Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

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 & Ilya Rozanov, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander, Cliff Marlow | Cliff Marleau, Boston Bears | Boston Raiders Team Ensemble (Game Changers), Montreal Voyageurs | Montreal Metros Team Ensemble (Game Changers)

Additional Tags:

Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Shane Hollander has Ilya Rozanov on a leash, Jane - Freeform, Ilya Rozanov is an idiot, Shane Hollander has had enough, Boston Raiders are tired of Ilya's shit, Crying, Begging, Dom Bottom Shane Hollander, Soft Ilya Rozanov, Sub Top Ilya Rozanov, Shane puts Ilya in his place, Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Pet Play, Ilya lets Shane use him, Hair-pulling, whimpering, Whining, Fluff and Smut

Language:

English

Series:

Part 1 of In case of...

Stats:

Published: 2026-08-10 Words: 9,059 Chapters: 2/2

In case of Rozanov, contact Jane

Summary

The Boston Raiders don't know who Jane is.

They only know she lives in Montreal, Ilya sees her whenever they're in town, and she seems to be the only person on earth capable of keeping Ilya Rozanov on a leash.

After two weeks of bag skates, Marlow decides they're desperate enough to call her.

He probably should've asked Ilya who Jane actually was first.

Notes

this idea has been circuling in my mind last night and I decided...fuck it I'm writing a one-shot for it.

Chapter 1

None of the Boston Raiders knew what was wrong with their captain.

And if Marlow was being honest, Ilya Rozanov was being insufferable.

He said that as his best friend, someone he loved very dearly, but dear God, if Marlow had to do another bag skate around the ice rink because of that Russian, he was going to strangle him to death.

It had been two weeks since their captain had started causing all of them trouble.

Ilya usually did that. He was notorious for starting shit all the time. But this time was different.

This was worse.

The man had somehow become even more short-tempered than he already was, and Marlow couldn't even excuse it as him being Russian anymore. He snapped at everyone, coach included. He picked fights on the ice just to get someone to swing at him first, then took unnecessary penalties because of it.

He was back to his partying days, going out constantly and drinking almost every night again.

He'd show up to practice tired and hungover and play like absolute shit.

All of it combined had gotten the Raiders bag skated almost every day for the past fourteen days.

Everyone was tired.

Marlow was especially tired.

He couldn't even sit down to take a shit in peace without his legs absolutely killing him.

Ilya was the first one in the shower after practice, and almost everyone on the team let out a breath they'd apparently been holding the second the Russian disappeared from sight.

“Dude…what the fuck is going on with Cap?”

“I don't know. But I'm tired of it,” Marlow muttered.

He pulled out his phone.

Then started typing.

“I'm texting Jane.”

Almost everyone tensed at the mention of the name.

All the Raiders knew who Jane was.

Well.

They knew of Jane.

The mysterious Montreal girl who had apparently had Ilya on a leash for the longest time.

But one of the rookies clearly hadn't gotten the memo.

“Who's Jane…?”

And truthfully?

Marlow didn't actually know.

Who was Jane?

All he knew was that Ilya saw her every time they were in Montreal to play against the Voyagers.

He knew she drove their captain insane.

He knew she somehow had Ilya on a leash and walked him like a fucking dog.

He also knew she made damn sure to leave marks on their captain every time they were there.

But not once had Marlow ever spoken to her.

Not once had he met her.

He didn't even know what she looked like.

“Rozanov's girlfriend?” the rookie asked.

“Don't think so.”

“Ex?”

“No.”

“Some Russian chick?”

“She's in Montreal.”

“Dominatrix?”

Marlow paused.

Honestly?

That one had some merit.

Another player snorted. “Maybe she's married.”

“Maybe he's married.”

“Maybe she's sixty.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The only reason Marlow even had Jane's number was because he'd secretly stolen it from his friend's phone the other day, fully intending to send her an SOS message as a last resort.

And today?

Today was that day.

“I don't know who she is,” Marlow finally admitted. “But she's our last hope.”

And so, with a couple of clicks, he sent her a message and hoped for the best next week when they went to Montreal.

Hello Jane. This is Marlow. I'm one of Ilya's teammates. I know this is weird, but please, this is me asking you for help. I don't know what happened since the last time you were in Boston and we played against the Voyagers, but please, whatever it is—fix it. The team is tired of Ilya's shit. We're tired. Thank you. I would owe you a huge one if you fix everything.

And, oh, it was about to get fixed.

Just not in the way Marlow expected.

Shane had decided, after many mental fights with himself, to finally come out to his team.

He didn't tell them about his relationship with Ilya.

He decided to let them live and not give everyone a heart attack over the fact that their own captain had been fucking their rival's captain since he was eighteen.

So he came out.

It happened in the locker room.

And Shane felt the change immediately.

He could see it.

The way some of them looked at him differently. The way they avoided him, avoided even accidentally bumping into him as if he'd somehow give them whatever sickness they thought he had.

He could hear it.

The slow muttering when he walked into the showers.

The conversations that suddenly stopped when he entered the room.

The quiet slur that echoed against the walls of the locker room he'd once considered his home.

But Shane bit his tongue.

And he took it.

He'd expected it, hadn't he?

Some of his teammates were neutral. They didn't particularly care who Shane slept with as long as he showed up and did his job.

Others were supportive.

But Shane knew a good number of them weren't accepting of him.

And somehow knowing it would happen didn't make it hurt any less.

He hadn't told Ilya the extent of how bad it had gotten.

It had slipped from his lips one night while they were lying in bed at Ilya's house in Boston after their game against each other.

Shane hadn't wanted to talk about it.

He wanted to sweep it under the rug and spend what little time he had with his boyfriend actually with his boyfriend.

But the Russian wouldn't let it go.

Ilya wanted names.

Immediately.

Shane refused.

He knew Ilya. He knew his anger would get the better of him. He'd confront them, start a fight, possibly expose their relationship, and somehow make everything ten times worse.

Neither of them meant for the argument to escalate.

But months of barely seeing each other, Shane's exhaustion, Ilya's anger, and everything left unsaid between them made sure that it did.

“They are supposed to be your team, Shane!”

