Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Yuna Hollander, Svetlana Vetrova, Vincent Lemaire, Original Characters

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, canon adjacent, Momager Yuna Hollander, 2011 MLH All-Star Weekend in Nashville (Game Changers), Blow Jobs, POV Third Person Limited, Making Out, POV Shane Hollander, POV Ilya Rozanov, Kissing, Boys Kissing, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander's Freckles, Minor Original Character(s), Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Sharing a Room, Attraction, Verbal Sex, Masturbation, Watching Someone Sleep, Fanwork Creator Knows Nothing About Hockey, Dry Humping, Hockey Captain Ilya Rozanov, Literal Sleeping Together, Shane Hollander Wants Kisses, Original Female Character - Freeform, Come Swallowing, Balls | Testicles, Original Male Character(s) - Freeform, Shane Hollander Gives Advice, Shane Hollander Gives Oral Sex, Ilya Rozanov Gives Oral Sex, Ilya Rozanov Picks Up Shane Hollander, No AI Used In This Or Any Other Story I Write, speed run to true love, On the way to a happy ending, Drunk Shane Hollander, Angst and Feels, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Shane Hollander is a Mess, hfn, Great Sex Terrible Idea, Hickeys

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of Exhibition

Stats:

Published: 2026-06-04 Completed: 2026-08-11 Words: 75,436 Chapters: 10/10

Exhibition: Year One

Summary

The MLH decided to sponsor a week-long summer event for new players and up-and-coming prospects that they were calling the MLH All-Stars Summer Exhibition. And in the inaugural cohort, in addition to many talented prospects and players new to the league? Rookie of the Year Shane Hollander and runner up Ilya Rozanov.

OR

After their rookie season, Shane and Ilya have to share a room in Arizona. For a week.

Notes

The scenario described in this work is based, to a limited extent, to the phenomenon in baseball knows as "Fall Ball" where baseball players who have just started in the big leagues, or who are on the verge, are put together in Arizona toward the end of the regular season to get some additional playing time in. As far as I know, there is no such thing in hockey and probably wouldn't be for reasons people who are actual hockey fans could probably tell me. But I wanted to have a bunch of dudes around Shane and Ilya's age stay at a shitty hotel together and have shenanigans ensue, so that's what we've got.

This story diverges from canon right after at the point when the Raiders game in Montreal is cancelled because of snow. In other words, Shane and Ilya have been cockblocked by winter. Tags will be updated on the work page as each chapter goes up.

Also, I learned how to code stupid text messages so no one calls me a "boomer." Please clap. ;)

Chapter 1: MASE

Shane Hollander learned about the MLH All-Stars Summer Exhibition the same way he learned about most things: from his mother. The hotel that the MLH had booked for the 2011 All-Star Game in Nashville was one of those nice ones that had a real restaurant in it instead of damp muffins wrapped in plastic, so she'd insisted that he come down for an actual breakfast instead of just eating a protein bar on the plane. By the time he'd gotten there, she's already ordered his egg white omelet for him (broccoli and mushroom, no cheese).

"I'm glad to see you finally made it," she said as he sat down.

"Yeah, sorry. I overslept." Shane sat, scanning the room to see who else was (or was not) there. He saw a couple of players he recognized sitting either with each other or with women that had the professional blond look of WAGs, but otherwise the patrons were normal. Civilians.

"Are you feeling okay?" his mother asked, feeling his forehead with one hand.

He shrugged her away: sometimes she was so embarrassing. "Fine. I think it was just all the . . . excitement."

"That's understandable. This was your first one. Next year, you'll know what to expect."

Shane ducked his head. "You don't even know if I'll be here next year."

His mother shot him a look. "Don't be ridiculous, Shane. Don't undersell your talent. I'm glad you're not arrogant, like some other rookies I could name, but—"

Like she'd summoned him with her oblique reference, Ilya Rozanov appeared in the restaurant doorway, dressed in a black button down and dark jeans, his brownish-blond hair curling at the back of his neck, and Shane's mother's voice dropped from his ears.

I touched him, Shane thought, an amazing understatement for all the things he'd done to Rozanov and Rozanov had done to him.

And now Rozanov stood at the hostess podium, looking at the phone in one hand, the other touching those curls, the same ones Shane had buried his hands in when they'd kissed. When the hostess spoke to him, Rozanov met her eyes and smiled as he answered, a polite smile that did not show the teeth he'd used to bite at Shane's throat last night.

Shane covered his neck with one hand. There wasn't a mark, he was pretty sure, but just in case.

"Shane?" his mother asked. "Are you listening to me?"

"What?" Shane sat up straighter. Rozanov had been taken to a table with a couple of other players on the far side of the room and was mostly out of sight, except when he leaned over for something and Shane caught a glimpse of his black sleeve in the sunlight, but he could still feel Rozanov, somehow, like they were connected, even without a clear line of sight.

"Shane," his mother said again. "You really must be tired. You're all over the place."

He was. Mostly, he was in his head, remembering Rozanov's voice in his ear, his hands on Shane's body, the taste of—

Shane shook his head. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

"I'm saying I was talking to James Robineau last night and he said that the MHL is doing a summer exhibition and you're probably going to get an invite."

Shane blinked. He didn't know who James Robineau was, and he had no clue what a "summer exhibition" was supposed to be, which is what he said to his mother.

"It's this new thing they're trying this year, sort of like an All-Star Game in the summer. To keep interest high in the off-season."

"A second All-Star Game?" Shane asked. It didn't make sense. They had just finished the All-Star Game and they were going to do another one in the summer?

His mother leaned in conspiratorially. "Well, I think it's more of a Futures Game, honestly, with some of the younger players and some prospects. But it's going to be televised, and it's an interesting opportunity."

"When is it?" Shane asked, eyes on the corner of the room where Rozanov's table was, even though he wasn't in sight at the moment.

His mother shrugged. "Sometime in July or August," she said. "They're going to send over details once they've nailed everything down."

"Okay," Shane agreed. The idea still seemed weird to him, but his mom would look at it and let him know if it was something he should do or not. No need to think about it anymore. Not when he could pick at the omelet the server set in front of him and think about last night.

Last night, when Ilya Rozanov had picked him up, all two-hundred plus pounds of him, and carried him to the bed, his mouth on Shane's the whole time, leaving him breathless and dizzy for two, totally separate reasons. Shane hadn't kissed a lot of people, but he was pretty sure not many kissed like Rozanov, that kind of all-encompassing attention and focus, his hand on Shane's face holding him steady, his tongue slipping into Shane's mouth like a gift.

He'd wanted to fuck last night, but Shane hadn't been ready. He couldn't. Not with Scott Hunter in the next room and his mother a couple of floors away. Not when Shane wasn't sure how he would feel afterwards, having to get up and leave the room without Rozanov, and be alone in a hotel in a strange city with the knowledge that a man had fucked him. It was too much, all at once.

He'd expected Rozanov to be an asshole about it, because he was about so many things, but he hadn't been. He'd teased Shane a little bit, but he'd also kissed Shane and blown him and made him take his number so that they could fuck next time they saw each other, on Shane's home turf, where Shane would be more comfortable. And after Shane had sucked Rozanov's dick, had swallowed this time, something he'd promised himself he would do, or at least try, Rozanov had kissed him. Not a courtesy peck on the lips, no; Rozanov had practically dragged him up to the pillows with a hand on his chin, and pushed Shane onto his back and kissed him so deep and hard that Shane got light-headed, and then gazed down at him, his thumb running over Shane's lower lip, and said "you have a perfect mouth," before kissing him again.

Two weeks. That was what Rozanov had said and Shane, who knew the whole season schedule by heart already, knew he was right.

He glanced back one final time when he and his mom were leaving, just hoping to see Rozanov's profile or the slant of his shoulders in the black shirt, but when he turned, Ilya Rozanov was looking at him, head lifted like he was craning to get a better look, and when he saw that he had Shane's attention, Rozanov winked and smiled. This time, his smile showed his teeth.

***

Ilya Rozanov found out about MASE from his agent a week after the All-Star Game in Nashville and when he learned that it meant he had to come back to the United States in at the beginning of August, weeks early, he said yes immediately.

Also, he agreed to be polite to MLH officials, who had a lot of power over his career and Ilya, who had grown up in Russia with a police official for a father, knew that accommodating powerful figures was a good idea, especially when it cost you nothing.

And, also, he agreed because of Hollander.

Shane Hollander, almost as good a hockey player as Ilya (maybe as good, if Ilya was feeling charitable), owner of a deviously powerful forehand, and shift-to-shift speed, and the most beautiful dick-sucking mouth Ilya had ever seen on a man. Shane Hollander, who moaned when Ilya came close to his cock, and whimpered when Ilya picked him up, and dropped to his knees when he was told without a whisper of protest.

And who still called him an asshole and told him to shut up and fuck off and never let him win anything on the ice.

To be out of Russia early, and to spend a week in the same place as Shane Hollander? This was a what? Zero brain decision? Was that the expression? He would see Hollander in Montreal in a week; he would ask him then, before he fucked him, another zero brain decision, as far as Ilya was concerned.

One week, Ilya thought, as he stubbed out his cigarette on the cement of his deck and went back through the sliding glass doors into the living room. He didn't smoke in the apartment, except when he did.

Ilya went to the fridge and pulled out a beer, tossed the cap in the trash, took a swig. The team was set to travel to Montreal on Friday night, after the game in Boston, and play on Saturday evening, and by Sunday morning he and Shane Hollander would have fucked and he would understand, he hoped, what Hollander was to him.

He wasn't sure. He'd thought at first that Hollander was just a quick and convenient way to release some tension, but the discovery that Hollander was a virgin changed that. Virgins required more care, so you didn't damage them and send them back out into the world as broken things. The first time last summer had gone . . . okay. Hollander had a good time, received and given a good time, eagerly, but the reality of what he'd done set in quickly, too quickly, and Ilya had left wondering if it would ever happen again. He'd thrown Hollander his room number at the All-Star Game unsure whether it would be caught.

Ilya flopped onto his couch, crossing his ankles, sipping his beer, eyes on the television airing a replay of the Montreal game from earlier that night in Chicago. They had won, but it had been a close thing, which meant more interesting to watch, Hollander springing across the ice like a gazelle.

He'd been certain Hollander either hadn't understood or had decided against a repeat performance when the knock came after midnight. Ilya'd been about to give up, already in sleep clothes, and Hollander had burst through the door when he'd opened it like he was escaping from a murderer, his freckles scrunched up across his nose in anger, and Ilya had been absolutely charmed.

Hollander charmed him. His candidness, and his eagerness, and his fucking freckles. Ilya had fucked men before, even been fucked by them a few times, but something about Hollander was different. Maybe because they were so close in size—most of the men he'd been with before, even the tops, had been smaller than him—or maybe because Shane was so hungry for it, his lack of experience more than made up for by the desperate reach of his big hands, the moans in his throat.

Ilya took another sip from the beer bottle, watching as, onscreen, Hollander two-touched a shot on goal. It didn't go in, but his left side was looking strong. He must be drilling that. Ilya wondered if his little comment about Hollander's weak side last week had anything to do with it. He'd been on top of Hollander, their bodies pressed together, kissing him, and Hollander had rolled him over, lips and hands sliding down his stomach on their way to Ilya's cock, when suddenly Hollander had paused to hoist himself up over Ilya's body and position himself on Ilya's right side, so he could circle Ilya's cock with his right hand instead of his left.

Ilya had chuckled. "Always hiding the weak side," he'd said.

Hollander had flushed, indignant. "I don't have a weak side," he'd protested. "Shut up."

Ilya's cradled his face with one hand. "Is okay, I understand. You want strong hand to hold my enormous dick. I get it."

Hollander had blushed again, but his eyes had gone dark with desire and he'd dropped his mouth to the head of Ilya's cock without another word, angling it with, yes, his dominant hand. "Fuck, Hollander," Ilya had murmured, caressing his working jaw with a thumb. "Fuck, yes."

Ilya shifted on the couch to relieve the pressure on his cock, which had begun to twitch to life, awakened by the Hollander on the screen and the one in Ilya's memories. He felt too lazy to jerk off at the moment, but that was probably going to change, if Hollander's gorgeous body kept floating through his head. It had been a week, already, but Ilya still could not stop thinking about him.

One week since Nashville. Which meant it would be one week until he saw Hollander, had him spread out naked in front of him, until Hollander let him slip inside. Seven days, but it felt like years away.

***

Shane had been born in Canada, and he loved it there, loved the bright, gorgeous summers and the deep, dark winters, the dichotomy of it, how one place could be two different things at the same time. But two weeks after the All-Star Game, the night the Metros were supposed to play the Raiders, Shane fucking hated the snow.

It had started mid-morning, at first, just a smattering of flakes, drifting down like crumbs brushed of a cloud table, but the sky was thick and unmoving and before long, the smattering had become an avalanche, piling up so fast that the bare streets Shane had driven to get to morning skate had become slippery messes by the time he got home. Out the windows of his condo, the buildings across the street had become nothing but shadows through the curtains of snow. This wasn't good.

Still, he held out hope through lunch and his nap time, tossing restlessly in his darkened bedroom until it was time to get up and he turned on his phone to see a message from team communications: GAME CANCELLED. SNOW.

Shane tugged open the curtains. The world was nothing but white and gray. Snow poured down, pelting his windows, fine grained like sand. Fuck.

He went to the Metros schedule magnet on his refrigerator, although he thought he knew the answer already, and confirmed he was right: no games against Boston for the rest of the season. The game would be rescheduled, of course, but when Shane pulled up the Boston schedule on his laptop, the only logical time would be in March, when Boston would be in Canada to play Ottawa on Saturday and Toronto on Monday and the Metros had the Friday before off. If that was the date they picked, there would be no time: Ilya would be on a plane immediately after the game.

Shane sighed. Maybe he was wrong, maybe the schedulers had some trick up their sleeves he wasn’t aware of. Maybe he could call them and tell them that his . . . hook up? Friend with benefits? played for Boston and he really needed them to schedule so that there was enough time to fuck between games, that would be great, thanks so much.

Shane snorted at the ridiculousness of his whole situation. Maybe this was for the best, actually. Maybe he didn't need to be distracted by Ilya Rozanov when he was just starting his hockey career. Maybe he didn't need to take a chance on his whole fucking future by exploring his sexuality with someone as hot and dangerous and sexy as . . . fuck.

Shane pressed the heel of his hand into his abdomen to stop the erection. This wasn't helping.

He normally had a whole routine for off days, things he wanted to read, movies he wanted to watch, people (mostly his parents, but still) he wanted to see. But this was unscheduled, unplanned, and he wasn't sure exactly what to do next. He grabbed the book he was in the middle of, a history of the Original Six, but it was mostly a rehash of stuff he already knew, perfect for when he was already in bed, but not great for focusing his distracted mind. The television was also unsatisfactory, every movie not quite the one that he wanted to see, every show boring or stupid or a rerun or all three at once. He turned it off in frustration.

Food. He should eat.

He had a nutrition plan, prepackaged meals delivered by a service that came every Monday, but the food for today—salmon, broccoli, quinoa—looked dry and shriveled when he took it out of the fridge. He put it back on the shelf and shut the door and looked around at his beautiful condo, annoyed by everything in it, including himself.

His phone buzzed and Shane grabbed for it, desperate for the distraction, but it was only the team group text going off as guys woke up and got the notice that the game was cancelled, some of them (mostly the guys with families) psyched about it, some of them less than thrilled, it seemed to Shane. There was some talk about getting together their goalie's house for cards or something, and Shane thought that if that happened he would go just to get out of his condo, even though he didn't usually join in on that kind of thing, but that idea faded quickly when someone posted that there was an emergency travel advisory. Monty was a great goalie, and his house was perfect for team parties, but it lacked things like towels and non-gaming chair furniture and clean dishes, and no one wanted to get trapped there overnight.

Still, the idea of getting out . . . Shane went to the window in the living room and pressed his forehead against the cold glass so he could see all the way to the corner. Night had fallen while he moped around, and the street below him was mostly empty, the cones of the streetlight showing only the falling snow, but at the intersection yes, their lights were on.

Shane went to the foyer and tugged on his oldest runners and shrugged into his winter coat. He didn't have a scarf—or, he had them but they were in the back of a closet somewhere, because he only ever went to the car and back and hadn't bothered to unpack them—but he zipped his coat up to his neck and pulled his toque down low over his forehead and headed out.

The snow had seemed intense from his window, but when he stepped out the front door of his building onto the street it was an onslaught, little pellets of ice hitting him in the face and sliding down into his collar. And it was already five or six centimeters deep, enough to creep over the edges of his shoes when he shuffled his feet through it. Shane was instantly very glad they'd decided against the card game: the roads would be absolute death, especially for some of the guys who drove performance cars.

Shane's neighborhood was one of those places that used to be industrial, but was in the process of changing over to a more residential area. At the moment it was a mix of rough factories and warehouses and modern redevelopment, older shops and newer cafes all jumbled together with condominiums in a way that no one would have planned if they were starting from scratch. That was sort of what Shane liked about it, and why he'd bought the building he lived in in the first place, even though his mother had resisted co-signing at first, cautious about the neighborhood.

One of his favorite things about the area was the Thai restaurant on the corner, run by a family who had lived here for twenty years, long enough to remember the textile company that had occupied Shane's building before it had been converted to condos. He'd gone in one afternoon on his way home from a run, just to check it out, and the father, Mr. Buathong, had been so bossy and familiar with him, making him food and barraging him with questions, that Shane had immediately felt like part of the community. He didn't go too often, maybe every few weeks, because of his meal plan and his travel schedule, but they always remembered him and called him "Mr. Shane" and never gave any sign that they knew anything more about him than his pho order (half noodles, extra chicken and vegetables) and that he was still single and should settle down.

There was no one else in the shop when he came in, all three little booths empty, and no one at the counter, but when the door chimed, Mr. Bauthong came out from the kitchen in a stained apron with a big smile. "Mr. Shane! You should not be out in this weather. You will catch a cold and die!"

Shane smiled. "Why are you open?"

"Oh, wife is upstairs cleaning." Mr. Bauthong raised his hands to the ceiling. "Better I am down here out of her way. You want your special?"

"Yes, please." Shane bobbed his head.

"Ten minutes," Mr. Bauthong told him and disappeared into the kitchen again. Shane took a seat at one of the booths, an old two-person plastic thing, chipped from years of use. The restaurant was small and worn, but homey. A maze of pictures hung on the wall next to the counter: the family and former workers, most of them smiling in aprons like Mr. Bauthong; a graduation photo of one of his daughters, a wedding photo of another; an old newspaper review of the restaurant yellowing in a frame. It was a place well-lived in and well-loved. In a strange way, it reminded Shane of home, not the condo, which was beautiful, but new and devoid of real memories, but his parents' house, where things had become rounded and comfortable with use.

Mr. Bauthong came back in a few minutes with Shane's order packed in Styrofoam, and in a plastic bag. "Here we go, Mr. Shane!"

Shane traded him, food for two twenties, and waved him off when Mr. Bauthong tried to make change. "No, no," he said. "Keep it. Have a good night."

"You, too," Mr. Bauthong said. "Don't get lost in the blizzard on your way home!"

Shane laughed and waved, pulling his hat down snug before headed back out into the snow. He hadn't realized it, but apparently he'd been walking with the wind at his back on the way to the restaurant, because now it blasted snow into his face, pushing against him like it didn't want him to get home. It was only half a block, but he had to stop once he got through the glass doors to his building foyer to catch his breath.

Once he was upstairs, his wet clothes in the laundry and pajama pants and t-shirt on, Shane opened the bag. The pho smelled heavenly, the vegetables and noodles and chicken all in separate containers from the tub of broth, the box for the chicken so stuffed from the amount Mr. Bauthong had put in there that Shane was glad he'd insisted on overpaying. He portioned it out into a bowl and sat down at his kitchen island with a spoon and chopsticks, and got to work. It tasted like heaven.

He felt better after. Still a little lonely, disappointed by the missed opportunity, but the itchy frustration under his skin was gone. He cleaned up and turned off all the lights but the lamp by the couch, and sat down on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, and watched the snow fall outside the window for a minute. It seemed peaceful, now, instead of hateful.

He picked up his phone and sent a text.

He hadn't expected an answer, but Rozanov responded right away with a smiley face emoji.

Shane smiled at the phone, imagining that. Him and Rozanov trapped together while the snow fell outside, maybe they would be in his bed, afterwards, watching it through the window, together. It would be . . .

He was overcome, suddenly, with the desire to hear Rozanov's voice, the rounded sound of the words in his accent, even just on the phone.

***

Ilya flinched, glancing at Svetlana's shoulder where she slept next to him. She wasn't jealous of his other partners, that was not how their relationship worked, but talking to Hollander while she was here? It was disrespectful, like she was not important to him, which was the opposite of true.

Ilya could hear the rejection in those two words, the way he'd heard it the first time he and Hollander were together when he'd made the mistake of teasing Hollander that he was not going to return the favor of the blowjob, the way Hollander had tensed up on the bed, swallowed the rebuff like it was something he deserved. He didn't want Hollander to feel that way, but right now, there was no remedy for it. When the game was rescheduled, he would make up for it.

A lie, so obvious that it showed up even in text. Ilya rolled his eyes at the screen. He thought for a second, then started typing.

Ilya rolled his eyes. Always logical, Hollander was.

The dots appeared and disappeared and reappeared again. Finally, the text came through.

Ilya touched the screen with his fingertips. He wouldn't have thought it when they first met, but Shane Hollander was sometimes so sweet.

Ilya set the phone on his bedside table, and curled onto his side facing it, and smiled into the dark.

***

In Montreal, while snow fell in sheets like rain outside his windows, Shane Hollander fell asleep on his couch, his phone held to his chest with one hand.

Chapter 2: Monday

Chapter Summary

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov arrive at MASE in Arizona. It does not go how they expect.

Chapter Notes

Shane had been to Arizona once before, to play the Arizona Rattlesnakes, a trip that was mostly a blur lost in the haze of his rookie year, so he didn't remember much, but it was clear, standing at the luggage carousel, that travelling with the MLH had made him soft. With the team, he hadn't had to figure out airport security or his gates, he hadn't had to navigate the expanses of O'Hare airport on his own, and he definitely hadn't had to wait with a hundred other tired, annoyed people, for his bags to come out, first his suitcase and then the oversized stick duffel that held his gear.

While he waited, he skimmed the informational email on his phone for the millionth time, just to make sure he wasn't missing anything. Door seven, look for the MASE sign. The shuttle would pick them up and take them to their accommodations.

He wasn't sure why, exactly, he was nervous. This was an exhibition camp, not even real All-Stars, just a bunch of prospects and a few rookies, designed, his mother said, to rev up interest in hockey in Arizona and give a couple of guys a closer look.

"All you have to do is be careful of injuries," she'd told him on the way to the airport. "And be yourself."

She said it like it was easy, and it was most days. Now. But still Shane felt his pulse beating in the side of his throat, maybe because the whole thing reminded him of the first day of summer hockey camp, when he didn't know who was going to show up each year or whether he was going to be the only Asian kid. Or maybe because for the first time since the MLH awards, he was going to see Ilya Rozanov.

The baggage claim machine rattled to life, startling him. He shoved the phone into his pocket.

His bag came out pretty quickly, but his hockey gear took forever, handed out through the Oversized Luggage door by one of the baggage handlers, who seemed happy with the American twenty dollar bill Shane handed him as he took the bag. Shane slung it over his shoulder, mindful of other passengers, but there wasn't much of a crowd left as he made his way to the door numbered seven.

The glass doors slid open and Shane stepped out into what felt like an inferno, the sun brutally bright in his eyes, even through sunglasses, the heat like a physical wave pushing against his chest. "Fuck," he muttered, blinking, trying to find the sign that said MASE. He didn't see it, but he did see three or four other guys around his age milling around a cement post, stick bags hanging off their shoulders, so he headed in that direction.

"Hey, um," he said as he approached, smiling, trying not to look like a total idiot. "Is this—"

"Holy shit, you're fucking Shane Hollander," one of the guys said. He was taller than Shane by a couple of inches, blond, definitely American.

"Yeah," Shane said. "I'm looking—"

"I can't believe you're here," the blond guy said. He slapped the guy next to him on the chest. "Jason, fucking Shane Hollander."

The other guy, shorter, dark-haired, turned around. "Holy shit."

"I heard they had some big names coming, but you're, like, the biggest," the blond guy said. "This is gonna be fuckin' awesome."

"So you guys are at MASE, too?" Shane asked, eager to change the conversation from whatever this was to something normal. He never knew how to act when people made a big deal about him.

"Yeah, dude, we all are. This is Jason," the blond guy gestured to his friend. "And that's Mac," he pointed to a giant of a man, who had headphones over his ears, but waved when he saw the pointing. "And that's our lord and savior Jesus—"

"Hay-sus," the guy, dark-haired, wiry, clearly Hispanic, said, leaning over to shake Shane's hand. "It's an honor, man."

"Amen," the blond guy said. "And I'm Tyler. Tyler Donovan. I'm your biggest fan, man, seriously. I can't believe you're here."

"Um, thanks," Shane said, and was spared having to come up with a response by the arrival of a giant white van.

Once they were inside, though, gear carefully tucked in the back, the onslaught began again.

"What's it like in the MLH, man?" Tyler asked. Shane had sat in the first row of seats, hoping that would discourage the other guys—hockey players loved the back rows—but Tyler had sprawled in the bench seat right behind him, Jason with him, and hung his arms over the back of the seat next to Shane, eyes bright and curious. "Is it awesome? I bet it is. You must be scoring all the time."

"I mean, I scored a lot," Shane said before he realized that Tyler was probably talking about girls. ". . . you know."

"I bet!" Tyler slapped the seat. "And Rookie of the Year! What was that like?"

It had been one of the best and worst nights of Shane's life, actually. The winning had been great, and doing shots with the veterans had been fun until he'd had one too many and had to walk away before he threw up on Scott Hunter's shoes, which he did not think was the type of drinking story that would earn Tyler's admiration.

And then he'd gone up on the roof and argued with Rozanov, although he still wasn't sure what that argument had been about, and Rozanov had pushed him against a wall—Rozanov was always pushing him against things, which would be annoying if it wasn't so hot—and kissed him like Shane was water in the desert, and it had taken all of Shane's willpower to shove him away because they were in public and anyone could see. Sometimes, when he thought about it, he wished he hadn't, he wished he'd gripped the lapels of Rozanov's tux in his fists and held on until they were caught and there was nothing to do but admit the truth.

But he hadn't done that.

"Awesome," Shane told Tyler. "Rookie of the Year was awesome."

"Hell yeah, man!" Tyler said, and clapped him on the shoulder. "Fuck yeah!"

***

They drove through downtown Phoenix, and Shane expected the van to stop any minute and drop them off at one of the many hotels they passed, Hiltons, and Westins, and even Sheratons, but the driver kept going until they were on the other side of downtown, driving away. Have we been kidnapped? Shane thought, not entirely joking to himself. They were worse ways to collect a ransom than kidnapping a Rookie of the Year. His mother would lose her mind.

But eventually, the bus rolled to a stop on an industrial side street, in front of a two-story motel with a sign that looked like it had been painted in the 1960s and read "Sleep-EZ Hotel" in faded, multi-colored font.

Shane, because he was in the front, got off first. The hotel did not improve upon closer inspection. There was an arch over the office door, but he could see into the courtyard through the iron gate, and all the doors for the rooms were clearly visible, all opening into a central, cement courtyard dominated by a pool. Shane could smell the chlorine from the parking lot.

"Oh shit, there's a pool!" Tyler yelled as he got off the bus, alerting the guys behind him.

"Fuck, yeah!" Jason shouted. At least they were enthusiastic, Shane supposed. He was . . . less so.

Somehow, maybe because he was the most senior person on the bus, the others were looking at Shane like he was in charge, so he went to the office doors and pulled them open. "Um, hi," he said. "We were just—"

A woman, white, maybe in her mid-thirties or early forties, straightened up from where she had been leaning against the counter talking to one of the front desk workers. "Oh, hi!" she exclaimed. "You're finally here! We've been waiting on you. They're here," she told the front desk clerk. "Let everyone know."

"Yeah, um. This is the MLH All-Star Exhibition, right?" Shane asked.

"It sure is, Mr. Hollander! I'm Megan, and I'm the events coordinator, so if you need anything, just let me know."

"Okay," Shane said. "I just wanted to check that—"

But Megan was still talking. "Everyone else is already here, more or less, there are thirty-six of you this year, a mix of younger MLH players and AHL and college prospects, so it should be a fun time, and we'll go over room assignments and schedules and everything in the group meeting just as soon as we get your gear off the bus. This way, please."

Megan guided Shane into the central lobby area, a sort of sunken living room type space, with a fireplace at one end (fortunately turned off) and seating all around the edges, crowded with guys all around Shane's age. "You'll get a full schedule tonight, but basically there's practice every day, different drills and scrimmages, and then two exhibition games on Saturday night. And, of course, there will be some time for socializing, and a dinner."

Shane listened with half an ear as Megan talked about how the week would go, scanning the room for familiar faces. He recognized a couple of them from the League: Lemaire, who had also been up for Rookie of the Year, for a really nice season in Minnesota, and Sullivan, who actually came up the year before Shane, but had been sidelined by an upper body injury for most of his first season.

And there, on the far side of the room, lounging on the low seating with his legs stretched out in front of him and his head tipped back, hair peeking out from under a toque even in the desert heat, Ilya Rozanov.

***

"Alright, listen up everybody," Megan said, clapping her hands to stop the murmur of voices. "Our final players have arrived so we're going to go ahead and get started! First of all, welcome to the first official MLH All-Stars Exhibition, or as I like to call it, Maze!" She grinned at everyone, an enthusiastic camp counselor. Shane smiled politely back, trying not to shift his eyes to where Ilya was stretching in his seat, arms up over his head dragging the hem of his shirt up to show a slice of his stomach.

"My name is Megan and this is my assistant Angela." Megan hooked an arm around a small, mousey girl holding a tablet close to her chest. "You'll meet the coaches tomorrow, but Angela and I are the event coordinators, so please let one of us know if you have any problems you’re your rooms or logistics or anything. We've got a really fun week planned for you guys, training and drills and some social events along the way, culminating in your very own All-Star Game on Saturday night, so I hope you enjoy it!"

Megan paused, looking at all of them expectantly, but Shane didn't realize until someone else started that they were supposed to clap, although he joined in quickly enough. He wasn't sure what they were clapping for, though: wasn't coordinating this event Megan's job? He clapped anyway. Across the room, Rozanov had his arms folded across his chest and did not.

"You'll get emails with the detailed schedule breakdown, and Angela's passing out copies now, with all of the times and locations, so please take a look at those. We'll do room assignments now, and then you'll have the rest of the day to rest, get to know each other, grab some dinner, whatever you like. Breakfast starts at seven, here in the lobby, first shuttle leaves for the ice rink at eight tomorrow, practice starts at nine, okay?"

Everyone exchanged glances, and no one responded. But Megan's smile did not budge. "Okay!" she said. "Our cell numbers are on the handouts, so text if you need anything. Line up at Angela's table for rooms!"

Shane let himself be herded to a folding table in the corner where Angela had taken up residence, her tablet in front her, glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Each guy in line gave his name and got an assignment and an actual physical key attached to a plastic keychain, which Shane had never seen before at a hotel. Motel. Whatever this was. When he got to the front of the line, Angela peered at him over her lenses.

"Shane Hollander," she said, handing him his plastic triangle keychain. "You're in one of the corner rooms. There are two."

"Okay." He didn't know what that meant, but he hoped it was good. "Thanks?"

"It's a suite, so you'll be sharing."

"Oh, um," he began, but then she reached past him, a key dangling from her hand.

"We wanted to make sure you were matched up with someone at your level," Angela said, although it wasn't clear if she was talking to Shane or whoever she was handing the key to. He glanced over his shoulder.

Of course.

"Thank you, Angela," Ilya Rozanov said. "You are very kind."

"Oh," Angela said. "No, I'm not. It just makes sense. Room 224."

Rozanov lifted his key in a toast to her, then said "c'mon Hollander. Let me show you my room."

"It's my room, too," Shane protested, but he followed anyways, wondering if he should find his bags or if they were going to be brought up by a bellboy or something like they were when he was on MHL trips. This didn't seem like a bellboy kind of place. But Rozanov didn't have his bags, so Shane decided to leave his, too. They could get them later, if they needed to.

Instead, he followed Rozanov out the back of the lobby into the blinding heat of the courtyard, trying not to look at the sway of Rozanov's ass in his joggers, trying to ignore the flip of curls under the edge of his toque. It had been since the MLH Awards since he saw Rozanov, months, and weeks since they texted. He looked the same. Well, the same, but better, like Shane's memory of him had downplayed the breadth of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist, the curve of his ass.

They walked up the outdoor steps, and down the cement walkway, the numbers on the doors ticking upward as they passed—210, 212, 214—Shane's heart rate increasing with the numbers. Room 224 was in the corner where the building turned a right angle. Shane glanced over his shoulder while Rozanov messed with the key, feeling scrutinized, like all the other guys wandering to their rooms were paying attention to him and Rozanov going into the same room, like it was a secret instead of just how the assignments worked out.

Shane hadn't known what to expect from Angela's use of the word "suite," but inside looked like a central living room area and a bathroom at the back, with a bedroom door on each side, all worn down and tired, like it had seen too many bodies. But at least they weren't sharing a bedroom.

"Which one?" Rozanov asked, gesturing to the rooms.

"Doesn't matter." Shane shut the door behind him. "No, this one." He pointed to the one on the right.

"Okay."

"Okay."

They stood there for a second, not looking at each other, Rozanov blinking slowly like a gigantic cat. Shane had no idea what to say. The last time they'd seen each other in person they'd kissed and then yelled and Shane definitely wanted to do at least half of that again, but he wasn't sure whether Rozanov felt the same way. His texts over the summer had been chirps mostly, friendly, but not sexy, or not really sexy. Finally, Shane just said the thing he'd been wondering since he first noticed Rozanov in the lobby.

"Why are you wearing a toque?" he asked. "It's, like, a hundred degrees out."

"For my hair," Ilya said. "It was . . ." He swirled both hands above the hat, like he was shampooing or something. "Crazy from the plane, like sleeping hair."

Shane smiled. "Bed head."

"Yes, bed head." Ilya nodded. "You would like to see?"

"Definitely."

Rozanov pulled the hat off and he was right, his hair was crazy, standing up in loops in spots and flat in others, smooshed down across his forehead and poking up in the back. It was a mess, and Rozanov was smiling at him, absolutely gorgeous. "Good, ehh?"

Shane laughed. "The best." He wanted to slip his hands into it and feel its shapes between his fingers.

Rozanov grinned. "Yes." He ruffled it with one hand, making it even crazier.

Shane laughed, surprised.

"You laugh. You think you can make it better?"

"No!" Shane shook his head, chuckling. "Not at all."

"Try," Rozanov said, his fingers circling Shane's wrist and pulling Shane's hand toward his head. Shane hesitated for a second, then slid his fingers into Rozanov's hair at the temple, feeling the warmth of his scalp, individual strands of his hair catching lightly on his calluses and the edge of his nails, the twist of curls around his knuckles. Shane pressed his fingertips into Rozanov's skin. Rozanov closed his eyes. He was so beautiful, the mole on his face, the sweep of his eyelashes, his loopy hair, the perfect curve of his lips.

On impulse, Shane lifted his other hand, stroked his thumb across Rozanov's mouth, which opened under his touch. He wasn't sure how, but he was standing so close to Rozanov he could feel Rozanov's breath on his own lips. It'd been months since they were this close. Since that night on the rooftop, when he'd been so starved for a kiss that he'd let it happen in the open air.

"This is gonna be a problem," he murmured.

Rozanov's eyes slitted open, liquid and deep blue in the dim light of the room. "Yes. I think so." His voice was soft, but not a whisper. His tongue flicked out and licked Shane's thumb, lightly, and Shane's heart stuttered.

Shane felt Rozanov's hand, then, gentle but not hesitant on his hip, drawing him forward, tugging him closer. They'd kissed before, obviously, even in public, sort of, in Las Vegas on that rooftop, they'd kissed, but this still felt different somehow, untethered, like they were crossing a border into another country. Shane tipped forward, eyes still open, fixed on Rozanov's—

—someone pounded on the door—

—and suddenly he and Rozanov were three feet apart, staring at each other with big eyes, Rozanov's breath still a ghost on his lips.

"Hollander, open the door, man!" a voice Shane recognized as Tyler's shouted through the door. "We have your fucking bags!"

"Fuck," Shane breathed, and went to the door. He meant to take his luggage and close the door again, but Tyler bounded in followed by Jason, dragging Shane's luggage and another giant suitcase and stick bag.

"We brought yours, too, Rozanov, hope you don't mind," Tyler said, dropping everything to hold out his hand. "Tyler Donovan. It's totally an honor."

Rozanov looked at Tyler for a long moment and Shane held his breath, waiting for the chirp. Rozanov smiled. "Of course it is. Maybe next time you can hold my dick for me while I piss?"

Tyler burst out laughing. "That would be an honor, too, man. Fuck. We can't believe you two are here. This place is great! Did you see the pool?"

"Yeah." Shane looked around at the room, wondering when the "great" would appear. It certainly wasn't apparent from the old furniture or worn carpeting.

"Jason's brother goes to ASU—"

"He's an asshole, but he knows everybody," Jason interjected.

"—so he's going to call some girls he knows, hook us all up hopefully. Unless you have girlfriends, of course."

"No, no girlfriend," Rozanov said, his face mild and unchanging, like he hadn't just had Shane's thumb in his mouth.

"No, um. Me either," Shane added.

"Sweet." Tyler clapped him on the shoulder. "Sweet room, too. You should see the boxes they crammed us into. We're gonna make an alcohol run in about an hour, so let me know if you want anything specific. Room 113. I got you." He grabbed Shane's hand in his fist and leaned in, bumping their shoulders together. "Later."

"Later," Jason echoed, following Tyler out the door, leaving it open behind them.

Shane stood staring after them, overwhelmed by everything that had happened in the last five minutes.

"Wow, Hollander," Rozanov said behind him. "You have very interesting friends."

***

The party was exactly the type of thing Ilya normally liked, many pretty girls in very little clothing, guys drinking, laughing, having a good time, but Ilya's fucking jet lag was pulling him under and he knew if he didn't get to bed soon, he would be useless the entire week. MASE was not exactly official, but it was a league-sponsored event and getting wasted on his first night and spending the week dragging ass around the rink was not the right way to show up, especially not when he was the top player here.

So around eleven, he separated himself from the trio of blonde girls perched on plastic chairs around him over their protests, and went to find Tyler Donovan, to slap his hand goodnight. Tyler was on a deck chair nearby with his own blond on his lap (why so many blondes? Ilya wondered. He liked them, but other hair colors were pretty, too), and a beer in his hand.

"Aww, man," he said, when he realized Ilya was saying good night. "It's early, still!"

"Yes, very early," Ilya said. "In Moscow, it is already tomorrow."

"Okay, okay," Tyler bobbed his head. "See you at practice."

Ilya nodded, waved, headed for the stairs in the corner. Now that he'd made the decision to go to bed, sleep weighed him down, making his feet heavy and his eyesight blurry. He fumbled the key (an actual physical key, like this was a motel from an old movie), when he got to the door and dropped it twice before slotting it into the lock and getting it to turn, mostly out of weariness. He had just shut the door, remembering to take the key out and toss it on the side table next to the couch, when he heard a noise behind him.

"Oh, hey." Hollander, coming out of the bathroom in only a towel, his hair plastered flat to his head, his skin glimmering with moisture in the bathroom light. "Did you need—"

Ilya took three steps and was in front of him. They had almost had a moment, that afternoon, but they had hesitated and lost it. Ilya was not going to lose it again. He did pause for a second to give Hollander the chance to resist, to protest, but Hollander did nothing, his eyes big and staring at Ilya's mouth, breath heaving in his bare chest, so Ilya leaned in and kissed him.

Fuck, he'd forgotten what it was like to kiss Hollander, how Hollander sighed into it, how he longed for it with his whole body. He tasted like toothpaste. His hand tangled in Ilya's hair for the second time today and pulled, just a little, like he was holding on to Ilya so he wouldn't fall, and Ilya wanted so badly to untuck the towel from around Hollander's waist and lie him on the bed, hook his thighs over his shoulders and fuck him until he screamed, but sleep was coming for him, even now, pushing him away from consciousness, even with Hollander's tongue in his mouth. It could not be tonight.

"I'm tired," he muttered against Hollander's mouth. He patted Hollander's cheek gently and pulled away. He managed to get his shirt off and make it to the bed before he was asleep, but it was a close thing.

***

Ilya woke up sometime in the dark dregs of the night. He didn't know the time, or where his phone was, but the sky outside his window where he forgot to close the curtains was still black, and he could not hear any sounds of the party still going on, so late.

Sleep still lived in his body, heaviness in his legs, weight in his eyelids, and he was about to turn onto his side and give in to it when he heard a soft sigh, barely a whisper, coming from somewhere else in the suite.

From someone else.

From Shane Hollander.

Ilya froze. If he held his breath, he could hear the faint sound of rustling through his open bedroom door. Hollander was having a bad dream, maybe, or maybe he was a restless—

"oh god," Hollander said, his voice soft and needy, and Ilya understood immediately, his cock jumping in his jeans. In his bedroom, Hollander was touching himself.

Ilya had fallen asleep with his jeans on, and now his hard cock was pressing into the seam of the zipper, instantly awake. He wanted them off, but how, if he didn't want to embarrass Hollander, let him know that he was awake? Ilya tugged the button on his fly open with one hand, then lifted the tab of his zipper, slowly, like his cock was a bomb about to go off.

"oh," Hollander sighed from the other room.

What does he look like? Ilya wondered. Did Hollander sleep naked, Ilya's preference, or had he put pajamas on like a good boy? Did he have his soft pants shoved down to his knees so he could touch himself? Or had he not even bothered to put on clothes after his shower, lying back on the bed, his powerful thighs spread, knees bent, so anyone standing in the doorway could see him stroke it?

God, Ilya wanted to see it. He eased his zipper down, tooth by tooth, until his jeans were finally open, the bulge of his erection pressing against the fabric of his underwear. Why had he gone to bed in so many clothes?

"mmm . . . oh god."

Ilya knew what Hollander sounded like in bed, at least a little, how verbal he was, how much he moaned. It hadn't been like some of the women he'd slept with, who had learned too much from porn about what to sound like. Hollander's sex sounds had seemed . . . honest. And here was proof, even when he thought he was alone, that Shane Hollander was noisy in bed, no matter how hard he tried not to be. Which made it even hotter.

Fuck, he wanted his pants off. But there was no way to do it without making noise, shifting on the bed, at least, and any sound might let Hollander know he had a witness and cause him to stop.

But maybe, now that he thought of it, he should let Hollander know? Maybe he should clear his throat or something, allow him to stop. Maybe listening to Hollander's personal time was rude or, what was the word . . . inappropriate and Ilya should—

"oh, fuck me," Hollander panted and Ilya forgot all about "appropriate" and jammed his hand into his underwear, pressing his cock flat against his stomach, rubbing the head of it with his palm, biting his lip to keep from making his own noises. He could not let Hollander stop now.

"oh, oh, yeah, oh god, please," Hollander gasped. In his head, Ilya agreed. Please, he thought, his hand working. Please let me cum to this.

"oh god, oh yeah, oh god, oh god, fuck, oh god," Hollander said and Ilya licked his other palm and switched hands, pulsed his hips in time with the words, his cock slippery with precum and saliva, sandwiched between his hand and his stomach.

"fuck." Hollander's voice was a breathy moan, now, whiny with eagerness. "oh fuck, fuck me, please, please fuck me, Rozanov, please, please, please"

And Ilya, shocked by the appearance of his own name in Hollander's sex song, shot sudden, hot spurts of cum into the palm of his own hand and across his stomach.

For a second, after, Ilya heard nothing, then the clear sounds of someone moving around, the swish of the sheet and the groan of a bedframe. Hollander, getting up. Ilya yanked his filthy hand out of his pants and closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. It was too dark in the room, he thought, for Hollander to make out the mess on his belly, even if he looked.

He did look. Ilya knew because he heard Hollander's footsteps pause in the open doorway for a second, and he longed to open his eyes, to see if Hollander was naked, if maybe he wanted an invitation into Ilya's room. But Ilya kept his eyes closed, face still, and after a second, Hollander moved on, closing the bathroom door behind him. Ilya meant to stay awake until Hollander was done in the bathroom, then do his own clean up, but he fell asleep to the sound of the water running, and when he woke up next, cum crusted on his stomach, the sun was out.

***

"Hey," Hollander said as they were gathering up their gear to head to the shuttle.

It was too fucking early, or late, Ilya's body still confused by where it was in the world, but he'd woken up and Hollander was already up, so Ilya had showered quickly and now they were going to catch the first shuttle to the rink.

"Last night, after the party," Hollander continued. ". . . you kissed me."

Ilya glanced up from where he was crouched on the floor, making sure his mouthguard was in its pocket. "Yes," he said.

"So. Um." Hollander shifted his bag higher on his shoulder. "You can't just do that. It's . . . not appropriate here. With so many people around."

"There were other people in our room?" Ilya asked. "I did not see them."

