Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

M/M, F/F

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, OMC/Miles (Heated Rivalry), Rose Landry/Svetlana Vetrova

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, OMC, Rose Landry, Miles (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Svetlana Vetrova, Troy Barrett, Harris Drover, Dallas Kent, Yuna Hollander, Hayden Pike, Hayden Pike's Children, Luca Haas

Additional Tags:

Embarrassed Shane Hollander, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Bruises, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Medical Procedures, Medical Inaccuracies, Dentists, Spoilers for Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), Book 2: Heated Rivalry (Game Changers), Oblivious Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is a Menace, Exasperated Shane Hollander, Rough Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Choking, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Dom Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov is a kleptomaniac, He's stealing medical equipment for sexy reasons, Medical Kink, Sexual Overstimulation, Dentistry, Crack Treated Seriously, Blowjob Bruises, Scooby Doo Style Mysteries & Hijinks, Consensual Non-Consent, Shane Hollander Can Fight, Implied/Referenced Breeding Kink, Biting Kink, Shane Hollander Has an Oral Fixation, Everyone Loves Shane Hollander, Judoka Shane Hollander, Cowboy Shane Hollander, Daddy Kink (mentioned), Lesbian Sex, Gay Sex, Ilya is a communist (affectionate), He wants to eat the rich, Shane Hollander is Rich, Coincidence, Shane Hollander is High on Pain Medication, Ilya Rozanov is High on Pain Medication, No Mpreg | Male Pregnancy, Parents Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Do I need to tag Rihanna?, Rihanna songs as a plot device

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2025-12-07 Completed: 2026-08-29 Words: 55,764 Chapters: 10/10

Throat Curtain?

Summary

A missing tooth. A standard hockey emergency.

When a brutal elbow leaves Shane Hollander spitting blood on the ice, he lands immediately in the hands of the opposing team's dentist.

Shane thinks the dentist saw a cavity. The dentist knows he saw a secret.

Notes

Chapter 1: Petechiae

Chapter Notes

February 2018

It happened in a split second of tangled limbs and desperate stick-work. One of Toronto's defenseman pivoted, his elbow flying up and back in a motion that was either accidental or perfectly, brutally intentional. Shane didn't see the impact; he only felt a blinding, sharp explosion of pain in his mouth and the sickening crunch of enamel giving way.

He collapsed onto the ice, hands flying to his face. The whistle blew, silencing the arena in an instant. When he pulled his glove away, his palm was slick with blood, and something small, hard, and impossibly foreign lay nestled in his sweaty leather.

"Get him off!" Coach shouted.

Shane skated off, dizzy and spitting a crimson stream into the bucket held by the medic. The gap in his upper jaw felt enormous, raw, and horribly exposed.

Toronto's team dentist, mercifully, met Shane in the examination room immediately. This rapid response was a necessity in professional hockey, given the sport's high rate of severe dental and facial trauma. The room itself was a sterile, bright space that smelled faintly of antibacterial soap and latex, always ready for the inevitable emergency.

"Well, Mr. Hollander," Dr. Thorne said, his voice calm and professionally modulated as he tugged on a fresh pair of gloves. Dr. Thorne was mid-thirties, lean, with precise movements and a meticulously trimmed beard that was prematurely greying. "Let’s take a look," he continued, his tone smooth, betraying nothing of the urgency required when a player is bleeding from the mouth. "Open wide for me."

Shane leaned back in the chair, the bright overhead light making him squint, and opened his mouth. The cold metal of the instruments against his exposed gum was a jarring, tender sensation.

Dr. Thorne peered in, flashlight beam guiding him past the missing incisor. Shane felt the usual tug and pull of a professional examination. Then, the light beam shifted.

The dentist's, holding the mirror and probe, froze mid-air. For a fraction of a second, the professionally guarded features of the doctor fractured. His eyes widened, darting from Shane’s mouth to the posterior pharynx, and back again.

Dr. Thorne inhaled sharply, the movement barely perceptible, and then his features snapped back into the mask of detached professionalism. His eyes, when they returned to Shane's mouth, were completely schooled.

"Right," Dr. Thorne said, his voice perhaps a fraction deeper, the tone meticulously neutral. He began probing the injury again. "Yes, well. Number eleven is completely gone. We'll need to clean this out, and then you can get a permanent implant scheduled when you get back home."

Shane, still reeling from the sudden, inexplicable shift in the man's demeanor, could only mumble, "Okay. Is it… bad?"

"It’s what happens when you play hockey, Mr. Hollander," Dr. Thorne replied smoothly, not meeting his eyes. "Nothing we can’t fix."

Ten minutes later, Shane was re-dressed in his pads, ready to return to the ice, feeling awkward with the gaping hole in his smile. Dr. Thorne handed him a small paper cup with pain pills and a sheet of aftercare instructions.

"Follow these instructions exactly, Mr. Hollander," the dentist advised. "I'll pass all the notes on to your team physician."

"Thanks, Doc," Shane said. He was still chewing on the weird moment when the man had nearly fallen out of his chair. Had he seen a cavity or something? 

As Shane reached for the door, Dr. Thorne cleared his throat.

"Mr. Hollander. Just... one more thing."

The dentist moved then, stepping way too close for comfort, leaving Shane trapped in front of the closed door. 

Dr. Thorne pulled a sleek leather wallet from his lab coat. He retrieved a pristine white business card and, leaning against the counter next to Shane, scribbled something on the back with a heavy silver pen. Shane was hit with the full force of the man’s cologne. It was a thick, spicy scent, heavy on the cinnamon and clove, that felt far too aggressive for a medical office. Shane wrinkled his nose, leaning his head back against the door to find some air. It smelled like a craft store during the holidays, or a very expensive, very intense candle. It was cloying, and being trapped in it made Shane’s skin prickle.

"This is my personal number. For... house calls," Thorne murmured. "Should you find yourself experiencing any dental issues... or a late-night emergency next time you’re in town. I don't like the idea of you being in need and having no one to call."

"Uh, okay. Thanks. I appreciate that," Shane stammered, his eyes darting around the room. He reached for the card, hoping the transaction was over.

Dr. Thorne took Shane’s hand in a handshake. The contact was warm, dry, and went on for an agonizingly long time.

Shane felt a flush creep up his neck. He’d always considered himself the champion of social awkwardness, but this man was making him feel like an amateur. He tried to pull back slightly, but Thorne’s grip was firm, his eyes raking over Shane's face.

"The line is open twenty-four hours for you, Shane," Thorne said, finally releasing his hand with a slow, reluctant slide of his fingers that made Shane squirm.

Shane stared down at the card. Dr. A. Thorne, DMD. On the back, in elegant, aggressive script, was a ten-digit number.

"Right. Great. For the... teeth. Thanks," Shane said, his voice cracking slightly as he finally wrenched the door open, desperate to escape the spicy, suffocating scent of the office.

"My pleasure, Mr. Hollander," Thorne called after him, his tone smooth and dark. "Believe me."

Shane gave a confused, lopsided half-smile and hurried out, the strange encounter adding another layer of bewildering static to the buzzing pain in his jaw.

Later that night, Shane was tucked into his hotel bed, his mouth numb, trying to keep ice on his swollen gum. He had just finished a text conversation with his mother when his phone lit up with a video call from Ilya.

Shane quickly accepted. Ilya’s face, handsome and framed by the messy hair he refused to trim, filled the screen.

"Look at you, Mr. Hockey," Ilya said, a warm, deep rumble in his voice. "Missing tooth. You look like real player now. Very tough."

"Ha. Very funny," Shane muttered, shifting the phone. "It hurts like hell, you know. But I saw the highlight reel. Reider should get fined for that elbow."

"Forget elbow. I saw the collision," Ilya corrected, his expression turning serious. "Are you okay, though? Seriously?"

"Yeah, I’m fine. Just a hole," Shane confirmed. "The Montreal docs will sort me out tomorrow. It was just a strange night. Toronto’s dentist is weird."

Ilya’s brow furrowed. "The dentist? What about him?"

"He was just… I don’t know," Shane tried to explain, rubbing his temple. "When he was looking at the tooth, he had the light and the mirror in my mouth, and he suddenly froze. Like he saw a ghost."

"Frozen?"

"Yeah. Dead stop. His eyes got huge. I thought he was going to fall out of his chair."

Ilya blinked slowly at the story. He was quiet for a long moment, the smile slowly peeling off his face, replaced by a strange, knowing smirk that was equal parts amusement and revelation.

"Ah," Ilya finally breathed, the sound thick with suppressed laughter. "I think I know what he saw. The... the skin in your throat, Shane. The soft part." He poked his cheek with a finger, then tried to point at the back of Shane's throat through the camera. "The tissue. It is… busted."

Shane frowned. "Busted? Like infected? No, he didn't say anything about an infection."

"Nyet, nyet. Not infection," Ilya insisted, shaking his head rapidly. "The small things. Like the little roads of blood. They burst, yes? From the… the sucking." Ilya made a loud, exaggerated vacuum noise and then looked immensely pleased with himself, before realizing Shane was completely lost.

“What are you talking about? What burst roads?"

Ilya sighed heavily, frustrated by the inadequacy of his English vocabulary. "Hold on. I use Google."

He minimized the video call briefly, leaving Shane staring at Ilya’s concentrated forehead. A minute later, Ilya’s voice returned, heavy with the Russian accent of the translator app.

"Okay. He saw the petechiae." Ilya mispronounced the word, but looked relieved to have a term. "Is when your small… cap…capillaries…" He paused, sounding out the word. "The little blood tubes! They break."

"Is it serious? I can't even feel it!"

Ilya sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exasperation at the language and medical barrier. He knew exactly what he needed to say to make the point sink in, and sometimes, direct Russian bluntness was the only solution.

He dropped the Google translation and leaned into the camera, his voice low and devoid of any nuance.

"Shane. Listen to me. Last night. I fuck your throat. Now you have bruise."

Shane stared back at the screen. His eyes, wide with confusion just moments before, now ballooned into disbelief. The blood completely drained from his face.

"WHAT?!" Shane yelled, forgetting where he was, the sound echoing slightly in the room. He immediately clapped his hand over his mouth.

"Yes, zayka," Ilya confirmed, his voice instantly softening with tenderness despite the crude explanation. "Is true. Why you think your throat is sore this morning even before the elbow?"

The panic hit Shane. He didn't know what to do with his hands or his face. The mortification was absolute. 

"Oh my God, oh my God," Shane whimpered, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Ilya, the dentist! He knows! He saw it, and he knows we're gay! My career, the team—"

Ilya cut him off with a loud, incredulous laugh. "Shane, relax! No! The dentist does not know! Why would he think that?"

"He saw the bruises!" Shane hissed, near tears with panic.

Ilya chuckled, shaking his head. "He does not know you are gay. He knows one thing only." Ilya smiled, a deep, satisfied smirk curling his lips. “He knows that Mr. Shane Hollander gives great head. Maybe is with dildo, hmm? But either way...is very enthusiastic. Very big. Is all dentist knows, my little slut. And he is jealous."

Shane felt his hysteria melt into a weak, embarrassed groan. "Are you serious? He can actually see that…that I…?"

"Yes!" Ilya chuckled, though his voice was tender. "When you, ah, accommodate me with that much enthusiasm, it leaves little purple marks on the back, where the throat curtain is." He minimized the call again. "Okay, wait, throat curtain is not right. Translator says... soft palate. Yes. He saw the sign of your very recent, very impressive blowjob."

"Oh God, Ilya. Oh my God," Shane whispered, mortified. "He knows. That's why he reacted like that. He knows. He’s going to think I’m some kind of… pervert!"

Ilya stopped laughing. "Stop. Stop. Did he look disgusted? Like he was going to tell your coach?"

"No," Shane admitted, squinting as he replayed the scene. "He was shocked. Then he got really professional, almost too professional. And then he was weirdly intense...and—"

"Okay, so he did not run away," Ilya said, his voice leveling out, sounding suspicious. "And he saw what we did to your neck, and then he just… what did he do after that?"

"He just," Shane said, leaning into his camera, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion, "gave me the aftercare stuff and shook my hand before I left. For like, a full minute. I thought maybe he was checking my pulse? Is that a dentist thing?"

On the other side of the screen, Ilya was silent, his face blank with disbelief. "Shane—"

Shane blinked. "Wait," Shane whispered, his eyes going wide. "Oh... oh no. Ilya, was he... was he hitting on me?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card, holding it up to the camera. "He gave me this. His personal number. He said it was for 'house calls.'"

Ilya’s face went completely still. The easy humor vanished. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his jaw tightened so hard the muscle pulsed.

"He what?" Ilya's voice dropped two registers, becoming gravelly and dangerous. "He saw my mark in your throat and gave you his number? For 'house calls'??" Ilya repeated the phrase with heavy contempt. The audacity of some Canadian dentist. This fucking guy. 

Ilya glared at the phone screen, his gaze burning right through the screen. "Tear up card, Shane," Ilya commanded. "Right now. Do not call him. Do not text him. If you need 'house call' you call me.”

"Ilya, he’s just a guy," Shane protested, though he felt a sudden rush of warmth at Ilya's jealous possessiveness.

"No," Ilya growled. "He is stranger who knows intimate details about your throat, details I put there. You do not need this creep's number. Rip the card now, Shane." Ilya's voice was low, demanding, and utterly serious, yet the underlying current of wounded pride and possessiveness was almost comical. 

Shane tried to hold his expression steady, but a defiant, pleased smirk started twitching at the corner of his mouth, the side where the tooth was not missing.

"Stop," Shane managed, though his tone lacked any real heat. "It's a dentist. A very hot, very professional dentist who thinks my throat is hot."

"Is not his," Ilya countered, his Russian accent thickening with his irritation. "Is mine. And he saw my work, and still gave you his number. That is disrespect."

Shane couldn't hold it in anymore; a soft snort escaped him, followed by a quiet laugh. The sight of Ilya, so intensely grumpy and possessive over a couple of throat bruises, was deeply endearing.

"Fine," Shane conceded, picking up the white business card. "You want me to tear up the evidence of this gross act of disrespect?"

"Da. Show me," Ilya instructed, crossing his arms over his broad chest on the video feed, watching with narrowed eyes.

With exaggerated ceremony, Shane slowly tore the crisp card down the middle, then tore the halves into quarters, and finally shredded the pieces into tiny confetti, letting the white scraps flutter down onto the carpet of the hotel.

Ilya watched the process with the grim satisfaction. When the last piece was on the floor, the tension eased visibly from his shoulders.

"Good," Ilya said, a small, triumphant smile finally touching his lips. "That is where that number belongs. The garbage."

The mood instantly shifted from possessive threat to playful intimacy.

"So," Ilya continued, his eyes crinkling. "Toronto dental staff knows how much of a little slut you are, yes? They know how much you enjoy making a mess of your throat for me."

Shane felt his cheeks heat up again, but this time it was from pleasure, not panic. "Ilya! He just saw bruises. He doesn’t know who—"

"He saw the signature of a man who knows how to use your mouth, dorogoy," Ilya interrupted smoothly. "And he is jealous. Next time I see you, you have to be very good, and I put bruises back when they fade."

Shane ran his tongue gingerly over the tender gap in his gums, the reality of the timeline finally sinking in.

"The game is in three days," Shane muttered, his shoulders dropping as he leaned closer to the camera. "The dentist said the swelling won’t even be down by then, let alone healed enough for… you know. I was looking forward to seeing you, but I’m going to be useless. I can't exactly give you a blowjob."

Ilya let out a short, huffing laugh, his eyes crinkling. "Don’t pout, malysh. You have more than one hole and I have very long list I want to do to the other."

"Ilya," Shane croaked, his face flooding with a deep blush as he squirmed away from the screen.

Coward," Ilya rumbled. "Come back. I cannot see you when you hide."

"You can't just... say things like that," Shane croaked, slowly inching back into the frame. "Have some mercy."

"I have no mercy for you," Ilya corrected, his brow furrowing as he leaned closer to the screen with a frustrated groan. "And you are being cruel. To not have your mouth is tragedy, yes, but to hide your face when you are blushing like this? This is true torture."

"You’ve seen it a thousand times."

"No," Ilya insisted. "Your freckles are my favorite, and I can't see them. Please. Pozhaluysta. Come back."

Shane slowly inched back into the frame, his face still glowing a brilliant, embarrassed red.

"There they are," Ilya murmured, his expression softening into something hungrily possessive as he stared at Shane. "My freckles. You should not hide what belongs to me, my Shane."

"They're on my face, Ilya," Shane countered. "I'm pretty sure that makes them mine."

"Everything on that beautiful face is mine," Ilya corrected, his voice dropping to a seductive rasp as he leaned so close to the camera his eyes seemed to swallow the screen. "And I will prove it in three days. But for now... you are alone, yes? Tell me what you are wearing for me."

Shane rolled his eyes, a genuine, delighted grin spreading across his face despite the tender spot in his mouth and the lingering heat in his cheeks. "Just some old sweatpants and a hoodie. Nothing special."

"Then take them off," Ilya commanded, the playfulness vanishing into pure, dark intent. "Slowly. I want to see what I am missing."

Shane set the phone down against the pillow, carefully positioning the camera so Ilya had a clear, unobstructed view of his body. His heart thudded against his ribs as he reached for the hem of his hoodie. He moved slowly eyes locked on Ilya’s expectant face, watching the way the Russian’s pupils blown wide.

As he shed the last of his clothes, the cool air of the room hit his skin, but he felt nothing but the heat of Ilya’s gaze. He sat back, completely exposed and focused on the man behind the screen, prepared to obey every possessive command his grumpy Russian could dream up.

Chapter End Notes

Anyone catch that the dentist’s name is A. Thorne? I’m sure Ilya agrees.

Chapter 2: The Tooth Breaker of Toronto

Chapter Summary

Years later, Ilya has his own encounter with the dentist.

Chapter Notes

November 2021

"This fucking guy!" Ilya grumbled, his voice thick with annoyance and pain.

He was bent over a bin in the visitor's locker room, spitting a steady stream of pink and crimson into the waste basket. The second period had just ended, the Centaurs up 3–1, but the cost for the lead had been Ilya’s premolars.

The culprit, as always, was the colossal Toronto defenseman, Reider, who had been affectionately, or perhaps infamously, dubbed "The Tooth Breaker of Toronto."

Troy leaned in close to examine the damage. "Yep. It’s definitely broken. It looks pretty bad," Troy confirmed, pulling back from the bloody mouth. "Reider lives up to his nickname."

A wave of laughter ran through the locker room. The team was used to the tradition of taking a Reider hit.

"Welcome to the club, Captain!" Hayes shouted. 

"Yeah, enjoy the soup diet," Bood joked.

Ilya glared at them, but the pain was making him slightly dizzy. He grabbed a fresh towel and pressed it against his gum, thinking of the inevitable dental work. He tried to focus on something else, anything else, besides the throbbing in his jaw.

"Wait a minute," Ilya said, wiping his mouth. He looked over at Shane, who was calmly fixing his tape and pointedly not looking at him. A slow, mischievous grin stretched Ilya’s face, a painful sight with a broken tooth, as the memory clicked into place. "You were one of Reider's little tooth victims, yes? Your little front one."

Shane, who had been trying to fade into the background, immediately felt the heat rise up his neck. He knew exactly where Ilya's brain was going.

"Don't, Ilya," Shane muttered, giving him a warning look. 

Ilya ignored him, his eyes alight with amusement. "No, no. It was after that night. The night I bruised your throat." Ilya laughed, a short, painful sound. 

Shane flushed bright red, glancing nervously at Troy and the other teammates who were thankfully preoccupied.

"The 'house call' man, yes?" Ilya reminded him, his voice dropping slightly.

Shane sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Yes. Dr. Thorne. And as you will recall, I ripped his number up, exactly as you ordered. Can we focus on the game?"

Ilya leaned forward, his bloody mouth somehow looking even more appealing in the moment. "Do you think he still works here?"

Shane swallowed hard, fighting down the wave of embarrassment and the unexpected flare of attraction that Ilya’s possessive grumpiness still sparked. "I don’t know."

Ilya grinned, a flash of bloody white against the gap in his teeth. "I think I’m about to find out, lyubimyy.”

He pushed himself off the bench, ripping the towel away from his mouth. He looked a mess, but his stride was determined.

"Please do not embarrass me," Shane pleaded.

Ilya just shrugged, a wicked glint in his eyes that promised trouble. "I am on best behavior. Do not worry. Go win us game."

Ilya walked out of the locker room towards the medical staff entrance, clearly on a mission that had nothing to do with dental health and everything to do with reclaiming dominance.

Shane watched him go, rolled his eyes dramatically for the benefit of any curious teammates, chugged the rest of his water, and grabbed his stick.

The third period was starting. He had a game to win, and a very grumpy, very competitive husband with a broken tooth to defend.

The celebratory mood from the 4–1 win over Toronto died instantly the moment Shane pushed through the medical room doors. He followed the unmistakable sound of his husband’s overly loud, slightly slurry Russian accent.

Ilya was reclined in a dentist's chair, his cheek swollen, a wad of gauze pressed to his gum. And sitting next to him, scribbling into a medical file, was Dr. Thorne. Ugh. Of course. Just my luck. 

Shane took a breath, trying to school his features into something neutral, though he felt like he was walking into a cage with two different kinds of predators just waiting to eat him.

Admittedly, that would be physically difficult for Ilya given the state of his mouth, but Shane was sure that fucker would find a way. If Ilya couldn't use his teeth, he’d use his tongue—specifically to dismantle Shane’s dignity in front of the guy who’d been trying to "house call" his way into Shane’s pants.

"Lyubimyy! Look!" Ilya waved a sluggish hand, proudly rattling a small, blood-streaked jar containing his broken tooth fragments. "I got suvenır.”

Shane involuntarily grimaced. "That is vile, Ilya," he said, but his voice was already softening into that helpless, caretaking tone he couldn't help but let slip out when faced with his ill husband. He didn't spare a glance to Dr. Thorne, desperately hoping that if he ignored the man, the dentist would simply remain a silent, professional shadow in the corner. He just reached out and gently cupped Ilya's unswollen cheek.

Ilya looked utterly ridiculous. His right cheek was puffed out like a chipmunk hoarding nuts. His hazel eyes were droopy, glassy, and swimming with a kind of blissful, loopy contentment. He looked completely helpless and, Shane had to admit, incredibly cute.

"Is trophy," Ilya slurred happily, adjusting his grip on the jar. "Proof I am warrior. And I belong to exclusive club of Reider's victims."

"Your trophy is going to make me throw up," Shane muttered, taking the jar away from him before Ilya could accidentally drop it. He placed the jar gently on the counter. 

Ilya just giggled, a sound that was surprisingly high-pitched and slightly muffled by his swollen face. He leaned his head against Shane's chest with a heavy thump. 

“What is English word for suvenír?" Ilya asked.

Shane sighed. "It's not English. It's a French word. It's souvenir in English, too.”

"Ugh," Ilya replied dismissively, shaking the jar again. "French. Is nothing original." He squinted at the jar, clearly amused by the sight of his own bloody enamel. Ilya then leaned back, chanting in a ridiculous, drawn-out fake French accent: "Soo-ven-eeer. Soo-ven-eeer."

Shane gently took the jar back from Ilya's lax fingers and placed it on the counter again like a parent taking something dangerous away from a baby.

When Ilya didn’t reach for the jar for a second time, Shane turned toward Dr. Thorne, offering an expression that communicated equal parts apology and utter resignation.

Dr. Thorne cleared his throat, the sound tight and professionally strained. He gave Shane a thin, polite nod that didn't quite hide the awkwardness as he looked from Shane’s hand to Ilya’s face. He seemed to be counting the seconds until they left. He focused pointedly on his clipboard, avoiding Shane's eyes. "Mr. Hollander, I’m afraid your... husband’s first premolar was cleanly avulsed. I’ve just finished removing the remaining root fragments and suturing the site. Since the extraction was traumatic, I've administered a dose of hydrocodone. He's... a little more than stable. He’s quite drowsy."

Ilya let out a long, airy hum against Shane’s palm, his eyes lidded and glazed. "Mmm..." he mumbled, the sound vibrating against Shane's hand. "...hot."

Shane’s heart skipped a beat. He shifted his hand from Ilya’s cheek to his forehead, his face pinched. Ilya’s skin did feel flushed. Shane looked at Dr. Thorne, eyes wide with mounting dread.

"Is he overheated?" Shane asked urgently. "Is he having a reaction to the meds? His pulse...it looks really high!" Shane was working himself into a frenzy now, watching the frantic jump of the vein in Ilya’s neck.

Dr. Thorne grabbed his stethoscope and stepped back into Ilya’s personal space, pressing the metal bell firmly against the chest of Ilya’s compression shirt.

"His heart rate is definitely elevated," Thorne muttered after a long moment, brow furrowed in concentration. "But steady. Rozanov, can you hear me? Any chest pain?"

Ilya let out a weak, raspy chuckle, his head rolling back as he beamed at his husband with a lopsided, loopy grin.

"Noooooo," Ilya drawled, his tongue heavy and clumsy. "Not me. You. You... are so hot. Everyone thinks so. Right, Doctor? He's so pretty."

Dr. Thorne turned a very deep shade of red. He cleared his throat, pulling the stethoscope away. "He’s fine," Thorne said, his voice a pitch higher than usual. "Physiologically…he’s stable." 

Thorne put a heavy emphasis on the word physiologically. It hung in the air like a polite substitute for mentally, he’s a disaster, or maybe, I am no longer being paid enough to deal with this.

"Are you sure?" Shane pressed, his own face heating up as he hovered over the chair. "He's acting so... erratic."

"I'm certain," Thorne reassured him, avoiding Shane's eyes. "He isn't having a negative reaction to the drugs. He’s just having a... very positive reaction to you."

Shane froze. "What?...Oh...Oh."

They both looked away, the silence in the room suddenly thick with awkwardness. Thorne beat a hasty retreat to his stool to finish up his paprwork.

Ilya watched the stethoscope dangling from the doctor’s neck. He reached out, poking the bell so it swayed like a pendulum.

"Khochu poslushat' tvoyo serdtse, kogda ty konchayesh'..." Ilya mumbled. 

Shane’s blood ran cold. He knew the gist of what Ilya was saying: something about wanting to listen to Shane’s heart the moment he made him cum. Ilya’s hand drifted toward the stethoscope again, his fingers hooking the tubing.

"Mne nuzhna eta shtuka," Ilya mumbled. "Chtoby slyshat', kak sil'no ono b'yetsya, kogda ya... fuck you... hard." I need this thing. To hear how hard it’s beating when I [fuck you hard].

Shane felt a sudden, traitorous jolt of heat spark in his gut, but it was short-lived. He didn't have the luxury of being turned on when his husband was currently a high-functioning medical hazard because at that exact moment, Ilya yanked on the stethoscope tube with a sharp, clumsy tug.

"Ow!" Thorne’s head snapped up as the earpieces ripped painfully across the back of his neck.

"Ilya!" Shane barked, lunging to grab Ilya’s wrist.

Thorne blinked, rubbing his sore neck in irritation. "Did he just... what did he say?"

"He’s complaining!" Shane stammered, his brain working at light-speed. "He’s saying the chair! This leather chair is... uh... fucking hard! He says it’s uncomfortable."

Thorne stared at Shane, then at Ilya, who was currently trying to shove the stethoscope’s chest piece into his own ear. Thorne sighed, leaning over to pry the instrument out of Ilya’s hands.

"Okay, great," Thorne said dryly, finally reclaiming his property. "Let’s get him out of it then."

Ilya pouted at the loss of his toy. Seeking a new distraction, his fingers began a playful walk up Shane’s stomach, lifting the hem of the shirt to expose bare skin.

"Stop it!" Shane hissed, slapping the hand away.

Ilya’s lip wobbled. He opened his mouth, likely to describe another sexual act in bilingual detail, but Shane acted quickly. He grabbed the glass jar containing the bloody tooth fragments and thrust it into Ilya's hands.

"Here!"

Ilya blinked, his focus shifting instantly. He began to shake the jar vigorously. The sound of bone hitting glass was sickening, but it was preferable to the filth coming out of Ilya's mouth.

"I'll just... finish the instructions," Thorne muttered.

"Thank you," Shane said, forcing a brittle, polite smile. "I hope he wasn't too much trouble, doctor."

Ilya instantly cut in, his voice ringing with exaggerated formality and a thick, mocking accent. "Doctor." He dragged out the word, the volume control entirely broken. "Oh, right! I forgot you met! You saw my work."

Shane’s eyes widened in horror. He lunged to slap a hand over Ilya’s mouth, but Ilya just laughed and batted Shane away.

Dr. Thorne looked up, wary. "I'm not sure I follow, Mr. Rozanov."

Ilya leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes twinkling. "The blowjob bruises. The pete—petech—" He struggled, then flapped a hand dismissively. "Whatever. Is probably French word too." He let his head loll back against the headrest, looking as proud as if he'd just won the Stanley Cup. "That was my work. Very good work."

Shane squeezed his eyes shut, counting to three. When he opened them, he and Dr. Thorne made brief, harrowing eye contact, a mutual recognition of a trauma they would never, ever speak of again, before they both looked away.

Ilya didn't miss a beat. He continued, loudly, "So, Doctor. Now that I have lost tooth, I cannot return favor, yes? My mouth is not useful for a week! So, dorogoy," Ilya turned to Shane, pouting dramatically, "you will have to do the blowjobs"

Shane was certain Dr. Thorne's pulse must have spiked. The combination of Ilya’s possessiveness, the drug-induced volume, and the intimate subject matter was mortifying.

"Is there any other medication, maybe something stronger, that could knock him out for the trip home?" Shane interrupted desperately. "Please?"

Dr. Thorne cleared his throat, desperately schooling his features back into a professional mask, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "Unfortunately, no. He needs to remain semi-alert for the next few hours to monitor for any adverse reactions."

He handed Shane the aftercare packet, his fingers lingering just a second too long on the paper as Shane took it. Thorne offered a tight, wry smile, holding Shane’s gaze with that same startling intensity. "And I meant what I said, Mr. Rozanov. No smoking, no straws, soft foods only, and absolutely no... blowjobs for a week. Let the site heal."

Ilya instantly blew a loud, defiant raspberry with his lips, but the action sent a sharp jolt of pain through his freshly operated gum. He immediately grimaced, clutching his cheek.

Shane rolled his eyes at his husband's antics.

Dr. Thorne’s smile widened, his eyes clearly filled with amusement as he watched the two of them. "And if you need anything, Mr. Hollander, you still have my number. I believe."

"No, he doesn't," Ilya snapped. The drug-haze seemed to clear for a split second of possessive clarity. "I make him rip it up. He is mine. Nyet. No house calls for you. Sorry."

Ilya did not look sorry at all.

Dr. Thorne let out a short, genuine bark of laughter, and Shane couldn't help but laugh with him. The amusement cut through the lingering mortification.

"You missed the best part of his high," Thorne said, leaning back against the counter.

Shane raised an eyebrow. "Oh? I can't imagine what could be better than this."

"Before you arrived," Thorne continued, "he would not stop talking about how beautiful his husband is. I believe he dedicated a good five minutes to a very...very detailed analysis of your freckles." He paused, looking directly at Shane, his eyes twinkling. "I must say... I agree."

Ilya, whose eyes were now closed as he slumped stubbornly back into the headrest, simply muttered, "He's married. Go away."

Shane felt the heat in his cheeks, but a small, helpless smile tugged at his mouth. He looked at the doctor and realized Thorne was riling Ilya up on purpose, and honestly, Shane was happy to let the two of them spar while he played the exhausted referee.

"Thanks for that blackmail material," Shane laughed, shaking his head as he looked down at his drugged-out, territorial husband. "It’s good to know I married a raving lunatic. Keeps life interesting."

"Safe travels back to Ottawa, Mr. Hollander," Dr. Thorne said, looking like a man who had found a very entertaining way to spend his shift. He gave Shane a final, subtle wink—one that was less of a "call me" and more of a "good luck with this one."

"And Mr. Rozanov," Thorne added, "try to keep that enthusiasm contained."

Shane nodded a final, genuine goodbye. "Thanks for... everything, Doctor."

Shane turned to his husband. Ilya's head was slumped forward against his chest, the pain meds pulling him under. Before helping him up, Shane quickly pocketed the jar containing Ilya's tooth fragments, knowing he’d never hear the end of it if Ilya realized he'd forgotten his souvenir. Shane reached for Ilya's arm, hooking it under his own and pulling his dead weight out of the dental chair. "Alright. Time to go."

Ilya’s eyes fluttered open for a second. "Did we win?" he slurred.

"Yes, we did," Shane said, steering him toward the exit while trying to keep his own balance.

"Oh, nice," Ilya mumbled. His head lolled heavily against Shane’s shoulder as they navigated toward the hall. After a few silent, unsteady steps, he added, "...I did, too?"

"Did what?" Shane asked, grunting as he caught Ilya before he could veer into a tray of dental tools.

"Won."

Shane looked at his husband. He saw the lopsided grin, the glazed eyes, and the sheer, petty satisfaction written across his face even while high out of his mind. He let out a long sigh, shaking his head with a fond, tired smile.

"Yes, Ilya. You won."

Ilya let out a satisfied, drug-thickened grunt, his eyes drifting shut again as they reached the cool air of the hallway. “Ehtot gryoˊbanyy muzhıˊk.”

This fucking guy.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to the comment with this idea. I could not get it out of my head and spent all day on this little chapter for you all! Hope you enjoy! I'm honestly overwhelmed with gratitude at the amount of comments. I've never experienced another fan fiction fandom where people are so willing to comment! I love it! And I appreciate them all so much. I will reply to all of them eventually! <3

Every day there is like a ton more hits and I'm so surprised it didn't get buried under all of the other amazing stories that are flying through the feed. Out of curiosity, how are ya'll still finding this fic?

Chapter 3: Show and Tell

Chapter Notes

Wow! the reception of this has been amazing so I wrote you all a present in thanks!

 

Surprise! It's smut. I hope you like it.

February 2022

Shane was on his knees, the plush carpet of their hotel room biting into his skin as he looked up at Ilya. He started slow, his tongue swirling around the head of Ilya's cock, tasting the salt and pre-cum, tracing the foreskin.

"Enough," Ilya rasped, his fingers fisting into Shane’s hair. He guided Shane forward with a firm, uncompromising pressure, forcing Shane’s mouth open wide.

Shane felt his jaw stretch to its limit as Ilya took control, the thumb of his other hand pressing firmly against Shane’s pulse point. He began to rock himself against Shane’s tongue, driving forward until the head of his cock bumped against the back of Shane’s throat.

"Deep breath, zayka," Ilya commanded. "Open up. Suck. Yes... just like that."

Ilya gripped Shane’s hair tighter and surged forward, forcing Shane to swallow him all the way to the hilt. Shane’s eyes squeezed shut, a sharp, involuntary gag reflex hitting him as his throat was forced to stretch around the intrusion. He tried to pull back instinctively, but Ilya’s hand was still at the back of his head, pinning him there, making him feel every inch of the thickness occupying his airway.

"Don't fight it. Take it all," Ilya grunted, his fingers pressing onto the front of Shane’s throat to feel the stretch.

He didn't let Shane linger for very long. Ilya hauled him up by the hair, dragging his mouth back toward the tip until Shane was nearly free, only to plunge him back down again with a sudden push to the back of his head. 

Shane’s vision flickered, his throat clicking as it tried to accommodate Ilya. A desperate, strangled noise deep from his chest was swallowed instantly by the friction. He began to panic for a split second, the air cutting off, before he remembered what he was supposed to do. 

He focused, forcing himself to take a breath through his nose. The oxygen hit his lungs, and he went soft, yielding entirely to the rhythm and depth Ilya demanded.

"There he is," Ilya purred, his fingers tightening in Shane’s hair.

Shane made small, frantic sounds of distress and pleasure. Messy, wet slurps and choked moans that only seemed to spur Ilya on. Each time Ilya’s hips snapped forward, Shane’s throat let out a thick, rhythmic gack as the head hit the very back of his throat.

"Hold it there," Ilya grunted, pinning Shane at the base, forcing him to stay submerged. "Take me so well, Shane. Such a good little slut for me."

Shane’s hands clutched at Ilya’s thighs, his fingernails digging into the muscle. Tears began to stream down his face, a natural reflex from the depth of the penetration, but he didn't tap out as Ilya alternated between fisting Shane’s hair to pull him off and pressing down on the back of his neck to drive him lower.

Ilya looked down, his expression one of pure, dark fascination. "Good boy," he rasped, his voice thick with a heady mix of lust and pride. "Look at you. So fucking obedient. You take it all and you don't even fight me, do you?"

He watched the way Shane’s eyes glazed over, fixed on Ilya with a hazy focus even as he struggled for breath. "You’re perfect like this. Just a greedy little hole."

Overwhelmed by the praise, Shane’s cock twitched and his hand began to drift downward. He barely grazed his aching length before Ilya’s hand snapped Shane’s wrist in a bruising grip. He wrenched Shane upward by the hair, forcing him off his cock entirely.

"Ah-ah," Ilya growled. "Did I say you could touch yourself?"

Shane was left reeling, gasping for air, his chest heaving as he stared up at Ilya. He tried to speak, his lips parting to answer, but his throat was so raw and constricted from the deepthroating that nothing came out but a dry, raspy click of air. He swallowed hard, his eyes watery and desperate.

