literally no idea what this is. i sat down, wrote aimlessly, and this is the product of two hours spent wondering what the hell sasha meant when he accused ilya of being boring because he "didn't do coke".. does that mean ilya HAS done coke? idk. anyway.

also, this is pre-shane, but it's ilya, so of course there are like 24972 shane mentions in here. way too many for the shortness of the fic tbh.

hope you like this :)

warnings: homophobic language in the first part. mentioned drug use in the last.

“Rozanov!” Coach Medvedev yelled. “Your turn.”

Ilya didn’t waste any time. He loved running drills, loved the sound his skates made on the ice when he picked up speed, loved the angry snarls thrown at him when his opponents couldn’t keep up with him. Sergej, one of the better players but still miles away from being fast or talented enough to steal the puck away from where it stayed close to Ilya’s blade like a magnet, charged into Ilya’s side in an attempt to throw him off, but Ilya had seen him coming, switched to a backhand grip, drove his shoulder into Sergej’s upon contact, and flicked the puck into the upper right corner of the net.

“Fuck off,” Sergej hissed, and Ilya laughed in his face.

“Enough,” Coach Medvedev said. “We’re not risking injury in practice. Take a break, both of you.”

“See, now you’ve upset Coach,” Ilya said as he and Sergej made their way to the side of the rink. He leaned over the board to grab his bottle and squirted some water into his mouth. “He’ll bench you for the next game.”

“Never. You’d be fucked without me.”

Ilya grinned. This was too easy. “You’ve got three points. It’s January.”

“Well, that Canadian everyone’s talking about has more points than you.”

“Who gives a shit about fucking Hollander?” Ilya asked, rolling his eyes. He did, quite honestly, because Shane Hollander did have more points than him and it irked him. He got to hear all about it every single evening over dinner, especially when his father was in a bad mood, which had been often lately thanks to his new wife Polina making excessive use of the credit card extension. “I’ll score a hat-trick on Saturday so we’ll be even, and then another next week for fun because Hollander can kiss my ass.”

Sergej snorted. “So you’ll need me on the ice with you, or who else is going to feed you assists?”

That was true. Sergej wasn’t a great closer because he tended to panic and tense up in the big moments, but he did have an impressive amount of assists under his belt.

“Then start sucking up to Coach for almost injuring his best player,” Ilya quipped. “Good luck with that, though. He can’t stand you.”

Sergej shrugged. “Yeah, well. Be easier if I was a faggot like his son, so I could just… I don’t know, fuck my way into his good graces, or something. You think Coach knows Sascha likes it up the ass?”

Ilya’s gaze shifted; he’d been watching the rest of his team practice stick handling, but now his eyes were searching the rink for the familiar face of Aleksandr Medvedev and found him staring back at him, just like Ilya knew he would.

“I think,” Ilya said, “that you should watch your mouth, or people will think you’ve put a little too much thought into what other men do with their dicks.”

Sergej laughed. “Seems like you’re more his type, anyway.”

“He knows hockey,” Ilya said, feeling this conversation get away from him. He needed to put an end to it before Sergej started making crude jokes that’d tie Ilya’s stomach in knots, and he knew the best way to do that was to make those crude jokes himself. “Probably knows I’m the best at it. Maybe he and Coach both jerk off to my forehand.”

“Dude,” Sergej complained, shaking his head as if to get rid of the mental image. Ilya took advantage of Sergej’s distraction to look at Sascha, who was still watching him, and felt the corners of his lips twitch.

***

“You know Svetlana Vetrova.”

Ilya looked up. Familiar blue eyes were staring back at him, big and round and fanned by long lashes. He let his skates’ laces slip through his fingers and sat up on the bench. “Yes.”

Sasha nodded. “I asked her about you. She said you two fucked.”

Ilya leaned back on his hands. His gaze flickered across the locker room; there was no one else here. It was past eight in the evening, and Ilya had stayed late after practice to work on his shot accuracy because Hollander’s shot accuracy was better than his, and it pissed him off. “What did you ask her for her to tell you that?”

