Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Rose Landry, Shane Hollander & Hayden Pike

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Scott Hunter (Game Changers), Eric Bennett, Carter Vaughn, Hayden Pike, Rose Landry, Miles (Game Changers), Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Jackie Pike, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Situationship Era, Blow Jobs, Face-Fucking, Ilya Rozanov Loves Dogs, Fluff and Smut, Shameless Smut, Smut, Jealous Shane Hollander, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Banter, Humor, Brave Shane Hollander, Orgasm Edging, Light Angst, Sexting, Masturbation, Domestic Boyfriends, Investment Building Truther, POV Ilya Rozanov, POV Shane Hollander, Anxious Shane Hollander, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Sub Shane Hollander, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Phone Sex, Exhibitionism, Public Masturbation, Gratuitous masturbation tbh, 2016 Vegas Awards: Shane's Revenge, Shane Hollander and Rose Landry queening out, Anal Sex, Shane Hollander Loves Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Oblivious Scott Hunter (Game Changers), this is so much fluffier than the tags suggest

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-01 Updated: 2026-08-04 Words: 31,899 Chapters: 8/?

Wanna Bet?

Summary

Want to win a date with an All Star?

When the NHL hosts a charity gala during the 2016 All Stars weekend, both Shane and Ilya are put on auction as donors bid on a chance to go on a date with them in support of a good cause.

Too bad they bet on each other.

Notes

Full disclosure, there are two holdovers from book canon in here:

- Scott is still dumb and oblivious
- Shane still bought the investment building

Chapter 1: The Gala

Chapter Notes

January 2016 — Nashville

Shane had less than zero interest in taking part in the NHL’s 2016 charity date auction, and if his mother hadn’t been so persistent about it being a good cause and even better PR, he absolutely would’ve found a way out of it. As it stood, he had no excuse.

They'd put photos of himself, Rozanov, and Carter Vaughn on a graphic on the NHL website, all wearing suits from past NHL Awards. The effect looked something like a very athletic, multi choice version of the Bachelor. He couldn’t say he loved being a hot commodity on this market. But, his mom had repeatedly told him it would be a good idea for his brand, he’d been reassured he could schedule it in the off-season, and it wouldn’t kill him to give up three hours of a Sunday for some philanthropy. Still, he wished it didn’t feel so much like a cattle call. The only saving grace was that they’d timed the gala to line up with All Stars weekend, which saved him a flight.

Some of the guys getting auctioned were fully married, so it was really more of a win-a-chance-to-meet-your-favorite-celebrity affair. The people who attended these things were high rollers, so it was a near guarantee that some aging multimillionaire with season tickets would be buying Shane off, either to talk shop or to gift his date to a beautiful, miraculously single, twenty-something female relative.

Donors filled the room, all massive hockey fans made up mostly of wrinkled men and their wives. Unfortunately, it was also full of the All Stars themselves — some of whom would be up for auction tonight, and others simply there to enjoy their misery.

Dallas Kent started the show, pig that he was. Regrettably, he did have a certain charm to him, and he brought home a couple thousand for a food bank with the promise of a helicopter tour of Toronto.

Matheson was married, but the “date” he’d suggested was golfing anyway, so it was no surprise when a man in his seventies shook his hand and clapped him on the back in a way that screamed, “No homo, man.”

One big crowd pleaser for the night was seeing an older woman dressed in an Admirals-red gown pinch Scott Hunter's cheek as they linked arms, off to save an orphanage and plan a dinner at the Empire State Building.

And then it was Shane's turn. He did his best to put on an idiotic smile as the emcee for the evening rattled off his accomplishments.

“Next up, we've got your most recent Stanley Cup champion, last year's MVP, five time All Star, Montreal’s captain, Shane Hollander! I think this one's gonna be a big ticket item.” She cooed to a roar of applause. “Shane? Why don’t you tell us a little bit about the cause you’re supporting tonight?”

He launched into his memorized shtick about funding equipment for underprivileged kids in the juniors league, happy to have scripted this out ahead of time.

“Um, I think everyone in this room knows that hockey can be a very expensive sport for our parents to take on, and anything we can do to say thank you and help out with those costs is worthwhile. With your support, some of these guys could be standing up here in five or ten years.”

“Aww. That’s amazing, Shane. Why don’t you tell us a little bit about the date you’re going to be taking your lucky winner on?”

“Sure, yeah. So, first things first, we’re going to make a quick visit to the Montreal juniors team, so you can really see where your money is going and how it’s, you know, being put to good use.”

“So sweet. Just think about those little faces! And then what’s next on the agenda, Shane?”

“Right, so after that, we’re going to go kayaking. Montreal is beautiful in the summer, so we’ll just go spend an hour on the river. Oh and uh, don’t worry, I can do the paddling.”

That got a laugh, which was nice, because it wasn’t funny.

“Ooh la la! This beautiful man paddling you around? Before we start the betting, I want you guys to just visualize the big smiles on these kids' faces when you make a difference in their lives. And, more importantly, this guy's biceps flexing while he paddles you down a river.”

Shane blushed with violent embarrassment, once again kicking himself for agreeing to this, but the crowd was clearly eating it up.

“Now, we're gonna start the bidding at $5,000. Do I hear $5,000? All right, where are my bidders?”

And wow, the bidders came out. It was undeniably awkward to be paraded around on stage like this, but he couldn't say that his ego wasn't flattered, especially with all the editorializing the emcee was doing.

“Ooh, the wives are really out for this one! We've got a hottie up here right now, don't we?”

In all honesty, Shane would probably rather just talk about hockey with their husbands, but, their wives might be easier to paddle.

The bidding had long soared past Kent and Matheson's final numbers when it started to simmer between its final holdouts. He couldn't see their faces past the spotlights, but he could clearly hear two distinct voices battling out their last bets.

Right when it sounded like it was wrapping up, the final betting was interrupted with perhaps the voice he least wanted to hear in this exact moment. Shane's head snapped in his direction immediately.

“$50,000!”

“Oh, that can't be who I think it is, is it?” The emcee stopped her auctioneering. “Ilya Rozanov has entered the bidding!”

“Could not resist!” Rozanov laughed, and both his table and the crowd followed.

“Oh, nothing but trouble from the left side of the room tonight!” The emcee tsked. “Do we have $55,000? Check, I see you table 48! How about $60,000?”

“$60,000!” That obnoxious Russian voice called out again.

Shane wondered if he was drunk. Whatever stunt this was, it wasn't fucking funny. In the best case, it was humiliating, and in the worst case, it was way too suspicious. He felt his face warm, incapable of controlling his ire, and the audience ate it up as the betting went on.

“Let's see, are we gonna get $70,000? Do I have $70,000 for Shane Hollander? Just imagine. The summer sunshine, these forearms rippling down the Montreal river while you get to sit back and eat chocolate covered strawberries. Who doesn't fantasize about that, am I right?”

Chocolate covered strawberries? When had those entered the equation? Shane didn’t even eat chocolate covered strawberries.

He had been enjoying beating Kent, but now he was starting to feel a bit like a prize hog. He needed this to get wrapped up quickly — preferably to anyone but Rozanov. The emcee had the same idea.

“Come on, guys. I know you're not gonna let this poor guy go home with Rozanov. Who's gonna save him, huh?”

The number only continued to rise, until one by one his top contenders dropped out, and the horrifying reality sank in.

“Alright! Shane Hollander! Sold for $85,000 to our mysterious Russian bidder at table 10!”

The table of Boston players cackled, Cliff Marlow's voice ringing out, “You're such a dick, Roz!”

“Time to come claim your prize, paddle 81! I have a sneaking feeling you were supposed to be backstage five minutes ago anyway!”

Rozanov grinned like a shark as he bounded the steps to the stage and linked their arms.

Shane didn't bother hiding his fury, hissing, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Could not let anyone go on that boring date, Hollander! They would have died of boredom. Big safety risk. You should know this.”

As soon as they reached the darkened wings of backstage, Shane shoved him away.

“Get the fuck off me! What are you thinking?”

“Mm, I am thinking that I am feeling very generous tonight. Very phil-an-throp-ic.” The word sounded practiced in his mouth.

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Ah, ah, I do not mean the money. These people are very nice, Hollander, have you met them? I could not let them suffer like this, watching you kayak. But is okay, I am a team player, so, I will eat your strawberries.”

God, Shane wanted to smack him. He had the petty urge to ruffle that perfectly slicked back hair. He didn’t deserve to look sexy right now, all coiffed and debonair and irritating as hell.

“I didn’t even say anything about strawberries. She just made that up.” Shane grumbled, annoyed he didn’t have anything better to say.

“Hmm.” Rozanov reached for Shane’s bowtie, tightening it, and if Shane had better sense, he would’ve swatted his hand away. Instead, he felt his heart rate tick up and his jaw slacken. “We will have to get some then.”

***

Back at his table, Scott gave him a pitying look. “Tough luck, dude.”

“Uh huh. Yeah.” Shane’s brain had not quite returned to the room yet.

“Hey, at least you don't have to actually go on the date now.” Eric Bennett shrugged.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… it's Rozanov. He probably won't actually fly to Montreal to do it.”

Shane frowned. It wouldn't be the end of the world if Rozanov bailed on the date. He'd still have to pay the money; it would just mean that he didn't have to waste his Sunday. Still. Something about the idea bothered him. And fuck, he was still furious that Rozanov had done that so publicly. Furious and slightly turned on. Rozanov was probably just messing with him. But Shane still spent the next ten minutes debating which option would piss him off more: Rozanov showing up for the date, or ditching it entirely. The only thing to snap him out of his deliberation was—

“Up next on the auction list is one of our winners of the night already! Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for Stanley Cup winner, five time All Star, Boston’s captain, Ilya Rozanov!”

He walked on stage, all swaggering charm and infuriating good looks.

“Ilya, what cause are you supporting tonight?”

“Tonight, we are supporting the ASPCA. Your donation will help save and treat lots of very cute and nice animals. Who does not love puppies?”

“I’ll second that! Now, where are you gonna take your lucky winner on a date?”

“First, we will be visiting one of the local shelters in Boston to help them out for an hour, and then, we will be sitting courtside at a Boston Celtics game.”

“Wow! Puppies, courtside, and this hottie? Sign me up! Alright, let's start the bidding at $5,000!”

Shane was closeted. Easily embarrassed. Anxious as hell. And in general, he was a bit terrified of anyone making a personal connection between himself and the man on stage in the criminally fitted tuxedo. But above all things, above everything else in the world, Shane was competitive. And he was not about to let Ilya Rozanov win this one.

So when the bidding opened, Shane immediately raised his number, wrath personified. And then he didn't stop.

Immediately, the auctioneer noticed. “Ooh, we've got a little payback happening. Is that Shane Hollander at table 8? Does anyone want to outbid the Shane Hollander? That's quite a bragging right!”

Some tried. They failed. It quickly became obvious to the audience that Shane Hollander would be taking this one home no matter the cost. The look on his face was homicidal. But as he glared daggers into Rozanov's smug face, Rozanov only smiled wider, and donors quickly remembered that Shane Hollander was not a person who played to lose.

As a result, Ilya ended up bringing in much less money for his charity, which Shane felt a little bit guilty about. But not more guilty than victorious.

“And a date with Ilya Rozanov is sold to Shane Hollander!”

The crowd erupted, utterly delighted as Shane came to claim his prize.

Rozanov leaned into the microphone. “Could not wait to spend more time with me, huh, Hollander?”

“Nope.” Shane slapped him on the back hard. “Just worried no one would bid on you. Someone's got to take care of those puppies.”

***

“I can’t believe you just spent $30,000 to hang out with me,” Rozanov giggled as they left the stage. “You could have just texted if you wanted to see me again so soon.”

“Yeah? Well I can't believe you just spent $80,000 to hang out with me.”

Rozanov scoffed. “I get paid more than that in a week.”

“Cool. I get paid more than $30,000 in a day. Turns out, you were kind of a deal.”

Something dark flickered in Rozanov's eyes then. Annoyance, definitely, but also an expression Shane was much more used to seeing behind a locked door.

A thrill ran down his spine, and he tried to regain some control. “Besides… it’s for charity.”

“Yes, well. Would have been higher if you did not pull that stunt. Who would try to outbid the great Shane Hollander? Just think of how much more money I could have brought in if you let those other people bid. But no, you had to have me. Could not let me go to anyone else. Very greedy, Hollander.”

“Oh, get fucked.”

“Later.”

Rozanov smirked as he returned to his seat, and Shane made a silent promise to himself that he’d donate an additional $60,000 to the ASPCA just to one-up him.

***

The rest of the gala continued without a hitch until Shane's pocket buzzed with a room number.

“You are such an asshole.” Shane barely stopped kissing him as he gritted out the words, then didn't give him a breath to even respond, not that Rozanov really minded. Still, he couldn't keep himself from laughing at the combined effect of Shane glaring at him, pouncing on him, and chastising him all in the same thirty seconds.

“Come on. It's fun!”

“It's fucking dangerous!” Shane shoved his shoulders, but not so hard that Ilya lost his grip on Shane's waist.

“Relax, Hollander.” He stroked a hand up and down his back. “It will be fun. We will play with puppies and do your boring canoe ride.”

“It’s a kayak.” Shane mumbled, then leaned back, dodging Rozanov’s mouth. “Wait. You actually want to go on the dates?”

Something in Rozanov’s expression closed off, and he gave a nonchalant shrug as he replied, “It’s like you said, is for charity.”

“Yeah, but.. The charity still gets the money whether we do it or not. It's not like you have to fly to Montreal to see me.”

“No.” Rozanov’s fingers teased up the side of Shane’s stomach, untucking his shirt, a condescending note in his voice. “I do not have to do much to see you.”

Shane huffed through his nose, irritated by the truth of that, and Rozanov smiled as he worked at the buttons of his shirt — a maddeningly effective distraction.

“Come on, Hollander. It's like, PR for the charities. I am a big name. You are a big name. Together, it's like, boom. A hockey stick for every kid in Canada. No?”

“Okay.” Shane’s head rolled back to give him further access. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good.” Rozanov squeezed his ass. “Now get on your knees.”

Chapter End Notes

Edit: I just realized I accidentally wrote the wrong year when I first posted this so if you saw 2015, you’re not crazy!! But this chapter is January 2016!!

- 10 months before Tunagate
- 6 months before Shane’s second cup
- a year and a half after Vegas
- if you’re a show viewer we are currently in the My Moon My Man montage
- Basically the era of them being In Love and Oblivious About It (Ilya less so)

Chapter 2: The Shelter

Chapter Notes

March 2016 — Boston

Part of the auction included a flight and a hotel room, which Shane was kind of relieved about, because it meant he didn’t have to worry about staying at Rozanov’s overnight. That wasn’t something they did, and he didn’t want to test the bounds of that now, or god forbid, explain to someone why he hadn’t booked himself a room.

He didn’t want to stay the night at Rozanov’s place. Or rather, he didn’t want to wake up there. It felt too… intimate. Whatever game they were playing at here, it wasn’t happy boyfriends. If anything, it was more like chicken.

The plan was to meet Rozanov at the shelter, go to the basketball game, and then go back to his hotel — except that Shane would be incredibly surprised and disappointed if they actually ended the night there.

It seemed simple enough, but the whole affair had Shane bouncing his leg as he touched down in Boston. In all of their years of hooking up, they’d never actually spent that much time together off the ice or outside of the bedroom. Now, he was spending a whole weekend that he should be using to prepare for the final playoffs run meeting up with a guy he’d be playing against — and fucking — in three weeks anyways.

What he had not expected was that Rozanov would pick him up at the airport. He’d sent over his flight details, but only so they could plan what time they’d get to the shelter. And yet, when he touched down at Logan Airport, he turned on his phone to find that Rozanov was currently waiting in the cell phone lot.

“You didn’t have to pick me up,” Shane grumbled as he shoved his duffel bag into the back of an aggressively red convertible. “Why are you driving a race car?”

“Race car? Is a Lamborghini, Hollander. Barely fast enough for the Autobahn.” Rozanov laughed as he held the front door open. “Race car. What do you drive, a school bus?”

“No,” Shane scowled, settling into his seat.

Ilya hummed, smiling at a little joke with himself as he slid into the driver’s side.

“You know I have to go to my hotel, right? I didn’t think you were going to, like, chauffeur me around.”

Rozanov shot him a look that seemed to say are you serious and are you fucking stupid and what’s wrong with you all at once. “You booked a hotel?”

“Well yeah. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Rozanov tapped his fingers on the wheel. “Okay. So put in directions, we go to your hotel.”

“Aren’t people going to think it’s weird if we show up in this to my hotel?”

“No. Why weird? I am being a very good date. Very polite. Like Prince Charming. You paid a lot of money for my time, so, I will treat you like a proper lady.”

“You paid more.” Shane folded his arms.

“Mm, was for charity.”

“Exactly. It was for charity.”

The rest of the drive was quiet, aside from the low thrumming rap coming through the speakers. Rozanov didn’t try to fill in the silence, and Shane stared out the window, trying to ignore the way the mixed scent of leather and cologne was pushing his reptilian brain into a refrain of hot boy hot boy hot boy.

“Wait, you’re not coming in, are you?” Shane put a hand on his shoulder as they stalled in the driveway of the local Marriott.

“How will I carry your bag and take off your jacket if I cannot come up?” Rozanov smirked.

“Okay, you don’t have to keep doing this whole gentleman thing.”

“But it is so fun to see all of the colors your face turns!”

“Fuck off.” Shane’s cheeks flushed, surely adding another shade of red to the roster.

“If I am dating The Shane Hollander, I have to treat him right. Do not want to get murdered next time I am in Montreal.”

“Such an asshole.” Shane turned away, charmed against his will. “I’m carrying my own bag.”

Unfortunately, he made eye contact with someone standing near the valet, and in turn, they pointed to them, nudging a friend. Rozanov sent back a wave and a cocky grin.

“Hey, breathe. People know why you are here.” He tilted his head towards the entrance. “We will not have so many opportunities to go into a hotel together when it is light out.”

Shane swallowed at the heat in Rozanov’s gaze.

“You know the words afternoon delight, yes?”

***

Everything made sense once Shane had Rozanov’s dick in his mouth. All of the tension and anxiety that had been building during his travel melted away when Rozanov thumbed at his cheek, murmuring praises.

“So fucking good, Hollander. Blyat. Your mouth was made for sucking cock.” He never took his eyes off Shane.

It was so easy to be together this way, the practiced rhythm of bobbing his head soothing his nervous system.

At least fifty percent of his time spent with Rozanov in public was occupied by managing how hard it was not to touch him. Behind a locked door, he didn’t waste his opportunities. It felt too good to grip at his warm skin. Push his hand through the curls of his hair. Come down his throat.

But, post-nut clarity brought back his nerves. There was something a little too domestic about leaving his hotel shower, towel wrapped around his waist, and returning to a mostly clothed Rozanov wolfing down room service with the TV on.

He wasn't used to seeing Rozanov before noon. The sun bleeding through the window cast a golden light over him, and if not for the ketchup smeared on the corner of his lip, he would have looked… beautiful.

“Are you eating in my bed?” Shane was horrified.

“Relax. It is on the tray. Will not get on your clean, white sheets.”

“You're gonna make the whole bed smell like burger.”

“What? Shut up. You will be gone all day.”

“I’m gonna need new sheets now.” Shane muttered.

“Probably need them anyway.” Rozanov reached for another fry.

“Also, you ordered that to my room? What if someone saw you?”

“Hollander, I had them leave it outside. It's fine. You are a big, strong hockey player. Maybe you are hungry for two meals.”

“You got me something?”

“Eh, was on your bill, so not really. But yes, over there.”

Shane followed the wave of Rozanov's hand to the nearby table, and found a smoothie, fruit, and some kind of breakfast bowl with quinoa, avocado, and a fried egg on top. A suspicious sip of the smoothie revealed the chalky grit of protein powder. He chanced a glance at Rozanov, but his eyes were back on the TV.

“You could have waited for me to call.”

“You can just tell me if you want some of the burger.”

“No, that’s not what I mean, I just...”

Rozanov had actually guessed kind of perfectly for what Shane might have ordered. It was… something.

He supposed it made sense that they'd picked things up about each other. After all, he’d watched Rozanov house six sliders in a row off a caterer’s tray at the gala reception, so maybe if it had been him ordering for Rozanov, he might have chosen a burger. Except he wouldn't have. Because Shane would have just waited and found out what he wanted. And because he wouldn't have suggested room service at all.

“Yes, well, hurry up and eat. We need to leave soon for the shelter.”

Shane nodded and did as he was told, using the food as a distraction until Rozanov stalked towards him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“You are freaking out again.”

“Yeah, kind of.” Shane exhaled.