"Answer me," Ilya commanded, his grip tightening on Shane's wrist. "Did I tell you that you could touch yourself?"

"N-no," Shane finally managed, his voice a broken, painful whisper.

"And are you going to be a good boy for me now?"

"Yes," Shane breathed.

Ilya’s gaze darkened with satisfaction. He reached down, his thumb dragging slowly against the head of Shane's twitching cock to gather the bead of pre-cum gathering there. Shane shivered at the contact. He was so close to the edge, his muscles tensing as he fought the urge to thrust into Ilya’s hand.

Ilya brought his hand back up, his eyes locked on Shane’s, and smeared the salt-sweet moisture across Shane’s swollen bottom lip.

"Good," Ilya murmured. He used his other hand to guide the head of his cock back against Shane’s mouth. "Now, show me."

Shane leaned in eagerly, his tongue swirling around the crown, licking and sucking with renewed fervor. He blew Ilya with a soft, dedicated focus for several moments, his mouth warm and inviting. Tears clung to his thick eyelashes and smeared across his freckles, catching the light and shimmering like the surface of water sparkling in the sun.

"God, look at you," Ilya rasped, his voice trembling with a mix of worship and dominance. "Look how pretty I made you. You're a mess for me, aren't you?"

Shane looked up through those damp, glittering lashes, his eyes glazed and devoted, never stopping his work. But as Shane’s movements became more confident, Ilya’s patience wore thin. Ilya’s hand returned to the back of Shane’s head, his fingers tangling deep in his hair as he began to drive his hips forward once more.

He resumed that deep, punishing rhythm, the room filling with the heavy, wet sounds of Shane deepthroating him. Shane fell back into a daze of muffled vocalizations and wet, suctioning slops as he tried to take every inch. Each time Ilya bottomed out, Shane’s throat let out a thick gluck, a sound that Ilya seemed to feel in his own bones.

"That's it," Ilya groaned, his knuckles white in Shane's hair. "Take it all. Show me what a good, obedient slut you are."

Ilya pushed a fraction too far, hitting the back of Shane’s throat with a force that made Shane’s body recoil. Ilya abruptly wrenched him off. Shane collapsed forward against Ilya’s lap, gagging and coughing violently, his chest heaving as he fought to reclaim his breath. Strands of saliva and the brilliant, watery shine of more tears dampened his flushed face, his mouth hanging open as he panted.

Ilya used his thumb to wipe a stray tear from Shane’s cheek, his voice softening to a genuine murmur. "You okay? Too much?"

Shane didn't answer. He looked up through damp lashes, his eyes dark and hungry. He leaned forward to lick a slow, wet stripe from the base of Ilya’s cock to the tip. He flattened his tongue over the leaking slit before opening wide and sliding back down, taking the entire length back into his throat in one smooth, practiced motion. A deep, resonant gulp echoed as he bottomed out.

Ilya let out a choked sound of surprise that quickly dissolved into a jagged groan. When the tightening in Ilya’s core signaled he was nearing the edge, he didn't let himself finish there. He needed more of Shane. He wrenched Shane off one last time, Shane’s mouth popping loudly as the vacuum broke.

Before Shane could even catch his breath, Ilya was on him, stripping Shane of his clothes.

"No—the shirt—I need to fold—it’ll wrinkle," Shane rasped, his voice sounding like it had been scraped with sandpaper.

"I will fucking iron it myself if it means I get to fuck you ten seconds faster," Ilya growled, tossing the fabric toward the corner and flipping Shane onto the mattress, pressing him face-down into the hotel bed.

Ilya paused, a sharp intake of breath. Nestled between Shane’s flushed cheeks was the gleaming silver base of an anal plug.

"You wore this to the bar?" Ilya’s voice was delighted. "While we were sitting with Wiebe and the rookies? Talking about plays while you are stretched open?"

"I wanted to... be ready," Shane muffled into the sheets, his face burning a deep, humiliated crimson.

Ilya reached down, his large hand cupping Shane’s hip while his thumb and forefinger gripped the cold metal stem of the plug. He began to toy with it, pulling it out slowly until the widest point of the bulb was stretching Shane’s rim obscenely, before letting the suction of Shane’s muscles let it slide back in.

"So naughty," Ilya whispered, leaning down so his hot breath ghosted over Shane’s ear. "Such a little slut for me. You liked it, yes? Sitting there, nodding at Coach, knowing you were filled up. You get off on them almost catching us. On them seeing what I do to you."

Shane let out a broken, stuttering moan, his fingers clawing deep into the duvet.

"I see you in the locker room, too," Ilya continued, his voice dropping to a gravelly snarl as he began to swirl the plug in a slow, torturous circle. "You pretend to be pissed off when I leave hickeys. But I see you when you think no one is looking. I see you in front of your locker, pressing your fingers into the bruises I gave you. Checking to make sure they are still there."

Shane’s breath hitched, a sob of need catching in his raw throat. "Please..."

"You love it," Ilya insisted. He gave the plug one final, lingering tug, letting Shane’s hole gape and pulse in the air for a frantic second before he discarded the toy and replaced it with himself.

He drove in all at once, his weight crushing Shane into the mattress. The transition from the smooth metal to Ilya’s hot, stretching thickness was overwhelming. Shane let out a high-pitched, desperate keen, his spine arching as Ilya began a brutal pace.

"Is this what you wanted at the bar, zayka?" Ilya grunted, his chest slamming against Shane’s back with every heavy thrust. 

Shane couldn't even form words anymore.

lya’s hand reached between them, his fingers clamping like a vice around the base of his own cock. He physically barred himself from crossing the threshold, jaw set tight as he fought his own mounting pressure. He didn't want the release yet; he wanted the view. He wanted to watch Shane break first, to see every tremor and hear every broken note.

Shane went rigid, his back arching off the mattress. Hoarse, desperate moans escaped him, his vocal cords straining. His fingers curled into the sheets while his eyes rolled back, losing focus entirely. He fell apart beautifully, a mess of shivering limbs and shattered breath, until the peak finally passed and he went limp beneath Ilya, his muscles twitching with the aftershocks.

For thirty seconds, the only sound in the room was their synchronized, panting breath. Ilya was still hard and aching, watching as Shane slowly drifted back to earth. Finally, the silence was broken by Shane.

"Oh god," Shane croaked, his voice almost non-existent now. "The cleaners... they’re going to have to... this is so embarrassing."

Ilya hauled himself up on his knees, looking down at his husband with a look of sheer, incredulous amusement. "Clearly, I did not fuck you hard enough if you are still whining about laundry."

"I'm not—"

Ilya didn't let him finish. He flipped Shane onto his back with a sudden, rough heave, Shane’s limbs sprawling boneless against the rumpled sheets. Shane was soft now, his body spent and humming from the previous peak, his skin sensitive to the point of near-agony. But Ilya wasn't finished. He loomed over Shane, eyes dark and blown out, and re-entered him with a slow, agonizingly thick slide that made Shane’s gasp.

"Wait—I'm... I've had enough," Shane croaked, his hands coming up to weakly push at Ilya’s chest.

Ilya paused, his muscles bunched and quivering as he held himself deep inside Shane’s heat. He stared down into Shane’s blown-out pupils. They both knew the rules. If Shane actually wanted Ilya to stop he would use their safeword and Ilya would stop immediately. They had navigated this territory many times before.

Ilya waited five long, agonizing seconds, forcing Shane to sit with his own helplessness. Shane didn't say the word. Instead, a shaky sob broke from his throat, and while his mouth whispered a quiet "please don't," his fingers crawled up to cradle Ilya’s ribcage, pulling the heavier man right back down onto him.

"You sound so convincing, malysh," Ilya growled as he pinned Shane’s wrists to the mattress above his head with a single hand. "But since you are not stopping me, I am going to ruin you. You don't get a say anymore."

When Ilya began to move again, it wasn't a gentle re-entry. It was a relentless reclamation. He angled his hips, grinding his cock against that one devastating spot deep inside Shane, completely disregarding the way Shane tried to twist away from the intensity. He hit it over and over.

Bound beneath Ilya's weight, Shane began to thrash, his protests dissolving into incoherent pleas. He was half-begging for Ilya to stop, half-begging for him to go faster. Tears of blissful agony leaked from the corners of his eyes. His body was physically exhausted, his first climax still pulsing in his veins, but Ilya was ruthlessly forcing him back up the mountain, overriding his physical limits.

"Look at me," Ilya commanded, leaning down to press the words right against Shane's wet cheek. "Tell me to stop, Shane. Use the word or I'm taking everything you have left."

"I can't," Shane cried out, the words bursting from him. "Ilya, I can't. I can't come anymore."

"You can," Ilya growled back with absolute certainty. "I did not give you permission to be done. Your body belongs to me right now and I say you have more."

He shifted his angle, driving hard against that oversensitive spot, triggering the nerve endings that Shane thought were entirely spent.

"Please," Shane sobbed, a sharp, broken "Ah—ngh!" tearing from his throat as his head thrashed against the pillow. He was trapped between the mattress and Ilya's heavy frame, utterly helpless against the sensory overload. He really believed his body was done, but Ilya’s pace was proving him wrong, dragging heat right back up into his lower belly.

"Don't beg me to stop unless you mean it," Ilya murmured, his breath hot against Shane’s ear as he hit the spot again.

"Ah! Ilya, pl—hnnh..." Shane choked out, the words dissolving into a breathless whine.

"Tell me you want to stop. Use the word."

"Mmmph—haaah..." Slipped past Shane's lips as his eyes rolled back. He had the power to end it, but instead, his legs wrapped tight around Ilya’s waist, locking them together as his body finally broke.

It was a strained, shaking finish; Shane vibrated violently under the onslaught, his muscles locking up in a painful-sweet cramp that gripped his core so tightly he couldn't breathe.

"Ngh—aaahn! H-hnh..." He couldn't even form words anymore, just raw, helpless sounds—"ah, hnnngh..."—bleeding into the room as his pelvic floor contracted in agonizingly intense pulses. It felt less like an ejaculation and more like a phantom ache, his prostate wringing itself dry while his body phantom-tripped over an edge it was too exhausted to properly clear.

Only a few thin, watery drops of cum eked out, leaving him utterly spent. His chest heaved as he stared blindly at the ceiling.

"Look at me," Ilya commanded, his voice a rough edge of demand. "Look at what you do to me.”

He ripped himself out of Shane’s tight, twitching hole, the sudden absence making Shane let out a strangled cry of loss, his fingers clutching uselessly at the sheets. Shane trembled as his entrance clamped down on empty air, his nerves still firing as if Ilya were still inside him.

Ilya was already stroking himself with a desperate intensity. "Fu-u_ck," he hissed, his eyes fixed on Shane’s ruined state. "Bozhe moy...," he breathed, the words thick with disbelief. "...Shane... Moy sladkiy mal'chik." My God. My sweet boy.

Ilya’s hips bucked forward one last time as he groaned out, "Oh god, Shane—ah!" He spent his orgasm in thick, hot ropes across Shane’s shivering chest and the white hotel linens, his heavy body finally going entirely slack.

As the adrenaline faded, Shane’s eyelids grew heavy, the overstimulation finally ebbing into a bone-deep lethargy. He felt raw and beautifully hollowed out, his skin still tingling where Ilya’s touch had been most demanding.

Ilya shifted, rolling onto his side to prop himself up on one elbow, his calloused hand moving through Shane’s sweat-dampened hair. He looked down at Shane’s flushed face, the bruised-red of his lips, and the glittering tear tracks still visible on his cheeks, watching over the piece of Shane he had just broken and put back together.

"Ya tebya lyublyu," Ilya whispered.

A small smile twitched at the corner of Shane's puffy lips. He dragged himself closer across the sheets, shifting his head against the pillow to nuzzle deep into the crook of Ilya’s neck. He inhaled the familiar scent of sweat and warmth, pressing his face against Ilya's pulse point as the last remnants of the intense adrenaline finally gave way to total safety.

"L'v 'ou... t'oo," Shane mumbled, the words slurring heavily.

"Close your eyes," Ilya murmured, his voice wrapping around Shane like a blanket. "Otdykhay, moya lyubov." Rest, my love.

The steady scratch of Ilya’s nails against his scalp lulled Shane’s overtaxed nervous system into a peaceful quiet. It was the last thing Shane felt before he finally succumbed, falling into a light, dreamless doze.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed. It could have been twenty minutes of Ilya simply watching him breathe or twenty hours. All Shane knew was that a sharp, metallic clack and a heavy thud from the hallway brought him back to consciousness.

The sudden, boisterous laughter of Bond and Hayes filtering through the shared door of the conjoined hotel rooms was what finally jolted Shane awake.

He blinked, his eyelids heavy and caked with dried tears, instantly disoriented from the deep nap. Pressed tight against him, Ilya felt like a furnace, radiating a heat that made Shane’s limbs feel twice as heavy as his brain struggled to piece together where he was and why his entire body felt so sensitive.

Ilya, however, seemed entirely unbothered by the sudden noise or the heat. Feeling Shane stir, he let out a low, sleepy grunt and rolled off the bed, the sudden rush of cool room air hitting Shane's damp skin with a sharp shiver. Ilya’s bare feet padded softly across the carpet as he reached for a cold bottle of water from the mini-bar.

He cracked it open, walked back over, and held it to Shane’s lips, his large hand gently supporting the back of Shane's head. "Drink, lyubimyy."

Shane swallowed eagerly, draining half the bottle in greedy gulps to soothe his parched throat. "Thank you," he croaked, his voice still rough.

Ilya set the bottle down on the nightstand, leaning over the bed as a dark, wicked glint returned to his eyes. "Round two?" 

Shane blinked slowly. "I thought that was round two."

"For you, maybe," Ilya countered, leaning over him. "But I only came once. Is a warm-up."

"Ilya... I'm dead. I'm literally a corpse." Shane complained, his limbs heavy and useless.

"A cute corpse," Ilya corrected with a wicked grin. He lowered himself back onto Shane’s chest, the movement purposefully smearing his cooling cum between their bodies. The slick, wet sensation against his skin caused Shane to let out a shiver, his toes curling into the mattress.

Ilya began pressing a trail of lingering, open-mouthed kisses all over Shane’s neck. He moved down to Shane's chest, his stubble grazing over Shane’s sensitive skin before he caught a nipple between his teeth and gave it a playful, sharp nip.

"Ow! Stop," Shane laughed. He reached up with a weak hand to gently bat Ilya’s head away, but the protest died when his own cock gave a distinct, traitorous twitch against Ilya’s thigh.

Ilya pulled back, eyes sparkling with triumph. "Oh? The corpse is coming back to life, I think."

The thought of moving made his muscles ache, and he was nowhere near ready for round two, but hungry look in Ilya’s eyes was incredibly hard to ignore.

"I'm too tired," Shane murmured, a sleepy, teasing smile touching his lips. "You're going to have to make it worth my while. I want that massage you promised me. A long one. Total pampering."

Ilya’s lips curved into wicked grin, the bargain immediately striking the right chord. "Deal. Every muscle. I swear it. But first..." Reaching out, he hooked his hands under Shane’s hips and pulled him forward. Shane was so spent he barely helped, but he did clumsily shuffle his knees and let himself be guided, eventually straddling Ilya’s lap.

"Wait. Not against the headboard. They're right there," Shane whispered urgently, jerking his head in the direction of the shared wall where the muffled voices of Bood and Hayes were still audible. "They’ll hear everything."

"Let them listen. They might learn something," Ilya argued. Ilya shuffled back until his broad shoulders were braced against the headboard. He reached down between them, his fingers ghosting over Shane’s entrance, finding him still incredibly wet and loose from the previous round. Satisfied, Ilya gripped his own cock, holding it steady and angled upward.

Shane felt the press of Ilya’s heat right at his raw, aching entrance. He braced himself, planting one hand firmly on the wall above the headboard and the other on Ilya’s shoulder for leverage. As he began to sink down, the initial stretch was a sharp, biting soreness that made his breath hitch—"Hnh... Ilya..."—a tiny whimpering gasp slipping out. It didn't feel completely great yet considering his body was still so tender and overstimulated from the double climax, but he knew that within thirty seconds, the ache would melt into that familiar, soul-crushing pleasure.

He settled all the way down, his insides gripping Ilya’s length as he leaned forward to press a messy, breathless kiss to Ilya's mouth. He wanted to keep it quiet, desperate to muffle his own reactions, but Ilya clearly had other plans.

Ilya bucked his hips upward with a powerful, uncompromising thrust that bottomed out deep in Shane’s gut. It was so intense, hitting that ruined prostate line with zero warning, that Shane ripped his mouth away from Ilya’s lips. His back arched, his head snapping back as a loud groan—"Oh, fu-u_ck... Ah-aaahn!"—escaped his lips, the sound melting into a shaky whine as he hung there on Ilya's lap, his body instantly betraying how much he loved being taken completely off guard.

Thump-thump.

A sharp, warning rap of knuckles hit the wall from the other side, right next to where Shane's hand was braced.

"Hollander! Rozanov!" Wyatt’s voice boomed through the drywall. "If I hear another sex sound, I swear to God, our team movie nights are going to be strictly Marvel movies for the rest of the season!"

Shane froze instantly as he stared down at Ilya with wide eyes, completely paralyzed in a torturous deadlock of intense embarrassment and unbridled horniness.

"Noooo," Ilya hissed, his face contorting in dismay. "I want to finish Studio Ghibli marathon. We are only halfway through Ponyo!"

Shane let out a huff, his eyes rolling so hard it practically hurt. Now Ilya cared. Five seconds ago, he was ready to put on a show for the entire floor, but threaten his anime marathon and suddenly he was a man of discipline.

Shaking his head at his husband's ridiculous priorities, Shane placed his hand over his mouth to muffle any further noise. He leveled Ilya with a pointed, heavily unimpressed look, but the heat burning in his veins didn't lie. Holding Ilya's gaze with defiant, horny intensity, Shane slowly and victoriously sank his hips back down, taking every single inch.

"Fuck!"

Shane was on his hands and knees, staring down at a small piece of white enamel resting in a tiny pool of pink slush.

Directly above him, the giant Toronto defenseman, Reider, didn't even look back to see the damage he’d done with his high stick. He didn't offer a "my bad" or even a shrug. He just let out a booming, chesty laugh and began a leisurely skate toward the penalty box, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

"Fuck you, Reider," Shane tried to snarl, pushing himself up.

His stomach dropped. The "F” sound in fuck had a distinct, airy whistle to it. He’d lost a vital, front-and-center tooth. 

A pair of skates slid to a halt in front of him. An ungloved hand reached down and plucked the bloody fragment off the ice.

"You lost this," Ilya said, his voice brimming with a terrifying amount of cheer. He held the tooth up between his thumb and forefinger.

"Yeah, no thit, dumbath," Shane snapped, the lisp so prominent now that he wanted to lay in front of the zamboni currently making its way onto the ice, and let it run him over

Ilya’s hazel eyes lit up. A slow, delighted grin stretched across his face. 

"Is very tough look for you," Ilya teased.

Shane didn't even bother snatching the tooth back. He turned his back on Ilya’s gleeful face and skated toward the bench, his mouth throbbing in time with his racing heart. The team medic met him at the gate, immediately shoving a water bottle into his hands and tilting his head back to inspect the carnage.

"You’re going to need a specialist to look at the root," the medic muttered, poking a gloved finger into the raw gap. "We’re in Toronto so the dentist is probably already in the back waiting for the next casualty."

Shane froze, the water halfway to his mouth. "No," Shane blurted out, the lisp making him sound like a grumpy toddler. "I’m not theeing the dentitht. It doethn't even hurt."

"You can still save the tooth if you go within the next 30 minutes," the medic countered, reaching for a penlight.

Shane shoved the medic’s hand away with a force that was borderline aggressive. "I thaid no! I’ll get a replathment."

The outburst drew several sharp looks from down the bench. Shane Hollander didn't throw tantrums about medical care; he was usually the guy who had a color-coded spreadsheet for his vitamins and followed trainer orders to the letter. This sudden, combative outburst was entirely out of character.

"Alright, alright, take a breath," Wiebe said, holding up a hand. "Look, there’s only five minutes left in the third. If he doesn't want to go back yet, let him sit here. Shane, you stay on the bench. And the second that buzzer sounds, you're heading straight there. Deal?"

Shane didn’t respond. He sat on the bench in a massive, radiating huff, slamming his helmet down beside him. He felt a presence loom over in front of him and knew without looking that it was Ilya.

Ilya reached out over the boards, his fingers playfully cupping Shane’s cheek. Shane hissed and slapped the hand away, glaring up at his husband with a look that promised a very long, very silent flight to the next city.

The arena felt suspended in that strange, high-tension lull of a commercial break. The ice crew was out in the center, a shovel scraping against the frozen surface to clear the spray of Shane’s blood. Because the play was dead, the entire lineup was clustered around the bench, a wall of jerseys and pads leaning against the boards just inches from where Shane sat.

Shane was hunched on the bench, his elbows on his knees, his skate blade tapping a frantic, metallic beat against the rubber flooring.

"Relax, Holzy," Troy said. He nudged Shane’s shoulder with a heavy glove. "We’re up by two. Reider’s in the box. We’ve got this."

Shane didn't reply. He couldn't. If he opened his mouth, he’d either whistle like a teapot or scream. Instead, he tried to tune out the pulsing pain by focusing on the cluster of teammates standing just a few feet away. They were leaning over the boards, helmets pushed back, talking loudly enough to carry over the arena's pump-up music.

"—we’re not finishing Ponyo?" LaPointe asked, looking genuinely betrayed as he shifted his weight on his skates. "Why? I wanted to see if the fish girl stays a human."

Hayes turned his head just enough to catch Shane’s eye for a split second with a look of pure, blackmail-fueled delight, before looking back at the group.

"Shane mentioned he was in the mood for Captain America," Hayes said. "I figure since he scored all the goals tonight, we should let him pick. Right, Shane?"

Holmberg, standing right next to Hayes, looked down at Shane with a confused frown. "I thought you didn’t like Marvel movies, Holzy? You said they had to many loud explosions.” 

Bood, perched on the edge of the boards with one leg dangling over the ice, let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. He shot a wink toward Hayes that made Shane’s stomach do a slow, nauseated roll.

"Oh, he’s a huge fan," Zane added. "Practically begged for it last night. Isn't that right, Hollander?” He leaned in slightly, drawing out the o sound in the next word with a slow, teasing relish. "Loooves loud explosions.”

Shane’s eyes narrowed into slits. He practically snarled, but before he could even draw the breath to retort, the referee’s whistle shrilled through the air.

The wall of jerseys in front of Shane broke apart as the guys leaped onto the ice. Shane looked for Ilya, who was already gliding toward the face-off circle. Ilya didn't look back, but the smug, triumphant set of his shoulders told Shane everything he needed to know: Shane was about to have a very long, very awkward conversation with a certain spicy-smelling dentist.

The final buzzer echoed through the rafters, cementing a 3-0 victory for the Centaurs. The final goal had been a nasty, backhand shelf-job from Ilya with only four seconds left on the clock. It was completely unnecessary given the score, a move designed for nothing but to rub salt in Toronto’s wounds.

As they stepped off the ice and onto the hallway, Wiebe’s voice cut through the chatter.

"Hollander! Dentist. Now."

Ilya was right behind him and he slowed down as he passed Shane, leaning in close. "Open wide for doctor, Shane," Ilya chirped. "Show him how well I took care of you."

In the locker room, Shane unstrapped his pads one by one, lingering over the gear as the rest of the team chattered and headed for the showers. He was trying to prolong the inevitable as long as possible, hoping Ilya would already be in the showers by the time Shane finished. 

He reached for the hem of his sweat-soaked base layer, intending to strip down completely. If he was going to be trapped in a chair for an hour, he at least wanted to be clean.

"Not that too."

Shane looked up, startled. Ilya was already half-undressed, leaning against his locker with his arms crossed. His eyes were narrowed, tracking Shane’s hands. "Why are you taking all of your clothes off for him?"

"I... I thought I would thower firtht and change?" Shane whistled, feeling the heat climb his neck. "I’m dithguthting, Ilya."

"Nyet." Ilya stepped closer. He didn't want Shane scrubbed clean and smelling nice for the man who had already tried to "house call" his way into Shane’s pants. "Is fine. Just go like this. You do not have much time to save the tooth."

He gestured to Shane’s skin-tight, black compression gear. It left absolutely nothing to the imagination, clinging to every muscle, but to Ilya, it was a "hands-off" uniform.

"Hollander! Now!" Wiebe’s voice boomed from the doorway, punctuated by a sharp clap of his hands.

Shane let out a defeated sigh and stood up, resigned to his fate. But as he turned to leave, he heard the heavy thump of Ilya hopping out of his breezers. To Shane’s horror, Ilya didn't head for the shower. He stayed in his own black base layer, chest broad and intimidating, and began following Shane out the door.

"What are you doing?" Shane hissed, spinning around in the hallway.

Ilya didn't even slow down. "I am emergency contact. This is emergency, no? You have hole in face."

"It’th not an emergency! Ilya, go back and thower!" Shane tried to plant his feet, putting a hand on Ilya’s chest to stop him, but Ilya just used the momentum to guide Shane toward the medical wing.

"I am being supportive husband," Ilya said, his voice brimming with fake innocence as he daintily sidestepped Shane’s attempt to block him. "I want to hear all about the aftercare. Very important."

"I don't want you there! You’re going to make it worth!" Shane pleaded, his lisp making the word worse sound like a pathetic puff of air.

"Come on, Hollander," Ilya chuckled, clapping a heavy, possessive hand on Shane’s shoulder and steering him toward the bright, clinical light of the dentist’s office. "Doctor is waiting. Don't keep him."

He reached past Shane, his large hand turning the handle with a decisive click, and shouldered the door open. He shoved Shane into the room with enough force that Shane had to stumble a few steps to catch his balance.

Shane felt like a piece of human show-and-tell, and Ilya was the gleeful toddler who had just brought his favorite, broken toy to the front of the class to show everyone exactly how he’d played with it. 

And play with it, he had.

Every ache in Shane’s hips and the raw, throbbing heat at the back of his throat were all evidence of exactly how Ilya had spent the prior evening "playing." The way Ilya was hovering now with his chest puffed out, left no doubt in Shane’s mind that Ilya was here for no other reason but to witness the reveal.

At the sound of the door, Thorne jumped slightly, nearly slopping a scalding cup of coffee onto his dress shirt. He turned around, a look of genuine confusion crossing his face as he took in the sight of the two hockey players standing in his doorway in matching, sweat-damp compression gear.

"Oh, no," Thorne muttered. As he looked at Ilya’s smug grin, a single, exhausting thought echoed through the dentist’s mind:

This fucking guy.

Chapter 4: A Court of Thornes &amp; Rozes

Chapter Summary

Alex just wanted some coffee.

Chapter Notes

January 2021

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Dr. Alexander Thorne groaned into his pillow, his hand blindly fumbling for the nightstand while he tried to make a stealthy retreat.

Just as he attempted to slide out of the bed, the arms of his bedmate tightened around his waist. Marcus, a sweet-natured personal trainer Alex had been seeing for about a month, refused to let go. He let out a sleepy, protesting grunt and hauled Alex back down into the sheets.

"Stay," Marcus mumbled, his eyes still closed. He guided Alex’s face toward his, clearly angling for a morning kiss.

Alex pulled back slightly, bracing an arm on the mattress. "I have to go, and besides... morning breath."

"I don't have morning breath," Marcus countered, his voice thick with sleep as he tucked his chin, finally catching Alex’s lips in a kiss.

Alex kissed him back briefly, but as they pulled apart, he couldn't help himself. "Actually, you kinda do. Probably gingivitis."

Marcus froze. He opened both eyes, staring at Alex with a look of betrayal and embarrassment. "You’ve been letting me kiss you for a month and you’re only mentioning this now?"

Alex shrugged, feeling a bit sheepish as he sat up to reach for his shirt. "It’s not that bad. Just go get a cleaning and they’ll give you a special mouthwash. Besides, I’ve learned that people outside of work think it’s weird when I point out teeth stuff to them. It’s a bit of a mood killer."

Marcus propped himself up on his elbows, watching Alex button his shirt. "Exactly how often are you seeing inside people's mouths outside of work? What could you possibly be seeing in there?"

"A lot," Alex joked. "The human mouth is full of secrets."

Marcus’s eyebrows shot up. "Mmm. Any secrets from the Guardians? What’ve they got? Herpes? Thrush? Dallas Kent probably has mouth herpes."

Alex let out a short bark of laughter, grabbing his keys. "You know I can't tell you that."

Marcus let out a theatrical huff and flopped back onto the pillow, pulling the duvet up to his chin. "You’re no fun." He waved a hand from under the covers. "Bye. Go save those million-dollar molars."

Alex laughed, blowing him a kiss before heading out for his pre-game preparations. Before dental school, Alex had played college hockey so scoring the gig as Toronto’s emergency dentist was the highlight of his career. For most people in his position across the MHL, it was a mostly cushy job of routine dental work for the players, but during home games they got paid to watch hockey from the best seats in the house only occasionally interrupted by emergencies.  

But in Toronto? Alex had his work cut out for him. The team had replaced Ryan Price with a defenseman named Derek Reider who seemed to revel in the sound of carbon fiber meeting enamel; if the man wasn't knocking out an opponent's incisor, he was accidentally high-sticking his own teammates in practice. Alex had job security and plenty of work as long as Reider was on the roster.

Being the home-team dentist also meant he saw the casualties from the visiting teams. He’d worked on some of the league’s biggest stars like Scott Hunter, Dallas Kent, Shane Hollander. If Alex weren't bound by privacy laws, he could fill the tabloids for a decade. He knew that Troy Barrett had almost broken Kent’s jaw during a fight at practice, he’d caught Ryan Price snooping around the medical wing for pain pills (luckily, they kept those under lock and key), and he was 90% sure Brad Hammersmith had never used a piece of floss in his life.

But the most interesting secret was the one he’d only seen twice in the 6 years he’d had this gig.

Distinct palatal bruising that didn't come from coughing or strep. And he’d seen them on Scott Hunter and Shane Hollander. He’d wondered for a second if the rivals were somehow fucking, but then he’d laughed it off. No, they hate each other. That would be insane.

Alex was sterilizing instruments before the game when the door to the medical suite swung open. Troy Barrett walked in, looking slightly flushed, followed by Ottawa’s team physician. Troy had played for Toronto before being traded to the Centaurs, so Alex offered a friendly nod.

"Hey, Thorne," Troy muttered.

"Barrett. Good to see you back in the building," Alex replied.

"Do you mind if we use one of the exam rooms?" the Ottawa doctor (Terry, Alex remembered) asked. 

"All yours," Alex said, gesturing toward the back.

He stayed at the counter, his ears instantly tuning in as the door remained slightly ajar.

"It's nothing," Troy’s voice insisted from the room. "I just feel a little rough. Maybe a cold starting. I just wanted something for my throat so I can play tonight."

"Well, let's take a look. Open wide and say 'Ah.'"

There was a moment of silence, followed by a professional, concerned humming noise from Terry. "Hmm. You haven't been coughing, throwing up recently, or felt a bad strain in your neck?"

"No, just a little scratchy," Troy replied.

"I'm going to swab you for strep, just to be sure," Terry said. "But Troy... you have some inflammation here. Did you choke on something?"

Alex's heart skipped a beat, his brain descending into secret gay detective mode.

Troy Barrett too? He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. Statistically, the odds of gay players being in the MHL was high, but the odds of three of them all coming through his suite with the same intimate injury was defying belief. He wondered if Barrett and Hollander were hooking up. Ottawa and Montreal are only two hours apart. It made way more sense than his Hunter/Hollander theory.

He finished his instruments just as the buzzer for the warm-ups began. He resolved to look up the Voyageurs travel schedule later. Just for research of course.

March 2021

When the news broke that Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov had been outed, Alex nearly dropped his coffee.

"Damn," he muttered, scrolling through the viral thread. "Rozanov?"

Alex had been fortunate enough to never have Rozanov in his chair. The guy was a massive dick on the ice. Alex sent up a silent prayer that Derek Reider would never touch Rozanov’s teeth, purely so Alex would never have to deal with the Russian.

But then he reached the part of the article speculating on the timeline. Some fans were tracing their relationship back to 2017. Alex froze, his mind racing back to the time he’d treated Hollander. If the 2017 rumors were true, then he might have been with Rozanov when Alex was hitting on him. 

He remembered that day vividly. He’d been working on Hollander’s broken incisor when he tilted the mirror and saw the most impressive bruises Alex had ever seen in his career. The trauma to the soft palate was so prominent that Alex had almost fallen out of his chair.

At the time, he’d thought Hollander was just a secret freak in the sheets. It was actually kind of hot; Hollander looked so wholesome, but his throat told a much more adventurous story. Alex had definitely felt a reckless, unprofessional urge to see if he could get a piece of that action. He’d tried to shoot his shot, but Hollander, adorable and oblivious, had just given him a confused, lopsided smile and scurried out.

If Rozanov gave Hollander those bruises, then Rozanov wasn't just a dick on the ice. He had to be packing something substantial to leave that kind of mark on a man's throat.

"Jesus," Alex whispered into his cold, stale coffee. "Rozanov must be a monster."

November 2021

"Rozanov, for the love of God, put your hands down," Alex snapped, gently batting away the Russian’s hand for the fourth time.

"I do it better. I have superior hand-eye coordination. Is my job," Rozanov mumbled. He made another grab for the high-speed suction tip. "You miss a spot. I will drown."

"You are drowning in saliva because you won't stop talking," Alex retorted, reclaiming the suction with a firm grip. "Hands. On. Armrests."

Rozanov huffed. He went still for exactly six seconds before his eyes glazed over.

“Shane will come for me. I know it,” Rozanov started, his voice slipping into a half-slurred cadence. “My husband.” He murmured something in Russian, his gaze drifting. “Have you seen the way his freckles go? I could spend a thousand years counting them.”

Alex adjusted the overhead light, trying to focus on the premolar. "Yes, I heard you the first five times. His freckles are very nice. Open wider."

"No, you do not understand," Rozanov insisted, batting him away, slipping into a low, Russian grumble that sounded like gravel in a blender before switching back. "They are so perfect. They are tiny little kisses from the sun."

"I am drilling now. If you keep talking, I might slip," Alex lied.

The drilling lasted three minutes. When the fragment of the damaged premolar finally came free, Alex went to drop it into the biohazard bag.

"Wait!" Rozanov bolted upright, nearly knocking his forehead into the drill. "Where are you taking him?"

"Medical waste."

"Is my bone!” Rozanov’s eyes went wide and watery. "I want to keep him. Put him in a little house. A jar. I must show Shane what I have sacrificed for team."

"It’s literally three millimeters of enamel," Alex sighed, his head starting to throb.

"Please. I will tell everyone you are hack who hates hockey players. I will tweet it."

Ten seconds of silence followed. Alex finally exhaled a long, defeated breath, walked over to the cabinet, and pulled out a small specimen jar. He dropped the tooth fragments in and handed it over to Rozanov, who clutched it to his chest protectively.

The silence that followed Hollander finally dragging a chirping, tooth-clutching Rozanov out of the suite was heavy enough to feel physical.

Alex leaned against the counter, his spine finally uncurling. He reached for his mug. His coffee was now a depressing, lukewarm sludge, but he downed it in three long, bitter swallows. 

He set the mug down and reached up to his neck to put away the stethoscope.

His fingers hit his white coat. Nothing but fabric.

He frowned, patting his chest. He checked the counter. He checked the tray where the instruments were soaking. He even checked the top of the towel warmer.

"What the..."

He spun around, looking at the floor, then checked the pocket of his lab coat. He moved his coffee mug, as if the stethoscope could be hiding behind it. It wasn't there. It wasn't on the chair. It wasn't on the X-ray arm.

"Where the fuck is it?" Alex barked at the empty room, his voice echoing off the tile.

February 2022

The lid wasn't on properly. Alex knew it even as he tilted the cup back, but his brain was a scrambled mess of resentment and heartbreak. When the plastic gave way, the scalding, mediocre drive-thru brew cascaded down his chest.

"F—! Goddammit!" Alex hissed, arching his back as the heat soaked through his last crisp white dress shirt and directly into his skin.

He slapped his hand against the steering wheel, the horn letting out a pathetic, lonely blare in his driveway. It was the perfect cherry on top of a truly garbage day. 4 hours ago, Marcus had officially ended a year long relationship via a "we need to talk" lunch that resulted in Alex being dumped before the appetizers even arrived.

And now he was dangerously late for work. Fantastic. The Scotiabank Arena was already buzzing with fans by the time he’d arrived after racing back inside his apartment to change into a clean shirt. His caffeine levels were also currently in the negatives.

"One thing," Alex muttered, white-knuckling the wheel as he pulled into the secure parking deck. "All I wanted was one goddamn good thing today."

He flashed his badge at the guards without his usual friendly banter, and sprinted toward the medical wing. He didn't stop at the breakroom for the burnt sludge in the communal pot like he usually did. He needed the good stuff today.

As he reached the corridor that branched off toward the players' family suite, he checked his watch. He had 5 minutes before puck drop and probably just as long before Reider inevitably sent someone to his chair with a shattered mandible.