“Exactly, they are my team! Which is why you need to stay out of it!”

“They call you these things and I am supposed to do nothing?”

“Yes!”

“No!”

“Ilya—”

“Tell me who.”

“I'm not giving you names!”

“Why?”

“Because I know you!”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means you'll do something fucking stupid!”

And somehow, somewhere under all that heat, Ilya suggested Shane should leave Montreal.

Get traded.

Come to Boston.

He hadn't meant for it to sound the way it did.

Ilya didn't want Shane to throw away his career.

He didn't want him to surrender.

He just couldn't stand the thought of the love of his life walking into a locker room every day where people made him feel unwanted.

He couldn't stand the idea of hockey—the thing Shane loved more than almost anything—becoming something miserable for him.

But Shane didn't hear any of that.

He heard Ilya telling him to surrender everything he'd worked his whole life for because some people were homophobic.

That was the breaking point.

“You need to let me handle my own fucking life. I can't even believe we're having this argument right now.”

Ilya went still.

Because what Shane meant was:

Trust me to handle this.

What Ilya heard was:

I don't need you.

And that made everything worse.

Another hour of back and forth followed. Things were said that neither of them meant. Things Ilya especially said because he was too angry and hurt to think before opening his mouth.

Eventually, Shane couldn't do it anymore.

He put his shoes on and walked toward the door.

“I need some time,” he mumbled. “Don't do anything stupid. I just need space…”

His hand lingered on the doorknob.

“I love you.”

Then he left.

They separated angry.

And really, it wasn't supposed to last that long.

But Ilya made it worse.

Of course he fucking did.

He was fuming over Shane barely replying to him beyond short texts.

So Ilya did what Ilya had always been exceptionally good at doing.

He self-destructed.

And he let the media paint him as whatever the hell they wanted.

He went drinking.

He went clubbing.

He let people approach him. Let them flirt with him.

He never returned it beyond a couple of words. Never actually entertained anyone.

He didn't want anyone else.

He wanted his Shane.

But Ilya knew.

He knew there were eyes.

Cameras.

And one night, drunk and angry and hurting, he saw one of them.

So he let someone get a little closer.

He unbuttoned one more button on his shirt.

A girl stood beside him, ogling him while he held a drink loosely in one hand.

The camera flashed.

Ilya looked directly toward it.

And he knew.

He knew Shane would see this.

Ilya didn't cheat.

And he knew Shane would know that.

But he also knew exactly how it would look.

The next morning, Shane called.

Then texted.

An article had already come out, filled with photographs of the Russian.

NHL Superstar Ilya Rozanov Back to the Party Scene?

Shane was fuming.

He was over his boyfriend acting like a child.

Over the temper tantrum.

Over the pictures.

Over the media.

Over Montreal.

Over Boston.

Over fucking everything.

What should have been a few days of space stretched into three weeks of barely talking.

And it hurt.

Because Shane loved that man more than anything and wanted nothing more than to be with him.

But he was just so fucking angry.

Then Shane received a message from a random number.

He stared at it.

Hello Jane. This is Marlow.

Shane read the entire message.

Then read it again.

Marlow.

Of all fucking people.

Asking Jane to fix whatever had happened to Ilya.

Apparently his boyfriend had managed to rope his entire team into the aftermath of their argument.

Shane stared at his phone.

One thought ran through his mind.

Ilya Rozanov, you are going to die.

He decided right then and there.

He wasn't fixing shit.

Ilya was going to atone for his mistakes.

In the meantime, unfortunately, the Voyagers had to suffer through an extremely strict Shane Hollander.

Voyagers vs. Raiders.

It was the perfect storm.

The couple had barely spoken properly in three weeks.

And putting them on the same sheet of ice only made it worse.

They were awful to each other.

Not bad hockey.

No.

Actually, it was amazing hockey.

But it was extremely personal hockey.

Almost everyone in the arena could taste the tension between the two captains.

The extra rough checks.

The shoves after whistles.

The staring each other down with murder in their eyes.

Ilya chirped Shane more than usual.

Shane refused to engage.

But the cherry on top?

Ilya dropped his gloves after hearing one of Shane's own teammates chirp a slur toward their captain.

And that was what truly sent the brunette over the edge.

The game ended 4–2, Voyagers.

Boston was pissed.

Tired.

Already knowing their captain's behavior would probably get worse and dreading the bag skates they were going to suffer through in the weeks to come.

So they could only imagine their shock when the door to their locker room slammed open with enough force that half of them thought it would leave a dent in the wall.

On the other side of that door, Shane had stood for a moment and breathed in.

He'd made the decision sometime during the game.

Fuck privacy.

Apparently Ilya didn't care about it anymore.

Why the hell should Shane?

He knew exactly what walking through that door meant.

He knew there would be no taking it back afterward.

And right now?

He didn't care.

The Raiders stared in shock and confusion as a fuming Shane Hollander marched into their locker room with murder in his eyes.

Everyone stopped moving.

Their rival team's captain was standing in their locker room.

Ilya had his back toward the door, completely unaware of what had just walked in. His shirt was halfway over his head when suddenly—

“Ilya Grigori Alexandrovich Rozanov.”

Somehow, the locker room got colder.

Almost everyone in the room got goosebumps.

Ilya stopped moving.

For a second, his brain couldn't seem to grasp the concept of his full name being used.

But more importantly—

who had used it.

He let his shirt fall down and turned around with wide eyes.

Oh.

Ilya was dead.

“Sha—...Hollander, what are you doing—”

“Don't you fucking dare ‘Hollander’ me, Ilya.”

The blond immediately shut up.

His eyes darted around the room at all his teammates staring at them like they were witnessing first contact with an alien species.

Then he looked back at Shane with an expression that very clearly said, What the fuck are you doing?

“Since you want to go out and make a spectacle of your life in front of TMZ reporters with absolutely no care for privacy, I decided to do the same and set shit straight in front of your team.”

“Shane, listen, I can explain. Please, моя любовь—”

The room went silent.

A few heads snapped toward Ilya.

Shane didn't even blink.

“Shut up.”

Ilya gulped.

Someone inhaled sharply.

Someone else failed miserably at hiding a laugh.

