Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

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

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Jealousy, Jealous Shane Hollander, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, 5+1 Things, Possessive Shane Hollander, Implied Sexual Content, no beta as usual

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-11 Words: 6,853 Chapters: 1/1

as bad as i do

Summary

The sight of the blooming bruise on Ilya's skin is so fucking hot, Shane leaves a second one, just an inch away from the mark that the California girl left.

“Marking your territory, Hollander?” Ilya jokes. He’s teasing, but he’s so fucking hard underneath Shane, it’s obvious he likes this. Because yes, Shane is doing exactly that. In the coming weeks, until these bruises fade, every time Rozanov goes to hook up with someone else, he’ll see these bruises and be reminded that Shane was here.

- or, 5 times Shane was jealous, and 1 time he didn't need to be

Notes

the craziest part of this was having to write the word kilometer..... wtf is that

title from "one of your girls" by troye sivan, which was the main inspo for the first part of this fic tehe

1.

Shane slips into the room when Ilya opens the door, and within seconds, he’s pressed flat against the wall. Ilya’s mouth attacks his jaw and throat, his mouth roaming over the skin. Shane huffs a quiet laugh, his head tipping back against the wall. But he’s feeling just as desperate, his hands slipping beneath Ilya’s shirt and his palms sliding over his sides.

Their last game had been canceled due to a snowstorm in Boston, so it has been longer than normal since they’ve seen each other. Shane did have one mediocre hookup last month with a girl, but it was hardly satisfying. He’s sure Ilya’s had countless hookups in Shane’s absence, not that Shane wants to think about that right now. But it’s obvious they’re both eager for this, given the way Ilya’s mouth travels upwards and connects with Shane’s, and they essentially devour each other whole. 

Shane groans, his fingers digging into Ilya’s skin, like he can somehow get closer. He places his hands flat against Ilya’s abdomen and pushes back. They walk together, their feet stumbling slightly as they blindly make their way to the bed. Just before Shane can push Ilya down into the mattress, Ilya spins them and pushes Shane down instead. He bounces lightly against the bed, grinning.

He lifts up enough to pull his shirt off over his head. For once, his anticipation gets the best of him, and he just tosses it to the side instead of folding it. Ilya notices, obviously.

“You are excited, Hollander?” he teases, reaching back to pull his own shirt off. He presses one knee into the space between Shane’s thighs and leans down to kiss him again. “So excited you cannot even fold your clothes?”

“Fuck off,” Shane murmurs. His hands slide over Ilya’s shoulders, one curling into his hair and pulling him down into another kiss. Ilya hums, rolling his hips down as their tongues slide together. Fuck, Shane always forgets how good this can be. The girls he'll occasionally meet up with in between his hookups with Rozanov are fine; they get the job done, but it never feels this gratifying. There’s never any frantic desperation, no eager hum right beneath his skin. He never feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin if he doesn’t get his hands on those girls as soon as humanly possible. With Ilya, it’s like that every time.

Shane doesn’t like to think about the implications of that.

He presses one hand to Ilya’s shoulder and pushes gently, rolling them. Rozanov goes willingly, switching their positions so that he’s on his back. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide as he gazes up at Shane. Getting up on his knees, Shane hooks his fingers into the waistband of Ilya’s sweatpants. He glances up, and—

He freezes.

Because right on Ilya’s collarbone is a small bruise that was blatantly put there by someone’s mouth. Shane blinks.

“What’s that?” he asks, even though he knows.

Some of the desire clears from Rozanov’s eyes as he glances down. “Oh. A hickey.”

“From who?”

Ilya’s eyes flick back up to Shane, one eyebrow raised. “Some girl. When we were in California a few days ago.”

Shane’s teeth click together as he clenches his jaw. He doesn’t fully understand the ugly tension sitting in his chest. They’re not exclusive, obviously. But they keep their other hookups to themselves, and even though Shane knows that Ilya sleeps around — much more than Shane does — he’s never seen solid proof aside from some paparazzi pictures of him with women. 

And perhaps it’s not even the fact that Rozanov was with someone else, or that Shane can see the evidence of it, but it’s that the girl left evidence to begin with. Shane swings one leg over Ilya’s hips, straddling him. Without another word or any semblance of an explanation, he leans down and drops his mouth to the opposite side of Ilya’s collarbone.

And he leaves a fucking hickey.