“My father says you’re the best player he’s ever coached,” Sascha continued like Ilya hadn’t spoken.

Ilya tilted his head. “Too bad I’ll be gone in a few months.”

“Yeah,” Sasha said. “The NHL will want you. You’ll be far away from Moscow.”

A smile tugged at one corner of Ilya’s lips. He toed his remaining skate off, pushed it away with his foot, and let his head roll against the locker behind him. “What else did Svetlana say about me?”

“That you’re the best lay she’s ever had.”

Ilya hummed. “So now you want a go?”

Sasha blinked at him. His skin was even, just the tiniest flush tinting his cheeks a soft pink. Only the rise and fall of his chest gave him away — too quick, too irregular. He wasn’t stupid enough to say it out loud, to admit to it in a public locker room in Russia, to someone he barely knew, but he did step closer.

Ilya, still sitting, watched him approach. With every step Sasha took, Ilya’s legs spread.

“Svetlana likes you,” Sasha said quietly, lashes fluttering. He was looking down; not at the floor, but at Ilya’s lap. The flush on his cheeks had deepened. “She trusts you.”

“And you trust her?” Ilya asked. “Enough to tell her you wanted to suck my dick?”

At this, Sasha smiled. He reached his hand inside his jeans pocket and pulled it back out with a key ring dangling from his pinky. Ilya knew those keys; he had seen them on Coach’s lanyard for years. He dragged his eyes back up to Sascha’s face. “The rink’s closed for the night. It’s just you and me. If you want.”

***

“God,” Sasha groaned. He was slumped against the wall next to Ilya, his dick soft and pink and glistening where it rested against his thigh. Ilya had to make himself look away. “We should’ve done this sooner.”

“You’ve been to many practices,” Ilya said. “We could have.”

Sasha eyed Ilya’s arms for a long moment, then leaned in. Slowly, he trailed open-mouthed kisses along the sharp line of Ilya’s jaw. “I didn’t know if I was going to get punched if I— you know. Made a pass.”

Ilya stared at the tiles. They’d fucked in the locker room, which was incredibly stupid. Ilya wanted to do it again, and so did his dick; it twitched. Sasha laughed.

“No way, dude," he said. “My ass needs recovery time.”

Ilya scrubbed his hands over his face. “Are you out? To anyone?”

Sasha’s head whipped around to him. “Are you insane? My father would kill me.” He laughed again. This time, it sounded tired. “Svetlana knows, obviously. Four guys in Moscow and one guy in St. Petersburg know. And you, now.”

Ilya nodded, not really knowing what to say, and Sasha let the silence stretch for a moment before he asked, quietly, “When did you know?”

“A few years ago,” Ilya said, “I’m okay with it.” He grinned at Sascha, then. “More people to fuck.”

“Yeah, as long as you keep your mouth shut about it.”

Ilya shrugged. “I like girls, too. I’ll date hot American girls once I’m drafted, and then get married when I’m old and boring and a ten-time-Stanley Cup-winner.”

Sasha snorted. “Okay.”

Ilya considered him. The long line of his neck, his light stubble, straight nose, dark eyelashes and his flushed dick. The cum still clinging to the dark hair on his thighs.

“I’m getting cleaned up,” he said eventually, and got to his feet.

***

Svetlana sidled up next to him. Her manicured fingers stole his beer from his hand and brought it up to her own lips. They stained the glass pink where they’d touched. Ilya rolled his eyes at her, leaned over the bar and ordered two shots of vodka.

“How was it?”

“How was what?” Ilya asked, just to be annoying, and handed her one of the two shot glasses.

She leaned in, kissed his cheek and stayed so close she didn’t have to raise her voice too much to be heard over the music. “Sasha. How was Sasha?”

Ilya grinned at her. “Are you worried about losing your best lay now that I’ve had a taste of him?”

“Please.” She put Ilya’s beer down on the bartop and smiled when Ilya wrapped an arm around her shoulders to pull her into a hug. “You like sleeping with me too much and I know Sasha will get on your nerves, unlike me, because you love me. Now tell me how it was.”