Shane's head snapped toward the sound.

He gave them the same captain look that apparently worked even when the players weren't actually his.

“Something funny? I may not be your captain, but I sure as fuck can find a way to make you all bag skate twice as much as you've already been.”

Quiet protests immediately broke out around the locker room.

“Good. That's what I thought.”

Shane turned back.

“Back to you.”

He pointed a finger at Ilya and jabbed it lightly into his chest.

“You are going to stand here and listen to everything I have to say until I tell you that you can talk.”

Ilya knew it absolutely should not have turned him on.

Unfortunately, his body had never been particularly interested in what it should be doing where Shane was concerned.

He nodded.

He wanted to stay alive, after all.

“Great. So let's go through everything that's happened in the past three weeks, Ilya. We argue about my homophobic team. You tell me to pretty much throw everything I've worked for away. I tell you I need space. And what do I see? Lo and behold, my boyfriend has a whole fucking article about how he's back in the ‘party scene’ and has a different bimbo hanging off his arm every night.”

The room went completely still.

Boyfriend.

Marlow blinked.

Someone across the room slowly lowered the sock he'd been putting on.

Another Raider looked from Shane.

To Ilya.

Back to Shane.

Ilya, apparently unaware that his entire team was experiencing a collective existential crisis around him, frowned.

“They were not hanging…”

“Ilya.”

“Maybe they were hanging a little bit…”

God.

He needed to shut the fuck up if he wanted to survive this.

“You have spent three weeks making our argument everyone else's problem. And you decided to piss me off in the process by trying to make me jealous.”

“I did not make it everyone else's problem.”

From somewhere behind him, Marlow whispered just loudly enough for everyone to hear:

“We've bag skated every day for the last two weeks.”

Ilya hissed and turned his head toward his friend.

“Whose fucking side are you on?”

“Eyes on me.”

Ilya's head immediately snapped back into place.

Someone whispered into the suddenly tense locker room.

“Holy shit.”

Marlow stared.

Holy shit was right.

For years, they'd joked that Jane had their captain on a leash.

Apparently they'd been underestimating the situation.

Shane didn't even need the fucking leash.

“Here's the thing, Ilya. You knew I would see those pictures.”

Ilya didn't answer.

His head lowered slightly in shame.

“Look at me and tell me you didn't know.”

Slowly, Ilya lifted his eyes.

“…I knew.”

“Exactly. And that's what I'm angry about. Not the drinking. Not the clubs. Not even the fucking women and men. It's the fact that you wanted to hurt me because you were hurt.”

Ilya's expression changed.

There was no joke waiting on his tongue this time.

Shane stepped closer.

“So here's how this is going to work, Ilya Grigori Alexandrovich Rozanov. You have one hour. Sixty minutes. You're going to apologize to every single person in this room, especially Marlow. Then you're going to talk to your coach. Then you're going to drive to my apartment and be ready to get on your knees and apologize to me in every way possible. I don't care how. Money. Food. Gifts. Crying. Figure it out. It's not my problem.”

Shane stepped closer with every word, slowly backing the Russian toward his stall.

“And if you're even one minute late, then so help me God, our argument is going to be the least of your fucking problems. Do you understand me?”

Ilya was going to piss himself from actual fear of his boyfriend.

Was Shane always this fucking scary?

He nodded.

“Yes.”

The Canadian raised an eyebrow.

And with every ounce of willpower left in his body, Ilya forced himself to speak loudly enough for the room to hear.

“Yes, Shane.”

God.

Ilya wanted the earth to swallow him whole.

He was never living this down.

Ever.

But because Shane was still Shane, and Shane was still his boyfriend, he reached forward and straightened Ilya's crooked collar.

The tiny gesture somehow made the humiliation worse.

Then Shane looked at his watch.

“Fifty-nine minutes.”

Ilya moved.

Faster than he'd ever fucking moved on the ice, he scrambled out of the locker room to find his coach.

Shane watched his boyfriend disappear before turning around.

The Raiders were staring at him.

Shocked.

Impressed.

Some looked mildly terrified.

Others looked like they'd just had several years' worth of questions answered in under five minutes.

Shane walked toward Marlow.

Marlow had a good couple of inches on him and was broader too, but somehow he nearly cowered as the other captain approached.

“Marlow.”

“Hollander…”

“You owe me a huge one.”

Then Shane left.

The door closed behind him.

Silence.

Marlow stared at it.

Then something clicked.

Jane only appeared in Montreal.

Ilya was always suspiciously happy after seeing Jane.

Sometimes covered in marks.

Jane drove him insane.

Jane apparently had him on a leash.

Jane's number—

Marlow slowly looked down at his phone.

Then toward the door Shane had just walked through.

He remembered Ilya's panicked моя любовь.

He remembered Shane saying my boyfriend.

He remembered Ilya snapping his head forward at a simple eyes on me.

Oh.

Oh.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Someone looked at him.

“What?”

Marlow stared toward the door.

“Shane fucking Hollander is Jane.”

Silence.

Someone dropped something.

“The Montreal girl?”

“He's not a girl.”

“No fucking shit.”

“Wait—Jane is Hollander?”

“With one look, everyone seemed to make the same connection.

Shane Hollander was Jane.

Their captain had been secretly dating the captain of the Montreal Voyagers.

Their captain had apparently been secretly dating a man.

Their captain's mysterious Montreal girl was not, in fact, a mysterious Montreal girl.

And perhaps most importantly—

Ilya Rozanov was apparently extremely fucking obedient to Shane Hollander.

Marlow sat down heavily.

He'd unknowingly texted the captain of the Montreal Voyagers and asked him to come control his own boyfriend.

Jesus Christ.

One thought seemed to settle collectively over the Raiders locker room.

Never piss off Shane Hollander if you don't want Jane to come hunting your ass.

At fifty-five minutes and thirty-six seconds, Ilya stood in front of the familiar door to his lover's apartment.

Shane opened it.

And stared.

Ilya was five minutes early.

Marlow had already texted Shane confirming that everyone had received an apology, including their coach.

His boyfriend was showered.

Dressed in his post-game dress shirt.

Sober.

His hair was still slightly damp.

His phone was nowhere in sight.