Rozanov exhales sharply, but he doesn’t push Shane away or stop him. His hands fly to Shane’s hips, gripping hard.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice deliciously breathy.

Shane doesn’t answer at first, not until he’s certain that there will be a deep purple bruise on Ilya’s skin. He wants it to last as long as possible. 

“If she’s allowed to leave one, so am I,” he says. 

They’ve never talked about marking each other up, but it’s just been an unspoken rule that they wouldn’t do that. But in hindsight, it’s not as though anyone would be able to look at the hickey and know it came from Shane Hollander. The only person who would know would be Rozanov, and Shane finds that he likes the idea of Ilya having a reminder of him each time he looks in the mirror.

The sight of the blooming bruise on his skin is so fucking hot, Shane leaves a second one, just an inch away from the mark that the California girl left.

“Marking your territory, Hollander?” Ilya jokes. He’s teasing, but he’s so fucking hard underneath Shane, it’s obvious he likes this. Because yes, Shane is doing exactly that. In the coming weeks, until these bruises fade, every time Rozanov goes to hook up with someone else, he’ll see these bruises and be reminded that Shane was here. 

That possessive feeling doesn’t seem to fade, even as Shane leaves one more bruise on Ilya’s hip, and then another on his inner thigh. He keeps waiting for Ilya to tell him it’s enough, to stop giving him bruises in the most intimate places, but he never does. He just tugs Shane’s hair lightly when his teeth graze Rozanov’s skin. 

Shane supposes that it’s not as though Ilya can be angry about him leaving hickies, considering by the time they're done, Shane has just as many littering his body.

---

2.

Shane exhales slowly, the water beating down on him. His teammates move around him in the showers, but he blocks out his surroundings. They lost hard to Vegas tonight. It wouldn’t be so bad if they’d played well as a team, but they hadn’t. Their coordination was off; they couldn’t keep control of the puck; half of his teammates kept missing easy passes. Plus, Vegas had seemed out for blood, as there had been three fights on the ice tonight. All of which had been started by their opponents, and of course, the referees hadn’t done shit about it. 

The only thing holding Shane together is the promise of his silent apartment once he leaves the arena. He’ll be able to decompress in peace, replaying the issues of the game so he can come into their next practice with a plan to work out the kinks.

Shane shuts off the shower and reaches for his towel. His mind circles back to particularly weak play in the second period as he dries off and wraps his towel around his waist. He expects his teammates to be just as down as he is, and some of them are, but when he returns to the locker room, there’s a group of four of them gathered around someone’s cell phone, quietly chattering. Shane catches bits and pieces.

“—no way he’s taking—”

“It’s almost impressive—”

“It’s slutty, is what it is.”

“—only Rozanov could do—”

Unfortunately, Shane’s ears do catch Ilya’s name as he’s redressing, and it’s enough to pull him out of his thoughts of their disastrous game. He looks over. “What’s going on?” he asks. J.J. is one of the people around the phone, so he grabs the device and steps over the bench between him and Shane.

“Look at this,” he says, holding the phone out. Shane takes it, looking at the tweet that’s pulled up.

There are four pictures, so Shane clicks on the first one. It’s a paparazzi photo of Ilya and some girl with long, dark hair. They look like they’re leaving some club or bar, out on the sidewalk at night. She’s pretty, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. There’s a slight tug of envy in his gut, but he’s seen pictures like this countless times.

He swipes to the next photo. It’s still Ilya, in the same outfit and on the same street, but with a woman with wavy red hair. Shane’s eyebrows furrow, and he swipes once more. The pieces come together. In this picture, the girl with dark hair is getting into a black SUV. The one with red hair is right behind her, her hand in Ilya’s, like he’s going to help her into the car next.

He’s leaving with two women. Shane moves onto the last photo, where Ilya is climbing into the car himself, his head turned to look over his shoulder. His gaze is directed right at the camera, and he’s winking, his lips lifted in a devious smirk. One Shane has seen countless times.

He closes out of the picture and sees that the tweet was from only twenty minutes ago. Rozanov is probably with those girls right now, their hands tracing over his body, in all the places Shane has touched.

“Damn,” Shane says flatly, handing the phone back. 

“He’s insane, isn’t he?” J.J. says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Like, it’s almost impressive that an asshole like that can pull the way he does.”

“Girls like that asshole thing,” Comeau says, crossing his arms over his chest. “It works for him, somehow.”