"No." Hollander shook his head. "You know what I mean. There are too many people here. People who know us."

"Mmm." Ilya stood up, into Hollander's space, backing him up into the wall without even touching him. Hollander's breath quickened, his mouth slightly open. Fuck, he loved this about Hollander, how simple it was to get him going. "You did not like it."

Hollander's eyes cut away, his cheeks reddening. "It's not about like, liking or . . . not liking," he began, but Ilya shook his head.

"No," he said. "It's not. You liked it, Hollander." Ilya tipped his chin so his mouth was right next to Hollander's ear. "I heard last night how much you liked it."

Hollander jerked away, banging his head on the wall, eyes wide. "What . . . that's . . . I don't . . ."

Ilya patted his cheek, smiling. "It's no problem," he said. "Next time, you should wake me up."

Chapter End Notes

No, it's not the Only One Bed trope (although who doesn't love that?) but the closely-related "Our Heroes Have to Share a Room" trope, which is also rife with possibilities, especially for two dudes who had their sex date cancelled by a blizzard.

Chapter 3: Tuesday

Chapter Summary

The first full day of MASE, at which Shane feels awkward and Ilya sleeps on a couch.

Chapter Notes

The shuttle Megan had promised turned out to be the hotel's van, a banged up old white thing, with twelve seats made of green, imitation leather split in some places to give glimpses of foam padding.  With gear, it held six or seven hockey players max, which worked out, because besides him and Ilya, the only people waiting for the first shuttle were the other two professionals, Vincent and Andrew, and Tyler and Jason, who were sharing a bench seat, Jason against the window, Tyler's head on his shoulder. 

Shane blinked at that, although he'd seen it a million times before, guys cuddled up together on the bench at practice or the plane or even hotel rooms, and knew it meant nothing. But he was still on edge from the knowledge that Rozanov had heard him last night, and the sight of them together made his nerves jangle a little, like an alarm about to ring.

What had he been thinking, doing that with an open door?

Shane took the first open seat, setting his bag next to him so Rozanov couldn't take the spot.  He couldn't handle him so close, not right now.

He hadn't been thinking last night at all.  Rozanov had come in from the party and grabbed him and kissed him and gone to bed almost before Shane had a chance to figure out what was happening, left with a hard-on and without breath.  He'd lain on top of his sheets and stared up into the dark and tried to forget Rozanov's hands, his lips, his tongue.  Fuck.  Fuck.

Shane tipped his head against the warm glass of the van window and stared out into the bright, bleak landscape, the red dirt in between the cement block buildings reminding him of the surface of the moon.

He'd just been so . . . fuck.  And he had thought that Rozanov was passed out for sure, that there was no way he could hear from his room over the sound of the air conditioner in the living room, and he'd been so quiet. Or he'd tried to be, although maybe by the end . . . fuck. It was so embarrassing, like he was a kid caught by his parents, but . . .

Shane closed his eyes for a second, because admitting it, even to himself was hard.

. . . but knowing Rozanov had heard him was also kind of hot, like, hot enough that Shane could feel his dick twitch even as the van hit a pothole.  He glanced over at Rozanov with slitted eyes. He was in the seat across the aisle, his face calm and neutral, his skin sort of glowing in the morning light. He was unfairly beautiful.

Rozanov glanced over, caught Shane looking. For a moment, he just looked back, his blue eyes observing, evaluating. Then, he winked, and before Shane could do anything in response, turned back to his own window like nothing had happened.

***

The arena was nice enough, not quite MLH standards but definitely a rink that had invested money, the locker rooms tidy and smelling of disinfectant.  Shane's locker was already labelled, his practice sweaters with his name and number hung in a neat row.  They were Montreal Metro blue, which was cool.  Rozanov's, Shane noticed, hung in a locker down the row, were black. 

"Sweet, man," Tyler said from across the room, pulling his own blue jersey out of his locker. "Team Hollander."

Shane felt his face flush. "Let's not call it—"

"Team Rozanov!" Jason said, holding up his black jersey.

"Aah, my baby!" Rozanov declared and put Jason in a headlock, scrubbing his hair with his knuckles before releasing him. He was so easy with other people, men, women . . . Rozanov charmed them all with one word or one smile or one head noogie.  Shane had never been like that, not even as a kid. He envied it.

Maybe that was part of the attraction Rozanov held for him, that quality he had that made other people adore him so quickly, if he wanted them to. People liked Shane, a lot of them, enough to make his jersey the most popular rookie jersey last year, but that wasn't the same as the way people liked Rozanov.  That was strangers. That was fans.

Like Tyler. Tyler admired his hockey skills, but Tyler didn't actually like him as a person, the way he already liked Rozanov, who he'd called a "sexy motherfucker" as in "get out of my way, you sexy motherfucker," when Rozanov had stopped in the entryway of the arena because he'd dropped something. To Tyler, Rozanov was nicknames and teasing already, after a thirty second conversation, but Shane was still "Shane Hollander."  Shane wondered if that was what this week was going to be, seven days of people admiring him from a distance and keeping him on the outside. He hoped not, but he had a bad feeling.

Practice, training, whatever this morning skate was supposed to be, didn't start for another half hour at least—it was unclear when the rest of the guys were going to show up—but Shane put his head down and got changed.  He was eager to get out on the ice, where he knew what to do and how to do it.  That was what people liked him for.

Other guys trickled in as he dressed and found their way to their lockers.  Shane saw that Jesus, the Hispanic guy he met at the airport yesterday, also had a blue jersey, and gave him a little wave before heading to the ice, an effort at friendliness that Jesus returned.  He had probably dealt with some of the same shit Shane had playing hockey: there weren't any Hispanic guys on the Metros, and he couldn't remember any in the Eastern division, either, although maybe there were and Shane just didn't know because their names weren't Jesus Ortega.   

He was the first one out, no one around except a maintenance person with a trash bag walking the rows of seats.  In each corner of the rink there were cones set up, and in one of the cones, a flag with a color, black, blue, red, and green, team designations, Shane assumed.  He popped the bench door and stepped out. The ice was fresh, smooth and glassy, like it had just been made.  Just cleaned at least.  Shane skated to the end with the black and red flags, then to "his" end of the rink, easy speed, just to get a feel. Nice action, firm and cold, ice that wasn't meant to be used for figure skating or open skates, then, just hockey. Lemaire glided up next to him in a green practice jersey.

"This is alright," he said. Shane had sort of known him for years, longer, actually, than he'd known Rozanov, from tournaments and events.  They'd never been close, never been on a travel team together—Lemaire lived in Vancouver, Shane thought—but he was an easy guy. Didn't cause trouble. He'd come up to Shane at the MLH Awards and congratulated him on Rookie of the Year, which Shane's mom thought showed class.

"Pretty good," Shane agreed.

"I was a little worried after I saw the hotel, not gonna lie."

Shane chuckled.  Lemaire wasn't wrong. "Yeah."

"You and Rozanov went to bed pretty early."

Shane's eyes flicked to Lemaire's face in alarm, but he wasn't looking at Shane; he had his head down, watching the puck he was bouncing from his stick to the blade of his skate and back. Shane opened his mouth, but before he could give any of the excuses that were piling up on his tongue, Lemaire continued:

"Missed a helluva a party.  I'm surprised I made the first shuttle."

Shane tried to chuckle.  "Yeah," he said.  "It sounded pretty rowdy."

Lemaire did look at him then, but it was a look Shane was familiar with, a look that said "wow. You really are a dork, aren't you?" 

"Rowdy." Vincent shook his head, smiling.  "You're something, Hollander." He slapped Shane's shoulder and skated off toward the door, where a couple of other players in green shirts were coming out onto the ice, leaving the puck behind.  Shane corralled it with the toe of his stick, rocking it forehand to backhand, the light tap of the blade on the ice reminding him of the flutter of wings of a moth trapped in a front porch light.

***

Ilya had been on the ice with Hollander before, not just in pro games, where Hollander was his most Hollanderish, but at the two Prospect Cups they'd played against each other, and at the All-Star Game. He knew what Hollander was like on the ice. So Ilya could not figure out why here, with this crowd of puppies, Hollander seemed different.  Nervous. He kept drifting to the back of the group, eyes down, coming forward to demonstrate skills only when the coaches demanded it, ducking his head in acknowledgement of their thanks like he hadn't just put on a clinic of the left-to-right backward crossover or three turns or whatever he was being asked to do.  Hollander, the most technically perfect player Ilya had ever seen, was acting like a scrub called up to fill in a space.  Ilya did not understand it. 

"What's up with you?" Ilya had asked midway through the morning, when the head coach, a beefy red-faced man named Jackson who ran the ASU Hockey program was up in front of the group on the ice explaining the next drill.

Hollander had flinched.  "Nothing. What—? Nothing!" he'd snapped, eyes facing front, cheeks flushing pink.

He was embarrassed about the jerking off, Ilya realized as he turned his attention back to the coaches. But Ilya hadn't meant it that way. He'd meant it like "why are you so quiet? Why aren't you showing these kids what a real hockey player looks like?" But there was no way to make that explanation in front of everyone. Maybe he would save it until they were back in their room.  Unless Hollander wanted to make out or something.

Ilya himself was having a great time. His team, black team, had him, obviously, and Jason, the speedy left wing who had come with Shane's friend to bring his luggage yesterday, and a giant goalie named Mac, both of whom came from the AHL, and several college players whose names he hadn't memorized just yet, all happy to be on his team, jockeying between each other for his attention, the way they should be. They looked decent in the drills, although a couple of them needed work on their stick handling, and one guy had the widest stance Ilya had ever seen.

The schedule on Megan's piece of paper was easy, like baby training camp, skates in the morning, scrimmages in the evening, a skills contest on Friday, and two exhibition games on Saturday night, the order determined by a points system for the scrimmages and the skills.  Megan's handout said the games would be on ESPN, which the guys on his team had been very excited about, but Ilya was pretty sure it would be on one of the side channels, one of the ones that showing bowling or darts on Saturday afternoons. Still, fun, and a chance to work on some trick shots he would never waste real practice on, and a chance to spend time with Shane Hollander, maybe do more than kiss him once Ilya'd finally slept off the jetlag.

Ilya glanced over to the far side of the clump of players, where Hollander stood, stick held across his body, watching as the coach demonstrated backhand toe drags in slow motion like he'd never seen them before, his face pretty in its seriousness. He would kiss Hollander again tonight, if Hollander let him, and maybe that would loosen him up.    

***

They got done around one, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, Shane climbed back on the beaten-up shuttle around two, ready for lunch and a nap.  It was the time change, he thought, and the heat that had hit him like a wave when he came out of the arena, his gear bag over his shoulder.  The van was a greenhouse, its air conditioning whirring desperately against the sun the glared through its windows.  Shane slumped in his seat and tipped his head against the hot window and closed his eyes. 

"Hold me, Hollander," Rozanov declared, shoving Shane's bag to the floor and dropping into the seat next to him and resting his cheek against Shane's shoulder.  "I'm fucking beat."

Shane almost pushed him off, glancing around, but it wasn't anything. In the third row of seats, Palmer and Rodriguez were doing basically the same thing, heads tipped together, eyes closed. Like Tyler and Jason had this morning. It wasn't gay unless you made it gay.

So he let Rozanov rest his head on his shoulder, his hair still damp and smelling of locker room shampoo, his arm pressed up against Shane's, hot even in the heat, and tried to pretend he didn't like Rozanov being so close.

***

Lunch was a catered buffet in the lobby of the hotel, dried out fish and chicken in metal serving trays over little flames. Shane scarfed down a plate of food, barely tasting it, and retreated to his suite before the second van of players even got back, stripping off his clothes, and collapsing in his cool dark room with a sigh of relief.  He made sure to shut the door to his bedroom before he lay down, though: he didn't want there to be any misunderstanding between him and Ilya about what had happened the night before, or what he'd said this morning.  He'd made a mistake, leaving the door open, but it wouldn't happen again.

It couldn't. Whatever they'd done before, whatever he and Rozanov might do in the future, it couldn't happen here, everyone living on top of each other for a whole week, seeing each other fourteen hours a day. It was too risky.  They would just have to stay away from each other as best they could for the next six days.

Two hours later, Shane woke up feeling rested, human.

He got up and pissed, washed his hands, poured himself a glass of water in one of the disposable plastic cups stacked on a tray on the back of the toilet, and went into the living room. 

He'd heard the television on when he'd opened his bedroom door, so Shane had assumed Rozanov was up, but he was mistaken. Rozanov was on his stomach on the couch, curled toward the wall, arms wrapped around one of the bolster cushions, knee up, pulling the fabric of his white shorts snug against the fat curve of his ass, and Shane felt all of his rules about things that couldn't happen at MASE dry up and blow away, like the red dust that blew across the sidewalks here. 

Fuck.

Shane gulped down his water, crushing the cup in his hand.  Fucking Rozanov.  Why wasn't he in his own room instead of out here in public where anyone who lived here could see the muscles of his arm around the couch cushion, the fading purple puck bruise on the outside of his thigh, just above his knee, the tangle of curls at the nape of his neck.

Shane sat on the floor near the end of couch, resting his back against it, and tried to keep his eyes on the television, some tennis match, the sound down low, but he couldn't stop glancing at Rozanov, his thighs, his feet curled together in white socks, the strip of skin between the waistband of the shorts and his cutoff sweatshirt where it rode up in the back, revealing a small constellation of moles.

Shane's fingers twisted together with the urge to touch him.  He wouldn't—that would be fucking creepy, touching someone who was asleep—but Rozanov looked . . . fuck.  Touchable.  His skin would be warm, Shane thought. He'd able to feel the difference when he ran his fingers over the moles, count them without even looking. Would Rozanov mind being woken up like that, a hand on his hip or his thigh or his back?  Shane didn't know.  He'd never woken him up. Would he smile or would he be grouchy and swat Shane's hands away? Would he—

Rozanov sighed.

Shane's head snapped forward, eyes locked on the TV like the commercial for arthritis medicine was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen in his life.  After a few seconds, something nudged his shoulder, and he looked over to find Rozanov's sock foot near his face, Rozanov on his back, one arm behind his head, eyes lidded and dark with sleep. 

"Hey," he murmured.

"Hey," Shane said, embarrassed by the crack in his voice, but from his angle, he could see up the leg of Ilya's shorts, the shadowy hair on his muscled thigh and maybe something else. "Why aren't you in your room?"

"Sun was in my room. Too hot.

Definitely too hot, Shane thought. "It was fine in my room."

Rozanov gave him a little smirk. "Mmm. Come up here."

"What?" Shane felt his pulse quicken, beating in his throat. "What are you—"

"Come up here." Rozanov gestured with the hand not behind his head, then held it out for him. 

"Um." Shane meant to say no, because boundaries, but he was already on his knees on the carpet, facing the couch. He stopped. "I, um."

"Oh my God, Hollander, get up here." Rozanov sat up and tugged at Shane's t-shirt, yanking it, so Shane clambered onto the couch, onto Rozanov, who spread his legs so Shane could settle between them, and slid his hand into Shane's hair, smiling.  "Yes, like this."

Shane didn't know what to do. Right outside the door were more than thirty hockey players who could bust them, expose them to the world, but on this couch, they were pressed together, groin to groin, belly to belly, his face perilously close to Rozanov's, and that somehow seemed more important. Hadn't there been other people around at the CCM shoot?  Hadn't Scott Hunter been right next door the night of All Star Game? Why was it okay to kiss Rozanov there, and not here?

"You were thinking of me last night," Rozanov said.

"No," Shane blurted, but it was too late to try to hide that, and Rozanov's smirk at the obvious lie was annoying. "Yes, okay?" Shane admitted.  "Sorry about that."

"Mmm, no." Rozanov stroked his hair. "Don't be sorry. It was sexy."

"I shouldn't have done it. I should have shut the door at least," Shane said. "It was rude.

Rozanov tipped his head and screwed up his mouth. "Maybe. But I liked it. I like this." He shifted under Shane's body enough that Shane could feel the bulge of Rozanov's cock against his own. 

"Yeah," Shane said.  He liked it, too.  Too much, probably, to be allowing it to happen here.  There was silence for a moment, until Shane realized that Rozanov was waiting for something and met his eyes.  "What?" he asked.

"Hollander." Rozanov sighed. "What do I have to do to get you to fucking kiss me?"

"Oh!" Shane said.  "I don't know if—" he managed before Rozanov's mouth was on his.

It was awkward at first, Shane uncertain where to put his weight, how to angle himself, but then they both shifted, and Shane propped his elbow on the cushion between Ilya and the back of the couch and Ilya spread his legs even wider, and Shane leaned in and Ilya arched up and then they were making out on the couch, full on making out, tongues and mouths and breath, like Shane hadn't since he'd been in high school, only better, because this wasn't some girl who'd been forced on him at a party.

It was different, him being on top, being the one in charge, sort of. It made Shane uneasy and excited at the same time. He pulled back a little, just a test, and his heart trilled when Rozanov chased after his mouth. His free hand roamed from Rozanov's hair, down his chest to the hem of his shirt and slid up under it, Rozanov's skin hot and smooth. When he brushed his fingertips over Rozanov's nipple, Rozanov groaned against his tongue, so he did it again, and then pushed Rozanov's shirt up and ducked his head so he could get his mouth on it, pink and erect, circled by soft golden hair, sucking it, flicking it with his tongue.

"Hollander," Rozanov groaned, his body rolling under Shane's. Shane could feel Rozanov's cock, hot and hard, against his own through their clothes. He shifted, ready to go down, to see it, to taste it again, but Rozanov grabbed his shirt and kept him from moving, kissing him, locking his legs around Shane's thighs, holding him in place.

"What—" Shane tried, but Rozanov kissed him again, grabbing his ass with one hand, pulling their cocks together through the fabric. 

"I want you on top of me," Rozanov said against his mouth.

"Fuck," Shane muttered. The only time he'd ever been on top had been with girls, the couple of times he'd had sex in high school, which had been fine, he thought, or at least fine enough for people who had just as little sex as he had, but this was so different, Rozanov's muscular body rippling against his like a sea serpent, his hard cock, and his firm hands, and his mouth craning upward, kissing Shane's face, his mouth, his neck.

Rozanov yanked at the hem of Shane's t-shirt, pulling it upward, and murmured "off, take it off," so Shane propped himself up on one hand so Rozanov could yank it over his head, his dick, still clothed, still thrusting against Rozanov, who muttered something in Russian, palming one of Shane's pecs before dragging Shane back down for more kisses. Shane could feel sweat at his hairline, between his shoulder blades, in the small of his back, and even better (or worse) the sweet, sparkling tension of his orgasm gathering itself, making him shudder into Rozanov's mouth.

"Rozanov, fuck, I'm gonna cum in my shorts if we don't stop, I swear," Shane managed. He'd meant it as a warning, a chance to pause, to get naked, move to the bedroom, whatever, but in response, Rozanov slid both hands down the back of Shane's shorts, exposing his ass, gripping it with his big hands, yanking Shane up against him, grinding their cocks together.

"I want you to," he murmured into Shane's mouth in between kisses. "Cum for me, Hollander," and Shane, shorts shoved below the curve of his ass, his whole body except his cock naked and aching for it, had no choice but to cum, rutting against Rozanov like a teenager at his first party, moaning against the hot skin of Rozanov's throat.

He collapsed after, dropping his whole weight onto Rozanov, unable to support himself any longer. "God," he panted against Rozanov's sweaty neck. "Fuck."

Rozanov chuckled beneath him, his hands gentle now, stroking over Shane's ass and up his spine to his shoulders, then back down. 

"You fucker, you made me." Shane propped himself up on one elbow, glaring at him.

"Mmm, yes," Ilya admitted. "It was hot."

"But you—" Shane moved his hips experimentally.  His shorts were gross, but Rozanov's cock was still hard. "You didn't."

"No, but—"

"No," Shane said.  "No, I'm not going to be the only one."  He shifted his weight to the back of the cushion, so he was straddling one of Rozanov's legs, the rest of Rozanov's body in reach along his. Rozanov's shirt was still pulled up, and his shorts were rucked up on his leg, his erection an impressive bulge in the front of them. 

"Hollander," Rozanov began, moving to adjust himself, but Shane grabbed his hand and put it up behind his head.

"Keep it there," he said, pretending to glare into Rozanov's eyes, like he was in charge of anything. Rozanov smiled, gave a little nod.

Now that he had Rozanov's commitment to stillness, Shane took the moment to look at Rozanov's body spread out like a banquet underneath him, his whole belly exposed, dotted with moles, the deep grooves of his obliques as they slid into his shorts, the patch of hair that started at his belly button and continued into his waistband. Fucking perfection, and Shane was allowed to touch it.

He started with the nipple, again, just his fingers, playing in the hair around it, teasing it, gentle then firm. Rozanov's cock, already hard, jumped. 

He'd meant, at some point, to suck Rozanov's cock, but after what had been done to him, Shane thought maybe that was too obvious, too simple.  He needed something equally dirty. He needed Rozanov to shoot in his pants, too. It was only fair.

Shane trailed his fingers down over Rozanov's stomach, skipped them lightly over the bulge of his erection, dragged them up his inner thigh.  Rozanov spread his legs even further, bracing one foot on the floor.  Shane cupped Rozanov's package through his shorts. They were boxer-style, not boxer briefs, white, and most importantly, loose enough for Shane to get a hand up the wide leg and tease Rozanov's balls with his fingertips. 

"Hollander," Ilya groaned.  "Please fucking—"

"No," Shane said. He ran one finger up the shaft of Ilya's cock, watching the outline of his action on the front of Ilya's shorts. Rozanov arched into it, trying to get more.  Shane leaned down, his mouth over Rozanov's.  "This was your idea," he murmured, wrapping his fingers around the base of Rozanov's cock. 

"Fuck!" Rozanov blurted.  "I didn't—I'm sorry, fuck—"

The front of his shorts was wet, almost transparent from precum, the head of Rozanov's cock clearly visible when it rubbed against the thin, white material.  Shane gripped his erection and stroked it steadily, making sure it never lost contact with the fabric. Once he was confident he had the motion right, Rozanov writhing and moaning with every stroke, Shane turned his attention back to Rozanov's face, his pretty blue eyes half open staring at his own crotch, his perfect lips downturned in a frown of concentration.

Shane kissed the frown, pleased when Rozanov gasped and opened his mouth, eager to capture Shane's. He knew that Rozanov had more experience than him, knew he'd probably done some really extreme things, sexually, and it was gratifying to feel Rozanov respond like this, like Shane was better in bed than he probably was.

"Hey," Shane murmured, an idea blooming in his mind. Rozanov's eyes flew to his. "You're the best I've ever had."

"Oh, fuck," Rozanov gasped, his whole body arcing up against Shane's, and then Shane's hand was covered with hot, wet cum, and Ilya was kissing him, his tongue in Shane's mouth even as he shuddered through aftershocks.

They lay quietly for a minute, after, mouths moving lazily against one another's, sharing breath.  Shane was about to get up and shower when Rozanov spoke, his voice low.

"I have a question."

"What's the question?" Shane asked, wondering if it was sexual, hoping it wasn't. Maybe the shorts thing had been a mistake.

Rozanov met his eyes. "You were small at practice today. Why do you do this?"

Fuck. Now Shane wished the question had been sexual. He took his hand out of Rozanov's shorts, wiped it on his own thigh. "What do you mean?"

Rozanov slid a hand into Shane's hair, stroking his fingers through it.  "You know. Being in the back. Acting like you are like everyone else."

Shane sighed. "I am like everyone else."

"No." Rozanov urged Shane's head up, lifting it until Shane met his eyes.  "You are Shane Hollander.  You are not small. You are big. One of the biggest."

Shane couldn't help but gaze at Rozanov for a second, his beautiful eyes, his eyebrows pulled together in curiosity.  It felt like Rozanov was staring into him, seeing all his secrets. He was serious about this question, Shane realized, but he didn't want to answer.  He didn't know how to answer. "Oh, and who is the biggest?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

It was clear who Rozanov thought the answer was by the slant of his grin.  "Is not important who is the highest dog."

"Top dog," Shane corrected.

"Yes, top dog," Rozanov agreed.  "It doesn't matter who is the most top dog." He pulled Shane's face down to his, kissed him slowly. "As long as you know you are one of them."

"This isn't . . ." Shane stopped, unsure how to explain to Rozanov, who had never met a crowd he hadn't charmed, or pissed off, or both at the same time. "I don't . . . I'm not as outgoing as you. People don't like me the way they like you."

"That is dumb," Rozanov said, wrapping one arm around Shane's waist. "These other guys, they love you, they follow you around like little puppies. 'Oh, Shane Hollander, let me carry your luggage!' 'Oh, Hollander, let me bring you a water!'"

"That was just Tyler," Shane protested. "And it was one time. Plus," Shane added when Rozanov rolled his eyes. "That's kind of the point.  He doesn't know me. He just knows 'Shane Hollander.'"

"Okay," Rozanov said, his tone making it clear that he thought Shane was being ridiculous.  "So maybe give him a chance to know you, hmm?"

"Yeah, maybe," Shane said, dropping his head to Rozanov's shoulder, not interested in discussing it when they were mostly naked and sticky and tangled up together.  Explaining who he was to Rozanov was a waste of time, because he was different with Rozanov than he was with everybody else.

***

He let Hollander shower first, because Hollander was more sensitive to being dirty than Ilya was, and also because he wasn't sure he could stand right away after what had just been done to him.  Ilya had meant it to be a silly little make out, a nothing, a way to loosen Hollander up after the tension of the morning, and somehow Hollander had turned cumming in his pants into one of the hottest things that had ever happened to Ilya.

He lay on the couch and listened to the water run.  "The best I ever had," Hollander had said. Not that there was much competition. Last summer, he hadn't even been with another man before, so how many could there be?  He knew Hollander well enough to know that he wasn't out fucking every weekend, not men anyway, so what? Some women, maybe a few other guys? Not exactly a long list.

And still, hearing the words from Hollander's mouth had made him cum so hard he almost blacked out.  The best. The best Shane Hollander had ever had. And they hadn't even fucked, yet.

Ilya smiled up at the ceiling.

***

"Hey," Hollander said, as Ilya opened the bathroom door after his shower, like he'd been waiting there, a jungle cat.  "I'm sorry for before."

Ilya blinked.  Before?  He thought they had agreed that before was hot.  Messy, but in a good way. Was Hollander regretting it now, taking it back, the way he had the first time they hooked up?  Weren't they past this already? "No, I liked it."

"No." Hollander ducked his head, blushing.  "Not that.  Before that. This morning. When I said not to kiss me here, because of other people."

Ilya felt the smile blooming across his face. "You want kisses."

Shane grimaced, his face getting even more red.  "I, um.  Yes.  In the room, it's okay.  But, just.  No one can know, okay?"

"Hollander." Ilya crossed the room, put his hand on Shane's neck, drew him in so their foreheads touched gently. "I don't know where you get this idea that somehow I am the one who is going to tell people.  I will not.  It would be very bad for me, if people knew."

Shane looked up at him through his eyelashes. Ilya didn't know if he realized it, but he was pressing his face into Ilya's hand like a cat looking for pets. "Bad, like, how?"

"In Russia, this is not allowed. Being with same sex people. It is a very bad crime." He was telling the truth, but he could not bring himself to tell Hollander the whole truth: that his father was the real reason Ilya didn't want anyone to know. Prison was real, but his father was the true nightmare.

Shane squinted at him in confusion. "But you said you and the coach's son—"

Ilya nodded. "Yes, but we were kids. Now I am . . . popular. Important."

Hollander bobbed his head, sighing. "You're a role model."

This was not a word Ilya knew, but Hollander seemed weary saying it. "What is this? Role model?"

"Like, you're an example," Hollander explained. "People are supposed to look up to you."

Ahh, a role model. "Yes, this. So I am not going to tell, okay?"

"Okay." Hollander nodded. He seemed reassured, like he had really thought that Ilya was going to trumpet their hookups to the world. Hollander's mind was a very complicated maze sometimes.  "But in the room—" he continued.

Ilya smiled. "In the room, you want kisses." He tilted his head back until his lips were brushing Hollander's.

"Yeah," Hollander breathed into his mouth. "Yeah."

***

Shane waited for Rozanov to get dressed, sitting on the lumpy couch that they'd so recently debauched, the television still on, tennis had given way to a replay of a college basketball game that was important for some reason.  The faint squeak-squeak of the shoes on the court picked at his eardrums until he grabbed the remote and turned it off. Without tv to look at, Shane studied the room.  He'd seen it yesterday, of course, but with the travel and the party and the Rozanov of it all, he hadn't really looked at it until just now.  It was not a great room, shabby and ugly compared to the rooms he was used to staying in: the lamp on the table next to the couch, its shade a little yellow around the edges from age; the nicks on the long, low table the television sat on, revealing it to be pressboard with a woodprint veneer over top of it, peeling up in places; the large picture window that looked out onto the courtyard, the blinds pulled most of the way down to save the air condition—

The large picture window.

The large window.

The blinds were almost all the way down, just a four-inch gap at the bottom, showing late afternoon sunlight. And they'd been down the whole time, Shane was sure.  He'd come into the room and the television was on and the blinds were down.  Weren't they?  Of course they were.  Rozanov had been napping so they were definitely down, right? He hadn't lowered them after, Rozanov certainly hadn't lowered them after, so they'd been down when Rozanov had fallen asleep and down when Shane . . . woke him up. 

Still, someone could have seen them.  Someone could have bent down and peered through gap at the bottom of the window and seen him on top of Rozanov, his naked ass humping Rozanov's cock, their mouths . . .

. . . okay, shit, this was simultaneously terrifying and sort of hot.  It was also why he'd tried to draw a line this morning when he told Rozanov that kind of thing couldn't happen here, where they were surrounded by people who would come by any second to offer drinks, or a party, or a video game session and would probably be . . . less than supportive.  This was why he'd tried to say no.

But . . . but as Rozanov had so succinctly put it, Shane wanted kisses.  He wanted Rozanov to kiss him and touch him and make him cum and he wanted to do it right back, and this was the first time they'd had any real time to do those things that wasn't moments stolen in between games and flights.  Here, they had days.  Days and nights, hours and hours when they could look at each other and feel each other and talk to each other, maybe figure out what this really was between them, if it was just a convenient hook up or if it was anything more. 

Not that it could be a real relationship, of course. Shane chuckled out loud just thinking that.  Between hockey and Russia and just the whole world, there was no way it could be a real thing, but maybe it could be a regular friends-with-benefits situation or something like that. Something steady. Shane would like that, he thought, if Rozanov were interested.  He hadn't realized before Rozanov how much he liked being sexual with someone.  The people he slept with before, the girls, had felt more like an obligation than a pleasure.

So, yeah. He wanted kisses, at least while they were here. 

Shane went to the window and pushed the blinds all the way down to the sill.

***

The guys had already divided up the tables into teams by the time he and Hollander arrived in the little room next to the lobby that served as the dining room, and the blue and black tables cheered when they walked in.

"Ahh, my little children!" Ilya declared, holding his arms out as if to embrace the whole table waiting for him, then slapped all their hands, even Mac's whose hand was as big as Ilya's whole head.  Hollander took a quieter approach, of course, but Ilya noticed as he sat down that Hollander had his head tilted toward one of his teammates, nodding seriously as the guy spoke. While Ilya watched, Hollander leaned forward, his long hands making shapes in the air as he described something, his entire table focused on him.  The highest dog had arrived. 

***

Evening scrimmage went a lot better than morning skate, maybe because they were broken into their teams, which meant fewer people Shane had to keep track of in his head, maybe because they actually got to move the puck around, get a feel for one another, maybe because Rozanov had kissed Shane and reminded him who he was. Shane shook his head, clearing it of that last thought, as he stood up against the boards, watching his blue teammates in the scrimmage. 

Tyler was good, a center like Shane himself, a strong skater, decent hands.  Johansson, who everybody already called Scarlett, was a talented defenseman, beautiful on the reverse. But the real surprise was Ortega.  He was a winger, usually left, but he could obviously play off-wing, his stick handling excellent, his hockey IQ clear from his positioning. He was on the smaller side, an inch or two shorter than Shane and definitely lighter, and could be a little slow off the line, but both his size and his speed could be helped with the right training, Shane thought.  And he had the charisma, the shine, when he was on the ice that made you want to pay attention to what he was doing.  

They were playing continuous cycle against the green team on their half of the rink, no face offs, just movement, plays, passing, pucks dropped when needed by the assistant coaches, players trading in and out of their own volition.  It was more fluid than the practices Shane was used to, less physical, but faster.  Less serious. More fun.

Shane caught the nod from Tyler across the rink and put his helmet on, one eye on the formations the other on Tyler's position. "Get 'em, Holly," Tyler said, and Shane hopped the boards, bumping Tyler's fist as his skates landed and he took off.

In some ways, it wasn't fair.  These guys were decent, some of them even really good, but in some ways, putting him on the ice with them was like putting a greyhound on a track with a pack of Golden Retrievers and Labradors.  Sure, they were the same species, but they weren't the same breed, most of them.  Still it was fun, pulling his forwards into the zone, setting up plays, passing assists to Jesus.  Shane found himself grinning around his mouth guard as he tapped Tyler back onto the ice.

They weren't keeping score, not really, but after the twenty-minute scrimmage, it was clear that blue team was kicking green team's ass, even purely from a shots-on-goal perspective.  The green goalie, a college kid named Benson or Burnson or something, skated up to the debriefing scrum looking like someone had dragged him over gravel, his hair soaked, eyes haggard.

"Okay, nice work out there," the coach said.  "Way to get your feet wet. Veterans, any words?"

Shane kept his head down, listening, until Lemaire started talking and Shane realized that, in fact, he was one of the veterans that was expected to speak and that Lemaire had waited, maybe, for him to speak first. He focused as Lemaire talked about hitting passes, making sure you knew where your guy was, good advice.  When he finished, the guys turned, their eyes on Shane. He had a thousand things he could have said, about passing lanes and stick handling and pressure on the turnover, but all of that was stuff that anyone could say. And he was just feeling so good, his body a little tired, his heart still pumping, that he opened his mouth and said the first thing that came to mind. "I agree with Lemaire, all that. And have fun."

"Have fun?" Lemaire asked, like Shane had said "pick your nose" or something.

"Yeah." Shane straightened up, his eyes on Lemaire. Lemaire was taller than him, and had had a nice season in Minnesota, but one of them was the Rookie of the Year and it wasn't fucking Vincent Lemaire with his bullshit thirty-two goals. "Have. Fun."

"Okay!" The coach clapped his hands.  "Everyone back to your corners for drills!"

Shane waited for a second to see if Lemaire wanted to say anything else, but he just skated back toward the cone with his flag in it without glancing back. Shane had never thought Lemaire had a problem with him, they'd just chatted that morning, but maybe he did.

"What was that?" Tyler asked, gliding up next to Shane as they headed to their cone.  "Lemaire seems like a dick."

"He's fine," Shane said, automatically.

"He's got a stick up his ass." Tyler laughed.  "C'mon, guys," he said, lifting his voice to the rest of the blue team.  "Holly says we need to have some fun!"

"Jesus Christ," Shane muttered to himself, but he couldn't help but smile.

***

"Lemaire's pissed at me," he told Rozanov, once they were out of the van, heading to their room, Rozanov slouching along behind him.  He'd been hyped when they left the arena, but the jet lag must have caught up to him again, because his shoulders were slumped and his eyes half-lidded.  Shane felt like a guide dog making sure he got safely to his room.

"Oh yeah?" Rozanov asked.  "Why is that?"

Shane shrugged. "I don't know. It just seems like he is." He unlocked their suite door and pushed it open, letting Rozanov in first. 

"Maybe he is tired of losing to you," Rozanov suggested, dumping his bag on the floor, and hooking one hand into Shane's t-shirt.

"Why, though?" Shane flipped the lock and let himself be pulled into Rozanov's embrace, his heart leaping at the automatic way Rozanov reached for him when the door shut.  "It's a fucking scrimmage."

"Mmm." Rozanov nodded, pressing his mouth into the crook of Shane's neck, not kissing, just . . . pressing.   "Just scrimmage, and just Rookie of the Year, and second in scoring, and playoffs in your first season, and prettiest dick in the whole league."

Shane laughed. Maybe Rozanov was right and Lemaire was mad at him for being better, but for some reason, that didn't feel like Shane's problem, not right now, anyway. "Okay, that last one is not a thing."

Rozanov did kiss his neck, then, sucking a little along the sensitive skin, and Shane shivered. "If it were, you would win."

"How would you know?" Shane murmured, his hands tightening on Rozanov's waist. "Have you seen Lemaire's dick?"

Rozanov lifted his head, his eyes narrow, a smirk on his face. "Yes, Hollander," he said.  "I have seen Lemaire's dick, all the dicks, and yours is the prettiest. Except for mine."

Shane rolled his eyes, slapped Rozanov's ribs.  "Except for yours.  Of course.  I'm going to rinse off again, that soap at the arena is making my skin itch."

"Okay." Rozanov's hand tightened on his hip, his chin lifted. The kiss was simple, sweet, Rozanov's lips soft and drowsy against his. "I am going to bed. Good night, Hollander."

"Good night, Rozanov."

***

Ilya was teetering on the edge of sleep when his bed shifted and he jerked awake, wondering if this was an earthquake, if earthquakes were something that could happen in Arizona, and what he should do to protect himself.

But it wasn't an earthquake, it was just Hollander, climbing onto the mattress.  "Hollander?"

"Sorry," Shane murmured, lying down, his head on the pillow next to Ilya's.  "I didn't know you were already asleep."

"What are you doing here?" Ilya asked.

It was too dark to see, but if he had to bet, he would bet that Shane was blushing. "Oh, I. Um . . ."

Ahh. Ilya wouldn't have minded, but it just was not possible. "I can't again tonight, Hollander. The jet lag, still."

"Oh, no!" Hollander said.  "I didn't mean, I just wanted, um.  I'll—" He made a move to get off the bed.

Ilya grabbed for his wrist, realizing: Shane Hollander wanted to sleep with him. "No, stay," he said.

"Really?" Hollander asked.

Ilya tugged on him, pulling Hollander down to the mattress until he was lying flat on his back, then kissed Hollander's bare shoulder, keeping his hand around his wrist. "Stay," he said. "Please."

"I mean, I guess. If you're going to be such a baby about it," Hollander said, dryly.

Ilya laughed, and drew Hollander into his arms, squeezing him close.  "Yes," he said.  "I am always a baby for you."

Once they settled, facing each other, Hollander holding one of Ilya's hands between them, Ilya's leg hooked over Hollander's thigh, Ilya kissed his forehead.

He heard the huff of Hollander's laugh. "You really don't mind, though?"

Ilya reached out in the dark, his free hand finding Hollander's face. "No."

Hollander shifted with a little noise, bringing his body even closer to Ilya. What would have happened, Ilya wondered listening to the Hollander's breath slowing, if he had not woken up? Would he just have found Shane Hollander in his bed in the morning like some sort of magic trick?  He thought the answer was probably yes.

Chapter End Notes

What was Ilya wearing to nap on the couch? This. Exactly this.

Chapter 4: Wednesday

Chapter Summary

The second full day at MASE, in which Shane and Ilya share embarrassing stories, Tyler asks a question, and Angela is terrifying.

Chapter Notes

Ilya woke up before his alarm, perhaps because of the morning light filtering through the open door, or the sound of a semi-truck motor idling in the parking lot behind the hotel. Or, maybe, because Shane Hollander was behind him, his face pressed into the crook of Ilya's shoulder, his body heavy and relaxed against Ilya's, curled around him like a vine, and had sighed in his ear, the kind of sigh you made when you were perfectly comfortable and never wanted to move again. Ilya knew the feeling.

Ilya loved the animal comfort of this, lying in bed with someone, their body tangled up with his. He thought, not for the first time, that maybe he hooked up with people so much was because it was a convenient excuse for physical contact. You could text someone for sex easy enough, but it was much harder to get someone to come over and hold you and play with your hair until you fell asleep.

Hollander would do that, Ilya thought and knew immediately that it was true, that if by some miracle they were in the same place at the same time and he texted Hollander, Hollander would come and cuddle him for as long as he wanted. He probably wouldn't even ask for sex in exchange. He could have it, though, Ilya thought, noticing the spread of Hollander's hand flat on his belly, the weight of Hollander's thigh over his hip.

As if Hollander had heard the sexual turn Ilya's thoughts had taken, he sighed again, this one more a purr in the back of his throat.

"You are awake?" Ilya murmured.

"Mmm." Hollander's arm tightened around him, and his lips pressed a kiss right under Ilya's ear. "No."

"No, me also," Ilya said. He reached up behind himself and stroked the hair on the back of Hollander's head, which got him the delightful reward of Hollander sliding his big hand up under his shirt then down over the curve of his belly until it cupped Ilya's genitals casually, like they were his own.

"Why are you so hot?" Hollander asked.

"Is the desert," Ilya said. "Everything is hot, here." He rolled onto his back so he could see Hollander's face, his big, dark eyes so deep in the morning light.

"I want to kiss you, but my breath is terrible," Hollander said.

Even his fucking morning breath conversations are charming, Ilya thought. And he wanted the same thing, but he didn't want to ruin the freshness of whatever this was with bad breath. He kissed Hollander's shoulder instead and said "Shane Hollander always wants kisses."

"Shut up," Hollander murmured, smiling against his throat. His hand, which had moved up to Ilya's stomach when he rolled onto his back, returned to Ilya's dick, squeezing it through the material of his briefs.

"Shane Hollander loves kisses," Ilya said, spreading his thighs.

"I do not." Hollander ran his fingers through the hair on Ilya's stomach, creeping closer and closer to the waistband of his underwear.

Ilya closed his eyes. "Shane Hollander wants to kiss me on my—"

Ilya's alarm beeped, the sound almost as loud as the joint "fucks" that came out of Ilya's and Hollander's mouths simultaneously.

***

Shane stared at himself while he brushed his teeth, a little freaked out by the fact that nothing that had happened to him in the last two days showed on his face. Not the worry about the camp, or the minor bullshit with Lemaire, or the fact that he had woken up not ten minutes ago wrapped around Boston Raider and Russian playboy Ilya Rozanov. His face didn't reveal that he had grabbed Rozanov's dick, or jerked him off, or that he was planning on making Rozanov cum down his throat when they got back to the hotel this afternoon. In his reflection, his hair was a little more messed up than usual, but that was it. It shocked Shane how things could feel so different and look the same.

And they did feel different.

That hadn't been his intent when he'd gone into Rozanov's room last night; he hadn't thought much about it, honestly. Rozanov said he was going to bed, so Shane went with him. It wasn't until Rozanov had been surprised that Shane had realized that he hadn't actually been invited into Rozanov's bed, but he hadn't seemed to mind, not last night and not this morning, when Shane had almost risked morning breath to make out with him. Rozanov made him want to risk a lot of things.

He spat into the sink, rinsed his mouth, spat again.

The living room was empty when he came out of the bathroom, but he could hear Rozanov moving around in his bedroom. "Hey, you ready?" Shane asked, hooking his bag up off the floor. "Let's go."

"Yes, okay." Rozanov came out of his room with his own duffel, dressed in a black tank top and shorts, curls slicked back and damp. The color against his skin made it glow like cream, and Shane was overcome by a desire to lick him.

He swallowed. "Cool."

But when he reached to open the door, Rozanov leaned forward and pressed it shut again, hand flat on the door panel.

"What? Did you forget something?" Shane asked. The television was off, no one had used the hair dryer that emitted a burning smell when you turned it on, the team had bottled water at breakfast, what could—

"Yes," Rozanov said. "I forgot this." His hand cupped Shane's cheek, his thumb brushing Shane's lips before covering them with his, sucking gently, his tongue soft and teasing. Shane sighed, and opened his mouth. Rozanov pushed them both into the door, Shane's gear bag bumping against it, both hands on Shane's face now, and Shane fingers clutched Rozanov's waist, bunching the fabric of his shirt into lumps, tasting the faint hint of mint on his tongue, feeling the firm muscle of his leg between Shane's thighs, rubbing against his stiffening cock.

No one kissed like Rozanov. No one took him over like this, and made him forget everything he was worried about. It had been like this since their first kiss, another moment pressed up against a hotel door over a year ago. Rozanov had dazed him then, and dazed him now. He wasn't sure what it meant, this intense reaction. He wasn't sure if Rozanov felt the same way, although he felt something, Shane thought. Unless he let everyone sleep with him. Maybe he did. Maybe this was not—

Someone banged on the door against his back, the knocking ringing in his ears like a morning bell. "Holly, Rosey, let's go!" Tyler shouted from three inches of metal door away. "Bus is leaving!"

Shane froze, his eyes big on Rozanov's, as they listed to Tyler's steps moving off down the walkway, chattering to someone (probably Jason) about how he couldn't wait to be a veteran somewhere so buses would have to wait for him. Once he was well and truly gone, Shane exhaled.

Rozanov was still up against him, hands still in his hair, grinning at him.

"You ready?" Shane asked, rubbing his hands up and down Rozanov's ribs over his tank top.

Rozanov tipped in, stealing one more kiss, then stepped back, palming his dick into a less obvious position under his shorts. "Okay, yes. Now I am ready."

"Okay." Shane took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out into the startling sunlight.

***

As Shane sat down in his standard seat right behind the driver in the van, he was surprised by Tyler sliding in next to him. "Hey, Holly," Tyler said, before Shane could even speak. "Can I talk to you about something?"