And his hands were full.

Flowers he'd somehow managed to find this late at night.

Gifts.

Food from Shane's favorite takeout place.

And more.

Ilya knew he had much more to do.

But this was a start.

Shane glanced at the clock.

Then back at his boyfriend.

Without saying anything, he stepped aside.

Ilya entered.

Shane walked into the living room with Ilya's footsteps trailing behind him.

He leaned against the couch.

A second later, he heard a soft thud.

Ilya was on his knees.

Head lowered.

Shane stayed quiet.

He simply watched as his boyfriend eventually lifted his head and looked up at him with watery eyes.

Something in Shane's chest clenched.

He knew Ilya was sorry.

He knew his boyfriend only cared.

Deep down, Shane had probably forgiven him already.

But he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to watch Ilya suffer for just a little longer.

Ilya took a shaky breath.

“I am sorry, моя любовь. So sorry.”

Shane said nothing.

“I did not mean to do all of that. I am sorry for the pictures. For going out and making you see me like that through the internet. For making you worry while I drank all night. For not talking to you. For not communicating my feelings.”

Ilya swallowed.

“I was so blinded by being hurt that I didn't realize you were hurting too. And fuck, Shane, I just made everything worse.”

His eyes dropped.

“I didn't cheat. Didn't even entertain anyone. But I knew the pictures would make it look like maybe there was something. I knew exactly what people would think.”

“I know.”

“And I knew you would see.”

Shane's jaw tightened slightly.

“I know that too.”

“I wanted you to.”

There it was.

Ilya's voice cracked.

“And I am so fucking sorry.”

Shane stayed silent.

“It is just…” Ilya shook his head. “You said you needed space. You said you needed to handle this yourself. And my head—it translated it into you not needing me.”

Shane's expression softened.

“Ilya…”

“And it drove me crazy. Because I need you. So much. And I thought maybe you did not need me the same way.”

Ilya took another shaky breath.

“I wasn't asking you to leave Montreal because I was ashamed of you. I was asking because I couldn't stand knowing you weren't safe there.”

“I know that now.”

Shane swallowed.

“I didn't know it then.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then Shane finally started talking.

“It was just so hard, Ilya.”

Ilya looked up.

“It felt like everything I'd worked for—every goal, the ‘C’ on my chest, the three fucking Stanley Cups I won them—went out the window because I was attracted to someone with a penis.”

Ilya's expression twisted.

“I knew it could be that way. I knew coming out wouldn't magically make everyone okay with it. I'm not fucking stupid.”

Shane looked away.

“But knowing it could happen and actually walking into that locker room every day are two completely different things.”

His voice grew quieter.

“Montreal is all I know.”

Ilya didn't move.

“I've spent almost my entire adult life there. Those guys were supposed to be my friends. That locker room was supposed to be home. And suddenly people I'd played beside for years wouldn't even fucking bump shoulders with me.”

His throat tightened.

“It hurt so fucking much.”

Ilya's eyes were shining now.

“The people I considered home were turning their backs on me. And I kept telling myself it was fine because I had somewhere else to go.”

Shane finally looked at him.

“I had you.”

Ilya's lips parted.

“No matter what they said, I could call you. I could come here. You could come to Montreal. I could lie next to you and suddenly I wasn't Shane Hollander, the gay captain everyone was whispering about.”

Shane's voice broke slightly.

“I was just Shane.”

Ilya crawled closer.

“And then I saw those pictures.”

Shane stopped.

Ilya's face crumpled.

“Shane…”

“And God, Ilya, my heart just—”

Shane shook his head.

“Because I can be fine knowing they don't want me. I can deal with that. But even the thought of you not—”

“No.”

Shane blinked.

“No. No, no, no. Shane.”

Ilya moved closer on his knees.

His hands lifted toward Shane's thighs before stopping inches away.

He didn't touch him.

Not yet.

“Do not ever think this. Please.”

Shane looked away.

“Ilya—”

“I was angry. I was stupid. I wanted you jealous because I wanted you to want me.”

“I know.”

“No.”

Ilya shook his head.

“You know here.”

He lifted two fingers and gently tapped Shane's temple.

Then, cautiously, he pressed his palm against Shane's chest.

“I need you to know here.”

Fuck him.

Shane's eyes burned.

“There is no world where I do not want you, Shane.”

Something inside Shane finally broke.

His hand came down.

His fingers slipped into Ilya's damp hair.

Ilya's eyes closed immediately.

His entire body seemed to sag with relief at the first real touch Shane had given him.

Shane stroked his hair.

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Ilya opened his eyes.

Shane gave him a tiny smile.

“I love you too.”

Ilya leaned into his hand.

They stayed like that for a while.

No yelling.

No media.

No teammates.

No Boston.

No Montreal.

Just them.

Eventually, they made an agreement.

Shane would tell Ilya what happened in Montreal. He wouldn't hide the comments or pretend everything was okay when it wasn't.

But Ilya had to let Shane handle it himself unless Shane asked for help.

That part was considerably harder for Ilya to agree to.

“But what if they say something in front of me?”

“Then you look at me.”

“And if you say yes?”

Shane laughed softly.

His fingers were still running through his boyfriend's hair.

“Then God help them.”

“Good.”

Ilya nodded seriously.

“Okay then. I will do that.”

They smiled at each other.

And for the first time in three weeks, everything felt right again.

Shane's fingers continued idly combing through Ilya's hair.

Then his eyes lowered.

Ilya was still on his knees.

Right between Shane's legs.

Looking up at him.

Oh.

Shane's fingers stilled.

Something changed in his expression.

Ilya noticed immediately.

Of course he fucking did.

The softness in Shane's eyes shifted into something else entirely.

And for the first time that evening, Ilya felt less like a miserable boyfriend begging forgiveness and considerably more like prey being watched by something that had finally decided to hunt.

He swallowed.

Shane's fingers tightened slightly in his hair.

“You know…”

Ilya waited.

“You're not completely forgiven just yet, Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya's breath caught.

Shane smiled.

“I told you. You're going to work for it.”

A beat passed.

Then Ilya lowered his eyes.

“…Yes, Shane.”

And they both knew exactly where this was going.

