Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Sharing Clothes, Masturbation, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov's Complicated Ten Year Situationship, Ilya Rozanov's POV, Possessive Behavior, Light Dialogue, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Dom/Sub Contexts, Shane Hollander's POV, Ilya Down Horrendous Rozanov, Jealousy, Birthday Sex

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of my heated rivalry anon fics

Collections:

Anonymous

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-24 Completed: 2026-06-16 Words: 21,278 Chapters: 4/4

white collar crimes

Summary

So Shane Hollander is, how do you say in English, a dirty little thief. A clothing thief, to be precise. Ilya can't say he saw that coming, but he also can't pretend he's all that mad about it.

His shirt looks good on his Shane. On Shane. On Hollander.

Right. His shirt looks good on Hollander.

Notes

i finished watching all five episodes while sick and wrote this while waiting desperately for the first book about them to be available in my library. posting anonymous cause i'm a little nervous about writing fic for a fandom ive only half-seen but also already have so many more ideas for this ship because they're making me crazy my lord

Chapter 1

The Voyaugers tie a neat little bow on their first play off series in a 3-1 victory on home ice, so of course Shane Hollander is cornered by reporters the moment he steps out of the locker room. 

Whatever shower he must have taken in between stripping out of his jersey and putting on his sweats has done little to dull the flush of his cheeks or the adrenaline left over from a play-off game. 

Winning is a good look on Hollander. Ilya has always thought so. The lighting is bad, Hollander’s hair sticks to his forehead, and he keeps biting his lip in between words Ilya can’t understand. French, which is a stupid language. French media then, which is stupid media too. French cameraperson unable to keep the camera steady, so it runs the length of Shane’s chest before snapping back to his face when they must notice in their receiver.

French media is not so bad, maybe. 

It is a good view, and Ilya is alone in his house. In four days, he will fly back to Russia. It is just enough time to speak with his GM about their own failed play-off run, meet with the team’s trainers and doctors for an adjusted summer workout plan that will give his twinged wrist time to heal up before the pre-season. Not enough time for Svetlana to stay, not with everything he has to finish before leaving for the summer. And so he is alone.

And winning is a good look on Shane Hollander.

Ilya’s hand gropes along the couch cushion beside him until he finds the remote and pauses the program. Shane’s listening intensely to the reporter, head ducked down to hear her. It makes his shoulders curl in, the material of his shirt loosening around his neck and collarbones.

Pretty. Even like this, in bad lighting and still sweaty. His freckles are harder to see, like this. But Ilya knows they’re there. 

Hollander’s eyebrows are drawn down. He is probably thinking about how to answer her question, which is probably about the rest of the play-offs. He cannot sound too smug or overconfident, even though the Voyaugers are predicted to have a deep run this year, maybe even go all the way. He must measure his words, stay humble. These are things Captain Hollander must think about.  Not Ilya.

Winning is a good look on Hollander, but Ilya knows better ones. Like the way he looks just after he’s gotten off, when he’s still panting from it and soft all over but softest in his eyes—just for Ilya. Or like the look he gets when Ilya fucks into him after teasing him for ages, all scrunched up and pleading, cheeks red and big brown eyes wide like the stretch still surprises him.

Faithfully, like clockwork, Ilya’s dick twitches and he palms himself through the cotton of his sweats absently.

Last time had been too rushed for his tastes. Hollander had arrived at his hotel room already worked up, desperate for it even if he wouldn’t admit it. They’d fucked right there in the hotel room’s entryway, shoved up against the wall by the door. It’d taken Ilya longer than usual to shake off the press, everyone interested in how he felt about their slim chances for the Cup this year. And Shane had apparently used that time to stretch himself open, get himself ready for Ilya like coaxing Hollander’s entrance into taking his fingers while he ran his mouth over the length of him was a fucking chore for Ilya and not one of his favorite parts of—of whatever this is.

Ilya’s cock is fully hard now, insistent, stiff at the memory of Shane’s body against his. The way it gave ground, sucked him in like he was just as eager for it as Ilya felt every time they met up.

He rolls his head back against the couch, fingers tapping against the waistband of his pants as he considers his options.

He is alone right now. That could change, if he wanted it to. There’s no reason he should jerk off on his couch to old memories when he could drive into the city proper and find someone for the night. For the moment. 

But then again, that is so much work and Shane is right there in front of him, lips parted and frozen still. And really, no one has to know that Ilya Rozanov jerks it to pictures of his biggest rival. It’s not like Ilya’s going to tell anyone, including Hollander, and it’s not like it’s the worst thing he’s ever done either.

His fingers slip into his sweats and wrap around his cock, giving it a lazy stroke. The tug is dry in a way that borders uncomfortable, but the pleasure is sweeter when it hurts slightly. Shane thinks so at least. Likes it when Ilya sucks at the buds of his nipples—goes crazy when he bites them. 

Ilya lets his head thump against the back of the couch as he moans, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock and then down beneath the head. This is what Shane likes, how Shane touches himself. Ilya has watched enough to have it memorized, the way Shane grips his dick and spreads his legs so he can thrust up into his own palm. 

It has been months since they saw each other. He must be so tight now that it would be work to make Ilya fit. It’d be so good to fuck into him, fill him to the brim. Shane goes wild for it every time. Arches his back into the press of Ilya’s hips like it breaks his heart to be empty. So good. It’s so good every time.

Alone in his house, Ilya raises his hips just enough to slip his sweatpants down his thighs so he can fuck his fist in earnest. Too fast, like the last time he fucked Shane. But the time before that—had been here. In Ilya’s house. They’d gone slow, gone twice before Shane had collected his clothes from the floor of Ilya’s bedroom and flown back to Montreal.

He’d eaten him out in between rounds, put a hand on the small of his back and pressed down to keep him still and good for him. Shane had rubbed himself against the sheets of Ilya’s bed until he’d come, hiding his face and noises in a pillow until Ilya had ripped it away from him.

But no, Hollander is good for him always.

Ilya’s cock pulses in his hand like it agrees, and the edge is right there, rushing closer. He opens his eyes, just enough to see the television, Hollander’s face frozen in thought. Stupid French media with its bad cameras and worse lighting—Ilya wants to see Shane’s freckles the way he gets to when they meet in person. Wants to see Hollander on his knees for him, wants to stick his cock down his throat and then bust right across his face, paint those freckles, those eyelashes, hear the way Shane gasps with a sore throat, the way he’d say “Roz,” like it’s a prayer, and—-

And Hollander’s tee shirt is too big for his frame. 

It gapes across his collarbones, leaves small folds of fabric across his chest, and the French camera lighting is stupid, is bad, but not so bad that Ilya cannot see the shadow of dark ink across the inside of the cotton hemmed collar, like a dirty smudge. Except it’s not, it’s a last name written careful and small on the inside of the crew neck, a funny habit Ilya formed after years of sharing crowded locker rooms as a boy—makes it easier to make sure you’ve grabbed the right shirt, if it’s marked, if it’s yours—

Because it’s Ilya’s shirt, Ilya’s Shane, and Ilya is hit by a lightning bolt of heat that has him coming all over his hand and sweats before he can blink.

It takes a few minutes afterwards for his brain to come back online. When he does, he forces himself to stand—awkwardly, fumbling now to keep the mess as contained as possible, something he didn’t even care about until years ago after meeting Shane. 

Shane, who stole his shirt. Months ago, probably after the last time they slept together. Ilya hadn’t noticed, but then of course he didn’t. Hollander would have had access to his entire closet, and Ilya had been quite distracted at the time. Defenseless to any and all theft.

Ilya turns off the faucet in his bathroom and wipes his hands dry on a towel before returning to the living room to grab his phone. There is a warm and funny feeling sparking in his chest. He loses two minutes to just staring at the television, phone held loosely between his fingers.

His shirt. On his Shane, like the man missed him. It is one thing to take a piece of clothing, accidental. But it is another thing to wear it later when it is too big, when it doesn’t fit you. It means something then.

Ilya isn’t sure what exactly it means. But he’s sure it’s something. It must because the bonfire in Ilya’s chest that roared to life at the sight of Hollander wearing his shirt, post-game, flushed off of a victory, so pretty and so claimed, needs it to mean something. To Hollander.

He pulls up Jane’s messages. The last one was a week ago, from Shane. An earnest-sounding sorry about the play-offs that had made Ilya’s teeth hurt from clenching. Captain Hollander would never be too smug or too confident where other people can hear him. 

But for Ilya, he is.

Lily: are you eating enough?

It’s not even five minutes before Shane reads the message, a texting bubble popping up and then away. Then up again. 

Ilya leans his elbows on his kitchen counter, necklace in his mouth as he watches and waits. There have been many times over the last ten years that he has wished he could see what Hollander types and then deletes. What he wants to say and what he decides against saying. It is inconvenient, how much Ilya wants to know about Shane Hollander and how he thinks. It’s even more inconvenient how much Ilya cares what Shane Hollander thinks about him. 

Jane: Yes, of course. It’s play-off hockey. Why?

Lily: saw interview after Nashville game. 

Lily: shirt too big ;)

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

hello i am back with more!! that did not take long at all oh my

this is from shane's pov and there is a lot more dialogue (!!) and sex in this chapter - i am sorry for any inaccuracies, i'm sure there are so many in the narration/character pov but i tried my best! fic writing in this fandom with this relationship and dynamics is brand new for me and still scary lol i hope the porn is ok <3 i put my back heart and pussy into it

It’d been too long—really, really too long this time–-and Shane can’t remember a single one of his reasons for putting this off, for letting months stretch between him and this, getting this.

Rozanov’s hands tighten around his hips, shunting his cock further up into him with a grunt. Shane throws his head back at the feeling, the stretch, the fullness. Fuck, the fullness of it. It’s been too long, way too long. He’s missed this, needed this, craved it. 

Dangerous. But even that word doesn’t hold the weight it should, not when Rozanov’s hand moves from his hip to ghost along the straining muscle of his thigh and then back up to wrap around his cock. 

“Oh fuck yeah,” Shane pants out. The touch is this side of too much. He feels too sensitive for it. He’s too close already, could come at any moment if Rozanov touches him just right. But he wants it. Wants whatever Ilya will give him. Will gladly take it. Fuck, it’s been ages. He could probably come twice. 

But Rozanov doesn’t do anything else, doesn’t tighten his grip, doesn’t move his hand. “Roz, c’mon,” he says, a second away from begging. He stills his own frantic movements on Ilya’s lap and bends forward, pushing himself closer, rubbing his cock against Ilya’s loose grip as if that’ll give him the friction he needs. 

All it actually gets him is a light slap to his ass. “I do not say stop,” Ilya points out, thumb running over the slit of Shane’s cock. His other hand dances along the area of skin he’s just hit, a warning. Like he can’t help himself, Rozanov’s grip turns firm, unrelenting as he squeezes one of his ass cheeks. The touch is possessive, proprietary. So fucking good that Shane’s mind is almost too foggy with pleasure to parse what he says next. “You are tired out after riding dick for two minutes, Hollander? Bad for your stamina stats, kotik.”

It’s not fair that Rozanov can still be such an asshole even as he fucks him. It’s either like the world’s shittiest superpower or the best case of multi-tasking Shane’s ever seen.

“I’m tired from,” he gets out, starting to ride him before Rozanov can smack his ass again. Which Shane wouldn’t enjoy.

(Right? Probably. Definitely. Yes. Right?)

The words disintegrate in his mind as pleasure scorches up his spine like lightning. How is it so good, every time? How is it fair? 

Rozanov smirks up at him, cocky and smug and such an asshole that Shane remembers exactly what he was going to say. “I’m tired from winning a hockey game tonight. Sorry you can’t relate.”

He moans out embarrassingly loudly when Ilya’s cock bumps against his prostate, shutting his eyes and letting his head fall forward at the sensation.

Infuriatingly, Ilya’s still smirking when he looks back at him. “The score was 2-1,” he says. “We made you work for it.”

“Not during the powerplay in the second period, you didn’t,” Shane retorts, automatic and only slightly breathless. Hockey’s not something he has to think about. It’s engraved in his bones.

And—there. Ilya’s jaw bunches and his eyes flash. His lips tighten the same time that his hands do. Annoyed. Shane likes him a little bit annoyed. Likes him fast and rough and a touch mean. 

“You barely have ice time tonight, I counted,” Rozanov says, nails digging into his ass in a way that’s making it really hard for Shane to focus on the chirping. His cock is still moving languidly in and out of him, Rozanov putting in most of the effort while Shane bounces mindlessly on his lap.

“Counted?”

“Yes, counted,” Rozanov’s smirk is back. “Very easy, not high number. Like I said. No ice time.”

Now it’s Shane’s turn to scowl. That’s always the dangerous part about bickering with Rozanov: he usually bites back. 

It’s not like he’s wrong, which is shit in a way that Shane doesn’t want to think about right now. It’s the beginning of the season, the Voyageurs are fresh off losing in the final round of the playoffs, the team and staff went through a restructuring over the summer that’s left the locker room feeling strange and unfamiliar, and Shane’s knee went on the frisk two weeks ago during practice and out of an abundance of caution from coaches who don’t know him, they’ve been putting him on the ice as little as possible until they can be convinced that he’s fine, it’s fine, everything’s fine.

