some of the other veteran players

Jane: why do I need saving from Scott?

Lily: I don’t like how he looks at you

Shane’s head darted up, looking at Scott. Ilya could see Shane frowning.

Jane: how does he look at me?

Lily: like I look at you

Hunter was back at Shane’s side, leaning in closer than he should be, so Ilya put his phone in his pocket and moved through the crowd to join them.

“Rozanov,” Scott called out as he approached. “I knew your boy would get you over here.” He put a hand on Shane’s shoulder.

“I, uh, I told him you weren’t my boy,” Shane said nervously.

Ilya looked at Scott’s hand, still on Shane, then up at Scott. There was something in Scott’s eyes, but Ilya wasn’t quite sure yet what it meant. “Oh, did you?” Ilya said.

Scott tousled Shane’s hair playfully. “Ok you fucks, line up for shots!” he called out, while Shane tried to brush his hair back into place.

If Ilya put his hand on the back of Shane’s neck for a moment and squeezed, if Shane closed his eyes and took a calming breath at the same time, and if Ilya was looking at Scott when Scott looked back over in time to see the whole thing… well, what then?

“Tequila?” one of the vets says, but Ilya shakes his head and says loudly, “Tequila is for shitty Americans on shitty American teams! Vodka or you old fucks will have hangovers tomorrow and regret your life choices.”

Hunter started to say something but Carter Vaughn clapped them both on the back at the same time and laughs. “Fuck yeah, Rozanov! Finally someone to keep these uncultured swine from leading us astray.” Carter turned to the bartender and ordered up two shots for each of them.

Ilya grinned widely while Shane shook his head, clearly trying not to laugh. Maybe Carter was not so bad, even if he was an Admiral.

They lined up to the bar, tossing the first one back as a group. They took the second shot a little more unevenly, with Rozanov and Hunter grabbing for theirs first (at the same time) and others (like Hollander) being a little slower to join in.

“Fuck yes,” someone yelled further down the line. “One more?”

So a third shot was put in front of them.

Ilya glanced at Shane, who was already turning pink. “You don’t have to do this,” he said into Shane’s ear. “Tell me and I’ll take yours before anyone notices.”

“S’okay, I want to,” Shane said, picking up the new shot and slamming it back.

A drop of vodka escaped Shane’s mouth, dripping back across his cheek. Ilya wanted to lick it off, but Shane wiped his face with the back of his hand before Ilya got the chance.

“I need cigarette,” Ilya said, louder this time. “You come with?”

“Uh, we’re gonna go to the…” Shane told Scott but then paused, looking at Ilya.

“Roof,” Ilya supplied.

“Right, to see the view,” Shane said.

“To smoke,” Ilya said at the same time.

Scott just said, “Right,” and went back to talking with LeMaire and Carter. No one else seemed to care if Shane and Ilya were there in that moment, so Ilya walked away trusting Shane to be right behind him. If he wanted to grab his hand to lead him through the crowd, that was just the combination of half-decent vodka and assuming that Shane wouldn’t love not being completely sure where they were going. It didn’t mean anything.

The found the smoking area, around the corner from the rooftop lounge but strangely empty. There were potted plants and lounge chairs, but no people. Ilya took out his cigarettes and lit one up. Shane stood a little ways away, leaning against the corner of the building.

“You are drunk,” Ilya said.

“I’m not,” Shane protested.

“Is okay. Big night for you.”

“Are you mad at me?” Shane asked.

Ilya frowned. Why did he keep asking that? “No. Better if it had been me but if not, it should only be you.”

“You seem mad,” Shane said. He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

“I will hear about it,” Ilya told him. “But that is a problem for Russia. I am not mad at you.” He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette and flicked it off the side of the building.

He moved toward Shane. The sound of his dress shoes clicking against the concrete was loud out here, but Shane didn’t open his eyes until Ilya was standing right in front of him.

“You’re leaving me anyway,” Shane said.

Ilya sighed against Shane’s lips. “Don’t you know if I could leave you I would have already?” he said in Russian.

“No fair,” Shane started to say, but Ilya kissed the rest of his words away. Ilya’s hands found Shane’s face as Shane’s hands grabbed at Ilya’s waist, pulling him closer, until he’s suddenly pushing him away. “What are you doing?” Shane asked, breathless. “We’re in public in tuxedos, anyone could see us?”

His hands were still on Ilya’s waist.

“Relax, no one is looking,” Ilya purred, leaning forward to kiss him again, but Shane twisted them both to push Ilya’s back against the wall.

“You don’t know that,” he said, voice low, his eyes on Ilya’s lips. “We have our own room, asshole.”

Ilya grinned. He ducked his head forward to steal another kiss. “We have our own bed, too.”

Shane smiled back. “I like our bed.” He smiled. “We don’t have to go back to the party, you know.”

“Shane Hollander,” Ilya said with a slow drawl, savoring the taste of Shane’s name on his lips. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?” Shane asked coyly.

Ilya grabbed Shane’s and pulled him closer, rubbing their cocks together. They were both already hard. “What do you think?” he whispered.

Shane laughed then, turning away. “Come on then!” he called back over his shoulder.

Ilya let him go first, just long enough to get a good look at Shane’s beautiful ass as the man walked toward the exit.

Which is why he didn’t see Scott Hunter appear right in front of Shane.

“Oh, hey Hollander, there you are,” the older man said. “I was just looking for you. Make sure you were okay. Big night for you.”

Ilya stepped forward, out of the shadows. “You were looking for me too, Hunter?”

Scott’s eyes snapped over to him; clearly, he hadn’t noticed Ilya was even there. “Uh, sure man. What are you guys still doing up here? It's been a while.”

“He's smoking,” Shane said, but Ilya said, “The view,” at the same time.

“Yeah I heard the view was great up here,” Scott said. He was looking at Shane again.

Then he licked his fucking lips, and Ilya’s nostrils flared. “Well, come take a look at it then,” Ilya commanded, waving his hand at the scene behind him.

“Jesus, what’s your problem kid?” Scott asked. Shane took a step to the side, heading turning to look at Ilya.

“Nothing, Hunter, you want view here is fucking view!” Fuck.

“I get you lost tonight, Rozanov, but you don’t have to take it out on me and Hollander,” Scott said.

“He’s not,” Shane insisted. “It’s not like that.”

“We were leaving,” Ilya said, moving to stand next to Shane.

“Okay, let’s go back to the party,” Scott said.

“No, ah…” Ilya started to say, but Shane said, “I’ve had enough people trying to shake my hand for tonight.”

“That’s fine. We can hang out here,” Scott said immediately. “You want to get another drink? I hear the bar up here is pretty good.”

“He’s had enough to drink,” Ilya said.

Both of the other men looked at him: Scott seemed annoyed, and Shane seemed… Ilya wasn’t sure. His eyes were wide and there was a flush to his cheeks that might have been the alcohol, might have been from Scott almost catching them together. Might have been from the kisses they’d just shared or the bed they had waiting for them.

Or maybe Shane wanted Ilya to leave, so he could be alone with Scott Hunter instead. He wasn’t 100% sure but if he had to bet, Ilya would put money down on Scott taking anything Shane offered.

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything more.

“All right,” Scott said. “We can just hang out here.” He pointed at the two deck chairs closest to them, and asked Shane, “Wanna sit, rook?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Hunter,” Shane said, looking at Ilya with pleading eyes.

Does he want me to stay or does he want me to go? Fuck, why don’t I know this yet?

“So, Hollander, how does it feel to be Rookie of the Year,” Scott asked.

Shane looked up at Ilya. “Do you want to… grab another chair or something? Sit with us?” He bit his lip.

Ilya nodded, but sat on the wide arm of Shane’s chair instead of dragging another of the heavy lounge chairs over to where they were. He wanted to be as close to Shane as he could get away with, but it was more than that – sitting on Shane’s chair like that, because Shane asked him to be there, made him feel invited. He wasn’t getting in the way of Scott and Shane. Scott fucking Hunter was getting in the way of them.

“It feels amazing,” Shane said, smiling now. “I gave the actual trophy to my dad to take back to the room but it’s heavier than I expected. It feels like something important.”

“I felt the same way,” Scott said. He leaned back into his chair. “No matter what other awards I win, I know that from my year, I’m the only one who’s ever going to have that trophy.”

Ilya shifted, uncomfortable. He looked out at the city. It really was a spectacular view.

“Well, yeah, but it’s just one award,” Shane was saying. “Rozanov actually got more points than me this year.”

“Is good award,” Ilya told him. He looked down at Shane. “You deserve.”

“It could have gone to you,” Shane said. His eyes were such a beautiful brown.

“It didn’t,” Ilya replied. Shane started to say something else but Ilya shook his head. “Stop. I told you it would be you, remember? It was supposed to be you.”

Of course you deserved to win, Shane, Ilya wanted to say. You’re a better man than I am. But Scott Hunter was watching them both.

The way Shane was looking at him, soft and sure, let Ilya believe for a moment that maybe Shane understood.

“So Rozanov what you do have after this?” Scott asked.

“I go back,” Ilya said. He had to tear himself away from Shane’s face. “I will train in Russia this summer.”

“Must be nice,” Scott said.

Shane giggled.

Shane Hollander actually fucking giggled. Like a child. Possibly a drunk child. Ilya stared at him with wide eyes.

“No, sorry,” Shane said, waving a hand in the air like he was swatting away a fly. “It’s not funny.”

“You feeling okay there, Hollander?” Scott asked. He leaned forward in his chair. “You look a little pink.”

Shane shook his head, but the movement wasn’t as smooth as it should have been, like he was shaking his head under water. “M’fine,” he said. “I think the shots are hitting me now that I stopped moving.”

“You want me to get your parents?” Scott asked.

“No, no, they went to bed already. Anyway I’m a grown… adult. Person. I’m fine.”

“You want to go?” Ilya asked.

“In a minute. This is nice,” Shane sighed. He nudged Ilya with his shoulder.

“You know, I keep waiting for you two to punch each other,” Scott said.

“We tell people Rozanov and Hollander are friends, no one believes,” Ilya said with a shrug. He patted his pockets until he found his lighter. “I need a cigarette,” he said, nudging Shane with his elbow. “You want I go over there?”

Shane shook his head again. “There’s no… no smoking sign here,” he said with a grin. “You know, because… we’re. You know.”

“We are outside?” Ilya asked. A vague memory tickled his brain.

“Nooo,” Shane said. “You know, the smoking sign. Hello, I am Shane Hollander.”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya said, remembering. “I must be Ilya Rozanov. And I did beat you.”

The smile that lit up Shane’s face was worth the fact Scott Hunter got to see it too.

“Yeah, but I’m still nice, asshole,” Shane said.

“Yes, you are,” Ilya agreed. He got out a cigarette, lit it, and took a drag. He blew smoke out of the other side of his mouth, away from Shane.

“Will you stay in Canada, Hollander?”

Fuck, Scott is still here. Ilya kept forgetting. Maybe he’d drunk more than he realized too.

“Yes, Mr. Hunter,” Shane said, trying to be serious now, as if this were an interview. As if there'd be press about his answers later. “I alternate between Ottawa and Montreal in the off season, so I can see my parents but also keep up with my trainers.”

“Well if you wanted, you’re always welcome in New York. I’m sure the Admirals can get you some ice time.” Scott smiled, warm and open. Not at all someone Ilya should be punching in the face right now.

“That’s a really nice offer, sir,” Shane said. 

“I told you, please call me Scott. Can I call you Shane?”

“Nyet,” Ilya said under his breath.

“What was that?” Scott asked, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing,” Shane said. “Sorry, Scott, yes I will let you know if I come to New York this summer.”

“Great! I’m always down to hang out. There’s a ton of great bars, restaurants. You like museums? New York has the best.”

“Yes, Hollander, let the dinosaur take you to visit his dinosaur friends in the museum. You can collect fossils instead of playing hockey.” Ilya took another drag off his cigarette.

“The fuck is your problem with me, kid?” Scott asked.

Ilya tried to think of an answer. He didn’t have one, not really, not one that could be put into words. What he had was a sickly feeling low in his stomach, and tension in his muscles he hadn’t been able to wish away. He had it every time Scott looked at Shane, and how the hell was he supposed to explain that?

“Do you know what kittens say in Japan?” Shane said, breaking the silence, his words slurring together a little now. He leaned against Ilya’s side.

“Hmm, what’s that?” Ilya asked, trying to calm himself down.

“They say nyao.” Shane looked very pleased with himself. “I looked it up.”

“Okay kitten,” Ilya said, standing. He stubbed his cigarette out on the arm of the deck chair and put the stub in his pocket. He reached out for Shane’s hands. “Time for you to go to bed, I think.”

“I’ll take him,” Scott said quickly, reaching a hand toward him. “Hollander, you got your room key?”

Shane nodded, but let Ilya pull him up instead of Scott. “Ilya has one too,” he said. “Everyone gets a room key.”

“Is fine, I know where his room is,” Ilya said. He got one arm around Shane’s back. “No need, Hunter. We’re good.”

“Yeah, I’m not letting you take him when he’s like this,” Scott said with a scoff.

“The fuck does that mean?” Ilya’s jaw twitched.

“Hey, hey, no fighting,” Shane said. “Let’s get another round and be friends.”

“No more vodka for you, Hollander,” Ilya said, instantly softening. “Time for water, yes? Then I let you brush your teeth and maybe we don’t throw up tonight, okay?”

“Yes, good plan,” Shane said with a nod. He threw his arm around around Ilya’s shoulders, and they walked toward the patio door.

“Fine but I’m going with you,” Scott said, following after them.

They managed to get to the elevator before Shane got wobbly, and Ilya silently prayed the other man could stay on his feet a little longer.

“What floor, rook?” Scott asked Shane.

“10,” Ilya answered for him.

“I didn’t ask you,” Scott replied. “Hollander, what floor are you on buddy?”

“Is the same answer,” Ilya said. “Thank you for your help,” he added as the elevator door opened. “I can take him from here.”

“No way,” Scott said, stepping into the elevator behind them. “Look I want to like you, kid, I really do, but I know your reputation. So let’s just get Hollander to his room without any problems.”

“You don’t fucking know anything,” Ilya said, pushing the button for their floor. Next to him, Shane was solid and warm.

“We’re friends,” Shane said. Scott looked at him, surprised. “Is a secret though, don’t tell anyone. Oh, really don’t tell Hayden okay? So many secrets.”

“Hollander, I think it’s quiet time now, yes?” Ilya said. He squeezed the other man tightly against his side.

“No it’s okay, Scott’s nice,” Shane said, a little whiny. “He won’t tell anyone.” Looking at Scott, Shane said in an exaggerated voice, “It’s Russia. Shhh.”

The elevator beeped at their floor.

“I got it,” Ilya tried to say, but Scott stepped past them out of the elevator with a determined look on his face.

“Not happening,” Scott said. “Hollander, what’s your room number?”

“1018,” Ilya and Shane both said at the same time. Ilya sighed, turning them both to walk toward their room, very aware of the heat coming off of Shane’s body where they were still pressed together, until they were in front of their door.

Shane fumbled in his pocket for a key card, patting at several of his pockets.

“I got it,” Ilya told him quietly, pulling his own from his coat pocket. It had the room number written on the little white envelope that encased it.

Scott stared at them both.

“Fuck,” Ilya said under his breath. He reached into Shane’s jacket to pull the other key card out from the inner pocket. He held them both up in front of Scott’s face, the numbers on each one the same. “Okay?” he asked.

Scott nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Ilya used one of the keys to get the door open. “Good night, Hunter” he said, trying to make a point.

Scott just laughed unpleasantly. “Not happening, kid. Let’s get him inside.”

Ilya rolled his eyes, but stuck between taking this conversation into their hotel room, or potentially arguing with Scott Hunter over a drunk Shane Hollander in a hotel hallway, what choice did he have?

Inside the room, Shane immediately sat down on the bed – and Ilya was suddenly very aware of the fact that there was only one fucking bed in the room – then slumped over with a smile on his face. “I love bed,” he said.

“Okay, time for jacket off,” Ilya said, getting Shane’s arms out of his tux jacket and folding it gently over the back of the desk chair. He looked at Scott, who was watching them with his arms crossed against his chest. “Water in little refrigerator, grab one please.”

Scott did, and tossed it to him. Ilya caught it easily, twisted the cap off, and held out in front of Shane’s face. “Sit up, drink this, and if you do a good job I help you take that tie off.”

“It’s so strangly,” Shane said, trying to tug at his bow tie with one hand as he pushed himself up with the other.

“Yes, yes, is terrible tie,” Ilya said softly. He leaned over. Shane tilted his head to the side to give Ilya access while he drank the water. Ilya carefully worked his fingers into the knot to get the tie undone, pulling it from Shane’s neck. He stood and set it on top of Shane’s jacket, then sat down on the bed. “You want minty toothpaste first or clothes that are not scratchy?”

“Hmm, clothes,” Shane said. He started to unbutton his shirt, but Ilya put one of his hands over Shane’s to stop him.

Turning to Scott, he said, “Is this enough, or do you need more of a show?”

Scott sighed. “This isn’t what I expected.”

“Yeah, sorry you cannot get Hollander alone tonight, but he is done socializing I think.” Ilya didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t pissed off.

“You think I was going to take advantage of him?” Scott asked. He seemed genuinely surprised.

“What, you thought I would?” Ilya countered.

“Ilya,” Shane whine softly. “Bed.”

“Okay, okay,” Ilya said. “But no more buttons for you. I get clothes then I help.” He went to the dresser and pulled out a pair of Shane’s soft black sweatpants and then from another drawer, his own well-worn Raiders tee. Then back to the bed, where he started to unbutton Shane’s dress shirt.

Shane didn’t object.

Scott sighed as Ilya got to the third button. “Hold on, kid, I don’t want to see any more.” Ilya paused. “I’m going to check on him in the morning, though.”

“Okay,” Ilya said, resigned to it.

“Okay,” Shane repeatedly brightly.

“Whatever this is, you two need to be a lot more fucking subtle,” Scott said. “You’re sharing a room for fuck’s sake.”

“Everyone thinks we hate each other,” Ilya said. “You did.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to last,” Scott said, a dark look crossing over his face. “You got aspirin? He’s going to need it.”

It’s possible that Scott Hunter is not the very worst person in hockey.

“Bathroom. I give to him.”

Scott nodded. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but left the room instead.

Ilya managed to get Shane out of his shirt and pants, then re-dressed before stripping out of his own tux, leaving his briefs but not bothering to put on anything else. He dragged Shane into the bathroom to brush his teeth, remembering from their short time in Ilya’s apartment together that Shane would hate himself in the morning if he didn’t brush his teeth before he slept. Maybe more than the fact that Scott fucking Hunter had seen them together in their hotel room.

Probably. Maybe Ilya didn’t need to tell him every detail about that conversation yet.

He batted Shane’s hands away when the other man tried to run them over Ilya’s naked chest. “Drunk boys do not make good choices,” he whispered in Shane’s ear before kissing his cheek. “Next time, Hollander.” He got them both into bed, sitting up against the headboard while Shane laid his head in Ilya’s lap.

“You can’t sleep like that,” Shane said. “Bad for your back.”

“Yes but I’m not going to be asleep yet,” Ilya said. “Want to make sure you don’t throw up in our bed.”

“Good idea. Tell me story?” Shane mumbled. “Bedtime story,” he added with a sleepy little nod.

“I don’t know any bedtime stories in English, sweetheart.”

“S’okay. Tell me in Russian.” There was a twitch at Shane’s mouth that might have been him trying to smile, if he weren’t more than halfway to passing out in Ilya’s lap. “Is pretty when you say Russian to me.”

“Okay,” Ilya said with a smile. He reached down, more gentle than he’s ever been in his life, and brushed his fingers across the freckles on Shane’s cheek. “I think about this past year and I barely remember the hockey,” Ilya said in Russian. Shane stirred a little, but didn’t open his eyes.

Ilya kept going.