Chapter 2

Chapter Summary

Ilya Rozanov came to Shane's apartment prepared to get on his knees and apologize.

He probably should have considered what Shane might do once he got him down there.

Chapter Notes

Shane finally takes control, and they both realize they like it.

Ilya was still on his knees, right between Shane’s legs, looking up at him.

Oh.

Shane’s fingers stilled in his hair as something shifted in his expression. Ilya noticed immediately. Of course he fucking did. The softness in Shane’s eyes changed into something else entirely, and for the first time that evening, Ilya felt less like a miserable boyfriend begging for forgiveness and considerably more like prey being watched by something that had finally decided to hunt.

He swallowed when Shane’s fingers tightened slightly in his hair.

“You know…”

Ilya waited.

“You’re not completely forgiven just yet, Ilya Rozanov.”

Ilya’s breath caught.

Shane smiled. “I told you. You’re going to work for it.”

A beat passed before Ilya lowered his eyes.

“…Yes, Shane.”

And they both knew exactly where this was going.

From the beginning of their relationship, Ilya had always been the dominant one. He took the lead. He pushed, teased, demanded, and Shane happily let him. Somewhere along the way, they’d also discovered that they were both…

Well.

Freaks.

There really wasn’t a more dignified way of putting it.

So they’d done research. Or, more accurately, Shane had done research. Ilya had mostly watched his boyfriend fall down increasingly questionable internet rabbit holes with a fond smile on his face, occasionally offering an unhelpful comment about how cute Shane looked when he was taking notes about sex.

They experimented. They talked. They figured out what they liked, what they didn’t, what was an absolute no, and what made one of them immediately look at the other and say, Again.

But through all of it, there was one thing that had never really changed.

Ilya led.

Shane followed.

Not because Shane couldn’t take control. He’d simply never felt the need to.

Until now.

Because Ilya Rozanov was on his knees for him. The same Ilya Rozanov who could command an entire locker room with a look. Who chirped men twice his size and smiled when they threatened to punch him. Who had spent years taking Shane apart with infuriating confidence because he knew exactly what he did to him.

That man was kneeling between Shane’s legs, his cheeks still tearstained, his eyes glossy, his hair tangled between Shane’s fingers.

And he was looking up at Shane like he was yearning for his touch.

Something inside Shane snapped.

He felt powerful. Dangerously powerful.

Because, for once, he was the one looking down. And judging by the way Ilya waited—perfectly still, eyes fixed on him—Shane had the sudden, intoxicating realization that he could tell his boyfriend what he wanted and Ilya wouldn’t even think twice before obeying.

That wasn’t an opportunity Shane Hollander got every day.

And after everything Ilya had put him through over the last three weeks?

Shane intended to enjoy every fucking second of it.

He slowly ran his fingers through Ilya’s hair again, and Ilya instinctively leaned into the touch.

Oh.

That was interesting.

Shane’s smile widened. Ilya’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He knew that smile.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Shane.”

“Didn’t I tell you that you weren’t forgiven yet?”

Ilya’s mouth closed.

Shane nearly laughed. Jesus Christ. This was going to be fun.

He’d spent three weeks being tortured by Ilya Rozanov.

It was only fair that he returned the favor.

He’d be lying if he said he really knew where to start. Shane had never done this before. Not like this, anyway. So instead of overthinking it like he did almost everything else in his life, he decided to follow his instincts.

He loosened his fingers and let go of his boyfriend’s hair.

The sound that followed stopped him in his tracks.

Ilya had whimpered.

Actually fucking whimpered.

The small, needy sound slipped from his throat before either of them seemed to realize it was happening. Shane slowly looked down, and Ilya stared back at him, looking just as surprised as Shane felt.

Then realization settled in.

A blush started creeping up Ilya’s neck.

Oh.

Shane liked that.

A lot.

“Someone’s needy.”

Ilya’s eyes narrowed, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the color still spreading across his cheeks. Shane couldn’t help the menacing laugh that escaped him.

Maybe he didn’t know exactly what he was doing yet.

But apparently, neither did Ilya.

That made this considerably more fun.

Shane turned and started toward their bedroom, leaving Ilya exactly where he was. He made it several steps before realizing he couldn’t hear anyone following him.

He didn’t look back.

“You gonna stay there all night, or are you gonna follow me?”

There was a beat of silence behind him before he finally heard movement.

Shane smiled to himself.

Yeah.

He could get used to this.

By the time Shane reached their bedroom, the uncertainty he’d felt downstairs had started to fade. He began removing his clothes, deliberately taking his time until he was left in nothing but his boxers.

He could feel Ilya watching him.

So maybe—maybe—Shane put a little more sway into his hips than strictly necessary.

He heard Ilya’s breath catch behind him.

Shane smirked.

“Strip.”

“I—” A pause. “What?”

Shane turned his head just enough to look at him.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The sharp inhale behind him did something dangerous to Shane’s newfound confidence.

He crossed the room and settled into the chair in the corner, making himself comfortable as he watched his boyfriend obey. Ilya’s fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one beneath Shane’s unwavering stare.

The shirt hit the floor. Then his socks. His pants followed.

Throughout all of it, Shane said nothing.

He just watched.

That seemed to affect Ilya more than anything else.

Soon, Ilya stood in front of him wearing nothing but his boxers, waiting. Shane’s eyes slowly traveled over him before returning to his face.

Ilya swallowed.

God.

This was Ilya Rozanov?

The man who never shut up? Who always had some smartass comment waiting on his tongue?

Apparently all Shane had to do was sit in a chair and look at him long enough to make him forget how to speak.

Interesting.

Shane’s gaze dropped once more, and he nodded toward Ilya’s boxers.

“Those come off too.”

Ilya stared at him.

Shane raised an eyebrow.

This time, Ilya didn’t make him repeat himself.

He could see it in his eyes. Could tell by the way the tips of his ears were slowly turning red.

Ilya was embarrassed.

And that did things to Shane.

When Ilya removed the last of his clothing, stripping himself of whatever dignity he had left, Shane watched him like an animal ready to hunt.

And Ilya liked that.

He loved it.