A cold wave of adrenaline flooded Shane's chest. Tyler hadn't heard them, right? He couldn't have seen them, and the door was pretty thick, and they hadn't been making any noise at the time, not really. "Um, sure. What is it?"

Tyler glanced over his shoulder at Ilya sitting on the bench seat across from them. "Not here. When we get to the rink."

"Okay, sure," Shane said, biting his lip to keep the panic inside. "Sounds good."

"We're going to have a party tomorrow. Thursday," Tyler said. "After practice. Jason's brother is bringing a keg."

"Oh, okay," Shane said, unsure whether he was being invited or Tyler was just giving notice in case things got too noisy.

"Yeah, we figure we got the pool, we might as well make the most of it, right?"

"Right," Shane agreed. Acid churned in his stomach. This wasn't what Tyler wanted to talk to him about, this was small talk, meant to kill time until Tyler could say what he really wanted to say: I know you and Ilya Rozanov are hooking up. I know you're gay. I know you're a fraud who is lying to everyone you know. I know you suck dick.

"Anyway, I hope you'll come," Tyler said. "I know it's not really your thing or whatever, but it's gonna be fun."

"Oh!" Shane paused, bewildered by this sudden turn in direction. "Yeah, maybe. I mean, probably. Sure."

"Awesome." Tyler smacked his knee.

So he doesn't know, Shane thought. Or he doesn't care. Of the two, the first was more likely, because how could he know? How could he? Only Shane and Ilya knew. They had told no one, and they had done nothing outside of the privacy of a hotel room except for that one kiss in Las Vegas, that no one had seen. There was no way for Tyler to know. There was no way for anyone to know. But if that wasn't the important and secret thing Tyler wanted to talk about, Shane didn't know what it was.

Shane shifted on the bench seat, and watched the street go by, feeling the race of his heart slow. Whatever Tyler wanted, it had nothing to do with him and Rozanov, which meant nothing had to change. They were still Hollander and Rozanov in public, and in private, in their room, Rozanov could still pin him against the door and kiss him. Everything was fine.

He rolled his shoulders and tried to relax, focused on the view out his window. He'd been on this drive often enough now that he had personal landmarks on the way to the arena: the pawn shop with the sign that read "GUNS AMMO JEWELRY" a juxtaposition that felt particularly American to Shane; the lone saguaro cactus in an empty lot; the grocery store with the piles of fresh produce in front, bright like jewels, and "mercado" over the door. Arizona still felt very strange and foreign to Shane, a place he never could have imagined, but he was beginning to recognize it.

***

Tyler's question was not about Shane, but about himself, and was harder and easier than Shane had thought.

"I want to make it," Tyler said, leaning up against one of the pillars in the lobby. The other guys had gone through to the locker room and the arena wasn't open to the public, so they were alone standing in the glossy and cavernous lobby. Above them, a banner announcing last season's promo giveaways rippled lazily in the air conditioning. "I need you to help me."

"Make what?" Shane asked.

"The MLH!" Tyler said, and Shane felt stupid. Of course. Of course Tyler wanted career advice. "I've been in the AL for almost two years and it's been great, for real, but . . . I don't know. What do I need to do to make the jump, man?"

Shane blinked, surprised, wondering why Tyler expected him to know. How would he? He'd been drafted straight into the MLH out of high school, been on the rink for the Metros less than two years later. It occurred to him suddenly, horribly, that Tyler might be older than him. "I, um . . ."

"You don't have to answer me right away, man." Tyler shoved his hands in his pockets. "Just . . . you know. If you see something over the next week, maybe you could, you know. Bring it up."

"Sure," Shane agreed. That much seemed easy at least. If he saw something, he would definitely— "There is something, actually," he said, before he realized he was going to speak. "If you want to hear it."

"I mean, no." Tyler chuckled. "But yeah, man. Tell me."

"You're . . ." Shane swallowed. He really wished he'd thought about this before he opened his mouth. "You're taking it easy. You're coasting."

Tyler's brows pulled together like he wasn't sure he understood. "Holly—"

But Shane interrupted him before he could protest, offer some excuse. This was what his mother always said: you have to hear the feedback before you can respond. "Maybe it's right and maybe it's wrong, Shane," she would say, "but you have to listen before you can decide that." And Tyler had asked, so now he was going to hear, and he could hate Shane after if he wanted to.

"You're good," Shane told him. "But you've stopped developing your skills. I bet if you look at your stats you're going to see that you've plateaued, yeah?"

Tyler stared at him. "I mean, I guess—"

But Shane shook his head. He wasn't done. "You're not challenging yourself. You're playing to the level you're at, not the level you want to be. If you don't grow your skills, especially your playmaking, you're going to end up as a lead pony for the next crop of rookies."

"Wait, what the fuck is a 'lead pony'?" Tyler asked.

"It's the horse they use to train the horses who get to race," Shane said, simply.

Tyler stared at him for a long minute, like he was trying to decide whether to strangle Shane or hug him. Finally, he sighed. "Fuck, Holly," he said. "You really don't pull a fucking punch, do you?"

"Sorry," Shane said. "I didn't—"

"No, you know what?" Tyler straightened up, squared his shoulders. "I asked. I asked and you answered. So, thanks, man. I appreciate it."

"Oh. Yeah. You're welcome." Shane paused, uncertain what to do next. He needed to get into the locker room and get changed, but it didn't feel like he could just walk away, not after what he'd said. He hooked his thumbs into his pockets.

"I'm just gonna . . ." Tyler took a deep breath. "I'm gonna hang out here for a minute, if that's cool. I'll see you in there."

"Sure. Sounds good," Shane said. "Um. Let me know if you have any other questions."

Tyler laughed. "Maybe after I recover from this one, man. I'll be there in a minute."

Shane nodded. He wondered for a second if he should try to give Tyler a hug or if that would make it worse. He also wondered if he'd just fucked up his relationship with the only guy at camp besides Rozanov who actually liked him. But what was done was done, another saying of his mother's, so after a few more, silent seconds, Shane walked away.

***

Ilya loved being out on the ice with his teammates, always had, even in the dark days following his mother's accident, when his father had stalked through the house like a vengeful ghost and his brother had disappeared into a haze of drugs and alcohol for the first time, Ilya had found peace on the ice. There, everything else fell away and he could be left alone with his stick and his body and his fellow players until practice was over. That had remained true through his time in amateur hockey and his time at the Raiders, the one thing he could count on, when the language or his emotions or his family failed him.

And it was still true now, as his black team worked the one-timer drills that the coaches had lined up for them, rotating through their line to take shots on goal like carousel horses, one after the other. Ilya made all of his, of course—easy when there was no goalie in the crease—but he wasn't paying attention as much as he would have to the shots of the others, offering tips and encouragement, to his teammates like he should as the senior player on the team, because all he could think about was Shane Hollander.

The blue team was diagonal across the rink from them, circling through their own one-timer drill, but even from a distance, even in a crowd of guys all dressed the same, Ilya knew which one was Hollander. He was instantly recognizable. The way he held his stick, light and controlled. The shift of his weight on his skates. The set of his shoulders. Ilya did not need to see the number on the back of a jersey to identify Hollander.

They had been interrupted this morning by hockey obligations, that was why Ilya could not keep himself from glancing over. That was all. If he'd gotten his dick sucked, he would not be so distracted. Maybe Hollander would want to skip lunch and head back to their room early, finish what they had started this morning. His dick twitched in anticipation.

"Rozanov!" one of the coaches snapped. Ilya looked up, guilty, but he hadn't missed his turn in the drill. Instead, the coach shooed him over to the boards, where little Angela stood, her tablet clutched to her chest.

"Ilya Rozanov," she said as he skated up. "Hello."

"Ilya." He smiled warmly at her, but she didn't smile back, an anomaly among women, who were normally soft and affectionate toward him. Or aggressively sexual, but Angela wasn't one of those.

"We need you to do promotional shots after morning skate," she told him.

"Today?" Ilya asked, but he knew the answer before Angela gave a curt little nod.

"All the MLH players are required to do at least one, and some of the AL, upon request. It's in your agreement."

"Of course," Ilya said. He was sure it was, and his objections had been quelled by the mention of the other MLH players. If Hollander was here, then he might as well be here as well. His dick could wait until this evening.

"You're not difficult at all," Angela said.

Ilya blinked. "What?"

"That's your reputation," she said, glancing at her tablet like she had his personnel file on there. Maybe she did. "That you can be difficult. But you aren't. At least not yet."

Difficult. Ilya wondered who had said that. Whether it was someone he liked or not.

He tried to smile. "No, not yet."

"I don't mind difficult," Angela told him, matter-of-fact, like she was telling him her favorite color. "It usually just means there's a problem to solve. I like problems."

"Maybe I should create a problem for you then?" he asked, aiming for teasing, but Angela's gaze through her glasses was direct and stern.

"I wouldn't," she said. "Sometimes people don't like the solutions. Can you please ask Andrew Sullivan to come over?"

Ilya nodded sharply, the way he would nod to a coach. "Of course. Thank you, Angela."

"Thank you, Ilya Rozanov," she said, and he was dismissed.

He skated over to the corner where the red team drilled, carving out Sullivan. "The colonel would like to speak with you," he said, tilting his head toward Angela.

"It's wrong that she scares me, right?" Sully said, glancing over his shoulder like he was afraid Angela could hear him.

"No." Ilya shook his head. "Not wrong at all."

***

The broke for lunch at 12:30 and Angela corralled the four MLH players, Ilya, Hollander, Lemaire, and Sullivan, in one of the boxes while the promotional team assembled the set and arranged the lighting, sliding on the ice in their work boots like deer with beer bellies.

"How long do you think this is going to take?" Hollander asked. He sat on Ilya's right, fidgeting with the tape on the end of his stick.

"Why? You have big lunch plans, Hollander?" Ilya glanced over to see if Hollander would blush, if he had been thinking the same thing Ilya had been thinking about lunch.

"Shut up," Hollander muttered, but he smiled at his stick. Maybe he had been thinking the same thing. "I'm just hungry."

"Me too." Ilya bumped Hollander's shoulder with his own. "Starving."

Hollander didn't answer, but Ilya could see the flush in his cheeks and it made him want to bite them. He wanted to bite Hollander a lot, lately.

He'd known he wanted to fuck Hollander almost immediately, from the first moment they'd shared water in the gym, when he watched as Hollander squeezed the bottle in his big hand, his lips open, his eyes on Ilya. Not a surprise; Ilya had known that he liked men, especially dark-haired men with dark eyes, since he was a teenager. So yes, he'd wanted to fuck Hollander.

The surprise was how much he liked Hollander.

He hadn't expected to. Hollander's reputation was one of rigidity and routine. Boring. Hollander didn't drink, didn't fight, barely chirped, only scored, racked up point after point, goal after goal, game after game.

The reputation wasn't wrong, exactly: all of those things were true about Hollander. But the rest of the truth was that behind his routines, Hollander was thoughtful. Funny. Sexy. He was focused, smarter about hockey than almost anyone Ilya had ever met. But he wasn't a dick about it. He was . . . friendly. He was quiet, but he cared. And the more time Ilya spent with him, the more he wanted to spend.

"Hey!" Lemaire shouted from the far end of the bench. He was waving his hand in the air, trying to get the attention of Angela, who was on the ice talking to the crew. "Excuse me, miss! Assistant! What's her name?" he asked the rest of them.

"Angela," Sullivan, who was next to him, answered.

"Hey, Angela!" Lemaire snapped his fingers. "Can you come here, please? Angela!"

Angela turned, her clipboard tucked into the crook of her arm, and surveyed them. Ilya stayed perfectly still, as if by doing so, she would not notice him. After a long look, she came over. She was on skates, Ilya realized, and from the hockey stop she executed at the boards, she knew what she was doing.

"Can I help you, Vincent Lemaire?" she asked.

"Yeah, we were just wondering how long this was going to be. We're supposed to get lunch breaks, and this is really cutting into that, already. So . . ."

"Lunch will be provided," Angela answered.

"Sure, but we're supposed to have breaks," Lemaire said. "So we can rest. We don't want to just sit here and waste our time."

Angela squinted at him like he'd started speaking a language she didn't understand. "Aren't you resting now?" Ilya bit his lip to stop himself from laughing.

Vincent blinked. "I mean, yeah, but—"

"Okay. I'll let you know when lunch arrives." Angela pushed off backward, eyes on Lemaire, and when he didn't say anything else, pivoted and skated back to the crew.

"She got you," Sully laughed, clapping Lemaire on the knee.

"Bitch," Lemaire muttered.

"Hey!" Hollander said.

Ilya was not so diplomatic. "Shut your fucking mouth," he said, glaring down the bench.

"I was asking for all of us, Rozanov," Lemaire snapped. "How long do you want to sit here?"

"The problem wasn't the asking," Hollander said. "Don't call people names, asshole."

"Oh fuck off," Lemaire muttered, slumping on the seat. "Try to do one favor," he muttered before one of the coaches glided up to the boards with a clipboard to talk them through what the shoot would entail. Ilya made a big show of listening and asking questions, and when the coach looked down at the papers on his clipboard for the answers, Ilya flipped Lemaire off with both hands.

***

None of the stuff they were asked to do was very hard, but there was so much of it: stills with different combinations of them to accommodate whatever matches ended up in the prime television spot, and individual beauty shots, and action sequences to be clipped into the promo videos for social media. MASE apparently hadn't paid for voice rights, because Angela killed Sullivan's idea of them asking each other funny questions on film, but she seemed determined to get as much video and as many photos of them as possible, each shot set up carefully and repeated until she was satisfied.

The last set of still shots was all four of them, arranged in various ways in their team color jerseys: backs showing their names, fronts staring seriously down the camera lens, and finally one of them all in a line from the front of the line, the camera practically right up Sully's nose. For that one, they had to line up by height, standing practically on top of each other, and there was a brief tussle between Ilya and Hollander to determine who was taller.

"Admit it, Hollander, I am taller," Ilya told him, holding him in position in front of him.

"That's not true," Hollander protested, wriggling. "You're stretching!"

"Is just good posture," Ilya said.

"Okay," Angela said, cutting off their argument. "Shane Hollander, you will be in front of Ilya Rozanov. That way the photo will alternate between blonds and brunettes."

"Told you," Ilya murmured, as they got into line.

"You're not taller," Hollander muttered.

"It's cause he's prettier than you," Lemaire sniped.

"Yes, maybe," Ilya told him. "That's why you are in back where the ugliest stand."

"You're just jealous because I'm taller than you," Lemaire said.

"Maybe," Ilya agreed. "But then I saw your slap shot and poof. No more jealousy."

"Fuck you, Rozanov."

"No, thank you," Ilya said. "I only fuck hot people."

"Can you guys shut up, please?" Hollander asked over his shoulder. "Let's just get this done."

"Yes, yes, okay," Ilya said, putting one hand on Hollander's ribs like he needed it for balance, and pretending he didn't notice Hollander twitch when he felt it.

***

Final shots were the individual action videos, skating up to the net, a slap shot, a backhand, and a trick shot if you wanted to try one. Lemaire stepped to the line first, ready to go, but Angela waved him off. "Let's go by height again, so we don't have to adjust the cameras in between takes. Andrew Sullivan?" She gestured Sullivan to the front of their short line. Lemaire rolled his eyes and sighed, but said nothing.

They cruised through the drills, fast because of the open net, one, two, three, except for Lemaire who had to redo his because the camera malfunctioned during his first try and had to be completely rebooted.

"I think I love her, Hollander," Ilya said, nodding at Angela, who stood straight up on her skates, her tablet folded to her chest, head craned back as she explained something to a very irate Lemaire. Sullivan had said something about the bathroom, but Ilya and Hollander were in the box once again, waiting for Lemaire to finish.

Hollander flinched. "What?"

"Assistant Angela," Ilya said, watching Lemaire's shoulders slump as Angela spoke. "She has ice water for blood. It makes me feel things."

"Oh." Hollander snorted, shaking his head. "You're crazy."

"Yes, crazy with love." Ilya sighed, making exaggerated moon eyes at Angela.

Hollander rolled his eyes. "It doesn't look like we're going to get back to the hotel before evening skate," he said.

Ilya glanced at the digital clock at the end of the rink. Almost four. By the time Lemaire was done, maybe a little after four pm, unless Angela decided to torture him some more. Then gear and showers, and the van, which meant they would be back to the hotel at five, five fifteen, at the earliest, barely enough time to eat before getting back in the van for evening skate.

"No, probably not," Ilya agreed.

"Too bad," Hollander said, his voice low and soft, like he was sharing a secret.

Ilya glanced over at him. Hollander had his eyes down, like he was looking at the small slice of bench between them, like that bit of painted wood was something interesting. "Yes, too bad. Maybe I will go to bed early tonight after practice."

Hollander's eyes flicked to his. "Yeah," he said. "I probably will."

Ilya gazed at him, the sweep of his black lashes, the splash of freckles across his cheekbones. He shouldn't, he knew, because looking at Hollander like this gave too much away, not to others, but to Hollander himself, but he couldn't help it. Hollander was so pretty.

"Okay," Angela called, breaking the trance. "That's a wrap. We'll be bringing dinner in in about an hour, so please stay in the general area, but otherwise, you're free."

"Thank God," Lemaire groaned.

"Vincent Lemaire," Angela said, her voice calm. "Can I speak to you for a minute?"

"Oh shit," Hollander muttered. "Let's get out of here before she notices us."

They scrambled back to the locker room, bumping into Sully on the way and letting him know about dinner. Once behind the double doors, Ilya stripped down to his practice jersey and shorts, changing out his boot socks for regular socks and tennis shoes. He'd have to get geared up again for scrimmages, but for now, he was free.

Hollander, he noticed, had done the same, hanging his game jersey up in his locker instead of leaving it on the bench like Ilya had. Chastised, Ilya hung his up, too.

"Want to hit the weights?" Hollander asked.

Ilya shook his head. "No, I don't want to think about hockey right now, Hollander. You heard Miss Angela: we are free until scrimmage."

"Yeah, but we can't leave."

"No, but we can escape. Put your shoes on. C'mon."

"Okay, okay, hang on. Jeez." Hollander plopped down on the bench to tug on his shoes and Ilya was hit with the recollection, another locker room, another Shane Hollander trying to put on his shoes. That had been their first encounter, not that long ago either in time or in experience, but in memory it felt like years since he and Hollander had been such strangers to each other. He must have been staring, because Hollander glanced up and gave him a weird look. "What?" he asked.

"No, nothing," Ilya said, unable to describe the fondness for sneakers that had welled in him. "Are you ready or do you need me to tie your shoes for you?"

Hollander rolled his eyes. "Shut up," he said. "Let's go."

***

Ultimately, they didn't go far, just wandered around the arena for a while, walking the empty concourses, past the covered popcorn carts and the gated concession stands. It wasn't as nice as the arena in Boston, not as big, but it was newer. Ilya would not have been ashamed to play here if he hadn't been picked first in the draft. Eventually, they settled into seats halfway up into the stands on the far side of the rink from the locker room, high enough that they could see the whole ice. The photo sets had been removed and a couple of coaching assistants were out already, setting up for scrimmages.

"Wow," Hollander said as they sat down. "We're crazy rebels. Look at us."

Ilya snorted. "More crazy than the weight room."

"Not much." Shane pulled up his feet, stretched his legs out so they hung over the chair in front of him, slouching in his seat. "What do you think of everything so far?"

Ilya shrugged. "It's good. Fine. What the league is getting out of it I don't know, but I don't mind. Why? What do you think?"

"Same," Hollander said. "I like the other guys—"

"Not Lemaire," Ilya said, and Hollander smiled.

"No, not him, really. But everyone else seems good. I guess it'll depend on ratings and, like, social media stuff. My mom says if it really takes off it might become a real thing, like the actual All-Star Game."

Ilya had his doubts—the real All-Star Game had actual All-Stars, not just him and Hollander and a handful of rookies and college players—but he nodded. No point in arguing with Hollander about his mother. "Maybe. Maybe."

"How's your team shaping up?" Hollander asked.

"You are what? Spying now?" Ilya teased. "Good, they are good. Mac is good goalie, and Jason is very fast on wing. Almost as fast as me."

"Tyler asked me how he could make it to the show today," Hollander said.

"Really?" Ilya raised his eyebrows. That was a big question. Ilya couldn't imagine asking another player what he should be doing differently, showing that soft underbelly. At least, Tyler had picked the right person to ask. "What did you say?"

"I don't know." Hollander scrutinized his fingernails for a second. "I told him he needed to up his playmaking."

Ilya nodded. "He does."

Hollander picked at one of his cuticles, eyes down. "I said if he doesn't improve, he's going to end up as a lead pony."

Ilya inhaled. He hadn't expected such a harsh truth from Hollander. "Wow."

"I know," Hollander said. "I know. But he asked and it's true. He's good, but that's what's going to happen if he doesn't level up."

"Remind me never to ask you shit," Ilya said.

"Shut up!" Hollander threw his head back, hands in his hair. "I knew I shouldn't have said anything!"

"No, no." Ilya patted his shoulder. His arms looked fucking amazing in the snug fabric of the compression shirt, but this probably wasn't the time to tell him that. "It's good you told him. It's true. He should know."

Hollander, head still back, glared at him out of the corner of his eye. "Really?"

"Yes. Of course you should tell him." Ilya rubbed his knee, reassuringly. It was good. Good that Tyler had asked, and good that Hollander had told the truth. "Who better to break his spirit than his idol, Shane Hollander?"

"Oh my God, fuck you!" Hollander shoved his hand away.

"Sorry! Sorry." Ilya laughed, drumming both hands on Hollander's solid thigh. "No, really, it's good you said. He should know."

"Yeah, maybe." Hollander sighed.

"No, I mean it," Ilya said. "The truth pricks, but is worth it."

"Truth hurts," Hollander corrected absently, looking at his nails again.

"Yes, that's what I said." Ilya circled his fingers around Hollander's wrist, pulled his hand to Ilya's leg. "Better now than a year from now, or two, or three. Right now, he still has a chance."

"Yeah, maybe," Hollander said again, his fingers drawing delicate circles on Ilya's knee that tingled like electric shocks. He glanced up through his lashes at Ilya. Fuck. They were so pretty. He could stare into Shane Hollander's eyes for a week and not be tired of them.

"Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov," Angela called, and Ilya shot up out of his seat, away from Hollander's hand. She was waving to them from the aisle three or four rows up, which was why they hadn't seen her, and she carried a plastic tray in one hand piled with white paper bags, two bottled waters tilting precariously as she navigated the steps.

"Miss Angela, my love!" Ilya met her in their row, took the tray from her, leaned in to air kiss her cheek, which she did not return. "You have brought us gifts!"

"I brought you dinner," she corrected. "Mexican, from a place near here. It's labelled with your names to ensure you get the proper nutrition," she called over Ilya's shoulder to Hollander. "So please read the bags."

"My queen!" Ilya made a kissy face at her. "You are so good to us!"

"Thank you, Angela," Hollander called.

"You're welcome, Shane Hollander." She looked past Ilya to Hollander for a moment, her lips pursed like she was thinking about saying something, then, without speaking, turned on one heel and walked away.

"Hollander, I think you just stole my girlfriend," Ilya told him.

***

From his prior experience with Mexican food, Shane had expected dinner to be heavy, full of beans and cheese, and Rozanov's food did look sort of like that, but the bags labelled with his name had containers of freshly grilled seafood and chicken sprinkled with spices, a stack of tortillas that looked like they were made with real corn, and a clamshell of grilled vegetables that smelled like heaven when he opened it. There was also a bag of chips and a side of guacamole in a bag labelled "both."

They fell silent while they ate, except for the crunching of chips and little grunts of happiness. The food was amazing, and Shane wondered about the name of the restaurant before realizing that he probably would not need the name of a Mexican restaurant in Arizona after this week. At least not very often. Maybe he would ask anyway. Regardless, it was peaceful to sit and eat and watch the assistant coaches down on the ice like worker ants, setting up cones and nets for the arrival of the rest of the guys, nothing to do, nowhere to be but right here.

When they were both mostly done eating, picking casually at the remnants of the tortilla chips, sipping water, Rozanov sighed happily. "What's been your best part, so far?" He smirked. "Besides, you know."

Shane ignored the innuendo, sucking a piece of chicken from his teeth. "Probably scrimmages, so far," he said. "But I'm looking forward to some actual games."

"Yes. It will be most fun when I beat you on television on Saturday."

Shane laughed. "Okay, first, you aren't going to win, and second, we beat each other on television all the time."

Rozanov grinned, his chin lifting impishly like a little kid's. "Yes, and is fun every time."

"Oh my God." Shane shoved him.

When Rozanov tipped back, his shoulder came to rest against Shane's, warm and solid, and he yawned, once, his whole jaw cracking open like he was one of those snakes who could swallow an elephant. "Hold still," he told Shane and ducked his head to Shane's shoulder.

For a second, Shane thought about shrugging him off, but why? They were in public, nothing was going to happen, guys did shit like this all the time. Rozanov had done this to him yesterday, on the bus. And he liked it, Rozanov being affectionate with him, like maybe they actually liked each other, apart from whatever else they did. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you go back to Russia after this, or straight to Boston?" he asked.

"Boston. Training camp is too soon to go back to Russia. All the jet lag." Rozanov's hand flipped back and forth in front of him, sketching the idea of an international flight in the air.

"Your family must be sad that your break got cut short." He remembered how upset Rozanov had been in Vegas and wondered if that had been a final wave of homesickness before he got to go back.

"Mmm," Rozanov said. "They are okay. They know this is good opportunity. Your family misses you?"

Shane shrugged with the shoulder Rozanov wasn't leaning on. "I guess, but I see them a lot. Ottawa is only two hours."

"Easy commute," Rozanov said. "You have brothers? Sisters?"

"No." Shane shook his head. "It's just me and my parents. What about you? Any other Rozanovs the MLH needs to worry about?"

"No, my brother is older. He is in family business: police."

"Did he play?" Shane asked, wondering what Rozanov's brother could possibly be like. He'd always wanted a brother when he was little, someone to hang out with him, explain other people to him. He thought maybe that his parents had wanted another kid, for a while, but it hadn't happened.

"A little," Rozanov answered. "But he was not very good. He did not like the practice."

Shane nodded. A common problem for kids. They would come in excited about the game and lose interest once they had to spend time drilling and practicing skills in order to advance. Shane had never really played another sport, but he thought maybe hockey was harder in that way, the learning curve steeper, more arduous. "You liked the practice?"

"I liked the time away from home," Rozanov said. "You loved the practice, I bet."

Shane chuckled. "I used to have a little notebook I wrote down all my drills and results in, every day, so I could see if I was improving."

Rozanov lifted his head from Shane's shoulder, eyes wide, smile delighted. "Please tell me you still have this."

"Shut up," Shane said. "My mom probably still does, somewhere. She keeps everything."

"I must see this." Rozanov tucked his head back down onto Shane's shoulder. "You must show me."

It was a joke, of course, Rozanov was teasing him, but the image of it popped instantly into Shane's head: Rozanov at his parents' house in Ottawa, at their kitchen table, chin in his hand, the battered spiral bound notebook open in front of him while Shane's mother pointed out how this drill or that drill revealed that Shane was struggling with his wrist shots or something.

Ridiculous, of course, for so many reasons, not the least of which was that Yuna Hollander would never want a Boston Raider at her kitchen table, but the thought made Shane's stomach feel empty with a hunger that couldn't be sated by Mexican food. "Yeah, okay," he agreed in a tone that meant Rozanov would never see the notebook. "Now you. Tell me one of your embarrassing childhood secrets."

"No, I have none," Rozanov said. "I was always very cool."

"Oh, okay." Shane rolled his eyes.

"Okay, I will tell you one thing. Not as bad as your hockey notebook, though, I am warning you."

"No, of course not," Shane agreed.

"Okay, when I was very young, I used to be nervous to play. Not in practice with my own team, but against other boys."

"Sure," Shane said. He wasn't sure how this was embarrassing: a lot of kids got nervous before games. He sometimes still got nervous if it was a big game.

"And sometimes I would get so scared of playing that I would, blech, puke, before."

Okay, Shane had never puked before a game due to nerves, but he'd been in hockey his whole life: this didn't sound that embarrassing. "That's it?"

"Yes, big hockey star, Ilya Rozanov, is chicken hearted about playing."

"Are you still?" Shane asked. "Do you still throw up before games?"

"No, not for long time."

"When was the last time?" Shane asked.

Rozanov was silent against his shoulder for a long moment, so long Shane wondered if he hadn't heard or had just decided not to answer. Then Rozanov sighed. "Prospect Cup."

Shane sat straight up. "The Prospect Cup?! That was, like, wait—the first one or the second one?"

Rozanov, who had flopped against the back of his own seat when Shane sat up, scowled up at him. "Second one."

"The second one!" Shane laughed. "This is amazing! I will never forget this."

Rozanov rolled his eyes. "Yes, tell everyone."

Shane paused. He was pretty sure Rozanov was just pretending to be upset, but the idea that he would tell . . . "No, hey. I'm not going to tell people. I wouldn't."

"No?" Rozanov was slouched in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, suddenly young-looking, like he had been not at the second Prospect Cup, but the first. The secret was embarrassing for him, Shane realized. And he had told Shane anyways.

"No," Shane said. He wanted to touch Rozanov, to take his hand, pat his knee again, something to reassure him, but they were in the stands, where anyone could see. "Promise."

Rozanov nodded to himself, then looked up at Shane, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile. "You and me, we have a lot of secrets between us, Hollander."

"We do," Shane admitted.

"Do you like that?" Rozanov asked. His expression had turned serious, his eyes intense, his voice low.

"I do," Shane answered, almost a whisper. "I want—"

On the ice, the player gate clanged, and Shane's head snapped up. Two or three guys stepped out onto the ice. One of them, Jesus Ortega, Shane realized, saw them and waved. Shane waved back.

"What do you want, Hollander?" Rozanov asked, his voice low, his face neutral.

I want to kiss you right here, he thought, the stupidest of all stupid ideas, and the time for confessions was over. "Nothing," he said. "Looks like practice is getting ready to start. See you down there."

He rose from his seat, gathering the white bags their lunch had come in into a pile on the tray, and leaving the aisle.

"Hollander," Rozanov said behind him, but Shane did not turn around.

***

"I want," Hollander had said, before they had been interrupted. "I want." The phrase ran in circles in Ilya's head for the rest of practice, every time he caught a glimpse of Hollander in a scrimmage, or sitting in the box chatting with the other members of his team, or squirting water from the water bottle into his mouth. "I want."

Ilya wanted, too, too many things. He wanted his brother to stop being such an asshole, and he wanted another taco from the Mexican place, and he wanted his mother to be alive, and he wanted the new Mercedes roadster, and he wanted to spend every spare second of his day with Shane Hollander, even the boring seconds. Especially the boring seconds.

But what did Hollander want? The unfinished sentence haunted Ilya, made it hard for him to focus, and when he did manage to put it out of his head, he would look up a few minutes later, disoriented, trying to find Hollander in the crowd, only to realize that he still didn't have an answer.

He fumbled through practice, making excuses about being tired from the working lunch, and hurried through showers and changing, hoping to be on the first van back to the hotel, but one of the coaches cornered him as he was heading out, wanted a debrief on the promotional shoot, and Ilya was forced to stop and describe it to him, keeping his face neutral through the coach's questions even though he wanted to scream "let me go!" right in his puffy, old face.

He even thought about calling a taxi rather than waiting for the van to come back, but he wasn't sure of the address of the hotel, and by the time he'd found listings for taxi companies on his phone, the beat-up white van was pulling into the roundabout.

His leg jiggled the whole ride back, although he didn't know why. He had nothing to be nervous about. Maybe it had been the story of his childhood embarrassment, the reminder of his shame, that had triggered this sympathetic reaction in him, stirring up those old feelings of fear and lack. He'd hidden that for so long, how his stomach had churned, the pressure building up in him before games to "skate strong, do well, honor this family" until it burst from his lips with whatever lunch or breakfast he had managed to choke down. Most of the time, he'd been able to hide in the toilets beforehand, but more than once, his teammates or his coaches had caught him out. Ilya had been glad when it was only the other players who saw: they had not felt obligated to tell his father. He couldn't believe he'd told Hollander about that.

Ilya was out of the van almost before it stopped, waving off the comments of his teammates, rushing through the lobby of the hotel, and out to the pool area. Once he was up on the second floor walk, though, Ilya slowed down. He was fine. There was nothing to be worried about. There was no reason to be in a rush. Hollander would be in the room, and they could talk, and Hollander could tell him what he had been about to say at the rink, and this strange anxiety that has risen in his belly would be soothed.

He unlocked the door, and set his key on the scarred little table next to the couch, next to Hollander's key.

"Hey."

Ilya turned at the sound of Hollander's voice, and his breath stopped in his chest. Shane Hollander, perfect, polite Shane Hollander, leaned in the doorway to his bedroom, both hands hooked at the top of the doorframe, wearing nothing but Ilya's cropped sweatshirt and a pair of blue boxer briefs, his whole lean stomach exposed.

"Fuck you," Ilya told him. He reached behind himself to make sure the door was latched and locked, then crossed the room and slid both hands up Hollander's sides, under the gaping hem of the sweatshirt and over his nipples, then down his back, cupping his ass. Hollander shivered against him. "You know what you're doing."

Hollander smiled and dropped his arms so they circled Ilya's neck, like they were about to waltz slowly around the room, gazing right at Ilya. "What am I doing?"

Ilya glided one hand up Hollander's back to press between his shoulder blades, squeezed his ass with the other. His cock was already hard just from this, just from holding him. "You make me want to fuck you."

Hollander shook his head, just a little, still smiling. "We can't. Not here. Not with everyone right outside."

Ilya squeezed Hollander's ass again, hard. "Why did you wear this, then? Is a special outfit to tell me 'not here'?"

Hollander grinned, still shaking his head. "It's a special outfit to get you to suck my dick," he said.

"Ahh." Ilya slipped both hands into Hollander's briefs, hoisting him up by his ass, Hollander's legs coming around his waist. "Good fucking choice."

He staggered into Hollander's bedroom and tipped onto the bed, Hollander still attached to his front. He reared back to strip Hollander's underwear off while Hollander wriggled out of the sweatshirt, then fell back onto him, hooking his arms around Hollander's thighs, smearing kisses along them as he went. He would never say it, because he did not know how in English without sounding like he was saying Hollander was not in shape, but he loved how Hollander's muscular body had a kind of lushness, a softness, that his own lacked. It made him want to press his face into Hollander's belly, bite tenderly at the insides of his thighs, which he did, making Hollander yelp. Ilya grinned.

"I've been waiting for this all day," Hollander murmured, one hand in Ilya's curls.

Ilya kissed the sparse patch of hair just above Hollander's mostly-hard cock. Did he trim it or was Hollander just like this? Ilya didn't know, but suddenly he wanted to. "Oh, yes? You have been waiting?"

"Yeah," Hollander sighed, his head tilting back as Ilya pulled his cock between his lips. "Fuck, Rozanov."

"No, no." Ilya lifted his head, releasing Hollander, who groaned, eyes wide.

"What?" he asked. "What's wrong? Is it—I showered—"

"No, is not that." Ilya kissed the crease of Hollander's inner thigh, keeping his arms tight so Hollander couldn't pull away, so he couldn't pull away from what he was about to say. "When we do this, you must call me 'Ilya'. No more, 'Rozanov, Rozanov,' not in here."

Hollander paused for a second. "Ilya," he said, like he was tasting it. ". . . it sounds . . . strange."

Ilya smirked. "It will not sound so strange when you are cumming."

Hollander laughed. "Okay, then. Ilya. Shane." He held his hand out like he was closing a business deal.

Ilya, whose arms were still wrapped around Shane's thighs, snapped playfully at the tips of his fingers. "Mr. Business Man. What are you doing?"

Shane chuckled. "I have no idea." He stretched his hand out further to touch Ilya's lips, and sighed when Ilya sucked his middle finger in, flicked it with his tongue, then released it.

"Nice to meet you, Shane," Ilya said. "Now I am going to suck your dick some more, okay?"

Shane smiled, eyes closing like he was dreaming. "Okay." He nodded. "Ilya."

Ilya nuzzled into Hollander's—Shane's—crotch, kissing the flat, soft plane of his abdomen where it slid toward his erection, licking over his testicles, swiping his tongue up Shane's smooth, hard cock, which bounced against his mouth until he got the angle right, got it between his lips, so every thrust of Shane's hips pushed it deeper.

"oh fuck, Roz—Ilya," Shane gasped, his hands clenched in the sheets. "Your mouth, Ilya. Your fucking mouth."

You're fucking my mouth, Ilya thought, amused, tightening his arms around Shane's thighs so he couldn't get away. He couldn't get all of Shane in—Shane was too big and Ilya had never practiced that—but he couldn't stop himself from trying, flattening his tongue, breathing through his nose. It was too beautiful, Shane writhing on the mattress, legs flexing in his arms, chest flushed, not to try. Shane's hands groped for the mattress, then his own hair, then back to Ilya's, fluttering around Ilya's head like moths around a light.

"oh my god, Ilya," Shane moaned, his voice urgent. Ilya glanced up and met his eyes, then, so dark, so wide, caught on the sight of his own cock disappearing into Ilya's mouth, and he was thrusting faster, almost too fast, but Ilya barely noticed that he couldn't breathe because Shane was cumming inside him, in Ilya's mouth, his throat, chanting "fuck Ilya, fuck Ilya, Ilya, Ilya, Ilya" a song Ilya wanted to hear over and over and over.

When Shane finally collapsed onto the bedspread, Ilya pulled back, his throat sore, his face covered in saliva and semen that he wiped off with the hem of the t-shirt he was still wearing. He crawled up Shane's body while Shane's ribs were still heaving, flopping across him, face close so that they shared breath. Shane dragged his lips across Ilya's in a blissed-out semblance of a kiss, his tongue barely brushing the corner of Ilya's mouth. It was heaven, this, Shane wrecked by his attention and still reaching for him.

"Fuck," Shane muttered, once his breath slowed a bit. "Fuck, Ilya."

"I told you it would not sound funny," Ilya said, and felt Shane's smile against his own.

"Okay, you were right."

"What?" Ilya lifted his head so he could see Shane's face, his parted lips, the splash of freckles highlighted by his flushed cheeks. "You will have to speak up, Hollander, I could not hear you."

Shane arched up under him, suddenly, one leg around Ilya's ankle, one hand around Ilya's wrist, and flipped him onto his back, sprawling across him, pinning him on the mattress, grinning down at him. Ilya grinned back.

"You fucking heard me," Shane said.

"I heard you say that I am always right, that I am the best, and you will never question me."

Shane rolled his eyes. "You're ridiculous," he said. "But you were right." He pushed Ilya's hair back off his face, stroked his cheek with one thumb. "Not just about this," he added, surprising Ilya a little. He hadn't expected a real conversation. "You were right about the stuff at the rink, too."

Ilya shrugged against the mattress, made nervous by the sudden weight of the words. "Is nothing."

"No," Shane said immediately. "It's not. You're so good with them. I need to be better at that. I want to be Captain next year, or at least Alternate."

Ilya stared up at Shane, whose face had gone serious, his brows pulled together. He was no longer focused on Ilya, but somehow his intensity was just as sexy as the blowjob had been, maybe more so. Orgasms were easy, in Ilya's opinion, but this desire, this ambition that came from somewhere inside Shane that Ilya hadn't yet touched, this was different. More. "You want to be Captain?"

Shane blinked, like he'd forgotten that Ilya was there, on the bed, underneath him. "Yeah," he said, slowly. "Sorry. It's dumb."

"No," Ilya said, and craned his neck up to kiss him, first his mouth, then his jaw, then his neck. "I want this, also."

Shane smiled, leaning into the kisses. "Great. Another thing to be compared about."

"You like it." Ilya nipped at the skin on Shane's throat. "You would be lost without me."

Shane nuzzled Ilya's head to the side so he could plant his own kisses right under Ilya's ear. "And you would be bored without me," he murmured, his breath hot.

"No, you are boring," Ilya told him, but he was pretty sure the rod of his cock pressing up into Shane's stomach gave him away because Shane laughed in his ear.

"Yep, that's me," he said, and gripped Ilya's t-shirt in both fists and ripped it open.

***

One of the things Shane believed in, one of the core tenets of his philosophy of life, was that in the long run, preparation beat talent. Sure, natural ability was great, a gift, all of that, but preparation, research, practice, those were the difference makers. Which was why, after the second time that he and Ilya Rozanov had hooked up, Shane had spent hours watching blowjobs on his laptop, trying to pick up technique. He'd started with straight porn, a mistake that was ridiculous in retrospect, and became obvious pretty much immediately, because blowjobs in straight porn were insane. There was a lot of noise and a lot of smudged eye makeup and many of the women did not look like they were having a good time in ways that made Shane feel like he needed to call the authorities or something. Most of the ones that looked . . . fun were amateur videos, but those seemed really specific to the man at hand and not useful for informational purposes.

The gay ones were much better, and not just because they turned him on. The lighting was better, for one, and the participants did not look, for the most part, like they had been kidnapped (unless that was an element of the plot). Shane spent a lot of time watching videos, bookmarking the ones that were especially helpful or sexy, pausing them at critical junctures to make sure he understood what was happening. Obviously, there was no universal rule for "good blowjob" just like there was no universal strategy for winning a hockey game—you had to play the game in front of you—but at least he had a better understanding of the realm of options that were available to him.

So when he was faced with another man's penis in his mouth for only the third time in his life, Shane felt much more prepared than he had been the first or second time. While he knew, for example, from personal experience that the head of Rozanov's—Ilya's—cock was the most sensitive part, he knew from his research that many men liked attention on their balls as well, and when he ducked his head and sucked first one, then the other of Ilya's balls into his mouth, lips soft, tongue working, he learned that Ilya was one of those men, if the groan of "fuck, Shane" and the fingers tightening in Shane's hair were any indication.

Ilya also seemed to like being jerked off, the head of his cock captured in Shane's mouth at the bottom of each stroke, when it was most exposed, and he seemed to like his whole cock being licked all the way from under his balls to the tip and back down again, like it was an ice cream treat in danger of melting, and he especially seemed to like it when Shane sucked the head of Ilya's cock like he was trying to give it a hickey, Shane's tongue massaging it inside the unrelenting suction until Ilya's back arched involuntarily and his entire body went rigid except for his cock jerking and flooding Shane's mouth with cum, hot and salty, a prize for a job well done.

Shane swallowed what he could and wiped what had leaked out on the back of his hand and, surreptitiously, on Ilya's thigh when he put his head there, next to Ilya's still half-hard cock. On impulse, Shane flicked it with his tongue and Ilya's whole body jerked like he'd been given an electric shock.

"Fuck, Shane," Ilya breathed, his hand sliding from Shane's hair to his neck to his shoulder and up to tug affectionately on his hair. "Fuck. Come here. C'mere."

Shane hoisted himself to hands and knees and crawled up the bed until Ilya got hold of him and pulled him to where he wanted him, his fingers spread along Shane's jaw, his tongue in Shane's mouth like he was seeking a taste of himself. Shane closed his eyes and let himself be kissed until he was dizzy with it, his whole body relaxed and floating. He could do this for hours. He could do this for days. He thought maybe heaven was being kissed by Ilya Rozanov.

***

"You are staying with me tonight?" Ilya asked after a few minutes, his voice lazy and slow, like he already knew Shane's answer.

"Mmm." Shane tilted his head back so he could watch as he pushed Ilya's hair back from his forehead, the curls straightening between his fingers then springing back into shape when they slipped through. "I thought you were staying with me."

Ilya's smile was lazy, too, his eyes closed. "You are good like this?"

The truth was no, Shane was not good like this. He never slept naked, and he hadn't brushed his teeth, and the chain definitely wasn't on the door. Apparently, he was silent for too long considering his answer, because Ilya opened one eye.

"You are not." He sat up, sliding his arm out from under Shane's head. "Okay, five minutes. We meet back here. He slapped Shane on the thigh and got up.

For a second after Ilya left the room, Shane just lay in the rumpled bedclothes, trying to figure out how this had become his life. Was he really about to brush his teeth and get back into bed with Ilya Rozanov? Him? Shane Hollander, who the guys on his high school team had nicknamed Holy Hollander, because he never picked up girls? He rolled onto his back, hands in his hair, grinning, then pushed himself to his feet.

Once he was in clean underwear (just normal boxer briefs. Should he get fancier underwear if he and Rozanov were going to keep doing this? Sexier? What was sexier for guys?), Shane went to brush his teeth. Rozanov was in his room, talking in Russian to someone on the phone, but Shane couldn't tell if he was yelling or if that was just how Russian sounded. Whoever it was, Ilya was done by the time Shane finished, throwing his phone onto his bed and shutting it behind the door as Shane came out of the bathroom, so his hands were free to slide around Shane's waist and pull him close.

"Who was on the phone?" Shane asked, draping his arms over Ilya's shoulders.

Ilya made a face. "My brother. He is . . ." He sighed like there weren't words for what his brother was, but it wasn't good. "Give me a minute." He patted Shane's ribs and went into the bathroom, shutting the door. After a second, the water came on.

Shane went to the door and hooked the chain and tested the knob. Locked. The room was dark, except for the ambient light from the pool deck that filtered through the blinds, and Shane could hear the murmur of voices, faint splashes of water, that meant some of the guys were at the pool. Shane pressed his hand flat against the door frame. What would they say if they knew what had happened in room 224? What was about to happen? The question terrified and thrilled him.