Shane swallows, pulling his shirt over his head. It does work for Ilya, but only because it’s an act. If he wants to, he can charm someone with ease by showing them he’s not actually The Worst. Shane would know — it works on him every time he sees Ilya.

He turns back toward his locker, forcing himself to return his thoughts to the game. That’s what he needs to focus on — how they can come back from this loss. The playoffs are in a couple of months, and they’re currently just barely ranked too low to make the cut. They can’t play like they did tonight if they want a shot at making it.

But his mind flicks back to Rozanov. 

Is he at one of their apartments, or did he take the girls back to his hotel room? Do they have him on his back, doing all the work for him? Are they leaving hickies or pulling his hair, the way Shane knows he likes? Probably not, because these random girls don’t know Rozanov. They have no idea what he likes. Shane accidentally slams his locker shut, and he avoids his teammates' eyes as he stalks out of the room. It will likely just be written off as residual anger from their loss, but it's not. It's childish, the way he hates those random girls for being the ones who get to have Ilya tonight, but he does. He hates them, and he hates Ilya for taking them home, for letting himself get photographed with them, and he hates himself for caring.

Shane stupidly wishes their game had been against Boston tonight. Even if they had still lost like this, at least he would've ended up in Rozanov’s bed. Instead, Ilya is sharing a bed with two girls, and Shane is going home alone. It suddenly sounds a lot less appealing than it had before.

---

3.

Ilya’s mattress is somehow a million times more comfortable than Shane’s. Which is surprising, given the amount of research that had gone into Shane’s purchase when he bought his. Or maybe it’s just the boneless, weightless feeling he’s currently experiencing, considering Ilya just made him come twice in the span of thirty minutes. It will be a miracle if Shane can get up in the next hour. At least the second of the aforementioned orgasms happened in the shower, so Shane doesn’t need to worry about cleansing himself.

A pair of sweatpants appears in a heap on his chest. Shane lifts his head to see his boyfriend by his dresser, pulling on a pair of boxers.

“If you stay in that towel, I will get you naked again,” Ilya says, nodding his head towards the pants he’d just tossed to Shane. Huffing, Shane takes the sweats in his hand and stands. His legs are a bit like jelly, but he manages. He holds up the pants and turns around to Ilya with wide eyes.

“Why are these so big?” he exclaims. They’re both pure muscle, obviously, and even though Ilya is a bit bigger than Shane, these sweatpants look like they would fall off Ilya’s hips, too.

“I have big thighs,” Ilya shrugs. “I am big, strong hockey player, no?”

“Well— yeah, but…” Shane eyes the waistband. It has a drawstring, but he hates the way pants bunch up when he has to pull the string too tight. “Do you have any that are a bit smaller? So I don’t have to roll these down, like, four times?”

Ilya snorts, collapsing back onto his bed in boxers and a black tank top. He looks ridiculously good. Shane is honestly considering staying in his towel, even despite the threat — promise? — of Ilya getting him naked again. 

“Bottom left drawer, maybe,” Ilya says, nodding towards his dresser. “Those are some older clothes I don’t wear.”

As Shane crosses the room, he folds the too-big pair of pants and sets them atop the dresser when he reaches it. He squats down and opens the drawer, shuffling through shorts and old shirts. He finds a pair of worn-in sweats that seem like they haven’t been touched in ages. Shane takes them, and his eyes land on the article of clothing beneath them.

He pauses, his fingers tightening on the soft fabric of the pants.

Shane grabs the pink, obviously women’s tank top, too, and stands. Setting the sweatpants aside, he holds up the top. “Oh, you don’t wear this anymore?” he asks, forcing down the hint of jealousy threatening to crawl up his throat.

It’s obvious this is some previous hookup’s shirt that was left behind. Which is fine. Even if it’s odd that Ilya kept it. It’s something of the past, and there’s no reason for Shane to get jealous right now. 

Ilya’s eyebrows furrow for a second before a look of recognition flicks over his face. “Ah, I forgot about that,” he said. Shane balls it up.

“I’ll throw it out when we go to the kitchen later.”

“No,” Ilya shakes his head. “Just fold it and set it on the dresser.”

Shane freezes, his blood running cold. He looks at Ilya, then the pink fabric in his hand. He wants to keep it? That jealousy that he had been trying to force down bubbles up again. What memory of some random girl must be so amazing that Ilya wants to keep a memento? Is it even a random girl? Ilya lives here after all, it would make sense if he has certain women that he sees regularly for sex.