“Hollander, is okay.” Rozanov rubbed his back. “Everyone knows you are only here because you are a big shot phil-an-thro-pist. No one is going to blame you for saving some puppies.”

Shane put down his fork. “I feel like I’m going to do something. Like, I’m going to look at you the wrong way and everyone’s going to know.”

“They won’t.” Rozanov stroked his hair. “I am very good at annoying you, remember?”

“Yeah.” Shane chuckled. “That’s true.”

“Good. I will be extra annoying today just to be safe.”

Rozanov pressed a quick kiss to his temple, and Shane smiled.

“You always are.”

***

They got stopped in the lobby by a woman and her son, eager to ask Rozanov for a selfie.

“Mr. Rose-noff?”

“Call me Ilya. What is your name?”

Rozanov crouched to talk to the kid, a warm smile on his face, while Shane suffered through his mother’s diatribe on how Boston was going to kick Montreal’s ass this year. He zoned out, stuck on hearing the man’s first name.

Ilya? I don't even call him that, and I've got his kids sitting somewhere between the eggs and the smoothie he just ordered me.

He didn't have much time to linger on it though because the boy's mother was happy to distract him with exactly how awful she thought both him and Montreal were. Boston people were nice like that.

“Yes, Hollander is a terrible player on a terrible team, but today we are playing nice for charity auction.”

Rozanov slapped a congenial palm over Shane’s shoulder, and he made a mental note to score on them an extra time at their next Boston home game.

***

A pretty young woman named Caroline greeted them at the entrance, thrilled to meet Rozanov and decidedly less excited to meet Shane, which made sense as the standard Bostonian response and left him once again wondering why they were fulfilling the expectations of this date. Still, he couldn't deny the joy of witnessing Rozanov get tackled by an Akita.

When he’d learned that Rozanov's charity of choice was the local pet shelter, he assumed that Rozanov had just picked one of the pre-selected NHL suggestions the way he had, but once they arrived, he quickly learned that Rozanov just really fucking liked dogs.

He didn't think he'd ever seen Rozanov look as quite as boyish as he did with a leash in his hand, and he’d known him since he was seventeen. He felt like he was going to lose his mind at how — ugh — endearing Rozanov seemed in this environment. Weren’t animals supposed to have better instincts about people?

“I bet I could walk more dogs than you. Could probably do eight at once.” Rozanov teased, balancing three already.

“I don’t think that’s good for the dogs.” The little mutt Shane was handling jerked in his hand.

Rozanov let out a low, croaking groan. “Live a little, Hollander!”

Shane tried not to look so unsettled, unable to ignore Caroline happily documenting the whole thing. He already knew that he could never look at these photos.

“Wouldn't it have been better to do this with someone Boston actually likes, like, you know, Marlow or something?”

That got a scoff. “Hollander, is a PR campaign. No one cares about Cliff.”

“He's, like, your second most popular player.”

“Yes, and Pike is your second most popular player, but no one cares what he's doing.”

“Hey, leave him alone.”

“You think people would donate to anything because of Pike?”

“Shut up.” He had a point.

“Ignore the camera, yes? We will take nice, cute photos for all of the little Shane Hollander fan accounts and then these nice, cute dogs will get adopted.”

Shane took a moment to stare at Rozanov’s side profile, distracted while he tried to balance the trio of dogs all meandering in different directions.

“You been spending a lot of time on my fan accounts?”

“Yes.” He deadpanned. “They are much more interesting than what you post. Like I said, no one wants to see pictures of Pike or your disgusting green smoothies.”

And that was, well, a startlingly accurate take on Shane's online presence. But it still struck a chord.

Of course Shane looked at Rozanov’s Instagram. He would never like anything or actually tell him that, but Rozanov posted a lot of thirst traps at the gym and Shane was far from immune to them.

He'd learned when his own profile started amassing thousands of followers that with so many notifications, you couldn’t really track other people’s interactions without a real effort on an account of that size. So, maybe he lurked a bit. But that was kind of the issue. He could never tell if Rozanov was lurking back. Apparently, he had been. Enough to order him a green smoothie.

“Hey, do you think we could race?” Ilya looked over his shoulder, squinting into the sun.

“With the dogs?” Shane’s brow furrowed. “Are you insane?”

“Is okay if you think you could not keep up with us.”

“You have like, a whole fucking litter on you. That’s so dangerous.”

“Mm, I am sure we could still beat you and your little furry friend. He is tiny, but probably faster than you.”

“Even if we did race, it wouldn’t even matter. The dogs are like, a totally different factor!”

“Do you hear that, puppies?” Rozanov’s voice went high. “The great Shane Hollander does not think he can win a race against you.”

“Your dogs are fucking huge! Mine’s like ten years old!”

“Aww, you are such good and fast doggies.”

“You’re not going to bait me into this.”

“Okay.”

“You’re not.”

“If you say so.”

***

Rozanov cackled as he crossed the designated finish line, and Caroline clapped as she declared him the winner.

“Victory is ours!”

Shane doubled over on his knees panting, the dog behind him in an even sorer state.

“That,” he wheezed, “was fucking rigged.”

“Aww Hollander, I did not think you were such a sore loser.”

“Your dogs are like, three times the size of mine!”

“Yes, and what a good job they did on their race!” Rozanov kneeled to give them congratulatory pets.

“God, you're a dick.” Shane smiled.

Rozanov laughed — a completely uninhibited, playful thing — and Shane couldn’t even find it in himself to resist joining in.

***

“No, we are not going in there.”

“Uh, yes, we are.” Shane grinned right into the disturbed look on Rozanov’s face.

“No. Is my date. I am not taking you to the cat room.”

“Actually, it's my date. I'm the one paying for it.”

“Hollander. No.”

Shane ignored him and went to peer inside the cages. The smell was off-putting, but cats made more sense to him than the dogs that had been jumping on them since the minute they'd showed up. Their trust had to be earned, and Shane liked having to earn things.

“Oh, it would be great to get a photo of you with these guys.” Caroline held up her phone hopefully.

“I am sorry, Caroline, but I cannot do this. Cats do not like me. You will have to settle for Hollander. They sense he is evil like them.”

“Aww, Ilya! I’m sure that’s not true!” She placed a hand on his bicep, and Shane looked away. “How about this guy? Let's see.”

She brought out a few for them to choose from and Shane sat down cross legged, letting them come to him. Which, of course, they did.

“It's okay, Rozanov.” Shane smirked. “Not all of us can be good with animals.”

He glanced up to taunt him, but found a look in Rozanov’s eyes he'd only seen a few times — something gentle and tender that he swiftly got rid of.

“Oh my God Hollander, you are so boring. Of course you like cats.”

The one in front of him nudged at his hand, and Shane felt a swell of affection as he looked into its weirdly large, serious, orange face.

Rozanov made a show of sighing heavily as he sat down next to him. “There is not a living creature in this city that likes you better than me. Come, give him here.”

But the cat wouldn't budge.

“I don't know,” Shane teased. “I think Peanut loves me.”

Rozanov glared, crossing his arms like a child, until Shane saw a slinky tail curl around his back.

There was a black cat that had been avoiding all of them, one the shelter had warned them was a bit antisocial. She sniffed at Rozanov, flinching when he turned around too fast. But then... Well, then Shane got to experience the sheer glee of hearing Rozanov’s cat voice.

“Hello, Mr. Black Cat. Do you like me better than Shane Hollander? Yes, I think you do. I think I am your favorite.”

With a significant degree of trepidation, the cat pawed its way into Ilya's lap and curled up right over his crotch. It wasn’t a bad place to be.

“Here you go, Mr. Kitty. There you are.” A soft smile played at Rozanov’s lips as he pet the cat, murmuring sweet words in Russian that Shane had no hope of understanding, and soon, it began to purr.

“Wow. She doesn’t like anyone.” Caroline raised her eyebrows. “You must be special. That’s Buttons.”

“Ah! Because she is cute as buttons, yes?”

Damn, Rozanov switched up fast with a ball of black fur pressed into him.

“Yeah! But also because she looks like she's always wearing a suit, see? It's called a tuxedo cat.”

“Aha! You are so cute, Buttons. You have very good taste in people. You will find someone very nice to take care of you.”

Shane was so distracted that he must have accidentally pet the cat in his own lap in the wrong spot, because he got a sharp nip to the hand.

“Shoot. Don't worry about her.” Caroline winced. “She's just testy.”

***

“Come on, sweetheart! We have a date to get to!” Rozanov sing-songed as he held the front door of his car open, waving at the shelter employees on their way out.

“Come back anytime!” Caroline beamed, and Shane pursed his lips as he plopped into the front seat.

“You think you’re so funny.”

“Um. Yes. Obviously.”

Rozanov shut his door for him, pairing it with a little bow, before he got in and started the car.

“You’re really going to keep up the whole chivalry act all day?” Shane watched as he fiddled with the GPS.

“Hollander, do not use annoying English words in my car. This is very rude for a date.”

“Chivalry. It’s like holding doors and, I don’t know, being extra polite.“

“Oh. Then yes. I am taking The Shane Hollander on a date. Have to make a good impression.” Rozanov winked.

Shane fiddled with his hands. “You keep doing that.”

“What? Making a good impression? Yes, I have a very good track record with you.”

“No, I mean, you keep saying my full name. Like, The Shane Hollander.”

For just a moment, Rozanov almost looked embarrassed, but immediately, the expression was gone. “It's your name.”

“Yeah, but… Never mind.”

It wasn't like it was the first time Rozanov had said his full name. He did it fairly often — usually when he was mocking him.

But this felt… different, and it was bugging him. He liked the sound of it a little too much in that Russian accent. The way Rozanov's tongue wrapped around the word made it sound softer, and getting to hear that, only to have it followed up with the formality of his last name just felt like something was being dangled in front of him. Something he wanted.

“You don't like it.”

“No, it's not that. It's just…”

“What should I call The Great Shane Hollander?”

“Just… Shane is fine.”

“Okay. Shane.”

“Okay. Ilya.”

Chapter End Notes

Wrote this while my own Anya has been in the animal hospital smh victim of the ao3 curse. Forcibly making them name swap too early in the narrative because I'm sick of writing Rozanov 😇

Chapter 3: Courtside

“So do you like basketball?”

“Not really, but is fun to sit courtside. They are like, wow, so tall up close.”

Shane nodded and looked out the window. He wondered if he did this often. Took dates to NBA games. Maybe Boston women liked this kind of thing.

“Do you?” Ilya snuck a glance.

“Sure. It’s fine.”

He laughed, the words of course you don’t all over his face.

“What? What’s so funny?”

“Do you like any sport besides hockey?”

“I like tennis, in the summer. Sometimes I play with my dad. And I'll watch soccer if it's the World Cup.”

Ilya smiled, a private little thing that Shane figured was probably at his expense.

“What? Those are normal answers!”

“‘Soccer.’” Ilya put on a teasing tone. “So American.”

“Hey, take that back.” Shane pointed a finger in his face. “I’m not the one who lives here.”

“Okay, okay, so Canadian.” He made a turn, then added, “Are you hungry? We have some time.”

“Ah, no, I’m good.” Shane stiffened, just slightly, but of course, Ilya noticed.

“You are sure? There is food at the arena, but, is maybe not the food you want.”

“It’s fine, really. I don’t want to eat before—” He stopped himself just in time. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“Before?”

Shane gave him a meaningful look. “I just don’t want to eat… before.”

A slow grin spread across Ilya’s face as recognition set in. “Before what, Shane?”

“Don’t make me say this,” Shane whined.

“No, I want to know.” Ilya looked far too delighted. “Before what?”

Shane let out a long-suffering sigh and gritted his teeth. “Before we fuck. I don't want to eat before we fuck. Okay?”

“Okay. No problem.” Smug satisfaction covered his face.

“God, you're a dick.” Shane’s eyes crinkled.

“Mm. Yes. A dick you are skipping lunch for.”

“Fuck off.”

Ilya chuckled, and then, so low Shane almost missed it, muttered, “So cute.”

***

In lieu of food, Ilya took them to the arena early, and Shane did his best not to be impressed by the ease with which he navigated pulling into the players’ entrance and saying hello to various security guards.

He shouldn’t be impressed. He wasn’t impressed. He did this all the time, in his own arena, with his own player badge and his own car and his own security staff. He wasn’t impressed.

Rozanov just did it all so easily. Authority and familiarity informed his every interaction. It was a window into Ilya’s daily life that he hadn’t been expecting when he’d signed up for this. He didn’t care what the date was; he just wanted to win Ilya.

It hadn’t occurred to him that of course the Celtics game would be at TD Garden. Of course Rozanov would have special clearances, and know his way around, and exchange friendly hellos with employees.

He led them through a maze of private, back hallways until they reached the much-less-occupied part of the arena devoted to the Bears.

“Whoa.” Shane stopped abruptly. “I can’t go in there.”

Rozanov shot him a look, pausing at the door handle.

“What? I can’t! They’ll fucking kill you if they find out I was here!”

“Hollander. No one is here right now. We are just stopping for something I forgot.”

“Something you forgot.” Shane gave him a flat stare.

“Yes. Is in the shower. You like showers, yes?”

Shane glared, and Rozanov softened at the sight.

“Shane. Is the only room without cameras.” He tilted his head towards the closest one. “You are coming in with me because I would not let you wander around without supervision, okay?”

Shane bit his lip, chewing on the idea. “Fine. But make it quick.”

***

As soon as the locker door swung shut, Ilya had him pinned back against it. It was, as promised, completely empty.

“Oh,” was the only word Shane got out before Ilya’s mouth was on his, kissing him ravenously. Relief flooded him, and Shane’s hands made their way into Ilya’s hair, squeezing tight as he forgot every reason he’d resisted this idea. After so many hours of keeping his hands to himself, just the simple act of touching him felt like taking his first breath of clean air since they’d left the hotel.

“You understand now, yes?” Big hands stroked at his back, soothing his nervous system.

“Yeah,” Shane’s lips parted. “Sorry.”

“Good.” Ilya kissed him more chastely, pure punctuation, and Shane leaned in to chase it, already putty in his hands.

He let himself get lost in the feeling of Ilya’s hand on his jaw, following the gentle guidance of Ilya moving his head wherever he needed it. Ilya’s kisses grew softer and longer, and he melted into the touch, losing urgency as they slowed their pace.

“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” Shane murmured, eyes closed as he leaned back, granting Ilya access to his neck.

“Doing what?” Ilya’s teeth grazed an earlobe.

Shane swayed on his feet, weak protests forgotten as the tension he’d been carrying drained out of him. It always felt like this when they were together. Like he was nothing more than an animal subject to his own impulses. Sometimes he felt like one of the dogs they’d seen earlier, like Ilya knew exactly how to grasp the back of his neck to quiet his mind and turn off his defenses.

His breathing slowed, and the alarm bells that lived inside his head went mute in response to Ilya’s mouth, warm and insistent, against his. It felt indulgent, stealing precious minutes just to make out, but also oddly calming. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this — a moment alone, away from prying eyes, between the two of them.

Eventually, terribly, Ilya pulled back, even as Shane drifted forward to chase more.

“Okay?” Something serious lingered in his eyes as he thumbed at Shane’s cheek.

All Shane could do was nod. “Okay.”

***

Shane had never sat courtside at a basketball game, so he wasn't sure what to expect. He couldn't even remember the last time he’d been to a basketball game. High school, probably? He'd never liked it much; basketball sounds weren't nearly as satisfying as hockey sounds. It was bad ASMR. But, it was exciting to be this close to the court, and more exciting still to be out with Rozanov like this so publicly — just two bros watching sports.

Rozanov got stopped a lot. This was an arena of twenty thousand Boston sports fans, and Shane wondered if that had been part of why he’d chosen this specific event. If the goal had been to wow his date, or charm them with his importance.

He was just so good at being a celebrity, in a way that Shane had never gotten the hang of. He lit up when talking to fans, somehow striking the perfect balance between dropping enough of his persona to put them at ease, and still owning the fact that he really was Ilya Fucking Rozanov — the showboat that had won their hearts in the first place.

Over the course of two hours, Shane watched fan after fan leave with shy smiles and selfies, most of whom ignored Shane. Some had choice words for him. Sometimes they stared at him with the same awe they gave Rozanov, leaving Shane embarrassed and Ilya absolutely delighted.

He’d fallen into a little routine of wrapping his arm around Shane as he teased, “You’ve actually heard of this man? Really? My good friend Shane Hollander? Wow. Usually I have to introduce him.”

They’d laugh as he added things like, “Is okay if you’ve never heard of him. He is not very famous, but, today, we are on a big date.”

Shane played the part well, graciously embracing his role as the butt of the joke as he explained their charity work. But, sometimes he worried that he sounded a little too fond in his responses. He’d call Rozanov a dick, an asshole, a jerk if it was a younger audience. But he wasn’t a good actor, and if he could hear the endearment in his own voice, then it wouldn’t be long before Rozanov caught on, too.

He felt like he was losing his mind. Ilya just kept touching him. He’d tuck him under his arm in mock displays of camaraderie. Ruffle his hair. Squeeze his jaw and cheeks like he was a child. Shane was sure that, to an outsider, it came off as derision. To him, it was maddening.

Ilya watched the game physically, his whole body following the movement of the ball, engaged and focused, while Shane paid no attention to what was happening in front of them. All of his mental energy was already occupied by the feeling of Ilya pressed to his side.

He did his best not to cave to the pressure of the two-hundred-something pound hockey player practically on top of him, not wanting to overstep into the space of the man sitting next to him — an alarmingly attractive Black guy whose face looked familiar, but he couldn’t place. But, forming a wall with his body only left him absorbing Ilya’s every lean.

He repeatedly shoved Rozanov away, making a show of his annoyance, until… he didn’t. Something about the jostling just made him a little too happy. The way their thighs were glued together. How casually Rozanov moved in and out of his space. After so many years of experience with each other’s bodies, it felt like proof of how comfortable they were with each other, and the realization had Shane feeling glowy and special.

The chairs were small. It didn’t mean anything. But he still felt like he was getting away with something.

***

“They sell a hot dog here that is, like, a foot long.” Ilya mused midway through the game.

“Okay?”

“How far do you think you could get down it in one bite?”

“Oh my God, shut up.”

“Come on. How far?”

“I already told you. I’m not hungry.”

“I know, I know, but. One bite.”

Shane pressed his lips together at the look on Ilya’s face. “I think I could do that in zero bites.”

“Oh my God, Hollander, you are so boring.”

“I don’t know.” He smirked. “I just think I’m pretty good at not using my teeth.”

For a moment, Ilya only stared at him, eyes widening in shock as he burst out laughing. “Holy fuck, Hollander!”

Shane tried to bury his smile, all too pleased with himself, but it didn’t work. “Well, am I wrong?”

“No.” Ilya’s gaze turned predatory, sending a thrill through Shane. “You are not.”

***

“You are sure you don’t want to come?” Ilya said as he stood from his seat at halftime. “This is very bad date behavior for me to leave you like this.”

“It’s fine.” Shane rolled his eyes. “Believe it or not, I can handle myself for one bathroom break.”

“Okay. Text if you want anything.”

Shane scrolled on his phone in the meantime, suddenly alone between two empty seats, until he heard a woman’s voice say, “Didn’t peg you for a Celtics guy.”

He looked up to see if he was actually the person being addressed, and was shocked to find a stunning woman only two chairs away. How the hell had he not noticed Rose Landry before this?

“Oh, um, hi.” He stuttered, trying not to sound like a starstruck fan. “I’m not. I'm here for a charity thing. Are you? Shouldn't you be at a Lakers game or something?”

“Probably.” She shrugged. “I’m just here filming, but my costar Miles is from here originally, so he really wanted to go. He’s a big fan, and I’m a good sport, so.”

“Right. Cool.” Shane nodded.

She leaned in across the empty seat, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.”

“I’m actually much more of a hockey person.”

He couldn't tell if she meant it. Women had said this to him before, and they'd been flirting. So, that's what this had to be, right? Still, he was a fan of her work, and this felt like a rare opportunity.

“Really?”

“Mhmm. I might be the only person in this whole arena who likes you better than him.” She smiled, gesturing to the 6’9” superstar hovering only a few feet away from them. “But I still think you're gonna lose to Detroit next week.”

Shane laughed that. “No chance.”

“I’m Rose, by the way.” She stuck out a perfectly manicured hand, and after spending all day with Ilya’s paws all over him, it felt tiny in his.

“Shane.”

“Oh, I know.” She grinned. “So are you going to be in Boston for a while, then?”

“Just the weekend.”

“Well, that’s too bad. My brothers would be very impressed if I got to hang out with Shane Hollander.”

He blushed at the implication, but he felt a little itchy without Ilya there.