But Shane doesn’t want to think about that, doesn’t want to try to explain it, even if maybe Ilya would understand better than almost everyone in the entire world. No. Tonight, they’d had a victory on home ice, against Boston, and right now Shane’s speared on the Boston captain’s cock and still so close to coming that it’s almost ridiculous.

He wants the record to state that hockey talk does not get him going. 

It just, apparently, doesn’t really sober him up either.

He’s definitely regretting bringing up the game, especially when Ilya lets go of his cock completely to lay back and put his hands behind his head. Arrogance is such a fucking good look on him that it’s not fair. 

The new position has Ilya’s biceps on full display, and a not-inconsequential part of Shane wants to bend his head down to lick at the visible vein running beneath his skin. But he’s also competitive enough to want to win this conversation, even though he’s sensible enough to realize that’s not really a thing. “Guess you had to do something while you were in the penalty box,” he says, wrapping his own hand around his length.

He doesn’t stroke it yet though. He just—he wants Ilya to tell him to. Maybe. He doesn’t know.

Ilya’s looking at him like he knows it. His eyes are their own sort of weight on Shane’s body, expression suddenly unreadable as he considers him.

Whatever he sees or whatever he decides has him moving, pushing up from the mattress until he can wrap his arms around Shane and tug him into his chest with one hand. The other hand stays on the bed, arm flexing and straining as he renews his pace, thigh muscles straining beneath him as he fucks into Shane’s trembling body. 

It’s unexpected enough to make him gasp, make his head fall back so he can stare at the ceiling and try not to shatter under the onslaught of Ilya Rozanov’s attention. 

“No,” Rozanov bites out, half growl. Fingers tangle at the ends of Shane’s hair, forces his head back to him. “I am not on ceiling.”

The words are so nonsensical that Shane blinks back at him. Maybe there’s some Russian phrase Ilya is using that doesn’t translate well into English?

“You look at me,” Ilya states, and then his hands are back on Shane’s hips except this time he’s tugging him off, slipping out of him like it’s easy, like it doesn’t leave Shane aching and empty and unsatisfied.

It punches a hurt little noise out of Shane, losing his cock. He grabs for Rozanov, any part he can reach that could keep him close. His fingers tangle in the necklace chain for a moment before abandoning it to run through his curls instead. “No, wait,” he mutters, wondering if he should apologize. Wondering if he should beg.

Roz hushes him, rolling them over until he’s flat on his back with Ilya kneeling between his legs. The only thing in Shane’s vision is Ilya: his strong jaw, his flushed face, his messy curls, his smug grin. “Do not worry, Hollander,” he murmurs. “My cock is not going too far.” 

“Get on with it then,” Shane replies. Demands, really. He spreads his legs further apart, raises them into the air the way he knows Ilya likes him. “Fuck me.” But he feels embarrassed, spread out and pinned down and vulnerable with it. Ilya’s eyes are so heavy, it’s like the weight of his stare could crush him. He wants desperately to turn his head away, press his burning face into the sheets and whatever reprieve they can offer him. Instead he makes himself raise his chin and harden his voice the way he does on the ice during practice when the rookies aren’t paying attention. “Or I’ll get back on top and do it myself.”

“No, no,” Ilya says. He bends, closer. So close. He kisses him briefly, greedy like he can’t help it. But when Shane kisses back, Ilya pulls away. Fucking contrary asshole.

“You are tired from winning big hockey game,” Ilya says. His accent is stronger now than when he’d met Shane at his hotel door. It always gets like this when he’s turned on, which makes Shane even more horny. He loves his accent. He’s scared to death about what Ilya could do with that information should he ever find out. 

“Win one game, want princess treatment, yes?” Ilya is murmuring as he moves down his chest, pressing harsh, biting kisses against Shane’s nipples. The pain makes him cry out, makes him push up into Ilya’s mouth, desperate for more, for again, even in the midst of it.

“Yes?” Ilya asks again, resting his chin on Shane’s stomach and peering up at him. His lips curl into a smirk that Shane knows the taste of. He’s so fucking—beautiful. It’s unreal. 

What was the question again?

Shane blinks at him, probably looking—sweaty and stupid and cock-drunk. “Yeah,” he agrees.

“Of course you do, printsessa,” Ilya says, pressing his lips to the right of Shane’s belly button. It’s weirdly sweet, bordering on too gentle to be withstood. It makes Shane tremble almost more than the fucking had. 

Ilya pulls away fast though; he’s got this uncanny knack of knowing when Shane’s at his limit. It’s impressive, something else to be envious of. Probably a skill Ilya learned from years worth of sleeping with random strangers. 

Which is also something Shane really, really doesn’t want to think about right now. Or, like. Preferably ever, if he could ever get his brain to cooperate.

Ilya rises back up onto his knees and bullies himself back between Shane’s thighs. The condom-covered head of his cock nudges against his hole, and Shane thinks he’d probably feel embarrassed about how eagerly his body responds to Ilya if he had the wherewithal to think about it at all at the moment. 

But that’s maybe his favorite thing, about fucking Rozanov. Everything else goes quiet.  Just—just for a little bit.

Rozanov’s hands run down the outsides of Shane’s thighs and then grip him tightly, beneath the knees, to pull him closer. Shane lets himself be put, be tugged. Because then, if he does, maybe Ilya will say—

“Good boy,” Ilya whispers and Shane’s heart rate triples like he’s just won a fucking Conn Smythe award. 

“Please, Rozy,” he says, begs, and that must be what Rozanov has been waiting for because a moment later he’s being given his cock again, sliding back inside him as if it never left.

Shane moans, long and loud, and Rozanov presses his smirk against the skin of his calf. He can feel the line of it, the hint of teeth. He just doesn’t care, not when he feels like this. Not when it’s so good every time. And it’s been so long, too long. 

His sounds are forced out of him in little uh’s as Ilya sets a hard, brutal pace. It’s exactly what Shane needs, the kind of fucking he’s come to love, the kind that has him awake and worried at two in the morning in the middle of summer that he’s been ruined for everyone else.

“Was thinking about this,” Ilya pants, necklace jumping between his pecs from the force of his movements. Shane moans out his agreement because, yes—him too. He spends way too much time thinking about this, planning on ways to make it happen again and sooner. Dangerous. Dangerous.

“Was not counting in penalty box,” Rozanov adds, shoving his hips against Shane’s ass so hard—so good, it must hurt— “Was thinking about this.”

Shane lets his head loll back against the pillow and then to the side. He feels equal parts resplendent and scandalized. “During the game?”

Ilya doesn’t respond, shifting instead and readjusting one of his legs. Shane’s knee gives a warning twinge, but he doesn’t care enough to stop and course-correct. He’s so close, the edge of his orgasm just out of his reach. Ilya’s the same, he thinks, can recognize the way his face scrunches up and his breaths get more shallow as he gets close to coming. Shane tries to spread his legs further apart. Wants to be good for him. Wants to feel him come inside him, 

“All the time,” Ilya says, corrects maybe. The words sound like they’ve been ripped out of him. “Da, I think of this all the time.”

There’s something there that Shane should focus on, should hear,  something that remains just out of his grasp because a moment later, Ilya strikes at his prostate dead on and Shane’s eyes roll back in his head with the force of his orgasm. He seizes up around Ilya’s cock, hands clawing at his naked shoulders and almost definitely leaving red lines down his back. A second later, Ilya’s hips stutter and then stall against his ass as he bows his head and shakes over and around him. 

Shane’s hands loosen, relax around Ilya’s shoulders. Then they fall off completely as he pushes himself to enjoy the post-orgasm haze of soft pleasure that he only ever really gets to experience when it’s Rozanov in his bed.

Time passes in quick, successive flashes, understood mostly through sensation. Rozanov carefully stretches out his legs, pulling at the muscles to soothe over their soreness. A warm, damp washcloth is wiped against his stomach, then down over the mess of come and sweat in his pubic hair.

Then—finally—Rozanov is there, all of him, pressed against Shane’s back and arms wrapped around his middle. It used to take them ages to get comfortable like this, to figure out how their bodies fit together in ways that weren’t explicitly fighting or fucking. But now they have it down to a science. A science and a strict schedule. Ten minutes of post-sex cuddling, for the endorphins and shit, and then one of them gets dressed and leaves.

Tonight, that’ll be Shane. They’re in Montreal after all, but they met at Ilya’s hotel. More convenient. Closer to the arena. Shane had a whole list of reasons and excuses ready, but Rozanov hadn’t asked at all. 

Like maybe he doesn’t care about Shane not letting him into his condo. Like it’s not a big deal to him, one way or another. Like all he cares about is getting his dick wet somewhere private, and as long as that happens, nothing else matters.

The warmth in Shane’s chest dims at the thought. That means it’s time to go. If he’s going to get weird about this, about Rozanov and whatever it is they’re doing that’s made Shane’s head and heart go to fucking war against each other, then he’s definitely not going to start getting weird here.

“Still four more minutes,” Rozanov states, arms tightening around Shane’s waist when he starts to pull away. “Has only been six. I thought you liked following rules, Hollander. Rules say I get four more minutes."

“Fuck off,” Shane says, because it’s the easiest thing in the world to say to Rozanov. Quick and natural and uncomplicated. He can feel the beginnings of Rozanov’s smirk against the back of his neck, can practically hear him thinking up some sexual shitty joke, so he adds, fast before he has to hear it, “I gotta ice this knee or the coach will get on my ass tomorrow and then I really won’t have any ice time.”

Rozanov’s grip loosens, immediate. Shane pushes himself away, slower than he thinks he should. Leaving Rozanov’s bed after sex is like how he’s always imagined getting out of quicksand feels. No matter how much he wishes it could be as easy as ripping off a bandaid, Rozanov always lingers in his head. On his skin. 

He tugs his underwear on and then the joggers he arrived in. When he glances back at Ilya, he’s caught off guard to see him sitting up as well, arms crossed over his bare chest and glare affixed on his face. 

He looks much angrier than he has all night, despite Shane’s earlier attempts to wind him up. It makes him pause, rerun the last few minutes. Is Rozanov really that upset about missing a few minutes of post-sex hugging?

“What is wrong with your knee?” Rozanov demands, scowling down at Shane’s leg like he can give it a visual examination from the bed and through Shane’s clothes. “You let me fuck you like that with bad knee?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” Shane says, which isn’t even a lie, really. “I just hurt it in practice a few weeks ago, no biggie. It was fine. The coaches are just being careful.”

“Coaches only as careful as hockey players let them be,” Rozanov shoots back with a frown so severe that Shane sort of feels like he’s been brought in front of his franchise’s GM for a scolding. It’s not exactly a feeling he likes having with his asshole still loose and probably sticky with lube.

“I don’t have to defend myself to you,” he snaps at Rozanov, bending down to pick up his shirt and yank it over his head. The warm feeling from earlier is gone completely now. The anger helps a little, but mostly he feels—cold. Hollow in the face of Rozanov’s sneering disappointment. “Leave off, alright?”

“Should never have put you like that,” Rozanov is saying, like he can’t hear him. He’s running his hands through his hair, face dark, eyes furious. “Riding dick is bad for bad knees—bad knees is bad for future hockey!”

“It’s fine,” Shane insists, putting his hands on his hips and glaring back at Rozanov. “Look, I know my body, alright, I know what I can do, what I’m up for, and—”

And he hadn’t cared. In the moment. With Rozanov inside him, Rozanov’s hands running all over his body, Rozanov’s lips on his skin. He hadn’t been thinking about hockey, about the future, about how career-ending injuries can come out of nowhere like a puck to the face. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing a helmet or a mouth guard—sometimes you blink and you wind up with broken teeth anyway.

All he’d been thinking was how good it felt. Rozanov could have broken his arm while fucking him and he’d probably have still tried to lace their fingers together. Dangerous. Dangerous.

He remembers why now.

He stoops down and grabs the crumpled black sweatshirt from the floor, balling it into his hands just to have something to hold.

“And I’ll see you in a few weeks,” he finishes, a lame mutter that leaves his mouth already limping. “We’ll be in Boston the night before the game. If you…whatever. I’ll text you.”

He turns to go. Like a band-aid. Like learning to ride a bike. Do it enough times and you’ll stop being surprised by the sudden sting of pain that comes from falling over.

But then Rozanov is there, still naked and frowning like Shane’s gone and run over his dog or something terrible.

He snatches the bundled sweatshirt from his hands and crosses his arms. It should look ridiculous, a man as tall and broad as Ilya standing in front of him holding a sweater by one sleeve and wearing nothing but a petulant child’s frown.

It doesn’t.

“This is mine,” Rozanov states, and Shane blanches before he can pretend to be confused.

Technically, yes. It’s Ilya’s. So was the tee that Shane had taken a few months ago, the last time they’d seen each other. So was the long-sleeved undershirt he’d taken the time before that. And the quarter-zip windbreaker. And the other tee. And—

Well. They’ve all been Ilya’s. And if Ilya has realized, has figured it out—then…well that’s embarrassing, verging on mortifying. Even though he’s been pretty sure Ilya’s been onto him the last few times at least. Maybe even before.