“I remember 1410. I remember putting my hand on the doorknob and walking out the door except that didn’t happen because you called after me with your questions and your beautiful freckles and I think I have been waiting for you to call after me ever since. One hand on the door, expecting you to want me to leave, and your voice pulling me back over and over.”

He sighed, and let himself run his fingers through Shane’s soft black hair.

“I don’t know why you keep doing it,” Ilya admitted. “I don’t know if I will ever understand it. But everywhere I look this last year, there you are. I think about kissing you for the first time, and the hundredth time, and they both feel new to me. I think about my first few months as a Raider and I’m thinking about missing you. I think about my first apartment, and that reminds me of the new apartment I needed to find because I was too embarrassed of the first one to ever take you there. I think about the expensive cars I will buy and how I chose a grey one first because I think you will like it better than the candy colored cars I want more.”

He paused then, listening to Shane breathe quietly. He can see his own name, ROZANOV, spelled out in faded yellow letters across Shane’s back, just above the top of the blankets.

“I want to dress you in all my clothes so everyone knows you’re mine,” Ilya said. “I can’t stop thinking about how greedy I am, how I’m going to ruin you, how you’re going to let me if you aren’t careful. I think about the way you confuse me and scare me and break my heart. And maybe you are ruining me too. Making me let you in. Making me let other people in, even though I know I’m going to fuck everything up. I think Marly is a good friend now because wanting to be good for you made me reach out to him, and I’m going to lose him because I lose everyone and it’ll be your fault for making me think I could keep him. I think about the way you tell me you’re proud of me and I deserve better like you really believe it, and for maybe a minute I might feel like I believe it too.

I barely remember the hockey from this season, but when I do it’s with you there – across from me at the faceoff, skating past me in the box, the way you held me during that fight with our goalies on the ice. I know I’m scoring and winning in between but what I remember is you. I know I watched the playoffs but some days I don’t even remember who won.

I think about dancing in that club with you. I think about 3 days that should have been 5 days, about photo shoots, about you stealing my hoodie. Fuck, Shane. You make me soft and you terrify me and you make me want to make the world into honey for you, and you make me want to burn it all to the ground if that’s what it would take to keep you warm.”

Ilya wiped away the tears forming in his eyes.

“I’m so stupid for you and I think you know and I keep waiting for you to use it to hurt me. I can’t imagine a world where we can be together. I feel like wanting that will kill me. You will murder me and I’ll thank you. What the fuck is wrong with me?”

He fell asleep sitting against the headboard, Shane Hollander in Ilya Rozanov’s lap, Ilya’s hand twisted in Shane’s hair, in a hotel room in Vegas they’re not supposed to be sharing.

Ilya’s alarm went off first, in the morning. He wriggled out from under Shane’s head and left him sleeping in their bed alone. He grabbed what’s left of the things he hadn’t packed yet before kissing Shane’s forehead as softly as he can.

Shane made a little whimpering noise as if he knew, somewhere deep in his dreams, that Ilya had to go.

Ilya left the caramel-colored hoodie folded up at the end of the bed.

Chapter End Notes

(Last edited 4/23/26)

Chapter 17: Oh, Ilyusha, what have you done?

Chapter Summary

Buckle up and listen well, my beauties. This chapter is HARD. It's fucking Russia. It's earned some new tags:

Please always read the tags on a fic so you know what you're getting into and the choice to continue is always yours.

All the ways Ilya is broken over the summer, and one thing that puts him back together again.

Updated tags: Assault, Emotional/Psychological Abuse (Please note the assault is non-sexual)

Sexually, this chapter is SFW.

Chapter Notes

I've gone back and edited Ch 1 - 16. When I started posting this originally, it was all first drafts, not edited. I would go through and read it again on my phone once it was online, then fix the most obvious things, but after a while I realized that a) I could do better, b) I wanted to do better, and c) enough people were invested in reading this that y'all deserved the best version of this story. So printed out 50k+ words (200+ pages, double sided) and edited it by hand with a red pen because I worked in publishing and I am OLD SCHOOL. Also putting your writing into different formats (computer, phone, paper) helps you to see mistakes that your brain would happily glaze over if you didn't force it at gunpoint to it be a productive little bitch.

I fixed a lot of little things that shouldn't have a huge effect on the story but make it more polished: verb tenses, typos, some strange formatting, that kind of thing. I cleaned it up a bit too, by consolidating paragraphs where it made sense, and deleting some extraneous words/run on sentences.

There are a few lines which didn't exist in the previous version. I added those to the notes at the end of this chapter in case you want to go back and reread 1 thru 16 first. You don't have to! You can just read the extra lines below if you want, but I've put them at the end so you have the choice.

The bombing of the Moscow airport is a real thing that happened in Jan 2011. It would have occurred between Chapters 10 and 11 of this story, while Ilya is having his first major depressive episode of his rookie year. He would have heard about it but only registered it in a background sort of way that would have been a lot more real to him when he actually landed there.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Domodedovo_International_Airport_bombing

Sveta met Ilya at Domodedovo airport when he landed. Last summer, just before his rookie year was due to begin, when Sveta had pulled him aside at a party and said, “We need a plan, Ilyusha,” they’d decided on this routine:

Ilya Rozanov doesn’t bring his laptop to Russia. He brings one phone from which he’s carefully deleted anything that could cause him trouble if his phone were confiscated by his father, or the police. His passport goes straight into Sveta’s hands at the airport, and is kept in her father’s safe until she takes him back to the airport at the end of the summer. Ilya brings money for his family as bank checks, not cash. He brings one cash card only, and his American drivers license is left at home in Boston.

His only suitcase is half-empty, and contains nothing he can’t live without. Maybe he will go shopping in Moscow and fill it up before he goes back to the US. Maybe he won’t. His overnight bag, a buttery soft leather he’d rather not lose but could also replace, contains newly-bought copies of his usual toiletries and a change of clothes (including sneakers) he won’t wear during the summer, in case he has to leave quickly enough that he doesn’t have time to grab anything more.

In case his father tries to stop him from going back. In case his brother invents a reason to haul him in to the police. In case Ilya is caught doing something he shouldn’t. In case news or photos or some other scandal breaks back in Boston while Ilya is stuck in Russia. In case Ilya needs to run.

In case, in case, in case.

It doesn’t mean anything bad will happen. But Ilya loves that Sveta thought about what could happen and made a plan. She was always looking after him like that, like he was a stray puppy she’d brought home but who kept pissing on the floor and needed someone to clean up the mess.

Domodedovo International was different this time. The suicide bombing in January had changed the air in the building. There were more police here, soldiers too, standing at every corner and watching. Ilya wasn’t a criminal in the strictest sense but as he walked from the luggage carousel he wondered which of them could see the crime of Shane Hollander written all over his skin.

He wanted to pull out his phone to look at the last text from Shane, the only one Ilya kept after deleting all of the others in the departure lounge at Logan while he waited to board. It just said Have a nice summer :) but Ilya thought it might mean I understand how it has to be. It could mean I’m wearing your clothes. He hoped it meant I miss you already.

It could also mean that Hollander wanted Rozanov to have a nice summer while they were on opposite sides of the world living opposite lives.

Sveta dropped Ilya at his father’s enormous flat, the one he’d been awarded almost a decade ago when he was an influential figure instead of a man inhabiting the memory of past accolades. They’d moved in a few months after Ilya’s mother passed away. He’d lost her, her garden, his childhood bedroom, his old school friends, and the dream of a happy life in such quick succession it felt sometimes that he’d blinked and his whole life had turned upside down. Polina had come with the new apartment, in a way. She’d appeared at his father’s side before they even finished unpacking, and they married only weeks later.

Polina had been a beautiful young woman when she became Ilya’s stepmother. He was still 12, and she was… twenty, he thought, trying to remember. Which would make her about 28 now. Except now, sitting across from her and his father at their dining room table, she looked much older. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, in his father’s too dark home with its old fashioned chandeliers instead of modern lamps. In a place lit for dinner parties and funerals, Polina had gone from a butterfly perched on his father’s arm to a widow, waiting for the services to begin.

Ilya didn’t know why, and worse, he was certain no one would tell him.

“I brought this for you, Papa,” Ilya said, sliding an envelope across the table toward his father. In Russian, of course, always Russian – they never spoke English here. He’d left that language behind in Boston the same way he’d abandoned his apartment, his car, the cashmere hoodie, and himself. Temporarily, he hoped. But being here, he could never be sure he’d be able to escape again.

Grigori Rozanov looked at his son with disapproving eyes. This didn’t concern Ilya; his father had never looked at him any other way. “What is this?” Grigori asked.

“$50,000 US,” Ilya said, nodding at his father. Bowing his head really, a sign of respect. A young lion acknowledging the beast that dominated their pride. “It is the first installment of my performance bonus, for exemplary skill this season. I have also arranged with my agent for monthly payments to your account.”

Grigori sat for a moment, his fingers running along the envelope but not opening it. “Did you forget your brother again?” he asked. “After all that Alexei has done for you?”

“No, Papa,” Ilya said quickly. “I have also money for him, and another monthly deposit to his account, separate from yours.”

“Hmm. Well, good. But $50,000 is so little. Your performance was not as exemplary as you think.”

“American tax system,” Ilya said with a shrug. “I pay taxes in the US and to Russia as well, so my payments are spread out over the year. This means I get less as a lump sum, but the deposits to your account is automatic. Alexei too. My agent helped me to make sure that my money goes to support my family.” The truth was that Ilya’s American agent was dead set against this set up, but went along with it grudgingly. And there were new accounts in Ilya’s name to help him hide the bulk of his assets from his family. The $100,000 he’d brought to Moscow, split between his father and brother, was no where near what he’d actually been paid, but enough – Ilya prayed – to keep them off his back until the end of August.

He could figure out next steps once he was back in Boston. As long as he made it back to Boston.

Polina said nothing, but her eyes never left the envelope on the table.

After a while, Ilya stood up. His father waved his hand dismissively, and Ilya fled the room.

During the day, Ilya worked out. He tells himself that there is no world in which Ilya Rozanov can’t return to the Raiders for his second season simply because he didn’t put in the effort, and the pressure he puts on himself helps for a the first few weeks. He stuck to the diet and exercise plan his trainers planned out for him, one that doesn’t include him getting on the ice until the first week of September, back in Boston. He could have been skating the whole summer – he has connections to the local rinks, local teams, but if he puts on skates he won’t be able to stop himself from flying down the ice.

Ilya Rozanov on the ice in Russia might draw the attention of people who think Ilya Rozanov looks too good on Russian ice to ever leave.

Mornings go like this: Ilya wakes up from a dream he can barely remember, usually hard and thinking of Shane. He jerks off in his bed in his father’s apartment, biting a pillow or his arm to keep from making any noise at all. Being caught jerking off would be embarrassing. The idea that anyone would hear Shane’s name breaking free from Ilya’s lips terrifies him, but he can’t stop touching himself and he can’t stop thinking of Shane’s face when he comes and he can’t stop being afraid. It’s also, disturbingly, the best part of his day. He has to limit these times to the early morning so he has the whole day to work out the terror which is beginning to live inside of his skin before the night comes back to claim him.

Then there’s a shower, a run – and once he’s outside, checking his phone to see if Jane has texted, closing his phone again because the chat sits empty, except for the one text he hasn’t deleted:

Jane: Have a nice summer :)

He stops for black Russian tea and 6 scrambled eggs at a cafe near his gym, does an hour of weights, then another hour of cardio, which usually ends in him running until his legs are weak because the treadmill doesn’t make him think of Shane the same way the exercise bikes do. Lunch is something easy but full of protein and carbs – some days that’s beef stew or a decent steak at a restaurant, and sometimes it’s a bowl of ground beef and rice at his father’s table. Some days Polina cooks for him. Other days she sits quietly near his father, her eyes on Ilya’s muscular biceps when Grigori isn’t looking.

He recognizes the want in her eyes, the need to escape by throwing yourself against another sweaty body in the dark. He goes for another run each afternoon and tries not to feel sorry for his father’s wife.

Over dinner, Ilya listens to his father explain why Ilya is a disappointment a hundred different ways. Sometimes the explanations are quiet, plain – a simple recitation of Ilya’s failures as if it’s already been decided. Other times Grigori is actively angry, and those meals are punctuated by little pieces of violence. Grigori’s hand smacking the table so loudly that Polina flinches. A plate thrown to the floor. Once, when Grigori remembered that Ilya had promised on US television to wear his rival’s jersey in public, a half-full crystal glass thrown toward Ilya’s head.

Yes, Papa. I’m sorry, Papa. I know I am lazy but I will work hard to become better.

At night Ilya goes to clubs but doesn’t pick up, as much as he wants to – and he does want to because it would help him not think for a while, but he doesn’t, because Shane. He has one good and pure thing in his life, and somehow even with all of his mistakes, Shane is willing to not only give him the space he needs this summer but will still want to touch him at some point after Ilya gets back to Boston. Ilya really doesn’t want to ruin that.

He is also certain that he’ll find a way to fuck it up eventually.

Jane: Have a nice summer :)

Most nights, Sveta is there. These are the best parts of Ilya’s visit, outside of his mornings with the memory of Shane. He smiles as they do rounds of shots with people who swear they’re old friends but who Ilya won’t remember in the morning. He smiles as he dances with beautiful women who either know he plays professional hockey or recognize the cost of his clothes, and either one makes them want him to remember their names.

He only stops smiling when he opens his phone, the soft glow lighting up his face against the darkness of the club. He bites his lip to keep his traitorous fingers from typing out a message he can’t take back. It’s always been all or nothing with Shane, Ilya has realized, so the only way to keep it from being everything is to keep himself from anything at all.

He keeps checking though. Just in case.

And if Sveta, the angel that she is, notices Ilya’s smile is more fragile than it has been in the past, more likely to slip off like a too-heavy mask before he can push it back into place, she says nothing.

Where Svetlana is a balm spread over ruined skin, Sasha is the sunburn. One night in a bathroom after Sasha has put his hands on Ilya for the fifth time and for the fifth time, Ilya has carefully moved away from Sasha’s touch, they argue.

Sasha doesn’t believe in boundaries, and doesn’t seem to notice if this push and pull hurts Ilya. Hurts to say yes, hurts to say no. Ilya knows that now, but it’s not because Sasha doesn’t care. He’s just so used to everything they do being tied together with sex and pain that the pain can no longer be separated, and the sex can only be used to hurt them both.

“I don’t have to bleed to feel something, not anymore,” Ilya yelled and instantly regretted it, because he knows after all these years that explaining what he meant will sound like pity to Sasha. So he doesn’t bother.

“I’m going to Paris so I won’t be here the next time you come home to Russia,” Sasha said in return, a sneer on his lips and tears in his eyes. “You are good for exactly one thing, Ilya Rozanov, and it isn’t hockey. If you can’t even give me that, what is the point of you?”

Sveta opened the door to tell them that their conversation wasn’t private anymore, since the whole club can hear them yelling, and maybe could you take your gay panic outside? Sasha pushed past her, disappearing into the crowded dance floor. Svetlana crossed her arms, looking at Ilya with a sad face, but said nothing.

This is what Ilya will remember about Sasha now, this boy who has been by his side for 6 years. Of course. Why would it ever be different?

Jane: Have a nice summer :)

Ilya thinks he’ll remember this summer for a long time.

Every day, Grigori tells Ilya how he has failed their family. After the first week, Ilya doesn’t see Alexei anymore, because his check has been cashed and Grigori doesn’t need Alexei to eat his disappointment when Ilya is right there. So it’s Ilya who gets to hear about how his father’s friends are ashamed of Ilya’s playing style, how he’s letting America make him too soft, how he spends his time with whores and faggots instead of playing in Russia for the KHL like a good Russian son.

Yes, Papa. I’m sorry, Papa. I know I am lazy but I will work hard to become better.

Grigori remembered again the bet Ilya made to wear Hollander’s jersey, catching Ilya with a sudden backhand slap that leaves a bruise on the side of his jaw for a week.

Polina fetched him a bag of frozen onions with shame on her face, but that didn’t stop her from letting her gaze slip down Ilya’s body. The longer he stays in his father’s home, Ilya thinks, the greater chance there is that his father’s wife will try something incredibly fucking dangerous for them both. He’s not sure if he should be pleased about the fact that he absolutely no interest in her advances, because at the same time it feels like further proof everyone in his life has reduced him to the two things his body does well enough to be noticed.

It’s harder that it was in June to believe Shane is any different. Ilya still does, but the surety has been replaced with a faint question at the back of his brain.

It was July now, and the summer is half over.

Jane: Have a nice summer :)

By August, Ilya is exhausted. Every day in Russia is the same. Think about Shane, furtive and shameful rutting against his own hand in his bedroom in his father’s home, run, food, gym, food, run again, Grigori’s voice moving around Ilya like the river moves around a rock which hasn’t yet been worn down. Nights at a club. Later, a bed that isn’t welcoming and dreams that can’t save him from the life that’s waiting for him when he wakes up again.

Both the river and the rock know that eventually, the river will win.

Some days Ilya thinks about a version of himself that gave in. He imagines what he would be if he gave up hockey, gave up America, gave up Shane Hollander. He’d grow his hair out, stop eating so much fucking protein, let himself get lean and lanky. Sharper. He’d get piercings because they would hurt. Because they would signal to anyone looking that he’s chosen a life outside of what his father expects from him. They’ll tell whoever looks that he likes to hurt himself. That he’s chosen pain, maybe because he enjoys it, maybe because he wants the way certain people will look at him as if they know the price they’ll have to pay to fuck him isn’t very high. He’ll get tattoos when the piercings aren’t enough. He’ll do drugs like his brother and Sasha. Maybe he’ll do so many drugs that parts of his brain melt out of his ears and then that voice in his head might be quieter. He’ll get drunk every day, go to bars and clubs and pick up, get fucked in alleys and sleep in gutters, until – quickly, but not quick enough – it kills him.

It feels like the life he deserves.

Jane: Have a nice summer :)

Toward the end of August, Ilya realized that he should be feeling excited to go back to Boston again soon, but he just… didn’t. He had settled into a routine that felt simple and suffocating at the same time, the hand at his throat no less deadly for the fact that it was a shape he had grown familiar with. Even the dinners with his father had grown dull. It was a recitation now. Grigori was only saying what everyone knew. There were no arguments to be made.

Ilya no longer jerked off in the mornings. He wasn’t sure when it had stopped. He stopped looking at his phone too. He’d had messages from most of his team over the summer, from his agent asking him to check his email to review the photos from the shoot in Chicago – which he knew he absolutely could not open while he was still in Russia – but nothing from Jane.

Every day was the same. Run, eat, train, dinner, drink, fall into bed alone. Smile, Ilya, smile.

Nothing changed, except the speed at which his thoughts bulleted through Ilya’s brain. His body was falling away beneath him but his brain was spinning up like a cyclotron. A week before he was due to meet Sveta at the airport for their flight back to the US, Ilya stopped sleeping through the night. Whatever comfort he had found in those hazy dreams which always faded as soon as he opened his eyes was lost when Ilya no longer slept enough to dream at all.

Yes, Papa. I’m sorry, Papa. I know I am lazy but I will work hard to become better.

“If you can’t even give me that, what is the point of you?”

Jane: Have a nice summer :)

Two days before he’s supposed to fly back, he comes to on the dining room floor. Somewhere above him, Grigori is screaming at him. Somewhere else, Polina is screaming at Ilya’s father. A kick lands heavily on his ribs, and Ilya coughs hard. He was dimly aware that his ribs hurt in a different place than this kick, that whatever was happening in that moment had been happening long enough that he passed out before waking up again. When he heard his father's heavy footsteps moving out of the room, Ilya pushed himself up off of the floor. There was broken glass a few feet away. Polina must have gotten herself locked away somewhere safe because he can hear Grigori banging on a door.

He always told himself that if his father went after his new wife the way he had gone after Ilya’s mother, he would step in. He’s strong and fast. Taller than Grigori now. Younger. A hockey player known for fighting on the ice.