“Well, if you ever find yourself in Montreal, I’ll get you tickets. Or your brothers, or whatever. Just let me know.”

“Maybe I will.” She smiled.

“Making friends, sweetheart?” A Russian accent sounded from behind him, and Ilya squeezed his shoulder as he sat down. Reflexively, Shane leaned into the touch, then overcorrected as he straightened out, immediately self-conscious.

“Oh, uh, yeah. Um, Rose, this is Ilya Rozanov.”

“Hi, Ilya,” Rose held out her hand, and this time, Shane could definitely tell it was flirting.

“Nice to meet you, Rose Landry.” Ilya’s voice came out low and seductive.

“Nice to meet you, too.” She raised her eyebrows, mouth twisting. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you two supposed to hate each other?”

“Usually, yes.” Rozanov didn’t break eye contact with her as he answered. “But, today, he is my hot date.”

“For charity,” Shane added flatly, already feeling like he’d been forgotten as the third party of this conversation. He cleared his throat as he added, “So you really do know your hockey.”

“Told you.” She winked.

“I leave you alone for ten minutes and you find the hotties.” Shane’s beautiful seat neighbor returned, a chastising look on his face as he addressed Rose from where he stood.

“Well, duh,” She smirked. “Can you blame me?”

“No, I can’t,” he said, giving Shane a heated up-down look that had him averting his eyes. “Hi. I’m Miles, by the way.”

They exchanged hellos, but Miles’ attention quickly moved back to Rose.

“Unfortunately for you, they want to interview us, so you’ll have to say bye for now to your cute new friends.”

”Fine,” she whined. “Find me on Instagram, okay? I’m taking you up on those tickets.”

“For sure.”

“Nice to meet you two.”

As they walked away, Miles muttered, “I can’t take you anywhere.”

When he turned back to Ilya, he found that he’d already pulled out his phone, mouth pulled into a tight line. Probably already sliding into Rose’s DMs for all he knew.

He didn’t notice the ginger ale in his cup holder until the halftime show was already over.

***

During a break in play, they ended up on the big screen as the camera made its way around the arena, profiling fans. The title said, “Make some noise!”, and Rozanov didn’t miss a beat before he covered Shane’s face with a wide palm, using the other to wave to the crowd, a beaming smile on his face.

Shane batted his hand away, but when he looked up to see the display, there was a slight delay on the stream, and helplessly, he watched himself laugh at Rozanov’s antics in 4K as the arena applauded their hometown hero.

He hoped that was all the audience noticed. He hoped that was all Ilya noticed.

***

Shane had never been in Ilya’s garage, but he wasn't surprised to find that it held four other Crayola-colored death traps. He looked at them through the window while Ilya exited the car.

It took a second for him to notice that Shane wasn’t following, and then he raised his eyebrows, keys still in hand. “Did you want me to fuck you in here?”

Shane shook his head, but stayed in his seat, folding his arms.

“Hollander?”

He waited until Ilya walked to the passenger side, staring down at him in confusion, before he pushed it slightly ajar.

“Sorry, it’s just, I’ve got this date who’s supposed to do things like this for me.” Shane grinned, then slammed the door shut in his face.

Ilya’s mouth hung open, and the surprise on his face gave Shane a little thrill.

“Brat!”

Immediately, he ripped the door open and hauled Shane from his seat, slinging him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

“Put me down, caveman!” Shane shrieked in laughter. “What happened to the Prince Charming act?!”

“One date, and already, you are such a little brat,” he huffed as he attempted to unlock his place with a wriggling man wrapped around his neck.

“You’re the one who said you were going to open all my doors!”

“Okay! Door is open, fuck!” Ilya exclaimed, ducking through the threshold, mindful of Shane’s head. Carefully, he set him to his feet, a wild look in his eyes.

“That was dramatic.” Shane’s chest heaved as he beamed, all too pleased with himself.

“You…” Ilya chuckled, “are a pain in the ass.”

“Thought that was your job too.”

“I think you need to be reminded,” Ilya stalked forward, “that this is my date, ah? I make the rules.”

“I still think it’s my date. And I don’t think you’re ready to drop your perfect gentleman bit.”

“Oh, Shane, this is where you’re wrong. I am still being perfect gentleman. You have heard of the Golden Rule, yes?”

“You’re not peeing on me.”

That started a laugh out of him. “You would probably like that. But no. Golden rule is that you have to treat people like they want to be treated, pervert.”

“Hey!”

Ilya’s voice went low. “You know what I think would really piss you off right now?”

“What?” His lips parted.

Ilya took him by the jaw, and Shane was sure he was going to kiss him. But instead, he did the most surprising thing he could have; he angled his face to the right, leaving him with the softest, most chaste kiss on the cheek he’d ever received.

Then, he leaned in close, letting his lips brush over Shane’s ear as he said, “Good night, Hollander. Thank you for a wonderful evening. Can I give you a ride home?”

Shane shuddered. The kiss was so gentle, he was left in a daze. He shouldn't be fucking hard at so little physical contact. He shouldn’t be panting.

“You’re not serious.” He rasped.

“Why? Did you want something?” Ilya’s lip drew up in challenge, and for a moment, Shane was so frustrated, he thought he might scream. But then, Ilya came closer, pressing their hips flush.

Again, Shane thought he might kiss him. But instead, he held his mouth only a breath away from Shane’s as he murmured, “You do not want me to be nice to you. I think you like me mean.”

I think I like you all the time.

Shane lunged, chasing his mouth, and Ilya met him in a long, deep kiss so distracting that he wasn't prepared to be once again airborne. This time, Shane didn't bother to protest.

Ilya carried him away from the garage entryway and gingerly placed him on the couch, and Shane ripped his shirt off, assuming Ilya was joining him. Instead, he grabbed a throw pillow and tossed it on the floor.

For a moment, Shane stared at him, confused. But then, Ilya began working at his belt.

“For your knees.”

Shane scrambled to the floor faster than was probably dignified. He didn't let Ilya finish the task, incapable of waiting even a second longer. He yanked at his briefs, desperate to wrap his hand around him.

When he looked up, he found Ilya looming above him, something dark in his half-lidded eyes. Aside from the hard dick in Shane’s hand, he was completely clothed, and it only turned Shane on more.

“What are you waiting for, Hollander? Suck.”

The words went straight to Shane's dick, and he happily obliged. He didn't tease, swallowing half of Ilya’s cock down in one mouthful, and reveling in the gut-punched mmm he received in return.

He lost himself in it, moaning at the sound of Ilya’s heavy exhales and the wet noises coming from his own mouth.

“Thought you could take a foot in one go. Zero bites, ah?”

Shane glared up at him, but he couldn't resist the challenge. He licked and sucked Ilya deeper and deeper, letting his tongue slide ahead of him as he bobbed.

Ilya slid a hand into his hair. “Is this all you can take? Or do you want more?”

The implication was obvious, and Shane was so turned on, he couldn't think. He pulled back, and his voice came out raw. “More. Please.”

His head drifted back down, more than happy to rise to the occasion, and Ilya sighed.

“So fucking good, Hollander. You love it.”

And God, he did. He really did.

“Do you think you can take it all? I think you can. I think your mouth was fucking made for this. Made to suck my cock.”

The dare sent a thrill down his spine. He didn’t actually know. The last few years had made him one of the world’s leading experts at sucking Ilya Rozanov’s dick, but he’d learned by now that he didn’t need to deep throat him to get him off. Now though, the idea was intoxicating.

“Christ, Hollander.” Ilya groaned. “You’re going to make me come like this. I need to fuck you. You want me to fuck you?”

He had about three quarters of it in his mouth now, but he was determined to make it all the way down before Ilya came, and he could hear the signs that he was running out of time.

Shane pulled back and looked him directly in this eyes, letting the spit drip down his face. “Mouth first.”

Ilya took in a sharp breath. “You are sure?”

But Shane already had his lips back on him. He dropped his grip from the base of Ilya’s dick, taking Ilya’s hand and moving it from the side to the back of his head.

Ilya didn’t hesitate. He slammed his cock into the back of Shane’s throat, setting a punishing pace, and Shane lost himself in it.

His eyes watered, and he could barely breathe, but he loved this. He felt accomplished and powerful as Ilya’s full length drilled past his lips. His nose was absolutely buried in it, fully deepthroating him now, and the sounds Ilya was making had his own cock dripping between his thighs. He drifted into a fuzzy space, mind quiet as he focused all of his attention on the feeling of Ilya on his tongue.

“Fuck, stop. You have to stop.”

But now he wanted proof. He’d mastered this. He had drool leaking all over his face, and the salty taste of Ilya’s precome was addictive. He sucked harder, and Ilya swore.

“No. No. I have to fuck you. Do you want to get fucked or not? Up. Up, now.”

Ilya yanked him to his feet on wobbly legs, and Shane leaned into him. His limbs were completely useless as Ilya kissed him, hard and hungry, leaving him clinging to Ilya’s shoulders. They both panted for air, foreheads smashed together as they caught their breaths.

“Holy fuck, Hollander. You should be in jail for this.”

Shane laughed, startled, and looked up to find what could only be described as amazement in his eyes.

Ilya wiped a thumb over the spit that had dripped down Shane’s face, pushing it back into his mouth, and Shane wrapped his tongue around it, already missing Ilya’s cock.

“Jesus Christ, Shane. You are trying to kill me. Evil Canadian assassin with perfect mouth.”

“Wow,” Shane grinned. “What happened to being mean?”

“Give me a minute. I am recovering from murder attempt.”

“Really? That good?” Shane’s eyes crinkled, still trying to get his breathing back to normal, and he wiped his ruined face with the back of his hand.

“Perfect. Fucking perfect.” Ilya huffed. “We need to make a sex tape.”

“Ha. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. Very much.” Ilya nodded, winded. For once, he didn’t have the energy for snark. “You need to see what you look like. Is fucking unreal.”

Shane lit up with the praise, a warm glow in his chest as Ilya pressed urgent kisses to his face and muttered something in Russian.

“Okay,” Ilya rubbed at his shoulders. “You, bed. I will get us water. And take off your pants. I am checking you for spy devices.”

Shane chuckled as he watched him walk into the kitchen.

“And no touching yourself. I will know.”

“Alright, alright!”

***

Ilya got his revenge with three rounds of torturous edging — one painfully slow blow job, and two more close encounters spent fingering him and eating him out. By the time he entered him, his entire body felt like Jell-O. By the time he let him come, Shane thought he would pass out.

“So? Perfect gentleman?”

”Fuck you.”

Ilya chuckled and flopped onto Shane's chest. “I told you. You like that I'm an asshole.”

“Yeah,” Shane breathed. “I do.”

He didn’t have the energy to disagree. In all of their years of hooking up, they’d only ever had an hour or two. Quick, punched out orgasms that felt like maintenance. Tonight, they’d been given the luxury of time, and Shane didn’t know how he’d ever go back.

His hand drifted to Ilya's hair, scratching light circles into it until he remembered something.

“You're wrong about the Golden Rule, by the way.”

“What, you want me to pee on you now too?”

“No, dick.” He laughed. “It’s not treat others how they want to be treated. It’s treat others how you want to be treated.”

“No. This does not sound correct.”

“It is! Google it!”

“Shane. We have a great sex life. Do not punish yourself by trying to top.”

His eyes drifted shut, completely spent, until the sticky feeling between his legs became distracting. “I should shower.”

“Yes. We both should. Come.”

He let himself be dragged into Ilya’s massive bathroom, too tired to overthink the tender way Ilya massaged body wash into his back, or how much he liked that Ilya had a towel warmer.

Reality only settled back in when he went to get dressed, the air suddenly cold outside of the hot shower. He found his clothes, folded on a chair.

“I should probably get back.”

“What?”

“To my hotel.”

“Ah.” Ilya walked towards him, towel slung low around his hips. “Mr. Marriott. Mr. Hotel Room.”

“Shut up.”

“Stay.” Ilya shrugged. “A little longer. I can drive you back.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Prince Charming, remember? Not now though. I’m hungry. You probably are too, Mr. Skipped Lunch For Dick.”

He punctuated the thought with a quick kiss, moving towards his dresser as though it was already settled. And well. It was past ten now. They’d been fucking for hours, and Shane was hungry.

“Okay.”

Ilya dropped his towel as he dug through a drawer, and while Shane was distracted by his ass, he tossed a shirt at him. He had one arm in before he noticed the Boston logo.

“Oh, fuck off, I’m not wearing that.” He threw it back.

“Eh, worth a shot.” Ilya grinned, and tossed another. “I want pasta.”

***

An hour later, Shane leaned back into Ilya’s couch, completely satiated in every sense, and yawned. Ilya pulled his head onto his lap, and his eyes drooped.

“I think I’m gonna fall asleep in your car.”

“Hmm.” Ilya stroked his fingers through Shane’s hair.

“We should head out.” He didn’t want to impose, but it had been a long day and sleep was calling to him.

“What time is your flight tomorrow?”

“Around noon, I think.”

“You should crash here.”

“Can’t.” Shane yawned. “What if someone sees me coming back early in the morning? They're gonna think I had a one night stand.”

“Okay, so we fuck again in the morning. Two night stand, no problem.”

In lieu of a response, Shane nuzzled further into Ilya’s stomach.

“Come on. We can leave here early in the morning. Or you can call a car, whatever you want. No one is going to remember your boring clothes enough to notice.”

“Such a dick to me.”

Ilya kissed the top of his head. “Bed?”

Shane’s eyes were closed as he nodded, and the last thing he remembered for the night was being cradled into Ilya’s bedroom like a child.

***

It took a moment for Shane to realize why he felt so warm. He was completely cocooned, his entire body ensconced by six feet of hockey player draped around him like a blanket. He didn't think he'd ever felt so cozy. Instinctively, he burrowed closer.

Opening his eyes was a mistake. He squinted, adjusting to the brightness, and it took a beat to recognize his surroundings for what they were.

Rozanov’s bedside table. Rozanov’s wall art. Rozanov’s million lamps. Rozanov’s blinding natural light. And behind him, Rozanov’s tan, freckled arm. His sharp chin tucked into Shane's neck. His third leg tucked between Shane's thighs.

Rozanov everywhere, and warm, warm, warm.

The events of last night came rushing back as he realized his grave error. They didn't do this. They didn't have sleepovers, or wake up in each other's arms.

Rozanov had offered to drive him back to his hotel, but he’d just… fallen asleep. And wasn't that embarrassing. He’d overstayed his welcome, because he couldn't bring himself to leave Rozanov’s arms. And they were really fucking great arms, but nothing would be worth hearing what the man they were attached to had to say about it when he woke up.

Just couldn’t get enough of me, could you, Hollander?

Shane didn’t think he could bear that right now. Not when it was so thoroughly, factually, obviously true.

He had to get out of here. As delicately as he could, he toed out of the bed, careful not to wake the sleeping man behind him, found the clothes he came in, and called a cab.

***

Five hours later, he touched down in Montreal and tried not to be disappointed that his only new message was from Hayden.

Hayden: So did you survive your weekend with Rozanov 😂

He wasn’t sure that he had.

Chapter 4: Rose

Chapter Notes

dw this is resolved so fast lol

April 2016 — Montreal

All Shane thought about for the next week was the date. Sportscasters and the internet alike had become obsessed with the story. Headlines ranged from “A bromance blooms in Boston,” to his own fans sending him sympathetic messages about the torture he must have gone through.

If only they knew. Shane was tortured. Just not in the way they thought he was.

He'd been tormented by Ilya’s lips, and his towel warmer, and what he looked like with a puppy in his arms. He was agonizing over the footage of them laughing together at the game. The true torture was how many texts he'd typed and deleted. How badly he wanted to hear from him, and how scared he was to be the first to reach out.

He needed a distraction.

A week later, he got it, in the form of an Instagram message from Rose Landry. Apparently, her brothers had been over the moon to hear that they'd met, and were insisting she take him up on those free tickets.

Her brother, John, turned out to be an agent, and a player he repped would be in Montreal for their game against Chicago. So, with his teammates’ voices in his ear, he booked her the box and they made plans to hang out afterwards.

He was surprised to find how easily the conversation flowed. Rose had wrapped filming in Boston, and John had great insights into the upcoming draft class. They asked thought-provoking questions about his predictions for the end of the season, and joked about the pain of being Detroit fans. Rose was a little touchier than he was used to, but all things considered, it was a good night.

“Huh, John, would you look at the time?” Rose gave him a pointed look. “Looks like it’s time for you to go home o'clock.”

“Yeah,” he snorted. “Message received.”

After he left, Rose gave him a big smile. “Walk me back to my hotel?”

“Sure. Yeah. Of course.”

His shoulders tightened. Shane knew it was the polite thing to do. His mom had raised him better than to let a young woman walk around the city alone after dark. But… When she reached out, he’d hoped that she really was just trying to do her brother a favor, and the fact that he'd come to dinner had been reassuring. Now, he wasn't so sure.

So, he cleared his throat and opened her door.

“I thought he'd never leave.” She grinned at him.

“Ha. Yeah. He seems really nice, though.”

She gave him a curious look, the corner of her mouth tilting up. “He is. Maybe a little overprotective, but I like him well enough. Do you have any siblings?”

“No, it's just me.”

“Lucky. I've always wanted to know what it would be like to be an only child.”

“I mean, it's not so bad. My parents are great, but it’s a lot of attention sometimes.”

“You’re forgetting that I’m a middle child and an actress. That sounds like a pretty good deal to me.”

“It’s not bad, no.” Shane chuckled. “So are you going to be in Montreal long?”

“No,” she exhaled. “Just being an amazing sister. I head back to L.A. on Monday, so, just a short and sweet trip.”

“Sounds nice.”

“I'm having fun with it.” She looked at him more carefully. “I’m thinking about doing a play in New York in a couple weeks.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. It's not something I've done since theater school, but, could be up for the challenge. Never done Broadway. Do you play there often?”

“Uh, yeah. Couple times a year, but it doesn't look like they're making the playoffs this year, so, probably won’t be there anytime soon.” He gave her a somewhat apologetic smile.

“Gotcha.” She nodded. “John reps one of their defensemen. He's always complaining about that team. Seems like the only thing they've got going for them is how hot Scott Hunter is.”

Her lips curved, like they were in on a secret, and Shane didn't know what to say. It was possible she was trying to provoke him into jealousy, or maybe it was just a harmless comment.

He went with a bland, “Ha, yeah.”

They continued on until they reached a boutique, five-star hotel.

“Well, this is me. Do you wanna come up for a nightcap?” She smiled. “The room service here is incredible.”

“Oh, uh, sorry. I don't really drink much during the season, and, playoffs…”

“Sure. Of course.” Her smile faded, and they hovered outside the entrance.

“Shane.” She bit her lip, clearly trying to make a decision. “Can I be blunt?”

“Sure.”

“My life is complicated. My schedule is insane, and I don't really have much time to date so I don't like to beat around the bush.”

“Oh.” Shane's eyes widened.

“I really enjoyed meeting you, and I honestly think we'd be great friends, but I'm getting the sense that we might be missing that... spark?”

“Right.” Shane nodded quickly. “I get it.”

“I just wanted to tell you that up front because I'm getting a hunch that maybe you're not feeling it either?”

Shane had barely been able to tell that they were on a date, but her honesty was refreshing, and it was such a relief that it made him want to be honest back.

“Um... yeah. Maybe not. I, uh…”

She waited for him to choose his words.

“I think you’re really great. I mean that. I really like talking to you. And I know that might sound like bullshit, but it’s not always easy for me.”

“I get that. Our lives are very weird.”

“The thing is… I’m a little, um, hung up on someone right now, so…” He averted his eyes. “Probably wouldn’t be fair for us to, you know.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Seriously. It’s not like I was planning our wedding.”

“I’m sorry. I probably should have realized what was happening here earlier.”

“Oh my God, stop. It’s fine. You’re cute, and I had a nice time tonight. So, no harm, no foul.”

“Wow. And here I thought you were loyal to hockey.”

He smiled, and she rolled her eyes. She was being so understanding.

“You know, if you ever want to talk, you have my number. I know it's not easy to find people that you can trust. Which… I don't know. Maybe my instincts are off here but... You seem like someone I could trust.”

“Yeah. You do, too.” He meant it.

“For what it's worth, and look, I'm definitely overstepping now but, I think you should probably go get your man.”

It hit like a smack in the face. His head jerked up.

“Man? What— uh, what makes you say that?”

“Oh! I'm sorry. I just…” She looked apologetic. “I thought—”

“I’m not, um…” he coughed, but he knew his reaction was telling.

“Shane.” She stepped closer, eyes soft. “I’ve had my hand on your knee all night. I just invited you up to my hotel room. We talked about hockey with my brother for most of this evening. Believe it or not, I can tell when someone isn't into me.”