His body was already responding to the attention, and God, Shane had barely even done anything yet. Ilya felt like he might lose his mind if the other man simply sat there and stared at him much longer.

“Get on your knees.”

And who was Ilya to disobey his boyfriend?

Another loud thud followed as his knees met the floor. He knew they would probably bruise later.

He didn’t care.

He loved looking at Shane from down here.

There was something almost reverent about it, like he was a servant brought to his knees before a god. And God, how badly he wanted to worship Shane right now.

“Come over here.”

Ilya immediately started to stand.

He barely made it halfway up.

“Did I say you could get up?”

Ilya froze.

He looked up from where he knelt, lips parting in surprise. Even Shane seemed slightly shocked by his own command.

Only slightly, though.

Because the surprise quickly disappeared beneath something darker—something Ilya could see in his eyes, in the way Shane shifted in the chair, in the growing evidence that he was enjoying this just as much as Ilya was.

Really enjoying this.

And so Ilya did as he was told.

Ilya Rozanov—the captain of the Boston Raiders, one of the most feared players in the league, a man who had built an entire reputation around doing whatever the fuck he wanted—lowered himself onto his hands.

And crawled.

On all fours.

Toward his boyfriend.

Heat burned its way up Ilya’s neck with every movement. The humiliation should have made him stop. Shouldn’t have made his dick leak with precum.

Instead, it made him want more.

That realization sent another wave of shame through him—not because he was there, not because it was Shane, but because of just how much he liked this.

How easily Shane had reduced him to this.

How badly he wanted to obey.

And judging by the look waiting for him on Shane’s face, his boyfriend was beginning to realize it too.

Within seconds, Ilya was right in front of him—naked, cock aching, still on his hands and knees. Shane looked down at him from the chair, taking his time, letting the silence stretch until Ilya could barely stand it.

“You’ve been really bad lately, haven’t you, baby?”

Holy fuck.

The pet name alone nearly destroyed him.

“And bad boys…” Shane paused, watching the anticipation build in Ilya’s expression. “Don’t get what they want.”

For the second—or was it the third?—time that night, Ilya whimpered.

He shook his head quickly, tears already beginning to gather along his lashes. Everything felt like too much and somehow not nearly enough at the same time. The embarrassment, the anticipation, the overwhelming need to please Shane—it all tangled together until Ilya barely knew what to do with himself.

“I’ll be good,” he rushed out. “I swear. Please. Please, Shane, I’ll be good from now on. Please, малыш, I—”

Was he crying?

Was he begging?

Ilya Rozanov didn’t beg.

Jesus Christ, he was pathetic.

And right now, he couldn't bring himself to care.

He just wanted to feel good. Wanted Shane to feel good. More than anything, he wanted to hear that soft praise again and know that he'd earned it.

Whatever embarrassment he'd felt before began slipping away as he let himself sink deeper into the overwhelming feeling of submission. He lowered his head onto Shane’s knee, eyes squeezing shut as another helpless whine escaped him.

Then fingers tangled sharply in his curls.

Ilya gasped as the firm tug forced his head back up.

Shane was staring down at him with an expression Ilya couldn't quite name. One hand remained tangled in his hair, holding him there, while the other came up to grip his jaw and keep his attention exactly where Shane wanted it.

But underneath the dominance—underneath the darkened eyes and commanding grip—Ilya could still see him.

His Shane.

There was affection there. Care. A quiet question beneath everything else.

Shane's grip softened just slightly.

“You remember our stoplight system, baby?”

Ilya nodded.

It felt strange being the one asked this time.

“Tell me.”

“Red for stop,” Ilya breathed. “Yellow for slow down or pause. Green for continue.”

Shane's thumb brushed once along his jaw.

“Good boy.”

Ilya shuddered.

“And if I ask you what your color is, you're going to tell me. Okay?”

Another nod.

Shane raised an eyebrow.

Ilya immediately corrected himself.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Shane.”

“Good.”

For just a second, Shane's expression softened into something unmistakably affectionate.

Then it disappeared.

The smirk returned.

Ilya's stomach flipped.

“Now…” Shane murmured, his fingers tightening in Ilya’s curls once more. “Since you’ve been bad, you deserve to be punished.”

Ilya had known that was where this was going. Of course he had. Still, some small, desperate part of him had hoped Shane might take pity on him.

Apparently not.

His head dropped in defeat as Shane’s fingers untangled themselves from his hair.

“Look at me.”

Ilya’s head snapped back up.

“You’re gonna sit there, and you’re gonna watch me.” Shane held his gaze. “And you’re not gonna touch yourself until I decide you deserve it.”

What?

How the fuck was Ilya supposed to do that?

He was already barely hanging on by a thread. His mouth opened, ready to protest, but Shane merely raised an eyebrow and tilted his head.

“Do you wanna get in more trouble?”

Ilya immediately closed his mouth and shook his head.

“Then do what you’re told, puppy.”

Ilya’s entire body stilled.

Puppy.

Goosebumps spread across his skin. He swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting his voice anymore. If he opened his mouth, he was almost certain another humiliating whine would betray him.

But the embarrassment was quickly becoming secondary to something much stronger.

He wanted to be Shane’s good boy.

His good puppy.

He wanted the praise. Wanted that pleased look on Shane’s face. Wanted to prove that, for once in his fucking life, Ilya Rozanov could follow instructions without making everything more difficult.

So he would.

He’d do whatever his boyfriend told him.

Ilya stayed exactly where Shane had put him and watched intently as his lover slowly removed the last piece of clothing between them, the other’s dick leaking precum. Every instinct screamed at him to move closer, to reach out, to close the distance Shane was deliberately forcing him to keep, and just lick.

But Shane had told him not to move.

So Ilya remained on his knees.

Waiting.

Watching.

Wanting.

And judging by the satisfied expression slowly spreading across Shane’s face, that was exactly where he wanted him.

“We could be doing something else if you had only been good,” Shane muttered, staring at Ilya from beneath his lashes.

There was disappointment written across his face, and Ilya immediately wanted it gone.

He didn’t want to disappoint Shane.

Not anymore.

A small whimper slipped from his throat as Shane reached for him again, fingers closing around his jaw with a firmer grip this time.