Behind him, the bathroom door opened. "You are trying to escape, Hollander?" Ilya asked, coming in close, his hands on Shane's hips, his mouth on Shane's neck.

Shane ducked his head, smiling. "Yeah. I was about to make a run for it."

"You will have to be faster if you expect to get away from me." Ilya nipped at his throat. "C'mon."

Shane followed back to his own room, laughing as Ilya launched himself onto the mattress, landing in a flurry of sheets and pillows. He glanced back over his shoulder at the living room, the yellowish light from the window, the lumpy shadow of the couch. Faint and faraway, he heard someone laughing. Then he shut the bedroom door.

Chapter End Notes

As far as I can tell, the concept of the "lead pony" does not exist in hockey slang, but it was such a perfect idea for Tyler's situation that I had to include it here. In short, a lead pony in horse racing is a horse (usually not a pony, actually) who is calm and trained, and leads the thoroughbreds who are racing to the gate and helps keep them relaxed so that they can perform. In the baseball context, I have heard the term used to refer to minor league players whose job it is to help the next generation get prepared to make it to the Show. Think Crash Davis in the movie "Bull Durham" (although I don't believe the term is used in the movie, either). So that is what Shane is warning Tyler about: if you don't get your shit together, you're going to end up staying in the AHL helping others advance instead of making it yourself.

Also, I know the hockey custom is to shorten player names and add Zs, like Hollzy or Rozzy. But I didn't want to do that, so I didn't. And I like the juxtaposition of these huge hockey guys being called by girl names, like Holly or Rosey or Scarlett.

Chapter 5: Thursday

Chapter Summary

The boys of MASE throw a pool party.

Chapter Notes

Shane had hoped to wake up to a repeat of Wednesday, Rozanov—Ilya—curled up next to him or on top of him or around him, warm and heavy with sleep, but when his alarm went off, the bedroom door was open and he was alone in the bed. In the other room, Ilya was talking, again in Russian, again sounding unhappy, but when Shane came out of the bathroom, he was off the phone standing in the living room, already dressed.

"You are ready?" he asked.

Shane glanced down at himself, still in his underwear and nothing else. "No."

"No, sorry." Ilya ran a hand through his hair. "Of course not."

"You okay?" Shane asked.

Ilya lifted his head and looked at Shane like he was finally seeing him, a smile breaking across his face. "Yes, I am perfect. Come here." He held out a hand.

Shane didn't believe him—this was Ilya pretending to be fine—but he went anyway, happy for Ilya to pull him close, slide a hand down the back of his briefs and a tongue into his mouth. He'd never done this before, woken up with someone romantic (or sexual at least, he thought) and it felt luxurious, like he was on vacation instead of a work trip.

They could only kiss for a minute, though. It was torture to pull himself away from Ilya just as his cock was starting to swell, but they didn't have time, even for a quick jerk. The van would wait for them, but only so long. Shane made a mental note to set his alarm for earlier for Friday, so that he and Ilya would have time to mess around if they wanted to. They did have time, though, once Shane was dressed and ready, for Shane to pause before opening the door, his hand on the knob, and turn and look at Ilya, waiting.

Ilya had been fiddling with his phone and only glanced up when their forward momentum stalled. His brows pulled together in an instant of confusion, and then a grin split his face. "Oh," he said. "Of course."

Shane said nothing, just smiled as Ilya's hand came up and cradled his cheek, and Ilya leaned in, his perfect lips soft, his tongue gentle. When the kiss ended, Ilya stayed there, his forehead tipped against Shane's for a moment, eyes closed.

"Ilya," Shane said. "What's up?"

"No, nothing." Ilya stepped back. "Let's go. You are going to make us late, Hollander."

Shane rolled his eyes and opened the door.

***

The van was more crowded, a couple of additional guys crammed into seats, including Jesus Ortega, but Shane and Ilya still had the two front benches to themselves, a privilege of hierarchy, Shane thought, although he wouldn't have minded sharing.

"You know, you can be early for the bus," Lemaire said from the third row as they entered, but Shane didn't bother responding. He'd seen enough of Lemaire now to know that he was one of those people you liked less the better you knew them.

Out the window, the sun glared especially bright, but for some reason, it didn't seem as hot as it had the first couple of days. Was it actually cooler out, or was he acclimating to it? Shane didn't know. Either way, he liked it.

He liked everything today, actually. He liked the sun, sharp on the walls of the buildings, highlighting the curves of the mountains in the distance, glinting off the edges of the windows. He liked the chatter in the back of the van, about practice, about the party planned for that night, the rough back and forth of jocks who knew and liked each other. He even liked the thought of the party Tyler was planning for tonight, a pool party with girls from ASU, a break from the routine Shane had established here in Arizona that made the routine itself feel more sweet. And he especially liked Rozanov, leaned up against his own window on the other side of the aisle, chin in his hand, sunlight washing out the color of his blue eyes and highlighting his skin with gold.

***

Ilya pressed his face into his hand and tried to turn his mind to the arena, practice, drills, getting his little team ready for the competition that started tomorrow, but the little dramas of MASE weren't enough to distract him from what his brother had said on the phone.

His father was . . . not well. Ilya had suspected as much this summer, but the doctors, eager to make him happy, had said it was nothing, just the normal forgetfulness of his father getting older, and Ilya had believed them because he wanted to believe them, because belief meant that he could leave early, come to Arizona, to MASE.

To Shane.

He glanced over at Shane, sitting in his seat, looking out his own window, the straight line of his nose, his full lips, the profile of a prince from a fairy tale. Ilya hadn't known what it would be like to see Hollander here. He had yelled the last time they saw each other, and then they had kissed, and then Shane had stormed off. They'd exchanged a few text messages in the last few months, so Ilya had known that Hollander was speaking to him at least, and he'd thought that Hollander would probably be agreeable to another hook up or two, but he hadn't expected this. He would never have imagined that he could have Hollander in his bed every night, would be waking up with him every morning. He would not have dared to dream that Hollander would wait for him in their room in one of Ilya's shirts. Even now, having just kissed Shane up against the hotel room door, Ilya could hardly believe it was true. It was so outside the reality of the rest of his life.

He sighed, sinking back against the van seat. Maybe his brother was wrong, or lying, using the excuse of his father to pry more money out of Ilya's wallet. It wouldn't be the first time. There had been two "pregnancies" before his niece was born that had required payments, both women mysteriously vanishing after a new apartment, a new car, had materialized. Or maybe he could choose to believe that for now, for the next few days, just while he and Shane were still here at MASE. He could deal with his father and his brother next week, when he was back in Boston, when this dream with Hollander was over, and he was awake.

***

Shane had thought, or maybe assumed, that Tyler Donovan had been on the van with them for the ride in, but when he came out to the ice, Tyler was already there, skating patterns, hockey stick in hand. Shane watched for a second. Overspeed crossover circles, it looked like, a drill Shane had always enjoyed. Tyler looked better clockwise than counterclockwise, though, to a noticeable degree.

"Crossover! Crossover!" Shane shouted as Tyler started his next counterclockwise circle. "Push it, push your fucking feet, Donovan!"

On the ice, Tyler pushed, his whole body lower, his stick extended into the center of the circle he was skating, feet flying.

"Okay!" Shane clapped, stepping out onto the ice as Tyler slowed. "Okay, man."

Tyler glided up, panting a little, eyebrows up.

"You're a right shot?" Shane asked, although he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

Tyler nodded. "Yeah. Right-handed."

"Work on your off hand," Shane said. "I'm not saying change your shot, just work on it. You've got a discrepancy, there."

Tyler nodded again, sucking water from his bottle. "Yeah, I've been doing a lot more of that."

"Keep it up," Shane said. "Seriously. It was next level when I figured it out." He did not add that he'd figured it out when he was in Peewees: he'd learned something from yesterday. "I'll send you some links for drills you can try."

"Thanks, man," Tyler said. Unlike yesterday, he didn't look like he was about to cry, so Shane figured he'd done okay. "It's really cool of you to take the time."

"Oh, um." Shane tried to smile, taken aback by Tyler's sincerity. It was really nothing; anyone would have said something. "Sure. Anytime."

"Hey, we're going to do the alcohol run over lunch," Tyler said. "Any special requests?"

"No, not really." Shane didn't drink very often, so he didn't care what he drank. He might not even drink at the party, anyway: skills competition was tomorrow and he wanted to be fresh.

"You sure, man? I owe you."

Shane was certain that Tyler didn't owe him shit for the five seconds he'd taken out of his day, but there didn't seem to be any point in arguing with him. "I don't know . . . vodka, I guess," he offered. The shots he'd done with the veterans in Las Vegas had been vodka, and they had been okay, and Ilya liked vodka, he assumed, being Russian, so it seemed like a safe choice.

"Got you." Tyler clapped him on the arm. "Hey, Jace!" he called to Jason, who was coming out of the tunnel with Ilya and some of the other players. "Add vodka to the list for Holly."

"Got it." Jason tapped the side of his head, like he was making a mental note. Shane hoped they weren't going to spend a ton of money on vodka just for him, since he was only going to have one or two drinks at most, but it seemed like a dorky thing to say, so he didn't.

***

There were no photo shoots or other obligations for the professional players over lunch, so Ilya made a point of catching the first van back. He said nothing to Hollander about it, didn't even glance his way, but still Hollander climbed into the van a minute after him, taking his own seat across the aisle without even an acknowledgement.

Neither of them spoke until they were in the lobby of the hotel, the mouth-watering smell of fresh fish in Ilya's nose.

"You know," Shane said, facing straight ahead like he was talking to the lobby in general. "I'm not really hungry. I think I'm going to skip lunch today."

"Hmm," Ilya said in response. He watched as Shane crossed the lobby and went through the double glass doors on the far side, then he wandered into the conference room. White fish layered with lemon slices, pasta with a cream sauce, chicken breasts, plump and juicy, herbs scattered across them, a mound of roasted potatoes, none of it touched, yet . . . Ilya thought maybe he was going to skip lunch, too. He grabbed a roll from the basket at the end of the buffet table and left.

The pool deck was sweltering in the midday heat, the water perfectly still like glass reflecting the cloudless sky. The sun glaring off the white deck chairs. The only sound was the buzz of the air conditioners. Ilya strolled along the second-floor walkway, tossing his roll in one hand. Casual. Calm. Unbothered.

He was about to dig for his key when he realized that the door to 224 was ajar, just a little, just enough so that the latch bolt wasn't seated in the door frame and Ilya could push it open with one hand. Inside, the room was dim and cool, the air tinged with the smell of the antiseptic the cleaners used, the blinds pulled all the way down, the wall unit humming. Ilya pushed the door closed, dropped his bag next to Shane's on the floor, set his key beside Shane's on the table. Put the roll next to it. His bedroom door was closed against the afternoon sun, but Shane's was open.

The drapes were pulled, but enough of the unrelenting sun seeped around their edges for Ilya to see in the blue dark. The duvet had been folded down to the bottom of the bed, and Shane lay face down on the white sheet, arms folded under the pillow beneath his cheek, one leg bent, so that Ilya could see the arc of his back from his broad shoulders to his waist, the thick muscle of his thighs, the perfect round curve of his naked ass.

"Fuck," Ilya muttered, peeling off his shirt. "You are a terror, Hollander."

Shane chuckled, peering back over his shoulder, the one eye Ilya could see glimmering in the faint light. "I thought you were going to have lunch."

Ilya pulled his shorts down, and immediately got them tangled around the shoes he'd forgotten he still had on. He dropped to the mattress next to Shane's foot, trying to pry one shoe off with the other. "Yes. I am going to."

"Mmm." Shane sighed, shifting on the mattress, and Ilya couldn't wait, but closed one hand over Shane's calf, ran it up his leg against the grain of the sparse hair there, over the dip of the back of Shane's knee, and up his thigh until it hit the base of Shane's ass. Ilya's own shorts were still caught around one ankle and he still had one shoe on, but Shane's body, his body, laid out there . . . it was too much. Ilya leaned over and kissed Shane's hip, the dimple above his ass. They'd barely even touched and his cock was already hard and aching for it.

Ilya trailed his fingers lightly over Shane's buttocks, dipped between them. "Let me kiss you here."

Shane paused, his eyes big in the dark over his shoulder. "No one's ever . . ."

"So let me, then," Ilya said.

Shane hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

"Okay?" Ilya asked again. He wanted to, so desperately, wanted to kiss every inch of Shane's body, but he could also wait. If he had to. If waiting was what Shane wanted, he would wait forever.

"Okay," Shane said. "Yes."

Ilya kicked his remaining shoe and his shorts off and pulled himself on top of Shane's body, covering him, his stiff cock slotting naturally into the crevasse of Shane's ass. But his cock wasn't the point right now. Instead, Ilya kissed the back of Shane's neck, high up near his ear and down the line of his throat, full, wet kisses that made Shane squirm deliciously under him, whining a little. Ilya rubbed his lips across Shane's broad shoulder, nipping at the freckles there, then slid his tongue over Shane's shoulder blade to the bumps of his spine and began kissing his way down.

"Mmm." Shane's shoulders shifted as Ilya moved.

"What?" Ilya mumbled against Shane's trap muscle.

"Your beard," Shane said. "It's scratchy."

His beard? He hadn't shaved since yesterday, but his facial hair didn't grow very quickly. "Scratchy good or scratchy bad?"

"Good," Shane sighed, then moaned when Ilya rubbed his cheek along Shane's spine. "Yeah. Like that."

Ilya mashed his face against Shane's back, all the way down to the curve of his ass then back up, like a giant cat rubbing his scent on his owner. Shane arched into it, sighing, groaning in certain spots, not so much sexually, but just with pure animal pleasure. Ilya felt his own back start to itch: he would make Hollander do this to him, later, just to feel what it was like.

He paused for a moment at the mounds of Shane's ass, kissing into the dimple above each ass cheek, something Ilya had never seen before Shane, or had never noticed, which was the same thing. Suddenly, Ilya had a complete picture: himself, lying like this, his arms around Shane's ass, his cheek pillowed in one of those dimples while rain pattered on windows. What windows? Where were they? He didn't know, but a feeling of longing overcame him for a second, and he stopped, his mouth at the base of Shane's spine, waiting for it to pass.

"Ilya?" Shane asked over his shoulder.

"Yes." He pressed a kiss onto Shane's ass. He had scooted down the mattress as he'd worked his way down Shane's back, his legs on either side of Shane's body, but now Ilya knelt to one side and urged Shane's knees apart. "Open your legs," he murmured, and when Shane did, Ilya lay between them, pushing them further gently with both hands, so they spread wide, lifting Shane's ass in the air just a little, exposing his hole, his balls. "Yes, like that," Ilya said, and swiped his tongue over Shane's opening, swift but firm.

"oh my god," Shane breathed.

"Yes?" Ilya asked, hoping.

Shane nodded against the pillow. "Yes."

Ilya did it again, tonguing at the ridged flesh for a moment longer this time, until Shane groaned, his whole body shuddering.

Ilya pulled back a little, lifted Shane's balls up and took them in his mouth one at a time, tonguing them, sucking them gently, watching the muscles of Shane's ass jump and his hole clench in response.

"fuck," Shane whispered. "Fuck, Ilya."

Ilya lapped at Shane's testicles again, then let them fall against his wrist while he palmed Shane's cock, rubbing it up against his stomach. The angle was stunning, Shane's spread thighs, the swell of his ass, and beyond them, Shane's broad shoulders, everything flexing as Shane humped into Ilya's hand.

He leaned in stealthily, wanting the surprise, and as Shane's ass lifted on his backstroke, Ilya flicked his tongue against Shane's asshole.

"oh!" Shane gasped and froze. Ilya answered his unspoken request, sweeping his tongue over Shane's opening, licking at it, probing it until Shane was rocking against his tongue, fucking into his hand, moaning in time with his thrusts, each one coming faster and faster.

Ilya wanted to say something, encourage him, praise him, his beautiful Shane, but he knew better than to interrupt the desperate rhythm that Shane was setting. Instead, he kept his tongue where it was, pushing eagerly on the ridged flesh of Shane's hole, until Shane's whole body went rigid, his moans high and thin like he could no longer breathe, and Ilya's fingers were drenched with cum.

Ilya stayed there for a moment, pressing kisses into the meat of Shane's ass as Shane caught his breath, his shoulders heaving, head hung low between them. Carefully, Ilya slid his hand out from under Shane, wiping it on the sheet, and crawled up his back, peppering him with kisses as he went, until he was nuzzled against Shane's neck, Shane's panting breaths ruffling the hair on his forehead. "You are so pretty," he murmured.

Shane chuffed a laugh. "Uh huh."

Ilya mouthed at his jaw, his throat, his hand tightening on Shane's hip. "The prettiest. I say so."

"I think you're biased." Shane shifted underneath him and Ilya realized that his own patient cock was once again resting between his own stomach and the cleft of Shane's ass.

"You do not believe me?" He ground down experimentally.

"Oh," Shane said, his back straightening like he'd just been praised for posture. "Could you, um . . ." He flexed his hips, his ass gripping gently at the shaft of Ilya's dick. "Do that again?"

Ilya did it again, and Shane smiled a loopy, dizzy little smile, almost to himself, so Ilya continued, thrusting slowly against the crack of Shane's ass. He could feel Shane's buttocks squeezing him, the delicious tension along the length of his erection.

Shane flattened his shoulders to the mattress, his arms bent, back arched. He was stabilizing himself, Ilya realized. When he glanced up to Shane's face, Shane's eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted, like he was tasting something delectable. Ilya reached out and tangled one of his hands with Shane's and hooked the other arm under Shane's chest, holding on to his shoulder, his mouth pressed to Shane's neck right below his ear, and began to work his hips, humping his cock against Shane's body.

"Oh, yeah," Shane sighed. "Ilya." Their bodies sealed together with sweat. Ilya's cock slid eagerly though the firm muscles of Shane's ass. With every thrust, he felt the ridge of Shane's hole against the shaft of his cock, tantalizing him.

"You will make me cum like this," he groaned.

Shane's fingers tightened around his and he lifted his head. "Do it," he muttered over his shoulder. "Cum on me. Cum all over me, Ilya."

"Fuck, Shane. Fuck." He tipped his forehead to Shane's spine and ground his hips down faster, his cock slipping in precum and sweat.

"Yes, Ilya, fuck," Shane gasped. "Cum on my asshole."

"oh god," Ilya muttered, stunned by the thought of it, and then he was doing it, shooting onto Shane's ass, his back, those fucking precious dimples, soaking him, biting down on his shoulder through desperate moans.

There was silence for a minute after, broken only by Ilya's gasping breaths. Then Shane chuckled.

"We are fucking disgusting," he said, but he didn't sound upset about it.

Ilya shoved himself off to the side of Shane's body, propped up on one elbow. It was too dark in the room to really see anything, but Shane's skin glimmered in the faint light, slick with . . . everything. Ilya bent and bit him on one glistening butt cheek.

Shane twisted away. "Ilya! Gross!"

"Gorgeous," Ilya countered, tilting his head back, lips puckered.

Shane curled toward him and gave him a kiss. "You're sick."

Ilya laughed. "You are the one begging me to cum on you."

"Yeah, but you're the one doing it," Shane said, primly, like that was an actual argument. "We're going to have to sleep in your room tonight. Housekeeping has already been here today."

"Mmm, okay." Ilya slid his lips over Shane's, his whole body heavy with contentedness. "I will let you."

"Gee, thanks." Shane kissed him again and shoved himself to a standing position. "You're so generous."

"Yes. Everyone says this about me," Ilya mumbled as Shane left the room. He meant to stay awake because he needed a shower, too, and to Shane's point, there was a large wet spot very near his hip that his hand kept touching, but Ilya was asleep even before he heard the water come on.

***

Shane woke up from his nap flat on his back and naked, still lying on the towel he'd spread out after he'd returned from his shower and found Ilya crashed out next to maybe the biggest cum stain Shane had ever seen. Ilya was still asleep, sprawled half across Shane's chest, his breath hot and moist on Shane's neck. Shane brushed his free hand lightly over Ilya's curls. He didn't want to wake him, not before the alarm, but he did want to touch him. He never wanted to stop touching him.

There had been a moment yesterday, during lunch, when Shane had thought Ilya said "I think I’m in love with you." He hadn't, he'd been joking about the assistant coordinator Angela, but for a second, Shane had thought he had, and his whole body had reacted like he'd been lit on fire, fear and joy mixing and igniting in his veins.

Ilya hadn't said it, yesterday, nothing like it. That had just been a trick of Shane's ear, Ilya's words distorted by the ambient noise of the arena, nothing more. But lying like this, Ilya's heart beating against his own, those words felt like something that could be said. Maybe. Eventually.

***

Ilya strode back into the arena feeling like a returning champion, even though he hadn't won anything and nothing had changed from the morning. This is the power of Shane Hollander saying 'cum on my asshole,' he thought and grinned. Shane was up ahead of him, talking to one of the college players, bag slung over his shoulder, so Ilya jogged a couple steps to catch up and planted his forehead between Shane's shoulder blades. He'd expected Shane to shrug him off, and Shane did, but first he put a hand on the back of Ilya's head and ruffled his hair without missing a beat, his words to his walking companion uninterrupted. That made Ilya even happier: his affection was expected.

His team had gathered in a corner of the locker room already, some of them dressed, chattering about the long piece of paper in Jason Moore's hand.

"What is this?" Ilya swooped the paper away.

"It's the receipt," Jason said, grabbing for it. "And don't damage it. The guy said they would take the stuff back if we didn't open it, but we need the receipt."

Ilya looked at the total. More than two thousand dollars. A lot of money, especially for an AHL or college player. A fifth, not even, of what Alexei had demanded on the phone this morning, his voice rising in anger when Ilya had told him he would have to live on the allowance that was coming at the beginning of the month.

He handed the receipt back to Jason and pulled out his wallet. He had learned in his first few months in the country that people sometimes viewed someone like him, someone with an accent, with suspicion when he used a credit card; since a run in with a grocery store clerk who had refused to see his Russian passport as legitimate ID, Ilya always carried cash. He pulled out the five twenties he kept in the back slot of his wallet and handed it to Jason.

"What's this?" Jason asked.

Ilya didn't answer. Instead, he shouted across the locker room. "Hollander, Lemaire, Sullivan, give me your cash."

They looked at him like he was crazy, of course, a mad Russian coming to rob them, but he crossed the room with his hand out, first to Lemaire. "Give," he said. "It's for party. We cannot let the kids pay for everything. We will look like assholes."

Lemaire rolled his eyes because he was an asshole, but handed Ilya a fifty and two twenties. Sullivan was better, two crisp one hundred dollar bills, but Shane looked stricken. "I mostly have Canadian money," he said, when Ilya got to him, holding out a stack of bills. "Can they even spend that, here?"

"No, but you are not the only Canadian here. Or they can exchange it." Ilya took the money and carried it back to Jason.

"Oh, no, man, we can't take your money." Jason shook his head. "It wouldn't be right."

"Why not?" Ilya demanded. "We are going to be taking your alcohol, yes?"

"I mean—"

"Yes," Ilya answered. "So only right we contribute. Here." He folded the money into Jason's hand. "Some of it is Canadian, sorry," he said, raising his voice so everyone could hear. "Shane Hollander does not believe in America."

"I just didn't get to the bank!" Shane protested.

"Well, um, thanks." Jason looked at the bills folded in his hand. "We'll return some of this when we take the unused stuff back."

"No." Ilya shook his head. "When a Russian gives you something, it is a very big insult to return it. You must not do this."

"What about when a Russian gives away something that isn't his?" Lemaire asked.

"Shut up, Vincent," Ilya called over his shoulder, never breaking eye contact with Jason. "Very serious. You understand?"

Jason nodded, eyes wide. "Yes. I understand."

Ilya broke into a grin. "Good boy. It will be great party tonight, boys." He squeezed Jason's shoulder.

***

It was by far the best night of practice so far, to Shane's mind, and yet, he was still happy when it ended. It had been fun, practicing their skills for the first night of exhibition on Friday—slap shots, accuracy shots, and trying out stunts for the breakaway challenge—but Shane still felt his eyes drifting, either to the digital clock at the end of the arena closest to him, or to the far side of the ice, where Ilya's team practiced. His whole life was hockey, and the work that went into to being good at hockey. The diet, the training, the study, the sleep, all the things he did to make sure that he was at the peak of where he could be, for every moment he could be, and now, all of a sudden, all he could think about was the next moment that he and Ilya Rozanov could be alone.

It frightened him a little.

The other guys here, Tyler and Jason and the rest of them, they thought that Shane had made it, that he was the pinnacle of everything they wanted, the epitome of success. But they didn't know how easily all of that could be lost. An injury. A lack of preparation. A discovery that the second draft pick liked sucking the dick of the first draft pick so much that he daydreamed about it when he should be practicing.

He'd liked Ilya before this. A lot. Thought he was hot, wanted to see him again, all of that. But this week had changed things, at least for him. Somehow, Ilya had gotten tangled up in Shane's day-to-day routine, and then taken it over, replacing his food schedule, his training schedule, his sleep schedule, all of those things becoming impediments to time with him.

It made Shane wonder what he had been missing all those years when he hadn't been going out and getting laid. Was this what the guys on his high school team had been talking about? Most of them no longer played and none of them were in the MLH, though, so maybe it was better that this had happened to Shane late. And what would happen when this week ended and he was back in Montreal on his own? And it scared him, a bit, that maybe this was all in his head, and Rozanov didn't feel anything beyond the amused affection he showed the first time they hooked up, his little smile while he had watched Shane folding his clothes. Maybe he had an arrangement like this back in Boston, with a woman, probably. Maybe he had an arrangement like this in every town they played in, a collection of people he spent time with who weren't as inexperienced or awkward as Shane. Maybe—

"Holly!" Tyler shouted. "What the fuck? It's your turn."

"Sorry!" Shane blurted, and got into position at the shooting line. Accuracy drill, easy, four pucks, four targets. For Shane, the question was really about speed, not accuracy: he always hit the targets, but would he get the shots off fast enough in actual competition to beat whoever he was up against.

This time he missed two of them.

***

He felt better once they got back to hotel, though, and he'd grabbed a couple of chicken wraps from the buffet and gone to his room to change. Ilya had stayed at dinner in the conference room, hanging out with his team, so Shane had a minute to himself, to put on the shorts he was going to use as a swimsuit (he never brought swimsuits along on his hockey trips because they were supposed to be about hockey, not vacationing, another axiom he heard in his mother's voice in his head) and get himself psyched up.

The party was going to be fun. He was going to talk to some people, maybe even a couple of girls, and have a drink or two, and if he didn't like it after an hour, then he was going to come back upstairs to his room and no one would probably even notice. No problem.

Shane sat down on the end of his absolutely destroyed bed, his hands on his bare knees, and took a couple of deep breaths. He wasn't nervous, exactly, because there was nothing to be nervous about, but large groups of people weren't always fun for him. He much preferred small groups. Or one-on-one. People were easier to understand that way.

As if on cue, Ilya opened the front door and came in, his key clinking on the table. He stopped in the doorway to Shane's room, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, his hip jutting out. "You are not eating?"

"I ate something," Shane said. "You're wearing swim trunks, right? This is a pool party?"

Ilya smiled. "I was thinking maybe I wear a, you know . . ." He made a little triangle gesture at his crotch. "One of the small ones."

"A Speedo?" Shane asked, horrified. He couldn't imagine wearing something like that in front of dozens of people, strangers, but also he kind of wanted to see how Ilya looked in one. Probably fucking amazing. He always looked amazing. "You're wearing a Speedo?"

"No." Ilya grinned, stepping away from the doorframe and dropping to his knees between Shane's. His hands rubbed up and down Shane's thighs. "I do not have one with me. But it would be hot."

"Mmm." Shane smiled down at him, tucked a curl behind one of Ilya's ears. "Yeah, it would."

"Next time." Ilya puckered his lips and Shane kissed him, cradling Ilya's head in both hands, opening his mouth for Ilya's soft tongue. "Every time I come into our room, you are tempting me," Ilya said, once the kiss was over. "Maybe we should stay in tonight, have a private party."

It was an enticing idea, but Shane shook his head. "They'll notice," he said. They would, too, and they would get drunk and pound on the door and demand to be let in, not nearly as sexy or relaxing as the suggestion sounded.

Ilya sighed, pushing himself up, hands on Shane's knees. "Yes, probably. Okay. I will change."

"Okay." Shane stayed put on the bed and Ilya went to change, helpfully leaving his bedroom door open so Shane could watch him strip naked and stretch, arms over his head, the ridges of muscle along his rib cage and the planes of his six pack and his soft, uncircumcised cock in plain view. Shane wanted to lick all of it. "Thanks for the show," he commented.

Ilya grinned at him through the doorway. "You are like police with your spying," he said, pulling on a pair of swim trunks. They weren't Speedos, but they were pretty short.

"It's not spying if you leave the door open," Shane said. "It's just looking."

"You like looking?" Ilya stepped into a pair of slide sandals.

"You like being looked at," Shane responded, but the answer was yes. Yes, he liked looking; yes, he liked touching; yes, he liked whatever this was, this teasing conversation that happened between them. He liked all of it. And he wanted Ilya to like it, too.

"Yes, I am very sexy." Ilya went into the bathroom and turned the water on.

Shane rolled his eyes. "How long are you going to take in there, Mr. Sexy?" he called. "We have a party to go to."

But Ilya was brushing his teeth and didn't answer. When he came out five minutes later, his hair was damp, too, his curls slicked back from his forehead. He looked like a fucking model from Europe or something, and Shane felt suddenly self-conscious in his plain black shorts that had a button and a zipper. But Ilya held out his hand and Shane took it, following him to the door. Shane could hear music playing on the other side, guys shouting happily at each other: the party was starting.

Ilya turned and leaned against the door, hands behind his back, head tilted. "Well?"

Shane smiled. "Well." He wrapped his arms around Ilya's neck, one hand in his hair messing up his carefully arranged curls, and kissed him, deep and wet, until Ilya's hand tightened on his ass. Then he stepped away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, grinning. "Time to party."

***

Shane hadn't known what he expected, why the idea of the party had keyed him up, because ultimately it was just the same guys they'd been hanging out with all week, and some people from the local college that someone's brother knew, mostly girls. Tyler had set up a table on the far side of the pool deck, close to his room, with a cooler on top of it next to a sleeve of plastic cups. Three other coolers sat alongside it, and a tub with a keg squatted on the other side.

"Holly!" Tyler called as he and Ilya approached. "I've got something special for you!"

Oh no, Shane thought, concerned that Tyler had bought some insanely expensive bottle of vodka as a thank you for Shane's five seconds of help, but instead, Tyler handed him a cup with a splash of a red liquid poured from the spigot of the cooler on the table.

"Try that," Tyler said, looking like a proud father.

Shane sipped. The drink was delicious, fruity and cold, with a little bit of fizz from what Shane thought . . . "Is there ginger ale in this?" he asked.

Tyler laughed. "One hundred percent, my dude! Couldn't let you go without your favorite beverage." He took the cup back and filled it, then handed it over again. "Enjoy!"

"Thanks." Shane sipped again, absurdly touched that Tyler had gone to the trouble. He would have been happy with a beer.

He wanted to stay close to Rozanov, but that felt too . . . dependent, like they couldn't spend a second apart, so he wandered away from the table while Ilya chatted with Tyler, and ended up on a deck chair next to Mac, the huge goalie from Ilya's team, who was also sipping out of a red cup.

"You got the punch, too?" Shane asked.

"Hell yeah, Holly." Mac held out his cup to cheers. "I love me a good girl drink. Nothing will fuck you up faster."

Shane smiled and took another sip.

***

Ilya glanced around, sipping from one of the bottles of truly excellent Mexican beer that Jason had bought. The party had become, to use an English word, epic. Everywhere he looked guys were laughing, pretty girls were smiling, snacks were being eaten, drinks were being drunk. Even Shane, who often looked awkward and out of place at social gatherings, a little smile plastered on his face as he stood by himself, was having a good time, standing in the shallow end of the pool, chatting with Jesus Ortega and Scarlett and a couple other guys, sipping fruit punch out of a red plastic cup.

"So you're from, like, Russia?" One of the girls standing near him asked, eyes big. She was blond, of course—all of the white girls in Arizona seemed to be blond—and had on a blue bikini that matched her eyes, and those wedge-shaped sandals that looked like straw. Her friends, three of them, looked much the same, but she was clearly the pretty one of the group.

Ilya smiled. "I am. You have been?"

She and her friends giggled. "Never! I don't even know if Americans are, like, allowed to go."

"We are," another girl said. "The State Department issued new guidance, like, last month."

Ilya lifted his eyes to her. Blond, bikini, like the others, but she had the same tension around her eyes as Sveta, the tension of a smart woman surrounded by idiots.

"You must all come visit me, then," he said. "Next summer. Maybe we will have a party in Moscow."

"Not before that?" Blue Bikini traced a design on his bicep. "Next summer is pretty far away."

"Before that I live in Boston," Ilya said. He took a long sip from his beer to get his arm out of her hand, finishing it. "Very cold. You would not be able to wear such pretty outfits. I'll be back."

He headed over to the cooler, dropping his empty bottle in one of the trash barrels on the way, hearing the clink as it hit a dozen other bottles inside, and made a mental note to make the guys clean up before they went to bed and leave extra money for the housekeeper the next day.

"Rosey!" Donovan shouted as Ilya approached, grabbing him in a hug when he got close. "How's it going? Having a good time?"

"Yes, is a great party."

"Right? I knew it would be. What can I get you? Bud Light?" He waved a plastic cup of yellow water that smelled faintly of beer under Ilya's nose.

"No, thank you. Ortega had something in a cooler," he said.

"Ahh, yes." Tyler flipped open the cooler at his feet and handed Ilya a wet bottle. "Here you go."

Ilya twisted the cap off and took a swig. The girls he'd left on the other side of the pool were turning their bodies and talking behind their hands to hide the fact that they were waiting for him, and they were nice girls, eager girls, but he didn't want to talk to them.

Instead, he hopped off the edge of the pool into the water, which came up to just under his nipples in the deep end, and waded over to Shane and Jesus and the tall blond defenseman Scarlett, whose real name was some actress name Ilya could never remember. He slotted himself into the group next to Shane, completely unsurprised to discover that at a party full of college girls in bikinis they were arguing about the benefits of higher versus lower kick points on their sticks.

"I'm telling you, Holly," Scarlett was saying, "if you take your kick point just a little bit higher, you're going to be making more goals. Not high, just higher."

Shane was shaking his head, smiling, his lips red from the punch he'd been drinking all night. "Of course you're gonna say that, you're a blueliner! Tell him, Ilya." He slapped Ilya's chest with the back of his hand. His rosy lips made Ilya was to grab him in front of everyone and drag him into the deep water, lift him up so his thighs came around Ilya's hips, and kiss the color off his mouth. "We're taking shots close up. We don't need that kind of power."

"I have power no matter what stick," Ilya said, ignoring everyone rolling their eyes at him. "But I agree with Hollander. Lower kick point is better for forwards."

Scarlett shook his head. "Traditional thinking, man. You gotta get more creative! Be more flexible!"

"You know what is more flexible, Hollander?" Ilya asked.

And Shane, always the only player who could ever keep up with him, said without missing a beat: "a stick with a low kick point."

Ilya held up a hand, not even looking at him, and Shane slapped it. Scarlett groaned in defeat. "Alright," Ilya said. "You are very boring talking about hockey. I will talk to you later." He swatted Shane on the ass, easy to disguise as macho joking among drunk jocks, and waded over to the side of pool near the group of girls, who were all pointedly ignoring him. When he held out his bottle for someone to hold while he hoisted himself out of the pool, Blue Bikini took it.

***

Shane did not remember how he got into the pool. He did not know how many drinks he'd had, although his stomach sloshed with punch and his mouth tasted sickly sweet, his tongue a little numb from sugar and alcohol. He did not know the name of the guy standing to his left, who may have been one of the guys at MASE, maybe on Sully's team, or may have been one of the guys who had come with the girls, a brother or boyfriend or hanger on who heard that there was going to be free alcohol and a pool.

And he did not know where Ilya was.

He'd been by earlier, hours before, days before, when Shane had been more sober, and he'd gone to talk to some girls on the far side of the pool and now he was gone.

Shane glanced around, aware that he looked like he was bored with the conversation in front of him, but the truth was, he kind of was. Or he would have been if he knew what it was about. He wanted Ilya.

They'd been apart for hours, long enough that they could go back to their room now, and not . . . was he already there, maybe? Shane glanced up at 224, but it didn't look any different from how it had ever looked. There was no sign that Ilya had gone back to the room except that he wasn't anywhere else.

Maybe he was up there waiting.

Maybe he was up there with a girl.

Shane chugged from his cup, liquid spilling too fast into his throat making him cough. He'd sort of forgotten about the women. He'd known about them, of course—anyone who paid the slightest attention to hockey knew about Rozanov's reputation with women—but before this week, he and Rozanov had never been out together except for hockey industry events, where the women were all wives or mothers or both, and neither he nor Rozanov had ever brought a date to one of those things, so he'd never seen Ilya at a club or a party or any place where he could pick up women. Until tonight.

"Pick up" wasn't even the word Shane would use. It was more like Ilya was a magnet and the women were iron filings all drawn to him, following along after him, pointing in his direction, bunching up against him whenever he stopped moving. And now Shane couldn't see him on the pool deck.

He was probably off with one of the blond girls he'd been talking to all night, probably fucking one of them, or more than one, in his room, in the suite he shared with Shane. He'd probably left the door open. No, he wouldn't, not all the way, just a crack so Shane could hear what was going on behind the door, so Shane knew Rozanov wasn't gay, that Shane was just convenient and not important.

Fuck.

"I have to piss," he muttered at the guys standing around, and waded up the pool steps and out of the water. He sort of did have to pee, actually, but more it was just that he needed to see what was going on in his suite, to know for once and for all what he was to Ilya Rozanov.

***

Ilya watched as Shane clambered out of the pool, staggering slightly, his shorts, which were not swim trunks but just normal black shorts he'd dug out of his suitcase because he'd forgotten to bring a swimsuit to Arizona, clinging to his groin. Fuck, he was hot. He shouldn't be, bleary-eyed and wobbly on his feet, but he was anyway.

He watched as Shane wandered through the crowd, dragged himself up the concrete steps, and staggered along the catwalk to their room, one hand trailing over the railing, the other still clutching a red cup. It was too bad that they'd left the door slightly ajar on purpose, because Ilya thought it would have been hilarious to see Shane try to work an actual lock in his state. Shane disappeared into the room, leaving the door wide open behind him.

"Excuse me," Ilya said to the bikini girls. "My friend, he is very drunk."

"Do you want us to come help?" Blue Bikini asked. "Jessica is a nurse." She nodded, indicating one of the many blonds, although not the smart-looking one.

"Well, gonna be," Jessica admitted.

"No, he is fine, I am sure. I will come get you if I need you." He chucked Blue Bikini under her chin and followed Shane's path up the stairs and down the catwalk. Maybe, if Shane was still awake, they could have some kisses before sleep. From the look of him, Shane was too drunk to do anything else, and Ilya was pretty sure he would be passed out even before Ilya got to the room, but in that case, he could lie next to Shane and stare at his pretty profile and listen to the sound of Shane's breathing until he passed out himself. He didn't think it would take long.

"Shane?" he called, once he got into the room, pushing the door shut behind him. Shane's wet swim shorts were in a heap on the floor between the two bedrooms, a sign that he was definitely wasted: sober Shane would never leave wet clothes on the floor.

Ilya bent to pick them up, not turning on the lights, and saw Shane, propped up on at the end of his own bed, naked, groaning to himself. "Shane."

"Illll-ya," Shane sang, his voice loopy. He reached for Ilya with one hand. "C'mere."

Ilya went, dropping the shorts inside the room, letting Shane grab him and drag him close until he was standing between Shane's knees, Shane's arms circling his waist. He stroked a hand through Shane's hair. Dry. "Yes," Shane murmured. "Better."

"You are okay?" Ilya asked. "How much fruit drink did you have?"

"Dunno," Shane mumbled. "Sixty-nine?" He giggled.

"Okay, sixty-nine," Ilya said. Maybe six, but he hoped not nine. Although Shane was more drunk than he'd ever seen him.

"C'mere," Shane said again, even though Ilya was literally standing between his legs.

"I am here," he said.

"No, down here," Shane murmured, reaching up to pull on Ilya's neck until he gave in and bent over so Shane could rub his punch-stained lips on Ilya's, grinning. His breath smelled like imitation strawberries. "You're a good kisser."

"Thanks. You are very drunk."

"I fucking love when you kiss me," Shane said, flopping back onto the bed without letting go so that Ilya was dragged down on top of him. His skin was cool on the surface, probably from the pool, but underneath blazed hot.

"Same," Ilya agreed. It wasn't the most comfortable position in the world, but they were at least lying down. The sharp smell of chlorine stabbed Ilya's nostrils. He had seen Shane drunk once before, at the MLH Awards, but this was beyond that. At the Awards, Shane had been standing up drunk. Public drunk. Tonight, Shane was obliterated.

He was also naked, and groping Ilya's ass over his trunks, panting in his ear, and it was a little hot, Shane being so out of control, but it was also uncomfortable, like maybe this wasn't really the way Shane wanted to behave, like maybe he was—

"You shouldn't kiss girls," Shane said. "You should fuck me."

Ilya jerked backwards, propping himself up on both hands. "What?"

"You heard me." Shane stared up at him with big, brown eyes, twining his arms around Ilya's back, lifting his knees to squeeze against Ilya's hips. "I know you want to."

"Shane." He was so drunk. Ilya dodged the kiss Shane tried to give him. "No, you said—"

Shane frowned. "I don't care what I said. I want you to fuck me. We're overdue."

"Shane, Shane," Ilya said, but it was impossible to complete a sentence when Shane was all over him, clinging to him, kissing him, writhing against him. Finally, Ilya backed up, tugged himself out of Shane's grip until he was standing at the end of the bed. Shane sprawled naked in front of him, pale in the faint light from the window, limbs spread like Ilya had already taken advantage of him. "Shane," he said. "We can't. You are drunk, I am drunk, it would be—"

"Fuck, Ilya!" Shane shoved his hands into his own hair, tugging on it. "You've been chasing me all week, and now you're saying no? What the fuck?"

"Chasing you?" Ilya's heart sank. Was that what Shane thought, that he was after him for a fuck and nothing else? But no. No, the Shane who had been so trusting with him this afternoon (was it only this afternoon? It seemed years away, now) did not think that. This was drunken insecurity, nothing more.

"'Let me fuck you, let me fuck you.'" Shane's Russian accent was thick and cartoonish and Ilya knew he didn't sound that way and still it hurt his feelings. "So, fuck me already!" Shane demanded. "Fuck!"

"This is not what you want—"

"Yes, it is! Just get on the fucking bed."

But he couldn't. Something had happened, Ilya wasn't sure whether it was just the alcohol or something else, something worse, but whatever it was had turned Shane into this harsh, hurt man, and Ilya knew if they fucked when he was like this, something would be lost that could never be found again. He crossed his arms over his chest. "No."

"What's the fucking problem, Ilya?" Shane demanded.

"No problem," Ilya answered, because just like he couldn't fuck him, he couldn't talk to Shane right now, either. Shane was too far in his cups to even be able to explain what was going on, why he would say such things.

Shane sat up, spreading his legs even further. Fuck, how Ilya wished he could sink to his knees and take Shane's cock in his mouth and somehow that would fix whatever it was that had gone wrong. But Ilya was an expert at the things sex could fix, and Shane's strange, sad anger wasn't one of them.

"If you're not going to fuck me, then get the fuck out of my room," Shane said.

"Shane—" Ilya said again. It seemed to be the only word he was capable of saying.

"No." Shane covered his face with his hands, breathing hard. "Just . . . get out."

There was nothing else to do. He wanted to wrap his arms around Shane, kiss him, tell him he was just drunk and everything would be alright, but he couldn't, not in this room, not right now. "We will talk in the morning," he said.

"Fuck off," Shane muttered, his voice wet through his hands.

Ilya fucked off. He fucked off back to his own room, where he shut the door and sat on the end of his own bed and breathed slowly into his own hands until he was sure he would not cry. It took a while.

Chapter End Notes

Random things I have asked my beta to find out for me for this chapter, in no particular order:

* the price of alcohol in Arizona in 2011.
* how much alcohol would be needed for a pool party of this size.
* whether alcohol can be returned in Phoenix if it is unopened (generally no. Jason is fucked in that regard and is going to be super happy the MLH players contributed when he finds that out.)
* the drinking age in Moscow (but that line of dialogue got edited out. Maybe it will show up in a later chapter.)

Non-Alcohol Related Things:
* whether tourists were allowed to go to Russia at the time. They were, apparently. The state department announced referenced by the sorority girl happened in July of 2011. Thanks, Hilary Clinton!
*what the fuck happened in the real skills competition at the All-Star Game in 2011
*what a "kick point" is
*what a "right shot" is and why so many players are right-handed, but "left shots" (this is true of both Ilya and Shane, apparently.
*how much money AHL players made in 2011 vs. NHL players. It's a big difference, although the AHL guys did okay.