The look on her face was so gentle.

“I don't. That's not... I'm not into your brother, I swear.”

“Hey, it's okay.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “You don't owe me any explanation. And maybe I'm totally off base here. But if I'm not, I want you to know that I really do get it. Two brothers in hockey, remember? If that's what's going on, I know it's not easy.”

Shane stared at the ground, jaw working as he tried to find a response, but they both knew that his silence spoke for him. Something he'd been trying to avoid for years pricked at his eyes.

“No. It's not.”

“Oh, sweetie. Come here.” She pulled him into a tight hug, rocking him, and wiped his eye. “If you ever wanna talk, just text me, okay? This celebrity bullshit is hard, and I'm a vault. I swear.”

“Okay. I will.”

“Call me the next time you're in L.A., okay? Call me whenever. I could really use someone in my life who isn't in the entertainment industry. And... I have a feeling you could use someone like me, too.”

She wasn't wrong, but Shane was still floored by how much he'd shared with her tonight. It just went to show how desperately he'd needed to talk to someone. And also maybe that he could really use a woman in his life who wasn't his mom.

“Definitely.”

She kissed his cheek, and bid him good night.

***

By the time he'd walked back to his car, he decided he needed to take another lap — and then another, and then another — to clear his head.

It had felt good to tell someone. At least now he could say that someone in the world knew what he had been going through. He'd just never expected that to be a Hollywood actress.

He supposed on some level it made sense. She had been famous since he was a kid. It tracked that she would value her privacy as much as he did. He almost laughed at the absurdity. Maybe it was easier to talk to someone who wasn't so invested in his life. It felt like there was less to lose.

Mostly, though, he thought about Ilya. When John had brought him up at dinner, it had been an effort to hide how affected he was.

The whole night had been a wake up call. He had squirmed away from the touch of one of the most beautiful women he'd ever met. He couldn't bring himself into her hotel room. Couldn't stop thinking about how tiny and fragile she was. How she'd never be able to carry him, or toss him around, or fuck him into the mattress. Even the memory of her kiss on his cheek made him think of Ilya. He couldn't help but notice how much smaller her mouth was.

The best part of the night had been the conversation, but even that didn't set him at ease the way exchanging jabs with Ilya did. Rose was lovely and kind and complimentary, and his taste ran a little more bitter.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, glad the air was so cold in Montreal tonight. He should have known better than to spend twelve hours alone with Ilya. He’d been left reeling over much smaller windows of time. And what had he done? He had gone and supercharged it. They’d spent more time together in one day than they usually did all year.

There was always a part of their encounters where he felt more satiated than he ever did anywhere else in the world. But then, immediately, the hunger would hit again — stronger, more ruthless, and with more cruel details to supplement his imagination when he went home.

Maybe part of him had been hoping that if he spent enough time with him, he'd finally find something that would put him off him for real. But he hadn’t. Instead, the pit in his gut was only hungrier.

He wanted to reach out, but he didn't know how. The worst part was that he wasn't lacking for ideas. No, he had too much to say, and no idea when Ilya Rozanov had become the first person he wanted to say it to.

He wanted to text him about the photos he'd seen of them on the Jumbotron. About the woman from the hotel lobby, who had cropped him out of the photo she'd taken of Ilya and her son. She’d still left enough of a flash of Shane's black hair to tag him, which he thought was petty, but also kind of funny.

Or, there was the entire blog post that the shelter had dedicated to their visit, in which Shane had barely recognized himself. Most of the photos people shared of him online featured a tight, press-friendly smile that didn't reach his eyes, or the brooding looks directors always wanted for advertisements.

He didn't look like that in these. He looked... happy. They both did, if he was honest with himself. Caroline must have been a good photographer, because where Ilya was known for his glower and Shane for his polite, toothless smiles, she’d caught them both laughing. Beaming, really.

He wanted to tell him that the cats had been adopted.

He wanted to tell him that Rose Landry had followed up, and that he thought he’d made a friend.

He wanted to text him from the grocery store, and tell him that chickpea pasta was just as good as the regular kind, so Ilya could send him a puke emoji back.

He wanted to send him a picture of his stall in the Centre Bell locker room, and ask when they'd be evening the score, so they could christen both of their workplaces.

He didn't know what Ilya was thinking. If he was upset that he'd left, he'd given no indication. If he was annoyed he'd stayed over, he hadn't said that either.

He opened their text thread for the millionth time in the last two weeks.

Lily: Waiting in the cell phone lot. Text when you land.

Waiting. It felt like he was always waiting. Waiting for Ilya to reach out, waiting for Ilya's attention. Waiting for the next time he'd get his hands on him.

How long was he willing to wait? Until they got caught? Until they retired? It was ridiculous to even think about, but it still made something inside him ache, and he realized he would wait. He'd probably been waiting around for Ilya since the day they'd met. He didn't know how to stop at this point. It had been so many years now that it was ingrained in him. What was a few more, really?

But Rose had said, “Go get your man.”

Maybe it was time to stop waiting.

***

Two days before the final Montreal game of the regular season, Ilya got a text from Shane. He stared at it for the entirety of his flight to Toronto.

Jane: [LINK] Viral cats endorsed by Hollander and Rozanov adopted as a pair!

It was a basic human interest story. Some lesbian couple from South End. The video on the shelter’s Instagram explained that they were hockey enthusiasts from Quebec who had relocated to Boston ten years ago. One of them had switched her team loyalty; one hadn’t. Perfect match.

It would be stupid to be jealous of this couple. These old married lesbians taking two demon entities into their home.

It was stupider still to be jealous of the cats themselves, pictured in their new home, snuggled up in a singular ball that looked like the symbol for yin and yang. They'd found a home, in each other and in these nice women. Now, they were warm and stable in their cat tree. They had doting parents who accepted them in all of their avoidance and biting and soul sucking softness.

The cats probably cost less than one hundred dollars altogether. He knew that he and Shane’s combined one hundred grand would never grant them the same thing.

He had been a fool to think it might. But Shane had bid on him back, and the tiniest, most hopeful part of him had thought maybe that meant something.

He didn’t want to see the press of them from the game, which focused mostly on Shane’s meet-cute. He didn't want to answer his teammates' questions about how he'd gotten to bear witness to the beginning of Shane's little love story with Rose fucking Landry. He didn't want to think about the kale that had wilted in his fridge, or the reason he’d bought it.

The photos were everywhere. Shane and Rose smiling at each other courtside, apparently exchanging information in the ten minutes he’d been gone. Rose at the Montreal-Chicago game, waving in a Hollander jersey. The two of them walking around Old Montreal. Grainy footage of her kissing the side of his face.

Maybe this was Hollander's attempt at normalcy. Some kind of cheeky acknowledgment so things wouldn't be so awkward the next time they saw each other. But Ilya didn't have it in him to respond.

He didn't have it in him to keep up their usual banter at their game either. As they met for the first face-off, he was determined to ignore Hollander. But of course, Shane had to sucker punch him right before the puck dropped with a nervous, “Hi.”

Ilya felt like he should be able to complain to the ref. It was dirty sportsmanship for Shane to stare at him like this during a game, brown eyes wide and wary and irresistible.

He wasn't going to say anything. He'd told himself he wasn't going to say anything. But he still heard the word, “Hollander,” tumble out of his mouth. Then he lost the face-off.

It was a frustrating game, and an even more frustrating loss. When he wrapped up postgame press, he found himself once again staring, uncomprehending, at a text from Shane Hollander.

Jane: Hey. Are you free tonight?

He didn't know what he was playing at. He didn't need to go to his stupid “investment building,” just to be told that Shane couldn't see him anymore.

Maybe Hollander wanted to tell him not to come to Montreal this summer after all. That would be fine. He hadn't bought a flight yet.

Or maybe Shane was already ready to cheat on his new girlfriend, but Ilya didn't think so.

He kicked himself as he zipped up his jacket. As long as Hollander wanted to see him, he knew he'd never say no.

***

Shane looked apprehensive as he opened the door, and it made Ilya sick. The only time he wanted to see that look in Shane’s eyes was when he was telling him what to do in bed. None of this boded well. Best to get it over with quickly.

“Hollander.” He leaned against the kitchen table, folding his arms. “You look nervous.”

“I’m not. I... I wanted to talk.”

“Talk. Is that what we do?”

“I’d like to.” Shane tucked his hands into his pockets. “Can you just take off your jacket or something? Do you want some water?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? I could—”

“Hollander. What do you want?”

Shane flinched. “I wanted to see you.”

“Okay. Now you've seen me.”

“Can you stop?”

“Stop what?” Ilya sniffed, rubbing his nose.

“I think we should talk. About Boston.”

“What, that it is a better city than Montreal? Yes, I agree.”

“Oh my God, shut up.”

“Say what you need to say, Hollander. You want me to talk, you want me to shut up. You want to see me, you want to leave. What is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that. “Shouldn't you be with Rose Landry? I did not peg you for a cheater.”

“What? I'm not.” Shane’s eyebrows furrowed. “Hang on, is that what this is? You think I'm, what? Dating Rose Landry?”

Ilya didn’t respond.

“Oh my God, I went on one date with her! It was nothing!” Shane rolled his entire head back.

“Ah. One date.”

He couldn't have picked worse wording.

“Oh, come on. It's different, and you know it.”

“I know nothing.”

Ilya was furious at himself. He knew he was revealing too much, and that he was being a dick, but he couldn't stop rising to the bait. Seeing those photos had churned at something nasty in him, and he couldn't bite back the bile now.

“I think it’s safe to say you and I have spent more than one date together.”

“Oh, is that what we do? Go on dates?”

“I’d like to.” Shane’s voice quieted. “At least the second one. I mean, I already planned it.”

“What, Rose Landry is not free this summer?”

“Would you stop? She's just a friend, okay? And I didn't even know it was supposed to be a date until it was basically over.”

“Hmm.”

This was the least surprising of everything. Hollander had no understanding of his effect on people. How wanted he was.

Shane buried his face in his hands, exasperated, and Ilya thought, good. He should be exasperated. He's exasperating.

“Look, I didn't... Expect that.”

“Expect what?”

“Oh my God, would you give it up? I'm trying here. This is embarrassing enough already.”

That was a low blow. As though Hollander had the right to be embarrassed in this situation. He wasn't the one with useless kale in his trash.

“I don't think I can keep doing this anymore.”

There it was. Ilya stood up to leave. “Great. Good chat. You could have just texted.”

“Stop. Let me finish.” Shane held up a hand. “I can't keep doing this like this. Okay? It's not fair, and it's fucking embarrassing. You take me on this date, and it's sweetheart and it’s doors and you're kidding, and you're kidding, and you're kidding, and I'm not. I’m probably fucking gay, Ilya. And I go home. And you go off with... Whoever. Caroline or Svetlana, or I don't know. Or whoever the fuck. And you know. You know.”

Ilya refused to let his face change. He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. That was what Shane thought? That he'd been, what? Mocking him? And what the fuck did he mean that he knew? Knew what?

“It's hard. Okay? It's hard.” Shane ran a hand through his hair. “You always tell me I need to get laid more. And I just... Be fair, okay? You're right that I like when you're an asshole. But I need you to be nice to me about this one thing. This is the one thing I need you to not make fun of me about. 'Cause it sucks. And I'm really trying to... I don't know. But I had to leave. I just can't... It sucks.”

Ilya didn't know if his English was failing him, because nothing Shane was saying made sense. He seemed to have decided at some point that Ilya had been antagonizing him, when he’d picked him up from the airport, and shown him around his city, and his job, and made him food, and tried to squeeze in every possible second he could with him, and asked him, begged him, to stay.

He didn't know what to say. He literally could not comprehend how this was the conclusion Shane had reached. He unfolded his arms and went to reach for him.

“Hollander…”

“Stop it.”

”Shane.”

He looked up then, and it was miserable. There was something so sad in his face.

Ilya dropped his arm, but he moved to stand next to him. “You think I am making fun of you?”

Shane stared at the ground. “Well?”

“I am not. I would not. I didn’t— I'm sorry, okay? I... I did not know.”

“Right.” Shane scoffed, looking away again, and Ilya gripped his jaw, making sure he understood.

“I did not.” Ilya was firm. “I would not ever… about this.”

Shane swallowed. “No?”

“Never.”

Shane gave the hint of a nod, and his head thunked forward, meeting Ilya's shoulder. Ilya pulled him close, burying his face into Shane's silky black hair. He kissed his forehead, unable to contain himself.

He couldn't believe how horribly they'd misunderstood each other. Sometimes it felt like Shane was the only person in the world who could read his mind. In the bedroom, definitely. On the ice, more often than he was proud of. It terrified him, how well this man could read him, except when it mattered.

And now here he was, letting himself be so brave. So vulnerable. And simply asking that Ilya not mock him for it. How cruel did he think Ilya really was?

He pulled him in tighter, letting Shane rub his face into his chest. His hair was still damp, and he smelled like some kind of sporty body wash. Ilya tried to be as brave as him.

“I had fun with you.”

“I always have fun with you.”

Ilya kissed him, and everything about it was soft. So much softer than Ilya was used to. Shane's cheek against his. His pliant mouth. The buttery fabric of his hoodie. Ilya felt like he'd been cut open from the inside. He could barely stand it.

Something cracked in Ilya's chest. Something that ached and hurt if he focused on it too long. Ilya didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this sweet, perfect man, trying so hard to be open and honest with him. He didn’t know how to repay his trust, or summon the same bravery.

It felt like Shane was handing him his heart on a silver platter, and his instincts were at war. Either he'd drop it, or he'd squeeze it so hard, it would break. In the end, he was sure he'd end up losing it to his own devices.

Eventually, he pulled back, and Shane gave him a small smile. He thumbed at his jaw, needing to break the tension.

“So. You do not want me to text back Caroline.”

Shane's mouth twisted, and Ilya could tell he was trying not to pout. “God, shut up.”

“Would be rude not to thank her for the photos she sent me of you and Peanut, but, I do not mind.”

Shane glanced up then, so shy and hopeful that Ilya wanted to burn his eyes out.

“You asked her for pictures of me and the cats?”

“Yes. I needed them for the exorcism.”

“Can I see?” Shane's smile lit up his whole face and Ilya thought he might scream. Instead, he kissed him.

“You are a fucking idiot, Hollander. You know this?”

“I change my mind. I want Prince Charming back.”

“Ahh, you want to be charmed now?” Ilya’s voice dropped, low and teasing.

“Maybe in a little? Are you hungry?”

Ilya tilted his head. “I could eat.”

“I got the pasta I told you about, if you want to try it.”

And, God. Ilya did not want to try it even a little bit, but if he didn’t give his mouth something else to do, he might never stop kissing Shane Hollander.

“Yes. That sounds good.”

So while the water boiled for some truly terrible chickpea pasta, Ilya handed over his phone, savoring the way Shane frowned at Caroline's obvious attempts to flirt, then melted at the pictures she'd taken of the two of them with the cats.

“It’s good they got adopted. They’re good cats.”

“There is no such thing as a good cat. This is, um, word that sounds like oxygen?”

“An oxymoron. And you’re such a liar. You loved that cat.”

And, well. He’d never been able to resist a grumpy, dark-haired creature that didn’t play well with others.

“Maybe.”

***

Later that night, Ilya had his arm wrapped around Shane in bed.

“I should make you come four times tonight. One for every round of playoffs I'm going to win.”

“You fucking wish, dude.”

Ilya shrugged. “You are probably going to be Virgin Mary again for playoffs. I need to leave you with something to remember until NHL Awards.”

“You know you're talking to the reigning champ? My methods work!”

“I won the cup before you! This method is bullshit. I could fuck you every night for the next month and I would still win this year.”

“Oh.” Shane’s hand paused where it had been tracing patterns into Ilya’s stomach. “You mean you... In 2014?”

“Ah. Yes.” Ilya didn’t mean to poke that bruise. “Is a stupid superstition, Hollander.”

“Yeah, well... Spoken like someone who lost last year.”

“Brat.” Ilya flicked his head, then dropped a kiss to the same spot.

“Ow!”

“You are a sore winner.”

“Oh, and you're not?” Shane rolled on top of him, pinning down his arms. “What would you call Vegas, then? Was that you being humble and sportsmanlike?”

“I am a perfect gentleman, Hollander. One day you will see this.” Ilya pulled Shane’s arms from where they were bracketing his, and held him close. “So are you Virgin Mary again this year, or can I see you?”

“I'm not the Virgin Mary. I just like to be, you know, focused during playoffs.”

“Mm. Focused. I think you will need stress relief. Will make you feel better after you lose to me.”

“Not a chance in hell, Rozanov.”

“You could text me. You probably jerk off until your dick is raw.”

“I do not.” Shane spluttered.

“No?” Ilya grinned. “How much?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

“No, it's okay. No one would expect a pervert like you to go a month without touching your dick.”

“Oh, a month, huh?” Shane got a cocky glint in his eye that always made Ilya feel feral. “So you think I'm gonna win?”

“I did not say that.”

“No? Because I’m pretty sure—”

“You are hearing things.” Ilya squeezed his hips, and Shane yelped. “Is probably your body shutting down, because it knows it is about to be very sad and horny.”

“Would you—?!” Shane swatted at him. “It's fine to, you know…”

Ilya raised his eyebrows. He loved making Shane squirm like this. “To what, Shane?”

“Jerk off,” Shane hissed. “It's not the same.”

“I know. So text me next time. Send pictures.” Ilya smirked. “You probably get so pent up you come like a fucking fountain.”

Shane’s mouth flopped open, but Ilya could tell he was resisting a laugh.

“What?”

“I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“I can't, like, consort with the enemy during playoffs. That's crazy!”

“Consort with the enemy.” Ilya snorted. “The enemy’s cum is in your trash right now.”

“Whatever.” Shane's blush deepened. So fucking cute.

“What do you think about? Game tape review?”

“No.” Shane grumbled, and he stared down at the comforter. “Random stuff.”

“Wow. Exciting.”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Mm, I think I will get it out of you one day.”

Ilya stroked his back, and Shane bit his lip, looking up through his lashes.

“Maybe another time.”

And that was good enough for now. He couldn't be mad at the promise of another time. Not when Shane looked so shy and sweet and his.

Right then, Ilya’s phone buzzed on the nightstand. Fucking Cliff.

“I should go.”

Shane snuggled into him, too sleepy to keep himself from asking, “Do you have to?”

It took everything in Ilya to say yes. “My flight is at six.”

Shane let out a whiny noise, burrowing further into his chest. “You could leave here at four.”

Ilya heaved a dramatic sigh. “I can't believe they gave you sportsmanship award. They do not know how evil you are, trying to sabotage my team like this.”

Shane only smiled, eyes closed as he rolled his head into Ilya's neck and placed a tender kiss to his collarbone.

“Fucking evil Canadian assassin.” Ilya muttered.

Chapter End Notes

idek what to say. much like hollanov, this thing just spiraled on its own. but i think the basic premise of this fic is that if they were given more time, sooner, they would've had to confront their feelings sooner too. rushed 2 hr hookup vs. 12 hrs of ilya's full attention is kind of a coughing baby vs. hydrogen bomb situation and i think shane would break much faster. i didn't even mean for the rose of it all to spiral as much as it did but well. i believe in roseshane friendship domination so we are suspending our disbelief that she could crack this case within so little time, okay??

anyways. playoffs + NHL awards next. then montreal date, because shane demanded that his be scheduled in the off season. he has a foresight that ilya lacks and we love him for it. then they all live happily ever after.

okay thank you for reading love you!!!
p.s. my anya is okay :)

Chapter 5: Playoffs

Chapter Notes

FYI in case you missed it in the last chapter - there's a longstanding superstition in hockey that you don't have sex during playoffs. Most people think it's bullshit, but Shane Hollander worships at the altar of the hockey gods.

April — Boston
Round One

Shane lasted ten days before Ilya got the message he was waiting for. Not that their texts had been dry, per se. They had started chatting, and they were still figuring out the rhythm.

It's not like they were doing good morning texts. He sensed that when Shane texted him, he'd deliberated over what he thought might interest Ilya. He sent things that warranted replies, and the effort Shane put into casual conversation was doing something very scary and dangerous to Ilya’s heart.

It was nothing serious. They killed time in airports, and complained about their linemates, and speculated over who would win the Western Conference. It still felt like a love letter. But after their talk in Montreal, he found himself less and less worried about it.

Ilya had a goal. He was pretty sure he could get Shane to break by the time playoffs were over. But his real goal, the one that might take a little more time, was finding out what Shane jerked off to. Knowing Shane, it would either be incredibly boring or incredibly kinky. It was impossible to say which.

Whatever it was, Ilya wanted to find out. If he cracked by the time the NHL Awards rolled around, they could probably put his fantasies to good use.