Forcing his voice to stay neutral, Shane asks, “Why would you want to keep some girl’s shirt?”

He knows instantly that he’s failed at sounding unbothered when Ilya lifts an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth just barely tugs upward. He shrugs. “It could come in handy, you never know,” he says casually. 

Shane stares at him. That uncomfortable feeling in his stomach churns, and he almost feels sick. They never technically discussed the parameters of their relationship. With all the time they spend apart, what if being boyfriends doesn’t mean exclusivity to Ilya? Shane would never even consider sleeping with someone else now that he’s with Ilya, even with the long stretches of time they’ll face without seeing each other. But did Ilya feel the same?

Was he keeping this shirt for some future overnight guest, in case she needed something comfortable to wear when she slept on Shane’s side of Ilya’s bed? Shane blinks once, instantly being able to vividly imagine some faceless girl saddled up in bed beside Ilya while Shane is miles away in Montreal. He has to grip the stupid shirt to ground himself.

“Do you mean—” he starts, but he doesn’t know how to voice this question. 

Are you saying you’re going to sleep with other people? Have you already slept with someone else? Am I not as important to you as you are to me?

He swallows hard. “Are we not... exclusive?” he asks, his voice sounding smaller and more hollow than he would’ve liked. He sounds insecure, which he fucking hates. Ilya is the only person he’s become comfortable being vulnerable around, but it’s still a struggle to be so open with someone. 

In a second, the humor in Ilya’s gaze dims. He sighs, sitting up. 

“Hollander—” Shane doesn’t flinch at the use of his last name, but he wants to. He hates the way it sounds right now, after the question he just asked. “—Of course we are exclusive.”

Some modicum of relief flows through Shane, but it still doesn’t answer all of his questions. He holds up the shirt. “Then why keep this?”

“It belongs to Svetlana,” Ilya says. “I think she would be very mad if I threw it away. Especially because she knows she lost it here, and I have been forgetting to return it.”

Svetlana, Shane thinks. Obviously. Of course. How could he have forgotten about Ilya’s best friend? Shane already knows they’ve hooked up countless times, but he’s always believed Ilya when he’s said they’re completely platonic in the aftermath of that phase. Carefully, Shane unballs the tank top and folds it into quarters. He has yet to meet Svetlana in person, but he knows she’s been there for Ilya in ways no one else has. He likes her already, even without truly knowing her.

“Sorry,” Shane says, unsure of exactly what he’s apologizing for. Accusing Ilya of cheating, getting jealous without allowing him to explain, jumping to conclusions. He reaches for the sweatpants and drops his towel, slipping into them. They fit much better than the other pair would’ve.

“It’s okay, moya lyubov (my love),” Ilya says. Shane pauses his fiddling with the drawstring, looking over at Ilya. So far, the only words he knows in Russian are the ones for I love you.

“What does that mean?”

Ilya just grins, lying back down and patting the bed. “Something good, do not worry,” he says, which doesn’t completely reassure Shane. “Come here.”

---

4.

The NHL All-Star game is in New York this year. It’s the second All-Star game since Shane and Ilya started dating, but since last year was North America versus Europe, they were on opposing teams. This year, they split it North versus South, and since Ilya is now in Ottawa, it will be the first time they play on the same team as a couple.

Shane is stupidly excited.

They spent their short winter break at the cottage practicing plays together, rather than against each other for the first time. Even before they were officially dating, Shane loved the few chances he’d gotten to play on the same team as Ilya. They click together perfectly in every way, on and off the ice. To make matters even better, they’d tied for the captain vote, and the NHL had just decided to split the responsibility between the two of them, making them co-captains.

The first game of the weekend starts in a few hours, so they’re currently doing their last panel of the day, answering questions. Beneath the table, the side of Shane’s foot is pressed against Ilya’s, a constant reassurance that they’re in this together.

“Shane, how has it been co-captaining with your rival? Is there any clashing or disagreements?” someone towards the back asks.

Shane leans towards the mic. “Our rivalry is really only present when we’re on the ice, actively playing against each other,” Shane says. “Aside from that, I’ve been playing against him long enough to respect him as a player and as a person. Sometimes.”

That gets a few laughs. 

“So, no,” Shane continues, “we haven’t had any major disagreements about the team. Believe it or not, we work well together.”