“Spit.”

And Ilya did.

He spat into Shane’s waiting palm, some of it slipping messily past his lips and down his chin. He didn’t dare look away as Shane used it on himself, his movements deliberately, torturously slow, his gaze never once leaving Ilya’s.

Ilya’s hands clenched beside his thighs.

“Your pretty mouth could be wrapped around me right now,” Shane murmured. “But you decided to run it for the media instead.”

Ilya’s breath hitched.

Shane tilted his head, studying him.

“You think you deserve what you want, pup?”

Ilya was crying now.

Not because he wanted Shane to stop. Quite the opposite.

He wanted desperately to please him. Wanted Shane to use him, praise him, tell him he was finally being good after three weeks of doing almost everything wrong.

So Ilya shook his head.

His hands clenched tighter against his thighs as another wave of need rolled through him.

This was fucking unbearable.

And somehow, impossibly, he only wanted more.

Yet he couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop tracing the bead of sweat rolling down Shane’s abs with his eyes, wanting nothing more than to lean forward and lick it away.

His throat tightened.

Shane’s movements gradually became faster, less controlled, and Ilya knew him well enough to recognize what that meant.

God, Shane looked beautiful.

And the way he was looking at Ilya—like the sight of him on his knees, needy and desperate, was driving him completely fucking insane—was almost unbearable.

“Tell me, baby. You want me to use that pretty throat of yours?”

Dear God.

Ilya was not going to make it out of this alive.

He nodded frantically, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. He wanted to please Shane. Wanted to be useful to him. Wanted to give him absolutely anything he asked for.

“Let me hear you, pup.”

“P-please, Shane…please, I—” Ilya hiccuped through the words, desperately scooting closer without daring to actually touch him. “I just want you to use me. Please. Just want to be your pretty puppy. I’ll be good.”

That seemed to do it.

“Fuck…” Shane breathed.

Whatever composure he’d been holding onto finally cracked.

His hands moved into Ilya’s curls, fingers burying themselves in the blond strands as he drew him closer.

“Open up, pup.”

And Ilya did exactly that.

He opened his mouth, letting his tongue roll out as he looked up at Shane. He was practically salivating from the sheer need coursing through him, every part of his body screaming at him to move closer.

Shane brushed his tip against his lips before letting himself rest against Ilya’s waiting tongue.

Ilya had to fight every instinct in his body not to reach up and wrap his hands around Shane’s legs.

He’d been told not to touch.

So he didn’t.

“Look at you…” Shane murmured, his fingers still buried in blond curls. “So pretty for me. So eager to please.”

Ilya shuddered.

“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Desperate to prove him right, Ilya answered the only way he could in that moment, running his tongue over the reddening tip while keeping his eyes fixed on Shane’s.

He knew he must have looked completely fucked out already. His cheeks were wet, his lips messy, his face flushed from embarrassment and need.

He didn’t care.

If Shane thought he looked pretty like this, then he was pretty.

Shane’s expression darkened.

Without warning, his grip in Ilya’s hair tightened and he took control, guiding Ilya exactly where he wanted him, down his length. Ilya gagged slightly, fresh tears immediately stinging his eyes, but after the initial surprise passed, he forced himself to relax. He heard the whispered curses coming out of his lover's mouth. 

This was what he’d been begging for. So Ilya stayed where Shane wanted him, hands still obediently clenched beside his thighs, and surrendered control.

Shane gave him the grace of a few moments to adjust before he began to move. At first, he kept it slow, fingers tightening around Ilya’s curls as he guided the Russian’s head up and down his length. Ilya’s saliva coated him obscenely, making everything messier with each movement, but Shane seemed to fucking love it.

Throughout all of this, Ilya’s own dick had been completely neglected. Not once had Shane touched him, and the ache had become almost unbearable. He throbbed painfully with every passing second, his body desperate for any kind of friction or relief, but he refused to disobey.

A helpless whimper vibrated around Shane.

And apparently, that was all it took.

Whatever thin thread of restraint Shane had been clinging to finally snapped.

The brunette shifted, planting one leg between Ilya’s as his grip tightened in the blond curls. The slow, controlled pace disappeared as Shane took over completely, driving himself into Ilya’s throat with a newfound aggression that had the Russian’s eyes watering all over again.

Ilya looked up.

Their eyes met.

And fuck.

He could have sworn he watched something in Shane’s expression turn darker.

Shane’s composure was gone. Whatever uncertainty he’d had about taking control earlier had vanished with it, replaced by something hungry and almost animalistic as his pace became faster, rougher, more demanding.

And Ilya let him.

He stayed exactly where Shane had put him, hands still clenched uselessly at his sides despite every instinct screaming at him to grab onto something. He let Shane take what he wanted, let himself become nothing more than something for his boyfriend’s pleasure.

And God, he fucking loved it.

Ilya couldn’t help the way his hips rutted forward once, his body finally slipping beyond his control. Tears streamed freely down his face as Shane’s fingers tightened almost unbearably in his hair, and somewhere through the haze, he heard his boyfriend laugh softly.

“Look at my puppy,” Shane murmured. “Just rutting against me because you need to feel something.”

Ilya whimpered.

“Go ahead, baby. Use my leg. Get yourself off.”

Ilya didn’t need to be told twice.

His hips immediately began moving, chasing the friction Shane had finally allowed him. After being denied for so long, even that was almost too much. Every movement sent another wave of pleasure through him, and within seconds, the pathetic little noises he’d been making dissolved into broken whimpers and breathless cries.

He was barely a minute in before he realized he was already close.

Shane wasn’t far behind him.

The controlled rhythm he’d started with had long since disappeared, his movements growing sloppier as he chased his own release. Ilya could feel the tension building between them, could hear it in Shane’s increasingly uneven breathing, until finally Shane came with a loud curse.

That was enough to send Ilya over the edge with him.

His entire body tensed as he came, leaving a mess across Shane’s leg and the floor beneath them. For several seconds afterward, Ilya couldn’t do anything except stay there and breathe, his thoughts reduced to little more than static.

He was completely dazed.

So dazed, in fact, that he barely registered Shane moving away from him.

One second, Ilya was on the floor.