He ducked into the family lounge, his eyes locked on the sleek, chrome Italian espresso machine. The wealthy families of the Toronto lineup didn't drink drip; they drank double-shots from a machine that cost more than Alex’s first car.

He was just reaching for the lever when a scream shattered his peace.

One of the players’ kids had taken a header off a marble coffee table.

"Dr. Thorne! Oh, thank God," the player’s wife cried, clutching a wailing, bloody-mouthed four-year-old. "He just fell!"

Alex stared at the espresso machine, then at the child. He did not enjoy children. He especially did not enjoy screaming, squirming children who bled on his shoes. But he also had a conscience. Unfortunately. 

He spent the next two periods dodging flailing limbs and high-pitched shrieks as he navigated the nightmare of pediatric dental trauma. By the time he managed to splint the teeth and calm the mother down, his headache had developed its own pulse.

The game was in the final minutes when he finally escaped. He ducked back into the family suite, which was now blessedly empty. 

He clutched the porcelain cup protectively and retreated to the quiet of the medical wing. He sat at his desk, eyes closed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he bent down to take that first, heavenly sip.

Finally, he thought. One good th—

The heavy double doors of the medical suite burst open with such violence they slammed against the wall. Alex jumped, hot coffee sloshing over his hand for the second time that day.

A disheveled Shane Hollander practically fell through the doorway. 

And looming directly behind him, filling the entire doorframe like a dark omen, was Ilya Rozanov. 

"Oh, no," Alex whispered.

A single, weary thought echoed through Alex’s mind as he set his coffee down on the counter with a resigned clink.

This fucking guy. 

"Get in the chair, Hollander," Alex sighed, reaching for his white coat. "And Rozanov? If you steal my equipment again, I'm calling security. I know you who stole my stethoscope last season."

Rozanov didn’t even bother to deny it. He just flashed a smirk that was entirely too satisfied.

Hollander, meanwhile, turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the dried blood on his lip. He avoided Alex’s eyes, focusing intently on the adjustable headrest as he settled into the leather chair.

The mental image of a shirtless, scowling Rozanov playing doctor with a blushing Hollander flashed across his brain. Maybe Hollander had a medical kink? Maybe they were role-playing with it?

Nope! Don't go there, he scolded himself as he washed his hands, shaking his head to clear the mental image. Professionalism. Boundaries. 

Open up," Alex commanded as soon as he was settled into the rolling stool beside Hollander. Best to get this over quick.

Hollander hesitated, his jaw clamped shut, his eyes darting toward the door as if planning an escape.

"Relax," Alex said. "I’ve seen you take a puck to the gut and stay on the ice. Why are you acting like I’m about to pull a kidney?"

Rozanov moved from the wall, his massive frame shifting with startling fluidity. He reached out to knead the tension from Shane’s shoulder, leaning in close. He whispered something in Russian, a soft, sibilant word that sounded unmistakably like a pet name, his voice dropping into a honeyed register that made Alex’s skin prickle. "Doctor is friend. He fix. Then we go to the hotel and watch the movie with the team, hmm?"

The sight of the MHL’s most feared Russian being tender was somehow more unsettling.

"Come on," Alex encouraged, moving the overhead LED lamp into place. "Let’s see the damage."

Hollander flinched and hesitated, then slowly parted his lips just a fraction of an inch. Alex leaned in with the mirror. 

“Did the tooth come all the way out on the ice? Do you have it?"

Hollander’s brows furrowed. "Oh thit," he hissed.. "I don’t... I don't know where it ith.”

“Did you swallow it maybe?" 

"Nyet," Rozanov announced loudly. He produced a sterile plastic container usually reserved for league-mandated drug testing and slapped it onto the instrument tray with a proud look. Inside, submerged in a cloudy pool of white liquid, was the missing tooth. "Medic put in milk. I keep it safe in my pocket."

"Good," Alex said, genuinely impressed. "I can splint this. I just need you to update these forms in order for me to do anything more than examine you."

He held out the clipboard, but before Hollander could reach for it, Rozanov’s hand snatched it out of the air.

"I do," Rozanov said, already uncapping a pen. He sat on the small rolling stool, his knees nearly hitting his chin, and began filling out the lines.

Alex turned back to his tray, beginning the process of prepping the composite resin and the wire for the splint. Behind him, he heard the strange, domestic soundtrack of the league’s greatest rivals.

"This says 'Single,'" Rozanov said as he pointed a finger at the old form tucked underneath the new, blank one. "Why does this say single?"

"That’th from five yearth ago, Ilya," Hollander whistled through the gap in his teeth. "I wath thingle then."

"Nyet. You were never single. We will fix this now." He settled the fresh intake form under the clips, his eyes scanning the lines. With a grin, he checked the 'Married' box so hard the pen tip skidded. "Now it is correct. Now the doctor knows."

Hollander reached for the pen. "Okay, give it. I’ll fill out the retht."

"No," Rozanov said firmly, pivoting his entire body to shield the clipboard. "You are injured. You sit. I am husband; I do the work."

Every time he hit a complex English word, he’d grunt and point, forcing Hollander to translate while he maintained total control of the pen.

"What is this word here…'hereditary'?"

"It meanth what your family hath…like genetic," Hollander explained, leaning in but keeping his hands to himself after Rozanov gave him a warning look. "Like my mom’th blood preth-ure."

"Ah," Rozanov muttered, scratching the info down. He flipped the page, his brow furrowed. "And this? 'Emergency Contact'?"

"Ilya, you know what that—"

"I put myself," Rozanov interrupted, already writing his own name in giant, block letters that took up three times the allotted space. "I am first contact. Always."

Alex watched as Rozanov did a bizarre little shoulder wiggle and hummed happily as he continued scratching the pen against the form. "And allergiya to penicillin?"

"Yeth," Hollander confirmed, his voice sounding warm, almost smitten. "You remember that?"

"Yeth," Rozanov said teasingly.

Alex turned away and prepped a syringe of lidocaine, listening to the soft murmur of English and Russian drifting behind him. It was surreal. He’d seen these two try to take each other’s heads off in the corner of the rink for years. Now, Rozanov was reveling in the bureaucracy of Hollander’s existence having seemingly memorized his entire medical history. 

"Okay, I am finished," Rozanov said, standing up and handing the clipboard back. He’d checked the "Married" box so hard the pen had nearly gone through the paper. "Fix my husband now, Doctor."

Hollander rolled his eyes, but as he reclined in the chair, he reached out and grabbed Rozanov’s hand. Rozanov didn't let go.

"Small pinch," Alex murmured, sliding the needle into the gums.

Even as the numbing shot took hold, Hollander was a mess of nerves. His legs were twitching and his head kept shifting a fraction of an inch every time Alex brought the dental explorer near. 

"I need you to hold perfectly still," Alex said, pulling back and exhaling a breath of frustration. "I’m working with a very fine wire here to splint this. If you jump, I’m going to poke a hole in your lip."

"I’m try-ing," Hollander whistled.

"He is very anxious," Rozanov noted uselessly. He began a slow, rhythmic petting motion, his thumb tracing small circles over the fabric of Shane’s hip. "His brain, it does not stop."

Alex looked from the hand on Hollander’s hip up to Rozanov’s face. He tried to send a very clear, professional message with his eyes: You are currently crowding my surgical field with your pheromones.

Rozanov didn't budge. He just stared back, his expression one of calm, territorial challenge.

Alex sighed, leaning back on his stool. "Look, I can give you some nitrous oxide. It’ll relax you and let me work without the fidgeting."

"Yes," Rozanov answered immediately, his eyes brightening. "Give it to him. I like when he is relaxed and droopy. Is much better for everyone."

Alex leveled a flat look at the Russian. "I appreciate the input, Mr. Rozanov, but I need consent from the actual patient in the chair." He turned to Hollander. "Shane? Do you want the laughing gas?"

Shane looked at Alex, his pupils dilated with stress. "Yeth. Pleathe."

"Alright. Deep breaths through your nose." Alex fitted the mask over his face.

As the gas began to take effect, Alex leaned back in to start the procedure again, but Rozanov was still hovering far too close, his presence a literal wall of heat at Alex’s elbow. Alex stopped, looked at Rozanov, and made a sharp shooing motion with his fingers. Back up.

Rozanov kicked his rolling stool back three inches, just enough to give Alex a sliver of workspace, but kept his eyes locked on Hollander’s face.

"Better?" Rozanov asked, his voice dripping with mock-innocence.

"Marginally," Alex muttered, finally bringing the bonding light toward Shane's mouth.

For the next few blissfully silent moments, Alex did his job. With the tooth finally secure, he reached for his mirror to perform one last sweep, making sure Reider hadn't caused any other damage.

He tilted Shane’s chin up, angling the bright light toward the back of the mouth. The breath left Alex’s body in a sharp, wheezing rush.

"Holy shit," Alex blurted out.

The words were out before he could filter them. Under the unforgiving glare of the surgical light, the bruising was…intense.

Hollander let out a long, low groan of pure mortification. "Ilya," he slurred, his eyes rolling back to find his husband. "You planned this... you timed this perfectly. You wanted to... to thtake your thupid claim on me."

Rozanov didn't look even remotely ashamed. He leaned back on his stool, a slow, wolfish smirk spreading across his face. "Yes, dear," Rozanov said, his voice dripping with heavy sarcasm. "I also paid Reider to knock out my husband’s tooth just so we could visit our favorite dentist."

Hollander’s eyes widened, a loopy, triumphant light in them. "Ha! I knew it! Asshole."

Rozanov rolled his eyes. He dropped a brief, low phrase in Russian. "Of course I didn't do that," Ilya continued, his brow furrowing as he searched for the next English word. "This was just... accidental together-timing?"

"Coincidence?" Alex supplied weakly, his hands still hovering near Hollander’s open mouth.

"Da. Coincidence," Rozanov agreed, though the way he was looking at Alex suggested it was a very happy coincidence indeed.

Alex’s gaze involuntarily drifted down, landing on the junction of Rozanov’s thighs as he sat on the low stool.

Either they have some of the roughest sex in the Northern Hemisphere, or Rozanov is packing something biologically impossible. Or both.

"Right," Alex whispered, snapping his mouth shut. He felt like he needed a cold shower…and coffee. "I think... I think we're done here. I’m going to give you some oxygen to clear the gas."

Wait," Rozanov said, his eyes fixed on Hollander. "How long does it last? If you do not give him the …clear air?"

Alex blinked, startled. "Um… a few more minutes, but he’ll be groggy and uncoordinated for a while. Why?"

Rozanov looked down at Hollander, who was currently trying to pet the air in front of his face. "Is nice to see him so relaxed," Rozanov admitted, boyish softness breaking through his cold exterior. "He is sometimes so... tense."

“I hate this... light. It’s bad,” Hollander announced to the ceiling. His voice had taken on a strange, melodic lilt, the words drifting up into a high pitch before dropping off unexpectedly. He squinted at the medical lamp, his nose wrinkling. “Overhead lights are stupid. They...” He trailed off, eyes tracking a movement only he could see, before finishing in a sudden rush. “They buzz. Like bees. Angry, bright bees.”

"It's a surgical lamp. it shouldn't be making—"

You smell like…” Hollander started, his voice trailing off into a hum before snapping back with a sudden rush of speed. “…Old Spice.” He turned his head toward Alex, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. He paused, the silence stretching out until it felt awkward. “Why-y?” he finally sang, the question curving upward like a musical note.

Alex reflexively sniffed his own shoulder. "I don’t know. It’s a classic.”

Hollander didn't listen. He lolled his head toward Rozanov, his eyes wide and glassy with a shimmering, unfocused adoration. His hand moved in a clumsy, erratic arc until it found Rozanov’s shirt. “You have the best lights. No stupid LEDs,” he rushed out, the words blurring together before he came to a sudden, jarring halt. He stared at Rozanov, his voice dipping into a low, melodic lilt. “Just the warm yellow ones. You let me... turn them off... when my brain is being loud.”

Rozanov’s expression softened. He leaned in, his massive frame blocking out the offending surgical lamp and creating a private, shadowed sanctuary. He murmured a few syllables in Russian, his voice dropping into that same soft register from earlier.

Alex watched, certain he had just witnessed another deeply personal endearment, until Hollander squinted up at the big man.

“Did you call me... toothpaste?”

Alex blinked. He looked from Hollander’s drugged, skeptical face to Rozanov’s beaming one, waiting for a correction that didn't come.

“Yes. Very good,” Rozanov said. He repeated the phrase and his grin widened as he reached out to stroke Hollander’s freckles with surprising gentleness.

Alex shifted his weight, the reverent atmosphere suddenly feeling very strange. It was one thing to have a secret language, but he could not wrap his head around why Rozanov was looking at his husband like the love of his life while calling him a dental hygiene product.

“Your hand is so warm," Hollander whispered, leaning his cheek into the palm. "I love you more than hockey. I love you more than... than clean laundry. And I really like the way clean laundry feels, but you’re better. You’re squishy."

Rozanov let out a huff of laughter, his thumb stroking Hollander’s cheekbone. "You hear this, Doctor? He never says this when he is sober. When he is sober, he tells me I am 'annoying.'"

"You are annoying," Hollander giggled, reaching up with his free hand to clumsily boop Rozanov’s nose. 

"And you tried to give me your number once," Hollander continued, his head lolling toward Alex. “I remember."

Alex’s heart nearly stopped. 

"He did, didn’t he?" Rozanov purred, his eyes shifting to Alex. The sweetness didn't vanish, but it was suddenly sharpened by a very dangerous edge. 

"Yeah," Hollander sighed, oblivious to the sudden drop in room temperature. "Ilya said you wanted to sleep with me. And then Ilya made me sleep with him instead. For hours. It was... really great."

Alex turned a shade of red that matched the Biohazard bins in the corner. He desperately tapped the dial and pressed the oxygen mask back to Shane’s face. "Okayyyy, that’s enough. Oxygen time. There you go. Isn’t that nice?”

Rozanov leaned down and pressed a possessive kiss to Hollander’s forehead. "Is okay, Doctor. I am not jealous of a man who looks at teeth all day. I have the prize, yes?"

Hollander blinked slowly and pulled the mask from his face, his eyes searching for his husband. "Did you bring it?" he whispered, his voice still thick and slightly lisping. "The grey hoodie? Did you bring it to the rink?"

"Nyet. Is at the hotel. We came straight from the locker room, remember?"

Hollander’s face fell. "Oh."

"Why do you need it now?" Rozanov asked, leaning closer.

"I want it," Hollander grumbled, his hand making a feeble, batting motion in the air toward Alex. "It smells like you. It’s nice." He looked like he was trying to physically push the scent of Old Spice out of his personal bubble.

Rozanov settled onto the edge of the dental chair and Hollander immediately drifted toward him, curling his body inward until his nose was pressed firmly against the moisture-wicking fabric of Rozanov’s compression shirt. He took a deep, shuddering breath and finally seemed to settle, his eyes fluttering shut as the sleepy phase hit him.

Rozanov gently unclipped the paper bib from Hollander’s neck, moving like he was handling fine china. Alex handed over a sterile, moist wipe, and Rozanov took it, carefully dabbing away a stray bead of blood and the leftover polishing paste from the corners of Hollander’s mouth.

"He will sleep for a bit," Rozanov stated, more than asked.

"Probably for a few minutes, yeah," Alex said, his voice dropping to a respectful near-whisper. "While he’s under, listen to the aftercare. The bond is strong, but the ligament is still traumatized. Soft foods only for the next week like yogurt, protein shakes, mashed potatoes. No biting into anything with the front teeth. I’ll write a script for a mouthwash to keep it clean."

Alex paused, looking at the way Hollander was tucked into Rozanov’s torso.

"Let him rest for at least twenty minutes before you try to get him on his feet. He might be lightheaded if he stands up now."

Alex set a couple of cups of water on the side table, then turned his back to start the tedious process of cleaning up. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Rozanov discreetly or what passed for discreetly for a six-foot-three Russian, stuffing a dental mirror and rubber bite blocks into the pockets of his compression leggings. Because the leggings were skin-tight, the supplies created bizarre, lumpy protrusions that hid absolutely nothing.

Alex sighed, reached into a drawer, and pulled out a fresh box of wooden tongue depressors. He grabbed a handful and held them out to Rozanov

"Here. Take the whole lot. Just leave my benzocaine gel, please. I don’t have a replacement."

Rozanov didn't look embarrassed. Instead, a slow grin spread across his face as he took the sticks and gave Alex a sharp, military-style salute. He dutifully retrieved the stolen oral numbing gel from his pocket and slapped it into Alex’ outstretched hand. 

Alex rolled his eyes, leaning back against the counter only to see Rozanov swipe the two alligator clips that held the dental bibs and tuck them into his shirt sleeve. Nope. Definitely don’t want to know why he needs those. 

"Tall. Black. Extra hot. Dark Roast. Preferably Ethopian…or Kenyan," Alex said firmly.

Rozanov paused, his hand halfway to a bowl of cotton rolls. He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "Is your… sexual preference?"

"No!" Alex exclaimed, horrified. "It’s my coffee order. Specifically, the one you’re going to bring me the next time you’re in Toronto to make up for the absolute chaos you brought into my office today. And for the stethoscope."

Rozanov let out a short, barking laugh. He stepped forward and extended a hand that felt like a vice grip. "Deal."

They shook on it, a strange, silent understanding passing between. Rozanov looked down at Hollander, his expression softening into something so genuinely tender it made Alex feel like he was intruding on a private moment.

"Thank you, Doctor," Rozanov said, his voice dropping the playful edge. "For taking care of him. You are the best dentist."

Alex stared at him, trying to parse the tone. Rozanov’s face was a mask of stoicism, but there was a glint in his eyes that made Alex wonder if he was being sincere.

"Yeah, well," Alex muttered, turning back to his instruments. "Just keep him away from Reider's elbows and... maybe take it easy on the blowjobs for a while."

"We see," Rozanov purred, already leaning down to brush a stray hair off his husband’s forehead.

When they finally left some time later, Alex picked up his porcelain cup. The coffee he’d fought so hard for was stone cold. A thin, oily film had settled on the surface.

With a heavy sigh, Alex walked over to the sink and watched the dark liquid swirl down the drain.

"Right," he muttered to the empty room. 

He was standing there, skin itchy from the scalding coffee he’d spilled on his chest earlier that day, covered in a kid's spit, having been dumped by a man 10 years his junior. What a fucking day. He was forty, single, and had just spent an hour as the third wheel to a pair of hot athletes who were probably going to go home and engage in even more hot sex.

Alex pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen reflected his tired eyes back at him. He stared at his reflection for a long beat before unlocking it and opening the App Store.

Grindr it is. 

April 2022

Alex was leaning back in his premium seat, surrounded by the usual suspects from the physiotherapy and medical departments, until the sound of a heavy collision echoed off the glass.

Reider had knocked a Detroit player roughly into the boards. The whistle blew and the arena fell into that hushed, expectant silence as a few of the trainers beside him rushed onto the ice.

While the officials sorted out the penalty, the jumbotron cut to break-time entertainment. The crowd let out a roar as the screen filled with the faces of Rose Landry and Miles Something. Alex couldn’t remember his name, but he had heard that the "X-Squad" stars were back in town filming a sequel. Rose Landry was proudly sporting a Detroit jersey and waving at the cheering crowd.

"Dental this is rink-side lead.” Crackled suddenly from the radio on Alex’ hip.

“Go for dental.” Alex replied. 

"We have a player coming back with a dental trauma. ETA two minutes. Copy?"

"Duty calls," he muttered to the head physio beside him, who just gave him a sympathetic thumbs-up.

Fucking Derek Reider.

“Copy that. I’ll meet you there now.” Alex confirmed as he made his way to the medical wing.

After the Detroit winger had been stitched up and cleared, a glance at the wall-mounted monitor confirmed the news: Detroit had taken the win.

A rhythmic knock echoed through the suite. "Come in," he called out, expecting a trainer or a cleaner.

Instead, the door swung open to reveal Rose Landry who bounded in first, her Detroit jersey slightly oversized, her energy practically vibrating off the sterile walls. Following behind her, looking effortlessly cool, was her “X-Squad” co-star. Miles was carrying a massive box labeled “La Marzocco Linea Mini R.”

"Delivery for Dr. Alexander Thorne!" Rose chirped, gesturing dramatically at the box. "Ilya said, and I quote—,”She cleared her throat, dropped her voice an octave, and put on a thick, horribly exaggerated Russian accent. "’I am not barista. You have hands. Make it yourself.'"

She broke character immediately, laughing at her own impression.

Alex couldn't help it; he let out a genuine, startled laugh. "Rozanov sent this?"

"With very specific instructions," Miles said. He stepped forward, expertly balancing the heavy box against his hip so he could extend a hand. "I’m Miles. Heard a lot about you from the Hollander-Rozanovs."

Alex took the hand, his grip firm. Up close, Miles had that magnetic, polished presence that made it easy to see why he was a superstar. "Alex. And I’m sure you have," Alex replied, a dry smirk touching his lips.

The handshake lingered. Neither of them seemed particularly eager to break the contact. The air in the room shifted.

Rose looked down at their joined hands, her eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. She looked at Alex, then at Miles, and then flashed a brilliant, wicked grin. "Okayyyyy. That’s my cue. I have a winning locker room to go crash!"

She turned on her heel and vanished back into the hallway, her laughter echoing behind her.

Alex looked at the box. "Does this thing come with a manual? Or am I going to have to guess how to pull a shot?"

Miles let out a soft chuckle, finally letting go of Alex’s hand to set the box down properly. "Actually, no. Ilya told Rose to take the instructions out of the box. He said something about wanting you to 'work for it.'"

"Of course he did," Alex sighed, shaking his head. "That man is evil."

"Fortunately for you," Miles said, stepping into Alex’s personal space with a slow, devastatingly handsome grin, "I played a barista in my very first movie. I’m basically an expert. I can help you set it up."

Alex leaned back against the instrument cabinet, crossing his arms and letting his gaze travel over Miles. "Well, there's a slight problem with that. I think I’d rather enjoy a machine this nice at home." He tilted his head, his voice dropping into a daring, playful register. "Do you do house calls, Miles?"

Miles’s grin widened, his eyes flashing with a mix of amusement and heat. "I do."

Shane was draped across the sofa, his head pillowed on Ilya’s chest, pleasantly full from all the Russian dishes that Ilya had fed him. And now they were both sprawled on the couch finally finishing Ponyo after Ilya had been begging for weeks. 

The peace was broken by the buzz of a phone on the coffee table. Shane glanced over as Ilya reached for it. When he saw “Shane’s Beard” on the caller ID, his eyebrows shot up. Shane was happy his ex-girlfriend and his husband got along, but Rose calling Ilya wasn’t that typical. And Rose had mentioned to Shane earlier that she would be at the Toronto game against Detroit tonight. So why was she calling Ilya?

Ilya answered and Shane watched his husband’s face closely, seeing a smirk tug at the corner of Ilya's mouth.

"Good," Ilya said into the phone. "Thorne is good doctor. He deserves to get laid."

Shane sat up abruptly, Anya letting out a disgruntled huff at the sudden movement. "Thorne? What did you do?"

He lunged for the phone, trying to snatch it to get the truth out of Rose, but Ilya was faster. He hoisted the phone high out of reach with one hand and used the other to find the most sensitive spot on Shane's ribs.

"Ilya! Stop! Give it here!" Shane gasped through a fit of desperate giggles, squirming as Ilya’s fingers danced over his side.

"Nyet," Ilya chuckled. He spoke one last time into the phone, his tone almost melodic with mischief. "Thank you, Landry. You are top-tier agent. Goodnight."

He tossed the phone onto the cushion and immediately used his superior weight to tackle Shane back into the pillows, pinning him down with a grin that was nothing but trouble.

"What was that?" Shane demanded, his breath hitching as he looked up at the man looming over him. "Why was Rose calling you? What did you do to the dentist?"

"I did nice thing," Ilya insisted, his chest vibrating against Shane’s. "Because I am very nice man. I am generous soul."

Shane narrowed his eyes, his lip twitching. "And you’re a liar. A big, meddling liar."

Ilya’s grin turned teasing, his eyes darkening as he leaned down until their noses brushed. "You think so? Do you need me to prove it to you? I can be very, very nice, kotyonok."

The suspicion in Shane’s mind flickered and died, replaced by a much hotter, more immediate spark of interest. He bit his lower lip and reached up, winding his fingers through the hair at the nape of Ilya’s neck.

"Prove it," Shane whispered.

Ilya hauled Shane up from the sofa with a strength that left Shane breathless. "Come," Ilya commanded, his voice dropping into that register that always made Shane’s pulse skip.

He dragged Shane toward the bedroom, Shane stumbling behind with a bewildered but eager laugh. Once inside, Ilya marched straight to Shane's nightstand and yanked open the drawer. He rummaged around in it for a second. When he turned back around, something silver in his hand caught the dim light of the bedroom.

"Take off all of your clothes," Ilya said, his expression mock-serious as he draped a professional-grade stethoscope around his neck. "I must listen to your heart. Make sure it is still beating."

Shane let out a startled, bright laugh, leaning against the sheets. "You don't need to be naked for a stethoscope."

Ilya’s eyes narrowed, and he pointed a stern finger at Shane. "Stop ruining sexy fantasy with dumb logic, Shane. I am the doctor now."

"But—"

"Take your pants off, Mr. Hollander," Ilya scolded, a flicker of a grin breaking through his stern facade. "I want to listen to your heart. All of it. From the front and the back. Very thorough medical exam."

Shane bit his lip, his head spinning in the best way. He reached for his waistband, his eyes locked on Ilya’s. "Fine. But if my heart is beating too fast, it’s your fault."

"I count on it," Ilya said, stepping closer as Shane’s folded clothes hit the floor. He pressed the cold metal of the stethoscope to Shane’s bare chest, but his eyes were focused entirely on Shane’s mouth. "Yes. Very fast. You definitely need medicine. I know just the thing."

“You don’t even have the earpieces in.” Shane pulled Ilya down by the collar, the stethoscope trapped between their thumping hearts. Whatever Rose and Ilya were up to was officially the last thing on his mind.

The kiss that followed was deep and hungry, a messy collision of teeth and tongue.

Slowly, Ilya pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide. He reached up and slid the stethoscope earpieces into his ears, his gaze never leaving Shane’s. He guided the cold, silver end over, pressing it firmly directly over Shane’s nipple.

Shane let out a sharp moan at the sudden shock of the cold metal against his sensitized skin. His back arched off the bed, his eyes fluttering shut.

Ilya leaned down, his lips trailing a path of heat along the column of Shane's throat, teeth grazing the soft skin of his neck. He kept the stethoscope pinned firmly in place, the silver disc capturing every frantic skip and flutter.

"You want to know the cure for your heart?" Ilya murmured against his skin, keeping his voice low so it wouldn't drown out the frantic rhythm of the heartbeat he was monitoring.

"What?" Shane breathed, his voice a wrecked, needy thing.

"This huge dick," Ilya deadpanned, his expression utterly serious even as he listened to Shane’s pulse jump violently through the earpieces.

"Fuck you," Shane groaned through a laugh, though he didn't pull away. He reached up, tangling his fingers in Ilya's hair and pulling him into a heart-pounding kiss.

Chapter End Notes

The real question is…will Ilya ever get to finish watching Ponyo?

----

Alex: Hits on a man he thinks is single one time.

Ilya: Over the course of several years, I will wage psychological warfare against this man for ever having looked at the love of my life.

Also Ilya: And then when I get bored of torture, I will gift this man a boyfriend. Not Shane though. (Plus a $7,000 espresso machine)

----

Also... just pointing out something nobody has mentioned yet. In chapter 2, Ilya was playing with the stethoscope after telling Shane what he wanted to do with it and then it goes missing after they leave the office. Thorne accuses Ilya of stealing it....but guys....Ilya walked to SHANE's nightstand to get the stethoscope out. So who stole it? Hehehehehehehe.

Chapter 5: Make Shane Bite the Pink Thing

Chapter Summary

Ilya still finds plenty of time to torment Shane's old flames and orchestrate a medical favor.

Or...begging the ultimate question: "what color is it?"

Chapter Notes

Inspo struck bitches! Ya'll I logged back in after like 2 months to the wonderful surprise of almost 700 comments. Keep em coming! I'm so excited to read them all! 🫣

October 2022

Ilya sat on the edge of the hotel bed mattress, hunched over as he forcefully yanked on his boot. Usually, he was the one dragging his feet, completely indifferent to the clock while Shane was the hyper-punctual taskmaster. But tonight, the roles were maddeningly reversed. 

"You are the one who spent twenty minutes lecturing me about punctuality, Shane.” He paused, clearing his throat, before pitching his voice into a terribly exaggerated Canadian accent. 'We cannot be late, Ilya, is a triple date, Ilya, is bad manners, eh? No, Ilya. I do not have time to do your hair ‘cause I have one-hundred step skincare routine, Ilya, sorree.'" 

He dropped the imitation, his voice returning to normal as he glared toward the bathroom. "And now look at you."

He caught his reflection in the vanity mirror, scowling at his own unstyled hair. Shane always helped him fix it before they went out. The fact that Shane had completely abandoned their usual routine tonight just to log extra minutes on his own reflection was a grating, neon sign. Shane was excited for this dinner. Ilya wanted to set the restaurant on fire.

From the open bathroom door, the steady tap-tap-tap of Shane meticulously patting product into his skin echoed out, followed immediately by an annoyed scoff.

"I don't talk like that," Shane grumbled, his voice slightly muffled as he worked around his jawline. He paused, muttering under his breath, "I'm deleting our Hulu account. You've been watching way too much Shorsey."

He took a beat to finish patting, then raised his voice to call back smoothly, leaning into the mirror to inspect his pores. "And I can multitask. You should be grateful I’m taking the time to look this good for you. Especially considering about eighty percent of the people coming tonight have tried to sleep with me."

Ilya felt a sharp, ugly prickle of jealousy flare in his chest. He tried to lock it down, burying the insecurity behind a mask of cold boredom, but he couldn't stop himself from biting back.

He didn't even look up from his laces. "One hundred."

The patting stopped. Shane’s face appeared in the doorway, dewy with some kind of hydrating mist. "What?"

"What? You can’t do math? One hundred percent," Ilya repeated, finally tying the knot and sitting back. "Not eighty."

Shane leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. A slow, knowing smirk began to pull at the corner of his mouth. He knew exactly what Ilya was doing, and if there was one thing Shane loved, it was a possessive, territorial Ilya.

"Svetlana?" Shane scoffed, intentionally feeding the fire to tease him. "Please. I don’t think I’m her type.”

"First time we go to gym with Sveta," Ilya said, his voice a flat deadpan, "she squeezed your tricep, and ask if you want to spot her on heavy rack."

Shane blinked, playing innocent as his brow furrowed in mock confusion. "She was complimenting my form."

Ilya just stared at him, the silence stretching between them for three long seconds. "..Yeah," Ilya muttered.

Shane’s eyes danced with amusement, his smile widening as he pushed off the doorframe to lean in closer, thoroughly enjoying the view of Ilya stewing. "Oh," Shane murmured softly, his tone dripping with playful provocation. "Someone sounds a little tense."

“If you offer to spot on her heavy rack, she’d still say yes,” Ilya sniped, turning his face away to hide the flush of irritation heating his neck.

Shane wrinkled his nose. “Ilya, that’s gross. And… you’re the one who has ‘spotted on her heavy rack’… many times.”

Ilya just humphed, crossing his arms and refusing to look at him. The jealousy was practically radiating off him now, and Shane was secretly thrilled. Svetlana wasn’t exactly who Shane had been planning to bait Ilya with tonight, but if it worked, it worked. He loved seeing Ilya this wound up.

Shane rolled his eyes. “Can we please stop saying ‘heavy rack’?”

Ilya lifted his hands and gave a bitchy little shrug, as if to say, you started it.

Shane recovered quickly, his eyes dropping from Ilya’s face down to where his husband was sitting on the edge of the bed. As he looked closer, Shane also couldn't help but notice how incredibly askew Ilya’s hair was.

Usually, Shane wouldn't dream of letting Ilya leave the hotel room looking like a messy, unbrushed teenager, but they hadn't had a single second to properly diffuse it after their shower, mostly because they had spent ninety percent of their time in that shower having sex against the tile. That was the real reason they were suddenly running behind. Shane had claimed he "didn't have time" to fix Ilya's hair because of his skincare routine, but the truth was that Shane absolutely hated the sticky feeling of hair gel on his dry fingers, and he'd deliberately used it as an excuse to wind Ilya up even tighter.

Now, looking at his grumpy, unstyled husband, the perfect opportunity presented itself.

"Well," Shane murmured, a purr entering his voice as he turned back to the sink to wash his hands. "Since I'm apparently a hot commodity tonight even for your bestie... maybe you should do something to mark your territory before we leave. Just a quick blow job? I promise I’ll be fast."

Ilya let out a sharp, amused huff. "Yeah. I know how fast you can be."

Thwack.

A damp hand towel flew through the air, hitting Ilya squarely in the chest.

Ilya caught it, dropping it onto the bed beside him with an unimpressed curl of his lip. "If you expect me to get down on my knees on that filthy bathroom floor, you are going to have to ask a lot nicer than that."

Shane exited the bathroom, stopping right in front of Ilya. He looked down Ilya, dropped all the smugness from his face, and let out a single, breathless word:

"Please."

That was all it took.

Ilya crumbled immediately, entirely because of the unfair perfection of Shane's face right now. Now that the skincare routine was complete, Shane's skin looked completely flawless and dewy. He must have performed some sort of witchcraft in that bathroom, using whatever expensive serums he had to specifically highlight the bridge of his nose and the freckles scattered across his cheeks just to torture Ilya.

Ilya tossed his other shoe blindly into the corner of the room and reached out, locking his hands onto Shane’s hips with enough force to bruise, and dragged him forward until Shane’s thighs hit the edge of the mattress between Ilya’s spread legs. Ilya didn't waste time with zippers; he gripped the waistband of Shane’s pants and practically tore them down his legs, his mouth already moving aggressively against Shane's skin before the fabric even hit the floor.

So much for being the punctual one. Shane’s precious schedule was officially blown to pieces, and he didn't care at all.

As Ilya dropped his head and swallowed him whole, Shane leaned back slightly, his eyes tracking up to the hotel ceiling. A triumphant smirk spread across his face.

But Shane wasn't just a pretty face. He could multitask. He had left the bathroom with a generous dollop of Ilya’s styling gel already secretly coating his fingers.

While Ilya worked, fueled by that possessive edge of jealousy, Shane casually reached down. His fingers sank into Ilya’s hair, sliding smoothly from the crown down to the nape of his neck. With slow strokes, Shane began smoothing out the stray strands, taming the cowlicks, and perfectly sculpting Ilya’s curls back into a respectable, public-ready look.

Ilya paused for a fraction of a second, letting out a muffled, questioning grunt against Shane's skin as he felt the unexpected stickiness of the product being worked into his scalp.

Shane just closed his eyes, his smirk widening as his fingers kept slicking the gel through the thick strands, finally giving Ilya the styling he'd bitched about missing.

"Don't stop," Shane murmured. "I told you I was multitasking.

The booth at the back of the Toronto restaurant rattled slightly as Shane and Ilya finally slid into the bench, twenty-five minutes late.

They were only in town for a single night before their game against Toronto tomorrow, making their free time incredibly tight. Shane and Ilya had desperately wanted to use the evening to see Rose and Svetlana, but much to Ilya's chagrin, the girls already had plans to have dinner with Miles and Alex. Rose had enthusiastically invited Shane and Ilya to just join the group. Shane had agreed in a heartbeat, completely ignoring Ilya’s lack of enthusiasm. 

Rose, Svetlana, Alex, and Miles were already comfortably settled, their first round of drinks half-emptied.

"Look who decided to join us," Rose teased, raising her glass in a mocking toast. "We were about to start taking bets."

"Traffic," Shane said smoothly, adjusting his collar and offering a smile that didn't quite cover the post-coital flush still warming his cheeks.

"Didn’t you walk here?" Miles chuckled, leaning back against Alex’s arm.

Ilya just grunted looking thoroughly unbothered.

Rose squinted across the table, her eyes locking onto Ilya’s face. "You guys look a mess. Ilya, you’ve got something on your lip."

Shane’s eyes flared with wide, panicked warning, his eyebrows shooting up. Without breaking eye contact with Shane, Ilya casually raised his thumb. Right before he brushed the white smudge away, he let out a murmur:

"Moya pastochka." My toothpaste.

Alex choked mid-swallow, a sudden, violent cough sputtering a mouthful of beer right over the edge of his glass and onto the polished wood of the table.

Shane winced in concern, but he instinctively leaned away from the splash zone, retreating directly into the solid space of Ilya’s chest.

A satisfied smirk pulled at the corner of Ilya’s mouth as he absorbed the weight of Shane pressing back against him and he watched Alex gasp for air. Ilya reached over to the center of the table, plucked a neat stack of paper napkins from the holder, and extended them across the booth.

"Careful, doctor," Ilya murmured innocently.

Svetlana tapped the table, breaking the sudden silence. "We are dry here. Rose and I are going to the bar for another round."