“It is shocking to everyone, yes,” Ilya adds, earning a few more laughs. Shane smiles, though it’s completely true. It had been shocking to even him that he and Ilya were so compatible in ways that went beyond sex.

There’s a woman in the front row with long, blonde hair who asks the next question, her blue eyes trained on Ilya. “Mr. Rozanov, you’ve just recently transferred to the Centaurs. How have you been enjoying the change, and do you think your new team has taught you anything that’s prepared you for this weekend?”

Shane glances over, watching Ilya tilt his head side to side. “I like Ottawa. Much colder than Boston, but is okay,” he says, making Shane tamp down a smile. He had gotten several texts from Ilya in early November complaining about how it was already snowing in Canada. “My new team is very welcoming. I think I went into the All-Star team with… ah, how do I say this? The Centaurs are very easy to trust, and I think that made it easy to trust All-Star players, too?”

Ilya glances over at Shane. “Does that make sense, am I saying that right?”

Shane nods, trying not to look like he’s fucking melting in his seat at Ilya’s sweet response. “You’ve become more trusting and open-minded because of your new team,” he supplies. 

“Yes,” Ilya confirms. “Canadians are much nicer than Boston people.” Everyone laughs again. There are a few more questions that they both answer before the panel ends. Shane and Ilya climb down the steps on the side of the stage where a few staff members are chatting.

“I hate panels,” Ilya says, picking up a water bottle from a table of free drinks and snacks. “I always feel like I forget all the English I know.”

“You did well,” Shane assures him. 

Ilya lifts one shoulder, his gaze softening slightly as he glances at Shane. “Is easier with you,” he murmurs. “I know you will help if I can’t remember words.”

Shane turns his head to hide his grin. They’re about to leave to prepare for the game when someone says, “Mr. Rozanov!”

They both turn to find the blonde woman from the front row who had asked about Ilya’s new team. “Sorry to disturb you, I know you have to get to the locker rooms, I just wanted to introduce myself,” she says, holding her hand out. She doesn’t even glance at Shane, who is still standing here despite not being the one she’s after. “I’m Nicole from Canadian Hockey Magazine.”

“Ah,” Ilya says politely, shaking her hand. “Hello.” Nicole flicks a lock of hair over her shoulder, and Shane stiffens. Since she’s paying him no mind, he has all the time in the world to study her, and he instantly recognizes the hungry determination in her eyes. She’s after something, and if she works for a magazine, it’s probably some bullshit story. Before Shane can interject and remind Ilya that they have to go now, Nicole speaks again.

“You know, I’m also located in Ottawa,” she says, blinking a few times. “Born and raised. You said you’re enjoying the city? Well, aside from the cold.” She lets out a soft laugh.

Ilya nods once. His water bottle crinkles quietly in his tightening grip. “Yes, it is nice. I’m sure I will get used to the cold, if it does not kill me first.”

Shane rolls his eyes at Ilya’s dramatics, but Nicole laughs again. “Well, if you needed someone to show you around, or if you were in the market for… new friends, I just wanted to say I’d be free any time.”

Oh, Shane thinks, blinking at the woman. She is certainly after something, but it’s not a story, like he’d thought. She's after Shane’s fucking boyfriend. Not that she — or anyone, really — knows that’s what Ilya is. Shane digs his blunt nails into his palm, unable to do anything but watch this woman flirt with Ilya. He can't interrupt, he can’t stake any claim, he can’t tell her to back the fuck off. 

For one horrible second, Shane wonders if Ilya realizes he’s being flirted with. He may act like an asshole, but he’s generally polite to strangers, and if he continues to be polite— if he takes this woman up on her offer— 

Shane might be sick.

He stares down at his feet, bracing himself for Ilya’s response.

That’s so nice, I would love that.

Yes, I’d like for you to show me around.

Give me your number so we can hang out when I am home.

“Ah, that is kind,” Ilya says, and Shane’s heart leaps into his throat, “but my teammates have been showing me all of their favorite spots. And they are all my new friends.”

Shane risks a quick glance up at Nicole, who blinks. Her smile turns strained, but she seems to recognize the rejection for what it is. She nods once, slowly. “Right, of course,” she says, her voice light. “Well, I’m glad you feel welcomed in Ottawa. The team is lucky to have you.” She clears her throat once. “It was nice to meet you. Excuse me.”

With that, she turns and leaves them alone again. Shane exhales slowly, forcing himself to relax. He lifts his head to find Ilya studying him. “You thought I would say yes?” he asks, reading Shane immediately.