But while his father is screaming at Polina from the other side of a locked door, Ilya grabbed his bag from the bedroom – leaving his suitcase behind – and ran.

Sveta took one look at the pitiful animal on her doorstep and changed their tickets to the next flight back to Boston.

Their plane touched down at Logan before Ilya finally let himself believe that he wasn’t in Russia anymore. Last year it took weeks for him to let that truth settle into his bones, and this year will probably be worse, but the first step is believing this: I am not there anymore. I am here. I am here.

He wanted to text Shane that he was coming back a day early. He wanted to call Shane just to hear his voice. He needed to know Shane would still take his calls. He's terrified to find out that he won't.

But Ilya no longer remembers how to lie to Shane, and if he called now he would have to lie. At least until he’s safe in his own home and has a chance to heal. So he opened his phone for the hundredth time but doesn’t do anything with it. Instead he smiled at Sveta and they went to hail a cab. Whatever she sees on his face, she keeps to herself.

By the time they get to his building, Sveta has to help Ilya to his own door. She had her rolling suitcase of course, and Ilya’s leather bag was sitting on top of it, but her other arm was around his waist and he had one of his arms around her shoulders so they managed. His other arm was wrapped tight around his ribs. After 12 hours on a plane he was fairly sure nothing is broken but he’d been upright for too long and even breathing hurt now. He needed vodka, rest, and

Shane

Ilya shook the thought out of his head as he entered the door code and headed inside.

Immediately, he realized something was wrong. There was a light on in the living room. Ilya didn’t leave anything on when he left; he had double and triple checked. The idea that his apartment might burn down while he was away was too frightening, and he’d spent the week before Vegas running over a checklist in his head of everything that might short out if it were left on all summer without anyone there to watch the place. He was certain this light had not been on when he left.

“Stay,” he ordered, leaving Sveta just inside the door. He moved as quietly as he could, walking through his living room as if an intruder might tackle him at any moment. He heard Sveta start forward after a minute but waved her back with a hiss.

His apartment looked clean and almost exactly as he’d left it. Nothing seemed to be missing – his laptop and credit cards were still on the kitchen island where he’d left them before his trip. But there was something about the air that felt… lived in. There was no other sign though, so Ilya told himself it was an overreaction. The hypervigilance he wore like it was painted on his skin in Russia hadn’t been washed away yet. That was all. He turned, shrugging at Sveta to say I guess we’re okay. She flipped on the light switches near the front door, which controlled the overhead lights in the hallway leading to his bedroom, and the ones over the kitchen.

That’s when Ilya noticed it.

The dishes in the drying rack next to his sink were damp.

Someone had been in his apartment within the last few hours but only two people had the code to his door. He’d changed the cleaning schedule months ago so they could only come when he was there, and knew not to try while he was out of the country. Sveta had been with him in Russia for the entire summer, and the other person wouldn’t have even known to be here now, a day before Ilya had expected to be home. The other person was in Canada. The other person he had dreamed about for weeks, the person he hadn’t wanted to see him this way – with scars in his brain and bruises on his ribs – the person he had no right to expect would even want him after months of no contact was definitely not in Ilya’s apartment right now.

He sprinted toward his bedroom anyway. Distantly he realized Sveta was right behind him.

She gasped out loud as she came to a stop next to him, her hands flying together in front of her chest in shameless delight. “Oh, Ilyusha,” she said in Russian, her voice barely holding back laughter, “what have you done?”

Ilya could barely breathe. He put out one hand to steady himself against the door frame as his knees trembled.

Sleeping in Ilya’s bed in the dark, his back to them so the faded Raiders shirt he wore was fully on display in the light from the hallway, was Shane Hollander.

Chapter End Notes

There are extra/updated lines in Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 11, 14, 16

Ch 1:

Ilya hadn't. Girls, he did. Boys too, a few times. But girlfriends? He'd never had the chance.

Or never wanted to, probably. Same thing, right?

Ch 2:

"What's my name going to be?" 

Ilya grinned. "Jane."

Ch 3:

He'd been offered a chance to billet with a veteran player instead, which most rookies did, but after a summer with his father and step-mother the idea of being forced to share a space - breathing someone else's air - waiting for someone else's anger to change the shape of his days... He'd rather live alone. For now.

Ch 4:

"I know it's last minute, and fuck maybe coming to mine is too much for you, I can figure somewhere else out if you want."

“Yes, okay. We do that. Your apartment.” Ilya sighed into the phone because Shane was right, it was too much, what they had was never meant to be more than a hotel room and a one-night stand, but here they were. "I want to see it."

Ch 11

for checking Montreal's center harder than necessary the week before (though if Shane asked about it, Ilya was definitely going to lie)

Ch 14

standing next to Shane

Ch 16

"The ones you gave me."

- a keychain shaped like a piece of cheddar

Chapter 18: Why is Hollander here?

Chapter Summary

Ilya has come home from Russia with bruises to find Shane asleep in his bed. He's scolded by Sveta, bandaged by Shane, and interrupted by Cliff Marleau. Shane helps him have a vulnerable moment, and he finally answers the question about whether he likes Shane for more than sex.

Updated tag: Top/Bottom Versatile | Switch Ilya Rozanov

NSFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

Shane stirred, rubbing his eyes as he rolled over to face the door. “Ilya?” he asked sleepily, sitting upright. He looked so beautiful in the low light spilling in from the hallway, wearing Ilya’s shirt, sitting in Ilya’s bed. It’s so much like the dreams Ilya had in Russia that he can’t speak, can’t move, in case either of those things is what wakes him up.

Ilya is suddenly horrified to think he might still be there, in Russia, in the bed in his father’s apartment, dreaming of Shane Hollander. That he’s moments away from waking up alone.

“Why are you here already?” Shane asked, wrinkling his brow in confusion. “Oh, fuck,” he added, looking at Svetlana properly for the first time. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know you were bringing anyone back with you.” He stood up, letting the blankets fall away to reveal he was wearing only boxers and the tee shirt. He looked around until he found the pile of clothes neatly folded on the chair Ilya had positioned near the bed. “I was just, uh… house sitting?” Shane said as he grabbed a pair of black sweatpants, “I shouldn’t be here. I’m so sorry.”

Somewhere in the middle of that Svetlana started to laugh. “Wow, he is a terrible liar,” she told Ilya in Russian.

“Fuck off, Sveta,” Ilya growled back. In English, he said, “Shane, wait, please -” as he started to walk toward him, but after a few steps he groaned and wrapped his arms around his ribs.

Shane moved to Ilya’s side, pants forgotten. “What happened?” he asked softly, his hands carefully peeling Ilya’s arms away from his body. “Let me look?”

Ilya nodded.

“Turn the lights on please,” Shane said to Sveta, pulling Ilya’s jacket off as the bedroom lit up. Shane set the jacket loosely on the chair, then turned back to the grey Adidas tee Ilya had on underneath. Shane managed to get it off of him, though Ilya winced when he had to lift his arms over his head.

Shane’s breath caught as he traced the outline of Ilya’s bruises, not pressing hard enough to hurt. If Shane was touching only the edges where pristine flesh became injuries, then the damage was bigger than Ilya had realized, covering his ribs and chest, reaching around to his back. He hadn’t let himself look at it yet.

Shane’s fingers were exquisitely gentle. “What happened?” he asked again, his voice calm.

“Hockey,” Ilya managed to get out. “Checked too hard, I’m fine.” He knows he isn't believable as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Shane looked up at him then, studying Ilya’s face. His deep brown eyes were very wet. “Ilya, please don’t lie to me.”

Ilya tried to shrug. “I did not know you would be here,” as if that excused anything.

“You need to tell him,” Sveta said in English.

“It’s nothing,” Ilya tried again.

“Ilya,” Shane said, his fingers still moving, barely brushing against the surface of Ilya’s skin. “This one is a boot print.” There was something in his voice Ilya had never heard before.

He is ashamed of you, the voice in his head told him.

“I can’t…” Ilya started to say before stopping himself. His eyes filled with tears, spilling over to run down his cheeks. “Please don’t be angry at me.”

“Oh,” Shane said, soft like it was an exhale of breath leaving his body. He folded Ilya into his arms, careful not to touch any of the bruises. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmured into Ilya’s neck. “You’re home now, okay? I’m here.”

Whatever Ilya had been using to keep himself upright and stop himself from crying just… drained away. He sunk against Shane’s body, sobbing loudly into the other man’s shoulder. Shane moved them both slowly, bringing Ilya to the bed without letting go, until he was sitting on the bed and had pulled Ilya into his lap. “It’s okay,” he said, fingers in Ilya’s hair. “Just tell me who did this.”

Sveta spoke first. “It was his father, or his brother. He wouldn’t tell me either. But it was one of them.”

“Oh, Ilya,” Shane sighed, still stroking his hair, Ilya’s legs on either side of Shane’s, their arms wrapped around each other.

They sat quietly, long enough Ilya thought the conversation might be over. He forced himself to breathe, to stop the tears. He couldn’t quite let go of Shane though, not yet.

“I’m going to fucking kill them,” Shane said then. Simple. Decided. Another of Shane Hollander’s facts. “Do you understand me? I’m going to fucking kill them both.”

By the time the three of them fell asleep, he’d let someone take his shoes and pants off, and he was tucked into the middle of the bed with Sveta on one side and Shane on the side closest to the door. If there had been a conversation about this arrangement, Ilya didn’t hear it.

He woke alone in his bed the next afternoon, sunlight streaming in through the bedroom windows. His phone told him it was almost 3 PM; the pile of Shane’s clothes that had been folded on the chair were gone.

Jane: Have a great summer :)

There were no new texts.

What is the point of making it back just for him to see how weak you are? Better to have stayed in Russia.

He pissed and threw cold water on his face, then checked out his bruises in the bathroom mirror. They were huge purple things, and Shane was right, at least one of them was definitely in the shape of his father’s boot. He twisted painfully, trying to see them all. He also had a black eye he hadn’t realized was there, and if he poked his scalp gently, he could feel another bruise hidden under his hair.

Ilya rinsed his mouth out with water, not bothering to brush his teeth. He was planning to get drunk very soon anyway.

He padded out to the living room, expecting it to be empty, but stopped when he saw Sveta leaning over the kitchen island with her hand on Shane’s arm. Shane had his back to Ilya, ROZANOV still stretched across his muscular shoulders. Sweatpants now, and Ilya idly missed seeing Shane’s thick thighs. He was nodding as if he was agreeing to something. Sveta’s face looked pained, but she smiled kindly.

“I thought you left,” Ilya croaked out.

Shane turned, wiping at his eyes and fixing half a smile on his face. “We were letting you sleep,” he said. “Do you want coffee?”

Ilya nodded. He moved closer, scratching at this chest sleepily. “Coffee first, then shower I think.”

“Well, I should go,” Sveta said.

“You don’t have to,” Ilya replied in Russian. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I only stayed until you were awake so you’d know I wasn’t leaving you alone. But you aren’t alone, are you? Your Jane is here.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“Of course not, but I am not an idiot, Ilyusha. Neither is Shane Hollander.”

“He doesn’t speak Russian but he knows his own fucking name, Sveta.”

She laughed brightly. “Oops.”

Shane got up then. “I’m just going to use the bathroom,” he said, his fingers gently grazing Ilya’s shoulder as he slipped past him into the hall.

“You’re a fucking menace,” Ilya said.

Sveta stuck her tongue out playfully. “I’m an angel and you love me.”

“That too. What did you tell him?”

“About you? Not much. He didn’t like the idea I might say something you didn’t want him to know. And he didn’t want to tell me anything about your relationship either. He spent the first hour insisting he had a brand deal in town, that he was staying overnight and didn’t mean to be in the way. I had to tell him a dozen times that he was not in my way.” She paused then, for a moment. “Even after I told him plainly that I knew you two were sleeping together, he still insisted it was nothing to you. Kept saying you thought he was boring but you liked to fuck him.”

“I do like to fuck him.”

“Do you want to lose him?”

Ilya clenched his jaw. “What is there to lose? We can’t be anything, you know that better than anyone.”

“Ilyusha, I know I give you a hard time but even you are not that fucking stupid. You cannot possibly tell me you look at him and don’t feel anything. He was waiting in your fucking apartment for you to get back from Russia. Without expecting anything. Just waiting, for you. Tell me you understand what that means.”

But he didn’t, not really. He shrugged, looking away.

“Goddammit Ilya, don’t fuck this up,” she said. “He doesn’t want to give away your secrets. He cares about you. You did not see his face when talking about your family, but I did. You deserve to be cared for like that.”

Ilya had heard some variation of “you deserve good things” from her so many times by now that he knew she meant it, even though he’d never been able to believe it himself. Luckily, Shane returned from the bathroom, moving past Ilya to settle back in at the kitchen table.

“Goodbye, Shane Hollander,” Sveta said, in English. “Please get your mother to call me.” She patted his hand gently.

Shane laughed then. “It was really nice to meet you, Miss Vetrova.”

Sveta grinned at Ilya, shaking her head. “I’d ask you where you found this one, but I know exactly where it was.”

“You really don’t,” Ilya said, aiming for playful. He got a raised eyebrow from Sveta in return, but Shane wore a faint smile.

Then she kissed Ilya on the cheek, waved goodbye to Shane, and pulled her suitcase out the door.

“That was a lot of Russian,” Shane said quietly. He was no longer smiling.

“Sorry. Together we are very Russian,” Ilya joked.

“That’s not what I meant,” Shane said, but Ilya waved his hands to cut him off.

“I know what you mean. Sveta has opinions, that’s all.”

“Opinions about me?”

“Yes. Nothing bad. Mostly that I am an idiot.”

“Oh. Because of… being with me?”

Ilya sighed. “Because of me. She thinks…” He couldn’t bring himself to say.

“She doesn’t like me?” Shane sounded very small and much too far away.

“No, not that. She likes you very much. Sveta thinks… She wants me to believe that I have something to offer you.” He tried to smile but it came out crooked. “I think I should go back to bed,” he added, before Shane could tell him there was nothing he wanted from Ilya, not anymore.

“Do you want me to leave?” Shane said instead.

“No.”

“Okay.” No arguing. No asking questions Ilya couldn’t answer standing up in his living room in broad daylight. Just moving toward Ilya’s bedroom and the bed.

“Wait,” Ilya said. “I need shower first.” He showered alone. Shane didn’t ask or offer. He simply leaned against a wall in Ilya’s bedroom, waiting.

After washing his chest and back timidly, afraid to touch his bruises, and thoroughly scrubbing everywhere else, Ilya dried off, leaving the towel in the bathroom. He got into bed naked. Shane shed all of his own clothes and joined him but said nothing as they settled in a position which seemed to bother Ilya’s ribs the least.

It wasn’t sexual, them touching each other this way, which was probably a first. Two bodies under his blankets, in his bedroom in Boston, in his bed, slotted together – carefully, around his injuries – different from how they’d been in the past but fitting the same way they always did. Perfectly.

“You are very quiet,” Ilya said nervously.

“I think your head must be loud after… everything,” Shane said. He kissed Ilya’s shoulder. “I don’t want to make it louder.”

“You don’t,” Ilya promised him, because it was true, and because it was all he could handle saying right then.

The sun was setting when Ilya woke again. He was still on his side, facing away from the bedroom door, with Shane behind him. It was the least painful position he could sleep in, and even though Shane usually took the other side (in both of their beds) for some reason he kept putting himself between Ilya and the rest of the world. He didn’t talk about it. He had simply moved Ilya over and that was it.

Shane’s body was warm against his back. He was breathing steadily, probably asleep, but Ilya could feel Shane’s hips pressed tight against his ass. It made him… want, something.

He felt vulnerable, alone in the dark with Shane after all this time. No, that wasn’t right, it wasn’t the distance or the calendar that made him feel cracked open inside, waiting for the next terrible thing to claw its way into his brain or his chest. The last time he’d come back from Russia was different than this. He’d still been fucking other people last summer, finding dozens of ways to distract himself from his family drama. He’d come home alone to an empty apartment in Boston and he’d had time to piece himself back together before he had to meet his team, start his rookie year. This year he’d come back exposed, raw, like his muscles had been flayed so far down into the meat that his nerve endings were practically outside of his body, with the two people who knew him best watching his every move.

It made him… fuck. He could barely form the words inside his own head before they were shoved back down into the dark. But desire was still there, building in his lower belly.

He pushed his hips back, slowly brushing his ass against Shane’s soft, sleeping cock.

Shane’s breathing changed a little. Nothing else did; he still had one arm above his head, spread across the top of Ilya’s pillow, his other hand perched on top of Ilya’s hip bone.

Ilya reached back, finding Shane’s hip with his hand, holding him tightly. He moved his ass again, pushing back into Shane. Testing.

“Hey,” Shane said, voice gravelly with sleep. “You’re awake?”

Ilya hummed in response. “I like this,” he said quietly.

“Yeah?” Shane asked.

Ilya shifted again, pushing back against Shane’s hips. He could feel Shane’s growing erection press against him as Shane woke up properly. “Yes.” His own dick was fully hard already.

“What do you need from me?” Shane whispered, kissing Ilya’s shoulder, the back of his neck.

“I don’t know,” Ilya admitted. “I think… you are right that I have too many thoughts.”

Shane gripped Ilya’s hip tighter. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” And then, “Not now.”

Shane kissed Ilya’s shoulder again. That was all. He didn’t push his own hips forward. His hands didn’t drift. He didn’t ask for anything Ilya couldn’t give him. He was just there.

After a few minutes, Ilya moved again, not just pressing against Shane now but rubbing against him. He was rewarded with a gasp, and smiled in the dark.

“Ilya…” Shane started to say. A plea, or a warning, maybe.

“Will you fuck me?” Ilya said, his voice trembling.

“How are your ribs?” Shane asked. “I can maybe ride you if you lie on your back but I’m not sure… I don’t want to hurt you.” His hands were drifting over Ilya’s hip, down the top of his thigh.

“No, sweetheart,” Ilya said. “I need you to fuck me.”

Shane went very still. “How?”

Ilya silently cursed himself for not having this conversation before. He wasn’t sure if Shane – beautiful, responsive Shane, who let Ilya bend him half without complaint and shuddered when Ilya said good boy, you’re taking me so well – even wanted to top. Ilya was less sure whether he wanted the other man’s dick inside of him like that. Maybe, under the perfect circumstances, but that wasn’t what this was. Not now, not with his father’s anger written on his skin, not when being used by Shane in a way that felt wrong might be the thing that broke him forever.

He didn’t want to be broken anymore. He wanted someone to take him apart and put him back together.

“Fingers?” Ilya asked, chest aching.

“Yes,” Shane replied into the back of Ilya’s neck.

It started with kisses. Butterfly kisses skating across the surface of Ilya’s skin. Shane’s lips on the back of his neck, moving down his back as soft as a breeze, picking up pressure as they moved past Ilya's injuries to the curve of his ass. Shane bit gently at the thickest part, licked up the side to find Ilya’s hip bone, then planted more kisses from his hip down the side of his thigh. The whole time he was careful not to move Ilya’s body at all.

Ilya slid the pillow down his chest to give him something to lean on as he bent closer to the bed. Not flat on his stomach, but the best he could do under the circumstances.

Shane slid one hand along the back of Ilya’s legs, moving one up, 90 degrees from the other, creating access but still giving Ilya a way to prop himself up if he needed it. “This okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ilya whispered.

“You’re okay,” Shane said, kissing Ilya’s hip again. “I’ve got you.”

Ilya heard the slide of his night table drawer opening, a rustling sound, then the drawer shutting again. He heard the lid of the lube bottle clicking open. Then one slicked up hand reached around to stroke Ilya’s cock.

He let a moan escape his lips.

Shane bent over Ilya’s hip, kissing the side of his thigh. “Do you still want?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. He felt softer than he expect. In his body but far more relaxed than he should be. Yes was all he could get out.