Alex immediately scrambled for a distraction. "Oh, I can get it! Let me go—"

"Nyet," Svetlana waved him off as she and Rose slid out of the booth. "Rozka always wants something extremely complicated. No one can be trusted to remember her order but me."

"It's called a signature cocktail. It's a lifestyle," Rose threw back. 

With a sharp, feline grin, Svetlana reached past Rose and grabbed Shane firmly by the tricep, hauling him out of the wooden bench along with them.

"You are coming too," Svetlana decreed. "I do not know what super specific, artisanal ginger ale your delicate stomach needs, and I am not guessing."

Shane stumbled slightly as he was dragged into the aisle, trudging after the two women like a child. He threw a helpless look back over his shoulder at Ilya, silently begging his husband to rescue him from the interrogation he was undoubtedly about to get at the bar.

As the group headed towards the bar, the rest of the table’s occupants turned back to the booth, their attention landing square on Ilya just as he finished rubbing the dried white smudge from his lip.

Ilya caught Miles and Alex staring at him, his thumb still hovering near his mouth. Completely unbothered, he dropped his hand, gave a massive shrug of his heavy shoulders. 

"Toothpaste is because I was dragged here by Shane against my will. I was rushed getting ready," Ilya said flatly. "I do not want to have drinks with man who hit on my husband."

"For the last time, it was once!" Alex burst out defensively at the exact same fraction of a second that Miles loudly protested, "Dude, I hit on him way before anyone even knew you two were a thing!"

The words hung in the air for a beat of absolute, stunned silence.

Alex slowly turned his head, his eyes widening as he stared at his boyfriend. "Wait. What? You hit on Shane?"

"You hit on Shane?!" Miles shot back, looking equally blindsided. "When did you hit on him?"

"Like 2018" Alex squeaked as he gestured frantically. "I was fixing his tooth. He flosses, okay? It was a momentarily lapse of judgement. Why did you hit on him?"

"Oh, I flirted with him constantly while Rose was dating him!" Miles defended himself, throwing his hands up and gesturing toward Rose’s direction at the bar. "I clocked him a mile away and I wanted him to realize it! It was a public service! Why are you yelling at me?"

Alex’s mouth opened slightly. He looked at Miles, then his eyes darted back across the table, tracking the smug expression on Ilya's face.

Ilya watched with absolute glee as the gears finally turned and clicked into place inside the dentist's brain. 

"You..." Alex whispered, his eyes widening in a mix of betrayal and awe. "The espresso machine! You absolute psycho mastermind, you set us up just to get us away from Shane?"

Ilya’s face split into a brilliantly happy grin, looking like a giant. He leaned back against the leather booth, thoroughly enjoying his own genius.

"And look how well it worked," Ilya quipped, raising an invisible glass toward Alex in a mocking toast. "You are welcome."

Miles' brow furrowed. "Wait. Hold on. Did you say you hit on him because he flosses? Babe? That is so nerdy. Adorable... but incredibly nerdy."

"Do you have any idea what I look at all day?" Alex defended himself, gesturing frantically with his hands. "All the teeth I work on are owned by gross straight men who've been using the same bacteria-infested toothbrushes they bought a decade ago! Half of them don't even know what floss looks like. Then Shane sits in my chair, and he actually has impeccable oral hygiene…and he was clearly gay. He had blowjob bruises!"

Miles blinked. "What are blowjob bruises?"

“It’s… erythema caused by…well, I mean…it’s a tissue response to trauma near the tonsillar pillars—"

"He had throat bruises because he takes my huge cock," Ilya interrupted, delivering the clipped English with total nonchalance. "Deep."

Miles let out a startled crack of laughter, delighted. "Oh, man. Poor Shane."

From his corner of the booth, Ilya leaned back, stretching his long legs out under the table. 

"Is true. He is perfect patient. He gargles fresh protein mouthwash from me every single morning."

Alex buried his face in his hands, letting out a moan of pure embarrassment, while Miles just cracked a massive grin, raising his glass to Ilya. "Respect. Point taken."

Alex sighed into his drink, Miles chuckling beside him and rubbing a soothing hand down Alex’s back. "Rozanov, for the last time. It was one time. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t even know you were dating. I had a weak moment and gave him my number. That’s it!"

"You hit on my husband," Ilya said his eyes gleaming with the joy of relentless antagonization. "He comes in for medical care, and you try to steal him. I should report you to Canadian Dental Association."

"You literally set us up to get me away from Shane!" Alex protested, gesturing between himself and Miles.

"Yes, because you both needed to stop looking at my husband's mouth," Ilya countered smoothly.

"Incredible," Miles said, leaning over to kiss Alex’s hot, flushed cheek. "He’s evil, but you gotta admit he’s a genius. You got a lesson in boundaries, Ilya got to play matchmaker, and I get a boyfriend who can get me free teeth whitening. An all-around win.”

Alex let out a disgruntled sound, crossing his arms over his chest. "Is that all I'm good for? Teeth whitening?"

"Well, you've also got a very good mouth," Miles teased smoothly, just as Ilya said:

"You also have free stuff to steal."

Miles’s eyes instantly lit up. "Oh my god. I've been meaning to ask you. Did you steal his stethoscope?"

Alex let out a sharp gasp of betrayal, but Miles kept going, turning fully toward Ilya. "It's been like, what, a year since, and he complains about it literally every week."

"Because my new one isn't as good!" Alex grumbled. The acoustics are completely off. It’s got a weird murmur in the earpiece!"

Ilya casually threw his husband right under the bus without a shred of hesitation. "Shane stole it. But he is rich hockey player, so I buy you expensive new one with trophy husband's Rolex bank account. Top of line. If..." Ilya paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, "...if you will do favor for me."

Alex immediately looked at him with deep suspicion. "What kind of favor?"

Ilya frowned, his heavy brows knitting together as he tapped a finger against his own jaw. He paused, clearly hunting through his mental dictionary for a specific term, before giving up and gesturing vaguely with his hands.

"Nothing big," Ilya said, his voice terrifyingly casual. "I want you to make Shane bite down on the... the pink thing."

Alex blinked. "The pink thing?"

"Yes. The pink thing that smells like plastic," Ilya muttered, waving a hand toward his own mouth, clearly irritated that his English was failing him. "You put it all the way in his mouth until it gets hard, and then you pull it out.”

Miles leaned forward, a delighted grin already breaking across his face as he watched Ilya struggle with the description. "Your dick? Are you describing your dick?"

"No!" Ilya huffed, shooting Miles a murderous look. "Not dick. The thick slime stuff that fills up his mouth."

Miles practically swallowed his own tongue trying to stifle a laugh, while Alex just stared, looking deeply uncomfortable with the visual.

"An impression?" Alex finally supplied. "You want me to take a dental impression of Shane's bite?"

"Da. Impression," Ilya said, completely reclaiming his cool demeanor now that the words had been delivered.

Alex stared at him, his brain desperately trying to find a normal medical reason for this request. "Why on earth do you need a mold of his teeth?"

"Oh my god!” Miles exclaimed “You want a bite tattoo!" The booth went dead silent for a fraction of a second. Alex’s mouth opened slightly as the implications of what Miles had just said registered in his brain.

Miles let out a delighted laugh, slinging an arm around Alex's rigid shoulders. "You guys are absolute freaks," Miles grinned, completely charmed as he raised his glass to the Russian. "Alex, babe, you are absolutely making that mold."

Alex’s face contorted, revulsion taking over as he let out a sharp, "Ew."

"Don't be homophobic." Ilya said dismissively. 

Alex rolled his eyes, letting out a defeated sigh as he reached for the last of his beer. "Fine. Whatever. I am texting you the link to the most ridiculously expensive stethoscope I can find the second I get home. I can take the impression of Shane's teeth after the game tomorrow with the pink thing.” Alex paused, his fingers tapping anxiously against his glass. "Assuming Reider doesn't cause any incidents."

Miles leaned forward, nudging Alex with his elbow.

"Yeah, about that," Miles said, his voice dropping as he nodded subtly toward the bar. "He might already be doing that."

Chapter End Notes

Please comment if you also want to spot on Svetlana's heavy rack.

Chapter 6: What’s New, Goluboy Shchenok?

Chapter Summary

The Mystery of the Molar Menace

Chapter Notes

Warning for some homophobic language.

Shane carefully peeled Svetlana’s fingers off his arm. "I'm going to use the restroom," he muttered. "I’ll meet you there in a minute."

Rose immediately pouted. "No! I wanted to ask you about Ilya's toothpaste. Do you know what brand he uses?"

Shane fixed Rose with a flat look. 

Rose’s eyes tracked down to his neck, squinting slightly. Right there, against the fabric of his shirt, was a tiny, telltale damp smudge on his collar. It definitely wasn't toothpaste.

Her eyes snapped up, meeting Shane's, his entire face freezing as he braced for her teasing. But Rose just held his gaze for a beat, offering a merciful, silent pass as she let him go without saying another word out loud.

"I'll be back in a minute," Shane repeated, a little more rushed this time as he turned and made a swift escape toward the hallway.

The second his back was turned, Rose snapped her head around to face Svetlana, a smirk breaking across her face. Svetlana smirked right back, the two women bursting into simultaneous giggles as they arrived at the bar.

"Oh, definitely homemade toothpaste," Svetlana chuckled, sliding into an empty stool. "Only the most organic, salty kind for Ilyushka’s mouth will do."

Rose snorted, shaking her head as she flagged down the bartender. "Hi, can I get a smoked rosemary mezcal paloma, but with a chili-salt rim, and a splash of grapefruit soda? Not juice, the soda."

The bartender blinked, scribbling it down, before looking at Svetlana. "Beluga Transatlantic. Neat."

As the bartender walked off to gather the inventory required for Rose's cocktail, the two women leaned against the bar, glancing back over their shoulders toward the booth.

"So," Rose prompted with a smirk, "Place your bet. How long until Ilya kills one of them?"

Svetlana hummed thoughtfully, watching Ilya across the room "Thirty minutes. Twenty if Thorne mentions Shane’s teeth. Ilya has low tolerance for the dentist." She paused, her eyes shifting toward the hallway where Shane had disappeared. "Though, honestly? Shane might kill Ilyushka first tonight."

"God, I know. Shane looked ready to murder him the second they walked in. They are so ridiculously obsessed with each other."

Svetlana hummed in agreement, turning her back to the bar and leaning against it, her tone full of genuine fondness. "Everyone looks at Ilyukha and sees big, scary Russian dog who barks. But really? Is Shane who holds leash."

Rose laughed, shaking her head with real warmth. "Ilya would commit robbery if Shane asked him nicely. Trust me, dating Shane is like... you think you're in charge because you're the loud one, but he completely calls the shots just by being cute."

“Is an act? Or he is actually that pure?" Svetlana asked.

"Oh, totally real," Rose said fondly. "He really is just that sweet. But..." She leaned in closer, her smile turning playful. "Don't let the wholesome Canadian boy routine fool you. Just because he's a polite gentleman doesn't mean he can't absolutely freak it behind closed doors. I’ve overheard some things while staying in their guestroom."

Svetlana snorted, glancing back toward the bathroom with a proud, knowing grin. "Clearly. Good for them."

“Speaking of Ilyushka… I've been meaning to ask you," Rose said, resting her chin in her hand. "You and Ilya call each other a bunch of different things. What do they all mean?”

“Is diminutive,” Svetlana explained with a shrug, leaning a little closer into Rose's space. “Like I call you Rozka.”

“I thought Rozka was just Rose in Russian. Is it not?”

“Is just cute version.” Svetlana smiled. "Fower is roza. Rozka is a diminutive. Same as Rozuska. It is what we do in Russian. We take a name and we soften it to show affection or because we think you are cute."

Rose wrinkled her nose, completely charmed. "There are actual rules to this? Explain the Russian nickname universe to me."

"Is all about suffixes," Svetlana explained. "Ilya calls me Sveta when he is being normal. If he is being annoying, he calls me Svetka. If my mother is being sweet, I am Svetochka. There are levels of closeness."

"Okay, I love that," Rose murmured, her eyes tracing Svetlana's face. "Which ones am I allowed to use for you? Give me the special, exclusive levels."

Svetlana reached out, her fingers lightly trailing along the edge of Rose's hand on the bar. "For you? You can call me Svetulyik or Svetunichka," Svetlana murmured. "Means you think I am very dear to you."

Rose practically melted, a flush rising to her cheeks as she squeezed Svetlana’s hand. "Svetulyik," she practiced, the syllables rolling off her tongue with a sweet slowness. "Yeah. I'm definitely using that one."

"Good," Svetlana murmured. "You have excellent pronunciation, moya krasavitsa. You can practice it on me as much as you like." My beautiful girl. 

Rose grinned, nudging Svetlana's shoulder playfully with her own. "So what about names that don’t have a Russian equivalent? What does Ilya call Shane?"

“We just use the same suffix for foreign names, but half of the names Ilyushka uses for Shane are just nouns."

"Nouns?" Rose repeated, eyebrows raised. "Like what? Can I borrow any of those for you?"

Svetlana let out a snort, shaking her head. "No. Absolutely not. They are all just random. Like pomidor. Tomato. Klyushka means hockey stick." Svetlana explained, ticking them off on her fingers. "When I called him the other day, I swear to God, I heard him call Shane pylesosik."

"Pylesosik? What does that mean?"

"Vacuum cleaner."

The two women locked eyes for a fraction of a second before both breaking into simultaneous, breathless snorts, burying their faces in their hands to muffle their laughter.

"Oh my god," Rose gasped, wiping a tear from her eye. "A vacuum cleaner? That is so out of pocket."

"Mmmhmm," Svetlana chuckled, pulling herself back together with a shrug. "He is an idiot. But... when he is actually trying to be sweet, is usually lyubimy which means like…lover I think…or maybe beloved? Solnyshko is sunshine. Or kotyonok. Kitten. He says that one a lot."

Rose’s smirk returned, full of fond amusement. "Kitten? Actually, that’s perfect. Shane really does look like an angry kitten whenever Ilya winds him up."

"And Ilyusha is sad puppy the second Shane leaves his sight," Svetlana added.

"What is the word for sad puppy?" Rose asked, her eyes lighting up. "We need to start teasing him with it."

"Call him goluboy shchenok," Svetlana said, her lips twitching. "This means 'blue puppy' from old soviet cartoon, but goluboy is also slang for gay. So you are calling him sad, gay puppy."

Rose let out a delighted cackle. "Golu-boy shche-nok? Oh, he is going to absolutely hate that.”

“Nyet,” Svetlana said, a warm smile softening her sharp features. “He is actually going to love it. He watched this cartoon all the time with his mother growing up. I even found a rare plushie of goluboy shchenok, just like one he had when he was a child. I am going to give to him as a New Year’s gift.”

“That’s sweet. You’re sweet, Svetulyik,” Rose smiled, her voice melting into a soft murmur.

Svetlana leaned down, catching Rose’s lips in a kiss that made Rose hum happily. Svetlana lingered, her breath warm against Rose's mouth as her lips brushed the corner of her smile.

"Sladkaya Svetulyik," Svetlana murmured softly against Rose's lips, the Russian words a teasing caress. Sweet Svetlana

Rose’s eyelashes fluttered as she tilted her chin up slightly, catching the rhythm of the language. "Sladkaya Svetulyik," she whispered back, the foreign syllables intimate and breathless between them.

Svetlana’s hand slid up to cup Rose's jaw as she leaned in and kissed her more deeply. The kiss turned slow, syrupy, and heavy, their breath tangling together, forgetting about the crowded room around them as Rose wrapped her fingers into the fabric of Svetlana’s jacket, pulling her closer.

They lingered there, until the sharp clink of glassware on the counter broke the spell.

"Here you ladies go," the bartender announced, sliding a fresh vodka and Rose's cocktail into place.

Svetlana pulled back slowly, her tongue darting out to lick her lips as if tasting the lingering sweetness of the kiss. 

Rose blinked, clearing the daze from her eyes, and let out a breathless little laugh as she reached for her drink, deliberately changing the subject before they both got too heated right there in front of the whole room.

"What are we doing tomorrow during the game?" Rose asked, her fingers tracing the lapel of Svetlana’s jacket. “Because if I have to sit in that family suite for three hours listening to everyone analyze power plays, I might lose my mind."

Svetlana squeezed Rose’s waist, pulling her just a fraction closer. "You don’t like my commentary? Then we escape. We find dark closet somewhere."

"A closet?" Rose laughed, wrinkling her nose. "In a hockey arena? It’s going to smell so bad."

"Fine. I have better idea," Svetlana purred. "One of the medical rooms then. Very clean."

Rose arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really? And how are we getting into a locked medical bay? Maybe we can bribe Alex to leave one unlocked for us before the game starts. A nice bottle of wine should do it."

Svetlana let out a mocking scoff, shaking her head. "I was going to suggest blackmail. Is much more efficient. I find out secrets, and then he leaves the door open for free." She tilted her chin up, looking thoroughly pleased with her own logic. "But bribes work too, I suppose. Very American of you, Rozka."

Rose snorted, shoving Svetlana’s shoulder playfully as she laughed. "Okay, Black Widow. Calm down. We don't need to ruin the dentist's life just to get some privacy. Miles actually seems really happy. Wouldn’t want to ruin that."

"Okee," Svetlana murmured, her thumb caressing Rose's waistband. "We can leave ruining dentist’s life to Ilyushka.. 

Svetlana took a calm sip of her vodka, but she was roughly jostled into the bar by a tall, broad man pushing past. 

Rose was immediately on her feet, her eyes flashing. "Hey! Watch it!"

The guy paused and turned around, raising his hands in a half-hearted gesture of apology. "Oh shit. My bad." But as his eyes locked onto them, his demeanor shifted instantly, a slimy confidence replacing the brief flash of remorse.

"Hello, gorgeous," he said, his voice dripping with an obnoxious, smooth cadence as he eyed them up and down. "What are we drinking tonight? Can I get the next round for you?"

Svetlana turned her head slowly, her cold, calculating gaze landing on him, while Rose just arched an eyebrow, her posture rigid with irritation.

"Which one of us are you talking to?" Rose asked, her tone dripping with pure ice.

The man shrugged, flashing a lazy, arrogant grin that suggested he was entirely used to getting whatever he wanted. "Either. Both. I'm not picky.

Rose let out a sharp, incredulous laugh at the sheer, casual misogyny of it, while Svetlana’s arm looped possessively around Rose’s waist.

"We are together," Svetlana said, her voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, clipped register. "And we are not interested. Go away."

The man leaned a little closer, his gaze shifting dynamically from Svetlana's cold glare back to Rose. Up close, his eyes widened slightly as the recognition finally clicked. 

"Whoa," Reider muttered, his arrogant grin widening into something far grosser. "Are you Rose Landry?” He let out a low whistle, leaning heavily against the counter as if they were suddenly old friends. "Damn. I knew you looked familiar. I don't mind that you two are together. Honestly, it's pretty hot."

He chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound, and looked Rose up and down again as he continued. "Man, I didn't know you were a little lezzie now. Guess nobody told the internet. Hollander was so bad in bed he turned you away from cock forever, huh?" He flashed a lazy, self-satisfied wink. "Don't worry. I could fix that for you. Both of you."

The temperature at the bar plummeted to absolute zero.

"We are not interested in third-line Toronto defensemen," Svetlana cut in, her voice slicing through his arrogance. 

The man blinked, his smug grin faltering for a fraction of a second. He hadn't introduced himself, but Svetlana's cold eyes held zero doubt. 

Rose looked between Svetlana and the massive hockey player, a sudden spark of recognition lighting up her face as the pieces clicked together. "Oh.. you're Daren Reider? You're the Molar Menace or whatever?"

Before he could correct her, his phone buzzed aggressively in his hand. He looked down, completely unbothered by his own blatant disrespect, and taped in his passcode.

While he was distracted, Svetlana leaned slightly toward Rose. "Derek Reider. Tooth breaker, Rozochka," she softly corrected. "Not Molar Menace. Tooth breaker."

But Rose didn't even hear the correction. Her eyes were glued to the glaringly bright screen tilted carelessly in Reider's hand. It was open to a sportsbook app displaying a pending novelty wager:

Prop Bet ID: #99421 Event: Toronto Guardians vs. Ottawa Centaurs Wager: T. Barrett (LW, #17) - Facial Trauma / Loss of Tooth caused by D. Reider (D, #8). (1st Period) Odds: +350 

Reider quickly tapped a confirmation button, finalizing a massive, five-figure bet, and slid the phone back into his pocket with a smug, self-satisfied sigh. He looked back up at Rose and Svetlana, completely oblivious to the fact that they had just read his entire screen.

"So, what's the move, girls?" Reider asked, leaning in closer. “Mind if I join?”

"The move," Svetlana said, "is for you to go away before I show you exactly how much I mind." Svetlana stepped away from the bar, turning her full, imposing height toward him, her eyes flashing with lethal amusement. "You think that is hot? Let me tell you what is not hot. Your pathetic stat line."

Reider blinked, his brain clearly struggling to process the sudden shift. "What?"

“You play fewer than twelve minutes a night because you’re slow and your hockey IQ is practically non-existent. You have the worst plus-minus on your entire roster, but you think you have the skill to speak to us?"

"Hey, watch your mouth, bitch, you don't know what the fuck you're talking about—"

"Go fix your horrific stickwork before you try to talk to women" Svetlana sneered, her chin tilted up.

Shane chose that exact second to walk out of the back hallway. He froze the moment he saw the standoff happening at the counter.

Reider caught sight of him, and the shift in his posture was instantaneous. The tense, dismissive sneer he had for the women was replaced by the defensive posturing of an athlete recognizing another guy on the food chain. He threw his chin up, trying to salvage his bruised ego in front of a fellow player.

"Hollander," Reider muttered with a tense, aggressive nod.

Shane stepped right up next to Svetlana, his face completely expressionless.

"Fuck off," Shane said flatly “Before she embarrasses you even more.”

Reider let out a mocking laugh, refusing to back down easily in front of another guy. His eyes dropped to Shane’s mouth. "Yeah? How are those teeth doing, by the way? Still holding up?"

Shane just stared back at him with absolute, freezing indifference. "They're good," Shane replied, his voice deadly calm. He let a slow, cutting smile pull at the corners of his mouth. "Still got more Cups than fake teeth, Reider. What do you have?"

The smugness evaporated from Reider's face instantly. For all of Reider's dirty hits and posturing, he had a completely empty trophy case. Svetlana let out a mocking scoff beside him, enjoying the execution.

Reider's jaw tightened, his posture stiffening as he prepared to bark back. But mid-breath, his eyes flicked over Shane’s shoulder, tracking something at the back of the room.

Near the pool tables, Ilya was still at the booth, entirely oblivious to the confrontation at the bar as he laughed at a comment from Alex or Miles. 

The aggressive edge instantly drained out of Reider's shoulders. The sudden, quiet shift in his expression made it obvious he had no desire to draw the attention of the man in the back.

He blinked, the bravado completely gone, and raised his hands in hasty surrender as he took a step back. "Alright, alright, fine. Your loss, girls."

He turned away, grumbling something under his breath about them being uptight dykes, and slunk back toward the jukebox at the far end of the room, careful to keep his path as far from the pool tables as possible.

Shane watched him go until he was safely out of earshot, the hard edge in his shoulders finally dropping as he let out a heavy, exhausted sigh. "God, I hate that fucking guy."

Svetlana and Rose, however, had already brushed the entire interaction aside. They didn't care about Reider's bruised ego; they had much more important things to discuss.

"Did you see it?" Rose asked fiercely, her voice dropping into an urgent whisper as she grabbed Svetlana’s forearm.

"Yes," Svetlana hissed back, her eyes flashing.

Shane blinked, looking between the two of them, completely lost. He had only caught the tail end of Reider being an annoying prick and hitting on them, so he had no idea what they were talking about. "What? What did I miss? What did he say?"

"The piece of shit has a bet on," Rose explained quickly, leaning in close so her voice wouldn't carry over the bar noise. "It was right on his phone."

Before she could finish, the bartender stepped up to the counter, interrupting them with a quick nod toward Shane. "What can I get for you, man?"

"Canada Dry," Shane said. "And a neat shot of Beluga Transatlantic." He then turned to Rose, raising an eyebrow. "What do Alex and Miles usually order?"

"Two draft beers of whatever," Rose answered quickly, before immediately pivoting right back to the text message, her eyes wide with urgency. "Anyway, the bet—"

"Got it," the bartender muttered, cutting her off as he began assembling the order. 

"Barrett," Svetlana hissed under her breath impatiently. "The bastard is going to target Barrett in the first period."

The studio had hooked Rose up with a sprawling top-floor space which was more than big enough to comfortably fit all six of them, sprawled in the living area around boxes of whole-wheat sourdough pizzas piled high with grilled vegetables and lean chicken.

"So he’s insider trading?" Miles asked. “Is making a novelty bet on something you have influence over considered insider betting? I don’t understand the difference.” 

"It doesn’t matter to Barrett’s face." Ilya said flatly from his spot on the floor, leaning back against Shane’s legs. He looked up, completely serious. "I know a witch. Very powerful. She can curse Reider with terrible illness before game. If he is puking his guts out, he cannot break Barrett's face."

The room went dead quiet for a beat. Shane closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, while Rose bit her lip to stifle a laugh.

"Ilya," Shane sighed, "we are not paying a fake Etsy witch to hex someone."

"Is not fake!" Ilya muttered, genuinely annoyed. "She is good."

Svetlana, who was sitting on the arm of Rose's chair, let out a sharp exhale, choosing to ignore Ilya’s antics. "If Reider gets sick, he just places the bet next time. You need to get the evidence off this phone." said Svetlana.

"Okay, so we have two problems," Rose said, curling her legs up on the plush armchair. "First, we have to keep Troy safe during the first period so the bet doesn't cash. Second, someone needs to get a hold of his phone."

"Ilya can shadow him.” Svetlana declared confidently. “If Reider even breathes in his direction, you sandwich him into the boards."

"Done," Ilya grunted, his eyes flashing with a competitive spark. "I will make sure he does not get within five feet of Barrett."

"But what about the phone?" Miles asked. "Reider is going to leave it in his locker during the game. MLH locker rooms aren't exactly open to the public."

Everyone's eyes slowly drifted across the room, landing squarely on Alex.

Alex paused, a piece of crust halfway to his mouth. He blinked, looking around at the expectant faces. "What? Why are you all looking at me?"

"Because you work for the team," Shane pointed out. "You're allowed in the back corridors and the medical bays. It wouldn't look weird at all if you had to pop into the Toronto dressing room to check on a player..." He paused, cutting his eyes down to the floor. "...like a player who sustains a bit of a mouth injury," he added, nodding pointedly at Ilya.

Ilya looked up from the carpet, his expression shifting from a pout to a terrifyingly eager grin. "I can do this. How about Kent?"

“No, no," Alex stammered, waving his hands frantically. "I don't need you creating extra work for me… also… I don’t want to see Kent’s mouth. Please."

Ilya tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in understanding. "Because he is asshole."

Miles chimed in, pointing a slice of pizza at Alex. "Because he doesn't floss?"

Alex's face twisted into a grimace. He shuddered, looking between them. "No. He has active oral herpes. But you didn’t hear them from me."

The entire room erupted into a collective chorus of groans and faces of absolute disgust.

Shane immediately threw his head back against the couch cushions, closing his eyes tightly. "Oh, god. Why did you have to share that? We play against him tomorrow."

"You asked!" Alex defended himself. "If I'm using an injury as an excuse to go back there, it's going to be for someone else. I am not putting my fingers anywhere near that man's mouth. Try Nilsson. He has a loose premolar on his left side."

"We can’t punch a goalie, Alex!" Shane exclaimed, looking at him like he’d lost his mind.

"Well pick anyone else," Alex said, shuddering as he set his pizza down. "What about Houde?"

Shane immediately shook his head, vetoing the idea. "No, not Houde. Houde is actually an okay guy."

They all groaned in unison, the logistics of orchestrating a hockey fight proving surprisingly tedious.

"What about the rookie center?" Svetlana asked, snapping her fingers as she tried to recall the roster. None of them could actually remember his name, but Ilya shrugged carelessly.

"I almost never face off with him," Ilya noted.

"Which means if we pick the rookie, it’s probably going to fall on you," Svetlana said, shifting his gaze to Shane.

The entire group turned their heads, staring at Shane with varying degrees of skepticism.

"Can you even fight?" Miles asked bluntly.

Before Shane could defend his honor, Ilya let out a loud, booming laugh from the floor, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, do not worry about that."

Alex swallowed hard, looking at Svetlana, who gave him a slow, encouraging nod.

"So you want me," Alex said, "to pull off a heist?"

"Not a heist," Rose corrected. "Just a minor, medically authorized retrieval of evidence. You treat the rookie in the locker room, grab the phone, take some screenshots…text them to yourself. Do not forget to delete the texts! And put it back. Simple."

"That is a great plan," Svetlana nodded, swirling the last of her drink. "Except for one problem. His phone will be locked. Unless Thorne has suddenly learned how to bypass cyber-security, we have no proof."

Rose let out a soft, triumphant laugh, leaning back into her plush armchair with a smug grin. "Oh, please. Give me some credit."

Everyone turned to look at her.

"I watched him open it at the bar," Rose explained, tapping her temple. "It’s 0-9-1-8."

Shane frowned, his hockey-stat brain immediately spinning. "September eighteenth?"

"Exactly," Rose said, her grin widening. "So while you guys were ordering the pizza, I did a quick search. Derek Reider's birthday is September 18, 1996. The absolute idiot uses his own birthday as his passcode."

Miles let out a loud snort. "This is what happens when you spend your entire life taking hits to the head. No brain left."

"Perfect," Svetlana murmured, a dangerous little smile touching her lips as she leaned down to press a quick kiss to the top of Rose's head. "Smart girl."

Miles shook his head. "Why can't you just call a reporter and tell them exactly what you saw? I really don't think we need to be Scooby-Dooing all of this."

Svetlana didn't even look up from pouring her drink, but a dry, knowing smirk pulled at her lips. "Without phone, is just gossip. Reporter cannot publish  massive match-fixing scandal based entirely on 'most breathtakingly beautiful movie star on planet and her incredibly lucky, equally gorgeous Russian girlfriend looked over man's shoulder.' Reider will deny it, league will protect him, and we look like the crazy ones. We need the proof."

The room fell silent, the entire group pointedly ignoring the way Rose playfully tugged on one of Svetlana's dark curls and leaned in to pretend to bite her nose, letting the two of them have their moment while they collectively processed the actual plan.

Then, Ilya broke the silence, shifting his massive frame on the carpet. "Okeee so..." he said, his thick Russian accent turning the words heavy and completely serious. "We are…. how do you say ‘Scooby-Dooing’ this?"

Alex looked down at his pizza, then back up at the group, letting out a nervous but resigned laugh. "Fine. Fine. His passcode is a joke and I have a medical pass. Got it. But if I get fired for espionage, Rozanov is paying for my lawyer! And no, the lawyer can't moonlight as a part-time Etsy witch."

"Alright, if we're doing this, we're doing it right," Rose declared, leaning forward and pointing a manicured finger around the circle. "I call Daphne. Obviously."

She pointed next at Ilya. "Ilya, you're Shaggy."

"No," Ilya argued instantly, his forehead furrowing in deep, stubborn offense. "I am the dog."

"You want to be the dog?" Miles asked, looking up from his pizza.

"Yes. I am Scooby," Ilya insisted. He pointed a finger at Shane. "Shanya is Fred and Sveta is Velma, because they are smart and bossy." He shifted his gaze to Miles. "And you are Shaggy, because you are afraid and you eat all the food."

"Hey!" Miles protested, though he didn't lower his slice.

Alex looked around the room, totally bewildered as the roles were rapidly locked down. He threw his hands out, looking directly at Ilya. "What does that leave me?"

Ilya didn't even hesitate. He looked Alex dead in the eye and shrugged. "The car."

Shane rolled his eyes, rubbing a hand down his face as he exhaled a long breath. "Unbelievable," he muttered, shaking his head. "I never thought I'd be sitting in a hotel room planning a sports betting sting, but let's do it I guess."

"No!" Ilya corrected instantly, his brow furrowing in deep seriousness. "Let's Scooby-Doo this."

Shane stopped, slowly turning a devastating glare over to Miles that explicitly screamed, Why the hell would you introduce that phrase into his vocabulary?

Miles just raised his hands defensively and took another bite of pizza, silently communicating back that he was just Shaggy and therefore exempt from blame.

Watching Shane's eyes flare, Rose leaned her head against Svetlana's shoulder and let out a soft snicker. Under her breath, she muttered a perfectly accented, "Zloy kotenok." Angry kitten.

Chapter End Notes

Will the gang pull this off?

Chapter 7: She Doesn't Live In Etsy.

Chapter Summary

“What is word? When you cannot understand letters?”
“Dyslexia? Ilya, I’m not chirping someone for being dyslexic.”
“No! I mean the thing where you cannot read the words! Like the girl from Glee!”
Shane blinked. “Who?”

Chapter Notes

“Did someone have to read your contract out loud because you’re obliterated?” Shane repeated awkwardly. “Like that?”

Ilya looked down at his husband with the critical eye of a theater director supervising a dress rehearsal. “Nope. Too polite.”

“Well it doesn’t make sense. Why am I accusing the rookie of being wasted?” Shane argued petulantly, his thumb scraping at the side of his mouth guard, trying to smooth down a nagging rough spot in the plastic.

“Mmm, no, not wasted. I think I give you wrong word.” Ilya paused, his brow furrowing as he searched his brain. “What is word? When you cannot understand letters?”

“Dyslexia? Ilya, I’m not chirping someone for being dyslexic.”

“No! I mean the thing where you cannot read the words! Like the girl from Glee!”

Shane blinked. “Who?”

Ilya let out a dramatic sigh, throwing his hands up. “Gahhh, you would not know. You watch only boring nature and real estate tv. I do not know why I bother,” Ilya grumbled, turning away. He raised his voice, shouting across the bench, “Bood! What is rumor about Lea Michele?”

He looked at Bood expectantly, but Bood just offered a helpless shrug. Shane and Bood exchanged a confused look, completely lost.

Ilya groaned, his fingers snapping erratically. “Come on, people! I need Shane to tell rookie that someone had to read contract out loud because he cannot read!”

Shane stared at him. “I mean, my agent read my contract to me. That's just standard business practice.”

“Illiterate,” Wiebe deadpanned from behind Shane, not even looking up from his clipboard.

Ilya’s face lit up. He pointed his finger aggressively at Wiebe. “Yes! Thank you! Illiterate.” He turned back to Shane, slapping him on the shoulder. “Okay. Go tell him he is illiterate piece of garbage, please.”

Wiebe slowly lowered the clipboard, his eyes darting between Ilya’s manic expression and Shane’s bewildered face. “Why are you feeding Hollander chirps?” Wiebe asked. “Actually… you know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know. Hollander, get out there. Don’t do anything Roz would do.”

Shane stepped up, his gloved hand catching the top of the boards, ready to hop over for the opening shift. Before his skates could leave the rubber flooring, Ilya gripped his jersey, tugging him firmly backward.

“Wait,” Ilya commanded, leaning in close to Shane's ear. “If you don’t like the illiterate one, say this instead. Tell him: ‘Guardians must really regret taking you in the first round.’ Easy. You can’t mess it up.”

Ilya let go of the jersey, patting Shane's chest twice. “Go, Kotenok.” Kitten.

Shane scowled at him for a second, but let out a steadying breath, and swallowed down the absolute absurdity of this situation. He gripped his stick, and finally hopped the boards, skating out toward the face-off circle with a look of intense concentration.

“Hollander is going to chirp?” Wiebe asked, incredulous.

A wildly fond smile broke across Ilya’s face. “Oh no. He cannot pull it off,” he said cheerfully. “But is going to be cute to watch him try.”

The referee blew the whistle, calling the centers to the dot. Shane skated into the circle, lining up against the rookie. The kid had a faint, arrogant smirk playing on his lips. 

Shane wracked his brain, desperately trying to remember Ilya's specific phrasing, but the wires were crossing fast. Hoping he was hitting the right balance, Shane leaned over his stick, looked the kid right in the eye, and let it fly.

"Congratulations on the draft," Shane said earnestly. "Honestly, it’s really good the Guardians picked you up before you had to finish school. It just would’ve been so embarrassing for everyone to figure out you couldn't graduate anyway because you're totally illiterate."

The rookie’s smirk vanished, his head snapping up to stare at Shane. “What did you just say to me, old man?”

“Is your new promotion to starter permanent, or is management just giving the real hockey players a rest for the night?” Shane asked, his tone casual.

Where had his brain even pulled that from? The kid had looked genuinely hurt for a second there. Giving the real hockey players a rest. Who was he even talking about? Kent? Did he just imply that Kent was a real hockey player? To psych out a nineteen-year-old?

Gross, Shane. He internally shuddered, a nervous sweat breaking out under his gear. 

Shane felt a sudden urge to apologize, but he hadn't even dropped the heavy artillery yet. Look at it this way, Shane thought desperately, trying to soothe his own screaming conscience. It’ll be like a badge of honor for him if he gets to brag about being the one to provoke Canada’s golden boy into fighting.

Nodding to himself, Shane forced his face into an expression he hoped looked mocking. The rookie was still staring a hole right through Shane's visor. 