Feeling his cheeks warm slightly, Shane shrugs once. “I mean… maybe.”

Ilya snorts. “I am not interested, and you know that.”

“Well, I thought maybe you were going to be polite or something.”

“By flirting back?” Right in front of you? 

The second half of the sentence goes unspoken, due to them being surrounded by other people, but Shane hears it. Again, he just lifts his shoulders. Ilya sighs softly. “Come on, Hollander,” he says. “We have a game to get ready for.”

Shane nods, and they leave the conference room. They walk through the halls of the arena until they find the locker room. There are still fifteen minutes until the players actually need to begin preparing, so they’re the first ones here. Ilya wastes no time pulling Shane close and dropping a short but filthy kiss to his mouth.

“You are so cute when you’re jealous,” Ilya says softly. “But you do not need to be.”

Shane huffs, stepping away from Ilya before he accidentally gets hard or something. “I know.”

---

5.

For the most part, Shane likes their new left wing. He’s a nice guy. Energetic, friendly, funny. He’s a transfer from Boston. He actually did a couple of seasons with Ilya before he moved to Ottawa. The only thing Shane has no idea how to navigate is every time Edwards talks about women— which is constantly. Shane feels like he’s in high school again, the way he’s always listening to him blabber about who he’s texting, who he’s seeing tonight, who he slept with last week. 

His teammates all know he’s gay, obviously, so no one ever necessarily expects him to have meaningful responses to the girl talk. But that doesn’t stop Shane from feeling moderately awkward when all he can say is some variation of, “Oh, that’s cool.”

Mostly, he tries to tune it out, but sometimes, it’s impossible. They’re at a team dinner right now, and Edwards is talking about how he met with two different girls last week. He’s comparing the two, like it’s some competition. Shane sips his water silently.

“You’re crazy, Edwards,” Mitty rolls his eyes, grinning. “Probably the biggest whore in the league.”

Edwards barks out a sharp laugh. “You know who’s a whore?” he says, a slight Swedish accent tinging his words. “I know you all hate him, but Rozanov was insane.”

Across the table, Hayden’s eyes briefly flick to Shane. 

Edwards keeps going. “The last year before he transferred, he seemed to calm down, but in the years before that, I’ve never seen a man pull like that. It was ridiculous.”

“Remember that time he got papped leaving with two girls?” J.J. asks, cackling. “I believe you, that man seems wild.”

Edwards nods. “From what I hear, he isn’t anymore, but he must be keeping it on the down low,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Maybe he has a girlfriend,” one of their defensemen says, but Edwards laughs like it’s genuinely the funniest thing he’s ever heard. Shane bites the inside of his cheek. He knows that Ilya had his phase of sleeping around. Hell, the entire world knows that. It never truly bothered Shane — aside from some occasional jealousy — because he never allowed himself to think too deeply about it. But the fact that Ilya had been such a player that the idea of him in a serious relationship is so laughable is… uncomfortable.

“I doubt it,” Edwards says. “I cannot imagine he would be happy being tied to one person.”

The uncomfortable feeling turns sharp, like a knife twisting in his gut. 

He knows Ilya loves him, but maybe he’s not telling Shane the full story. Maybe he does miss the freedom to fill his bed each night. God, even the idea of that hurts to consider. 

Conversation shifts away from Ilya, but Shane’s mind is stuck on it. He can’t help but wonder — if Ilya does miss the ability to sleep around, or if he will miss it at some point in the future, will there be a tipping point? Will there come a day when Ilya decides the monogamous lifestyle is too difficult? Too… boring?

Hayden bumps his arm on the way out of the restaurant. “Are you good?” he asks. 

Shane nods once. He is. He has to be. As the captain, he needs to be put together, especially at an event that’s specifically designed for bringing the team together. Hayden doesn’t look convinced, but it’s hard to discuss something like this around their teammates, who are in the dark about Shane’s love life. Everyone says their goodbyes in the parking lot and breaks off into their separate cars. Some of the younger players are heading out to a club, but Shane declines, and no one questions it. 

No one questions how boring he is.

His apartment is empty and quiet when he gets home. He slips his phone from his pocket as he climbs the stairs and FaceTimes Ilya. He picks up after two rings.

“Finally,” Ilya sighs dramatically, like it’s been years since they’ve spoken. Shane grins softly, propping his phone on his dresser and pulling some sweatpants from one of the drawers. “How was your dinner?”