He felt Shane’s finger trail down the crack of his ass and find the rim of his entrance, circling it as Ilya’s breath caught. Slowly, one finger slid inside. Not all the way, just up to a knuckle maybe.

“Yes,” Ilya said again, his voice strangled with need. “Please.”

“I got you,” Shane said. “You’re doing so good.” His voice was low and sweet. He moved his hand then, pushing his finger all the way in.

Ilya’s breath came faster as his heart sped up. Shane’s finger moved almost all of the way out again, slowly, before sliding back in again.

“More,” Ilya said.

“I will,” Shane told him. “Soon.”

Shane pulled his finger all of the way out but before Ilya could complain, he heard the cap of the lube bottle again. Then Shane leaned forward, putting his body across Ilya’s hip and thigh. “Is this okay?” he asked. “Not too heavy?”

“Is good. Please fuck me.” He was trembling, he could feel it, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“Shh, Ilya, I’m here. I have you.”

Shane was facing away from Ilya, his head close to Ilya’s knee, the one bent up away from his body. Shane’s left hand found Ilya’s cock, stroked it. He’d put lube on that hand too so it was slick as he pulled up Ilya’s length, curving around the tip until Ilya groaned with pleasure, before stroking back down.

With his other hand, he slid two fingers into Ilya’s ass. The stretch was slippery from the lube, burning a little. Ilya was so tight and the feeling of fullness he craved wasn’t quite met by Shane’s long fingers but it was good, so good, so much better than it had any right to be, and Ilya felt himself drifting away.

“You’re opening for me so well, Ilya. God, you feel so good,” Shane moaned against Ilya’s thigh. “You’re so hot for me.”

Ilya whined, deep in his throat, split between his desire to thrust up into Shane’s hand and push his ass back to take Shane’s fingers deeper at the same time. “More, more,” he panted in Russian before switching to English and repeating his request.

Shane gave it to him. Two fingers were replaced by three, and then he was thrusting his fingers inside of Ilya properly. The hand on his cock slowed but the hand against his ass sped up, fingers brushing against his prostate with every stroke. Ilya’s head went back against his will, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Are you going to come for me, Ilya?” Shane asked, his voice hoarse.

Shane, Shane, Shane

The sound of Shane’s breathing, hot against his skin, mixed with the vulgar sound of Shane’s slick fingers slapping against Ilya’s entrance over and over. Ilya cried out in Russian though he had no idea what he said. His cock shuddered as the orgasm rode over him in waves, drowning him in the feeling of Shane inside of him and on top of him and stroking him at the same time.

He was only half back to himself when Shane’s hands disappeared. He felt one hand brace against his hip and Shane leaned back on his heels, and heard more than felt Shane stroking himself hard and fast.

“Fuck, Ilya, I’m coming,” he groaned before Ilya felt his release splatter over Ilya’s hip and thigh.

Shane fell back on the bed with a laugh.

“Was okay?” Ilya asked.

“How do you keep getting hotter?” Shane asked, rolling on to his side to find Ilya’s lips for a greedy kiss. “Like seriously, how is that possible?”

“Is your fault,” Ilya said. “Second-best player in the MLH makes me weak.”

“You’re not weak,” Shane said, his face suddenly serious. “Hey,” he said, grabbing for Ilya’s chin as he tried to look away. “You’re not, okay? You’re the strongest person I know.”

Ilya waited for his father’s voice in his head to respond but there was nothing. So he let Shane pull him up into the bathroom for a shower.

“How long can you stay?” Ilya asked, after Shane had washed and dried them both, then changed the sheets on the bed.

“I have a flight back in…” Shane checked the time on his phone, “about 40 hours. I got in last night. I thought you weren’t getting back until today so I’d be here to surprise you. Belated birthday present.” The tops of his ears went red, and he shrugged. “Surprise?”

“Good surprise. We need food,” Ilya decided, grabbing his own phone and pulling up a menu he had bookmarked. “Here, do they have anything you can eat?”

It was Thai food which worked for Shane; he choose a spicy shrimp dish with a lot of vegetables and asked to try a bite of everything else Ilya was getting, his diet apparently a little less strict during the off season. They ordered twice as much as they needed to have leftovers for later. Ilya wasn’t going to want to stand in the kitchen for a few days, and he wasn’t sure if Shane could cook – he knew the other man had a meal service and he’d seen him make his weird smoothies on sleepy mornings in Montreal, but otherwise they’d ordered in or gone to a restaurant every time they’d been together.

“We should get dressed, and I want to tape up your ribs,” Shane said. Ilya whined about both of these things but gave in.

He had wandered into the living room and started to straighten up when Shane called out from his bedroom, “Ilya, please sit down.”

“I can put my own things away, Shane,” Ilya called back. He had dressed in loose boxers and a pair of his black joggers; the apartment was warm enough he might have gone without a shirt even if he wasn’t injured.

“Have you seen your ribs? Sit the fuck down while I find your tape.”

“Under the sink in the guest bathroom,” Ilya yelled.

“I’m serious,” Shane said as he passed through the living room. Ilya put up his hands in mock protest and sank into one of the chairs around his kitchen island.

The doorbell rang a minute later. “Food is here!”

“Don’t you dare,” Shane yelled from the guest bathroom but Ilya was already on the way to the door.

He opened it, looking down at first because the delivery guy usually left the food on the ground, but saw only a pair of large feet. Which became legs like tree trunks and a wide chest as Ilya raised his eyes to Cliff Marleau’s face.

“What the fuck?” Marly asked, staring at the huge bruise that wrapped around Ilya’s chest, at his black eye.

At the same moment, Shane said, “I swear to god, Rozanov, I am going to beat your ass if you don’t sit back down,” and walked into the entryway.

Marly shot past like he was on the ice, grabbing Shane’s shirt and shoving him against the wall.

“What did you do, Hollander?” he yelled.

Shane widened his eyes but didn’t fight back, or drop the tape in his hand.

Ilya was on them a moment later, both hands out to push Marly aside. “Don’t you fucking touch him!” he yelled.

Marly stepped back, surprised, looking from Shane to Ilya, who had one fist raised.

“Ilya,” Shane said quietly. “I’m okay.”

Ilya could feel the snarl on his face. He was breathing hard, too hard, and he tried to put his hand down but he couldn’t make himself do it. He took half a step toward Marly.

“Ilyusha, stop,” Shane snapped.

The fight bled out of him then, suddenly. He turned around and buried his face in Shane’s neck, Shane’s strong arms coming up to hold him.

“Man, I waited at the airport for you,” Marly was saying. “I was supposed to pick you up, remember? But your flight landed without you and you weren’t answering your texts so I came here.”

Ilya did dimly remember that they’d arranged for this, months before. He also realized he’d turned his notifications off weeks ago and stopped opening any other text thread than Jane’s.

“He got jumped outside of a club in Moscow,” Shane lied, the words dripping from his tongue so easily. “His friend Svetlana brought him back a day early. Please don’t blame him, he’s having a hard time sleeping with his injury.”

“Yeah, okay. Shit, I’m sorry, dude, I just saw his chest like that and, what you said…”

“I get it,” Shane said.

Ilyu let go of Shane to look at his friend. “Sorry too,” he said. “Just tired.” He rubbed his face. “I need to sit.”

They followed him into the kitchen, where he found a chair before Shane got to work with the tape. The doorbell rang again; Marly went to fetch their food at Shane’s request.

“That’s the best I can do, I think,” Shane said finally.

Ilya took a deep breath. “Better,” he said. “Marly, you stay for food?”

“If it’s okay with Hollander.”

Shane nodded. “Yeah, of course.” He moved silently around the kitchen, finding plates and utensils, grabbing a few drinks from the fridge – his ginger ale and Ilya’s coke, a beer for Cliff.

They ate without saying anything for a while.

Shane was putting their plates in the sink when Marly spoke up. “So, I get all that about the flight and everything, but… why is Hollander here?”

“He is my friend, Marly,” Ilya said. “Same as you.” Well, not exactly the same.

“Yeah but he’s your friend that lives in Canada. It’s not like he just dropped in to check on you.”

Ilya took a sip of his drink, using the pause to look at Shane, who gave a tiny shrug before turning on the water in the kitchen sink.

“That is true,” Ilya said carefully. “He was here when I got back.”

“Oh,” Marly said. “Okay.”

Shane finished washing the dishes, then took his place at the counter again.

“So you met Svetlana?” Marly asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Shane laughed. “She’s intense.”

Marly nodded. “Don’t I know it. I’ve only met her a few times but she excites and terrifies me at the same time.”

“This is the correct response to Sveta,” Ilya said, nodding.

“You know she’s Vetrov’s kid, right?”

“Ilya told me, but I’d have figured it out pretty quickly once she started talking about stats and player rotations. She knows a lot about the game.” Shane sounded relaxed now; he was always more comfortable when the conversation was about hockey.

“Plus she’s a fucking smokeshow, right?” Marly said. “Two great things that go great together.”

“Uh, sure, yeah,” Shane said, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. “She practically begged me to give her my mom’s number though, so I don’t think she’s interested in me.”

Ilya snorted, then rubbed his nose. “You didn’t say what that was about.”

“Oh, sorry, I was gonna tell you my mom wants to talk to you about brand deals. She has this idea that we have very different images and there’s some things that aren’t right for me but might be good for you.”

“Your mama wants to get me commercials?” Ilya asked, incredulous. “Yuna Hollander?”

Shane looked surprised at that. “I mean, yes? Over the summer we sorta decided I was going to get a real agent and she was just going to deal with my brands. She’s thinking about leaving her job and doing that full time, so she can pick up a few other players.”

“Can you give her my number?” Marly asked. “I need that Rolex money.”

“Sure.” Shane shrugged. “She’s talking to Hayden and J.J. too, from my team. I have no idea what she has in mind, so please don’t ask me, Svetlana already tried.”

“Cool. I’m gonna head out, but Roz you gotta check in with the team doctor, okay? And Hollander, sorry ‘bout almost taking your head off.” He stood up then. “You’re all right.”

“You too, Marleau. I don’t know if anyone on my team would fight Rozanov for me. Well, Hayden, probably, but that’s because he just doesn’t like him.”

“Yes, they stay away because they know I would kick their asses,” Ilya said. Marly laughed but Shane smiled too, so it was okay they doubted his physical prowess at that moment, with bright blue kinesiology tape wrapped around his ribs. He’d show them when he got back on the ice.

Ilya walked him to the door. “We good?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah. How long’s he here?”

“Two days.”

Marly nodded. “Call me after. We’ll drink and talk about this year’s rookies.”

“Deal,” Ilya said with a smile.

He found Shane pacing the living room.

“Does he know about us?”

“I don’t know,” Ilya admitted. “Maybe. But he said nothing. He is good friend.”

“Fuck,” Shane said. “Svetlana too.”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “What do you need?”

“Can you let me panic for a minute and get back to you?”

“Of course.”

“And for fucks sake, sit down Ilya,” Shane said, waving his arm toward the couch. “Your goddamn ribs.”

“My ribs are fine, Shane,” he replied, but sunk into the couch anyway.

Shane paced for a long time, moving back and forth across the living room. Ilya briefly worried he’d pace a track into the plush area rug spread out across his floor, and whether it was better to have the reminder of Shane’s presence if this was the last time he was ever in Ilya’s apartment.

Better, he thinks. It would be proof I had him for a little while.

Because surely this is the end of whatever the fuck they’ve been doing. Ilya’s outed Shane twice, to two different people, in too short of a span of time. Maybe if his goddamn ribs weren’t bruised to shit then he could stop Shane in the middle of this spiral by dragging him into bed and fucking away whatever Shane was thinking. Maybe if he hadn’t antagonized his father – the memory of that night coming back to him in pieces ever since he’d woken up today, flashes of pain along with the relief that he had defended Polina somehow, that he’d taken a beating meant for her, that he wasn’t a coward after all – then he wouldn’t have come home bruised. Wouldn’t have needed Sveta to get him into an apartment where Shane Hollander waited in his bed. Wouldn't have surprised Marly into defending him from a sweet Canadian boy just trying to care for him.

Maybe it would have been better if he didn’t come back from Russia at all.

Shane sat down on the couch near him. Not next to him, not close enough to touch, not on this giant monstrosity of a couch that could easily seat eight people, but near enough that either of them could easily close the gap if they wanted.

Ilya wanted. But he didn’t move.

Finally, eyes still fixed on the rug, Shane spoke. “Do you like me?”

Ilya was startled by how much he wanted to say in response. So many words rushed to his throat he was choking on them. He barely managed to squeak out, “Yes,” and tried to get himself under control.

What the fuck was that?

Shane sighed. “No, I mean… I know you like me… that I have a good mouth.”

“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “That is true.”

“Okay,” Shane said, as if they were having a much larger conversation, as if Ilya had just agreed to something he didn’t understand. Shane’s breathing slowed, and he leaned forward a little more, like he was folding in on himself.

“Hollander, you know I like you for more than that, right?” Ilya was getting tense now; he rubbed at the back of his neck. He’d been worried Shane was about to leave him – fuck, whatever, end whatever this was, stupid fucking English words – and he’d been convinced for months he was going to mess this up but now that the moment was here the wrongness of it was so palpable, he barely understood his own reaction to it.

“Yeah, I know you like my ass and you like to fuck me and-”

“Fucking hell, Shane,” Ilya swore, then swore some more in Russian while he tried to find the right words. “Have I fucked up that bad you don’t know I like you?” was all he managed.

Shane looked at him then. His face was stiff but his eyes were wet. “I don’t know what it means.”

“So you fucking ask me?” Ilya said, louder than he planned to. “That’s our whole thing, Shane, that’s the rules that you made.”

“I just did,” Shane said quietly. And fuck, FUCK, he was right. Shane had asked him, and okay maybe assumed the worst but said he didn’t understand, and Ilya was getting angry about it.

The worst part was Ilya knew he should lie. He should tell Hollander to go home and end this before it consumed them both. But every conversation between them over the last year had made it harder for Ilya to lie to him. Now he was injured and he was exhausted and he’d spent the summer in Russia and he never wanted Shane to leave him again.

“You called me Ilyusha,” he starts to say, then stops.

Shane looked at him, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond. “Svetlana said I should, if I needed your attention. Was that wrong?”

“It’s a… how you say, animal name?”

“Pet name?”

Ilya nods. “Yes, this. You say to be sweet.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I not have said it?”

Ilya rubbed his eyes. You’re fucking this up again. “No, I… I like you to say it. But not when you’re angry, please. Not in public. Is… is for us, okay?” He moved across the couch, close enough to touch. He reached out with one hand, slow enough that Shane could stop him if he wanted to, and gently stroked down his chin. “Shane,” he said, looking into those brown eyes, “I like you so much it scares me.”

“Oh god, Ilya, I like you too much,” Shane said in a rush, then there was no more space between them and Shane’s lips were pressed against him, his tongue darting into Ilya’s mouth. Ilya kissed him back, hungrily, as if he could trap Shane under his kisses until he gave in and agreed to stay here forever. 

Shane pulled away for a moment. “Could you maybe stop letting your friends find out about me for the rest of the time I’m here though? They’re kind of a lot.”

Ilya laughed then, tension draining out of his shoulders. He leaned in to press his forehead against Shane’s, the way teammates do on the ice. “Yes, sweetheart. This I can do,” he said, before diving back in to Shane’s lips. He couldn’t pick him and carry him to the bedroom the way he wanted to, or bend him over and fuck him into the mattress (next time, next time) but he could kiss Shane Hollander’s perfect lips until they were swollen and red, just to know, for right now, they were his.

This I can do.

Chapter End Notes

When I started sharing fics on AO3 a month ago, I wasn't going to link it to my government name, mainly because of my job at the time. I've since left that position, and I'm unlikely to go back to a corporate job again soon, so fuck it. You can find me on threads at https://www.threads.com/@carriecuinn if that sort of thing appeals to you. Please be nice!

Chapter 19: Boyfriends?

Chapter Summary

Shane and Ilya text leading up to the Montreal vs Toronto pre-season game. Shane's mom reaches out. Ilya makes a plan to keep their bet from outing their relationship to Russia. Players from two teams have dinner, Ilya gets jealous, Ilya fucks up (bad), fucks up again (potentially very bad), then finds a way to even the score.

Kind of NSFW? They talk about having sex.

August 29, 2011

Lily: I saw drink ad on billboard downtown

Lily: we are very hot together

Jane: yeah they went with the one I picked is that ok?

Lily: good could not open photos in russia

Jane: but you’ve seen them all now?

Lily: all were good have saved them

Jane: you know the one where we’re looking at each other like we’re about to kiss, with our shirts pulled up?

Lily: yes v good best one

Lily: am glad that is not ad, should only be for me

Jane: I got it printed and framed, in my office

Jane: if anyone sees I can just tell them it’s work, the ad shoot

Lily: I have photo from CCM shoot in my office

Lily: not official, we are laughing

Lily: you look very pretty

Lily: I will do this with drink ad too

Jane: we have to stop doing shoots together someone will figure it out

Lily: yes I am too obvious about you

Jane: I was thinking I was too obvious about you

Lily: alone?

Jane: yes

Lily: call me

September 2, 2011

Jane: dying to know has Marleau said anything?

Lily: “you and Hollander are close”

Lily: I say yes

Lily: he say “does it affect team”?

Lily: I say no, am still best player in league

Lily: he say “cool” and he “has my back”

Jane: that’s it?

Lily: think so has not said anything else

Jane: why didn’t you tell me?

Lily: didn’t want you to worry

Jane: okay I will worry about 800 other things instead

Lily: I know is okay

Lily: I like you

Jane: I like you too

September 6, 2011

Jane: you need to apply for EB-1 US visa to start getting citizenship now I’m freaking out

Lily: ??

Jane: right now

Jane: emailed you application

Lily: sorry am waking up

Lily: alarm just went off

Lily: you sent at 3:17 you didn’t sleep?

Jane: you can get US visa so you can stay even if Russia wants you back

Jane: then apply to be US citizen

Jane: then it’s up to you if you go back to Russia

Jane: please this is really important

Jane: I can talk you through anything you don’t understand

Jane: I went down a rabbit hole

Lily: don’t worry

Jane: fuck you

Lily: not what I mean

Jane: don’t tell me to look at what they did to you and not worry

Lily: I already do this

Jane: what does that mean?

Lily: my agent helped me start papers in May

Jane: tbank god

Jane: ilya fcjk

Jane: call me

September 9, 2011

Lily: you seen Fast & Furious movies?

Jane: Tokyo Drift is good

Lily: you don’t know any other movies but you know Tokyo Drift

Jane: it’s good

Jane: seen it on planes 12 times

Lily: you watch the rest?

Jane: I think so, they steal cars right?

Lily: there is other plot too

Jane: is there tho?

Lily: omg I will make you list of movies to watch

Jane: aww you’re trying to help me

Lily: can’t let you embarrass me in public

Lily: you give press sound bite about terrible taste I look bad

Jane: how tf does that affect you?

Lily: rivalry Jane it’s science

Jane: wtf

Lily: very scientific rules say you must have better taste in movies

Lily: have no choice but to help you

Jane: for science

Lily: obv

Jane: ok asshole send me your list

September 13, 2011

Lily: doc says I’m off no-touch can do full practice again

Jane: how are your ribs?

Lily: you never ask how is your black eye your face is too sexy hope is not damaged forever

Jane: all of you is too sexy but you can’t play with bruised ribs

Lily: you think I am sexy?

Jane: asshole I tell you all the time

Lily: tell me again

Jane: no

Lily: pppllllleeeeaaaassssseeeee

Jane: you’re so bad for my texting plan

Lily: you are millionare now you can afford to text me

Jane: not the point

Lily: tellll mmeeeee

Jane: fine you’re sexy

Lily: hmmm I don’t think you mean it

Jane: you are very sexy, Lily, the sexiest, no one compares

Lily: ok this is true

Jane: istfg

Lily: you like me

Jane: fuck you

Jane: yes I like you

Lily: my ribs are fine and I will score many beautiful goals and crush terrible Metros into the boards

Lily: you I will only crush regular amount bc you like it

Jane: are you wearing it?