All of this is to say that this story would not be possible without the Google-fu of my friends, who do this for free in addition to pointing out when I've used the word "hole" too often. Any errors (and uses of the word "hole") that remain in this work are my own.

Also, if you've never had someone drag his day-one stubble over your bare back, you are missing out and should remedy that with a quickness.

Chapter 6: Friday Morning

Chapter Summary

Shane is hungover, Lemaire is a dick, Megan is *pissed,* and Ilya's love language is acts of service.

Chapter Notes

The wail of his alarm pierced Shane's brain and he shot awake, a needle of pain behind his left eye, immediate and sharp. He groped for his phone and found it on the floor next to the bed, but when he rolled to turn it off bile surged in his throat and he lurched for the bathroom, leaving the phone blaring on the ugly carpet.

He made it to the toilet just in time. Once the heaves had subsided, his whole body trembling, eyes watering, he flushed and rinsed his mouth out with a handful of water and wobbled back to his room to turn off the alarm, grateful that Ilya hadn't been using the bathroom at the worst possible moment.

Ilya. Fuck.

Shane sat down on the bed, massaging his temples like he could reach the pain from the outside. He had asked, begged, Ilya to fuck him last night, and yelled when he said no. Yelled at him. At Ilya. He wanted to throw up again just from the memory.

That was why he'd woken up alone in a bed that was still destroyed from yesterday instead of cozied up with Ilya, because he'd gotten wasted and behaved like a jealous child and now he owed Ilya a big fucking apology. Shane pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. What a fucking embarrassment. They weren't serious, they certainly weren't exclusive, and he'd acted like . . . Shane sighed. He wouldn't blame Ilya if he didn't want to continue whatever this was after last night, although he desperately hoped Ilya could look past it, chalk it up to vodka punch and nothing more.

Shane swallowed. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted sour, but no time like the present, something his mother always said when he had to do something he didn't want to do. He stood, wiping the corners of his lips with his thumb and forefinger.

Ilya's bedroom door across the way was closed, but Shane realized that the tv was on, volume low. He hadn't noticed before, in his mad dash to the toilet. Ilya was up.

He took the three steps needed to see the couch and sure enough, there was Ilya, fully dressed down to his shoes, staring straight ahead at the TV screen, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand.

"You're up early," Shane said, trying for normal.

Ilya lifted the cup to his mouth, sipped, his throat working against the crew neck of his navy blue tank top. He looked clean but exhausted, his beard scruffy on his cheeks under sunken eyes. "Yes. I did not sleep so good."

"Me either." Shane said. "Listen—"

"You should get ready," Ilya said to the tv. "We will be late."

"About last night," Shane tried again. "I just wanted to—"

"Put some clothes on," Ilya said. "But take a shower first. You stink, Hollander."

Fuck. He was so hungover and miserable that he'd tried to embark on his apology tour completely naked. Ilya probably thought he was trying to get him back into bed; full frontal nudity didn't exactly give the impression of sincerity. "Shit! Fuck, I'm sorry." Shane covered his crotch with both hands. "We can talk later."

Ilya took another sip of his coffee and said nothing. The smooth slide of muscle as his arm flexed made Shane want to forget about clothes, forget about showers, just curl up with his cheek against Ilya's chest and those arms around him and be held until his headache went away, soothed by Ilya's fingers in his hair. But he'd fucked that up.

He went to take a shower.

***

Ilya listened as Shane retreated, turned on the water, and finally, when he shut the bathroom door, Ilya relaxed, dipping his head into one hand and sighing. Naked. Shane had come out of his room naked and all Ilya'd wanted to do was hold out his hand and draw him down onto the couch and kiss him, even though he smelled like chlorine and vomit and sweat, and had screamed at him in a drunken rage not six hours ago. Fucking Hollander.

But he hadn't, even though he was tired and still upset by what had happened the night before. He'd stood his ground, a miracle considering he'd slept like shit, lying awake most of the night listening for sounds of life through his bedroom door. He'd given up even before the first tinges of light seeped around the drapes and showered with the bathroom door open, half-hoping the sound would wake Shane up, but glad when it didn't.

They had to talk. Something had upset Shane last night, and Ilya still wasn't sure what it was. He couldn't figure it out. They'd been great before the party, they'd been great during the party, and then, suddenly, they were not great, and Shane was yelling and maybe crying and Ilya had ended up sleeping alone. A mystery, but not one he could solve before practice this morning. They could talk at lunch, when they had more time.

Around six, as the sky began to lighten, Ilya had gone to the hotel lobby for coffee. The pool deck had been empty except for the mess, bottles and empty cups spilling out over the tops of the trash barrels and scattered on every surface, a plastic deck chair drifting aimlessly in the shallow end of the pool, a lone woman's sandal abandoned near the steps. The ruins of a good time.

Inside the lobby, the desk clerk had glanced up when he came through the sliding doors and gave him a tight, professional smile, but said nothing. Ilya went into the breakfast room, relieved to find breakfast pastries already out, neatly arranged on platters. He normally liked eggs or something greasy after a drunken night, but sweet carbohydrates worked almost as well. He'd used the tongs to put a Danish that looked promisingly like raspberry on a paper plate and was idling near the coffee carafes trying to make sure he did not get decaf by accident when someone cleared her throat.

Angela, glasses on the tip of her nose, her tablet set up like a little computer in front of her.

"Good morning," he'd managed, feeling absurdly like a kid who'd gotten caught sneaking in after a wild night out. He hoped she hadn't seen the state of the pool.

"Ilya Rozanov," she'd said, continuing to type on the little detachable keyboard in front of her.

"You are up early this morning," he offered.

Angela stopped typing and met his eyes. "Yes. There's a lot to do today. More now than we thought."

So she had seen the pool. "It was a party. We will take care of the mess," he said. "I will talk to the players."

But Angela shook her head. "That is not your responsibility, Ilya Rozanov," she said. "It's mine." She didn't sound angry or upset, but Ilya still felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

"Still," he said. "We are sorry."

Angela shrugged and went back to her typing and Ilya had remembered, suddenly, what she'd said about problems and how sometimes people didn't like her solutions. He'd thought maybe he was about to find out what that meant. He'd paused, feeling like he should say something else, make another apology maybe, but he couldn't think of anything, and Angela didn't seem to be waiting for one, so he gave up and made himself a coffee, heavy on the sugar and cream.

As he'd poured, Ilya thought about bringing Shane a coffee, too. Or maybe just hot water and a tea bag, because Shane really wasn't much of a coffee drinker. And a Danish, cheese perhaps, to settle his stomach because he was going to feel like shit when he woke up. He'd actually picked up the tongs again before he realized what he was doing.

No, he wouldn't take Shane Hollander a coffee, not after what had happened last night. Until they'd had a conversation and figured it out, he was through taking care of Shane. Shane should be bringing him a Danish to make up for the shitty end of the party and the hangover this morning, not the other way around. Ilya'd set the tongs back down.

"Have a good morning, Angela," he'd said, picking up his coffee.

"See you later, Ilya Rozanov," she'd said. Ilya tried not to take that as a threat.

***

Ilya had retreated back to 224, where Shane was still asleep, sprawled naked across his messy bed, mouth slack, arms open like he was asking Ilya to join him. Ilya did not.

Instead, he'd sat down in the living room and turned on the tv. Baseball was on the sports channel, a replay of a game from the day before. Ilya had never paid much attention to baseball in Russia, where it was not very popular, but this morning the slow pace of it, everyone standing around waiting for something to happen, was calming to his brain. He'd watched the orderly progression of the game, each player taking their turn, and ate his Danish and sipped his coffee, until finally Shane's alarm had gone off and he'd done the beginning of his apology dance at the end of the couch, naked and sad and tired, and it had taken all of Ilya's willpower to not grab him and pull him down onto his lap, and now he was in the shower.

Ilya didn't really care about the fucking was the thing. Of course he wanted to fuck Hollander because look at him, but he didn't care when or how long he had to wait to do it. It didn't have to happen here at MASE, no matter what they had said about "next time" months ago. They had been different people, then. And you couldn't make promises about future sex in the first place, not real ones. But somehow, Ilya wasn't sure how, drunken, upset Shane had gotten the idea that he needed to fuck Ilya last night to make him happy. Had Ilya put too much pressure? Made too many jokes? He didn't know. But it was a problem.

On screen, one of the baseball guys hit the ball, a massive swing, and the ball went flying, an arc so high it seemed like it would touch the moon. But it went off to one side, landing in the second level of the stands, out of bounds, and the player had to walk back to the home base and do it again. Ilya sat on the couch and swigged the last of his coffee and waited to see what the morning would bring.

***

Shane hurried through his shower as much as he could, his head throbbing every time he bent over to grab something or turned too quickly. At one point, he had to stand perfectly still, his fingers tented on the tile wall to steady himself until he felt like he was safe to move again, praying he wouldn't have to call out to Ilya to help him get out of the tub. But twenty-five minutes later, he was clean and dressed and his teeth were brushed and he had dry swallowed two Advil and he was ready to go, certain in the knowledge that the day ahead of him was not going to be a fun day.

"Okay," he said, heading toward the front door, collecting his gear bag as he went. "I'm ready."

Ilya pushed himself to his feet, flicked the tv off with the remote, and grabbed his own bag, still not looking at Shane. It was a strange, empty feeling, not being looked at by Rozanov after days and days of being seen.

Shane turned the door handle.

"Hey," Ilya said, his voice neutral, and when Shane turned around Ilya kissed him, his closed lips pressed only for a second against the corner of Shane's mouth.

Shane flinched. "What? Why—you—"

"It would be bad luck not to," Ilya said, his expression stoic. "And we will need all the luck we can get today."

His eyes met Shane's just for a second, the brief eye contact stabbing into Shane's heart the way the headache stabbed into his brain. "Oh, um—"

Ilya flapped his hands at Shane, looking away. "Let's go, please."

Shane fumbled the door open and stepped out, squinting, into the already blazing sun.

***

It was dumb, he knew, kissing Shane before they'd talked, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't let Shane walk out the door without his kiss, not today. But it had been a mistake, not only because Ilya knew it let Shane off the hook a little bit for what he'd said, but also because that brief press of his lips had ignited Ilya, made him long to push Shane up against the door and kiss him, their whole bodies pressed together, until Shane begged to be fucked again.

Instead, he followed behind, silently, glad for the sunglasses that hid his eyes, so no one knew he was watching the shift of Shane's shoulders under his shirt, the flex of his ass in his athletic shorts. He should have used some of the time he'd had this morning to jerk off. Maybe then he wouldn't feel so electrified, like every move Hollander made, every word he spoke, was some kind of jolt directly to his cock. Or, worse, his heart.

***

Shane made it all the way across the pool deck and through the lobby to the turnaround where the van was waiting before his stomach revolted and he ended up puking in the gravel flowerbeds next to a dying barrel cactus, mostly bile that seeped into the rocks immediately, and one half-digested Advil.

"Shane!" Ilya leaned over, one hand on his back. "You are okay?"

"Yeah." Shane spit into the gravel. "I mean," he said and vomited again.

"Fuck!" Ilya said, and was gone.

Shane stayed where he was, bent over, staring at the rocks, hands on his knees, the sun burning on his back. He felt like an idiot out here next to the van, where anyone could see him, but he also desperately did not want to throw up again, and he wasn't sure that wouldn't happen if he straightened up, so he didn't. He just looked at the lone Advil—they were white on the inside apparently—and tried to keep his breathing slow.

A minute later, Ilya was back with Megan and Angela. "We've called the program doctor, okay?" Megan said, one hand rubbing his back. She sounded far away, like he was listening to her down a bad phone line. "He should be here in ten minutes or so. In the meantime, why don't we get you inside? Ilya, if you want to get on the bus—"

"No. I will wait with him."

Shane wanted to speak, tell Ilya that it was fine and he didn't need to stay but also, selfishly, he wanted Ilya here. They hadn't had a chance to talk, yet, and if Ilya went to practice it would be lunch, at the earliest, before they did. Not that they could have spoken at practice, but if they had both gone, at least Shane would have been there, been able to see him, maybe slap him on the shoulder or something, make sure Ilya knew he was still remorseful.

"We've got him. You can get to—"

"I will wait with him," Ilya repeated.

"Actually," Angela said and then she and Megan went off to the back of the van to have a conversation Shane could not hear.

"You don't have to stay," he said, but Ilya just made a noise that sounded like mmph, and leaned up against the side of the van with his hands in the pockets of his shorts looking like a European supermodel, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

The women came back a second later, and apparently something had been decided because there was no more talk of Ilya getting on the van. Instead, Megan made him take one of Shane's arms while she took the other and carefully walked him into the hotel lobby and into a side room that looked like a small office. The air conditioning felt like an angle's kiss on his sweaty face.

"Here, sit." Megan pulled a chair out for him, and Shane collapsed, grateful. He'd felt better after the shower, but all that feeling was gone. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat and his whole body trembled a little, like it could fall apart, his arms and legs dropping painlessly to the ground if he weren't careful.

"I don't think we need to tell you that this is a big deal, Shane," Megan said. "A very big deal."

"What is the big deal?" Ilya asked, before Shane could speak. "That we get drunk? Hockey players get drunk all the time."

"Well, yes," Megan said. "But Shane is going to have to miss practice today, obviously, and maybe the skills competition tonight, and there are a couple of other—"

"Skills competition." Ilya snorted like that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard and he hadn't been jabbering excitedly about it for the last two days. "Who cares about skills competition?"

"Our sponsors for one," Megan said. "And we also have to be concerned because—"

A man knocked on the doorframe, old, older than Shane's dad, at least, with a wizened tan look, like he'd been playing golf in the desert heat for twenty years. "You rang, Megan?" He smiled, his teeth long and blindingly white.

"Dr. Olson, yes! Thank you for coming. This is Shane Hollander. He just vomited in front of the building." Her expression made it sound like Shane had taken a crap in the front of the building.

"Too much to drink, hmm?" Dr. Olson chuckled. "Why don't you go take a seat in the hallway, Megan and . . ." he looked at Ilya expectantly.

"Ilya," Ilya supplied.

"Great, out you go." He shooed them both out and pulled the office door shut. Shane sighed, relieved for the moment of quiet, but then Dr. Olson spoke again. "Now we can talk plainly," he said, and a cold wave of fear ran through Shane. It was impossible, he knew it, but he felt suddenly like the doctor was going to ask him whether or not he was gay. But all he said was "tell me about how you're feeling, Shane."

Shane exhaled a ragged breath. "Fine. I mean, not fine, but you know. Hungover."

"mmhm." Dr. Olson nodded sympathetically. "How much did you have to drink, would you say?"

Shane thought for a second. He knew there had been at least two whole drinks, and then he'd gotten in the pool and people kept handing him cups, but he didn't know how many more. Four? Five? He had no idea. "I dunno," he said. "A lot. Probably more than five drinks."

"What kind of alcohol?"

"Vodka. It was a vodka punch kind of thing."

"mmm." Dr. Olson nodded. "Anything else? Any party drugs?" He asked it kindly, with one eyebrow raised, like he was sure the answer was yes, but that was okay, Shane could tell him.

"No!" Shane blurted. "No. I don't—I'm a professional athlete. I don't do that kind of thing."

"Okay, okay." The doctor held his hands out, palms up. "I just need to know. And you vomited this morning. Any other symptoms?"

"My head is killing me," Shane said. "And I just feel . . . queasy. And shaky. Like, not just my stomach, my whole body."

"And I'm sorry to have to ask this again, Shane, but it's very important that I know the truth: you're sure you didn't take anything else? Just the alcohol?"

Shane glared at Dr. Olson's toothy smile. "I'm sure."

"Great." Dr. Olson slapped his own knees and stood up. "I'll be right back."

But instead of the doctor, Megan came in a little while later and ushered him into the breakfast room, where Ilya and Sullivan and Lemaire sat along one side of the long tables while Dr. Olson unpacked things from a large, medical cooler on a cart, pile upon pile of white plastic bags. Megan guided him to an empty chair on the far end of the table, next to Ilya.

"Gentlemen," Dr. Olson said, beaming at them. "I'm going to give each of you, starting with Mr. Hollander there, a recovery IV. Nothing major in it, saline, electrolytes, some B and C vitamins, and an anti-nausea medication. Since some of you have already taken ibuprofen, we'll skip the pain relief this time around, and you can just take those in accordance with the label instructions. Any questions?"

"What if we don't want an IV?" Lemaire asked.

"You can decline, of course," Megan said. "But we will need you to stay here for the time being," she added when Lemaire started to get to his feet.

"Fuck," Lemaire muttered, dropping back into his chair.

Dr. Olson started with Shane. "Preference for arm, Shane?"

"Left," Shane answered.

Dr. Olson pulled his arm out so that it was loosely extended on the table. He put on gloves, snapping them around his wrists with the ease of practice, swiped the crook of Shane's elbow down with an alcohol pad, feeling around with one thumb for a vein and, when he found one, picked up the butterfly needle. "Ready?" he asked.

Shane nodded, looking away.

"You're going to feel a pinch," Dr. Olson said, but it didn't feel like a pinch, it felt like someone stabbing a needle into his arm. Shane sucked in a breath.

"Perfect." Dr. Olson connected the tube to another tube and handed a bag of IV solution over Shane's head to Megan. Surely she wasn't going to hold it the whole time? But when he glanced back, he saw that there was a metal IV stand behind his chair that she hung the bag on. Dr. Olson released the clip on the IV. "There you go." He patted Shane's right shoulder and stripped off his gloves as took the two steps over to stand in front of Ilya.

Shane closed his eyes. His arm felt chilly, and his mouth tasted like the sea, and all he wanted to do was lie down. "How long is this going to take?" he asked the room.

"About forty-five minutes, Shane Hollander." Angela answered.

"mmm," Shane said without opening his eyes. He drifted and listened to the sounds of the other players getting their IVs, the snap of the gloves, the murmured questions, the hisses and soft cursing when the needle went in. He wished, idly and stupidly, that he'd chosen his right arm for the IV because Ilya was sitting on his left: if he'd chosen his right arm, he could have held Ilya's hand.

***

Once they were all hooked up, reminding Ilya of a row of racehorses in the starting gates, ready to run the second they were released, Megan and the doctor had a brief, murmured conversation. When it was over, Megan clapped her hands. "Okay!" she said, smiling at all of them, her teeth tight, the professional smile of someone who is pretty pissed off. "Thanks to Dr. Olson for his assistance here today. He'll be back in a bit to remove the IVs, but in the meantime, I have something I need to address with you all." She cast an instructive glance at Dr. Olson, who waved at them and left the room whistling a little under his breath, his expression the expression of a man who didn't want to be a witness.

"So, obviously, last night got a little bit out of hand." Megan paused, like she was waiting for someone to say something, but no one did, Shane because he was still too ill, and the rest of the them because they knew better. "As a result, we've been in contact with the league and have come up with the following consequences."

Next to Ilya, Shane groaned, although Ilya wasn't sure whether it was the dread of consequences or the hangover that caused the noise.

"One." Megan held up a finger. "You will have to cover the bill for the cleaning of the pool and pool deck. You're lucky nothing was actually broken except a couple of chairs."

"Excuse me." At the far end of the row, Lemaire raised his hand. When Megan nodded at him, he asked "When you say 'you', do you mean all of the players?"

"I mean all of the players in this room." Megan's smile was thin-lipped.

"What? How is that fair?" Lemaire asked. Ilya rolled his eyes. Vincent Lemaire was a child, with a child's complaints.

"I didn't plan the party!" Lemaire continued. "I didn't break anything! I just had a couple of drinks! This is bullshit."

"Okay, well, Vincent, you are all major league players," Megan said. "You are the ones that are supposed to be setting the good example here. You're supposed to be role models."

Role models. That term again. The one that Shane had explained to him a few days ago. The one that meant he could not be who he was for himself, but had to be for others. Although in this instance, Ilya thought that Megan was probably right. Maybe they had not planned the party, but they had not discouraged it, they had not stopped it, and they were the ones who could have. So maybe it was right that they be the ones to fix the situation.

"In addition," Megan continued. "Some of the other players are on scholarships, and all of them make significantly less than any of you. You can spare the three thousand dollars—"

"Thirty-one hundred twenty-four dollars, and forty-eight cents," Angela supplied from her chair, without looking up from her tablet.

"Thank you, Angela," Megan said. "That is nothing to you, especially split four ways. That is one of your designer t-shirts or a pair of shoes. Finally, people are saying that you four are the ones who bought the alcohol, which seems to contradict your story, Vincent."

Ilya saw Lemaire inhale, his face red, about to argue, and jumped in before Lemaire could say anything stupid. Lemaire was Canadian, and did not seem to understand that this punishment had already been decided by people who were not in this room.

"No, is not true," Ilya said. "Only me."

He felt Shane move beside him, ready to open his mouth, so Ilya shifted in his seat, casually bumping the toe of his shoe into Shane's ankle like it was an accident. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Just you, Ilya?" Megan crossed her arms over her chest.

"Yes. I was the only one who gave money for the alcohol." It was technically true. He was the only who had handed the money he collected from the other players to Tyler. "Is my fault." He cast his face down and looked at Megan through his lashes. "I am very sorry. I did not mean to cause such trouble."

"Jesus Christ," Megan muttered, her professional façade cracking. "You're not even old enough to drink here! And now you have other players procuring alcohol for you? That's a misdemeanor, Ilya!"

There were several words in Megan's little rant that Ilya didn't know the meaning of, but he knew that she was telling him that they had crossed over from the realm of bad judgment into the realm of crime. Not good. But still, he was one of the best players here, and there had only been a little property damage—what had she said? A couple of chairs?—he would pay for it and make the others pay him back out of gratitude for taking the blame.

"I am very sorry," he repeated. "In Russia, we do not have these kinds of laws. I did not know was such a big deal," he repeated. "But is no problem, right? I will pay, and everything will be fixed. We did not mean to cause such problems, just to have a little party."

Megan squinched her eyes shut, grimacing, then went over to talk to Angela.

"Hollander," Ilya whispered, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Hollander, look over at Angela. Look sad. Make the big, sad eyes."

"Make the what?" Hollander whispered back.

"Look at her like you are a sad puppy," Ilya hissed. "Do it."

He couldn't turn to watch Shane, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Shane look in the direction of the women. He could only hope that Shane was making the same miserable, adorable face he'd made on the Vegas rooftop, when he'd held out his hand to Ilya and said "see you next season," the mournful, hopeful expression that had made Ilya come away from the railing and push him into a wall and kiss him.

And Ilya could only hope it had the same effect on Megan and Angela.

He didn't know if it worked, but after a minute, Megan stood in front of them, arms crossed. "Listen up: this is how it will go, and I don't want to hear any complaints about it. One." She held up one finger. "You will all pay the cost for the overtime for the cleaning crew, not just Ilya. Two, you are disqualified from the skills competition tonight. We'll tell everyone it's because we want to showcase the young talent, but it's a punishment. And you will all be in attendance tonight to support your teams. Three, no more parties or other misbehavior for the rest of the week. Any questions?"

Ilya shook his head, relieved. No official punishment, just a PR thing that was easily explained and a small amount of money. An ideal solution for something that had been more serious than Ilya had realized. But, of course, Vincent Lemaire raised his hand.

"Yeah, I have a question. Why do we have to—"

From her chair, Angela cleared her throat. Lemaire stopped talking for a second, his eyes on her, then sighed. "Never mind."

"You're sure?" Megan asked. "Because once we are done here, we will not discuss this again."

"I'm sure," Lemaire muttered, scowling at the table.

"Perfect. You have about—" She checked her watch. "—twenty more minutes until the IVs are done. Once Dr. Olson clears you, please go back to your room and get some rest. You're not permitted to leave the hotel for the rest of the day unless you clear it with Angela first. We want to see happy, supportive, mature team leaders on the ice tonight. Understood?"

Ilya murmured his assent along with the rest of the players, and Megan flashed her professional smile. "Excellent. Thank you, gentlemen, for your cooperation."

She strode out of the room. For a second, Ilya braced himself for the flood of complaints he was sure Lemaire had about the resolution of the situation, but then he noticed that Angela was still in her seat, tapping quietly on her tablet, not even acknowledging they were in the room with her. Lemaire said nothing.

***

The IV had taken the edge off the hangover, brought it into the realm of manageable, but Shane's legs were still heavy on the walk back to his room and his head still ached, and all he wanted to do was lie down. Apologize to Rozanov and lie down, but mostly lie down.

He knew he shouldn't be, but he was a little bit relieved he didn't have to go to practice today, that all he was expected to do was show up and be a cheerleader for the skills competition. It was meant as punishment, of course, and it would have been any other day, because the skills competition was fun and he would have dominated at it, but today he didn't care. He could skip the little bit of publicity he would have gotten from it; he had enough of that anyways.

He'd just made it to the suite when his phone buzzed in his pocket. His mother.

Fuck.

"Hi mom," he said, dropping his gear bag behind the door, which had somehow become the designated spot for it over the last few days.

"Honey, I just got an email from the coordinators at MASE. You're not participating in the skill competition tonight?"

That was fast, Shane thought. Maybe that was what Angela had been typing away on while they were getting IVs. "Yeah, none of the MLH guys are."

"I don't know why not," his mother said. "Shouldn't you be setting the example? Maybe I'll text James Robineau and ask him about that."

"Please don't," Shane said. "It's really not—"

"Shane, this was presented to us as a good opportunity for you to get your name out there. They shouldn't be allowed to change the terms once they've got you in Arizona. This is not—"

"It's a punishment, okay?" he said, just as Ilya came through the door behind him. Ilya didn't meet his eyes, just turned and closed the door once he noticed Shane was on the phone.

"What?" his mother asked. "Punishment for what? What could you have done that would result in punishment?"

Ilya brushed by him, heading to his own bedroom.

Shane sighed. Even from a thousand miles away he was incapable of lying to his mother. "I got drunk. We all did. And the MLH players sort of, um . . ." He glanced up, but Ilya was still in his room. "We bought the alcohol. Or, not bought, exactly. We paid for it."

"Shane! You don't drink! You're not even drinking age in the U.S.!"

"Yeah, we, um. We sort of forgot about that. Anyway, the punishment is that none of us get to participate in skills. We'll be there, and we'll be in the games tomorrow, just not tonight."

His mother took a moment. He could picture her in his mind, standing in the kitchen, phone pressed to her chest, mouth pursed as she tried to figure out what to say. He'd seen her do it a thousand times when she wanted to yell, but knew it would not be a good idea. Finally, he heard her inhale. "I have to say, Shane, this isn't the good judgment your father and I expect from you."

"No, I know." He nodded like she was in the room. "I'm sorry, Mom."

"And you're sure you don't want me to call James Robineau to get his take on things?"

"Positive," Shane said. "It was partly my fault. I earned the consequences." She'd said that same phrase—"earned the consequences"—to him a thousand times over the years, about all sorts of things, good and bad. And in this particular situation, he felt like he'd earned even worse. He didn't need her to pull strings so he could avoid something he deserved.

"Alright." She paused. He could feel her desire to say more in the silence, but when she spoke again, it was to move on. "Well . . . I can't say I'm not disappointed, honey, but you know your dad and I love you. We can talk more about it when you get back."

"Sure, okay."

"How is it otherwise?" his mom asked. "Are you enjoying it?"

"A lot, actually," Shane said. "It's been really great getting to know everyone."

"And Rozanov? How is he?"

Shane lifted his eyes to Rozanov's door, which was open, but from where he was standing he couldn't see into the room. "He's good. No problems at all." Except the ones I've created, he thought.

"Well, good. I'll let you go so you can get to the ice. We love you, Shane. Stay out of trouble." Her voice got stern on the last sentence, but she was sort of joking. Sort of.

"I will. I love you, too, Mom. Tell dad I said hi."

"I will, honey."

Shane pressed END on his phone. When he looked up, Ilya was standing in the space between their rooms, a stack of sheets in his hands.

"Your mother is angry with you?" he asked.

Shane's heart leapt. Ilya was talking to him. "A little. They sent out an email about us not being in skills tonight and she wanted to know why."

Ilya nodded, glancing around the room, eyes anywhere but on Shane, it seemed.

"Will your family be mad about it?" Shane asked.

Ilya shrugged. "Probably, yes. But they are very far away. And they like my money, so not too mad."

"Oh," Shane said. It had never occurred to him that Ilya's family might need his money, even though that was true of a lot of guys in the league. Shane's parents had never talked to him about his money, except when his mom talked him through the endorsement deals she worked on with his agent. She didn't even get paid for that, as far as he knew, which he should probably fix. She did all the work on those, he just showed up. He'd have to talk to someone about how to set that up.

"I brought you these." Ilya lifted the sheets a little. "Since we will not want housekeeping today."

"Oh!" Shane said. The thoughtfulness took his breath away. His sheets were still dirty from what had happened between them at lunch yesterday. He'd been too drunk to care last night, but the idea of sleeping on them again made him shiver with disgust. And Ilya had gone to the front desk and spoken to someone and gotten him clean sheets. "Um. Thanks."

He reached for the sheets, but Ilya just turned and went into Shane's room with them, so Shane followed.

They worked silently for a minute, stripping the old sheets off the bed, dumping the pillows out of the pillowcases. Shane was relieved to see that the mattress cover was in pretty good shape, a little dingy, but not stained or torn, and the pillows looked brand new. On the far side of the bed, Ilya bent over, tugging the fitted sheet tight over the top corner of the mattress, his bare arms flexing in his tank top, and something about the domesticity of the situation made Shane's heart clench.

This is what he looks like at home, he thought, even though he had no way of knowing whether Ilya Rozanov changed his own sheets or had a cleaning service do it when they cleaned his house, like Shane did.

"Thanks," he said. "For this. And for taking the blame with Megan. You didn't have to do that."

Ilya didn't look up from where he was tucking the sheet around the bottom corner of the mattress, just shrugged. "Welcome."

"It's really nice of you."

Ilya sighed, grabbing the flat sheet from the nightstand. "Yes, I am nice guy. Please do your side."

"Oh! Yeah." Shane yanked the fitted sheet tight, then caught the corner of the flat sheet that Ilya floated his way.

They finished in silence, pillows, duvet, not as neat as the housekeeping staff, but acceptable, and, most importantly, clean. I should ask him if he wants to lie down, Shane thought, but before he could say the words, Ilya said "okay. Get some sleep," and left the room.

***

Ilya bolted straight from Shane's room to the bathroom, shutting the door with a firm click and pressing his back against it, head down, so he could breathe. It was too much, to be so close to Shane and not reach for him. They needed to speak. But Shane still looked terrible, despite the IV, bags under his eyes and a sluggishness in his movements he never normally had. And Ilya wasn't feeling great himself. He'd been okay before, but somehow the IV fluids had both refreshed him and made him tired, like they'd rehydrated him enough to allow him to sleep. He wanted, selfishly, to crawl into Hollander's clean sheets and pull Hollander into his arms and sleep until lunch with his nose pressed into Hollander's hair, but, first, they must talk.

And neither of them were in a state to talk. So.

Ilya sighed and flushed the toilet, a pantomime to disguise his brooding. When he came out, Shane was in bed, curled up on his side under the sheet, his arms wrapped around himself. His eyes were closed, but his door was open.

Ilya went past the door to lie down on the couch.

***

Shane tried to sleep, he really did, but, as tired as he was, he could not stop thinking about Ilya. What he'd said last night, what he'd done today. The sheets. Taking blame. The kiss by the door. He'd rejected Shane's offer to speak about the fight once already, and that made sense, but he kept doing these things. 

Shane knew it would be better to wait, at least until they were both feeling better, but he didn't want to wait. He wanted to explain, and see if Ilya would forgive him. He wanted to know what the next step was. Were they done? Had he offended Ilya so much with his accusations that Ilya no longer wanted to fuck him? Shane didn't think so. The things he had done already this morning suggested that there was room for forgiveness in Ilya's heart. But then what was the right thing to say to activate that forgiveness, and when was the right time to say it?

He had no idea. In his imaginings, he would get to the part where Ilya agreed to speak with him, and then his mind would go blank. An apology, sure, but an apology for what? Sorry I was such a jealous bitch? Sorry I like you so much?

No. He could start with the behavior. Sorry I yelled at you. That was factual, that was true. It wasn't the heart of the problem, but it was a way in. But, assuming Ilya was willing to listen that far, what next?

The toilet flushed and the bathroom door opened. Shane shut his eyes, listening as Ilya walked past the bedroom door into the living room, settled onto the couch with a sigh. He waited for the television to come on, but it didn't, at least not that he could hear. So he would start with what he'd done, and then maybe he could say that he'd wanted to spend the night with Ilya and had been worried—yes, that was the word, worried not jealous—that he wouldn't have the chance because Ilya was going to hook up with a girl, and that, plus the alcohol, had made him act like a dick. That wouldn't be too much, too many feelings.

It wasn't quite the truth, but it was close enough to the truth to work as the basis for Shane's apology, close enough to get them back to where they had been yesterday. Or Shane thought it might be, anyway. Worth a shot.

Shane flipped the sheets back and got out of bed. He would try again, and at least if Ilya said no this time, he'd be able to take a nap knowing he had tried.

***

Ilya was half-asleep on the couch when he heard movement in Shane's room. Probably nothing, he reminded himself. Probably just rolling over. Or going to piss.

But Shane didn't go to the bathroom. Instead, he came and stood at the end of the couch wearing nothing but his white boxer briefs and the sad puppy eyes Ilya had asked him to use on Angela in the conference room. He shifted when he noticed Ilya's eyes on him, one hand lifting to rub the hair on the back of his head, and the bunching of his bicep, the shadow of hair in his armpit, the dark spots of his nipples on the smooth planes of his chest made the saliva in Ilya's mouth dry up.

Fuck, Ilya thought. I will never be able to say no to him.

"Hey, Ilya," Shane said. "Sorry to, um. Can I talk to you?"

Chapter End Notes

Love languages aren't real.

And Russia did, in fact, have an underage drinking law in 2011, but (a) it was, and is, 18 and (b) did not apply to most beer until July 2011, about a month before this story takes place and a month after Ilya turned 20, so Ilya would not have gotten the big deal about drinking. Neither would Shane, as the drinking age in Montreal in 2011 was also 18 (it still is).

Chapter 7: Friday Afternoon

Chapter Summary

Ilya gets an apology, a win, and a girl's number.

Chapter Notes

Ilya had meant to wait until the afternoon, until both he and Shane had slept and maybe eaten before having whatever conversation needed to be had. They should be well-rested for it, fed, calm. Especially if it was bad, if it wasn't going to work out anymore, if this week in the desert had bleached out whatever was good between them.

But Shane stood at the foot of the couch, tired and beautiful and asking, and so Ilya said yes. "Okay," he said, in response to Shane's question. "We can talk now. If you want."

"I do," Shane said, and then said nothing else for a second, glancing away, like someone was going to come out the bathroom and save him. "I just, um . . . I wanted to apologize. For last night."

"Mmm." An apology was good, but in Ilya's experience, it could go either way: "I'm sorry and I want to still have sex with you" or "I'm sorry and I can no longer have sex with you." He waited.

"I was out of line," Shane continued. "I was pretty drunk, and—"

"Yes, you were drunk. This is why I said no," Ilya pointed out.

"No, I know." Shane ducked his head. His fingers twitched at his sides, looking for pockets he didn't have. "And, anyway, I'm sorry. I put you in a bad spot, and I said some things I shouldn't have, and, yeah. I'm sorry." He lifted his eyes at the last words, hesitant, like he was waiting for Ilya to shout, or maybe swing at him.

The apology was good, but it still hadn't given Ilya the answer he needed. What did Shane want to do now? "You were very mean to me," he said.

Shane nodded. "I know. I'm sorry. I was just upset."

"Upset by what? That I wouldn't fuck you?"

"No. Not exactly." Shane sat on the arm of the couch. Carefully, he reached out and put a hand on the top of Ilya's foot, his fingers warm and cautious. "I was, um. There were a lot of girls around and I . . . I guess I thought . . . I wanted your attention."

Ilya wanted to laugh with relief. There it was, the reason for Shane's anger last night. "You were jealous," he said. "Of those girls."

Shane nodded again, his fingers tightening on Ilya's instep. "Yeah. Yes."

Ilya flexed the foot Shane held captive, poking his leg with one toe, playful now that he knew what the problem had been. Shane did not regret what had happened between them; he was afraid he would be replaced. "What did you think, Hollander? That I would bring one of those girls in here and fuck her while you watched?"

"Listened, but, um—"

"You are so fucking stupid."

Shane nodded, his head down, eyes locked on his hand around Ilya's foot. "Yeah," he breathed.

"Hey," Ilya said, and when Shane glanced up at him, he gestured with one hand, curling his fingers in toward himself.

Shane's eyes widened in disbelief, but he didn't move, so Ilya did it again, not blinking, barely breathing, just his fingers speaking: come here.

Shane moved slowly, like he was afraid at any second Ilya would change his mind, planting his knee on the couch cushion between Ilya's ankles, his hand on the back of the sofa near Ilya's hip, inching forward, his face serious, until finally he was on top of Ilya, his hips between Ilya's thighs, his arms wedged underneath Ilya's shoulder blades against the couch cushions, his face pressed into the crook of Ilya's neck.

Ilya held Shane firm against him, one hand on his neck, the other on his ribs, his thighs pressed into Shane's hips. Shane's weight was a relief, filling an empty space Ilya'd felt since the night before. He pressed his lips into Shane's hair. "You do not need to fuck me to get my attention, Hollander."

Shane shuddered against his body. "No?"

"No," Ilya said. "Just blow me, maybe."

"Fuck off." Shane squeezed him tighter. "I am sorry."

"Mmm. I am sorry, too." Ilya stroked a hand down his ribs and back up. "If I made you feel pressure about the fucking. We do not have to."

"No, I want to," Shane said. "I'm glad we didn't, though. Last night."

Glad wasn't even the word for what Ilya felt about it. They had been on the edge of a cliff last night and had managed to back away from it, and Ilya still felt a little shaky from how close they had come. "Yes. It would have been bad. Bad idea, not bad sex," Ilya clarified.

Shane laughed against his collarbone. "Of course. Great sex, terrible idea. That pretty much sums up this whole thing."

Ilya hooked a heel over the back of Shane's leg. They couldn't get any closer, but still Ilya wanted to secure him, make sure he couldn't get away. "Yes. That is our motor."

"Motor?" Shane asked.

"Yes, our saying, like on a t-shirt. What makes us run. Motor."

"Motto." Shane kissed his chest. "Our motto."

"Ahh. Motto." Ilya made a note to look up "motto" later. It sounded like some kind of Italian food. He kissed Shane's hair. "So maybe we wait until Montreal to fuck, then. Like we planned."

"That’s so long from now," Shane murmured against his skin. "Not until almost Halloween."

Halloween. Months and months and miles and miles away. A whole different season in a whole different place. Ilya flattened in hand on Shane's back, like just saying the word "Halloween" would make him disappear. "Then maybe at my house? When you come to Boston?"

"That's only two days earlier," Shane said.

Ilya snorted. "Did you memorize the whole schedule?"

Shane rubbed his face on Ilya's shirt like he was trying to rub the blush off. "Just parts of it," he muttered.

Ilya chuckled. He had been joking when he told Hollander months ago that they were making a plan to fuck, but he should have known better than to joke with Shane Hollander about plans. "Then Halloween it is." He stroked Shane's hair back from his temple. "Maybe you can dress up for me."

"Or you can dress up for me," Shane said. He shifted on top of Ilya, settling, his breath slowing.

"Maybe," Ilya said, but what he thought was I will do anything for you.

***

Ilya woke sometime later, Shane's body hot and heavy on top of him, crushing him into the couch cushions so comfortably he never wanted to move. He couldn't see Shane's face, but he could tell he was awake, too, by the way his breath sounded, the thud of his heart against Ilya's ribs. He kissed the top of Shane's head. "How do you feel?"

"Better," Shane murmured. "You?"

"I am good," Ilya said. "Hungry, a little, but good."

"Mmm." Shane nuzzled into Ilya's tank top, then pushed himself forward, his hand flat on Ilya's stomach, so his lips brushed Ilya's neck.

"You are hungry, too, maybe?" Ilya asked.

"Mmm," Shane said again, his fingers creeping under the hem of Ilya's shirt, pushing it up under Ilya's armpits, then swiping a palm over Ilya's exposed nipple. His hands were warm on Ilya's already hot skin, running over Ilya's ribs, his belly, like Shane was forming him out of clay, shaping him into existence, Shane's head still buried in the crook of Ilya's neck, a blind sculptor.

Ilya spread his legs wider to get more contact against his swelling cock. Shane lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting Ilya's, his lips quirked in a tiny smile. "Hungry?"

Ilya grinned. Shane ducked his head and closed his mouth over one of Ilya's nipples, sucking gently, his fingers toying with the other one, urging them into stiff little peaks. When he nipped at each of them in turn, Ilya groaned, his cock jumping in his shorts. He hadn't realized it before this week, maybe would never have realized it if MASE had not happened, but he loved it when Shane took his time. The other times, in the fancy hotel rooms, had been hot, but here in the worn-down Sleep-EZ, Ilya had experienced what it was like to be seen, touched, tasted, without a curfew or a flight hanging over their heads, when Shane Hollander could direct his singular focus only to Ilya. He never wanted it to stop.

Shane left his nipples once they were red and swollen, sensitive to even the slightest flick of his tongue, and kissed his way down Ilya's chest, his ribs, his belly, scratching his face against the hair on Ilya's stomach, ignoring the cloth-covered erection that poked into his throat. He paused there for a second, eyes closed. Ilya stroked his hair.

"You are okay?" he asked, worried that maybe Shane was not feeling well still, but he got only a smile and a kiss right above his waistband for an answer. Then Shane tugged his shorts down with one hand, using the other to angle Ilya's stiff cock into his mouth, his beautiful, wet, eager mouth. Ilya could only stare, watching his erection slide in between Shane's lips, unable to look away until Shane opened his eyes and gazed right at him, and Ilya could see nothing else.

There was no teasing, no delicate torment, just the steady sucking grip of Shane's mouth, up and down, as far as Shane could go without gagging. And his eyes, his bottomless brown eyes, staring at Ilya, tears of effort pooling at the lash line but never falling. Ilya couldn't look away. He knew if he asked, after, what Shane had been thinking, Shane would answer, but Ilya didn't think the answer would be true. Not because Shane meant to lie, but because there was no way to express in words what his eyes said to Ilya. Ilya couldn't even describe it to himself.

So he didn't try. He just kept his eyes locked on Shane's, and his hand in Shane's hair, and his cock between Shane's lips. By the end his hips were twitching in time with the motion of Shane's tongue, his moans timed to Shane's whines of encouragement, but he didn't close his eyes until he came, gasping, into Shane's mouth.

Before he could even catch his breath, Shane was up on his knees on the couch cushion, yanking his own briefs down, hand around his swollen cock. "Can I?" he gasped, fucking his own fist. "Can I?" And Ilya could only nod, mesmerized, as Shane's hips thrust forward, and his cum splashed across Ilya's stomach, his chest, his own softening cock.

"Fuck, Shane." Ilya ran his hands up Shane's trembling thighs to his hips. "Jesus."

Shane gasped out a laugh, cock still in his hand, sitting back on his heels between Ilya's knees. "That was okay, right?"

"Fuck," Ilya said again. He didn't have another answer. The idea that this guy had been worried about someone else capturing his attention was hilarious. Ridiculous. No one came close to the beauty that was Shane Hollander.

***

Shane brushed his teeth after Ilya'd gotten out of the shower—the water pressure at the Sleep-EZ did not permit both activities to happen at the same time—and went back to the living room to find Ilya on the couch, one foot on the coffee table, flipping channels with the remote, in shorts and nothing else, one hand toying with the curly hair on his belly. Shane shivered. He'd just cum so hard he thought he was going to black out, but he still felt a twinge in his dick looking at Ilya. It was sickening how hot he was.

"I ordered food," Ilya said. "From the Mexican place. Thirty minutes."

"Oh, okay. Thanks." Shane sat down at the other end of the couch. He didn't even know what time it was, midday sometime, he guessed. He was hungry. He'd felt good when he woke up from the nap, and he definitely felt much better than he had this morning, but his energy was flagging again, weariness seeping into his bones. "Do we have any water?"

"Mm, no," Ilya said. "I ordered with lunch. But here." He handed Shane a mostly-empty plastic bottle from the side table.

Shane scrunched up his nose. "Was this mine?"

"Does it matter?" Ilya smirked. "You just sucked my dick."

"It's not the same," Shane said, and it wasn't, although he couldn't explain why.

"You have drunk from my bottle before," Ilya said, and he had a point there. Still Shane went to the bathroom and rinsed the bottle thoroughly before filling it up again. He took two more Advil while he was in there, hoping he wouldn't see them again, and headed back to the couch.

"Why are you so far?" Ilya asked, when he sat down. "Come here." He lifted up his arm, and Shane scooted across the cushions to him, and didn't answer the question. He'd sat so far away because he hadn't been sure where to sit, if Ilya would still want him close after he'd just spent a couple of hours with Shane on top of him. But apparently he did, because he hooked his arm around Shane's shoulders and slid his hand into Shane's hair. For a second, Shane sat stiff and uncomfortable, not sure what to do with his body, how to hold himself, but Ilya was slouched next to him, his fingers on Shane's scalp lazy and relaxed, and Shane found himself sinking into Ilya, his head against Ilya's shoulder. His eyes drifted closed.