“Fine,” Shane says, unbuttoning his shirt. He watches Ilya’s eyes drop an inch, tracking his movements through the screen. “You were a topic of discussion at one point.”

“Your team is my biggest fan club,” he laughs. “Why were you talking about me?”

“You remember I told you about Edwards, the left wing that we got this season that used to play for the Bears?”

“Yes.”

“He mentioned how good you used to be with women,” Shane says. He pulls on his sweatpants over his boxers, avoiding looking at the screen so Ilya wouldn’t see the expression on his face. “How you had a different girl every night. How you would probably never be happy once you settled down with one person.”

Ilya snorts. “Different girl every night,” he echoes. “He exaggerates. Plus, we were never friends, so I do not know why he thinks he knows how happy I would be.”

“Mm,” Shane hums, picking his phone up and crawling into bed. “You did sleep around quite a bit, though.”

“Ah, yes.”

Shane pauses, swallowing hard. “Do you miss it?”

When there’s no response, Shane looks at his screen. There’s a small divot between Ilya’s brows, like he’s trying to decipher Shane’s tone. “No.” The word is simple, sincere, and short.

“No?”

He hates that he feels this way. Insecure that he’s not enough, jealous that the women of Ilya’s past kept him company, angry that there are hypothetical women in Ottawa right this second that would keep his bed warm if Ilya gave them the chance.

“I miss you,” Ilya says. “You know this.”

Shane rolls onto his back. Fuck. He does know this. And yet…

“Do you think you’ll ever miss it?” he asks. “Having whatever woman you want?”

“Why would I?” Ilya says. “I want you, I have you. Why would I miss anything else?”

Shane frowns. The words seem to bounce off his skull, missing their mark. It’s not fair, but it’s as though he can’t force himself to believe what Ilya is saying. He’s so lost in his own head, his envy eating him alive for no reason. 

“Shane,” Ilya says.

“Hm?” he hums, distracted.

“Take off your clothes.”

That gets Shane’s attention, his eyes snapping to the screen. “What?”

“You’re not hearing me. So be good and listen to me,” Ilya tells him. Even through the screen, Shane can see that his blue eyes are dark and there’s a touch of anger in them. “Take off your clothes.”

Shane swallows. That’s an easy command that his brain can latch on to. He obeys, shucking off the pants he just put on moments ago, followed by his boxers.

“Some of my teammates went out to a bar earlier, you know,” Ilya says. He props his phone up, stripping off his shirt. “They asked if I wanted to join. I could’ve. I’m sure half the girls in the bar would’ve wanted to meet me.”

Sharp jealousy cuts through him again, but Shane just clenches his jaw and watches Ilya get naked. 

“But I said no. Because I missed my boyfriend. I waited hours for him to call, because I wanted to make him come over the phone. Touch your dick, and show me.”

Burning just as hot as the envy in his veins, arousal courses through him, too. Shane holds his phone out above him and does what Ilya tells him.

“Are you listening, moya lyubov?”

“Yes,” Shane moans, because he is. He’s waiting for his next instructions. He’s waiting for Ilya to make him feel good, even from two hundred kilometers away.

“I want you, Hollander,” Ilya says sharply. “Only you. Always you. Do you understand that?”

Shane exhales sharply. This time, the words break through the haze of insecurities and shoot directly through his heart. “Yes,” he whispers. 

“Say it. Tell me who I want.”

“Me,” Shane breathes, writhing slightly as he works himself. “You want me. Only me.”

“Khoroshiy mal'chik (Good boy).”

Shane whines. He’s still a novice at Russian, but he knows that one.

The jealousy burns away into nothing, leaving only desire and love for his boyfriend.

---

+1.

His husband would kill him if he knew that Shane cut his “good” Russian vodka with ginger ale, but Shane simply can’t handle drinking it straight. He takes another sip. He reaches up to adjust the devil horns on his head after they shift when he tilts his head back. Their house is packed with teammates, friends, acquaintances, and even a handful of strangers who were brought as plus ones.

It was Ilya’s idea to host the yearly Centaurs Halloween party, as it was Shane’s first year on the team. Considering preseason only started at the end of August, he was still getting to know most of his teammates, so inviting them into their home was the obvious solution, according to Ilya.

And it was nice seeing everyone all together in the decorated space — they’d really gone all out. But Shane did feel a bit like he had no escape, considering everywhere he turned, there were people in his kitchen, his living room, his yard. 