Lily: hoodie yes

Jane: want it to smell like you when I get it back

Lily: one month

Jane: one month

September 19, 2011

Jane: you can’t wear my jersey to my game

Lily: ????

Jane: it’ll be on tv

Lily: yes was bet

Jane: itll be on the internet

Jane: in Russia

Lily: I know

Jane: you can’t

Lily: I know

Jane: it’s not worth it

Lily: is to me

Jane: fuck you can’t say that

Lily: deep breaths

Lily: have plan don’t worry

Jane: what plan?

Lily: is ok promise

Lily: will call after practice

Jane: can’t have team dinner at Hayd’s

Jane: home at 11?

Lily: ok call then

September 24, 2011

Lily: send pic

Jane: at grocer

Lily: not sexy pic pervert

Jane: what kind then?

Lily: just you

Jane: [picture attached]

Lily: you look like jock

Lily: tank top and backwards hat

Jane: um I am a jock?

Lily: OH I KNOW

Lily: but you did pic wrong

Jane: what’s wrong with it?

Lily: those shoulders

Lily: too sexy

Lily: will need new pic to make up for it

Jane: you’re an idiot

Jane: you alone?

Lily: yes?

Jane: five minutes

Jane: [picture attached]

Lily: where are you???

Jane: bathroom

Lily: store bathroom?

Jane: yes

Lily: fuck you are too hot

Lily: brb jerlking off

Lily: fucking call me when you get home

Jane: but you’re jerking off now?

Lily: I WILL GO AGAIN DO NOT TEST ME

Jane: give me an hour

September 28, 2011

Lily: what’s in your gym playlist today

Jane: still mostly edm

Jane: crystal method

Jane: need fast with no words

Lily: yes I know this

Lily: same for 2 years so boring

Jane: you?

Lily: russian pop and rap mostly

Lily: Madonna, DMX with the comeback

Lily: also American woman called pink, is new favorite for me

Jane: idk who that is

Lily: of course you don’t

Lily: I like you anyway

Jane: asshole

Jane: I will look up pink is there an album you recommend?

September 30, 2011

Lily: plan is set for game

Lily: guys come w me and wear jersey too

Jane: what guys?

Lily: Raiders

Jane: wtf?

Lily: 5 of them and me

Jane: 6 Raiders at Metros pre-season opener wearing my jersey

Lily: breathe please

Lily: is good plan

Lily: more safe for me to be in group

Jane: it’s amazing

Jane: your team is so good

Lily: ?

Jane: you have real friends on your team

Jane: more than one or two

Lily: tell me Metros I can punch

Jane: don’t punch anyone

Lily: Comeau and Pike

Jane: why is Hayden on this list?

Lily: he knows why

Jane: don’t punch Hayden please

Lily: fine

Lily: gotta watch tape

Jane: are you mad?

Lily: no Marly and Connors are staring at me

Lily: at Connors to watch tape

Lily: they give me the side of their eyeballs

Jane: side eye

Lily: yes this Marly says he take phone now bye

October 5, 2011

Jane: [picture attached]

Lily: you are A now?

Jane: yes as of today :D

Jane: youngest A in the league

Jane: my mom is blowing up the family chat

Lily: oh no mama hollander bad news

Jane: what?

Jane: OH FUCK YOU

Lily: [picture attached]

Lily: sorry old man

Jane: I’m literally a month older than you

Lily: so sad

Lily: I win again

Jane: I hate you

Lily: you don’t

Jane: no I don’t

Jane: I’m really proud of you

Lily: same you know?

Jane: I do :)

Lily: tell me what I get for winning

Jane: well you are wearing my jersey next week

Lily: sorry our regular opening game is same day

Lily: can’t fly 1/4 of best team in MLH to Canada on school night

Jane: focus

Lily: yes I wear jersey for you what do I get?

Jane: coming home with me after?

Lily: of course

Jane: bring one of your jerseys with you too

Lily: you want me to wear my jersey in bed

Jane: …. no ;)

Lily: fuck really?

Lily: really??

Lily: Jane answer me

Jane: really

Lily: you tease me with this I must wait whole week you are cruel

Jane: *kiss*

Lily: brb my dick is having opinions

October 11, 2011

Unknown Number: Good afternoon, is this Ilya Rozanov?

Ilya: yes who is?

Unknown Number: this is Yuna Hollander, Shane gave me your number to discuss a possible brand deal

Ilya: yes he said, thank you for thinking of me Mrs. Hollander

Mama H: I have a few companies that have reached out to me for possible collaborations which don’t mesh with Shane’s marketing plan, but there’s interest there for other players. I am expanding my reach to include a limited amount of work at this time. I can reach out to your agent with a contract and details if you’d like.

Ilya: yes please, thank you

Mama H: I have to say, you were not my first call. Shane is determined that I work with you. He’s quite insistent about it.

Ilya: you don’t have to

Mama H: I’m aware of that.

Ilya: Shane gets what he wants

Mama H: Yes, he usually does. With you too?

Ilya: yes

Mama H: Very well. We should chat more to get a sense of how you’d like to be marketed, but I’m thinking more European fashion, high end alcohol, luxury cars. We lean into the fierce image you’re starting to cultivate on the ice, but elevated. Sports-related if it’s done right. Shane’s brand goal is precise and capable, high end but a little removed from everyday. Sometimes sports if it helps to build the ladder. He’s already a role model and he’s going to be an icon. We can play with your image a little more. Elegant but masculine and fun. How do you feel about Porsche?

Ilya: omg I love you

October 13, 2011

Lily: we landed

Jane: your tickets are at will call

Lily: my name?

Jane: no “second best player in MLH”

Lily: oh so you’re picking up tickets?

Lily: thought you would be busy with game

Jane: it’s Toronto so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Lily: wow

Lily: getting luggage and cars

Jane: after game I am buying dinner

Jane: I have reservations

Lily: you don’t need to

Jane: yes I do this is so amazing you don’t even know

Lily: okay go get ready

Lily: score goals for me, yes?

Lily: reward for each one ;)

Jane: :D

Shane was glorious on the ice.

After they’d picked up their tickets –

half a dozen hockey players from Boston standing in the will call line wearing Hollander jerseys meant they had to stop for a million pictures with fans before actually getting to the ticket window where, yes, Shane had actually put “2^nd best MLH player (Rozanov)” as the pickup name –

and were escorted in through the VIP tunnel to find their seats were only 3 rows above the Metros box,

after the jumbotron showed their faces and the Raiders had turned around to pose so everyone could see Hollander’s name on their backs,

after Shane had laughed and waived before skating back to bump helmets with Hayden,

after the Metros had done their warm ups on the ice and Shane had done a very unnecessary (but very appreciated) frog stretch that had him slowly bucking up his hips in a way Ilya felt should only be shown to him forever and ever, thank you,

then finally the puck dropped and Shane took off.

Ilya leaned forward in his seat. He hadn’t seen Shane play from the stands since he’d watched as Team Canada crushed Team Sweden in the juniors game just before they beat Russia, almost two years ago (though Russia beat Canada the year before, which was more important since it was first). Then, he was just Hollander, and whatever Ilya felt watching him skate was a crush disguised as intensely professional interest. Now, he was Shane, he was gorgeous and fierce and Ilya was going to put him through the mattress before the end of the night.

He’d been touched by Shane, in delicate, delicious ways, six weeks ago in Boston – in Ilya’s bed, with Shane draped over his leg, on his couch, where Shane carefully laid him back and gave him a blowjob so good he briefly forgot how to see, and then once more before his flight when Shane pulled Ilya into his lap and jerked them both off together. But he’d been too concerned about Ilya’s injuries to let himself receive the kind of pleasure Ilya desperately wanted to give him. Tonight would be Ilya’s chance to fuck Shane in ways he’d been dreaming about for months.

Toronto wasn’t his favorite in the best of games, so Ilya was excited to see Shane on the ice for multiple reasons. Shane scored his first goal almost immediately off the drop, with an assist from Pike of all people, keeping ahead of the pack on speed alone. He skated around the back of the net after the buzzer, collecting his own teammates along the way, but he looked up toward where the Raiders were cheering his name and waved. The Metros coach pulled his line from the ice to rest while their second took the shift.

Shane’s second goal came midway through the first period, clean off a pass from Boiziau to Pike to Hollander, a tight spin around an opposing d-man, then slapshot into the high corner. Another buzzer, a slow skate back to his bench while his teammates bumped his shoulders or knocked against his helmet, and another wave to the Raiders.

His third goal hit the net at the beginning of the third – a long drive though traffic that didn’t seem to notice the puck passing next to their feet – and the Raiders were on their feet too, cheering as hard as anyone else. Ilya saw Shane point toward the Raiders again and pointed back, screaming Shane’s name along with everyone else in the building.

Ilya was thankful the oversized jersey covered him down past his hips. Shane the hockey god was the sexiest fucking thing Ilya had ever seen, and there was no way he’d have been able to hide his very physical reaction to this fact if he’d been wearing anything else.

“God damn that kid is good!” Marly yelled into Ilya’s ear.

Ilya grinned so hard it hurt.

All through the second, Shane had fought for every inch, but by the middle of the third period Toronto was still down by 2, and the Metros goalie was a fucking wall. Ilya could see the moment when the mood on the line shifted, when someone decided it was time to stop winning and put their energy into slowing Hollander down instead.

Shane got slammed into the board by a player who could have, maybe, tried to steal the puck from him but chose violence instead. And it was fine because that happened to every lead scorer in every game.

Ilya silently added his name to the growing list he kept in his head of assholes to seek out on the ice. “Kent” this guy’s name was. New, just added to their roster this year, Ilya vaguely remembered. He’d have to find out more.

Five minutes later, the fucker did it again, not even pretending to be after anything except bodying Hollander into the wall. Shane stayed down for a moment too long, and Ilya jumped to his feet as the crowd around him booed loudly.

“What the fuck was that?” Connors yelled, at the same time Vicky yelled, “Where are his Ds?”

Shane shook himself off and got to his feet, and the crowd cheered.

Marly pulled Ilya back down by his arm. “He’s all right, man,” the big guy said.

Ilya nodded his head and let himself find his seat. “Looks different from up here,” he admitted. “Worse.”

By the end of the third, Kent was out of the box and back on the ice. Shane’s line was him, Pike, a new winger Ilya didn’t recognize, and two defensemen: Boiziau and fucking Comeau, who’d pissed Ilya off last year by skating too slow to block some of Shane’s worse hits, in a way that felt more like a choice than a failure of skill. Ilya’s stomach twisted up as the play unfolded.

Shane stole the puck off Toronto’s new winger, a kid named Barrett in his first draft year. He tore off down the ice, passing to Pike who passed it back right before getting tangled into a pile with Barrett. Kent chased Shane, with Boiziau close behind and Comeau, as usual skating too wide to be any help. Shane faked a shot left, pivoted hard to the right instead, and fired toward the puck just as Kent dived after him.

The buzzer sounded.

Kent crashed into Shane, knocking him into the ice.

Ilya’s heart slammed into his ribs. He jumped to his feet.

Pike was there first, pulling Kent up and off of Shane as Boiziau skated up right behind him. Kent was fighting back, having turned around to drop his gloves and go after Pike. Ilya could see Shane stirring now – he’d rolled over onto his stomach to push himself up off the ice. Boiziau was trying to help, but Kent took a punch from Pike then turned to throw hands at Boiziau instead. Barrett threw himself into the fight then, and the ref who’d skated over to help Shane up got pulled into separating the fight instead.

“Get up, Hollander,” Ilya whispered in Russian, still standing.

And then Shane was standing on his own. The arena filled with cheers while the refs dragged Kent and Pike into into box. Barrett skated back to Toronto’s bench and Boiziau escorted Shane back to theirs. Comeau hadn’t done a damn thing to help.

Ilya’s current list now read:

• Kent

• Comeau

• Barrett

• Hayden fucking Pike (he knows what he did)

Hammersmith leaned over and yelled something Ilya didn’t catch. He couldn’t take his eyes off Shane until he’d reached his bench and was shaking his head at this coach. “What was that?” he asked finally.

“I said, they love when we go down but they love us even more when we get back up,” Hammy yelled.

“Ain’t that the fucking truth,” Marly agreed.

The game ended with Montreal up 4 – 2.

“All right, boys,” Ilya called out. “Very nice boy from the Metros is buying us dinner to celebrate because he cannot win so good without our beautiful faces cheering him on, so you will all be on your best behavior!”

“Yes, baby Cap!” the guys yelled out as they got their jackets and picked up their empty drink cups. Ilya smiled at that; he wasn’t their captain yet, just the A, but it felt like a taste of things to come.

“Good boys, now be sure to hit the head before we get back in the car,” Ilya said. “I’m not stopping on the way there.”

By the time they waited through the long bathroom lines, dodged a couple of freelance reporters with, “Sorry, we’re just here to support Shane Hollander tonight, no comment,” and met up again in front of the concession stands, Shane had texted the address for the restaurant with a note that he’d be 20 minutes behind them so they should order drinks and appetizers. Ilya rounded everyone up into their two rented SUVs, made sure Carmichael had the keys to the other one because he hadn’t been drinking tonight, and got them on the road.

They’d gotten rowdy on the drive over, mainly because Montreal traffic was snarled with the 20,000 fans trying to leave Bell Centre at the same time, but they’d calmed once they saw the ridiculously fancy steakhouse Shane had directed them to. Ilya tried to be calm, standing with five other Boston Raiders – all wearing Hollander’s blue home team jersey – when he said, “Reservation for Shane Hollander, please,” to the very thin and very expensive looking blond hostess.

She said something in French, and Ilya didn’t understand it but it felt like an insult.

Vicky stepped forward then, saying something in French back. He talked to the woman for a moment, and said, “Ilya Rozanov” along with some other words.

She double checked her book and nodded then, directing them forward with one manicured hand.

“Hollander put you down on the reservation too,” Vicky said with a sigh of relief. “Kid thinks of everything.”

“Yes, he does,” Ilya agreed.

They were seated at a large table in a private room in the back, which helped shield them from the eyes of people who clearly viewed a group of professional hockey players as being too poor to dine there, based on the looks they were getting. Or maybe everyone knew they were from Boston, and were all such die-hard Metros fans that their multi-million dollar salaries didn’t impress.

Unfortunately the table had 12 chairs, and Ilya suddenly worried about who’d be joining them.

Shane arrived just after their drink orders, with most of the guys ordering beer. The waiter set a glass of ice in front of both Ilya’s and Shane’s chairs (Ilya’d decided to save a spot for him, leaving the other Raiders to fan out around the table) with a can of Coke and a can of ginger ale beside them. Pike and Boiziau walk in with him, flanking him on both sides like he’s a pop star and they’ve been assigned to get him through a celebrity red carpet. Behind them, Andropov followed them like a confused guest at a party he’s not sure why he’s been invited to.

Shane introduced each group to each other before pointing out the empty seat – the one Ilya had saved for Shane – to Andropov and sitting down next to Marly on the other end instead. Pike sits next to him, while Boiziau takes a seat between Connors and Vicky.

“Thank god somewhere here speaks good Russian,” Andropov said. “Is this for me?” he asked, looking at Shane’s ginger ale.

“Who is speaking bad Russian to you?” Ilya asked. “No is for Shane, but you can have it if you want.”

“Shanya,” Andropov yelled, half standing up. “Catch!” He tossed the can to Shane, who caught it easily.

“Thanks, Andy,” Shane called back.

“Shanya?” Ilya asked quietly, really fucking annoyed now and trying not to show it.

“Are you not close friends?” Andropov – Andy, for fucks sake – asked. He look innocently confused, as if he had no idea what Ilya would be angry at the familiarity between Shane and one of his Russian teammates. “He was telling me…”

“Telling you what, exactly?” Ilya growled.

“Uh, nothing I guess.” Andy looked over at Shane, a deeply uncomfortable look on his face.

“How close are you two?” Ilya tried to be casual about it. He popped open his Coke and poured it over his glass of ice, as if this were a regular conversation and not one that had him calculating the exact dollar amount the league would fine him if he took one of the Metros outside and beat him into the sidewalk.

He hoped it didn’t come to that, but some things just have to be done.

Before Andy could say anything more, Carmy said, loud enough for Ilya to hear, “Baby Cap, you gotta cool it with the serious Russian face and figure out what you want to order.”

“The waiter isn’t even back yet, Carmy, go bother Connors about his soup choices,” Ilya said in English.

Because the universe hates Ilya Rozanov specifically, the waiter appeared as soon as he'd said it. He had to scramble to get his menu open in time to get even a vague sense of what this restaurant offered, then had to help Andy figure out that neither of them understood the menu because it was in fucking French. So he ordered them both a medium well steak and a couple of sides.

Shane looked over in their direction, a smile on his face. Ilya wasn’t sure if Shane was looking at him or Andy, and the not knowing stole the taste of everything else from his mouth.

Dinner was fine. It was delightful, probably, in the way that very expensive restaurants can be delightful while leaving you hungry after you’d emptied your wallet to pay the bill. The company was great, mainly because the rest of the Metros were on the opposite side of the table and therefore he didn’t actually have to talk to Pike or Boiziau at all, and it was terrible because Shane didn’t speak to him directly the entire time. Everyone in between chatted and laughed like they were old friends.

Ilya sat quietly on the other side of the table waiting for Shane Hollander to notice him again.

At some point, after the food disappeared and while Carmy was still arguing with Pike about the dessert options, Ilya’s phone buzzed.

Jane: you okay?

He looked over at Shane, who was looking back at him, concern painted across his face.

Lily: idk SHANYA andy says you two are very close now

Lily: feels like a conversation we could have had in private

Shane furrowed his eyebrows at that, typing quickly on his phone.

Jane: trying to be a good A, make friends

Lily: how many big Russian friends do you need anyway? One in Montreal is good enough yes? No need for Boston

The look Shane shot him wasn’t angry. It wasn’t guilty either, as if was ready to admit he’d moved on and didn’t want Ilya anymore. He looked, if Ilya had to guess, like he was about to cry.

Jane: pls tell me you’re joking

Ilya could lie. He probably should lie. This was suddenly much too much conversation to try to have in a French steakhouse in downtown Montreal in a room full of hockey players

Ilya: knew you’d get enough practice & move on didn’t know it’d be for a teammate

Shane excused himself and left the table.

Marly looked down the table at Ilya. The expression on his face was unreadable, but Ilya couldn’t imagine it meant anything good.

“I need a cigarette,” Ilya declared, standing up. He was halfway to the door when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Not now, Marly,” he said quietly, moving through the doors and halfway down the block before deciding it was far enough away from the restaurant entrance. The footsteps had followed him, though, so he didn’t turn around to look. He pulled his cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket, flicking it a few times so the flame would catch in the wind. He took a long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before blowing it out. “I know I am asshole, Marly. I will got back in a minute. I just can’t – fuck. I can’t watch him leave me. I just can’t.”

“Why the fuck would I leave you?” Shane asked.

Ilya spun around. Shane stood a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his game day suit.

“I thought you were Cliff,” Ilya said.

“Yeah, I got that,” Shane said miserably. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Many things, probably,” Ilya admitted. He took another drag off his cigarette.

“Are you done with me?”

“I don’t want to be.”

“Then why would you think I am?” Shane took a step forward. “After everything, Ilya? What did I do?”

“Because of everything,” Ilya said. He took a step toward Shane, pulled forward by the magnets that lived in their chests and always drew them both to each other, whether Ilya wanted it or not. “Because I am not what you thought you were getting when you gave me the number of your hotel room. Because your teammate calls you Shanya and I don’t even get to do that yet.”

It was the shortest, truest answer Ilya could give, and somehow still ripped him apart.

“You could have. I told you I liked you,” Shane said. “I fucking told you.”