It’s just—Shane likes it, wearing Ilya’s clothes. He likes the feeling of them against his skin, which might be a manufacturer thing, he doesn’t know. He likes the way Ilya’s smell lingers on the fabric for ages. Likes that they’re just a bit too big for his body. It makes him feel—like he…like he does in those post-sex ten minutes of cuddling time. Safe. And small. And quiet.

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Shane lies, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck and wishing desperately he could put his hands in his pockets without looking even more guilty. “My bad.”

Ilya’s scowl darkens. “You always fold your clothes before sex,” he says. “It is weird, I notice. So I notice when you grab clothes from the floor instead of your neat little piles. You steal mine on purpose.”

“It was an accident,” Shane insists, swallowing around nothing. He gives up and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Sorry.” Then, just in case it helps, “Bro.”

“I am not your brother,” Rozanov says. His fingers are white-knuckle tight on the sweatshirt. “You wear my clothes to cover the hickey I give you, do not call me bro.”

Shane feels a moment away from throwing up his hands, maybe storming out of the room altogether like that’ll save him from the humiliation of this conversation. He never wanted Ilya to find out about the clothes thing. Had definitely never thought Ilya would decide to interrogate him about it. 

“Look, whatever,” he says, aiming for brusque even though it goes against all his instincts. It’s easier like this, to curl away, to retreat inside and put on whatever mask he has available. This one is High School Hockey Player Gets Almost Caught Staring At Another Boy In The Locker Room—one of his favorites, one of his most-used. “I said sorry. You like that sweatshirt. Fine. It’s over. And—and anyway, if you’ve known about it for ages, why are you starting something now?”

“I ignore petty theft for good boys,” Ilya replies. “Not bad boys who do not tell me when they injure their knee.”

Shane really does toss up his hands now. “I’m fine,” he snaps. “Worse now after this conversation, shit.” 

Ilya does not look moved. Shane hadn’t really expected to be. The Russian is stubborn to the bone when he decides to make something an issue. Why Shane’s bum, perfectly fine knee has made the list, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to think about. Not—here at least. 

He pinches at his nose and then shakes his head. “Is this done now? Can we be done here? Yeah. Okay, I'm—I’m gonna go. I need to ice this. I’ll see you around, Rozanov.” 

He turns to go because Ilya has never actually stopped him leaving and it’s not as if he can really chase him down the hotel hallway, naked as he is. 

Ilya catches him against the hotel door, turning Shane around until they’re almost chest to chest, only a slim amount of space separating them. It’s a familiar position. Still now after all these years, all this time, it makes Shane’s heart race.

Ilya holds out his sweatshirt. His face is hard to read, some mix of emotion that Shane doesn’t know how to name. Contrition, maybe, blended with obstinance. “Take it,” he says, pushing the sweatshirt into Shane’s hands.

“No way,” he replies instinctively, batting it away. “I don’t want it.”

“What, it is thrill of the hunt for you then?” Ilya pushes the sweatshirt forward again, an offering. “Stealing, that is okay, that is the point. But given as gift, hm, you think, no, unacceptable?” 

“I—” Shane’s eyes fall away, find refuge in staring at the floor. “Look, I’m…sorry, okay, I am—”

It’s a terrible thing, to be caught wanting. To have so much desire in you it makes your head spin, makes you find ways to let it out like it’s pressure to be released. Makes you do stupid things like—like steal your fuck buddy’s clothes and wear them around your house just so you can smell him and pretend he’s there with you and you’re not so goddamned lonely in the middle of the night.

Ilya’s other hand cups Shane’s chin. Gentle. Surprisingly so. “Hey,” he murmurs. Sweet. Achingly so. “I like it. It is nice seeing you in my clothes. Fit you better than they fit me.”

“They don’t,” Shane argues weakly, semantics, because it’s the truth. Ilya’s broader in the torso, the arms. His shirts are noticeably too big for Shane. He loves them anyway.

“No, I am right. It is, how do you say. Objectifying fact.”

“Objective,” Shane provides. “Objectifying is like. When you make something that isn't about sex about sex, I think.”

“Then it is objectifying fact, and I am still right, ” Ilya grins down at him. It’s a softer smile than any he’s given him so far tonight. Almost as soft as the stupid sweatshirt’s fabric. 

“Fuck off,” he says, helpless agains the urge to smile back. Dangerous. It’s too dangerous. It’s too much. Ilya is closer now, swaying forward across the distance between them like he cannot help himself.

“Come here,” Ilya commands, and Shane obeys.

They kiss for long drawn out moments which could be minutes which could be hours. Kissing Ilya is always like that for him. Kissing Ilya is always time-consuming—but in the best way.

Shane’s so tangled up in the kiss that he doesn’t even notice when Ilya pulls his hands above his head. He goes along with it, would go along with anything Ilya wanted when they’re like this. Leaving the hotel room feels like an idea someone else had, some stranger who has no idea what’s best for him.

Ilya breaks this kiss with a small, simple peck to his lips. Then another, like he’s starving. Shane tries to follow as he leans away, but before he can push closer again, a wall of fabric descends over his eyes.

He emerges from the sweatshirt’s head-hole already spluttering. Ilya’s grinning at him, all red lips and bright eyes. Unrepentant. “You are going straight home, yes?” he asks, pulling the sweatshirt the rest of the way down Shane’s chest and coaxing his arms through its holes. “And you have coat to wear on top?”

Shane blinks, then frowns. The motherhenning is new. “Yeah, I’ll get a car from the lobby,” he says because he at least knows the answer to that question. 

“Good, good,” Ilya says, smoothing down Shane’s front. Shane opens his mouth to protest, but he’s cut off with another kiss so spine-meltingly good that he thinks he loses a few minutes of brain functioning. When he comes to, he’s back against the hotel door, jacket in his arm and shoes by his feet. Ilya’s nuzzling his face up against the edge of his jaw, pressing kisses along the line of his jawbone. Extra affectionate tonight. Maybe this is how he gets when he doesn’t get the whole ten minutes of post-sex cuddling.

It may be worth experimenting with, if it’ll get him more of this side of Rozanov. 

“Ice your knee very well, da?” Rozanov murmurs, running his fingers along the hem of the sweatshirt and down, over his thighs. “I will be very sad if you get permanent injury and retire from hockey early.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Shane says, with all the confidence of someone who’s worried about that maybe five times a week since he was seven years old.

“If you ice it, yes, yes,” Rozanov agrees. He pulls back, angles Shane’s chin up to meet his eyes. “I will be very upset with you otherwise. My rival cannot be Scott Hunter, Hollander. Very bad look for me, beating old man into ice.” 

Shane lets out a surprised bark of laughter. “I think you’re underestimating Hunter. He’s having a great year.”

“He has two great years left maybe,” Rozanov says dismissively. “Then he will retire with old man back problems and I will have no one if I do not have you. Ice your stupid knee.”

“You almost sound concerned, Rozy,” Shane murmurs, tipping his head forward in a silent request for another kiss. Either he is ignored or denied; he doesn’t know which one would be worse. Either way, Rozanov lets go of him and takes a step away. Sensing an impending dismissal, Shane shrugs on his coat—over the sweatshirt.

“Good night, Hollander,” Rozanov says, and Shane goes.

It’s not until he gets into the taxi that he realizes something’s off. The cab driver takes one look at him in the rearview mirror and winces so badly that Shane’s momentarily afraid that he somehow tripped and got ‘Just Got Dicked Down By Ilya Rozanov’ tattooed on his face.

“Win the game but lose a bet, eh?” The driver asks, craning his head to look at him in the back of the cab. 

“Sorry?” Shane asks, pulling one of his headphones from his ear and turning from the window to look at the cabbie.

“Your shirt,” the cabbie says, waving a hand back towards him. “Can’t imagine Captain of the Montreal Voyageurs wearing a Boston Bears hoodie except cause he lost a wager, right?”

Shane blinks and then looks down. The upside-down logo of the Bears, stylized and obvious, stares back at him in blinding yellow and gold.

“Right,” he says faintly. “Yeah. Bad luck, I guess.” 

The cabbie keeps talking, says something else, but Shane’s attention has officially been lost. He pulls out his phone with fumbling hands and swipes through it until he can find his conversation with Rozanov.

Jane: youre such a fucking asshole. This is a bears shirt I can’t be seen out in this!

Rozanov responds within moments, which just confirms Shane’s hypothesis that the other man has been lying awake in bed waiting for him to notice and react. Notice and react; that about sums up his whatever-this-is with Rozanov. Notice and react and then fucking obsess over. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Lily: you are petty thief here. I am innocent victim. 

Jane: I cannot believe you.

Lily: I am Russian, we wrote book on crime and punishment. perfect punishment for pretty boy crime, no? :)

Lily: sweet dreams ;)

Lily: but send pic, yes?

Lily: for poster

Lily: for posture

Lily: for post reality

Lily: for forever, but just for me.

Chapter End Notes

last chapter....?

i love how i wanted to write more clothes sharing/stealing and yet for the first....4k of this chapter both characters are naked with not a stitch of clothing between them

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary

Hollander wins his first Stanley Cup; Rozanov is down bad. Shane wears Ilya's hoodie out to a bar while celebrating his Cup win; Ilya is down worse.

Chapter Notes

The first time Shane Hollander’s Voyageurs—because that is what they are, they are Hollander’s team, the result of Hollander’s blood, sweat, and tears—win the Cup, Montreal celebrates in the streets for an excessive amount of time. Two days, but it feels like years. It is not as if they were facing a particularly good team. Seattle had skated onto the ice for their first play-off game against the Voyageurs looking like they were just as surprised to be there as everyone else was to see them.

Ilya watches the whole series final from Russia, standing in front of the television in his apartment with his arms crossed over his chest and the volume on low. He’d tried to sit down, but he kept standing every time Hollander got control of the puck. It’d been too embarrassing to think that he was on the edge of his seat for Shane Hollander, so he’d taken the seat out of the equation completely.

Hollander’s line was on the ice when the final buzzer went off; as the Captain, he was first to lift the cup.

In the following days, Hollander is never far from the party. The whole of the Voyageurs are there, of course; when you're knocked out of the play-offs, you can’t wait to disappear back to your summer home with your tail between your legs. There’s never more of a time that the city you play for feels like where you go to work than it does those days after a failed play-off run.

But there’s never a time where it feels more like home than when you win the Cup. So of course Hollander and the whole team stick around. No bar in Montreal is going to ask them to pay their tabs, no parking attendant is going to give them a ticket. From what Ilya remembers of his own Cup celebrations, it’s a haze of alcohol and music and adrenaline for about a week before reality has even a chance of touching you.

He’d ridden the high that whole summer, if he’s honest. It’d been the only time he’d been eager to board the plane heading for Moscow. 

From the grainy photos posted on PuckLuck and the twitter updates and the photos of Hollander and fans uploaded to instagrams across Montreal, Ilya gets the feeling that Hollander is having the same sort of Cup celebrations as Ilya did last year.

It’s somehow both expected and completely unexpected at the same time, because of course all athletes who have won the biggest achievement in their sport are going to celebrate. Especially if it’s hockey. Especially if they’re Canadian. Of course there’s going to be champagne passed around on open-aired buses, VIP sections of clubs filled to the brim with Voyageur jerseys, puck bunnies hanging around the edges of every scene like sharks circling bleeding prey.

It’s just unexpected because it’s Shane Hollander, and Ilya has never seen him drink more than half a flute of champagne before tastefully switching to sparkling water or that damned ginger ale.

Ilya finds the whole thing fascinating. That’s the best word for it. That’s the only reason he finds himself awake at six in the morning in Moscow, refreshing Twitter then Instagram then the handful of Montreal-based hockey news sites that he can stand to have take up room in his browser history.

Each new picture is like a puzzle piece; Ilya doesn’t know where to fit it into his idea of Hollander.

How can Hollander with the dazed smile and eyes hidden behind sunglasses, wearing a soaked through tee shirt and leaning up against Hayden Pike with an empty beer bottle clutched in his fist be the same Hollander who fastidiously folds his clothes before climbing into Ilya’s lap? The same Hollander that eats everything on his plate in clockwise order, one pile finished before the next one can be touched? The same Hollander who once kicked Ilya out of his hotel room at exactly 10:43 in the night so he could be asleep by 11:07 in order to optimize his R.E.M cycles before his early morning run?

Winning looks good on Hollander, even when it makes him look like a different version of himself all together. A stranger Ilya doesn’t recognize.

It’s fascinating, which is the only reason he’s awake now, still, fighting against his body’s impulse to correct its jet lag. He’d stayed up most of the night. Alright. All of the night, but it’s hardly his fault that two in the morning in Moscow is six in the evening in Montreal. And who would choose to sleep when they could instead follow BarDown’s live coverage of the Montreal Voyageurs partying in the streets for the third day in a row?

Not Ilya, who rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand before he refreshes the Twitter feed of his burner account again.

And—there.

New post from a diehard fan whose put her life on hold for the last week to follow the Voyageurs through their victory from the peripherals of their lives, which would be sort of pathetic if Ilya wasn’t doing the exact same thing from even further away.

But anyway.

It’s a repost of a screenshot from Hayden Pike’s Instagram story, a terribly framed selfie from the back of the car. Pike’s jaw and half of his smile are the only parts of him visible. The rest of the picture is taken up by Hollander, who’s asleep on Pike’s shoulder.