"I saw that ESPN interview you did from your childhood bedroom. The one where you showed off your little shelf of participation trophies?"

The rookie stiffened, his jaw locking.

"It was really sweet how you called me your hockey hero," Shane continued "Honestly, so touching. Too bad you're never getting another trophy to put on that shelf as long as I’m playing."

That did it. The combination of being called a dropout, a bench-warming fraud, and a pathetic fanboy in back-to-back breaths blew right through his remaining composure.

He lunged across the dot, his gloves coming up to claw at Shane’s jersey. Shane’s eyes lit up, ready to engineer the exact medical emergency Alex needed.

“Whoa!” Luca shouted, dragging Shane backward by his collar like a stray cat being hauled out of a dumpster. “Shane... what the actual hell?”

“Haas! Let go!” Shane hissed, as the rookie was restrained by two linesmen, still yelling profanities. “I need to—Luca, let go!”

On the next faceoff, Ilya found himself staring directly into the sneering face of Kent. 

Kent looked right past Ilya’s shoulder toward Troy, whose face was blank, a defensive mask he wore every time they faced off against his former best friend.

“Barrett. Rozanov,” Kent drawled, quiet enough to keep it from reaching the linesman. “I see you brought your little office boyfriends tonight. Still taking it up the ass I see.”

A terrifying, dead silence radiated from Ilya. Every single cell in his body was screaming to take Kent's head off, to scream the exact, ugly truth about what a pathetic excuse for a man Kent was and that the only reason he wasn't still a virgin was because he forced himself on women who wouldn't touch him voluntarily. The words were practically burning a hole through his tongue.

Ilya didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He just locked his eyes onto Kent with a look of such absolute, unvarnished disgust.

Ilya exhaled a sharp breath, forcing his knuckles to uncurl from his stick. He shifted his gaze down the ice and caught Barrett’s eye. It was a split-second look. An unspoken, heavy I won't if you won't. With a tight, mutual nod, they silently agreed to take the high road and freeze him out entirely.

"Clean draw, boys, let's go," the linesman said, raising the whistle.

As the linesman dropped the puck, Ilya didn't push forward into the zone. Instead, the moment he won the draw, he immediately exploded to the left, his skates cutting hard into the ice to cross paths with Troy.

“Switch!” Ilya barked.

Before Troy could even process the command, Ilya snapped a hard, no-look pass directly into Troy’s stick, completely forcing his hand.

“What the fuck?” Troy yelled, forced to scramble into the middle. “What are you doing?”

“Move!”

With the puck now glued to his blade, Troy had zero time to question Ilya's madness. Kent was already bearing down on him, trying to steal the puck right out from under him.

Harris was practically pressed against the glass of the family suite, his fingers smudging the window as he stared down at the ice below.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Harris muttered. “Is Ilya concussed? Does he know what position he plays?”

Svetlana didn't answer, her eyes locked on the ice as she took a slow sip of her wine. 

“See? Right there!” Harris threw his hands up, turning to the rest of the suite. “He just abandoned his position. He’s forcing Troy into the center.”

Miles, who was sitting on the high-top stool near the buffet, looked up from his plate of sliders. “Is that bad? I thought they just all skated around wherever the puck goes.”

“No, Miles, it’s not bad, it's insane,” Harris sighed, pacing back to the glass. 

“Look,” Svetlana said, pointing a manicured finger toward the far blue line.

Down below, Reider was tracking Troy like a heat-seeking missile. Reider was loading up for a massive hit that would have caught Troy completely in the blindside.

But Troy wasn't near the boards. Ilya was.

CRACK. 

The sound of Ilya slamming into the boards echoed all the way up to the glass of the executive suite. Ilya absorbed the brunt of Reider’s forearms and stick without faltering; he just shoved Reider back with a hand to the chest and dug his skates in to chase the puck.

“Oh,” Harris said, leaning forward as he watched the replay slow-motion on the monitor. Harris stared down at the ice, his brow furrowing as he watched Troy safely carry the puck deep into the offensive zone, entirely untouched because Ilya and Bood were essentially running a two-man security detail.

“Okay, but why?” Harris asked, looking between Rose and Svetlana. “Troy is perfectly capable of taking a hit.”

Rose kept her face perfectly unreadable. “I’m sure Ilya has his reasons, Harris.”

“Is Ilya like the quarterback?” Miles chimed in. He pointed a half-eaten slider toward the glass. “Like, is he supposed to throw the puck, or is he just blocking so Troy can make a touchdown? Because that guy definitely just tackled him.”

Harris blinked, completely sidetracked and visibly pained by the description. “It’s called checking, not tackling. And there are no quarterbacks in hockey.”

With Harris safely distracted with teaching Miles about hockey, Rose leaned in closer to Svetlana, lowering her voice.

“I feel guilty,” Rose confessed. “We barely have anything to do. We just left it all up to the boys.”

Svetlana scoffed, taking a delicate sip of her wine without breaking her gaze from the ice. “We did plenty. We gave the information, we made the plan. And it is not even all the boys. Miles does not have a job either.”

“Miles is just Shaggy. He’s strictly here for good times and stadium snacks. He says it tastes better when it costs twice as much because it’s concessions,” Rose countered, mimicking Miles's tone. “And because you get to sit here and watch sweaty boys burn the calories for you.”

“Agree,” Svetlana said. “The rest of the boys can do all the heavy lifting. We can just relax and watch. What do you Americans say? Work smarter, not harder?”

Rose flinched, her heart leaping into her throat as she anticipated a collision, but before Reider could even make contact with Troy, Bood cut him off at the last second.

“I’m too nervous to relax. If I keep watching Reider hunt Troy down, I’m going to puke. I am way too anxious for him.”

Svetlana smirked as she turned away from the window to face Rose. “I know just the distraction.”

“He is a rookie. He is terrified of you. He is not going to punch first. Just hit him and get it over with.” Ilya rolled his eyes, his gaze dropping to Shane’s hands. “And put your mouth guard back. Stop taking it out.”

“It’s driving me crazy,” Shane complained, rolling the piece of plastic around in his hand.

Ilya sighed, his tone softening just a fraction. “I like your pretty teeth. I want them to stay inside your face.” He reached out, tapping Shane’s chin. “Maybe Thorne can fit you for a new one after.”

Shane’s eyes narrowed instantly. “Why? Dr. Terry can do it. There is absolutely nothing for you to show off to Alex. We didn’t even do anything last night.”

 “Well... nothing in your mouth, anyway.” Ilya smirked. “But Dr. Terry does not know teeth things. Maybe Thorne makes smoother one for you.”

Shane huffed, a blush creeping up his neck. He wanted to stay thoroughly annoyed with his husband, but a stupid, warm part of him melted. It was sweet that Ilya actually paid enough attention to notice his occasional sensory issues.

“Fine. Maybe,” Shane grumbled, trying to keep his scowl intact.

“Good. Now put it in, go out there, and fight the rookie. Stop trying to be fish food. Just punch him.”

“Bait.” Shane supplied with a huff, shoving the mouth guard back in as the whistle blew, signaling the end of the commercial break. Trying to tune out the irritating texture, he skated out to the circle, his brain firing at a hundred miles an hour, deeply annoyed.

Shane was the first one to arrive at the dot. The official looked at Shane, then glanced back over at Ilya’s silhouette still watching from the bench as they waited for the rookie to step onto the ice. “Your captain is acting like a saint, and you’re out here trying to start a brawl. Looks like Rozanov rubbed off on you.”

Shane, whose mind was still spinning, responded, “Unfortunately, not enough.”

A sudden snort cut through the air. Shane hadn’t even realized LaPointe had skated up behind him until LP buried his face into his gloves to muffle an explosion of laughter.

Shane glanced over his shoulder at him, looking at LP in total confusion. “What?”

LP just shook his head behind his gloves, his shoulders rolling with breathless giggles as he tried not to lose it on the ice.

Turning back, Shane noticed the linesman looked shocked. Shane couldn't parse why the official was suddenly radiating such immense discomfort, but he figured it had everything to do with LP’s disruptive outburst behind them.

The official cleared his throat, nodding toward the boards where the rookie had just finished up with the trainer and was finally skating toward them. “Uh. Right. Well. Keep it... professional, boys.”

Shane immediately shot a hard glare back at LP, thoroughly convinced that reprimand was entirely directed at him for acting like a fool. “Can we get on it with please?”

The linesman, still visibly flushed, quickly blew his whistle and stepped into position as the rookie joined the circle. Shane squared up, determined to redeem himself after the last fiasco.

He needed something mean. Something devastating. Go back to Saskatchewan? Lame. Go back to the minors? He’d literally just called him a bench-warming fraud, so that felt repetitive. Nice Chihuahua. Why’d you name her Princess?

Shane instantly vetoed that one with a shudder. If he said that out loud, it would completely give away the fact that he had cyberstalked the rookie’s Instagram looking for material. He was out of ideas. Panicking as the linesman raised the puck, Shane just opened his mouth and tried out the first thing that drifted into his head.

"Hey," Shane muttered aggressively. "You're sitting at what, a minus-four over the last five games? Your AHL affiliate is already packing your bags for you, kid."

Silence.

The rookie kept his eyes down, his body rigid, treating Shane like a mild gust of wind.

Shane realized with a sinking heart that he might have to just deck him after a play. But God, Shane really, really didn't want to do that. The guilt would eat him alive. No, he desperately needed the kid to try and hit him first so Shane could justifiably retaliate.

The puck dropped. The rookie swept the puck backward and accelerated into the neutral zone without so much as a glance in Shane's direction.

Back on the bench, Ilya just sighed, resting his chin on his gloved hand. He was definitely going to have to do more chirp rehearsals with Shane.

The monitor on the wall of Alex’s office was ticking down the first period at an agonizingly slow crawl. Alex shifted in his chair, practically vibrating with nervous energy. His palms were slick against the armrests.

From his vantage point, executing the game plan was proving to be a nightmare. He leaned forward, eyes glued to the screen, tracking Shane. Come on, man, just get it over with, Alex muttered to himself. 

When Rozanov’s shift came Alex gasped, throwing his hands up. On the screen, Reider’s stick came up high, narrowly missing Troy’s chin. Troy shook it off, skating away, but Alex’s heart was in his throat.

He couldn’t just sit here anymore. The waiting was eating him alive. He had already re-sterilized every single dental instrument, wiped down every surface twice, and organized his tools. He literally couldn't find a single thing left to do to distract himself. For a split second, he considered joining the rest of the medical team in their seats, but he instantly shot the idea down. Being even closer to the action would be ten times worse.

Deciding he needed a serious change of scenery to keep from pacing a hole in the floor, Alex bolted out the door, aiming for the elevator.

The digital indicator chimed softly as the elevator settled into the lower level. Alex was standing right in front of the doors, tapping his foot completely zoned out as he waited.

The heavy steel doors slid open with a whoosh, and Alex instinctively stepped forward to get on, only to freeze in his tracks.

Svetlana and Rose were completely tangled together, right in the middle of a heavy makeout session.

Alex took a panicked, clumsy step backward, nearly falling on his ass.

The two women broke apart. Rose started to let out an embarrassed noise but quickly stifled it, stopping herself before she could lose her cool. She casually smoothed down her jersey, putting her acting chops to good use as she successfully morphed her face into an unbothered expression. Beside her, Svetlana checked her reflection in the mirrored wall, adjusting her hair without a hint of a flush.

Rose smiled at him, her voice perfectly steady as she asked, “Oh, hey, Alex! Are you heading out to watch the game? Miles is actually up in the suite right now.”

Alex cleared his throat, trying to match her energy. “Hey. Yeah, I was actually just heading up that way to grab a coffee.”

Svetlana stepped out of the elevator first, her sharp eyes scanning his flustered face with immense amusement. “Well, you better be ready.”

Alex crossed his arms across his chest. “Where are you two going then?”

Svetlana didn't give him a straight answer. Instead she reached out, giving Alex’s burning cheek two patronizing, affectionate pats.

“Good luck, dentist,” Svetlana purred.

Before Alex could even begin to process that, Svetlana wrapped her fingers firmly around Rose's wrist, dragging her down the corridor leaving Alex staring after them in the hallway.

As soon as she heard the elevator doors close behind Alex, Svetlana veered sharply into the primary medical bay.

“Wait! Someone’s going to—”

“No one is coming,” Svetlana muttered against Rose’s neck. She caught Rose under her thighs and deposited her onto the edge of the examination table. “Everyone is upstairs now.”

Svetlana’s hands were dragging Rose’s jeans down before Rose could even draw another breath. 

“Mmm…Fuck!” Rose gasped, her head hitting the paper lining of the examination table with a sharp crinkle as the heat of Svetlana’s mouth made Rose arch her back, her fingers instantly knotting into Svetlana’s hair.

Svetlana parted Rose's legs wider, pressing her shoulders flush against the inside of Rose's thighs to hold her open. The next stroke of her tongue was heavy, slow, and soaked, painting a glistening line of saliva from the sensitive base of Rose’s slit all the way up to her engorged hood. Svetlana chuckled against her skin, sending a shiver straight up Rose's spine.

Svetlana’s tongue flicked over Rose’s clit, teasing the burning knot of nerves until Rose was panting. Rose let out a needy whine, her thighs trembling against Svetlana’s shoulders.

“Please—” Rose choked out, her heels digging into the leather padding of the table, her hips twitching for the release.

Svetlana flattened the wet, broad plane of her tongue over the crown of Rose's clit, drawing the sensitive nub into the heat of her mouth. She sucked on it with a slow rhythm that made Rose’s vision go dark, right as she buried two slick fingers straight into Rose’s tight channel.

Rose tore the paper under her fingers, her head arching back as her walls fiercely clamped and throbbed around Svetlana’s knuckles, dripping with a rush of moisture. Svetlana picked up the pace, ruthlessly grinding her thumb against the exterior while her fingers drove deep into Rose’s heat. She curled her fingers upward, hooking and stroking the swollen, spongy spot inside until Rose was whining into the quiet room.

"Fuck... yes, right there," Rose moaned. 

Svetlana's free hand aggressively shoved Rose’s jersey up over her ribs, starved for the feel of her bare skin. She froze for a fraction of a second, her eyes flashing with instant, wicked delight as the fabric bunched under Rose's chin, exposing her flushing chest and hard nipples to the cool air.

Rose wasn't wearing a bra.

Svetlana let out a laugh against Rose's inner thigh, slowing the slide of her fingers just enough to drive Rose crazy. She reached up, pinching one of Rose's flushed nipples between her thumb and forefinger.

"Naughty girl," Svetlana murmured. She leaned up just enough to look Rose in the eye, her fingers twitching inside her. 

"No panties, either. Malen'kayashlyuha, aren't you?" Little slut. 

"Pozhaluysta," Rose whimpered, her face burning as she twisted against the paper lining. Please.

"Shh," Svetlana whispered, leaning down to take the aching peak of Rose's breast into her mouth, swirling her tongue flat over the nipple before biting down gently.

The crinkling of the table paper grew frantic as Rose thrashed. Svetlana increased the speed, her fingers sliding in the slick warmth Rose was flooding them with. 

“I’m going to—fuck, Svetlana, now—”

Svetlana pushed faster, her tongue swirling as her fingers drove in deep one last time. A quiet sob tore from Rose’s throat as her walls clamped down hard around Svetlana’s fingers, her body shaking as pleasure crashed through her.

“Fuck—yes, ah!” Rose choked out. 

Her lungs pumped in fast, shallow puffing exhales against Svetlana’s neck. Her fingers, which had been twisted aggressively into Svetlana’s hair, went completely weak, slipping away as her body went entirely boneless against the table. She melted downward, breathless and limp, her hips twitching with the lingering, fading friction as she rode out the quiet aftershocks.

Rose let out one last, long sigh, melting back against the crinkling paper lining. She shivered in the warm afterglow, her chest still pumping for air as a quiet, breathless chuckle slipped past her lips.

Svetlana leaned up, a smug grin stretching across her face. She slid her fingers out with an agonizing, wet slowness that made Rose’s eyelids flutter, too spent to even twitch. Leaning down, Svetlana caught Rose’s mouth in a slow, sweet, tasting kiss.

With a wicked spark in her eyes, Rose forced her limbs to move. Svetlana was still sprawled heavily over her, a warm, lazy weight that Rose had to shove off. It turned into a clumsy scuffle as Rose fought to untangle herself while simultaneously trying to pull up her denim; she inadvertently planted an elbow right into Svetlana’s stomach. 

“Oy!" Svetlana exclaimed as the air left her lungs.

Rose had to quickly grab Svetlana's shoulder to steady her, making sure she landed squarely on the narrow exam table and didn't topple right off the edge. 

“Whoops.” Rose leaned down right before she swung her legs over the side, pressing a soft apology kiss directly to the spot on Svetlana's stomach through her jersey.

Once the danger of a fall passed, Rose stepped down onto slightly unsteady feet. Hop-hopping in place, she did a little jump to shimmy her denim back up over her thighs and hips. The clumsy effort making Svetlana break into a laugh at Rose, endeared.

“Where are you going?” Svetlana asked, still chuckling as she leaned back on her elbows.

“Shopping,” Rose shrugged, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

“Where’d Rose and Svet go,” Miles asked, his mouth half-full with popcorn.

Harris didn't look up from the ice, where Ilya was currently taking another bizarre left-wing turn to block Reider from touching Troy. “I don't know. But my blood pressure cannot handle this team. Should we go look for them?”

"Yeah, let's check the bar," Miles agreed. He checked the scoreboard, then looked back at Harris with a hopeful grin. "But we are absolutely stopping to get poutine on the way. It’s an emergency."

They abandoned their seats and headed to the bar, a piping hot cardboard boat of fries, thick gravy, and squeaky cheese curds securely in Miles's possession by the time they arrived.

They spotted Alex weaving through the high-rollers. He looked completely harried, his tie slightly askew, clutching a coffee cup like it was a detonator.

"Alex!" Miles beamed, instantly stepping into his path. Before Alex could even fully register the sight of his boyfriend, Miles leaned in and planted a solid kiss right on his mouth.

Alex humored him for a fraction of a second, melting into it, but survival instinct took over. His eyes darted around the swanky suite corridor, wild and paranoid, as he forcibly detached Miles from his face. "Miles—baby, stop," he whispered, frantically smoothing down his lapels. "I'm at work. The millionaires can see us."

"You look like you're about to faint," Miles said, completely unfazed. He thrust the glistening cardboard boat of poutine directly under Alex's nose. "Here. Eat a curd."

Alex visibly turned a shade of green. "If I put anything other than pure coffee in my stomach right now, I am going to projectile vomit all over your shoes."

Harris frowned, "Are you ill?"

Alex ignored the question, staring past them at the arena bowl. "How many minutes left in the first?" he asked, his voice a tight squeak.

"Five," Miles and Harris chorused in perfect, eerie, synchronized unison.

Alex blinked, his face morphing from green to a terrified white. He checked his watch as if hoping it would lie to him. "Five? Fuck! I—I have to go."

Seeing the panic rolling off his boyfriend, Miles’s usually unserious demeanor softened. He immediately shoved his poutine into Harris's hands so he could reach out, giving Alex's rigid arm a warm squeeze. "Hey, look at me. Breathe. You're going to do great, okay? You've got this."

Alex gave him a look of gratitude that was immediately swallowed by the raw terror of his impending nervous breakdown. "What if I forget to breathe and just asphyxiate right here?" he mumbled, staring into the middle distance. "You'll probably just move on. Find some other middle-aged dentist to give you free teeth whitening."

Miles snorted, stepping closer and cupping Alex’s face in his hands. "Please. I'm a Hollywood actor, babe. I can afford my own whitening. Besides, no other dentist has your specific... charm."

"Let's be honest," Alex added weakly, a faint smile fighting through his panic, "dentistry isn't the only 'D' I'm good for. You’d miss it."

"Oh, I'd be absolutely devastated," Miles laughed, leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of Alex's nose. He smoothed his thumbs over Alex's cheekbones, his eyes full of playful adoration. "My teeth would completely rot out, and my agent would drop me immediately. My career literally depends on your survival."

He gave Alex's face another affectionate squeeze. "So no asphyxiating allowed. You are going to go in there, get the evidence, and then you're going to let me celebrate you. Deal?"

Alex nodded, letting Miles catch his lips in a firm kiss that finally seemed to knock the static out of his brain. He took one shaky breath, gave Miles a tight smile and turned on his heel to face the music, leaving the room with a sudden, determined stride.

Behind Miles, the wet sound of chewing broke the brief silence.

"So," Harris mumbled from behind his shoulder, gesturing vaguely toward the door with a gravy-dripping fork. "Evidence for what...?"

Alex felt a little lighter, taking a long, calming sip of his coffee while shouldering open the door of the medical bay.

“Ahhh! Oh my God!” Alex shouted, the words instantly cutting off as a mouthful of hot espresso went directly down the wrong pipe.

He doubled over, coughing raggedly and hacking as his chest heaved, his eyes watering furiously. Alex choked out a wheezing gasp, his jaw dropping as his brain scrambled to process what he was looking at.

On the narrow examination table, Svetlana was sitting right up on the edge, her Rozanov jersey hanging loosely off one shoulder, her thighs pinned wide. Rose was kneeling on the floor right between her legs, holding a vibrating physical therapy massage tool between Svetlana’s thighs.

Rose scrambled to stand up, though she couldn't stop a breathless laugh from bubbling up. “Alex! Knock!”

“This is my area!” Alex retorted.

Svetlana slowly straightened up. “Thorne. If you do not close that door in three seconds, I will use your stethoscope to strangle you.”

Alex let out a  squeak, turned on his heel, and sprinted out of the room so fast his oxfords skidded on the floor.

Svetlana watched the door slam shut, shook her head, and turned back to Rose, her hands resetting themselves firmly on Rose’s hips. “Where were we?”

“He’s going to—”

“He is too traumatized to speak,” Svetlana said, dismissively waving a hand toward the door before leaning right back down on her elbows. She hooked her legs tighter around Rose’s waist, a smug, unbothered grin returning to her face.

“Now be a good girl and make me cum,” Svetlana purred, a challenging spark in her eyes as she checked the digital clock on the wall. “You have until the buzzer sounds.”

Rose didn't need to be told twice. She cranked the messager up to its highest setting. Rose pressed the vibrating head precisely against Svetlana’s sweetest spot.

Svetlana’s cocky grin vanished, replaced by a sharp gasp as her hips bucked. Her fingers dug into Rose’s shoulders, her head tossing back as a harsh Russian exclamation tore from her throat. Rose kept her hands steady, applying just the right amount of pressure, watching the heavy friction work its magic as Svetlana's breath hitched into rapid pants.

The digital clock bled down to the final seconds. Svetlana’s thighs trembled violently, her heels locking around Rose’s waist as the building wave finally broke over her, her eyes rolling back as she started to—

BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

The horn sounded, ending the first period with a grueling 0-0 tie.

The hallway outside the visitor’s dressing room filled up fast. Shane and Ilya slammed through the double doors, both of them dripping sweat, followed closely by a furious looking Troy.

“What the fuck are you doing? Stop switching positions!” Troy yelled, unstrapping his helmet.

“I am saving your pretty face. You should thank me,” Ilya yelled back.

From the other end of the hall, Harris and Miles exited the elevator just as Rose and Svetlana appeared from the side corridor. Rose was trying very hard to look put together, but her jersey was crooked, her cheeks were flushed, and her hair had a distinct “just got fucked” texture to it. Svetlana walked beside her, looking completely satisfied.

Troy’s furious expression faltered into one of utter confusion as his eyes darted between Harris, Rose, Miles, and Svetlana. He looked baffled by why they were all suddenly congregating in the restricted player’s hallway during intermission. Stepping past the commotion, Troy greeted his boyfriend with a brief peck on the cheek before casting another bewildered glance around the corridor.

Alex arrived a second later, panting heavily, clutching an ice pack against his neck.

“Good news!” Miles called out, waving his phone while completely ignoring the cup of Dippin' Dots in his other hand. In his enthusiasm, he gestured so wildly that the tiny, colorful beads of flash-frozen ice cream began spilling over the brim, scattering across the concrete floor. “The betting window just closed. Reider lost over fifty grand!”

“Great,” Shane snapped. He carefully shuffled his blades away from the melting ice cream, glaring down at the sticky puddles before snapping his focus back to the group. “Wonderful for Troy. Meanwhile, I’ve spent the entire period chirping a child who refuses to hit me! We need a new plan.”

Ilya’s eyes swept from Rose’s askew collar to Svetlana’s lazy, hooded cat eyes, then to a breathless, sweating Alex, and finally to Miles, who was aggressively scarfing down ice cream. The flushed faces, unkept hair, and frantic calorie replenishment spelled out only one conclusion.

Ilya’s face contorted. “Are you joking?” he bellowed, throwing his hands up. “We are in the middle of crisis! A man’s teeth are on the line, and everyone is having sex!”

“We weren't having sex!” Alex protested. “I was looking for a place to throw up!”

“Yeah, and I was upstairs!” Miles added.

Rose and Svetlana, however, remained noticeably silent. Rose suddenly found the hem of her jersey deeply fascinating, while Svetlana merely offered a smirk.

Troy and Harris stood in the middle of it all, their faces contorted in utter confusion.

“Everyone needs to stop thinking with their dicks!” Ilya ordered, pointing a finger at Svetlana, then at Alex, then generally at the hallway. “We have five minutes before second period! No time for new plan. Do better!”

“I am trying my best!” Shane defended himself, his voice rising. “I used every single chirp you gave me!”

The warning buzzer sounded through the corridor, signaling the teams had to head back on the ice.

“That’s it. We are out of time,” Ilya muttered. He reached into his hockey pants, pulled out his phone. “I am calling the witch,” Ilya said, punching a speed-dial number with a dramatic thumb.

Shane stared at him, his face flushing with irritation. “What are you doing? We don't have time for this!”

Shane’s jaw tightened as he was promptly ignored by Ilya, his phone already pressed firmly to his ear. The two men locked eyes, a tense, silent face-off vibrating between them while the faint, rhythmic ringing phone echoed into the room, waiting for the call to connect.

“How is an Etsy witch going to help us right now?” Shane barked, stepping directly into Ilya's space. “Are we going to hex Reider’s stick? Put a bad juju curse on his skates?”

Ilya raised his eyebrows and lifted his shoulders defensively, throwing his hands out as if explaining that water is wet.

“Why do you keep saying this? She does not live in Etsy,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes as if stating the most obvious thing in the world. “She is in Ottawa. You know this, Shanya.”

Shane opened his mouth to deliver a scathing lecture on modern scams. But before he could speak, the call connected, allowing Shane to catch the faint, crackling sound of a woman's voice through the receiver.

"Ilya?" the witch said, her tone sounding worried…and oddly familiar to Shane.

Ilya immediately snapped to attention, his entire demeanor shifting instantly. “Hi! Yuna!” he chirped brightly into the receiver.

Shane choked on his own spit.

Chapter End Notes

There will be one more chapter and a bonus chapter probably. Part I: "Protect Troy's teeth in the first period" has been accomplished! Will they succeed with Part 2: "Engineer dentistry emergency so Thorne can steal evidence from locker room?" Maybe? I guess we'll find out.

[Ilya voice] Leave offerings below (comments) or I call witch (Yuna). She lives in Ottawa, and she will put a spell on you (Sign you up for an overstimulating wet-T-shirt orange soda TV ad). You know this, Shanya.

Chapter 8: Captain Canada: The Wasian Winter Soldier

Chapter Summary

Harris makes Ilya put on hard pants and also other things happen.

Chapter Notes

Warning for some homophonic language and violence and injuries.

Shane was gnawing on his mouthguard, trying to bite off the irritating little burr on the edge as he waited for the second period to begin.

The bench groaned as Ilya dropped down beside him. Shane stopped chewing for a split second, not even turning his head as he glared out at the ice.

"What did mom say?" Shane demanded.

Ilya leaned forward, resting his arms along the top of the boards, immune to the daggers Shane was throwing with his eyes. 

"She says you need to lead with right hook," Ilya said smoothly. "Because your left is soft and embarrassing."

Shane’s head snapped around. "Fuck off."

"I am only passing along feedback. Is still best plan," Ilya shrugged, his eyes dancing with delight at how easy it was to wind Shane up. "Just punch the child."

Desperate to escape before he made himself a widow, Shane vaulted over the boards, whistle be damned.

"Mouth guard, malysh!" Ilya bellowed after him, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Shane blindly threw up a middle finger. Ilya just laughed, watching as Shane begrudgingly shoved the piece of plastic into his mouth anyway.

Left to his own devices on the bench, Ilya scanned the crowd, tracking the rows up into the stands until he finally locked eyes with Thorne.

Once he knew he had his attention, Ilya beamed raising both hands to flash Thorne two aggressively enthusiastic thumbs up.

Up behind the glass, Thorne visibly rolled his eyes and promptly flipped Ilya off.

Ilya’s grin only widened, thoroughly accomplished for the day.

They were only four minutes into the second period before it all went to hell.

Shane hopped over the boards with LP and Luca right on his heels, their skates biting into the ice as they rushed out to take over the zone.

Ahead of them, the tired line was heading off. Ilya was skating hard and crossed the threshold of the bench first, with Bood just a step behind him. Troy was bringing up the rear behind Bood, pushing through the final few yards of his shift. Ilya and Bood both successfully tumbled over the boards.

But Troy never made it to the bench.

Shane was already pushing toward center ice, eyes tracking the play, when a horrific, heavy boom rattled the glass near Ottawa's bench. Underneath the crash, there was a sickening, sharp crack-pop that made Shane’s stomach instantly drop.

Shane whipped his head around to spot Troy hit the ice, crumbling at the base of the boards with a choked, gasping sound, his chest heaving as he tried to claw air back into his lungs. Shane’s skates dug into the ice, instantly abandoning the play to sprint back toward his teammate.

Troy was already curling tightly over his left arm, cradling it against his ribs. His face was entirely bloodless, eyes squeezed shut in shock and agony. 

The whistles blew frantically as players from both sides converged. Kent and a swarm of Toronto jerseys pushed in, their blades churning the ice dangerously close to Troy.

Shane threw his entire body over Troy and braced his weight against the onslaught, taking a heavy shoulder from Reider just to keep the weight off Troy.

Kent was right in his face, shoving a hand against Shane’s visor. Shane held him back with a forearm to the chest, his muscles burning as he desperately tried to glance down. "Troy! Troy, stay down, don't move!"

Dykstra and Chouinard slammed into the fray a second later, trying to peel the Toronto players off, but they were outnumbered. 

"What are you gonna do, Holly? Nothing?" Kent sneered, leaning in so close that Shane could smell his sour breath. "You too much of a fucking faggot to drop gloves? You need your guard dog to come fight for you?"

Shane gritted his teeth, his arms shaking as he tried to keep locked in place, when Kent suddenly yanked his arm back.

Shane saw the movement at the last fraction of a second. He threw his head back, managing to avoid most of the blow, but Kent's knuckles still caught him along the side of his cheek. 

They immediately locked up, struggling against each other. Kent grabbed a fistful of Shane’s collar to choke him while Shane shoved his forearm hard against Kent’s throat.

The compression cut off Kent's air, forcing his words out in strangled bursts. "Been... trying to figure out..." Kent sneered, his voice cracking under the pressure of the arm against his windpipe. He gave another desperate jerk on the jersey, grunting with the effort. "How you... and Barrett... thank him."

He was fighting for breath, but the venom in his eyes didn't waver. "Makes sense now... seeing you two… limping all over. Hard to skate straight... when Rozanov is... splitting you both open... in the showers, huh?"

The disgusting words echoed in Shane's ears, but he couldn't break the lock until he knew Troy was secure.

Troy was curled in a fragile heap beneath him. Shane stayed rooted, legs wide, bracing his weight, knowing that if Kent managed to yank him down, Shane's blades could slash Troy. If he lost his footing and fell backward, his weight could crush Troy’s arm.

Dykstra and Choui were trying to shove the Toronto players back and clear a perimeter around Troy, but the surging mass of the scrum kept colliding with Shane, jarring his balance.

Suddenly from Shane’s right, an errant elbow caught Shane hard in the scruff of his neck.

His torso tipped dangerously as he scrambled to recover his balance. Kent took full advantage and gave a vicious, downward yank on Shane's jersey.

Shane’s knees buckled. For a terrifying second gravity threatened to drop him straight onto Troy. Thighs burning and teeth gritted, Shane managed to catch himself, slamming a knee into the ice to stop the fall just inches from Troy's head.

But he was pinned. He couldn't protect Troy and fight Kent at the same time.

Then, the crowd suddenly erupted into an even more deafening roar.

Everything was happening too fast. Shane didn't have time to process that Ilya had just vaulted back over the boards, disregarding game-ending penalties and massive league suspensions. All Shane knew was the weight of Toronto players on his back and then suddenly it was all lifted.

A heavy body check thudded into the glass nearby, clearing the immediate air, and a flash of curls caught Shane’s eye.

Troy was protected. Ilya had him.

Shane ripped his collar free from Kent's grip, sliding back just enough to throw Kent off balance.

Kent snarled, throwing a right hook straight at Shane’s face.

Instead of fighting the momentum, Shane slid directly into the strike, driving his weight upward from his kneeling position to stand. The sudden vertical shift broke Kent’s footing, the punch sailing harmlessly over a rising shoulder.

With both legs locked solidly beneath him, Shane caught Kent’s extended arm and a twist of his hips and a calculated sweep of his leg did the rest.

Kent brought his own momentum down with him, his unprotected chin colliding awkwardly with the frozen floor. There was a sharp, sickening pop and Kent rolled over with a gasp, clutching the side of his face. His jaw hung noticeably askew, his lower teeth grinding at a crooked angle.

Before the arena could even process the takedown, Reider came charging at Shane.

Shane dipped his shoulder, ducking under Reider’s flailing stick. In one fluid motion, he trapped Reider’s left arm against his own right shoulder, pivoted to turn his back, and twisted his hips. Straightening his legs, Shane hauled downward on the locked arm.

Reider went airborne, body whipping over Shane’s back before he crashed onto his side, fetal position. When Reider rolled over onto his back, clutching his face, a smear of blood and three of his front teeth were left behind on the ice.

Aside from his infamous Scott Hunter tussle (which couldn’t even technically be considered a fight) Shane had never thrown a hand on the ice. And now, in a span of sixty brutal seconds, the entire stadium knew why.

The arena narrowed to a sharp tunnel vision, his ears ringing as his own panicked breathing echoed loudly inside his helmet. He stood frozen, staring down at the damage, completely horrified. 

Oh my god. Guilt crashed over him. Fuck my mom.

Seriously, oh my god. This was entirely her fault. She had dragged him to those judo classes to learn self-defense against school bullies, and Shane had dutifully worked his way all the way to a black belt, only to stop the second he got scouted to play junior hockey.

Until sixty seconds ago, he had never used his skills outside the safety of a padded mat with a willing sparring partner. And for good reason! Apparently, a standard throw met with the unforgiving physics of ice turned human beings into shattered Lego sets.

He hadn't meant to do that. He was a pacifist!

Either that, or his mom had genuinely possessed him. 

And oh god, Alex was going to absolutely murder him. Shane felt the urge to skate over and start collecting the missing teeth to put them in a cup of milk, but his feet wouldn't move.

"HOLLANDER! Step away! 

The linesman’s bark broke through the static in Shane's head and Shane slowly raised his gloves in a posture of horrified surrender. Shane blinked, turning his back on Kent and Reider. His eyes immediately sought out the boards.

A medic was kneeling next to Troy, gently touching his shoulder. Beside them, a second medic was frantically gesturing toward the tunnel.

Troy, his handsome face twisted in pain, immediately raised his good arm, waving them off as he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

Shane genuinely had no idea what the proper protocol was here. The few times he’d ever sat in the penalty box, he had been serving minutes for someone else, doing the tedious chore of sitting out a bench minor or a goalie’s infraction. He never went there for his own rare sins.

But considering he had just single-handedly created a multi-player orthopedic disaster, he figured that’s exactly where he was destined to go. Rather than waiting around for a referee to scream at him, he decided to just skip the middleman.

Shakily, Shane skated toward the penalty box, opened the door, and let himself into the enclosure before the referee could even point a finger.

The heavy plexiglass door clicked shut behind him. Shane dropped heavily onto the bench, immediately buried his head between his knees, and let out a trembling exhale.

"Fuck," he whispered into the dark of his gloves. 

Alex had only gone up into the stands for a few minutes to watch the game with the rest of the medical team. Rose, Svetlana, and Miles had stayed behind in the hallway, trying to explain the situation to Harris.

Then, the arena above them erupted into a deafening roar.

"What was that?" Harris snapped, spinning around. 

"I don't know, my phone isn't loading the stream!" Rose muttered, her fingers flying across her screen as she tried to force a sports app to refresh. 

Panic setting in, the group began frantically trying door handles down the hallway, hoping to stumble into any room with a live game feed. Every single door was locked. 

"Miles! Put down the damn Dipping Dots and look up the radio broadcast!" Rose yelled.

"But they're banana split flavor." Miles protested, shielding the cup.

Rose lunged forward, snatched the plastic cup straight out of his hands, and threw it down the hallway. It hit the wall, sending a colorful explosion of half frozen beads skittering across the rubber floor matting, and a splatter of melted cream onto the wall.