"You are tired, still, hmm?" Ilya asked.

"Mmm," Shane agreed.

Ilya pressed a kiss to his temple. "Rest, then, until the food gets here."

Shane folded his legs up and tipped over, his head on Ilya's muscled thigh, just below his shorts. He fit perfectly there, the height of Ilya's leg supporting his neck, his palm curved around Ilya's hairy knee. Ilya's fingers slipped through his hair, trailed down the back of his spine, over his shoulder and back again, a hypnotizing cycle, and Shane drifted, unmoored from time, and wondered if he was dreaming.

***

The knock on the door came too soon.

Shane wasn't quite asleep, Ilya could tell, but he was on his way there, and the knock jolted him back to full consciousness. "Hmm?" he asked.

"Food is here," Ilya answered.

Shane lifted his head to allow Ilya to stand, collapsing back into the dent in the cushion that Ilya'd left behind, so adorable Ilya had to resist the urge to kneel on the floor next to him and kiss him. Maybe once he'd gotten rid of the delivery driver but before they ate tacos.

He opened the door. "Hi, yes—Donovan?"

Donovan looked rough, his day of blond beard growth patchy on his cheeks, but he was also grinning from ear to ear. "Hey, Rosey! Thought I'd check on you and Holly on lunch break, since none of the big dogs made it to practice today. We heard about the skills thing."

"Yes, we are on punishment for your party," Ilya told him.

"Yeah, sorry about that. Hey, Holly!" he called past Ilya's shoulder. Ilya turned to see Shane sitting up, eyes bleary, hair sticking up in weird points. He gave a little wave, so cute Ilya ached to squeeze him.

"Sorry you're a pussy who can't hold his liquor," Donovan added.

"Fuck you, Tyler." Shane flipped him the bird.

Donovan laughed. "For real, though, you guys doing okay? Need me to bring you lunch or anything?"

"We have ordered food," Ilya told him.

"Okay, cool." Donovan nodded and leaned against the doorframe, clearly wanting to say something else. "So, um. Really, though, the guys wanted to thank you for, like, taking the heat. That was really cool of you."

"Was nothing." Ilya shrugged. It wasn't nothing—it had, in fact, almost been a very big something—but he never knew how to respond when people thanked him for things, especially people like Donovan. He hadn't taken the blame for the party because of Donovan or Jason or any of the other non-MLH players; they'd just been beneficiaries of his own instinct for self-preservation and desire to protect Shane. He didn't think he deserved gratitude for that.

"Still, though," Donovan said.

"You are welcome. Next time maybe we get hookers and cocaine, really raise the level."

"Oh, um." Donovan pressed his lips together.

"He's fucking with you," Shane called from the couch.

Donovan slapped Ilya's shoulder hard. "Fuck you, Rosey! You're so fucking epic! I was mentally going through my contacts, trying to figure out who to call!"

Donovan was a goofball, but Ilya appreciated his enthusiasm. "We will save that for when you make it to MLH, then," he said.

"Fuck yeah, we will," Donovan said, hooking his hand in Ilya's and bumping his shoulder with his own. "Holly, text if you need anything before skills."

"Okay," Shane called from over Ilya's shoulder. "Thanks, Tyler. See you later."

"Later," Donovan echoed, and headed off down the walkway, neatly dodging a short, Hispanic man carrying three plastic bags of food. Ilya left the door open and went for his wallet.

"Food is here," he told Shane and was rewarded with such a happy, sleepy smile that the delivery man almost got to watch him kiss Shane Hollander.

***

Ilya had gotten basically the same stuff they'd eaten for dinner on Wednesday, plus a couple of quesadillas and an additional order of tacos in soft corn tortillas. It was even more delicious than it had been before, the spices making Shane's nose water just a little, just the right amount. He ate until he was barely full, resisting the urge to scarf it all down, not wanting to see it again in half an hour, and made sure he drank at least half a bottle of water as well. The IV would help with hydration, but he needed to do his part.

After maybe a half hour or so, Shane closed the Styrofoam clamshell his lunch had come in and sat back on the couch. "That was fucking fantastic."

Ilya wiped his hands on a napkin and slumped back next to him. "Yes."

"Now I need another nap." Shane clapped a hand on Ilya's kneecap.

"Sure. Go to bed. I will wake you at five if you are not already up."

Shane pushed himself to his feet and went into his room, but he knew immediately that he didn't want the queen bed Ilya had spent time helping him make. Instead, he grabbed one of the pillows and went back into the living room. "I don't want to go to bed."

Ilya lifted an eyebrow, looking away from the television. "No? What does Shane Hollander want?"

Shane tossed the pillow, gently, so Ilya could catch it with one hand. "Lie down," he said, gesturing. "On your side, facing me."

Ilya did as he was told, lying on one hip, arm folded under the pillow under his head to support himself. "Yes?"

"Perfect."

Shane eased himself onto the couch in front of Ilya, facing him, slotting his knee in between Ilya's thighs, shoving his face into Ilya's chest. The couch was fairly large, but they were also fairly large and the only way Shane wasn't going to fall off backward and crack his skull open was if they were stayed glued to one another. That didn't seem to be a problem, though: Ilya draped an arm over him, anchoring him in place. "This is what you want?" he asked, his voice a low rumble in Shane's ears.

Shane smushed his nose against the smooth skin of Ilya's pec, mouthed the curve of it. It tasted like nothing, just skin, and smelled of Ilya. Yes, this was what he wanted, only this. He sighed. "Yeah."

"You're sure?" Ilya murmured. "You cannot breathe."

"I'm good," Shane answered. He could see nothing by the honey gold of Ilya's skin in front of his eyes, dotted here and there by moles. He trailed his fingers over them, making invisible lines from one mole to the next. He'd never thought about moles before, whether they were attractive or unattractive; it had never occurred to him. But on Ilya, they seemed special. Ilya would have been hot without moles, of course, he was built like a fucking god, but somehow the marks made him even hotter, their irregularity drawing attention to his perfection.

"I love your moles," Shane murmured, kissing one near Ilya's sternum.

"Yes, we both have spots," Ilya said. He brushed his fingers over Shane's cheek.

Shane smiled, kissed another mole. "How come you don't have a hairy chest?"

Ilya chuckled. "What kind of question is this? You have a complaint?"

"No." This time the kiss was a little apology. "Just wondering because you have hair, um. Elsewhere. Do you, like, do something? Shave it?"

"Mmm, sometimes," Ilya answered. "Sometimes wax. Sometimes nothing. What about you?" He jostled Shane lightly.

"No, nothing, not on my chest. Just being half Japanese, I guess."

Ilya squeezed him in even closer. "Your playoff beard will be terrible."

Shane snorted. He didn't even need to shave every day. "Yeah, probably. Will you be back this year?"

"Playoffs?" Ilya sighed against him, thinking. "Probably yes, but we won't win."

Shane petted Ilya's chest with his fingertips. "When do you think you'll get a Cup?"

"Three years. Maybe two if we get better goalie, which they are trying, I know. You will be at playoffs this year though, I hope."

"Yeah, we're on the same timeline. Although I think it'll be three before we win, at least, if I'm being honest. We're too close to the cap to make significant upgrades earlier than that, unless something changes."

Ilya leaned back, creating a little space between them, enough that Shane could tilt his head back and see his face. "So I will beat you there, then? Championships in three years."

Shane rolled his eyes. "You mean I'll beat you."

"Hmm. We will see." He kissed the tip of Shane's nose and pulled him in close, again.

"Yeah, we will." Shane wanted to ask another question—will we still be doing this, then? In three years, when the Metros win the Cup, will you and I still be this?—but Ilya couldn't answer that question, not really. Any answer he gave would only be what he hoped would happen, and what if his wish wasn't the same as Shane's? What would Shane do then? Better to not ask and just enjoy Ilya's arm around him for as long as he could get it.

***

They finally got up for real a little bit after five, so they could get cleaned up and dressed for the first van to the arena for skills. Shane felt a little groggy, still, but he thought that was probably more because he'd spent the whole day lying around and eating cheese, and not because of the hangover anymore. It felt good to be upright, actually. The only thing he didn't like was that he was no longer touching Ilya. He kept reaching around like he misplaced something, but what he was missing was standing five or six feet away, in his own room, pulling a shirt on, or in the bathroom brushing his teeth.

When the time came to leave, Shane didn't even pretend to open the door, leaning against it with his hands behind his back as Ilya approached, smirking. Ilya touched his waist first, a gentle claim, then his mouth closed over Shane's, stealing his breath, then they were pressed together again, chest to chest, hip to hip, cock to cock, thigh to thigh, and when Ilya pulled back Shane heard him sigh in frustration.

"You are a bad influence, Hollander." He swiped a thumb over Shane's lower lip.

"Me?" Shane asked, but he smiled. He'd never been a bad influence before. He kind of liked it.

***

Sully and Lemaire were in the first van as well, both of them having the good sense not to upset Megan and Angela any more than had already happened, Ilya thought. Sullivan seemed recovered, but Lemaire's face was bright red, the pale ghost of sunglasses around his eyes.

"What happened, Lemaire?" Ilya asked and he dropped his bag onto the bench seat. "You have become a pomidor? A, um . . . ?" He snapped his fingers, digging for the English word. "A tomato?"

"Shut up." Lemaire scowled at him. "I was just by the pool."

"For a week?" Ilya asked.

Lemaire rolled his eyes. "Yeah, what did you do this afternoon? Donovan said you and Holly were hanging out, probably jerking each other off."

For a second, Ilya's vision went white, blanked out by Lemaire's words, but he had spent too much of his life being called a gomik by his brother and sometimes his father to be thrown by bullshit from someone who didn't even play for an Original Six team. "Actually, your mother came over and sucked our dicks," he said, holding out his phone. "You want to see video?"

"Fuck you, Rozanov!" Lemaire spat. "You're so fucking rude."

"Yes, I am rude. Not like the polite tomato, who talks about jerking off other men when he is embarrassed. Shut up, Lemaire." Ilya plopped into his seat. He didn't look over at Shane, didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. He could feel Shane's panic radiating from him, hot and bright, like the rays of the Arizona sun.

***

Shane stalked into the arena, shoulders square, head high, pretending he hadn't heard Lemaire's comment. But he had. And wasn't that what had happened, actually? He and Rozanov, hanging out with their cocks out, jerking each other off? When he got right down to it, wasn't that the truth? Lemaire was an asshole, but he wasn't wrong.

And Tyler, what had he said to Lemaire? Shane hadn't thought about the encounter at the door, what it must have looked like, Ilya without a shirt on, Shane literally in his underwear, his hair messed up. What would he have thought if he'd seen that? What else could Tyler have thought?

Shane dumped his bag on the bench in front of his locker. Tyler hadn't seemed bothered or upset. He'd asked if they needed anything. He'd even texted later in the afternoon, just to check in, which Shane had thought was nice at the time, so why was he telling Lemaire they'd been jerking off? Why would he have acted the way he did and said something like that at the same time? What did he—

"Hey, man."

Shane flinched, like he'd manifested Tyler by thinking about him, but Tyler didn't seem to notice, slapping him on the shoulder. He was already dressed to skates, Shane saw, his hair damp and flat from the helmet. He must have come back early to practice. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," Shane said. "Fine."

"Excellent. You were looking pretty rough at lunch. I was worried you weren't going to make it."

"Yeah, thanks for telling everyone that, by the way," Shane snapped. It wasn't what he meant, not exactly, but it was a close as he could get.

Tyler blinked at Shane's tone. "What do you mean?"

"Lemaire said you were saying shit about me and, um, and Rosey." Shane stumbled over the name, wishing he hadn't said anything. There was no way to actually discuss this. He shouldn't have brought it up.

But Tyler just rolled his eyes. "That guy's such a dick. I told him you looked like shit, but Rosey had you. You did look like shit, dude. Sorry."

"It's alright," Shane answered, trying to reel his anger back in. It wasn't Tyler he'd been angry at anyway, not even when he'd thought Lemaire might be telling the truth. Really, he was mad at the whole situation. That he'd allowed himself to be seen in such a state, that Ilya had opened the door, that anyone would care in the first place if two people, two adults fucked around, that in trying to insult them, Lemaire had stumbled upon an actual fact. "Yeah, he's a dick."

"You okay?" Tyler asked. "You look weird."

"No, I'm good." Shane patted him on the shoulder, feeling like a dick himself for his suspicions. "Just a little tired still. Get warmed up. We've got to beat their asses."

"You know what else we gotta do, Holly?" Tyler grinned at him, waiting.

Shane rolled his eyes. The words had become a little inside joke on his team, an internal hype phrase, and even though it was sort of cringey, Shane also sort of liked it. "Have fun?"

"That's right, motherfucker!" Tyler shouted in his face. "Let's go have some fun!"

***

Despite the rocky start, and the fact that Shane wasn't participating, skills was fun. The MLH had given away tickets for the skills event, so when they came out onto the ice, the arena was mostly full of fans, some clearly devoted, with signs and college jerseys, and some probably attracted by the idea of a cheap night out for the family with air conditioning and a chance for a puck. Angela had herded the MLH guys out before the start time, made them skate around to the various areas of the ice and wave to people and throw pucks over the glass. He thought he would suggest to her that next year they should do some sort of autograph session or something, even though he normally hated those kinds of things, the awkwardness of making conversation with strangers with stars in their eyes. At the moment, looking at the beaming faces of the little kids through the glass, Shane felt like it was the least he could do for that kind of devotion.

"Did you see that girl?" Lemaire asked as they headed back down the tunnel to get in line for official introductions.

"What girl?" Shane asked. He'd seen a dozen little girls, maybe. More girls were liking hockey every day, but it was still really a male-oriented sport.

"The one with the big tits in the white t-shirt. Section 111." Lemaire said. "I'm going to get her number."

Shane rolled his eyes and didn't answer. Shit like that happened all the time, of course, guys talking about women they saw in the stands, making comments, but it felt especially gross tonight.

"Shut up, Lemaire," Ilya said, from behind him.

"Oh, okay," Lemaire said. "Suddenly international dick slinger Ilya Rozanov treats women with respect."

Shane whirled on Lemaire, knocking him into the tunnel wall with one quick push. Lemaire squawked in protest. "We're talking about you, asshole," Shane snapped. "Just . . . shut up."

Lemaire held his hands up. "Fine, okay!" he said. "I didn't know she was your sister. Fuck."

Shane rolled his eyes and stalked away. He wondered if he'd get in trouble for pushing Lemaire, but he didn't think so. Those kinds of minor things happened between hockey players from time-to-time although Shane usually wasn't involved in them, and it wasn't like he'd thrown a punch or anything. Besides, what would Lemaire say? "I was talking about some girl's tits and Hollander told me to shut up"? Shane didn't think Megan or Angela would have a lot of sympathy for the story.

Still. He shouldn't have. Because the excuse was sort of a lie. Not that he liked it when guys were gross about women, he didn't, but that hadn't actually been the reason he shoved Lemaire; he'd shoved Lemaire into the wall because Lemaire's comment about Ilya had pissed him off, not only because it was insulting but also because it reminded Shane of how he'd reacted last night, when Ilya had been talking to those girls. Girls he could have easily had. If he wanted them.

Shane sighed. Before this week, he'd actually liked Lemaire, or thought he did. It was shocking how quickly some things could change.

***

The MASE coordinators had decided to do an abbreviated version of the skills from the actual All-Star Game, so instead of six events there were four—Fastest Skater, Accuracy Shooting, Hardest Shot, and Challenge Relay—and Shane knew he and Ilya were excluded because of the pool party, but honestly, it was a little more fair that they weren't competing, since between them, he and Ilya had won all of those individual events at the actual All-Star Game, and Ilya's team had won the Challenge Relay. When one of the guys from Ilya's team, Jason Moore, won Fastest Skater with a time of 16.933 seconds, Shane caught Ilya's eye across the rink while they both clapped. Ilya had come in second in January with a time of 14.774, a little more than half a second behind Shane's 14.238.

Shane's team won Accuracy Shooting because Jesus Ortega was a machine, hitting all four targets in four shots, his blade a blur on the ice (although he still would have lost to Shane in January), and Lemaire's team won Hardest Shot, and then they had a little intermission for commercials and so the rink staff could set up the relay course.

Shane was giving last minute stick handling tips to Scarlett, not because he needed them, but because the cameras were making Scarlett nervous, when the ESPN commentator, a skinny blond woman with big blue eyes that Shane had never spoken to before, picked her way through the benched players to talk to him, her camera guy a hulking shadow behind her.

"Shane Hollander," she said, "obviously, this isn't your first All-Star experience. How does MASE compare to the real thing?"

Shane blinked, wondering if she knew how rude she'd just been or if it was a strategy to get him to say something shitty about the other guys. Probably, she was just clueless. Most reporters were.

"It's been great," he said. "A lot of fun getting to know all the guys, seeing all the talent on display."

"It was announced today that you and the other MLH players weren't going to compete in the skills competition today. What do you think about that decision?"

"I think it's great," Shane said. "There are a lot of great players here who deserve to be seen. And just because we aren't personally on the ice, doesn't mean we aren't competing. Our teams are out there, and we all want to win."

The reporter's smile twitched a little. Not the answer she wanted, obviously.

"Before I let you go, Shane, any final words about your experience here at MASE?"

"It's been really great," Shane said, wondering if he knew any words besides "great". "And I want to shout out to our coordinators, Megan and Angela, who have done such a great job putting all of this together. It's been a lot of fun." He smiled politely until the reporter moved on to talk to Sully, then grimaced, wishing he'd remembered Megan and Angela's last names (did he even know their last names? He wasn't sure.), wondering how many times he'd said the word "great." He guessed it didn't really matter. They would edit it into whatever was useful, regardless of what he said. He'd only been in the league for a little over a year, but he'd already learned that the best way to handle the press was to be polite and boring. That way nothing they printed could be used against you.

***

Ilya understood enough about himself to know that he liked Shane, that he'd liked him pretty much from the first time they hooked up, when Shane had been shy and nervous and funny and bold all at the same time. But after today, Ilya thought, looking across the rink to where Shane stood in the bench talking to one of his guys, hands moving in sharp, economical gestures, he didn't think "like" was the right word anymore.

He'd looked up "motto" on his phone in the van on the ride to the arena—Shane had been right, of course, and the more he considered it, the more Ilya wanted "great sex, terrible idea" on a t-shirt—and then typed in "like" to see if there was some other word that expressed what was happening between them in English. He knew "obsessed" already, but that was not right, because it sounded like he wanted to murder Shane. "Intrigued" was better, but too . . . light, like Shane was an interesting bug or something. But in the list of synonyms on the page, Ilya had found the word "infatuated." The definition—having a strong but unreasonable feeling of love or attraction for someone or something—was almost right, because whatever he felt for Shane Hollander, who was smiling at Donovan now, smiling, and shaking his head in the same way that he shook his head at Ilya when he thought he was being ridiculous, it was both strong and unreasonable.

The surge of protectiveness he'd felt in the van when Lemaire started talking shit, the wave of pride when Shane had shoved Lemaire into the wall, the flutter of his heart when he caught a glimpse of Shane on the ice, nodding down at Angela as she talked to him about the set up . . . these were all feelings that Ilya hadn't expected to have, not about Hollander, not about anyone, really, for a long time. Maybe never. But here he was and here they were, and Ilya, remembering the deep peace of Shane asleep on top of him, his breath warm on Ilya's throat, didn't want them to stop anytime soon.

Across the ice, Shane had finished talking to Donovan. He turned and in doing so noticed Ilya watching him. For a second, he paused. Then he lifted his head, just a little, in acknowledgement, the corner of his mouth quirking up in the suggestion of a smile.

Infatuated.

It was a good word.

***

In the end, Shane's team, Blue Team, came in second in skills, just behind Ilya's team, their effort undone when Tyler nicked a couple of cones during the puck control portion of the challenge relay, but honestly, by that point Shane was so exhilarated, banging his palms on the boards in encouragement, chirping the other teams, he didn't care.

Tyler felt differently, tossing his stick to the floor when the results were announced and plopping to the bench, burying his face in hands. "Fuck!" he shouted, loud enough for Shane to hear, even over the cheers of the crowd and the music.

He dropped to the bench beside Tyler. "Hey, man."

Tyler glared at him for a second. "Sorry," he muttered finally.

"Sorry for swearing on national television or sorry for losing?" Shane asked.

Tyler shrugged, his face miserable. "Both, maybe? Mostly losing, though. We coulda had them."

"Yeah," Shane agreed. "But that's okay."

"I lost this," Tyler repeated. "I fucked us."

"You could look at it that way," Shane admitted, knowing that he certainly had looked at it that exact same way in other games, and probably would again. "But it's not true."

"Holly, fuck off. I nicked three cones. The point deductions on those were—"

"Sure," Shane agreed again. "But also Scarlett could have been faster on the relay. And Mac could have been better at one-timers, and Ronnie didn't win the speed skate. Pretty much the only one who couldn't have done better was our lord and savior, Jesus."

"Amen," Tyler muttered as he crossed himself, another inside joke. "But—"

"No, you fuck off, Ty." Shane bumped Tyler's shoulder with his own. "Yes, you made a mistake. Fine. That sucks. But hockey is a team sport. You can't win alone and you can't lose alone. Okay?"

Tyler nodded, but he still looked miserable, so Shane bumped him again, pads banging against pads. "Okay?" he repeated.

"Okay," Tyler admitted. "Thanks."

Shane shrugged. "You knew this. You just forgot for a minute." Shane leaned his elbows on his knees, looking out at the ice where Ilya's team was skating in dizzy loops, waving to fans, making exaggerated, teasing gestures to the other teams when they thought they were out of sight of the cameras. "You also forgot the most important thing."

"What's that, Holly?" Tyler asked.

Shane grinned back over his shoulder. "Did you have fun?"

***

They were released late, around ten thirty, in part, Ilya thought because of what they had gotten up to the night before, and in part because fans stayed around after the event, pressed up against the glass, hoping for photos and autographs, especially from the MLH players, although the local guys and the ALH guys got some love as well. After a few minutes, Angela spaced them out at the tunnels so the fans could hand things down to them, an attendant next to each of them with sharpies and ballpoints and promo photos from the shoot earlier in the week ready to be personalized if the fan hadn't brought their own. Ilya signed countless pictures of himself, and dozens of pucks (Angela, the queen of planning, had provided metallic sharpies just for such a purpose), and one woman's t-shirt that she literally pulled off in front of him. His last autograph was a card from when he was on the Russian prospects team, which he hadn't even known had been made. Prospects had only been a couple of years ago, but on the card, Ilya looked painfully young, a child.

"I have never seen this one before," he said to the fan, a boy of maybe eight or nine, who stared at him with wide eyes. "Is very unusual."

"His grandmother sent it to him," the woman with him said in terrible Russian. Ilya's heart clenched with love hearing it.

"What a good grandmother," he responded, slow, careful, so she could understand him. "You are from Russia?" he asked although he knew she was not.

She shook her head, one hand on the boy's shoulder. "His father. I am learning. We are learning."

"Ahh, he must be a good man, for you to learn Russian." He handed the card back to the boy and smiled up at her. "And you are a good mother to bring him to this."

"You are very kind," she answered, then switched to English. "Tell Mr. Rozanov thank you."

"Thank you," the boy murmured, clutching the card to his chest. "Spasibo."

"Very good!" Ilya exclaimed, one hand over his heart, overcome with affection for this boy and his mother, and for his life that he got to do this. Sometimes, some moments, they were so good he couldn't believe he deserved them.

***

When they finally made it back to room 224, Ilya stripped down to his underwear and collapsed on Shane's bed, waiting for him to get out of the shower. Shane had showered at the arena, they all had, but the arena soap made his skin itch, so he always rinsed off again when he got back to the room. Ilya wondered if Shane knew that he could just say something to Megan or Angela and the soap in the arena locker rooms would be changed the next day, but even if Shane did know, he probably wouldn't ask for something like that. He would think it was selfish to make other people do so much work for something he could remedy with a five-minute rinse.

He came out in just a towel, and rolled his eyes when he found Ilya in his room. "You think you're sleeping in here, huh?"

"Yes." Ilya flopped onto his back. "I am winner. Winner gets to sleep where ever he wants."

"I didn't agree to that." Shane sat on the side of the bed, smiling down on him like the sun.

"No, but you are loser, so . . ." Ilya lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

"Is the door locked?" Shane asked.

"Door is locked," Ilya confirmed, trailing one finger over the bare skin of Shane's thigh where the towel opened.

"You turned the lights off?" Shane asked, although he could have just used his eyes to see for himself that there were no lights on in the suite except the lamp next to his own bed.

"Lights are off." Ilya hooked his finger in the towel and tugged a little, until the fabric gave way, revealing the smooth skin of Shane's flank. Ilya stroked it with his knuckles.

"Is your alarm on?"

"Ugh!" Ilya declared, pushing himself up on one arm and shoving Shane flat on the bed with the other. "Hollander, you make me crazy."

Shane laughed at the ceiling, the towel barely covering him. He reached down and cupped Ilya's face. "You're just impatient."

"All the time." Ilya shifted closer, his arm draped over Shane's hips, his face on Shane's belly. Shane threaded his fingers into Ilya's hair. They lay in silence for a moment, Ilya's head rising and falling with the tide of Shane's breath. They had done this all day, all fucking day, and still the feeling of Hollander's hand on him, Hollander's skin against his, was like oxygen. He could see the edge of Shane's pubic hair, like the line of the ocean where it hit the beach. He wanted to run his finger along it, but he wanted to talk to Shane first. "Hey. I want to show you something."

"Hmm?" Shane's fingers toyed with a curl and for a second, Ilya thought about shutting his mouth, leaving it alone.

But he did not want another last night, so he sat up and dug into the pocket of the shorts he had worn to and from the arena until he found the napkin.

***

Ilya tossed a folded napkin onto his stomach. Shane picked it up with two fingers, and shoved himself upright. "What am I looking at? Why are you handing me trash?"

"Open it." Ilya nodded at him.

Shane unfolded the napkin, worried he was about to encounter chewed gum or some other gross thing, but it was just a number. A phone number. And a name—Jordan—and a lipstick kiss.

Shane's blood went cold. "What is this?" he asked.

"It is the number of the girl Lemaire wanted," Ilya said. He was still lying down, his eyes turned up to Shane's face, big, and dark blue and beautiful in the light, and somehow their beauty made Shane more nervous. What would he give up to keep those eyes on him?

"Why do you have it?" he asked.

"She gave it to me."

"Because you were flirting with her." Shane's heart sank. He had been there. In the same room, right across the ice from Ilya, and he hadn't seen it happen. This woman, whose tits were so amazing that she'd attracted not one but two professional hockey players, had given his, his . . . his Ilya her number and Shane hadn't even noticed. Would never have known if Ilya hadn't shown him.

Ilya shrugged. "A little. Normal flirting."

Normal flirting. Normal Ilya Rozanov flirting with his shoulders, and his eyes, and the curve of his lips and the beauty mark on his cheek and his fucking smile. Shane crumpled the napkin in his hand. "Okay. Well. Thanks for letting me know."

"You are mad."

"I'm not fucking happy." In fact, he was miserable, and he felt like an idiot sitting on the bed in just a towel, and it was his room so he couldn't even really leave.

"But why are you mad?" Ilya took his hand.

Why? Why was he mad? He pulled away. "I'm not. It's fine."

"Shane." Ilya rolled off the mattress onto his knees on the floor in one smooth motion, hands on Shane's thighs. "Shane. I did not text her. I'm here with you."

"Then why did you tell me?" Shane asked, embarrassed by how high and desperate his voice was. He kept his eyes on Ilya's hands, large, strong, but somehow delicate. Fine-boned. They were good hands. "Why did you show me this?"

"Because I don't want there to be secrets," Ilya said. "I don't want you to be jealous, like last night. I want you to know I choose you."

Shane's eyes flew up to meet Ilya's steady gaze. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask—choose me tonight or choose me always?—but he couldn't. After this week, they wouldn't see each other for months, and then months again after that. It wasn't fair for him to expect that Ilya wouldn't date other people that whole time. It wasn't a reasonable ask, just because they'd had a nice week, and he didn't want to know the answer.

"Okay," he said, instead.

"Okay." Ilya smiled. He leaned up and kissed Shane's nose, his cheek.

"It was Lemaire's girl?" Shane asked, tossing the napkin toward the bedside table.

"Yes." Ilya nuzzled his cheek. "Revenge for his bullshit on the bus."

"Really?" Shane smiled. He still wasn't happy Ilya had gotten some woman's number, but the idea that he'd done it at least partly because Lemaire had been a homophobic asshole did make it a little better.

Ilya sat back on his heels, his hands rubbing circles on Shane's kneecaps. "Yes. You are okay? About Lemaire's bullshit?"

Shane sighed. He wasn't, exactly, but he couldn't summon up the energy to be upset about it. "Yeah. Tyler didn't say anything to him, by the way; he was just being an ass."

Ilya snorted. "So just normal then."

"Pretty much." Shane cupped Ilya's cheek, stroking it with his thumb. "It did make me think, though. Like, about how bad it would be if people found out about this."

"Mmm, yes." Ilya kissed his palm. "But we knew this."

"Yeah," Shane said again. "It just . . . I don't know. Sort of hit home."

Ilya put a hand over Shane's, holding it still, his eyes serious. "Do you want to quit this, then? It is too risky for you?"

"What!?" Shane sat straight up, eyes wide. "No! Unless . . . do you?"

Ilya bent his head and kissed Shane's thigh. "No."

"Okay, then." Shane flopped backwards, both hands in his own hair, trying to calm his racing heart. "Fuck! You freaked me out."

"Sorry," Ilya murmured against his knee.

"Okay, well . . . don't ask me that stuff," Shane said. He didn't know exactly what he meant, what the stuff was, but Ilya's question had felt like an icicle to the chest. Did he want to quit? No, never. He never even wanted to think about it again, although he knew he would.

"Okay." He felt Ilya's hands on his knees, then Ilya nosed at the edge of the towel barely covering his cock, mouthed the crease of Shane's thigh.

"Okay," Shane breathed. His cock twitched.

"Spread your legs," Ilya whispered, and when Shane did, Ilya lifted Shane's balls in one hand like a treasure and sucked them into his mouth.

***

"Fuck, Ilya," Shane sighed, opening his thighs wider and shoving his fingers into Ilya's hair. "Oh, fuck yes."

He looked like a painting like this, legs spread, towel barely covering the outline of his erection, back arched, mouth open, eyes closed. Hollander was art. Ilya wished he could take a picture, but settled for painting Shane's cock with his tongue. He licked all the way to the tip, moving the towel away as he went, then closed his mouth over Shane and sucked him in, as far as he could go, Shane's balls still cupped delicately in one hand.

"I'm not—fuck, Ilya—I'm not going to last long," Shane muttered, clutching Ilya's hair.

Ilya sucked harder, not stroking Shane's cock, but almost nursing it, his tongue massaging it, eyes always open, always on Shane, watching, waiting for the moment when Shane's whole body arced, and froze, and flooded Ilya's mouth with his cum, a moan strangled in his throat.

Shane collapsed on the mattress, panting, twitching when Ilya didn't stop right away, but not resisting. He was so beautiful spread out on the bed like this, body flushed and loose-limbed. Ilya pressed a kiss on Shane's groin and pushed himself up onto the mattress so he could nuzzle into his belly, hug Shane's hips close to him.

"Hey." Shane stroked his hair.

Ilya tipped his head back, his cheek still on Shane's skin.

"Come up here," Shane murmured. "Let me do you."

But Ilya shook his head, lazily. His erection pressed against the mattress, insignificant compared to Shane's smooth stomach against his cheek, the rise and fall of Shane's breath, Shane's hip under his hand. "Later," he murmured. A lie because they were both about to fall asleep and they both understood that, but not exactly a lie, because there was tomorrow and next season and next year stretching out in front of them. They were not stopping this. Shane had said so.

Ilya drifted off with his head on Shane's belly and Shane's hand in his hair.

Chapter End Notes

I don't watch hockey (I'm sure you're surprised given the extensive and detailed hockey scenes in all of my stories), but the skills challenges look entertaining, much like track and field day at school. Apparently, the NHL no longer does the challenge relay, but they did in 2011, and I think they should bring it back. The videos are very fun.

If you think I didn't say "they were CONES" to myself about a hundred times when I wrote the scene between Shane and Tyler, then you don't know me very well at all. 😁

And yes, she's named Jordan after the OC in Do The Wrong Thing. It seemed appropriate.

Chapter 8: Saturday

Chapter Summary

It's the last full day of MASE for our players. Ilya gets cockblocked, Lemaire gets what's coming to him, and Shane gets a card.

Chapter Notes

Shane didn't usually sleep naked. Sometimes he felt like he maybe should, especially now that he was living on his own, like it was a manly, adult thing to do, instead of putting on shorts or, worse, pajamas, like some sort of middle-aged dad. But every time he tried, it made him uncomfortable and he would wake up in the middle of the night thinking what if there's a fire? then get up and put on his favorite flannel pants.

But when he woke up before the alarm on Saturday, naked, the towel from his shower bunched under one hip, he realized he hadn't been bothered at all. Maybe it was because Ilya, wrapped around him from behind, face lodged between Shane's shoulder blades, arm tight across his ribs, was wearing underwear and could handle whatever emergencies arose in the dark. Or maybe it was just because Ilya.

His heart had stuttered at the question last night: do you want to quit this?

The answer should have been yes. The fear that had raced through his body when Lemaire had teased them had felt like an electric charge, urging him to run, to punch something, to escape. And that was just Lemaire, whose opinion didn't matter at all. He could only imagine the weight that would fall on him if someone realized that Lemaire had been right. After years and years in locker rooms, Shane was pretty sure he understood how his teammates would feel if they found out that he liked dick. He was less sure of what his coaches would think, although they wouldn't be pleased. And what would the league think? His brand partners?

And what would his parents say? They would still love him and support him, he knew that, but he was their only child, and in some ways had become their focus, particularly his mother's, in a way that would change forever if he told them that he thought he might never want to be with a woman, romantically. That he might be gay.

The morning light that had begun to creep around the edge of the curtain blurred a little bit in Shane's vision. He blinked.

Because that was what all of this meant, right? How he felt having sex with Ilya, how he felt spending time with Ilya, it meant that his failed high school relationships and his unremarkable dates with women since then hadn't been a matter of his travel schedule, or his training regimen, or just not finding the right girl. There would never be a right girl.

Because when Ilya had asked the question—do you want to quit this?—the answer had been as immediate and natural as a blink in the bright sunlight.

No. No.

No, he did not want to quit, not last night and not this morning. Maybe not ever.

But he also didn't want to think too much about what that answer meant. Not yet. All his stupid worries could wait for another day at least, until he was back in Montreal, away from the blinding heat of Phoenix and could think clearly.

On the bedside table, Ilya's phone began to buzz. Ilya lurched forward, the entire weight of his body squishing Shane into the mattress for a second as he leaned to turn it off, then he settled back, dragging Shane flat so he could rest his head on Shane's chest, hook one immense leg over Shane's thighs. "Morning," he mumbled.

Shane threaded both of his hands into the tangle of Ilya's curls and kissed him on the forehead. "Morning," he answered.

The last full day of MASE had begun.

***

Ilya paused in the doorway to Shane's bedroom, staring, when he saw that Shane had his suitcase open on the bed. Everything had been fine, he'd been brushing his teeth, and then he came out and suddenly there were suitcases. "What are you doing?"

Shane glanced up from folding one of his shirts into a roll. In front of him on the mattress was one of those little packing cube things Ilya saw in the travel tips the Raiders front office sent to his email at the beginning of each season, already half full of t-shirt rolls like eggs in a carton. "I'm packing."

"We don't leave until tomorrow," Ilya said. Something about the sight—the open suitcase, the egg carton t-shirts, Shane's extra pair of sneakers lined up neatly at the foot of the bed—made Ilya deeply uncomfortable, almost scared.

"We have to be at the van at nine. And I don't want to get up early to pack, do you?"

Ilya scrubbed the back of his head with his fingertips. No, he didn't want to get up early to pack. But also he didn't want to pack now. He didn't want to pack at all.

"I'm just saying, if you do some packing today, there will be more time tomorrow to . . . do other things." Shane placed another t-shirt egg into the packing cube.

"What other things were you thinking of?" Ilya came into the room and grabbed Shane from behind, pulling the t-shirt from his hand and dropping it into the suitcase.

"Hey," Shane said, but he closed his hands over Ilya's where they rested on his belly and tipped his head back for a kiss. "I just don't want to rush tomorrow, is all."

Ilya sighed into the crook of Shane's neck. As much as he hated to admit it, Shane had a point. If he was packed and ready before tomorrow morning, he wouldn't have to let go of Shane until the last possible moment. "Fine." He smacked Shane's stomach and released him. "I will let you be a good influence on me, Hollander, just this once."

Shane grinned. "Yesterday, you said I was a bad influence."

Ilya sniffed. "Yesterday, you were fun. Today you are boring."

"Uh huh. We'll see." Shane reached for him, but Ilya dodged his hand, pretending a stern face.

"No! Do not touch me! I have to go and pack like a good boy!"

"You're such an asshole," Shane told him, and kissed him anyway.

***

Megan and Angela came out onto the ice just before the end of morning practice, Megan sliding across the ice carefully in what looked to Shane like platform sneakers, Angela on skates, tablet held in one hand.

"Gentlemen, as you know, tonight is the culmination of MASE, two exhibition games, both of which will be broadcast on ESPN." Megan paused, smiling at all of them, making Shane wonder if he should clap. But no one did, and after a split second, Megan continued. "You should have received an email yesterday about the format those games will take, but the short summary is two twenty-minute periods, with one ten-minute intermission, for each game. If you can't find the email, please reach out to Angela during the lunch break and she will make sure you get it.

"The games will start, promptly, at seven and eight pm local time. Based on performance scores from our skills challenge last night, the seven o'clock game will be Green Team away, Red Team at home," Megan said. "Which means the eight o'clock game will be Blue Team away, Black Team at home."

"Of course," Lemaire muttered, his voice low enough that Shane thought maybe he was the only one who heard.

"Just a reminder, gentlemen, that there will be press here for the walk-in so please remember the dress code is business or business casual. Jackets are not required. It's very important that you look presentable, so please let us know if you have any questions about whether the outfit you plan on wearing is appropriate," Megan said. "And another reminder: the bus departs the hotel at six and it is the only one tonight, so please make sure you are on-time. Any questions?"

Megan released them after everyone was silent for a second, but Shane noticed that two or three guys approached her as the teams dispersed, maybe with concerns about what they'd planned on wearing. Lemaire skated past him, so close and fast it was almost a shove, rushing to the tunnel, yanking his practice jersey over his head.

Jerk, Shane thought, and then felt guilty about it, because maybe he was in a hurry because he was having a bathroom emergency or something. Or maybe he had a loved one who was sick and needed to text them. Lemaire was a jerk, but that didn't mean he didn't have good reasons for some things, and Shane thought maybe he should be better about not being so quick to judge, give people the benefit of the doubt.

But that critique disappeared when Shane came out of the locker room after showering and changing, and heard the shouting, a male voice echoing in the expanse of the lobby.

"—fucking bullshit and you know it! This whole week has been a waste of—"

Lemaire, of course Lemaire, standing in the middle of the lobby, face red, shouting down at Angela, who stood in front of him, tablet clutched to her chest. She was still in her skates (her skate guards were pink, Shane noticed, which seemed like a very . . . girly choice for Angela), but Lemaire, who was maybe 6'2" or 6'3", still towered over her.

"Hey!" Shane said, speeding up.

"Shut the fuck up, Hollander!" Lemaire yelled, pointing at him. "This is none of your fucking business, you spoiled asshole. This is between me and her, and her fucking boss, who thinks I'm just here to be a fucking backup dancer—"

"The order of play was determined by performance scores," Angela interrupted, her voice surprisingly calm. "We explained—"

"YOU DETERMINE THE SCORES!" Lemaire screamed in her face, spit flying, and that was it, that was fucking enough.

Shane shoved him back a few steps, standing in front of Angela. "Leave her alone."

"Oh, are you gonna fight me, Hollander?" Lemaire stepped forward until he was almost chest-to-chest, scowling down at him. "You and what army?"

"I don't need a fucking army, asshole." Shane glared at him. "Leave her alone."

"Or what?" Lemaire put one hand on Shane's shoulder, pushed a little. "You don't fight, Hollander."

He wasn't wrong about that; Shane usually didn't fight. He'd never been the biggest guy in the league, or the meanest; he'd never had to be. But he had been in fights before—you didn't grow up the only Asian kid in a white sport and not throw a couple of punches—and he wasn't going to stand by and let Lemaire scream in someone's face because he didn't get his fucking way over an exhibition game.

Lemaire took his silence for cowardice, and smirked, shoving his shoulder again. "What are you gonna do, Hollander? You gonna hit me?"

Before Shane could answer, someone else did.

"I'll hit you," Tyler said. "If Holly doesn't." He must have come out of the locker room after Shane, gear bag over one shoulder. Jason Moore stood just behind him, silent, but glaring at Lemaire as well.

"This doesn't involve you, Donovan," Lemaire snapped, but he'd already lost and he knew it; Shane could see it in his face. He might have been angry enough to throw a punch at Shane, but he wasn't angry enough to involve multiple people, especially not AHL guys, which would cause issues with the league. "You guys are all assholes. He's in your way, too, you just don't see it."

"Fuck you, Lemaire," Jason Moore said.

Lemaire scowled at all of them, turned on his heel and went out the front door.

"You good, Holly? Angela?" Tyler asked.

"All good," Shane said. "I'll see you on the van." He turned to Angela as Tyler and Jason pushed through the glass doors. "Are you okay?"

She nodded. "Yes, Shane Hollander. I'm fine."

Bizarrely, she did seem fine. Shane himself felt shaky from the adrenaline, ready to roar in someone's face, but Angela looked how she always looked: calm, determined, a little awkward.

"What was that about?"

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Vincent Lemaire thought his team deserved the second game. They didn't."

"He shouldn't have yelled at you."

Angela smiled a little. "No. He shouldn't have. Thank you, Shane Hollander."

"Of course, of course." He hesitated for a second, wanting to reassure her, but not wanting to overstep. Angela didn't seem like the hugging type and, honestly, he usually wasn't either, if your name wasn't Ilya Rozanov. He settled for a hand on her shoulder. "Let me know if he bothers you again."

"He won't," Angela said. "But thank you. You are going to miss the van, Shane Hollander."

"Shit." He glanced back over his shoulder. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm okay." She gave a little nod.

"Alright. See you tonight." He squeezed her shoulder and jogged out to the van, taking two steps at a time, ducking his head in apology to the driver. "Sorry."

He flopped into his seat as the van pulled off. Across the aisle, Ilya glared at him, eyes narrow.

"What?" he asked.

"You get in a fight without me?" Ilya muttered.

Shane glanced at the back row of seats, where Lemaire glowered against the window. "I didn't mean to."

"Still."

Shane rolled his eyes. "Next time, I get in a fight I'll make sure you're there. It'll probably be with you, anyway."

"Hmmph," Ilya said, but Shane could see the twitch of a smile on his face before he turned away.

***

Ilya had played too many games against Shane to think that Shane was a coward or a pussy—he hit people into the boards with the best of them—but there was still something hot about the idea that Shane had been about to "throw down" as Tyler had described it when he got onto the van. When he'd heard, Ilya'd stood up, overcome by the urge to check on Shane even though Lemaire was already on the bus, but Shane had jogged out the doors right then, unblemished, so he'd sat back down.

When they got to the hotel, Ilya followed Shane into the suite and pushed the door shut with the tips of his fingers, grinning. "Shane Hollander, enforcer," he purred.

Shane laughed. "Shut up. You would have done the same thing."

"No." Ilya hooked an arm around Shane's waist, drawing him in close, running the knuckles of his free hand over Shane's freckles. "I would have punched him first."

"I bet. Angela seemed okay, though. I don't know that she needed me at all."

"Yes, my girlfriend is very tough." Ilya kissed the corner of Shane's mouth, his fingers still on Shane's face. Like my boyfriend, he thought, but did not say. It was too much, he knew it was too much; he was just drunk on having Shane close all week, and keyed up by the prospect of it coming to the end.

"Your girlfriend, hmm?" Shane asked, smiling, his face so close that his breath was soft on Ilya's lips.

"Mmm. You jealous?"

But before Shane could answer, the door at Ilya's back banged, one, two, three. "Holly, Rosey, you in there?"

Ilya tipped his forehead to Shane's. "I will murder him, maybe," he said, but he moved Shane back with two hands on his waist, turned, and opened the door.

It was four or five guys, including Donovan and Moore and Sully, who all crowded in, their energy hectic and buzzing. "Did you hear?" Sully asked. "Lemaire's left."

"What do you mean?" Shane asked, his voice high. Ilya fought the urge to reach for him, hold his hand.

"I got back to the room and he was packing," Sully said. "He said something about his grandmother, and he's gone. They're taking him to the airport now."

"Shit," Ilya said and then no one said anything else for a minute, because they all knew what was happening: Lemaire's grandmother was probably fine. He'd been terminated.

"What did he say to her?" Jason asked.

"To who?" one of the college guys, whose name was Petey or Pauly or something with a P, asked.

"Angela," Tyler told him. "He had a fight with Angela." Petey murmured in shock.