This is deeply unfair. Pike’s Instagram stories have been the one place Ilya has refused to check for Hollander updates as a point of pride. Yes, he has kept himself and his body on the Eastern time zone clock through sheer force of will so as not to miss a moment of Hollander’s win, even though he’s not texted since before the last game’s puck drop. Yes, he has created two different burner Twitter accounts under the most generic names he could think of so he could follow the Montreal press coverage of the play-offs. Yes, he is currently exhausted and hungry and running on nothing  more than two cups of coffee.

But he has enough pride remaining not to give Pike the attention. 

There are shadows under Hollander’s eyes, deep bruises from chaotic nights. His hair looks unkempt, pushed this way and that, the way it does after Ilya’s spent a few hours running his fingers through it. His mouth is open, slack with sleep. His dark eyelashes sweep along the delicate skin just beneath his eyes.

He looks exhausted. He looks beautiful. Even with his cheek smashed against Hayden Pike’s shoulder.

Does he snore? Ilya itches to know. It’s a good thing he’s never saved Pike’s phone number into his contact lists, because he isn’t sure his impulse control is strong enough not to text him. To ask him that. To say, You’ve never seen the way his nose scrunches up when he comes on my fingers, but I’ve never heard him when he’s asleep, so who would you say is winning?

It’s a biting, stinging sort of jealousy Ilya feels creeping into his chest, all sharp fangs and jagged claws. It’s absolutely useless too. There’s nowhere for it to go; he just has to choke it down.  There are probably dozens of people—hundreds maybe—who have personally seen Shane Hollander asleep. As far as Ilya knows, only he’s seen Hollander needy and strung out and begging for more. 

If it’s a competition of who has seen Shane the most vulnerable, Ilya thinks he could make a pretty strong case that it’s him. 

But it’s hard to remember that, staring at Pike’s Instagram story. It’s hard to feel like he knows Hollander at all, when he’s never heard him snore. When he’s never seen him wake from a bad dream or a pleasant one or just a confusing one, when he doesn’t know if he mumbles in the morning for the first hour that he’s awake or if he forces himself to wake immediately. Ilya is so far away from him, in most every way he can name. They are so far away from October in every way that counts. 

And for Pike to feel comfortable, allowed to take a picture and post it on his public Instagram story of Shane sleeping on his shoulder, that’s—

That’s Ilya’s. 

Ilya blinks. He uses his fingers to expand the still photo until the display on his phone is filled with the shadowed hollow of Hollander’s neck and the bunched green material of the hoodie he’s wearing. 

That’s Ilya’s hoodie.

It’s nondescript, an olive green color that’s been having a moment in the fashion world this year. But Hollander has never cared about which colors people are wearing. All he wears are clothes the brands he sponsors send him. And athletic gear. And his Montreal jersey. And, apparently, Ilya Rozanov’s clothes.

“Fuck,” Ilya whispers because he is alone in his bedroom, the morning sun just beginning to spill across the floor. He pinches the photo on his screen back to normal. Then adjusts it so Pike’s jaw is completely off-frame.

Hollander’s arms are crossed over his chest, fingers curling in the material of the hoodie. Ilya’s hoodie. 

The Montreal bye week hadn’t actually overlapped with Boston’s this year, one falling just after the other. But that did mean both teams had the All-Star Weekend off. Hollander had declined the All-Star Game invitation with great regret, in favor of spending his vacation week in New York City, working on hockey-adjacent things like shooting boring advertisements while wearing skintight clothing.

Ilya had declined the All-Star Game invitation because in general he’s always hated attending the All-Star Weekend and after he’d heard that Hollander had already said no, there was no reason to go to Los Angeles outside of his usual reason of crushing the LA Kings to rubble beneath his skates. He’s pretty sure his agent had found a diplomatic way to frame this for the event hosts. Probably said he had deep regret regarding his scheduling conflicts, too.

Even though he didn’t have any scheduling conflicts at the time of refusal. He did later, though, the moment Hollander told him that he’d be in the States. In New York, which was about a four hour train ride away from Boston.

It’d been the longest commute Ilya has ever made for sex, but some part of his brain just turned off when it came to Hollander. He’d booked the day off, blocked out his entire calendar, and taken the Amtrak to New York. Just so he could fuck Shane Hollander up against the window of his hotel room, Hollander’s legs wrapped around his waist and back pressed into the glass, the city spread out beneath them. 

A bucket list thing, he’d told Hollander, because he’d just learned the term. He liked showing new English words to Hollander, even though it felt sometimes like he was a very small child bringing home a shitty piece of art from school and making his mother look at it like it was something special. Bucket list. Bite the bullet. Look a gift horse in the mouth, but actually is the same in Russia, did you know? Yes, no one is checking their horses’ dental history. The orthodontists have no jobs these days.

Dental history. Orthodontist.

Shane had been sweaty and dazed when Ilya had carried him over to the bed. He’d meant to drop him down roughly, to be mean about it just to prove to himself he could still treat Shane like a rival when no one was watching but them. So of course he’d carefully deposited him on the mattress instead. Then made sure to wipe down his chest and stomach to clean him up, even though it was all Hollander’s mess because Ilya had kept his mess very politely in the bounds of the condom, where it was supposed to go.

He hadn’t said that, of course.

And when Hollander had nodded, eyes soft and starry and lips turning up at the words bucket list, and asked, Well how was it, fucking someone over New York City, Rozanov? Ilya had definitely not said that he hadn’t even remembered to look at the city once.

But he had remembered to leave his hoodie on the back of the sofa in Hollander’s room when he ducked into the bathroom to rinse off before catching his train. He’d wanted to see what Hollander would do.

And of course Hollander had taken the bait, because apparently there’s nothing Hollander likes more than getting fucked by Ilya Rozanov and then stealing his clothes. It’s like some kind of compulsion for him. Ilya had thought maybe he’d stop a year ago, when he’d told Hollander he knew about the dirty little habit of his, but he hadn’t. 

If anything, Hollander has just become more flagrant with it. So it hadn’t been much of a surprise to step out of the shower wearing a towel and be greeted with a shifty-looking Hollander, who seemed quite intent on shoving Ilya out the door—sans olive green hoodie he’d worn on the train ride down.

It’d been New York in February, fucking freezing. But llya hadn’t said a word about it, just pulled his tee-shirt over his head, zipped up his jacket and left. Mission accomplished, Shane Hollander fucked. Bucket list item checked. 

It was a bit like an addiction, he’d thought, walking down 5th Avenue, killing time before his train back. When you want something that much, so much, you don’t care what you have to do to get it. All that matters is that you get it. 

For Hollander, maybe stealing clothes from poor, thin-skinned Russian boys and tossing them out into the cold was an addiction. He didn’t care how obvious he was being, how rude, so long as he got to sink his claws into some piece of Ilya and hoard it close to his chest. That thought had warmed him all the way to a souvenir shop off Times Square, where he’d shelled out seventy dollars for an I <3 NY sweatshirt to yank over his shirt.

And Ilya, maybe Ilya was addicted to Shane Hollander. And that was why he’d traveled eight hours in a day just to kiss him. Just because he couldn’t wait until their next game in March. Jus because seeing him was like scratching an itch and hitting the bone. 

He’d felt warm all the way back to Boston. When someone had posted a photo they’d taken of him on the Amtrak wearing headphones and his stupid I <3 NY hoodie, he’d reposted it on his socials in a heartbeat.

In Moscow, on his stomach in bed despite the fact that he should be halfway through his morning jog by now, Ilya stares at the olive green hoodie that Shane Hollander, Captain of the Stanley Cup winning Montreal Voyageurs is wearing. It’s not a realization, that Shane stole it. 

It's just....It’s fascinating that he’s wearing it now of all days, during his Cup celebrations. It feels…Ilya doesn’t know. Weighted, almost. Significant, even though Hollander’s probably been nothing but drunk or hungover the last few days, so he’s obviously not making clear-headed decisions right now.

It looks good on him though: winning. And Ilya’s clothes.

Lazily, Ilya presses his hips into the mattress below him, heat pooling in his stomach as he examines the photo. He isn’t actually going to rut into his bed like a teenager chasing his first orgasm, of course. Not just to a picture of Hollander wearing his hoodie. Certainly not to a picture Hayden fucking Pike took. Ilya has standards. And pride.

But the longer he stares at Shane Hollander’s face and thinks about New York, the more he wants. Wanting is dangerous. Wanting Hollander is dangerous. His pride stands no chance against the way he wants Hollander.

It’s an impulsive decision, to roll over onto his back and swipe away from Twitter and to Jane’s contact. He doesn’t even know what he’s planning to say until the message is already all typed out and sent. 

Lily: That green is a very good color on you, Hollander. 

Lily: very roomy hoodie though. Could fit Cup in there with you. ;)

He tosses the phone onto the mattress next to him and stares up at the ceiling. There’s a lightning storm in his stomach and he feels energized for the first time since landing in Moscow. Maybe the coffee has kicked in. Or maybe he’s just got the image of Shane Hollander wrapped up in green swimming around his mind, haunting him and setting him on fire from the inside out.

He likes the idea of it, still. All these months later. Likes the idea that Shane steals his clothes out of some compulsion to keep a part of Ilya with him in between the nights they share a city, like he's as ruled by this thing between them as Ilya is.

And he likes even more the proof, fresh all over again, that Shane wears them, sometimes. Before games, on his way to the gym, after winning the Stanley Cup, apparently.

It’s like Ilya can breathe again, which is very pathetic. But it’s the truth. It feels bearable, for the first time since getting off the plane. October does not feel years away. Hollander feels closer than ever, just outside of his grasp.

He gropes along the mattress for his phone again, sliding it open to the same text thread. Hollander is out with his team, probably for the rest of the night. That is, if Pike can stomach the thought of waking him up. Ilya isn’t sure he’d be able to. Either way, Hollander won't respond for hours. Probably isn't checking his phone at all. His phone might even be dead. Lost. Stolen by a fanatic or something.

Lily: do you snore?

The cursor blinks at him, judgmental. He deletes the question with a soft exhale. The energy in his chest crackles and then slowly begins to fade as reality sets in at the sight of the words spelled out, written down.

It’s too honest of a question. The answer isn’t his to know. And none of the other questions floating around in his head are good either. He wants to ask if Hollander sleeps in them as well, the stolen pieces of Ilya’s closet. If they bring him the kind of comfort he’d never accept from their original owner. He’d chosen that hoodie to wear to New York because it’d felt the softest on the inside against his skin. He’d noticed Hollander preferred some textures over others; he’d wanted to give him the best he could offer. He’d wanted Hollander to take everything he wanted.

Lily: does it still smell like me

This text, he deletes carefully. Letter by letter to make sure he doesn’t accidentally send it. If typing it out was supposed to offer him some sort of clarity, then it definitely doesn’t. It’s just brought the question to the forefront of his mind. Does it smell like me does it smell like you have you worn it often enough that it’s become yours do you miss me yet have you thought about me today did you grab the closest thing you could find when you put it on or did you choose it carefully does it feel soft do you think that was random do you know that I

Too honest. Too dangerous. It is very clear, their arrangement. Ilya gets to have Hollander’s body for a few hours at a time. He has no right, no grounds, to ask for his mind as well.

Lily: I think I prefer how you looked in black and gold more though ;) 

He sends this. This is safe. This is normal for them. This is flirty. This is taking two big steps back from the cliff’s edge and pretending you never thought about how it would feel to jump in the first place. 

Standing from the bed takes discipline he didn’t think he possessed. But it is summer now. He should begin his training regimen. Make sure he and the team are ready to steal the Cup back from Hollander come this time next year. 

On a whim, he swipes back to Twitter and likes @PikeysPuckPic’s repost, that throat-tightening, stomach-flipping, mouth-watering picture of Hollander asleep on Hayden Pike’s shoulder. It is just his burner account, a string of numbers for a handle that won’t make it past September, but he thinks it’s probably important to show solidarity with other people who are just as pathetic as he is when it comes to the fucking Voyageurs. To one specific Voyageur.

At least Ilya’s regard for his Voyageur was borne out of an appreciation for good hockey, doe eyes and dark freckles. This girl is obsessed with Hayden fucking Pike, who has none of these things.

Hours later, he's just turning back to run through his route again when his phone begins buzzing against his thigh. It's nine in the morning in Moscow, which makes it one in the morning in Montreal. Ilya is getting better at that math, the math of time and distance. Or--he's always known how many hours stretch between the Eastern timezone and Moscow, but that had always felt more like knowledge learned as a survival skill. It feels different, now, when he is in Moscow and someone else is on the east coast and he is trying to calculate the hours between them. Less like a gift, more like a barrier.

Jane: ufck ooff rozanov

Jane: im drunk and i won a cupppp i can wear wahtevr i want

Jane: hyden says it brings out my eyes fuck u

Jane: you wanted me to take it anyayay

Jane: anyway*//

Jane: to spych me out n distrsct me from the playoo ffs and mke me think about you all the dmn time

Jane: buti can hintk about u amd dreasm about u ans still win a cup so duck off rozanov

Ilya stares at the texts, each of them harder to understand than the last. He wonders where Shane is, right now. At a club? In the back of a car with Pike, traveling to some other party? He has eight hours to spend before he catches up to where Ilya is now, nine in the morning sunshine unignorably bright and warm on his shoulders. Will he spend those hours in Ilya's hoodie? Is that something Ilya can ask?