Before Miles could even mourn his snack, a second, even louder explosion of noise vibrated through the concrete walls. 

Svetlana let out a string of Russian profanity. "Blyat..." She stared wide-eyed at her screen. "Wow. Angry kitten."

They all whipped their heads toward her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The soles of his shoes slapped against the concrete as he rounded the corner from the right of the tunnel entrance.

Suddenly, his foot hit something slick. Alex went flying into an ungraceful skid, his arms flailing as he caught the wall to avoid a complete wipeout. When he glanced down, he found a white streak of liquid on the floor.

Alex pulled his hand away from the wall and realized his palm was covered in some tacky substance. The artificial smell of banana hit his nose, so potent that he almost gagged.

He had one second to think, What the fuck? before the radio in his other fist crackled to life

"Rink-side lead to dental."

"Copy," Alex panted into the mic, wiping his sticky hand on his pants with a grimace. 

"Two dental traumas coming down the tunnel."

"I know! I saw it! I’ll meet you halfway there" Alex swore under his breath, breaking into a hard sprint for the final few yards.

Just ahead of him, the double doors to the arena tunnel on his right burst wide open. Through the opening, thunderous noise of the arena flooded the corridor.

Directly opposite the tunnel entrance on his left, Harris, Rose, Svetlana, and Miles were gathered where he had last seen them before the second period started. Now, the gang stood frozen as a wave of medics, athletic trainers, and security guards flooded the corridor, escorting Kent and Reider. Reider was hunched over with a bloody towel clamped tightly to his face, while Kent was being hauled along by his trainers.

Kent stopped, his dazed, furious eyes landing directly on Harris.

"Yoo...," Kent wheezed, his lower teeth grinding at an unnatural angle as he forced the words out past his shifted jaw. "Yoo an' yor fukh-ing fa—"

Svetlana stepped forward. Her forearm flashed in a hook that caught Kent squarely on the unhinged side of his face.

There was a second pop that echoed down the corridor. The blow finished what Shane had started, tearing the remaining ligaments.

Kent went down for the second time that night, his hands immediately flying to his face.

Holy shit. A cold sweat broke out on the back of Alex's neck. Note to self: Never, under any circumstances, get on that woman's bad side.

"Svetlana!" Rose shrieked, her eyes going wide.

The security guards immediately converged, creating a massive, shouting tangle of bodies in the narrow corridor over Kent’s writhing form. 

Everyone was thoroughly distracted. Seeing his perfect window, Alex slipped past the shouting cluster of bodies down the hallway, swiped his badge at the door, and retreated into the blissfully quiet, albeit smelly, sanctuary of the empty locker room.

Alex glanced up at the game clock inside. It was stopped to assess the damage on the ice and hand out penalties so Alex figured that bought him a couple of minutes before the players came flooding in for intermission. He silently prayed Svetlana’s stunt had been enough of a distraction to keep Reider occupied.

Moving fast, he scanned the stalls until he spotted Reider’s. He rifled through the gear bag, then moved to the hanging clothes, patting down pockets until his fingers hit a phone in the suit jacket. He swiped the screen and typed in the passcode. It unlocked instantly.

"Idiot," Alex whispered under his breath. Rose was right; the passcode was indeed just Reider’s birthday.

He found the betting app, tapped into the account profile and history, and snapped a screenshot. After a tense second of waiting for the AirDrop to transfer to his own phone, he deleted the image from Reider’s camera roll.

He started to slip the device back into place, but stopped dead. Wait. Fingerprints?

Was that a real thing he had to worry about right now? Goddammit, dental school did not prepare me for a life of crime. Or espionage. Or whatever the hell kind of hijinks he had been dragged into.

"Let's go on a triple date, Alex," he whispered furiously under his breath in a caricature of Miles’ American accent while he frantically rubbed the glass. "It’ll be like, so totally fun, babe! Literally just a normal double date, plus two! Of course no bisexual Russian terminators are going to terrorize you. It's just a bar, Alex!"

He mentally cursed Russians. He cursed the entire nation of Russia for producing Rozanov and Svetlana, who clearly shared a genetic predisposition for violence. He cursed Reider for being the catalyst that had introduced him to any of them in the first place.

"I'm not the fucking Mystery Machine," Alex fiercely whispered. 

Except... fuck.

He wasn't Fred. Fred got to wear a cool ascot and hold the flashlight. He wasn't even Shaggy or Scooby, who at least got to eat snacks and be beloved.

He was the literal box on wheels being driven headfirst into haunted houses by a group of absolute maniacs. 

And what did the van get for its service? Nothing. Not even Scooby Snacks.

Satisfied that he hadn't left behind enough DNA to land himself in prison, Alex slipped the phone back into the suit jacket pocket just as footsteps echoed in the corridor.

The trainer appeared in the doorway, with an uncharacteristically demure Reider trailing right behind them.

"I’ll leave this one with you," the trainer said.

Alex quickly stepped away from the stall, his heart hammering as he shoved his own phone deep into his pocket. He took one look at Reider’s blood-soaked face, blinked past the lingering adrenaline, and shifted gears.

"Ummm... on second thought, this looks way worse than I thought," Alex said, his voice fluctuating for a split second before he forced it steady. "I’ll follow you guys to the medical wing."

The medical bay was an absolute disaster zone.

Kent was lying on an exam table, but he wasn’t the one doing the screaming.

Instead, it was Reider who was absolutely losing his mind. "She ith a thyco bih!" Reider was screeching at the top of his lungs, his voice whistling through the new gaps in his gums. "She belongth in a vuh-king cage!"

"Yeah, she is a bitch!" Rose shot back. "But she’s my bitch! And if you say one more word about Harris or Troy, I’ll have her knock the rest of your teeth out. What are they gonna call you then, huh? The artist formerly known as the Toronto Toothbreaker? You're about two seconds away from being rebranded as the Toronto Toothless. Shut your mouth before she handles the bottom row!"

Svetlana stood right behind her, nodding along, arms crossed, glaring at Reider and Kent.

A team of three security guards stood in a useless, hovering semi-circle, while the medic tending to Kent looked like deer caught in headlights.

Alex took one look at the room and felt his blood pressure spike into orbit. How the hell is Svetlana the Russian Orthodontist allowed in here? No, scratch that. The Moscow Closer? The Soviet Jaw-Cracker. Yes. That was the one. How the hell was the Soviet Jaw-Cracker allowed in a medical facility? Useless security guards.

He snapped his arm out, pointing a finger toward the secondary examination table. He fixed his eyes on Reider. "You. Go. Sit down."

Reider hesitated for a fraction of a second, glaring at Rose, before shuffling to the table. Alex then turned his full fury on the rest of the peanut gallery. He marched forward, physically herding them toward the exit. "Out. All of you, get the hell out!"

Rose and Svetlana retreated, but Miles lingered by the doorframe, an appreciative smirk spreading across his face.

"This is so hot," Miles murmured, his eyes locked onto Alex.

Alex let out a sharp exhale. "Miles, please. Get out of here."

He kept his expression stern, but the effect was completely ruined by the way his lips involuntarily curled up into a half-smile.

Alex slammed the door in his face anyway, refusing to be tempted by Miles's sharp cheekbones and striking eyes a second longer. He marched straight to the sink, scrubbing his palms raw under a stream of scalding water.

Drying his hands, he turned to his tray of dental instruments, intending to get a mirror and a probe, only to find the tray completely askew.

A bottle of antiseptic was rolling on its side, and the sterile paper lining on the main examination table was crumpled and ruined. Worse, the lingering scent of Rose’s sweet perfume cut right through the metallic smell of blood in the room.

Alex’s eye twitched. Right. The lesbians scissored on this table. Not even an hour ago. Great.

"Wonderful," Alex shuttered, snapping on a pair of gloves. 

He turned to the casualties of Shane. Shane Hollander. Alex still couldn't wrap his head around it. The clean-cut Prince of Hockey. Canada’s sweetheart. A man so nice and passive he probably apologized to goalies for scoring on them.

As it turned out, the Wasian Wunderkind was more like the Wasian Winter Soldier.

He quickly examined Reider first, gently pulling back the gauze. The impact had completely fractured the actual bone holding the tooth sockets. 

Then he looked at Kent. 

In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't major. It was majorly disgusting, sure, but they would probably survive. Most likely. Still, as Alex stared at the wreckage, he realized this was miles above his pay grade, his tax bracket, and his medical license.

"I can't help either of you," Alex said, dropping his hands with a sigh. "Reider, you need a plastic surgeon. Kent, your jaw is fully dislocated now. You both need a hospital."

He turned to one of the medics beside him and instructed them to call a transport while Alex reached into the locked cabinet for the strongest bottle of liquid sedative he had, drawing a massive dose into a syringe. He looked at Kent with a grim, humorless smile. "I’m going to give you something for the pain. A lot of something actually.. Because if I have to listen to you moan while we wait for the ambulance, one of us is going to sleep."

The referees took nearly fifteen minutes to sort out the wreckage on the ice, consulting with the off-ice officials and staring at the replay monitors with expressions of amazement and horror. Worse, the officials were at a complete loss regarding what to do with Shane. His gloves were still firmly on his hands, and he hadn't technically struck a single soul, leaving the refs to frantically flip through the rulebook.

When the head ref finally skated out to the center circle and clicked on his microphone, his voice echoed shakily over the PA system:

"Toronto, number 9," the ref announced, referencing Kent. "Five-minute major for boarding, two-minute minor for roughing, and a game misconduct."

A loud chorus of boos and cheers rippled through the stands.

"Toronto, number 36, number 14, number 22, and number 44," the referee continued, rattling off Reider and the three other Toronto players who had aggressively piled into the scrum. "Two-minute minors each for roughing."

The referee cleared his throat before continuing.

"Ottawa, number 5 and number 17," he announced, referencing Dykstra and Chouinard's frantic attempt to peel the attackers off Troy. "Two-minute minors each for roughing."

The referee took a deep breath, steeling himself for the next part of the ruling, which was bound to set the hockey world on fire.

"Ottawa, number 81," he said. "Game misconduct for leaving the player bench during an altercation and roughing."

The crowd roared in a mix of fury and support, but the referee raised his hand, waiting for the decibel level to drop before delivering the final penalty.

"Ottawa, number 24," the ref declared, his voice booming through the rafters. "Two separate match penalties for deliberate attempt to injure. Centaurs number 24 and 81 are both ejected from the game."

Inside the penalty box, the off-ice official awkwardly cleared his throat, tapping Shane on the shoulder. "Uh, Hollander? You can't actually sit in here. Match penalty means you gotta go to the room."

Shane blinked, the fog of guilt still clouding his brain. "Oh. Right. Sorry."

Shane stood up, opening the door and stepping back out onto the ice to make the long, awkward skate back to the tunnel. As he moved past the Centaurs' bench, his teammates were practically leaning over the barrier, pounding the boards so hard the plastic rattled. They didn't care about the impending disciplinary hearing; they cared that Shane had stood his ground to protect Troy.

Wiebe gave Shane a nod with a slight upward turn of his lip as Shane passed him. "Nice work, Hollander."

Shane didn't think Wiebe was being sarcastic. In fact, he seemed almost…proud. But Shane had never been able to quite read sarcasm, let alone trust his own radar for it so he swallowed hard and whispered a quiet "Sorry" as he reached for the gate.

Waiting for him right at the entrance of the gate was Ilya.

This was absolutely not what Shane had imagined when he signed to the same team as his husband. Live together, play together, and now, apparently, spend several weeks suspended from the league together. It was a forced hockey vacation. Shane’s absolute worst nightmare.

As Shane stepped off the ice, Ilya reached out to steady him. "Okay?"

"I think so," Shane breathed, his chest still heaving under his shoulder pads. He looked up at Ilya, his own panic bleeding into concern. "Are you okay?"

Ilya deadpan stared at him. "Okay. Not good. Probably bad."

Shane’s heart sank, his eyes instantly dropping to scan Ilya’s legs and torso. "Are you hurt? Where?"

"No," Ilya said, his voice entirely serious. "My dick is so hard right now. Is fucking painful."

Shane stared at his husband, stunned.

"Ilya!" Shane hissed, his voice cracking as he threw a glance back toward the bench.

Ilya just stared down at Shane with an intense look of absolute reverence, clearly finding the image of his polite husband single-handedly destroying two people with accidental judo to be the hottest thing he had ever witnessed in his life. "You threw him like garbage. I am telling you, my dick is like steel pipe right now. Is dangerous. I cannot even sit down."

"Roz, please," Wiebe groaned behind them, clearly having heard them. 

Ilya ignored him. "I will rip your clothes off the second we get into the garage. I might do it in the driveway. My dick has never been so hard in my entire life."

"Rozanov," Wiebe’s boomed.

Ilya stopped, blinking at him over Shane’s shoulder.

"Shut up," Wiebe said flatly. "Or so help me God, I will drag you to another three-hour meeting with management at 6 am. I am not filling out any more HR paperwork because you are horny."

The bench behind him instantly erupted into a chorus of snickers and banging sticks. Wiebe turned to look at the team, and they all instantly quieted down.

When he turned back to Ilya and Shane, Ilya opened his mouth to argue, but caught the look on Wiebe's face and wisely clamped his jaw shut. He let out a dramatic sigh before turning and heading down the hallway. Wiebe rolled his eyes at the theatricality, but he didn't look upset.

"Shane! Are you coming?" Ilya yelled over his shoulder.

"Not yet," a voice quipped for him.

When Shane turned to see who it was, he found Wyatt and Bood leaning against the gate, looking highly entertained.

"We'll probably hear him coming later, though," Bood added with a shit-eating grin, nudging Wyatt with an elbow. Wyatt immediately lost it, letting out a sharp bark of laughter.

Shane just offered them a look of horror, his face burning. Turning on his heel, he quickly caught up to Ilya, marching down the hallway so he could finally go die of embarrassment in peace.

Without Shane, Ilya, and Troy, Ottawa still managed to scrap together a win, thanks entirely to Luca, who scored the only point of the game.

Down in the depths of the arena, the game barely existed. Ilya and Shane took the longest shower of their lives, occupying the empty locker room and using up every drop of hot water during the third period while they were confined to the room. Inside the steam-filled stall, Ilya had tried his best to distract Shane, whispering suggestions and trying to coax him into doing dirty things against the tile.

Shane, however, was a ball of anxiety. He couldn’t do it.

Instead, Ilya simply pulled Shane close under the spraying water. He held him tightly, murmuring soft Russian nonsense, and gently bathed the tension out of Shane's shoulders himself.

Once they were dry and dressed, Ilya refused to let Shane stew in his own head. He kissed Shane softly, sending him up to the family suite to hang out with the girls and get a ginger ale to settle his stomach. Ilya, even as a suspended captain, still had to face the music and do his post-game media duties.

When the rest of the Centaurs flooded back into the locker room after the game, Ilya turned to head to the media room.

"Wait!" Harris’s voice cut through the noise as he jogged over, intercepting him in the doorway. "Put some damn clothes on first!"

Ilya stopped, looking down as if he hadn't even realized he was half-naked. He was dressed only in a pair of low grey sweatpants, which were actually Shane’s. This meant they clung dangerously tight to his frame, mostly because Shane’s favorite brand of loungewear apparently hadn't budgeted for the completely unfair distribution of wealth that was Ilya's ass. And because he wasn't wearing any underwear underneath, the tight grey cotton left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

He turned back toward Harris, his face twisting into a dramatic pout. "But Harris," Ilya whined, gesturing vaguely downward, "my dick is literally too hard for hard pants right now."

"Hard pants?" Harris asked, flat and incredulous.

"Yes. Hard pants for outside. Soft pants for inside. I am inside."

Harris rubbed his temples. "Hard pants for public. Soft pants for private."

"My privates need soft pants," Ilya rebutted instantly, gesturing down without a shred of shame.

Harris’s eye twitched. Letting out an exhausted breath, he slowly turned his head to stare dead-eyed into the distance, pleading directly with an imaginary camera.

"Stop pretending you're in The Office," Ilya snapped, swatting a hand in his face. "This is serious. My future children depend on my sperm being strong. I am already scared is not working. I try so hard to get Shane pregnant, but my little guys do nothing."

Harris narrowed his eyes. "Ilya Middle Name Rozanov-Hollander! If you do not put on your suit right now, no Chiron privileges for a month."

Ilya’s dramatic outrage evaporated instantly.

"Okay, Okay," Ilya acquiesced. "You are so cruel." He yanked his suit pants off the hanger and threw a wink over his shoulder. "My middle name is ‘Sexy,’ by the way. Ilya ‘Sexy’ Rozanov-Hollander. It is on my birth certificate. Translate it from Russian, it means—"

"Shut the fuck up, Ilya," Harris muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Once Ilya had his tie snapped into place and his jacket on, Harris stepped up, patting his shoulder with a mock-approving nod. "Good boy," Harris said, his tone dripping with affectionate, exhausted sarcasm as he began physically ushering Ilya toward the door.

But Harris didn't let go of his arm, leaning in close to keep him moving down the concrete hallway.

"How is Troy?" Ilya asked, genuinely worried.

"Subluxed elbow," Harris replied, keeping up their fast pace. "Basically a partial dislocation. Apparently it hurts like absolute hell when it happens so he might be in shock a bit, but he’ll be okay. He'll probably only miss a game while the swelling goes down."

"Good. If Barrett is broken, I would have to go back and finish Kent myself."

"You will absolutely not be finishing anyone," Harris hissed, giving Ilya's arm a warning squeeze. "Listen to me. The video of Shane is already viral. You are going to go in there, you are going to talk about the physical nature of the game, you are going to praise Luca for his goal, and you are not going to mention your anatomy, your husband's anatomy, or what you plan on doing with it or to it, got it? If the word 'dick' or ‘sperm" crosses your lips on live television, I will personally make sure your mandatory media training lasts until midnight every day next week. Do you understand me?"

"You love it," Ilya argued, grinning. "You roll like cheese in butter because of me."

Harris paused for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowing. "I'm rolling like what?"

"Cheese in butter," Ilya said, waving a hand dismissively. "You are living the best life because of me." He stopped, looking genuinely curious. "This is not English saying?"

"No," Harris said dryly. "We say 'living the high life.' And trust me, Ilya, I am not doing that either."

"Well, cheese is better," Ilya muttered, entirely unbothered.

"You make me work for every single cent of my salary," Harris snapped.

"I give you big cash bonus if you let me say 'cock," Ilya offered, holding up his pinky finger. "Just a small one." He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face as he processed his own words. "Well... is not small. You have seen it, you know this. But I promise I only talk about it small amount."

Harris didn't even dignify the offer with a reply. He grabbed Ilya by the shoulders and shoved him through the doorway, letting the blinding flash of the media cameras swallow him.

Up on the wall of the quiet family clubhouse, the flat-screen TV buzzed with the live broadcast of the post-game press conference.

Shane sat on the plush leather couch,flanked on either side by Svetlana and Rose. On screen, the lights of the media room reflected off Ilya’s damp hair as he leaned over the long press conference table, unfazed by the flashing cameras.

A reporter’s voice cut through the clubhouse speakers.

"Rozanov, a lot of people were surprised to see the sudden line adjustments early in the first period. You spent a significant amount of time playing left wing tonight. Was that a decision from the coaching staff?"

Ilya leaned directly into his microphone, his expression entirely deadpan.

"No," Ilya said. "Is because of a bet."

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Shane groaned, sliding further down into the leather cushions. 

Rose let out a delighted snort, taking a slow sip of her drink. "Let the man cook."

The media room on screen went entirely silent for a beat. The reporter blinked, looking up from his notepad. "Can you elaborate on that?"

"Yes," Ilya continued smoothly, leaning forward on his forearms. "Derek Reider makes insider prediction bets. I think tonight he bets fifty thousand dollars on breaking Barrett’s teeth in first period. To lose this much money and this many games? Is special talent. Truly, he is terrible hockey player on top of being terrible human and illegal gambler."

Shane’s jaw dropped. "Harris is going to kill him. I am going to have to go into witness protection."

On screen, Ilya pressed on, dismissively. "And for what? Why he needs this money? To buy another ugly McMansion in Bridle Path? Please. My husband is Mr. Real Estate. He has actual taste in architecture. He can suggest much less ugly house for Derek... like jail."

Despite the impending league fines, a bashful smile tugged at the corner of Shane's mouth. He rubbed the back of his neck. Leave it to Ilya to aggressively compliment Shane's business instincts while casually suggesting their rival go to prison.

"See?" Rose teased, nudging Shane’s shoulder with her elbow. "He’s giving you a shoutout. Very romantic.”

"He's going to get us sued," Shane muttered, though his annoyance had melted into a defeated fondness.

On screen, Ilya sighed into the mic. "This Toronto team dentist, though? Very good. Excellent work. Bit flirty, yes. Should be more professional, should not hit on other people’s husband, but...talented. Reider should not make him work so hard for pathetic salary. Tonight, I am forced to act as human shield out there. But at least I try to not give this dentist so much overtime. My husband? Clearly, he does not care. Already today he sends two players straight to dentist chair. For what? To give us surprise mid-season vacation? Is disaster. Complete disaster. How will we ever entertain ourselves now? Maybe we just take vacation on tropical island.”

Shane shook his head, a soft laugh escaping him. A five-game suspension for him, ten for Ilya. It was an absolute mess, but looking at Ilya’s earnest, ridiculous face on the screen, Shane couldn't even find it in himself to be mad. Shane made a mental note to send Harris a Starbucks gift card for a lifetime supply.

But then Ilya paused.

The Russian slowly turned his head to look directly into the main lens of the broadcast camera, completely abandoning the saudience of reporters. His expression shifted to one of intense sincerity.

"Ms. Rihanna. Ms. Robyn Rihanna Fenty. Hello. I am Ilya. Big fan. You should know, Diamonds was me and my lover’s wedding song," Ilya said to the camera. "Also, I must thank you personally for Fenty Beauty concealer in shade 140N. Is absolute lifesaver. My husband Shane is like vampire. Always hickeys. I cannot go to press conference without your product, Ms. Fenty."

"Oh my god," Shane strangled out. He snatched a decorative throw pillow off the couch and buried his face in it. "He did not just say that. Tell me he didn't say that."

Rose was laughing so hard her drink was perilously close to spilling on him. 

"Shut up," Shane muffled into the pillow, his voice squeaking. 

Ilya’s monologue marched on relentlessly, entirely unchecked. "So, I think we are probably coming to Barbados now for two weeks…maybe three. If you want to hang out, dm me. Shane is very good at being boring eye candy. I am very good at being sexy and fun. Also, we are very good guncles. Montreal’s fifteenth best hockey player says so too. If you need babysitter, we can do it. Is actually very good practice for us because hopefully we become dads soon. We keep trying and trying, you know? Is not taken yet, but does not matter, I will keep trying."

Shane clutched the pillow to his chest, sitting bolt upright, his eyes wide in utter, pearl-clutching mortification.

"Did he just—" Shane choked, his voice cracking. “On national television?!"

Svetlana was doubled over, wiping a tear from her eye, her shoulders shaking.

Shane sank back into the cushions and holding the pillow tightly over his face to block out the cackles of his friends and the terrifyingly earnest face of his husband still staring out from the flat-screen.

"Harris is going to kill him," Shane muttered into the pillow."I am going to kill him. And then, my mom is going to kill me."

Beside him, Svetlana reached over, attempting to pat his head in a deeply condescending display of comfort.

Shane, blindly swiped at the air bathing her hand away. 

Svetlana hissed and pulled her hand back. It was that specific, stiff movement that caught his attention. As Shane lowered the pillow, his eyes tracked her hand, and his panic momentarily stalled. The skin across her knuckles was already swelling, turning a distinct shade of purple.

Shane frowned, gesturing toward her hand. "What happened to your knuckles?"

Svetlana didn't even look at him. She smoothly took a sip of her wine, her expression completely blank as she stared straight ahead at the television screen. "Sad weak man tripped into my fist," she said flatly, her tone leaving absolutely no room for further questions.

Rose caught Shane's eye from the other side of the couch, a tiny, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, but she kept her mouth shut.

The door was locked, the lights were off, and the only illumination came from the ambient glow of the hallway filtering through the frosted glass.

Shane was sitting on the edge of Alex’s meticulously organized desk, his pants unbuckled and pulled down, his hands locked into Ilya’s curls. Ilya was on his knees between Shane’s thighs, taking his time, his mouth warm and devastatingly thorough.

But Shane wasn't letting him off the hook that easily. Every few seconds, he would remember the press conference.

"I am so fucking mad at you," Shane hissed, his voice a strangled growl as he tugged sharply on Ilya’s hair to force him to look up. "You basically just announced to the entire world that I’m a biter, heavily implied that I’m a bottom, and told everyone you are trying to get me pregnant!"

Ilya pulled back just enough to look up at Shane, his eyes entirely devoid of actual remorse, a pout on shining lips that was half-apologetic, half-seductive.

"Shanya, lyubimy," Ilya murmured as he slid his hands up Shane's thighs, his thumbs caressing the sensitive skin of his inner leg. "None of those things is lies."

"I—that is not the point!" Shane squeaked, his face burning. He stared down at his husband in disbelief. "You know I can't get pregnant, right? Like, I need you to know that's not possible. It is actually very important to me that you understand this."

Ilya dismissed the entire medical reality of the malw form with a lazy wave of his hand. "Pshhh. Semantics."

"Stop trying to use your word-of-the-day app on me," Shane snapped, though his chest hitched as Ilya’s thumb swiped over his hip. "It's literally not semantics. It is the exact opposite of semantics!"

"Is details," Ilya hummed against his skin, his tone completely insincere as his hands slid higher, gripping Shane’s hips. "Let me make it up to you. I will be very quiet now. Very sweet."

"You don't know how to be qui—oh," Shane choked out, his thoughts derailed as Ilya buried his face right back between Shane's legs, using his tongue on his balls with devastating thoroughness that felt suspiciously like a bribe.

Ilya took Shane cock into his mouth, flattening his tongue completely up the length of the shaft like a lollipop, tasting him before focusing on the head, sucking down tight and warm.

"Oh my god," Shane whimpered, his head thudding back against the wall behind the desk. "Fuck... fuck, don't stop."

Before Shane could even gather enough breath, Ilya pulled back just an inch and spat directly onto Shane’s length, immediately wrapping his fingers around the base to smear the wetness up and down.

The part of Shane’s brain that usually governed his clean, orderly life recoiled in mild horror. It was objectively disgusting. But the rest of his body was completely fried because why the fuck was it so hot when Ilya did it? Shane shuddered hard as Ilya slicked his cock with the saliva. It was so impossibly warm, whereas actual lube always started out so jarringly cold against his skin.

Ilya began to jerk Shane off with a steady, sliding friction, while his other hand reached lower, his fingers gently cupping and rolling Shane's balls.

Shane reached down blindly, his fingers sinking hard into the dense muscle of Ilya’s shoulder, his nails digging in deep as he tried to steady himself. When Ilya leaned back in to take him back into his mouth, Shane let out a wrecked groan.

Looking up with a heavy-lidded, dark gaze, Ilya slid his free hand up Shane’s chest, obnoxiously sticking two fingers into Shane's mouth. Shane glared down at him, the fleeting, petty thought crossing his mind to actually bite down on them in sheer revenge for the press conference.

But then Ilya did that rolling thing with his tongue at the very base of the head and any coherent plan of attack dissolved instantly. Shane forgot how to breathe, let alone bite, his jaw slackening around Ilya's fingers as he almost came right then and there.

His other hand knocked a neat cup of Alex's pens completely out of alignment. He was right on the verge of losing it, when the doorknob rattled.

Before either of them could scramble, the lock clicked. The door flew open.

Alex and Miles stumbled into the dark office. They were heavily making out, mouths mashed together, as they tripped over their own feet. Miles had Alex pressed against his chest, hands shoved under Alex’s shirt, guiding them blindly through the dark toward the desk. Alex groaned into the kiss, completely unaware that the room was already occupied.

Shane went rigid, his breath catching in his throat. Ilya froze on his knees, his hand still wrapped securely around Shane's wet cock. Neither of them said a word, utterly paralyzed by the sudden intrusion.

Still deeply lost in the kiss, Miles guided Alex the last few steps, confidently pushing him down until Alex landed with a soft oof into the leather desk chair, directly next to where Ilya was still kneeling on the floor.

Miles immediately leaned over the chair to keep kissing him, blindly throwing his hands out to brace his weight against the edge of the desk.

His left palm landed flat and heavy onto Shane’s bare thigh.

Shane let out a sharp, startled yelp on the desk.

At the exact same instant, Miles shrieked, jumping back as if he’d just touched a hot stove. "What the fuck—"

"Who is that?!" Alex scrambled, stumbling out of the desk chair in a blind panic. He fumbled wildly along the wall for the light switch and flipped it.

The fluorescent lights buzzed to life, blinding everyone in the room.

Alex blinked, his jaw dropping so low it nearly hit the floor.

Shane was sitting right there on his desk, pants pulled down to his knees, muscled thighs on full display and his dick completely out. Ilya was still kneeling on the floor between Shane’s legs, his hand frozen mid-grip around Shane's glistening, spit-slicked cock.

With a protective growl, Ilya finally let go. The second his hand retreated, Shane’s eyes darted frantically around the desk. Moving as slowly and inconspicuously as humanly possible, he reached out, snagged a heavy manila folder from Alex's neat pile, and dragged it over to tent over his crotch. He held the paper shield in place, staring straight ahead and desperately hoping everyone was too distracted to notice the sad, desperate attempt at modesty.

"Get lost," Ilya barked as he glared at the intruders.

"This is my office!" Alex yelled back.

Miles, however, didn't look angry at all. A slow, highly intrigued grin spread across his face as his eyes tracked the scene, lingering on the sheer amount of skin on display.

"You could join us?" Miles offered smoothly, raising an eyebrow.

For once in his godgiven life, Shane actually picked up on a social cue. He saw the sharp glint in Miles’s eyes and the amused twitch of his lips directed right at Alex. Miles didn't seem serious about wanting to share.

Ah, Shane thought, amused clarity washing over him. Miles likes a jealous Alex. It was like looking into a mirror. Shane shared that exact same affinity for a violently possessive Ilya. There was nothing better than watching your man completely lose his mind over you.

Shane respected the hustle immensely.

Loosening his grip on the folder, Shane let out a soft, nervous huff. He looked between Alex and Ilya, tilting his head with agonizing slowness as if genuinely weighing the offer. He tried to project a playful vibe, but he unconsciously caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

It was a devastating, accidental masterclass in seduction. His lips were still puffy, glistening, and thoroughly kiss-slicked from Ilya’s mouth, and that self-conscious little lip-bite was the kind of unintentional sexiness that would dry out anyone's throat.

"I mean... maybe," Shane murmured, his voice a little raspy, the mock deliberation coming off as entirely too genuine. "Sharing is caring, right?"

In his commitment to the bit, Shane completely forgot he was supposed to be holding his paper shield. His fingers relaxed, and the manila folder slipped from his grasp, fluttering uselessly onto the floor and completely exposing his dick to the cool air of the office. The layer of wet saliva and pre-cum coating the shaft was instantly hit by the draft, cooling rapidly down against his skin. An involuntary shudder racked Shane's body from the sudden chill.

But Ilya didn't see a chill. He saw the folder drop, saw the glistening length of Shane's cock fully on display in front of the other two men, and watched Shane visibly tremor. To Ilya, that shudder looked exactly like a heavy twitch of arousal at the mere thought of a crowd.

Shane was apparently too effective. 

Alex looked ready to evict Ilya from the premises by his throat, but Ilya looked ready to commit an actual felony. The possessiveness in Ilya's eyes flared so hot it practically scorched the room.

Ilya stood up, hauling Shane right up off the desk with him. In the same breath, Ilya squared his broad shoulders to position his body like an unyielding wall that completely blocked Shane’s body from Alex and Miles’s wandering eyes.

Ilya snapped, glaring daggers at them. "We are not Scooby-doing that!" 

Chapter End Notes

Are you Team Hard pants? Or Team Soft Pants?

Chapter 9: Gay to Gulag

Chapter Summary

Shane doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about pussy.

Chapter Notes

She's a girthy girl! I was going to cut some of this out, but I figured you little freaks would love it all..so here she is!

"Ilya… please," Shane gasped, his breath hitching as he gripped Ilya’s arm, fingers digging desperately into the solid muscle. 

"I love you. I do," Shane said, his voice strained. "But I don’t think I can do this."

"You are being so dramatic." Ilya replied, not even looking up from where his gaze was fixed on his phone screen.

"I know what’s gonna happen!" Shane’s voice broke. He tugged at Ilya's arm as his stomach did a nauseating drop. "I’ve watched porn."

He squeezed his eyes shut as a cheerful electronic ding echoed in the enclosed space.

"Stop! Please. I was joking," Shane hissed, hiding his face into the slope of Ilya’s shoulder. 

Ilya slowly lowered his phone, staring sideways at Shane with a look of unblinking confusion. His other forearm tightened against the strip of exposed skin on Shane’s lower back, pulling Shane flush against his chest as he leaned his upper body back to read Shane's face.

“Shane,” Ilya said slowly, as the elevator doors slid open to reveal a perfectly quiet, carpeted apartment hallway. “We are not going to orgy.”

“That is exactly what someone leading someone to an orgy would say!”

Ilya stepped out, unfazed by the frantic hockey player tailing him. Shane kept up his protests all the way to the door, until Ilya finally stopped, his hand on the doorknob.

He turned around. "Okay, fine. I changed my mind."

"What?!" Shane hissed.

“Yes. It was orgy, but I change my mind. So we just go in now… say ‘nevermind, we are busy’… and we leave,” Ilya said.

He didn't even wait for Shane to respond before he turned the handle and pushed the door wide open.

“Come inside. Be polite.”

"Ilya! That’s not reassuring at all!" Shane stumbled after him into the apartment, on a hair-trigger alert for dim lighting, silk sheets, or Miles lounging in a silk robe.

Instead, they walked into an entirely too bright, modern apartment where Alex was sitting at a kitchen island, a neat array of tools laid out on the countertop. Miles was nowhere to be seen.

"Hi," Alex said, looking up with a smile that quickly turned into a knowing smirk as he looked at Ilya. "Have a seat. Do you want anything to drink?"

Shane eyed the tools suspiciously, keeping one eye on the hallway. "Where’s Miles?"

“Filming," Alex said, pushing the dental tray toward him. "Rozanov said your mouthguard was giving you trouble?"

Ilya reached into his pocket and fished out Shane’s current custom guard, tossing it onto the tray.

Shane looked over at Ilya in confusion. Ilya had gone out of his way to arrange this? He had pocketed Shane's defective guard, called Alex (whom he usually spent ninety percent of his time antagonizing) and dragged Shane over here the morning after their game, just to get it fixed?

A massive sigh of relief rushed out of Shane. It was sweet. Absurd. Terrifyingly miscommunicated, but sweet.

“Oh,” Shane said, a little dazed. “Thank you. Yeah… there’s this massive rough spot on the edge. It’s absolutely tearing up my cheek.”

Alex picked up the piece of plastic, holding it up to the kitchen pendant light. He turned it over, inspecting the rough, scratched surface. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. He looked past Shane, locking eyes with Ilya, who had suddenly found a very intense interest in Alex's espresso machine.

"How did you rough it up, Rozanov?" Alex said, his tone dripping with mock curiosity. 

Shane’s head snapped from Alex to Ilya. "What?"

Ilya puffed out his chest a little. "I did nothing."

"Ha!" Alex offered a fake laugh. "Doubt it. It looks like it was scraped against something."

Shane narrowed his eyes at Ilya. "You did something to my mouthguard?"

Ilya tutted in exasperation. He shot Alex a betrayed look for ratting him out, but lifted his chin stubbornly and crossed his arms.

"I rubbed it on concrete a little bit," he admitted. "Just enough for irritating you. So that you need new one."

"You sabotaged my gear?!" Shane shouted. "On the ground? That’s gross, Ilya! Why would you do that?”

"I sterilize it before I put back. I needed you to get new one done."

"Why?!"

A faint blush crept up Ilya’s neck. He reached out, his thumb catching Shane’s chin and tilting his face up slightly.

“Because Thorne can make you good one, yes,” Ilya murmured. “But also... I want the impression.”

He trailed off, clearly unsure if Shane would be on board with his idea.

Shane blinked, the anger evaporating, replaced by utter confusion. "You want a replica of my teeth? For what?"

"For tattoo," Ilya muttered.

Shane wanted to roll his eyes and call him a freak, but his heart was beating so fast against his chest, and he knew damn well he found it incredibly sexy. He wasn't about to admit that out loud, though. Especially not in front of Alex, who was currently pretending to be very busy organizing tools.

Shane cleared his throat, trying to regain his footing. "Where?”

Ilya grinned happily as he leaned in and dropped a slow wink. “I tell you later.”

Shane’s mouth went dry. He cautioned a glance over at Alex, who was suddenly looking intensely uncomfortable.

“Okay... what’s the catch?” Shane asked.

"We have to return listening tube you stole."

Heat rushed up Shane’s neck, flooding his cheeks with a furious flush. Ilya had told him. His skin itched with mortification.