His eyes skip around, bouncing from person to person. There’s music playing from the multiple speakers around, and Shane watches as people bop around to the beat. 

He watches Bood pull his wife closer.

He sees Hayes wrap his arm around his wife’s waist, dropping a kiss to her shoulder.

There’s a couple against the wall, two of Ilya’s friends that he met through Troy, looking like they’re seconds away from devouring each other.

Maybe it’s just that Shane is likely much more sober than everyone else, but he’s never realized how close and touchy people get when they have a few drinks in them. Even Harris has his arm around Troy’s shoulders, leaning close to whisper to him. 

Something zips through Shane, and it takes him a second to realize it’s jealousy. He’s never been in a situation where he could imagine being so comfortable touching Ilya like this. Even since their coming out, it’s been a struggle to really allow themselves to feel completely at ease in public. There are always eyes on them, always someone watching and judging.

He forces himself to keep from staring as he watches Troy lean over and kiss Harris once before the two of them turn to converse with someone Shane doesn’t know. He tries not to stare as Hayes kisses up his wife’s neck in soft pecks. He doesn’t stare as Bood curls both arms around his wife’s waist and hugs her close.

Shane’s grip on his cup tightens as he leans against the kitchen island. 

He’s glad his teammates feel so comfortable in his home, in their own lives, that they can be entirely themselves. But he hates the twinge of envy that they don’t worry about the stares. They don’t concern themselves with who might be side-eyeing or making comments beneath their breath. 

It must be nice to be so care-free.

Above a few people’s heads, Shane catches a glimpse of a halo.

Warmth pulls at the edges of his limbs. The costumes were Shane’s idea. Ilya had insisted that Shane should be the angel, but Shane had been very… persuasive. 

He glances around at the party again. Everyone is smiling and enjoying themselves, and everyone is entirely in their own world. No one is making a big deal about Harris’s arm around Troy. No one cares about the couple making out against the wall.

Shane huffs quietly, realizing he’s the only one who’s overthinking this entire thing. He downs the last few sips of his vodka ginger ale and sets the cup down, slipping through the crowd in the direction of the halo. The angel wings come into view, and Shane curls his fingers around Ilya’s bicep.

He’s chatting to one of the equipment managers and their girlfriend, but his eyes light up as soon as he locks eyes with Shane.

“Sorry, do you mind if I steal my husband real quick?” Shane asks politely. They don’t, of course, and then Shane is pulling Ilya away and through the thick of the crowd in the living room. They end up against one of the walls beside an overflowing bookshelf.

“Is everything alright, moy d'yavol (my devil)?” 

Shane doesn’t answer with words, but by curling his hand around the back of Ilya’s neck and pulling him into a kiss. Ilya responds instantly, his thick arms wrapping around Shane’s waist. He can’t hear it, but Shane can feel Ilya moan into the kiss, the vibrations soft against his lips. 

There’s a brief, underlying fear that someone will say something unpleasant, but this is their fucking house. Shane is allowed to kiss his husband in the middle of their party if he wants to. Ilya’s tongue glides against Shane’s, deepening the kiss. The familiar sensation is still enough to obliterate all thoughts from Shane’s brain, but it ends much too early.

“Get it, Captain!” Someone calls, a loud whistle cutting over the music, and there are a few laughs and whoops in response. Ilya breaks the kiss with a laugh, throwing a middle finger in the direction of the commotion. Hayes and Bood are the culprits, obviously, but they’re both smiling widely, and they turn back to their own conversations quickly. 

Ilya’s attention is entirely on Shane, their bodies still pressed together. “What a nice surprise,” he says, his voice low and only for Shane’s ears.

Shane just shrugs once. “I missed you.”

It doesn’t matter that they’ve been together most of the night, that they rarely spend time apart, that Ilya was never more than two rooms away from him. And judging by the way his husband’s smile widens, Shane knows that the sentiment is returned. “I always miss you,” Ilya says. 

Shane’s lips brush Ilya’s as he speaks. “You know the worst part about hosting the party?”

“What’s that?”

“We have to wait until everyone is gone to be alone,” Shane says, a teasing pout pulling down the corners of his mouth. 

Maybe Ilya should have been the devil after all, because the smile he gives Shane is absolutely sinful. "Do we?" he asks. Their hands link together, and then Shane is being led through the crowd towards the stairs.