“I like you too,” Ilya lied, and realizing it was a lie meant realizing what he felt for Shane Hollander was so much more than like. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“You think I would cheat on you?” Shane asked, his eyes wet.

Ilya’s heart rolled over in his chest. He pressed the palm of one hand to his sternum, pushing in hard, feeling his lungs push back with every breath. “Cheat on me?” he asked. “Did you think we were…” he searched for the word.

“I thought you were my fucking boyfriend but now I’m not so sure,” Shane snapped. “I would never cheat on you. How could you…” He turned his face away, rubbing at his eyes with the back of one hand. “Why would you think that?”

Ilya tossed his cigarette and reached forward with both arms to pull Shane into a hug. “I didn’t know,” he said into Shane’s hair. “I’m so sorry, Shane. I didn’t know.” He felt Shane’s arms come up to hug him back.

“Which part?” Shane asked. “The cheating part? Because I -”

“No,” Ilya interrupted quickly. “No. Nyet. Never. I never think you would do that. I didn’t know I was boyfriend.”

“What the hell else are you? I mean I know it’s a secret, of course, but I haven’t been with anyone else in months and I though you hadn’t either, and we like each other so fucking much what else is this?”

“Shh, Shane, I’m so sorry, please forgive me,” Ilya said. He pushed back just enough to bring his hand up to cup Shane’s chin, lifting the other man’s face until he could see Shane’s eyes. “I am idiot. Okay, we know this yes? I thought we could not be, anything, because of secret. That it was not fair to you to ask.”

“Are you cheating on me?” Shane asked. His cheeks were wet. “Is that what this is?”

“No, I would never,” Ilya said. “I would never. It’s only been you for a long time now.” He wiped Shane’s face with his thumb, brushing slowly over the soft skin across Shane’s cheeks, and the freckles that shone there like stars.

Shane took a deep breath. “Okay.” He took a step back, putting space between them. “We probably shouldn’t have done this on a public street. Fuck,” he said, as if suddenly realizing where they were. “I’m sorry, I panicked. I couldn’t think of anything else.”

“Hey, hey, is okay. Anyone asks we say I was consoling you on not being Boston Raider. Is very sad for you, everyone understands.”

“Asshole,” Shane said, but he was grinning now. “Can we please talk about this at home before I have a heart attack and die out here?”

Behind him, the restaurant door opened and eight hockey players spilled out onto the street. Ilya nodded his head in their direction, and Shane turned to face them as they made their way over.

“Sorry, was smoking,” Ilya said before Shane had to think up an excuse. “I steal Hollander to talk about secret Alternate Captain things, none of you fuckers invited.”

“Fuck you, baby Cap,” Marly said with a grin. “You guys good?”

“Yep,” Shane said. “We’re inventing new drills for you guys to run during Captain skates.”

“Thank fuck Coach runs practice most of the time, and Tommy does the rest,” Vicky said.

“Real Cap is a benevolent leader,” Carmy said, nodding slowly.

“I am benevolent!” Ilya exclaimed, but everyone laughed. Shane did too, so that was all right. “Hollander, tell me what benevolent means,” he added loudly.

Shane laughed harder. “It means, uh, kind and generous.”

“Yeah, pretty sure that’s not you, dude,” Pike said.

“Hayden Pike, how dare you!” Ilya grinned. “This is slander from Metros 15^th best player. And I haven’t once mentioned your mother tonight.”

“He has a point, Hayden,” Boiziau said, his French accent thickening his words. “Perhaps he has turned over new leaf?”

“Yes, we will be friends Hayden Pike,” Ilya declared. “Shane tells me you married beautiful lady Pike, yes? Send me wedding registry, I will buy expensive gift for you.”

“Is this a joke?” Pike asked.

“No,” Ilya said, finding out in that moment that he meant it. If Shane wasn’t done with him after all, it’d probably be a good idea if his best friends didn’t completely hate Ilya, off the ice.

Just in case.

“Shane showed me wedding pictures,” Ilya said, enjoying the surprise on Pike’s face. “Wife is very beautiful, good job Hayden Pike.”

“Dude, what the fuck is happening?” Pike said quietly.

“Why do people keep being surprised that they’re friends?” Marly asked.

“The rivalry,” Ilya and Shane said together, and laughed. They bumped shoulders, and Ilya could feel the tension of their earlier conversation evaporate.

“Okay we need photo for tonight, yes?” Ilya asked. “All Raiders against the wall, backs out, show off your jerseys!” he called out. “Shane, in the middle please, face pretty for picture.” Ilya pulled his phone out, unlocked it, and opened it to the picture app. “Andy can you take please? Hayden, J.J. you want in?”

“I am so lost,” Pike said, but Hammy put one arm around his shoulder and leaned in.

“He makes a lot more sense when you stop thinking about the things he says,” Hammy said. A few of the other guys mumbled their agreement.

They got into position, with Pike and Boiziau wedged in between Connors and Carmy, further down the line. Ilya took his spot next to Shane, bumping him with his hip as he squeezed into place. After a minute, Andy declared them ‘Done!’ and brought Ilya’s phone back.

“Thank you, my friend,” Ilya said to him in Russian. “Sorry for being rude tonight, I had a long day. But give me your number okay?”

Andy smiled, and nodded, leaning in to help Ilya save him as a contact in his phone. Ilya texted him right away. “You tell me if boring Canadians are too much. Or if Shane needs anything, ever, you understand?”

“Yes, thank you,” he replied. Ilya clapped him on the shoulder.

Shane looked over from where he was talking to Connors, and smiled. He looked relieved.

“Okay pumpkin boys, time for hotel yes?” Ilya called out. “Thank our beautiful host for dinner, and get the valet to bring the cars around before you all turn in vegetables!”

“Thank you, Hollander,” the Raiders called out in unison like a bunch of schoolchildren.

In the end they all said their goodbyes, with most of the Raiders piling into one car to hit up a nightclub, leaving only Ilya and Cliff together in their car. “You seeing Jane tonight?” Marly asked as soon as they were alone.

“Yes, is okay?” Ilya asked.

The big man nodded. “I figured. You see her every time we’re in town. Even going to Hollander’s game on our off night wasn’t going to change that. Or, wait, was this all a plan so you could use his game as an excuse to see her?”

Ilya tried not to turn completely in his seat to stare at his friend while he was actively operating a moving vehicle. “What the fuck, Marly? You said you were cool with it.”

“Cool with what?”

“Shane, Marly. Did you finally get one too many concussions? We talked about this.”

Marly shrugged. “You lost me, man.”

“This is second conversation tonight where I think maybe my English is not so good, no one can understand me.” He shook his head. "I have textbook you know. I spend last month reading about verbs. No good at all."

“Rozy, what’s going on?”

Ilya sighed. “You think I have beautiful Montreal girl?”

“Yeah, Jane.” Marly’s mouth opened, then closed again. “What am I missing?”

“Marly, Jane is Shane. I am fucking Shane Hollander.”

The other man turned to stare out the front windshield, his hand coming up to rest against the roof like he was bracing for impact.

Ilya waited for a great many things to click into place for his friend.

It took longer than he expected.

They pulled into the hotel parking lot and found a space. Ilya put the SUV in park and turned off the engine.

“Shane Hollander,” Marly said softly.

“You knew this already. He is my boyfriend.”

“I did not fucking know this,” Marly said. He looked at Ilya, eyes wide. “How long have you known?”

Ilya bobbed his head as he did the math. “Boyfriend, I find out tonight. I am maybe idiot, there. Fucking, has been since last summer. I told you many times.”

“You told me you were fucking a chick in Montreal. Many times, Rozy. So many times.”

“Marly, he was at my house,” Ilya said loudly. “You said you had my back.”

“When I thought you were friends,” Marly shouted. He took a deep breath. “When I thought you had a weird friendship that was harder because of the league, Rozanov. I had your back with your friend.”

“But not man I am fucking.” Ilya didn’t phrase it as a question.

“Please stop saying you’re fucking Shane Hollander,” Marly said very quietly.

Ilya swore very loudly in Russian. He switched back to English. “I already told him you were okay with it. He is so scared of being outed to the league and I told him you were friend, Marly.”

“Hey, no, Roz, I am your friend,” Marly said. “I’m just your friend that needs a minute to process here. And maybe to make an appointment with the med team to check for concussion syndrome because now that I know, like for sure know, I’m having a hard time figuring out how I didn’t realize sooner.”

“You cannot fuck up his career, Marly. Okay, you want to ruin someone, you ruin me, understand?” Ilya felt around in his pockets for his lighter, and rolled down the window.

“No one is getting ratted out, man. I guess I just thought you’d tell me you were gay before you dropped the Hollander of it all on me.”

“Am not gay,” Ilya said, blowing smoke out the window. “Am bisexual. I looked it up.”

Marly nodded. “Okay. Yeah, that makes more sense. I’ve walked in on you with too many chicks for you to be totally gay.”

“No, only half gay,” Ilya said, smiling wryly. “I like women, is not lie. I also like Shane.”

“Got it. Is Hollander gay?”

“No idea,” Ilya said. “He hasn’t said. Don’t think it matters.”

“Probably not,” Marly said, nodding. “Okay. Wow. Okay. I’m gonna head up to the room, and try not think about this for a while.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“Brother, I’m not going to say a thing. I love you. I have your back, I just need to fully reevaluate my life for a few hours first.” Marly smiled wide then, like a thought just occurred to him. “When I’m ready, you’re going to explain to me how you bagged THE Shane Hollander, preferably over a lot of very expensive vodka.”

“You don’t know the difference between good vodka and shit vodka, Marly.”

“Oh I know. That’s why I said expensive.” Marly laughed. “Pop the trunk, let me grab the bags.”

Ilya got out of the car then, meeting Marly at the back. After stepping on his cigarette butt, he grabbed his friend in a tight hug.

“I love you too, idiot,” Ilya said, sniffling.

“Go see your man, Rozy,” Marly said. He grabbed the bags, leaving Ilya’s, and waved goodbye as he walked toward the hotel.

One problem solved. Well, created, then solved. Now to solve the other one, which Ilya realized, he had also created tonight. So he started out 0 and 2 in the fucking things up department, put one on the board, and still needed to score again before the end of the night.

He could at least start on the right foot. He knocked when he got to Shane’s apartment.

“Ilya,” Shane said, confused as he opened the door. “You forget the code?” He moved aside, leaving space in the doorway.

“No,” Ilya said. “I wanted to give you chance to decide if I come into my boyfriend’s apartment.”

“Ilya, get your ass in here so you can apologize to me properly.”

“Yes, Hollander,” Ilya said, a smile spreading over his face. “I will apologize to you so hard, you won’t walk straight tomorrow.” He stepped into Shane’s apartment and shut the door behind him.

“We have to talk first this time,” Shane said as his hands found themselves around Ilya’s neck and Ilya’s lips pressed against his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids which had closed on their own.

“Yes, okay,” Ilya said, dropping his bag on the floor and toeing his shoes off while also licking up Shane’s neck to the edge of his jaw.

“I mean it,” Shane said, biting Ilya’s lower lip.

“We are talking,” Ilya said, “this is how we talk,” just before he kissed Shane with everything in his heart. They spoke that language, lips and hands on each other, for a long time.

Finally, finally because he had to come up for air, and finally because Shane needed Ilya to use his words at some point tonight and that point needed to be now or he was going to carry Shane into his bedroom and not let him up again until morning, Ilya put his hands up between them. “We should talk,” he panted.

Shane nodded and stepped back, one hand still twisted in the HOLLANDER 24 jersey Ilya wore. His lips were red and puffy from how hard they’d kissed, and for how long. He pulled them both over to Shane’s couch and sat down.

Ilya sat down next to him, facing him, their knees touching. “I have things I need to say first, please.”

Shane nodded.

“I would never, ever think you were cheating on me,” Ilya said. “I thought we were not together in that way. Together, but not just us. I thought you might find someone else but not because you did anything wrong. Because I thought what we had was in between other things for you.”

Shane took a deep breath. “Okay. But you haven’t slept with anyone else?”

“Not since… not for a while, no.”

“Since when, exactly?”

Ilya rubbed his ear. “The answer is… embarrassing. For me.”

“Embarrassing but not bad?”

“Not bad, I don’t think. I don’t know. Maybe you think of me differently if I tell you.”

Shane touched Ilya’s face, gently, his fingers finding the shape of Ilya’s cheekbone, the curve of his jaw. “Please tell me.”

“A few girls I kiss, in clubs, until that picture and you didn’t talk to me for three days. So no more kissing. Before that…” Ilya swore in Russian. “The last time was a blowjob from a woman in Tampa, the night you went home with the man at the bar.”

“The man at the bar,” Shane repeated. “Ilya that was a year ago.”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t had sex with anyone but me for an entire year.”

“Yes.”

“Not at all.”

“Yes.” Ilya’s mouth made a shape on its own that he didn’t care for, like it was announcing a sorrow Ilya wasn’t prepared to admit. He swallowed the words on his tongue, and waited.

Shane stared.

Ilya waited.

When Shane’s face changed it was slow, like the sun rising over mountains. His eyes got larger. His lips parted and stretched into a wide smile that spread across his face. He was the most beautiful thing Ilya had ever seen.

“I haven’t either,” Shane said.

“Not at all?” Ilya knew, or at least had suspected, or hoped, but hoping was a thing he was definitely not doing while Shane was across the border in another country being a professional hockey player in a notoriously homophobic sport while Russia waited across the Atlantic to steal Ilya’s life away at a moment’s notice.

“Just you,” Shane said. “And just me.”

“So no one is cheating,” Ilya said.

“No,” Shane said. “Is it okay that the idea of you being jealous is really hot?”

Ilya groaned. “Are we done talking? Please say yes, I need to fuck you now.” He reached out with both hands but Shane swatted them away.

“Wait, wait,” he said, laughing as Ilya tried to drag him closer, to pull him under like a riptide, crawl up Shane’s body and cover it with his own. He mostly succeeded in this, finding himself lying on top of Shane but not yet making a move to strip the other man’s clothes off.

“I give you five minutes and then you will be naked, Shane Hollander,” Ilya moaned into the side of Shane’s neck.

“I need at least ten,” Shane said.

“Ten is not negotiable,” Ilya replied, licking around the edge of Shane’s ear.

“Eight,” Shane said. “Final offer.”

Ilya licked the freckles on Shane’s left cheek. “Fine, eight minutes, then if you are still talking we’re having this conversation with you on my cock. Go.”

“Boyfriends?” Shane said.

“That is not a conversation,” Ilya replied. He closed his eyes, letting himself sink onto Shane’s body. He didn’t fight it when Shane shoved him over into the bit of couch next to him, so their bodies were next to each other, legs still entwined. “That is a statement. I am studying English, Hollander, you cannot fight me about sentence structure.”

“Need to breathe to talk, Ilya,” Shane said. Ilya grumbled but none of it came out as words. “Listen, I know we can’t be anything. We can’t be public. We can’t tell anyone except I guess two of your friends know but that’s it. There’s the league and Russia and my parents and my team and your family and citizenship and…” He paused. “That’s so many things, Ilya. I keep thinking we’ll have to keep doing it this way until we retire. I don’t even know if you want that, or if you want that with me, and even if you do I don’t know how we’re going to get it.”

“Shane, this is a lot of words and my dick is very loud,” Ilya said, grinding against the side of Shane’s thigh. “Ask me your question.”

“How do you know I have a question?”

“You always do,” Ilya sighed. “But you can’t find it until either you come for me or you use so many words first. You know how I feel about English Shane, but always so many words. Easier if I fuck you then you can find your questions in your big hockey brain.” He kissed Shane again.

His need bled out through his lips, infecting Shane with it, until they were both kissing hard and gasping for air. One of his hands drifted to Shane’s hips, rolling him onto his side so they could press their hips against each other.

“Ilya, please,” Shane said.

“What do you need, sweetheart?” Ilya murmured.

“Please stop.”

Ilya froze. He opened his eyes to see Shane looking back at him. His brown eyes were so dark.

“I don’t want to keep wondering if I’m going to see you again,” Shane said. “I wake up every day thinking you’ll text me that it’s too hard, or you found someone you like more, or you’ll stop texting me entirely and I’ll just have to guess at whether I’m losing you. And I know you like me now which makes it worse.”

“I don’t understand,” Ilya said, but he thought maybe, probably he did.

“Ilya, I don’t know how to be anything more to you than someone you see in between the rest of your life, and I am afraid every day that I’m going to stop being that for you. Will you please be my boyfriend so I don’t have to be afraid that you’re going to disappear?”

“Yes,” Ilya said. “Of course, Shane.”

“Thank god!” Shane kissed him, filthy and moaning, his tongue licking into Ilya’s mouth and his cock thrusting against Ilya’s hip. “Please fuck me.”

Final score: Rozanov making things better 5 – Rozanov fucking everything up 2 (Rozanov wins)

Chapter 20: Hollander, what happened?

Chapter Summary

Ilya doesn't understand why Shane's mood has changed since the preseason game, and all of his guesses make him sad. He reaches out to Shane's teammates and his own. Shane finally explains.

SFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

October 2011

Shane is quieter than usual once the season begins. He doesn’t start texts with Ilya as often, and though he does reply, it’s not a thoroughly as before. There are fewer pictures, fewer jokes. When Ilya asked, Shane just said he was worried about his phone being hacked, so okay, Ilya switched to calls instead. He calls Shane three or four times a week: when he first wakes up in the morning, or when he’s in a hotel room alone at the end of a game day. He calls Shane to bitch about the quality of coffee in a hotel breakfast buffet, to talk about a particularly rough game – his, or Shane’s which he watches whenever he can. He calls for phone sex too, of course, he’s dating Shane Hollander and there isn’t a universe in which Ilya Rozanov doesn’t want to fuck that man into the mattress. But he knows something is wrong.

Whatever it is, Ilya is sure it isn’t them. For one thing, Shane always takes his calls. He makes plans to be alone when he knows Ilya will be calling him. He’s left team dinners, rearranged plans with his parents, even skipped out on a run once to take Ilya’s calls. At first, it feels like Shane’s making a choice to prioritize their limited chances to talk, and it makes Ilya’s heart do a complicated thing which feels both comforting and frightening at the same time.

But after a while Ilya starts to wonder if Shane is maybe just miserable in Montreal. He’s the AC now, and from what Ilya can tell, their coach and Captain are putting all kinds of work on Shane that Ilya’s never seen handed off to another player. They’ve got Shane giving input on plays, running drills, enforcing rules in the locker room, even running whole practices at times which pisses Ilya off to no end. He asked his own Captain about it, but Anderson pressed his lips into a thin line and shook his head. What Montreal is doing to Shane is unprecedented, but when Ilya brings it up Shane changes the subject.

The only reason Ilya knows any of this is the way Shane lets things slip when he’s tired, sometimes, but mostly by the shape of the things Shane is refusing to talk about. Sorry, long day, had to give our new rookie a tour of the facility or remind me again why I thought being AC wouldn’t involve photocopying play binders for 3 hours, which became, when Ilya tries to gently push back, nevermind I don’t usually do that stuff, one time thing. Except there’s one of those one time things almost every time they talk, until Shane doesn’t want to talk about the team unless he’s telling a story about something that happened off the ice.

Shane’s still friends with Hayden and J.J., which means getting dragged out to bars and dinners Shane doesn’t really enjoy but won’t complain about. There’s a soft sigh Ilya hears over the phone at times when Shane is talking about his team he doesn’t think Shane is aware of. He listens though, as Shane talks about Pike’s wife getting pregnant, how his parents found a plot of land near their lake cottage they want Shane to buy. Shane had this plan to eventually build his own cottage, he tells Ilya one night, but while he talks about real estate investments and architecture styles – things that last spring would have made him ramble on happily for hours – Ilya can hear the joy bleeding out of Shane’s words.

There is something, something underneath all of it that Shane won’t share with him.

One night he asked if the problem was him, if Ilya was taking up too much of Shane’s time. If they should stop talking so much, if Ilya is getting in the way of Shane’s real life. He offered to call Shane less.