Trying to salvage his dignity, Shane scoffed and crossed his arms tight against his chest. “I didn’t steal it, I borrowed it. For... medical… purposes. Which you enjoyed, by the way!”

Ilya tilted his head, an insufferable smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Mmm. Oh yeah, Shane? What is those ‘medical purposes,’ hmm? Tell Thorne. Explain to him.”

Shane snapped his mouth closed. 

“We return it,” Ilya concluded, satisfied with the absolute silence he had just induced. But then he paused, as he stepped further into Shane's personal space, his voice dropping to a purr. “But... I buy you new one. A better one.”

Shane sighed, sinking into the kitchen stool and tilting his head back to look up at Alex. 

"Fine," Shane muttered. "Load me up with the pink goo.”

Alex turned away from the counter, snapping on a pair of gloves and grabbing a tub of bright pink powder. "When is the bus leaving?"

"We aren't on the bus," Shane grumbled.

"Svetlana can drive us home later," Ilya added, unhelpfully. "Is fine."

Shane huffed. "Yeah. Being suspended is totally fine, Ilya."

Ilya beamed. "You did sarcasm! I'm so proud!"

Shane scowled at him, before deciding Ilya was a lost cause. He turned his back on him and looked over at Alex.

“Has anyone contacted you? About the screenshots?” Shane asked.

Alex looked up from his tools, visually relieved to be addressed and finally pulled out of the crossfire of Ilya and Shane’s bickering.

"uhh..yeah. I got a call from the RCMP this morning. I’ve got a meeting scheduled with them later to hand over everything,” Alex responded. “Rose said that she and Svetlana explained everything to them last night.”

Shane slumped back against the stool, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Any updates about Kent and Reider?”

He paused, a dry edge creeping into his tone. "I can't really tell you much... but…they're going to be fine," Alex said dryly, before adding, "...Unfortunately."

Ilya grinned smugly from his perch on the counter, arms crossed and one hip propped against the edge. "See? They're fine! Stop stressing. It was incredible! You look like Keanu Reeves in that movie about the trans metaphor. With the fighting."

Alex squinted. "The one where he goes on a rampage because someone killed his dog?"

"Nope." Ilya shook his head emphatically. "I would remember if dog died. What is dead dog one called?"

"John Wick," Alex said.

"Okay," Ilya said, fishing his phone out of his pocket and tapping at the screen. "I add to my list of movies I never watch. Right under all Rose Landry movies."

Shane rolled his eyes. "I think you're talking about The Matrix. And I don't look anything like Neo."

Alex and Ilya’s brows furrowed in comical synchronization before they traded a look of shared incredulity.

"Wait," Alex said, after a beat. "The Matrix is a trans metaphor?"

Ilya gave a slow, disappointed shake of his head, rolling his eyes all the way to the ceiling. "Gospodi pomilui... You are worst gay in Northern Hemisphere, only second to Shane. How you do not know your culture? Go watch a book, Thorne! Read a movie!"

Before Ilya could keep laying it on, Shane cut in to rescue Alex.

"Am I allowed to drink something before we do the mold?" Shane asked.

Alex blinked, grateful for the lifeline. "It depends. Do you have a gag reflex?"

"No," Ilya answered for him.

Alex made a face. "You can have plain water," he muttered, turning to fetch a glass.

“And I will take vanilla latte," Ilya called out after him.

Alex spun around, throwing his hands up. "I'm doing you a favor! You should have brought me coffee! Since you're here at the ass-crack of dawn and all.”

Ilya raised an arm and gestured with a grand, sweeping flourish toward the massive, gleaming stainless-steel machine sitting on Alex's counter.

"I brought you lifetime of coffees," Ilya said simply.

Shane’s eyebrows furrowed as he slowly looked from Ilya, to the espresso machine, and then back to Ilya.

The silence in the kitchen stretched over the quiet sound of water filling a glass.

Then, the pieces clicked together, just as Alex set the glass in front of Shane.

"Ilya. Ilya?!" Shane choked out. "That’s why there was an eight-thousand-dollar charge on my card?!"

Ilya blinked, suddenly looking very interested in the ceiling lighting. "Yours has better points.”

"I thought it was fraud!" Shane yelled, his hands flying to his hair. "I looked at my bank statement, saw an eight-thousand-dollar charge for a commercial espresso machine that never showed up at our house, and I called the bank! I disputed it, Ilya!

"Oh. Well… free espresso machine then."

Shane stared at his husband in horror. "Free?! Ilya!"

Alex looked back and forth between the two of them, slowly taking a step away from his beloved espresso machine as if the police were about to crash through his kitchen window to repossess it.

Shane slammed both palms against his face, dragging them down until his cheeks were stretched out, letting out a muffled scream.

"I married a criminal," Shane whispered into his hands. "My husband is a credit card scammer."

“Is okay,” Ilya said smoothly, reaching out to pat Shane lovingly on the shoulder. “Money is fake construct invented by capitalist pigs so working class is sad. Bank eats loss. Business writes it off on tax return. Universe continues to expand into dark void. Everybody wins.”

“Ilya, you make sixteen million dollars a year!” Shane barked. “You are the ruling class!”

“Ah, but comrade, I sell my body! I am but simple proletariat hockey player. We give free espresso machine to the less fortunate. Is called wealth redistribution, Shane.”

Shane rubbed his temples. "I fucking know proletariat was your Word of the Day from that stupid app. I want to be proud of you, I really do, but it is so fucking annoying how you keep slipping it in."

Ilya’s eyes lit up instantly. His mouth opened to seize on the innuendo Shane had just handed him on a silver platter—

"Open up," Alex interrupted smoothly. Shane made a muffled mmph sound as the pink gel squished around his gums, locking his mouth wide open. 

"Breathe through your nose," Alex added.

Shane only glared at him in response. 

Ilya smirked over Alex’s shoulder. "After this, we have very busy day of getting paid for not doing our jobs," Ilya say, looking extremely proud. 

"Is ultimate dream of Soviet Union. Vladimir Lenin suffer and die just so I can make sixteen million dollars with my gay lover and drink stolen espresso. He is weeping tears of joy for me."

Shane made a noise around the impression tray as he stared at Ilya in total disbelief.

“Golden child of revolution: Ilya Sexy Hollander-Rozanov," Ilya announced to the light fixtures with grand, dramatic flair.

Shane was sure that if Vladimir Lenin were somehow able to peer out his tomb, he would be rolling over in his grave at terminal velocity. 

Ilya pointed an authoritative, rigid finger right at Shane’s nose, adopting a stern, deadpan expression.

"You play hockey too good? Straight to gulag. Right away," Ilya stated matter-of-factly, counting off on his fingers. "You marry super gay half-Asian Canadian man? Believe it or not, gulag. You steal stethoscope for 'medical purposes'? Gay to gulag. We have best country in world. Because of gulag."

As Shane sat there immobilized through Ilya’s unhinged monologue with a mouthful of pink goo, unable to interrupt, Ilya’s grin broadened into pure delight. 

“Should we get a ball gag? Blink once if you agree, Moy kotyonok." My kitten. 

November 2022

The Barbados humidity was doing terrible things to Ilya’s hair, but incredible things for his skin, a fact he was currently admiring in the reflection of a massive, gold-rimmed mirror inside the guest house bungalow. Suspension suited Ilya.

Calling their accommodations a guest house was an understatement for sure; it was a sprawling, private beachfront estate with limestone floors, an open-air cabana, and a private infinity pool that bled right into the Caribbean Sea.

Ilya started with the classic doorway pose with one arm propped against the frame, bicep flexed, lips pursed into a ridiculous pout. Nothing. Shane didn't even blink.

Ilya huffed, disappearing into the closet for all of thirty seconds before sauntering back out wearing significantly less clothing, striking a bodybuilder pose right in the middle of Shane’s line of sight.

Still, nothing.

Shane was perched on the edge of the bed, one linen-short clad leg drawn up toward his chest with an arm wrapped tight around it. His thumb was flying over his phone screen furiously tapping, pausing, erasing, and rewriting over and over. His brows were knit so tight together they were practically touching, and he was aggressively chewing on his cuticles.

Ilya rolled his eyes, striking a dramatic side-chest pose. "Hey. Hollander. You want to top me?"

"Sure," Shane said absentmindedly, thumbing the backspace key for the tenth time.

Ilya froze mid-pose. Agreeing to top was wild enough on its own, but letting an unhyphenated ‘Hollander’ pass without his usual reflex ‘It's Hollander-Rozanov’ was the real dead giveaway.

Okay, yeah. He was definitely being ignored.

Giving up on the modeling routine, Ilya stalked over to the bed, leaning over Shane’s shoulder to glare down at the screen. The contact name at the top read ‘Jacobs.’

"Who the fuck is Jacobs?" Ilya demanded, crossing his arms over his bare chest. "You have new husband now?"

Shane finally blinked, lifting his head up toward Ilya like he was waking up from a trance. Without addressing Ilya’s lack of clothes or the husband comment, he distractedly thrust the phone into Ilya’s hands.

"How does this sound?" Shane asked.

Ilya took the phone, squinting at the screen, and began to read the mess of a draft out loud:

"'Dear Jacobs. I am writing to express my formal regrets regarding my conduct on the ice during Tuesday’s match. It was not my intention to cross a professional boundary. Also, your dog Princess is very cute. Best, Shane Hollander-Rozanov.'"

Ilya laughed, tossing his head back. 

Shane groaned, pulling his knee in a little closer to his chest. "Don’t laugh! I feel bad, okay?"

"He should be honored to have your attention," Ilya declared, handing the phone back and leaning down to plant a kiss on the crown of Shane's head.

Shane flushed a little, clearly swooning, but he shook his head, circling back to his spiral. "He's a kid, Ilya. It's bad sportsmanship. I need to say something."

"He does not even deserve apology," Ilya argued, sliding onto the bed next to him, slinging an arm over Shane's shoulders. "You know what is his goal song? Is a Morgan Wallen song."

"Who?"

"I forgive you for that one. Is not worth knowing."

"Well, you have to forgive me," Shane responded. "Where would I have even heard her songs? Jacobs never scores."

Ilya’s jaw dropped, his eyes going wide in delight. "Ha! You are still chirping him!"

Shane’s eyes went wide as the words caught up to his brain. He dropped his face directly into his hands, letting out an agonized groan. "Oh my god. What is happening to me?"

"You are letting your funny out!" Ilya cackled, wrapping both arms around Shane and hauling him into a bear hug. 

Ilya’s phone buzzed on the nightstand where it was resting. Ilya gasped and lunged to snatch it.

Shane swiped the phone up just out of reach, looking up with an amused smile. "Is that your new girlfriend texting you?" he teased.

"Give it!" Ilya scrambled after him, grabbing Shane's wrist. "Omg, don't embarrass me in front of her."

They collapsed into a tangle of limbs, laughing as they wrestled across the bed. Ilya pinned Shane’s wrist against the pillows, trying to pry the phone free, but his knee caught Shane dead in the thigh. Shane grunted, shifting his weight to flip them, but Ilya immediately retaliated by reaching out and sharply tweaking Shane’s bare nipple.

"Ow! Asshole," Shane yelped.

Shane twisted his torso and came out on top, holding the phone triumphantly high out of Ilya’s reach while sliding his legs over Ilya's hips. He locked Ilya down, trapping him beneath the powerful grip of his thighs, pinning his wrists above his head.

Straddled and immobilized, Ilya stopped thrashing. His gaze dropped from Shane's smirk down to where the tiny linen shorts had ridden high up Shane’s thighs, his eyes lingering longingly on the prominent bulge pressed right against his own.

"I have no desire to top you," Shane murmured, leaning down just enough that his open shirt brushed against Ilya's chest. "I do, however, fully intend to ride you. Will this suffice?"

Ilya opened his mouth to ask what the hell suffice meant, but before he could get the word out, the phone buzzed again in Shane’s hand, vibrating right above Ilya's head.

Shane looked down at the screen, then back at Ilya's face, noticing the sudden rush of color on his cheeks. "Are you blushing?" Shane asked, a teasing edge to his voice mistaking the sudden flush on Ilya’s cheeks for embarrassment over the incoming texts.

Ilya didn't bother correcting him. The real reason Ilya was blushing was the fact that his insanely attractive husband was currently hovering over his dick, casually offering to ride him.

The words alone triggered a vivid image of Shane in a cowboy hat. Specifically, Shane’s ridiculously powerful thighs holding tight, quads flexing under the strain...

Ilya’s brain immediately veered off the rails. Does Barbados have mechanical bulls? No, wait. When was their next road trip to Dallas? He’d take Shane to some loud, sticky-floored Texas bar, get him just drunk enough to lower his inhibitions, and challenge him to get on the bull. Shane was too wildly competitive to refuse. He’d break the record for the longest ride in Texas history, easily.

And Ilya? He’d break the record for the longest erection in human history.

"I do not blush," Ilya sniffed defensively. "Is from too much sun."

Shane laughed, unconvinced. "You’re blushing because you’ve been texting Rihanna for three days straight," Smirking, Shane used his thumb to punch in Ilya's passcode, 1410, and opened the thread, still keeping Ilya pinned comfortably beneath him.

"She is very responsive texter," Ilya argued, though he didn't make any move to escape the hold, looking up at the screen upside down instead. "Very generous with emojis. Look."

Shane held up the screen so they could both see it. Rihanna had slid into Ilya’s DMs after the press scrum went viral, dropping a string of laughing emojis and an invitation to her guesthouse, an offer Ilya had enthusiastically taken her up on. Shane had only reluctantly gone along with the plan, agreeing only after talking Ilya down to a week in Barbados and a week at the cottage, and only after confirming his parents were free to watch Anya.

"I ask for her tattoo artist and she says, 'My guy Bang Bang is in NYC, but his top artist, Rod, is in Bridgetown right now. Get whatever you want, on me,'" Ilya recounted. "I will ask Rod if he has free day before we leave so I can go in water until then."

The phone buzzed again, and both of their eyes snapped to the screen.

"Mr. Rihanna is also not in town," Ilya sighed, reading the text.

"Who?"

Ilya rolled his eyes. "Mr. Rihanna! A$AP Rocky."

Shane’s face remained entirely blank. "As Soon As Possible Rocky?"

"It's A-SAP, Shane, Oh my god," Ilya muttered, snatching up the phone to read the rest of the reply.

Shane leaned over Ilya, his eyes scanning back up the thread. Above Rihanna’s polite regret that neither she nor her partner were around for a double date, there was a wall of text from Ilya. Fast, frantic, and filled with aggressive fanboy energy, practically begging to set up a double-date dinner the second they landed.

Zero chill, Shane thought, staring at the sheer volume of green bubbles. Absolute zero.

Fortunately, Rihanna seemed far more amused by Ilya’s enthusiasm than she was interested in taking out a restraining order. Which was a relief, because if pop royalty blocked him, Ilya would genuinely never recover.

The electric tram hummed as it descended deeper into the limestone belly of Harrison’s Cave. 

"Those icicle-looking things right up there are over a thousand years old," Shane whispered. "They grow at a rate of less than an inch every hundred years."

“One inch is also how hard Scott Hunter’s dick gets every one hundred years.”

"That doesn't even make sense."

Ilya slouched dramatically in the tram seat. "Whatever. Why are we not on a beach right now?"

"Because this was on the list of top things to do in Barbados. The beach will still be there in two hours," Shane argued.

"On beach, I can drink Sex on Beach," Ilya pointed out, crossing arms over chest. "Or, even better, do sex on beach."

Shane looked genuinely horrified. "That’s disgusting, Ilya. There would be sand in every single hole. I’m not doing that. No way."

"You have no romance," Ilya declared, dropping head back against the seat and sighing loud enough for the tour guide to look back. "You bring me down here for murdering me. Nobody will hear me scream. And then you will be widow and steal all my money."

The couple sitting in the row in front of them snapped their heads around.

Shane leaned forward, dropping his voice to a hurried whisper. "I'm not going to murder him."

He snapped back up, as if the matter were entirely settled. Then, after a beat, he leaned right back in just a fraction.

"And I make more money than him anyway," he added.

The couple stared at him, completely shell-shocked.

He turned back to Ilya. "You’re such a baby." 

"I am dying," Ilya groaned. "I am sticky. I am hungry. I am dying from thirst. Humidity is making hair terrible. Is torture."

Shane reached into his backpack wedged between his feet. He pulled out an insulated bottle of ice water, a bag of dried mangoes, and a protein bar, tossing them neatly into Ilya’s lap.

Ilya blinked at the spread, dramatic complaints coming to total halt. "...Okay. I live another day."

Tram glided to slow stop near one of lower crystal-clear pools, allowing the group to step out onto a paved pathway for looking at formations close up. Ilya took a step toward the cavern wall, reaching out to touch bizarrely shaped rock, when sudden, dark fluttering motion dropped from the shadow above.

A tiny bat swooped low, zipping past Ilya’s ear with a soft fwwip.

"AAGH—BLYAT!" Ilya shrieked, ducking so violently his knees almost hit the ground.

The high-pitched, wildly undignified yell bounced off the wet stone walls, aagh-blyat... blyat... lyat… echoing endlessly down the tunnel and returning to haunt him for three whole, excruciating seconds.

He froze, crouching awkwardly on the rocks as his own frantic voice finally faded into silence.

"It was a bat," Shane said unhelpfully, turning back to check on him. "You good?"

Ilya cleared his throat, fixing shirt. "Yes. Obviously. I am not scared. I am testing your reflexes."

"Uh-huh," Shane smiled, small, knowing smirk playing on lips before turning back to marvel at the massive stone formation in front of them. "Look! The color is from iron oxide. This is so cool!"

Ilya felt his annoyance melt away. He took another slice of mango, leaning shoulder against Shane’s. Fine. He was in a cave being dive bombed by flying rats. But Shane was happy, so Ilya could suffer through a few rocks for an hour or two. Hopefully only an hour though.

Besides, he already had his revenge planned.

"Letuchaya myshka," Ilya murmured, sliding his hand into Shane's back pocket. "Since I come to your nerd cave, you must do what I want later." 

"Letuchaya... what? You calling me a mouse?"

"No," Ilya said. "Flying mouse. Is... bat?" He paused, double-checking the word in his head. "Yes. Bat. Little flying mouse. Stupid Barbados bird-rat."

Shane’s mouth twitched into a fond smile. "Right. Well…it depends. What do you want to do?"

"I found tour. We go to gay mountain."

Shane paused, slowly turning head to look at Ilya. "A... gay mountain?"

"Yes. Mountain for gay people. We drink rum there."

"Ilya... do you mean Mount Gay?" Shane asked, tone deadpan. "The rum distillery?"

"Yes! Mount Gay Rum," Ilya said proudly.

Shane pressed lips together, struggling not to laugh. "Right. The famous gay mountain. Sure. We can go after this."

Ilya clapped his hands together excitedly, a loud, sharp crack that echoed off the cavern walls.

The judgmental couple ahead of them whipped around, glaring like he had personally defiled a national monument. Ilya stuck his tongue out at them.

Shane flashed the couple a deeply awkward apology smile before hauling Ilya by the elbow back down the trail.

By the time the tour wrapped up, they had been politely banished to the very back row of the tram for the ride back up to the surface. Safely away from the other tourists.

The second their phones reconnected to the island towers, notifications flooded in.

"Group chat is blowing up," Shane said, tapping the screen as he squinted against the sudden sunlight.

"Which one?" Ilya asked without looking up.

His arm was buried elbow-deep in the bag, digging past the water bottles and snacks in a desperate hunt for the rental car keys. If he could just find them, they wouldn't waste a single second getting to the gay mountain. He needed to be there as soon as humanly possible, finally free of this god-forsaken, bird-rat-infested hole in the ground.

"'Ruh-roh, Raggy,'" Shane replied.

Ilya paused his key hunt, leaning his shoulder against Shane's to peer at the screen. "Is about Reider?"

"Yeah," Shane said, his thumb scrolling quickly through text. “Svetlans says ‘It’s official. Toronto Toothbreaker is no more. Reider got arrested this morning. They picked him up at his hideous house.’”

"Ha!" Ilya barked, catching the eye of an elderly tourist two rows ahead who turned to shoot him yet another sharp look. Ilya ignored her, again. 

Shane scrolled, reading off the screen with a puzzled expression. "Rose sent a picture of a guy standing in court in a suit, but his head is replaced with a crab, and the caption just says: 'Straight to jail. Right away.'" Shane paused, shaking his head. "Why a crab?"

“Yes!” Ilya exclaimed as he tossed the retrieved car keys into the air and caught them neatly, before glancing at Shane's screen. "That is old Parks and Rec meme. Fred Armisen? You commit crime? Straight to jail. Right away. And crab is Mr. Krabs from Spongebob. He went to jail for being cheap.”

Ah," Shane said with complete, confident conviction, like he totally got it, but he definitely did not get it.

He shook his head, staring down at his phone as he tried to process the image before typing a quick reply. "Okay, now Miles sent two side-by-side photos of a woman making faces. The caption says: 'Derek Reider deciding between earning a ten-million-dollar contract or throwing it all away for a five-hundred-dollar prop bet.’ What does this mean?”

"Is Kombucha Girl, Shane!" Ilya chuckled, pressing a quick, loud kiss to the side of Shane's temple. "Oh, my sweet, offline husband. Come. I explain internet to you while we drive to gay mountain."

The tram slowed to a stop and had barely exhaled its brakes before Ilya hauled Shane out of the tram car by his wrist. "Candy Mountain, Charrrrrllie!" Ilya squeaked out in a bizarre voice.

Shane stared at him like he’d completely lost his mind. "What?"

Ilya didn't bother explaining that reference either, just flashing a bright grin as he dragged Shane toward the card.

"Careful, myshka," Ilya huffed, half-guiding, half-dragging a swaying Shane through the doorway. "There we go."

"There was no mountain," Shane announced gravely, blinking up at the ceiling as Ilya managed to dump him onto the edge of the mattress. 

"I know," Ilya sighed, though a wide grin was already breaking across his face. He’d been crushed to learn Mount Gay was merely a historic distillery, but the rum was good at least. "Is terrible scam. Candy Mountain is supposed to steal kidneys, not your liver."

Shane showed no comprehension.

Ilya shook his head, lamenting internally for the thousandth time that his husband would understand just how fundamentally hilarious he was if he’d been even 10% more online in the early 2000s. The internet culture wasted on this man was a tragedy.

Shane’s hands shot out, catching Ilya by the waistband of his shorts and yanking him forward until Ilya was standing firmly between Shane’s parted knees. Shane leaned up, his face flushed. "You're so hot. Let's do it."

Ilya let out a sharp bark of laughter, catching Shane by the wrists when Shane immediately tried to slide his hands under Ilya’s shirt. "Woah, cowboy. Hold horses."

"No horses," Shane muttered, leaning forward to press a sloppy, aggressive kiss directly to Ilya’s chest through his shirt. "Just you. On me. Or me on you. Remember? I said I’d ride. I’m ready to ride."

"You are ready for bed," Ilya corrected, fighting off Shane's clumsy hands. As tempting as this was, Ilya had strict rules. He wasn't taking advantage of his husband when Shane could barely spell his own name. "No sex tonight, drunk bat."

Shane groaned dramatically, flopping backward onto the bed, his arms sprawled wide. "You're so mean to me."

"I know. The meanest husband," Ilya said, leaning over the bed to pull Shane back into a sitting position. Shane’s head rolling forward against Ilya's chest as Ilya unbuttoned the damp linen shirt, sliding it off Shane’s shoulders. "Arms. Good boy."

"Your arms are so big," Shane mumbled against Ilya’s chest as Ilya peeled the shirt away. Shane reached up, blindly running a thumb over Ilya's collarbone. "It's not fair. I want to bite your shoulder."

"Do not bite me," Ilya chuckled, gently pushing Shane back onto the pillows so he could tackle Shane's shoes and socks. "You will break tooth. And Thorne is not here."

Shane wrinkled his nose, making a face like he’d caught a whiff of something foul, and shook his head as if to clear the air. "Won't," Shane grumbled.

He watched through half-lidded eyes as Ilya carefully slipped his shorts off, leaving Shane in just his briefs.

Ilya reached for the nightstand, grabbing the glass of water he’d prepped, dropping a tablet of electrolytes into it. He sat on the edge of the mattress, sliding an arm under Shane’s neck to lift him up.

"Drink," Ilya ordered softly. "All of it. Or tomorrow your head will feel like horse kicked it."

Shane obeyed, taking slow, obedient gulps, his free hand coming up to rest gently over Ilya’s wrist. The horny energy was rapidly draining out of him, replaced by total exhaustion.

"Good," Ilya murmured, setting the empty glass down and laying Shane back against the pillows. He pulled the sheet up over Shane's chest, tucking it neatly around his shoulders.

Shane didn't close his eyes, though. He just stared up at Ilya, his eyes soft and unfocused, a sleepy smile curling the corners of his mouth.

"Hmmm?" Ilya asked softly, brushing a stray lock of dark hair off Shane’s forehead.

"You take care of me," Shane whispered. 

"Of course I take care of you," Ilya hummed. 

“No," Shane mumbled, reaching out with a clumsy hand that flopped over Ilya’s wrist before loosely tangling their fingers together. "You'ways... 'ways take care of me. You're... s'good to me. So sweet. Prettiest man in the whole world..."

Ilya swooned. He looked down at Shane, at the glazed-over, unshielded sincerity shining on his husband's face.

"Best thing...ever happened to me," Shane slurred softly, his mouth barely moving as his thumb made tiny, sluggish drags across Ilya's knuckles. "My... 'Ily. So smart... and funny... makes me so happy... y'r baby... dadd... mmph."

Ilya froze mid-breath, his hand still trapped in Shane’s limp grip. His eyes went wide as he stared down at his husband, eyebrows raised.

Daddy?

Did Shane just call him... Daddy?

Ilya blinked, processing the new information. Shane had never expressed a single interest in a daddy kink before. Ilya wasn't opposed to it, of course; he was open to trying just about anything with Shane if it turned him on. But hearing it drop out of nowhere from a completely plastered Shane was an absolute plot twist.

"Hey," Ilya whispered, leaning down low over the bed to decipher the noise. "Sweetheart. What did you say?"

Shane’s eyes fluttered open just a fraction looking up at Ilya like he hung the stars. A drunken frown of effort pinched between his brows as he forced his tongue to cooperate.

"'m saying... you're gonna be such a good dad," Shane mumbled. "Most handsome dad… Total dilf..."

"Yeah?" Ilya murmured, a fond, wicked little smirk replacing his shock as he stroked Shane's freckles.

"Yeah," Shane sighed, practically melting sideways into Ilya's palm. "You have the biggest heart, Ilya. So caring... so gentle with me... gonna be the absolute best papa. Kids 'nna be so lucky to have you... I'm so lucky..."

The last sound dissolved into a long, quiet exhale, Shane's jaw going lax as his hand dropped dead-weight against the sheets, out cold.

Ilya leaned down, resting his forehead against Shane's, completely overwhelmed by how much he loved this man.

"Sleep good, letuchaya myshka," Ilya whispered softly, kissing Shane’s temple. "We talk about hot papa later."

—-------

Shane broke the surface, spitting out his snorkel and pushing his hair back from his forehead. “I can hear you laughing at me, Asshole. Stop.”

Ilya popped his own mask up onto his forehead, treading water with an effortless, lazy kick. “You look very pretty” He swam closer, splashing a handful of turquoise water at Shane’s face. 

Shane caught Ilya by the waist under the water, pulling him in close, the swell of the waves gently pushing their bodies together.

"Gimme kiss," Ilya demanded softly, resting his hands on Shane's shoulders.

"I'll give you something better.”

Without another word, Shane reached down beneath the surface. Ilya watched through the clear water as Shane reached into his red Speedo, slid it down his thighs, and kicked it free completely. He brought the bright red fabric above the surface, tossed it right at Ilya's face, and let it splash into his hands.

Ilya gasped, catching the Speedo with a wide grin. “We are in open ocean. Is daylight.”

“There’s literally no one out here for miles.” Shane said, his voice dropping into a low, dares-you-to-follow challenge. “Unless you’re scared of a little fish.”

“I am Russian. I am not scared of anything, especially not naked swimming,” Ilya growled, his eyes darkening instantly. He reached down, ripping his own trunks off and throwing them toward the horizon, not caring where they ended up.

Free of the nylon, Shane lunged through the water, wrapping his arms around Ilya’s neck and pulling him into a deep kiss that tasted of salt and sunscreen.

Ilya’s large hands locked onto Shane’s bare hips, his fingers finding those familiar stretch marks, pulling him close as the swell of the tide tried to drift them apart. Shane’s legs wrapped around Ilya’s waist, straddling his thigh under the water for leverage to keep them afloat.

Shane shifted, his thighs gripping Ilya’s leg tightly, rubbing his bare groin hard against the side of Ilya’s hip. Every time the ocean lifted them, Shane pressed harder, loud, uninhibited groans escaping his lips right into Ilya’s mouth. 

Ilya captured Shane's mouth, his tongue sliding deep as Shane let out a needy, desperate m-mmph directly down his throat.

"Fuck, look at you," Ilya gasped, pulling, as his hands dug into Shane’s hips. "So desperate for it."

Ilya claimed him again, sucking Shane's bottom lip between his teeth until Shane gasped out a breathy, trembling "Ah... fuck—" before diving right back in. Driven by his usual overwhelming response to pleasure, Shane leaned forward when their lips broke apart, his teeth sinking sharply into the meat of Ilya’s wet shoulder, letting out a muffled moan against Ilya's skin.

Ilya let out a harsh growl at the bite, his grip tightening on Shane’s ass to pull him flush against his chest. "That's it," Ilya coaxed, spewing dirty praise into the space between them. "Show me. Fuck, you feel so good."

Beneath the surface, Shane reached between their slick, floating bodies. His hand closed around Ilya’s thick cock, his fingers sliding over the slick skin, pump after pump synced perfectly with the way he was rolling his hips against Ilya’s thigh.

Shane tilted his head, catching Ilya's mouth in a wet kiss that turned into an open-mouthed, panting mess as their releases built. "God, Ilya... ah, fuck..." Shane whimpered against his lips, his head falling back as a high, breathy moan escaped him to the empty sky. "You're so big... feels so fucking good—"

Ilya’s hand tightened on the nape of Shane’s neck, holding him in place, his eyes dark as he leaned in close to Shane's ear. "Are you going to come for me?"

"Uh-huh," Shane choked out, a helpless, eager nod accompanying the frantic rhythm of his hips. "Uh-huh, Ilya, please—"

Ilya let out a chuckle, his hips making a sharp, deliberate thrust back into Shane’s hand. "How much do you want it, hmm? Tell me."

"Please, Ilya, I need it—fuck, please let me come," Shane begged. "Please, Ilya, please—"

"So easy for me," Ilya purred, his smirk brushing against Shane’s damp skin. "Such a slut... always leaking for me, kotyonok. So slutty all the time, but only for me, yes?"

Shane let out a loud, pathetic moan at the teasing, his whole body shuddering in Ilya's grip.

"Exactly," Ilya murmured as he kissed away the salt on Shane’s cheek. "Good boy, Shane. Such a good boy for me. Come on, myshka."

"Are you really going to come just like this" Ilya murmured against his jaw, holding Shane steady in the water. "I am not even touching your dick. You are going to blow load just from humping my leg? You are really this much of slut for me?"

"Uhnn-hunn," Shane whined helplessly, his head rolling back against the water, completely undone by the filth spilling from Ilya's mouth. "I’m gonna come, fuck, Ilya!" 

"Do it, come for me," Ilya commanded. He caught Shane's chin, pulling him into a hard, filthy kiss, drinking in every groan as he pumped his hips back into Shane's hand. "Let me hear you... ah, fuck, Shane... nobody's listening but me."

Shane’s mouth parted against Ilya’s, letting out a shattered, breathless "Nnngh—!" as his hips gave one final, desperate thrust against Ilya’s thigh. He came hard, a long, chest-heaving moan echoing across the surface before his release dissolved instantly into the vast turquoise ocean.

As Shane's tight grip squeezed him through the sweet spot, Ilya captured his lips one last time, his groans muffled against Shane's mouth. His entire body arched, his hips jerking forward beneath the waves as he blew his load straight into Shane’s palm.

Their chests heaved in ragged unison, hard, harsh pants echoing off the open water as they fought to catch their breath. Shane let out a trembling exhale, his teeth clicking together as a shiver wracked his shoulders. Instinctively, he buried his face into the wet crook of Ilya’s neck, wrapping both arms tight around Ilya's shoulders to leach off whatever heat he had left.

Ilya huffed out a breath that was half-pant, half-laugh, his own chest still rising and falling rapidly. He wrapped his arms securely around Shane’s waist, treading water with slow, powerful kicks to keep them both afloat as the gentle current washed over their cold skin.

They hung onto each other for a long time, treading water lazily, their mouths still casually pressing salt-tasted kisses together as their heavy breathing slowly quieted and the gentle Caribbean current washed them clean.

“Lawless behavior from Mr. Rule Follower,” Ilya murmured after a while, kissing the tip of Shane’s wet nose. “I think the Barbados sun has broken your brain. I like it.”

Shane hummed against Ilya's neck, too spent to summon actual words in response. He pressed himself flush against Ilya, leeching off his husband’s furnace-like body heat like a basking snake. While Ilya’s broad chest kept his front thoroughly warm, the bright Caribbean sun beat down on Shane's wet back, baking the cool ocean chill right out of his skin.

Ilya rested his chin on the top of Shane's wet hair. "This is nice, yes?" he murmured.

Shane let out a slow breath, relaxing further against Ilya’s collarbone. "Yeah," he breathed. "It really is. But... you didn't have get us both suspended for weeks if you wanted a vacation. You could have just asked."

Ilya threw his head back with a laugh, water droplets spraying off his hair into the sunshine. "We did a good thing! So what if we pay a little fine and sit out a few games? Our boys are still on track to make playoffs without us. And now all MLH will get to keep more teeth. And… also Dallas Kent is on LTI. Everything is perfect!"

As Ilya spoke, his fingers were idly tracing small, soothing patterns across Shane’s shoulders, smoothing over the scatter of freckles brought out by the tropical sun. 

Shane rested his hand against the back of Ilya's neck, looking up into his eyes. "Do you really think we can get the Cup this year?"

"Yes," Ilya said without a single second of hesitation, his dark eyes fierce and sure. "I want back to back wins before I retire next season."

Shane tightened his arms around Ilya's shoulders. A heavy silence settled between them. Slowly, Shane drew back, looking Ilya straight in the face, searching his expression.

Ilya offered a small, unusually sheepish shrug, the confident swagger softening into rare vulnerability.

"I think next season is my last," Ilya admitted quietly.

Shane’s breath hitched, immediate panic choking him, his heart hammering. "Is it your shoulder again?”

"No, no," Ilya assured him quickly, shaking his head. He reached up, taking Shane's tense jaw in both hands. "Shoulder is fine. I just think about it for a while, Shane. I don't want the decision made for me. I don't want to play until my body forces me to stop. I want to choose to stop."

Ilya's expression turned impossibly soft, a tender smile breaking through as he looked down at his husband. "I already achieve everything I ever wanted in hockey. Everything else is extra bonus."

Shane stared at him, his throat tight, caught somewhere between heartbreak and love. He swallowed hard, the fear slowly giving way to something warm and open. "Do you want me to retire with you?"

Ilya shook his head slowly. "No. You still have good hockey left in you."

Shane leaned into the touch of Ilya's hands, exhaling a breath he had been holding. He studied Ilya's face, looking for any trace of regret, but found only peace. "What will you do if you’re not playing?"

Ilya’s mouth curved into a wicked, self-satisfied smirk. "I steal head WAG spot from Cassie, of course."

Shane scoffed. "You’re going to terrorize them."

Probably," Ilya agreed. "WAG jacket will be enviably though."

“Enviable, Ilya. Adverb vs. adjective. You use 'enviably' to modify another word, like 'enviably cool.'"

Ilya shrugged. "App said it means desirable and worthy of envy. My WAG jacket will be maximum enviably."

Shane sighed, but looped his arms loosely around Ilya’s neck anyway, keeping them together against the current. "What else?"

Ilya’s smirk faded into a look that was strikingly soft and vulnerable. He looked at Shane, his eyes bright under the island sun. "Probably adopt maybe ten more dogs?"

"A cat," Shane countered smoothly.

"Five dogs," Ilya negotiated.

"One cat."

Ilya sighed, conceding the point with a dramatic tilt of his head. "Okay. Fine. One cat and one baby."

Shane nodded agreeably before freezing. He blinked, the words catching up to him. "A baby? Are you pregnant?"

Ilya burst out laughing, shoving Shane backward by the shoulders playfully before immediately grabbing his hips to reel him right back flush against his chest. "I want to coach Timbits team," Ilya confessed, practically glowing with the image of it. "Can you imagine? With the little cones and the tiny jerseys?"

Shane stared at him, looking completely and utterly undone. A sappy, devastated smile spread across his face as he looked at the man he loved. 

Shane leaned in, capturing Ilya’s mouth in a sweet, lingering kiss.

When they parted, Ilya batted his eyelashes, "So... you will get me pregnant now?"

Shane’s sappy smile instantly flatlined. He lifted up in the water, placed both hands firmly on the top of Ilya’s head, and shoved him straight down into the ocean.