Ilya’s grin only widened. “If you want details on anal, we could—“

“Why,” she started, “can’t you just give me a normal answer?”

Ilya touched the tip of his index finger to the bottom of the shot glass Svetlana still held in her hand, pushing it up to her lips gently, and downed his own vodka when she drank hers. Then, he said, “It was good. I fucked him. We’ll do it again.”

She smiled, patting his chest. “Good. He’s nice.”

“Is he?” Ilya raised an eyebrow. There were lots of words Ilya could use to describe Sascha, but nice was not one of the first ones he’d thought of. Sleeping with Sasha had been fun because he hadn’t been nice. He’d been mouthy and vulgar and really fucking hot, but not nice.

“Yeah, well. You have a lot in common,” she said. “His father sucks, obviously. Like yours. He wants to get away from here. He’s into hockey. You’re both bi.”

“Are you fucking him, too?”

Svetlana cut him a look, her eyes glittering just as much as her eyeshadow. “Now who’s scared of losing their favorite lay?”

“Maybe you’re not my favorite anymore.”

Svetlana laughed, silvery and pretty. Several appreciative pairs of eyes found her. Ilya wasn’t possessive, but he tightened his arm around her shoulder so it slipped up around her neck, and pressed his mouth to hers. She smiled into the kiss, but opened up at the first touch of his tongue.

Ilya kept it going for only a moment before he pulled away to say, “I don’t care if you’re sleeping with Sasha.”

It was true. He liked Svetlana probably more than anyone in his life, but they were too similar to ever work out as a couple. Svetlana loved her independence, and Ilya hadn’t ever had any. She flew across the globe and did whatever she felt like doing — currently, it was studying fashion design — because she had rich parents who loved spending their money on their only daughter. Ilya had had his eyes set on a professional hockey career ever since he’d found out he was way too talented to do anything other than hockey, and so he’d spent his entire childhood and youth working towards being better than everyone else. Well, almost everyone else. Fucking Shane Hollander.

“Well, I’m not,” Svetlana said. Ilya had almost forgotten what they were talking about. “Happy?”

Ilya shrugged. “Sure.”

“Can we do something fun now?”

“Was kissing me just now not fun?” Ilya frowned at her.

Svetlana’s smile was blinding. She linked her fingers with Ilya’s and tugged. “You can kiss me on the dance floor.”

As always, he followed.

***

Sasha hadn’t come to watch practice in weeks. They had fucked, again and again, in cars, at Ilya’s place when his father was out of the house, in clubs and bars and, once, in a parking lot, which had been reckless and stupid but given Ilya one of his best orgasms ever. Busy with his studies, Svetlana had mentioned once, although Ilya couldn’t say that Sasha looked particularly exhausted when he did spot him at Svetlana’s birthday party at her house. Instead, Sasha seemed to be full of energy, his eyes wide and clear and too alert. Ilya was familiar with that particular look.

“Did you get into coke at university?” he asked when they both found themselves at the bar. Svetlana’s father kept it stocked with expensive vodka, and Ilya helped himself to some of it.

Sasha grinned at him. He took Ilya’s hand and pushed it down to press against the outside of his jeans pocket, where Ilya felt the outline of a small plastic bag. He pulled his hand away.

“They do drug tests before the draft.”

“Just your blood,” Sasha said. When Ilya didn’t respond, he added, “Want something else, then?”

“Like what?”

Out of his other pocket, Sasha produced a bag containing several colorful paper scraps. Ilya stared at them, and the happy faces printed on the scraps smiled back at him. A few more months, and he’d be drafted. A few more months, and he’d know whether his hard work had paid off and he’d be picked up by a top NHL team before Shane Hollander. A few more months, and he’d get finally manage to get the fuck out of Moscow, away from his father and his brother and all of the reminders of his mother that he just couldn’t shake. His necklace burned against his skin, and he imagined it drawing tighter around his throat, choking him. Images of Shane fucking Hollander’s perfect, clean-cut face being photographed with his new first-pick jersey flashed in his brain, while headlines read Ilya Rozanov Denied NHL Draft after Positive Drug Test.