“Please don’t,” Shane begged over the phone, his voice cracking. “Please, Ilya I need you. I can’t do this without you.”

So Ilya listened to his boyfriend cry from 500 kilometers away and promised to never suggest that again.

He asks for a picture one Sunday afternoon and gets a selfie of Shane in bed wearing the caramel-colored cashmere hoodie they've been trading back and forth between them. He’s smiling but his eyes look tired. Ilya praises him and calls him beautiful, because of course Shane is beautiful even if he’s tired. Even if that tiredness might be something more. Ilya doesn’t mention that Shane Hollander should not be lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon. He doesn’t ask.

He does get Hayden Pike’s number from Andy though.

Ilya: Hayden Pike this is Ilya Rozanov

Worst Pike: wtf man

Ilya: what is team doing to Shane?

Worst Pike: idk what you’re talking about

Ilya: don’t be stupid pike he’s your best friend

Worst Pike: does he know you’re texting me right now?

Ilya: no and if you tell him I will end you

Worst Pike: what do you want me to say?

Ilya: tell me why metros are making Shane sad

Worst Pike: are we?

Ilya groans and throws his phone on the bed, cursing himself for thinking Hayden fucking Pike would be helpful. But an hour later he gets another text:

Worst Pike: no idea how you knew before me but am going to Shane’s now to talk to him

Ilya: be subtle can’t tell him I told you he will be like clam

Worst Pike: fuck you I am subtle

Worst Pike: do you mean clam up?

Ilya: yes

Worst Pike: yeah he will

Worst Pike: I’ll be careful

Ilya goes for a run after that because he can’t possibly sit in his apartment in Boston waiting for the 15^th best player on the Metros to find out what’s bothering Shane when Ilya himself hasn’t been able to do it. He picks up dinner on his way back, placing an order to go so he’s not in a restaurant or somewhere else in public in case Shane needs to call him. He stops to pet a cute dog on his way home, pauses outside of a florist – thinking, for a moment, about whether he should send Shane flowers? He has no idea what a boyfriend is supposed to do in times like these.

Hockey, he was good at. He could make Shane blush on the ice with flirty comments disguised as chirping. Ilya could press him into the boards and sometimes – if he was very lucky – hear a tiny moan escape those perfect pink lips. He could chase Shane from one end of the rink to the other, fight him at the face off, steal a puck right off his stick and slam it into the Metros net, knowing that every one of those moments would bring a secret smile to Shane’s face. Knowing it would end with the two of them naked together.

He was good at their sex too. He had taken to it since that first fumbling attempt in a bathroom during a party when he was 14. Every lesson he learned, he applied to carefully establishing himself as the best sex of Shane Hollander’s entire life. He’d fucked a handful of men and a few hundred women in the 4+ years between that first time and becoming Shane’s for good.

Well, not that Shane knew it. Ilya wasn’t 100% sure himself. But he didn’t want anyone else right now and he’d started thinking lately that maybe, probably, he never would again. Maybe something would break them up in a few months – hockey, or Russia, or a bad injury or cancer from his stupid cigarettes or the depression his mother left him instead of an inheritance – and Shane would move on but Ilya never would.

Maybe he’d spend the rest of his life with the memory of Shane in his arms and die quietly, alone, having loved a ghost longer than he’d ever loved anyone else.

Some days, on really bad days, the ones he didn’t want to tell anyone about, he wondered how long he’d last in this world with only Shane’s ghost to keep him warm, and in those moments, the answer was always: not very fucking long.

But none of this was something he could say when Shane was clearly going through a hard time he couldn’t talk to Ilya about yet.

Ilya was sure whatever was happening to Shane was about the Metros. He’d texted Andy a few weeks ago, to ask about their locker room culture, looking for anything that could help without revealing any of Shane’s secrets. It’s always winter here, Rozanov was all Andy had said.

He didn’t go into the florist. He got home, showered with his phone in the bathroom and his ringer on high, then ate and scrolled through his own team’s group chats.

Worst Pike: he told me

Worst Pike: this team fucking suck

Worst Pike: told him to talk to management

Worst Pike: do not make this worse for him I will kill you

Ilya: never

Ilya: what’s happening?

Worst Pike: told him to tell you

Worst Pike: not my place to say

Ilya: tell me who to fight at next game

Worst Pike: if this isn’t resolved right I’ll send you a list

Ilya sighed. Hayden fucking Pike was growing on him.

He’s tired of you, his father’s voice whispered in Ilya’s head. It has nothing to do with hockey. He’s done with you, and you wasted your potential to fall in love with a weak Canadian who can never love you back.

The Russian voice was relentless but he had Shane’s voice in his head now too and that helped. Not enough to fix it but enough that at times it sounded like they were arguing each other inside of Ilya’s brain and that made him feel cared for, kind of. As if there was someone who cared enough to fight for Ilya instead of making him feel small and powerless.

“Oh, Ilya.” Shane’s hand came out of his pocket and gently lifted Ilya’s face up until they could see each other’s eyes. “That’s not your fault.”

“I’m sorry you’re going through that,” Shane said softly, his hand in Ilya’s hair. “That’s not fair to you.”

“I do want this, Ilya, so fucking much.”

Shane opened his eyes and looked at him. “You. I need you.”

“I’m not going to pretend that I don’t like him anymore.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmured into Ilya’s neck. “You’re home now, okay? I’m here.”

“I’m going to fucking kill them,” Shane said then. Simple. Decided. Another of Shane Hollander’s facts. “Do you understand me? I’m going to fucking kill them both.”

“Will you please be my boyfriend so I don’t have to be afraid that you’re going to disappear?”

Against everything Shane had said to him over the last year, how could one miserable old man’s voice compete?

(It does still, of course, Ilya can’t get rid of it no matter how hard he tries, and some days the Russian voice is louder than others, so loud Ilya thinks he will stab a screwdriver in through his ear to dig the voice out of his skull, but as often as he can, he remembers Shane’s words and tries to map the sound of Shane’s voice over everything else in his head.)

As much as he wanted to blame this all on himself and run away in fear, because that’s what he was used to, that’s what he knew how to do, Ilya knows in his heart that Shane’s struggles right now aren’t about Ilya at all. So he set Shane’s words to play on a loop in his head, and waited for his boyfriend to tell him how he could help.

He was, a little bit, cursing the decision to let Shane dictate the pace of this conversation when he heard he couldn’t spend the night after their first game against each other this season, but it helped when Shane said my parents are staying with me and I need to talk to my mom because if Ilya could spend even one more night with his own mother, what wouldn’t he give up for that chance?

Pike hadn’t texted again by the time Ilya had to leave his phone behind in the Metros’ visitors locker room. He played as best as he could, somewhat distracted by Shane’s face beneath his visor. It didn’t look like Shane’s face, not the way Ilya remembered. It looked like someone had carved out everything good and let him onto the ice hollowed out. His Shane was gone, so only Hollander remained.

“You ready to lose?” Ilya had teased the first time they faced off against each other. The other man kept his eyes down, and got to the puck first. Ilya chased him into the boards, but got none of Shane’s usual reactions. He just passed to Pike a second before they connected, and waited for Ilya to let him go.

The second time they were across from each other on center ice, Ilya had been more direct. “I miss you,” he said softly. Hollander nodded, looked toward his bench, and said, “Yeah,” over his shoulder. That was the only time anyone put one on the board.

It was a sour game, with more fights than usual. Hollander kept his head down, and even Ilya managed to avoid any penalty time, but neither team scored again so it ended with the Metros up because of Hollander’s single goal. Ilya looked for Shane as both teams cleared the ice, only spotting Hollander’s back as the other man walked into the tunnel.

In the locker room, Marly tapped him on the shoulder. “Seeing Jane tonight?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Ilya sighed. “Family stuff. Next time.”

Marly nodded, then stepped up to stand on top of the bench, his chest bare. “Ok boys, listen up!” he called out. “We have a rare treat tonight! Rozy’s girl has to see her parents or some shit, so we get to entertain our baby Cap!” He reached down and shook Ilya’s shoulders until they both laughed. “Best plan wins – who’s got ideas?”

Ilya sends a picture of himself sqeezed between Connors and Hammy in the backseat of a rental car Marly is driving, on their way to a sports bar that promises loud music and tolerable appetizers.

Jane: your rookie contract is up at the end of the season right?

Jane: promise me you’ll re-sign with the raiders

Ilya realized he hadn’t considered doing anything else. He texted his agent then, asking him to negotiate a contract renewal with Boston, mainly so he won’t be lying when he texts Shane next.

Lily: asked my agent to take care of it

Lily: are you okay?

Jane: you deserve a good team

Ilya bit his lip.

Lily: not what I asked

Lily: need me to call?

Jane: with parents

Lily: I like you

Shane doesn’t respond for a long time.

Ilya enjoys being at the bar with his teammates. It just would have been better if Shane was there. Ilya doesn’t go out nearly as much as he did at the start of his rookie season, before his plan to hook up with Shane Hollander once became maybe hooking up when they play against each other a few times a year, which became texting and talking on the phone almost every day and seeing each other every other month. Before he became Shane Hollander’s boyfriend, which he’d only actually said to Cliff Marleau and had, unfortunately, needed to say twice. Even Svetlana didn’t know that part of it, mainly because she wouldn’t care about the label, and partly because he knew Shane was struggling with one of Ilya’s friends knowing the full truth, let alone two. Sveta would be happy for Ilya regardless so it wasn’t really a risk to keep from saying certain words to her.

Marly only knew how their relationship had progressed because Marly was an idiot who needed things spelled out to him. More than once. But Ilya also loved him like the brother he never got to have, and was starting to settle into the idea that Marly loved him exactly the same way. So the Hollander of it all was a secret as safe as it could be, and Ilya got two people who knew the truth of them.

He didn’t mention Shane to them often, but knowing he could helped him to breathe when his father’s voice was loud at night. He wondered, some times, if it made Shane’s life better or worse to not have anyone in Montreal to carry his secrets for him, the way Ilya had two people in Boston.

Maybe Shane was telling his parents about them tonight. Maybe he wasn’t being distant, he just was being nervous, and he’d call later sounding ten pounds lighter with the relief of being seen.

Or maybe he’s done with you already, Grigori Rozanov said inside of Ilya’s brain, as clearly as if he was sitting next to him in the bar.

He told the voice to fuck off and pulled his phone out to text Andy instead.

Ilya: Мы с Рейдерами в баре — хочешь присоединиться?

Andy: не могу команда говорит нельзя, у Шани проблемы после последнего раза

Fuck! Andy couldn’t come out to the bar tonight because his fucking team said no? And Shane had gotten in trouble for the last time? Which had to mean the time when a bunch of Boston Raiders showed up wearing Hollander’s jersey, a thing that only happened because Ilya made a bet during a live press interview.

“Ivanov!” he called out. The other man turned toward him, one eyebrow raised. “You know this kid Andropov on the Metros?” Ilya asked in Russian.

Big Ivan nodded.

“You talk to him? Or any of the other Metros?”

“Not really. Andy is only Russian on their team. The rest are dicks. Except your Hollander, I think.” Big Ivan shrugged. “He seems okay.”

“I invited Andy tonight, he says no, team doesn’t allow him to spend time with Raiders anymore.”

Ivan shrugged again. “Yeah, they’re dicks.”

“Can you ask around?” Ilya feels like this conversation is bordering on Really Fucking Obvious Feelings About Shane Hollander, but he can’t help himself. Whatever is going on with Shane’s team is starting to feel too big to ignore.

Ivan took another pull on his beer, then tilted his head to look carefully at Ilya. “Four years ago,” Ivan said, “Mira played with Tampa for a season.”

“Yeah?” Ilya said, not sure where Ivanov was going with this.

“Four years ago, Gagnon played for Tampa.”

Gagnon, who was now played defense for the Metros.

“Thanks,” Ilya said. Ivan turned around to talk to the guys on the other side of him. Hockey fans who didn’t seem to be Metros fans, specifically. Good enough to drink beer with in a bar. Montreal fans were rabid but there were always just hockey fans, anywhere you went.

Ilya sent Anton Miranov, one of the Raider’s defensemen, a text asking if Gagnon from the Metros had any idea why the team was freezing out Andy. Russians must stick together, he’d added, then put his phone back in his pocket. He hadn’t mention Shane to Mira or Ivan. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to.

He took a cab back to the hotel before 10, texted Shane to let him know he was in for the night and available if Shane needed anything. He passed out sometime before midnight, phone on the charger next to his head.

He woke up to a text, sent while Ilya was sleeping.

Jane: you’re the best thing in my life

Ilya’s first thought was a thing he wasn’t ready to say, so he put that away for later.

Lily: awake now, how was parents?

Jane: fine

Lily: call?

Jane: not now

Jane: phone will be off for a while ttyl

Ilya did the usual post game things: got breakfast with the team in their hotel, packed and showered, made it to the airport, made it onto their charter plane, and 5 hours later touched down in Boston. He worried about what was happening between him and Shane the entire way.

It felt like Shane was pushing him away. Ilya was trying very hard not to see it that way, but they’d gone from practically living in each other’s phones and beds to… this? In only a few weeks. If they’d been able to see each other last night, to strip each other naked and reconnect in the best way possible, he’d have known for sure that everything was good between them. Touching Shane made him real.

Ilya wondered if this was because of what happened outside the steak house in Montreal. Not that he thought Shane had found someone else, he was more sure that neither of them would cheat on each other than he was certain of anything else, but maybe this was Shane finally processing his feelings about it all and figuring out that Ilya had broken something they wouldn’t be able to repair. Shane wouldn’t move on to someone else without ending things with Ilya first. There just wasn’t any guarantee that ending wasn’t Shane’s very next step.

He needed to touch Shane again, to have this conversation with lips and fingers and skin. If he couldn’t have that, Ilya would have to talk to him with his words. That was the second best option, but it was much better than fucking pining over someone who wouldn’t explain what was going on.

Except Shane had made it clear he didn’t want to have that conversation “for a while” since he was going as far as turning his fucking phone off.

Outside of travel days – and this shouldn’t be one, since the Metro’s next game was also in Montreal in three days time, and he already knew Shane would have practice scheduled for each of the days in between – Ilya wasn’t sure Shane had ever turned his phone off. So this was something new, and it was a choice Shane was making, and that choice felt very personal right at that moment.

Ilya had three ways to deal with disappointment, before getting involved with Shane: he could get drunk enough to pass out on whatever hard surface would have him, he could spend a lot of money on something fun that he wanted but didn’t strictly need, he could find someone to suck his dick until his problems flew away like butterflies.

Every single one of those options would end in a reaction from Shane that would range from disappointed (new car) to overly concerned (drunk) to “definitely ending their relationship” (fucking someone else), Being the reason excuse Shane could use to finally rid himself of Ilya Rozanov for good sounded like a terrible idea, so Ilya sighed and went with secret option four:

“Listen up!” he announced to his team as they waited for their luggage to arrive. “Go home, shower, then my place for dinner and team bonding! Optional but only idiots would not be there.”

“What kind of team bonding, baby Cap?” Carmy asked.

Ilya grinned. “I have NBA 2K12 on 360 and if you fuckers cannot figure out how to play other sports than the one you barely know already, also have NHL 12.” Several of the guys made happy sounds and nodded to each other. “Good, you come at…” He checked the time on his phone. It was almost 5 PM now. “7 PM, yes? I order food. Show up on time if you want your opinion to matter.”

“I call dibs on crashing in Rozy’s guest room!” Hammy called out. Marly shoved him from one side, and Vicky shoved him from the other. “No fair,” Hammy whined. “I said it first.”

“Is fine, no one wants to listen to you snore anyway. I also have very large couch and comfortable floor. We will sort it out later.” Ilya grinned as he saw his suitcase slide down the carousel. “Do not text me about food if you will be late,” he added as his teammates got their own luggage and started to walk away. “You eat what we give you.” He saw his coaches, standing off to the side, laugh at that, and felt good for the first time that day.

“Can’t make it but I’m leaving you in charge of these knuckleheads,” Tommy said. “Make good choices, baby Cap.”

“Yes Cap,” Ilya said. “I am, uh, trying to be good.”

“I see it,” Tommy said with a smile. “Keep it up.”

Ilya rode that high all the way back to his apartment. He texted Shane when he got home, letting him know he was in for the night, just in case. If Shane did want to talk, Ilya could take the phone into his bedroom, or go for a walk so they could be alone. Having his team at his apartment wouldn’t stand in the way of talking to Shane, but having them there might keep him from spiraling if he didn’t.

By 7:30 he had seven other Raiders in his living room, and several plates of Mexican food scattered around the room. They’d argued over Ilya’s games for a solid 15 minutes before giving up and putting on Just Dance instead. At one point Marly and Hammy fought over who got next round, gave up, and tried to dance the sequence together, arguing the four legs had to be better than two.

When Hammy tried to lift Marly off the ground, Ilya laughed so hard he fell off the couch.

“Okay, okay, do not kill each other or Coach will make us skate laps until we find replacements,” he managed to get out. “I go smoke now.”

Several of the guys booed at this, but they quickly turned their attention back to the disaster unfolding in front of them.

“And no one take my spot!” Ilya called out as he walked to the balcony.

He slid the door shut behind him, letting the quiet settle over him. He found his lighter and cigarettes, smoking it slowly. With his other hand, he opened his phone, typing quick message to Jane:

Lily: miss you

[message read]

So Shane’s phone was back on. Ilya sighed.

Behind him, the noise died down. Ilya finished his cigarette and went back inside.

“Okay, who broke what?” he said as he saw they’d paused the game.

“He just came in and sat down,” Marly said. He looked more confused than usual.

“What?” Ilya asked.

Oh. Oh.

Shane was sitting on Ilya’s couch, wearing the cashmere hoodie over a long black shirt that poked out the bottom. He stared toward the kitchen, but Ilya didn’t think he was really looking at anything.

“Shane?” Ilya said softly.

Shane didn’t even blink.

“Hey, Shane,” Ilya said as his teammates moved out of the way. He kneeled on the floor in front of the couch, looking up at Shane but not touching him. “Hey, hey… you’re here. What do you need right now?”

Shane exhaled sharply, like a quick laugh without any sound to it.

“Do you want something to drink, man?” Carmy asked.

“We got food, uh, tacos and shit,” Connors added.

“Give him a minute,” Ilya told them.

“You’re all so nice,” Shane said quietly. “Do you even know how nice you are?”

“Thanks, Hollander,” Vicky said, his voice accented with heavy French. “You are nice too.”

“Yeah,” Shane sighed unhappily. “I hear that a lot.”

“Shane, why are you here?” Ilya asked. “Is okay, you should be here. But what happened?”

“You guys can’t let Rozanov leave your team, okay?” Shane said.

“Wow, Rozy, you’re leaving?” and “No way man, you just got here,” a few of the guys tried to say all at once. Ilya waved his arm to shut them up.

“Shane, I told you, I ask my agent to get me renewal contract for next season,” Ilya said. “Is fine, I stay here in Boston.”

“You fucking better,” Marly mumbled. Ilya shot him a disapproving look.

“Just make sure, okay?” Shane asked, but Ilya wasn’t sure who he was addressing. “He needs to be here, please.”

Ilya turned to look at the others. “Someone grab a ginger ale out of my fridge. The rest of you sit down, you’re fucking intimidating standing up like that.”

“I play hockey too, you know,” Shane said, his eyes finally finding Ilya beside him. He took the cold can when it was passed over to him, but didn’t open it. Instead he turned it over and slowly tapped on the side. “I love hockey. Why does it have to be like this?”

“Hollander, what happened?” Vicky asked gently. He’d taken the spot next to Shane on the couch.

“After the last time we, uh, talked about it, Ilya had this idea for me to buy a second phone. A second phone number, so I could keep the stalker shit to the old number and no one would have my new one.” Shane pulled two phones out of his pants pocket and set them both on the coffee table. His eyes followed the phones and stayed there.