No. No, this is not the summer for cliff-diving. 

Lily: drink water, cup winner

Lily: and dream of me, yes? ;)

Chapter End Notes

you just know ilya rozanov's burner twitter account whose handle is a '''''''random string of numbers'''''' is like. @8124812481248124

Chapter 4

Chapter Summary

siri play the mash-up of 'happy birthday mr president' and 'party 4 u'

Chapter Notes

i cannot stress upon you how out of left field this was for me. realized yesterday at like 7pm that it was ilya rozanov's birthday and everyone was writing fics for that which i thought was cute. wrote from 7pm to whenever the cold meds kicked in and i fell asleep. finished it today in between shots of dayquil.

this is set a year after the third chapter, after the montreal voyageurs win their second stanley cup. i guess the universe is a little canon divergent in their relationship timeline because it's june 2016 and they're much closer/still in their pining stage but able to call each other by their first names now for the most part. this has like maximum amounts of yearning though

i am very sick btw (read: either mild cold or death plague, i'm unsure) so please no corrections at this time im sure there are a ton of things wrong here. brain fog so bad i had to google things like 'how many ribs humans' and 'east division teams nhl' and 'water surface tension for ten year olds question mark'. there are going to be mistakes. but ☝️ there will also be birthday sex. birthday jersey sex.

Shane’s pretty sure it’s a joke, when he checks his mail and finds the card tucked away in between three bills and two pamphlets—one for a cable upgrade and one for a new sushi restaurant downtown that promises big things and zero food poisoning. 

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket with an incoming text, a string of question marks from Hayden, followed by a slow-to-load picture of the same envelope, and Shane definitely thinks it’s a joke.

He doesn’t have to look far to find the culprit though: the return address bears his name, carefully written out in block letters. Ilya Rozanov.

Hayden: what kinda psychological warfare is this

Shane: I haven’t opened it yet. Is it a glitter bomb or something?

Hayden: worse

It’s an invitation. Shane tosses the envelope and the rest of the mail onto his kitchen countertops as he stares at the little card. It’s not much, simple black background with golden accents. 

He rolls his eyes as he rubs his thumb along the embossed line-art drawing of a roaring bear, pressed against the left corner of the invitation.

Ilya Rozanov

Warmly invites you 

To his 25th birthday celebration

June 14, 2016

At the following address:

Shane’s phone buzzes on the counter where he left it to study the letter. Hayden again, this time with a picture attached. It’s the same invitation, bear and all.

Before he can stop himself, he wonders if Hayden’s invite carries a whiff of Rozanov’s cove-and-woodsy-cedar scent too. It’s a funny image, Rozanov spraying Shane’s invitation with a spritz of his cologne, the way all the ladies in the period dramas Shane’s mom likes dab a bit of their perfume onto every letter they send their lover.

Dangerous thoughts lay down that path though. Stupid, addictive, heady, dangerous thoughts. 

It has to be a joke. Shane thought that when he first saw the envelope and recognized Ilya’s handwriting. He’s gotten used to seeing it over the past year, since their hook ups have grown more steady, lasted longer. Lasted through the night sometimes, so that when Ilya sneaks out in the morning before Shane wakes up, he leaves a little note.

Shane watches his thumb trail over the words on the invitation. They’re written by hand, too. By Ilya’s hand. 

It’s just, like. It’s a lot of work for a joke.

But maybe Ilya’s had nothing but time on his hands lately. Montreal won the Cup a week ago, after all. Even the parties have officially died down now. Honestly, Shane’d sort of assumed he’d be back in Russia already after the Bears’ quiet second round exit, but the address for the party is somewhere in Boston. 

Shane carefully and firmly doesn’t think about what he’d have done in a fantasy, dream world where Ilya Rozanov sends him a very serious party invitation to his birthday party in Russia.

In this scenario, of course, the words aren’t delivered in the mail but rather whispered half into Shane’s ear and then bitten into his mouth, and Ilya says all the right things about how he really wants to see Shane there, that if he came, he wouldn’t leave him alone for a second, that he’d—Shane doesn’t know. The scenario’s dissolving in his mind faster than he can put it together, like holding your hands under a running faucet. The water always slips between the cracks in your fingers. 

That’s the thing with Ilya Rozanov. He always seems to manage to find the cracks in Shane’s—what, armor. Maybe. Composure. Soul.

It’s a lot of work for a joke, but Ilya’s been known to put in a lot of work for very little return more times than Shane can count. It’s not even enough to call him ambitious, the guy’s a fucking visionary. On the ice, beneath the covers.

Shane taps his fingers along the edge of the counter, chin propped up on his other hand as he stares at the invitation until his eyes start to blur around the edges. 

His phone’s still on the counter, open to Hayden’s message, but he swipes out of the conversation without replying. 

Shane could find out, is the thing. Rozanov is a text away. He could text him, he could find out. He could know.

There’s a dozen responses already at the tip of his tongue for if it is a joke. He’d say anything then, to try and prove he hadn’t—even for a second—wanted something he couldn’t have so desperately he’d lost time trying to imagine how the jet lag would feel after a long haul flight to Russia.

There’s a dozen excuses already at the tip of his tongue for if it isn’t a joke. If it’s an earnest invitation. If Ilya means it, wants him there.

Obviously, Shane can’t go. He’ll—send a nice present. A floral arrangement. He’ll—buy a nice set of silk scarves or something, suggest via text that maybe Ilya can bring them to their next hook-up and make use of them there.

He can’t go though. To Ilya Rozanov’s birthday party. He doesn’t like parties, he doesn’t really care about birthdays, and he knows very well he shouldn’t like or care about Ilya Rozanov as much as he does. So it’s better, for the best, even. If he keeps his distance. 

Thank you, but no.

Thank you, but I’m sorry I’m tired out from partying after the Stanley Cup win. You remember how it is.

Thank you, but that’s not a great idea and you know it.

Thank you, but fuck you for putting me in this position, where you get to offer and I have to say no. Don’t you understand how fucked up that makes my head? Every time? Every time, I walk us back and then you take us forward again, and it’s like—it’s bad enough to miss you when you’re not here, when all I have of you is the clothes you let me steal. Don’t you understand how much I want to be there? To give you an uncomplicated yes? To give you a present and know it’ll be accepted? To have been asked to attend, to have been asked to be among your loved ones, to be counted as a loved one, someone you want across the circle of faces from you as the clock strikes midnight and you turn another year older? Don’t you understand how fucked up it makes me? Reining us both in? Being so bad at it? Trying to convince myself I’m doing what we need instead of what we want and that’s the only option available? Don’t you think I look at you sometimes and want and want and want and want and

Thank you, but unfortunately I have prior commitments with the Voyageurs front office. Many happy returns on this very special day.

The last text between them was a week ago. Ilya’d sent him a congratulations text after the Voyageurs lifted the Cup. Shane’d replied even though he can’t even remember what he’d typed. And then, nothing. Two missed calls, both from Ilya. Late enough in the night that Shane was probably out again with the team or with his family or some combination of the two.

It wouldn’t even really be an excuse, if Shane told Ilya he couldn’t come to his birthday party because he was too tired from the Cup celebrations. He’s feeling too tired, too old. Everything hurts and he’d prefer to sleep for the next several weeks if at all possible.

Jane: dude is this invitation legit?

Shane sends it before he can overthink it, mostly because there are a lot of things bubbling up in his head right now and he has to get one of them out or else he’ll explode.

He sinks into the couch in front of the kitchen counter and goes to hike his knee up before his ribs make their very furious protests known. Brock Lexter of the Utah Beehive had slammed him up against the boards beginning of Game One. Hadn’t mattered in the end, of course. Shane’d come out with the Cup. 

And a set of bruised ribs and maybe a few torn ligaments, but. The Cup, too.

His phone vibrates in his hand with an incoming text. Ilya.

Ilya.

Lily: Yes.

Just that. 

Just yes. 

What the fuck is Shane supposed to do with that? With nothing but a confirmation?

Lily: have you ever gotten a nefarious birthday party invitation before?

Despite himself, Shane has to bite at his lip to stop the smile from spreading across his face, even if no one’s around to see it. He slips the edge of his hoodie string into his mouth and bites at the hard shell of plastic there along the edge anyway.

Jane: You sent one to hayds, man. You didn’t even pack a bunch of glitter into the envelope. What was I supposed to think?

Lily: oh shit, i forgot the glitter. Now what am I supposed to do with all of this gold plastic?

Jane: I don’t know, decorate for your birthday party?

Lily: I am not going to use glitter for my birthday party, Jane, I am turning 25. Not 5.

Shane pauses, sits back on the couch, and looks at the text thread. He thinks they’re getting a little off-topic here. He thinks the thank you, but no is getting a little lost in his head, shoved to the back of his mind. 

He should just say it, now that he has the confirmation that this was—maybe not earnestly sent, but at least sincerely sent.

Thank you, but no. Thank you, but I’m sorry. Thank you for thinking of me. Why were you thinking of me? Do you think of me often? Yes/no?

Jane: why did you invite two Montreal players to your birthday party?

Lily: I do not think you have ever asked me so many questions. It is an invitation to a party not an invitation to open an investigation.

Shane frowns and then scowls. That’s just—blatantly not true. He asks Ilya questions all the fucking time. It’s Ilya who never answers them. Much like he’s doing right now, actually. He lets the end of the hoodie drawstring drop from his mouth and carefully texts back his most convincing argument.

Jane: :( 

Ilya’s response lags, long enough that Shane flips back to his conversation with Hayden and sends him a picture of his own invitation, just to confirm they’re on the same page. 

Lily: maybe I want two Montreal players at my birthday party.

It’s…psychological warfare is fucking right.

Jane: You want Hayden at your birthday party?

Lily: I want you at my birthday party. Pike is a necessary evil. 

Jane: ?

Lily: he is like your emotional support dog i think. It will be a big party with many people.

Jane: oh wow you’re so popular. I just googled the address, it’s a hotel? Dude.

Lily: It will be a very big party and very loud.

Shane bites at the skin around his thumb. Ilya isn’t doing a very good job of selling this to him, but then—maybe he knows he doesn’t have to. Maybe he knows Shane wants to come, has wanted to come ever since Ilya texted him that yes. Before that, if he’s being honest. Since he first saw the invitation.

Lily: I invited all of the captains and alternates from East division, so it will not look strange if you are there.

Lily: Scott Hunter said no (((

Which—of course Scott Hunter said no. Probably all the captains will say no, save for maybe the newer ones who want to bask in Ilya’s limelight like it’ll give them some of their own. That’s not a surprise.

What is a surprise is that Shane hasn’t yet.

He goes to type it out, the no, the respectful version of it. Thank you, but no. Surely Ilya will understand. Surely Ilya will not even care that much. Shane isn’t—they’re not—they don’t—you’re supposed to be surrounded by loved ones, on your birthday. You’re not supposed to invite your fuck buddy. Your fuck buddy is not supposed to want to travel across international borders to attend.

Hayden’s reply buzzes through his phone before he can say anything like that to Ilya. It’s a bunch of question marks, and it makes Shane’s heart drop into his fucking stomach and his hands scramble to pick up the invitation. He’d read it, he swears he read it, swears there was nothing there that was incriminating. It was addressed to Shane, not Jane: check. Ilya hadn’t drawn dicks all over the page: check. He hadn’t written his room number as a post script or anything: check.

Shane lets out a shuddering breath and swipes immediately over to his conversation thread with Hayden. 

Hayden: ???? WTF

Shane: ? What??

Hayden: you get a WARMLY invites and I get a CORDIALLY invites?

Shane: what the fuck are you talking about?

Hayden: on the fucking invitation, Rozanov hand-wrote this shit.

Hayden: Mine says “Ilya Rozanov cordially invites you” and yours says “warmly invites”?? 

Shane fucking—can’t. Fuck. He presses a hand up against his heart; it’s still racing. See, this. This is why he can’t come. This is why it’s a bad idea. The more Shane lets Ilya Rozanov into his life, the more he has to live in the shadows and in fear, and he’s—that’d been the sole piece of criticism they’d given him as feedback before the Combine, all the scouts who came to watch him dominate in the O. Risk averse. Strategic, thoughtful, willing to lose a second to identify the best play, but in hockey, the time you have on the ice is measured in seconds. You have to bite the bullet, sometimes. Make a risky play based on a half-assed assessment of the situation.

And Shane’s—Shane’s better at it now, better now that he has seven seasons under his belt in the show, but he’s realizing, staring at the black and gold invitation in his hand, that there’s a canyon slowly being carved into the center of him, between the things he knows how to do on the ice and the things he cannot bring himself to do with his heart, and Ilya Rozanov’s the fucking river.

He swallows, even though his throat is desert dry, and texts out a nothing response to Hayden.

Shane: guess our rivalry’s more heated

Then he switches back to the conversation between him and Rozanov, gets the thank you, but typed out before Ilya sends a follow up text that sort of stops Shane’s thumbs mid-air.

Lily: it is okay, if you cannot. Or do not want to.

Carefully, he deletes everything and starts over, a spark of useless, directionless anger firing off in his stomach. Doesn’t Ilya understand? Doesn’t Ilya know—

Jane: it’s not about what I want, ilya….