Shane kept true to his word, though. He wasn't going to sext Ilya, no matter how much teasing he had to endure.

At least, not until he won the first round.

Jane: Hi. Are you free?

Shane was not nearly as slick as he thought he was. Ilya grinned at his phone. He'd won his own first round against Detroit earlier in the week, and he’d been unwinding by watching Montreal take out Tampa.

Lily: Why? Is the big winner horny?

Jane: Did you watch?

Lily: Of course not.

Jane: 😠

Lily: Nice goal.

Jane: 🙂

Lily: Not celebrating with your team?

Jane: No. We went out for a little, but I'm back at the hotel now.

Lily: Looking to celebrate even more? 😛

Jane: Maybe.

Lily: How long did you think about texting me?

Jane: Too long, probably.

Ilya put his crucifix in his mouth and bit back a smile.

Lily: What are you wearing?

Jane: Pajamas

Ilya chuckled. In his decade of experience in sexting, he could honestly say he'd never gotten that response.

Most likely, Shane had put on sweatpants and a Montreal T-shirt before bed. It shouldn’t be sexy. It wasn’t sexy. But Ilya had been conditioned to react like a zoo animal to Shane Hollander in that state of dress.

He could picture it so easily — Shane tucked into his king-size bed, all soft and rumpled, fresh out of the shower. His hair was probably still damp, sticking to his forehead as he held his phone and waited for instructions.

Lily: Take off your clothes. All of them.
Lily: Put your hand on your cock.

Jane: Ok

Lily: You have not gotten any better at sexting

Jane: Fuck off

Lily: Okay 👍
Lily: Enjoy your boner

Ilya’s eyes crinkled watching the texts roll in. He hadn't planned on letting Shane sweat it out, but he found very few things in life cuter than a flustered Shane Hollander.

Jane: Wait
Jane: Come back
Jane: I was kidding!

Lily: If you insist 😉

Jane: 🙄

Lily: Are you playing with yourself?

Jane: You didn’t tell me to

A few years ago, that would have made Ilya really hard. But right now, warmth spread through his chest, sharp and sudden, like he’d swallowed hot tea too fast.

Lily: Touch yourself
Lily: Just your balls

Jane: Ok

Lily: How does it feel?

Jane: Good

Lily: Are you hard?

Jane: Yes. Can I jack off now?

Ilya’s nostrils flared. Shane truly was terrible at sexting. This kind of response shouldn’t work on him. But he just knew that no matter what he said right now, Shane would follow orders, and it was a fucking head rush. He started palming at himself.

Lily: Depends. What are you going to think about? Tampa locker room crying?

Jane: I thought texting you was supposed to be helpful

Lily: Tell me one thing. When you are alone in your nice, big hotel room stroking your nice, big cock, what are you thinking about?

Jane: It’s embarrassing

Lily: I knew you had a piss kink.

Jane: Jesus, no

Lily: Tell me
Lily: What do you wish I was doing to you?
Lily: Do you want me to suck your dick? Or maybe you need me to eat you out until you cry?
Lily: Are you going to finger yourself and think about how much you wish it was my cock?

A minute passed without a reply, and Ilya started to get tetchy.

Lily: Stop

Jane: What? Why?

God, Shane was so fucking obedient it was insane.

Lily: Answer me. Is your hand wet?

Jane: Yes
Jane: Can I keep going?

Lily: Maybe. Tell me what you’re thinking about
Lily: I want specifics

Jane: No
Jane: Just tell me what to do

Ilya’s lip quirked, unaware that Shane had actually stopped for more than a second. The power went straight to his dick.

Lily: Okay. Keep going.
Lily: If you’re good, maybe I’ll let you come.

Jane: Fuck ok

Lily: Put your phone down and just read

Jane: Ok

Lily: Hand back on your dick
Lily: Stroke yourself
Lily: Put a finger in your mouth
Lily: Now two fingers
Lily: Suck them
Lily: Keep playing with your cock
Lily: Make yourself feel good
Lily: Focus on your pervert fantasy
Lily: Take your fingers out and text me when you’re close, but don’t stop jerking off
Lily: Do not come until I tell you to
Lily: Be good
Lily: You can be good for me
Lily: If you think you’re going to come then you stop and text me

Jane: Ok
Jane: Close
Jane: Really close
Jane: Please let me come
Jane: Please fuck
Jane: Ilya

Lily: Stop
Lily: Hands off

Jane: Fuckkkk you
Jane: Fine
Jane: Jesus what now

Ilya pulled up Shane's Instagram just in time. A shirtless photo from the Montreal locker room — one Ilya was more than familiar with — filled the screen, and he felt absolutely no guilt looking into those sweet, brown eyes as he came all over his fist.

Lily: What are you thinking about?

Jane: I’m not telling you

Lily: You sure? 😢

Jane: No! Fuck off!
Jane: And I’m not a pervert! I don’t have a piss kink!

Lily: On second thought I think sexting is part of Virgin Mary sex ban

Jane: Are you serious?

Lily: Yes. Sex is in the word sext. Might jinx you.

Jane: That’s bullshit
Jane: You’re really not going to let me come??

Lily: Would probably ruin your chances if you came now ☹️

Jane: Are you fucking kidding me
Jane: You don’t even believe that

Lily: No 😌
Lily: But you do 😈

Then, Ilya hit him where it hurt. He pulled his briefs even lower, and took a photo of his still-mostly-hard cock, flat against his abs and covered in white hot evidence.

Jane: You are going to hell.

Lily: Goodnight 😘

***

May — Montreal
Round Two

Shane refused to speak to, let alone meet up with, Ilya while they played against each other. This had always been their routine; they both took playoffs seriously. Shane wouldn’t have been so desperate to fuck him if he didn’t.

The series was a battle, ending with a Montreal home win in game seven. So, when Ilya showed up at Shane’s apartment afterwards in an irritable mood, he didn’t blame him.

They kissed frantically, chins bumping and fingers digging in wherever they could. He could tell that Ilya was probably taking out some of his frustration from the loss on him, but he really didn’t mind. Six weeks apart was nothing in comparison to the time stretches he was used to being away from Ilya, but it had felt like an eternity now that they were actively in contact.

“Wait, stop.” Shane recoiled, breaking the kiss when Ilya went for the button of his jeans.

“Oh, come on, Hollander.”

“I’m still playing!”

“Thank you for the reminder.” Ilya glared.

“I’m really not trying to be dick!”

Shane was on his sixth season in the NHL, and he'd never failed to upkeep the ritual sex ban. He was good. It was probably stupid, and he knew half his teammates were lying. But it settled something in him to have one factor he could control. He'd beat himself up if they lost this year, and he'd broken this dumb vow he'd pledged to himself and his team.

He really wished Ilya hadn't told him that it was bullshit, both because it twisted at something nasty and possessive in him, and because it left him terrified by his own wanting.

“Shane. Is this my punishment for Tampa?”

“No!” His hands wandered, straightening out Ilya’s shirt from where he’d rucked it up. “Probably should be though. That was a fucking dick move.”

Ilya’s lip curled, and he spread his palms around Shane’s waist, pressing their bodies together. “Did you finish?”

“You know I didn’t.” Shane grumbled. “Stop making that face. I’m just trying to stay… disciplined.”

“Yes, you seem very disciplined right now.” Ilya deadpanned, then sighed. “Okay. Your life. Your dick.”

With a great deal of theatrical disappointment, he sauntered past Shane and flopped onto the couch, unzipping his pants.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

Ilya stared straight into Shane’s eyes as he wrapped his hand around himself and started toying with his cock. Shane stayed in the entryway, feet glued to floor, helpless to watch Ilya lean back on a throw pillow and casually start to masturbate.

“Oh, that is so unfair.”

“Is it? You knocked me out of the playoffs tonight.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Come here.”

“I can’t.”

“Ah, ah, I am not asking you to do anything. Just want a pretty picture to look at.”

Shane’s legs moved on their own, but he stopped short of joining Ilya on the couch. He couldn’t decide where to look — Ilya’s dilated eyes boring into him, or the hypnotizing movement of his wrist.

“Get on your knees.”

Shane sank to the floor, heartbeat in his dick.

“Good boy.” Ilya’s hand twisted over the tip, smearing pre-cum around. “Are you having fun?”

“No.”

“Why not? I am.” Ilya smirked. “Do you want to know what I am thinking about?”

“Yes.”

“Your mouth.” Ilya replied, immediate and shameless. “Open it for me. Stick out your tongue.”

Shane did without question.

“I have never met anyone who loves sucking cock as much as you do, Hollander. If you broke your sex ban, I would let you give me a nice, long apology for ruining my night.” Ilya’s hand matched his words, unhurried as he kept his gaze on Shane’s face.

An involuntary sigh left Shane's mouth, and Ilya's eyes turned predatory.

“I think you would be very good at it. I think you want to right now.”

Shane salivated, dick already straining against his zipper. It was so tempting.

“I don't think I will let you, though. I think I like this better. Unzip your pants. Let me see you.”

Shane complied so quickly it was embarrassing. His cock sprung free, bobbing in the air of the apartment. Ilya’s mouth tilted, satisfied.

“Aww. Hello, Shane's cock. Do you miss me? I missed you. Are you sad Shane won't let you join me? I bet you are. Look at your poor dick, Hollander. So happy to see me, and you will not let me say hello.”

“I think you might actually be the devil.”

Ilya grinned. “Yes. Put your hands behind your back. Tongue back out.”

Shane's dick throbbed. He wondered if he'd come like this, just from Ilya's words alone and the sight of him lazily playing with himself.

Ilya stood, stalking towards him, and he held his cock inches from Shane’s face. “Spit.”

“I’m not gonna break.”

“Oh, I know. I did not say suck. Spit.”

Shane shivered. He was right there. But he'd come so far, and he was determined to stay strong now. He leaned forward and let all of the drool that had been pooling in his mouth drip onto Ilya’s cock, careful not to let his lips make contact.

Ilya made a feral, growly noise as he watched, then spread it around and continued his slow strokes. The slick, wet sound only made Shane harder.

His entire body had been trained to react to the sight of Ilya aroused. His brain dropped into a thoughtless space, throat relaxing in anticipation. His tongue felt thick, and his mouth empty.

It would be so easy to sink over the tip right now and just give in. He'd already won two rounds. He deserved it.

“Are you waiting for permission to join me?”

Shane’s chest heaved, and he tightened his grip on his wrists, still together behind his back. He could feel himself at a breaking point. One more filthy sentence out of Ilya's mouth, and he'd lunge.

“Who do you need permission from? Me? Or Roger Crowell?”

“You.” Shane croaked. “Always you.”

“Hmm. That is too bad, because I am not feeling very generous. No, you are going to stay right there on your knees while I make myself come.”

Ilya’s hand sped up, so close to Shane’s face that it was killing him. He’d barely noticed the way he’d inched forward, body drawn towards Ilya like a magnet. He wasn’t going to break. He wasn’t going to break. He wasn’t going to—

“Please.”

Ilya’s nostrils flared. “Please, what, Shane?”

“Let me.”

“Let you what?”

“Please,” Shane gritted out, “let me suck your dick. I want to. Please.”

Ilya swallowed, pupils so dilated that his eyes looked black in the dim glow of the room.

“I want that too, Shane. But no. Ask me something else. Something you don't think counts as cheating.”

That, Shane thought, was surprisingly considerate for a man currently waving his cock in his face.

“Can I touch myself?”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Will it bother you?”

“No. No. It won’t.” Shane could hear the desperation in his voice. It was humiliating, bargaining with Ilya just to put his hand down his pants.

“Eager. Okay. Touch yourself.”

Shane didn't think he’d ever moved so fast in his life, immediately unlocking his hands from behind his back. The relief was all consuming. He gripped himself hard and tight, exhaling a helpless moan.

“That's it, Hollander.” Ilya’s sped up, and Shane couldn't tear his eyes away. “Faster. Show me how much you want it. You want to come, yes?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“So much. Fuck, Ilya.” He could feel his orgasm building already, far too quickly.

“When was the last time?”

“Monday, I think?”

“What were you thinking about? When you texted me.”

“You. Like this.” Shane breathed hard, filter gone.

“Like this?” A note of surprise filled his voice. “Not fucking you or blowing you or…?”

“No.”

“You wanted to watch me jack off?”

“Yeah.” Shane’s face warmed, but he was so lost in it, he couldn’t stop now. His eyes glazed over and he focused on the rhythm of Ilya’s hand. “I was wondering what you think about. When you do this alone. Hoping it was me.”

“Jesus, Hollander.” Ilya groaned, jerking himself in full force now. “You should have fucking told me.”

“Do you?” Shane looked up from his knees and found Ilya looming over him, eyes clenched tight, almost to the point of being closed. “Think about me?”

“All the fucking time.”

“Me too.” Shane gasped, his words rushed. “All the time. It's all I think about.”

“Fuck, Shane. Make yourself come.”

They both panted, neither breaking eye contact. Shane couldn’t believe he’d held out this long.

“I want to come on your face.”

“Don’t.” Shane whined, miserably aroused. “Another time.”

“Yes. Another time. All over those beautiful— fucking— freckles.”

“Oh my God. Fuck, Ilya. I—”

Ilya grunted, cursing something in Russian, and Shane’s orgasm followed immediately after.

“Holy fuck.”

He leaned to his side, propping himself up on his arm. He was sure the stray drops that had landed on his T-shirt would bother him in two minutes, but for now, it was all he could do to catch his breath.

“Yes.” Ilya stumbled backwards onto the couch, jeans still halfway down his thighs, and he started laughing. “Good substitute?”

“Fucking great. Tough, but fair.” Shane sighed. “Thank you.”

Ilya sent him an amused look. “Thank me?”

“It would have bugged me. I know it's stupid. But I was about a second away from taking you upstairs and making you fuck the shit out of me.”

Ilya groaned. “In that case, you should be thanking me. And I will not be thanking you back. Put your dick away. I need to kiss you.”

Shane nodded and willed himself to follow instructions, too blissed out to care about the come dirtying his briefs. He leaned over, and they locked into an easy, languid kiss.

“Shower. Laundry.”

“Yes. Good plan, Captain.”

***

Shane’s paranoia extended to showering together, so they cleaned up separately. Shane seemed to own nothing but Montreal merch, which Ilya refused, so they compromised on Team Canada sweats while they ran the washer.

In retrospect, they should’ve taken off their clothes earlier, or at least aimed better, but when they crashed into bed, it was cozy.

Shane's head lolled onto Ilya's shoulder. “How much time do you have left?”

Ilya glanced down at his phone. “Two hours, maybe two and a half. Team is still probably out at the bar.”

“That's nice.”

“Nice. My team is so sad, and you say ‘nice!’ And people think I am the asshole.”

“You’re not going to get me to apologize for that.”

“No. If you did, I would ask, ‘Who are you and what have you done with Hollander? Give him back.’”

Ilya kissed his forehead, and a soft look crossed Shane’s face, so besotted he couldn’t hide it if he tried.

“Give me your phone.”

“Why?”

“I want to show you a feature. I don't think you know it.”

Shane unlocked the phone and passed it over. As Ilya fiddled with it, Shane rested his chin on his shoulder, watching him find his own contact information.

“Hold this.”

Shane played along, listening to Ilya’s phone buzz in his pocket.

Ilya made a show of answering the FaceTime, then waved at the screen. “Hi, Shane.”

“Hi, Ilya.” Shane tried to sound annoyed. It didn’t work.

“I heard you were jacking off. This is how you press call button next time. Okay?”

Shane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“You're so dramatic.”

Ilya stared in mock offense. “You hung up? On me?”

“Poor you. How will you ever recover?” Shane deadpanned.

Ilya held him by the jaw, lightly shaking his face and smushing his cheeks. “Call me next time.”

“All right, you've made your point!”

Shane swatted at his hand, but Ilya only wrapped an arm around him and kissed him, letting several minutes pass.

“Stick around a while?”

“Okay.” Kiss. “But I am not eating more chickpea pasta.”

“It’s not that bad!”

***

They were both too tired to do much after that, so they settled onto the couch and watched the results from that night’s West Coast games roll in.

Shane was unreasonably happy. He didn't want to tell Ilya, but this was the real reward — just lying on top of him, wrapped in the same blanket. The TV droned on while he fiddled with Ilya's necklace. They were both exhausted now, and these minutes felt precious.

This was the part he always wanted more of — his head on Ilya's chest, their heartbeats in sync. He didn't have much to say, so he didn’t. Instead, he placed his ear over Ilya's heart, the rhythmic pulse making him drowsy and content.

Eventually, Ilya's phone vibrated on the coffee table, and he declined a call.

“Marlow?”

“No. They know I am busy tonight.”

“Oh.” Shane tried and failed not to read into that.

Ilya sighed. “My brother.”

“If you want to take it, you can.”

“No.” Ilya resettled on the couch, pulling Shane even tighter to his chest than before.

Shane rolled over in his lap so he could see Ilya's face. “Are you okay?”

“Not really.” Ilya exhaled, a bone-deep exhaustion in his voice. “He does not call for anything good. Probably he wants money. Or maybe he wants to talk about our crazy father dying.”

Shane stiffened.

“Or he just wants to make me feel like shit about losing to you.” Ilya pinched his side, the ghost of a smile on his face, and Shane squirmed.

“Hey!”

It cut the tension momentarily, though Shane knew it was a deflection. Ilya clearly didn't want to linger on it, but it was so rare to get access to these little parts of him.

“I’m sorry. I mean, not about that, but about your family.”

“Don’t be. Is my problem, not yours.”

“You can always talk to me about it, if you want. I mean, I don't know, maybe you already have people in your life you do that with, but... I'd listen.”

Ilya looked at him very seriously then, something so soft and gentle in his eyes that Shane’s heart clenched. He didn't think he'd ever been looked at like that by anyone.

His next words came out a murmur. “I don't know why you are so sweet to me.”

Shane reached up and placed a hand on Ilya's cheek. “I like being sweet to you.”

Ilya’s mouth tightened into a line, and for a moment, Shane thought he might cry. But then he blinked hard and fast and smushed Shane’s head into the crook of his neck so he couldn’t see.

They stayed like that for a while, tangled up in a throw blanket that was a little too short for both of them. The low droning of ESPN and drowsy kisses punctuated the comfortable silence. By the time the laundry finished and Ilya had to leave, Shane felt too relaxed and spent to censor his thoughts.

“I wish you could sleep over.”

“Me too, Shane.”

***

May — Montreal
Round Three

Shane’s body ached on the way home. He always felt like shit after a loss, and it was ten times worse when it was a home game.

Tonight's had been brutal. They'd been up three to two against Pittsburgh, and had they won, the round would have been sealed, ensuring their spot in the finals. Instead, the silence of Montreal’s home crowd was punishing, as was Coach Theriault’s post-game analysis. Now, they'd have to play Game Seven away and at a disadvantage, running on two days' rest and a month of injuries.

He didn't realize until he was parking that pure muscle memory had led him to his investment building. Heavy limbs lead him up the stairs, too burned out to turn around now. As he unlocked the dark apartment, his shoulders slumped, body giving way to the exhaustion of the day.

He opened a beer, still mulling over the night’s mistakes. He doubted he’d even drink half of it, but he kept almost nothing here, and he didn’t want a Coke. He’d been in no mood for conversation, despite his mom’s attempt at a highly detailed pep talk. He hoped to God something decent was open for delivery, cursing himself for keeping this place so badly stocked.

He dumped the beer down the drain.

Dragging himself upstairs, he stared at his phone. Of course he knew that Boston and Montreal were in the same time zone, but for some reason, he always checked his world clock app anyways.

In two days, he would show up in Pittsburgh with his game face on and give it everything he had. For now, he crashed into bed, buried his face into the pillow next to him, and wished he hadn't done the laundry the last time he was here.

If he wasn’t so badly in need of a hug, he wouldn’t have sent the text. Immediately, his phone rang.

“Hi.” His voice sounded downtrodden, even to his own ears.

“It’s late, Hollander.” Ilya was a sight for sore eyes, leaning against his headboard in a slutty black tank top.

“Sorry. Were you going to bed?”

“No. I was up. Watching a shitty hockey game.”

Shane's lip tugged upward for the first time in hours. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. Very frustrating. My favorite player did well, but his goalie is kind of a piece of shit, so, tough loss.”

Shane’s heart squeezed at the irritation in Ilya’s voice. “Favorite player, huh?”

“Mm, yes. Beautiful skater. Got two goals tonight.”

His cheeks warmed.

“I still think they have a good chance this year. Could go all the way, so. Go Colorado.”

Shane smiled. “Jerk.”

A quiet moment lingered, and then Ilya broke it, all gentleness and concern. “Are you okay?”

“Not great, no.”

“You are at your murder building?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Wasn't paying attention driving home.”