The older phone buzzed against the table. Then the newer one.

“Stalker shit?” Hammy whispered, but Connors shushed him.

“Yes, I am very smart,” Ilya said softly. “Did something happen?”

Shane swallowed. “It was good, for a few months. Most of the summer. I got some letters, but you know, I can just not check my mail if I need the day off from dealing with it. But, I guess I got lazy. I wasn’t checking the old phone enough. Someone figured out I wasn’t replying in the team group chats anymore, so Hayd… he put me back in with my new number.”

Ilya swore in Russian, silently moving Pike back up to the top of his list.

“What happened then?” Marly asked.

“The calls started again. Except no one had my number except the guys on my team, right? I mean, Ilya and Hayd and my parents did, my coaches did, and all summer long no one bothered me on that line. But the minute, the fucking minute I’m in the group chat, it all started again.”

Both phones buzzed again.

“Do you know who?” Ilya asked, his fists clenching at his sides. He wanted to toss Shane’s phones out of the nearest window.

Shane shook his head. “The day before our opener, the one uh, you guys came to, I told my Coach about it. He said they’d look into it, full investigation. I had to write out a statement, the whole thing. I went into that game thinking that finally, someone on my team cared and they were going to help me.”

“That did not happen?”

“A week later they tell me they know who it was, and I’m thinking okay, it sucks to lose someone from our team, but obviously we can’t have whoever it is on the line with me, right?” Shane’s voice was so quiet now. “But they said…”

He took a deep breath. His newer phone buzzed again.

“They said it was just a prank. That I should ignore it and it would die down on its own, and stop complaining.”

Several of the guys swore loudly. Vicky picked up both of Shane’s phones and powered them off before he set them back down.

Ilya put his hand on Shane’s leg. Softly, resting it there, letting Shane know I am here, you are safe, as best as he could in a room full of hockey players.

“So what happens now, man?” Carmy asked.

“Nothing.” Shane shrugged. “The only thing that has changed is guys are whispering about how I’m too much of a pussy to play professional hockey because I can’t take a fucking joke. They’ve been going after me since fucking draft day but somehow I’m both their leading scorer and too weak to play the game.”

“Fuck them,” Ilya said. “You’re so much better than them, Shane. Every single one of them.”

“I told my Coach this morning that if they can’t protect me from my own team, I can’t sign with them again when my rookie contract is up in June.” Shane sighed. “Desjardins told me to take a few days of personal leave and come back with my head on straight.”

“Okay I just got to say it,” Connors said. “I don’t think I like your team, Hollander.”

That got a small laugh out of Shane. “Yeah. I don’t think I do either.”

“Do you know what you want to do?” Ilya asked.

“My agent’s going to start talking to teams that might want another center. I’m probably going to end up in fucking San Jose or something.” He bit his lip, turning his head to look at Ilya, but his eyes were flat. “Can I stay here tonight?”

“Yes, of course, always,” Ilya said. He climbed up on the couch and put one arm around Shane’s shoulders. Vicky leaned in close on the other side, and Marly sat down on Ilya’s other side, reaching one long over to pat Shane on the head.

“We got you, buddy,” Marly said.

“You need food?” Ilya asked.

Shane shook his head. “Could you guys just go back to what you were doing? I think I just want to sit for a while.”

They went on with their night, but it was more subdued than before. After an hour or so, the guys started to trickle out. Marly grabbed Hammersmith, saying, “Not tonight, dude,” before the other man could settle into Ilya’s guest room. Connors packed away the leftovers.

“Text if you need anything,” Vicky said as Ilya was seeing the last few stragglers to the door. He saw Shane’s overnight bag where he must have dropped it when he came in, picking it up and placing it on the kitchen counter.

When he turned back around, Shane was lying down on the couch. Ilya went over and gently took off Shane’s shoes, putting them aside for now. “You want shower?” he asked.

Shane shook his head, which was more adorable than it should be but he had half his face pressed against the couch. Ilya smiled and kissed Shane’s forehead. Then his cheek. Then, softly, a chaste kiss pressed against Shane’s lips.

“I’m mostly mad at them for fucking up my plans for you,” Shane said. He motioned at the hoodie. “I wore your jersey under this. We didn’t get to… last time, you know?”

“Ah yes, sorry,” Ilya said, not apologizing at all. “Was in too much hurry to get you naked after you scored 4 goals for me, didn’t have time to put my jersey on you before I had to be inside of you. You are too much, too good, Hollander.”

Shane smiled a little. “I wore it for tonight but I don’t think I can right now.”

“No, is okay, I am not in the mood either,” Ilya said. He could be, if Shane wanted it to, but not like this. “Tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Shane said. His voice was very small. “You’re not mad at me for showing up without warning you?”

“Mad, no, never. I like you to be here, Shane. I like you in my apartment, in my clothes, in my bed. Whatever you give me, I like.” Ilya kissed him again. “Can I put you in my bed now?”

Shane let Ilya pull him up, carefully, and lead him to the bedroom. He helped Shane get undressed, found the toothbrush Shane had left after his last visit, and got his teeth brushed. Then he pulled Shane into bed and wrapped himself around the other man’s body.

“I don’t want to get traded to California,” Shane said. “But I have to keep playing hockey, Ilya. I have to.”

Ilya kissed him on the forehead. “I also don’t want to you traded to California. Too many beautiful people in LA, I am very jealous boyfriend, so no Shane Hollander for them. And San Jose is ridiculous team, they do walk out under giant fish head.” He squeezed Shane tighter. “We find you good team in same conference so I get to keep you, okay? But that is tomorrow problem. Tonight we get good rest.”

“Okay,” Shane mumbled into Ilya’s neck. Eventually his breathing evened out as he fell asleep.

Lying there in the dark, with Shane in his arms, Ilya stayed awake for a very, very long time.

Chapter End Notes

I usually write Ilya’s Russian thoughts out in English because he’s the one saying/hearing/thinking them, so of course he’s thinking in the translated meaning not the Cyrillic alphabet. But when he’s texting in Russian I wanted to write it out so you see what anyone would see if they look at his phone.

 

Ilya: Мы с «Рейдерами» в баре — хочешь присоединиться?
My s «Reyderami» v bare — khochesh' prisoyedinit'sya? / at bar with Raiders, you want to join?

 

Andy: не могу команда говорит нельзя, у Шани проблемы после последнего раза
ne mogu komanda govorit nel'zya, u Shani problemy posle poslednego raza / I can't—the team says it's not allowed. Shani is having issues after last time.

Thanks to NECROprincess for helping me fix Andy's text message!

Chapter 21: Was this about the kale?

Chapter Summary

In Boston, Shane and Ilya struggle through talking about what will happen next. Shane has plan, Ilya is left in the dark, but the one thing they can both rely on is how badly they need each other.

NSFW chapter.

Chapter Notes

Ilya untangled himself from Shane’s arms and slid carefully out of the bed. It was just past 8 AM, and Shane Hollander was still asleep. The man who set himself three alarms to make sure he was heading to the gym by 6 every morning, even after nights Ilya had spent hours turning Shane into a moaning, glistening wreck. Shane had let Vicky turn his phone off last night and never bothered to turn it back on. Shane, who usually slept like he’d finally found peace in Ilya’s arms, had been restless the entire night, and now – after hours of sleep – still had dark circles under his eyes.

Ilya dressed quietly, torn between needing to do something, move, act, fix… anything… and wanting to crawl right back into bed. Once ready, he put one knee on the bed and leaned over to gently brush his fingers across the freckles on Shane’s cheek.

“Ilya?” Shane asked, eyes closed. His fingers twitched as if he were reaching for something.

“I have to go out,” Ilya whispered. “I will be right back. Sleep, sweetheart. You are safe here.” He kissed Shane’s forehead.

He drove downtown, finding a parking garage with a few spaces open, a rarity on a Thursday morning. The store he wanted was a few blocks away, so he walked with his collar up and his sunglasses on. He doubted anyone would bother him for an autograph, but he wasn’t in the mood to deal with fans. This was Boston, and there were always fans, but they were much more active online than in person, a fact Ilya appreciated every time he saw clips of Shane being mobbed at a restaurant or grocery store in Montreal. Sometimes Ilya signed jerseys or his rookie card for people waiting outside the entrance to an arena, or took a selfie with a fan in a bar or outside during one of his runs, but it was always a quiet ask. “Excuse me, sorry to bother you, are you Rozanov? Would you mind…”

No one screamed his name when he was trying to get a cup of coffee.

Online was a different story, of course. Social media lived and died on who got the latest pictures of Ilya in a club, getting out of his car, sitting too close to a woman he didn’t even know but apparently was now dating, based on the fact that they were both in the same room at the same time. There were probably people filming him at that moment. But that wasn’t his real life. That was over there. That wasn’t about him, not really. It was the part of the job he enjoyed the least but he didn’t mistake it for anything substantial.

He had the Raiders to thank for that. For years they’d kept hard boundaries with fans, with the press. Rules for how to behave that Captains like Anderson enforced and management supported. Players could always say no to fans or requests for their time off the ice, as long as it was done politely. Ilya was pretty sure now that Montreal didn’t protect their players the same way. Or, maybe they did, for everyone but Shane.

He was paying for the new phone line when his own phone buzzed.

Mama H: do you have him?

Ilya thought carefully about how to respond as the cashier handed over his card and the plastic bag. He didn’t want to give away any of Shane’s secrets, of course. But Shane loved his parents. Even if they were difficult, Ilya was sure of this. He thought of his own mother, and what he would give to have her worrying over him.

Ilya: yes

The response came a moment later.

Mama H: thank you

Ilya sighed. The walk back to his car was short but by the time he reached the garage, he decided.

Ilya: bought him new phone, my service so no one will find

Ilya: will ask him to text you when he’s awake

Yuna didn’t reply right away.

Ilya made it back to his building, pulling his car into the basement parking spaces.

Mama H: we will discuss this when Shane is ready

Ilya: okay

It could mean a lot of things. Yuna could be talking about the fact that Shane came to Boston without telling her, or that he’d stayed with Ilya Rozanov of the Boston Raiders. It could mean she wanted to discuss their friendship, what it might mean for the brand deals she was securing for them both. It might mean she wanted to talk about the situation with the Metros, and why Shane needed a new phone for the 2^nd time in less than 6 months. Or she might have questions about why Ilya was buying his phone, why they were sharing a phone line, why Ilya wasn’t giving her the number until Shane agreed to it.

Or Yuna Hollander might want to know exactly what Ilya’s relationship was with her only son.

Whatever she planned to say, it clearly didn’t include her approval.

Ilya pocketed his phone and went upstairs.

Shane was sitting at the kitchen island with a can of ginger ale in front of him. He’d let Ilya put him in a soft tee last night, a simple black one instead of a hockey jersey too itchy to sleep in, and he was still wearing it now.

“Hey,” Shane said sleepily. He let Ilya cross the space between them and pull him into a kiss. “You went out,” he added once their lips parted.

Ilya kept one arm around Shane and used his other hand to slide the bag across the counter. “New phone for you.”

Shane looked confused for a moment. “How did you get a new phone number on my plan? Do you even know what carrier I use?”

“No,” Ilya said with a shrug. “Did not do that. This is new line on my plan.”

“Ilya, you didn’t have to do that.”

“No one will find this number unless you give it to them. Is, uh, strategic,” Ilya said, grinning.

Shane leaned into him. “That’s really fucking sweet, Ilya.”

“Yes, but do not tell. I have reputation.” He meant it as a joke, but Shane stiffened up, his muscles tensing so hard Ilya could feel it through his jacket. “What did I say?”

“You do have a reputation,” Shane said. “I can’t ruin that for you.”

“You’re not ruining anything.” Ilya put his hands on either side of Shane’s arms, rubbing them slowly. “It’s my life.”

“It’s Russia,” Shane said angrily. Ilya pulled back slightly.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we can’t fuck this up, Ilya!” Shane stood up, taking a step back to where Ilya could no longer reach him. “Every time I come here I’m risking people finding out about us.”

“So?” Ilya put his hands in the air. “Do you think I care about that?” He was yelling and he knew it but he couldn’t help himself.

“No, I know you don’t,” Shane yelled back. “That’s the problem, Ilya. All I want is to be around you. It’s all I can fucking think about some days. But if we get caught, if people even suspect why we spend time together, Russia drags you back and I’ll never fucking see you again.”

“I am getting citizenship! You know I am doing this!”

“But you don’t have it yet! You have a different kind of visa now which is the first step but it could be years before you’re actually a citizen here. God, Ilya, be honest with me – are you going back to Russia next summer?”

Ilya sighed. “I have to,” he said, quieter now.

“So if I’m lucky and I don’t screw anything up, if I don’t make a single mistake, I might get to see you at the end of the summer with another fucking boot print on your ribs?” Shane shook his head.

Ilya crossed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Shane’s shoulders. “I won’t let that happen again.”

“No,” Shane said, but Ilya didn’t let go. “You can’t know that. Your family isn’t going to change, are they?”

Ilya kissed Shane’s cheek. “Probably no,” he admitted. “But that is not your fault.”

“If someone gets a picture of me leaving your apartment that will be my fucking fault. And I can’t be the reason you don’t come home, Ilya. I can’t…”

“Shh, shh,” Ilya whispered.

Shane let his head fall against Ilya’s shoulder as he cried softly. “I’d rather never touch you again than let them keep you,” he said after a moment.

“They won’t keep me,” Ilya said. “I won’t let them.”

“I have plans,” Shane said, reaching up with one hand to dry his eyes. “But I can’t do them without hockey and I can’t have hockey without all of this other bullshit. I’m trying, Ilya, I’m trying so hard…”

“Okay,” Ilya said. He kissed Shane again, one soft kiss to his beautiful lips. “Okay. We will be careful, yes? I will not give you up, Hollander. You make plans for us and I follow them but I will not give you up.”

“You’ll listen to what I say?” Shane asked. “Not fight me on it, or try to fuck me into agreeing with you?”

“Well…” Ilya bobbed his head side to side. “You do like giving me what I want…”

Shane made a face. “I’m being serious, asshole. There are going to be rules.”

“Ughh, so boring,” Ilya sighed dramatically, but kissed Shane’s neck anyway. “Yes, Shane tell me what I have to do to get you back into my bed right now?”

“In a minute,” Shane said, but he was smiling now. “We have to talk about my contract first.”

Ilya’s hands moved lower, finding Shane’s waist. “You have plan for new team?” he asked hesitantly.

His boyfriend nodded. “I’ll tell you some things, but first – you have to promise not to ask. Really promise, and not argue with me. Okay? I can’t talk to you about anything specific. If anyone finds out that we’ve had a conversation, at all, that’s a league violation and you could get dropped for colluding.”

“What is this?”

“Uh, colluding means like… working together when we’re not supposed to be. It’s a really serious thing, Ilya. I can’t even tell you what teams I’m looking at, and you absolutely cannot try to get me to sign anywhere specific.”

Ilya bit his lip. Of course, of course there was one place he wanted Shane to end up. But he couldn’t even hint at it? “How would they know?” he asked, knowing it wouldn’t really matter once Shane made up his mind.

He wasn’t expecting Shane to laugh. “Oh, Ilya,” he said once he stopped. “You told a bunch of reporters we were going to clubs together.”

“Ah, yes,” Ilya said, embarrassed. “That was one time.”

“Do you really think you’re going to be able to keep it a secret if I decide to sign with Toronto? Or, fuck, the Admirals?” Shane grinned. “Oh yes, Ilya, I’m going to play on a line with Scott Hunter, please don’t tell anyone.”

Ilya growled, pulling Shane’s hips against his own. “You take that back or I will fuck that thought out of you,” he purred.

“See, this is what I mean!” Shane broke away, running to the other side of the room, but Ilya was after him a moment later. Shane shrieked with laughter as they got the coffee table between them before Ilya hopped over it and Shane was scrambling for the couch. He almost got away but Ilya tackled him into a couch cushion and dragged him back until Ilya was climbing on top of Shane’s body.

“What can you tell me?” Ilya asked once they stopped giggling. He had the other man pinned, holding Shane’s wrists above his head, and the sight of Shane’s blushing cheeks was doing very good things for Ilya’s dick.

“My mom and I made a spreadsheet,” Shane started, but Ilya murmured, “Of course you did,” into the side of Shane’s neck, which turned into kissing along the side of Shane’s jaw, and Shane moaning softly in response.

“Wait, one second,” he said.

Ilya, sighing, stopped kissing him. Instead he propped himself up on one arm to look into Shane’s eyes. He made a face that said I’m waiting, pressing his lips together impatiently.

“Okay so I made a list of all the teams I’m interested in, with the pros and cons, you know? My agent’s already started reaching out to them, trying to see what my options are. I can’t officially sign a contract until the end of the season, so I have to play the best I can all the way through April, maybe longer if we make the playoffs.”

“The fucking Metros do not deserve your best,” Ilya said.

“I know, Ilya, I know. But it’s not about them anymore. It’s about me being someone worth signing, so I can end up where I want to be.”

“Where do you want to be?” Ilya asked quietly.

Please say you want to be here with me.

Shane bit his lip. “I’m really not allowed to say.”

“But you know what you want.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah, I know what I want,” Shane said. “I also know that whatever I pick might be a terrible fucking idea and I might be ruining everything. I’m so scared of that, Ilya. I want… I want so much. I want everything. But if I don’t end up where I want to be that’s awful and if I do end up where I want to be…” He looked pained, like he was playing through an injury he didn’t want to admit to having. “I think if I get what I want, I might ruin us.”

Ah. Of course. Where Shane Hollander wanted to play hockey was never going to be Boston.

“Do you…” he sighed, struggling to get his words out. “Do you think we should end this? So you can play hockey where you want?”

“How are you so hot and so stupid?” Shane asked, shaking his head. “It’s been months.”

“What has?” Ilya asked.

“I …” Shane stopped. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said instead. “I also don’t want to make you hate me. I don’t know how to get from here to where I want to be without fucking everything up.”

Ilya brushed a strand of Shane’s hair from his forehead, then kissed him there. “Is okay,” he said. “Don’t tell me where you are going until you sign with them. I won’t ask.”

“Really? You can wait until next summer to find out?”

“No, but I will.”

Shane scrunched his eyebrows together the way he always did when he worried. “What if I end up far away? Or I’m… too close? Montreal is the closest to Boston but we’re over the border and that makes it harder. If I end up in… New York, or Buffalo… not saying I will, but we could see each other a lot more.”

“Shane, I could see you every day and be happy,” Ilya said, quiet and serious, hoping Shane understood, because Ilya couldn’t say I would love you if you moved to Los Angeles and I barely saw you and he couldn’t say I want you here on my team, in my city, in my bed. “I will find you wherever you are.”

I love you, I love you, I love you, Ilya thought but didn’t say that either.

They stopped talking then. Ilya whispered his secrets with his fingertips, moving to strip Shane of his clothes while shedding his own, then again to map all of his favorite places on Shane’s body. He kissed Shane like Shane’s lips was the air he needed to breath and his boyfriend kissed him back in exactly the same way: desperate and filthy, as if every sloppy kiss was a promise to keep breathing at the same time.

Shane wrapped his large hand around their cocks and stroked them both together, warm and slick from their pre-come, almost a little too dry but enough to make it work, until Ilya pressed his forehead against Shane’s cheek with a moan.

“Shane,” he panted. “Shane.”

“Ilya,” was all he heard in reply, but it was enough.

Later, when they’d cleaned up and showered together, dressed in clean clothes and sat back at the kitchen island, Shane opened his new phone while Ilya showed Shane the text messages from Yuna.

“Huh,” was all Shane said. Ilya stared at him until he said more. “Yeah, I really don’t know what that’s about.”

“Do they know about us?”

Shane shrugged. “I mean, they know we’re friends, but I haven’t exactly told my mother that I like it when you fuck me so well I forget my own name.”

“Wow, Shane, really? I expected by now they have full run down of your sexual habits.” Ilya rolled his eyes playfully.