The response text comes a moment later, like Ilya knew what he’d say and already had his rebuttal typed out. 

Lily: then can it be about what I want? Just for one night.

It’s a terrible thing, trying to deny someone like Ilya. Trying to deny someone Shane just wants to give into. How do people do it, when they build houses right along the beach? Don’t they know the first thing about water and surface tension? How it spreads, how hard it is to hold firm against. 

Shane feels a little like the tide’s biting at his ankles, tugging him carefully up and sweeping him along as he watches his thumbs type, without conscious approval from his brain: okay.

Lily: ))

Jane: but i’m going to wear a Voyageurs hoodie and my Stanley Cup Champions hat.

Lily: okay

Lily: but I think there are other pieces of clothing in your closet I like you in better ;)

Lily: (mine)

Shane doesn’t show up to the hotel in either Voyageurs-branded merch or Ilya Rozanov’s clothing, but he does consider it right up until it’s time to leave his own hotel room to trek across the city to get to Ilya’s. It’d felt a little silly, booking a hotel room in Boston for the night just to go to some other hotel, but it’d felt too presumptuous to not. 

That’s not what they do. There are always emergency exit routes. Shane doesn’t know what going all in would look like for them, and he doesn’t want to try to find out tonight of all nights, the day before Ilya’s birthday when he’ll have a mountain of hosting duties to see to.

Hayden had declined his cordial invitation with relish, and Shane understood that. He did. Of course Hayden’s less inclined to travel a few hours from Montreal to Boston for a birthday party hosted by a guy he doesn’t even like. He wouldn’t even get kisses out of it. 

Not that Shane thinks he’s going to get kisses from Ilya Rozanov tonight. If the size of the hotel is any indication, then the ballroom rented out for the party is probably going to be stuffed full of people who all want their little slice of Rozanov. Shane’s not here to demand anything else from him or anything. Shane’s here because—because—

Well, because Ilya asked him to be here.

And he wasn’t doing anything else, and he wasn’t too tired from winning the Stanley Cup, and he’s a multi-millionaire who can afford things like last minute flights and hotel reservations, and Ilya asked him. To be here.

So he is. Here, that is, standing in the hotel lobby and being given directions to the event space by a peppy receptionist in a crisp looking oxford and vest combo that makes Shane feel overly self-conscious of the wrinkles that have gotta be obvious in his own shirt. 

The room’s as big and packed as Shane thought it’d be, and he’s immediately calculating how much time he has to spend here before he can duck back out. It’s late already, almost ten. He could make it to midnight.

Or, he could make it an hour. And then—maybe find a rooftop for a little bit, sneak back in at midnight just to say he was there if Rozanov asked later. Then he could leave.

It’s just so fucking loud, the room. Filled to the brim with so many people, mostly strangers. The Boston team is here, obviously. Shane catches sight of Marleau leaning up against the bar with a fruity drink clutched in his hand. And he thinks he sees Andreas Polindor, Captain of the New Jersey Ruckus, entertaining around one of those small standing tables that every event space seems to have.

And there, in the middle of it, is Ilya. Ilya, laughing with his head thrown back at something the woman at his elbow is telling him, champagne flute in one hand and the other stuffed in his pocket. He looks good. It’s been a while since Shane’s seen him in person, more than a few months. He looks good.

Like this, especially. Surrounded by people who want him, looking—radiant with it, dressed to the nines. Poster child of a birthday boy.

Shane lingers for a second at the edges of the room, eyes stuck on Ilya. This is sort of where his understanding of the night—the plan—runs out. He is here because Ilya asked, Ilya asked because he wanted him here. But Ilya wanted everyone else here too, and so everyone else has just as much right to Ilya’s attention as Shane does. More, probably. Some closer bond, an actual connection they can talk about, that can survive being talked about.

It’s just—Shane’s never had to figure out what to do to get Ilya’s attention on him. That’s something he’s always just been given. 

“Shane Hollander, my man!” A hand claps him on the back and then an arm wraps around his shoulder, shakes him a little bit. Shane turns towards the speaker, recognizing him from the touch alone as another hockey player. And he is: Tristan Tosco, #11, one of the Toronto Guardians’ alternates. 

One hour. He can do this. He puts a smile on his face and claps at Tosco’s shoulder. “Hey, man,” he says. “Surprised you got an invite after what you did to the Bears second round.”

It’s a risk, obviously, talking about playoff hockey so soon after the wound of it. After all, Toronto swept Boston in their series only to go down 5-1 to Montreal in the Eastern Conference finals. But what else is Shane supposed to talk about when faced with a hockey player? Something other than hockey?

Yeah right.

But Tosco laughs and slaps his shoulder again, probably because the Bears are the brunt of the joke, not the Guardians. “Me?” he says, and he’s guiding Shane through the room now, towards the bar. “Man, I’m surprised you got an invite, what with the whole rivals thing you’ve got going on, eh?”

Shane shrugs, doesn’t have to answer because the bartender’s sliding down the bar to ask for his drink order. 

When he turns back around to face the room, ginger ale in one hand and Tosco in his ear still talking about what he’s seen so far in Boston, Rozanov is looking at him.

He’s still where he was, front and center and surrounded by people, but his eyes are on Shane’s now. They look—wider, like he’s been caught off guard, which is sort of stupid because he told him he was planning to come. Had said yes, hadn’t even tried to pretend otherwise or be coy about it. Doesn’t even know what playing coy looks like when it comes to Rozanov. If that’s something Shane’s even capable of, when it comes to anyone.

“And I think, you know, I’m liking Pendleton’s coaching style,” Tosco is saying into his ear, and this is something Shane should pay attention to because this is important. This is hockey, this is player relations with a new coach of a rival team, so Shane should be paying attention. 

But he can’t look away from Rozanov, not when Rozanov’s already looking at him. That’s been a problem for years now. It’s been a Code Red since—Shane doesn’t know. Since the last time he won the Cup, maybe. Since that time Ilya confronted him about the–clothes thing and then just let him keep doing it anyway.

Ilya’s eyes cut away from his, turn to look at the woman closest to him. She’s beautiful, obviously, dark hair a halo of curls around her face and body slim and a perfect fit beneath the weight of Ilya’s arm. Not that he has his arm around her now, but Shane can see it. Shane can see how it’d work, how they’d work. It makes sense.

It’s been maybe five minutes. 

Fifty-five minutes to go. 

“He really believes in us, as a team,” Tosco tells him, sounding earnest about it. Tosco’s young, only a few years into the league. Wearing the A because Toronto’s knee-deep in a rebuild that keeps going sideways and he was the best of a bunch of bad options. He should know better than to talk about his coach with the captain of the Voyageurs. He should know hockey doesn’t work like that.

“Right,” Shane says, because he’s not going to be the one to tell him. Maybe he should be, but there’s something thick and sticky like tar expanding in his stomach as he makes himself look away from Rozanov. 

He wasn’t expecting anything. It would have been stupid to expect something. In front of all these people. Rozanov’s seen him now. He’ll—Shane will approach him in ten minutes maybe, casually. Just to say hello. Just to pay his respects to the birthday boy.

Yeah. 

Sure, yeah. He flew two hours from Montreal to Boston, just to say hello to Ilya Rozanov.

He’s splitting his time between listening to Tosco talk about his summer training program and trying to come up with another time he’s used his money in such a stupid way, when a third person enters their conversation.

She’s so smooth about it that it almost feels natural, the way she bullies her way in between them to order a drink from the bartender before turning around and sweeping her eyes over the both of them. Like, Shane probably wouldn’t even think anything about it, if Tosco didn’t immediately choke on his tongue looking at her and if she weren’t the same woman he’d seen beside Ilya just a few minutes ago.

She blinks back at Shane like she knows something he doesn’t, full lips quirking up into a smile that’s beautiful but not friendly in the slightest. 

“Svetlana Vetrova,” she introduces herself, offering her hand first to Shane and then to Tosco. “I am one of Ilyusha’s friends.”

“Nice to meet you,” Shane says, entirely on autopilot as he shakes her hand. He’s seen her before, he thinks, now that he’s looking at her from up close. He recognizes her. He thinks—she’s been papped with Ilya before, a couple of times over the years.

He tries not to hold it against her, but he doesn’t try that hard either.

“Likewise, Shane Hollander,” she tells him, and it’s paired with a different kind of smile now, something soft enough to slip into her eyes. She turns to look at Tosco then back to Shane. The bartender deposits a martini glass next to her hand and she takes a sip of it. “It is good that you are both here,” she says, perfectly plucked eyebrow arching high over her face as she stares them down. “Toronto and Montreal both have a goalie problem. Let’s talk about it.”

It takes about an hour and a half and moving through six different casual conversations for Shane to realize Svetlana’s standing next to him like some sort of chaperone or, more accurately, a prison warden.

Which—that doesn’t really make any sense, because it’s a party and Shane shouldn’t feel trapped here, except really, he sort of does. Svetlana’s constant presence near him doesn’t help all that much either. 

Or, it does, in that she turns out to be really fucking good at all the small talk things that Shane can fake his way through pretty passably but never for too long. And she’s actually funny and clever, knows a bunch of stuff about hockey but a bunch more stuff about the world outside of hockey, things Shane’s heard of but never quite knew existed. 

And she’s beautiful, obviously. And Russian. Maybe every time Rozanov kisses her, it’s like a little taste of home. Shane’s been trying not to think about it. He’s not very good at it though, not when there’s a 50/50 chance that every time he finds Rozanov in the crowd, Rozanov’s already looking back at him. At them, Shane corrects himself in his mind. At Shane and at Svetlana. 

Twenty minutes to midnight, Svetlana rests a hand on his elbow and excuses them both from the conversation. “Cigarette break,” she says when Shane shoots her a confused look.

“I don’t smoke,” Shane tells her, but he lets her drag him out of the room all the same, to the elevator and then up to the rooftop of the hotel where Boston glitters below them in the summer heat. 

She takes a drag from her cigarette and then offers it to him. “I still don’t smoke,” he tells her, in case she thinks he’s changed his stance from this new vantage point.

“Hm,” is all she says, before putting it back up to her lips.

Shane looks at her and then looks away, back down at the city. It’s nice from up here. It’s nice to be away from the noise of the party for a few seconds. Maybe Shane can leave now. Maybe he doesn’t have to go back at all. He hasn’t managed to find a time to say anything to Ilya, but maybe that doesn’t matter. He was here, wasn’t he? All Ilya’d said was that he wanted him here. He’d said nothing about talking to him. Why would he? There are so many other people for Ilya to talk to. There is Svetlana, there are his teammates. Who is Shane, compared to—

“I’m feeling sick, I think,” Svetlana says, leaning up against the railing and blowing out smoke. 

That makes two of us, Shane thinks but doesn’t say. “Oh, that sucks,” he does say, which sounds sort of weak and definitely not exactly winning any awards for sincere compassion or anything. 

“It does suck,” Svetlana replies, repeating the word like it deeply amuses her. That’s the kind of tone she’s had for about half the things Shane’s said this entire night, and it’s really—Shane’s really about to—he doesn’t know. He just doesn’t like jokes he can’t understand, and she’s not even spoken this one out loud but she’s still laughing at the punchline. It’s just rude, is all.

“Maybe don’t smoke,” he suggests, which is something he’s told Ilya enough times that he knows he’ll be ignored.

She laughs, tilting her head back as she does it. It jolts something in the center of Shane; it takes him a few seconds to realize what. She laughs the same way Ilya does. It sounds different, obviously, different vocal chords, different breathing patterns. But she moves her body the way Ilya does when he laughs, like they learned it from each other, how to laugh. 

“Actually, I’m feeling sort of sick, too,” he says, and it’s true. The sensation of the tar is back, sitting heavy in his stomach, gumming up his insides and making it sort of hard to breathe.

Svetlana shoots him a considering look over her shoulder. “This is too bad,” she says. “I had a birthday present planned out for Ilyusha.”

“Oh?” Shane says, mostly on autopilot. He doesn’t really want to hear about whatever Svetlana has decided to give Ilyusha for his birthday. He sort of wishes Hayden had decided to come to the party with him. He’d never have let him go up here alone with Ilya Rozanov’s terrifyingly pretty Russian childhood friend. 

“Yes,” Svetlana says, and makes a very big show of sighing, looking despondently out over the city. “It was a sex thing,” she adds bluntly. 

“Cool,” Shane replies, because it’s better than saying I am going to vomit off the edge of this hotel.

“He would have liked it,” she says, oblivious, maybe, to the thrashing in Shane’s gut. “I went by his house before coming here, you see, and took his jersey from your first International Prospects Cup. He had it hanging up on his wall, it is very adorable. Do you remember that Cup, Hollander? It is the one where he beat you for the gold medal.”

“I remember, thanks,” Shane says. 

Svetlana has a key to Ilya Rozanov’s house, which makes sense because they’re probably like—in love. Or something. Childhood friends who have grown closer with time and age. Svetlana felt comfortable enough to take one of Ilya Rozanov’s most prized possessions, a game-worn jersey, right out of his house. Shane’s never been to his house. Shane—every time Shane takes a piece of Rozanov’s clothing, it is like—he feels like he is getting away with something. He wears them, sometimes, the hoodies, just around his house, and it feels like the police are going to knock down his door. Like he has gone too far, indulged too much and lost himself along the way. 