Ilya bounced back up a second later with a loud splash, slicking his wet hair back from his face with both hands, eyes sparkling.

"Very mature, Shane!" Ilya gasped, wiping seawater from his eyes.

Shane smiled, but his expression quickly turned serious as he contemplated. He treaded water a few feet away, his expression stripped raw of any remaining humor. The tropical sun caught the sudden, vulnerable tightness around his eyes. He swam back in close, wrapping his arms tightly around Ilya's broad shoulders for comfort.

"I'm scared to do it without you," Shane admitted, his voice quiet.

"It takes two people to make baby, Shane. You cannot do it alone."

Shane groaned, burying his face in the crook of Ilya’s wet neck. "Be serious for ten seconds. Please."

"Okay," Ilya said solemnly. He held both hands up above the water, all ten fingers spread wide. "Ten seconds of serious."

With agonizing slowness, Ilya folded down his right pinky finger. Nine.

Shane pulled back, his eyes searching Ilya’s, trying to rush the words out before the clock ran out. "I love you. And we’re going to win the Cup this year.’

Ilya folded down his ring finger, then his middle finger, his eyes dancing as he counted down silently. Eight. Seven. Six.

"I mean it," Shane insisted, staring at Ilya's shrinking fingers. "We’re going to lift it together, not once, but twice! And then you’re going to retire, and we’re going to have a baby."

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Ilya balled both hands into fists, signaling time was up, and immediately shook his head in dramatic disappointment. "You forgot about the cat."

Shane stared at him for a second, totally incredulous, before a breathy laugh escaped his chest. "I don't spend a lot of time thinking about pussy."

Ilya guffawed so hard he nearly went under. He pulled Shane against his chest and squeezed him until Shane couldn't breathe.

"Stop! Rod is coming in twenty minutes, Shane. I cannot get hard." Ilya grunted, attempting to swing his legs over the edge of the bed.

"This Rod could be coming in twenty minutes too," Shane replied, pawing at Ilya’s dick through his shorts and hauling him backward by his waistband before he could plant his feet on the floor.

"Ah, ah! No," Ilya huffed, twisting in Shane's grip as his hands fought for purchase on the sheets. "We have guest coming."

"Let Rod wait," Shane muttered, his fingers digging into Ilya's hips to drag him back up the mattress. "Come back here."

Ilya swatted him away and then hooked his thumb firmly over Shane’s front bottom teeth while his forefinger gripped Shane’s chin, effectively trapping his jaw and cutting off any follow-up quip.

Shane’s mouth parted around the intrusion, his eyes widening as his pupils instantly blew wide. A breath caught in his throat.

"Oh? No more jokes now?" Ilya teased.

Ilya slowly dragged the pad of his thumb back across the wet, hot surface of Shane's tongue. When Ilya pulled his thumb free after a moment, he licked his own lips as he watched Shane’s darkened eyes track the slick motion of his tongue.

In automatic response, Shane licked his own lips, his gaze still heavy and unfocused.

Ilya let out a laugh, tutting at him with a fond shake of his head. He placed a hand flat against Shane's chest and shoved him back onto the mattress. Shane let himself fall back with a pouty huff, reaching down to adjust his dick inside his briefs. A dark, wet spot already embarrassingly visible against the heather grey cotton.

Shane gave him a look of long-suffering exhaustion, pulling himself up slightly to sit upright against the headboard. "Please tell me you are not still going through with this?"

"Is very romantic gesture," Ilya announced, scrambling off the bed at last.

He had spent the last twenty minutes fighting an almost losing battle against Shane’s persistent, wildly hot advances, and to be entirely honest, holding out was becoming downright impossible. But there would definitely be time to fuck Shane properly later. Maybe he could even convince him to do beach sex after the tattoo.

He rummaged through his half-packed suitcase in the closet before re-entering the room with a clear plastic case clutched in his hand. Inside sat a silicone bite mold.

"It’s psychotic," Shane said, though there was zero heat in it. He’d already lost this argument, but he felt obligated to maintain his position. "You could just get number 24."

"No chance," Ilya interrupted, waving a hand dismissively as he crawled back onto the mattress and sat close next to Shane, pulling up the hem of his shorts to expose his upper thigh. "Since you are bad husband and refuse to give me actual bite for this, Rod will just stamp this and boom. Permanent souvenir of my favorite vampire."

"Bad husband, huh? That’s not what you said last night when I let you fuck my throat."

Ilya’s jaw practically hit the mattress. He stared at Shane, totally thrilled by how casual and beautifully vulgar the man was being in the middle of a sunny afternoon.

"Shane!" Ilya gasped, a massive, wicked grin breaking across his face as he slapped Shane's chest. "So dirty! Look at you, your mouth is so bad in Barbados."

A week of intense Caribbean sun and the privacy of the estate were doing incredible things to Shane. It was like the distance from the rink and the media had allowed him to completely drop his guard, unlocking a relaxed, filthy-mouthed confidence that Ilya was thoroughly obsessed with.

Shane stared at the mold, then at the still-pale skin of Ilya’s thigh where the tattoo was slated to go. He let out a low, defeated laugh, rubbing a hand over his face.

"When Rod gets here, will you hold my hand and tell me I am brave?" Ilya asked, flopping sideways against Shane's shoulder and slumping his full weight against him. He pressed a quick, lazy kiss to Shane’s jaw, his lips lingering for a second.

Shane swung his legs over the side of the mattress, giving Ilya's un-tattooed thigh a squeeze before abruptly standing up.

Without Shane’s solid frame, Ilya tipped right over. He let out an offended gasp as he went down, his elbow catching the mattress just in time to stop a total faceplant, staring up at Shane in betrayal as if he’d been thrown off a cliff.

"Nope. I have plans," Shane said smoothly, stepping out of reach. "I'm going to put on my tiniest speedo and go do some laps in the pool."

Ilya’s indignation shifted to alarm, his head snapping up. "The red one?"

"The red one," Shane confirmed as he headed toward the terrace doors.

"Blyat!" Ilya whined, throwing his arms up at the ceiling.

Shane's bright, rich laugh echoed back into the bedroom as he slid the closet door open. Ilya groaned and flopped all the way flat onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling with a theatrical huff, though the wide, satisfied grin was still plastered clear across his face.

Shane didn't make a move for his speedo though. Instead, a very specific, terrible idea began to take root in his head. He quietly reached into his suitcase, pulled his razor out of his dropkit, and slipped into the bathroom.

He locked the door, leaned against the sink, and looked down at his right thigh. Suddenly, he was very much in the mood for a tattoo as well.

Dry-shaving a smooth square of skin on his right thigh, Shane’s brain raced. He just had to figure out how to distract Ilya long enough to get Rod to ink an 81 right onto his thigh before Ilya could notice.

Shane stared at the freshly tattooed bite marks, as Rod finished cleaning up Ilya’s thigh, his brain momentarily broken. The sight of his own teeth marks permanently stamped into Ilya’s skin was enough to make him forget his name, let alone what he’d planned to do next. He almost stepped forward to touch it, almost let himself get completely sidetracked—

No. Focus.

Shane shook himself out of the trance, recommitting to the mission. He pasted on a look of sudden, mild panic, and cleared his throat.

"Ilya! It’s Hayden," Shane lied smoothly. "He says Arthur is having a total meltdown and won't go to sleep. Hayden’s tried everything and he's desperate. He wants to know if you can get on FaceTime real quick and sing that Russian song Arthur likes? The one that always calms him down?"

Ilya grumbled loudly, though he was already rising to his feet. "Gospodi... Montreal’s fifteenth best player is useless," he muttered, though there wasn't an ounce of real heat in it. "Why he cannot handle one small baby without calling entire Eastern Conference for backup?"

Still, Ilya stood up, carefully pulling his shorts on over the wrap Rod had placed over his new ink. "Where is phone? In kitchen?"

"Yeah, on the counter," Shane said, backing toward the door to give him room to pass. "I’ll walk Rod out while you deal with that."

"Thank you, Rod," Ilya called out happily over his shoulder as he padded down the hall, already clearing his throat to prepare his best rendition of a Russian lullaby. "Tell Hayden I am charging him fifty dollars an hour for virtual nanny service!"

The moment Ilya vanished into the kitchen and his low singing started drifting through the guest house, Shane turned around and shut the door to the room.

Rod was packing his needles back into his case, looking up with mild curiosity. "All set?"

Shane reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen to show Rod a photo.

"Actually," Shane said, lowering his voice so it wouldn't carry down the hall, "can you do one more before you leave?"

"Luuuuuuu-bee-meeee-yuh!" Ilya belted out at the top of his lungs thirty minutes later, dragging out the syllables in a dramatic, rising opera-sing-song as he marched back into the bedroom after finishing his FaceTime call with a decidedly very un-panicked Arthur, and a very awkward Hayden.

Shane raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. "How is Arthur?"

"Pike is Mr. Panic Attack for nothing! Artusha is totally fine," Ilya grumbled, tossing his phone onto the mattress. "I tell him was probably just socks."

Shane blinked. "Socks?"

Ilya shrugged, motioning vaguely toward his own feet. "He does not like folds inside. I tell Hayden he needs ones without seams, from brand you like."

Shane melted a little at that, a helpless smile pulling at his mouth. "Okay. I'll text Hayden the brand later."

"Anyway... so..." Ilya stepped closer, eyes flashing with determination. "We have only twenty-four hours left here... I think we should revisit beach sex."

"We can't get our tattoos wet," Shane said.

"We will be careful. We just do it on dry sand—" He stopped suddenly, his brain suddenly catching up to the phrasing. "We?"

Shane grinned lazily. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and shimmied out of them, letting the fabric pool around his ankles to reveal the fresh, plastic-wrapped 81 freshly inked onto his upper thigh.

Ilya stared at it, his jaw practically hitting the floor.

"Fuck," Ilya breathed.

June 2024

The press room at the arena was packed to absolute capacity. Every respectable sports writer and broadcaster from across Canada and the United States was currently shoved inside shoulder-to-shoulder.

The Centaurs were entering the cup finals as the defending champions, and when a championship captain calls an unexpected press conference right before stepping onto the ice to defend his title, nobody ignores that call. 

Sitting near the back of the room next to Harris, Shane pulled the brim of his baseball cap lower, slowly slouching down until his spine was practically parallel with his chair, desperately trying to dissolve into the shadows.

At the front of the room, Ilya sat behind the press table. He looked impeccably put together in a crisp dress shirt, radiating confidence that commanded the entire space.

He leaned toward the microphone, his expression serious.

"Thank you for coming," Ilya began. "I will be brief. After this game... after I became a three-time cup winner... I will be retiring from professional hockey."

A collective gasp echoed across the room, followed immediately by an explosion of overlapping shouts and flashing cameras. As he spoke, Ilya casually reached down, resting one hand flat against his upper stomach. It wasn't a sharp or dramatic gesture; he simply left his hand resting there, his thumb making a small, slow trace over the fabric of his shirt as if doing so entirely out of unconscious habit.

In the back row, Shane slumped an inch lower in his seat, resting his chin against his collarbone and closing his eyes in silent prayer.

Ilya raised a single hand, his calm composure gradually bringing the room back to a hum. "I know there are many ideas, many rumors. So, I take five questions. Only five."

A dozen hands shot into the air instantly. Ilya pointed to a veteran beat reporter in the second row.

"Ilya, you're still playing at an elite level. What ultimately went into the timing of this decision? Why walk away now?"

Ilya nodded slowly. "Hockey gave me everything," he said quietly. "Canada, my husband, incredible team. But I want to leave when I am still playing my best hockey. I don't want to wait until my body breaks completely or coaches tell me I am too slow. I want to leave on my terms, with cup in my hands. That is all."

He pointed to a reporter on the left.

"Looking back on your career, what do you think you'll miss the most once you step away from the ice?"

A genuine, soft smile tugged at the corner of Ilya's mouth. "The locker room," he admitted, warmly. "The boy, the noise before game, the feeling when you win hard match on the road. You cannot replace this feeling anywhere else in the world. I will miss that energy very much…maybe not the smell, but definitely the energy."

He motioned to a third reporter near the center aisle.

"Have you given any thought to what comes next? Coaching, broadcasting, staying involved in the game in some way?"

Ilya chuckled, shaking his head. "Broadcasting? No, I think Harris would have heart attack if they give me live microphone every week." In the back, Harris didn't even crack a smile, though his eye twitched slightly. "I think... I will take time. Focus on my family. Maybe coach tiny children with little skates. Learn how to be normal person for a while."

He selected a fourth journalist, a national writer who had covered Ilya since his rookie year.

"Is there any lingering sense of regret or unfinished business as you head into this final game?"

"Zero regret," Ilya said firmly, his eyes dark and resolute. "We have one goal left tomorrow. We finish the job, we lift the trophy again, and then I am done. My mind is completely clear."

The room quieted slightly, the gravity of his answers and the knowledge of his retirement sinking in. Ilya glanced around the room and pointed to a young reporter near the front. "Last one. Number five."

The writer cleared his throat nervously, adjusting his notepad. "Uh…I guess a fun one maybe? I mean…obviously keeping to an athlete's diet for over a decade is a lot. What’s the first post-hockey meal you’re looking forward to?"

Ilya laughed before he paused and looked down at his lap for a moment, an almost wistful expression settling over his features. His hand, which had stayed subtly settled over his middle the entire time, smoothed over his shirt once more.

"I think… pickles and peanut butter," Ilya said evenly, looking back up at the room with sincerity. "And hot sauce on vanilla ice cream."

A baffled silence settled over the room. A few reporters glanced at each other, their brows furrowing.

The reporter blinked, completely thrown off balance. "Pickles... and peanut butter?"

"Yes," Ilya replied, his tone entirely earnest. "And sushi. I am told I am not supposed to have it right now, so I wait. But after... I will eat all of it."

Harris slowly covered his entire face with both hands, letting out a quiet, despairing breath. Beside him, Shane’s shoulders hunched clear up to his ears in absolute mortification.

"Just one more game," Harris muttered into his palms. "We just have to survive one more game."

Shane shot him a flat, sideways glance. "You think he’s gonna shut up when he retires?"

Harris froze. Slowly, his hands slid down his face, his eyes wide. "Oh my god," he whispered. "It’s gonna be worse."

"That is five questions," Ilya said, offering a polite nod. "Thank you. Byeeeee.”

He stood up and walked off the podium, leaving behind a room of journalists staring at each other in bewilderment.

"No one warned me in the job interview that one of my biologically male players would imply in a press conference that he's pregnant," Harris muttered, rubbing his temples in utter exhaustion.

Shane scoffed. "I have it worse."

Harris stopped, turning to give him a deadpan, unblinking look. "But do you, though? At least you have the luxury of finding his antics sexy. I have been cursed to only find them rage-inducing."

They stared at each other for a beat before Shane cracked first, and they both burst into quiet laughter.

"If it makes you feel better," Shane said through his barely suppressed laughter, "I actually think he was more subtle than he was trying to be. I don’t think anyone realized what he was trying to imply."

Harris pressed his palms together, raising prayer hands to the ceiling. "Small mercies. Thank you, gay Jesus." He dropped his hands and shook his head, looking back at Shane. "He texted me your baby registry, by the way. You guys are millionaires. I'm not fucking doing that."

Shane shrugged helplessly. "Yeah, that's fair. I told him not to make one, but you know how he is. He was so excited."

Harris eyed him. "Have you seen what's on it?"

"No," Shane said, blinking. "Why?"

Harris let out a sharp laugh. "On second thought... I will buy you guys the Scooby-Doo Mystery Machine mobile for the crib. And like... a bunch of lint rollers for all the pet hair you’re gonna be swimming in. You’re gonna need them"

Shane’s head snapped toward him, pure panic. He grabbed a handful of Harris's suit sleeve, tugging hard. "What? What do you mean?" he hissed. "Harris! What do you mean? What did he put on there? Harris!"

Harris clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he wheezed with laughter, completely unable to form a word.

"Harris, stop laughing and tell me!" Shane pleaded, tugging on the sleeve again with increasing desperation. "What's on Ilya’s baby registry?! Harris!"

His voice carried much further than he intended.

Mics, cameras, and heads all swung in their direction, as reporters turned towards them, suddenly realizing who was sitting in the back of the room.

Shane froze, his hand still clutching Harris's sleeve.

Ruh-roh.

Chapter End Notes

Please tell me if you spend more or less time thinking about pussy than Shane does. I would love to know where you fall on the Shane Pussy Kinsey Scale. If 0 is Shane Hollander and a 7 is Roselana...I'm actually like a 6.

Chapter 10: Take it, take, baby, baby

Chapter Summary

Come here rude boy, boy, is you big enough?

Chapter Notes

February 2026

“Nnnngh.”

The involuntary groan Shane’s throat. His head hung low, as his hips shifted, searching deeper. He let out another long, breathless whine, sinking lower until his knees were forced wide apart. 

"Jesus, Hollander." A body dropped down beside him. "You sound like a dying engine, old man."

Shane grunted, pushing his knees an inch farther out into a brutally wide frog stretch, his 35-year-old hip flexors screaming in protest. "Shut up, Jacobs."

"You want me to get the trainers to fetch a WD-40 can for those joints?" Jacobs grinned, bouncing lightly in his stretch. 

Shane rolled his eyes, resting his forearms on the ice to take the weight off his lower back. "I noticed your trophy case is still looking pretty spacious. Must be nice not having to dust anything."

"Yeah, whatever, man.” Jacobs sat up on one knee, tapping the tip of his stick against the ice with a cocky grin. "I’m taking your shooting record tonight. I’m gonna slide in and finish before you even get your first one off."

Shane lifted his head to stare at Jacobs, an almost-Ilya watt smirk spreading across his face.

"I’m a married man. And you’re not even old enough to ride this ride."

Jacobs’ face paled as the double entendre of what he’d just said dawned on him. "No! That is not…I meant the pucks! On the targets!"

"Hey, I’m flattered," Shane continued easily, pushing himself up into a standing position. "Just make sure you stretch more. Wouldn't want you to pull something before you even finish."

"God damn," Jacobs moaned. "Just ‘cause Rozanov retired doesn't mean you have to take his job."

Shane just smirked as he glided past him. "Hollander-Rozanov," he corrected over his shoulder.

A sharp clack-clack-clack echoed over the hum of warm-ups in a familiar rhythm. A fist was knocking against the glass right above the blue line.

Shane turned toward the boards instantly.

On the other side of the acrylic stood his husband.

He was towering over a huddled cluster of four pre-teens. Over his shoulders was the iconic Centaurs red and black leather WAG jacket. Ilya looked fucking cool, until Shane drifted closer and caught the light hitting the white side-panels. They were heavily dusted with black cat hair, and right over his left collarbone sat a crusty patch of dried toddler drool.

Settled against Ilya’s chest was eighteen-month-old Yarina. She was wearing a tiny, custom hand-knitted hockey jersey that Ilya had found on Etsy, a recent discovery Ilya had made upon realizing Etsy was an online marketplace and not, in fact, a town, a revelation that had immediately caused Shane’s bank account to take a hit. Perched over her dark curls was a massive pair of noise-cancelling earmuffs, completing her absurdly cute outfit.

Shane’s heart swelled. God, he couldn't believe this was his life. Ilya looked so impossibly good holding their daughter and baby ‘Rina looked so perfect nestled against Ilya, her big round eyes locked onto Shane as he skated up.

Shane leaned against the glass, tapping his head against the pane and pressing a kiss right where Yarina’s round little cheek rested against the surface. She giggled through the thick barrier between them, waving a fist at him.

Originally, they had planned to wait a few months and attempt their first away game with her during the playoffs, which would mark the final Stanley Cup run of Shane's career before his retirement at the end of the season.

In fact, for the first time in his entire career, Shane had not even been remotely excited to go to the All-Star game. He would have much rather stayed home, tucked away on the couch with Ilya and Yarina, and he had honestly considered faking an injury just to get out of it.

But the moment Ilya heard the event was in Dallas, he flatly refused to let Shane back out. Ilya insisted that Shane had to go, and that he and Yarina were coming along, too. From that point on, Ilya hadn't stopped bringing it up, hyping up the trip with an enthusiasm that thoroughly baffled Shane, who hadn't realized his husband loved Texas so much.

Shane pressed his fingers to the glass, tracing Yarina's tiny hands, while the four kids standing around Ilya pressed their noses up against the glass beside her, grinning like maniacs.

"You brought the whole zoo?" Shane called out.

Ilya smirked, patting the top of the nine-year-old’s head like he would Anya or their cat, whom Shane had won the naming rights to and promptly christened Corsi, though Ilya steadfastly refused to call him anything other than Sin Bin.

"Rozanov," Hayden Pike barked, skating up beside Shane and squinting through the glass at Ilya. "I thought you were strictly domestic these days."

"I am here to watch actual hockey player, Pike. Not whatever it is you do out there. How did you get invited? Montreal’s 14 other best players are injured? You are only one available?"

"Oh, fuck off."

"Swear jar," a voice chirped, belonging to Arthur, the nine-year-old standing right beside Ilya.

"Arthur, son, I’m your dad."

"Swear jar," Arthur repeated, pulling a small plastic ziplock bag half-filled with coins out of his jacket pocket and shaking it threateningly. 

"Stop weaponizing my children against me!" Hayden hissed at Ilya.

Ilya ignored him and adjusted baby Yarina on his hip while she happily gnawed on her teething toy.

It was only then that Pike actually looked past Arthur’s smug expression and took in the rest of his offspring standing in a neat little row along the ice. All four of them were proudly wearing identical Hollander-Rozanov jerseys. Not a single drop of Pike's own name or number was anywhere in sight.

"They wanted to wear winning jersey," Ilya said. "I am just good uncle who supports their choices."

"We’re on the same team!" Pike gasped, genuinely wounded. "Ruby? Emma? Where is your loyalty?"

"Uncle Shane gave us signed sticks," Ruby said plainly. "And Uncle Ilya bought us churros."

Pike rounded on Shane. "You bribed my children?"

"I didn't bribe anyone," Shane chuckled, tapping his stick against the ice as the horn sounded to signal the end of warm-ups. He pressed one last kiss to the glass for Yarina, who squeaked with delight. "Your kids just have good taste, Hayd. Now pay the kid his money."

Shane didn't manage to shatter his own record set four years prior, but Jacobs, despite all his grand boasting, pulled in just behind him, clipping second place.

Back in the locker room, Shane unlaced his skates with a long, satisfying exhale.

Hayden slid onto the bench next to him. "Man, if you can still shoot like that, you've got another five years in you, buddy. Easy."

"It takes 30 minutes just to loosen up every day," Shane stated flatly. "And frankly, Hayd, if it comes down to a choice between using my hips to play hockey or to have sex with Ilya for the next thirty years, I'm choosing the second option."

"Shane! I did not need the mental image of Rozanov's retirement benefits!" Pike spluttered. 

Shane just shrugged, grabbing his bag as laughter rippled down the row of stalls. He slapped Hayden on the shoulder and headed out the double doors.

As he pushed through the security doors into the family waiting area, his eyes instantly found Ilya and Yarina, plus the massive bouquet of lilies in Ilya’s other hand.

"Look who it is," Ilya cooed softly to the toddler as Shane approached. "Is daddy. Look at him, devochka." Sweet girl.

"God, I missed you guys," Shane whined. He planted a lingering kiss on Ilya's lips before reaching out to take Yarina into his arms.

"Dada!" Rina squeaked, her chubby hands instantly reaching out to tangle in Shane’s collar.

"Congratulations, krasavchik," Ilya said softly, handing over the flowers as Shane settled the toddler against his chest. Pretty boy. "You were incredible tonight."

"Thanks," Shane breathed, burying his face into the soft curls at the crown of Yarina’s head and breathing in her familiar toddler-shampoo scent. He shifted her weight higher into his arms, his fingers gently splaying across her tiny back. After being away from her on the ice for hours, holding her felt like finally getting his lungs back.

Yarina babbled softly against his neck, a sweet, messy string of nonsense ending in a bright, emphatic, "Dada win!"

Shane chuckled, as he pulled back just enough to look into her big eyes. "Yeah, baby, we won. Did you watch?"

Yarina nodded aggressively, her little hands clapping against Shane’s chest. "Fast!"

"So fast," Shane agreed, as he nuzzled her cheek, earning a breathy giggle from her. He swayed slightly where he stood, resting his forehead against Ilya's shoulder for a brief second while his aching body registered the comfort of his family.

"I just want to go back to the hotel," Shane murmured softly, his thumb gently stroking Yarina's small forearm as she rested her chin on his collarbone, her tiny fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. He tightened his hold on her, completely reluctant to hand her off or set her down for even a second. "I want to order room service and just stay in bed with you two until our flight tomorrow."

Ilya’s expression softened, but then he winced slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ah... about that. Vaughny and a few of the guys... they said everyone is meeting at bar down the street. Big celebration."

Shane suppressed a groan, his grip on Yarina instinctively firming as he tucked her head back under his chin. "Can we pass?"

"Bar!" Yarina chimed in with zero understanding, mimicking the word with cheerful enthusiasm. "Go bar!"

Shane couldn't help the helpless smile that twitched on his lips, glaring playfully at his daughter. "You don't even know what a bar is, traitor."

"Come on," Ilya coaxed, resting a warm hand against the small of Shane’s back, giving him a gentle, persuasive nudge. "Just for an hour?"

Shane was about to refuse, his arms wrapping a little tighter around his daughter. He really, really just wanted to hold his baby and hibernate. But then he caught the hopeful look in Ilya’s eyes.

For the last several months, Ilya had been the one staying home, handling the toddler tantrums, the chaotic meal times, and the relentless routines while Shane was out on the road training and playing. As much as Ilya adored being a father, he hadn't had many opportunities to just drink a beer, laugh loud, and hang out with other adults.

Shane looked down at Yarina, who was now patting his cheek. He pressed a kiss to her hand before swallowing his exhaustion.

"Okay," Shane murmured softly as he leaned over to kiss Ilya's cheek. "One drink."

Shane leaned back against the bar, nursing a Moscow Mule beside Luca, his gaze locked on Ilya.

Watching his husband move through the sticky Dallas bar like the mayor of All-Stars was nothing short of mesmerizing. Ilya was glowing, swapping loud, laugh-filled chirps and backslaps with old teammates and rivals he hadn't seen since his retirement. But what made Shane’s chest ache with warmth was the way Ilya carried Yarina through the crowd like his most prized trophy.

He held her nestled securely in his arms, introducing her to every single person he passed with beaming pride. Every giant hockey player they approached suddenly softened, cooing at the toddler, while Ilya boasted about her.  He looked so happy.

Shane took another sip of his drink, a helpless smile pulling at his lips. God, he loved him.

Ilya eventually drifted back toward their corner, stopping only to pluck a stray cowboy hat off a nearby barstool. 

Shane reached his arms out as Ilya approached, expecting Ilya to finally hand over Yarina, who Ilya was currently carrying tucked under his arm like an oversized, sleeping football.

Instead, Ilya placed the cowboy hat firmly onto Luca’s head. Then, completely bypassing Shane’s outstretched hands, Ilya transferred the sleepy toddler straight into Luca’s chest.

"Do not drop my baby or I will kill you," Ilya warned softly.

Luca froze, his eyes widening in sheer terror, scrambling to hold the baby. "Wha—"

Before Luca could object, Ilya stepped directly into Shane’s waiting arms, wrapping his hands around Shane's waist.

Shane let out a breathy laugh, his arms instinctively curling around Ilya's shoulders. "I was reaching for the baby, idiot."

"And here I am," Ilya murmured, pulling Shane impossibly closer, even though there was no space left between them. 

Shane shook his head fondly. Over Ilya's shoulder, he caught sight of Luca awkwardly holding Yarina like an unexploded bomb while the cowboy hat slid crookedly down his forehead, looking paralyzed as the toddler began to stir.

Her tiny brows furrowed, her heavy eyelids fluttering open. Disoriented, her dark eyes blinked open. Her lower lip gave a dramatic, trembling pucker. Her small chest heaved, a cranky whine bubbling up from her throat as her little hands reached out into the empty air, searching.

"Oh god, she's gonna cry," Luca panicked. "What do I do?!"

"He looks like he's about to faint," Shane whispered, already shifting to reach for her. "And your daughter is about to lose her mind."

"He will survive," Ilya dismissed at first, burying his face deeper into Shane's neck. But at the sound of Yarina’s rising, unhappy whimpers, Ilya let out a sigh. Reluctantly untangling himself from Shane, he leaned in over a sweating, motionless Luca to manage the crisis, though he kept one possessive arm looped securely around Shane's waist.

"Shh, Malyshka," Ilya crooned softly. Baby.

Shane leaned in too, his thumb soothingly stroking the curve of her cheek. "Hey, sweet girl, it's okay. Daddy and Papa are right here. You're alright, baby."

Yarina blinked slowly, her watery eyes shifting between Shane and Ilya. Recognizing her fathers' voices over the bar noise, her breathing slowed. Within seconds, her little shoulders relaxed, her heavy breathing evening back out into a deep sleep.

"See? Easy," Ilya muttered. Straightening back up, his hand slid down to yank Luca firmly by the elbow.

"Come," Ilya then commanded, steering the bewildered, stiff-as-a-board Luca across the floor before bringing him to a halt directly in front of a booth packed with striking, leather-jacket-wearing guys laughing over drinks. Ilya had clocked them the minute they walked in: they were very, very clearly gay, currently ogling the sea of high-profile hockey players flooding the bar with unabashed lust in their eyes, but without a single shred of realization that they were staring at world-famous athletes.

"Everyone, listen up!" Ilya announced loudly, clapping a heavy hand over Luca's trembling shoulder.

The entire table paused, looking up in collective, amused surprise at the sudden, towering Russian who had commandeered their space.

"This is Luca," Ilya declared, gesturing down at him like a game-show host presenting a prize. "He is four-time Stanley Cup champion, soon to be fifth. He is single, very gentle, and very shy. No, the baby in his arms is not his, she is my daughter. If any of you make him drop her, I will kill you. Keep him company. Bye!"

A remarkably attractive guy with dark scruff and a tilted cowboy hat reached out, gently closing his fingers around Luca's wrist to pull the frozen hockey player into the open spot beside him.

"Howdy, Luca," he drawled, his lips curling into a slow, crooked smile as his eyes softened at the sleeping toddler. "And what is this one's name?"

Luca turned bright red, as the rest of the guys at the table broke into grins, instantly shifting over to give him plenty of room.

With both of his babies safely distracted, Ilya turned on his heel and strolled back over to Shane, looking outrageously pleased with himself.

From the jukebox, the heavy, pulsing beat of Rihanna’s "Rude Boy" echoed through the speakers.

Tonight, I'ma let you be a rider

Giddy up, giddy up, giddy up, babe...

Ilya’s eyes darkened. He crowded Shane against the edge of the high-top table. Reaching down, Ilya wrapped his broad hand around Shane’s drink, cradling the back of Shane’s neck with his other hand to tilt his head back. He pressed the rim of the glass gently against Shane's lips, tipping more of the liquid straight into his mouth.

Shane let his eyes slide shut as he swallowed the steady stream, letting Ilya control the pace until the glass was completely drained.

When Ilya finally pulled the empty glass away, Shane wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes immediately darting past Ilya’s shoulder as he tried to keep visual contact with Yarina through the sea of broad shoulders.

"What's your game here?" Shane asked, squinting up at his husband.

"No game," Ilya said smoothly, stepping directly into Shane's line of sight to offer an innocent, dazzling smile. "I will get you another drink."

Shane narrowed his eyes, trying to peek around Ilya's frame. "You're not drinking."

"Can't," Ilya replied without missing a beat, his voice deadly serious. "I'm breastfeeding."

Shane rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "This joke was old the last hundred times you made it."

Ilya’s mouth split into a grin, his large hands coming up to frame Shane's face, gently forcing Shane to look right at him. "Relax, kotyonok. Kitten. I am not drinking. And Yarinochka is completely safe with her big brother. You know Luca would die before letting anything happen to her."

Shane glanced over his shoulder. Luca was sitting snugly in the booth, looking remarkably comfortable as two cute guys flanked him, one of them gently holding Yarina's tiny hand while Luca carefully held her in his arms.

The constant knot of parental vigilance in his chest unspooled just slightly. Ilya’s hands slid down to his waist, spinning them until Shane’s back was against his chest, and swaying them both directly into the beat of the music.

"See?" Ilya murmured against his temple. "She is okay."

"Okay," Shane conceded softly, a genuine, relaxed smile pulling at his lips.

He turned back around in Ilya’s arms, looping his hands around the back of Ilya's neck and letting himself sink into the weight of his husband. 

Ilya’s mouth found Shane’s before the next lyric even landed. It was a slow, unhurried kiss. Shane hummed into it, his fingers tangling into the short hairs at the nape of Ilya's neck, swaying his hips right into Ilya’s rhythm as the song pushed on.

"Tonight, I'm gonna let you be the captain..."

Ilya pulled back to grin down at him, his dark eyes flashing playfully. Shane chuckled, shaking his head, but he couldn't stop the blush creeping up his neck or the way his hands tightened on Ilya's shoulders. He leaned up, stealing another kiss right off Ilya's smiling lips.

After a few more songs and two more drinks, the exhaustion and alcohol finally caught up to Shane. He was practically attached to Ilya's side, his arm looped tightly through Ilya's waist, burying his face into Ilya’s shoulder every time he laughed at his own jokes. Ilya was having the time of his life. Between steering his loopily affectionate husband around and keeping an eagle-eyed perimeter check on Luca and Yarina across the room, Ilya felt like a king.

They eventually drifted into a high-backed booth with Vaughn and JJ, Shane sitting directly in Ilya’s lap.

Then, the entire bar erupted into a deafening cheer.

Ilya and Shane looked over toward the far corner. A mechanical bull was set up on a padded arena, surrounded by screaming, drink-tossing All-Stars, and it was about to be mounted by Luca’s prospective date for the night. 

Ilya scowled, marching straight over to the booth, dragging Shane along by the hand just as the guy handed off his jacket, stepped up onto the platform, and climbed onto the mechanical beast.

Ilya scooped a sleeping Yarina out of Luca’s arms, giving the younger player a stern, judgment-filled look as Luca stared at the guy with wide eyes.

"Do not be so thirsty, Luca," Ilya reprimanded sharply. "Have some dignity. There are children here.”

Luca’s jaw dropped in disbelieving outrage. "Yeah... your child. Who you brought to a bar."

"In Russia, bar is daycare," Ilya shot back.

The operator cranked the speed, and Luca's guy rode the bull flawlessly, his lean hips flexing with the violent bucking of the machine, looking absurdly, effortlessly hot for all of five seconds.

Then the operator hit the spin dial, and the guy was promptly launched backward into the air.

"I hope he lasts longer than that for your sake tonight," Shane snickered, leaning his full weight against Ilya’s side.

Luca turned bright red, crossing his arms over his chest. "Shane!"

"I want a turn!" 

Without needing an ounce of convincing, a very tipsy Shane pushed past them, charging directly toward the mechanical bull before Ilya could even open his mouth.

As Shane vaulted up onto the padded leather mat and swung his leg over the mechanical bull, Ilya’s mouth went instantly, bone-dry.

Where Shane had managed to secure the leather cowboy hat Luca was wearing earlier, Ilya had no earthly idea. When the hell had he even grabbed that? 

To be fair, this had been Ilya’s exact plan the moment he heard the All-Star game was going to be in Texas, but as Shane settled onto the bull, his hips rolling against the saddle as he tested his grip, Ilya realized his master plan had worked entirely too well.

Shane locked eyes with Ilya through the crowd, tipping the hat brim up with two fingers, his smirk turning filthy as the operator started the motor.

Beside them, Luca let out a low whistle. 

"Shut up, Luca," Ilya growled, his eyes completely glued to the sight of Shane’s thighs. God, they were going to have to leave this bar immediately.

Luca reached out, plucking a fast-asleep Yarina right back out of Ilya’s frozen hands. He used his free palm to cover her tiny, sleeping eyes, glaring at Ilya in sheer disbelief.

"Hypocrite," Luca muttered, eyeing the absolute, transparent lust radiating off Ilya while keeping Yarina's eyes completely shielded from the scene.

Ilya didn't even look at Luca, his gaze glued to his husband. "Don't drop my baby or I will kill you," Ilya growled mechanically.

The mechanical bull kicked to life, lurching forward, and Shane immediately leaned back into the motion, his waist rolling with a liquid rhythm that was entirely too skilled for a thirty-five-year-old hockey player who had complained about his hips two hours ago. Every dip, twist, and thrust of his lower body was hypnotic.

Ilya swallowed hard, watching the way Shane’s hips worked. "We are definitely making another baby tonight," Ilya said out loud.

Luca didn't miss a beat. "Whore."

"Language," Ilya reprimanded automatically, not taking his eyes off Shane for a single second.

Chapter End Notes

Do you like it, boy?
I wa-wa-want what you wa-wa-want
Give it to me, baby, like boom, boom, boom 😘

 

Flash forward 10 years and Ilya is gonna be like Stanley Tucci in Easy A. He’ll comment that Yarina got her looks from him and Shane or something and she’s gonna be like “👀…but I’m adopted.” And Ilya’s gonna be like “What? Oh my god! Who told you?”

 

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[Restricted Work] by Shalls