“Shane… It was close. Sometimes you have a bad night. Well, not you — is very annoying — but the team.”

“I know. I just really wanted to win this one, you know? I don’t know. I’m just tired. Can you tell me about your day?”

“Eh, my day is boring. This very hot, very boring guy kicked me out of playoffs so, now I am just killing time until the awards.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No you’re not.”

“No. I’m not.”

“And you are not going to be sorry when you win this next game either.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. I would bet money on it if it was not illegal.” Ilya tilted his head. “I will still probably bet Cliff. I only ever lose to champions so, is basically a guarantee, and he is not a responsible person.”

The words slipped out before he could overthink them. “I miss you.”

Ilya paused just long enough for Shane to realize what he’d said, and he was a breath away from backtracking when—

“Yes.” He exhaled hard. “I miss you too, Shane.”

Shane rolled over in bed and put his phone on Ilya’s pillow. “How’s Boston? How are you?”

“Ah, not good. I should probably be in Moscow, but…”

“Is everything okay?”

“My family is annoyed, I think, that I’m not home yet.”

“Why would you go home already? We’ve got the awards, and…”

“Relax, Hollander. I am still going to eat your chocolate strawberries.”

“Hey, I never promised chocolate strawberries.”

“Okay, okay, I will starve in the back of your canoe then.”

“It’s a kayak.”

“Sure.” The hint of a smile crossed his face. Even in the wash of blue light, Ilya was unfairly beautiful.

“Do you have a flight yet?”

“To Montreal? Or Moscow?”

“Either.” Shane shrugged.

“Ah, yes. What day is our date?”

“July 9th,” he answered too quickly.

“Yes. That is right.” Ilya nodded, eyes starting to droop. “Flight home is a week or so after that. I still need to book tickets to Montreal. I did not know, um, what dates I should get.”

He looked away, scratching his nose, and Shane tried to ignore the sad little alarm bell going off in his head.

“Right. Sure. Do you… want to be in Moscow?”

“No. I do not want to be there, but, my brother has been calling a lot.” Ilya cast his eyes downward, giving a tiny shake of his head. “My father is getting worse. I am thinking maybe I should skip the awards this year and go back early.”

“Because he wants you to come back?”

“No, not that.” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “He just wants money. He makes sure I know no one wants me there.”

Shane’s brow furrowed before he caught himself. He didn’t have siblings, but he couldn’t fathom getting calls from his family just to be told he was unwanted. No wonder Ilya hadn’t picked up the last time they’d been together.

He had the urge to reassure him that he was deeply wanted. That even if his family didn’t appreciate him, Shane did.

He wanted Ilya in his bed right now for reasons that had nothing to do with his stupid celibacy vow. He wanted to squeeze him so tight that they both forgot about this entire day. It was distracting and unbearable, how wanted he was, and for so much more than his money or body.

This wasn’t the time to say any of that, though. Not when he was still venting about his shitty brother and his dying father and all of the very valid reasons Shane shouldn’t stomp his foot and say, “You can’t leave! I want to see you!”

“They are telling us that my father has maybe a year, maybe two, and…” Ilya blew out a breath. “I don’t know. It makes me think I should go.”

“Ilya… I’m so sorry.”

The camera jolted as Ilya disappeared from the frame, and when he came back, he’d sunk lower onto his bed, lying flat.

“You should sleep, Hollander.”

“Yeah, you should too. I’m zonked.” Shane yawned. “Text me about the dates, okay? You could stay longer than the weekend, if you wanted. We could do the juniors stuff on one day and the kayak on another, or we could just hide out here. Or we could do like, the PR campaign of the century. I bet my mom would love organizing that.”

His eyes were closed now as he babbled on. “Like you said. A hockey stick for every kid in Canada.”

“Okay, Shane.” Ilya’s voice came out low and soothing through the speaker, but Shane couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes. “I will text you.”

“Hey, Ilya?” He mumbled, fading fast.

“What?”

“You’re my favorite player too.”

Chapter End Notes

remember when i said this chapter would include all of playoffs and the awards HA SIKEEEE!!

Chapter 6: The Stanley Cup

Chapter Notes

June — Anaheim
Round Four: Stanley Cup Finals

“What are you smiling at your phone about?” Hayden squinted from the generic hotel bed to Shane’s right.

“Uh, just texting Rose.”

“Oh shit dude, really?” Hayden raised his eyebrows. “Are you actually asking her out this time?”

“What? No. We’re just friends. We’re getting dinner.”

“Dude.” He shot over a disbelieving look. “You’ve gotta go for that. It’s Rose fucking Landry.”

“Mind your business.” Shane scowled, returning to his phone as a new message chimed in.

Rose: ETA 5!

He got out of bed, swiping over to the conversation he’d actually been looking at while he put on his shoes.

Jane: Gotta go. Rose is almost here.

Lily: Ok.

Lily: Have fun. 😒

Shane’s lip twitched.

Jane: Ilya I’m gay

Lily: Yeah probably

Jane: 🙄

Jane: Shut up. I’ll text you later.

Lily: 😘

“Alright,” he locked his phone and made for the door. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

“Okay! Don’t stay out too late, kids.” Hayden waggled his eyebrows.

“Hayd, it’s 5 PM. Stop being such a dad.”

“I’m just saying!” He raised his hands in protest. “Big day tomorrow!”

***

“So. Have we had enough small talk that I can ask?” Rose got a mischievous look on her face as she swirled a glass of wine — wine that Shane was absolutely not partaking in before one of the most important days of his career.

“Ask what?”

“Ask about… you know who?” She tilted her head in suggestion.

“Oh. Um. We’re fine.” Shane shrugged, focusing on his plate.

“Fine. What does fine mean?” She tapped a perfectly manicured hand on her glass.

“Nothing, seriously.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve been dying to ask all night. I already filled you in on all my love life drama!”

Shane took a sip of water to stall. “We’re… We’re good, okay?”

Her face lit up and she leaned across the table. “You’re back together?”

“No!” His cheeks warmed. “It’s not like that. We’ve never been together.”

“What? Shane Hollander, you are holding out on me.”

He glanced around the restaurant, checking for nearby patrons, but one of the benefits of going out in the greater Los Angeles area with Rose Landry was being assured the best table in the house.

“Look, it’s complicated. He can’t be,” he lowered his voice, “my boyfriend or anything. We’re just back on good terms.”

“Well why not?” She asked as though it was the obvious question.

“You know why not.”

“I’m not saying you have to be Andy Cohen. But the options aren’t power couple or nothing.”

“Who’s Andy Cohen?”

“God, you’re so cute. I wish you were straight.”

Shane cast another nervous look around and found that there really wasn’t anyone nearby, and it loosened something in him.

“Okay. I’ll translate to sports. You don’t have to be, like, the Tom Daley of hockey. Do you know that one?”

He gave her a small smile. “Yeah, I know that one.”

“So why not find a middle ground?” She shrugged a shoulder. “A lot of my friends are gay. Honestly, like, the majority, and they just don’t talk to the press about it. Why not go that route?”

Shane stared at the white tablecloth, mouth pressed into a line. “It’s not that simple. I don’t know.”

She gave him a sympathetic look, then waved her hands as if clearing the air.

“Okay! I’ll lay off.” Her sympathy shifted into a smirk. “Will you at least tell me something about him?”

“Rose…”

“Something! Anything! I’m dying over here!”

Shane bit his lip, considering. He’d never had this before. Never been able to gossip about his love life, or tell anyone about Ilya. An unfamiliar giddiness bubbled in his chest, and he surrendered.

“He’s so fucking hot.”

It came out as a tortured admission.

“Ahh!” She let out a little squeal, delighted. ”Of course he is! Look at you!”

Shane laughed, reddening.

“Show me a picture right now!”

“No,” he shook his head, still smiling. “No way.”

“Boo! No fun!” She pouted. “Well, tell me something else then. It’s only fair.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything! What’s he like?”

Shane’s water suddenly became very interesting.

“He’s funny. He’s, um…” He covered his mouth, but the flush in his cheeks betrayed him. “He’s actually kind of a dick.”

“To you?” Her eyes shot open.

“No! No. Not to me.” He glanced down, a faraway look in his eyes. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

“I’m happy for you.” A soft, knowing smile took over her face before it pivoted into pure mischief. “Now when you say kind of a dick… Stop me when.”

Rose pressed her hands together as though in prayer, and then slowly pulled them apart, expanding the space between them.

“What? Stop you when…?”

“Shane.” She winked. “Stop me when.”

“Oh! Oh. Oh my God.” He laughed, head falling into his hand.

For a moment, he hesitated, but in the end, he couldn’t fight his grin.

“Okay. Go.”

“Yes!” She giggled, restarting her measurement.

“Alright… Stop.”

“Shane Hollander!” She gasped. “You are so—”

Five days later — Montreal

Lily: Lucky.

Jane: The luckiest ;)

Shane’s cheeks hurt from smiling. He thought his teammates might blow his eardrums out. They’d done it. They’d fucking done it. His team, under his leadership, had joined the exclusive club of men who had not only won the Cup twice, but twice in succession. A fucking two-peat.

He’d never be arrogant enough to say it out loud, but Shane had known his career wouldn’t end before he won a Cup. If he was honest with himself, he knew it wouldn’t end with two. But back to back wins were so rare that not even he had bet on that.

He hadn’t known if the shine would’ve worn off. If the second could ever match the euphoria of the first. It did.

Last year, he’d floated on the victory, the triumph, the novelty. This year, those things were still part of it, but there was an added feeling of accomplishment in the steadiness of it. It wasn’t a fluke; he’d been here before. He’d established himself.

Ilya’s text only added to the high. Nothing could’ve brought down his mood tonight, but returning to the locker room and seeing the name Lily among the congratulations made his heart grow another size. They’d been talking so often that a new message from Ilya no longer felt exciting in that rare way it had been before, but the consistency itself made him giddy.

At some point, he’d started to trust that Ilya thought about him when he wasn’t around. At some point, the notification started looking like it belonged there.

The adrenaline of the win fueled him through the night. He broke his diet to drink beer from the Cup, and let his team dogpile him.

Once the champagne had been showered out of their hair, celebrations moved to a nearby sports bar. He looked around at his teammates and their loved ones, all drinking on the house and fielding autograph requests, and wondered if it was possible to be happier than this.

Around midnight, Jackie was the voice of reason, crammed in a booth two seats down from him.

“Babe, we’ve got about a half hour until we have to let Hannah go home.”

“Oh, come on!” Hayden protested. “We won the fucking Cup! Text her and see if she can stay a little longer!”

She leaned onto Hayden’s shoulder, closing her eyes. “She’s a college kid. We can’t ask her to babysit until four in the morning.”

“Just text her.” He frowned. “Come on, I want you here for this.”

“Hayd, it’s been hours. My feet are killing me.”

“Jaaaackieeeee.” Hayden pouted, and J.J. snickered.

“Tell you what.” She straightened out, starting to stand. “I’ll head back. You stay out, okay?”

“Fine. But I’ll miss you.” He made grabby hands at her, and she leaned in to kiss him.

“Good night, champion. I love you. I’m so proud of you, babe. Night, guys!”

As she left, Mitty slurred, “That’s a good woman you got there.”

“I know.” Hayden whined. “Jackie’s the best.”

“I can’t believe she stayed out this long. She looks like she’s gonna fucking pop.” J.J. chimed in.

“Like I said, Jackie’s the best!” Hayden lifted his head and squinted at Shane. “Hey. Where’s Lily?”

Shane froze. “What?”

“Come on, man. Shouldn’t Lily be here right now?”

“What? No.”

“Capitaine has a girlfriend?” The shock on J.J.’s face was slightly insulting.

“I don’t! But, even if I did, she lives in Boston.”

In his drunken stupor, J.J. wrapped his arms around Shane’s neck and started singing Justin Bieber, repeatedly chanting “Where are you now that I need ya? Oo-ooh.”

“Cut it out!” Shane laughed, shoving him away.

“I’m just saying, we should be getting laid tonight.” Hayden mouthed at his beer and missed.

“Pike, there is no way you’re getting laid tonight.” J.J. laughed. “Your wife is pregnant as fuck, and you are so drunk, you can’t stand. Your dick probably wouldn’t even work if you tried.”

“Says you.”

“Nah, no chance.” J.J. chuckled. “If anyone’s got a shot, it’s Hollander.”

“What? Why me?” Shane asked.

“You’re the soberest, and like, fifty girls have already made you sign their jerseys. So if you say you don’t have a girlfriend…” J.J. waggled his eyebrows.

“Hey,” Hayden pointed a finger. “A little respect on Boston Lily’s name.”

“My bad, Captain No Hoes!”

“Don’t say hoes.” Shane grimaced.

“Ah.” J.J. clapped a hand on his shoulder. “My apologies to Boston Lily. I will not call your not-girlfriend a hoe.”

“No, Lily would probably be fine with it.” Shane snorted. “This is a me thing.”

“Ooh, Cap’s got himself a freak?”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Next year.” Hayden burped.

“What?”

“Bring her next year.” He shrugged. “We’re two for two. May as well go three for three.”

“Hell fucking yes, we will!” J.J. raised a glass, and Shane was grateful for the topic change.

He couldn’t picture it. Ilya sitting here among these wives, and girlfriends, and sleepy children. He’d probably be shit-talking the players to their faces. Or maybe telling them that they’d only won because of Shane. He thought that might be what Ilya was like as a partner — still shit-talking, but on his behalf. Proud shit-talking.

Maybe he could picture it a little.

He peeled Hayden’s droopy form off his body and stood. “Hey, I’m gonna make a call. I’ll be right back.”

“Tell Lily we say hi!”

He got some jeers and pats on the back as he shuffled out of the booth, but in his drunken state, he couldn’t muster his typical paranoia. He decided that tonight, he wasn’t going to be Shane Hollander, the guy terrified of anyone finding out who was on the other end of the line. He was just going to be another guy on the team, fresh off winning the Stanley fucking Cup, calling someone important to him.

He made his way through the crowded bar and dialed from the sidewalk.

“Hollander?”

“Hi.” He bounced on the balls of his feet.

“Are you drunk?”

“Maybe. What are you doing?”

“Something very boring. You would probably love it.”

“Really?” Shane’s smile made his voice crack and go high at the end. “What?”

“Dishes.” Ilya sighed. “I had friends over tonight to watch, and they are animals, so now I am throwing away their terrible beer and cleaning the kitchen.”

“You watched?” Shane sounded goofy and lovestruck even to his own ears.

“Yes. Fast Five. Was very good.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes, is the best one, so. No complaints.”

“No you didn’t!” Shane doubled down, laughing.

“No.” Ilya’s voice was gentle. “We watched some shitty hockey player win the Conn Smythe.”

Shane’s smile split his face. “Do I get a congratulations?”

“Hmm… I suppose it is only fair. Congratulations.” He followed it with something in Russian.

“What does that mean?”

“Sore winner.”

“No it doesn’t.” Shane grinned.

“Ah, you speak Russian?”

“Not yet.”

The mood was broken by a trio of wasted Montreal fans yelling, “Holy shit! Is that Hollander?” from across the street.

He gave them a little wave, then pointed to the phone, though he could see that they were taking photos. Eventually, they started singing and went on their way, shouting their praises.

“You fucking beauty! I knew you could do it! That’s my fucking boy!”

Shane flushed, returning his attention to the call. “Sorry.”

“You should be celebrating.”

“I am celebrating.”

“So what does the Virgin Mary think, hmm? You broke her. Chastity belt came off and you still won.”

“I didn’t…” Shane looked around the sidewalk. “We didn’t fuck.”

“Mm, not exactly. But probably more than you have done before, yes?”

“Yeah…”

“I think we could fuck next year and it would be fine.”

“Next year?”

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything. But they’d never planned so far ahead, and it made Shane’s face tingle.

“Well yes. Obviously did not keep you from the Cup, so.”

“So you think I’m gonna win again?” Shane’s voice took on a cocky lilt.

“No. I did not say that.”

“I don’t know, kind of sounded like you were saying—”

“I was talking about me.”

“Right.” Shane snorted. “You’re so full of shit.”

“No, your hearing is bad. Is probably all of your screaming fans fucking up your ears.” He changed his voice in imitation. “Please, please, Mr. Hollander, give me your cock.”

“Oh, is that what you think my fans sound like?”

“Is what my fans sound like, so, probably.”

“Huh. Sounds like I’ve got myself a fan.”

“Montreal fan?” Ilya scoffed. “Blech, never.”

“Didn’t say you were a Montreal fan. Just a Hollander fan.”

“Ah, okay.”

“Not gonna fight that one?”

“You have been drinking. Your brain is fuzzy. You do not know what’s going on.”

Right then, another group of blue jerseys came swaying down the sidewalk. “Oh my God, Hollander?! Holy fuck, can we get a selfie?”

“Uh, yeah, one sec.”

Shane muttered a quick apology and posed for their photos. Once they were gone, he sheepishly returned with, “Hi. Back.”

“Please, please, Mr. Hollander! Give me your cock!”

“Shut up!”

“Are you going to fuck one of your adoring fans tonight? I think you have earned a reward.” Ilya purred.

“No?” Shane bristled, a little hurt that Ilya thought he would do that immediately after calling him. He wondered if Ilya would do the same. If he already had been.

His voice quieted. “Not really who I want to fuck right now.”

“Ah. I see. You are calling for your reward?”

“Well, not just that, but… I wouldn’t mind.”

“Okay,” Ilya hummed lightly. “Go to the bathroom.”

“Now?” Shane looked around at the busy street, and saw his teammates sloshing around through the window of the bar.

“We are on the phone now.”

“Yeah, but… I’m in public.”

“Hmm, yes, but I am feeling very sleepy. I may not want to talk later.”

“Bullshit.”

“Go to the bathroom, Shane.” Ilya commanded, and damnit, that authoritative tone always spoke directly to Shane’s most primal instincts.

“Okay. Give me a second.”

Shane threaded his way through the crowd, trying not to draw attention. Thankfully, besides the men’s and women’s restrooms, the bar had a single-occupancy bathroom tucked down the hall, and he was able to slip in unnoticed.

“Okay. I’m here.”

“Good boy.”

“Fuck you.” Shane glanced at the door. “There’s no line right now, but...”

“Take off your pants. Kneel.”

“No way. This bathroom is fucking disgusting.”

“I think you would do it if I was there.”

Shane winced at the sticky floor. ”You can’t see how gross this bathroom is.”

“Does it matter?” Ilya drawled, cocky as hell.

Probably not.

“Can I tell you something, Shane?” Ilya’s voice went low, drawing it out.

“What?” Shane whispered.

“I don’t think there is anywhere in the world that you wouldn’t drop to your knees for me.”

Shane shuddered, imagining it. “Not here. Not now. I have to be fast. And, you know, quiet.”

Ilya made an unhappy noise, but he conceded. “Fine. We will save that for the awards. For now, you will listen to me and do as I say. Okay?”

“Okay.” Shane breathed, already half hard.

“Did you take your pants off?”

Shane scrambled to catch up, pressing his phone against his shoulder to free his hands, then peeling his sweatpants and boxers midway down his thighs.

“Yes.”

“Pinch your nipples. If I was there, do you think that would be my fingers or my tongue?”

Shane’s bulge grew harder as he complied, closing his eyes to focus on Ilya’s instructions. He tugged up his shirt just enough to squeeze at his chest, thumbing over his nipples the way Ilya liked to.

“Fingers.”

“You always get so sensitive. You like when I roll them around?”

“Yes.” He breathed, mimicking the action.

“Is too bad, Hollander. I like biting them, too. I like the face you make when I lick them. They get so hard.”

“Okay, both.”

Ilya chuckled. “Are you hard?”

“Obviously.” Shane muttered.

“Play with your balls. Imagine my mouth on them, sucking them.”

Shane followed orders immediately, gently rubbing his hand between his legs.

“Feels good,” he murmured, sounding a bit dreamy.

He kept his eyes closed and focused on Ilya’s voice, until he heard a wet, repetitive metronome that could only be one thing.

“Wait. What are you doing? Oh my God. Are you—?”

“Yes.” Ilya’s breathing labored. “Jealous?”

“Fuck. Yes. Come on, you know I have to be fast.”

“Hollander, you are going to come the second I tell you to touch your dick.”

“Fuck you.”

“I think you can hold off a little longer. You are so good at discipline. Such a good, hardworking boy. Do you think you can work hard for me?”

“Yes,” Shane sighed.

Ilya chuckled. “You love praise.”

“Shut up.”

“What? Don’t be embarrassed. It’s hot.”

Shane brought his hand back to his chest, grabbing at his pecs like Ilya would and letting out a stuttered breath. He heard amusement through the phone.