“He likes it when I wear one of his jerseys while we fuck,” Svetlana tells him, like they are talking about the weather. The cigarette is burning down between her fingers. She is looking at Shane. “This is a hockey player thing, no? Have you ever done this?”

“Have I ever—what?”

His first thought is that she is asking him if he has ever worn one of Rozanov’s jerseys while they fucked. Which, no. He hasn’t. That’s never been something they’ve done. That’s never even been something Shane’s thought of, and apparently Rozanov’s thought of it and has been doing it. With someone else, which is totally cool.

“Have you ever fucked someone while they wear your jersey?” Svetlana asks, point-blank, eyebrow raised up.

Shane doesn’t think he’s ever been more red in his life. He can feel the heat radiating from his face. “Uh,” he says. “No.” 

He’s heard about it before, obviously. Guys bragging about the different girls they’ve fucked after games, the ones wearing their jerseys, how it’d made them feel like a god to run their hands over the nameplate on the back of the sweater, see their number on a girl they’re fucking. He’s never understood it. Hockey is hockey. The jerseys and stuff—that’s for hockey.

Anyone he wants to sleep with, not that there are many people in that category in the first place anyway—they exist separate from hockey. Totally, completely separate. He can’t imagine a version of himself that…likes mixing the two together, that wants it. And it feels pretty…egotistical, to want to see your name and number on someone else, like the sex is all about you or something.

“Oh,” Svetlana says. “Hm, well. Is very fun. You should try it. Ilyusha likes it a lot. It is the name, I think,” she takes a drag of the cigarette, exhales. “Or maybe it is just the person who wears the name, I don’t know.”

Shane can feel the way his jaw clenches. His teeth ache from it. “That’s great,” he says, then wonders if that’s the correct response to some woman he’s just met telling him she’s planning to wear a hockey player’s jersey to his bed tonight.

And the hockey player’s this guy that Shane’s been in lo—that Shane’s been thinking about—that Shane’s come down from Montreal to—

The hockey player’s Ilya Rozanov. 

Would Ilya like it if Shane wore his jersey? They’ve never talked about stuff like that. The sex between them is good, is amazing, is like, ten-car pile up kind of sex: life-ruining, destructive, feels like it happens in a moment and then you spend the next few hours trying to untangle your body from the twisted wreck you’ve let yourself become.

They don’t have—have props. This isn’t a high school fucking musical. They just have each other. They just—touch each other, and it’s so good every time that Shane’s never even fucking considered anything else.

But now he’s considering it. Now he can’t fucking stop considering it, mostly because he can’t stop picturing Svetlana wrapped up in Ilya’s jersey, wrapped up in Ilya’s arms. They’d look good together. She’s so slim, so willowy. And he’s so tall, so broad. His jersey would hang off of her frame. She’d drown in it. 

Shane is going to be sick. Jealousy, fierce and unreasonable, wells up in his stomach and he has to look out over the city just to try and stop the ugly swell of his thoughts from overwhelming him. 

He likes Svetlana. He thinks she’s funny and witty, charming. He has no reason to be jealous; he isn’t—he isn’t a jealous person. He isn’t. And—and Ilya isn’t someone he could be jealous over, anyway, if he were. Which he isn’t. 

“But it is such a shame,” Svetlana sings, slipping her hand into the small clutch she has tied to her wrist and pulling out slim wallet. “I am now feeling too sick for this. I will have to get him something else instead.”

“Uh, yeah,” Shane says. He doesn’t like that the very first thing he thinks is good. He doesn’t like the kind of person that makes him feel like. He doesn’t like that he means it, either, that he’d rather have Svetlana feeling sick than anywhere near Ilya, prancing around in one of his jerseys and putting her arms around his neck and slipping into his lap and letting him put his fingers all over the 81 on the sleeves, across her back.

“I think it is best if I go home right now,” Svetlana says very slowly. Her cigarette is mostly done. She places it between her lips for a second and fumbles into her wallet, extracts a smooth, hard card. A hotel keycard. She holds it out to Shane, and he takes it automatically. “Would you give this to Ilyusha when you see him next? It is the key to his room here. I borrowed it to put his jersey in the room for later.”

“Oh,” Shane says. He looks at the key. It has the room number written at the bottom of it in silver type. 524. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll…yeah. I’ll give this to him.”

“Wonderful,” Svetlana says. “It was very good to meet you, Shane Hollander. I have heard so much about you.”

Shane blinks. “You…you have?” 

“Oh yes,” Svetlana smiles. She looks like she is laughing again. She looks like she’s laughing at him again. “You are always in the media. It drives Ilyusha crazy.”

And—oh. Of course. Shane’s stupid. Of course she’s heard about him because of hockey, not because—not because Ilya talks to her about him. He smiles, but he doesn’t know what it comes out looking like. “Right, I guess it must if they’re talking about me more than him.”

Svetlana rolls her eyes, flicks the end of her cigarette and then presses it out against the cool metal railing. “I think it drives him crazy because they get you wrong. And he has spent so long trying to figure you out that it makes him upset that others can be so wrong but so loud about it.”

And Shane doesn’t know what to do with that. Thankfully, apparently, he isn’t expected to do anything at all with it, because Svetlana turns around and pats him on the cheek once before she starts walking towards the doors leading back into the hotel.

“Have a good night, Hollander,” she calls over her shoulder, and Shane runs his fingers over the edge of the keycard.

It’s, like, crazy-level stupid. To do this. And it might honestly be a crime or at least something that could get him in an involuntary psychiatric hold or something. Probably. Shane isn’t sure, but that’s how he feels. Crazy and wild and like he’s doing something illicit. 

Like—this is definitely at least technically breaking and entering, right? Using someone else’s keycard to get into their hotel room without their permission? Using someone else’s keycard, that was acquired by a third party, to gain access into their hotel room without their permission?

If nothing else, it has to be considered at least really fucking weird. 

And it’s even weirder to be wearing the jersey. But of fucking course he’s wearing the jersey. He’d held onto the thought that maybe he wouldn’t, right up until he’d slipped into the shadowy hotel room and seen it resting on the couch in the small living area between the door and the bed.

And then it was like he was possessed or something, because between one blink and the next he’s wearing the jersey.

It looks stupid as fuck, which makes this whole thing even more stupid and weird, because it’s not even, like. Hot or anything. Like if it were hot, then maybe it’d be worth it. But it just feels scratchy on his skin, and it smells faintly of sweat, and it’s big, obviously, because all hockey sweaters are made big enough to fit protective gear beneath them and still have fabric left over, but it’s not—it’s not as big as it’d be on someone else. On a girl like Svetlana.

Shane is too broad for that. He’s too tall. He’s built like a hockey player, is a hockey player. Probably touched this jersey when Ilya wore it on the ice all those years ago. Maybe even got his own sweat on it, mixed up with Ilya’s, which is—

Anyway, the point is. Shane doesn’t know how to wear a hockey jersey in a way that doesn’t look like a hockey player just wearing a hockey jersey. He takes his slacks and underwear off, but that looks even worse, so he slides the underwear back up his legs.

It doesn’t help that Ilya’d been—what, seventeen? Eighteen? When they first met at the Prospects Cup in Saskatchewan. He’d already been tall and broad, but he’d been young, smaller than he is now. Seven years later, Shane’s outgrown him, and it’s not that the jersey’s tight, it’s just that you can tell. It’s not meant for a twenty-six year old hockey player.

“Fuck,” Shane mutters, looking at his reflection. The sweater’s long enough that it covers most of his thighs, only an inch of underwear peeking out beneath the hem. It could look worse, he thinks. The colors are nice. The white and the red look good against his skin, and he’s always thought the gold used for the lettering across the front and on the back was pretty. 

He traces it now, the Cyrillic that runs diagonal over the front of the jersey. He likes it, he can admit that to himself. Likes that of all the jerseys Svetlana could have stolen to surprise Ilya, she’d taken this one. This very first one. What a stroke of luck, for her to choose this one instead of one of his Bears jerseys or one of his other Russian jerseys.

He’d looked so—intimidating, that day. When they first met. But Shane hadn’t been able to stay away. Hadn’t wanted to try. He’d been walking into the training rink with his mom when he’d seen him smoking by himself out near the loading dock, and maybe that should’ve been Shane’s first warning sign, that he could recognize Ilya Rozanov even bundled up against the cold and from so far away.

He’d looked beautiful on the ice. Well, he’d looked beautiful in the parking lot too, all cold eyes and stiff lips, pale skin and pale hair against the pale winter sky. But it was like he came alive on the ice. 

When Shane thinks about meeting Ilya, that’s the moment he thinks about. Not the parking lot, but the training rink. Watching him run drills with his team. Going head to head against him a week later. That was when he saw all of him, every fiery, competitive, hungry inch of him.

Shane puts his nose up against the edge of the jersey. Arguably the weirdest thing yet, but no one’s around to see him do it. He hasn’t even told Ilya he’s here. He still has time to put his clothes back on, pussy out, go back downstairs and leave the hotel completely. It’s already a few minutes past midnight. If they sang to Rozanov, he missed it. Shane wonders if Rozanov missed him, but then figures—probably not.

He steps back from the mirror and bends down to grab his slacks from the chair where he’d put them. Too weird, too stupid. Thankfully, no one has to know how much Shane wanted. Even for a second.

He almost drops the pants from fright when the door to the room is flung open so hard that it bangs loudly against the wall. “Jesus fucking Christ!” He snaps or shrieks. The line between the two feels very thin.

Ilya is standing in the doorway, eyes glued on Shane’s face like he’s drinking him in. The door to the room falls shut behind him and then suddenly they’re alone. For the first time tonight. They’re alone.

“I thought maybe you left,” Ilya tells him, very slowly and carefully, like it costs him to say. 

Shane frowns and fights the urge to fidget with the hem of the jersey. He tightens and loosens his grip on his pants. “Happy birthday,” he says. Then, “but I’m not gonna fucking sing it to you.”

Ilya blinks at him and then smiles. It’s a really rare kind of smile, one Shane can’t remember seeing more than once or twice. It’s made up of teeth, splits his face in two, creases up his eyes, makes him look ten years younger. “What is this?” he asks, and he takes a step into the bedroom. It’s a very small step. His eyes finally, finally leave Shane’s face to drag down the length of him and then back up. They catch and hold on his chest, where the golden C sits. “Where did you get that, solnyshko?”

Shane swallows. “A friend,” he says, even though he wouldn’t necessarily call Svetlana and him friends. She’s Ilya’s friend though, so maybe he isn’t lying. He got it from one of Ilya’s friends. Okay.

Ilya hums and he takes another step forward. The distance between them is still just—untenable, really. Too much, too far. Shane has been waiting all night for this. He has been waiting for ages, for months. 

“That is mine,” Ilya tells him, like they both don’t know it. His voice is low and his eyes look wild around the edges, like he’s being slow and careful only because the other option is quick and rough. “It is mine?” he checks a second later, and Shane knows what he’s asking. Hopes he doesn’t have any follow-up questions to Shane admitting that, yes, this is actually the Russian team’s Prospect Cup jersey that apparently has been hanging up in Ilya’s house for the last several years at least.

“Yeah,” Shane whispers, and his mouth feels dry so he licks his lips. “It’s yours. It’s—from the game.”

The game where you won. The first game where you beat me and I couldn’t look away. 

“Fuck,” Ilya murmurs, and he stretches the word out, clicks his tongue and drags his eyes back up to Shane’s face. It’s too much, the heat in them, the desire. Shane looks away, down to the floor, lets his pants slip from his hands. 

“Look, I—”

That’s as far as he gets because a second later, Ilya’s kissing him. There’s no hesitation in it, nothing but passion and force and this kind of—Shane doesn’t know, can’t name it but can feel it. Feels it, too. This—it’s like anger, what Ilya kisses him with. And desperation. Like, where have you been? I’ve been needing you.

Shane gets it; Shane kisses him back the same way, and then suddenly he’s in Ilya’s arms, pressed up against the chest of drawers. Ilya’s hand is big and rough along the back of Shane’s thigh as he grabs at the muscle, encourages him to jump up, put his weight on Ilya. 

Shane does, because of course he does. The angle’s better like this, wrapped up in Ilya’s arms and held above him by just a few inches. Ilya has to tilt his head up to keep their lips connected and his hands are busy holding Shane up, so Shane gets to grab onto Ilya’s jaw and throat, control the kiss for once.

Ilya kisses him like it’s been ages. It’s been ages. Kisses from Ilya after a few months with no kisses always feel the same, like they are catching up with each other. Re-exploring, re-affirming, re-charting territory they’ve already conquered. Ilya tastes the backs of Shane’s teeth and Shane licks the ghost of champagne straight off Ilya’s tongue.

It’s gross, but it’s fucking—everything. It’s always everything, kissing Ilya. That’s what makes it so dangerous. Addictive, also.

Ilya must get tired of either holding Shane up or not being able to get his hands on him, because he turns and walks him over to the bed, dropping him down onto it and standing back so he can undo his belt. “I did not think…” he mutters, mostly to himself, and Shane blinks up at him when he trails off. 