“No, thanks,” Ilya said. His throat hurt, like the words had cut it open on their way out.

“Fine, be boring.” Sasha leaned in. “Want to f—”

“Hi, boys,” Svetlana said. Her eyes found the plastic bag dangling from Sasha’s fingers. “Put the drugs away, Sasha.”

“You’re cockblocking me,” Sasha complained.

“She’s not,” Ilya said. “I’m not fucking you today.”

Svetlana pushed herself up to sit on the bar between them. “You’re both hopeless.” She squinted at Sasha, then wagged her finger in his face. “What’s that? Coke?”

“No,” Sasha lied, as if it made any sense when Ilya was pretty sure there was still some white powder left between his nostrils.

Ilya said, “Yes.”

Svetlana hummed, then turned to Ilya, and smiled. “Looking forward to playing your arch nemesis soon?”

Ilya rolled his eyes. It was annoying enough to constantly hear about Shane Hollander at home and in the media — he really didn’t appreciate his friends bringing him up as well. He’d grown so sick and tired of his name that he couldn’t wait to travel to Saskatchewan to finally prove that he was better and for everyone to finally shut the fuck up about this stupid rivalry.

“Looking forward to seeing him lose, yeah.”

“He’s cute,” Sasha said, and the glint in his eyes told Ilya that he only said it to get a rise out of him. Sasha hadn’t talked about hockey in a while. Ilya wasn’t sure if he even followed hockey anymore. Maybe Sasha didn’t even know what Hollander looked like.

“Okay,” Ilya said.

“Cuter than you,” Sasha added, and Ilya levelled him with a look. He could admit Hollander was good-looking, if one liked the boring, soft-spoken boy-next-door type.

“Then fly to Canada and ask him to fuck you.”

“Behave,” Svetlana said. “It’s my birthday.”

“Sorry,” Ilya said. “I don’t want to talk about fucking Hollander.”

“I want to talk about fucking Hollander,” Sasha argued, grinning from ear to ear. He wrapped an arm around Ilya, pulling him close. “Tell me what you’d do to him.”

Ilya let out a laugh. “What do you want me to say? Hollander’s probably a virgin. Light some candles and tell him I’ll be gentle.”

“You guys are assholes,” Svetlana said, watching Ilya with her head tilted to the side while Sasha laughed at Ilya's quip. She always did this when she thought he was putting up a front, and it was annoying. He looked away from her, shrugged Sasha’s arm off and busied himself with another drink.

“Well, guess I’ll head out,” Sasha said. He leaned towards Svetlana and kissed her cheek before he turned and pressed close to Ilya, angling his head and pressing a kiss to his mouth. Ilya felt the tip of his tongue against his lips and shivered. “Since you are being a dick and won't fuck me tonight. See you later.”

With that, he sauntered out of the room. Ilya went back to fixing his drink until he heard the door click shut behind Sasha.

“You’re different when he’s around,” Svetlana said, casting an appraising eye over Ilya's face.

Ilya smiled at her. He brought his hand up to run it through his hair. “You shouldn’t have told him about how good I am in bed.”

“You are good in bed.”

"Mhm," Ilya hummed, angling his body closer to hers. “You also said Sasha was nice.”

She sighed but her eyes were fixed on his, warm and glittery. “He is. You know he is. Or was. I don’t know. He’s just— I think he’s losing himself a little bit in all of this. Moscow. Paris. New York. All the places he travels.”

“A little bit?” Ilya echoed. “He offered me coke.”

“Yeah, well…” Svetlana reached for him, her fingers curling in his shirt. Ilya went the second she gave the fabric a soft tug, and stepped into the space she made between her legs. He looked down as she opened his fly, and watched as her hand disappeared under her dress to pull her panties to the side. His heart beat in his chest, blood rushing everywhere. One place in particular. He exhaled when her perfectly manicured fingers wrapped around him. “Yes?”

Ilya leaned in and kissed her until hockey, Saskatchewan and Shane Hollander were no longer on his mind.