The next, strong arms were wrapping around him.

“Come here.”

Ilya made some unintelligible noise of protest—or agreement; even he wasn’t entirely sure—and let himself be lifted.

Whatever commanding edge Shane had carried only moments earlier seemed to melt away as he carried Ilya toward the bathroom. By the time Ilya's brain caught up with what was happening, warm water was already running into the tub.

Shane was starting them a bath.

Ilya blinked slowly at him.

There he was.

His Shane.

The same man who had spent the last however-long reducing Ilya Rozanov to a whimpering mess was now checking the temperature of the bathwater with the same serious concentration he used when preparing his protein shakes.

And somehow, that made Ilya want to cry all over again.

Shane gathered him carefully into his arms before lowering them both into the warm water. He settled behind Ilya, chest pressed against his back, and Ilya immediately let his head fall against his boyfriend’s shoulder.

It was strange.

The lingering feeling of not having complete control over his own body. His limbs felt heavy, his thoughts slow and pleasantly distant as he continued coming down from everything that had just happened.

For once, Ilya didn’t fight it.

He simply let Shane hold him.

“You were so good for me, baby…” Shane murmured against his skin.

Ilya’s eyes fluttered shut.

Shane worked shampoo gently through his curls, massaging his scalp as he continued showering him with quiet praise.

“Took everything I gave you. Listened so well.” Shane pressed a kiss against his temple. “You did so good for me, sweetheart. Such a good boy.”

Ilya’s heart swelled at the words.

After three weeks of feeling like he had done absolutely everything wrong, hearing that he had finally done something right for Shane made warmth spread through his chest.

A quiet, pleased hum escaped him as he sank further into Shane’s embrace.

“There he is,” Shane whispered.

Ilya smiled sleepily.

He let himself be taken care of after that. Let Shane wash his hair, clean him up, and press absentminded kisses against whatever part of him happened to be closest. There was no embarrassment left anymore. No shame. No need to prove anything.

Just Shane.

By the time they finished their bath, Ilya was feeling considerably more human.

Apparently, Shane disagreed.

The second Ilya stepped out and reached for a towel, Shane wrapped one around him before scooping him into his arms.

Ilya blinked.

“Shane.”

“No.”

“I did not say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I can walk.”

“There it is.”

“Shane, I am two hundred and twenty pounds.”

“And?”

“And put me down.”

“No.”

Ilya stared at him.

Shane stared right back.

“Ilya, you spent the last three weeks acting like an emotionally constipated asshole and then spent tonight letting me take care of you. You can survive another five minutes.”

“I can walk to bed.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why are you carrying me?”

Shane adjusted him in his arms and started toward the bedroom.

“Because I want to.”

And, well.

What the fuck was Ilya supposed to say to that?

He grumbled something in Russian and finally gave up, wrapping his arms around Shane’s shoulders and letting himself be carried.

Sometimes he forgot his boyfriend was also a professional hockey player—a very large, very muscular professional hockey player who regularly slammed grown men into the boards for a living.

Shane carried all two hundred and twenty pounds of Ilya Rozanov to their bed like he weighed absolutely nothing.

It really shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was.

Then again, Ilya was beginning to learn that apparently everything Shane did was attractive when he was the one being taken care of.

Once they were finally settled beneath the covers, Ilya let his body drift closer to Shane.

And then closer.

And somehow closer still.

As close as humanly possible, like if he tried hard enough, their atoms might fuse together and Shane would never be able to get rid of him again.

Not that Shane seemed to mind.

Ilya tucked himself against his boyfriend’s side and buried his face in the warmth of Shane’s chest. An arm immediately wrapped around him, holding him there, while Shane’s other hand found its way into his still-damp curls.

His fingers moved through them slowly.

Gently.

Ilya melted.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The bedroom was quiet except for their breathing and the steady beat of Shane’s heart beneath Ilya’s ear.

Then Ilya mumbled something against his chest.

Shane’s fingers paused.

“What was that?”

Another muffled response.

“Baby, I need you to speak up.”

Ilya hesitated.

“I said…”

He lifted his head slightly but immediately looked away, suddenly embarrassed by the question sitting on the tip of his tongue.

His voice was still quiet when he finally managed to get it out.

“We are…okay now, right?”

Shane went completely still.

Almost instantly, his expression softened.

Oh.

His heart fucking ached for him.

After everything—the yelling, the three weeks apart, the club pictures, the locker room, the apologies, tonight—Ilya was still lying here wondering if Shane was angry with him.

Shane’s hand slipped from his curls to cup the back of his neck.

“Hey.”

Reluctantly, Ilya looked at him.

“We’re more than okay, baby.”

Ilya searched his face like he needed to make absolutely sure Shane meant it.

Shane did.

He leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to Ilya’s forehead.

“There won’t be a next time, right?”

“No.” Ilya answered immediately. “There will not be.”

“No more trying to piss me off through the media?”

“No.”

“No more disappearing into clubs instead of talking to me?”

Ilya grimaced.

“No.”

“And no more making your entire team bag skate because you're having relationship problems?”

“That one was mostly Coach's decision.”

Shane stared at him.

Ilya lasted approximately two seconds.

“…No more bag skates.”

“Good.”

Shane kissed his forehead again before gently guiding Ilya’s head back against his chest.

“You’re forgiven.”

The tension Ilya hadn't even realized he was still carrying seemed to leave his body all at once.

He exhaled against Shane’s skin and curled closer.

“Love you,” he mumbled sleepily.

Shane smiled, returning his fingers to Ilya’s curls.

“I love you too.”

A pause.

Then, very quietly:

“Even when you are fucking impossible.”

Ilya made an offended noise against his chest.

Shane laughed softly.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart. You’ve had a long night.”

Ilya wanted to argue purely on principle, but his body had apparently decided it was done listening to him for the evening. His eyes were already falling shut, Shane’s fingers moving lazily through his hair as exhaustion finally pulled him under.

And so Ilya fell asleep exactly where he wanted to be.

Wrapped in his boyfriend’s arms, listening to the steady rhythm of Shane’s heartbeat.

Safe.

Loved.

And, finally, forgiven.

Chapter End Notes

next up, epilogue <3