"He was pissed because he was in the first game," Shane said. His cheeks were flushed, but his voice had returned to normal. "He was swearing and stuff, but I don't know how long he was yelling at her or what else he said."

"He was yelling?" Petey asked.

"Jesus," Sully muttered. "What a fucking idiot."

"What'll happen to him?" Petey asked, but no one had an answer for him. Lemaire had been asked to leave, but was that it? No way to tell.

"It doesn't matter," Shane said, suddenly, his voice too loud in the room. "It doesn't matter," he repeated, lowering his voice and squaring his shoulders. "Whatever happened to Lemaire, he did it to himself. None of the rest of us did anything wrong, right?" He looked around at all of them, his face serious. Donovan shook his head, then a couple of other people. "Okay," Shane said. "So we have lunch and we get ready for the game tonight. Someone will have to take over Green Team for tonight, who can do that?"

Sully spoke up. "I'll go talk to the AHL guys on the team. One of them can do it, I'm sure."

"Maybe Benson," Donovan suggested. "He's pretty solid."

"You know him?" Shane asked. "Can you go with Sully?"

"Sure, one hundred percent." Donovan nodded, and he and Sully left.

"Okay." Shane clapped his hands together. "Every one, just . . . go back to your rooms or to lunch or to whatever you were doing before. We're all good. Everything's good. Bus leaves at six. Don't be late."

The other guys dispersed, wandering back to their rooms or down to the lobby. Shane stood in the doorway watching them go, then turned to Ilya. "What the fuck," he asked, laughing nervously.

Ilya stared at him for a moment. He didn't think it was possible that he could be more attracted to Shane Hollander, but somehow it had just happened. He reached behind Shane and shut the door again, pressing his mouth to Shane's.

***

But taking charge after Lemaire's departure had switched on Shane's responsibility mode or something, and he wouldn't let Ilya do more than kiss him for a couple of minutes up against the door before wriggling away from him saying "no, Ilya, we need to finish packing. And we need to eat today. We have a game tonight."

Ilya groaned and dragged his feet, but he managed to get everything packed except his dress clothes for the walk-in and his airport clothes for tomorrow. "See, I am done," he said, dragging Shane into his room by the hand to show him the full suitcase open on the luggage rack.

"There's literally a sock right there." Shane pointed to a crumpled-up sock on the rug.

Ilya snatched it up and tossed it into the suitcase. "See?" he said, backing Shane into the wall. "Finished."

"Great," Shane said, lifting his chin to avoid Ilya's mouth. "You can go grab us some lunch, then."

Ilya dropped his head to Shane's shoulder, huffing. "You are so boring, Hollander."

Shane patted the back of his neck. "You'll be grateful when you aren't passing out from hypoglycemic shock during the game."

Ilya groaned, then pushed himself away, sneaking a kiss before Shane could stop him, and went to the lobby to fill up to-go containers, one of proteins (steak and fried chicken today) and two of carbs (one quinoa with vegetables and one mad and cheese). He piled napkins on the top of the stack and three rolls of silverware, in case he dropped one, and headed back to the room. It was only 2:30 now. If they ate fast, then there would be time for kisses and other things before they had to shower and change for the game. There would be cameras tonight, so they had to show up in dress clothes "looking presentable" in Megan's terminology, but he could do that quickly and Shane never took long to dress.

But the door to 224 was open when he got back and Donovan and Moore were in Shane's room, sitting on the bed, chatting while Shane packed. Ilya held up the food so Shane could see and went into the living room. He opened the clamshells, and unwrapped his silverware, but the only thing he was hungry for, really, was Shane.

After a minute, Moore came out of the bedroom. "They're talking strategy for tonight so I got kicked out," he said, plopping down on the other couch cushion.

"What strategy?" Ilya asked around a mouthful of pasta. "Play hockey. Win."

Moore laughed. He was a quiet kid, good-natured, excellent speed, strong hands. He was already on a two-way contract, and Ilya expected to see him called up in the next year or so, depending on injuries, which he'd mentioned a couple of times this week. Each time, Moore had looked surprised and pleased. Ilya pushed the open clamshells across the coffee table toward him.

"Thanks, but I already ate." Moore picked up a piece of chicken and bit into it.

"You are excited for tonight?" Ilya asked.

Moore nodded, swallowing. "Yeah. It's gonna be fun, I think. Ty and I are usually on the same line, so it'll be cool to beat him."

Ilya smiled. "Tonight will not be so different for Holly and me."

"We were worried about that, before you got here," Moore said taking another bite.

"What?" Ilya asked.

"The whole rivalry thing," Moore said. "That you guys would be, like, mortal enemies."

"Ahh." Ilya nodded. "No, is not like that. The rivalry is just hockey."

"Yeah, you guys seem pretty tight, now."

Ilya smirked at the drumstick in his hand. "Yeah, pretty tight."

"Who knew Lemaire would turn out to be the dick of the group," Moore said. "What do you think will happen to him?"

Ilya shrugged. "No way to know. Could be a big deal, could be nothing, just leaving MASE."

"I hope it's a big deal," Moore said. "He was a real asshole."

"To you?" Ilya straightened up. Moore hadn't said anything besides general comments, but if Lemaire had been a dick to any of his guys—

"No, he barely said shit to me. Some of the guys on his squad were just saying he acted like he was some sort of prince or something, just because he's in MLH. But, like, none of the rest of you are like that."

"Ahh, good." Ilya had seen men like that in the past, who got to the top of whatever ladder they were climbing whether through money or talent or luck and suddenly acted like the ones on the rungs below them weren't worthy of attention. He didn't understand it. Ilya knew how good he was, knew he was one of the best, but he had also seen too many times the people at the top fall from the ladder, or get shaken off by the powers that be. You could be proud of being at the top, you could be happy about it, but it was never wise to be too dismissive to those who were still climbing. The ladder could shake any minute, and they could be above you.

"Did you get drinks?" Moore asked, looking around.

"No," Ilya answered. He'd been in such a hurry to get back, to eat, to see Shane, that he'd forgotten.

"I'll get some. Hey, Ty!" Moore yelled into the other room. "You want a Coke or something?"

"Yeah, Dr. Pepper," Donovan shouted back. "And bring Holly a ginger ale!"

Moore looked at Ilya.

"Coke, please," Ilya said, giving up. He wasn't sure what was going on here, but whatever it was, he was not going to get any alone time with Hollander, at least not for a while.

***

By the time Shane finished packing and came out of his room, there were four guys crammed around the coffee table, not including Ilya, knees folded up to their chins, eating out of Styrofoam and talking and laughing. Tyler dropped to the floor next to Jason.

"We saved you a spot, Hollander," Ilya said, patting the couch next to him, a smirk quirking up the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, um. Thanks." Shane inched between the coffee table and the couch, acutely aware of his crotch being nose-level in Ilya's face, and dropped onto the cushion next to him. Ilya handed him silverware and a clamshell of food, and pushed an unopened can of ginger ale in front of him. "Thanks," Shane said again.

Ilya made a noise of assent, his attention focused on the story Scarlett was telling about their bus breaking down in the middle of nowhere on the way home from a game.

"I don't know if you've ever been to the desert at night," Scarlett was saying, "but there is nothing out there but space and sky. It felt like we were on another planet."

Shane had never been to the desert, unless this and his prior trip to Phoenix counted which he was pretty sure it did not, but he sort of understood what Scarlett was saying. The lake was like that sometimes, in the summer, when everyone had gone to bed and no lights were visible anywhere and it was just you and the water and the night sky and the knowledge that, ultimately, you were alone in the universe, scary and humbling and awe-inspiring all at once.

"What happened?" one of the college guys asked. "Did you get rescued?"

"No," Scarlett said, his face serious. "We're still lost out there, Mitchell. Our bodies were never found and now we're ghosts on the Texas highway."

"Oh my God, shut up," the college kid said as everyone laughed. "You know what I fucking meant."

Next to Shane, Ilya sat back on the couch, stretching his arm along the cushions. Shane focused on his food, which was good if a little cold, and ignored his desire to lean back into Ilya's arm, feel the curve of Ilya's hand around his shoulder.

"Have you ever seen a ghost?" Tyler asked.

"Ghosts aren't real," someone else said and then they were off, the conversation swirling around Shane, insults and laughter and curse words floating like party balloons, and Shane ate and smiled and laughed with them, these guys who had become his teammates over the last six days, enjoying the feeling of brotherhood and belonging, and the occasional, inadvertent brush of Ilya's thumb along his spine.

***

They were required to dress up for the walk in, but MASE had relaxed the dress code a little out of respect, Shane thought, for the Arizona heat and for the fact that many of the participants didn't have full suits and ties. Shane liked himself better in black, but when he was packing he'd thought that would be too much, like, too "fashion", and had settled for the outfit he liked second best, a white shirt and a pair of dress pants in a color his mother called "dove gray", whatever that meant, without the matching suit jacket.

Ilya had obviously not shared those worries: he came out of his bedroom just before six in all black, rolling up the sleeves on his button up shirt, which was sort of silky looking and made Shane's fingertips itch to touch it, feel the solid warmth of Ilya's skin through it. The gold cross on his chest gleamed between the open buttons. It was easy to forget, when he looked at Ilya, how small his waist was, Shane's attention diverted by his shoulders, his arms, his thighs, but the black pants he had on, slim, tailored, made him look like a sexy pirate or a bullfighter or something, a man that would have been on the front of one of the romance books his mom used to read.

"You look nice," Shane said.

"So do you." Ilya crossed the room, stroked Shane's face with the back of his hand. "Very pretty."

Shane hooked his fingers into Ilya's beltloops and tipped his forehead to Ilya's. Was this what it would feel like to go on a date with him? To get dressed up and ready to go to dinner at a steakhouse or out to a concert or just over to party at a friend's? Or maybe that wasn't something guys did when they were seeing each other, get dressed up for special occasions? Shane didn't know. He closed his eyes against the idea. He and Ilya weren't going on a date. They weren't dating. They couldn't, even if they wanted to.

"Hey." Ilya lifted his chin with one finger. "You are okay?"

Shane nodded. Ilya stared into his eyes for a moment, searching. Shane blinked quickly. He was okay, and even if he wasn't there was nothing Ilya could do about it, so better not to waste this time rehashing the inevitable. "I'm fine," he said, pulling on Ilya's hips. "Just waiting on my kiss."

"Shane Hollander always wants kisses," Ilya murmured, but he kept looking into Shane's eyes for a few seconds longer, like he was checking something, before his lips closed over Shane's.

It was fucking heaven. His back against the door, Ilya's hands in his hair, Ilya's waist firm under the silk shirt where Shane held him, his minty tongue sliding along Shane's. Shane hooked one ankle around Ilya's calf and pulled him even closer, until they were practically humping against the door, his cock swelling in his own dress pants. He never wanted to stop.

But he did, they did, because the bus was waiting and they had to go. "C'mon," he muttered, pushing Ilya away gently and opening the door.

"Wait, wait." Ilya reached out and smoothed the back of Shane's hair with one hand, as Shane ducked and smiled, the afternoon sun blinding him.

"I got it," he said, hoping no one else had seen. "Your shirt."

Ilya re-tucked his shirt into his pants as they walked, smoothing out the wrinkles at the waist where Shane had grabbed it. "There," he said, as they reached the stairs. "Now we don't look like we fucked."

"Shut up!" Shane hissed, smoothing his hair again just to be sure, but he could not help his smile.

***

The bus was not the rickety hotel van this time, but a real chartered bus, with pneumatic brakes and air conditioning and enough seats for everyone to have one to themselves. And they weren't last: a whole clump of guys milled around the bus doors waiting to board. Ilya wouldn't have cared, but he knew that it would set Shane at ease that people hadn't been waiting on them this time.

Shane stood a little in front of him in the turnabout in front of the hotel, greeting people, nodding, smiling, the late afternoon sun making him glow in his white shirt like some kind of prince from a fairy tale, with his dark hair and his deep eyes and his perfect fucking mouth. Shane used some kind of lip balm all the time, a flavorless ointment that made his lips smooth and pink and lush, always ready to be kissed. Ilya touched his own mouth casually, looking away from the crowd, rubbing the remnants of the balm into his own lips. He would have to look up what brand it was so he could buy his own. Or maybe he could steal Shane's before they left.

They climbed on board, Ilya determinedly not looking at Shane's ass in his pale gray dress pants as Shane went up the stairs, and sat in their normal seats, first row, Shane on the driver's side, Ilya on the door side. Once the rest of the guys were on and filing back to their seats, Megan came aboard, pretty in a wrap dress and sensible heels. Angela followed, her tablet in one hand.

"Gentlemen!" Megan held up her hands to get their attention, not entirely successfully. Ilya was about to stand up and say something, but behind Megan, Angela exchanged a word with the bus driver, then handed the bus mic over Megan's shoulder. "Gentlemen," Megan said again, and everyone quieted down.

Megan smiled. "First of all, I would like to thank all of you for what has been a great inaugural session of MASE. When we sat down to plan this event, we had high hopes for it, and I think it's safe to say—" she cast a glance over her shoulder at Angela "—that this has really exceeded our expectations. In the next month or so, you will be hearing from MLH asking you about your experiences. I'm asking you to please be honest in your feedback, as we would really love to hear how we can make MASE better for the players next year.

"On a personal note, we have loved getting to know all of you over the last week. You've been great ambassadors for the game, and Angela and I hope to see you back next year." Megan paused, blinking rapidly, the mic to her chest. Then she shook her head and smiled, regaining her composure. "We wish you all the best tonight in your exhibition games, and, if we don't have a chance to chat with you before your departure tomorrow, safe travels and success in your future careers in hockey. It's been a pleasure, gentlemen."

Her voice cracked a little on the last line and Ilya found himself tearing up in response, clapping furiously with the rest of the players as Megan handed the mic back to the bus driver. Someone in the back rows, probably Donovan, started chanting "MASE, MASE, MASE, MASE!" and Ilya joined in on that, too, with the rest of the players, all cheering as Megan gave a little wave in acknowledgement and stepped off the bus, Angela on her heels, head down. They kept it up until the bus pulled out onto the street, leaving the women behind in the turnaround.

Ilya wiped his face with one hand. He was so emotional these days, maybe the desert sun was sucking the tears out of him. He glanced over at Shane just in time to see him wiping under his eyes, too. Caught, Shane shrugged and rolled his eyes.

***

Shane watched out the window as his familiar landmarks rolled by: the ammo store, the market, the saguaro cactus in the abandoned lot, trying not to think about the fact that this was their last night. It had hit him in the hotel room earlier, while he was packing, that he would no longer need the things he was putting in his suitcase, not until he was back in Canada, his athletic clothes, his sneakers, the baseball hats he wore in the gym, these were all things that had ended their useful time in Arizona. At the time, he'd been grateful for the distraction of Lemaire, and the presence of the other guys in his room, even though it meant that he and Ilya couldn't make out. Their noise had stopped him from thinking about tomorrow beyond the details of separating his dirty clothes from his clean ones, folding and sorting and putting his shoes in their travel bags.

Now, as the setting sun turned everything orange outside the bus windows, he couldn't help but think about it. This was the culmination. The end. They would go out and play their games and someone would win and someone would lose and then they would go to the MASE dinner, and then they would come back to their room for the last time.

Shane propped his elbow on the armrest and pressed his chin into his hand. The last time.

Not the last time he and Ilya would see each other, of course not, but the last time they would be together here, in room 224 of the Sleep-EZ, sleeping in the same bed, breathing the same air. Even in October, it wouldn't be the same as it had been here, their moments together limited by game schedules and curfews, no time for meals, or naps on the couch.

His tears, already summoned by Megan's speech, surged again, blurring the streetlights out the bus window and turning them into stars.

***

It was a relief to get to the arena, honestly, because this was something Shane had done before, a hundred times: the step off the bus, the photographers shouting his name, then Ilya's, as they waved, the walk down the back hall to the locker rooms, where their game jerseys had been hung neatly in their lockers, names on the backs, waiting for them. Then the gearing up, the only difference being that they were gearing up with the other team instead of alone, but even that wasn't unusual after the week of it, Shane's Blue Team and Ilya's Black Team mingling freely, laughing together. The familiarity made it easy for Shane to push all of his deep thoughts and big feelings to the back of his mind, slip into his routine, fall into hockey.

Sully's team and what had been Lemaire's team were up first, at seven, so Shane stayed back in the training room, stretching idly while it played on the televisions in the corners. They'd shortened the format so they could get both games in during prime time, but it didn't take long to see that Sully's team, the Red Team, was going to wipe the floor with the Green Team. Lemaire had been an asshole, but he'd also been a veteran, and without a leader the Green Team was scrambling. They lost 4-1, and only because Benson managed a .918 save percentage. There were times when it looked like there was more than one puck on the ice he was getting hit with so many shots on goal.

By 7:55, Shane was in the tunnel, his team lined up behind him, waiting for Red Team, their bench buddies, to get off the ice. The whistle blew and Red Team filed past, sweaty and happy, dapping against Shane's upheld fist as they grinned through their mouth guards. Shane waited until they were all out, then stepped into the bench box.

On the ice, the Zamboni cruised around, erasing all traces of the previous game. The crowd, even bigger than the night before, bounced enthusiastically to the piped-in music, cheering whenever the cameras zoomed in on a little kid on the large screens. Across the ice, Ilya was talking to one of his teammates, his smile wide and easy, as familiar to Shane in this context as the smell of the ice or weight of his gear.

He turned to his guys. "Okay, listen up," he said, then paused until all eyes were on him. "Is this just an exhibition game?" Shane nodded. "Yes. Is it mostly just to impress your grandparents and the girls who won't go out with you?" He nodded again. "Yes." A couple of the guys chuckled. Shane raised his voice. "Is it also a chance to play hockey on national television?"

"Yes," Tyler said, firmly. Shane smiled and pointed at him.

"And is it a chance to show all your coaches what you can do?"

"Yes!" Some of the other guys shouted.

"And it is your chance to show all the scouts what you can do?" Shane shouted back.

"YES!"

"And is it your chance to beat Ilya Fucking Rozanov?"

Guys laughed, but their shout was even louder this time. "YES!"

"So what are we gonna do?" Shane yelled.

"WIN!"

"And what else are we gonna do?"

"HAVE FUN!"

"That's fucking right!" Shane threw his hand in, knowing Tyler would be right there, and he was, and then all their hands were in, as close as they could reach along the bench and they were all yelling "HAVE FUN, HAVE FUN, HAVE FUN!" at the tops of their voices, grinning at each other like madmen.

***

"Interesting chant, Hollander," Ilya said, when Shane leaned in for the face-off.

"Thanks," Shane said, and right before the puck dropped, he winked.

Ilya lost the face-off.

***

It was a much harder game than Shane had thought it would be: one of the challenges of playing with guys you were unfamiliar with, junior guys, was that they were unpredictable, and would do things that no professional would ever do. But that also made it exhilarating, trying to communicate within your team, trying to read the other team, Shane thought his mind hadn't worked so hard in a game in a while.

And of course there was Ilya, on the ice almost every minute Shane was, always right up on him, battling him for control. At one point, Ilya knocked him into the boards and stole the puck, blowing a raspberry as he swept away, back to Shane's half of the rink.

The game stayed tied, 1-1, until the last minute of the second period, when Shane managed a pass to Tyler then deked Ilya, literally hopping over his stick to get past him and receive Tyler's backhand, sniping a shot into the top shelf of the net. The horn blared and before it could stop, the period buzzer went off: game over.

"Fuck yeah!" Shane shouted, arms up, and he was grabbed around the thighs and hoisted into the air, triumphant. He glanced down, expecting it to be Tyler or Scarlett who'd picked him up, but it was Ilya who had lifted him.

Shane jerked in surprise, almost toppling backwards out of Ilya's grip before steadying himself, one hand on Ilya's shoulder. "Put me down, you idiot!" he hissed. But Ilya just grinned up at him, surrounded by the throng of players, blue and black, all laughing at them and at each other.

***

It took even longer to get out of the arena than it had the night before—more fans were waiting for more guys, little kids darting through rows of seats to try to catch autographs from every player they'd ever heard of (and some they hadn't)—and even Angela's superior organizing skills couldn't do much to speed things along. Finally, the last fans had gotten their signed photos, and Shane had posed for his last awkward selfie, smiling up at the digital cameras the moms and dads held up while their kids leaned back over the railings, willing to risk falling on their heads for a photo with him. Crazy.

The locker room wasn't much better, full of happy noise and horseplay as guys relived their best game moments in various states of undress. But finally everyone was showered, and everyone was dressed, and everyone had gathered all their stuff and started to file out of the locker room. Shane was one of the last, not only because he'd been one of the last people in, but also because he wanted a moment of relative quiet, just to look around. This had been something unique, maybe special, and he wanted a second to consider it. To remember.

"Hollander?" Ilya asked, standing in the doorway.

"Yeah, I'm coming." He jogged a couple steps to catch up. "This was fun, huh?"

Ilya rolled his eyes. "I am going to have to win a cup sooner than I thought to earn back ragging rights."

Shane grinned. "Bragging rights," he said. "With a B."

"Bragging, ragging, these are the same thing." Ilya sniffed. "But yes, it was very fun."

Shane bumped him affectionately with one shoulder as they entered the lobby. The fans had been cleared out by security while the teams had been changing, so it was just the players in the polished and cavernous space, the concessions stands, the merch shop, the ticket office dark but ready, waiting for the next game, magic shops waiting for magicians.

Outside, it was still hot, even though night had fallen, and the guys who'd been foolish enough to wear jackets stripped them off as they waited to board the bus. Shane was just about to step on himself, when he heard his name. "Shane Hollander?"

Angela, tablet clutched to her chest, eyes peering over the top of her glasses, maybe three feet away. Shane stepped out of line. "Hi, Angela. What's up?"

She was on the curb, so a few inches taller than she was normally, but she still had to tip her head back to look him in the eye. "I wanted to congratulate you on your win tonight."

Shane smiled. "Thank you. It was a lot of fun."

"Also." Angela glanced to the side for a second and Shane realized that she was nervous. Angela, who some of the guys called the Ice Queen, was nervous. Shane felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. Was it bad news? Had Angela found out something that she—

"I wanted to tell you," she said, meeting his eyes again, determined, like someone had told her it was important to look people in the eye a hundred times when she was a kid. "You are an exceptional player. And a nice person. It was nice to meet you."

Shane's smile widened with relief. "That's really nice of you to say. And thank you for all of the work you guys did to put this together. It was really . . ." he paused, trying to come up with a word that wasn't "nice" or "fun." " . . . wonderful."

"I'm glad you think so." Angela opened the case to her tablet and pulled out a business card. "This is for you. If there's anything I can do for you, please call. I know people say that all the time and don't mean it, but I don't say things I don't mean."

"No, I know you don't, Angela. Thank you." Shane took the card, touched. It was a kind offer, even if he didn't have a lot of use in his everyday life for event coordination or whatever Angela's job was.

For a second they looked at each other awkwardly, then Angela nodded like she'd decided something. "Okay," she said. "Good bye, Shane Hollander."

"Good bye, Angela."

Angela turned and walked back into the arena, shoulders square, bobbing her head politely at the security guard who held the door open for her. Shane smiled after her, missing her odd directness already. As he stepped onto the bus, he glanced at the card, thinking he would give it to his mom in case they ever came across someone who needed an event coordinator or planner or something. His mother would like Angela, he thought. She had a—

Shane fell into his seat, staring at the words on the card.

Angela Crowell, it read. Special Assistant, Office of the Commissioner.

Chapter End Notes

I had originally thought that Saturday would be one chapter and Exhibition: Year One would end with nine chapters. But then I sat down to write and things just kept HAPPENING and then Angela dropped that fucking BOMBSHELL and so now Saturday will be two chapters.

Also, it was brought to my attention by a reader on Threads that I do not use the HEA tag here, but instead "On the way to an HEA." That's because by the end of the story we will not be in the Ever After, yet, so to my mind, it's not quite yet an HEA. But it is an HFN, so I've included that tag, now. Don't worry, the ending of Exhibition: Year One is not going to suddenly turn into an MCD. There won't be a traumatic cliffhanger or any dead doves or anything like that. The ending (which is already in draft) is going to be very much in line with the tone of the rest of the story. Your boyfriend is here. You are safe here.

Chapter 9: Saturday Night/Sunday Morning

Chapter Summary

Shane has a freak out, Ilya has a request, and Tyler has a plane to catch.

"Holy shit," Shane muttered, staring at the card in his hand like somehow the words would change, transform into something less terrifying. "Holy shit."

"What?" Ilya asked from across the aisle. "What is it?"

Shane handed over the business card. He felt dizzy, like he'd just been knocked headfirst into the boards. Angela Crowell.

Ilya read the card, then turned to the arena doors, pressing his hand against the glass of the bus window like he'd lost something. When he looked back at Shane, his smile showed all his teeth. "I knew it! I knew I loved her for a reason!"

Shane stared at him. How could he be happy about this? Angela was a special assistant in the officer of the Commissioner. Shane wasn't sure exactly what that meant, what a special assistant did, exactly, but he knew it was a big fucking deal. And she was Commissioner Crowell's what? Daughter? Granddaughter? Some sort of relation, at least, and they had fucked up so bad with the underage drinking, and he'd assaulted somebody in front of her, and Ilya had admitted to buying—

"You will not believe this!" Ilya said, handing the card to the guys in the seat behind him, who looked at it for one second before their mouths fell open. After that, the news spread like a brushfire through the bus, Angela's card passed from hand-to-hand like a magic talisman, everyone staring at it in wonder and shock. Shane watched, silent and dumb, as each player saw it and realized the truth.

"Found her," Scarlett announced, holding up his phone. "Angela Crowell, Special Assistant. She's his fucking niece."

"Holy shit," Shane said again. The whole time. This whole week. He'd thrown up in front of her. Ilya had admitted to procuring alcohol. In front of the niece of the fucking MLH Commissioner.

Tyler handed the card back to Shane, his expression the perfect embodiment of how Shane felt: stunned, embarrassed, terrified. Shane tucked the card into the zipper pocket of his gear bag, sliding it in carefully to make sure it didn't fall out. The only thing worse than having the card of the Special Assistant would be leaving it on the floor of the bus like litter.

Across the aisle, Ilya was still grinning, nodding a little to himself and to Shane when he noticed Shane looking. Shane had seen him act brave before, put on a show of indifference or nonchalance, but this didn't seem to be that. Unlike the rest of the bus, Ilya did not seem bothered by the revelation of Angela's identity. He seemed . . . pleased.

Shane didn't understand why. He turned to the window and began replaying every moment of the week that had involved Angela, or Megan, who was probably Roger Crowell's wife or something . . . he pulled out his phone and looked at the agenda they'd been handed the first day. No. Their phone numbers were on there, but they were listed as Megan and Angela, no last names. Shane went back to his email, looking for anything from either of them and sure enough, when he unmasked the email addresses, there was Angela: acrowell@MLH.org. And there was Megan, but her last name was Simpson, apparently. Shane searched her anyway, and found her Linked In, and her social media, and a couple of interviews she'd done about MASE before it started, and she seemed to have worked for MLH for a long time, but she wasn't secretly married to Roger Crowell's sister, or his third wife, or any relation, as far as Shane could tell.

Not that it mattered. His shit was already out there. Angela already knew everything he had done—

He glanced over at Ilya, but Ilya was leaned back in his seat smiling out his own window. Almost everything he had done.

She didn't know about them, right? Shane couldn't see how. If none of the guys knew, which they didn't, if he hadn't said anything, if Ilya hadn't said anything . . .

Were the rooms bugged? Were there fucking cameras?

Shane's heart banged in his throat at the thought of it. But no. No. There weren't cameras, of course there weren't cameras. That was probably illegal. He was being ridiculous. Paranoid. Crazy.

And if there had been cameras, then he and Ilya were already fucked and there was nothing he could do about it now.

Shane took a deep breath and tried to focus on the night passing by outside the window, but all he could see was his own reflection, wide-eyed and pale.

***

Ilya knew Shane was freaked out—he could see it in the tight cross of his arms over his chest, his knee bouncing up and down—and he wished he could cross the aisle and put his arm around Shane and squeeze him, because he shouldn't be concerned. He was fine. They all were.

He'd been pretty certain of that yesterday morning, when they'd been busted for the party, but the events of this afternoon had convinced him. No one had been punished, not really, for the drinking. Some money, a missed event, but nothing of consequence for any of them, not even bad press, not even for the younger guys, who did not have the protection of the leagues.

But Lemaire had yelled at Angela, and half an hour later there was a fake story about his grandmother and he was gone. Admiring Shane's profile from his seat, Ilya wondered if the speed or severity of the punishment had anything to do with Lemaire's threat to fight him, but whether it did or not, the truth was simple and obvious: If Angela Crowell wanted you punished, you wouldn't have to wait to find out. In a way, she reminded Ilya of Sveta, whose route to revenge on bad friends and shitty exes was always direct and fast and painful.

And Angela had given Shane her card. No one else, just Hollander. Staring at his worried, beautiful face as Shane bit his lip, Ilya understood why.

***

The restaurant was an Italian place, beautiful, nestled in between two taller buildings, its entrance at the back of a courtyard lit by café lights hanging between large umbrellas, tables given the illusion of privacy by carefully placed terra cotta pots of plants. It was empty—the restaurant had stayed open late to accommodate the MASE players—but Shane could tell it would have been romantic sitting under the lights, listening to the sound of the fountain gurgling in the corner.

They had the whole inside of the restaurant, booths along the walls and tables in the center, a lantern on every one of them creating pockets of golden light. There was no assigned seating, so guys divided up as they wanted and Shane found himself, through no orchestration of his own, at one of the booths with Ilya, Sully, Tyler and Jason. After the server, a woman in her forties with the sharp but friendly air of a professional, took their drink order, they lined up at the buffet along one wall of the room, staffed by more servers in white jackets.

"You are okay?" Ilya asked, once they had plates in their hands and were waiting their turn.

Shane shook his head. The initial shock of Angela had worn off, but he just couldn't stop thinking about it, trying to remember everything he'd said or done, all the times at the rink when she might have been watching him and he hadn't done or acted his best. Had he fucked up and not even been aware of it? Was that what her tablet was for? To record all of his mistakes?

"You are worried for nothing," Ilya said. "She loves you! She knows everything and gave you her card! She likes you even more than me, which should not be possible." He bumped Shane with his shoulder.

"She doesn't know everything," he murmured so only Rozanov could hear. "And what if she decides to mention something at, like, a family dinner. Like 'hey, Uncle Roger, did you know Ilya Rozanov bought liquor for children at MASE?'"

Ilya laughed out loud at that. "My Angela would never do such a thing. She could have told him already if that's what she wanted. She is a good girl."

"I hope so," Shane muttered.

"Why else did she give you her card? It is get out of jail free card, Hollander!" He clapped Shane's shoulder with one hand, grinning.

Ilya did have a point. Why else would she have told him to call if he needed anything? He already had her phone number—they all had it from the agenda on the first day—but she hadn't sought out anyone else to tell them good bye. And she almost definitely hadn't told anyone at the league about the party or the drinking, or the players would have heard about punishment by now. He was suddenly deeply glad that he had stepped in when he'd seen Lemaire yelling at her. It seemed like—

"Oh, shit," Shane said for what felt like the fiftieth time in the last hour.

Ilya glanced back at him, a roll pinched between the tongs hovering above his plate. "What now, Hollander?"

"What did she do to Lemaire?"

Sullivan, who'd been in line in front of Ilya, turned around, his eyes wide. "Oh jesus," he murmured. "Lemaire's definitely dead in a ditch, isn't he?"

Ilya snorted. "Yes. If he is lucky."

***

The dinner started out raucous, guys migrating from table to table, laughing and shouting, but the energy faded as everyone ate, even Tyler losing steam as the food and alcohol and exhaustion of the week settled in. Shane felt sleep gathering behind his eyes, settling into his bones. He wished there was a way he could casually rest his head on Ilya's shoulder, close his eyes for a minute and just listen to the tap of silverware and the clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation around him. At the arena, or on the bus, or even back at the hotel, maybe he could have gotten away with that kind of casual contact, but not here in this semi-public place.

Even without that, Shane felt himself relax over the course of the dinner, helped by the shockingly good pasta and the two beers he had and Ilya's shoulder pressed up against his while Ilya laughed and chatted, completely unbothered by the possibility of the MLH Commissioner's niece having watched them the entire week. Ilya was generally less concerned about things that Shane was, just in life (Shane remembered Ilya leaning in the very first night they met up, his breath hot on Shane's ear as he murmured "I like trouble"), but this time Shane tried to believe he made sense: if Angela had wanted to cause problems for them, she already would have. There was no reason for her to say such nice things to him and give him her card if she was just going to rat him out for underage drinking.

So maybe . . . maybe everything was fine.

The bus ride back to the hotel was mostly quiet, guys slumped in their seats, heads in their hands. Shane rested against his window, chin propped on his palm, and gazed across the aisle at Ilya, who had his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed. He looked like an ad for something, all in black, the beauty mark on his cheek, his curls tousled attractively, his necklace gleaming faintly when the streetlights hit it. Through his lashes, Shane watched Ilya doze, and imagined crossing the aisle and kissing him awake, the mumble of Ilya's voice against his lips, how he would reach up and slip his fingers into Shane's hair, make room for him on the seat, how Shane would climb onto his lap and kiss him, Ilya's hands on his hips, the bus empty and dark and silent, except for the rush of the wheels on the road and the sound of their breath mingling.

The pneumatic wheeze of the brakes as the bus came to a stop woke Shane up. The players disembarked, groggy, sleep-heavy under the flickering Sleep-EZ sign. There was some conversation about beers in someone's room, but Shane waved them off, the weight of sleep and the anticipation of being alone with Ilya mingling in his blood. Guys dispersed across the pool deck, crossing to their rooms, calling out good nights to each other, clumps of them laughing and shoving, unwilling to separate for what might be the final time, the mist rising up from the pool turning them into happy phantoms.

Shane turned the key in the lock of 224, Ilya at his back. Once they were both inside, Shane tipped his shoulders against the door, the place where he'd stood so many times before in the last six days. "This was a good night, huh?"

Ilya smiled, stepping toward him. "Yes. Very good."

Shane reached out and put a hand on Ilya's waist, feeling the heat of his skin, the flex of his muscles through the silky shirt as he came even closer. "Are you tired?"

Ilya shook his head, rubbing his cheek against Shane's. "No. Are you?"

"No." He had been at dinner, on the bus, but now he was wide awake, his heart hammering in his chest, every nerve ending alert. He tipped his head so his lips brushed the corner of Ilya's mouth. His fingers tightened on Ilya's hip. "Kiss me."

Ilya smiled against his mouth.

***

They moved slowly, as if they were both resisting the truth of the end of their time together. They kissed deliberately. Their fingers crept along buttons and belt buckles and zippers, loosening and undoing, so they could slip inside and touch every precious inch of skin, pushing their clothes away, letting them fall, disregarded, to the floor. Even once they were naked, each of them crouching down in turn to shove aside pants and shoes and socks, they didn't rush, their hands languid, their kisses unhurried, like nothing else in the world mattered.

Because nothing else did.

***

Finally, when Ilya could barely stand, his whole body quivering with want, he hooked his hands under Shane's thighs and picked him up. Shane gasped into Ilya's mouth, his legs coming around Ilya's waist immediately, his hands tightening in Ilya's hair.

"Someday I will fuck you like this, yes?" Ilya thrust his hips against Shane's, his stiff cock prodding at one of Shane's buttocks.

"Yes." Shane breathed through kisses. "Yeah."

He hoisted Shane a little higher, and carried him to one of the bedrooms, going carefully to avoid the pile of clothes on the floor. He loved this feeling, this powerful man, Shane Fucking Hollander, clinging to him like he was powerful too, instead of completely helpless in the face of Shane's beauty.

He lay Shane down on the bed gently, leaning over him, kissing his mouth, his face, the pale column of his throat. "Can I mark you?"

Shane paused. Ilya waited. They'd never talked about it before. Somehow they had both understood that marks were a bad idea, but tonight, on the verge of separation, Ilya wanted to leave something behind to remind Shane that this week had happened, even if it was only temporary.

"Not on my neck," Shane said finally. "Not somewhere . . ."

Ilya kissed him, happy. He knew what Shane meant: not somewhere that people could see it if he was dressed. He understood.

"And I get to do it back," Shane added.

Ilya kissed him again, even happier. Shane could suck his name onto Ilya's neck if that's what he wanted. "I have an idea."

He kissed his way down Shane's body, wet kisses full of suction, but not long enough to leave any signs behind: Shane's neck, his collarbone, the swell of his pectoral muscles (pausing to pay special attention to the dark peaks of Shane's nipples, which made Shane's fingers tighten in his hair and his breath rasp in his throat), the planes of his abdominals, the curve of his hipbones. Until finally he was where he wanted to be.

"Here," he said, placing a kiss in the sensitive juncture where Shane's thigh met his groin. Shane sucked in his breath. "How is this?"

"What about here?" Shane ran his fingers over a spot slightly more to outside, an inch further onto his thigh.

"Here?" Ilya kissed the skin where Shane's fingers had been.

Shane nodded, his eyes dark. "Yeah," he said. "I want to be able to see it."

Overcome, Ilya bit him. Shane wriggled, laughing, not entirely trying to get away. "Don't take a chunk out of me!" he protested.

Ilya kissed the spot, sweeping his tongue over it in apology. "Better?"

"Much." Shane stroked Ilya's hair from his forehead, his eyes soft and affectionate. Ilya paused, his chin on Shane's thigh, gazing back.

I love you, Ilya thought and for an instant he was so surprised by it that he almost said it out loud, stopping himself at the last moment by pressing his mouth into Shane's leg. Because that was a crazy thought, a reaction to their physical closeness and the separation that loomed tomorrow, not a real feeling someone should have after making out a few times, and certainly not Ilya Rozanov, who never confused sex with love.

To distract himself, he covered Shane's erect cock with one hand and opened his mouth, sucking in the tender skin of Shane's thigh. Shane's short pubic hair brushed one cheek as Ilya alternating sucking the flesh and lapping at it, drawing the blood to the surface then soothing it with his tongue.

"Fuck!" Shane moaned, wriggling underneath him, one hand patting gently and erratically at Ilya's shoulder. Ilya pushed Shane's knee down with one hand and hooked his other arm over Shane's hip, pinning Shane's erection with his shoulder, holding his thigh in place so he could keep working. It was distracting, especially when he felt the head of Shane's cock smear fluid on his collarbone, but he kept going until he was certain he'd left a mark. When he pulled back, he could see the bruised-looking spot on Shane's thigh already blooming, even in the dark. The mark. His mark. Ilya kissed it again, and Shane's body jerked.

Ilya turned his head toward Shane's erection and kissed it, too, but before he could do more, Shane's hands were on his arms, his voice whispering, "no, no, I want you to kiss me."

"I am kissing you," Ilya said, but Shane kept grabbing at him, pulling him up until they were face-to-face, Ilya lying alongside Shane's body.

"Like this," Shane said, and lifted his lips to Ilya's and spread his legs, and when Ilya stroked him with one hand and kissed him at the same time, Shane groaned into Ilya's mouth. "Yes, yeah. Yes."

After a second, Ilya brought his hand up, pausing a kiss so Shane could lick it, leaving a thick swipe of saliva so Ilya's palm could glide easily over the head of Shane's cock. "Oh, fuck, fuck," Shane gasped into Ilya's mouth, his hips moving, and Ilya breathed in Shane's desire and fed it back to him all at once, kissing him, stroking him, until Shane was whining with pleasure, his breath ragged, his kisses barely coherent, clutching at Ilya's arm, fucking his hand faster and faster until he finished, cum coating Ilya's hand, with his tongue in Ilya's mouth.

Shane sagged back into the mattress, panting, his mouth still against Ilya's. He laughed breathlessly when Ilya rolled on top of him, his cock hard and aching, grinding against him. "You are so fucking hot, Hollander."

"Oh, yeah?" Shane spread his legs, hooking them around Ilya's, pulling their bodies together.

"Fuck, Hollander," Ilya groaned, bracing himself over Shane, and dragging his cock through the wetness on Shane's abdomen, rubbing it against the mark he'd left in the crook of Shane's thigh.

It was so hot, their closeness, their position, Shane's cum on his cock, Ilya humped against him again and was rewarded by Shane's mouth on his pec, not on his nipple, exactly, but near it, the suction urging him onward, and then he was fucking Shane's thigh, Shane's heels on the backs of his legs, Shane's hands on his arms, Shane sucking onto him like one of those fish that attached itself to a shark, like he couldn't let go or he would starve and die, and that's how Ilya felt, like he would starve and die if he couldn't touch Shane, fuck Shane, be with Shane, and he came, white hot and sudden, before he even knew he was going to, his whole body rigid for a moment, before he collapsed, his face buried against Shane's shoulder.

"Ilya," Shane murmured, his hands caressing Ilya's back, not a question, just a statement, a reminder of who he was.

Ilya kissed his neck. "Shane," he said in Shane's ear and felt Shane shiver beneath him.

***

Shane rinsed off first, not even turning on the bathroom light, feeling his way around the familiar space in the thin illumination that filtered through the bottle glass window from the parking lot next door. When he stepped out, he left the water running so Ilya could get right in, kissing him in the doorway as they switched places.

He'd been okay, good even, when they were having sex, but now, back in the bedroom in the pair of underwear he'd left out for the next day, Shane's head crowded with thoughts again. What were they even were doing? Before, they had been hooking up. Simple. Fun. Convenient, if a little risky. But was that what they were doing still?

He didn't know.

The small world of MASE had made it possible to spend time with Ilya in a way that Shane had never imagined, but the truth about Angela had reminded him that MASE wasn't real, that there was a whole world out there where what they did had consequences, and not just for them. If he was gay, if that's what all this meant, there were consequences. If he and Ilya weren't just hooking up, if they were seeing each other, or whatever, there were more consequences. Other consequences. And if people found out that they were seeing each other, there were even more consequences, and maybe even crimes if Ilya was right about his situation in Russia. Was this, whatever this was, worth all of that?

Another thing Shane didn't know.

Ilya came back into the bedroom, a towel low around his waist, the way he had worn it that first day, after the CCM commercial, and Shane's stomach flipped just like it had that day. Ilya nudged Shane's knees apart and stood between them, one hand in Shane's hair. "I thought you would be asleep already."

"Not yet." Shane rested his cheek against Ilya's belly, smelling the soap, feeling the damp skin. With one hand, he tugged Ilya's towel off and pressed his nose into Ilya's abdomen, into the silky hair right at the base of his soft cock, not doing anything, trying anything, just leaning, his hands dangling uselessly between his own knees. He didn't say anything, because he didn't have anything he could say. He didn't ask anything, because he didn't have any questions he wanted to hear the answers to. He just wanted to be as close to Ilya as possible for as long as possible.

After a minute, Ilya stepped forward even more, climbing onto the bed, and Shane went with him, shifting until they were both lying down, and he was across Ilya's chest, and Ilya's arms were around him. Ilya's embrace, the warm sweep of his hand down Shane's back, wasn't an answer to anything, but it felt like one, and Shane wished it were.

***

Sometime later Ilya woke up, his arms empty. In the dark, he saw Shane's shape at the edge of the mattress, his pale shoulders rounded, head bowed into his hands. "Shane?" Ilya said, awake instantly, heart pounding.

"I'm okay," Shane mumbled but his voice was ragged and wet in the way that meant he wasn't okay, not at all.

"Shane." Ilya propped himself up on one elbow. "What is wrong? You are still worried about Angela? I told you—"

"No, I don't . . . I'm fine. I mean, I'm not . . . I mean . . . I don't know." Shane sighed a watery sigh. "This was the exact thing I didn't want to happen."

"What?" Ilya pushed himself upright. "What happened?"

"This!" Shane flailed his arm at the whole room. "I thought if we . . . didn't I would be okay. But I'm not." He took a deep breath, and hunched over, burying his face in his hands. "I'm sorry. This is stupid. Go back to sleep."

Ilya scooted to the side of the bed, until he was sitting next to Shane, his hand on the mattress behind him. "I don't understand," he said. "What is wrong?"

Shane glared sideways at him, his eyes dark in the dim light filtering past the bedroom curtains. "Don't act like you don't know what I mean."

The protest was on the tip of Ilya's tongue—he didn't know what Shane meant, he had no idea what he was trying to say, maybe because of the English, maybe just because he was a stupid guy—but, of course, he did know. Because when the person you're supposedly casually hooking up with is upset in the middle of the night, there is really only one reason.

"Okay, maybe I know." He put a hand on Shane's ribs. "But tell me anyway."

Shane heaved another sigh and for a moment Ilya thought maybe Shane wouldn't answer, maybe he would just get up and go into his own room without a word, but then he spoke. "I like you, okay."

Ilya's heart leapt. "Okay. I like you, too."

Shane shook his head. "No. I mean, I . . . like you. Like, a lot. And I know that's not what this is, not what we do, or whatever, and I thought if we didn't fuck that maybe it wouldn't be such a big deal when this week was over, but we didn't and . . . and it still feels like a big deal. To me. Sorry."

Ilya didn't know what to say. It was not a surprise, not after this whole, wonderful week, but it still felt like a gift to hear it out loud: Shane Hollander liked him. Beautiful, talented, funny Shane Hollander, who he hadn't even fucked yet, liked him so much he was upset about it in the middle of the night. Ilya felt like he had just discovered a winning lottery ticket on a dirty street corner.