“Oh, you liked that.”

“Yeah,” Shane rasped.

“You like knowing you’re hot?”

Shane nodded, though Ilya couldn’t see it. There was something so hypnotic about closing his eyes and just listening to Ilya, hearing the wet slide of his hand on his cock and letting his imagination fill in the blanks. Shane took meditative breaths, squeezing his balls and taking what he could get.

“Fine. I can say this. You are so fucking sexy, Hollander. Looked so fucking good tonight, all sweaty.”

Shane paused. “What, at the game?”

“Mm. It gets on your lip. You know that?” Ilya’s strokes hadn’t stopped.

“I guess.”

“Reminds me of what you look like with my come in your mouth.”

“Holy fuck. I need to…”

“Okay. Touch yourself. Go slow. You do not come until I do.”

“Thank fuck.” It was such a relief that Shane whimpered, then slapped a hand over his mouth. He thumbed at the head of his cock, fighting the urge to jack off like a teenager.

“Fuck, I love when you get desperate like this.” Ilya groaned. “How long has it been this time?”

“A week.” He whined.

“Are you worried? Someone will walk in on you?” Ilya taunted. “They have no idea what a slut you are for it.”

Shane went faster, unable to resist.

“You hear those people outside? I do. Do you think they know their captain is hiding in the bathroom stroking his cock for me?”

Shane sighed. “Please say you’re getting close.”

“Oh, you like that? You would be an exhibitionist, Hollander. You always get so loud for me — mmm. I’m thinking about it now. All the noises you’re going to make for me in Vegas.” Ilya was grunting now, and Shane could hear that he was beating his cock in full force. “Tell me. Tell me you’ll be loud for me next time.”

“I will. I will.” Shane gasped, still trying his best to be quiet. But the sound of Ilya’s hand was killing him.

“Fuck, I need you to… Now. I’m gonna— Now. You have to.”

Ilya let out a telltale groan. “Fuck, Shane. Come for me. Come in that filthy fucking bathroom like you want to.”

Shane swore, rushing to ruck up his T-shirt where it had fallen just in time to avoid the evidence as he came all over his stomach. He did his best to catch it all on his fingers, but it wasn’t perfect.

For a minute, all he heard was silence and heavy breathing.

“Better?”

“Better.” Shane exhaled.

“Wash your hands, Hollander. Your team is probably missing you.”

“Yeah.”

A moment lingered. One that should be filled with see you later or I miss you or I love you. But, Shane was in a public bathroom, and he could see drops of his own come on the floor, and they didn’t really say things like that. And yet, Ilya didn’t seem to want to hang up either.

“Go.” Ilya eventually filled the silence. “I will see you in a few weeks.”

“Okay. Bye, Lily.”

“Bye, Jane.”

Chapter End Notes

ANOTHER scene of them jackin it?? 🙄 look. these are the realities of being in a long distance low commitment situationship with the love of ur life. it is what it is. the rest of this fic takes place irl i swear

Chapter 7: Media Interlude

Chapter Notes

ILYA: Hello, Boston fans! This is your captain, Ilya Rozanov! Back in January, I was part of the NHL charity auction to win a date with an All Star, and today I am here with my hot date for the day, someone who was very excited to spend time with me, the great and sexy…

The camera pans to a very put-out Shane.

ILYA: Shane Hollander!

SHANE: Hi guys.

Ilya puts an arm around Shane’s waist, forcefully dragging him in closer.

ILYA: Come with us for my date with a handsome philanthropist!

Shane swats him away, and the camera cuts to Shane alone.

SHANE: Rozanov and I may not agree on much, but if there’s one thing we’ve always been on the same page about, it’s that you’ve gotta put your money where your mouth is. So, today, we’re going to be volunteering to help out at Rozanov’s local animal shelter.

Shots of Shane and Ilya racing with the dogs.

ILYA (voiceover): All of these animals here come vaccinated and neutered, and they are looking for loving homes today!

SHANE (voiceover): And if you don’t need a new furry friend, you can always donate and know that your money is going to a good cause.

Shot of Ilya laying on the ground with his three race-winning dogs.

ILYA: Caroline, did you get that? Hollander smiled at me!

SHANE: I did not!

ILYA: He did! He is charmed by me, look!

Shane kicks him on the ground, and Ilya yelps.

Shot of them standing in front of the clinic again. Ilya is holding a pug in his hands, while Shane bounces a chihuahua missing its front teeth.

ILYA: Today, I am having fun being Hollander’s sugar baby. His money will go to vaccinations, food, and care for all of these cute puppies.

SHANE: Sugar baby…? Are you fu— Are you kidding?

Ilya starts petting Shane’s dog.

ILYA: Don’t worry, Lula. My sugar daddy will get you new teeth, sweet baby. Aw, you love him, don’t you? Is too bad. He is mine today.

Shane deadpans to the camera.

SHANE: Please cut that.

Shots of them playing with the cats.

SHANE (voiceover): For the next week, Rozanov will be matching donations here, and I’ll be matching donations at my local shelter in Montreal, so you can find information on that in the caption.

Sneaky shot of Shane and Ilya bickering.

SHANE: No chance.

ILYA: No, I am going to win. You will see.

SHANE: Just watch. I’m going to donate more than you.

ILYA: Hollander, there is no way your boring fans are as nice as mine. Boston fans, we love animals. We have big hearts—

SHANE: Nice? You think you can out-nice Canadians?

Shot of them being interviewed courtside.

ILYA: Hockey fans should know this man is not a cheap date, so, I could not only take him to clean out litter boxes. I do not want to be murdered next time I am in Montreal. Much more fun to murder him on the ice.

SHANE: God, you wish.

Ilya smacks a hand over Shane’s mouth while Shane struggles, and they play fight as Ilya raises his voice.

ILYA: So now, I must make it up to him by taking him to a place that is very special to both of us — TD Garden — to do one of our favorite activities together: watch a Boston team defeat Canada.

Shots of the game — Boston vs. Toronto — paired with them clapping in their seats. Rose and Miles are visible in the background.

SHANE: I want it on the record that I would never root for Toronto or Boston in anything.

Back to their courtside interview.

ILYA: Whoever donates the most money to the shelter will be getting signed jerseys from us! Mine to wear, and Hollander’s to put in the trash.

SHANE: You’ve got one week! Don’t let me down, Montreal!

Cut to them seated at the end of the game.

ILYA: What do you think, Hollander? Have I earned a second date?

SHANE: You’re on. Montreal, we’ll see you in July!

They shake hands and smile.

❤️Liked by scotthunterofficial and 11.9k others

***

Comments

@mrsrozanov: Why am I jealous of Shane Hollander cleaning a litter box 😭

@cliff_hanger: This is how I find out Roz is cheating on me 😢

@rozlow: @cliff_hanger do NOT play with my heart like this

@shanes_tape: Me after donating $5 to help Shane: I’m a philanthropist ❤️

@hollzy24: THE MISERY ON HIS FACE LMFAOOO 💀 MY BOY HASN’T LOOKED THIS UPSET SINCE THE DRAFT 😂 I JUST KNOW HE KICKED ROZANOV AT SOME POINT

@hockey_memes: Not them fighting over literal charity donations

@81hive: Aww Roz is doing charity work! Hanging out with Hollander 🤮 he’s such a sweetie 🥰

@shanehollanderunofficial: SHANE WITH A KITTEN? EVERYONE SAY THANK YOU FOR MY NEW BACKGROUND

@marty87: Hollander and Rozanov actually being friends in the year 2016 the world is healing

@roz_the_goat: The way Hollander is about to come home to a “welcome home cheater” sign in Montreal 💀

@hollanovvv: HOLLANOV ON A *DATE*?? IN MY CITY???? I USED TO PRAY FOR DAYS LIKE THIS

@puckyouverymuch: @hollanovvv nurse they’re out again

@hollanovvv: @puckyouverymuch ur so mad they’ve explored each other’s bodies

@puckyouverymuch: @hollanovvv do you realize you sound like a Hobama fan?

@hollanovvv: @puckyouverymuch denial is a river in Egypt

@puckyouverymuch: @hollanovvv Hollander is literally dating Rose Landry but stay delusional I guess ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

@hollanderhouse: My goat is so classy hanging out with R*zanov 🤢 for charity

@ilyarozanovdoingthings: @hollanderhouse Mind you he paid 30k to do it… Like this was optional 😂

@shane_hollander_fan: Shane baby blink twice if you need help

@roselandrybrasil: 😍🇧🇷😍🇧🇷😍

Chapter End Notes

I'm sorry this next chapter (awards) has been driving me NUTSSSS i've rewritten the same damn scene like 6 different times and it won't work ahh!!! But I was going to include this in the next chapter and now it feels weird so. Interlude. This is what the world is seeing posted at this time

Chapter 8: The NHL Awards

Chapter Notes

Reminder that #MyScott is oblivious Book Scott

June — Las Vegas

Shane’s whole body was on edge. Almost two months had passed since he’d seen Ilya in person, and the anticipation of being alone with him was maddening.

They hadn’t exchanged more than a few covert glances all night, and though he’d developed a sixth sense for tracking Ilya in his periphery over the years, his fingers itched to touch him.

Ilya was dressed criminally well tonight. Between the slicked-back hair and the perfect tuxedo, he would’ve fit in better at a movie premiere than the NHL Awards, and Shane relished every glimpse he caught.

Earlier in the show, the host had introduced the Most Sportsmanlike category with a little joke at Ilya’s expense, and for a moment, they’d spotlighted him in the crowd, catching him in a dazzling, genuine smile. That is, before he realized he was on camera and licked his canine teeth like the menace he was.

Shane was so grateful that he wondered if he could bribe the camera operators to do it again.

Two fucking months.

When his own award was announced, Shane didn't even wait a minute after he left the stage, trophy in one hand, phone in the other.

Jane: Does this mean I get to pick what we do tonight?

The reply was immediate.

Lily: What makes you think I'm free?

Shane frowned. He was pretty sure Ilya was kidding, but his brain couldn’t help but flash back to years past, when he’d been sure they’d meet up, and sorely proven wrong.

He peeked behind the thick velvet backstage curtain, and found Ilya in the audience. It wasn’t hard; bright light illuminated his face, completely unrepentant as he ignored the host to stare down at his phone.

Jane: Liar.

And really, Ilya should’ve dimmed his brightness, because Shane never should’ve been able to see his grin from the wings. The C-list comedian holding the mic must be so insulted.

Lily: 😈

***

“Man, you are jumpy tonight.” Hayden gave him a funny glance as he checked his watch for the thirtieth time at the after party.

“Sorry.” Shane forced his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got an early flight.”

“Alright, dude. Whatever you say.”

The Voyageurs were the champions of the season, and tonight, Shane was their king. He’d been stopped by every person he’d ever had a two minute conversation with, but their congratulations fell on deaf ears. Detroit’s goalie had to repeat himself twice before Shane realized that he was trying to tell him he went to high school with Rose.

He felt a little guilty about that. It wasn’t the goalie’s fault that Ilya was at the bar behind him.

A slap on the shoulder snapped him out of it.

“So, where’s your hot date?”

He turned to find Scott Hunter in a debonair bowtie, a crystal glass in hand.

“What? I didn’t bring anyone.”

“I’m fucking with you, Rook. Have you seen Rozanov around?”

Yes. “Uh, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere.”

“I’m just giving you shit, man. I saw the posts. Wanted to tell you guys I think it’s cool what you’re doing, with the dates.” He took a sip of whiskey.

“Oh. Thanks. I mean, not sure we’re doing much. You were at the auction, you know how it goes.” Shane wished he had his own glass to fidget with.

“Yeah, I know, but, eh. Wasn’t sure how you’d handle it.” Scott shrugged. “A lot of guys in the league would’ve been making fucked up jokes about it, and from what I’ve seen, you two haven’t, so.”

Shane’s face warmed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know how it is. Two men on a ‘date’.” He put up air quotes. “I think Kent would’ve had a field day with that.”

“Oh. Right.” Shane nodded, but the insinuation made him nervous.

“I know it’s all campy and for show but, you know that youth shelter I work with?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so. That’s the one you did the auction for, right?”

“Yeah, it’s a cool organization. Ends up being a lot of runaway kids. A lot of them end up in the city because they get kicked out of their parents’ houses for… all kinds of reasons.” Scott sighed. “One thing leads to another, babysitting money gets spent on a Greyhound, and then they end up with us. I’m not trying to bum you out, but I thought you should know that it means something to them, to see two big names be okay with it. Not doing the whole, ‘Oh, I could never go on a date with a man,’ thing.”

Shane opened his mouth to speak, but Scott cut him off.

“I know you’re not thinking of it that way, don’t worry.” He let out a little chuckle. “I just figured, you probably don’t spend much time with homeless teenagers, so I wanted to let you know. They were really excited. Probably says more about the league than anything you two are doing.”

“Wow, uh…” Shane was at a loss for words. “Yeah, you’re right. I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“Well, now you have.” Scott raised his glass. “That’s all I wanted to say. It’s cool you guys are friends now. I mean, the kids think you’re cool. Which, honestly, I’m pretty jealous of because they’re hard to impress, so if you two ever want to stop by, let me know.”

“For sure. Thank you. I, uh, I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.” Scott pressed his mouth into an awkward straight line.

“And if you don’t see Rozanov, I’ll tell him what you said. He’s actually an okay guy underneath all of, you know, that.”

“Yeah,” Scott huffed. “I know. Kind of got that when he sent me a donation after the auction.”

“He did?”

“Well, he didn’t sign it, but it was from an anonymous bank account in Boston and the only memo was ‘for dinosaur charity’, so, I’ve got a pretty good guess.”

Shane laughed. “God, he would do that.”

“Yep. Ruined my plan to hate him forever, but he’s a good egg.” Scott sighed, glancing around the room. “Anyways. Wanna get a drink? I told Sully I’d go find him.”

“Nah, another time. I’ll leave you dinosaurs to it.” Shane grinned.

“Fucking twerp.”

***

Emboldened by his conversation with Scott, Shane decided to do something he’d never done before at an NHL event. He approached Ilya Rozanov.

“Hey.”

“Hollander.” Ilya gave him a cold, professional nod, casting his eyes around the room.

“I was just talking to Hunter.”
“Ah. I didn’t know there was a boring table at this.”

“It’s fine, I know it’s hard to see from the asshole table. They seat you guys at the back, right?”

Ilya’s lip curled, finally making eye contact, and Shane swelled with pride.

“So,” Shane broke the moment. “I won.”

“Yes.” Ilya shot him a look. “And now you are here to brag about it? Maybe it is you at the asshole table.”

“Sure.” Shane didn’t rise to the bait. “Anyways, I know what I want. Uh, for my prize.”

Ilya’s eyes flashed. “Not here, Hollander.”

“No, it’s not— Scott was telling me he thought it was cool that we were, um, friends.”

“Friends.”

“Yeah. He saw the posts the shelter did, so he was talking about the charity stuff and, I don’t know, he said a bunch of things, but I thought… Maybe we could hang out? Because we’re… friends?”

He sounded more like he was asking someone to a middle school dance than suggesting a public conversation with the man he’d been fucking for six years.

Ilya let Shane squirm for a few seconds before answering, and doubt crept in. Maybe he thought it was too risky, or he’d tell him to go back to his terrible Cup-winning team.

“This is all you want for your prize?”

“I mean,” Shane’s mouth twisted, fighting a smirk. “You’re probably gonna do the rest anyway. Thought I’d try to get something else out of it.”

Ilya laughed, a bright and pure thing. “Cocky.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No.” Ilya’s gaze darkened. “You are not.”

Shane felt his heart skip a beat, too excited to hold onto the smug act.

“Okay.” Amusement played across Ilya’s face. “What do you want to do?”

Shane smiled, and he knew it was too big. He coughed, trying to shake the moony expression on his face. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “You thought I would say no?”

“Just got eager, I guess.” Shane shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly shy.

“Yes. That does sound like you.”

Ilya swung an arm around his shoulder. The line between chummy and infantilizing was razor thin, but Shane couldn’t find it in himself to care. Not when he was finally tucked into Ilya’s chest, touching him for the first time in weeks, close enough to inhale his cologne.

And Scott Hunter thought they were friends, so, they may as well get away with it.

“Come on, buddy. Let’s play blackjack.”

***

The hotel was massive — at least fifty floors and something like twenty restaurants. When they got into the elevator, Ilya pressed the button for the second floor before Shane could object.

“I have to piss,” he explained. “Second floor bathroom will be less crowded than the casino.”

Shane nodded, but something about the set of Ilya’s posture and the chill in his tone had him tucking his thumbs into his pockets.

“It’s good to see you,” he murmured, without shifting his gaze from the elevator doors.

Unfortunately, Ilya didn’t have time to reply before the elevator stopped and a drunk couple stumbled in. It wasn’t until the doors dinged open again that he caught Ilya murmur, almost under his breath, “Yes. It is.”

***

Barely a second passed between Ilya casing the stalls for any strays and pinning Shane against the back of the door with his mouth. A smarter man would have protested, but Shane was not that man.

“Hi,” he breathed, a little dazed from being so thoroughly kissed.

Ilya slid a possessive hand around his neck. “Your freckles. You have more of them.”

“I do?”

“Mhmm.” Ilya inspected his face very seriously.

“I guess they get darker in the summer,” Shane replied uselessly.

Ilya didn’t elaborate. This was the second time he’d brought up Shane’s freckles, and at this point, Shane was beginning to wonder if it was some kind of kink for him. Still, there was no time to dwell on the thought because Ilya’s mouth was already back on his. Not that he was complaining. The way Ilya was holding his chin felt like a balm to the nerves Shane had been carrying all night.

He could get used to this. Very used to this. Ilya already took smoke breaks. Why shouldn’t they take kiss breaks?

Eventually, he came to his senses.

“How long do you think we’ve been in here?”

“Does it matter?”

“We should probably go. Come on.” Shane grabbed his hand, swinging it a little bit. “Let’s go to the casino. Let’s be friends.”

Ilya huffed a laugh. “You put out very easily for a friend.”

“Yeah, well. Back at you.”

***

“Marly, do not fuck this up for me.” Ilya swung a finger into Cliff’s face from where he was seated in front of a slot machine.

Since they’d left the party, they’d bounced around a series of different games on the ground floor casino, running into players from all over the league. Apparently, nothing united these men like losing money.

Cliff’s mouth dropped open in outrage. “I’m just standing here!”

“No, you are bad luck. You are cursing me. Hollander is good luck. Every time you stand there, I get the green fish. I need the red fish.”

“Roz, how much money have you put into this machine today?” Victor St. Simon asked from where he was standing nearby, slurping some sort of slushy.

“Twenty dollars.”

“Oh, there is no fucking way you’ve only put twenty bucks into that.”

“He’s full of shit.” Shane laughed. “It’s 12:05. He’s at least three hundred deep right now.”

“Oh, Mr. Rolex Man with the time.” Ilya scowled.

Shane pulled his hair, and Marlow laughed.

“Oh, fuck off, dude. I am, too, your good luck charm. You didn’t start losing money until St. Simon showed up.”

“Dude?” Ilya’s head snapped back, brow-bone pronounced in his alarm. “Dude? I am not your dude, Hollander. You are a betrayer. We are enemies again.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ diva, Roz.” Marlow complained.

Shane gave Ilya a shit-eating, flirty smirk before he caught himself and began studying the floor.

For the last half hour, Ilya had been sitting in front of a screen featuring three fishbowls. Each had a red, a yellow, and a green fish in them, and the goal was to expand them to the point that a fishbowl broke. Now, the red fish was clearly at its limit, and Ilya was determined to win, no matter the cost.

Despite the environment, the alcohol, and the late hour, Shane was having fun. At this point in the night, the entire floor had been taken over by a mix of NHL players and people returning from a costumed convention Shane didn’t understand.

It had been a long time since this environment had given him a thrill. The glittering chandeliers and richly colored carpets might have resembled the set of Ocean’s Eleven, but they smelled like the back alley of a 7-Eleven. Smoking indoors was legal in Las Vegas, and Shane hated it, but tonight he was enjoying the excuse to hassle Ilya. By the third cigarette, Shane suspected he was baiting him on purpose, because he seemed to be enjoying the lectures a little too much.

“Hollander, where the fuck have you been?” A Quebecois accent rang out.

He turned to find J.J. ambling over, bowtie loose around his collar.

“Here?” Shane shrugged. “Feeling pretty lucky tonight.”

Under normal circumstances, he would’ve been a lot more self conscious about running into one of his best friends. But, they’d been milling around with other players all night. Temporary truces were formed while people stood around to see if their competitors would finally hit it big.

“Is that Rozanov?” J.J. ducked around Shane’s head.