Shane’s already mostly hard, which would be something to be embarrassed about if it weren’t something he’s used to after so many years hooking up with Ilya in hotel rooms just like this one. His dick has formed an association. He’s lucky it just takes him a few kisses to get there instead of, like, the smell of hotel cleaner or something.

“What?” he asks, when Ilya doesn’t do anything other than just look at him. 

Ilya shakes his head, mouth opening and then closing. “I did not think you would come,” he admits, and then pulls his shirt over his head, like he needs something to hide behind. 

Shane frowns and props himself up on his elbows. “I told you I would,” he points out, watching as Ilya tugs first one and then the other sock off. It’s probably a terrible sign that even that, the little bounce between feet, is something he finds attractive. 

“Yes,” Ilya agrees, and he pauses at the edge of the bed, running his fingers through his hair and pinning his eyes on Shane. “But I did not think you meant it.”

“Oh,” Shane says, and he feels—a little stupidly hurt by that. Does Ilya not trust him at his word?

Ilya makes a cut-off sound, something brimming with frustration. He crawls up onto the bed, kicking out of his pants until he’s left only in his underwear. He kisses Shane’s left knee and then his right, trailing a line of kisses up his thigh. “Or,” he says, between kisses. “I thought maybe you meant it.”

“I did,” Shane says, tangling his hand into Rozanov’s hair, because—obviously he meant it. Look at where he is.

“But—I did not—it would have been—” Ilya’s mouth is wet and warm against Shane’s inner thigh. The jersey’s hiked up to his stomach now, twisted around him. Fingers run along the waistline of his underwear, dipping beneath it in a soft gentle touch, the kind that makes Shane’s cock jump within the confines of his briefs. “I could not believe it, if I did not know it would be true,” Ilya finally says, hoisting himself up onto his elbows to loom over Shane. His eyes are very dark. They are very beautiful, too. “It would have been not so good.”

The pendant necklace dangles in the air between them, and Shane reaches up and catches it between his fingers. He doesn’t know what possesses him to touch it, and he definitely doesn’t know what possesses him to say, quietly, “Well, that’s faith, baby.”

It’s, like, really fucking stupid. The endearment, spoken in such a soft tone that it can’t be anything but earnest—isn’t anything but earnest. The words themselves, like Shane is telling Ilya to—to have faith in him, when that’s not what they’re—that’s not what they do. 

It does get Ilya to kiss him again though, hard and desperate, one hand on his jaw and the other ghosting along his side, running over the fabric of the jersey with the faintest of touches. It makes Shane squirm, try to buck up, get more. He wraps a leg around the back of Ilya’s thighs to drag him down, but Ilya tenses, breaks their kiss to press his nose and lips up against his neck. 

“C’mon,” Shane mutters, rolling his hips up into the line of Ilya’s body. He’s getting dizzy with arousal, with having Ilya on top of him, with the idea of wearing Ilya’s jersey and having Ilya touch him in it. If he fucks him while he’s wearing it, then Shane’s sweat will get into the fibers of the sweater too, and that’ll—Shane doesn’t know what that’ll mean, but he wants it. He wants it so much.

But Ilya doesn’t seem to be on the same fucking page because he sits back on his heels and lets his eyes trail up and down his body without fucking touching him. “Where are you hurt?” he asks, rubbing his thumb against the knob of Shane’s knee. It’s gentle. Ilya’s chest is moving rapidly, like he’s just run up and down the hotel, like it’s costing him something, to hold back, but he is. Holding back.

“What?”

“The Voyageurs did not release player injuries after the Final,” Ilya says. “But you have many player injuries. I know from how you skated with the Cup.” 

He lets his hand run up to stroke along Shane’s hip and then, further up, along his side. Shane hisses at the contact, and Ilya’s face flickers into a frown. “Ribs,” he says.

“I don’t like this game,” Shane says.

“Is not a game,” Ilya replies. “Take the jersey off. I want to see you.”

“But you’re—” Shane starts to say and then bites at his lip. He thinks it’s a level of needy he isn’t prepared to admit to being, if he says something like, but you’re supposed to want to see me like this.

Svetlana said you love fucking her in your jersey. Why wouldn’t you like it with me? You’re supposed to like it with me more. With me best.

“I want to see where else you are hurt,” Ilya tells him in this no-nonsense kind of tone that—unfortunately—really fucking works on Shane. He doesn’t put up a fight when Ilya carefully lifts the jersey up his chest and carefully over his head. 

He pauses with the white material bunched in his hand. “But this? This is good idea. Great idea,” he corrects himself, gesturing with the sweater. “We will save this idea for later.”

“Sorry, bro,” Shane says. “That’s a birthday special.”

“What happened to baby?” Ilya complains, leaning down and pressing a feather light kiss to Shane’s sternum, then another to the left, and then further down. “Give me back baby, please. Thank you. It is my birthday.”

Shane huffs out a laugh that turns breathless when Ilya’s mouth descends further to ghost along the waistline of his briefs. His hands find Ilya’s hair and tangle around his curls again. “I already said happy birthday,” he points out, arching his back into the white-hot press of Ilya’s mouth. He slips his tongue out, mouths across the bulge in Shane’s underwear, and this is torture. This is exquisite, unfair fucking torture.

Ilya hums and pulls back far enough that he can work Shane’s briefs down his thighs and then his legs until Shane can kick them off him completely. “Where are you hurt?” Ilya asks with the kind of laser-focus Shane’s used to seeing from him on the ice. 

“What, you gonna kiss it better?” He asks, mostly to be difficult. Ilya bites at the inside of Shane’s thigh in retaliation, which feels a little counter-productive. “Well, that hurt right there,” Shane tells him, even though it didn’t. It felt electric, and he’s sure Ilya could see the way his cock twitched from the sensation. 

He’s smirking like he can at least. “I am not going to touch you at all if you do not tell me,” he says, matter of fact, casual. Like it’ll cost him nothing. Maybe it won’t. Maybe Shane’s the only one laying here feeling tender and aching and desperate. 

“Ilya,” Shane says; it comes out more like a whine. Ilya rewards him with a kiss along the underside of his cock, just beneath the head. “Fuck, c’mon.”

“Shane,” Ilya replies, raising his eyebrows like an asshole. He punctuates the argument by wrapping his lips around the tip of Shane’s cock and sucking at it gently. It’s not nearly enough. It’s so not enough that it somehow loops back around into being almost too much.

Shane’s helpless against the groan that falls from between his clenched teeth, and his hands tug at Ilya’s head in ways that must be considered terrible blow job etiquette.

Ilya must not think so though, or maybe he just doesn’t care, because he lets Shane force him lower, swallows more and more of his cock until his lips are pressed up against Shane’s groin and Shane feels like he’s shaking apart around him.  

He doesn’t last for long after that. That’s something he’s mostly gotten over being embarrassed about; Ilya Rozanov’s incredibly talented at sucking cock and Shane is, also, extremely weak to the sight of Ilya Rozanov sucking his cock.

“Fuck,” he gasps as he comes down from his orgasm, hands in Ilya’s hair turning soft and gentle as he pets through it. “Shit, Ilya. I wanted you to fuck me.”

He hesitates, thinks about it. He could probably go again. It’s Ilya’s birthday, and it’s been a few months since the last time they saw each other, which also means it’s been a few months since the last time anyone’s gotten Shane off. He could definitely go again, probably.

“No,” Ilya says, like it’s easy, crawling up the bed and kneeling astride Shane’s hips. His cock’s leaking between his thighs, angry-red at the tip and just as mouth-watering as Shane remembers. 

“No?”

“I’m not fucking you when you are hurt and you do not tell me where, solnyshko,” Ilya snaps, like he’s angry about it. Maybe he is. His eyebrows are furrowed as he looks over Shane’s chest before getting caught and held by Shane’s lips “I am not making it worse.”

“I’m fine,” Shane protests, even as he reaches out a hand to at least help jerk Ilya off. It’s his fucking birthday, after all. He shouldn’t have to do all the work here. “Ilya, you’re being—”

“Is my birthday,” Ilya says, “This means I get to be playmaker, yes? I call the shots for once, yes?”

For once? Shane almost scoffs out loud. Ilya’s always fucking calling the shots, if Shane’s keeping score here.

“Good,” Ilya says, like Shane’s agreed or something. His hand speeds up as he gets closer and closer to the edge. The last time he jerked off against Shane, he’d been pressed all along him, like a weighted blanket. Now he’s barely touching him. It’d almost feel—impersonal, maybe, if it weren’t for the way he’s looking at him. Like he couldn’t be paid to look away. Like he doesn’t even want to blink. 

Shane doesn’t know what to do with that, so he adjusts his grip, interlaces their fingers together around Ilya’s cock and says, quietly, “Please, Ilya. You can come on me if you want.”

Not his sexiest, probably, and sort of gross to even ask for, but it works. Ilya’s head falls backward with the force of his orgasm and his hips pump uselessly into the air and the tightness of their hands like even his body knows he could have been fucking into Shane if he were just less fucking stubborn.

Ilya takes a few minutes to recover, time spent slumped sideways in the mattress with his nose up against Shane’s neck and his hand resting carefully—so fucking carefully—against his sternum. 

Shane stares up at the ceiling. Wonders how much bravery it would require to slip under the covers of the bed. Thinks, maybe next year. Thinks, maybe it is not something Ilya will wait for. But maybe it is not something Shane can give him either. Wonders about all the things Ilya can ask for instead and all the things Shane can give him. Can, as in able. Can, as in willing. Parties and jerseys and plane tickets. Hoodies and shirts and mortifying drunk text messages. 

“Ribs,” Shane tells the shadow that the lamp casts on the hotel ceiling. “External intercostal muscles, left side. Uh, elbow got banged up, it hurts when I straighten it out all the way. Broken toe. Well, two broken toes, but they’re the ones right next to each other, the little ones. So that’s mostly one broken toe. And my knee’s been acting up again since Brown took me to the ice Game 7.” 

It’s not—done. It’s like Tristan Tosco telling another hockey player about his new coach. You just don’t do that shit. You just don’t tell others about your injuries. Not when they could use it against you on the ice, not when they could figure out where you’re hurting and how that affects your skating. Not when they could target that injury next time you face off, put you out of the game, take you down for the count.

But, he thinks—maybe faith and trust are, if not the same thing, then at least teammates. They wear the same jersey.

Ilya hums, turns his head to press his mouth against the hinge of Shane’s jaw. “Hollander, you are falling apart at the seams,” he says. “And you still wanted me to fuck you? Terrible. I would break you.”

Shane huffs out a laugh, shakes his head. The bare-bones truth is, of course, that he’d let Ilya break all twenty-four of his ribs if it meant that he’d fuck him so well he’d feel the ghost of it through the entirety of the off-season, but that’s—a lot.

So he says instead, “You wouldn’t. You’d never.”

He hesitates. He swallows. Looks away from the ceiling. Looks at the crown of Ilya’s head. “You could probably google sex positions for broken ribs, if you wanted. In the morning.”

Ilya was already lax beside him, but he goes absolutely still all over at this. It’d be pointless to pretend he doesn’t know why. It’s the end of the sentence. It’s the in the morning. 

“Okay,” Ilya says finally. There’s too much in his voice to decode. There’s not enough words in his sentence to tease out the meaning. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

“Okay,” Shane whispers and he relaxes back into the mattress. A moment later, Ilya stands with a groan, and Shane’s pushing himself up on his elbow to look at him. “Oh,” he says. “I guess your party is still going on?”

Ilya waves a hand through the air. “Probably,” he says around a yawn as he walks to the bathroom. The faucet switches on, the sound of water running filling the room. 

“Do you have to go back down then?” Shane asks, and Ilya pokes his head out from the bathroom just to roll his eyes at him.

“No,” Ilya tells him. “Is my party. I can leave when I want to.”

Something about that tickles the back of Shane’s brain and he frowns at the opposite wall while Ilya fusses with whatever he’s up to in the bathroom. “Hey,” he says. “Why did you leave in the first place? To come here? I didn’t text or anything.”

Finally, the water turns off and Ilya emerges with a small hand towel in his hands. “Sveta said she had a present for me,” Ilya shrugs and wipes Shane’s stomach and chest clean of his come.

Shane should have something to say about that, at least a follow-up question, but the water’s warm because Ilya waited for it to heat up, and the gesture is sweet, and suddenly Shane doesn’t care so much about whatever wild sex Svetlana and Ilya have had while she’s wearing his jersey before.

He sort of wouldn’t trade what they did tonight for anything.

Especially not when Ilya tosses the dirty towel in the direction of the bathroom before he climbs into bed next to Shane and flicks the lamp off. The sheets rustle as he gets under them. Shane holds his breath; then, he follows Ilya beneath the covers.

Chapter End Notes

shane: oh man i don't think he loved me in his jersey he took it off so fast :( what did i do wrong where are my performance notes how can i improve on this hockey jersey sex
ilya: i told myself not to get my hopes up that he would actually come and then he comes and then i don't get to talk to him all night and then he disappears so i think he's left but actually he's in my hotel room half-naked with his big pretty eyes and freckles and it's been many months since we last saw each other and he's there and he came for my birthday and he played amazing hockey during the finals and he now he is in my hotel room at my birthday party i threw because i wanted him to have an excuse to visit me on my birthday and then he DID and i'm supposed to focus on what he's WEARING?

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