"Hey." He stroked Shane's hair back from his temple. "It's okay."

Shane shrugged away from him. "Easy for you to say. You don't give a fuck about this kind of thing."

That statement Ilya understood immediately. He'd said it to so many times over the years in self-defense, sometimes aloud, sometimes just to himself, a way to stop his heart from breaking by putting a crack in it first: this person doesn't give a fuck about me.

"Hey," he said again, sterner this time. "Look at me."

"Ilya," Shane protested. "I don't want one of your bullshit pep talks, okay. Like, I appreciate it, but it's fine. I'll be—"

Ilya slipped a hand around Shane's jaw before he could spew any more bullshit, and turned him until they were looking at each other, the sides of their faces highlighted by the light filtering from the parking lot. "Look at me."

Shane lifted his eyebrows as if to say "okay, hello, I am looking."

"Listen," Ilya said. He licked his lips, remembering what he'd thought before, the crazy idea he'd had that he was in love with Hollander. "I give a fuck. I give a lot of fucks. All the fucks. I like you, too."

Shane shook his head in Ilya's hand. "Don't," he said. "Don't be nice to me to make me feel better. I know—"

"You know nothing." Ilya gave him a little shake. "When have I ever been nice to you to make you feel better? Never," he answered his own question. "So when I say I like you, that is because I like you, yes?"

Shane did not answer, his gaze off to the side, his eyes wet.

Ilya jostled him again. "Yes?" he demanded.

"Yes," Shane mumbled.

"Yes! Fuck." Ilya leaned in and kissed him then, just lips at first, but then Shane's hands came up and twined in Ilya's hair and his mouth opened, and his eyes closed, and he sighed again, but this time a sigh of relief. He ducked his head to Ilya's shoulder when the kiss ended and Ilya held him there, one hand on the back of Shane's neck, one around his waist.

"You like me, too," Shane mumbled after a couple of minutes. It wasn't really a question, but it wasn't not one.

Ilya rubbed his back. "Yes. How else could I put up with you for a whole week?"

Shane huffed against his neck. "Shut up. I put up with you."

Ilya shut up for a while, stroking Shane's back, breathing in air warmed by Shane's skin. It occurred to him again that by the end of the day tomorrow he would no longer be able to do this whenever he wanted, that Shane would be five hours away by car, if he was at home. He tightened his arm around Shane. "I will miss this."

Shane nodded against his shoulder. "Yeah. Me too. This week has been . . ."

"Yes," Ilya agreed, because whatever Shane had been about to say, this week had been all of that. All of that, and so much more. "But we will talk. And October is not too far from now."

It was a lie. October felt like a hundred years away, a thousand, the falsehood confirmed by Shane's short laugh of agreement. Ilya could almost hear his eyes roll. But there was nothing that could be done about the passage of time—it would happen at whatever pace cause the most trouble and the least joy—so there was no point in discussing it. He squeezed Shane tighter for a second.

"Everything will be okay," he said. "C'mon."

Ilya tipped them both over onto the mattress, rearranging their bodies until Shane was on his side and Ilya enveloped him, his front to Shane's back, his arms around Shane, his knees pressed behind Shane's, holding him snug. "Now you cannot get away," he murmured into Shane's ear. Shane huffed, but his hand flexed on top of Ilya's where it curved against his chest.

But he didn't sleep. Ilya could feel Shane relax against him, his breath deepening, muscles loosening, but then he would jerk back into wakefulness, his breath a gasp in his throat. The third time it happened, Ilya nuzzled into him, hooking a leg over Shane's hips, kissing the warm skin near his ear.

"You are tired, you should sleep." Ilya hugged him, spoke the words right against the tender flesh of his throat.

"I don't want to sleep," Shane whispered. "Because when I fall asleep this is over."

Ilya felt himself stop: his breath, his brain, his heart. "No," he said finally, whispering too, because if he said this out loud, the world might shake into pieces. "This is never over."

***

Shane was out of the bed and on his feet before he even fully realized he was awake, roused by pounding on the door. He paused in the doorway of the bedroom, trying to gather himself. Who the fuck was knocking, and why? The alarm hadn't gone off, but the morning light seemed too bright through the blinds, what time was—

"Holly? Rosey? Let's go dudes!" Tyler's voice boomed through the closed door. "You're fucking late!"

Shane glanced around, but there was no clock in the living area and his phone was still in his pants, which were in a heap on the floor. "One second!" he shouted, crouching down to dig through them.

"Shane?" Ilya mumbled from behind him.

"It's Tyler," Shane said. "What time is it?"

"Umm?" Ilya scratched his head, looking around. He was so fucking adorable, naked and sleepy, his hair a mess, eyes half open, that Shane almost wanted to forget Tyler yelling on the other side of the door and take Ilya back to bed. They could catch a later flight.

"Hollander!" Tyler shouted. "Let's fucking go!"

"One second!" Shane shouted again. He'd managed to wrestle his phone out of his pants pocket and was turning it over when the door, the front door, the door that separated Shane and Ilya from the outside world and all its consequences, opened.

It fucking opened.

The door opened and Tyler came in, shouting "what the fuck, dudes, it's quarter after—"

He stopped, his eyes darting between Shane, crouched on the floor in his underwear, and Ilya, standing in the middle of the room totally naked. Then he slammed the door shut behind him with one big hand, over the yelped protest of whoever had been behind him.

"Rosey's got his dick out!" he shouted through the door. "You do not want to see this."

"Tyler," Shane said, right as Ilya said

"—Donovan."

And then no one said anything for a few seconds, the only sound the muffled complaining of whoever was standing outside.

Shane groped for words, but his mind had gone blank. What was there to say? What explanation could there possibly be for the pile of the clothes on the floor, the fact that they were both undressed, the bloom of the hickey on Ilya's chest? What rationale but the truth?

It was Tyler who finally broke the silence, his eyes wide, a hand over his mouth. "Get dressed and get your shit," he said. "Now."

Chapter 10: Sunday Night

Chapter Summary

Ilya has a conversation with Tyler, Shane has a conversation with his mother, and they both have planes to catch.

Chapter Notes

Ilya Rozanov, expert at reading people, especially people who were dangerous to him, saw the instant Donovan put it together: their lateness, Shane groping in a pile of clothes, Ilya undressed, a hickey blooming on his chest, the neatly made bed visible through Shane's bedroom door. Donovan's face changed and he turned and slammed the door behind him with one big hand, over the muffled protest of whoever was behind him.

"Get dressed and get your shit," Tyler said. "Now."

Shane snatched up his clothes from the floor and headed for the bedroom, but Ilya stayed right where he was for a second longer.

"Donovan," he said, his voice low.

Donovan shook his head. "Not now. Guys are gonna miss their flights."

"Fuck!" Shane shouted behind him, and there was a thud, but Ilya didn't move and didn't say anything else. There was nothing to say. He just needed to know how Donovan was going to respond.

"Put some fucking clothes on, Rosey," Donovan said, his face still. "Let's go."

Ilya took a step forward. "Donovan."

Donovan shook his head, not meeting his eyes. "It's fine, I have a brother," he said. "So, just . . . get your shit."

It wasn't exactly an answer, but it was all he had time to get, so Ilya nodded, and went to get dressed.

***

Ilya was back in the living room in less than ten minutes, one sock sliding down into his shoe and his dress clothes from last night crammed into his carry-on, but ready. Mostly ready. He could feel Shane's anxiety radiating from the bedroom, where he was still wrestling with his suitcase, and Ilya wanted to go to him, put his hand on Shane's shoulders and look into his eyes and tell him everything was fine, but he couldn't. Shane couldn't because Tyler was here, and he couldn't because he didn't know if everything was fine.

Still, he called out. "Shane?"

"Yeah, yeah! Just—" He came out of the bedroom, dragging his suitcase behind him, eyes darting everywhere but at Ilya or Donovan. "Okay, okay."

"Ready?" Tyler asked.

Ilya, in front of Shane, his hand closed around the handle of his wheeled suitcase, nodded. But he wasn't ready. He didn't know how to be ready to leave this room, this place where he and Shane had lived for the past week.

"Okay." Tyler opened the door, handing one of the gear bags to Jason, who was standing out there, a confused look on his face.

"What the fuck?" Jason asked.

"Man, you did not want to see what I just saw," Tyler said, laughing, shaking his head as he walked out, like everything that had just happened was a big joke. "Let's go."

Ilya followed Tyler out. As he stepped over the threshold onto the walkway, he realized what was about to happen: he and Shane were about to leave 224, for good, without a kiss. Something that had made sure happened the entire six days they had been here, even after they had fought, and now the final time they left, it wasn't going to happen.

Ilya glanced back over his shoulder. Shane staring glumly back, eyes large, mouth miserable. "C'mon," Ilya said, softly.

They stepped across the threshold and Ilya heard the muttered "fuck" behind him.

He turned. "What is it?"

Shane pulled the key from the lock. "I left the key in the door." His eyes were large and miserable.

"It's okay. C'mon," Ilya said again, holding out one arm, ushering Shane in front of him. He followed Shane, staring at his squared shoulders, the swell of his ass underneath his joggers as they navigated the walkway, lifted their suitcases down the stairs, crossed the pool deck, and entered the lobby. He watched as Shane gave a little smile to the desk clerk when he dropped the metal key into the box, hitched his bag higher up on his shoulder, and pushed through the double glass doors into the turnaround where the bus was waiting.

There were sarcastic cheers from the other players as they stowed their bags. Ilya flipped them off through the windows, making faces at them like he didn't care, but he climbed onto the bus in front of Shane, like he could protect him from the annoyance of the others. He dropped onto the seat behind the bus driver, the seat Shane had basically claimed as his own over the course of the last week, and slid over to the window, his head turned toward the glass, the empty space beside him a silent invitation. Shane hesitated for a second—long enough for Ilya to consider reaching out and grabbing his wrist and pulling him down—then sat next to him.

***

Shane sat down. The seats on the fancy bus were bigger than those in the van, but they were still meant for two normal-sized people, not two professional athletes, one of whom was shaped like a trapezoid of sex, so Ilya was pressed up against him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, the physical contact both a relief and a torture.

"Alright, everyone good?" the driver called over his shoulder. Some of the guys answered but, to Shane's ear, none of them sounded like they were good. There was a layer of sadness over all of them, like a fog hanging low over the lake on a fall day. This had been a good time, and now it was over.

Shane focused on the view over the bus driver's shoulder. That was the way to do it, just keep looking forward, onto the next necessary step, ignoring the hickey that throbbed on your inner thigh, not dwelling too much on what had happened or how it had changed you. You could think about all that later, in the privacy of your own condo, in your own bed, where you would be alone and no one would know if you cried a little bit.

His sadness was only magnified by his fear about what Tyler would do. He hadn't said anything to them since they left the room, and now he sat in the seat behind them, the same place he always sat, talking to Jason about a car Jason was thinking about picking up next week, like nothing had changed. Like he didn't hold Shane's career, Ilya's freedom, in his hands. Shane wanted to turn and demand that Tyler tell him what would happen next, who he would tell and when he would tell and what he would say when he told. What would he say when he brought the axe down on Shane's life?

Instead, he kept his eyes straight ahead.

The bus jerked to a stop at a light and something brushed Shane's hand. Nothing, an incidental jostling, but he glanced down and there was Ilya's hand spread on his own thigh, his finger, just the pinkie, lined up against Shane's. Shane raised his eyes to Ilya's face, but there was nothing to see, his neutral, blank profile still turned toward the window.

Shane lifted his finger, rubbed it gently against Ilya's. There was no change in Ilya's expression, he didn't even blink, but his pinkie hooked around Shane's, twining them together, and Shane felt his heart ease a little. Past Ilya, out the window, the old saguaro cactus stood in the abandoned lot like a sentinel against the backdrop of the brown mountains. Before the bus pulled away Shane noticed that, sometime in the last day, several white flowers had bloomed in a line down the cactus' trunk.

***

They had to separate once they were inside the airport, a group of guys like Shane, connecting through O'Hare in Terminal 3, and a larger clump of guys, including Ilya, Tyler, and Jason, headed to Terminal 4.

"Okay, Holly," Tyler said to him. Shane tried to smile, to act like everything was normal, but Tyler was better at it, grabbing Shane's hand and yanking him in for a shoulder dap. "Travel safe. I'll see you."

"Yeah, man. Um, text anytime," Shane said. He meant it, he would have said it anyway, but he felt cheap saying it now, like he was offering a bribe in exchange for Tyler's silence about what he had seen. "And, um, work on that off-hand."

Tyler laughed his big booming laugh, like nothing was wrong, nothing had changed. "Fuck you, Hollander! I'm coming for you."

Shane tried to smile, hoping Tyler didn't mean it as a threat. "Can't wait."

Shane shook hands with the other guys he'd gotten to know over the course of the week, smiling, exchanging platitudes, making sure they knew they could text him if they wanted to. Then, abruptly, Ilya was standing in front of him, jaw set, eyes narrow. Game face, Shane recognized, and was absurdly glad for it, because it made it easier for him to put on his own. "Rozanov," he said, acutely aware of Tyler standing a few feet away, showing Jason something on his phone.

"Hollander."

"It was, um. It was good to get to know you, this week," Shane said.

That got him the smallest twitch at the corner of Ilya's mouth. "Yes. Very educational. I enjoyed playing with you."

Shane actually laughed at that. It was brutally unfair how funny Ilya was in his second language. "You're such an asshole."

"Can you fuckers please just kiss and get on with it?" Sullivan asked and Shane knew, he knew that Sully did not mean it that way, that he was just teasing, unaware of the truth between Shane and Ilya, but he still flinched and hated himself for flinching. "I've got a plane to catch."

"You don't need to wait for us," Ilya said over Shane's shoulder, his eyes still locked on Shane. "Goodbye, Hollander."

"See you next season, Rozanov," Shane said, and then they were hugging, a bro hug, a public hug, hips apart, arms rigid and high on their backs. But Ilya still smelled like himself, and his curls still brushed against Shane's cheek, even though they had to let go too soon, clapping each other on the shoulders like they were testing for soundness.

Ilya and the others walked away, off toward the signs for Terminal 4. Shane watched for a second, jealousy pinging in his chest at the sight of Jason laughing up at Tyler, Ilya a lone figure in black next to them. Then he turned and followed Jesus and Sullivan and the others into Terminal 3 and didn't look back anymore.

***

Once they were through security and in the private lounge, Donovan stood. "I'm going to grab something at the bar. Anyone want?"

"I will help you carry," Ilya said, and followed him to the bar, lingering as Tyler placed the order for the other guys, adding a vodka on for himself, even though airport vodka was almost always terrible. Terrible or not, he needed it for the conversation he was about to have.

"So, you have a brother," Ilya said, once the bartender was busy assembling the drinks.

Donovan nodded, eyes forward. "He's gay."

"Ahh," Ilya said. Was that good? Or did Tyler hate his brother like Ilya usually hated Alexei? "You are close?"

"We're twins," Donovan said. "He's my best friend."

"Ahh." Ilya nodded. But that wouldn't be enough information to soothe Shane's worries. He would need more, and if Ilya had to sweeten the deal for Donovan, money, connections, whatever, he would. "So . . ."

"So," Donovan said. "Don't worry. I can keep my mouth shut."

"I hope that's true," Ilya said.

Donovan met his eyes for the first time since they'd arrived at the bar, all of his normal joviality gone, replaced with seriousness. "It is. Holly's a good guy. He doesn't deserve any shit for something like this."

"Do I?" Ilya asked.

Donovan shrugged. "No offense, Rosey, you seem cool, and I appreciate what you did with the party and all. But Holly's my guy." He frowned, his expression more solemn than Ilya had seen it in the entire week of MASE. "One more thing: I don't know what's with you two—" Donovan held up a hand before Ilya could speak. "—I don't need to know. But whatever it is, Holly doesn't deserve for anyone to treat him like shit. So don't."

He thinks I'm fucking around, Ilya realized, and the smile that split his face probably looked insane to Donovan. "Do not worry your pretty blond head, Donovan." He ruffled Donovan's hair, then grabbed two of the drinks the bartender had set down in front of them. "I know which one of us is the prize."

***

Ironically, Shane's flight was the soonest, so after security the rest of the guys said their goodbyes and headed to the airport lounge, while Shane went to his gate. He got there with a few minutes to spare—people still coming off the plane from the last flight—so he went to the bathroom. After peeing, he washed his hands then dug his dop kit out of his duffel and brushed his teeth.

You're fine, he told himself, staring into his own eyes in the mirror, but he didn't feel fine. He hadn't had a chance to talk to Tyler, and he had no idea what was supposed to happen next with Ilya. They'd discussed October, but what about between now and then? They'd mentioned texting, they'd mentioned calling, but they hadn't made plans. Shane had thought it was something to talk about in the morning, while they were getting ready to leave, but that chance had been stripped away from them, just like the chance for a proper goodbye.

He rinsed his mouth with water cupped in one palm, then dried his hands and the toothbrush with a paper towel, and went back to the gate. While he waited in the first class line to board, he took his phone out of his pocket and opened up Ilya's messages. Their last exchange was from over a month ago, when Ilya had still been in Russia. He'd sent a picture of a barbell, cropped so Shane couldn't calculate how much weight was on it.

Nothing since. There had been no reason to text in Arizona: they'd been together almost every hour of the day. Now, looking at their earlier messages, Shane wasn't sure how to fit the new reality of him and Ilya into that jokey, casual place. He sighed, and closed out the text chain.

After a moment of consideration, he opened up his mom's contact.

Shane grimaced at the phone screen. He wasn't sure she'd be so enthusiastic once she heard what he had to say. Somehow, over the last hour, it had become clear to Shane that he had to tell her. He'd thought that he would let the idea of his sexuality settle for a little, get comfortable with saying it to himself before he said it to his mother, but Tyler barging in had changed the timeline. He'd seemed okay about it, not, like, disgusted or whatever, but who knew how he would feel once he got home, or how long he could keep a secret? So Shane had to tell his parents. He couldn't risk them finding out on the news that they knew less about him than Tyler Donovan.

The logical thing would have been to put his phone away having done everything he needed to do before getting on his flight, but instead he re-opened Ilya's messages.

Then, as if he'd made it happen by magic, a text from Ilya appeared.

Shane stared at his screen. He had been caught in almost the worst possible situation, and somehow it was going to be okay? How was that possible? But Ilya wouldn't have sent the message if he didn't think it was true: he hadn't been joking when he said he did not lie to make Shane feel better. Maybe they had dodged yet another bullet.

Shane felt pathetic, but he sent his next question anyway.

Shane turned off his screen and crossed his arms over his chest. He'd call his mom first, say what he needed to say, and then call Ilya. Or maybe he'd call Ilya first, get his opinion on what he should say? But Ilya wasn't out to his family, right? He couldn't be, not if they were anything like what he described, so maybe Shane should call his mom first. Plus if he didn't, then she would call him, and he didn't want his conversation with Ilya to—

In his hand, his phone vibrated.

Ilya.

Shane almost dropped the phone trying to answer it, but he caught it and got it to his ear. "I thought you couldn't call."

"I told them bathroom, so I only have a minute. I am in one of those little cubicles like for businessmen."

Shane smiled, picturing Ilya crammed into one of those small booths, sitting at the tiny table, his shoulders taking up the whole space. "You talked to Tyler?"

"Mmm. His brother is gay. He will keep it to himself."

Shane sighed, relieved. A gay brother. "He said that?"

"Yes," Ilya answered, then chuckled. "He also says that he will punch me if I treat you bad."

"He said that?"

"Not exactly," Ilya said. "But very close to that. His meaning was clear."

Shane grinned at the carpet. "So . . . we're good."

"We're good," Ilya agreed. "Except . . ."

"Except what?" Shane asked, glancing around, like the airport police were about to arrest him for talking to his . . . his Ilya in public.

"Nothing." Ilya sniffed. "Just . . . October is longer from now than I thought."

Shane's heart clenched in his chest. He closed his eyes. "Yeah."

"Okay, I must go. They will think I have fallen in."

On impulse, Shane glanced at the departures board on the far wall. Ilya was only the next terminal over . . .

But no. The special passengers, an elderly man and a mother with a baby and a toddler, were already scanning their boarding passes. Shane sighed. "Okay."

"You will call tonight when you get home," Ilya said.

"I will," Shane agreed.

"Okay. Goodbye, Hollander."

"Goodbye, Ilya." Shane pressed END on his phone and shoved it into his pocket. But he kept his hand over it, just in case someone decided to call back.

***

Ilya went back to the tables the guys had commandeered in one corner of the lounge and sat down in front of his drink. He'd known he was going to miss Hollander—who would not miss someone with a mouth so pretty and a mind so nice and so dirty at the same time?—but he hadn't counted on how much he would miss talking to Hollander, or how soon. When some business man in the lounge blabbed too loud on his phone about "deliverables," Ilya wanted to meet Shane's eyes across the table. When a woman walked by with her Pomeranian in a purse, a little pink bow on its collar, Ilya wanted to nudge Shane's arm and make him look. When Moore forgot to plug in his head phones and accidentally blasted "bitches ain't shit and they ain't sayin' nothing" in front of two little girls and their surprised mother, Ilya wanted to watch Shane clap his hand over his mouth and laugh into his palm. They had been separated for a little more than an hour and already Ilya was miserable with missing.

He sipped his vodka.

Maybe it was because Shane was so easy compared to the rest of Ilya's life. Shane didn't want money from Ilya. He didn't need Ilya to represent the family, or the team, or the country with honor. He didn't even want Ilya to win.

All Shane wanted was him.

Ilya sighed. He couldn't believe some of the things Shane had said to him last night, about how he wanted to see the mark Ilya left on him, how he'd tried to spare his own feelings by not fucking Ilya, and how he liked Ilya anyway. Ilya couldn't imagine being that brave. And he couldn't imagine waiting until October to be near Shane Hollander again.

***

Ten minutes later, Shane slid his carry-on into the overhead compartment and fell into his window seat, pushing the shade up so he could look out over the tarmac, like there was something to see out there, something worth looking at.

"Mr. Hollander, something to drink?" the flight attendant asked, smiling her professional smile.

"Ginger ale, please?" One of the great things about flying was that they always had ginger ale. The attendant smiled and moved on.

Shane pulled his charger out of his pocket, and plugged his phone into the console next to the seat. No new messages since the text about Tyler an hour ago. No missed calls. Why would there be? What else was there to say? Ilya was somewhere in the building Shane had just left, in one of the lounges having a snack maybe, sitting with some of the other guys if their flights hadn't left already, out in public, living his life. Anyone could see him, anyone could speak to him. Just not Shane.

A man, older, obviously some kind of business guy, took the aisle seat, indifferent to Shane. The flight attendant came by with his ginger ale and a napkin. People filed past, most of them focused on row numbers, looking for their seats, one of two of them scanning the first-class passengers as if they were trying to figure out the difference between themselves and the people already sitting down. Shane focused on his drink and his silent phone and hoped none of them were hockey fans.

Finally, the doors were shut and his glass was collected. Any second now he would have to shut off his phone and face the fact that he was leaving Arizona. Leaving Ilya.

He opened up his phone and typed, before he could stop himself.

The response came immediately.

Shane smiled at the phone, shaking his head. Fucking Rozanov.

Shane hesitated before typing again, wondering for a split second if what he wanted to say was too much, but of course it was. Everything about him and Ilya Rozanov was ridiculous and crazy and the very definition of "too much." So he typed it anyway.

Shane meant to turn his phone off right away after that, tuck it away in his bag and not even look at it until his plane landed in Chicago, but Ilya's response was so fast he didn't have a chance.

Shane smiled at the screen.

***

Ilya's phone vibrated in his palm as he sat in the lounge half-listening to Donovan and Moore regaling each other with stories about MASE as if they hadn't lived next door to each other the whole week. When he glanced down at it, the word on the screen made Ilya's heart skip.

***

Ilya unlocked his front door and dropped his bags in the hall. His place was nice, a penthouse condo only ten or fifteen minutes from the arena, brand new when he bought it in the spring. He liked it, liked what it said about him and who he was, but besides furniture, he hadn't done much with it before he left to Moscow, and now, hanging his jacket in the front closet, Ilya was hit with how impersonal it was, just another luxury space that didn't feel like home.

His mind flashed for a second to the beat-up couch at the Sleep EZ.

Maybe I should get a dog, he thought. A ridiculous idea, his schedule was impossible and a dog would be sad with him being gone so much of the time, and then who would take care of it in the summers, when he had to go back to Russia? No, he could not have a dog, no matter how lonely he was sometimes on the top floor of this six-story building by himself. He hadn't been lonely in Arizona.

Ilya dialed the number of the local pizza place from the magnet he kept on the side of the fridge, and took a shower while he waited for it to be delivered. When he got out of the shower, he dragged his suitcase from the foyer into the bedroom and dug through it until he found a clean tank top and a pair of joggers he'd only worn once, and put them on. It was dumb—he had a whole closet full of clothes—but he wanted something that had been in the same place as Shane.

He shoved the rest of the clothes into the hamper for his laundry service to deal with, and went to grab a beer and wait for his food to show up. All he had was domestic beer, and he made a mental note to text Moore and get the name of the beer he'd bought for the party. He turned on the television for lack of anything better to do, stretching out to put his feet on the coffee table, his phone on the cushion beside him. In a few days, training would start back up again and he would be busy with hockey and the team, and he would have to call Alexei and figure out what they were going to do about his father, maybe a visiting nurse, or maybe someone live in, because his new wife certainly could not be trusted to care for him, and he needed to find someone to decorate this place because the bare walls, which had seemed modern and sophisticated to him a month ago, now felt bare and institutional. Yes, he had a thousand things that needed to happen before the season started, but for now, tonight? . . . for now, he had nothing to do except wait for Shane to call.

***

Shane got to his place at 9:44, practically throwing his bags through the front door and catching the elevator before it left the floor. He was cutting it close, he knew, as he launched himself out onto to the street. The lights were still on at Mr. Bauthong's, but any second they could go off and Shane would have to order pizza from a shitty chain, or starve until tomorrow morning. Because of MASE, he had nothing in the house and his food delivery wasn't scheduled until tomorrow afternoon.

He got to the little restaurant at 9:53, startling Mr. Bauthong, who was sweeping with his back to the door when Shane burst in.

"Oh my gosh, Mr. Shane! You will give me a heart attack!"

"Sorry! Sorry!" Shane held out his hands. "Am I too late?"

Mr. Bauthong leaned the broom up against one of the booths. "No, no. Not for your special. No problem."

Shane grimaced. "Could I also get an order of spring rolls, too, please? Or would that be too—"

"No problem," Mr. Bauthong repeated, going behind the counter to ring him up. "You are hungry today! Busy day?"

"I just got back. I was in Arizona."

Mr. Bauthong made a face. "Out in the desert? Why would you go there? Very boring."

"You've been?"

"One time. To the Grand Canyon. Too much sun."

Shane laughed. "Yeah, there's a lot of sun."

"It's good that you're back here now, where you belong. Hockey players in the desert." Mr. Bauthong rolled his eyes. "Ten minutes." He went back into the kitchen.

Shane smiled. He'd always thought it was a little ridiculous, playing a winter sport in the desert, he and his mom had talked about it a dozen times over the years, but the last week had really changed his opinion about hockey in the desert. Hockey players in the desert anyway.

Wait. Wait. Shane lifted his head, looking at Mr. Bauthong's profile as he worked at the grill. Never, not once since Shane had started coming here, had Mr. Bauthong indicated that he knew who Shane was, that he knew Shane played hockey. Shane had never mentioned it: there had never been any reason to. He was happy to have a place where he was just another customer who showed up and ordered and listened to Mr. Bauthong's little stories about his family and the neighborhood and got amazing food. He wondered when that had changed, if there had been something on the news lately, although his mother probably would have mentioned it. Whatever had clued him in, Shane hoped it wouldn't change how Mr. Bauthong acted around him. He didn't want to stop coming here.

Mr. Bauthong came out from the kitchen a few minutes later with Shane's order, the Styrofoam containers double-bagged. "Here we go, Mr. Shane."

"Thanks." Shane handed over his credit card. "Do you, um." He was aware this was the most obnoxious way to phrase the question, but he couldn't think of another way to say it. "You know who I am?"

Mr. Bauthong rolled his eyes as he swiped the card and handed it back. "You are very famous, Mr. Shane," he said, in the same way he might say "you are very stupid." "Very famous Asian hockey player. Not Thai, but . . ." he shrugged like he was willing to forgive Shane for not being Thai. ". . . still."

Shane stared at him. This man, who he'd known for almost a year now, and had never given any sign. "But you never said anything."

"Like what?" Mr. Bauthong slid the signature copy across the counter along with a pen with a fluffy pom pom dangling from the top of it. "You come, you eat. I tell my wife, 'he's a good man, polite, good tipper.' What else do I care?"

"Oh! Well . . ." But Shane didn't have anything else to say. Mr. Bauthong was right: what difference did fame make to him? He signed the receipt and put a twenty dollar bill on top of it. "Thanks." Shane grabbed the bag, which was surprisingly heavy. He was pretty sure this wasn't only what he had ordered, and Mr. Bauthong's generosity made a lump form in his throat. "Have a good night."

"See you soon!" Mr. Bauthong waved as Shane went out the door. When Shane glanced back through the glass, Mr. Bauthong was already back at work with the broom. He did not look up.

***

The pizza worked as a distraction for a while, but after Ilya had eaten, the irritating, antsy boredom came back. He checked his phone. Almost ten. Shane should be getting home in the next couple of hours. Would he call right away, or unpack, take a shower, eat? Maybe, Ilya thought, maybe he should text to remind him?

Normally, when he got home from a road trip like this one and found himself with free time, he would call someone, a woman, and have her come over and distract him. He knew a couple of girls who were always down for some fun, if they weren't already busy, but when he scrolled through the contacts on his phone, each of the women had some flaw he remembered once he clicked on the contact. This one chewed gum, like, all the time, and that one always wanted him to come to her. This one had a big forehead, that one wanted him to suck her toes (which he did, and actually liked doing, but for some reason suddenly seemed like a burden). He'd gotten deep into his contact list, looking at numbers for women he hadn't contacted since January or February, when he realized what the problem was: none of these women was Shane Hollander.

Fuck.

On impulse, he scrolled to Svetlana's number and dialed.

"Ilya, you are not dead!" she declared in Russian.

He smiled. "I am sorry," he said. "I was out of town."

"Yes, I saw that disgraceful display you called hockey yesterday. What was that power play?"

"They are young, Sveta," he protested. "They need experience."

Svetlana snorted. "I suppose you want me to come over and make you feel better about that embarrassment."

Ilya paused. Normally, she would be right. That was why he'd called her, his closest friend in the States, maybe anywhere, to come over and fuck him and make him feel better about his loneliness, like she had so many times before, and like he had done for her the few times she'd allowed her heart to be broken by some rich but stupid American. But . . .

But.

But Shane Hollander. What would Shane Hollander think if he knew? How would he react? Ilya wasn't sure, exactly, they hadn't spoken about it, but he'd seen how Shane reacted to the sorority girls in Arizona and he thought maybe it wouldn't be good.

"No," he said. "Not tonight. I just wanted to let you know I'm home."

"Okay," she said in English, like she thought maybe he had lost his mind. "Welcome home?"

"Thanks, Sveta," he answered. "Talk to you later."

He could hear her unspoken questions in the silence—are you okay? Why did you call me? Did something happen to you?—but he had known her for a long time, so she did not bother to ask them. She knew he would not answer. "Call me if you want to go out later this week," she said. "Good night, Ilya."

He put the phone down on the cushion again and picked up the remote, scrolling through the listings, hoping for something, anything, to take his mind off of Hollander. But the television gods had something else in mind, because on one of the secondary sports channels, one of the ESPNs that normally showed table tennis or softball, there it was: MASE 2011 Exhibition Match.

Ilya clicked on the entry, and landed in the middle of a commercial for a pick-up truck, the one type of car he didn't care about. He waited, hand tight around the remote. When the game back on it was with two minutes remaining of the Red/Green match, Sully's team practically skating circles around the poor helmless Green Team, but then, for a split second, the camera cut over to the tunnel on the Green side of the rink and there was Hollander, helmet off, stick in hand, watching the action with sharp eyes, like he was about to make an on-the-fly change.

"—Rookie of the Year, Shane Hollander," the announcer was saying. "Getting ready for his own match against his rival Ilya Rozanov, who is also here at MASE. That's going to be a real—"

Ilya clicked MUTE.

It took a few more minutes, through the end of the Red/Green game, and then more commercials, but then they were on the screen, him and Hollander, first for the brief warm-up skates, then the face-off. Ilya had seen Hollander on the ice before, a hundred times, a thousand. He'd watched endless game tape, even before they knew each other, and of course since that first Prospects game years ago, trying to understand how Hollander played. He'd always been a beautiful skater, and that had only improved as he got older and stronger, and it couldn't have been more clear in than it was in the exhibition game, where he and Ilya were the strongest on the ice, pushing the others to keep up.

The camera work wasn't great, the shots always slightly behind the action, but they seemed to like coming in close during the frequent pauses in play, zooming in on Hollander's face or Ilya's, showing their flushed cheeks, their mouth guard grins, the water they splashed on their faces after a shift. With the sound off, the video became sensual, full of panting and sweat.

During the next commercial, Ilya adjusted his dick in his sweats, trying not to remember what had happened at the Sleep EZ after the match, how Shane had squirmed underneath him, how he'd grabbed Ilya's ass and moaned into his mouth. That had been last night. Not even twenty-four hours ago and Ilya was already desperate to feel it again, running his palm over his chest under his shirt, feeling the warm, bruised flesh of the hickey Shane had sucked into his skin. By the time the commercials were over and the tv was showing Shane talking to a blonde reporter, Ilya's cock was hard and in his hand, his pants shoved down on his thighs. He fumbled for the remote to unmute the sound, and came to Shane saying "it's been great, it's been a lot of fun," his polite-to-reporters smile curling the corners of his perfect fucking mouth.

Ilya stripped off his ruined shirt and used it to wipe off his hand, his stomach, then balled it up and tossed it on the floor in the direction of the bedroom. He pulled his sweats back up over his soft cock and watched himself dance with Shane Hollander on the screen, his smile when Shane won and on-screen Ilya picked him up only slightly tinged with sadness. October could not come fast enough.

***

Shane had been right: in addition to the pho and the order of spring rolls, Mr. Bauthong had included an order of chicken satay and a cucumber salad. At this point, Shane thought, Mr. Bauthong was basically paying him to eat there. He devoured the salad and most of the pho and one piece of satay before he slowed down. The Mexican food in Arizona had been amazing, and the catering had been pretty good, but Mr. Bauthong's food hit in a way that made him realize how much he'd missed being home.

He picked up his phone to call his mother—she would call the cops if he didn't do it soon—but for a second before he dialed, Shane looked around his place, the big windows, the comfortable furniture, the wide countertops . . . quiet, peaceful, clean. He didn't have to say anything to her. Practice started on Wednesday. He could just keep his mouth shut and go to the gym and practice and visit his parents and eat at Mr. Bauthong's and nothing needed to change at all. MASE, and everything that came with it, could be left in Arizona, a feverish dream that didn't belong in his orderly, precise, day-to-day reality.

Except Shane didn't want to leave it behind. He wanted Ilya.

He didn't know if he could have Ilya, if that was a thing that was possible, if Ilya even wanted that himself, or would, once he returned to his own real life. There had been some words, last night, that danced around the possibility, but Shane knew better than to trust things that were said in the middle of the night. Maybe Ilya would reconsider, once he wasn't forced to be in the same room with Shane, once Shane was both inexperienced and inconvenient, and Shane would go back to being alone. But if there was a chance for Shane to be happy, either with Ilya or, maybe, someday down the road with someone else, he had to start by telling his parents who he was.

Shane hit his mom's contact on his phone and put it on speaker.

"Hi, honey!" she said. "Are you home? How was the flight?"

Shane nodded at the phone like she could see him. "Yeah, I'm, it was good. I'm good."

"Did you eat?"

"I'm having pho from the place on the corner."

"You shouldn't eat so much processed food," his mother said, but without any heat in it. They'd had this conversation a hundred times over the years, but she couldn't stop herself from reminding him anyways. "It's full of sodium."

"My meal delivery comes tomorrow," Shane said.

"And how was MASE?" she asked at the same time as he said

"Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something."

He took a deep breath in the space that followed. It would be so easy to skip it, to just talk to her about MASE and his training schedule for the upcoming season, to allow the truth about himself to slip into the background, to stay silent and safe. They didn't need to know, did they? It wasn't important, right?

"Shane?" his mother asked.

"Yeah, I'm here," he said. "Um . . ."

"Did something happen in Arizona, Shane? You're not hurt, are you? Because I will—"

Yeah, something happened alright, he thought, and before he could second guess himself, or third guess himself, or psych himself out of it again, he opened his mouth. "I, um. . . . I think I'm gay."

Her silence weighed like a stone in his ear. Shane stared into the mostly-empty bowl in front of him, a little hoop of green onion floating in the broth, alone and sad.

After an eternity, his mom cleared her throat. "Oh, well, honey," she said. "That's. I'm glad you told us."

Shane squinted at the phone. That was not the response he'd expected. "What do you that mean 'glad I told you'?"

"Well, Shane, your dad and I—"

"Did you think I was gay?" Shane blurted. It was ridiculous to be upset—he was gay—but he was upset anyway. His parents had known?

"I mean, we weren't sure. But you didn't seem to like any of those girls you dated—"

"I liked them!"

"Not, you know . . ." She trailed off. "I know what a boy looks like when he likes a girl romantically, Shane."

"So you thought I was gay." This whole time, he'd been worried. Years since he started thinking he might like boys as well as girls. Months since he and Ilya had started hooking up and he knew for a fact that he liked boys. Days since he knew he didn't like girls at all. And the whole time, it hadn't been a secret at all.

"We thought it was a possibility," his mom said.

"But you never said anything."

"You had enough to deal with, honey. I figured you would tell me in your own time, if it were true. And now you have."

Shane paused. Now he had. Regardless of whether his parents had known or not, now he had told them. He had said something. "So, you're not mad?"

"Oh, honey. Shane. No, of course not. Why would I be mad?"

Shane shivered. Her answer was so . . . certain. No. Of course not. "Just . . . because, I don't know. Because of hockey?"

"Do you want to tell your team?"

"No!" Shane blurted, although he hadn't known the answer until she'd asked the question. "Not . . . not right now, anyway."

"Okay, then. Whatever you want to do, Shane, you know your dad and I love and support you."

Shane slumped in his chair, shoulders sagging. "Thanks."

"Can I ask, was there some reason you wanted to tell me now? Did something happen in Arizona?"

I sort of fell in love with Ilya Rozanov, Shane thought, but he had already shared too much with his mother tonight to tell her about Ilya over the phone. Maybe after he saw Ilya in October. He didn't even know if they would still be doing whatever it was they were doing by then, so no need to share more than he had to.

"I just had the chance to do some thinking," he said. "You know, come to some conclusions. And I wanted to tell you."

"Well, that's very brave of you, honey," she paused, the silence abrupt like there was something else she wanted to ask, but she'd stopped herself. "Hey, I know you start practice this week, but why don't Dad and I come out this weekend? We could have dinner, maybe see a show."

"Okay, yes." Shane nodded to himself, relieved. They would come to Montreal and he could tell them again, in person, and his mom would hug him and his dad would hug him and everything would be okay. Not that it wasn't okay now, but . . . "Yeah, let's. I should be done on Saturday around . . ." He checked his calendar. "Around one."

"Expect us around five," she said. "I'll make a reservation."

"Sounds good."

"Shane?" his mother asked.

He inhaled. "Yeah?"

"I love you, honey. I'm proud of you, and I love you very much."

Tears sprang to his eyes. "I love you, too, Mom."

"Okay, have a good night. Get some rest."

Shane pressed END on the phone. Then, carefully so as not to knock over the bowl with the remnants of his pho in it, Shane put his head down on the countertop and cried.

***

A few minutes later, when he'd regained control of himself and was thinking about cleaning up the remnants of dinner, Shane's phone buzzed again.

Shane rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help the warm feeling that rushed through him. Ilya Rozanov, impatient to talk to him.

Shane grinned.

A moment later, the camera icon appeared on the screen. Shane pressed it and the screen went black for some reason.

"Ilya?" he asked.

"I can hear you, but cannot see you," Ilya said, his voice tinny and far away. Shane's heart thudded in response.

"I have a black screen, too," Shane said, and just then the picture popped up, grainy and jerky, like Ilya was a marionette on a string, but Shane could see him, could see that he didn't have a shirt on, and he was overcome with a desire to be there, where ever Ilya was, his nose pressed up against Ilya's collarbone.

"There you are," Ilya said.

"Here I am." Shane sighed.

Silence. He wasn't sure what to say, now that Ilya was on the phone, every thought in his head too emotional to speak out loud, even on video.

"How are you? How was flight?"

"Fine." Shane propped the phone up against his bowl so he didn't have to hold it. "Um. How was yours?"

Ilya shrugged, eyes off to the side. "Also fine."

More silence. It had been so much easier to talk to Ilya when he was pressed up against him.

"What are you doing?" Shane asked, finally.

"Was watching tv. They showed our match."

"Oh, yeah?" Shane chuckled. "How'd we look?"

"Terrible." Ilya reclined on what seemed to be a couch, his free hand behind his head. Shane's fingers tingled with the desire to touch him. "I mean, everyone else obviously. I looked great."

Shane shook his head, grinning. This was better, this was normal. "Obviously."

"You looked okay, too," Ilya said. "What are you doing?"

"I was just eating." Shane held up a chicken skewer. "There's a little Thai place down the street from my house."

"Mmm. I had pizza," Ilya said. "But Thai sounds better. When do you start back?"

Shane bit his lip on an offer to take Ilya to Mr. Bauthong's the next time he was in town. That would mean that Ilya would be at his place, something they hadn't talked about, yet. "Wednesday," he said. "We have a team meeting Wednesday afternoon."

"Thursday for us," Ilya said. "What are you doing tomorrow?"

Shane shrugged. "Unpacking. Errands. Gym. The usual. You?"

"Mmm." Ilya nodded. "Boring."

Shane rolled his eyes. "Why, what exciting adventures are you having?"

Ilya sniffed. "I am seeing a friend, I hope."

Shane pressed his lips together against the flood of questions: who? How well do you know this friend? Do you fuck this friend? Boy or girl? "Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do?"

Ilya shrugged. "I am not sure. We will play it by sound, I think."

"By ear," Shane corrected absently. "Play it by ear." This was a mistake. He'd thought this call would be more like the call in the airport, when it had been a relief to talk to Ilya, but now he felt worse. He knew Ilya had a life of his own—hell, he had a life of his own, even if it wasn't as exciting as Rozanov's—he just hadn't expected it to be so painful to witness. "Well, have a good time, I guess."

"Yes, thank you."

"I think I'm going to go," Shane said, staring past the phone at the take-out containers on his counter. He should have put the food away before he answered Ilya's call. He should have prioritized himself, his current life, over whatever this was. Whatever this had been. He'd been so excited to get Ilya's text. He felt a little stupid about that, now.

"I have been thinking," Ilya said, his voice casual, like he was talking about the weather. "It was bad luck this morning, yes?"

"Yeah." Shane eyed him, warily. "What do you mean?"

"Very bad luck for you to leave without a good-bye kiss." Ilya's expression was calm. Indifferent.

Shane grimaced, remembering the moment when he'd realized it wasn't going to happen. "Well, we couldn't do much about that."

"No, true," Ilya admitted. "Still, bad luck."

"Do you think so?" Shane asked. He wasn't sure where Ilya was going, so best to tread carefully.

Ilya nodded solemnly. "Yes. It would be a terrible idea to start the season with such bad luck. You could break a leg or something."

"I don't think that's true," Shane said. "That's, like, for theatre people."

"And it would be bad luck for me, too," Ilya continued. "Maybe I would not beat you in the scoring race this year."

"You didn't beat me last year," Shane pointed out.

"No," Ilya agreed, gazing directly through the camera on his phone into Shane's eyes. "So I need all the luck I can get. You will be home tomorrow at, maybe, 9:30 am?"

Shane's stomach dropped. The sheer audacity of what Ilya was suggesting . . . He nodded, unable to speak. His phone pinged. He picked it up and switched apps to see an email, forwarded from Air Canada. Shane opened it, read silently. The screen in front of him blurred into pale shapes as he flipped back to the video.

"Fuck, Rozanov," he muttered, wiping a finger under his eyes.

"I will see you tomorrow, Hollander," Ilya said. And even through the grainy phone camera and the sheen of Shane's tears, Ilya's smile was as blinding as the Arizona sun.

The End
Exhibition: Year One

Chapter End Notes

I hope y'all have had as much fun reading Exhibition: Year One as I did writing it, because man, did I have fun. Thank you for reading it, and please reach out here, or via email (synchronik@gmail.com) or on Threads (synchronik_a03) if you have the impulse. I answer all comments, sometimes with waaayyyyy too much detail, and I am *always* happy to gab about writing.

While I don't outline or plan my fan fiction in any detail, Exhibition was always loosely conceived of as a trilogy, of which this is the first part. I don't have a specific timeline for Year Two or Year Three to be released, but they will be posted here if and when they come to fruition. And yes, Angela and Tyler will be in them. 😁