“Yes, it is me. I can’t sign an autograph right now, though. I need a red fish.” Ilya didn’t bother to turn around.

“Putain.” J.J. made a face. “You win anything?”

“Nah. Mostly watching Rozanov lose, so. Normal day.” Shane’s mouth curved, all too self-satisfied.

“So mean to me.” Ilya complained. “Boiziau, is he always like this? I thought we were friends now.”

“Roz, you’re a hockey player.” Cliff spoke up. “You should know by now, chirping is a love language.”

“Eh, I don’t know. He’s always nice to me, so, can’t love you that much.” J.J. taunted.

Ilya flipped him off, still glued to the screen, and Shane tried not to be too distracted by the sight of his forearms where he’d rolled up his tuxedo shirt.

“You think you’re gonna stick around for a while?” J.J. redirected his attention. “I’m trying to find Mitty for blackjack.”

“Oh yeah, Vaughny was sweeping over there earlier.”

“Wanna come?”

“I don’t know, I’m getting pretty tired. Might head up to bed soon.”

“No, Hollander!” Ilya whined. “I only need one more red fish! You have to balance out Marly.”

J.J. gave him a weird look, and Shane shook his head.

“Don’t ask.”

Thankfully, J.J. didn’t follow up. NHL players had their superstitions.

“Alright, man. Come find us if you get sick of watching him lose.”

“You know, I never do get sick of that.” Shane grinned.

“Touché.”

“No!” Ilya smacked his hand on the machine. “Marly, I’m serious. You are like, magnet for green. Hollander, come back.”

He bid J.J. goodnight and returned to where he’d been standing at Ilya’s right, checking his watch.

“Tell you what. I’ll stay until you hit the jackpot, or lose five hundred dollars. Deal?”

“Deal.” Ilya shook his hand. “But I will not be losing.”

After that, Ilya slammed the button repeatedly, barely watching the result, until finally — finally — the fishbowl burst.

Jackpot.

***

Shane returned to his own room first, both to avoid suspicion and to freshen up, and something about being alone with his thoughts had anticipation curling in his gut.

Tonight had been a novel experience. It was juvenile and innocent, but to be surrounded by their peers and break some of the story they’d been telling for their entire careers felt fucking amazing. If the world could accept them as friends — as people who hung out, and did charity, and played craps together — then was it so farfetched to think they might eventually accept them as…?

It didn’t matter. Ilya wasn’t his boyfriend. They weren’t even exclusive. But in a select few moments tonight, it felt a little bit like he was.

Like when a waiter came by their blackjack table to ask if anyone needed a new drink, and Ilya had surveyed the table.

“Another vodka for me. Cliff, you need a new beer? Okay, another Guinness, please. Hollander, you want beer or ginger ale?”

It was nothing. It was a soda. But there was a familiarity to it that had Shane feeling disproportionately giddy.

Or, when Ilya had gone to the bathroom. He’d stood up from his seat at the slots and squeezed Shane’s shoulders from behind.

“Hollander, take over. Vic, do not touch anything.”

Or maybe it was just the little touches they’d been getting away with all night. It felt like the basketball game all over again. Nothing obvious, just high fives and ruffled hair and condescending pats on the head. Still, it was enough to soothe the needy buzz that had been building throughout the day to make contact.

Every time Ilya touched him, he felt like a malnourished man being given a snack. It paled in comparison to his hunger, but he was so used to starving.

All night, he’d been buzzing with the need to get Ilya alone, but now that the opportunity was approaching, his nerves were catching up.

Being back in Vegas had him horny as hell, but there was an underlying emotion surfacing, too. He felt tense, crashing from the high of the casino, like his body was preparing for disappointment. A different hotel was hosting the awards this year, but it seemed that Shane’s mammal brain recognized its surroundings.

Tight dress shoes. The scent of cigarette smoke indoors. Gold, gleaming elevator. Ice machine. Filthy hallway carpet. That yellow cast of light. The walk to Ilya’s room was so familiar.

He tried to remind himself that things were different now. They’d talked every week, but he didn’t know how Ilya would treat him now that they’d exchanged I miss yous and I wish you were heres and all of the other things that were so much easier to say in the dark of night from a thousand miles away.

Apparently, the answer was, ravenously.

“Hollander, where the fuck have you been?” Ilya slammed the door to his suite shut, as though Shane had kept him waiting for days and not thirty minutes. The relief was instantaneous.

“Why? Miss me?”

“No.” He growled, backing Shane against the wall and biting his ear.

“Ow! Hey!”

Ilya kissed it better, then moved down his neck, attaching himself like a barnacle. “We should’ve left an hour ago. I have been dying all night.”

“I’m not the one who needed to win that fucking slot machine.”

Ilya groaned. “I told them to leave! I thought they would leave!”

Shane didn’t care about the fish, or Ilya’s stupid friends. He just wanted to keep letting Ilya maneuver him wherever he wanted. He closed his eyes, letting out a dreamy sigh. Ilya was always so controlled; this level of desperation was rarity, and every touch felt like physical therapy for Shane’s anxieties.

“Now who’s eager?”

Ilya shot him a glare and got to work on Shane’s button down. “We are not doing your sex ban again next year.”

“Uh, yes I am. This was my best year yet.”

“This was your sluttiest year yet.” Ilya gave him a flat look. “Hollander, we jerked off together like, a hundred times.”

“Not a hundred…” Shane blushed. “And you said that didn’t count! I’m not messing with science.”

“Science.” Ilya hummed. “What if the science was my dick?”

“Fuck off,” Shane laughed, but he loved that Ilya was thinking so far ahead. “I’m gonna win again next year. Just wait and see.”

“Ah, no. But if you do, it will not be because of this. We are too good for this shit. Last three Cups are you or me. How do you not see this?”

“My sex ban, my problem.” Shane leaned forward for a kiss, and was met with a grumbly noise as it was returned.

Ilya quietly began to work at Shane’s zipper, avoiding eye contact, and then it clicked.

“Wait. Did you—?”

“No.”

“Did you do the sex ban?”

“No. Shut up.”

“You did.” Shane beamed right into Ilya’s glare.

“And I did not win the Cup, so obviously is not science.”

“Were you still doing it? Because you’ve been out of the playoffs since, like—”

“Oh my God Hollander, you are such a sore winner.” Ilya huffed, but there was no way he was getting off that easy.

Shane fully paused, placing a hand on Ilya’s chest, and he let out an exasperated noise.

“So have you been with anyone since—?”

“Shane, I am going to die if we don’t fuck now.”

He draped his arms around Ilya’s neck. “The Virgin Ilya, huh?”

“You think I am afraid to kick you out of my room?”

“You won’t.” He pulled Ilya closer, nuzzling their noses together, and Ilya sighed in defeat.

“No. I won’t.”

Shane kissed him, still struggling not to laugh. “You did the sex ban. You called me Virgin Mary so many times, and you did the sex ban.”

“Enough.”

Ilya’s eyes darkened, and he gave Shane’s ass a deliberate squeeze. They tumbled to the bed, giddy over the fight between keeping their lips attached and trying to strip each other’s clothes off. Shane let out an oof as he crashed backwards into the headboard, urgency making them clumsy as Ilya rushed to straddle him.

“So. Is your year. What do you want?”

“I think,” Shane slid a finger over his collarbone, “that fair is fair. I think it’s your turn.”

“My turn.”

“Yeah,” he blushed.

“My turn for what?” Ilya prompted, enjoying being difficult.

The glint in his eye made it feel like a dare. Shane exhaled hard through his nose, exasperated.

“Your turn to take your fucking dick out, Rozanov.”

Ilya’s lip quirked up as he leaned back, thighs still bracketing Shane, and he unzipped his dress pants. He gave his erection one slow tug, then let it slap against his stomach, dropping his hands behind him and balancing on the bed. “Now what? Are you going to suck my dick, or…?”

Shane glared up at him, all angst, before he decided to switch directions. Usually, he didn’t love taking control, but right now he felt a surge of power and he was going to use it.

“Touch yourself,” he quoted, getting a little mean with it. “Show off for me. I want to watch.”

A slow smile crept across Ilya’s face as he recognized the words. “Have you been waiting to say that?”

“No.”

“You have. I can tell. How long? Two years?”

“Shut the fuck up and jack off for me.” He rolled his hips upwards, rubbing his own erection into Ilya’s ass from below. “Now.”

The teasing stopped, heat filling Ilya’s eyes. “If that is what the big winner wants.”

He wrapped his hand around himself, going slowly as he held their eye contact.

Shane couldn’t help but break it, gaze drifting towards the unhurried motion of Ilya’s fingers stroking that big cock. He wasn’t planning on making him do this for long, but he wasn’t going to miss his opportunity for revenge.

“This is all you want?” Ilya pulled back his foreskin and rubbed the tip into Shane’s still-clothed thigh. “I thought a cock slut like you would want to be fucked.”

“Why?” Shane tilted his head. “Is that what you’re thinking about? You want to fuck me?”

Ilya’s nostrils flared, and Shane didn’t miss the way his dick twitched at the words. His own was already starting to leak pre-cum.

“Maybe.” Another long, languid stroke. “Or maybe I thought you would want me in your mouth. I know how much you like sucking me off. You did not want your favorite treat tonight?”

And, well. He did, but that could wait. He shook his head, bluffing. “Keep going.”

“Not even going to get it wet for me?”

“Nope,” Shane popped the p. “You’re going to sit there and jerk yourself off while you think about how badly you wish you were fucking me.”

An animalistic growl crawled up Ilya’s throat, and he tightened his grip.

“I’m right, aren’t I? That’s what you’re thinking about?”

That was what Shane had thought about, when he’d been in his place two years ago. The excruciating torment of being so close, and not getting what he really needed.

Ilya didn’t answer, but his scowl spoke for him.

Shane continued to watch, so hard his own cock was poking into Ilya’s balls. But Ilya didn’t know how to ride a dick like he did. He didn’t have the experience to torment Shane back, or break his resolve from this position. Wouldn’t know exactly to grind against him in order to push Shane to his limit. Instead, he simply sat on top of him, letting the visual do the work, and the effect felt more like a cockwarming, a comforting heat against Shane’s crotch.

He couldn’t help but smirk. He was definitely going to outlast Ilya — a rarity he was going to enjoy every second of.

Not that he was in any way missing out. His mind was already cataloguing the image in front of him for all future fantasies. Ilya’s pink nipples, hardened in the cool air. The light catching every curve of hard muscle. The way he rubbed his hand across his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze. Still, he wasn’t done with his payback.

Shane raised himself up, pushing Ilya’s warm chest back, kicking him off his legs until he fell backwards. Ilya raised a brow as Shane shimmied off his own pants and scooted back to the headboard so they were no longer touching.

“I didn’t say stop.”

Ilya swallowed, resentful as he repositioned his own legs, and Shane started to join him.

He didn’t spend much time on his dick, quickly reaching for the lube in the nightstand and getting to work on fingering himself. A familiar smugness filled him as Ilya’s reaction grew angrier.

“Having fun?” His lip quirked as he reminded him of the words he’d been taunted with over the playoffs.

“Do you think I am stupid, Hollander? You think you can open yourself up and it is not for me?”

Shane crooked his finger, letting out a performative moan as he hit his prostate, loving the way Ilya’s jaw tightened in response.

“Go faster.”

His voice came out drier than he would’ve liked, and Ilya arched a brow. He had to be careful not to get himself too close just for the sake of pissing Ilya off. If there was one thing he was right about, it was that Shane was not leaving this room without getting dicked the fuck down. Ilya didn’t need to know that yet, though.

“What did you think I was going to ask you for?”

“What the fuck do you think, Shane? My fucking cock.”

“Yeah?” Shane scissored his fingers deeper, ready now, and moaned. “I can see it just fine from here.”

Ilya practically tackled him, done with this game. He snatched Shane’s hands away, pinning them down as he covered his body, hungry and wolfish.

“You think you can fuck yourself better than I can?” He spun Shane around, manhandling him onto all fours and positioning himself just outside of where Shane wanted him. “You think anyone fucks you like I do?”

Shane only arched into it, all too proud of how well this was turning out for him. He dropped his upper body into the sheets, flexing the muscles of his back as he teased his ass up and down Ilya’s cock.

“What about you, Rozanov?” Shane looked over his shoulder, savoring the blazing look on Ilya’s face. “You think anyone fucks you like I do?”

A possessive groan rumbled behind him, and Ilya gave his ass a firm, scolding smack.

“What do you want for your prize, Shane?” Ilya demanded, circling thick fingers into his rim.

His eyes rolled back at the sensation. “Fuck.”

Another slap, this time straight to his already sensitive hole. “Say it. What do you want?”

“Fuck me,” Shane gasped.

“Say the magic word.”

“Now. Fuck me now.”

He didn’t need to be told again. Ilya slammed into him, setting a backbreaking pace that had Shane’s face immediately buried into the pillows. He struggled for breath, reveling in the stretch he’d been craving - in his back, his thighs, his ass.

He’d been here before, face down, ass up in a Vegas hotel room. But the last time he’d cum into these sheets, Ilya hadn’t kissed his spine. Hadn’t rolled him over to finish with a clingy, wet makeout that had Shane wrapping his legs around his back. They hadn’t come down from the high breathing hard into each other’s mouths, chasing each other’s lips as they struggled for oxygen.

Now, Ilya laughed, collapsing on top of him. “You are such a little shit.”

He laughed too, more than pleased with himself. “Christ, that was good.”

“Good?” Ilya leaned back, a comically offended tone to his voice. “Good?!”

“Great. Amazing. Fucking fantastic.” Shane tugged the curls of his hair as their breathing regulated.

Ilya’s head dropped onto his chest, satisfied, and for a moment they simply heaved together in the afterglow. Eventually, the feeling of sweat and cum, sticky between them, got to Shane.

“Ugh. I need a shower.”

“Mm. Is too bad there is not one four meters away.”

“Fuck off,” he chuckled. In his post-orgasm haze, he didn’t have anything more clever to say. He peered up at the stunning man currently crushing his lungs and tried not to be overcome by the words tucked behind his teeth, fighting to escape.

“Come on. Let’s go.”

***

In the shower, Ilya rubbed body wash into Shane’s chest, wordlessly teasing.

“Shut up.” Shane fought a laugh, which earned him a pinch to the nipple. “Hey!”

Afterwards, Ilya stood at the double sink brushing his teeth, which really left Shane no other option but to stare at the rivulets of water dripping down his skin. A person shouldn’t be allowed to be this beautiful.

Ilya didn’t make a show of it when he rinsed the toothbrush and slid it over. Shane stared at his hand, uncomprehending, and Ilya sent him a pointed look.

“Oh, do I need to remind you of what else has been in your mouth in the last hour?”

Shane frowned at the mind-reading, but then Ilya turned his back to finish toweling off, and he decided maybe it wasn’t a big deal after all. It was almost 3 a.m. now, 6 a.m. Eastern time, and Shane was too shower-warm and sleepy to fight it, even when Ilya guided him by the shoulders to the bed and pulled him under the covers, still naked and damp. Shane sighed as he sank into the embrace, closing his eyes on instinct.

“I should head back to my room.”

“No.” Ilya’s arms became steel bands around his waist. “We are buddies, remember? Maybe we are having American sleepover.”

“I’m zonked.” He yawned. “This is way past my bedtime.”

“You are such an old man, Hollander. You act like you are older than Hunter.”

“He’s not that old.” Shane swatted his hip. “You gotta get new material, man.”

“I will get new material when he gets his new knee replacement.”

“You joke, but I’m pretty sure we’re all gonna need knee replacements. I think that comes with the job.”

“Mm, no. We are young and sexy. Hunter is old and—”

Shane laughed. “Also sexy?”

“Now you are trying to make me jealous.”

“You said it first! Is it working?”

Ilya made a petulant hmph and squeezed tighter.

“Oh, I didn’t get to tell you what he said earlier.” Shane readjusted his head onto the pillow.

“What?”

“It was kind of… I don’t know, weird, but also, like, inspiring? You know that charity he works with? The one he used for the auction?”

“Ah, yes. Scott Hunter and his orphan children.”

“Shut up. I already know you donated to them.”

“What? Who told you that, Hunter?”

“No, Troy Barrett.” Shane said drily. “Yes, obviously Hunter.”

“Lies.” Ilya pinched his side, pulling a yelp. “He is spreading lies about me.”

Shane elbowed him, harder than he’d be able to if it was anyone else, and moved on. “Anyways. He said a lot of them are like… LGBT kids that get kicked out of their parents’ houses.”

Ilya froze, though Shane didn’t notice at first.

“I guess some of them have gotten into hockey since Scott’s so involved, and apparently they thought our charity ‘date’ was cool. That we weren’t like, making homophobic jokes about it, or, you know, being shitty.”

When he didn’t get a response, Shane pushed forward. “Anyways, that’s it. He said the kids were excited to see two hockey players on a date, even if it was a fake one. He seemed really happy about it. Kind of awkward, but, still.”

Too much time passed, and Shane became overly aware of the silence. “He didn’t suspect anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. Invited us to visit, though.”

Shane rolled over, not understanding why Ilya had gone dead silent, and found a thousand yard stare. “I mean, I can go on my own.”

Ilya’s jaw began to work as he visibly searched for a response. “Yes. Maybe you should.”

Shane’s heart dropped. “Oh. Right. Yeah, sure.”

“No, Hollander— Shane, no. It’s— It is not… easy for me, to do things like that, with Russia.”

Shane waited for him to explain.

“I think I am able to get away with this,” he gestured to the space between them, “because it is for charity, and because some people, people in Russia, do think I am joking, wanting to, um. Hang out with you, like that. I do not want those kids to think I am joking.”

He looked so conflicted as he tried to explain, though Shane understood. He already knew they were walking a fine line. They weren’t kidding, not really, but it didn’t hurt if the league or Ilya’s home country thought they were. The realization left a bitter aftertaste.

“This is… Not easy to talk about in English.”

“Do you… want to say it in Russian?”

Ilya studied his face, as if evaluating whether he had miraculously learned the language in the last few years. Shane was about to dismiss the idea, but then Ilya shifted his arms, turning Shane back around, and began to speak.

Shane closed his eyes as he listened, sinking into Ilya’s chest as the vibration soothed him. Ilya’s voice was low and fluid, and even in a language he didn’t speak, Shane could recognize him growing more emotive and upset as he went on. And yet, he found himself distracted by the beauty of the syllables. It felt a little bit like a bedtime story, and he was striving to stay awake lest he miss the best part.

“Are you asleep?” Ilya spoke gently when he returned to English several minutes later.

“No. Are you okay?”

“No.”

Shane went to turn over again, but the arms around him held firm.

“It is not your fault. It is… Better, with you here.”

Something in him warmed at that. If he wasn’t so close to passing out, his mind would’ve been racing with questions of what could’ve been said, or what home meant for the man behind him, but for now, he lifted Ilya’s hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss into his skin.

Shane pushed himself further back into Ilya, pressing their bodies closer together. For a moment, they rested in the stillness. “Tonight was good.”

“Yes. But I do not want you hanging out with Marly again. He thinks you are funny now, blech.”

“I am funny.”

“No. That does not sound right.”

Shane was suddenly very glad he wasn’t facing Ilya, voice low as he asked, “You think your friends liked me?”

“Everyone likes you, Hollander.”

He could hear the eye roll even if he couldn’t see it, and he picked up Ilya’s wrists, readjusting them around his stomach.

“Do you like me?”

For a moment, the room felt painfully quiet, but then he felt the tip of Ilya’s nose drag across the back of his neck. “Da.”

Such a small thing in the grand scheme of it all. Shane’s chest tightened all the same.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he found Ilya already watching him, eyes softer than he’d ever seen them.

“I like you, too.”

Shane ran a thumb over Ilya’s cheek, and he flinched momentarily before he shook himself out of it, crashing into Shane’s mouth tongue-first. The angle was off when they kissed, but neither of them seemed to care.

“What time is your flight?” Ilya’s voice came out strained.

“Early.” He yawned.

“Say goodbye in the morning.”

“Okay.”

***

When Shane’s alarm went off four hours later, he stole a pair of Ilya’s boxers and a kiss.

“Three weeks?”

“Three weeks.”

Chapter End Notes

Heyyyy sorry this update took forever 🫣 I wrote a despicable amount of smut trying to find different versions of how I wanted their sex scene to go before I decided to just go with a parallel of 2014 Vegas, but hopefully it's not too repetitive? I promise when I set out to write this fic, I really did have the dates in mind and not like, 100 scenes of them jackin it. This is the final jackin it. We are past the jackin it hump.

Also, this is the fishbowl slot machine that I genuinely did get addicted to when I went to Las Vegas:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FOEhozNCJ8o

Okay thank you for reading!! Next chapter will come much faster than this one did lol